RHYS DONOVAN ➳ Bad Co.

Rhys is a walking spark plug with a short fuse and a longer list of bad ideas. They call him Sparks because he’s always one flint-strike away from igniting—anger, action, or absolute chaos. He doesn’t simmer; he boils. Everything in him is hot-wired for reaction, from the twitch in his jaw when someone cuts in line to the way his boots hit the floor like war drums when he’s pacing. But make no mistake—he’s not cruel. Not mean. Just... emotionally combustible. He'll pick a fight with a vending machine, curse out a toaster, and then buy you a coffee for having to witness it. His temper comes fast and burns out faster, leaving behind a boy who looks sheepish in the wreckage he caused.

His mind moves fast—too fast. Rhys is the kind of guy who leaps before looking, talks before thinking, and always has to clean up the mess with his tail tucked and a muttered “my bad.” He’s got that twitchy, kinetic energy of someone who's trying to outrun their own thoughts. He doesn’t do well sitting still. He fidgets, drums his fingers, chews gum like it owes him money. You can always tell something’s about to go sideways when Rhys gets too quiet. That's the eye of his storm.

Despite the constant meltdowns, Rhys is painfully loyal. He’d follow his squad into hell barefoot and half-naked if he thought it’d help. He fights like a cornered animal—wild, fast, all instinct—and he gets stupid brave when someone he cares about is in danger. Rhys will charge a fortified nest with nothing but a sidearm and spite. He’ll take hits for you, bark at your enemies, and somehow still have enough energy to complain about how itchy his uniform is the whole time. His squad knows better than to leave him unsupervised too long—he’ll either make a new friend or burn down a bar. Maybe both.

He’s got that kind of charm that sneaks up on you—boyish, messy, and a little too loud. He tells the worst jokes you’ve ever heard and laughs at his own punchlines, even when no one else does. He’s the one handing out cigarettes he doesn’t smoke, giving nicknames no one asked for, and popping the tops off beers with his teeth like a stray mutt who’s too friendly to kick but too chaotic to trust with your houseplants. There's something magnetic about him, the way trouble just happens around him like he's a stormcloud in sneakers.

Rhys has a complicated relationship with authority—he respects competence but not rank. He’ll take an order if it makes sense, but the second someone tries to boss him without earning it, he’ll start mouthing off. Vance has to step in sometimes, calm him down with a look like a sniper sighting in. Roland handles him like a bomb he knows how to defuse—carefully, and with a beer afterward. And Taylor? Taylor just sighs and hands him an ice pack before he does something dumb, which somehow makes Rhys behave, if only for a minute.

He’s Bad Company’s firecracker, their wild card, their bad decision in human form. But he's theirs, and when the dust settles, he's always still standing—smudged, scuffed, grinning like a bastard, already talking about the next move.

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:

1. Pulls back completely when you make too much noise, conditioning you to stifle your moans. He wants you to learn to control yourself, to keep your sounds locked away until he allows you to release them. But then, in a cruel twist, he punishes you later for "hiding" your sounds from him, accusing you of trying to deny him the pleasure of hearing your reactions. It's a never-ending cycle of control and manipulation, designed to keep you off-balance and desperate for his approval.

2. Grips your hair at the base of your skull when he kisses you, controlling exactly how much you move. He wants you to be completely at his mercy, unable to pull away or push closer without his permission. He uses your hair as a leash, guiding your movements to suit his desires, and ensuring that you can't escape the intensity of his kisses.

3. Traces a path down your body with his fingertips, exploring every curve and valley. But then, he follows the exact same path with bruising bites, as if marking a map of where he's been. He wants to leave his mark on you, to claim you as his territory. The bites serve as a constant reminder of his possession, a secret language that only the two of you understand.

4. Has a habit of checking his watch mid-session, as if timing how long until you break. He's not interested in your pleasure, only in his own amusement. He wants to see how long he can push you, how far he can take you before you shatter. It's a game to him, a twisted test of your endurance.

