How is it possible in the quest to get a single 3 star craft essence I have pulled more 4 star servants than 5 regular 10 pulls 🙃 AND I STILL DONT HAVE THE FUCKING CE
How is it possible in the quest to get a single 3 star craft essence I have pulled more 4 star servants than 5 regular 10 pulls 🙃 AND I STILL DONT HAVE THE FUCKING CE
trips and falls and dozens of icons spill from my pockets, all revealing valko. i panic. "this isn't what it looks like," i say, frantically scooping up all the icons. "these aren't mine i swear" more icons fall.
I'm definitely late by a few days but happy debut anniversary to this lovely dragon!
This piece is for the Sylus 2nd Anniversary Charity Project organised by @/syluskittenproject on IG! I'm very thankful for being invited on their artist line up, and uh yeah, go check their project out! They do some incredible stuff :D
How is it possible in the quest to get a single 3 star craft essence I have pulled more 4 star servants than 5 regular 10 pulls 🙃 AND I STILL DONT HAVE THE FUCKING CE
Zayne gives the most intense orgasms simply because he’s not afraid to get messy- he will literally dig into your hole till he finds the spot he knows houses the bundle of nerves he wants to stimulate for an orgasm that almost knocks you out. And then he’ll brutalise that spot;
The moment he has you spread open- thighs pushed wide, knees nearly to your chest- he sinks two fingers deep in one smooth thrust, searching with the calm focus of a man who has memorized every map of your body. The wet, obscene sound of him working into you is immediate and absolutely lewd. He curls, presses, drags the pads of his fingers along your walls until he finds it: that swollen, spongy spot that makes your spine snap tight and a broken moan rip from your throat.
“There,” he murmurs, voice low and steady, almost clinical. “That’s the one.”
Then he latches on to it.
No amount of begging or scratching will make him relent as he stimulates you incessantly- not the sloppy, cruel fingering popularised by cheap pornography, but in firm, methodical and purposeful movements that bring about the pleasure that drowns the pain of overstimulation, never once loosing their surgical precision even as desire mounts.
He anchors his other hand on your lower belly, pressing down to hold your squirming hips in place while he strokes that bundle of nerves with slow, deliberate drags. Each press-and-rub is firm enough that pleasure borders on pain, slow enough that you feel every ridge of his rough fingertips, the rough texture of his surgeon's callouses. The pressure builds like a storm gathering behind your eyes. Your walls flutter and clamp around him, but he doesn’t slow. He simply adjusts the angle and keeps going, relentless.
You buck. You claw at his wrist, nails digging crescents into his skin. “Zayne-fuck!!... too much, I can’t-”
“You can.” His voice is calm, almost gentle, even as his fingers piston against that spot with an almost sadistic flair. “Breathe through it. Let it take you.”
The overstimulation burns, white-hot and overwhelming, but beneath it the pleasure is molten. It drowns everything. Your thighs shake violently. Slick gushes around his knuckles, dripping down to soak the sheets, coating his palm, running down his forearm in shiny trails.
He doesn’t care.
He never flinches from the mess. If anything, the wetter and filthier you get, the darker his eyes become, mouth open as he wonders just how can you drip so much just from his fingers.
A third finger joins the first two. The stretch is sudden and perfect. He curls all three against that spot in tight, rhythmic presses- almost like he’s milking it- and your vision whites out.
The orgasm crashes into you so hard your back arches clean off the bed, a silent scream caught in your throat. Your walls spasm violently around his fingers, but Zayne doesn’t stop. He keeps stroking, firm and steady, dragging every last pulse out of you until you’re sobbing, shaking, gushing helplessly on his hand.
Only when your voice cracks into a wrecked whimper does he finally ease off- just enough to let you breathe, never fully pulling out. His fingers stay buried deep, gently petting your fluttering walls while you twitch and leak on him.
He leans down, lips brushing your ear to plant a fluttering kiss that seems more mocking than soothing, voice rough with restrained lust.
“So good for me...see? I told you you'd like it." he says before straightening up. "But that was only the first one. I’m nowhere near done finding out how many times I can make you break tonight.”
He smiles, and you shudder, your legs falling open helplessly even though you have no energy left.
જ⁀➴ ✉︎ pairing: sylus x mc!reader | summary: after a mission gone wrong, you make your way to sylus' base and force yourself to train.
