#LITTLE A PRIDE FOR THE LADS

[romatito]

oh no, lovino!! 🫣🫣

part one || part two || part three

[soupforsoup]

It's autism acceptance month salute the flag motherfuckers

[thistlecrimes]

I was in a rage from dealing with stupid bullshit at work so afterwards I went for a walk and to go get some bubble tea to calm down and there was this teenage boy with cool locs working at the bubble tea place and he was looking at the enamel pin on my coat very interestedly and he said "your pin, I thought it was maybe this monster from this video game" and I was like "oh, well I was kind of inspired by this game Hades (I designed the pin but I realized after saying that that it wouldn't make sense without the context so I was like-) er, I mean, I designed the pin." and he smiled and said excitedly and with no tone of mockery at all: "Oh! So you're like a little craftsman!"

and my friends. I am 31 years old and I have never been more delighted.

[sirfrogsworth]

How do you take a photo of time?

I've been watching the track events at the Olympics since I was a wee lad. It was a tradition in our family. We'd gather around our ancient low-definition 19 inch CRT television and watch tiny blobs compete against other tiny blobs and root for our country.

It was a bit like watching YouTube on your phone in 144p.

Several heroes emerged.

Jackie Joyner-Kersee was amazing.

You can't forget about Flo-Jo.

And then the Olympics decided NBA players were allowed in the competition.

Which formed... The Dream Team.

Was this fair?

Well... they won each game by an average of 44 points.

So... no. It was not fair.

Though it became more fair as time went on.

But, umm... yeah. The other teams looked like the Washington Generals and the US looked like the Harlem Globetrotters if they stopped screwing around half of the game.

But my absolute favorite Olympian was a runner named Michael Johnson.

He was cool as heck.

For one thing... gold shoes.

But he also had this crazy, upright, Tom Cruise-ish sprinting style that just made him look like a running robot on the track.

And in the 1996 Atlanta games he just trounced EVERYONE. I mean, it wasn't even close.

Yikes. Those losing blobs are probably really embarrassed.

Last night I decided to invigorate my nostalgia and watch the track events again. And I got to see one of the wildest races in history.

It didn't even last 10 seconds but it was one of the most exciting sporting events I've ever witnessed. Almost every runner won the race.

After I saw that initially, I was like... who the heck won???

Even in slow motion I wasn't sure.

This was one of the closest finishes in history. There has never been a race where all 8 runners were within this margin.

The arena was silent as the winner was being confirmed. The runners just kind of paced around waiting for official word. My best guess was the Jamaican runner, Kishane Thompson. But then the loudspeaker announced Noah Lyles.

The last tiny morsel of American pride burst out of me with a big "Wooooo!"

I forgot what it was like to be proud of my country. I wish it happened more often. But this young man, despite being last place in the first 3rd of the race, turned on the afterburners and won in a photo finish.

And that's when my inner nerd took over.

Because when they showed the photo finish image, it looked super weird.

Why is the track white?

Why do all of the runners look all warpy like that QWOP game?

So I went down a research rabbit hole to figure this out.

Photo finishes are actually fascinating. The first photo finish captured the end of a horse race in 1890. But that was mostly luck and timing. The actual photo finish mechanisms weren't used until 1937.

Originally they would film the finish line through a physical slit.

And the first horsie head that appeared in that slit would be the winner. This technology ended a huge aspect of corruption in horse race fixing almost overnight.

But we have come a long way since then. And I'd like to introduce you to the Omega Scan 'O' Vision Ultimate.

This slow motion camera sits fixed on the finish line of every race. The concept of the photo finish has remained remarkably similar to the 1930s approach. The camera sensor is specially designed to only record a vertical slit.

Only the finish line itself is actually captured.

And because it limits what it records to only that slit, it can capture 40,000 frames per second to get amazing temporal resolution.

So why don't the photo finishes just look like, well... this?

That is because the camera takes a picture of time more-so than dimensional space. I guess it would be more accurate to say it *assembles* a picture of time.

As the runners cross the finish line, the camera combines all of the little strips of pictures into a single image.

It's almost like if you tried to reassemble a piece of paper after it had been shredded.

Imagine each strip of paper is a picture of ONLY the finish line, just at a slightly different point in time.

What if someone stopped on the finish line and didn't move... what would that look like?

Once they got there, the same part of their body would just be repeated.

So the right side of the photo finish picture represents earlier in time and it just assembles the image strip by strip as time passes and you literally get a picture of time itself.

NEAT!

Okay, but how do they determine the winner from the photo finish?

I mean, that shoe looks like it is ahead of Noah Lyles!

Clavicles!

The IAFF rules state the foremost part of the torso must cross the finish line first. And the endpoint of the torso is the outer end of the clavicle.

So if you get this bone across the finish line first, you win the race.

Two more fun facts!

The start of the race is actually just as carefully timed as the end of the race. There are sensors in the starting blocks of each runner.

The starting gun also has an electronic sensor.

They have determined the fastest a human can react to the sound of a gun is roughly 100 milliseconds. So if you start running before 100 milliseconds they know you didn't actually hear the gun, you just got antsy and started running too early.

And the final fun fact...

Did you notice the Omega logo at the top of the photo finish?

That isn't superimposed or added after the fact. That is captured by the camera.

But if this image is composed only of tiny little slivers, how did they get the Omega logo to show up?

That is a little display. And it is synchronized with the Scan 'O' Vision Ultimate to show a little sliver of the Omega logo for each frame captured.

So when the final image is stitched together, it looks like a cohesive logo at the top of the photo.

Pretty clever, Omega!

[subtly-shakespearean]

currently twirling my hair, kicking my feet over a man who barely knows i exist, AMA

[mwphisto]

LaDs: Have they ever made you cry?

~ A general head-canon post! No warnings required

~ All love interests included

Xavier

⭐️No!

Xavier prides himself on being very mellow and honest. He may struggle a little bit with communication sometimes but overall it is impossible to imagine this man getting upset especially towards you. Honestly, you can’t recall a time when you’ve heard him raise his voice in general never mind at you. Xavier is level headed, with a tight leash on his emotions. Nothing really bothers him that much anyways, he’s more of a pouty boy than anything

Rafayel

🎨Yes

Rafayel’s emotions sometimes get the better of him. You two definitely bicker here and there, you’re not strangers to a little bit of push back. But overall, Rafayel is more dramatic while you’re level headed. There was one time where a fight got a little out of hand, you had a bad day and so did he, so you two just ended up butted heads. One thing lead to another, then another, then low blows started flying and well? Rafayel hit the target dead on, and before you knew it, tears were streaming down your face. Poor thing, he’s never felt worse.

Zayne

🩺Yes

Zayne has made you cry before, but not for the reasons you may think. When it comes to arguments? They’re not a thing. Very rarely will you two disagree on something, and it’s even rarer that the disagreement turns into a fight. Zayne can be blunt, too blunt sometimes, and way too in doctor mode. You had a rough day, got scraped up, and Zayne’s worry came out as a cold doctor scolding. He was so busy bandaging you up and reprimanding you that it wasn’t until you choked on a sob that he realized what happened.

Sylus

🍒No!

Sylus has never ending patience for you, a tolerance for your anger and bull shit so high you have yet to find his limit. The trick is, Sylus has no limit for his tolerance for you. He’ll take you happy, sad, angry, trying to kill him, doesn’t matter. Nothing you can do can send that man over the edge. Even your “fights” are one sided, and his calm demeanor ends up somehow calming you down too. So, no, Sylus has never made you cry, not once, and he never intends on doing so.

Caleb

🪐Yes

Caleb is gutted every time he’s made you cry. Obviously spending all those years together — from childhood to present — you’ll encounter several reasons to butt heads over something. But, those aren’t the reasons you’ve been reduced to tears. No, it’s Caleb’s actions that he didn’t realize would indirectly affect you. Y’know… such as getting blown up and then not contacting you to let you know he didn’t actually die… and you have to find out yourself.

[kissandtellus]

LADS : ‘Current Boyfriend’ Prank

ᯓ Synopsis: How would the LADS boys react to you pulling the TikTok Video ‘With my Current Boyfriend’ Prank!

ᯓ Caleb

You set up the camera at the perfect angle, making sure to get Caleb’s massive frame into the shot. You take a few steps back and give a twirl of your dress.

“Hey everyone! I’m doing a ‘OOTD’ with my current boyfriend, Caleb!”

Caleb’s goofy smirk falters, and you swear you see his eye twitch.

“Current, Pipsqueak?” He grabs your arm, pulling you back away from the camera, his hand cups your jaw ever so slightly, even as the camera continues to roll. “Nah, you better change that tone baby. What was that?”

You cheeks are squished between his forefinger and thumb.

“M-my boyfwend fowever.”

“Thats right, Pip. Good girl.”

