#Ahuitzotl | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

notapaladin · 2 years

Text

find yourself in time

Teomitl is pining. The ahuitzotls are helping. Acatl rediscovers an old hobby.

yes this shamelessly features my Autistic Acatl Agenda. give this man a rock collection!!

Also on AO3

Mortals, it was commonly agreed, were hopeless. In fighting, in eating, and especially in mating. They had no sharp teeth or claws, and they could barely bend their spines. No graceful spirals through the water for them. Their mortal was stronger and more flexible than most, but whenever he had to put his false-claws down and talk he was the most hopeless of all.

The bottom of their lake was cold and dark, just the way they liked it; they needed no light to identify each other, and no creature of Jade Skirt needed anything so pedestrian as air to talk. The ahuitzotls coiled in a loose pile, legs thrown over backs and tails scratching idly at heads, and once again returned to their most pressing problem.

What to do about their mortal.

Jade Skirt’s chosen had fallen like a corpse—fast and graceless—for a priest who smelled of dry dust and dry bones. A priest who served the gods well and didn’t run screaming when the ahuitzotls slithered up on dry land. A priest who was...quite skilled, for a mortal. Good with knives, at any rate, and a fit companion for their Teomitl.

Who was doing a terrible job of making the man his. Clearly, he needed help.

“He doesn’t bring gifts,” one of them grumbled in a voice like a flute.

Another, its chest splotched white, looked thoughtful. Any of them would come when their mortal called, but White Chest was...fond of him. He had cried into its fur one bad day, when many of its fellows had been summoned and slain at the behest of an embodied ghost. It was inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt. “He brings food?”

“His mate can catch his own meals,” Flute Voice grumbled. “But you are right, it shows...willing.”

“Not enough,” hissed a third.

“His mate has no shiny things,” a fourth growled.

Backs bristled and tails curled. One or two of the ahuitzotls showed their fangs. Plenty of them hunted on their own, but even the most solitary among them had a favorite rock or prized broken earring. To have nothing at all was—it was unheard of! What was their mortal doing?

White Chest ventured, “His mate says he needs no shiny things.” It was true. Their mortal had told it so many times. Mostly in tones of great indignation, admittedly.

This caused something of an uproar. “Ridiculous!” one snarled, and variations on the theme sprung up from the rest of the pile. Their mortal was covered in gold; he smelled of clinking stones and resinous incense, and his clothes were bright as birds’ feathers. His current mate, she who smelled of hearthsmoke and flowers, was a fit match for him, but his intended? The priest of dry bones? Such a man was already drab and boring and at a horrible disadvantage; he needed all the shiny things he could get!

“Well,” Flute Voice finally said. “We must give him some.”

The consequences of doing otherwise didn’t need to be stated out loud. They knew they were all thinking the same thing, and even White Chest had to agree. If they didn’t help, their mortal would pine for the pretty priest forever.

The rainy season was never exactly pleasant, but today it was positively nauseating; even at dawn, Acatl had barely been able to choke down a few gulps of atole. As the day wore on, it had only gotten worse. The smell in the temple complex really didn’t even bear thinking about. And it was only noon, with the hottest parts of the day still to come. He wouldn’t be able to take shelter indoors, either; a woman’s seemingly-normal death had strange traces of magic, and now he had to investigate. Hopefully it would be at least a little cooler on the canals.

And when he stepped down onto the pier, he tripped over something. Hard.

His first reaction, hastily bitten back, was unrepeatable in polite company. Or any company. He could just see Palli’s shocked expression out of the corner of his eye. Still grimacing, he shifted weight off his bruised toes—now radiating pain up his leg, gods, he hoped he hadn’t just broken a toenail—and looked down to see what some idiot had left in his path. A jug? A bucket?

...A rock. A perfectly smooth, oval rock, pure white, with glittery mica flecks scattered across its surface. Not something likely to have been washed up from the lake naturally. Frowning, he bent to pick it up and found that it fit in his palm perfectly. Something was carved or painted on its underside; when he turned it over, he realized it held the shallow stone imprint of a shell. Huh.

“Acatl-tzin?”

He turned back to Palli and Ezamahual, absently slipping the stone into his belt pouch. A faint childhood memory was tugging at him. Hadn’t he loved collecting rocks? “Never mind. Let’s go talk to that woman’s husband.”

