Zayne loves taking you from behind in front of a mirror. He loves the absolute control he has over you in this position, being able to watch your every reaction to his moves. He also loves the way this position it accentuates how much bigger he is than you? Size kink much?
Rafayel absolutely loves some good missionary. Especially when he gets to pin your hands above your head when he thrusts into you. So fucking hot. He loves having a front row seat to each and every one of your moans and reactions. He wants to see the fruits of his art up close.
Is every position an option? Because Xavier can’t choose. As long as he’s fucking you, he doesn’t really have a preference. Though, he does like it when your hands are tied behind your back while you’re on your knees. There are loads of things he could do with you like this. And you would be helpless to his control.
remembering that time my youth group went on a "mission trip" to PITTSBURGH and a girl from another church bullied me because I was "goth" (I wore vans) but then asked to be my shower buddy and then at the end of the trip before I left she gave me a secret note that said "this week was interesting :)" ?????????
pairing: sally fisher x fem! reader , larry johnson x fem! reader
W.C: 871
content includes: fluff headcannons, implied relationships, insecurities, self esteem issues, silly moments.
˖ ࣪⭑ 𝐬𝐚𝐥 𝐟𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐫 —
doesn’t like to swim, just sits on the shore
will get in to about waist length if you ask nicely
hates being splashed. will immediately get back out
brings his gameboy in case he gets bored
usually only goes with you, larry, ash and todd. wont go alone or one on one with anyone.
doesn’t wear just swim trunks, wears a tshirt over them
refuses to get his hair wet like a little girl
burns. so bad. needs to be absolutely slathered in sunscreen to not go up in flames
“sally, get in the water! it’s so waaarm!” you whined at him, wading through the lake that was surprisingly clear. even if you went deep, you could still see your toes beneath the water. “no, i’m good.” he called back to you, face hidden behind his beloved gameboy. you, todd and ash all stood about waist length in the water, just wading around and talking. sally refused to get in, and larry had run back to ash’s car to get the cooler. something was clearly wrong with sally. usually he’d get in, even if it was only to his ankles. with a pout on your lips, you slicked your hair back and climbed out of the water, set on finding out what was bothering your beloved boy. you plopped down on the rickety lawn chair next to him, crossing one leg over the other and facing your body towards him, giving him your utmost attention. “what’s the matter, sal?” you asked softly, gently running your fingers against his pale arm. “nothing. just don’t feel like swimming today.” he mumbled, keeping focus solely on the game. you looked at him, studying his face. “sal, i know there’s something wrong. what’s bugging you?” his shoulders slumped as he sighed, lowering the game boy. he looked over at you, vulnerability in his eyes. “are you interested in todd?” he asked, searching your face. your eyes widened. “what? no. where did that come from?” “just.. you two have been spending a lot of time together. it’s okay if you don’t want to be with me anymore.” your shoulders slumped and you reached out, gently brushing a few strands of hair away from his face. “no, sally. you’re the only one i want. besides.. i’m pretty sure todd swings the other way, if you know what i mean.” sal chuckled a bit, seeming to loosen up. “yeah. okay. sorry, (y/n).” you shook your head and leaned in, pressing a chaste kiss against the cheek of his mask. “nothing to be sorry for, sally-wally.” your laugh echoed across the lake as he physically cringed, you could practically see his face through the mask. “please. never call me that again.” “okay, sally wally pooh.”
˖ ࣪⭑ 𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐣𝐨𝐡𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧 —
wears big goofy goggles and swims down to the deep parts of the lake to find cool rocks for you.
religiously wears a goofy pair of duck print swim shorts.
ties his hair up in a bun, you love it.
REFUSES to wear sunscreen, always gets sunburnt. turns tan the next day, but complains about the sunburn until then.
likes it when you make sandwiches for him and bring them to the lake. tears them up. absolutely devours them.
sleeps on the ride back home.
likes going to the lake one on one with you, but will also go with the others.
likes to use water guns when the others are around.