ᯓ Rafayel

Rafayel always finds these trends annoying. He immediately knows something is up by the way you are already giggling to yourself. You set the phone on the tripod and take a few steps back.

“So today, I am going to be asking my boyfriend a series of questions about myself-“ you break off into light laughter, struggling to finish your sentence as you catch the upmost SASSIEST look from Rafayel in the corner.

“Current? Is there one after me, Cutie? Perhaps I should let them go ahead and have their turn.” His lower lip is jutting in a pout, even as you try to pull him back in to finish the video. Rafayel dramatically recites old tales of doomed lovers, and how if you were to leave him he would throw himself into the deepest edge of the sea.

You are busy the rest of the day trying to repair Rafayel’s wounded pride.

ᯓ XAVIER

Xavier is rubbing the sleep from his eyes after waking up from a nap. You had promised him a delicious smoothie, if you could record it.

You stand by the blender and prop your phone. “Hey everyone! I am here with my current boyfriend Xavier! I am go- Xavier? Wait, no-“

You are barely able to wrestle back your phone before he snatches it and throws it into the blender, his finger dancing over the ‘blend’ button.

His sharp blue eyes burn into you.

“Current? My shining star, what have I done to deserve such a mediocre attempt at a joke.”

“It’s a trend, Xavier!”

“I am going to start revoking your phone time.”

ᯓ Zayne

Zayne looks over the rim of his glasses as you prop your phone up on his desk. You sit on his knee which he gladly welcome. He gazes up at you like you out the stars in the sky.

You hit record and wrap your arms around his neck. “Hey everyone, today I’m going to ask my current boyfriend, who’s a surgeon, about what the-“

Zayne calmly reaches over and shuts off the video.

He slides his glasses off of his nose, resting the ear piece against his lips with narrowed eyes.

“I know you are far too intelligent to think that’s funny,” he grabs your chin and tilts your head to him. “Go on, apologize.”

ᯓ Sylus

Sylus is used to your antics by now. He’s currently fixing a loose piece on his bike when you extend the tripod and place your phone onto it.

He perks his head up just enough to wave to the camera.

“So today, I am going to be asking my current voting to quiz me in motorcycle facts!” He nearly busts his head under the bike from how quick he shoots up.

His hand grabs a handful of your ass and you squeak like a little mouse. “Oh Kitten, if you were so desperate for attention, you could’ve just said so~”

A few minutes later you are restarting the video, clearing your voice and trying to act like Sylus didn’t kiss you within an inch of your life.

“I’m here with Sylus, my husband.”

[stargirlygirl]

you're quiet during it

lads li's (except for raf; separate) x fem!reader

contains: nsfw, smut, unprotected sex, p-in-v, oral sex (f!receiving), p-link for xavier

⭑.ᐟ caleb

at first, it would throw caleb off guard, being the louder one when y'all are devil's tangoing. but it's no issue.

he learns your audial cues: when your breath hitches as you're about to cum, the little mewls that tell him he's doing a good job, and your sweet "more, caleb!" whimpers.

he's also attentive to your physical cues: your back arching as he messily eats you out, so close to an orgasm it's almost painful; your hands tugging on his silky locks when his tongue is lapping your folds; and how your thighs tense up and shake when you're finally swept away by a riptide of pleasure.

and caleb takes pride in hearing how loud he can make you. of course, it's only after an hour or so of overstimulation that you're more talkative and noisy.

he's fucking obsessed with how you cry out, "please, caleb! i can't. n-no more." chuckling against your slick cunt, the lower half of his face drenched in your release, he'll gaze up at you with hazy sunset eyes.

"c'mon, honey. just one more?" he coos so sweetly, rubbing your thigh and all. and when you do give him that one more, you're absolutely silent, lower lip trapped between your teeth as you writhe beneath him. the ecstasy is far too overwhelming for a sound to be made.

when he sucks on your clit harshly, that's when you nearly scream; exactly what he's been waiting so patiently for.

⭑.ᐟ sylus

sylus finds your hushed moans endearing.

i think he definitely teases you when he's eating you out, something akin to, "you're so quiet, kitten. doesn't this feel good?" but he knows you're in actual heaven right now.

when he's on top, thrusting into you so tenderly, i know sylus is groaning and panting in your ear the sweetest things. "you're biting your lip so hard, sweetie. careful—" he pulls your lip out from your chompers with his thumb, "or you'll draw blood."

especially when you're cockwarming him and whimpering softly in his ear, it makes him all the more harder. he'll throb inside of your snug walls, pre-cum leaking everywhere as he rubs your back and murmurs, "don't runaway, kitten, when you're taking me so well."

like caleb, he's got your sounds memorised. but unlike caleb, i don't think sylus pushes you to the edge. i think he'll stop as soon as you yawn, god forbid you do so as he's still rutting into you.

your bf will pull you into a warm cuddle and let you rest for as long as you need. he praises you half-lovingly, half-mockingly, until it's time to get cleaned up.

⭑.ᐟ zayne

i'm imagining this princess and the pauper "you're just like me, i'm just like you" moment between you and zayne the first time you had sex (whether that be oral, penetrative, mutual touching, etc).

because he's... somewhat controlled in the sound domain, he understands that your lack of loud sounds isn't because his performance is lacking (though he needed reassurance initially), but because that's how you are. he's never commented on it or teased you for it. zayne simply relies on consistent communication to ensure you're enjoying what he's doing.

let's say you two have a rare day off and spend the morning in bed. waking up, you're exchanging gentle kisses, which quickly become heated. but since you're both sleepy, it's this lazy kind of lust.

he's in between your thighs, taking you to the far reaches of the universe when he pulls off your swollen clit and asks breathily, "does this feel good?" releasing a low whimper, you nod and push his face back into your pussy.

you can feel his micro-smirk as he eats you out till you're trembling and softly mewling, your thighs clamped around his head.

and when you're spooning, it's tender and slow, zayne sliding every inch in before drawing back. you're wrapped in his warm embrace, panting a little. your bf let's out this cracked whimper as you squeeze around him, close to his end already.

he rasps out, "it's been so long since we've done this." you hum in response, your grip on his scarred forearms tightening before you see the stars together.

⭑.ᐟ xavier

like sylus, xavier finds it cute. with how tough you try to act all the time, it inflates his ego when you're a quiet, shaking mess beneath him.

he likes how your body does the talking. no words are necessary when you're rolling your hips up to his, hands pawing at his trousers in an attempt to take them off.

he'll tease you, "you really did miss me, huh?" but he delivers it in his soft voice.

and you, too needy to register that he's having a go at you, will just nod and whimper a small, "please."

i can't help but think of this p-link.

xav definitely mocks you during sex, asking you in his low commanding voice to be louder and to tell him how good he's making you feel, how much you need him, to tell him anything because he wants to hear your voice. specifically, he wants to hear it break as you try to speak.

and he only grows more demanding as his climax approaches. his sweet pants and moans tangle with yours as you grip his shoulders. holding onto them for dear life, a stuttered cry escapes your lips as he buries himself so deep and cums inside.

masterlist

star girl's final words: sorry if this is rats ass. just something that's been on my mind, which i wanted to get out.

[readwritealldayallnight]

When Gaz walks into the bases common room, his goal for making his third cup of tea of the day is diverted when he catches sight of Soap’s expression across the room.

The Scot looks absolutely befuddled, eyes wide and sitting slack-jawed across from his Lieutenant. Gaz walks over to the men, catching the very end of Ghost telling his companion to ‘piss off’.

“Alright?” He asks the lads, raising a brow in question.

“Ye oughta hear the shite LT’s tryin’ to convince me of over here!” Soap is all too eager to inform his friend. Ghost grunts, leaning further back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest and rolling his eyes as far back as he can, as if to tell the Sergeant in front of him ‘this is why I don’t tell you anything’.

Because that’s almost exactly what Ghost is thinking at that moment. He’d just entered the common room when he’d spotted the back of an all too familiar head, fiddling and distracted with the microwave.

When he’d walked up behind the younger man and echoed his call sign out in greeting, his mask hid the smug smirk that appeared at the jump Soap gave, uttering a loud “Shit!” in surprise.

Soap went on to complain about how he was apparently attempting to jumpstart his heart, drawling on about how the Lieutenant was always sneaking up on people like this, moving quiet as a Ghost.

“My missus says the same thing.” The masked man had mentioned casually, as if his chest hadn’t automatically puffed out in pride, standing up a little straighter at the mention of his girl.

“She says you’re too quiet? Aye, LT, think a lot o’ couples have complaints of the sorts in bed ya see-”

“Shut it, you prick.” Ghost quickly shut him down, ending that line of thought. “She says I walk too quietly in the flat. Accidentally scaring her all the time, poor thing.”

At that, Soap’s eyebrows had shot sky high, keen to hear more about the big bad Ghost’s life of apparent domestic bliss, turning him into an absolute sap.

