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sugugasm · 1 month

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BET | love and deepspace

⟡ tags : underground boxer! sylus + reader — sylus isn’t afraid of going all in when it comes to you.

ミ★ content warning : fem! reader uses she/her prns, mentions of blood & injuries, mentions of female anatomy as well as male anatomy, oral fem! receive, gentle to rough sex, pet names like bby, dove, kitten, honey, 5.0K WORD COUNT

you step into the dimly lit underground boxing gym, the air thick with the scent of sweat, cigarette smoke, and leather. it’s a seedy place, hidden in the heart of the city’s most notorious neighborhood, where the law doesn’t dare to tread. the crowd tonight is a mix of rough characters - bikers with gang patches on their jackets, local gangsters with glares and expensive watches, shady high-rollers in suits looking to place big bets on the illegal fights.

as you navigate through the throng of people, you spot him in the corner, preparing for his match. sylus - the man who happened to be your ex-boyfriend . . oh, and only the most feared bare-knuckled boxer in the underground circuit. he was a sight to behold, all rippling muscles and newfound tattoos, with messy silver hair that gleamed under the fluorescent lights. you watch as he methodically wraps his hands, his intense red eyes focused on the task.

your history with sylus is complicated, to say the least. you met him two years ago at a biker rally, drawn to his bad-boy charm and undeniable charisma. he swept you off your feet with his daredevil antics on his custom harley and his smooth talking ways. but sylus’s world was always filled with danger, violence, and illegal activities. as the leader of onychinus, the city’s most notorious motorcycle club, he ran an empire built on illicit evol weapons, protocore deals, and underground fighting.

at first, the thrill of it all was intoxicating - the adrenaline rush of riding on the back of his bike, the wild parties at the onychinus clubhouse, watching him dominate in the ring. but as time went on, you grew tired of the constant chaos and the fear that one day, sylus’s risky lifestyle would catch up to him. you wanted stability, a future - things that sylus scoffed at. ‘i live in the moment, babe,’ he would say with that infuriating smirk. ‘and right now, all i want is you.’

but it wasn’t enough. six months ago, after a particularly brutal fight that left sylus battered and bleeding, you reached your breaking point. you told him you couldn’t watch him destroy himself anymore, that you needed more than he could give you. sylus, stubborn and proud as ever, refused to change. ‘this is who i am,’ he growled. ‘so take it or leave it.’ so you left, walking away from the man you loved, determined to build a life free from the violence and uncertainty.

now, seeing him again after all this time, you feel a mix of emotions stirring within you. anger, hurt, frustration . . . but also a undeniable pull of attraction and longing. as if sensing your presence, sylus glances up, his red eyes locking with yours. a slow, confident smirk spreads across his handsome face as he saunters over to you, the crowd parting before him.

“well, well. look who it is,” he drawls, looking you up and down appreciatively. “didn’t expect to see you here tonight, [★]. come to watch me dominate the ring as usual?”

you scoff and cross your arms, determined not to let him see how much his presence affects you. “i’m not here for you, sylus. i’m just here to collect on some bets.”

he chuckles, a deep, rich sound that sends shivers down your spine. “sure you are, sweetheart. keep telling yourself that.”

sylus takes a step closer, invading your personal space. he smells like musk and sandalwood, a scent that brings back memories of stolen moments and passionate nights. “i miss you, you know,” he murmurs, his voice low and intimate. “everything’s been so boring without you around to keep me on my toes.”

you try to stay strong, but you can feel your resolve wavering. damn him and his charm. “i’m not here to rehash the past, sylus. what do you want?”

his eyes glint with a challenge. “make a bet with me - when i win the championship belt tonight, you give me another shot. a chance to prove that we’re meant to be together.”

you laugh in disbelief. “you can’t be serious. we’re done, sy. i’m not falling for your games again.”

“who says it’s a game?” he counters, his expression turning serious. “i know i messed up, [★]. i wasn’t ready before, but i am now. i want you back in my life. i need you.”

you hesitate, torn between your lingering feelings and your better judgment. sylus is a force of nature, wild and untamed. being with him is like dancing on the edge of a razor - thrilling but dangerous. can you really risk your heart again?

“and what do i get if you lose?” you ask, buying yourself time to think.

sylus flashes you a cocky grin. “you know i never lose, kitten. but if by some miracle i do . . i’ll leave you alone. for good. unless you decide you can’t resist me and come crawling back.”

you snort at his arrogance, even as a part of you wonders if he might be right. sylus has always had a hold on you, an undeniable magnetism that draws you in against your will, “fine,” you hear yourself saying, almost as if from a distance. “you’ve got a deal.”

his grin widens, triumphant. “get ready to come back to where you belong, [★] - with me.”

the crowd starts to get louder, chanting and cheering as the lights flicker and dim. it’s almost time for the main event - sylus’s championship fight. he starts to walk towards the ring, but pauses and turns back to face you.

“watch closely now, honey,” he says with a wink. “i’m about to show you what you’ve been missing.”

with that, he strides away, his movements graceful and predatory. you watch him go, your heart pounding in your chest.

what had you gotten yourself into?

as the crowd’s chanting reaches a fevered pitch, sylus steps into the ring, the picture of coiled power and raw aggression. his opponent, a hulking brute known as ‘the mauler’, glares at him from across the mat, pounding his meaty fists together in a show of intimidation. but sylus just smirks, unfazed. he’s taken down bigger, badder fighters than this guy.

the referee calls them to the center, going over the rules - not that there are many in the underground circuit. “no biting, no eye gouging, fight ends with a knockout or tapout. keep it clean . . ish. touch gloves and come out swinging!”

sylus bumps his taped fists against the mauler’s, staring him down with those intense red eyes. then they’re backing away, the air crackling with tension as the crowd falls silent in anticipation.

the bell sounds and the mauler charges forward with a roar, swinging wildly. but sylus is too quick, too skilled. he slips and weaves, dodging the heavy blows, letting his opponent overextend himself. sylus fires off a rapid jab - cross combo, snapping the mauler’s head back and drawing first blood from his nose.

the big man snarls and redoubles his efforts, trying to use his size to his advantage, to trap sylus against the ropes and pummel him. but sylus is like smoke, always just out of reach. he targets the mauler’s weak spots with surgical precision - a knife-hand to the solar plexus to crush his wind, a heel kick to the floating rib, an elbow smash to the jaw.

each blow lands with devastating impact, chipping away at the mauler’s formidable stamina and sending the crowd into a frenzy. they chant sylus’s name like a war cry, thrilling at the sight of the chiseled, tattooed demigod of the ring in his element.

you watch in breathless awe, pulse racing, body heating. damn him. he’s magnificent like this - a perfect fighting machine, all fluid grace and controlled violence. it’s enough to make you forget why you walked away, to let yourself imagine those powerful hands on your body once more . .

a pained grunt snaps you back to the moment as the mauler finally lands a solid hit, a haymaker to sylus’s ribs that sends him staggering. your heart leaps into your throat. but sylus just shakes it off with a feral grin, spitting blood and bouncing on his toes as he beckons for more.

they trade blows in a brutal, lightning-fast exchange, neither giving quarter. the mauler is flagging but still dangerous, pure grit keeping him on his feet. sylus bleeds from a cut over his eye but barely seems to feel it, an unholy light in his gaze as he scents victory.

he presses his advantage with a dizzying flurry of strikes, driving the mauler back . . back . . until he’s pinned against the turnbuckle. sylus hammers his torso without mercy - left hook to the liver, right uppercut to the chin, again, again. the mauler’s knees buckle and sylus steps back, letting him crumple to the canvas.

the crowd erupts as the ref counts it out. at “ten,” sylus throws his hands up in triumph, basking in the adulation. his eyes find yours across the room and the heat in them makes your breath stop. in three long strides he’s out of the ring and hauling you into his arms, crushing his mouth to yours in a searing kiss.

for a moment, you forget where you are. forget the mob of rowdy spectators whistling and catcalling. forget every reason you swore you'd never let him back into your heart. all you know is the demanding press of his lips, the steel - cable strength of his blood-slicked body, the intoxicating rush of his victory and your surrender . . .

