feel me from the inside

Pharaun has habits after he fucks. Vizaeth catalogues them in detail, his adoration of each a carefully considered internal ranking, of which Pharaun tracing his scars holds the highest place. They run in a y-shape over his torso; two shorter lines beneath his pectorals, connected to a longer centre line that trails off an inch or so above his navel. Pharaun, if he’s not engaged in his second-best habit of kissing Vizaeth’s neck until he begs for mercy, will lie there and map the old, dark scars with tender fingers. Vizaeth can’t really feel it, but watching Pharaun’s hand move is hypnotic.

He likes to imagine Pharaun’s painted nails slicing through the old scar tissue, re-opening the wound. There’s so much that would come pouring out if he did, and once it was out, there’d only be red, empty space left, because Vizaeth knows he’s a hollow shell, when it comes down to it. If he’s not filled with Pharaun, he’s not filled with anything.

“What are you thinking about?”

It’s a lover’s question, and that Pharaun asks it in his low, pleasure-roughened voice is enough to make Vizaeth dissolve. He trails his fingers down Pharaun’s arm, thrilled at the shiver the motion conjures.

“Your hands inside me.”

“First of all, you’re a greedy bitch,” Pharaun says. “Second of all, I doubt they’d both fit.”

“Not there.” Vizaeth sits up, straddles Pharaun’s hips and takes his hands, pressing them to his abdomen. “Here.”

Pharaun laughs, an uncertain edge to the sound. “What, you want me to go rummaging about in your internal organs? You can take a lot, Vizaeth, but I think that might, in fact, kill you.”

“No, no,” Vizaeth assures him. He presses Pharaun’s hands harder to his stomach. “There are ways to do it. I know all the necromancy—I have all the spells, I can cast them, but you’d cast them better, and…” He slides his grip up Pharaun’s wrists, his arms, warm skin over slim muscle, confident bone. “And you know best how to use a knife.”

“You want me to cut you open.”

“Yes.”

“And…take your insides out.”

“Yes.”

“I assume you want me to put them back afterwards?”

“If you want to,” Vizaeth sighs. Pharaun still doesn’t look convinced, so he leans forward to cup his face gently. “Pharaun, Pharaun,” he whispers, brings their lips close, “you’ll like it when you feel how wet I am.”

Pharaun kisses him, and Vizaeth moans quietly, then louder as he’s rolled and pinned to the bed—their bed, now, not just Pharaun’s. The scattered hair littering the pillows is so intermingled even Lolth Herself wouldn’t be able to tell whose is whose. Pharaun puts a hand on his chest and drags the neat points of his nails all the way down to his stomach, carving deep scratches. His forefinger presses hard enough to draw blood, and Vizaeth arches into the touch, wanting to feel skin break and muscle part as Pharaun enters him.

“Tell you what,” Pharaun says, “you bring me those spells, and tell me where you found them, and I’ll consider it.”

It’s exactly what Vizaeth knew he’d say.

They don’t do it in Pharaun’s quarters. It would make too much of a mess. Vizaeth will bleed on whatever Pharaun wants, but there’s no sense in ruining any of his things.

So they’re deep in the bowels of Sorcere instead; an old summoning chamber, the air heavy with disuse. Black candles drip thick runs of wax into silver holders, scarlet flames throwing long, flickering shadows up the high, arched walls. Vizaeth sits on the edge of a block of cold, red-veined marble, set with channels carved for sacrificial blood, and taps his bare heel against the stone. Pharaun is flicking through one of the books Vizaeth gave him, muttering under his breath.

He’s something approaching adorable when he concentrates like this. He has a tendency to toy with his ear—or earring, if he’s wearing one, like he is now, a silver knife on a chain—when he does. Right, then left, then right twice, then left again, repeating the motion over and over. Vizaeth’s fingers twitch in time. He could take over, if Pharaun wanted. Free his hands for his work.

The book thuds loudly on the workbench as Pharaun tosses it aside.

“Promise me something.”

“Anything.”

Pharaun comes over to him, slides cold hands up warm thighs, teasing with swipes of his thumbs before settling them at Vizaeth’s waist. His mouth is hot and his tongue is clever, and he bites Vizaeth’s lip until he moans. “Mm, you are thoroughly distracting. What was I saying? Oh, yes—my nails are going to be ruined after this. I want you to promise me you’ll fix them.”

“Of course.”

Pharaun beams. “I knew I could count on you. Ready?”

Vizaeth nods. He shivers as he lays down on the cold stone, anticipation speeding his pulse. Then, just like in their bed, Pharaun traces over his scars.

“Is this how you got these? Some other lover put his knife in you?”

“I’d never let anyone else put their knife in me.”

