isa ⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅*̩̩͙‧͙

24// lads blog ! zayne <3, snowcrow, valko 18+

[byallmeans1]

[z-nth]

[asadmoldyteacup]

Drawing him with my mc so he can get some rest ♡

[daily-valko]

HE LOOKS SO STUPID I'M MOURNING SO BAD.

[miniimonii]

Love and Deepspace | The Tameless Game

[xiexielians]

this scene plays on a loop in my head

[hunterrami]

good boy valko

[ethjayy]

anyways so

[linarae119]

[signoreratto]

Would you dare pet his ears?

[healmydesires]

I wanna be your provider

❥ pairing: sugar daddy/ceo!sylus qin x assistant!reader

❥ summary: “She has spent three years loving a man she cannot have. He has spent three years wanting a woman he won’t allow himself to reach for — until the day he decides, quietly and without hesitation, to reach anyway. What neither of them realises is that they’ve been finding each other all along. She just doesn’t know he’s the one on the other side of the screen yet.”

❥ genre: fluff + angst + smut (18+ mdni)

❥ word count: 50K+??? (I am insane and not normal about sylus <3)

❥ status: COMPLETED - 1st of April

❥ warnings/tags: sugar daddy!sylus, alternative universe, ceo!sylus, yearning/longing, sylus is 39 in this, assistant!reader, sugar baby!reader, power imbalance, eventual boss/employee relationship, idiots in love, mild hurt/comfort, emotional/sensitive!reader, very long fic, banter, sylus the rage baiter. mutual masturbation, sexting, size difference. reader is shorter than sylus. reader is always audhd coded in my writing but anyone can read it. sylus is soft for reader, flirting/teasing, inexperienced/virgin!reader. dry humping, grinding, loss of virginity, unprotected sex, piv sex, soft!dom sylus, just in overall soft!sylus. sub!reader, vaginal fingering, oral (f!receiving), multiple orgasms, creampie, overstimulation, size kink, full on daddy kink… I mean… it’s a sugar daddy au. so… <3, oral fixation, breeding kink, praise kink, pet names (kitten. sweetie. sweetheart etc.), multiple sex positions, pleasure dom!sylus, aftercare. mc loves the color pink a lot.

⟶ a/n: HIIIIII here I am with a new fic. as of the moment I am writing this it's still a wip. this fic is probably gonna be over 60k words. either way I still wanted to share the post on tumblr already. I always wanted to write a sugar daddy au BUT didn't find inspiration until RECENTLY. so in the lads server I'm in they are currently doing a 'kink bingo'. it's a little event that writers can participate and write a story around a certain trope. I went with sugar daddy 🤭💖 I said I wasn't gonna write for a while but what can I say… sylus brainrot. he's literally my muse. EITHER way. I hope you enjoy this story. 🥺💖 for anyone wondering… this is how I imagine sylus his build. either way I never know how to write fic in a short format so enjoy another lengthy fic from me again! also because I don’t wanna post it in parts you’ll have a sneakpeek on tumblr but to read the story in its full length you’ll have to head to ao3. thank you and I hope y'all love it as much as I loved writing it! 💘 title inspired by the song 'provider' by sleep token. (I don't normally listen to that type of music but my bestie leah recommended me this song for the fic) 💕💕💕 ps: for anyone wondering… this is how I imagine sylus his build. (without the blood and scratches) 🤭😋🤤🥵🥴🫠😵‍💫

this goes without saying, but if you don’t like it don’t read it <3

AO3 • masterlist • extra part of the story here

New York City does not care about your feelings.

This is something you’ve made your peace with over the years — the way it moves around you without slowing down, all noise and glass and cold wind off the Hudson in the early mornings when you’re walking the four blocks from the subway to Linkon Tower, coffee cup in hand, trying to remember if you forwarded that document last night or only dreamed that you did. The city asks nothing of you emotionally. It simply expects you to keep moving.

You are, in this way, well-suited to New York.

What you are less well-suited to — what you have been quietly, privately, catastrophically less well-suited to for approximately three years now — is being in love with your boss.

The elevator opens on the fifty-third floor.

You are fine.

“Good morning.”

His voice reaches you before you’ve fully stepped through the glass doors of the executive suite — low and unhurried, carrying the particular warmth he reserves for very few people, and you are, for reasons that keep you awake sometimes, one of them. Sylus is already at his desk, as he always is, as he has always been every single morning in the three years you’ve worked for him, because the man apparently does not sleep like a normal person. The Manhattan skyline stretches silver and pale behind him through the floor-to-ceiling windows. In the early light, he looks almost painterly — silver hair, dark suit, those red eyes lifting from the document in his hand to find you the moment you walk in, the way they always do, like he has a sense for you specifically.