“larry, please just put sunscreen on your shoulders if anything.” “no, (y/n)! sunscreen is for losers.” you hovered over him as he tugged goggles onto his face, heavily insistent on burning to a crisp. “sunscreen is not for losers, it’s for people who don’t want to get melanoma and look like a raisin by the age of twenty.” he huffed and spread his arms out finally, doing a little turn so you could coat all the visible parts of his body in sunscreen. luckily, it was the spray on kind, so his complaining was minimal. after that dramatic scene, you two were splashing about, scaring every fish within a ten mile radius. “larry! stop it, you’re getting water up my nose!” you screeched, coughing up and blowing out water from basically ever sinus you possibly could. he laughed as he bombarded you with comically large splashes, absolutely drenching your face and hair in the span of four seconds. that went on until you got close enough to grab a handful of his hair and shove his head under the water, effectively stopping his attacks and almost drowning him. you two went home soggy, tired, and hungry, collapsing onto his bed. lisa found you both hours later and snapped a picture. now, hanging on larry’s fridge is a candid shot of you and him, sprawled out across the bed, sheets wet, tangled in each others limbs. larry has his head at the foot of the bed and one of his legs hanging off the side, while you have your head resting against his abdomen and your legs propped up against the wall. however, the part lisa liked the most was the fact despite being asleep, you two had managed to find each others hands and interlock pinkies.
Lark barely remembers the huge shadow of a man sitting beside her in the dead heat of Mrs. Poppy's office at the children's home. He is silent, stoic, and completely terrifying.
Christopher Hollow.
Muscled.
Six foot five.
Storm blue eyes.
Dog tags outlined under the straining stretch of his black tee-shirt.
"Lark," Mrs. Poppy says, gently, "you're happy with this arrangement? You want to go with your Godfather?"
There's no money left for her to live off until she finds a job - if she finds a job.
Her Dad is dead.
Lark doesn't have a choice.
Lark Douglas didn’t know who Christopher Hollow was when Mrs. Poppy brought his name up to her on a hot Saturday afternoon in her office. The additional details that he had served with her Dad in Afghanistan and was her appointed legal guardian and Godfather did nothing to help jog Lark’s memory.
In fact, it was a full week after Mrs. Poppy informed Lark of Christopher Hollow’s existence that the girl finally managed to scrounge up a single, short, fuzzy memory of the man.
She was home.
The door to their flat was open, the old ceiling fan had been turning in slow circles over her head. It did nothing to fight against the mid July heat that was so stifling and muggy it made her skin stick to the linoleum floors. She had sat on the couch playing with Labrador, her stuffed toy dog, when Mom walked in with someone.
Lark was five, she thinks, and she hadn’t paid attention to anything that was being said, or looked at who had stepped the room after her mother. She only glanced up from where she was making her stuffed dog do backflips off the worn-down couch cushions when big, black boots stepped into her vision off the edge of the sofa.
The man who stood in front of her was tall, wearing camo pants and a fitted grey tee-shirt. His face was hard to remember, but Lark thought he had sandy brown hair and the start of a thick brown beard. He had crouched down, setting aside a battered black duffle bag, looking at her like he expected something.
Lark had only stared at him.
Mom’s voice had a strain in it when she spoke.
“Say hi to Chris, baby. He’s come all the way from the airport just to see you.”
The man spoke before Lark had the chance. He had a deep, rough rumbly voice.
“Don’t worry her about it, Lori. Been two years. I’d be surprised if Pet remembered me at all.”
Pet.
That was the only memory Lark had of Christopher.
She wasn’t even sure it was real and not just something she had made up in the recesses of her mind as an unconscious effort to help herself fill in the gaps and feel less uncertain.
She had lots of memories like that.
Memories no one else could verify. Memories she wasn’t sure happened, but couldn’t shake as being real.
This was what led Lark to where she stood at the top of the worn flight of wooden stairs. Seventeen years old, dressed in clothes that didn’t belong to her, feeling entirely unsure of what the future would hold.
Seventeen, and only three weeks and four days shy of her eighteenth birthday.
It was ridiculous.
Stupid, even.
Why couldn’t she just wait it out at the girl’s home?
Why was Mrs. Poppy was obligated, by law, to reach out to relatives Lark had never even heard of and negotiate with them down the phone, asking and then, after the eighth rejection, pleading with each of them to come and pick her up?