“looks like i won our bet, babe,” he says smugly, smirking down at you. “hope you’re ready to pay up.”

you scowl, hating how easily he affected you. “one. drink. that was the deal.”

sylus touches his tongue to the seam of his split lip, gaze roving hungrily over you. “oh, i’m just getting started.”

he drags you through the throng of well-wishers and sycophants, his grip on your hand unbreakable. outside, the night air is cool against your overheated skin, charged with tension and the distant growl of engines.

sylus leads you to his pride and joy - that sleek demon of a harley crouched by the curb. the way he straddles the throbbing machine is blatantly sexual, all hard muscles and black leather. he jerks his head at the space behind him.

“c’mon - you know the drill, hop on.”

your hesitation lasts a mere heartbeat before you throw a leg over the bike and wrap your arms around his waist, molding yourself to his back. the rumble of the engine between your thighs and the furnace heat of his body shreds the last of your resistance.

then, sylus kicks off and you’re flying, the city lights a neon blur as he opens the throttle. your pulse pounds in time with the roar of the pipes, excitement and desire a heady drug in your veins. by the time he screeches to a stop outside a dingy saloon on the outskirts of town, you’re dizzy with need.

inside, the bar is a den of sin and swagger, all scuffed leather and polished chrome and clinking bottles. eyes follow sylus with a mix of fear and reverence as he stalks to a booth in the back, one possessive hand at the small of your back.

he orders a whiskey, neat, and your favorite poison, not bothering to ask what you want. at your raised eyebrow, he shrugs.

“i remember.”

two words. but the weight of history and unspoken emotion behind them squeezes your heart. your fingers tremble slightly as you raise your glass in a mock toast.

“to your victory. and my reckless wager.”

sylus’ gaze is molten as he clinks his tumbler against yours, gaze holding you captive over the rim as he tosses back the smooth liquid. the slight burn of the alcohol is nothing compared to the smolder of his stare.

“what are we doing, sy?” you ask into the charged quiet, liquid courage loosening your tongue. “why now, after all this time?”

a muscle ticks in his jaw. he looks down, spinning his empty glass, broad shoulders rigid with tension.

“i fucked up.”

his voice is low, raw with a vulnerability you've never heard from him. your breath snags.

“i thought i needed the rush, the rep, the respect. and yeah, maybe i did, for a while. but none of it meant shit without you.” slowly, giving you every chance to pull away, he reaches for your hand — lacing his scarred, tape-wrapped fingers with yours, “i was a coward. i pushed you away because i was scared shitless of how bad i wanted you - needed you. needed your strength, your goodness. you made me want to be better. and it truly fucking terrified me.”

his grip tightens, almost painfully. anchoring you to him.

“losing you . . it broke me, [★]. made me realize that the only thing i’m actually afraid of is living without you.”

sylus swallows hard, his throat working. when he looks up at you, his eyes are blazing with fierce intent.

“i know i don’t deserve another shot. i know i need to earn back your trust. but i swear to whoever may hold my fate, if you give me a chance, i will spend every waking day proving that you’re my whole damn world.”

your heart is a wild bird in your chest, frantic and yearning. you search his face, finding only sincerity and aching tenderness beneath the bruises and blood.

“i never stopped loving you,” you confess, voice breaking. “no matter how hard i tried to hate you . . i couldn’t let you go.”

sylus makes a rough sound, halfway between a growl and a groan. then he’s kissing you, deep and urgent and saying everything he can't put into words. you fall into him, all hunger and desperation, the levee finally breaking on the flood of your need.

“take me home,” you gasp into his mouth, fingers curling in the sweat-damp silk of his hair.

“i thought you’d never ask, dove.”

the anticipation is a living thing as sylus speeds through the lamp-lit streets, the throaty growl of his harley between your thighs a heady reminder of the man commanding the machine. by the time he pulls into the cavernous garage beneath his loft, your body is humming, every nerve ending alight with need.

sylus is on you the moment you dismount, crowding you back against the rough brick wall, his large frame enveloping yours. his kiss is searing, possession and passion, strong hands gripping your hips as he grinds into you. you moan into his mouth, fingers scrabbling for purchase on his leather-clad shoulders, craving more.

“been dreaming about this,” he rasps against your lips, his voice like gravel and whiskey, igniting heat in your veins. “having you back in my arms, in my bed. fuck, [★], need you so bad it's like a sickness.”

“then take me,” you breathe, emboldened by the blatant hunger shining in those crimson eyes. “i’m here, sylus. i’m yours.”

something animalistic unfurls behind his gaze, a primal sort of satisfaction that has you clenching with want. in a burst of movement, he hoists you up, your legs instinctively wrapping around his lean hips as he strides purposefully to the industrial elevator that will carry you to his domain.

the short ride up is a haze of frantic kisses and roving hands, two years’ worth of pent-up longing seeking outlet. by the time sylus kicks open the door to his loft, you’re both panting, clothes askew and lips kiss-bruised. he carries you straight to the bedroom, a cavern of shadows and silver moonlight spilling across rumpled black silk sheets. when he lays you down in the center of that decadent expanse, the reverence in his touch steals your breath. his battle-scarred fingers shake slightly as they skim over your curves, learning you anew.

“so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, crimson gaze tracking hungrily over your body like he's committing every detail to memory. “can’t believe i almost lost this . . lost you . .”

“never,” you whisper fiercely, reaching up to cup his angular jaw. “i’m here, sylus. right where i belong. and i’m not going anywhere.”

he turns his head to press a fervent kiss to your palm, the heat of his breath making you shiver as his lips graze your fingers — and ever so gently, he bites. then slowly, deliberately, he divests you of your clothes, unwrapping you like a gift. you echo his actions, baring him inch by glorious inch to your avid gaze.

sylus’s body is a work of art, all chiseled muscle and inked skin, a roadmap of violence and survival. you take your time tracing the ridges and hollows, the scars and scrolling tattoos, familiarizing yourself with this new landscape of him. he shudders beneath your questing touch, eyes fluttering shut, a low rumble building in his chest.

“[★],” he grits out, and fuck, how you’ve missed the way he says your name, guttural and raw, like a prayer and a plea. “please, baby . . need to taste you.”

“yes,” you hiss, already aching, empty. “please, sylus.”

granted, he descends on you like a man starved, that talented mouth charting a path of fire over your sensitized flesh. he maps every curve and valley with lips and teeth and tongue, each nip and suck and lap stoking the inferno building in your core.

when he finally settles between your trembling thighs, the first bold stroke of his tongue punches the air from your lungs, your spine arching involuntarily. he groans in appreciation, strong hands splaying your thighs wider, opening you fully to his voracious appetite.

“fuck, i missed this,” he rasps against your slick folds, the vibration of his words making you keen. “missed the way you taste, the sounds you make when i devour this sweet cunt. could feast on you for hours, little one . .”

you whimper breathlessly, one hand fisting in the sheets, the other tangling in his silver hair, holding him to you. sylus takes the encouragement for what it is, sealing his mouth over your aching flesh and suckling greedily. stars erupt in your eyes, pleasure rioting through your veins as he works you ruthlessly, adding clever fingers to his oral assault. he curls them just right, rubbing that secret spot that has you seeing god, all while his wicked tongue paints obscene promises on your clit.

