If you haven't already, I would suggest reading the story's sequel Luck, or Lack Thereof, which details the first meeting between Valen and Seridur. This story continues their odd arrangement – 'relationship' would be too generous a term, I think – through Seridur's POV, as well as introducing a new pairing that might actually be canon: Seridur with his bodyguard/servant, Cylben. Read part two if you're interested in that particular pairing.

Warnings: Again, this is smut, albeit consensual this time.

Lucky for Some – part one

He was, arguably, the luckiest vampire in existence.

But then, he wasn't a great believer in luck. It was in the tactics, really; staying in a crowded, heavily-guarded city seemed like an astonishingly bad idea, but it was such an inconvenient place for an undead creature to be that he was able to live quite safely. Being the leader of an anti-vampire organisation helped too, of course. He'd garnered a bit of respect in the community, acquired a few stupid followers to sing his praises, and hey presto, no-one suspected a thing. Not even his housekeeper-slash-bodyguard, though he'd chosen Cylben quite deliberately for his utter lack of nosiness. And his devotion, since he'd been quite taken with Seridur since their first meeting, which made for a good servant.

Oh, and his blood too, of course.

Unfortunately, that wasn't to be indulged in very often. Cylben was a light sleeper, entailing a drop or two of calming potion in his drink if Seridur didn't want him to wake mid-feed. He normally made do with the pretty, helpless maidens so frequently wandering the city at night...almost asking to be preyed on, really. Cylben aside, he had up until recently preferred women, but now the appeal of other men was starting to grow on him. Or perhaps it was just one man in particular. One mer in particular, to be pedantic about it.

Now this was where the 'luckiest vampire' thing came into play. He already had it made, but precious few of his kind could claim a regular and risk-free source. Though he supposed it was rather tragic, it was also enormously convenient that no-one cared about a sneering, foul-mouthed Dunmer with eleven years of prison to his name. Apart from him, apparently, which was why the Imperial jailer always let him in for visitation without a second thought, no hesitation and no questions asked.

Quite the lap of luxury.

And approaching Dreth had other...advantages as well. He'd only ever drank from Cylben as he slept; while the housekeeper never questioned Seridur's great aversion to fire and fondness for evenings, his most likely reaction to his master's vampirism would be...unfavourable. Whereas Dreth not only knew, but-

Well.

Enjoyed it.

With a nod of greeting to the prison guard as he passed by, Seridur descended into the Imperial jail. It was damp this time of year, the perfect breeding grounds for disease – and sure enough, he could hear coughing from the only occupied cell in this part of the prison.

"Valen," he called out when he reached the cell, fingertips trailing against the metal bars, "You're not too ill for a visit, are you?"

"Of course n-" an argument made completely redundant when he broke into a sore-sounding fit of coughs. "Of course not," he repeated anyway, and hidden by the safe shadows of his cell, pulled himself upright from the floor, leaning heavily against the wall.

He had forgotten, perhaps... "You know, vampires can see quite well in the dark."

He laughed softly when Valen bristled, realising he couldn't hide anything from the likes of Seridur. With a displeased scowl, the Dunmer spat out, "Fine, I'm ill. Why, does that make me too dirty for your majesty's consumption?"

"Of course not. I have no reason to worry." Being an Altmer crossed with a vampire made him immune to any and all disease, after all. "I just don't want you to break into a coughing fit in the middle of it all. Spoils the moment."

"Because tearing my neck open and drinking my bodily fluids is so romantic."

"When you put it that way..." Seridur murmured, bending down to pick the lock. Dreth had never tried to sugar-coat or glamorise the arrangement between them – pure lust, for blood and for flesh, respectively. It was refreshing, really, to find someone who stated things for what they were, as opposed to a string of carefully, chosen euphemisms. Perhaps that was why he kept returning to this dank little prison cell, even with all the fresher prey walking about outside.

"Did you bring me a present?" Valen asked as the Altmer approached, allowing the cell door to swing shut behind him.

"But of course," Seridur answered with a charming smile, and produced a small bottle from within his doublet, "Potion of Cure Disease. Just the one, they don't come cheap."

He had to wonder if the Dark Elf had even seen a cure-all potion before, the way he was looking at it. A mix of wonderment and greed, as though he were gazing upon liquid gold. It was, essentially. "Are you going to drink it or sell it?"

"...Drink it, probably," though he looked tempted by the latter option; he had, after all, lived in enforced poverty for the last eleven years of his life, and the thought of actually having money was undoubtedly more appealing than the thought of good health. "I'm not allowed things like this. The guards will confiscate it before long."

"Hide it away, then," he watched the Dunmer strategically tuck the bottle away in a corner, "Now then...shall we?"

"We shall," Valen echoed with mock-elocution, stepping forwards and tilting his head to one side to expose the bare, ashen-blue expanse of his neck. And Seridur, quite literally, helped himself.

