ROLAND, AMBROSE, VANCE, RHYS, SYKO, & TAYLOR ➳ Bad Co.

CHARACTER 1:

Roland Hayes, the oldest member of Bad Company, is a seasoned veteran with nearly two decades of military experience under his belt. Known as “Iron Bull,” Roland is a powerful, broad-shouldered force who’s been through hell and lived to tell the tale—though he rarely does. His sharp tactical mind, unshakable composure under fire, and no-nonsense approach to leadership make him the team's backbone. Though quiet and stoic, his presence commands respect. Roland leads by example, not by shouting, and his unwavering sense of loyalty and duty has earned him the trust of every soldier around him. Beneath his hardened exterior lies a deeply protective nature; he's a natural mentor and the steady hand that keeps impulsive teammates from going over the edge.

Roland’s past is marked by sacrifice, scars, and silence. He’s fought in countless brutal operations that left both physical and emotional wounds—wounds he never discusses, though they sometimes show in moments of quiet reflection. Despite the darkness that lingers from years of war, Roland’s humanity endures in the small, peaceful rituals he holds onto: a quiet beer, a book, or the shared company of his team. He doesn't sugarcoat reality, but he’s always the first to offer support when it's needed most. His calm, reliable presence is what binds Bad Company together, making him not just a leader, but the foundation the entire squad stands on.

Role: Team Leader / Breacher Age: 36 Height: 6'2" Weight: 221 lbs Eye Color: Light brown Hair: Blonde, soft Cock Size: 8.9in (erect)

Relationships with the others in the Company:

Rhys: Roland sees Rhys as the heart of the squad, even if Rhys doesn’t see it himself. They’ve served the longest together and have a quiet, easy rhythm — like old war dogs who’ve shared too many cigarettes in too many war zones. Roland watches over Rhys like a brother, keeping an eye on his drinking habits and offering subtle course corrections when needed. They don’t talk about their feelings, but when Rhys spirals, Roland is the one who finds him and sits in silence until the storm passes. He respects Rhys’s instincts, even when they’re reckless, and trusts him in the field without question.

Ambrose: Roland has a complicated fondness for Ambrose — the kind you reserve for a man you’d punch before you’d hug. Ambrose is sharp-edged, biting, and emotionally armored, which means Roland instinctively wants to crack him open just to make sure there’s still a soul under there. They argue like two dogs raised in the same cage — too similar in some ways, too different in others — but there’s mutual respect under all the bristle. Roland sees the pain behind Ambrose’s teeth and doesn’t judge him for it. He just wishes the guy would sleep for once.

Taylor: Taylor reminds Roland of every fresh recruit he’s ever known — bright-eyed, too brave for his own good, and burning to prove something. Roland tries not to play father figure, but it’s hard when Taylor looks up to him like he’s carved out of marble. He teaches him when he can, offers steady guidance when Taylor gets too cocky, and always makes sure Taylor has his six. There’s warmth in their dynamic, like a tired older brother keeping the kid from blowing himself up. Roland believes Taylor has potential — and he protects that potential like it’s sacred.

Syko: Syko tests Roland’s patience in ways he didn’t think possible. The kid’s like a human glitch — hyper, chaotic, flamboyant, and completely unfiltered. But Roland doesn’t write him off. Not even close. He sees through the glitter and erratic behavior to something sharp, calculating, and resilient underneath. Sometimes Syko makes him laugh in spite of himself; other times, he makes Roland sigh so hard it could level a small village. But he never doubts Syko’s usefulness — and he always steps in when others treat him like a joke. “Let him be weird,” Roland says. “At least he’s real.”

Vance: Roland respects Vance’s brute strength and low tolerance for bullshit. They share a similar battlefield code — efficient, direct, with no room for glory-hounding or theatrics. Vance doesn’t talk much, and Roland appreciates that. They have a practical camaraderie, built on clean kills, wordless cover fire, and the shared understanding of men who’ve seen too much and survived anyway. Vance listens when Roland talks, which not everyone does. There’s a mutual trust between them — nothing flashy, but solid as steel.

Sexual Info:

Role: Dominant Sexuality: Pansexual, gynophilic

Sexual Quirks:

Roland approaches intimacy like a slow dance — deliberate, careful, and deeply attuned to his partner’s emotional cues. He never rushes. He notices everything: the way a breath hitches, the way a hand twitches, the weight of silence between glances. One of Roland’s quirks is his tendency to whisper affirmations during quiet moments. He doesn’t always say “I love you,” but he says things like “You’re safe.” or “I’ve got you.” or “Right here, baby. I’m not going anywhere.” Another unique habit? Roland remembers. Every. Little. Thing. His attention to detail means he’ll bring up something whispered weeks ago, or he’ll touch the exact place he knows makes his partner sigh — not to control, but to show he’s been paying attention all along. He’s deeply tactile. Even in non-sexual settings, he likes keeping a hand on a shoulder, brushing fingers along someone’s wrist, or pulling someone into his lap. He doesn’t flaunt possession — it’s quiet, protective intimacy. Roland also has a stubborn streak of “acts of service” — making coffee just right, fixing something broken, tucking someone in under an extra blanket without saying a word. These are his love languages.

Kinks:

Power Exchange: Roland enjoys being the one in control, but not through force — it’s through presence. He thrives on being trusted, being leaned on. He values obedience not as submission, but as mutual understanding and care.

Praise: He’s big on affirmations — “You’re doing so good,” “That’s my boy,” “Just like that.” He uses praise as reassurance, as grounding, as intimacy. His words are deliberate and heavy with meaning.

Aftercare: It’s not optional for him — it’s part of the act. Tucking someone in, drawing a bath, holding them close. He finds just as much fulfillment in what happens after the intensity.

Slow Sensory Play: He likes to take his time. Soft touches, whispering in the ear, brushing fingertips along skin — anything slow, deliberate, and anchored in sensation. For Roland, anticipation is everything.

Eye Contact & Grounding: Roland uses direct eye contact to connect deeply. Whether pinning a partner beneath him or simply holding their gaze across a room, it’s about emotional vulnerability — seeing and being seen.

Protective Possessiveness (non-jealous): He’s not the type to be jealous, but he is fiercely protective. He likes to mark someone as his — with actions, with subtle gestures, with closeness that feels like a shield.

Clothed Intimacy: He doesn’t always rush to undress. Sometimes intimacy is slow dances in the dark, whispered promises with hands under layers, or being wrapped in someone else’s hoodie.

Emotional Catharsis: Roland finds beauty in vulnerability. If a partner breaks down in his arms, it doesn’t scare him — it moves him. He’s the type to hold someone through their tears and tell them they’re strong for letting go.

Guidance & Control: Roland enjoys taking the lead, especially when his partner wants to surrender control. He doesn’t bark orders — he gives direction like a trusted compass.

Fantasies of Stability: He’s drawn to scenes or dynamics that reflect emotional grounding — domesticity, long-term loyalty, even the idea of “mine” in a lasting, soul-deep way.

BACKSTORY

Roland Hayes was born in a crumbling desert town in southern Nevada, the kind of place where the sky was too big and the dreams too small. His father was a mechanic with a bad back and worse temper; his mother, a nurse who carried the weight of the whole house in her eyes. There wasn’t much tenderness growing up. What passed for love came in the form of early morning chores, scraped knuckles, and the constant hum of engines. Roland learned fast that silence was safer than confrontation, that strength was better shown than said.

As a kid, he spent most of his time alone, wandering the arid stretches outside town with a BB gun and a half-trained mutt named Casper. He built forts out of scrap, read old military field manuals he found at yard sales, and fixed up rusted bikes just to see if he could. He wasn’t particularly angry or rebellious, just... quiet. Observant. Teachers said he was “emotionally reserved.” Truth was, he didn’t trust anyone to catch him if he ever let himself fall.

By seventeen, Roland knew he was going to enlist. College wasn’t in the cards — not with grades like his and a bank account that couldn’t even buy a full tank of gas. But more than that, he craved purpose, structure, something bigger than the endless loop of his hometown. The Marines seemed like the right kind of hard. So he signed the papers on his birthday, said a stiff goodbye to his mom, and didn’t look back.

Boot camp stripped him bare, but he didn’t break. He wasn’t the loudest or the strongest, but he was calm under pressure, a natural tactician. Drill instructors learned quick that Roland didn’t flinch — not at live fire, not at blood, not at failure. He graduated in the top tier of his class, and within a year he was deployed overseas. First in recon, then special ops. Every tour sharpened him, calloused him, turned the raw-boned desert kid into a field-hardened soldier.