“s-sy, fuck!” you wail, back bowing, thighs clamping around his ears as he drives you higher and higher. “oh god, yes, just like that! don’t stop, please, i’m gonna’ cum . . fuck, baby-”

he doubles his efforts, a man possessed, growling his own pleasure into your core. “that’s it, my love,” he urges gutturally between long, lewd licks. “go ahead and give it to me, wanna’ feel you drench my face, want you gushing on my tongue . .”

his filthy encouragement hurls you over the edge with a strangled scream, release slamming into you like a freight train. you shatter spectacularly, pulsing and clenching around his thrusting fingers, slick gushing into his eager mouth as he works you through the most intense orgasm of your life.

when you finally drift back down to earth, aftershocks still rippling through you, sylus is grinning up at you wolfishly from between your thighs, his beard glistening obscenely with your essence. “fucking incredible,” he rumbles, pressing a soft kiss to your still-twitching center. “could watch you fall apart on my tongue forever and never get tired of it.”

“get up here,” you demand breathlessly, tugging him to you. he comes willingly, settling his considerable bulk over you, caging you beneath miles of warm, hard muscle.

you claim his mouth in a filthy kiss, moaning at the taste of yourself on his lips and tongue. he responds with matching hunger, hips rocking into the cradle of your thighs, the thick ridge of his erection a brand against your sensitive flesh.

“please,” you whimper into his mouth, nipping at his bottom lip. “need you inside me, sylus. been too long, i want it . .”

“fuck,” he snarls, the words seeming to snap his restraint. “far too long, honey. be patient, you know i will.” slowly, giving you time to adjust, he notches himself at your entrance and pushes forward, gasping harshly at the tight, wet heat of you enveloping him. “goddamn,” he grits out through clenched teeth, forehead pressed to yours. “silly me. i almost forgot how fucking perfect you feel. like coming home.”

“yes,” you moan, reveling in the familiar stretch and burn of his thick length entering your body. “missed this so much . . missed you . . love you, sylus, so fucking much.”

“i love you too,” he rasps, pulling nearly all the way out before surging back in, starting a deep, rolling rhythm that has your toes curling. “i never stopped, never will. you’re only for me, [★]. only me.”

you lose yourselves to the timeless dance, bodies moving in perfect synchronicity, rediscovering every perfect angle and hidden sweet spot. sylus takes his time, building you back up with long, measured strokes, whispering words of worship into your skin, branding you with his love.

“so good,” he groans, hitching your leg higher on his hip, sinking impossibly deeper. “could stay buried in this tight little pussy forever. never wanna leave.”

“don’t.” you gasp, fingers clawing at his flexing back, desperate for more. “stay — harder, sylus, fuck me harder. wanna’ be able to feel it tomorrow.”

with a low, approving growl, sylus complies, snapping his hips faster, driving into your yielding body with the piston precision of the machine he rides. the wet, obscene slap of flesh fills the room, punctuated by your escalating moans and cries.

“i’m not gonna last,” he warns, rhythm faltering. “too good, too fucking good. tell me you’re close, baby . .”

“s-so close,” you pant, the coil in your belly wound to the breaking point. “just a little more - fuck, right there, sy . . o-oh my —”

sylus hammers into you, grunting with the effort, sweat sheening his skin. he wedges a hand between your straining bodies, finding your swollen clit and rubbing tight circles. “cum on my cock,” he demands, voice strained. “let me feel that pussy grip me, milk me . .” his words are your undoing, hurling you into oblivion with a keening wail. your inner muscles seize around him, rippling and fluttering, trying to pull him deeper as you drench his driving length in release.

“fuck, yes!” sylus roars, pistoning wildly, chasing his own end. “gonna’ - ah, shit, kitty, i’m cumming!” his climax overtakes him with a force that borders on violence, his cock jerking and pulsing as he spills himself deep in your still-spasming core, painting your inner walls with thick ropes of his seed. you mewl weakly in blissed-out overstimulation, aftershocks rolling through you as he fills you to the brim.

finally spent, sylus collapses onto you, taking care not to crush you with his bulk. you cuddle as sweat and other fluids cool on your skin, hearts gradually slowing in tandem. he’s still stuffed deep inside you and you clench involuntarily around his now-softening length, loving the way he groans, overused nerves sparking. “keep that up and we’ll be going again real soon,” he warns playfully, nuzzling into your neck.

you huff a laugh, carding your fingers through his damp hair. “yeah, yeah,” you tease. “we’ve got time now, sylus. all the time in the world. i’m not going anywhere.”

he raises his head to look at you, crimson eyes soft and full of wonder. “damn right you’re not,” he rumbles, pressing a tender kiss to your lips. “i’m never letting you out of my sight again. you’re stuck with me now, sweetheart.”

“eh, could be worse,” you quip, grinning up at him. “i think i can handle being stuck with you. it’s only forever, after all.”

“forever,” sylus echoes solemnly, like an oath. “i like the sound of that. you and me. binded as one.”

“ . . . and loving each other stupid every chance we get,” you finish impishly, wiggling your eyebrows.

he barks a laugh, the joyful, uninhibited sound making your heart soar. “oh, that is definitely part of the plan,” he assures you, a wicked gleam in his eye. “gotta’ make up for lost time, don’t we?”

“mmhm, that we do,” you agree readily, warmth suffusing you. “better get started on that. forever’s not getting any longer.”

“as my lady commands,” sylus murmurs, capturing your mouth again as he begins to stir inside you once more.

and as passion ignites anew, the promise of countless tomorrows enfolding you like a benediction, you know this is just the beginning of the ups and downs.

because this love, tempered by loss and longing, by time and truth . . it’s unbreakable. a bond that even the harshest trials will only serve to strengthen.

and with sylus by your side, his heart in your keeping as surely as yours rests in his scarred and steady hands . .

. . you know you can weather any storm.

forever, and then some.

★ SUGUGASM 2024 | please don’t copy, translate or share my work on other platforms without my consent. tagging @ramonathinks <3

#lnds sylus #sylus x reader #love and deepspace #lads sylus #sylus x you #sylus x mc #sylus romance #love and deepspace smut #lads smut #lnds smut #love and deepspace sylus #l&ds sylus #lads x reader #lads x you #sylus qin #sylus smut

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motogp-gears · 2 years

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We are the Leather Clothing manufacturing and selling company based in Pakistan.we are Customizing suits and jacket as per customer order at a suitable price. We make sure to keep the end user’s requirements in mind and provide cheaper in retail.

No matter how old or young you are, male or female, we have just got the right Jacket, Suit and leather accessories for you.

#motogp #motorcycle #custom #leather suit #leather jacket

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safety-pin-punk · 1 year

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Punk 101: A History of Battle Jackets

Battle Jackets have a long and interesting history in general, not limited only to punk. Today we see them as a reflection of the wearer, they are a form of self expression and affiliation.

Battle jackets can trace their origins back to WWII American pilots who would decorate their flight suits and bomber jackets with their squadron's insignia patches. They were jackets that allowed pilots to easily recognize each other and instilled a sense of pride and community in their owners. This is also where the term 'battle jacket' comes from.

After the war was over, pilots returned home and many found joy in the speed and excitement of motorcycles. Biker clubs were formed, and thus, biker culture as well. Pilots often used their bomber jackets while riding because of the protection they offered, though the sleeves were usually removed due to how they restricted movement. Jackets got decorated with club/gang logos to represent their wearer's affiliation, much like the insignia patches. As biker clubs grew, members without a pilot history often used leather or denim jackets to showcase their affiliations. There is a LOT more to biker jacket history, but this is what's really relevant to punk jackets.