Like he was waiting.

“Good morning,” you say, and you are very proud of how normal your voice sounds.

“How was the commute?” He asks it with genuine interest, setting his document down, which is one of the things that got you in trouble in the first place. The way he actually listens. The way Sylus, who runs a multi-billion dollar enterprise from this office and commands rooms full of people who are intimidated just by his posture, always has time to ask how your commute was.

“Cold,” you say, unwinding your scarf. “The L train decided this morning was a good time to have an existential crisis.”

“The L train always does that.” He tilts his head slightly. “You should have taken the car.”

“I’m not taking your car to work, Sylus.”

“You could.”

“I know I could. I’m choosing not to.” You drop your bag at your desk and pull out your tablet, already scrolling to his schedule. “It makes me feel like a kept woman.”

The silence that follows is approximately one beat too long.

You look up. Sylus is watching you with an expression you can’t fully decode — something that passed through his eyes too quickly, smoothed back over by the composed, unreadable surface he wears most of the time. The corner of his mouth curves.

“Heaven forbid,” he says mildly, and goes back to his document.

You turn back to your tablet and breathe.

Three years, you remind yourself. You have survived three years of this. You will survive today.

｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡

Here is what three years has taught you about Sylus:

He takes his coffee black, no sugar, too hot for comfort, and he drinks it while standing at the window with Manhattan spread out below him like something he’s quietly fond of. He is pathologically early to everything and has zero patience for people who aren’t, with the single exception of you — for you, he simply comes to find you, appearing at your workspace door with that unhurried patience, as though waiting for you specifically is a different category than waiting in general.

He reads physical documents even though everything could be digital because he thinks better with paper in his hands. He keeps the office two degrees warmer than the building standard because he noticed, in your first winter working for him, that you were always cold. He has never once mentioned this to you directly. You figured it out yourself, six months in, when you checked the building’s climate control records out of sheer curiosity, and you had to sit with that knowledge quietly for a long time afterward.

He is privately, genuinely funny — not the performative wit he turns on in meetings, but something dryer and warmer that surfaces only in the quiet moments, usually aimed at you. He reads in at least four languages. He grew up far from here, far from any of this, and there are moments when something in his expression goes distant and careful and you sense the geography of everything he’s built between himself and whatever came before.

He has never raised his voice at you. Not once. In three years of high-pressure deadlines and impossible situations and the particular chaos that seems to follow a man of his ambition, he has never directed anything at you that wasn’t measured, and considered, and — underneath its careful composure — surprisingly kind.

He is also tall — unreasonably, almost absurdly tall, the kind of tall that means the rest of the world simply exists lower than him — broad-shouldered, white-haired, and red-eyed, and standing next to him, which requires you to tilt your head back at an angle you’ve gotten quietly used to, makes you feel both very small and, inexplicably, very safe.

This is the problem.

This is the entire problem.

｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡

“You have the Meridian Capital call at nine,” you say, following him into his office with your tablet. This is another part of the choreography — the morning briefing, where you trail after him and he listens without looking at you directly, which you have learned means he’s paying the most attention. “Board review at eleven. You have a lunch block—”

“Clear it.”

You glance up. “You specifically asked for that block last week.”

“I know what I asked for last week.” He settles into his chair, leaning back in that easy way of his, long legs stretched under the desk. Even seated, the man is an unfair amount of presence. “Book somewhere for lunch instead. Somewhere quiet — not the Meridian district, I’ll have been on a call with those people for an hour and I’ll want a change of air.” His eyes come to you, and they’re soft in the way they sometimes are when it’s just the two of you and the morning is still early. “Somewhere you’d like. You choose.”

You pause. “You want me to choose.”

“Is that not what I said?”

“You’re very particular about restaurants, Sylus.”

“I’m particular in general,” he concedes. “But I trust your taste.” A brief pause. The softness in his expression doesn’t waver. “Lunch for two, somewhere you’d like. That’s all.”

You look at him for a moment too long — which you do sometimes, which you’ve been doing for three years, and he always holds the look, always lets you, like he has nothing to hide and all the time in the world, which is terrifying because it makes you feel seen — and then you nod and look back at your tablet.

“I’ll find somewhere,” you say.

“I know you will.” He picks up his pen. “You always do.”

｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡

The Meridian call runs long, as you predicted, and you have reorganized two schedules and soothed one very anxious junior analyst by the time it wraps. Sylus emerges from his office at eleven-oh-three, jacket on, expression still and composed from the professional armor he wears in those spaces, and crosses directly to your desk.

He sets a cup of tea down at your elbow.

Your tea — your specific order, the one you’d mentioned offhandedly to him eight months ago and apparently never needed to mention again — brewed at the temperature you like, with the little paper sleeve because the cup gets hot.

“Your eleven o’clock moved to eleven-fifteen,” you tell him, not trusting yourself to acknowledge the tea directly, “which means you have twelve minutes, and also I found a restaurant — it’s on the Upper West Side, French-American, supposed to be very quiet on weekdays—”

“Perfect.” He’s reading something on his phone, already walking, and he pauses at the edge of your workspace and glances back.

“You barely ate this morning.”

You blink. “I ate some cereal. How could you possibly—”

“You have the look,” he says, simply, like this is a perfectly reasonable thing to say. “The one that means you ate something that technically qualified as food and decided it counted.” The faintest curve of his mouth. “It doesn’t count.”

“It absolutely—”

“Book a table for twelve-thirty.” He’s already moving again, unhurried, like the conversation is entirely settled. “I’m not signing a single thing until I know you’ve had a real meal.”

Then he’s gone, moving down the hallway toward the boardroom, and you’re left staring at the empty doorway with your mouth still open and the faint, traitorous warmth of being known so precisely by someone spreading all the way up to your ears.

You close your mouth.

You book the table and then pick up your tea.

It is perfect.

You are in so much trouble.

｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡

The restaurant he lets you choose is a small place tucked between a bookshop and a dry cleaner on West 74th — French in its bones but soft around the edges, the kind of room that smells like butter and old wood and feels completely removed from the city outside. You’re not sure how it stays so quiet in Manhattan. Maybe it exists slightly outside of time.

Sylus ducks slightly to come through the door.

He does this — accommodates the world’s architectures with a patient, practiced ease, as though he accepted a long time ago that most spaces weren’t built for him and has made his peace with it. You notice this more than you should. You notice the way he instinctively adjusts when he’s close to you too — angles himself, shortens his step, never makes you feel like the difference in your heights is anything other than simply the way things are.

The host seats you at a corner table. The light is golden and low.

“This is nice,” Sylus says, and he means it. You’ve gotten good at knowing when he means things.

“I thought you’d like it.” You unfold your menu. “It feels like somewhere you’d eat if you didn’t have to perform anything.”

He goes still for just a moment. Then, quietly: “That’s a very accurate read.”

“Three years,” you say simply.

Something in his expression moves — warm and careful at once, like he’s handling something he doesn’t want to drop. He looks at you across the small table, and in the golden light of this room outside of time he looks different than he does in the office. Younger, almost. Softer. Like the thing he usually holds back with both hands is closer to the surface.

“You’re distracted this week,” he says eventually. Not an accusation — an observation, offered gently, the way he offers you most things. “You hide it well. But I know your face.”

Your heart catches.

I know your face. Said like it’s simply a fact, something true and uncontested, filed away somewhere in him.

“I found something,” you say, because you can never not tell him things, in the end. He does something to your defenses — doesn’t dismantle them, exactly, just makes you feel like they’re not necessary with him, which might be worse. “An apartment. A loft.” You look at your water glass. “I’ve been dreaming about my own place for years. You know how New York is — I’ve been in the same sublet since I moved here, and it’s fine, it’s always been fine, but it’s not mine. Nothing in it is mine.” You smile, self-deprecating. “I walked past a listing last weekend. A loft in the West Village — high ceilings, big windows, exposed brick. There’s a little terrace that looks out over the rooftops and I just — I stood on the sidewalk and looked at it for a long time.”

Sylus is watching you with his full attention — the specific quality of stillness he gets when you’re saying something he wants to remember. His hands are folded on the table. He’s not eating. He’s just listening.

“It needs renovation,” you continue, quieter now. “A lot of it, still. Which is part of why the price is—” You exhale. “The price is a lot. More than a lot. My savings are good, I’ve been careful, but between the listing and the renovation costs it’s just—” You shake your head. “It’s not realistic right now.”

A long pause.

“Tell me about it,” Sylus says.

You blink. “I just—”

“Not the numbers.” His voice is gentle. “The place. Tell me about the loft.”

Oh.

Oh.

You look at him. He looks back, patient and entirely serious, and something in your chest aches in a way you don’t have good language for.

