Khemet

Pairing: Ahriman/Khayon

I was toying with styles yesterday, dipped my toes into first present narration :)

1,017 words

In the spill of this galaxy, there exist only two things Ahriman adores more than his own life: old, secret-filled tomes and me. Oh, I need not feign humility when it comes to his affection; with absolute confidence, I can say that, were I to pass, Ahriman would first mourn me with the teary pathos of a hysterical widow and then follow me into oblivion. He grieves for burned books nearly as ardently, but I digress; this is not a tale of sorrow, but of love. Of a little mischief, perhaps.

Two things: Sekhandur and scrolls. I wonder: how would Ahriman take both at once?

With that idea in mind, I come to him in the Athenaeum of the Khemet, one of the many ships gifted to him. The beautiful, sleek vessel boasts an unusually large library, one frequently scavenged by Magnus for rarer finds, and so Ahriman hides his most prized discoveries behind the tall shelves. I pick out one such tome, secreted behind the false back of an ivory drawer, and bring it to my tall, ravishing, enchanting lover.

“Let us read some,” I tell him with a naughty smile and watch him try to read my intent. Oh, how adorably he furrows his brow in thought - he thinks, he thinks, and he knows I’ve something lewd in mind, but he can’t quite tell my scheme.

“In private?” he asks, glances over the scuttling apprentices. I ponder, I hum, and then I nod.

“In private, Ahzek.”

He smiles and beckons me to follow, and I trot after him whilst clutching my find, and I think about each and every time Ahriman has complained about being too old, or too tired for a young consort. I let him rant, and I let him whine whenever he wishes, but never can I bring myself to believe him. He’s more than enough energy for sex whenever I demand it of him, and I demand it often enough to put harems to shame.

Or, perhaps it is I who should feel ashamed. But how could I, having a mate as potent as Ahriman? How could I hold myself back, how could I not drool at the very thought of him?

Once we reach his sanctum, he pulls me from my fantasies. A paper-thin hatch parts us from the rest of the library; how fortuitous that I happened to bring with us a volume on the Mark of Thotmes, the Legion’s one and only silencing spell.

Gently, Ahriman pulls the hefty tome from my arms and tosses it open on a nearby lectern. I can only assume his choice of page is deliberate, as careless as he seems throwing the issue.

“Read, then,” he motions idly to the book, “perhaps you will learn a thing or two.”

Again, I nod, and I step up to the open pages. Ahriman follows behind me, and he wastes no time; he knows what I want, and he wants to give it to me. Unceremoniously, he bends me over the reading desk and hoists up the kilt of my robe.

I bite my lip in anticipation.

“Discovered by the first Magister Templi of the Athanaeans, revered Thothmes, the Mark of Thothmes shrouds a predetermined locale in silence,” I begin dutifully reciting what I see on the old pages; eagerly, impatiently, I swing my hips from side to side. Ahriman grabs them, stills them by force; he leans against me, teases at my entrance, and I trail a drop of precome over the floor. Eyes on the lines, I tell myself, not rolling into the back of my skull. Not yet.

“It is commonly presumed that the spell was developed to preserve the secrecy of the Magister’s hidden meetings,” I continue, try to roll my hips against Ahriman, “the truth, however, is much more piquant.”

I grin at the book; just as I begin getting genuinely excited about its contents, Ahriman rudely distracts me by pulling me onto his cock. I gasp at the intrusion; my pounding groin spits another lace of clear fluid.

“Go on,” Ahriman says, waits until I find my line, then pulls me onto him again in another deep thrust.

“As—as per the admission of Magister Thot—Thotmes,” I gag on my own breath; holding onto the lectern with all my strength, I push against Ahriman’s girth. “The Mark was o—originally meant to quieten inappropriately loud concubines in—in the—“

“In the Maatahari,” Ahriman finishes for me, leans forward, forces me to tiptoe. “You can tell it is a fake, as the Maatahari was not built until centuries later. I do love me an erotic novel every now and then, but they should get their minutiae in order.”

The words on the page blur together. My cock drools over the tiles, and I drool over the parchment; Ahriman does not seem to mind it, no, he encourages it by grabbing me by the hair and pushing my cheek to the pages. His other arm reaches around my abdomen; with so perfect a hold on me, he can pull me up, hold me at his hips’ height and fuck into me with wild abandon.

With a shaking hand, I attempt to draw Thotmes’ Mark to drown out my whimpering moans. My fingers fail me the moment Ahriman drives me over the edge; I tense, cramp, and then finally release, spraying hot white over the ground beneath. Shortly after, Ahriman follows me into my climax; with a muffled grunt, he hilts himself inside me and lets the sight of me squirming - tiptoeing - crying - begging carry him through a much quieter orgasm. His warmth spills into me, and I moan again, knowing that I’ll carry it around with me all day, let the filth run down my thighs, mark me.

“What a challenging student you are,” Ahriman breathes into my ear after the ordeal, runs both his arms around me and squeezes. I am dear to him, and he’ll dearly fuck me again, I’m sure of it. In the face of another round, I dare consider the bareback-paperback merger a great success.