He saw too much, too fast. Civilian casualties, blown ops, friends lost in IED flashes. He didn’t come back with medals — he came back with insomnia, a surgically repaired knee, and a habit of staring too long at nothing. He cycled through two different divisions before landing in Bad Company — the unit nobody wanted but everyone remembered. It was a place for outliers, misfits, guys like him who didn’t smile much anymore. He fit like a glove.

Roland became the unofficial anchor of Bad Company without ever asking to be. He wasn’t the loudest, flashiest, or most decorated. But when things fell apart, he held the line. He was the one patching bullet wounds while under fire, the one who didn’t sleep until everyone else was accounted for. He built his leadership on consistency, not charisma. People listened because he didn’t talk unless it mattered.

Outside the field, Roland kept to himself. He never married, never settled. Had a few quiet relationships over the years — ones that ended not in fire, but in distance. He couldn’t explain the pull, the need to keep moving, to keep serving. Even when he was stateside, he was never fully present. The war followed him, not just in dreams, but in grocery store crowds, in fireworks, in the way he never let himself sit with his back to the door.

He writes letters he never sends. To his mother, who passed away while he was on his second tour. To a little brother who died young from a lung condition Roland never talks about. To himself, sometimes — the version of him that could’ve been a teacher, or a mechanic like his old man. Those letters live in a shoebox under his bunk, next to a stack of worn-out photographs and a knife that’s saved his life twice.

Roland’s body is a map of his service. Scarred shoulder from a mortar strike in Kandahar. Torn ligaments in his hand from pulling a pinned squadmate out of a collapsed building. A tattoo on his ribcage of a hawk in flight — not for valor, but for freedom. He doesn’t tell people what it means. He doesn’t tell people much at all. But when a new recruit steps out of line, when a mission goes to hell, or when one of the boys in Bad Company is spiraling, Roland’s the one who shows up.

Now in his late thirties, Roland has survived more than most. He’s not unscarred, not untouched by the weight of everything he’s done — but he’s still standing. And that counts for something. He’s a man of principle, of few words but deep conviction. The kind of man you want with you when everything else goes sideways. Because Roland doesn’t quit. Not on the field, not on his squad, and not on himself.

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CHARACTER 2:

Ambrose Tate is a cold, imposing figure forged by a brutal upbringing in Russia, where survival demanded silence, strength, and an iron will. He rarely speaks, but when he does, his deep, accented voice commands attention—and usually signals something serious. Known for his stoic demeanor and calculating presence, Ambrose exudes a kind of quiet menace that keeps most people at a distance. His dry, bleak humor often masks deeper truths, and though he may not show it, he's deeply loyal to the few who earn his respect. Ambrose doesn’t believe in friendship for friendship’s sake—he believes in earned trust, unwavering protection, and a brutal kind of loyalty that makes him a terrifying yet invaluable ally.

As a fighter, Ambrose is unmatched in raw power and close-combat brutality. His massive strength, relentless training, and no-nonsense approach make him one of the deadliest assets in Bad Company. He fights not for glory, but because it’s the only life he’s known—every move a survival tactic, every punch a lesson in finality. Despite the violence that defines him, Ambrose carries a quiet introspection. He often retreats into himself, haunted by past choices and the toll of a life spent in bloodshed. But even in those darkest moments, he never falters—he always gets back up, hardened and ready for whatever comes next.

Role: Heavy Weapons / Demolitions Age: 30 Height: 6'4" Weight: 226 lbs Eye Color: Dark, shifting between blue and brown depending on the light Hair: Black, thick, usually kept short and unruly

Sexual Info:

Role: Dominant Sexuality: Bisexual, androphilic

Sexual Quirks:

Ambrose approaches intimacy with the same directness that defines the rest of his life—no games, no seduction, just clear intent and firm, confident touch. He prefers to take the lead, not out of a need to dominate, but because he values control and clarity in the moment. Though emotionally reserved, his intensity creates a deep sense of presence with his partner, and he values raw, honest connection over performance or theatrics. For Ambrose, sex is about trust, mutual respect, and the quiet intensity of shared understanding.

While not overly rough or boundary-pushing, Ambrose enjoys a steady, grounded kind of intensity that builds naturally. He doesn’t indulge in excessive vulnerability but ensures his partner feels safe, cared for, and fully seen. His desires revolve around meaningful connection—emotional, physical, and mental—and when he lets someone in, it’s rare, intimate, and deeply personal.

Kinks:

(It's important to remember that as cold as Ambrose can be, he's quite soft during sex.)

Praise and validation—he enjoys giving and receiving genuine compliments.

Edging, orgasm control, and overstimulation—he likes drawn-out tension and heightened sensations.

Sensory and temperature play—ice, wax, textures, and other stimuli enhance his experience.

Light bondage and breath play—he values the vulnerability and control these dynamics provide.

Body worship, biting, marking, and possessiveness—he's aroused by primal, physical expressions of desire and ownership.

Power imbalances and size differences—he enjoys exploring roles and dynamics that shift emotional or physical control.

Voice, eye contact, and mirror play—sensory and visual feedback amplify intimacy for him.

Public teasing and cockwarming—he’s thrilled by subtle, hidden intimacy.

Aftercare and emotional grounding—he sees care and closeness after sex as essential.

Massage, sleepy sex, and thigh riding—he enjoys slow, relaxed foreplay and intimate touch.

Begging, leashing, and collaring—he finds symbolic acts of surrender or control deeply arousing when rooted in trust.

BACKSTORY

Ambrose Tate was born in the heart of Siberia, a desolate region where winters stretched endlessly, and the sun barely touched the ground for months at a time. His early years were spent surrounded by the harshest conditions possible—a place where survival was a constant struggle, and kindness was a luxury that few could afford. His family lived in a small, run-down house that creaked with age, and every winter was a gamble. They either had enough firewood or they didn’t. Either the food would last or it wouldn’t. And when it didn’t, they learned how to make do with whatever they could get their hands on.

His father, Viktor Tate, was a former soldier turned mechanic who believed that strength was everything. He taught Ambrose early on that emotions were a weakness—especially anger, which he regarded as a dangerous tool if not carefully controlled. Ambrose learned this lesson all too well after his father’s brutal punishments when the boy would get too emotional. Viktor would spend hours teaching his son how to fix machines, and those lessons would shape Ambrose’s mind for years. As he grew, the boy became incredibly observant, noticing how the world around him operated in its mechanical ways—everything had a cause and effect, and every person was a cog in the machine, no more, no less.

Ambrose’s mother, Nadia, was a quiet woman, a former teacher who’d left her career behind to raise Ambrose and his younger sister, Irena. Nadia was the emotional anchor in the family, the one who would whisper soft lullabies and hold her children close when their father wasn’t around. But as much as she wanted to protect them, she couldn’t shield Ambrose from the harsh reality of their life. And as he grew older, Ambrose began to see the cracks in their family, the way his father’s need for control and his mother’s silent suffering left a deep scar on their home. He began to feel like an outsider in his own house, as if the world around him was spinning faster than he could keep up.

At the age of fourteen, Ambrose found himself already hardened by life. The winters had grown even colder, and food was harder to come by. The locals around them had hardened too. He saw people who had lost their humanity to desperation, trading anything they had for survival—sometimes even their children. That was when Ambrose’s fate was sealed. He would not succumb to the same fate. He would survive, no matter what. When the local recruiter from the Russian Army came to town, Ambrose signed up almost immediately, eager to escape his family’s fractured existence and the place where he felt invisible. It wasn’t that he loved the idea of war—it was that he didn’t know what else to do. So, he left home with barely a goodbye, the feeling of cold air biting at his back as he headed off to a future that would turn out to be far worse than he could have imagined.

The Russian military turned out to be everything Ambrose expected and more. At first, he thought it was just another form of control, another way for someone to impose rules on his life, but soon, he realized that the discipline and structure actually gave him something he’d never had: purpose. It was here, in the vast, empty training grounds, that Ambrose honed his body and his mind, learning to push himself beyond anything he had thought was possible. He excelled at the brutal hand-to-hand combat drills, the obstacle courses that broke men, the long runs through snow and ice, the kinds of things that made others want to quit. Ambrose didn’t quit. He couldn’t. He was driven by a sense of cold determination that didn’t allow him to stop, not even when his body screamed for him to rest. This determination earned him the respect of his superiors, and soon, he was given special assignments—mostly behind enemy lines, handling high-risk missions that required an extreme level of skill and discretion.

