love, cut you deep

He takes the offered wine with whispered thanks, glad he skipped dinner. Maybe he should have dosed himself with the leftover venom, cast himself frozen upon Pharaun’s floor. They could start over. He could do everything right this time.

“Come sit.” Pharaun takes a seat on the couch, one elegant elbow on the arm. Vizaeth perches next to him, then gasps, nearly spilling his wine, as Pharaun tugs him into his lap. “Drink. You’re here to enjoy yourself, aren’t you?”

Vizaeth drinks. He leaves a deep-red lip print on the glass, almost as dark as the wine itself. Pharaun, without a glass of his own, drinks from his, and his mouth fits exactly over where Vizaeth left his mark.

“You like it?” he asks. One hand strokes over Vizaeth’s side, warm. “It’s a good vintage—nearly as old as I am.”

“It tastes nearly as good as you do.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Pharaun purrs, and kisses his neck, a hand sliding beneath the high side-slit of his robes. There’s nothing in the way—he didn’t want Pharaun to have to wait, not a single moment—and light fingers stroke circles up his bare thigh, teasing.

“Did you miss me?” Fingers brush his already hard cock, drawing a soft moan. “Oh, you did. I thought you might have. Absence and hearts and all that.”

“It’s still yours,” Vizaeth sighs.

“Now with you, my dear, I never know if that’s a metaphor, or if you want me to fetch a knife.”

Lips find his, and the glass falls from his hand as he flings his arms around Pharaun’s neck. Pharaun swallows his moans, and he swallows Pharaun’s breath, and waits for it to fill him, revive him, force out the emptiness that’s rotted his soul.

It’s not enough. He rocks his hips into Pharaun’s touch, kisses him and kisses him and it’s still not enough.

“I’d forgotten how enthusiastic you are,” Pharaun says, smiling as Vizaeth goes to his knees. His fingers skim over the neatly braided side of his head, studded with the rubies he rescued from the hidden passage behind Nalfein’s room. “I did not forget your neat little trick, though. Care to show me again?”

Vizaeth swallows him deep, the weight of his cock bliss on his tongue. His eyes fall closed and he inhales deeply. A rightness is settling in his chest, a fitting back together of pieces almost entirely fallen apart. Pharaun’s fingers tangle in his hair and tug him down, slow at first, then harder, faster. His cock hits the back of Vizaeth’s throat over and over, making him drool, making him moan, making his soul shine.

His lipstick leaves smears along the shaft, mingled with spit and pre-cum in a delicious alchemy. He can feel the blood coursing through his veins, hear the rush and roar of it, his heart beating true at last. Distantly, he can hear Pharaun’s own thumping almost in time.

It’s fine. He has all night to do better than almost.

Too soon—though for all he knows it might have been hours—Pharaun curses and shoves his head down and comes in his mouth. Vizaeth, starving, swallows everything. He sits back on his heels, pleased at how flushed Pharaun is. He licks his lips.

“Thank you.”

“That’s hardly much of a reward.” Pharaun caresses his face, catches his earring in his fingertips, tugging the small knife on its silver chain back and forth—right, then left, then right twice, then left again. “Not for such faith as you displayed.”

“I’ll take whatever Lolth wills me to have.”

“And you will take anything, won’t you, my pretty little thing?”

He still knows me so well. It’s nigh impossible to keep the giddiness out of his smile. Vizaeth starts to get to his feet and staggers, dizzy where he rose too fast. Pharaun catches him, an indulgent laugh on his lips, and draws him with wine-sweet kisses into the bedroom. At a word, the faerie-fire lamps shift to deep violet, the shadows inky and dark enough, Vizaeth hopes, to hide the wreck of his arms. Because Pharaun is tearing off his clothes, hungry for him now he’s had a taste, and the only thing between his hands and those hideous scars is a thin layer of makeup. After the summoning, he didn’t have the magic left for anything so complex as an illusion.