“You are deliciously loyal,” Pharaun purrs. Vizaeth’s cock twitches at the sound, at the praise, at the confirmation that Pharaun understands his dedication. “That’s a dangerous thing to be, you know.”

“Only for people who aren’t you,” Vizaeth says, and Pharaun’s answering grin is all teeth.

From the collection of arcane materials they’ve brought with them, Pharaun takes red paint and black, and daubs the markings of the spell over Vizaeth’s body. His fingers move in neat passes over the sensitive places beneath Vizaeth’s ribs, over his stomach and hips, the touch and the magic setting his skin tingling. Necromancy flows from Pharaun’s mouth in a lilting chant, and Vizaeth mouths along, borrowing his voice to share in the rising power that surrounds them.

When he’s done, Pharaun taps him all over, asking if he can feel this touch or that. He can, but only as pressure, except for where there are no markings, where everything feels as it always does—which Pharaun demonstrates by teasing his cock. Vizaeth gasps and grabs his shirt to pull him into a hungry kiss. Pharaun reciprocates for only a moment before breaking away.

“Let’s not get sidetracked. Now, where did I put that knife?”

Skin breaks beneath the blade, slicing through the surface tension of his flesh. Strange, the way the blood spills—it’s an abstract sensation, no warmth, just liquid rolling down his sides. The sacrifice channels run red, carrying it to the edges of the block, where it drip, drip, drips into the basin below. Vizaeth raises up on his elbows to watch, eager, as Pharaun cuts deeper.

“Lie down,” Pharaun chides, pushing him back against the stone.

It’s alright. He doesn’t need to see. He knows the patterns Pharaun’s following, they’re burned into his brain after hours poring over them alone in the dark, staring at the afterimages through months of reverie. Deeper and deeper goes the knife, through skin, through muscle, through all the layers that make up a drow until he’s laid bare to Pharaun’s hands. There’s a soft clink of metal on stone as Pharaun sets the knife down, then a pushing sensation, pressure, the brief shadow of distant pain beneath deep, dark water.

Vizaeth lets out a shaky breath that hitches as Pharaun’s hand pushes into his abdomen. Things are shifting, things his body knows should not be shifting, and when Pharaun flexes his fingers within him, Vizaeth moans.

“You’re getting off on this,” Pharaun accuses. His free hand curls around Vizaeth’s cock, which is achingly hard. “I’m surprised this still works, given how much blood you’ve lost.”

“Everything still works,” Vizaeth says. Then, “You should fuck me.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Please.” If Pharaun wants him to beg, then he’ll beg. “Please, Pharaun, I want you inside me.”

Pharaun pushes further into the open cavity of his abdomen, fingers between organs that protest at the intrusion.

“Not a lot deeper inside you I can get, my dear.”

The sacrifice channels are overflowing, glutted. Pharaun bends to kiss him, and Vizaeth learns that his arms have grown too weak to lift and hold him close. Pharaun gives his lip a gentle nip.

“You were right, though.”

“About what?” Vizaeth whispers.

“I do like how wet you are.”

He gives Vizaeth’s cock a quick squeeze before letting his hand wander up over one blood-slick hip, teasing along the edges of the neat incision that opens his abdomen. Vizaeth whimpers. His head is light, attached only by a thin and pleasant wire. Pharaun walks his fingers along the coiled mass of his intestines, sweet circles in the viscera—Vizaeth hasn’t had a clit in years, but this almost makes him want one again. Pharaun’s other hand pulses, rocking him in the same rhythm they fuck to, and the slick sound of it is nothing less than sublime.

If he pushed a little further in, up under the ribs, he could wrap his hand around Vizaeth’s heart. Feel it beating, weak now, much as it wants to race, and maybe then he’d know how much Vizaeth wants him to take it out.

He realises his eyes have drifted closed when Pharaun slides a bloody hand into his hair and tugs, lightly. He blinks, struggling to focus. Pharaun’s other hand is lifted up, and hooked around his delicate wrist is a looped coil of glistening intestine. A deep and wonderful void of wrongness lies in Vizaeth’s core, pulsing, throbbing with Pharaun’s magic. He turns to meet Pharaun’s kiss and hopes the blood never washes out.

“I think you might be dying,” Pharaun whispers into his mouth. He tilts his wrist and Vizaeth’s guts fall back into place—the wrong place, probably, but even if that’s the case, they’ll work the better for Pharaun having touched them.

“No,” Vizaeth manages. “No, keep going.”

“If I do, and you die, I’ll have to leave Sorcere.” Pharaun’s voice is sing-song, cajoling, reminding him of the one thing that cannot happen. Lips at his throat, sucking his faltering pulse. “Don’t get greedy now.”