જ⁀➴ ✉︎ tags + warnings: angst, hurt to comfort, soft sylus, mentions of blood and injury, training until injury, self-deprecating thoughts, mentions of fighting, hugging and kissing, sylus offering comfort, protective sylus, no y/n, one-shot | wc: 1.9k+ | author's note: i think i tagged everything but pls let me know if i missed anything. title from heavy by the marias
you’re deep within the confines of sylus’ base, tucked inside a training room that was all black mats and stone walls. the stale air sits silently around you—the only thing permeating it the panting of your breath and the thumps of your fists as they assault a punching bag.
an artillery of weapons lines the walls around you. you neglect them all in favor of the rubber underneath your fists, inhaling the sting like you deserved it.
and didn’t you?
scenes from today's mission flash between your eyes. you were caught off guard, ambushed by wanderers because of your carelessness.
you throw a punch, and it is like you can feel their tendrils wrapping around you again. it’s suffocating.
in the end, you took one of them down before fleeing out the abandoned building you’d been sent to scout. you didn’t even accomplish your mission, instead, running back to headquarters like a dog with its tail between its legs.
at headquarters, you did your due diligence of reporting what had gone wrong, namely admitting to all the intel you didn't secure. how could you fail at the only thing in life you’ve ever wanted to work towards?
you punch harder. red bruises begin to bloom at the tips of your knuckle. a strange satisfaction blooms from this, as if seeing proof of your efforts will make you more adept.
this is, perhaps, the worst part. the mission had been relatively simple: get in, collect information, maybe take down a few wanderers along the way, and get out.
you had done almost none of that.
that’s why you’re here, opting to get as far away from the hunter’s association as possible. what better place than the n109 zone?
when you arrived earlier in the evening, sylus was nowhere to be found. such was what you were hoping for.
you had gotten patched up at the association just in case. after the battle, you were left with a shallow but nasty gash on your forehead and several bruises to the torso.
god forbid sylus see you with an open wound, otherwise, he'd raise hell before even asking what it was from.
it was only after you arrived though, did a memory from a few months ago surface. one that certainly didn't help the shame brewing in your chest.
it was a rare instance when the both of you had run into trouble in the n109 zone. a pack of petty thieves who had chosen the wrong people to target.
when the encounter escalated from verbal threats to physical, sylus had pushed you out of the way, absorbing a nasty punch all for the sake of protecting you.
he dealt with the rest of them no problem, and with your help, but after it was over—and the thieves lay half dead in the alleyway—you had turned to him with narrow eyes and a crease between your brows.
"why would you do that?" you asked, hand coming up to push against his shoulder.
he didn't budge.
"you mean protect you?" he said, with wide eyes and a look that bordered on shock. as if he couldn't believe you'd deny his protection.
"i didn't need you to take the hit for me," you had told him, turning away. "i can handle myself."
and from then on, sylus took care of you, but he didn't protect you. at least, not in the same way. he is always there, always hovering, but never overprotective, as if your brief confession to him was all-telling about the care you were willing to receive.
this memory lingers in your mind again as you continue your assault on the punching bag. your hand shoots out, harder than the last time, and you can't help but wonder if sylus sees something about you that you don't.
that maybe you can't handle yourself as well as you thought you could.
and if you couldn't even hold your own in a fight... then what else was there for you to claim prowess for?
the next punch breaks skin.
your knuckles sting as they split.
you wonder how far you can go until your body gives in.
by this hour of night, you feel the toll. the exhaustion settles deep in your lungs and heavy in your feet. but the pain does little to deter you.
in the back of your mind, there is a nagging voice. a fear that maybe one day, you will be ten times as injured and met with the presence of a wanderer.
you have to fight.
what will you have if you don't?
"weren't even going to tell me you were coming?"
a deep, velvet voice interrupts the room. for once, it is the last person you want to see right now.
you continue hitting, eyes locked on the poor bag in front of you.
"you can't expect to come into my home and ignore me, kitten."
you feel his presence approach you. his footsteps are almost as prominent as the thud of your punches.
you hit again and again.
and like a pin dropped to the ground, you can almost feel the moment he realizes what is going on.
the blood that stains the punching bag and your hands. the bandage pressed against your forehead. the sloppy fighting stance you're sure you've adorned but couldn't be bothered enough by to care.
a large hand wraps itself around your wrist before you can make contact again.
before you can throw yourself out of sylus' grasp, he pulls on your arm. it's not hard enough to hurt, but it is enough for you to be fully turned towards him, hands catching against his chest for balance as his arm wraps around your waist.
the look on his face is stern, red eyes automatically scanning down your face and body. it is a look he tries to make deliberate but one you recognize as frantic.
the last thing you wanted to do was worry him.