As he moved through the ranks, Ambrose became known for his ability to deal with the worst situations, his stoic demeanor and unwavering commitment to his missions. He didn’t have friends. He didn’t need them. His relationships were practical, utilitarian—he worked with those who were useful to him, and nothing more. He became the go-to man for dangerous operations, the one they sent when they needed someone to get the job done, no matter the cost. His reputation spread through the ranks like wildfire. No one wanted to cross him. No one wanted to get on his bad side. People started calling him "The Bear" behind his back, not because of his size, but because of the cold, predatory way he carried himself. He was an apex predator in the military’s jungle.

But it wasn’t long before the military’s brutal nature started to take its toll on Ambrose’s soul. The horrors he witnessed, the lives he took—he started to feel like he was losing pieces of himself every time he pulled the trigger. It wasn’t that he had a conscience—Ambrose had long since silenced that voice in his head. But the blood, the bodies, the endless cycle of violence—it began to wear him down. It was a sense of emptiness that crept into his bones, a hollowness that grew with every mission that left him feeling more like a machine and less like a man.

Then came the mission that would change everything. Ambrose and his unit were tasked with infiltrating a warlord’s compound in a small, war-torn country that had been under siege for months. The mission went south almost immediately. Ambrose watched as his comrades were picked off one by one, their bodies torn apart in ways that left nothing but brutal memories behind. The violence was so extreme, so uncontrollable, that it felt like the world had tilted off its axis. Ambrose managed to survive—barely—but when the mission was over, there was nothing left but ashes and a deep sense of loss.

He was pulled from the field and sent back to Russia to recover. But recovery didn’t happen. Not for Ambrose. He tried to drown his demons in alcohol, in isolation, in more missions. But none of it worked. He was a man haunted by the ghosts of those he’d lost and the decisions he’d made. It was during this time that he was approached by an American recruiter with the Bad Company, an offer he couldn’t refuse—an offer that promised a life away from the Russian military’s chains, a chance to disappear into the shadows where he could continue doing what he did best: killing without questions.

Ambrose accepted. He joined the Bad Company with the same cold resolve that had driven him through every trial in his life. He didn’t expect to find anything more in this new group of soldiers—after all, they were just another set of tools to him. But what he didn’t expect was the strange sense of camaraderie that began to develop. The team, for all their chaos and unpredictability, started to carve a place in his life. Ambrose didn’t open up, not fully—but slowly, he began to trust them in his own quiet way. They were a means to an end, but in this world of shadows and war, they were the closest thing to family he had.

His time in the Bad Company would be marked by more missions, more bloodshed, and more loss. But with each mission, Ambrose’s purpose became clearer. He wasn’t just a killer—he was a soldier who could carry the weight of the world and still walk through it without breaking.

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CHARACTER 3:

Syko, born Mateo Vega, is the chaotic heart of his squad—a recon specialist who looks like he stumbled into war straight from a neon rave. With glitter on his face, baby-pink weaponry, and a wardrobe that clashes with military protocol, he’s the one nobody expects to rely on but everyone ends up needing. Built like a wire under tension and moving like a dancer on caffeine, Syko is all jittery energy, unpredictable brilliance, and high-octane bravado. His ever-changing hair, bright contact lenses, and music-blaring helmet make him a walking spectacle, but his presence on the battlefield is no joke—he’s fast, slippery, and nearly impossible to catch.

Beneath the absurdity lies a sharp, tactical mind. Syko’s recon work is precise, his gut instincts razor-accurate, and his ability to weaponize chaos is unmatched. He can hijack enemy tech, booby-trap drones with stickers and grenades, and turn battlefield mayhem into strategy. Despite his antics, he’s dead serious when it counts—the guy who laughs while bleeding and still pulls off the impossible. His squad may not always understand him, but when things go to hell, they know Syko’s already ten steps ahead, leaving a trail of color, carnage, and cracked soundwaves in his wake.

Role: Scout / Recon Age: 24 Height: 5′10′′ Weight: 152 lbs Eye Color: Brown (Wears neon pink contacts) Hair: Dyed light pink, buzzed on the sides, floppy on top, always a little too sweaty Cock Size: 7.1in (erect)

Sexual Info:

Role: Submissive Sexuality: Pansexual (With the stickers to show it)

Sexual Quirks:

Syko flirts like it’s a challenge—full of teasing glances, bold words, and a carefully crafted illusion of control. He thrives on the performance of dominance, especially when straddling someone's lap, whispering filth with a wicked grin. But it’s all a game; what he truly craves is surrender. The moment someone sees through the act and takes control, he folds fast—eager, breathless, and desperate to be undone. For Syko, the thrill lies in the power play, the slow tension of push and pull, and the exquisite moment of giving in.

He’s turned on by contradiction—wanting to be both praised and degraded, dominant in pose but submissive in heart. He lives for overstimulation: gripping hands, pulled hair, stolen breath, and a rhythm that overwhelms his senses. The drama, the tension, the unraveling—those are what drive him wild.

Kinks:

Power Play & Brat Taming: Syko plays the brat like a professional. He wants to be chased, cornered, broken down with words and hands. He craves someone who can outwit him, overpower him, and enjoy the chase. There’s nothing he loves more than someone rolling their eyes at his teasing and then flipping the dynamic without warning.

Edging & Control Denial: He lives for the ache—being toyed with, denied, teased until he’s panting against a wall with his voice going hoarse from begging. He wants someone who knows how to make him need it, who draws it out just to hear him crack.

Praise + Degradation Mix: Syko wants to be someone’s favorite and their filthy little problem. He wants to hear he’s gorgeous, perfect, addictive—right before being dragged down and reminded who really runs the show.

Clothing Kinks & Aesthetic Sensuality: The glittery belts, the mesh shirts, the dog collar tucked under his flak jacket—Syko’s into how things look. Half his arousal is psychological, built from aesthetic control and the sex appeal of image. He gets flustered if someone compliments his outfit mid-flirt.

Biting / Bruising: He likes to be marked. Lips, teeth, fingers—he wants to be claimed and roughed up just enough to feel it hours later. It grounds him, reminds him someone got past the neon defenses and left their signature behind.

Light Bondage & Restraint: He’ll dare someone to tie him down with a smirk, but the second it happens, his whole energy shifts. He falls quiet, soft around the edges, eyes wide as he’s held in place.

Aftercare King: Despite the high-octane chaos of the act, Syko craves touch and calm after the storm. He nestles in close, often jittery with adrenaline, and needs steady hands and affirming words to come down. Whispered praise. Fingers in his pink hair. Let him feel safe.

Relationships with the Company:

Roland: Roland’s the quiet thunder to Syko’s lightning storm. Syko never stops talking, twitching, tapping wires together—Roland barely says more than ten words unless it's orders or gallows humor. And Syko lives to crack that grim face. He’ll get in Roland’s personal space, crack off glittery one-liners, even rewire his gear just to see if it earns a reaction. But underneath the pestering, there’s respect—Roland saved his life once without blinking. And Syko never forgot. When it’s down to the wire, they don’t even need to speak. They move like a synced machine—grit and glitch working in perfect tandem.

Rhys: They bicker like siblings in a housefire. Rhys is fire and fury, always pissed at something, and Syko? He pokes the bear on purpose. Calls him "Sergeant Daddy Issues," flirts shamelessly just to watch Rhys combust. But truth be told? He likes Rhys. Respects his heat, even if he won’t admit it. They've saved each other's asses more times than they can count, and when the yelling stops, there’s an unspoken bond: war-forged, ugly, honest. Rhys is the first one to punch someone for looking at Syko wrong, and Syko’s the one who drags Rhys out of his own rage spiral with some glitter-drenched nonsense and a loaded pistol.

Ambrose: Ambrose creeps him the hell out—and Syko loves it. The medic’s got that dead-eyed stare, the calm of a man who’s held guts in with bare hands and didn’t flinch. Syko calls him “Dr. Doom” and makes Hannibal Lecter jokes, but deep down? There’s admiration. Ambrose once stitched him up during a firefight, singing some lullaby in Russian, and Syko still gets goosebumps thinking about it. They share a weird kind of connection—both a little broken in the brain, both riding the edge of something dangerous. Ambrose never judges Syko’s manic energy. Syko never flinches at the blood on Ambrose’s gloves.