It was indeed cooler on the canals. Not by much, but still. Sadly, the trip from their pier to the dead woman’s house was too short to really enjoy it. Her husband had been a wealthy merchant, and as they rowed Acatl found himself thinking about the man. Cuetlachtli, age about forty, had been the one to summon them after his wife’s death, but his demeanor had been...odd. Oh, he’d sounded close to tears, but there had been a strange flatness in his eyes. Acatl frowned, remembering it. It wouldn’t be the first case he’d seen where someone’s spouse had been the one responsible for their demise.

When they pulled up in front of the house—a spotlessly clean facade with frescoes of flowers and mountains—a young woman was there to greet them. She wore a long braid, a yellow-and-red striped skirt, and a scowl so close to the one Acatl was used to seeing on Mihmatini’s face that he had to battle an urge to stay in the boat. “Acatl-tzin. You must be here to question my brother again,” she said.

“We are.”

With a brisk nod, she turned on her heel and motioned for them to follow. Last night, the house had resembled a kicked anthill; the mistress of the house was dead, and everyone wanted to know how such a thing could have happened. Today, it was eerily silent. The various relatives and slaves they’d questioned earlier were keeping their heads down and their mouths closed.

Cuetlachtli’s sister—gods, what was her name—Coyoxochitl, that was it—was not. She spoke softly and steadily as she walked. “I’m not surprised. My brother was a jealous bastard, pardon my language. He’s been holed up in his chambers since after you left. Won’t even talk to me.”

Acatl grimaced. “Well. Perhaps he’ll speak to us.”

The main sleeping chambers of the house opened onto a courtyard. Coyoxochitl stepped onto the packed earth and froze for a moment, spine stiffening. Acatl didn’t need to ask why. He smelled the blood too.

“Cuetlachtli...?” she began, but instead of waiting for a reply she picked up her skirt and sprinted for the closed entrance curtain, yanking it aside in a cacophony of bells.

The room beyond held Cuetlachtli, sprawled on his back with his arm bloody and a knife laying inches away from his nerveless hand. It held a quincunx traced in blood and surrounded by glyphs.

And it held a twisted...thing, a monster with too many claws, which Acatl barely had a chance to register before it was leaping at them.

It knocked Coyoxochitl down; Palli, who was taller with longer legs and had therefore been just behind her, cried out sharply and staggered back, clutching a bleeding shoulder. Acatl struck at it, but it was faster than he was and didn’t seem inclined to stay and fight. Before he could try for another blow, it was already racing past them and out of the courtyard like a starved jaguar.

“After it!” he snapped, but he didn’t need to; his priests were already moving.

The creature clearly didn’t care who or what was in its way; it was solely intent on escape. The rest of the household scattered like startled quail ahead of it, one or two of the braver women throwing things at it as they ran. Most of them missed, but Acatl had to admire their initiative. And it was slowing the thing down.

Not enough, though. They caught up to it just in time to see it slip into the canals and vanish.

“...Well,” Acatl muttered. There was more he could have said, but all of it was profane.

“What was that thing?” Palli panted. He was still clutching his shoulder, and now that Acatl was looking at him he realized it had been a worse injury than he’d thought. He was pale, and shaky on his feet.

He bit his lip. “I’m not sure. Sit down. We’ll...handle things from here.”

The next hour or so passed in a blur. The thing had killed Cuetlatchtli, its claws and teeth leaving unmistakable wounds. Coyoxochitl was in an understandable state of shock, but in between cursing her brother’s name and shakily accepting his death she proved to have a wealth of information for them regarding his failing marriage, his cowardice, and the likelihood that he’d summoned the thing just to kill himself. The sloppy state of the quincunx seemed to bear that last point out.

Regardless, their next steps were clear. Coyoxochitl’s household was doing their best with Palli’s injuries, but he needed a real healer. They could continue searching for the creature afterwards.

When they stepped out onto the street, they had company. A much larger boat was pulling up alongside theirs, and waving to them from the prow was Teomitl.

“Acatl!” he called.