Ghost wouldn’t normally volunteer information about his personal life. But he just loves you so much. And now that he’s not only thinking about you because he is all the time, but also talking about you, his mouth didn’t seem to want to stop talking about you.

“She put her foot down with me recently.” He’d added with a deep chuckle.

“She did what?” Soap had asked bewildered.

“She called it ‘putting her foot down’. I walked up behind her when she was doin’ dishes. Poor bird didn’t hear me and dropped somethin’.”

“Oh, no! Simon! That’s my favourite mug!!” You’d cried out, watching your most treasured ceramic shattering on the tile floor of the kitchen, spreading every which way across the room.

“M’sorry lovie. Didn’t mean to scare ya.” He’d sheepishly responded, reaching to turn off the running faucet. He’d grabbed the dish towel and gave it to you to dry your hands, lifted you by the waist and set you on the counter with ease, not wanting you to get hurt with your bare feet. He’d turned, already in search of a broom and dust pan.

“Again. You mean I’m sorry for scaring you again.” You had corrected him, narrowing your eyes. “I can’t take it anymore Simon. You don’t need to be stealthy at home, my love, you can make noise when you walk. In fact I need you to make noise when you walk at home!”

Simon had nodded along, diligently sweeping up every piece of your ruined mug.

“I’ll try harder sweetheart. I promise.” He’d offered, dumping the remnants into the bin before he’d walked up to you, wrapping his strong arms around your waist as yours slid around his shoulders.

The very next weekend he’d taken you to a local pottery painting class to make up for the lost mug, as well as you telling him off (because yeah, that was what Simon considered you putting your foot down with him, and he never wanted it to happen again if he could help it).

Ghost finds himself grinning further under his mask at the memory however, of how cute you looked as you tried to raise your voice at him, laying down the law in your shared home.

“And so what’d ya tell her?” Soap asked, curious to know how his Lieutenant had reacted, but more so if the man would even reply or rather would tell him to fuck off.

“I didn’t tell her anythin’.” Simon had uttered. “Did as my missus asked me to do, and that was the end of the story. Well, s’pose I did I tell her I’d look into mug making classes or whatever.”

“…”

“You what?!”

[heartswithinreach]

your post about sylus essentially conditioning the reader to sit on his lap hasjsakddf that was so perfect and in character 😭 i love it sm its given me so much brain rot - how bout this:

can i request the lads boys reaction to the reader randomly asking to be carried/picked up in the middle of walking? for no other reason just to see how'd they react lol

LaDS casually carrying MC

Xavier

The most casual. He just smiles at you and asks, "Bridal or piggyback?" in the same tone as if he's asking what you want to eat.

And he's not just playing along. He means it. He wants to be the one you lean on — metaphorically and literally.

You can try and backtrack but then you'll get those eyes. The bluest puppy dog eyes that can break the strongest of wills. "Are you sure? We still have a few blocks to go to the café, I don’t want you to get tired..."

You feel like you're holding out on him by not letting him carry you. The mind tricks this man is capable of to get what he wants are ridiculous.

You fold embarrassingly fast and Xavier is happy as can be with you on his back, your arms and legs around him like a full-body embrace. He can see the tactical advantage to carrying you like this during missions, too.

Rafayel

"You want me to carry you?“ Rafayel scoffs. “What if I pulled a muscle in my arm and couldn't draw for a week? No thank you!"

He refuses until you ask if it's not that he doesn't want to carry you, but that he can't.

Now you've wounded his pride. He might not be the God of the Sea anymore, but he can't let this go unanswered! Rafayel will be on you relentlessly to let him pick you up, no matter how long it takes.

"Whoa, be careful, cutie! There's no telling how deep these puddles are from all the rain — you're super lucky your boyfriend is here to carry you to safety."

When you finally break and let him do it just so he can prove a point, he realizes he likes this way more than he thought he would. You're like his adorable little prisoner and the only way you're getting out is in praise and smooches. This will become a regular thing, I fear.

Zayne

“I told you to wear more comfortable shoes.”

Zayne inwardly grins at how quickly you deflate at his blunt response. It's adorable.

But Zayne has a hard time denying you something so innocent as wanting to be close to him. So he guides your arm to wrap around his shoulders and picks you up with a strength that always takes you by surprise.

He waits for you to settle comfortably in his arms before he starts walking. He's aware of the disapproving stares from the people around you and not too long ago, he would've been one of them. How quickly his perspective has changed because of you.

Zayne is brought out of his thoughts when he feels you peck his cheek and now you get that oh so familiar look of gentle reproach from him. "I am working on being more affectionate but I'm not there yet, MC. Now, behave or your ride will end early."

Sylus

Sylus is so caught off guard that, for once, you can see his entire thought process play out through his expressions.

Surprise at your request, suspicion you're just toying with him, the realization you're being somewhat serious, and then the most gratified look you've ever seen on his stupid smug face.

Now you’re speaking his language. So delighted you’re finally catching on, he just picks you up and continues on his way without breaking his stride.

However, you didn't specify how he should carry you. So you're draped over Sylus's shoulder and to keep you there, his hand is dangerously high up on your thigh for being in public. The smack on your ass is so inevitable, you can feel it like it's already happened.

"You just said you were tired, now you want me to put you down? You need to learn to make up your mind, kitten. I'll just carry you until you're sure of what you want."

[luvbabydoll]

cod men with their wives on mother’s day ₊˚⊹ ᰔ (+graves)

phillip graves

you wake up to the smell of something burnt. your first thought is the boys got into the kitchen again.

you roll over, still wrapped in your lacey cotton nightgown, and find a card on the nightstand with a single daisy tucked inside. the handwriting’s messy — crayon and glitter, a backwards “M” on “mommy.” it makes your chest ache with how proud you are.

then the door creaks open, and there’s phillip.

hands full of pancakes that are half raw, syrup spillin’ down the side of the plate. the boys trail behind him, barefoot and loud, all grinnin’ with syrup on their cheeks.

“look at that,” phillip drawls, grinning like the smugest man alive. “still sleepin’, baby? it’s noon.”

he sets the plate down and leans over to kiss your forehead, then your lips, then lower — a slow line of kisses down your throat.

“got the whole damn house runnin’ around for ya. reckon that’s what happens when you give a man sons and softness and a wife who don’t raise her voice unless she’s got to.”

he cups your face with one calloused hand, brushing your cheek with his thumb.

“you were made for this. don’t matter how dumb you act or how many times you forget where you left the car keys. you’re mine, and you’re a mama. that’s all you gotta be.”

you’re flushed before you even sit up, clinging to the blanket, and he just chuckles.

“eat your pancakes, sugar. and after that, i’m puttin’ another baby in you for being such a good little wife f’me.”

johnny “soap” mactavish

it’s pure chaos, like always.

johnny’s got a toddler slung over one shoulder, another one makin’ a mess on the counter, and the dog’s got the wrapping paper in its mouth.

“oi! that’s mum’s, ya wee beast!”

he snatches the slobbery card out of the dog’s mouth and plasters on a big, cheeky grin when he sees you watching from the hallway, eyes still puffy from sleep.

“well, well, well. look who finally woke up.”

he kisses you hard, grinning into it, his hands already tryin’ to slide into the pockets of your sweatpants.

“y’look like a dream, hen. all sleepy n’ soft. s’good thing you’re pretty, ‘cause yer boys definitely didn’t inherit their cookin’ skills from you.”

you huff, swat at his chest — he just laughs and hands you the mess of a card.

“happy mother’s day, birdie. thank ya for lettin’ me fill this house with gremlins. wouldn’t wanna wake up to anyone else yellin’ at me to stop feedin’ ‘em chocolate for breakfast.”

simon “ghost” riley

it’s quiet when you wake up.

simon’s already up. he always is.

but today, he didn’t leave for a mission.

today, he stayed.

you pad into the kitchen barefoot, one of his shirts hangin’ off your body, eyes barely open. and there he is. your boys in their little chairs, drinkin’ juice, while simon cuts fruit and sets the kettle on the stove.

he turns when he hears you, and his eyes soften.

not a word, not yet. just walks over and wraps an arm around you, kisses your hair, your temple.

“happy mother’s day, love.”

you whisper something back, quiet and sleepy, and he just brushes your knuckles with his lips.

“you made this house a home. all i did was put babies in you. you? you gave ‘em a reason to laugh.”

he pulls out your chair for you. lets the kids pile gifts into your lap. watches with that rare, almost-shy pride in his eyes.

“you look good, y’know,” he says, real low, when the boys are distracted.

“in this kitchen. all soft n’ warm. it suits you.”

john price

“up. c’mon, love. got somethin’ for ya.”

you blink awake to the smell of tea and toast. price is standing by the bed with a tray in his hands and that smug, crooked smile on his face. your youngest clings to his leg, holding a rose that’s half broken.