“Just a month - no, no, you wouldn’t have to commit to adoption, Mrs. Tanner - not at all. I am only reaching out because Lark is your niece, and I am sure you want the best for her -”
The list thinned, name by name. Lark saw them each time Mrs. Poppy opened the manilla envelope with her initials on it, glancing over the struck off phone numbers and feeling nothing.
The rejections didn’t surprise her.
She knew from lived experience how reluctant people were to help a stranger.
It took less than half a week for them to reach the last one.
His name.
Christopher Hollow.
He was who Lark was waiting for as she hung onto the banister, her dark eyes fixed on the panes of frosted glass in the door, anticipating seeing a shadow blot across the panels when he stepped onto the porch and rang the buzzer.
Floorboards creaked.
Lark moved too late when Mrs. Poppy stepped out of her office that stood at the side of the stairs. The stacked blonde beehive of her hair bobbing into the girl’s view as Lark tried to scurry back out of her sight.
Too little, too late.
The kind wrinkles around Mrs. Poppy’s eyes doubled and deepened as the sound made her look upward and spot Lark.
“Lark, there you are! I was just about to come and find you, dear. Nip down into my office for a moment, I’ve got some things I want to discuss with you before Mr. Hollow arrives.”
The old stairs squeaked loudly as the girl walked sheepishly down the grossly worn-out blue carpet runner, rounding the curved banister at the bottom to follow Mrs. Poppy into her office.
It was sun warm inside, light spilling over the faded hardwood floor and shiny varnish of the big, brown desk, highlighting the dozens of ring-marks stained into its top by mugs of coffee past. Mrs. Poppy rounded the desk, having to skirt sideways between the edge of it and the rows of heavy metal file drawers that flanked the room on all sides.
Taking her perch in a black wheely chair, the woman gestured for Lark to sit in one of the two big, green, retro velvet sofas that faced her desk.
Sinking down into her seat, Lark folded her hands in her lap and looked at the woman, waiting to be spoken to. She had been thoroughly taught from a young age that she was to be seen and not heard. There had also been plenty of occasions when Lark wasn’t to be seen or heard. Those were moments when her half empty pink, princess wardrobe came in handy.
Mrs. Poppy placed a pair of up-swept cat eye spectacles on the tip of her tall, gently crooked nose, and took out a notepad. It was one of dozens she had, this particular piece of stationary sported Lark’s name on its front, written in black pen and then broadly underlined in purple marker.
“Miss Douglas today is a big one for you. How are you feeling, hon? Excited? Nervous?”
The soft slip of her southern accent calmed Lark some as she fought against the urge to fidget, keeping her fingers still in her lap.
“Excited, Ma’am. Dad didn’t like to travel much, so seeing the Appalachians sounds like a real adventure.”
Lark stuck a quick smile onto the end of her lie. She had rehearsed it in her head a hundred times since she was told the good news a week before.
Christopher Hollow wanted her.
He was driving the whole way down the coast from his home in the Appalachian Mountains to come and collect her. Lark couldn’t even comprehend where the Appalachian Mountains stood, just that they were stupendously far away.
Mrs. Poppy grinned at Lark, genuine and radiant, as she wrote something in fast scratching cursive over and empty line of the notepad.
“Always such an optimist, Lark. I’m sure Mr. Hollow will be delighted by you.”
Lark’s left thumb twitched. When she smiled, it felt tight in the corners, “I certainly hope so, Ma’am.”
And she truly did. Lark knew the way men behaved when they weren’t delighted by her.
~R.F.M~
A fist gripped long, brown hair tightly enough to tear dozens of strands out of Lark’s scalp as she was dragged down the hallway by her head, the girl’s frame stooped almost to the floor as she clawed at the hands restraining her.
“Fucking little bitch coming to steal from me? Think you’re slick, huh?”
In honesty, Lark did.
She had stolen from the man before on countless occasions, rummaging through the contents of his worn leather wallet, fishing out loose coins and dollar notes that wouldn’t be missed. Before, he was always too out of his mind to realize, so Lark had gotten greedy.