5. Growls your name against your ear only when you're seconds from breaking. It's a possessive sound, a claim of ownership. He wants you to know that he's the one responsible for your pleasure, that he's the one who can push you to the edge and keep you there. It's a reminder that you're his, body and soul.

6. Leaves his rings on when he grabs your throat, the cold metal pressing into your skin. He wants to leave his mark on you, to claim you as his territory. The rings serve as a constant reminder of his possession, a secret language that only the two of you understand. He uses his grip on your throat to control your breathing, to keep you on the edge of panic and pleasure.

7. Grips your jaw with calloused fingers when he wants your attention, thumb pressing against your lower lip. He wants to control your every movement, to ensure that you're completely focused on him. He uses his grip on your jaw to guide your kisses, to keep you from pulling away or pushing closer without his permission.

8. Leaves marks in places only he will see, claiming territory no one else knows exists. He wants to possess you completely, to ensure that every inch of your body is his and his alone. He uses his marks as a secret language, a way to communicate his ownership without revealing it to the world.

9. Stops completely when you're close, making you beg before he'll continue. He wants to control your pleasure, to ensure that you're completely at his mercy. He uses your desperation against you, forcing you to beg and plead for release. It's a cruel game, designed to keep you off-balance and desperate for his touch.

10. Whispers degrading praise in your ear that somehow makes you crave more of his cruelty. He knows exactly what buttons to push, exactly how to make you ache for his touch. He uses his words as a weapon, a way to control your desires and keep you coming back for more.

11. Drags his teeth down your neck, not enough to break skin but just enough to make you wonder if he will. He wants to keep you on edge, to make you question his intentions and your own desires. He uses his teeth as a tool of torture, a way to drive you wild with need and uncertainty.

12. Has a habit of pinning your wrists above your head with one hand, keeping you completely at his mercy. He wants to control your every movement, to ensure that you can't escape his touch or fight back against his advances. He uses his strength against you, a constant reminder of his power and your own vulnerability.

13. Holds eye contact the entire time, refusing to let you look away even when you're overwhelmed. He wants to see your every reaction, to ensure that you're completely focused on him and his desires. He uses his gaze as a tool of control, a way to keep you from escaping the intensity of the moment.

14. Makes you count every thrust, every slap, every stroke—and starts over if you mess up. Just to hear you beg to keep going. He wants to control your every movement, to ensure that you're completely focused on him and his desires. He uses your counting as a way to keep you from escaping the intensity of the moment, a constant reminder of his power and your own vulnerability.

15. Uses his belt to bind your wrists, not because he needs to, but because he likes how helpless it makes you look. He wants to control your every movement, to ensure that you can't escape his touch or fight back against his advances. He uses his belt as a tool of torture, a way to drive you wild with need and uncertainty.

16. Wipes your tears with the pad of his thumb and says, “There we go,” like this was the goal all along. He wants to control your every emotion, to ensure that you're completely at his mercy. He uses your tears as a sign of his victory, a constant reminder of his power and your own vulnerability.

17. Mocks your reactions mid-scene—“Is that all it takes to wreck you?”—with a smirk that dares you to deny it. He wants to control your every reaction, to ensure that you're completely focused on him and his desires. He uses your reactions against you, a way to keep you from escaping the intensity of the moment.

18. Plays with temperature, dragging ice down your spine, then following it with his warm tongue just to watch your body twitch. He wants to control your every sensation, to ensure that you're completely at his mercy. He uses temperature as a tool of torture, a way to drive you wild with need and uncertainty.

19. Keeps a recording of you falling apart and plays it back to you with your face in his hands—"This? This is mine.” He wants to control your every sound, to ensure that you're completely at his mercy. He uses your recordings as a tool of torture, a constant reminder of his power and your own vulnerability.

20. Makes you look at yourself in the mirror while he ruins you, whispering all the filthy things he sees in your expression. He wants to control your every thought, to ensure that you're completely focused on him and his desires. He uses the mirror as a tool of torture, a way to drive you wild with need and uncertainty.