“got you brekkie. even made sure the lads didn’t set the bloody toast on fire this time.”

you sit up, cheeks warm, and he puts the tray down and cups your face in his hand.

thumb strokes over your cheek. his voice goes quiet.

“never thought i’d have this. house full of noise. woman like you in my bed. little ones screamin’ for your attention. but hell, i’d take ten more of ‘em if it meant you’d smile at me like that every mornin’.”

you lean into his chest and mumble that it’s the best day ever.

he grins against your temple.

“you deserve every minute of it, sweetheart. reckon this house’d fall to pieces without you.”

kyle “gaz” garrick

you’re still in your nightgown, sittin’ on the couch with your knees tucked under you, when kyle comes in holdin’ a tray of pastries and a bright pink mug.

“oi. there’s my girl.”

he kisses the top of your head, sets everything down, and hands you a tiny homemade card signed in three different colors of marker.

“they worked on that for hours. like proper artists. nearly glued their fingers together.”

you laugh, soft and sleepy, and he just watches you with this look — like he still can’t believe you’re real.

“you’ve got ‘em wrapped around your finger, y’know that? you’re like… the sun in this house. they all orbit you.”

he leans down, kisses you slow.

“and i’m not any better.”

he sits beside you, wraps an arm around your waist, and pulls you close.

“happy mother’s day, babe. you’ve given me more than i ever deserved.”

[gam3r-girli3]

18+ content ahead, mdni! | part two

Something something the boys are out one night and Soap confesses to Price over a few beers that his last girlfriend broke up with him because she claimed he didn't know how to eat her out properly.

It's forgotten about the next day, just a bit of locker room chat between men over a some drinks in their local pub, until Soap is called into Price's office one day to find you - his Captain's pretty wife - laid out on the desk, looking like a damn feast.

Price is kneeled down in front of you between your splayed legs, lapping hungrily at your cunt, and if your echoing mewls and cries are anything to go by, you seem to be enjoying it immensely.

Soap backs up, hand reaches behind him for the door as he stutters over apologies, unable to tear his eyes away from the erotic scene in front of him. He feels his cock stirring in his trousers despite the wrongness of it, the intrusion on a private moment between a husband and wife.

It's been so long since he last got laid, even longer since he got to taste a nice pussy. He can tell just by looking at yours that you've got a nice tasting one, the kind that lingers on his tongue days after, makes him ache and wake up hard just dreaming about it.

Price's head turns, but he doesn't look angry, far from it. His eyes glitter with amusement, mustache looking damp and chin shining with slick arousal from your weeping cunt.

Instead of ordering him to get out, the Captain invites him to come closer.

Hesitantly, still in a state of disbelief but far too turned on to leave, the Sergeant edges closer, swallowing thickly.

"Go on, lad. Give 'er a taste."

It's wrong, so wrong. Depraved. But he is depraved and he's so unbelievably horny.

Soap takes Price's place on the floor, knees leaning on the hard surface as his face gets up close to your pussy.

His eyes dart up to your face, as if checking to see your reaction, but you just smile coyly and give a short nod of reassurance. It's all he needs before he's diving in, suckling harshly on your puffy clit.

He hears you cry out, loud, feels your fingers fist in his hair - but you don't seem to be trying to hold him there, you're tugging. He raises his head, a struggle, looking to see what's wrong.

Behind him, observing, Price clicks his tongue in disappointment. "You're going too fast. You need to slow down. Savour it. Take your time."

Soap feels a flush of embarrassment.

Keeping his Captain's words in mind, he goes in again - but this time, he doesn't slurp, he laps. He slowly and painstakingly devours you, from your clit down to your soaked entrance. He savours the flavour, hums as your arousal dances on his tongue. Thinks back to his earlier thoughts and decides he was right; you do have a nice tasting pussy and he'll be getting off to this for weeks to come, chubbing up at just the mere mention of your name.

He can distantly hear you whimpering and sobbing over the thunderous drumming of his own heart, can feel you squirming, thighs clamping around his head every so often. Doesn't need to look to know the desk is fucking soaked, any paperwork under you destroyed with your juices (not that he's allowed much to escape, the greedy bastard that he is).

"There ya go, lad. She's almost there. A little more."

Price's encouragement only serves to make him work even slower, drawing out your impending orgasm deliciously. When you finally reach your peak, your back arches clean off the desk, legs twitching and quivering, your voice a beautiful high-pitched crescendo full of pleasure and relief that echoes in Soap's skull like a symphony.

Only once he's finished catching every drop of your release that escaped your cunt does he come up for air, licking his lips and tasting your arousal that's coating his mouth, chin, dribbling down his neck.

Soap turns his head to look back over his shoulder.

Price nods, a hint of pride in his voice as he says, "Well done. Next time I'll teach you how to make her squirt."

i don't know what this is and don't ask me how it came into my head

[ pics in collage do not belong to me - all were found on pinterest ]

[girl-lostconnection]

For @nightunite. I actually came back with some Seal!Soap and some hurt/comfort of poly!141 x fruit bat!Reader. Hope this is satisfactory

Harbour seal!Soap who’s off the base whenever he can — getting back home as soon as possible, the favourite baby of his mama, the oldest son and pride of his family.

Harbour seal!Soap who has difficulty slotting into most teams, he’s not a pack hybrid, he’s not attuned to the thin threads of connection that wolves or bats or even cows can feel, he’s him and maybe that’s the problem?

Harbour seal!Soap who tries hard to blend in, because he is friendly, of course he is friendly, he’s the friendliest guy on base but whispers are that he smiles too wide, that his laugh is too strained, that his teeth are always out — sharp, menacing things.

Price takes one look at his file and thrusts the pup in Simon’s hands, hums to take care of the seal and Wolf!Simon isn’t even sure what the fuck is he supposed to do.

The lad is jumpy despite obvious brilliance, the lad is trying to smile so hard Simon’s wolf grumbles with the urge to paw at him, press cheeky pup in the ground, teach him some bloody manners. You don’t show your teeth off to the likes of Simon unless you want to have them knocked out.

But Soap wiggles his way in every conversation, eyes shiny and smiles wide up until Ghost corners him, looming like death himself — snarls that if he doesn’t want a big bad wolf to bite him, he’ll fucking stop.

Simon doesn’t know whether to act on his promise or laugh in disbelief when Johnny raises his head and grins wider, now showing off his own canine’s deliberately. Look at that, the pup can bite, can’t he?

Komodo dragon!Price just hums when he finds them tangled in each other and places a bite under Soap’s collar, teeth sinking in warm salty flesh, tongue licking off the blood.

Komodo dragons thrive on hierarchy, Price thrives on power — that’s the only thing he won’t compromise on.

Johnny grins and finds way in his arms as well. Too damn bad, captain, too damn bad. Harbour seals thrive on attention.

Their unit is all live wires and sparks and heavy heady tension — air so thick with perpetual hunger that they could carve their initials inside of a little heart.

It gets easier when Kyle arrives — he takes away some of the tension, he gets each of them, catching up on everything twice as fast as Soap did.

It scratches Johnny the wrong way, makes a sensitive small part of him whine that this is it, that Kyle will take his place because how can anyone not like Kyle? Kyle is handsome, Kyle is bright and so effortlessly charming Soap wants to whip out little notebook where sergeant speaks.

But at some point Gaz pecks a kiss to his temple and pulls him on the couch of the rec room. Warm, inviting, draping hand over his shoulders — draping wing over both of them.

Soap watches him — teeth sharp, jaws itching to try the pretty wings on the pretty Gaz, head plopping in his lap.

Kyle slots into their team like he always was there — fingers careful in Johnny’s hair, hands warm around Ghost’s shoulders, talons sharp on Price’s skin.

And then you arrive. Little bat with big eyes and big wings and some of the fluffiest hair Soap has ever seen.

You don’t slot in like Gaz, you are a little rougher around the edges, a little awkward with your approaches.

Bats are social creatures but not all of us take the best parts from our hybrid sides.

You are bloody amazing at what you do, your efficiency is not a concern but you don’t wiggle your way right in the team.

You hover on the outside, you eat your fruits alone (he isn’t even sure why you even eat them? Aren’t bats carnivores? Maybe you just like them) and in the dark, you watch them — always in the periphery of the vision. But never too close.

You remind Soap himself.

Small childish part of him wants to keep things that way, small childish part of him doesn’t like new people on the team, doesn’t like sharing attention.

But you don’t ask for any. You are just there.

It takes him month and a half and a stupid joke Ghost makes about vampires for you to reply that you are a) vegetarian b) a fruit bat and not a spectral bat for Soap to feel like someone kicked him in the face. Simon pauses, tilting head to the side, his tail stopping its friendly wag.

Your smile is too wide, your teeth are so sharp and you don’t try to fit in.