Acatl stared at him. He was glistening a little in the heat, cloak thrown back off his shoulders, and the rippling of his muscles as he leaned over for a closer look at them was an irresistible trap for Acatl’s gaze. They’d seen each other yesterday and it had been just as hot then, but every time was the same. Every time, his heart thumped a little harder in his chest. It felt like a small eternity until he managed to look at Teomitl’s face instead, which wasn’t much better. The concerned wrinkle between the boy’s brows sent a pang through his heart. “Teomitl, what are you doing here?”

The servant at the oar was rolling his eyes. Teomitl didn’t notice. His gaze was as intent as ever. “I...smelled blood,” he said, with a wrinkle of his nose that suggested smell was an inadequate phrase. “And I knew where you were. There’s something...wrong in the water. What happened?”

“We were attacked,” he muttered. “Palli...”

“I’ll live,” Palli grumbled.

Teomitl took in Palli’s injuries and their bloodstained state with a dissatisfied frown. “You’re wounded. I’ll take you back to the Sacred Precinct; we’ll move faster.”

He was right, and Acatl knew it. The imperial insignia outranked their plain craft any day of the week. Still, when Teomitl added, “And you can tell me what happened on the way,” he couldn’t help but wince. He knew where this was going to go.

Sure enough, after Acatl climbed into the boat and finished summing up the entire situation—actually before he’d quite gotten to the last part of his sentence—Teomitl’s first response was, “Let me help.”

He bit his lip. I shouldn’t. He’s skilled, but that thing was too fast. If he’s hurt... If he was hurt, Acatl wasn’t sure how he’d handle it. The Master of the House of Darts injured on his watch would be bad enough, but the idea of Teomitl bleeding the way Palli was, clutching his wounds with gritted teeth and biting back pained gasps into his cloak every time he moved, was a nightmare. He should say no.

But Teomitl was looking at him with a hopeful expression writ clear across his face for the entire population of Tenochtitlan to see, and so what he actually said was, “If you insist.”

“Thank you,” Teomitl said, with a degree of smugness. It might have been annoying if he hadn’t followed it up with, “And I brought you lunch, by the way. If you’re hungry.”

Acatl’s first thought was to turn him down. It was hot, he was tired, and the stench of the canals wasn’t conducive to appetite. Besides, he doubted Teomitl would have bothered to pick up food for his priests as well; though the man seemed determined to get back on their good sides after that attempted coup, Acatl knew that their lunches together were private affairs. And he...well, he rather liked it that way, actually. When he was alone with Teomitl, belly full of good food, he had no fear of speaking his mind. Not anymore. When they were in public, that same impulse was a problem.

In private, he could squeeze Teomitl’s arm or let himself smile warmly, basking in the second sun of Teomitl’s answering grin. In public, on the canals, with his priests sitting right behind them, he didn’t dare.

“I,” he started.

And then his stomach rumbled, and Teomitl smiled and handed him a slightly squashed tamale. “Eat.”

“It is wrong,” hissed Flute Voice.

“We will kill it.” White Chest didn’t really have to speak. All of them knew they were supposed to be the deadliest things in the lakes. This...aberration, this monster summoned from the heavens that was nowhere near a fit opponent, would pay for encroaching on their territory.

And its head would make a fine present for the priest. He’d have to be impressed by their mortal then!

The pier held more of his priests, who accepted the injured Palli and their explanations. Acatl would have set off at once for the archives to see if anything held clues to what had attacked them, but Ichtaca informed him in no uncertain terms that he would handle it.

That got Teomitl to speak up. He’d been watching the water with a frown, seemingly lost in thought. “It’s still in the lake. I can bring back its head and you can make your inquiries from there.”

Acatl frowned at him. “Not alone. I’m coming with you.”

Teomitl smiled, light glinting off his lip plug. Acatl wasn’t sure he could blame his sudden flush on the heat. They’d been sitting side by side for the entire trip back to the Sacred Precinct, and the awareness of his skin was seared into Acatl’s mind.

Ichtaca cleared his throat. “Take a less conspicuous boat, my lords.”

He had a point. But as soon as Acatl stepped out of the imperial craft, his eye was drawn downwards.

“Another one?” he muttered to himself, bending to pick up the rock that had absolutely no place being there. This one was striped pale orange and white, a little larger than his thumb.

Teomitl was already picking out one of the temple’s boats, but he lifted his head at Acatl’s words. “What is it?”