And so you tell him — the arched windows and the way the afternoon light would fall across the floors, the exposed brick that runs the whole length of the far wall, the little wrought-iron terrace barely big enough for two chairs and a plant but somehow perfect, the ceiling height, the bones of it. The way you’d stood on that sidewalk and seen, with a clarity that surprised you, exactly what it could become. What it could be. You tell him all of it, more than you meant to, more than is probably professional over a two-person lunch that you’re already trying not to read too much into.

Sylus listens to every word.

When you finish, he’s quiet for a moment. There’s something in his expression that’s gone a little careful.

“What’s the address?” he says.

You study him. “Why?”

“Because you’ve just described the place you want most in the world,” he says, very simply, “and I’m interested in things that matter to you.”

The ache in your chest deepens. You look at him for a long moment — this man who runs a company from the fifty-third floor of a Midtown tower, who is a decade older than you and a foot taller than you and should by any reasonable accounting be the most intimidating person in your life, and who instead feels, in moments like this, like the safest one.

You give him the address.

You don’t know what he’ll do with it.

You just know, the way you know most things about Sylus, that he’ll do something.

｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡

The afternoon passes the way good afternoons in the office do — with a steady rhythm of tasks and small exchanges, the comfortable back-and-forth that you’ve built between you over three years like a language that only the two of you speak fluently. He stops by your desk at three to ask if you want anything from the coffee cart downstairs, which he would never do for anyone else, and brings you back a hot chocolate without commenting on it. You catch him at five-forty-five standing in the doorway of his office watching you finish up for the day with an expression you aren’t supposed to have seen — unguarded, quiet, something in it that sits low and warm in your stomach for the whole subway ride home.

It doesn’t mean what you want it to mean, you tell yourself, earbuds in, Manhattan rushing past outside the windows.

He’s just kind. He’s kind to you because you work for him and you’ve earned it and that’s all it is.

Forty-three blocks uptown, Sylus stands at his office window with your address on a notepad in his hand and thinks, for a very long time.

Then he sits down at his desk.

Opens his laptop.

And begins to type.

｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡

read the rest on ao3 <3

[hermit-online]

But y'all think that Zayne and Sy sometimes play the "go ask your boyfriend" thing with you?

𐙚⋆°🦢｡⋆♡𐙚⋆°🦢｡⋆♡𐙚⋆°🦢｡⋆♡𐙚⋆°🦢｡⋆♡𐙚⋆°

Like imagine Zayne telling you to go to Sylus when you want more plushies, being too drained to indulge in a marathonic claw machine session himself.

Or maybe you saw a pretty expensive, pretty beta, pretty unsafe motorcycle and Sy can't just say no to you and your puppy eyes, so he tells you to go to Zayne who will give you an hour long speech about the risks of an engine that is more of a prototype than a motorcycle.

It's not that you couldn't go and do all those things alone, you could if you wanted to but where's the fun in that?

And when you get especially needy, neither of them are up to disappoint. Whether it's Sylus having to send you to Zayne cause he really has to leave for some important stupid business meeting or the poor Dr.Zayne who just spent the last 12 hours standing in a room, holding someone's heart, bringing Sylus a clingy kitty desperate for attention (you).

Is this what teamwork is called? You don't know, but you also don't care when you have them to take care of you, and they have you to take care of them.

𐙚⋆°🦢｡⋆♡𐙚⋆°🦢｡⋆♡𐙚⋆°🦢｡⋆♡𐙚⋆°🦢｡⋆♡𐙚⋆°

a/n: Love the butterfly effect that brought me to this time line.

[notafandomblog]

Sylus to Zayne if snowcrowmc were a thing

[kissandtellus]

The Dragon, The Healer and the Hole

Commission for Zayne X Reader X Sylus

Synopsis: You are the pretty pawn between Dragon!Sylus & Village Healer!Zayne. After you and Sylus get into far too much trouble for the poor Healer’s heart, he punishes you. Who knew Dragon tears could be so pretty?

Warnings: Poly, Poly!Lads, Threesome, Hard Dom Zayne, Switch Sy, Overstim, Monster Fudging, Dragon Sandwich, Two Cawks, Aphrodisiac, Drooling, Tummy Bulge.

A/n: This was a request from someone as a Christmas Gift! I loveddd writing this. Bratty Sylus is superior. If you enjoy this commission, I’m holding my Christmas Special Commission until Christmas Day!

The villagers whisper about you. The fairmaiden who dances with a dragon, while poor Zayne is left to patch up the aftermath.

It starts small. Sylus “accidentally" singeing the thatched roofs when he swoops too low to show off for you. Then comes the trampled crops. That one is your fault, really. You’d dared him to land mid-sprint.