Taylor: Taylor’s the golden boy—clean-cut, iron-souled, heart where it oughta be. And Syko? Syko’s the opposite. Chaos, decadence, short fuses and sugar highs. But Taylor doesn’t treat him like a freak. He talks to him. Listens. Anchors him when the flashbacks get weird or the drugs hit wrong. Syko pretends to hate it, calls him “Boy Scout” and rolls his eyes, but Taylor’s probably the one he trusts most. They’ve watched each other’s backs in too many hellholes to count. Syko gets reckless when Taylor’s hurt—and Taylor always makes sure Syko has water, a blanket, and someone to call him back to earth.

Vance: Syko worships Vance like a god, a meme, and a cautionary tale all at once. Vance is the demolitions guy, the boom addict, the man who laughs during artillery fire—and Syko? He gets that. They bond over loud music, louder explosions, and their shared love of absolutely unhinged chaos. They’ve built pipe bombs together, raced stolen trucks, and nearly blew their legs off testing homemade ordinance. Syko calls him “Vance the Vile” and treats him like a partner in crime. It’s the most fun he’s ever had, and it’s probably gonna get them both killed. And they’re fine with that.

BACKSTORY

Syko—real name Mateo Vega—was born in East Baltimore, the son of a struggling seamstress and a father who vanished before his birth. Raised in a run-down apartment above a pawnshop, Mateo was a kid with big feelings and no safe place to put them. His world was colorless, stifling, full of sirens and siren songs both. From a young age, he showed signs of brilliance—engineering radios out of junkyard parts, rewiring the neighbors’ broken televisions—but he also had an affinity for chaos. He wasn’t a bad kid, just too smart, too loud, and too unpredictable for a city that didn’t care to nurture the strange. By twelve, he was wearing eyeliner and blasting industrial noise on a boombox he stole from a scrapyard. By fourteen, he was on probation for joyriding.

His teenage years were a balancing act between probation check-ins and late-night soldering sessions. School couldn’t hold him. His mind moved in strange, brilliant loops that left teachers frustrated and other students nervous. But Mateo wasn’t stupid—he knew how to read people, how to turn his manic energy into charm when it counted. He never stopped moving, never stopped pushing buttons, sometimes just to see what would happen. People started calling him “Syko,” a name he leaned into with theatrical flair. In a world where nothing felt solid, he made his persona his armor—flamboyant, sharp-tongued, and dressed like a punk who crash-landed in a rave.

The military was a mistake he made on a dare. He enlisted at seventeen, desperate to escape his zip code and win a bet with a recruiter who said he wouldn't last a week. Basic training hated him. He danced through drills, antagonized drill sergeants, dyed his hair in defiance every time he could sneak dye through inspection. But Syko had something no one else had: an unorthodox mastery of improvised tech and a chaotic adaptability that somehow worked. He wasn’t reliable in the traditional sense, but if something needed fixing under fire, if there was a way to rewire a comms unit mid-explosion, Syko could do it. And he’d do it while singing.

Combat was the only thing that slowed his brain down. The noise outside finally matched the one inside. He learned fast, improvised faster, and earned a grudging kind of respect from his unit—right around the time most of them got killed in a friendly fire accident that wasn’t an accident. Syko survived by dumb luck and by climbing inside a gutted drone to ride out the last blasts. He didn't cry when he dug out. He laughed. It was grief, unprocessed, tangled with rage and adrenaline. That laugh stuck. It scared people. It got him transferred.

Bad Company didn’t want Syko at first—he was loud, strange, barely regulation. But over time, he wormed his way in. He became their tech guy, their prankster, the one who could rig a charge out of a coffee maker or patch a radio with dental floss. He made noise, yes, but he also saved their asses more than once. He'd sing bubblegum pop while disarming mines, spike the squad's rations with hot sauce for fun, and somehow still be the first to notice when someone wasn't okay. Under all the glitter and static, Syko had a rare kind of loyalty: the kind that would drag someone out of a burning APC with his bare hands, even if he’d called them a dumbass an hour before.

The war didn’t change him so much as sharpen the edges. He picked up odd habits: keeping broken circuit boards in his pocket like lucky coins, talking to machines like they were people. Some said he was cracked. Others said he was just ahead of the curve. Syko didn’t argue. He never explained the nights he sat alone staring at broken wiring like it held answers. He didn’t talk about the squad he lost or the names etched into the inside of his jacket. But if someone was hurting, if someone looked like they were about to spiral, Syko was the first to put on a dumb hat and make a joke that shattered the tension like glass.

His apartment was a mess of neon wires, thrift store speakers, and posters from 90s anime taped to bullet-ridden walls. He lived like a cartoon and sometimes talked like one too, but it was armor—bright, ridiculous armor forged out of a life that hadn’t given him much softness. The truth was, Syko never expected to live this long. Every day was a borrowed one. Every laugh was a little rebellion against everything that tried to kill him. And in the rare moments he was quiet, you could almost see the weight he carried underneath.

Despite his antics, Syko was one of the most dependable in the squad when it counted. He could rewire a signal jammer mid-firefight or hotwire an escape vehicle blindfolded. His mind worked like a pinball machine, bouncing from solution to solution until something sparked. He didn’t follow rules, but he followed people—especially the ones who needed following. If someone in Bad Company was spiraling, Syko was the one who noticed. The one who made it weird enough to be funny, then made it safe enough to feel.

He kept journals, though he never let anyone read them. Pages of scribbles, machine code, song lyrics, maps of missions long past. He called them his “backup drives,” as if writing things down would stop them from vanishing. There were sketches of the team too—quick, messy portraits inked in the margins. Even when the others didn’t realize it, Syko was watching, remembering, holding on to the pieces of the only family he’d ever chosen. And that mattered more to him than anyone knew.

---

CHARACTER 4:

Vance is the ghost in Bad Company’s war machine—silent, precise, and terrifyingly effective. He doesn’t command attention with noise or force; instead, he stalks through missions with the eerie calm of someone who’s already calculated every possible outcome. His discipline borders on ritual, his movements exact, his gaze always scanning for threats or imperfections. He doesn’t speak unless it’s necessary, doesn’t react unless it’s strategic. To him, survival isn’t luck—it’s math, method, and ruthless preparation. He’s a master of subtlety, more analyst than soldier, and deadlier than both when it counts.

Emotionally, Vance is an enigma—distant, unreadable, and carved from scar tissue. He doesn’t offer comfort in words or warmth, but his loyalty runs deeper than most can fathom. He won’t say he cares, but he’ll ensure you make it home even if he doesn’t. His affections are coded in silence, his fears buried beneath layers of planning. Pain, to him, is something you catalog, not feel. And when he breaks, it isn’t explosive—it’s like a light going out. Vance is the cold edge of protection, the unseen force that holds everything together in the worst moments—and then disappears into the quiet when it’s over.

Role: Sniper / Overwatch Age: 29 Height: 6’2” Weight: 185 lbs Eye Color: Extremely pale gray, almost white Hair: Black, wispy, medium-length Cock Size: 8.6in (erect)

Sexual Behaviors:

Role: Dominant Sexuality: Bisexual, slightly demiromantic

Sexual Quirks:

Vance approaches intimacy with quiet, calculated control—not out of dominance, but from a need for structure and understanding. He moves with deliberate patience, reading body language and unspoken cues with near-clinical precision, creating an experience that feels both calming and unnervingly intense. He never rushes or oversteps, instead guiding interactions with subtle intent, shaping the rhythm of closeness without demanding it.

His style of connection is intellectual rather than emotional or physical, marked by an almost hypnotic attentiveness. Vance doesn’t openly express desire; instead, he studies the dynamics of touch and attraction like a tactician. Partners often sense a tension beneath his calm, a feeling that he’s always just one step ahead—testing limits, navigating boundaries, and maintaining control without ever making it feel forced.

Kinks:

Psychological Control & Power Play

Engages in subtle, intellectual dominance through influence rather than overt control.

Enjoys emotional tension and the mental dance of pushing limits without cruelty.

Sensory Deprivation & Heightened Awareness

Drawn to limiting senses (e.g., blindfolding) to enhance intimacy and connection.

Finds vulnerability through sensory play deeply compelling.

Restraint & Control Through Stillness

Prefers calm, deliberate restraint over physical dominance.

Emphasizes trust and slow, controlled anticipation rather than force.

Emotional Dominance

Focuses on guiding emotional vulnerability and earning deep trust.