"i'm fine-"
"you're hurt."
you attempt to pull away from him, but his hold on you is firm. you remain flush against his chest with the only place to look being up at him. with breaths still heavy from exertion, you remain silent.
sylus raises a brow and tilts his head to the side, seemingly deciding that your injuries were not the highest of his concerns.
"you better have a damn good reason why you didn't tell me sooner," he says. his voice is lower than normal as if restraining himself from an outburst.
"i can-"
"and why you're injured."
"sylus-"
"and why there's blood on your hands."
he spits the words out. his breath is warm against your cheek. his grip tightens around you. you are so, so close to him.
it's hard to tell if your heart is pounding because of his intensity or his proximity.
you can tell sylus is angry. not at you, but at the helplessness he must feel.
you know sylus better than anyone, so you know his questions are an attempt at finding reason before blowing the roof off his own base.
beyond what he asks, you see the downward frown at the corner of his lips. the gleam in his eyes that are shining for you, only barely shadowed by fury.
there is something about this look in his eyes that breaks through to you.
and all of a sudden, every emotion you had attempted to harness under the guise of training came through in the form of tears.
all at once, you buckle into sylus' arms. ones that let go of your wrist and instead bring you even closer into his embrace. the two of you sink to the floor, and as the tears fall from your face, his arms are the only steady things in the room.
what you don't see is the way his expression cracks, just for a second, as if his heart is breaking just from the sound of your sobs. any ounce of anger he had been harboring disappeared all at once.
he rubs your back as you cry. gives you a minute, maybe two.
"tell me what happened."
and you do. every last bit of it. from the weakness you felt fighting the wanderers to your failure of a mission.
you don't even mean to confess all of it. just enough so he understands why you're crying, but once you start, it all comes spilling out.
the words tumble from your lips. you speak what must be incoherent sentences. this is all you have ever worked towards. it's the only thing you could trust yourself to do well.
you even tell him about the time he took the hit for you in the alley. something that is as simultaneously haunting as it is irrelevant.
and beneath what you say, sylus knows exactly why it is so important to you for you to protect yourself.
he responds to your confessions with soft hums and brief nods. at some point, his hand comes up to pat your head. you think the action makes you cry more.
sylus gives you time. for this, you are most grateful.
he lets your breathing even out and your tears slow their fall. it is only then does he pull back from the embrace he wrapped you in. you almost don't want to look him in the face knowing how the crying looks on your face.
but the look in his eyes when you meet them is anything but bothered by that. instead, it is a look you almost mistake for pity.
because in all the time you have known sylus, he has never looked at you with only love. it is always a fraction of the expression, mixed in with concern or curiosity or lust.
but in this moment, sylus looks at you with pure adoration. you feel it in the depth of his gaze. in the dilation of his pupils. in the way his entire being would bend the rules of the universe just to be here before you.
his thumb comes up to brush a tear from your cheek, and he cups your face in his hands.
"you are not a failure," he says it with more belief than you think you've ever had for yourself in your life.
"do you think you got to where you are by being weak? every battle is a testament to your strength, even the bad ones."
sylus leans back and moves to hold your hand, running a feather-light touch over the newly split cuts.
"i will not let you hurt the strongest person i know."
he brings your hand to his lips and presses a kiss to your wounds. his words come slow and sincere.
"and if you ever feel like your hard work isn't enough, i will do everything in my power to get you where you want to be. just say the word."
at this, he brings both of your hands to his heart, bringing you ever so much closer. and slowly, as if asking for permission, he inches his lips towards yours.
the kiss is sweet.
his lips capture yours, and a heated warmth spreads through you. it is filled with all the love he cannot put into words. a promise of all the truths he has just expressed.
sylus is not the cure to your doubts, but he is a form of severance.
in the dim light of the training room, he embraces you so lovingly that you can't help but believe these doubts could one day dissipate.
જ⁀➴ ✉︎ author's note: is this one-shot just me projecting? maybe LMAO. this is my first time writing sylus and lads in general, so i hope you enjoyed! i've been deep in the lads rabbit hole, and it's the only thing on my mind lately lol. i know people who are taken aback by the concept or the nsfw aspects of it, which i understand isn't for everyone! but at the end of the day, lads is so special because of the comfort, adventure, and love it offers. that's part of what inspired me to write this :3 and for these reasons, #bringvalkoback!!! (ps thanks for reading my rant)
As an autistic/adhd person going through the job search process I’ve learned to phrase my autistic/adhd traits as corporate friendly things. Here’s some examples:
I have trouble reading between the lines and picking up on implicit information? Actually, I’ve learned the importance of giving and receiving precise, specific instructions in order to avoid time consuming miscommunications.