“Alright,” Vizaeth concedes. “But…but…” It’s hard to talk. Is it harder to breathe? It might just be because Pharaun’s still kissing his neck. “Help me up first. I want to see.”

Pharaun obliges, lifting him where he hasn’t the strength to move, and there he is, split wide open, and there, there, oh Lolth in Her infinite cruelty be praised, there; Pharaun’s hand is buried in his guts. Crimson, pink, dull blue, purple, all of it slick and shining, a perfect complement to the darkness of Pharaun’s bloodstained skin. Pharaun kisses his cheek and flexes his fingers. Vizaeth moans softly and turns his head to look at him.

There’s a smear of blood on his cheek. Just the smallest splatter, right at the corner of his mouth, which is crooked up in a satisfied smile.

“Pharaun,” Vizaeth rasps out, and Pharaun cocks his head, attentive. “Pharaun, I love you.”

“Of course you do.” Pharaun lays him back down. “Come on, let’s put you back together before I end up on a sacrificial block in Gromph’s office.”

Soft words of necromancy and carefully measured drops of a healing potion fold him back together, nice and neat and still numb under Pharaun’s perfectly maintained magic. It’s an arcane needle that stitches him shut, Pharaun piercing him once more, Weave-thread tugging his skin back into place.

His blood will run cleaner, purer, stronger now. He might be sewn up, but Pharaun’s fingerprints are inside him.

The body remembers that kind of thing.

He’s fine until the necromancy wears off. One moment he’s standing there, examining Pharaun’s nails as he plans how to fix them, the next he’s on the ground, howling, clawing at his stomach. He sucks in air that does nothing, and wonders if he’s dying.

If he is, he would rather have done it ten minutes ago, with Pharaun’s hands inside him.

“I suppose I didn’t put everything back quite right,” Pharaun says. He crouches, his form tear-blurred, hazy. Vizaeth reaches for him, but another apocalyptic cramp wracks his body and he screams, clenching around the hot core of agony. He can taste blood in the back of his throat.

“I expect you’re bruised or something,” Pharaun continues. “Everything in there is rather delicate.”

He draws Vizaeth into his lap, holding him upright against his chest with one strong, slim arm. The healing potion is pressed, cold glass, saccharine scent, to his lips. “Drink. Swallow like a good boy now, take it all, there you go.”

Vizaeth forces it down. Starts to retch. Chokes it back through sheer force of will because if there’s one thing he’s not doing, it’s throwing up on Pharaun. The cramps subside by inches, and Pharaun holds him all the while, toying idly with his blood-streaked hair. After an age, the pain is nothing but a faint ache, dysphorically familiar—he hasn’t felt like this since he was Xunhrae, though even on her worst days she never suffered so intensely. He sighs, shakily. Pharaun presses a hand to his stomach, where there is no scar, not apart from the one he already had. The arcane stitches have already dissolved, leaving no trace but the faint residue of Pharaun’s magic flickering through his veins.

“Feeling better?” Pharaun asks. Vizaeth nods. “Excellent! No infirmary for you, then. Up you get.”

He dresses with weak hands, lightheaded and slow, as Pharaun tidies the chamber. There’s so much blood pooled in the basin of the sacrificial block; dark, thick, congealing. It’ll have to stay there—no amount of prestidigitation is going to vanish that away. Vizaeth presses a hand to his stomach. He’s so grateful for what Pharaun has gifted him. No-one else knows him like this, no-one else knows Pharaun like this.

Pharaun frowns at his nails.

“Gods, these are a nightmare,” he mutters. Vizaeth hurries over and takes his hand.

“I’ll come to your quarters and fix them right now.”

“Wonderful idea. Oh, and Vizaeth?” Pharaun tugs him close so they’re flush together. “I did something very important for you tonight, didn’t I?”

“Yes.”

Pharaun leans in and nips the tip of his ear, trails his teeth down the sensitive edge, kisses along his jaw until he captures his mouth. Vizaeth clutches at him, dizzy from the blood loss, the pain, the kiss, from Pharaun.

“When I ask, you’ll do something important for me, won’t you?” Pharaun murmurs. Vizaeth sighs.

“I’d do anything for you.”

“I know you would.” Pharaun draws back, and tucks Vizaeth’s bloody hair behind his ear. His lips curve. “Because you love me.”

Vizaeth can only nod.

“I’m glad we’re clear on that. Gather those books then, and let’s be off. You can fix my nails, and then I’ll fuck what’s left of your guts out, how does that sound?”

Vizaeth stretches up to kiss him and breathes his answer into Pharaun’s welcoming mouth.

“Perfect.”