In the 60s, two different cultures evolved in the UK. The first is The Mods, known for listening to modern jazz and riding scooters (supposedly their name comes from the modern jazz thing. I would not have been surprised if it was from 'modification' considering the seeming obsession to keep adding mirrors and lights to their scooters). The other group was The Rockers who were known for listening to 50s rock and riding motorcycles. While the groups strongly disliked each other, they both decorated their jackets in ways that influenced punk's jacket scene. The Mods often added pictures, paintings, and patches to theirs, while The Rockers were more likely to be seen sporting spikes and studs. (Not to say that those things were strictly limited to each side - just what was more common)

The following decade (the 70s), the two branches came together as various music subgenres collided and formed. Punk was among the genres formed, and the culture surrounding it was one of the first non-gang or club related groups to decorate their jackets. Taking influence from both The Mods and The Rockers, the characteristic punk look was formed, and intended to be a Fuck You to societal norms. In the earliest days, punk jackets were mostly covered in band patches, much like modern heavy metal jackets. As punk evolved into what we know it as today, with notes of anti-establishment and anarchy, it became more common to see political patches right along side the band ones.

Today's jackets are a personal statement. the bands you like, your interests, political statements. They are a symbol of individuality and rebellion against society. They are a physical representation of YOU and your history with punk culture. This is why it is so important within punk culture to make your own jacket or have someone help who can customize it to you. You are not a generic human off the rack, you have lived a life, had your own battles, have your own personality, and have your own history. A premade, mass produced jacket won't showcase any of that or really truly represent the individuality of 'you'.

#punk 101 #I honestly intended this to be more 'how to make' and 'things to know' but I got a little to into the history research #i'm sorry i'll do another one on that stuff #just not tonight I'm tired #battle jacket #patch jacket #punk jacket

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accala · 3 months

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I love how simplistic the clothing is in Advent Children compared to those in Rebirth. I know it's not what they intended (Rebirth is a fairly new game and AC Movie was back in the 2000's). But I like to think that characters had to improvise with their clothes because Shinra, who was the major supplier for everything, was gone after Meteorfall. Plus with Midgar down and in the middle of a wasteland, they had to scramble for resources, so any fabric had to be salvaged.

Here's some side-to-side references of Remake/Rebirth (RR) Clothing vs. Advent Children (AC) Clothing:

[Rufus Shinra]

The buttons. The details. The extra fabric. The belts. And then look how more simple AC is. Sure he has a coat on top of three shirts, but his RR suit looks so extra and customized to fit him whilst his AC suit looks like something he scrounged up in his remaining closet. He lost all of his extra belts. His undershirts look like they’re made out of cheap cotton too. His coat in particular looks short on the sleeves and too loose on his form.

[Turks: Rude, Reno, Tseng, & Elena]

(Top right photo from Advent Children)

Classic expensive suits for RR. Simple suits for AC. Look at those clean looks and small suit details for RR (ex. Rude has a patterned tie and Elena’s collar has a small button/pin on her collar). The difference is apparent with Reno, who has a fancy undershirt in Remake vs his simple cotton undershirt in AC. And if you zoom in on the AC photo, the coats have zippers!!! The AC coats also look loose compared to their form fitting coats in RR.

[Cloud Strife]

AC!Cloud has more fabric than in RR. But AC lacks the details that RR has. For example, RR has leather gloves with metal encased on the wrist and fingers. His shoulder pad looks forged with giant metal screws as well. But AC mostly has leather and little to no metal except for its strap buckles and wolf insignia (And it's likely that Cloud made those wolf symbols himself). Although, he does have major upgrades (read: his sword and motorcycle; both things he probably made himself/with help from scrap materials).

(Extra note: This is a common theme on other characters where they replace their utility pockets and metal armor with leather/denim. It makes sense for their equipment to be replaced due to wear and tear. Lack of metal armor could be due to lack of weapon/armor production. Plus Leather pauldrons/gauntlets are faster to make.)

[Tifa Lockhart]

Her outfit in AC looks more casual than in RR (ex. She got rid of her compression armbands; She switched out her red combat boots for look-alike converse sneaker boots; and put her utility pockets in front of her skirt/shorts combo). Notice how she doesn’t have gloves nor Materia slots in the movie (Although it’s weird that she DOES have gloves in other games/promos).

[Barret Wallace]

In AC, he has a sleeveless puffer jacket and a fishnet shirt. He also lost his leather utility pockets (for ammo possibly) from RR. And it’s probably because he doesn’t need it, now that he has a new advanced weapon (it can transform from a metal arm into a high tech machine gun and vice versa). As an oil baron, he probably has more access to materials and utilities compared to other characters, that’s why Barret’s clothes don’t look so simple/improvised.

[Marlene Wallace]

Obviously Marlene would have a different look when she got older. But look at her cute frilly pink dress vs. her white sleeveless collared shirt and floral patterned skirt (notice how her outfit looks like a mix of Cloud and Aerith’s outfits). The stitching for her AC outfit is way more simple. Also I’d like to think Barret gave her that floral patterned fabric for her skirt since it would have been difficult to get ahold of.

[Yuffie Kisaragi]

Zippers galore. Her outfit is changed to black with a floral patterned shirt with a denim ensemble (I think her outfit is a little extra because she's a WRO member). Her shuriken’s the same but her metal and leather armor are gone and replaced with a wristband and a black cloth that covers her forearm. She still has her utility pockets though but it’s in denim (I wonder, did she break her old armor?).

(Edit: She also has these green converse knee high boots?? Again, as a WRO member, she probs got them outside of Midgar)

[Vincent Valentine]

Nothing changed that much. He kept his coat. His AC leather straps and gauntlet are less detailed than the Rebirth one. The metal buckles look different in shape too. I think he changed those in AC. Makes sense if there were wear and tear during the years (I wonder how he does his laundry though lmao).

[Cid Highwind]

Cid changed to a cotton blue shirt. He doesn’t have his pilot scarf anymore nor his flight jacket. Instead, he has a brown bomber jacket tied around his waist with a dog tag around his neck. As much as I think his clothes are due to scarce resources, I also don’t think he cares that much regarding fashion.

[Reeve Tuesti]

The shoulder pads. The silver and yellow accents. The foot length blue coat. It's a major improvement on Reeve's outfit compared to his old businessman suit. As the WRO leader, he gets access to making his outfit a little fancy (more chances to trade with other towns/cities outside of Midgar). Although I do think someone made that coat for him, and he wanted to reject it because he considered it too much. But accepted either way 'cause it would be a waste.

#ff7 #final fantasy vii #final fantasy 7 #ff7 rebirth #ff7 advent children #headcanon #rufus shinra #elena ff7 #tseng ff7 #reno ff7 #rude ff7 #cloud strife #tifa lockhart #barret wallace #marlene wallace #yuffie kisaragi #vincent valentine #cid highwind #reeve tuesti

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octuscle · 10 months

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I am a poor and stressed office worker in a gray building, my boss demands a lot of me, and on top of that sometimes because of this stress I have problems of total sexual impotence. I would like to be a fearless and sexually powerful muscular racing driver, an undisputed super champion on the tracks. with arrogant attitude, a masculine symbol of power and virility

Dude, you're closer to retirement than your college degree. And like any good New Yorker, you don't even have a driver's license. That makes your wish a little original, doesn't it? And I also don't understand why you always turn to support for problems like this. Why don't you take your life into your own hands?

Friday night. Almost 8pm already. Finally off work. All your colleagues have long since left for the weekend. But your sadistic boss has dumped one task after another on you. You hate him, you hate your job … You hate your life. But your life can change. "Driver's license in just one week! Live your dream now!" Damn, has the driving school always been here between the office and the subway station? Maybe that's a sign. You just go in. It doesn't cost anything to ask.

The guy at reception is hot. Tight body. Leather pants. Dazzling smile. Greets you like an old friend, tells you that you're the first customer today and that you'll get a special price if you start your theory lesson today. You feel a little taken by surprise. But it brings you closer to your dream. So you sign up. And just fifteen minutes later, you're learning all about the rules of the road. But your eyes are more focused on your driving instructor's bulge.