Luckily, it isn’t his arms Pharaun is interested in. Face down on the bed, teeth find his shoulder, biting briefly. Oh, he’s missed those teeth.

“Harder, Pharaun, please,” he begs, gasping when he gets what he wants. The sharp sting isn’t enough. He should have brought his knife.

Pharaun pushes into him in one quick motion, and it hurts like the first time. He savours it. Revels in it. This is forgiveness, this is the redemption Lolth has gifted him, and he won’t reject a single part of it. Pharaun presses down on the back of his neck, holding him in place until he squirms with delight, clawing at the sheets. The room fills with his moans and hard breath, Pharaun’s low, throaty sounds of pleasure. Vizaeth wraps them around himself like a cocoon, inhaling every sound to imprint them on his lungs.

You sound exactly like Master Mizzrym, whispers the memory, and as Pharaun grabs his hips, for a moment— it’s only a moment, just half a second, not even that—he feels Rhylfein’s hands. His breath catches. Pharaun’s nails dig into his skin. He doesn’t know, he can’t tell, he doesn’t know.

“So faithful,” Pharaun pants. His voice is rough. He’s close. “But this is your favourite altar, isn’t it?”

Bloodstained marble, his body tangled with Rhylfein’s, bright eyes, a reckless smile, finish the ritual Thaezyr, his blood in Rhylfein’s mouth and what does he taste like, that reckless scion of House Dyrr?

Vizaeth cries out as Pharaun buries his cock deep, lips hot at his ear.

“And you worship so very well.”

He collapses to the bed as Pharaun fills him, too wracked with guilt to enjoy it. Faithful. What kind of faithful is it to think about another boy while Pharaun’s inside him?

More wine helps drown the feeling. Pharaun holds the bottle to his lips, a hand between his legs teasing him back to hardness, and age must make the vintage strong, for his head’s spinning so fast it’s hard to see straight. But the dizziness intensifies when Pharaun kisses him, so maybe it’s not the wine, maybe it’s just rapture. Pharaun drains the last of it and tosses the bottle aside. It rolls to the base of his vanity, where it clinks lightly against two others. A swell of affection tugs Vizaeth’s lips into a smile—seems he wasn’t the only one nervous about tonight.

He falls back beneath a rain of kisses; jaw, throat, collarbone, chest, all along the dead line of his scars. Pharaun’s nails scrape up his thighs and over his hips, where they fit perfectly back into the marks they made only minutes before, and it just doesn’t hurt enough to be love.

He whines, a pathetically desperate sound, and Pharaun chuckles.

“What is it you want?”

Vizaeth grabs his hand and pulls it over his racing heart.

“I want you to fetch a knife.”

And Pharaun does. It’s a delicate little thing, the bright silver blade cool against his stomach. Pharaun drags the flat of it up, bumping over his ribs, and Rhylfein intrudes again, slim fingers pressing his knife into his hand. He grabs Pharaun’s wrist and twists so the edge of the blade presses into his skin.

“Careful, vicious thing,” Pharaun warns. “These sheets were expensive.”

“I’ll clean them.” Vizaeth tightens his grip, pushing down until skin breaks in a sweet flash of pain. “I’ll clean them, Pharaun, just show me you still love me.”

Pharaun draws the tip of the knife along the top of one rib, then another, then another, leaving thin, delicate cuts, so shallow they hardly bleed at all. Vizaeth arches his back, trying to force the blade deeper, but Pharaun simply lifts away with a teasing smirk. The fourth time he tries, there’s a flash of movement and the knife is at his throat. A heartbeat of silence throbs between them.

Slowly, Pharaun lowers his head and kisses him. Metal presses into his skin, and it’s easy to imagine a slip. Just one too-hard movement and he’ll bleed out right here.

“Fuck me,” he whispers.