He had had a rock collection as a child. He’d spent hours painstakingly lining them up just so, watching how the light picked out sparkly flecks in their surfaces or accentuated their unusual shapes. It had been vitally important to organize them by color and then by decreasing size. Sometimes he’d tried to stack them as high as he could. His cousins and Neutemoc had teased him mercilessly, and the other calmecac students had been ruthless. “Ah, nothing,” he said automatically.

And then Teomitl was giving him that look that said he knew Acatl was lying to him, how dare he, and he tugged the oar out of the man’s hands and muttered, “Today seems to be a day for finding unusual stones. I...used to collect them as a boy.” No matter that it was foolish to expect mockery for such a simple thing, the admission left a sick tension in his gut.

Teomitl knew better than to start an argument over who would be rowing, but that of course didn’t mean he was quiet. “Not anymore?”

Acatl pushed off from the pier. “...No.”

Teomitl bit his lip. “You could start up again,” he remarked. “Nobody would stop you. You know Mihmatini has that ceramic animal collection.”

Acatl hummed noncommittally. Teomitl wasn’t wrong, really. It had been...nice, to look at that collection of stones. They hadn’t been rare or expensive, but they’d held value to him nonetheless. And if they were going to keep falling into his path out of nowhere, it wasn’t as though he didn’t have the space to keep them. It had just been so long since he’d thought of anything like that, even though Mihmatini kept suggesting he should pick up a hobby. The thought of taking time for himself when he was so busy, when he had the fate of the Fifth World as a constant buzzing worry in the back of his mind, had seemed wrong.

Teomitl had brought him a tamale stuffed with honeyed papaya, perfect for breaking the heat of the day. He’d eaten it and found himself happy, no matter that people were dead and they were on the trail of a monster. Teomitl had made him face the reality of Tizoc’s unworthiness. He’d cursed their Revered Speaker’s name out loud and felt no regret. If Teomitl suggested he start collecting rocks again...

He could try.

First, though, they had work to do. “You said you could track the thing.”

Teomitl nodded, all business again. “It feels...strange. Not like that time we fought the beast of shadow or the tlaloques. The lake hates it. Let me...”

And then his face was taking on the cast of Jade Skirt, eyes swirling green. Acatl shuddered at the memory of Tlaloc’s creations, but kept an eye on his former student as Teomitl held out a hand just above the water. The man had never learned his limits.

When Teomitl spoke, his voice was flat and ageless and not his own. Gods, Acatl hated that. “South.”

Acatl started rowing south, heading around the Precinct and out of the city. Boat traffic dwindled as they left the crowded canals behind, the shouting of vendors and fishermen and merchants fading to echoes in his ears. Neither of them felt much like talking; Teomitl needed all his concentration to track the wrongness he felt, and as for Acatl...

Honestly, it was simply too hot. It had been a while since he’d rowed for this long in summer heat, and once they got into open waters the sun beat down on his shoulders without opposition. Retying his hair so it exposed the nape of his neck helped a little, but not enough. He found himself sort of wishing for one of those hats the Maya people wore, but in the meantime there was only one thing he could do. Grimacing, he untied his cloak and let it drop to the bottom of the boat.

Teomitl made an odd noise behind him. Before he could ask what was the matter—the man had seen his shoulders before, they weren’t anything to write home about—a splash brought his attention back to the water where a wrinkled, otterlike face was breaking the surface.

He went very still. “Teomitl—”

“I didn’t summon it!” Teomitl huffed. He waved a hand irritably in its direction. “Go on, shoo.”

If it hadn’t been a creepy, horrible monster, the notion of Teomitl treating it like a dog would have been funny. As it was, Acatl only felt a chill down his spine as the ahuitzotl swam up to the boat and dropped its head over the edge, letting something fall from its open jaws.

It wasn’t alive, bleeding, or scuttling over his toes, so Acatl only dared bend to see what it was after the ahuitzotl had slipped back under the lake’s surface. Blinking in disbelief, he gingerly picked up a third rock.

This one was a little smaller than his palm, rough and dark; basalt, probably. Water had polished it into an odd shape; from a certain angle and if you squinted very hard, it looked sort of like a sleeping coati with its long nose tucked under its tail. “...What,” he said flatly.