As you take your leather jacket and backpack from the checkroom after the lesson, your driving instructor tells you that you've handed in your sheets with 0 faults. So you're almost ready for the theory test. But first you have your first driving lesson tomorrow at 08:00. You can hardly wait. And yet you have to go to bed now. It's been a tough week and now it's almost midnight…

Shit, you misjudged the time on your morning jog. Only an hour to go until your driving lesson starts. No time left to shower or change at the driving school. You get into your new motorcycle suit, grab your helmet and head for the subway. You look a bit funny in full gear… But thank God it's still early on a Saturday morning and there's not much going on yet…

Your teacher thinks you're a natural. Your bike and you form a unit from the very first second. Sure, you've always been interested in engines, you have a feel for the 130 hp that lies dormant in the beast. And you love speed. And you love the bulge in your instructor's pants. Shit, that guy is so hot. But you can't say goodbye to your driving instructor with a French kiss. You try to stay cool and say goodbye with a fist bump. He slaps your ass and tells you to come to theory class a little earlier tonight.

Until then, you still have a bit of time to go to the gym. The leather suit doesn't forgive an ounce of fat. To look anywhere near as hot as your driving instructor in your leather trousers, you need one or two hours of gym a day. In addition to running, in addition to your second passion, taekwondo. When you arrive at the driving school an hour before the start of training, your driving instructor is already waiting for you with a naked upper body and a painful-looking bump. He asks you if you would like to be ridden instead of riding your motorcycle for a change. You grin and reply that you thought he'd never ask.

It's convenient that you wake up on a Sunday morning right next to your driving instructor. Damn, why driving instructor? He's your mate and your coach. No one needs to teach you how to ride a motorcycle. Today you're going to the racetrack again before the big race. Find the ideal line. Exploring the limits of technology. You are a perfectionist. Motorcycle racing and martial arts form the perfect unit for you. In both cases, an opponent is unforgiving of mistakes. And in both cases, you have to be in full control of your body every second.

But you will never make a mistake. You are young, talented and in the shape of your life. Your friend thinks it's time for you to relax. Race to the lake, the loser has to blow the winner. Hehehe, you're already ready for your victory bonus when your friend rolls into the parking lot. He's a very good loser!

#male tf #muscle tf #reality change #chronivac #inked man #age reduction #leather tf #biker tf

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stqrbxy · 1 year

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as the moon rises. [中也] chuuya nakahara.

you smiled to yourself softly as you looked at your figure in the mirror. you wore a tight black outfit that highlighted your curves perfectly, it was topped off with the pair of custom-made matching gloves chuuya had brought you on one of your dates, which were beautifully threaded together while his one was of leather. despite the broad difference, it counterparts both yours’ and chuuyas' hands elegantly.

seeing as your outfit was complete all you had to do was to put on your shoes, which you stuck to a pair of long, high, autumn red platforms. you applied some strawberry lipstick and headed outside with your minimalistic obsidian tote bag which somehow suited your opposite, formal wear; getting your phone out of your bag, you dialled his number.

"hello?" you softly whispered through the loud breezes of the night air blowing pleasantly in your direction.

"doll?" you heard his voice mutter out, in an equally quiet voice, which made a soft smile make its way up to your lips. you nodded, despite knowing that he couldn't see you, right when you were about to answer, some words had already split from his lips before yours.

"i'm to your right, doll." you looked towards your right to see a ducati 1299 panigale parked with its owner on top of it, hovering slightly. he flashed you a confident smirk as he lowered his cell phone when you called off the call and walked towards him with a soft smile. seeing your movements, he too got off his motorcycle

"you look gorgeous as always." he smirked teasingly at the heat appearing on your cheeks, as you kissed his cheek.

"ah, you missed." "hm? what do you mean…—" you were cut off by a pair of soft, moist lips landing on yours.

you blushed as his lips left yours moments later, you giggled slightly at the state of his lips as a sweet colour smudged his normally pink lips. chuuya rose an eyebrow at this before you gestured to his lips, making him smirk as he looks at the smudged lipstick. he looked so beautiful, a star in the dark, absolutely breathtaking. as he smiled to himself, a soft blush dusted his porcelain skin, he took a deep breath before reaching his right hand to you and placing his left hand on his back, shooting you a lovestruck smile as you returned him starstruck eyes.

“shall we head out to our date, my love?”

[ a.n ] my first ever fanfic / drabble, how was it? ^^

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bluemoonperegrine · 5 months

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Ted's on First - Part I

This is the first scene (~1200 words) of the long-awaited Waffle House fic. It's taking me forever to get this thing written, but I'd rather take the time to do it right.

Although this is set in the Bittersweet Symphony universe, you don't have to have read any of it to follow this.

UPDATE: The whole fic is here on ao3.

Rating: Gen Characters: Elsa Bloodstone/Jack Russell, Ted Sallis (Man-Thing), original characters Word Count (eventually): ~3500 Warnings: Canon-typical violence (eventually)

Ava knew the pair was trouble the moment the plate glass door swung open. A gust of humid, marsh-scented air preceded two fit thirty-somethings whose dress better suited a pop culture convention than southern Florida.

“Mornin’,” Ava called over the din of her washing dishes behind the counter and the mess of eggs and hash browns Tom had sizzling on the grill. Between the late hour and their location on the outskirts of the Miami metro area, the two of them could run the Waffle House.

A swarthy, clean-shaven man of Indian descent nodded acknowledgement as his eyes swept across the nearly empty diner. Dried mud spattered his dark boots and the bottom of his black duster. The fact that his long coat was buttoned closed despite the warm night air outside suggested he was packing. All he needed was a pair of sunglasses to cosplay Neo from The Matrix.

Ava glanced at Kendra, who perched on her usual stool at the far end of the counter. The big-boned woman with natural Black hair was watching the new arrivals as well. Kendra nodded, then returned her attention to the door.

Neo stepped aside to make way for his companion: a Black woman with her hair in cornrows. Her garb was similar to Neo’s with the exception of her medium-length leather coat. She also surveyed the nearly empty dining room, skipping over Kendra to linger on the customers sitting at the table on the right side of the door. Those two, an attractive older couple who’d been playing footsie under the table, wore motorcycle safety gear.

“Sit anywhere you’d like,” Ava told Neo and Trinity.

After giving her a cursory smile, the woman headed for the table on the left side of the door. Neo followed.

Ava dried her hands, pulled her order pad and pen from the pocket of her yellow apron, and strode around the end of the counter toward the older couple. Kendra smiled and said quietly in Creole “I’m watching” as Ava moved past her.

Despite his back being to her, the tanned, forty-something man with salt-and-pepper hair sat up straight as Ava approached. After frowning over his shoulder in Kendra’s direction, the handsome man gave Ava a friendly smile. His companion, a fair-skinned, dark-haired woman who was beautiful even with her brows knit together, continued studying the single-page menu.

Ava prompted, “Need another minute or two?”

“Mi vida?” the man asked his probable wife. Neither wore a wedding band.

The woman frowned harder at the menu. “Nearly,” she replied with a light British accent. “You go ahead.”

“Okay.” After glancing over his wife’s shoulder at Neo and Trinity sitting their table ten feet away, he turned to Ava and smiled. “The cheeseburger platter, please—”

Ava jotted it down. “Lettuce, tomato, pickle?”

“Yes, please,” he said with a Latino accent. “And a cup of coffee. It’s late, you know?”

The man’s smile had grown bigger somehow. Ava felt herself returning it as she admired his green irises and how the corners of his eyes crinkled—

The British woman pointedly cleared her throat. “I’m ready to order.”

“Right!” Ava blurted. She felt her face heat up as she met the woman’s displeased countenance. Her husband chuckled, as did Kendra from her spot at the end of the counter. “What can…”

The Latino was looking over his shoulder again as if he’d heard Kendra. The notion was ridiculous, as was how something dark had seemed to move under the table. The couple was probably playing footsie.

