Vineyard

At last, a smutty vineyard fanfic for the cultured as a belated V-day tribute.

Ahriman/Khayon, 1,427 words

There exists a notion that wine, albeit corrupting, is somehow nobler than other blood-poisoning beverages. Many like to imagine it sipped from precious glasses and only in small amounts, teasing the tongue rather than inducing mindless inebriation.

From personal experience, I can assure you that wine can be as mind-numbing as any sweet poison. Moreover, it claims a unique achievement to its name: of all liquid vices, only wine has thus far managed to erode the reason and wit of the brilliant and invariably serious Ahzek Ahriman.

Before I begin this story, let me preface it with an affectionate, relieved statement that my lover is not a belligerent drunk. I’ve seen both brothers and mortals let loose their inner daemons whilst under the influence of one substance or another, become monsters rather than men; Ahriman manifests no such terror, for there is simply none hidden within him, only a sea of greater sorrows. And lust; much, much of lust.

Though Ahriman’s beloved vineyard burned together with Prospero, he never gave up on trying to rebuild it, replicate it. The corrupted soil of most Eye-bound worlds proved unsuitable for his experiments; I was privileged to witness every successful try however, rare as they were, to taste the spoils of his efforts. Just like his own self, they were a little bitter, and a little sweet, and very, very spicy.

One such successful growing took place on the unassuming world of Granicus V, upon which Ahriman had chosen to roost following a fit of homesick nostalgia. I was invited to his side in a series of increasingly pathetic letters, of which each I dearly kissed with a softly whispered ‘oh, honey’. Ahriman was painfully lonely, and I fared no better, and so I heeded his call and came to him in his new home, his new vineyard.

It was a respectable copy of the first, I had to give him that. Admittedly, I cared little for any sights outside of his body, and he was too desperate to brood over my lack of feedback.

Instead of pondering the whys and hows of architecture and winemaking, we fucked. Gods, we fucked with such deranged intensity that our screams startled the serfs tending the orchards. Restraint was not something Ahriman partook in whilst sloshed out of his senses, though he maintained a remarkable clarity of desire, and he acted on said desire with the precision of a perfectly sober man.

Simply put, he still made for an excellent, if a little rabid lover.

“Your mutation is spreading,” I told him after the sixth or seventh round; he graciously deigned to grant me brief reprieve from his rough affections, if only to satiate his thirst. “I don’t remember the halo.”

“Mhm,” he hummed idly and so did his halo; a ring of stars and shifting darkness, it thrummed with a quiet chime. Of all the changes wrought upon Ahriman’s body by the Warp, that one was the loveliest, and the one most worthy and significant of his majesty. I shared my impression with him, and he answered with another purr, and he chugged a mouthful of cloying red, and he came back with it still on his tongue. We plunged into a dirty, toxic kiss; too slow, or perhaps deliberately careless to swallow all of the shared wine, it spilled from our mouths, onto our bare bodies and into the sheets beneath.

Spurred on by the filthy display, I breathed into him an obscene prayer. A benevolent god, Ahriman granted my wish with immediate haste.

Strong arms dragged me off the bed I lazied on, bent me over the edge. Scented oil still lingered in Ahriman’s groin and between my legs, and so he breached me with little resistance; my cock leapt at the intrusion, spat a lace of precome at the soiled blanket I desperately clutched.

Eager to set himself into a quick pace of deep thrusts, Ahriman grabbed me by the hips and pulled me against every violent push of his.

“You little whore,” he wheezed a frenzied whisper, “you stupid, insatiable, delightful cock-sheath. I want to,” he paused to swallow a hiccup, “I want to dress you up in frills and white stockings and make you my skimpy, slutty bride.”

I managed a smile in between unhinged, blissful moans. “You—ah—are going to be so embarrassed of what you said—“

A particularly forceful shove cut off my sentence, and I instead choked on the damp fabric my face had been pushed into. My mind indulged the fantasy presented by Ahriman and showed me an image of myself as a laced bride, sheepishly shivering in the arms of another. It was humiliating, and just the mental push I needed to plummet into a drooling, squirming climax.

Behind me, Ahriman tensed in every muscle. He whined, then cried his excitement; his nails dug into the soft flesh cushioning my hips, and he firmly held me still for his release, used and subdued. I slavishly offered my ass for every drop of hot spend he spared for me, and I begged him for more throughout his orgasm, always more to keep me filled and marked, but he didn’t treat me to another round of sweltering sex after he was done. No, he fell out of me and cooled his back on the cold tiles, still panting, still hard and throbbing.

I allowed myself a second of the same comfort, then scrambled to my feet to look where we had left the oil jug. It stood by Ahriman’s wine amphora on a nearby table, and I skipped over to bring both above my resting lover. The wine I poured onto and into his mouth; the oil then into my pulsating, come-stained crotch.

“Why me, anyway?” I asked after I sank to my knees between his legs and tossed the empty vessels aside, “of us two, you’re the one set on always wearing white.”

“I don’t know.” A blush crossed his star-freckled cheeks. “Would you have me as your skimpy, slutty bride, Sekh—?”

I did not know whether he was deliberately nicknaming me or if it was a lucky, adorable byproduct of an untimely hiccup. Regardless, it diluted my intent of taking him on the floor with as little care as possible, and instead nudged me into a gentler approach.

“Any day, any time,” I said and aligned the tip of my cock with his tight entrance. I teased him softly for a while, observing his face, reading the changes in his expression. He was beautiful, my drunk demigod, doubly so when he was so flustered.

“I do,” he sighed his vows as I came into him, and his halo expanded outwards, as if to reflect my stretching of him. I smiled at the sight, at the stars’ vulgarity; the galaxy stood a voyeuristic witness to our coupling, and it seemed every bit as excited as we were.

Ahriman kept its attention - and mine - by putting his bare body on display in strained stretches. I wanted to draw out his discomfort, toy with him as he toyed with me in sober games of dominance and discipline, but I lacked his patience, his control.

My arms wrapped around his gaunt waist.

He was keening under my wildly bucking hips.

I finished inside him like a dog, drooling and biting and howling, mere minutes after I had begun taking him. Our thought-linked minds melted into a puddle of inebriated euphoria, and for a hot second, I glimpsed another of Ahriman’s fantasies: his beloved Hanging Gardens, rebuilt on some faraway world, each terrace a stage for sweaty, breedy sex. He came to the image, and I wanted to swear to bring it into reality right after, but he was deaf to any promise of mine by the end of his sticky reverie; satisfied and so, so very tired, he let the wine’s warmth take him out of consciousness.

I could not help but smile. There was something incredibly romantic about fucking him to sleep.

I enjoyed another moment of his squeezing tightness, then slipped out of him with a wet spill of our mixing juices. I used my last ounce of strength to take the dozing prince back to his royal bed, and then sat beside him on the sodden sheets with a whimpered lullaby.

Oh, I promised him more than the Gardens; I promised him everything. Would that he heard me then and held me to my every word, so that I could forever stay at his side to fulfill any wish of my cosmic bride.