You try to stay away.

They don’t know you and you just let them know that they don’t. You just let them know that they haven’t tried to know you.

Soap spends the whole evening googling information about your species with Ghost hovering above his shoulder, dark eyes reading faster than Soap scrolls.

The next morning is the first time none of them comments on the amount of fruit you consume for breakfast.

Kyle slots in next to you, murmurs “gorgeous wings, love”, asks if you could help him with preening, offers you company for the morning drills.

Offer makes something in you flutter, sending spark of hope down your chest, your big eyes zeroing on warm friendly Kyle.

(Kyle will never admit how embarrassed he was to realise that you slipped through the cracks. Kyle will never admit that social “bird” part of him croaked with distress when he noticed that you are always a little behind. Never with them.)

Soap feels something in him clench when you glance in his direction and then shake your head at Kyle. Soap knows why you looked at him very very well.

He notices Price with your file in the afternoon, reading glasses on the tip of his nose, tail swaying in with something very similar to agitation. Price doesn’t know how to crack on you, you never fight for his right at the top of the food chain, you never contest his power. He has nothing to bite down on.

Soap isn’t sure you will give captain anything to hook on. Soap isn’t sure you feel like you can.

Johnny finds you late at night, ridiculously big bowl of fruit in your lap, his cheeks burning when your head snaps up at him and you put it away.

He and Ghost used to tease you about the amount of fruits and berries you consumed — you started eating less at dinners with them.

Soap’s throat bobs when he gulps and he shakes his head, plopping himself down on the carpet next to you.

He should have thought you’d find a way to catch up on your meals when no one looks.

When no one can make you feel wrong for eating what you like to eat.

Johnny extends his palm to you. You won’t eat while he’s here but he’d like you to. Maybe you will continue if he asks you to share.

Wikipedia page smacks his brain immediately, reminding that fruit bats eat alone and are very protective of their food.

Bloody awesome, Johnny, you might’ve as well tried to wrestle fruits out of your grip.

But before his panic forces him to hide his palm away you carefully place a date in his palm, your darker claws cool and pointy. Soap doesn’t know why but he stares, eyes gluing to him.

“Can do damage with these, eh?”, he attempts at having conversation, trying not to smile too wide. Not to show off too much teeth.

You hum out “depends” and in demonstration poke a piece of orange, skewing it on a thin claw.

Soap feels his brows arch, leaning closer, unbidden “how many can you stack on ‘em?” leaving his mouth before he thinks.

To his absolute delight you snicker and pass him the bowl.

He spends the rest of the hour stacking pieces of fruit and skewing berries on your claws and watching as you practically inhale them once he’s done.

When you two finish up the bowl, you both are covered in juice and are grinning like mad idiots but Soap never felt lighter.

He watches you grin back at him — wide and toothy — and feels something shifting.

Maybe he’s not the pack hybrid like Ghost or doesn’t have Kyle’s easy charm or even John’s acute understanding of dynamics within the team. But he is him and it seems like that’s exactly what you need.

Few months later Soap finds himself with you nuzzled in his neck, Kyle plastered over you two like he’s a big blanket, Simon reading something in the quiet low voice of his and John already crawling into den you call bed.

It’s warm and he’s squished by people who like him from every side and he finally belongs.

Soap presses a kiss to the top of your head and smiles wide when you raise it, giving him a slow sleepy blink. His smiles are wide and toothy.

His smiles are always welcomed with his team.

And so is he.

[littlemissaddict]

Price with a pretty little misses that likes to bake. It started as a hobby with John taking the sweet treats into work for the rest of the task force who devoured them with pleasure. The boys telling him that she should start selling her bakes because of how good they were, she shrugged the praise off at first, just happy they enjoyed them but eventually she decided to take the plunge.

Starting at small markets, beaming with pride when people praised her bakes, until her little business started taking off. She hired someone to start doing deliveries for her, taking occasional collections from their home. The next step in the journey was to find a little store to rent out as she was begins to get too many orders to cope with running it from home but that seemed to be proving difficult so far so for now she continued as she was.

Though through it all, she still made sure there were sweet treats for John to take into work for his team so much so that Monday mornings they seemed to have been conditioned to expect the goodies. Only the Monday after John came back off leave, he returned with nothing for them.

"Sorry lads, got back late last night from a little break away for the misses. She works too damn hard," he apologised, leaving the rec room and towards his office.

Little did he know that Simon had managed to track down his wife's business and ordered some brownies to collect on his day off that week, unable to go a week without his fix of sweet treats.

So when the day rolled around Simon, as punctual as ever, turned up at 10 on the dot to collect his goodies. John on the other hand was surprised to see his Lt stood on his doorstep on his day off.

"What can I do for you Simon?" John asked, just as she came into view with the box of brownies in hand.

"Simon, is it?" She asked and he nodded in response as she handed him the box and took the money he handed her, "Sorry I'm a little unorganised this morning, been a little distracted" she apologised as she glanced over at John before looking for some change to give him from the twenty he had given her.

"S'alright love, keep it" Simon smiled, his gruff voice making her freeze, wondering if she'd heard him right. Simon hadn't missed her not so subtle glance at John, knowing just exactly what it was that she'd been insinuating, and he didn't blame him. Now Simon had seen her, he knew if she were his he'd keep her distracted at every chance he got. Not that he should be thinking that way about his Captain's wife and as observent as he was he'd missed that John had picked up exactly what he was thinking.

"Are you sure that's a big tip?" She asked, and when he nodded, she smiled in return, thanking him before he left, completely oblivious that John knew him as she had never met his team.

John however watch Simon closely back at base, especially as he sat eating one of the brownies. It didn't go unnoticed by Soap and Gaz either as they recognised the treat straight away, rounding on Price to ask why Simon had one of his wife's bakes but they didn't.

"Ask him yaself" Price retorted, leaving Simon to be hounded by the sergeants. That'll teach him to eye up my wife, Price thinks as he goes

[janumun]

Painted Red (LaDS Sylus - NSFW ABCs Headcanon]

Rated: NSFW/18+

Words: ~4k

Tags: oral, vaginal and anal sex, usage of toys, fingering, enemies to lovers dynamic/passing usage of guns, bondage, semi-public sex, improper use of Evol, switching power roles, dirty talk, masturbation, mirrors, orgasm denial, praise kink

Author’s Notes: A little treat to myself right before Sylus’ release. Please take careful note of those tags and content warnings before you proceed.

I hope you enjoy your read as much I enjoyed myself writing this!

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)   

With the state of indecent disarray one usually ends up in —  quivering, drenched thighs, nerveless arms useless by your sides, a flushed face and an inability to catch your breath — after a single night spent in Sylus’ bed, aftercare is a necessity post-coitus. And fortunately, the man, damn him, knows and understands so, very well.  

And so, he has a pitcher of cold water, prepared well beforehand — even on days your dalliances are not what the two of you intend when you meet — ready and at your disposal by the bedside.  

The moment he pulls out of you, another short one spared to ensure you are still there, with him and well, he’s moving off of you. A clean robe he throws on, loose, over his body before striding over to the nightstand to pour you a glass.  

A cool, pleasant palm he eases against the back of your head to raise, as he encourages you take those big, long gulps of fluid to quench your thirst and replenish your energies. “There you go, well done,” his low baritone settling deep within your belly, your core instinctively clenching in on emptiness to hear his unexpected praise for something so very mundane.  

Truly, you do not know what this man is doing to your body and mind.  

Extra 

Sylus slides into bed with you for the remainder of your night and tucks close under the covers, for your much needed repose.  

Morning afters, you greet with a fresh shower (and on days you insist, with him), a pair of clean towels and a pressed outfit, ready for you to change into and later settle in for a healthy, fulfilling breakfast, whipped up to perfection by his personal chef. All of his house-staff, professional, discrete and well-versed in handling affairs of the Onychinus scion’s household. Whatever the two of you share within the confines of your privacy — animosities or amourous rendezvous —  remains entombed, within that very space.  

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)   

Sylus takes pride within his dexterity, particularly that of his limbs (...particularly that of his hands, his fingers when it comes to matters of the bedroom).  

One would hardly expect a man of his body stature to possess the nimble flexibility that resides compacted within his body. An erroneous judgment that often proves fatal to foolish foes within a fight.  

And with you, he puts that lethal agility to use: within the push of thick digits up into your clenching walls, the roughened pads of them swiftly seeking and pressing up against the spot at your frontal walls that makes you wail, makes you twist. Makes that body of yours gush against his insistent palm in an orgasm vehement enough, you see dark blanket across your eyes for the scarcity of mere seconds. Truly bringing upon you, as they call it, la petite mort. A tiny death.  

Sylus is extremely fond of your face. It’s not because of the way you look, a mere pretty face in the crowd he would simply gloss over; it’s the striking catch of your facial tells that steal his gaze and keep it captive.  