After taking a breath to compose herself, Ava addressed the British woman. “What can I get you?”

“The steak hash brown bowl,” the woman said frostily, “with jalapeños—”

“Ahht!” the man mock scolded.

The woman heaved a sigh and leveled an impatient look on her husband. “Jack, I am not using that silly lingo.”

Jack’s face fell. “But you have to! It’s a rule.” He grinned at Ava. “Right?”

Ava gulped, wishing her customers were the usual ones who came in after the bars closed. Drunks she could handle. These two were weird and she still had to deal with Neo and Trinity. “Uh…”

The woman handed the menu to Ava as she shook her head at her husband. “You can,” she said, trying to withhold a grin. “You know what I like.”

Her husband’s smile became more of a leer, which made Ava blush and the woman chuckle. “Go on, and stop torturing the poor girl.”

Jack turned back to Ava with a polite smile. “She’ll have hers scattered, chunked, diced, peppered, and capped.” He grinned at his wife, who rolled her eyes as the corners of her mouth tugged up.

“And to drink?” Ava asked them both because she had no idea who’d reply at this point.

“Tea?” Jack asked his wife.

The woman gave Ava a skeptical look. “Is it orange pekoe?”

Ava yearned for drunk patrons who only wanted coffee. “I guess? It’s Lipton’s.”

“Coffee,” the woman sighed, “black.” She looked fondly at her husband. “Bring lots of cream for him.”

“Yes, please,” Jack said. In a stage whisper he added, “Don’t mind her. She’s hangry.”

“I am not hangry!” The woman’s mouth snapped shut. She blushed as her husband chuckled.

Ava willed herself to not react and risk provoking the not-hangry British woman. “Back in a minute with coffee,” she said and retreated, catching Kendra’s eye as she walked past. Her friend followed her behind the counter as she called the order to Tom, a ruddy white man who looked older than his fifty years.

Grateful for the clanks of metal utensils on the grill, Ava murmured to Kendra in Creole, “He can hear you.”

Kendra looked his way. “Seems that way,” she said quietly. “He doesn’t see me, though.”

Ava put two mugs on the counter and poured coffee, leaving room for cream in one of them. “Untrained?”

“Maybe,” Kendra replied. She didn’t seem concerned. “Jack seems harmless. But he is keeping an eye on the other two. His wife is too. She’s using the reflection in the window.”

Ava took longer than necessary putting coffee creamer cups in a bowl for the Latino. “This really isn’t a good night for things to get interesting.”

“It’ll be fine,” Kendra said, laying one hand on Ava’s shoulder. The touch had no weight, only a gentle coldness. “Don’t you worry.”

Ava nodded, grateful for her grandmother’s presence.

As she picked up the mugs with one hand and the bowl of creamer in the other, she looked at Neo and Trinity at their table on the far side of the counter. With only stars and headlights from I-75 traffic lighting the night sky, the floor-to-ceiling window behind the customers acted as a mirror. Kendra, who looked about thirty, wasn’t there, of course, but Ava’s reflection was. They both were tall, but Ava lankier. Her black hair was in a multitude of thin braids, the bunch of them gathered at the nape of her neck with an elastic hair band. Her black T-shirt, pants, and yellow apron and visor were nothing to write home about. College tuition and bills had to get paid somehow.

Trinity and Neo must have felt her eyes on them. They glanced at her simultaneously.

“Coffee?” Ava asked.

“Yeah,” Neo said with a neutral American accent. “That’d be good.” Trinity nodded agreement.

Ava returned it as she headed for her other customers. “Coming right up.”

--------------------------

For anyone who's read "Past Is Prologue," Kendra is the same Kendra in that fic. 😊

Also, I was lazy in the Bittersweet Symphony fics and made Elsa American. She's British here because it's more accessible for anyone who hasn't read that series, and easier to differentiate her from other female characters when writing from Ava's POV.

#werewolf by night #elsa bloodstone #jack russell #fan fiction #werewolf by night fanfiction #waffle house

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leathercollectionus · 10 months

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Custom Made Race Suits

Motorsport has a remarkable history that began in the late 19th century after the invention of cars and motorcycles. Much advances have been made in the technology, design, format, and rules of the sport since its inception, but nothing is more exciting than a motorcycle race. It involves science, speed, commitment, vision, passion and a lot of risks too. Despite all the risks, motorcycle racing is considered the most important motorsport, not only the most important motorsport but also one of the fastest-growing sports in the world, which is gaining popularity among everyone regardless of gender and age. In order to enjoy the games, you need to practice practicing techniques, technologies, and especially safety on the circuit, not only to minimize the risks but also to regain confidence in the sports discipline.

You cannot eliminate the risk factor because the unfortunate event will happen no matter when. However, you can minimize the impact by having protective equipment that meets the athletic and athletic requirements. For motorcycle races on the track and on the road, for beginners, passionate or professional, we recommend a full kangaroo or a cow leather that you choose. The leather racing suit with all its protective armor is resistant to abrasion, cuts and impacts. With a high-tech leather racing suit you can test the limits of your own and that of your machine. Getting a leather racing suit isn’t a huge problem these days. You can visit nearby stores or order online and have delivery to your address. Almost all of the major brands of motorcycle leather clothing have online services to save their customers time and money, which is very impressive. But even after buying a racing suit, something is still missing. This can be leather quality, durability issues, ergonomic inconveniences, size and fit issues, standard safety armor, poor stitching, and especially disappointing customer service. Leather Collection, an emerging global brand, has filled these gaps with years of experience and a dedicated team.

Custom Made Race Suits

#custom #CUSTOM LEATHER JACKETS #custom leather motorcycle suit #custom leather suit #custom leathers #custom made leather suits #custom motorcycle racing suit #custom motorcycle suits #custom race suit #custom racing suit #custom suit #made to measure suits #motorcycle race suits #racing suits

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annabrown5598 · 2 years

Link

#Design My custom leathers #custom leather motorcycle suit #Design custom racing leathers

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wunderschon-lieblich · 1 year

Text

Fuck It I’m Not Done

Biker headcanons for the AC Women that torment my brain

@kassandras-one-braincell you’ve broken me with this tbh I'm in shambles (affectionate) OG post here also NSFW warning this is a no minors post (or at the very least stop at the warning gdi)

Soma is sophisticated and expensive. Not gonna say too much here since I went into more detail previously but~ Imagine vintage restored bikes that are shiny and perfect all lined up in a pristine garage space with polished tool boxes that are filled with all her necessities to work on them and keep them gleaming. Professionally photographed, framed posters of you posed with her bikes adorn the walls of the space. She even picked lingerie to match each bike!

She only really rides one or two of her collection regularly, the majority are mostly for show. I imagine she’d have a cruiser with a good passenger seat on the back so she can take you on long scenic rides to beautiful locations, and you can bet your ass she’d have it shipped overseas on your vacations so she can take you all over the world on it. Soma is all class and polish, so her riding gear would definitely reflect that. High quality leather and helmets with coms will keep the two of you safe, comfortable and connected on your rides. She would probably have matching riding suits custom made for the two of you. I could just see her doing that.

Kassandra as the cocky performance rider. She’d have pick up lines for days, all the innuendo about taking you for a ride and how she knows how to handle curves. She’d chat you up good, and land a date for that same weekend.

She’d show up with an extra helmet and jacket for you, and she’d make sure it was all properly adjusted. In the og post about this concept, it says that you kiss her right when the helmets come off. I agree, and I’d say that you want to kiss her the moment she slides the helmet onto you and starts doing up the chin straps. For anyone who’s never worn a motorcycle helmet, they don’t have a clip like one for a bicycle would, it’s a strap that gets looped through two d-rings, and it’s kinda tricky at first. So, imagine: gazing up at her while she’s looking all intently at you with those gorgeous dark eyes, her fingertips working the thin strap quickly and efficiently on muscle memory. When she’s done she puts her hands on either side of it to check that it’s snug on your head and looks into your eyes for a moment longer than necessary. It’s electric.