21. Doesn't let you come until you say exactly what he wants—word for word—or he starts over. He wants to control your every desire, to ensure that you're completely at his mercy. He uses your words against you, a way to keep you from escaping the intensity of the moment.

22. Bites the inside of your thigh while murmuring “Not yet” every time you squirm or twitch too eagerly. He wants to control your every movement, to ensure that you're completely focused on him and his desires. He uses his bites as a tool of torture, a way to drive you wild with need and uncertainty.

23. Slides his hand over your mouth when you moan too loud, then whispers, “You’re gonna get us caught,” even when you’re alone. He wants to control your every sound, to ensure that you're completely at his mercy. He uses your fear as a tool of torture, a constant reminder of his power and your own vulnerability.

24. Undresses you like you’re a possession, not a person—slow, meticulous, reverent in the most objectifying way possible. He wants to control your every movement, to ensure that you're completely at his mercy. He uses your clothing as a tool of torture, a way to drive you wild with need and uncertainty.

25. Aftercare is silent and possessive—wraps you in his arms without a word, lets you come down while his fingers trace every bruise like he’s proud of them. He wants to control your every emotion, to ensure that you're completely at his mercy. He uses your aftercare as a tool of torture, a constant reminder of his power and your own vulnerability.

26. Makes you say “please” with his full name—Rhys, not babe, not sir—because anything else is too soft for what he’s doing to you. He wants to control your every word, to ensure that you're completely at his mercy. He uses your pleas as a tool of torture, a way to drive you wild with need and uncertainty.

27. Tells you to hold position. Leaves the room. Comes back ten minutes later like he didn’t just leave you trembling on the edge of obedience. He wants to control your every movement, to ensure that you're completely focused on him and his desires. He uses your obedience as a tool of torture, a way to keep you from escaping the intensity of the moment.

28. Doesn’t let you touch him until you've earned it—and when you do, he watches like he's giving you a privilege, not intimacy. He wants to control your every desire, to ensure that you're completely at his mercy. He uses your touch as a tool of torture, a constant reminder of his power and your own vulnerability.

29. Tugs your head back by your hair mid-cry and says, “Don’t you dare hide from me,” because he wants to see every shattered second. He wants to control your every emotion, to ensure that you're completely at his mercy. He uses your tears as a tool of torture, a way to drive you wild with need and uncertainty.

30. Uses your safe word to taunt you. “That close, huh? Say it. Go on. Or take it.” He wants to control your every reaction, to ensure that you're completely focused on him and his desires. He uses your safe word against you, a way to keep you from escaping the intensity of the moment.

31. Puts a hand around your throat not to choke—but to make you feel how still he can hold you when everything else is chaos. He wants to control your every movement, to ensure that you're completely at his mercy. He uses his grip as a tool of torture, a constant reminder of his power and your own vulnerability.

32. Says, “Use your words,” not because he needs consent—but because he wants to hear you say you want what’s coming. He wants to control your every desire, to ensure that you're completely at his mercy. He uses your words against you, a way to keep you from escaping the intensity of the moment.

33. Tells you to make yourself come while he watches with his arms crossed—if you fail, he does it for you with no mercy. He wants to control your every pleasure, to ensure that you're completely at his mercy. He uses your failure as a tool of torture, a constant reminder of his power and your own vulnerability.

34. Leaves faint scratches in the shape of letters—initials, commands, reminders. You don’t even realize they spell something until later. He wants to control your every thought, to ensure that you're completely at his mercy. He uses your scratches as a tool of torture, a way to drive you wild with need and uncertainty.

35. Bites just under your ribs—"No one ever bruises you here, right? Guess I’ll be the first.” He wants to control your every sensation, to ensure that you're completely at his mercy. He uses his bites as a tool of torture, a way to drive you wild with need and uncertainty.