The wary intensity of your eyes the first time you laid eyes on him. 

Or the way your brow knit in firm concentration when you had him tossed to the ground, once. Nearly taking him by something almost akin to surprise, the weight of your gun, incessant, against his chest. Your mouth turning sour in restless irritation when he dared try tease at your sensibilities, a harsh knee you plunged deeper into his torso.  

The quick work of your mind — a testament of its well-endowed intellect and wit, a Hunter of good repute —  channeling brilliance in crisp words uttered from rouged lips, when the two of you, on one certain occasion, found yourselves in a particularly dire situation. One you’d agreed to accompany him to, undercover, as an associate of the Onychinus’ head.   

Truly, he has been snared with your fascinating mien since the day he laid his eyes upon you, your expressions spinning — amusing — as if placed upon a carousel, the longer he spends in your company.  

And from there on, is born a desire to witness even more.  

When you drive him back into the covers with the force of your wet kiss, parting untimely before he has the proper chance to put his tongue into your mouth and taste for himself (there will be further opportunities, he holds himself). 

The way that well-coveted, devious tongue sweeps a slow path against your upper lip —just out of reach — edge to edge. The harsh dash of red, high across your cheeks, the intensity of your breaths, untamed as his. And those beautiful eyes, a riotous mix of vexation and desire so incinerating, it turns Sylus’s cock to unbearably hard stone beneath the cleft of your ass, he bucks up against you just to see that wheeling carousel within your gaze, shift forms for him, watch that mouth swear at the exhilarating stimulation of your combined symphony, he knows, you too feel. Just for him alone.  

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)  

Sylus enjoys the slick feeling of your skin stained by his cum; that exact moment he pulls out of your quivering walls to release himself in thick spurts down the length of your folds. Slips the head of his cock against the smears of his release, before pushing back, slow, once more into your depths.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)  

There is no secrecy or shame involved with a man in possession of as poised a self-assurance as Sylus; his sexual tendencies he not only owns up to and understands but has no qualms about elucidating his wants in great... obscene detail, to his partner, you.  

He wants you to be knowing exactly what it is you are doing to arouse him and exactly how to get him up to that stage.  

His palms curving about your thighs, scaffoldings of heated flesh that climb up and slink slow beneath the cut of your dress. Covetous fingers that trace delicate patterns against the lining of your panties and yet you quiver underneath that feather touch alone. “Such fine lace.” Garnet gaze, sharp, as it meets yours within the tight, much too confined space of his car. 

The chauffeur in front, separated a mere layer away from the two of you as Sylus wrenches you onto his spread lap, the firm muscle of his thighs unyielding beneath as they shift, subtle, to press you deeper against a broad chest.  

Index and middle scouring a hot, glancing path against your clothed slit before withdrawing, leaving you to scramble for purchase against the fine pressed collar of his shirt, creasing it within your hold.  

Your question snipped short with the soft, soughing whisper at your ear, voicing his true intentions. “I’d very much like a memento, to remember our evening by. Your panties...” Devious fingers pinching at the apex of your heat. “They will do well, sweetheart.” 

A moan tumbles past your lips before you can smother the sound —   you break it against the sweep of his mouth, welcoming —  at such a scandalous request, bold, without a lick of remorse. Just as the man himself.  

“I trust you will help me then, yes?” A long, tapered finger, pressing above underwear, right at your slit. Course thumb leisurely stroking its fire against that tight bead of pleasure. A rumbled groan he breaks free against your ear to feel the wanton slick of your arousal, soaking right through fabric. “That’s right, drench them well. I want your fragrance long on my gift, even after your departure.”  

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)  

Sylus has been out and about. He isn’t capricious enough to have changed sexual partners as frequently as the rumors around Zone N109 might paint him to have, but he is certainly no stranger to sex.  

His preference before you, usually having been for casual, short-lived, discrete dalliances, to indulge in bodily pleasures and no more beyond. With a man as committed to his goals as Sylus is, with a clear concept of how he wishes to manipulate the underworld to his liking, he does not spare much attention to subsidiary gratifications. 

With people at large, he is apathetic to that which does not catch his interest. There is very few within this world that truly does.  

And you, now, stand among those rare few treasures that have all of his attentions arrested. 

He finds himself wanting to captivate you, in turn, not just in body but mind. Truly, he finds you a fascinating being.  

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)  

Seated within his lap, cock nestled warm within clenching depths. 

Hair, a spread of wild locks across the coverlet, mirroring the writhing state of your sweat-drenched body underneath his, as he thrusts into you. 

Hungering fingers clawing at the expanse of his chest, down the strength of his shoulders as you furiously grind upon his cock, intoxicatedly chasing an orgasm just within reach. Strong fingers, he rushes down the length of your clenching abdomen, inquisitive palm digging just beneath your naval to feel for the vibrations that ripple across pliant skin with the vehemence of your thrusts onto his cock.  

Sylus relishes the privilege of your private, salacious unravelings, brought upon by him alone, by what he does to you and what you force out of him, for your singular pleasure. Desires heightened to witness you using his body to bring yourself to shattering ruin, it floods his veins with inebriating arousal so heavy, his body aches with the force of his want. 

As such any which way he takes or lets you take, which allows him privy to your raw, unfettered emotions rushing across your face [See above: B, Body Part] is what he enjoys most. Bringing him to completion the fastest when he is able to witness your mouth breaking apart in moans, watch sex mussed strands of hair stick to your temples, mixing in with the sweat of your body, tear-streaked pleasure smeared vivid across your cheeks. 

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)  

Your sexual escapades are hot, often times competitive and cathartic; an unfettering of strangled desires. Bursting to the surface within the fever of your intimacy. Arduous cravings that are hardly scotched in a singular session. 

Vocal and perverse though he may be in tongue when it comes to your love-making, Sylus is not one for poetic romanticisms waxed within the bedroom. A man of action rather than ornate words. 

His regard for you exhibited in the grip of sturdy arms that clutch you back against his body, feeling for each part of you pressed against his. In the tongue that laves at sweat soaked skin in soothing mercy, from the relentless assault of his hips against your ass.  

Roughened thumbs that swab at tears from red-rimmed eyes, post-coitus, a gentle towel that skates soft down the quivering length of your ruined body before tucking it clean into fresh robes.  

The manner in which he chooses to stay close and warm your bed, instead of leaving right after, even after the fire within your veins has long cooled itself. Foregoing his own personal mandate, to never spare a single trace of himself behind.  

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)  

Sylus takes exceptional care to maintain good hygiene at all times; a man who looks and smells just as good, the pleasant, sharp undertones to his cologne, having you canting your nose into the space of his neck, as you breathe. 

 Right at that tendon wrung taut with the press of your teeth into a harsh bite, to choke the scream that climbs up your throat with the hard propulsions of his cock into your depths.  

Downstairs, he is fairly clean; a shave on the regular, a mere fine dusting of ivory tracing a path from navel, downwards until it disappears beneath the stretch of his pants.  

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)  

[Also see above: G] Choosing to bury his skewed smiles against your wet moans, the bite of restive teeth you sink into his lip, pulling it wider.  The anchor he throws forwards for both your sakes in the entwining of digits, meshing tight against the other to ride out your highs.  

Sinking a bite in farewell right above your left breast before you part, so he knows how that heart bears its frenzied beats for him alone. A reminder he leaves upon your body to ache by, until the next time he finds himself buried within you.  

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)  

Sylus lies in possession of an exceedingly high sexual drive. And herculean, in-humane self-control to boot. Experienced though he may be, due to the course of his sexual history; he’s been able to keep his casual encounters to a minimum due to how well he is able to compartmentalize his needs.  

Overwhelming desires at times, he often spilled within the confines of an oiled fist. At others, tamping down the more primal parts of himself, until he felt it turn a necessity.  

After you, he allows himself release from that tight-fisted restraint more often. Finishing himself in white relief, trickling down his fingers on the days (...hours) he does not have your warm body to sheath into, does not have the symphony of your cries to help him along.  

Your visage in mind, sharp, jagged; he’s already expecting your next meeting with bated pleasure. 

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)  

Sylus loves the color red on you, appreciates fiercely how becoming it is on you.

Loves to buy you dresses — scarlet as his eyes, as his desires —  to put on, when you let him. Personally ensures, first-hand, they are well-fitted, within the confines of a cosy dressing room. 

When large hands reach to flit past the split of your dress, cup about your ass, fingers drifting about your waist. “A perfect fit.”He praises, to your reflection within the body-length mirror. Skating further up your body to finger the strap of the outfit, skirting it, slow, down your shoulder. Indolent digits, index and thumb, pinching at the hardened peaks of a breast. Curving a hefty palm about the clothed flesh. “You’re a sight to behold.” 