Teomitl shifted forward for a look at it. For a moment he had the oddest expression on his face, something between mortification, shock, and disgust—but then he scoffed, a deep flush tinting his cheekbones. “It’s a fine start to your collection, but I can find you a better one. Lots of better ones. Ones that actually look like coatis, if you want.”

Nobody had ever looked at his rock collection and offered to add to it. Or thought about what he might like, if maybe he judged based on shape or sparkliness or simply something that looked interesting. He felt his own face go warm. “...You don’t...have to,” he muttered, ignoring the way his traitorous heart thumped faster at the thought. Teomitl was the sort who liked giving gifts to his friends. That was all. It didn’t mean anything else. Hastily, he groped for a change of topic. “Are we any closer to finding that creature, can you tell?”

Teomitl grimaced. “We were, but I think the ahuitzotl scared it off. I really don’t know why it did that; they like rocks and anything that glitters, but they don’t usually give gifts if they like you. They just...sing. Constantly.”

By the look on Teomitl’s face, he didn’t like that either. Acatl gave his shoulder a quick, reassuring squeeze and wished he could do more. “Let’s hope it hasn’t gone far. I want to kill it before it decides it’s hungry.”

Teomitl nodded, jade gleaming in his eyes again. “Give me a moment.”

For the first time, Acatl had some semblance of an idea how it must have felt when they were hunting the beast of shadows. He was a much better rower than Teomitl was, but being the one following an uncertain, rapidly-shifting heading still wasn’t easy. Teomitl’s sense of wrongness led them steadily south and east towards Nezahualcoyotl’s Dike, thankfully away from major boat traffic. It seemed the creature still didn’t want to be found.

Or it was leading them into a trap.

They were coming up on one of Lake Texcoco’s innumerable small islands—really nothing more than an oversized tangle of lake weeds supporting a few enterprising saplings in its accumulated silt—when Teomitl leapt to his feet and drew his sword. “It’s here!”

Acatl dropped the oar and drew his knives just in time for the monster to burst out of the weeds. His first confused glimpses had been of a thing like a half-skeletal jaguar, nearly transparent, with massively outsized claws and far too many teeth. As it bore down on them, he realized those impressions had been correct, but he’d missed that it had six limbs—really, was that necessary?—and eight spiderlike eyes.

It was all he had time to notice before a trio of ahuitzotls erupted out of the water with such force that the boat nearly tipped over. Acatl thought he cried out, but the splashing and the monster’s screeching almost drowned out his own voice.

It didn’t drown out Teomitl’s defensive yelp of, “I did not order this!” but Acatl ignored that. Grabbing him before he fell off the boat was more important. The ahuitzotls had latched onto the monster and were dragging it under, turning the water to red froth, and he didn’t like their chances if they got in the middle of that.

“I know you didn’t!” he snapped back. The waters were calming down, and the monster was nowhere to be seen. That was probably a bad sign. “Can you make sure they don’t attack us next?”

Teomitl grimaced. “I can try!”

And then something—another ahuitzotl?—slammed into the underside of the boat, and it went over.

Cold.

The water was cold. Deep and cold, but that would have been bearable if not for the weeds threatening to tangle his limbs and hair; he fought the urge to struggle, knowing they’d drag him down if he did. The stones in his belt pouch smacked painfully against his hip as he tried to orient himself. Teomitl couldn’t be farther than an arm’s length away from him, but in the silty water all he could make out was a slightly darker shape.

Teomitl...! His fingers scrabbled for an arm, a trailing cloak-edge, something, and then closed sharply into a fist as he remembered he was a fool. Trying to drag a conscious man through water was only a good idea if you wanted to send both of you to Tlalocan. Besides, Teomitl was Jade Skirt’s chosen. He swam like a fish. He’d be fine.

Lungs burning with what little breath he’d managed to hold, Acatl aimed himself towards what he dearly hoped was the surface only for an ahuitzotl’s closed tail-hand to smack him in the face as it brushed past, wet fur still somehow rough. Its voice was smooth as though it held back laughter. “You’re welcome, mortals.”

He broke the surface with a ragged gasp, sucking in great gulps of blessed air. It was some time before he could scrape his hair off his face and look around. The upside-down boat was floating placidly away from him, his sopping cloak draped jauntily over the keel. Gods, he really hated ahuitzotls. And it thought I should be grateful? What in the name of the Duality...?