And by the time the two of you send a wagon full of turnips careening into the river during a game of aerial tag? Zayne is already pinching the bridge of his nose in the distance.

"Must you constantly—" he begins, only to cut himself off as Sylus proudly drops a half-drowned chicken into his arms—"This one was almost a snack."

You grin, perched shamelessly on Sylus’ shoulder while the dragon preens under your attention. His tail is flicking with satisfaction as Zayne sighs the long-suffering sigh of a man who knows the ale barrel explosion last week wasn’t actually an accident.

Somewhere in the distance, another roof catches fire.

"I need a drink," Zayne mutters.

Sylus leans in, fangs glinting. "We know where you keep the good ale."

The tension between the three of you simmers like a pot left too long over a flame. Until one night, after yet another village disaster, this time involving a misplaced firework and Farmer Borris’ prize-winning pumpkin, Zayne finally snaps.

"Enough."

His voice is quiet, dangerously so, as he throws his healer’s satchel onto the table. The usual exasperation is gone, replaced by something raw and unspoken. Sylus goes still beside you, his tail curling around your ankle while Zayne runs a hand through his already disheveled hair. It’s fallen from the leather tie that usually keeps his hair pinned back.

"I can’t keep doing this," Zayne admits, shoulders slumping. "Covering for you two. Lying to the village. Pretending I don’t—" His voice cracks. "Pretending I don't care."

"Then stop pretending," you whisper, stepping forward, bridging the gap between healer and dragon and Lady, between duty and desire.

Zayne’s laugh is bitter. "It’s not that simple."

"Yes," Sylus growls, it’s low, reluctant. "It is."

And then, because diplomacy was never his strong suit, the dragon yanks Zayne forward by his tunic and kisses him.

It’s all teeth at first. Then softer. Then desperate.

You watch with wide eyes as Zayne melts against him, years of frustration dissolving into something infinitely sweeter. When Sylus finally pulls back, smug but shaken, it’s your turn to step in. You cup Zayne’s face in your hands before pressing your lips to his with a promise.

"No more hiding."

The three of you spend the rest of the night arguing, kissing, and finally figuring things out. The village can manage one evening without its healer.

Together, at last.

But things are far from perfect in your little world.

By the time Zayne finally returns to the lair, his shoulders are slumped with exhaustion. The scent of herbs and medicinal salves clings to him like a cloak, sharp and bitter in the chill air.

He finds you and Sylus waiting near the hearth, the two of you attempting to look nonchalant by the fire. But Zayne isn't fooled. Not for a second.

"What happened?" he demands. Before you can offer a flimsy excuse, he’s striding towards you with all the exasperated authority of a healer.

"Show me."

Despite your protests that 'it's just a small cut, really' and 'we were both careless, it won't happen again,' Zayne is having none of it. You and Sylus find yourselves on the receiving end of the most thorough examination of your life, punctuated by a litany of disapproving noises and muttered curses in several languages.

His touch is both gentle and sharp, probing over bruises and gashes with efficiency. It's only when he notices the way you wince at his ministrations that Zayne finally snaps.

"Damn it, you almost got killed."

Zayne's hands still abruptly as he peels back your torn tunic, revealing the ugly, jagged gash slicing from shoulder to hip, its edges still oozing sluggish crimson. His breath catches as Sylus snarls, claws digging into stone hard enough to crack it.

"You said it was nothing." The dragon's voice is dangerously quiet, red eyes burning with fury. Not at you, but at himself for not noticing sooner.

You grit your teeth, fingers twisting in the furs beneath you. "I didn’t—hng—want to worry you."

Zayne exhales through his nose, already reaching for his salves with hands that only tremble slightly. "You idiot," he chastised.

Zayne's voice is steel, despite the exhaustion clinging to his bones. "Hold her," he orders Sylus and for once, the dragon doesn't argue.

Sylus’ hands are firm but trembling as he pins your wrists gently against the furs, his tail wrapping snugly around your waist for stability. His claws dig into the bedding, not you, but his eyes burn with rage. Both at your recklessness and himself for failing to protect you.

"Talk," Zayne snaps at him as he threads his needle, sterilized with a flick of fire from Sylus’ own breath.

Sylus growls low. “She leapt in front of the commander’s blade. For me."

Zayne’s glare could melt stone. He presses a flask of strong, honeyed ale into your free hand. "Drink. All of it."