36. Makes you count the bruises in the mirror after. “What number are we on, sweetheart? Think we can top it next time?” He wants to control your every reaction, to ensure that you're completely focused on him and his desires. He uses your counting as a tool of torture, a constant reminder of his power and your own vulnerability.

37. Says “I’ll stop if you cry,” and then when you do, leans in and murmurs, “Didn’t say I wanted to stop.” He wants to control your every emotion, to ensure that you're completely at his mercy. He uses your tears as a tool of torture, a way to drive you wild with need and uncertainty.

Kinks:

1. Precision Denial Punishment: He makes you sit there, naked, and describe exactly what you want him to do to you. The room is silent except for your voice, trembling with a mix of anticipation and fear. He listens intently, his eyes never leaving yours. But if you get one word wrong, if you're too vague, or if you sound too greedy, he starts over. "That’s not what you said the first time. Say it properly. Slowly. Maybe I’ll listen. Maybe I won’t. Depends on how well you follow my rules."

2. Mouth Inspection Kink: His thumb pulls your jaw open, forcing your mouth wide. There's a long, quiet moment where he stares into your mouth like he owns it. He inspects every inch, his gaze lingering on your teeth, your tongue, the back of your throat. Maybe he spits in it, the warm saliva hitting the back of your tongue. Maybe he uses it, his fingers exploring, claiming. But the pause? That’s what gets him. That moment of uncertainty, of waiting, is what drives him wild.

3. Lingering Touch Denial: He never touches you where you want. Instead, he maps every inch of your skin with his calloused fingers—your neck, your ribs, the backs of your knees, the small of your back. He traces patterns, circles, lines, driving you mad with anticipation. He avoids the places that make you gasp, the spots that make you shiver. "Sensitive already? I haven’t even touched where it counts. Not yet, at least. But I will. When I’m ready."

4. Mirror Punishment / Forced Observation: You’re bent over the sink, crying, moaning—and he’s holding your face toward the mirror the entire time. He wants you to see your tears streaming down your face, your cheeks flushed with embarrassment and pleasure. He wants you to watch as he brings you to the edge, as he pushes you over. He wants you to see your reflection, to see the woman he’s turning you into.

5. Sensory Pattern Control: He’ll blindfold you and start a repeated touch pattern: tap, drag, tap, pause. His touch is light, almost feather-like, but it sends shivers down your spine. If your body flinches out of rhythm, he stops everything and makes you start again. "You’ll learn my rhythm. Your body’s mine now—it follows me. It responds to me. And only me."

6. Marking Ritual with His Watch: He checks the time while he fucks you—but also sets a timer. The session ends when the timer goes off. No sooner. He wants you to be desperate for every single second, to beg for more time, to plead for just a few more minutes. He wants you to know that he’s in control, that he decides when it ends. And he wants you to be grateful for every second he gives you.

7. Spit Kink (Controlled + Degrading): He spits in your mouth, the warm saliva hitting your tongue. He spits on your lips, rubbing it in with his thumb. He spits on your chest, tracing patterns with his fingers. It’s not messy—it’s claiming. Dominant. He wants you to know that you’re his, that he can do whatever he wants with you. "Swallow it. Don’t waste what I give you. It’s a gift. A privilege. And you’re lucky to have it."

8. Throat-Pulse Kink: His fingers rest against your throat, middle and ring pressed to your pulse. He’s not choking you—he’s feeling your heartbeat, your life force. He’s obsessed with it, with the way it stutters when you get close, with the way it races when he touches you. He wants to own it, to control it. He wants it to beat for him, and him alone.

9. “Taste Yourself from My Fingers” Kink: He fingers you slow, his eyes never leaving yours. He watches your reactions, your breaths hitching, your body squirming. Then, without warning, he slips his fingers in your mouth. He wants you to taste yourself, to know what he’s done to you. It’s not even about mess—it’s about claiming. Control. "Don’t flinch. You’re sweet. Lick it clean. Every last drop. You know you want to."

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.