Does it hurt?
stayrus x sorceress!mc/reader. Summary: you teach Sylus that love is brutal devotion, and that actions speak louder than words. Suggestive, fluff and banter, cannibalistic imagery as metaphor. ~1300 words.
Does it hurt, you ask.
Mmm? Eyes half-lidded, pupils blown wide as the sun bleeds into the flowered fields, crimson on crimson, aglow like his eyes. His question is lazy, distracted. His wings unfold behind him, the veins spiderwebbing shadows through the thin membranes. They, too, are molten with the dying light.
Here, you murmur, fingertips brushing carefully across the hard, black, bone-like protrusions drifting from his ear, along his cheek, jagged down his jaw.
Mouth to mouth, his lips are the softest part of him right now, aside from those wide, wide wings. Eyes focused on yours, he breathes a sigh, licking delicately along your bottom lip.
No. I can’t feel it when you touch me there so softly. If you want to hurt me, you’ll have to press harder.
Chest to chest, hips to hips, you straddle his lap as his clawed hands span the width of your back. Close like this, you can’t tell where his skin ends and yours begins, hot and sweaty in the windless valley palmed between looming mountain peaks, like a child’s fingers curved over a captured dragonfly, sheltering, or smothering, only the life or death of the dragonfly will tell.
Opening your mouth, exposing your teeth, you nip the tip of his tongue. He hisses, a sharp little sound, but his pupils swallow his irises, black holes crushing hydrogen flames.
You suck, pulling his tongue into your mouth to soothe it with the softness of your own. He lets you.
The sun drowns itself in the jagged horizon as the fireflies flare, competing with the stars as they blink over the darkened valley of flowers. The world is so still, there is only the wet sound of your mouth on his, the creak of his leathers under your hips, the soft sounds deep in his throat.
Finally, you release him. I didn’t ask in order to hurt you.
The arch of a silver brow, the heavy thump of a vicious tail flicking. Flowers torn from the stems, their nectar oozing from newly broken stalks. They make you dizzy with the release of their intoxicating scent. Could have fooled me, sorceress.
You press your lips to his, soft, soft, hard. Teeth and tongue, until you force yourself to pull back. It’s hard, when you want to swallow him whole. It just looks painful, like a callous grown too thick.
If this is flattery, you need more practice. He turns his head, hiding that side of his face from you despite his apparent indifference.
Stop deliberately misunderstanding me. I’m trying to learn more about you. Nudging his jaw, guiding him back to look at you, you press the tip of your nose against his, rubbing gently. You're trying to say, you are safe with me. Even when I want to carve you into pieces, savor every bite of you, it's only because I don't know how to contain how hungry I am for you.
Ask about my manhood then, if you’re so interested in my body. I’ll gladly deepen your acquaintance. He bucks his hips, pressing into you, as if to drive his point home, if not just his manhood.
You laugh, always startled by these flashes of lighthearted teasing, of dry humor.
But you will not swayed, or distracted.
Fingers drifting further up his face, you plunge them into the lush fall of his hair, run your nails through its silken strands to drag along his scalp.
A low rumbling against your heart. He purrs, eyes closing fully. You miss their light immediately.
Stayrus, you say, halting as ever. You have something to say, but this bothers you, every time. I hate that I can’t pronounce your true name.
He opens his eyes again, their glow brighter than the firefly flickers filling the night around you. Enough of that. I like that you gave me a new one. I like the one you gave me.
You'd look away, if you could stand to be parted from his gaze. No matter how long you're with him, every moment with him feels like it could be your last. You know all too well that the world is too cruel to let you keep him for long.
Stayrus, you repeat. A prayer.
Sorceress, he answers, the ritualistic answer to a prayer.
You call, he answers. He calls, you answer.
This is how you both know you're both still alive, after the bloodbaths.
And these? Finally, you grip the base of his horns, thrusting from his tender scalp. Do these hurt?
His steady gaze falters, drifts across the starlit valley, flickering above, flickering below. Only when they first grew in.
Liar.
His claws tighten along the skin of your back, but not enough to draw blood. Yet.