Twenty dollars was a lot of money to people like them. She was foolish for thinking she could snatch it away without his notice.
Lark didn’t know his name, or his age, or anything about him other than the fact he bought pot on Thursday afternoons and left the door to his apartment wide open with 90’s music playing full volume while he sat out on his balcony in a beat-up pink recliner, back to the living room, smoking.
By all accounts, the man wasn’t very smart. But he was still a man, a man much stronger than Lark.
A microstory I wrote two winters hence. And a photo to go with. Enjoy, my chosen family of Sherlockians.
~ Mycroft’s Snow Angel ~
The first snow of November came to Newbury in generous proportions. A blanket of fresh white covered everything in sight, piling up several feet in depth and silencing the world beneath into perfect stillness. School would be canceled today, Mycroft knew.
His mind went to Sherlock, as it always did now days. This would be the boys first conscious experience of snow. Last winter Sherlock had been far too young to be outside for even a second in the cold winter air. He was ten months now. Perhaps mummy would allow it this time.
Mycroft came away from the crystallized window, and hurried to dress in his warmest clothes. He entered the nursery and found the nanny there, feeding Sherlock. Mycroft fed him on weekends but on weekdays there was no time for him to do so with school obligations. The nanny was a replacement after the wet nurse, and with that came mashed food for Sherlock instead of milk.
Mycroft decided he approved of the wet nurse more than this nanny. She acted like she knew everything that was good for Sherlock. She didn’t.
“I won’t be going to school today.” Mycroft informed the nanny.”
Sherlock squealed in delight when he heard his big brother. “My!” One of his first and few attempts at vocabulary.
The warmest feeling filled Mycroft. “May I take over, please?”
The nanny got up from her chair, and placed Sherlock in his brothers arms. “He is almost finished eating. But you will have to check with your mother if your planning on taking him outside in this.” She gestured disdainfully to the window.
Mycroft raised a judgmental eye brow as she left the room. Who on earth didn’t appreciate a good snow? His attention turned back to the little bundle in his arms. Sherlock had been growing so much since January. He bounced him sweetly and kissed his face.
“Mummy will let us. Just wait and see.” Mycroft walked to the chair and sat Sherlock down. “Let’s get this food in you first.”
Mycroft caught the smell of mashed carrots and peas. He gave a face, and then extended an arm for Sherlock to eat.
Sherlock had been watching as he always did, and didn’t open his mouth.
Mycroft tilted his head. “What? You don’t want it?”
Sherlock only cooed.
“Here.” Mycroft placed the spoon against the babies mouth. “Eat it, so we can go play in the snow together.”
Remarkably, Sherlock gave the same face that he just saw Mycroft make.
Mycroft gasped. Sherlock was imitating him. “Sherlock please eat?” He asked sweetly.
With an inward groan, Mycroft put the spoon in his own mouth. It was quite intolerable, but he smiled anyway, faking enthusiasm. Just pretend it’s blackberry cobbler, he thought.
“Mm, yummy!” He said when he was done, and scooped up more. “Your turn.”
Sherlock opened his mouth.
With a relieved sigh, Mycroft fed him. Sherlock had no problem eating after Mycroft set the example, and he was sure not to make any more dissatisfied looks while feeding him.
“All gone.” Mycroft showed the toddler the empty bowl. He took the bib off him and used it to wipe carefully at Sherlock’s mouth.
“Ah gone.” Sherlock repeated his brother.
Mycroft picked him up and went to the changing table. He had to use a foot stool to be able to reach the top, and laid Sherlock across it. Sherlock kept looking at the window curiously, Mycroft noted. The baby could see the difference in how bright it was outside as opposed to other days.
“There is snow outside, little brother. That’s why it’s so bright.”
“No.” Sherlock repeated, to interested in the strange brightness to care that Mycroft was changing his nappy. Sometimes he pitched fits.
“Snow.” Mycroft repeated, and made a pronunciation on the ‘Sn’ sound.
“No.” Was all Sherlock could say, and Mycroft gave up for the time being.
Mycroft secured the fresh nappy and patted his bum. “Very good. Come on.” He picked him up and carefully stepped down from the step. “Let’s get you dressed.” He adorned Sherlock in the warmest clothes he had, taking every precaution to make sure the little one didn’t get too cold outside.