It takes an age and then another for Pharaun to sink back into him. Vizaeth wraps both legs around his waist, head falling back as he begins to rock; slow, delicious, frustrating. Harder. He needs it harder. He whimpers, and Pharaun withdraws the knife from his throat—no!—to trace the outline of his face instead—yes, yes, yes! It glints in his peripheral, still far too clean. Merdax’s ruined socket wavers in his mind, his neck shivers with the memory of Rhylfein’s breath, and he shreds the thought to ribbons. Rhylfein is nothing. The past is nothing. There is only here and now and Pharaun.

“Open your mouth,” the here and now says.

The knife is cold on his parted lips, his breath fogging the blade. Pharaun rolls his hips once, twice, then stills.

“Wider.”

Pharaun slides the knife into the dark, ravenous void of his mouth until the point touches the back of his tongue, the place where anyone else would start gagging. Vizaeth doesn’t. He just holds his breath and stares up at Pharaun and thinks about deep throating the knife until he comes or dies or both.

“Absolutely anything,” Pharaun murmurs, something like awe in his eyes. He withdraws the blade, and for a moment Vizaeth sees a sliver of himself in the silver, a thin line of blood trickling down the side of his face. Then Pharaun is kissing him hard, fucking him harder, and the knife is by his head, not touching any part of him, what a waste, what a stupid waste!

“Please,” he moans. “Please, please, please!”

“Let me guess, you want me inside you?” Pharaun says, laughing, breathless. “Say it, then.”

“I want you inside me,” Vizaeth gasps out, and Pharaun’s smile flashes sharp as the knife.

It sinks barely an inch into his thigh, half that maybe—he can take more, he knows he can take more, but it’s in him and it hurts and he’s bleeding—

He shouts Pharaun’s name as he comes, clutching at him, his blood soaking into sheets that he’ll clean, replace, burn, it doesn’t matter, Pharaun loves him, really loves him, oh, Lolth, thank you thank you thank you!

Pharaun tosses the knife aside, pace stuttering. He presses a hand to the wound and how much better it would be if he’d slide his fingers inside, find that sweet place in the muscle and make it burn. But he’s too distracted for such things, hitting hard, deep, over and over until he comes with a shuddering groan and presses their mouths together in a kiss that sets Vizaeth’s soul alight.

Blood and ecstasy, Lolth’s will fulfilled. Rhylfein Dyrr evaporates from existence. His blood is on Pharaun’s hands now, and that means there is no boy in Sorcere—in all Menzoberranzan—more blessed than Vizaeth Thaezyr.

It takes the better part of an hour for the bleeding to stop. He sits on the reverie couch, holding his scrunched up belt sash to his leg whilst Pharaun casts and casts until he finally gets the blood out of the sheets. He gets the makeup stains out too, where all Vizaeth’s attempts at hiding the scars on his arms have rubbed off. It’s humiliating, seeing that. Blood is sacred; concealer is not.

Pharaun smooths out the bed, glances at him briefly, tightens the sash of his black silk robe, then vanishes into the other room, muttering something about bandages and more wine. Whilst he’s gone, Vizaeth recovers the knife and cleans it off, admiring his reflection in the blade. Lips smeared, a nail-thin nick on his cheekbone, eyes full of life he’d feared lost. He’s not as beautiful as Pharaun—it would be heresy to think so—but he’s close. He’s so, so close.

The wound in his leg throbs and his heart flutters. He sets the knife to his wrist, makes a quick cut, and summons Lothaphyon.

“Can you feel it?” He sets her on his knee. “That’s love, Lothaphyon. It’s rare, so remember it.”

She nudges at where he’s still holding the blood-soaked sash to his leg, and concern ripples through their connection.

<Hurt?>

“No, I told you, love,” he repeats. He can’t be angry with her for not understanding, she’s only existed for a few hours. She’s got a lot to learn. He can’t wait to teach her.

“What in the Hells is that?” Pharaun re-appears, holding a roll of bandage and a fresh bottle of wine. Vizaeth ducks his head, blushing. Lothaphyon is nowhere near as impressive as what Pharaun can summon.