Red, when he curls a palm in between the cleft of your legs, leaves your flesh smarting with the short, pinching grinds against an increasingly swollen clit, stimulated for hours on end. Ruby, to match the flush at your cheeks. Scarlet, down the crescent of your breasts.  

Wine, when you make his color spill with the bite of harsh teeth into his lip, bursting blood in between your mouths, as you withdraw on panting breaths.  Tipping down in willing obeisance — he gifts just to you— with the violent tug of your fingers, directing him back against your mouth. Lapping at his wound, marking him for your own.  

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)  

Anytime, any place, any where.  

There isn’t an authority powerful enough on Earth to stay his hand, once the two of you decide you want your bodies against each other. Sylus does not shy from an opportunity presented, and if there is none, he makes one.  

In seclusion, or in public— 

Crowds melting away the moment his fingers whip about your waist, stealing you away into private silence. The weight of his Evol has barely scattered from your shoulders, before the strength of his body replaces it, driving you back against a carved pillar. Mouth pulsing against yours in a slow, heavy kiss. Wet, hot; parting from your tongue on a conjoined string of damp pleasure, that bows and breaks under the weight of gravity.  

There isn’t a moment he does not desire you and he certainly has no specious sensibilities to appeal to, when it comes to the chance to indulge you.  

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)  

Curses, nothing quite turns Sylus on than to see you flourish in the place you shine best. When you are dedicated and singular-minded, in pursuit of your target. When you are forced to contend against situations far out of your control, compelled to navigate the perilous dangers that come with your line of work, be it the Tenebrae, Wanderers or something else entirely. And rise above it all, through the sheer drive you possess, a stubborn nature unable to give up on what you believe in. Not unlike his own, a kinship he finds within you.  

A desire to obtain that fire for his own. 

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)  

There is little Sylus would ever deny you. Certainly, keep from you, briefly; demands he may not fulfill immediately, in the pursuit of your combined pleasures. 

Sharing you with another, however, is a stringent boundary. 

Despite that first impression he settles, of immovable composure, he’s territorial, rather like a murder of crows, over you. Your heart, your sole focus, he desires to monopolize for his own. 

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)  

Having your mouth on his cock is stimulating. Having your positions swapped and your ass grinding hard against the strength of his jaw, however, is what truly incinerates the blood within his veins. The leverage it bestows within his hold, to have you. Manipulate your pleasure to his liking, set the blood thrumming high within your own body.

Sturdy arms that cord about the plush of quivering thighs, garnet gaze that rolls up to capture yours, accompanying the wicked bite of teeth into the pliant flesh of your thigh. The flat of his tongue running from base to hood, ensuring not a single drop is wasted.  

Relishing his victory in the slow sweep of lids falling shut, the open grin that pulls taut, with the harsh, fluttering pull of your fingers at his hair, shoving him deeper into your pussy. Signaling your utter defeat. 

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)  

Sylus is in it for the long game. And no matter what it takes, no matter the cost, he sees to it that he gets what he wants.  

Oh, him fracturing from that torturous tug-and-pull you’ve got going on, is but a feverish wish on your part. Sylus lives for the pleasure of your ruination, delights in the number of times he can crest you to your climax. And when not. 

Part desire, part the necessity to have you well and utterly drenched before he even thinks to breach that soft, quivering flesh. Extended periods of torturous teasing foreplay, obligatory if he is to have penetrative sex with you. His size, he understands, not an easy burden to accommodate.  

He often starts out slow; long, deep thrusts into your body as it clenches and moulds against the shape of him. Stimulated eventually enough, you drip copious against him, pleasure over-riding any remaining scraps of  fleeting discomfort entirely until you’re clawing at the sturdy strength of his back. 

Fingernails pulsing at the firm flesh of his ass, his name tumbling incoherent from a parched mouth, until he’s driving into you with the vehemence of an untethered beast. Guttural groans and whispered sighs, splintering against the give of your neck in tandem to your mounting screams. Quenched against the bite of a breast.  

Letting your desires burn in between you until the moment they’re blanketed, hours later, into the dark of night.  

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)  

Sylus does not wait. When he witnesses desire pool within that provoked gaze, watches the fire that burns parched, as you seek for moisture with the slow slide of a pink tongue against your rouged lip.  

Helping you along into a dark crevice, if you’re out in public. Drawing your panties down against your thighs to reach for the place in between your legs. Roughened fingers plucking at wetness, dragging an indolent path from your slit to the apex of your sex. Curving one long, tapered digit into your clenching walls, stroking, until he brings you crashing for him.  

Proud mouth pulsing a kiss in hushed laughter against your temple, as he assists you in putting yourself back in spruced order.  

Sylus never goes the entire way, when the two of you are rushing against the clock. Ample time, he requires — and makes certain he’d have that, later — to unwrap and uncover the entirety of you, piece by piece.  

An early aperitif, however, is one he isn’t opposed to, especially when it is served, as intoxicating as you are. 

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)  

He’s willing and he’s game; a word from you is all he requires before granting you exactly what you desire, in spades.  

There isn’t a thing you could throw his way to turn him off you, Sylus is the kind of man to take it all in stride.  

[See also: L, N and K] 

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)  

Oh, he possesses a generous, infuriating amount of discipline; immovable rock in the face of obvious temptation. That does not, however, imply there isn’t a savage beast caged, restless, underneath that cool, tempered demeanor. Sylus merely maintains inhumane control over the leash of that sexuality beneath. And he knows how well to untether it too, once he allows himself to let loose his inhibitions.  

Infinite stores of stamina (for daaays), an extremely brief refractory period and an overwhelming desire to wring you dry, entirely for himself, make for a terrifying combination.  

Your hips would long break before Sylus’ cock ever begun to lose its vigor.  

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)  

Sylus knows an opportunity when he sees one and the chance to have you utterly devastated, is one he never lets up on, and toys are just a welcome addition to his arsenal.  

Pretty little baubles, the two of you purchased together on one of your dates — a discrete, neat store tucked within one of N109’s infamous districts, the way he’d encouraged your fascinated survey of the store’s à la mode selection of vibrators and jeweled plugs, a vaguely amused smile plucking at his mouth. Pulling up every single toy that sparked your fancy for a detailed overview from the ever-present staff, more than happy to answer all your enthused questions.  

Rounding a firm hand about your waist to tug to his side, at the end of your purchase trip, breathing a sensual promise into the cleft of your ear, to let you try them all out in due time. 

And he fulfills it, in equal enthusiasm. 

Deft fingers that press up to slide against the insistent vibrations of the object settled snug into your wet walls. Toying, indolent, at the intensity of its stimulation with sporadic flicks of his Evol. Your stuttered moans clawing higher the longer he keeps you suspended within this torturous state of denial. Rejecting your babbles to let you come, that he’s been at it for hours.  

“Not yet,” he instructs, slipping a cool hand onto the shell of your hip to hold down your senseless bucking.  

It is only several, excruciating denied orgasms later does he tug free the plug at your ass, pressing his cock in lieu of its emptiness. And the way your hole clamps down in a vice at the base of him drags a shuddered, guttural groan from him. Your body stimulated so beyond sense, it drags an exhilarated laugh from his chest, in conjunction to your lost moans. 

“This is it, lovely. Are you enjoying yourself that much?” Mouth pulling wider at your vehement nods. “Do you desire more?” Sinking three fingers up to the knuckle into your pussy, without warning. A quick tug of them upwards, has his energy tinkering at the vibrator’s intensity, sending it buzzing higher and you wail your curses at him. “Hah.” He shudders above, pressing deeper against your back. “That’s it, I like those sounds.” 

“Sing higher, darling.” 

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)  

Oh, his craving for riling you up and goading you is infinite. 

Even when you have him physically bound and at your mercy; the gorgeous, insouciant pull of that mouth into a skewed smile —  a crafted calculation — has you feeling as if he still holds the entirety of a winning deck within those trussed hands.  

Through each singular groan, every heaving breath and grunt, a disquieting, infuriating grin tugs constant at lips that demand further of your cruelty. As if a perverse beast actually enjoying the cage it belongs in.  

The ram of a harsh heel, deep into his abdomen, has his grunting a long, gravely sound, Sylus’ body driving further into the savage crush of your shoe — pleasure so intoxicating in the knot of strong brows, that parted mouth —  it stirs fiery arousal deep within your own belly.  

Traitorous wetness trailing down the length of your thighs, arousal that Sylus convulses against the binds of his shackles for. Manages to dip forwards just enough —  the brute —  to catch the trickle of wetness against an adept tongue, at your thigh, and lap. Garnet gaze seeking and capturing yours in a haze so vicious your fingers fist harsh into his hair, in an unforgiving pull. Your moans, he steals — victorious — for himself.  

“That is surely not all you can manage to do with me, can you, darling?” 