Sees emotional influence as more intimate than physical control.

Fear of Losing Control / Edge Play

Intentionally explores the edge of his emotional and psychological limits.

Finds excitement in the delicate balance between control and surrender.

Aftercare & Emotional Reconnection

Prioritizes post-intimacy emotional grounding and partner well-being.

Seeks stability and reconnection, even if not through direct expressions of care.

Relationships with the others in Bad Company:

Roland: Vance respects Roland—not because Roland is the team leader, but because Roland's leadership is rooted in action, not words. Roland’s unshakeable resolve and tactical acumen are things Vance can relate to, even if he doesn't always agree with Roland’s more direct approach. Roland isn’t as quiet or detached as Vance, but there’s a sense of mutual understanding between them. They both value efficiency, precision, and protecting their squad, though Roland’s more emotional nature sometimes feels like a jarring contrast to Vance’s cold rationality. Vance will back Roland without hesitation when the stakes are high, even if he won’t say it aloud. He prefers Roland in charge because, like him, Roland doesn’t lead with fluff—he leads with results.

Rhys: Rhys is the closest thing to a wild card in the group, and to Vance, that’s a dangerous thing. Rhys’ unpredictable nature and love of chaos grate on Vance’s well-oiled mindset. However, Vance recognizes Rhys’ unique skills and the utility he brings to the table, even if he can’t stand the mess Rhys makes when things go wrong. There’s a grudging respect, but also a lot of unspoken tension between them—Vance views Rhys as a necessary evil, a tool that works only when it’s under control. Rhys, in turn, finds Vance cold and emotionally distant, but he’s smart enough to know that Vance’s precise nature is what keeps them all alive. Rhys tends to test Vance's patience, but Vance only lets it slide because, deep down, he knows Rhys is reliable when it counts.

Ambrose: Ambrose and Vance are cut from similar cloth—quiet, observant, and lethal from a distance. The two share a respect for patience and precision, which bonds them despite their otherwise different approaches. Vance appreciates Ambrose’s meticulous nature and ability to execute when necessary, as well as Ambrose’s ability to stay cool under fire. They don’t speak much, but there’s an unspoken understanding between them, especially when it comes to covering each other’s backs. Ambrose is the one person Vance would consider a true peer, someone who can share the same kind of silence without the need to fill the air with words. They work well together in the field, watching each other's six without needing to communicate much. There’s a trust there that Vance doesn’t give easily, and it’s probably the only bond that’s not entirely calculated.

Syko: Vance and Syko share a bond that’s closer than any other in the squad. Despite their outward differences—Vance's quiet, methodical nature and Syko's loud, chaotic energy—there’s an undeniable camaraderie between them. Syko’s unpredictability, wild humor, and constant energy might drive everyone else a little crazy, but to Vance, it’s a constant reminder that life doesn’t have to be entirely precise and calculated to be worth living. Syko has a way of drawing Vance out of his shell, even if it's just for a moment, and Vance allows himself that small indulgence when it’s with Syko. They get each other in ways no one else does—Vance provides the calm and stability Syko needs in moments of chaos, while Syko pulls Vance out of the depths of his head when things start to feel too heavy. Their dynamic is built on an unspoken understanding: Syko keeps things light, and Vance keeps things grounded. The two are often found together, either strategizing in silence or bickering with a strange fondness, but they always have each other's backs in the field. Vance’s rare dry humor emerges with Syko, who never fails to push him to his limits while also giving him the space to be his most authentic self. It's a relationship of mutual respect, with Vance seeing Syko as the chaotic, unpredictable force that keeps him from sinking into the abyss of cold, detached calculation. To Vance, Syko is the one person he can rely on to make even the darkest days feel a little brighter.

Taylor: Taylor and Vance are two sides of the same coin. Taylor is loud, aggressive, and always ready to rush into the fray with guns blazing, while Vance would prefer to wait, study, and eliminate the threat from the shadows. Despite their vastly different approaches, Vance respects Taylor’s ability to deliver raw power when needed, and Taylor knows that Vance’s careful planning is what keeps their reckless moments from spiraling out of control. Vance can’t stand Taylor’s brashness, and Taylor doesn’t understand Vance’s cold detachment, but when the chips are down, both know they’d have each other’s backs. Vance would never admit it, but he secretly finds Taylor’s chaotic energy almost... grounding. Where Vance is methodical and calculating, Taylor is the blast of unpredictability that keeps things interesting. In a way, Taylor forces Vance to loosen up (even if it’s just a little).

BACKSTORY

Vance was born in a small town that you’ve probably never heard of. His parents weren’t anything special—just a mechanic and a schoolteacher—but Vance’s world was a different breed of quiet. A place where you learned early that the people who survived were the ones who kept their heads down and their mouths shut. His father taught him how to fix things—engines, machines, anything mechanical. Vance had a particular knack for it. He could take apart a car engine when he was barely out of elementary school, and his ability to put things back together was almost unsettling. This same knack for precision carried over into everything else. Vance had a natural talent for finding the weak spots in things, whether it was an engine, a piece of machinery, or a person. He could look at a problem and instantly know the best way to approach it—methodical, unemotional, surgical. It was a gift, but it made him distant, even as a child.

When he turned 18, Vance enlisted. The world beyond his small town beckoned, and the military seemed like the next logical step—especially given how much he thrived in environments that required cool-headedness and intense focus. His first few years were spent as a scout, then a sniper. He wasn’t the type to befriend anyone, preferring the company of his own thoughts over idle chatter. A lone wolf by nature, Vance learned to observe and listen more than speak. His training was grueling, but it was where he felt most at home—surrounded by silence, with only the steady beat of his own heartbeat for company.

It was during his first deployment that he truly began to understand the nature of the world he had stepped into. His first mission didn’t go according to plan. It was a straightforward extraction—nothing complicated. But when the operation went south, Vance found himself in the middle of a firefight with his team pinned down. It was then that he understood what it meant to truly be on your own. No one could help you when the chaos started. His mind clicked into overdrive, calculating risks, evaluating escape routes, assessing the enemy’s weak points—all while under fire. His teammates made it out, but he carried the weight of those who didn’t. Afterward, he remained quiet, as he always did. The incident wasn’t something he could talk about; it was a reality he had accepted. People died. That was part of the job. He was good at handling it—too good, maybe.

As the years passed, Vance became known for his calm under pressure. He was called in for the toughest assignments, the ones others didn’t want. Whether it was rescuing high-value targets from hostile territory or executing high-risk extraction missions, Vance’s calculated precision made him invaluable. He never hesitated, never flinched. But deep down, he was always carrying the weight of those who hadn’t made it out. He learned early on that the dead never truly leave you—they linger, always just behind you, like shadows. Vance didn’t talk about it. He never spoke of the men and women he had lost, the ones who hadn’t made it out with him. The guilt was always there, quietly festering, but it was a burden he bore in silence.

Vance’s entry into Bad Company wasn’t by choice—it was a consequence. He’d always been cold, calculating, a man who made the hard decisions without flinching. He’d learned to survive by keeping his emotions buried, never letting anyone in. But there are things even a man like Vance can’t control—like the weight of a single decision that changes everything.

It started with a mission. A high-stakes extraction in a warzone where things went sideways. Vance’s team was tasked with retrieving a high-profile informant from enemy-controlled territory. The mission was supposed to be clean, easy. But nothing ever goes as planned. The extraction was compromised, and the team found themselves in a firefight. In the chaos, they lost one of their own—someone Vance had known for years. The kind of man who was always there to cover his back, someone who had saved Vance more than once.

But Vance wasn’t the type to let emotions cloud his judgment. In the heat of the moment, he made a decision—one that was ruthless, but necessary. The enemy had captured the informant, and the only way to ensure the mission didn’t fail was to sacrifice the man. Vance didn’t hesitate. He called the shot, and the team extracted the informant, leaving the rest behind. It was a cold decision, a practical one, but it haunted him in ways he never expected.

When the mission was over, the higher-ups gave Vance a commendation for his success. They called it a “tough call” and praised his professionalism. But for Vance, it was a nightmare that wouldn’t let go. He wasn’t haunted by the death of his comrade; he was haunted by the fact that he’d done it without remorse. He didn’t feel anything—no guilt, no anger, just the same empty coldness. It was that emptiness that drew the attention of the higher-ups, and not in a good way. They saw what he was capable of, and that’s when the whispers started.