He waits until the alcohol settles in your bone. You lean against Sylus’s strong chest, eyes flicking down to the gleaming jewel on his chest. Sylus can feel your body heat heighten and can smell the relaxation in your muscles. He gives Zayne a single nod and the Healer pushes the needle under your skins

You choke back a scream, Sylus’ grip tightening just enough to keep you still as Zayne works quickly. He pretends to not flinch with each of your cries of pain.

No one speaks. Not until the last knot is tied, and Zayne’s forehead finally drops against your shoulder. His breath is ragged with fear, fury, and love.

Zayne’s punishment doesn’t come in a normal form. Definitely not that night. Sylus heals far quicker than you do. But within a few weeks you are back to your mischievous nature.

That is, until Zayne tells both of his lovers to meet him at his cabin, via crow. Mephisto was particularly nice that day and delivered the message to his Masters lair. Only because Zayne gifted him some berries that WEREN’T poisonous.

The cabin is tucked into the woods, the sweet scent of herbs hanging in the air like a welcoming embrace. You find Zayne hunched over a makeshift workbench, hands stained with crushed petals and oils. When he senses you standing in the doorway, he looks and the shadows beneath his eyes betray how little sleep he’s had in the past few days.

"You're here," he murmurs, setting aside his mortar and pestle. "Good. Close the door."

The moment the door clicks shut behind you, Sylus melts out of the shadows like a wraith. His usual dramatic flair dialed up to eleven just to watch Zayne roll his eyes.

"You called, healer?" The dragon purrs, already making himself at home, stretching across Zayne’s narrow cot like it’s his throne, tail flicking lazily against the woven blankets.

You, meanwhile, beeline for Zayne’s shelves, snagging a jar of honeyed figs with the ease of someone who’s stolen from him far too many times.

Zayne sighs, long-suffering. But he can’t stay mad for long. Not when Sylus is already dragging him closer by the belt, and not when you pop a stolen fig into his mouth with a grin.

Chaos. But his chaos.

In less than a minute, Zayne has Sylus kneeling on the cot, claws digging into the wooden frame as he whines in impatience. His tail trembles, scales gleaming in the firelight as Zayne murmurs a warning to "Settle, dragon."

It's not enough.

Your breath hitches at the sight of them. Zayne's fingers pressing deep into Sylus while the dragon's tongue slides against you, long and rough in a way that's far too good.

And he has the audacity to laugh, low and rumbling. "Is this our punishment, little healer?" he growls. "For what, exactly?"

Another finger joins the first, and he can't help but buck, tail snapping at the sound of Zayne's next words—

"Shut up," he murmurs. "I’m working.”

Zayne presses a third finger in without warning, twisting them just so. It draws a sharp gasp from Sylus that vibrates deliciously against your clit.

"For this," Zayne scoffs, his fingers trailing over the long scar he helped stitch along the base of Sylus’ tail. His voice is rough with hunger as he drags Sylus back by his horns. forcing the dragon’s mouth deeper against you while his own fingers work mercilessly inside him.

Sylus snarls, fangs grazing your thigh in protest but he doesn’t pull away.

He knows better.

Instead, he takes it, takes everything, as Zayne bends him over the cot completely, replacing fingers with the thick press of his cock in one brutal thrust. Sylus arches, wings flaring, as Zayne groans above him. Nimble and long fingers grip silver-white hair, the other sliding up to press between your shoulder blades, urging you down onto Sylus’ tongue.

"Stay." The command is ragged a plea and a prayer, as Zayne sets a punishing pace. Each snap of his hips driving Sylus’ face harder against you. The dragon’s tail lashes wildly before coiling around Zayne’s waist, pulling him deeper.

When you come with a cry, Sylus drinks it down greedily, his own pleasure muffled against your skin as Zayne fucks him through it. His breath comes in ragged bursts against the sweat-damp curve of the dragon’s spine.

No more hiding. Only this, heat, and teeth, and the three of them tangled beyond repair.

The moment Zayne’s salve seeps into Sylus’ body, it begins its work. It’s a slow, merciless heat that coils through his muscles like liquid gold. At first, Sylus only growls his tongue still working lazily between your thighs, rough ridges dragging against oversensitive skin.

But then the warmth deepens.

His claws slacken on the cot, his wings drooping like heavy silk as the salve’s magic spreads, unraveling every coiled tension in his body. A shudder wracks him, violent and involuntary. as his head lolls heavily against your thigh. His tongue finally stilling inside you. His breaths come slow and deep, lashes fluttering like he’s drunk on the sensation.

"F-fuck," he slurs, voice thick and ruine as Zayne leans down to murmur against the shell of his ear.

"Good dragon."