I’m easily bored with only one task? Actually, I have a curious mind and thrive in places with a wide range of tasks as I prefer dynamic environments where I can contribute to many projects.
I have trouble with white lies that are merely social niceties? Actually, I prioritize a transparent work environment where we can tackle issues head-on.
This way I don’t have to lie, but rather just spin my truth in a way that’s palatable to them.
Just a silly little drabble since I'm not gonna have time for a proper fic this week! Also the banner for this is taking me out lmao SYLUS 😭😭😭
Bad Hair Day
(or, 'literally the best day ever!!' ~ Luke and Kieran)
Sylus x gn!Reader, 650 words.
“Did it hurt, Sylus?”
“When I fell from heaven?”
“When you got struck by lightning.”
Sylus frowns. You snap a picture as he looks up from a data pad, mid-peruse of the news. He’s only mildly perturbed, mind you, not outright confused; the distinction has always been sacred. Confusion implies he’s in the dark, and—morning affairs in digital fine-print before him— Sylus is never, ever, in the dark about anything.
“Lightning, sweetie?” he fishes idly. “I’ll bite. You… felt a spark when you looked at me, hm? There’s electricity in the air?”
You rest your chin in your hand. “Why’re you so convinced I’m making a pass at you?”
“Every word from your mouth is a pass at me, kitten. I’ve learned to live with it.”
“He says, in a whorish silk robe.”
He tuts as he sips at his coffee. “It’s sophisticated.”
Is it sophisticated? “It’s halfway down your shoulder, Sylus.”
With a flicker of a sideways glance, he regards the wine-red silk bunched precariously at the top of his arm. Silk that slips another few centimetres when he shrugs. “Oops.”
Your lips are a thin line as you raise your own mug up to them, making Sylus chuckle. It’s a rich, self-indulgent sound— so hedonistic, so pleased with itself. Silently, you press a few quick buttons on your phone, then thrust it towards him:
The picture you’d taken.
Sylus’s chuckle cuts out like someone has gripped his throat and squeezed.
In the image and in life, his hair is a mess: points jutting out every imaginable angle. It looks deliberate— fixed with gel, spray, or perhaps a spontaneous desire to be a talking point at breakfast— but his eyes are sharp with curiosity as he pats at his head. Is his hair really—? Yes, he can feel it under his hand.
Now that’s confusion, soft-bellied and exposed. You don’t know when you’ll have this chance again, so you take the shots you can, rapid-fire, no mercy:
“You look like you fell asleep in a washing machine. Like you were practicing alchemy, and it blew up in your face. Ooh, ooh! You look like a toilet brush that’s been used to scrub seven million toilets.”
Sylus hums as he pokes a hair tuft. “How… colourful.”
“Seriously, Sy. I know you’re a deep sleeper, but you’d think something was nesting in there, the way that—”
You gasp.
A little preoccupied, Sylus misses the ember. By the time he gazes up, sensing warmth and danger, it’s too late to stamp on it. He tries, anyway. “No. No. Kitten? No.”
…
“Hold still, Sylus!”
Mephisto wobbles on Sylus’s head, hunkering down for stability with a chirp.
“Take your time, sweetie,” Sylus grimaces, claws in his scalp as you take so many more pictures than necessary.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m almost done… try, uh… try to look really grumpy, yeah? Like you wanna kill me. Can you do that, Sy?”
He can’t, actually. He might be bleeding, ridiculed, but there’s light in his eyes as he watches you laugh and fuss over the composition of his downfall. When you say something about the rule of thirds, you catch his lip quirking; he’s trying not to smile.
You lower your phone, grinning. “Okay. I’ve got it.”
Sylus lifts Mephisto from his head— plonking him down on the kitchen counter, then finally, finally, tending to his hair. He mumbles as he smooths it back down, guiding silver-white curls with his fingers: “The things I do for you, kitten. Just make sure the twins don’t see it, hm? I couldn’t care less what they think, but the headaches, oh, they’d never let me hear the end of—”
Across Onychinus’s base, someone shrieks with laughter. Sylus flinches.
You glance up from your phone, where your group chat with Luke and Kieran is open. “Hmm? Say that again, Sy, sorry, I missed it.”
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