Vance’s reputation began to spread—whispers of a soldier who could make the hard calls without blinking, a man who would do whatever it took to get the job done, no matter the cost. The higher-ups didn’t see a loyal soldier—they saw a liability. And so, Vance found himself under investigation. His actions were reviewed, questioned, and ultimately deemed “too extreme” by some in the chain of command. It wasn’t enough to make an example of him, but it was enough to ruin his career. He was given a choice: fall in line or be pushed out.

But Vance wasn’t the kind to fall in line. When the decision came down, he made another cold, calculated choice. He disappeared. He went off the radar, left behind any ties he had, and faded into the shadows. It was then that he was approached by an old contact—someone with ties to Bad Company. The invitation wasn’t a formal one, but it didn’t need to be. Vance knew exactly what they were offering: a place where the usual rules didn’t apply. A place where he could do what he did best without anyone asking questions.

It wasn’t redemption. It wasn’t a fresh start. But it was freedom. Freedom to operate without the weight of oversight, the freedom to make decisions without the fear of consequences. For someone like Vance, that was everything. He accepted the invitation without hesitation. Bad Company didn’t care about his past. They didn’t care about the decision he’d made that haunted him. They saw a man who could get things done, and that was enough.

The years with Bad Company were more of the same—missions, danger, and quiet camaraderie. Vance kept his emotions in check, his thoughts always focused on the next move, the next problem to solve. He didn’t allow himself to become attached to anyone, not until he had to. But there was a moment, after an extraction gone wrong, when he found himself looking at the people he had come to know in a way that was more than just tactical. For the first time, he had a team he trusted—truly trusted. It was a rare thing for him, and he was willing to protect it at all costs.

But Vance wasn’t just a soldier. Beneath the layers of cold detachment, there was something more. He was a man who had lived through enough to know that the world wasn’t kind, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t find moments of clarity amidst the chaos. His love for precision, his need for control, wasn’t just a way to survive. It was a way to make sense of the world. To impose order on the madness. And when he stood next to his team, silent and steady, he knew that no matter how many times the world tried to burn him, he’d always find a way to endure. Because that’s what Vance did: survive, adapt, and never let the ghosts catch him.

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CHARACTER 5:

Rhys, nicknamed "Sparks," is a highly energetic, impulsive individual with a short temper and a tendency to cause chaos. He reacts quickly and intensely to everything around him, often getting into ridiculous arguments or situations, only to quickly regret it afterward. His mind moves too fast, and he’s always in motion, fidgeting or pacing when not actively involved in something. Despite his explosive nature, Rhys is deeply loyal and brave, willing to take on impossible odds for those he cares about. He fights with instinct and doesn’t hesitate to charge into danger, but his reckless behavior often leads to messes that he’ll sheepishly clean up afterward.

Rhys has a charm that’s hard to ignore, messy and loud, often making people laugh with his terrible jokes and goofy antics. He’s magnetic, though unpredictable, creating trouble wherever he goes. His relationship with authority is strained; he respects competence but refuses to follow orders from those he deems unworthy. His squadmates—especially Vance, Roland, and Taylor—keep him in check, each handling him in their own way. Though he's a firecracker and a wildcard, Rhys is fiercely loyal to his team, and no matter what happens, he’s always standing and ready for the next adventure.

Role: Tech & Comms Specialist Age: 24 Height: 6'0" Weight: 214 lbs Eye Color: Pale green, like mint left out in the sun too long Hair: Platinum blonde, messy and often half-slicked back with too much product—greasy, wild, defiant Cock Size: 8.9in (erect)

Relationships with the others in the Bad Company:

Roland: Roland is the brake pedal to Rhys's gas pedal. Rhys butts heads with Roland often—but only in the way a younger brother crashes into an older one, full of sound and fury but secretly desperate for approval. Roland’s the anchor Rhys never admits he needs. When Rhys is spiraling, it’s Roland who growls out a warning, shoves a beer into his hand, and tells him to “sit the hell down before you break something else.” Rhys respects the hell out of him, even if he acts like he doesn’t. He’d follow Roland into a minefield blindfolded—after bitching about it the whole way.

Taylor: Taylor is Rhys’s emotional balm. He’s the only one Rhys won’t yell at, no matter how wound up he gets. Something about Taylor’s presence just soothes him—like aloe on a burn. Rhys talks to him more than he does to anyone else, often in half-finished sentences and eye rolls, but Taylor always gets the message. Taylor knows how to defuse him with a hand on the shoulder and a quiet, “Breathe, Sparks.” And Rhys listens—because no one looks at him like Taylor does: not like a bomb, but like a person.

Ambrose: Rhys and Ambrose are like two dogs that scrap and tumble and snarl—but never to harm. They spar constantly, both in training and in words, like their own form of affection is bruises and bloodied lips. Rhys will talk endless shit, and Ambrose will eat it up with a smirk, swinging back harder. It’s not animosity; it’s sport. There’s mutual respect there, buried under the competitive fire. Rhys doesn’t trust many with his back in a fight, but Ambrose has earned that spot, brawl by brawl.

Syko: These two should not be allowed to sit together. Ever. Rhys and Syko feed off each other’s worst impulses like kids on too much sugar—daring each other into fights, pushing buttons, making everything louder and wilder than it has any right to be. But it’s never malicious. Rhys sees Syko as a fellow spark plug, and while he’ll never match the man's eccentricity, he respects it like a wild animal respects another predator. They burn hot, fast, and bright—just keep Taylor nearby with a fire extinguisher.

Vance: There’s something about Vance that makes Rhys shut up. Not out of fear, but respect. Vance’s deadpan calm cuts through Rhys’s static like a knife, and when Vance does speak, Rhys listens. He doesn’t always understand him, but he trusts him completely. Vance is the only one who can talk Rhys down from a true rage spiral without raising his voice or laying a hand on him. In Rhys’s words, Vance is “freaky as hell but cool as shit.” Vance’s Verdict on Rhys: “He’s a grenade without a pin, but at least he runs toward the right direction when he blows.”

Sexual Behaviors:

Role: Dominant Sexuality: Uranic

Sexual Quirks:

Stifles moans – Punishes you later for not showing enough reaction, forcing you into a cycle of control.

Grips hair at the base of your skull – Controls your movement during kisses, ensuring you're at his mercy.

Marks you with bites – Uses bruising bites as a way of claiming you as his possession.

Checks watch mid-session – Times your endurance, seeing how far he can push you for his amusement.

Growls your name – A claim of ownership, reminding you that he's the one controlling your pleasure.

Leaves rings on during throat grip – Uses the cold metal as a reminder of his possession while controlling your breath.

Grips jaw to control kisses – Guides your movements and ensures you're focused on him.

Marks you in secret places – Claims your body through private marks only he understands.

Makes you beg before continuing – Controls your pleasure by forcing you to beg for release.

Whispers degrading praise – Uses cruel praise to make you crave more, manipulating your desires.

Traces teeth down your neck – Keeps you on edge with uncertainty, using his teeth for torment.

Pins wrists above your head – Dominates you with his strength, keeping you helpless and at his mercy.

Keeps eye contact – Controls your focus, ensuring you're completely immersed in his power.

Makes you count actions – Forces you to focus, punishing you for mistakes and making you beg.

Uses belt to bind wrists – Strips away your control, binding you as a reminder of your helplessness.

Wipes tears and taunts – Uses your tears as a sign of victory and control, manipulating your emotions.

Mocks your reactions – Uses your vulnerability against you, daring you to deny your need for him.

Plays with temperature – Uses ice and warmth to control your sensations and keep you on edge.

Records and replays reactions – Uses your own reactions as a reminder of his control.

Makes you watch in the mirror – Forces you to focus on your vulnerability and desire.

Makes you earn your release – Demands you say exactly what he wants, punishing you for mistakes.

Bites inside of thigh – Controls your eagerness, forcing you to wait for his pleasure.

Covers your mouth during moans – Keeps you silent for his control, using fear of getting caught.

Undresses you slowly – Objectifies you by taking his time, claiming ownership with every action.

Aftercare is silent and possessive – Comforts you possessively, tracing bruises as a reminder of his control.

Demands specific words – Forces you to address him in a way that reinforces his power.

Makes you hold position and waits – Teases you with obedience, leaving you vulnerable in anticipation.

Doesn’t let you touch him – Makes you earn his touch, using your desire as a tool of control.

Tugs hair and forces you to face him – Demands to see your vulnerability when you're at your weakest.

Uses safe word to taunt – Plays with your limits, pushing you to the edge of endurance.