Cease your endless questioning. Let us indulge in real pleasures.
Again, you guide his gaze back to yours by gently tugging on his horns, recovering what is yours by right. His eyes on you. Your eyes on him. My first pleasure is learning more of you. There is no other pleasure for me, without satisfaction of the first.
Scowling, he considers your terms, and then accedes. They hurt when they first came in, and they hurt when I tried to carve them from my skull.
He must want to rut very much, if he's willing to be so forthcoming about something so sensitive with so little resistance. You reward him with a sharp smile.
Why would you carve them from your skull? They’re beautiful.
His scowl deepens, but his eyes remain on yours. His vanity, soothed by your words. Beautiful like a bull’s eye to the archer, perhaps.
All at once, you understand.
The stars pulse, overhead. The fireflies flicker, underneath.
This world is cruel to those who are different. His horns, a symbol of his otherness. Your blank stare, a symbol of yours.
Kindred spirits, hunted by frightened fools.
You caress the wicked points of his horns, satisfied only when you draw blood from the tip of each forefinger. Smearing your blood along his bottom lip, you ask, Did you try many times, then?
Only a fool keeps trying the same thing repeatedly with the same results, every time.
Something in your chest spasms at his non-answer. They say you don't have one, so surely it's not your heart that hurts so much at his unspoken confession. So you were very foolish.
Closing his eyes, nostrils flaring in a resigned sigh. Are you satisfied? Will you cease your fruitless questions, now?
Of course. You never want to hurt him, even as you want to peel him like a fruit, lap up his tender flesh, drink his juices, carry him in your stomach forever.
You want them to have to disembowel you, to get to him.
All you can say: It’s just as well you quit on your own. Else I would have made you stop.
The molten glow of his eyes follows your lips in the dark. Confusion. Wonder. Why?
Leaning down, hands still curled around his traitorous horns, you press your lips to his forehead. To his eyebrows, first right, then left. To his nose, in all of its proud glory. Finally, you lean back, meet his glowing gaze. What need have you now for camouflage, when I will skin alive any who dares touch you, and wear their pelt like a cloak in the high, cold atmosphere when we fly?
Through the leathers over his groin, he hardens against your body.
Is this what you mean by love, he wonders aloud, voice wonder-filled.
You grind your hips against his, your hot wet heat against the iron length of him. What else could it be, my dragon?
He stares. In the deep dusk, you can barely make out the serious tilt of his thoughtful mouth, the sharp slope of his nose. His eyes, focused on yours. Whatever it is, I like it. Tell me more.
You laugh. The fireflies scatter at the sound as it echoes through the valley, as townsfolk scatter at the sound of your warcries fanned by the heavy beat of his wings.
Words are cheap. I’ll show you, instead.
And so you do, under the pinprick diamond sky, amidst the suspension of fireflies, under the blanket of datura.
As his hips slap against yours, and your saliva drips into his mouth in one long string—as he sinks his teeth into your shoulder, and his claws into your spine, he gasps, Does it hurt?
Through the pleasure of his body filling yours, his claws in your muscles, his teeth in your flesh, his question evokes only the memory of the spasm of your heart in response to his youthful pain, his misguided self-mutilation. But you don't know how to explain how it hurts you, now, when you must witness his hurt. You too are still young, and your wisdom limited.
You cheat, echoing his words instead: Only when you first come in. Only when I try to carve you from me. When his hips stutter, faltering in their relentless rhythm, you cry out. Keep going.
He laughs, breathless, his youth mirroring yours. Only a fool keeps trying the same thing repeatedly with the same results.
Bringing your lips close to the lovely curves of his delicate ear, you whisper, Then I'm gladly a fool for you. Don’t. Stop.
As you wish, he lies as he pauses, then thrusts once, hard, following your enraged whine. My beloved.
i hope you enjoyed reading! i saw this art last night and immediately started writing this drabble on my phone. it's so crazy to think that so much of who sylus is now comes from his time with sorceress mc in their first life together. hurts to think about. i'd love to hear your thoughts in tags or comments, if you feel like sharing!