Funny how his palette had developed. In the beginning, blood was blood – it didn't matter who or where it was from, it was simply sustenance. Over time, he had distinguished a particular taste unique to each race. From there, social class had played its part, from the thick, over-sweet blood of the wasteful nobility to the water-thin vitae of the homeless. And by now, he could even associate a person with their own individual flavour.

The difference between Cylben and Valen, for example, was much akin to fine wine. One was unmistakably new, brimming with youth and vigour; the other was aged but arguably more flavoursome, rich like old spice and decidedly addictive. He enjoyed both equally – perhaps he had a preference for Dunmers – though he wished he could take from Cylben as freely as he did from Valen. The prisoner was just the right combination of angry, sexually frustrated, greedy and depraved enough to allow a vampire to frequently use him. The question was, was Dreth paying him with blood, for the sex and occasional gifts? ...Or was he paying Dreth with sex and gifts, in exchange for his blood?

When the heartbeat began to slow, he pulled back – sadly, Valen was not in the best physical condition, and care had to be taken. The Dark Elf flopped bonelessly against him, though he could feel a distinct hardness somewhere around his thigh, given the height differences between them. He laughed silkily, sweeping Dreth up into his arms – and Dreth struggled as he always did, still not terribly pleased at being lifted so easily, still not realising that his reaction was half the reason Seridur kept doing it. And he placed the other down on that rather pitiful thing Valen called a bedroll, casually unlacing the prisoner's sack-cloth pants.

The first time he'd done this, Valen had been quite surprised and perhaps a little mortified, though he had quickly changed his mind. Now he no longer kicked up a fuss, simply murmured a sleepy "No teeth," before allowing Seridur to continue.

Continue he did, willing lips on hard flesh, kissing, licking, base to tip. He'd always preferred receiving blowjobs to giving them, but it was fair payment for the still-warm blood working its way through his veins. Dreth squirmed and shivered beneath him, panting heavily and with just a slight wheeze in his breath from his still-present illness. At least with the cure-all potion, that would be cleared come Seridur's next visit.

After teasing him awhile – and Valen was already close to finishing, bless him – the Altmer finally opened his mouth and, smirking at Dreth's strangled gasp, slid slowly down. Then up, then down, then up again, and established a steady rhythm that was just fast enough to prevent any impatient 'Get on with it!' remarks, and yet just low enough to keep Dreth thrashing in desperation for more.

He had, however, noticed a recurring trend in the Dunmer's behaviour, which he was doing even now: holding back. He could see it in the tension of his muscles – if they could be called that, withered by time as they were – the trembling of his legs, and the twitching of his fingers. Valen did this every visit; at first he had been puzzled, since the prisoner's main reason for agreeing to their exchange was the sexual fulfilment. Now, though, he had come to understand.

He didn't want it to end.

It was quite sad, really. He had to continuously remind himself that Dreth had nothing, even the clothes on his back had been issued by the prison. His home was a damp, lice-ridden cell and his bed was a scrap of cloth that was every bit as uncomfortable as the floor. So it had been for eleven years.

So to have this...even without the gifts, to have the visitation and presence of someone from the outside world...it was no surprise that he clung to it. His only other physical contact came from the guards, in the form of fists and feet to match the sneered insults. Of course, Dreth gave as good as he got, and he might have escaped such brutality if he had just kept his mouth shut, but even so. He was aware, from the rumours he'd heard to the occasional dark, ugly bruise he spotted on Valen, to know just what he was subjected to. It didn't weigh terribly on him, since drinking blood did wonders for eliminating the conscience, but he was aware of what this meant to Valen. Not romance, or tenderness, or kinship, but liberty from his otherwise miserable life.

Why, who knew that giving a blowjob could be such a good deed? So he waited for the sharp, choking gasp, pulled back and to the side just in time; he was certainly not going to swallow it, that was entirely too unbecoming. And when Valen finally stopped writhing in the throes of pleasure, he sat up, flashing his most sultry and self-assured smile.

"So, did you enjoy yourself, hm?"

Valen tried to glare but failed, and instead settled for looking tired. His breathing was still laboured, so Seridur leaned over and murmured, "Remember to take that potion," into the other mer's ear before getting to his feet. After dusting himself off, he exited the cell door, making sure to lock it again – couldn't have his prisoner running away. He would have uttered a farewell, but Dreth appeared to have already fallen asleep.

Well, hopefully he wouldn't forget about the potion, Seridur mused as he strolled back to the prison's entrance. He did prefer Dreth without the hacking cough, and the cure-all would fix that up nicely.

And if it happened to have an aphrodisiac or two mixed in there...well, if it kept his prisoner pining, all the better for him.

Luck, after all, was in the tactics.

Part two for a direct continuation – Seridur returns home to his bodyguard/servant, Cylben.