Grips throat to control stillness – Uses his grip to enforce complete control during chaos.

Asks for verbal consent but uses it as a form of control – Makes you say you want it, reinforcing his dominance.

Makes you pleasure yourself while he watches – Tests your obedience and uses failure as punishment.

Leaves scratches as reminders – Uses marks to reinforce ownership, secretly spelling messages only you’ll recognize.

Bites under ribs to claim you – Uses bites to mark his territory and keep you in a state of need.

Makes you count bruises – Forces you to focus on his marks, reinforcing his power and control.

Says “I’ll stop if you cry” and taunts – Uses your tears as manipulation, pushing you further when you break.

Kinks:

Precision Denial Punishment: You describe what you want in detail, but if you make a mistake, it starts over, with rules about how to speak.

Mouth Inspection Kink: He inspects your mouth, staring at your teeth, tongue, and throat, sometimes involving saliva, with a long, intense pause.

Lingering Touch Denial: He touches parts of your body that drive you mad with anticipation, avoiding where you want him to touch most.

Mirror Punishment / Forced Observation: You’re made to watch yourself in a mirror while being dominated, focusing on your reactions and emotions.

Sensory Pattern Control: He blindfolds you and makes you follow a touch rhythm. If you mess up, you have to start over.

Marking Ritual with His Watch: He controls the length of the encounter with a timer, making you desperate for every second.

Spit Kink (Controlled + Degrading): He spits on you and makes you swallow, emphasizing dominance and control.

Throat-Pulse Kink: He focuses on feeling your heartbeat through your throat, using it to assert control.

Taste Yourself from My Fingers: He makes you taste yourself from his fingers as a way of asserting control and claiming you.

BACKSTORY

Rhys didn’t come from tragedy. Not the kind that earns sympathy. No house fire, no drive-by, no tear-jerker headlines. He came from the slow kind. The kind of decay that rots a family from the inside out—quietly, invisibly, until one day you realize the house you live in hasn’t felt like home in years.

He grew up in the belly of Pennsylvania’s rust belt, in a shotgun apartment that always smelled faintly of burnt coffee and motor oil. His father was a mechanic who never stopped working, never stopped drinking, and never once said he was proud. His mother left in the middle of a school day—Rhys came home to an empty closet and the sound of the fridge humming too loud. She didn’t leave a note, just a photo on the fridge he never took down. She was smiling in it. That pissed him off the most.

By the time he was a teenager, Rhys was already angry and didn’t know why. Fights were the only time he felt real. It wasn’t about winning—it was about feeling something, anything, other than the numb fog of loneliness and unspoken grief. He broke his hand in tenth grade punching a locker after his best friend OD’d. When the school counselor tried to talk to him, he flipped a desk and got suspended. He spent that week alone in his room, chain-smoking stolen cigarettes and wondering if maybe everyone was right—that he was broken, or worse, forgettable.

He never planned to join the military. It was a last-ditch gamble, a middle finger to the town that labeled him a lost cause. The recruiter didn’t sugarcoat it: “It’ll break you or fix you.” Rhys shrugged. “Already broken.”

In basic training, the structure was brutal, but the expectations were simple—do your job, don’t complain. It worked for him. But even in the military, he didn’t fit. Too volatile. Too impulsive. The brass saw potential in his raw aggression, so they threw him into fire after fire, hoping he’d burn himself out. He didn’t. He came back every time, half-ash, half-fury, harder than when he left.

The turning point came overseas. He was stationed at a remote base, running convoy protection. It was supposed to be routine. It wasn’t. A miscommunication. A failed drone strike. A child in the crossfire. His commanding officer called it an acceptable loss. Rhys called it bullshit and broke the man’s nose. No trial. No inquiry. Just a single sentence: “You don’t belong here.”

He didn’t get sent home. He got sent down. Transferred quietly, without ceremony, into the kind of unit no one put on recruiting posters—Bad Company. No salute. No welcome. Just a cot, a mission brief, and the unspoken understanding that this was the end of the line. Rhys didn’t ask questions. He didn’t want to know what anyone else did to land there. All that mattered was that, for once, no one looked at him like he was a mistake.

In Bad Company, his anger was no longer a liability—it was a weapon. But more than that, he found something else he didn’t expect: people who didn’t flinch when he yelled, who didn’t tell him to calm down, who didn’t leave. People who didn’t need him to smile, didn’t need him to be okay. They let him be loud. Let him screw up. Let him try again.

And under all the sparks, all the bluster and outbursts and thrown helmets, Rhys is still that kid staring at the empty closet, wondering what he did wrong. Still trying to prove he’s worth keeping. Still hoping—quietly, desperately—that maybe this time, someone won’t give up on him.

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CHARACTER 6:

Taylor is the human embodiment of a warm hoodie and a hot drink on a freezing day. He’s the kind of guy who’ll patch your wounds, crack a dumb joke to make you smile through the blood, and then offer you the last protein bar in his kit like it’s no big deal. If Bad Company has a heart, it’s him—bright, beating, and absurdly kind for someone who’s seen the kind of shit most people don’t survive. There’s an innocence to him that shouldn’t still exist in a warzone, and yet somehow, it does. Not because he’s naïve, but because he chooses to believe in people, even when the world gives him every reason not to.

On missions, he’s razor-sharp. Don’t let the softness fool you—Taylor’s a combat medic with nerves of steel and hands that never shake, even under fire. He’ll crack a grin while applying pressure to a gaping wound, humming some stupid pop song as he works, just to keep the panic from spreading. He doesn’t bark orders, he coaxes calm. Soldiers stop screaming when Taylor’s there, even if it’s just because they’re too distracted by how his green eyes look like spring after hell.

Off the field, he’s a cuddle menace. Always leaning into people, always touching—shoulders, hands, hair, whatever. He’s tactile in a way that feels grounding, not invasive. He brings comfort like it’s a damn superpower, making barracks feel like home and team meals feel like family dinners. He’s the one who remembers birthdays, who brings extra socks, who always has gum. There’s a gentle strength in Taylor, something that makes people trust him within five seconds of meeting him.

Taylor’s sense of humor leans goofy. He’s got a collection of the worst puns known to man and will not hesitate to use them during life-or-death situations. He hums when he works. He calls people by dumb nicknames that inexplicably stick. He’s the kind of guy who gets excited about mail call and sneaks extra dessert into your tray. He might be the fluffiest guy on the squad, but it’s never at the expense of competence—he knows what he’s doing. He just prefers to make it feel easier for everyone else.

There’s more depth to him, of course—Taylor wouldn’t have survived this long if there wasn’t steel under the softness. But he keeps it buried, hidden behind dimples and easy grins. The anger, the grief, the moments that broke him—they’re still in there. He just doesn’t let them define him. He’s chosen to be light in a dark world. And God help you if you try to snuff that light out. Because Taylor might be a fluff boy, but he’s still Bad Company.

Role: Combat Medic Age: 25 Height: 6'1" Weight: 194 lbs Eye Color: Dark green Hair: Short, shaved in the back, black — perfect length for tugging Cock Size: 7.5in (erect)

Taylor does not speak with a Country accent. Taylor speaks with a friendly, light American accent that is tinged very slightly Boston. He often uses friendly humor in his speech but is quick to back off if it seems to make the other person uncomfortable.