Sylus whines but he can’t so much as twitch now, utterly pliant beneath Zayne’s hands.

And oh, how the healer smirks.

Zayne is no brute. No unthinking warrior. But the sight of Sylus helpless beneath him, that proud dragon reduced to shuddering submission, sends something primal surging through his veins. His hips snap forward with a roughness that makes Sylus’ neglected second cock twitch pathetically. It’s already dripping pre-come onto the sheets beneath them.

And gods, Zayne looks every inch the conqueror. How healer’s hands, usually so gentle, now grip Sylus’ hips with bruising force. Moonlight spills over the hard lines of his torso, muscles flexing with each punishing thrust, sweat glistening along the scars that crisscross his shoulders. There are marks from battles fought long before he ever tended herbs.

His breath comes ragged, eyes dark with hunger as he watches Sylus’ body take him. Sylus is stretched, yielding and undone.

"How the mighty have fallen," he chuckles, thumb swiping over the dragon’s slack lips, slick with your cum. "So greedy for it."

Sylus can’t even growl in protest, just a weak, shuddering moan as Zayne fucks him deeper and harder. You watch, fingers tangled in silver-white hair, as your healer claims his dragon thoroughly.

Zayne's voice drops low and serious, the kind of voice he reserves for fevers that won’t break and wounds that fester, as he leans over Sylus’ trembling form, hips never stuttering in their relentless pace.

"You don’t get to touch," he growls, catching Sylus’ wrists and pinning them to the small of his back with one firm hand. The dragon’s claws flex uselessly against empty air, his cocks aching, flushed dark and twitching with every deep thrust. "Not until you learn."

Sylus snarls, or tries to, but it comes out ragged, broken, as Zayne angles his hips just so, grinding against that spot inside him that makes his vision whiten.

"You want to burn fields? Shatter carts?" Another punishing thrust, Sylus’ tail thrashes, then goes limp. "Then take your punishment like the beast you are."

And oh, Sylus does.

He comes untouched, a hoarse, shattered cry ripped from his throat as his cocks spills between the sheets, his body clamping down around Zayne’s in helpless pulses.

Zayne follows close behind. He usually would use those disgusting pig-skin protective things around his cock when he fucks you. Worried about bringing children into this fucked-up world. But with his Dragon, his seed spills messily from Sylus’s weeping hole and down muscled thighs.

"Good boy.”

You watch, breathless, knowing full well your turn is next.

You try to twist away, legs scrambling against the furs as Sylus’ deadweight lolls bonelessly against your thighs. His head is still nestled between them like some decadent, drowsing predator. His tail, though limp, somehow coils tighter around your waist, anchoring you in place, as Zayne’s gaze sharpens on your futile squirming.

"Oh no you don’t," the healer purrs, still buried deep inside Sylus, still watching you with dark, knowing eyes. One hand strokes absently down the dragon’s spine. “Our beast here has had his lesson."

His free hand reaches for you, calloused fingers wrapping around your ankle and yanking you back down onto the cot beside them.

"Now it’s your turn."

Sylus, though blissed-out and pliant, chuffs in weak amusement against your skin.

You are trapped, caught and doomed.

While you try in vain to squirm away, Zayne makes short work of you, pinning you down with an ease you should not find as frustratingly hot as you do.

His fingers, those of a healer, familiar and gentle, prepare you with a soothing salve, its warmth sinking deep in your core.

But before you can even catch your breath, Sylus is there, hovering over you with a hungry glint to his red eyes, tail lashing impatiently behind him.

"Ready, little one?" he asks, and even in his languid state, the hoarse growl making you whine. Both cocks rest like hot irons against your inner thigh.

Taking both cocks was a feat. Zayne knew that better than anyone. One time while in a Rut, Sylus had torn him so bad you had to hold his hand each trip to the chamberpot.

But this seemed to be a good punishment befitting the crime.

"Wait—wait—"

Your protest dies in a strangled gasp as Sylus presses forward. The thick head of his first cock stretching you mercilessly, that familiar burn of too much making your toes curl. The salve helps, Gods, it helps, but nothing prepares you for the way his second length rubs insistently against your entrance, demanding.

Zayne’s hands settle on Sylus’ hips, guiding, controlling as he whispers against the dragon’s sweat-damp shoulder.

"Slow."

Sylus obeys, barely, his entire body trembling with the effort as he sinks into you by torturous degrees. His breath comes in ragged pants, his claws embedding in the furs beside your head as he fights his own oversensitivity.