When he was finished, Mycroft took Sherlock along on his hip, and went downstairs for his own quick breakfast of eggs and toast.
Sherlock lay on his tummy on a soft rug and baby blanket. His observant eyes found interest in everything he looked at. He babbled to himself as he played with the toys that mummy laid out for him.
“Mummy said your only aloud out for twenty minutes.” Mycroft said when it was time to go play. He put his coat, scarf and gloves on, and did the same for Sherlock.
Mummy was watching from the window as Mycroft took Sherlock out onto the terrace, being mindful of any slick spots.
He refused to fall while caring his brother.
“This is snow.” Mycroft scoped a gloved hand full of white powder from the terrace ledge, and presented it to the baby in his arms.
Sherlock’s eyes were alive with child like wonder. He scanned the white, squinting at the brightness of it. He placed a hand in his brothers, in the snow.
“Snow.” Sherlock said, cheeks rosy.
Mycroft gasped in wonder. “Yes! Well done Sherlock.” He kissed his little head.
Sherlock face planted into Mycroft’s palm. He wanted to eat the snow now that he discovered it.
Mycroft wiped off his hand and secured Sherlock against his side before walking down the steps, holing the rail with the opposite hand. “You are such a smart little boy.” Mycroft told him. Sherlock’s curls bounced as they stepped down to the snowy ground. “Not as smart as I am. But still smarter than everyone else.” Mycroft trudged through a few feet of snow, creating a long path.
Sherlock watched in awe, looking at everything.
Snow covered the branches that stretched out from the tall trees. It dissolved the gravel paths once there, and hid the flower beds completely. Even the roof above was stacked with a foot of snow. Hazy clouds circled elegantly in the white blue sky, creating spirals like stretched cotton.
Mycroft sat down at the edge of the path and let the baby sit in his lap. The snow walls Mycroft built came up on either side of Sherlock, nearly as tall as he was.
Sherlock babbled in delight, curls swishing from side to side, not sure which wall of snow to dive into first first. He reach for one and might have fallen from Mycroft’s lap if he wasn’t holding him.
“Snow.” Sherlock repeated.
Mycroft couldn’t keep the pride from his face. Most babies didn’t start talking until a year. Sherlock had a head start by forming small words. The baby was truly remarkable.
“One day, we’ll be able to have a snow ball fight, or build a snow man.” He promised Sherlock.
“My My My.” Sherlock babbled, and tried to wiggle free of his brothers arms, prying at his bigger hands with his tiny ones.
“You’ll get cold.” Mycroft warned. When Sherlock persisted to struggle he let him go.
Sherlock crawled onto the paved snow path, delighted at his escape. “Snow!” He squealed.
Mycroft watched him, rather amused.
Sherlock huffed a cry of delight and laid down, rolling onto his back. There was snow in his hair now, and if not for his gloves he would be crying from the cold. “My.” Sherlock seemed to relax, staring at something that interested him.
Mycroft looked up at the clouds that had caught Sherlock’s attention. “Yes, the sky is very fascinating isn’t it?”
Sherlock grew bored, and began moving his arms mindlessly, watching as snow trickled and sparkled all around him.
Mycroft breathed out a puff of smoke. Sherlock’s blue eyes glimmered in the light above. This baby was truly his greatest gift. He had been such a lonely little boy before Sherlock.
“Mycroft!” Violet Holmes yelled from the window. “It’s time to come in now, darling. We don’t want him to get too cold.”
Sherlock glanced up from where he lay, trying to see his mummy without sitting up. All he could see was snow. “Mummy.”
“Yes, mummy!” Mycroft yelled back. He looked down at the baby.
Sherlock’s eyes found Mycroft, wondering what they were going to do next.
“Time to go inside. I’ll make us something yummy to drink.” Mycroft tickled his brothers tummy.
Sherlock giggled, and put his arms up for Mycroft to take him in his arms. “Luh.”
Mycroft picked up his brother and gave him a kiss against his cold, rosy nose. “I love you too. My little snow angel.”