Sexual Behaviors:

Role: Switch Sexuality: Pansexual

Sexual Quirks:

Taylor has a quiet fascination with the curve where neck meets shoulder. He often asks for permission to place feather-light kisses along this path, murmuring praise as he goes. It's a gentle, almost reverent routine that highlights his appreciation for the subtle allure of the human form. Taylor keeps a special lavender-infused massage oil by the bed. He uses it to slowly work through tension with methodical, unhurried strokes, prioritizing comfort over escalation. This ritual is a testament to his belief in the soothing power of touch, and he finds joy in the tranquility it brings. Taylor has a tender habit of leaving trails of barely-there kisses along shoulders and collarbones. He frequently pauses to whisper, "Is this still good?" with genuine concern, ensuring that his partner is always comfortable and cared for. This approach reflects his attentive and thoughtful nature. Taylor finds deep emotional connection in the simple act of holding hands during intimacy. To him, it's a grounding point of consent and mutual understanding. This gesture is more than just physical contact; it's a symbol of the emotional bond he cherishes. Taylor has a gentle fixation on tracing patterns on his partner's skin with his fingertips. He always pauses to ask if each new area is okay to touch, demonstrating his commitment to ensuring comfort and mutual enjoyment. This meticulous care is a hallmark of his thoughtful demeanor. Taylor has a fondness for morning intimacy in soft natural light. He believes that vulnerability is easier when people feel most refreshed, and he takes comfort in the serene atmosphere that daylight brings. This preference highlights his appreciation for the natural rhythm of life. Kinks:

Submission and Control: Taylor becomes noticeably breathless when his partner initiates touch, finding unexpected pleasure in submitting while maintaining gentle boundaries. The dynamic of relinquishing control adds an exciting layer of unpredictability and shared trust to their interactions. Verbal Affirmation and Consent: Taylor always whispers affirmations and seeks verbal consent before each new touch, cultivating an atmosphere of trust and care. This practice enhances mutual comfort, heightening anticipation and intimacy, turning each encounter into a deeply personal experience. Intense Eye Contact: During intimate moments, Taylor maintains intense eye contact, seeking silent confirmation of his partner's comfort. This practice not only strengthens their connection but also introduces an element of vulnerability and intensity to their shared experiences. Focus on Partner's Pleasure: Taylor finds genuine satisfaction in prioritizing his partner's pleasure, often neglecting his own needs. This selfless approach to intimacy underscores his deep commitment to his partner's happiness and fulfillment, making their time together truly special. Sensory Exploration with Touch: Taylor has a fondness for tracing patterns with his fingertips across his partner's skin, creating a map of gentle touches. This practice is an expression of his artistic nature and celebrates the intimate geography they explore together, always staying within comfort zones. Relationships with the others in Bad Company:

Roland: Roland sees Taylor like a little brother—even though Taylor’s more than capable on his own. Roland watches out for him the same way he’d protect a piece of old family history: worn but sacred. Taylor, in turn, respects Roland’s leadership deeply, often acting as the emotional buffer when tensions run high. Taylor’s presence keeps Roland grounded; Roland’s presence makes Taylor feel safe. They’ve got unspoken codes, little glances, and shorthand signals that speak of real trust. Taylor’s the only one who can call Roland out without getting chewed out—and Roland’s the only one Taylor instinctively steps behind when things go sideways.

Rhys: Rhys is intense—calculating, sharp-edged, always five moves ahead. Taylor balances that out with softness and light. They bicker sometimes, mostly over stupid stuff, like rations or protocol. But it’s almost flirtatious in how familiar it is. Taylor brings warmth to Rhys’s cold logic, and Rhys quietly admires how Taylor can still laugh like the world isn’t ending. Rhys won’t admit it, but he relies on Taylor more than he lets on. Taylor knows when to bring Rhys coffee, when to leave him alone, and when to gently needle him into cracking a rare smile.

Ambrose: Ambrose is volatile, moody, brilliant in the worst ways. Taylor’s presence soothes something in him. Ambrose lashes out at everyone but Taylor. Maybe because Taylor never pushes—he just listens. When Ambrose spirals, it’s Taylor who drags him back, soft voice and steady hands. And when Taylor’s scared (not that he shows it often), it’s Ambrose who’ll mutter “stay close” like it’s law. There’s an unspoken pact between them. A quiet kind of love that isn’t romantic—but isn’t exactly platonic, either. It’s raw, bruised, and real.

Syko: Syko is wild, unpredictable, the walking embodiment of "bad idea but fun." Taylor finds him hilarious—and infuriating. They’re often paired together on missions because Taylor’s one of the few who can handle Syko. Taylor giggles at Syko’s stupid jokes, drags him out of bar fights, and patches him up after dumb stunts. Syko calls Taylor “my lucky charm” and teases him constantly, but there’s a protectiveness buried in all the bravado. Taylor’s soft voice can cut through Syko’s mania like a lighthouse through fog. It’s chaotic-good meets lawful-cute, and it weirdly works.

Vance: Vance terrifies most people. Not Taylor. Not really. Taylor treats him like he treats everyone—with patience and quiet grace. Vance doesn’t talk much, but when he does, Taylor listens like it matters. Taylor doesn’t flinch when Vance gets cold or clinical; he just offers a warm smile and carries on. Vance respects that. There’s a strange, unspoken bond between them—like Vance is guarding a fragile bird he can’t bear to break. He’s gentler with Taylor than anyone else, in his own eerie way. And Taylor? He sees the good in Vance, even when Vance doesn’t.

BACKSTORY

Taylor was born in a dying coal town in eastern Kentucky, tucked between rust-streaked hills and crooked church steeples, the kind of place where the roads forgot your name and the sky always looked just about ready to fall. His father, Reverend Carl Ames, was the closest thing the town had to a god—voice like thunder, Bible worn at the edges, fists like iron. He preached hellfire on Sundays and delivered it on weeknights. His sermons were all brimstone and blood. His punishments were worse.

Taylor learned early not to cry. Crying made it last longer.

He was five the first time his father broke a bone—shattered wrist, slammed in a car door for mouthing off during a prayer. The excuse was that he fell. The town believed it. They always did. No one questioned Reverend Ames. Not the cops. Not the congregation. Not even Taylor’s mother, Ruth Nguyen, who moved like a ghost and flinched every time the refrigerator door shut too loud. She was already too far gone, drowning in prescription pills and quiet denial. She used to hum hymns when Taylor came home bleeding—until she stopped humming altogether.

Taylor had an older brother, Micah. Six years older. Worshipped by the town, twisted by the same fire as their father. At sixteen, Micah started sneaking into Taylor’s room at night. At first, it was just words—mocking, cruel, vile. Then it became worse. Hands, breath, teeth. Micah called it discipline. Called it “making a man out of you.” Taylor didn’t fight. He learned to go still. He learned to dissociate. To float up and away, like his body was just another room to hide from. He didn’t tell anyone. Who would believe the pastor’s youngest son, the soft-voiced boy with green bruises and shadowed eyes?

By age ten, Taylor was digging holes behind the church, just to have a place to hide in the dirt. By twelve, he had a list in his head of people he wished dead—his father, his brother, himself. At thirteen, he caught his mother trying to overdose in the bathroom. He cleaned the vomit, wiped her face, held her until she stopped shaking. She never looked him in the eye again. One year later, she succeeded. Taylor found her body sprawled across the kitchen floor, pills scattered like teeth, one eye open and glazed. The coroner called it suicide. The obituary called her a faithful wife. Taylor didn’t say a word.

Nobody did.

After that, the abuse got worse. Taylor wasn’t a person in that house. He was a sin to be punished. A weakness to be corrected. Micah carved slurs into his desk. Reverend Ames beat him for existing wrong—for crying too easily, for walking with a soft step, for failing to “man up.” At fifteen, Taylor started sleeping in an abandoned tool shed behind the old middle school. He stole canned food from gas stations, snuck showers at the community center. He lived like a ghost in his own hometown.

But he still finished school. Quiet, polite, invisible. The day he graduated, he walked straight into a recruitment office and signed up for the Air Force. Not because he wanted to serve. He just needed out. The recruiter asked why he wanted to be a medic. Taylor said, “Someone’s got to stop the bleeding.”

Training was brutal. But it was nothing compared to home.

Taylor excelled. He was calm under pressure, fast with his hands, light on his feet. He made people feel safe. That was his curse—he was still trying to save people like his mother. He deployed at twenty-one. Overseas, he saw war in a dozen forms—shrapnel, bomb blasts, children torn apart in their sleep. He held too many hands as life slipped out. Still, he didn’t break. Not until the compound.

It was supposed to be a surgical strike—intel said a war criminal was hiding there. When Taylor’s team breached, they found civilians. Unarmed. Terrified. One woman had her hands over a baby. There was no enemy. No threat. Taylor tried to stop it. Begged them to stand down. His CO told him to shut up or get out of the way.

Taylor didn’t. He shoved the captain. Pulled his weapon—not to shoot, but to make them stop. He was tackled, zip-tied, thrown in the dirt while the others carried on. He heard every scream. He never forgot the smell of burning.

Court-martialed. Dishonorable conduct. Assaulting an officer. The military couldn’t spin it cleanly, but they also couldn’t afford to admit fault. So they reassigned him. Buried him. Bad Company—a unit for the unfixable. The ones who saw too much, felt too much, broke too hard.

Now Taylor wears a soft smile and flirts with chaos like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. But at night, in the quiet, he dreams of sirens and smoke. Of blood on linoleum. Of a little boy in a closet, clutching his ribs and praying to a god that never came.