A thunderous splash heralded Teomitl surfacing a few feet away from him. He turned to look, some half-formed thought flitting through his mind that the man might need help, but all he could do was stare. He’d seen Teomitl soaking wet while they fought Tlaloc’s creatures and occasionally dampened by rain—or blood—since then, but he was sure it hadn’t been like this. Then again, he’d never really taken the time to look. He hadn’t been brave enough.

Teomitl was glorious like this, wet skin gleaming like polished wood. His thick hair was flattened down like an otter’s fur, a few unruly parts spiking up around his ears and making Acatl’s fingers itch to fix it. No, to bury in it, to pull his head back, to kiss his throat where the water was streaming over his skin. Teomitl was scrubbing ineffectually at his face with the back of a hand, clearing excess water, but there were still droplets beading in his lashes and flying when he shook his head. The light scattering from them left rainbow glimmers in the air.

This, Acatl thought faintly, is not fair. Well, life wasn’t fair. He’d accepted that. But this? Teomitl drenched to the skin, cloak plastering itself to strong shoulders? This was downright intolerable.

He had to say something. He opened his mouth, but he couldn’t find his voice.

Teomitl twisted to face him, eyes wide as he blinked water from them. “Acatl-tzin!”

“I—I’m alright,” he stammered. Stammered. Honestly.

Teomitl’s face melted into an expression of relief. “Thank the gods. I don’t know what got into those things. Sometimes they...take initiative, but not like that. Do you see the creature anywhere?”

The waters around them were calm as far as the eye could see, with only a rapidly dissipating tinge of pink to show that there had ever been a monster there. Monsters. “...No.” Grimacing, he added, “I think the ahuitzotls ate it.”

“And, of course, they’re nowhere to be found.” Teomitl’s eyes flashed an unsettling yellow for a moment, but instead of going off on a tear as Acatl half feared he would, he just sighed and shook his head. “We don’t have the leverage to right the boat ourselves. Do you mind if I summon them back?”

Treading water was getting tiring. Hating himself, Acatl nodded. “You might as well.”

“You said you would leave the head for the priest!”

“I was hungry,” Flute Voice grumbled.

“It is in our mortal’s hands now,” said White Chest, shaking its head. Jade Skirt help them all.

“Is the interloper dead?”

Flute Voice hummed, “I will be picking sinews from my teeth for days.”

White Chest froze, whiskers going forward. Its eyes began to glow a dim but steady yellow, echoed by its comrades. Their mortal was calling for them. They had to answer.

But first...White Chest would bring a gift.

The ahuitzotls were terrifyingly efficient when it came to flipping the boat right-side up. Teomitl heaved himself in first, water streaming off his limbs in a frankly excessive manner. His wet clothes clung so tightly to his skin that Acatl was very glad to still be in the lake. An ahuitzotl even fetched the oar for him. “I’ll row us back,” he said.

And then he hauled Acatl into the boat as though he weighed nothing. Acatl had known he was strong, but having it demonstrated so effectively made his heart hammer against his ribs. It was worse when instead of leaving him flopped onto the bottom of the boat like a fish, Teomitl took the time to help him sit up properly. The hands on his forearms were a deliciously warm contrast to the chill of his wet skin.

It was almost enough to distract him from the fact that he was sitting on yet another rock. And from what the words spilling from Teomitl’s lovely mouth had actually been.

“Ichtaca will be disappointed enough that we didn’t salvage the creature for study without me having to tell him you crashed the boat,” he said dryly.

Teomitl turned crimson. “I’ve been practicing!”

The expression on his face must have been answer enough, because Teomitl handed him the oar. He was pouting a little, which tugged hard on Acatl’s heartstrings.

Well, if Teomitl said he’d been practicing, then he had. “Next time we go anywhere together, you can row. Promise.”

Teomitl beamed, and he had to look away.

They rowed in silence for a short while, the sun slowly drying their hair and clothes. Acatl had to admit, even if only to himself, that it was much nicer like this. He no longer felt quite so disgustingly sticky, for one thing, and being the one rowing meant that he had a built-in excuse not to look at Teomitl—who, still damp, had his limbs spread out in a way clearly meant to dry himself off as quickly as possible. If he plucked at the trailing end of his loincloth one more time, Acatl was going to scream.