 And you can’t be too dishonest with yourself any longer; your orgasms far more fervid and ruinous when he’s had you both dancing along to his little cat-and-mouse game for hours on end, teasing you both with the pantomime of the act. Until, finally, finally, his cock plunges past aching, swollen folds and into your drenched, clenching walls.  

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)  

Sylus’ moans are low, licentious burrs; throaty whispers he secretes right against your ear, to turn your legs to quivering flesh. He doesn’t require his voice to rise above a certain octave, not when he has you gushing on his face with the vibrations that buffet deep into your pussy, when that pleasured rumble of his breaks right in between your legs. 

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)  

Sylus does not care much for binding or detaining you — restraining your senses — for personal pleasure.  

He allows you use of your precious fetters and restraints, for what it does for him — an opportunity to maneuver your pleasure — and for the two of you, that is... if you can manage to bring him under, to begin with.  

It merely isn’t something that works for him, in roles reversed, when he finds himself sufficient enough to draw forth the pleasure he can achieve for the two of you, with his body alone. 

He has innumerable ways within his arsenal he can bring you to mind-numbing finish with, and he doesn’t require the comfort of a rope for that.  

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)  

Sylus’ cock is a beautiful, symmetrical thing — rather intimidating at first glance. He teaches your body to take it well, in long, pleasurable lessons. Curving, slight. towards his abdomen. A thick shaft running up into a flared glans that burns in pleasurable penetration the first time you take him in. Numerous, undulating veins along the length, that bump perfect against the surface of your tongue when you swirl around it. 

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)  

[Incredibly high as detailed at great length in J and S] 

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards) 

Sleep is the farthest thing from mind when the Onychinus’ head has you tucked at last, exhausted, within his bed. His body — long programmed — hardly permitting the scope of vulnerability slumber brings, in your presence.  

And so, he puts that time to other pursuits. Often nights, choosing to watch over your sleep, carding the occasional stray strand of hair back against your ear. At others, he brings work to bed, spectacled scarlet gaze scouring over lines of text and diagrammatic compilations.  

Not choosing to desert your side, even once, throughout the entire night, protective over your own vulnerability, for as long as it lasts. 

End Notes: Once my fingers actually started on this man, I could not stop even if I wanted to. Sylus has me gripped by my very throat and that worries me greatly LOL.

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[ladyrosemone]

Not the chose one

Always the bridesmaid, never the bride.

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LADS x No-Mc

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Before all this, you'd never really thought about fate.

You're not someone who believes in coincidences, or past lives, or anything that's fanciful and bordering on insanity, no, you operate like the world does: with proof. If someone says something, you have to prove it to believe it, see it and feel it to know they mean it, and so far, it's worked out wonderfully for you.

A little too well, and the saying goes, too much of anything is bad.

The first was a doctor, you met him at that first aid course your friend taught as part of his internship at a hospital; he was handsome and intelligent, sensible and down-to-earth. The romance was slow but no less passionate, where every detail spoke a thousand words, and the moments together were so special that their absences didn't feel heavy.

Until it wasn't enough because of a new person.

He said she was a childhood friend, then that she was a regular patient (conveniently forgetting that he was the one who took her on as an immediate patient), and then he didn't even deny his feelings for her.

Leaving him was painful but not difficult, life doesn't end because of a broken heart.

But then your savior arrived (literally), a hunter from the Hunters' Association who take care of wanderers saved you from being devoured by one. Meeting him was like unlocking a new character in your life, you'd bump into him in the most random places! And most of the time, he was dozing or on lookout duty. Getting close was easy; letting himself be known was the real challenge; but that never stopped you, and the reward was worth it, love with him felt out of this world, like traveling to another galaxy and shining among the stars.

Until your star turned into a meteor.

You don't believe in divine coincidences, but when he started showing up late, going on more missions with a new partner, and stopping coming to your house to sleep, your instincts (or unresolved trauma) made you aware of the coincidences until he confessed to having an interest in this new hunter, who wanted to set things right. Did it hurt? Like shit, this time something more than your heart was hurt. Your pride, maybe? Well, it was only twice. They say the third time's the charm, right? Let's see if it's true.

The opportunity presented itself at an art gallery; it's not your strongest area, but you don't mind letting new experiences in, especially now that the days have become more bearable after your breakup, which wasn't really because you weren't formally together, the terrible ones almost something.

You didn't expect to meet the artist of all the works on display that night, nor to have offended him with your limited knowledge of art, canvases, and brushstrokes. Luckily, he didn't take it (so) personally, and the night passed with the artist talking about his works while you listened half-heartedly. The dates were quick, loving him was swift, like fire spreading in a forest, fiery and lively, but there were also times when loving him was like floating in the sea, calm and thoughtful, a warm embrace from the tides that lull you to sleep.

Did you forget to never let your guard down on the open sea? Apparently that includes people too.

Suddenly, the fire between you faded, dates weren't frequent, the sea that rocked you now turned into waves that dragged you to the bottom where its light was lost, and the day you feared most (but hoped for) arrived with a text message.

<<"This isn't going to work out">>

That bastard…he really broke up with you via text message, and the worst part was seeing him walking around with a girl in his arms. When you least expected it (and you really didn't expect it), a criminal leader appeared.

Yeah, you didn't even know him first.

It turns out that when a robotic crow lands in your yard, calling animal services doesn't work; luckily, following instructions was never a problem, and with a few YouTube videos, the not-robot-bird worked like a charm. Did you know that crows remember faces and reward those who helped them? Well, you knew when he kept showing up in your neighborhood, attacking squirrels that steal seeds from (real) birds, bringing you precious stones (where does he get that from?!), and even letting you pet him when you came up for air.

That's when two guys showed up at your house "voluntarily" taking you with their boss to area N109. It turns out their boss isn't just any person, he's a CRIMINAL boss, leader of the Onychinus group, who deal in things that are neither legal nor ethical. Having fixed his crow without asking questions or involving the police (animal welfare was an honest mistake) impressed him and made him interested in you. Whether that was good or bad, time will tell.

And the time you spent together was, against all odds, the calmest time you've had in years.

A total gentleman, protective of your safety, treating you equally while also pampering you, intelligent, a provider, the literary trope of "I hate everyone except you" , you enjoyed it very much. After a disastrous love life, it was a sigh of relief to have a man you could see a future with. Even the twins loved you! They were like your younger brothers (if you'd had any).

There are already too many coincidences; at this point, it must be a pattern.

Do you have to guess? The signs were there! As soon as you identified the first sign, you left, you fled, without the strength to endure another <<"This isn't going to work">> or <<"I have feelings for her">> or your favorite! <<"It was always her"> >

You didn't even say goodbye to the twins or the funny crow who would definitely have gone with you if you hadn't installed an update on his hard drive, an app that made his eyes change color like a disco ball.

Love was off the table, dating, men (Ugh!), anything that has to do with dating someone else is out.

Saying it is always easier.

You met the colonel in a park, yes, a park. It turns out you were passing by just getting some fresh air; he was feeling blue, boom! The next thing you know, you're on an unauthorized tour of his ship and then flying through the sky into space.

That's what it felt like to be with him: adrenaline and speed, but also home and strength, a refuge to turn to when memories became heavy and nightmares felt real. They became each other's rock, sharing their fears, their worries, and their sorrows, creating happy memories that would overshadow the bad times.

Why don't you learn? There's even a Greek myth that talks about it, Icarus, remember? Flying too close to the sun will burn you.

- I'm sorry

- I know

You should be used to it, It shouldn't hurt like the first time, you should have expected it, you convince yourself of all this, and yet, as soon as you arrive at your half-empty apartment (because some of your things are at their house), you burst into tears against the front door.

Why does this keep happening? Why are they leaving? Why do you keep letting your heart fall if you already know how it's going to end? Are these clues? Is life trying to tell you that love isn't for you? Are you the woman in the process? If so, it's not fair.

They shouldn't practice on you; they shouldn't talk to you sweetly and make you blush, they shouldn't play with your hair before bed, they shouldn't know your likes and dislikes, they shouldn't know that you don't like pickles because they give you allergies, they shouldn't kiss you, they shouldn't make you feel like the only one because in the end you won't be, you'll be the one with whom they've perfected all that, they'll be the best version of themselves for someone else, someone you were never going to do.

And now you're in your apartment, with the lights off, the moon peeking out as if interested in your pain, crying because another man chose to love another woman over you, because once again you weren't the chosen one, you were the path to the other woman. Once again, you are not the winner.

That's why you don't believe in destiny, or astral coincidences, or soulmates, because in the end, no one can prove to you that they're real. All you have to do is learn from real life, and real life taught you that you won't be enough, that you don't have a destination at the end of the road, or a soulmate across the street, or anything waiting for you on the other side of the world.

It's you, it's only you, and it will always be only you. It's time to realize that and accept it once and for all.

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