When you arrive and she takes hers off, you’re still kind of fumbling with the unfamiliar clasp. She notices and hooks a finger through the loop, giving it a quick tug to undo it and free you of the helmet, whole time she's got that sexy little smile on her face. She takes it off of you and sets it on the seat behind you, arms reaching around your body to do so. At that moment you’re looking up at her and she’s so close. You can’t stop yourself from leaning in and up on your toes to steal a kiss. She’s a little surprised but doesn’t falter about kissing you back. Her hands rest so naturally on your waist. It’s short and sweet and leaves you both giddy with butterflies.

Your first date with her would be something sweet and romantic like taking you to a fancy park or perhaps a botanical garden. You’d walk around holding hands for hours and she’d be all chuffed that you gave her a kiss upon arrival to the date location. It would make her feel so confident and bold, wrapping her arms around you and allowing the affection to flow naturally. I think she would feel nervous about it being too much too soon but you just lean into it and look at her with stars in your eyes and it shuts that doubt right up. Very much a uhaul lesbian relationship in this case you would just fall so completely for each other and be comfortable together immediately. First date lasting three days kind of love story.

Eivor does motocross competitively and is a big name in the game. She also does trail riding but it’s more for fun so not her focus. She’s definitely the most reckless rider of the bunch but takes protective precautions seriously, bc she knows that she loves to go fast, push limits and pull stunts. However, if anyone else is on the bike with her she’s much more cautious and safe with her driving. She'd def pop some wheelies with you on the back if you were ok with it.

In this au I think she’d have a modest but comfortable house pretty far out of town on a decent chunk of land. She’d have a practice track built in her backyard with a trail looping around the edge and through the woods of her property. She’d do laps every day to stay at the top of her game, and just to enjoy the ride.

Her garage would be well organized but not shiny and fancy like Soma’s. Hers is functional and well used, in a separate building from the main house. Very Dad's Garage vibes in there I think. She’d love working on her own bikes, but I think she’d leave her competition bike’s maintenance to her trusted pro mechanic Gunnar.

Now I mentioned in my last reblog how I imagine they’d all have pics of you on their motorcycles, and that they’d have very different vibes.

Soma and Kassandra would display them like a trophy. Not publicly, but up on the walls of their own spaces. Eivor? She’s possessive. She wouldn’t want to have a photographer ruining the intimacy of your photos no matter who it was.

(here's where it gets nsfw)

Eivor would ride the two of you out to a nice secluded part of her property. A wooded area where she has a picnic table set up. You’d be all wrapped up in her riding jacket and pants, underneath them would be a pretty little number she picked for you, something simple and sexy like a matching bra and panty set with some lace. (I think Eivor is a bit too simple minded to prefer elaborate lingerie. Just show her something hot that she knows how to remove without finding a thousand clasps please and thank you)

She’d prop the bike up on its stand and use a Polaroid camera to take the pictures. The first ones you’re in the matching set with her jacket and your boots still on, straddling the bike with your hands on the bars as if you’re driving. She gets multiple angles, from the side so she can appreciate your legs, from the front so she can admire your breasts peeking out from the opening of her jacket.

The whole time she’d praise you saying “that’s a good girl, posing so pretty for me, now lean back let me see you- ah just like that, gods you’re perfect” she’s such a sexy photographer. By the time she’s done you’re about ready to hump the seat til you cum and she’s so horny she’s breathing manually. She knew that would happen, of course, and wore a strap under her jeans for the occasion.

After your photo shoot, she takes the dildo out of her harness and slides it back inside you, then helps you put her clothes back on over your underwear. She has you ride back with her to the house while you’re stuffed full like that. Every bump and jolt makes you whimper and dig your fingers into her. It’s not a long ride but you’re ready to rip every shred of her clothes off by the time you’re back

The pictures are kept in a cabinet by her work bench, there’s a few on the inside of the door held up with magnets, mostly the first few from the session, where you’re still partially clothed and gazing at the camera with your pretty, sultry eyes. The rest are tucked away in a small black photo album for her eyes only, the last few depict you laid back on the seat, bra gone, one of her strong hands cupping your breast. You’re holding your panties to the side, wet cunt stuffed full of her strap, your kissed bruised lips are parted in a moan. She keeps that one very secret, and takes it with her whenever she has to travel without you.

anyway now that you know I'm a total whore for this concept

This is my first time posting a full on hc set like this lemme know what you think and read the og post if you haven't yet! It sent me spiraling into madness <3

#eivor x reader #kassandra of sparta x reader #soma x reader #ac headcannons #biker au #I don't write much be nice pls #this is meant to be written in a very casual tone and style #im trying really hard to not be a horrendous perfectionist

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ask-good-cop-bad-cop · 3 months

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It was because of the rain.

A light trickle is simply a blush of summer, but this--pounding hard upon the city bricks--was more like a sneer. And nothing good ever came from a snide mother nature. It sounded like marbles against the window pane, with rolls that glistened all the way down to the sill.

GCBC weren't adverse to a little rain; often enjoying the cleansing feel of water brushing their face, wrapped in the cool breeze clicking the water against their leather as they rode their motorcycle. But this was a bit much, even for them. Part of them wanted to be outside, protecting those out in the now dangerous driving conditions. The other part, the one that knew they were off duty, kept them parked in the Diner. A quarter drunk coffee, half eaten pie, and whole lotta grumpy attitude.

What good was a cop if duty was turned off when it was needed the most?

Sulking was ordered twice on the menu, as they absent mindedly poked at filling that felt anything but. That is, until the door swung open, allowing the howl of the storm to chase a new customer in.

Blue was the first thing they noticed. Perhaps because it mirrored their mood; perhaps because the patron was dressed head to toe in it. A dock worker? No. A janitor? Nuh-uh. An astronaut. Yes. That was it. The helmet, the space badge; didn't need to be the city's best detectives to figure that out, but it did to notice the signs of distress on his face.

The high creased brow, frantic eyes that flicked with a rabbit's alert, tight hands, and forward leaning on the tips of the feet to better sprint. This wasn't a customer, it was someone on the run. Something bad was out there tonight; stalking through thunder and flooded streets for a starling too wet to fly. GCBC could feel it.

It wouldn't be the best of conditions for a meet-cute, but they couldn't turn a blind eye to help this soaked spaceman. Off duty or not. Booths were made for four, after all, and three was always company. Their hands tingled with excitement, as they sensed an adventure about to unfold. Was this also love at first sight? Perhaps the smell of a mystery? Maybe even a horror theme? That part of their instinctual gut feelings they didn't know. All they did know was this: whatever happened next....

It was all because of the rain.

(Submission intro for a Coppernauts fic. Feel free not to use it, or do whatever you want with it. It's yours now. :) Hope it helps!)

Good Cop was on his feet before the thought even finished crossing his mind. A gasp from across the diner told them the waitress had noticed the newcomer's sopping state as well. A glance in her direction showed her to be scrambling to find a clean, dry towel to offer the man- who, for his part, now stood frozen in the doorway, dripping rainwater all over the welcome mat. Good Cop was even more grateful now that he'd taken over for Bad as he made slow, measured steps toward the astronaut, as if approaching a spooked animal.

The waitress seemed to have finally found that towel as she bustled her way over as well. The two of them shared a glance, clearly thinking the same thing- what in the world was an astronaut in full suit doing in the middle of the city?