His hair was just beginning to curl up into a wavy nightmare again around the edges when he heard Teomitl comment, almost idly, “They left you another gift. Did you...did you see it?”

He shook his head. “I sat on it,” he muttered, “but I didn’t take a look. Why?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Teomitl flush. “Never mind.”

Now that was bizarre, and at any other time Acatl would have pressed him on it, but they were approaching the more populated parts of the lake and so he held his tongue. He could ask about it when they were back at the temple.

Predictably, Ichtaca wasn’t happy with either of them. He didn’t actually say it, but the heavy sigh he let out when Acatl explained what had happened—leaving out the ahuitzotls’ sudden fixation on giving him rocks, were they trying to court him or something? Duality, he didn’t even want to contemplate that—spoke volumes.

“It’s late, Acatl-tzin,” was all he said. “You should think about eating something.”

It was late. The entire afternoon had gone by while they’d been on the lake, and now the sunlight was starting to turn the world gold. There were four separate rocks clattering together in Acatl’s belt pouch. The last one was unmistakably shaped like a heart. Teomitl had gone absolutely crimson when he’d placed it in his palm, and had been strangely quiet since. Taken together, there was a conclusion there he was afraid to contemplate.

Acatl didn’t feel too much like eating, but he knew Teomitl would want him to. So he turned to him, swallowed a sudden lump in his throat, and asked, “Come with me? There’s food at my house. Nothing fancy, but—”

“I’d love to.” But Teomitl’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Talk to me, he wanted to say. Tell me what’s bothering you. But he couldn’t ask that, not yet, because Ichtaca was still there and watching him with narrowed eyes. It could wait a little longer.

They went home. Nothing had changed in his house since he’d left it that morning. It was still gray and dim and quiet, with his larder full of still-edible fruit and frogs and ground maize. He could grill the frogs and make atole without killing anyone, regardless of what Mihmatini thought about his cooking. Teomitl liked it, and that was all that mattered.

But before he started cooking, there was something he had to know.

He paused in the courtyard. Teomitl came to a stop beside him, too close. Not close enough, but...too close, at least for his current mood.

“So,” he said, taking a step away and glancing at Teomitl to gauge his reaction. “About the ahuitzotls.”

Teomitl bit his bottom lip. “Do they frighten you?” His voice said he was resigned to that.

Acatl thought of grasping claws, snapping jaws, a crooning voice singing of Tlalocan. He thought of the horrible cries they gave when they died, like a wounded infant. Wincing, he muttered, “Even setting aside Chalchiuhtlicue’s patronage, I’m still surprised they don’t frighten you.” He supposed being named after them before he was born might predispose a man not to run in screaming terror, but still. There was such a thing as self-preservation.

“How could I be? They’re....almost part of me, now.” Teomitl clearly realized the unsettling implications of what he’d just said—maybe Acatl’s face was giving his thoughts away—so he held out a placating hand and added, “I’m not about to start drowning people! It’s just...I know how they think. And they’re not so bad, really.”

Acatl gave him a flat look.

Now Teomitl was looking flustered, which was more appealing than it had any right to be. “...Anyway,” he muttered, “you don’t—that is, you shouldn’t need to worry about them. About how they acted today.”

Acatl opened his mouth, ready to interject. They didn’t even leave the creature’s bones behind! But then again, wasn’t that fairly normal for ahuitzotls? They liked eyes and fingernails after all, and the creature had certainly been chitinous enough. The more worrying thing was the gifts. They like rocks, Teomitl had said. And the ahuitzotl had told him, You’re welcome. And there was a heart-shaped rock, and Teomitl had been blushing.

Teomitl was still talking, gesturing in a manner that suggested he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands but was somehow afraid to actually touch him. “I mean, of course you can be worried about their enthusiasm—I didn’t know they could eat things like that!—but about the rocks. I think they were, ah. Trying to...help?”

Acatl stared at him incredulously. “How is dropping rocks at my feet supposed to help?!”

Teomitl wasn’t even looking at him. Sounding at a loss for words, he muttered, “They have...favorite rocks, for cracking shells and things. They give them to each other. Uh, if they’re close. They think I’m one of them, they’re probably trying to—that is, they know I—” He shut his mouth sharply on a strangled noise, face redder than Acatl had ever seen it.