“Fuck," he grits out. “S’ tight Precious…”

And then, just when you think you can’t take anymore, Zayne’s fingers dig into Sylus’ waist, forcing him deeper, until—

Pop.

Both cocks pop into your slick hole, stretching you beyond what you thought was possible.

You scream, back arching off the cot as Sylus howls above you, his tail thrashing wildly. Zayne’s palm splays over your stomach, pressing down as if he can feel the obscene stretch from within.

“Easy there,” his voice is the same as when he hushes an injured child as he fixes a scrape on their knee. It has no place in a circumstance where you are taking two monster cocks against your cervix. “Keep going. She can take it.”

Sylus, sweet, overwhelmed, overstimulated, Sylus, does as he says.

Your fingers claw into the furs, knuckles white as Sylus’ massive cocks stretch you to the brink. Every single inch is a ruthless, searing fullness that borders on pain. Tears spill down your cheeks as you whimper, hips jerking in a futile attempt to escape the overwhelming stretch.

"N-no—too much—please—!"

But Zayne is merciless. His warm palm presses flat against your trembling belly, fingers splayed on the bulge near your guts.

"Shhh," he murmurs, voice filled with a dark promise. "You chose this when you played recklessly with our dragon."

His other hand fists in Sylus’ hair, forcing the dragon’s face down to yours, his fangs scraping your jaw as he pants in ragged, helpless pleasure.

"Take it," Zayne orders. “Take them both. Needy little girl…”

Sylus growls against your lips, his hips rolling with a punishing slowness that has you seeing stars. His cocks drag against every overstimulated inch inside you, the stretch bordering on unbearable. Until Zayne’s fingers suddenly press down on your clit, rough and deliberate.

“Cum for us,” Zayne commands and you do, shaking apart between them with a sob. Sylus snarls, his own release following as his claws tear through the furs, marking you, claiming you, ruining you.

Zayne’s voice drops watches your tummy bulge with Dragon seed. In the back of his mind, he highly doubts he can craft not one, but two protective skins big enough for Sylus’ cocks.

But maybe the thought of little dragon babies and watching you swell with eggs also overrules his thinking.

“Next time,” he coos, “you’ll think twice before burning down another village.”

You won’t.

Zayne's hands are gentle now, tender as he tends to your trembling limbs and Sylus’ dishevelled scales and limbs. He whisper low words of comfort, soothing and soft; fingers tracing lazy circles over tender skin bruised by dragon talons.

Sylus is clingy now, a heavy, warm weight pressing against your side, his tail curling around your ankle in a possessive grip. He makes a soft sound, almost like a whine, when Zayne pulls back to check your wounds.

"Greedy beast," the healer teases, but his voice is fond, affectionate.

Sylus melts into the healer's touch, his expression softening even as he grumbles. He’s still oversensitive and languid from his earlier release. He lets Zayne maneuver him onto his side, his wings drooping against the furs as he watches you be cared for.

"You're too gentle," he groans, lips curving into a smirk as Zayne's fingers linger on your waist.

Zayne just laughs. "Only to those worth being gentle with.”

Tag List: @chaemaire @purplemooned @vvi-vi @partypoison00 @l0st1nthedark @varpaat @boulder @space-trashlordd @hilliserose @rubylescent @joyfulyouthlover @lilacsandhysteria @cheezeandkrackers @zayneslover @slave-of-heaven @ladyanonreader @kiyadeleine @emowitchwithatwist @nixia1107-blog @aishabbbb @lordbugs @poisonivyae @embetie @mock-kett @nanamisgirly @imsaemi @exe-toby @rhickah @slutforsnowcrow423 @kageyaxaa @pumpk1n-gurl @anothergojostan @luvqi @juha18indeepspace @imhwajaez @matcha-m0chi @idiotboop @pomegranatesnapples @ajyoursgirl @raendarkfaerie @patchesofwork @diejager @goddessofeverything @paintedperidot @applecaviar @sylusxoxo @braatzz-9 @somekindofsupernova4 @starsforvia @saltymooninternet @mshaylove @upwillbyers @cupidstrace @toxicblackstar @stinkusodius @misos0xp @nanamitiddiechomper @slytherin-min99 @mitsukiiiiiis @alohakitty @megottheswaskikacooooke @ammrry @ni279 @suhni @calebsmeimeii @wxmsjs @leonkennedyismydadaman @itsghostgirlyo @enlightenedwhisper @ratnawouglas @1ruinedqueen1 @blackhoodlea

[jasmine-m00n]

im on a snowcrow journey rn. I want my boyfriends to kiss

[yvilonion]

idk

[yvilonion]

fahdurhood