"Why don't you take that helmet off?" Good Cop suggested. "Do you have anything on under that flight suit?" Already he was shrugging off his jacket. The outside was still a little damp, but the inside was dry and toasty warm from their body heat, and judging from the way the astronaut was already shivering, he clearly wasn't faring too well in the diner's air conditioning.

The question seemed to jolt him from his stupor, and he took note of the waitress standing at his other side holding a towel. "Uh- a t-shirt and shorts." He managed to get out as his teeth started to chatter.

Good Cop nodded. At least his modesty would be preserved. "Good, good... Why don't you take that towel into the restroom with you and go dry off? You can borrow our jacket when you come back out. Stacy, would you be a dear and get him a nice hot cup of coffee and a slice of that apple pie? You can add it to our bill."

"N-no coffee."

"No? Tea, then. You need something to warm you up, you're shaking like a leaf in that storm outside." Good Cop ushered the astronaut to the restroom in the back, keeping watch through the windows for anyone suspicious. Some of the tension left the astronaut when he noticed how alert his new cop companion was.

The door shut and they heard the click of the lock a second later, some shuffling as the astronaut peeled off his soaked flight suit, then water down the sink drain as he wrung it out. "Something other than that storm chased you in here." Good Cop spoke softly after a couple minutes. The quiet noises from inside the restroom as the astronaut tried to dry himself off stopped altogether.

"Yes." The astronaut admitted after a minute. "Do you see-"

"No one acting suspiciously yet." The door opened once more, and Good Cop immediately handed their jacket over. The astronaut took it gratefully. It was huge on him, as he stood nearly a full foot shorter than themselves, but it was doing its job. Already he was regaining some color in his face. Good Cop led him back to their table and sat down. "I think you're safe for now. That storm's pretty vicious. Once it eases up we can take you to the station-"

"Not the station." The astronaut interrupted. The idea of it seemed to put him back on the brink of panic. That roused Bad, and he grumbled in suspicion.

"Running from another cop, then?"

Good Cop took a moment to think their options through. "Our place, then." And then to Bad- "That should allow us to bring him in if he is legitimately in trouble with the law, and this isn't something else." That seemed to satisfy Bad for the time being. The astronaut finally, hesitantly, sat down across from them. "What's your name?"

"Benny. I'm Benny."

"I'm Garrett." Good Cop introduced himself with a smile. Benny smiled weakly back at him. He picked up the tea first, nearly melting into his bench as the warmth of his first sip soaked into him. After a few more sips, he went after the pie. It disappeared quickly. Good Cop chuckled to himself and finally finished his own.

The rain finally eased up after a few more minutes. Good Cop was quick to pay the bill, then ushered Benny out of the diner. His damp flight suit was tucked into a saddle bag, and his helmet pulled back on once he realized their mode of transportation would be the cop's motorcycle. "Hold on tight." Good Cop instructed as he revved up the engine, and took off down the street.

It wasn't a long ride to their apartment. They took the elevator up to their floor instead of the stairs like Bad usually preferred. Benny popped his helmet off once more and took a wide-eyed look around the apartment as he was let in. He glanced up toward the skylight when he heard heavy rain on glass once more. "This is a nice place you've got." He remarked.

It was small, but clean and open, with ivory-colored walls and a number of houseplants scattered around their kitchen and living room.

"Thank you. Come on, let's get you something dry to wear."

Benny grinned weakly at him. "I'll be surprised if you've got anything that'll fit me."

"Best we'll be able to do is a t-shirt and drawstring sweats." Good Cop admitted. "But at least you won't be soaked through anymore. You've got to be freezing."

"Yeah, kind of." Benny murmured in agreement. He let Good Cop shoo him toward the bathroom, and watched as his flight suit was tossed in the dryer. The officer disappeared into his bedroom for a minute, then came back with the promised clothes. Benny had to admit- even if the clothes were a bit big on him, he felt better for having something dry and warm on again. The rest of his clothes were tossed into the dryer with his suit, and he joined Good Cop in the living room.

"So what were you running from?" Though the question was delivered in a casual manner, Benny seemed to know an answer was expected. He took a minute to figure out what he was going to say.

"I'm not... actually from here." He started carefully. Good Cop leaned in, curious.

"From Bricksburg?"

"From Earth."

The cop blinked in surprise. "Oh. Uh."

"My people- we work with your Space Corps to keep your planet safe. We do the same with others. We help to protect you from major threats. Only my crew and I, we underestimated this one... We got separated, and my ship was struck down by lightning. I have no idea where the others are, or if they're still safe. I hope so."

Good Cop furrowed his brows in confusion. "What in the world made you run to a diner, then? Why didn't you want us to take you to the police station?"

"Because they know that's the first place most people go when they're in trouble, so that's the first place they'll look for me. As for why the diner... I know this is going to sound really weird, but there was- a light, there. A beacon. I thought it might be one of my crewmates... But it vanished as soon as I came in. So I don't know what I felt."

"A light?" Good Cop was still reeling from the revelation that their guest was apparently an alien. Or at least honestly believed himself to be so.

"Our inner light- our 'grace', if you will. It's how we find each other, how we can tell who's who even when we're blending in with the locals." Benny sagged into his seat. "When it vanished, and all I saw was you and that waitress... My first thought was that I'd been lured into a trap."

"And that was why you froze in the door."

Benny nodded. "But if you had been one of them, you would have pounced on me immediately, instead of trying to help. So I knew I could trust you."

"Who is this 'them'?"

"Awful destructive creatures from the Dry'ar System. They're like- uh- locusts, I think your word is? They travel all throughout the universe, ravaging planets until there's nothing left but a dead husk. I'm not sure what their species is called, or if they even have a name for themselves, but they're bad news wherever they go."

"They sound like it..." Good Cop murmured. "I'm kind of surprised you're trusting us with all of this though. What if we decide you're an escaped mental patient and take you back to the hospital?"

Benny gave him a sly look. "Maybe this will convince you." He stood up and tugged his shirt back off. Good Cop leaned back, eyes wide, as what looked like wings of pure light stretched from Benny's back.

"You're a- a SPACE ANGEL??"

Benny laughed and tugged the shirt back on. His "wings" vanished. "If that's what you want to call us, sure. Still planning on taking me to a mental hospital?"

"No, no... We're definitely convinced."

"Good. Because now I have a question for you."

Good Cop nodded. "It's only fair. What's your question?"

"Why do you keep referring to yourself as 'we'?"

Good Cop winced. He could feel even Bad was kicking himself mentally- they hadn't even realized they were doing it. "Uh, well... Because we're a 'we'. Benny, I'd like for you to say hi to my... 'brother', for lack of a better word, William."

Benny watched in wide-eyed wonder as their face switched and Bad Cop took control. "Hi-" Bad Cop began, but Benny cut him off with a loud gasp.

"It WAS you!" He declared. Bad Cop gave him a startled look.

"What?"

"The beacon in the diner! It was YOU! And it disappeared because Garret switched out when I came in, didn't he??" Bad Cop could only nod in stunned silence. "I don't know why you have a light like ours, but it can't be coincidence."

Bad Cop stared at the spaceman for a long moment as his words sank in. How could they, a mere human, also have this "light" he spoke of? They were pretty darned sure they didn't have wings like his either- after 44 years of life, surely they would have discovered such a feature by now. But... they certainly couldn't deny they had been drawn to him in an instant. They were certain they would have been even if he hadn't so obviously been in trouble.

They knew one thing for sure, though- as long as Benny was around, they were certain to never be bored again. Bad Cop finally nodded. "Perhaps not." He agreed. "After what you've told us, we definitely want to help. And we're pretty good at tracking people down- we'll be able to help find your crewmates no problem." Benny gave them a bright smile that could rival the sun.

...Maybe it wasn't quite love at first sight, but they were definitely caught in his gravitational pull now. They would have to find a way to convince him to stay once this mess with the space invaders was over.

#ask gcbc #fiction

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