“My familiar. I summoned her today.”

“Oh. Good for you—are you bleeding again?” Pharaun tosses the wine to the bed and drops onto the reverie couch with a sigh. He takes Vizaeth’s wrist and examines the fresh cut, running his fingers over it as he frowns at the older scars. “You summoned her with necromancy, I take it. Here.”

Vizaeth accepts the bandages and sets about binding his leg, and then his wrist. Lothaphyon hops to his other knee, shying away when Pharaun reaches out to touch her.

<He hurt/loves you?>

<More than anyone else> Vizaeth sends back. She allows Pharaun to just barely touch her skull before scurrying back.

“You can’t keep brute-forcing everything with necromancy, you know,” Pharaun says, wiping his bloodied fingers off on Vizaeth’s bandaged leg.

“I can handle it.”

“I won’t deny you have a talent for looking enticing covered in your own blood.” Pharaun brings the wine over with a mage hand and pops the cork. He takes a deep swallow. “But if you’re determined, there are less ugly ways to go about it.”

He gets up and goes rummaging in the bottom of his wardrobe. Vizaeth stares down at his marred arms. They are ugly. He knows that, but there’s no way to stop. The deeper he falls into necromancy, the harder it is to feel anything else in the Weave at all.

“Aha, found it!”

A flash of gold thumps beside him—Lothaphyon, startled, scrambles up to his shoulder. Vizaeth strokes her spine absently, sending soothing thoughts down their connection as he picks up the armlet. For that’s what it is, this slim, delicate thing; a finely wrought band to which clings a ruby spider, eyes hollow caves in its gilded head. Pharaun drops back onto the couch, plucks it from his hands, and slides it onto his arm. It’s cold, and there’s magic in the metal, tingling against his skin.

“What does it do?”

Pharaun smiles, and taps the spider.

There’s a sudden, sharp pain, and Vizaeth yelps. A few seconds later, blood trickles from the spider’s eyes. Pharaun swipes a finger through it, and holds it out to him.

“Much simpler,” he says, as Vizaeth sucks his finger clean. “Much neater. Much prettier too.” He taps the spider again, and there’s another sharp sting, followed by a brief cold tightness. The blood stops flowing.

“Quite appropriate for such a staunch defender of Lolth’s most precious children, don’t you think?”

Vizaeth rubs at the armlet. When he tugs it down, there’s a small, pale mark beneath where the spider sat, but that’s all. Blood when he needs it. No more scars. He pushes it back into place.

“Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.” Pharaun covers a yawn with his hand. “You’ve quite worn me out, you insatiable little fiend. Time for you to go.”

“But you said the whole night,” Vizaeth protests. Lothaphyon’s tail twitches at his distress. “You promised!”

Pharaun eyes him a moment, then shrugs and plucks up the wine to take another swallow. Still so adorably nervous. “I suppose I did. But you bleed on my sheets again, or snore, and you’re gone.”

“I won’t, I don’t,” Vizaeth assures him.

“And get rid of the rat. I don’t need you spying on me.”

In a blink, Lothaphyon vanishes. They finish the wine together, sips alternated with soft kisses and fresh bruises sucked tenderly into his neck. Neither of them have the energy for more though, so once it’s gone, he joins Pharaun in the bed, where their mingled scent still lingers even after all the magic it took to cleanse the damage he did. He curls against Pharaun’s back, knees tucked into his, face pressed to the space between his shoulder blades. Pharaun allows an arm over his waist, and Vizaeth’s palm lays exactly over his heart. As his own slows to a more even pace, a sense of peace falls over him for the first time in months.

The pulse they share is beating in time again. He smiles against Pharaun’s skin.

“I love you,” he whispers.

Pharaun, already in reverie, snores lightly. Vizaeth laughs softly to himself, and settles into the trance. It’s alright. He can tell him in the morning. Finally, everything is back to the way it’s meant to be, and this time he’s not going to let anything—or anyone—tear them apart.