Acatl’s heart felt like it had lodged itself in his throat. He couldn’t quite feel his fingers. “...That you...what?”

Teomitl took a step backwards, drawing his cloak around himself like a cocoon. No; like a shield. “Never mind,” he bit out. “You wouldn’t like hearing it.”

Don’t, Acatl thought desperately. Don’t close yourself off from me. He wanted to lunge for him, to pull him into his arms. He didn’t move.

“How do you know that? You haven’t told me.” Haven’t I given you my blessing to kill your brother, to take the throne for yourself one day? When you’ve cursed Tizoc’s name, haven’t I joined you? What did you do that you think will possibly upset me?

Teomitl spun to glare at him, voice cracking as he snarled, “Because I love you!”

I love you.

Acatl heard himself make a noise that was entirely unconnected to any human word as several rather odd conversations he’d had with Mihmatini made retroactive sense. “You what,” he choked out. Because—because he could not have just heard that. Because things like this didn’t just happen. Not to him.

“You heard me,” Teomitl snapped, and then he turned to leave.

He turned to leave, but not before Acatl saw the glimmer of tears in his eyes. It shocked him into action; before Teomitl could storm out of the courtyard or his life, he bolted forward and grabbed Teomitl’s wrist. The muscles of his forearm were like stone.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he snapped, ignoring the way his voice shook.

“Acatl—”

“Teomitl,” he said with an evenness he didn’t feel.

It must have worked, because Teomitl stopped trying to pull away. Slowly, the tension in his limbs relaxed; he was still stiff, still clearly nervous, but he let Acatl trail his fingers down his hand.

Acatl knew he didn’t have much time. The next words out of his mouth could destroy him. Hastily, he continued, “If I gave you the impression that I—that I wouldn’t like hearing that, it’s only because...”

He trailed off. This was important, too important for him to mess up, and his words had to be perfect. Teomitl loves me. He’d never even allowed himself to dream of this. Not during daylight hours, at any rate. But ahuitzotls had given him gifts because Teomitl—Ahuitzotl—the man who would be Emperor—loved him, and Teomitl was slowly turning to look at him as though Acatl held a knife to his throat, and the only words he had were the truth.

Callused fingers tentatively twined with Acatl’s own. “Yes?”

He sucked in a hard breath and met Teomitl’s eyes. He could do that, at least. “I was afraid of revealing too much.” You weren’t for me. You weren’t for me and I knew it, I couldn’t bear to have it thrown in my face. “I didn’t dare hope you felt the same way I do.”

Teomitl swallowed audibly. “...And...how do you feel?”

Like you’re radiant. You’re the sun of my life. You drive me mad sometimes but you’re everything I never knew to want. You bring me food, you stand by my side, you treat me as an equal and a friend regardless of your station, you even offered to add to my silly little rock collection. Because of you, I remember I’m alive.

“You make me happy,” he blurted out, and squeezed Teomitl’s hand hard.

Teomitl’s face transformed, disbelieving joy turning it soft and open. And then he was taking a step forward and dropping Acatl’s hand, and Acatl had a moment to think oh before Teomitl’s arms went around him and their mouths met.

There was absolutely no thought after that. There was only Teomitl’s mouth on his, tender and careful as though Acatl was something precious. Teomitl’s whole body pressed against his, hard and strong, and he thrilled at the sensation. A hand slid up his back, tangling in his hair and pulling him somehow closer; when he made a nearly embarrassing sound of pleasure, Teomitl moaned and kissed him harder.

He had to break the kiss, if only for air. “Teo—” Another kiss, leaving him briefly speechless. “We should,” he started again, but then Teomitl’s mouth dropped to his neck for an experimental brush of lips that pulled his next words out in a gasp. “Talk about this,” he finally managed.

They really should. Even though he was now sure Mihmatini had known about this all along and was amazed in hindsight that she hadn’t decided to confess her husband’s feelings for him if even the ahuitzotls had been aware of it, that didn’t change the fact that Teomitl was a married man. There were probably matters of scheduling to be worked out. Not to mention that given their respective positions and Tizoc’s unfortunate status among the living, they’d have to be incredibly discreet—and he knew, he just knew, that Teomitl’s idea of a good rock for his collection would be a chunk of jade the size of his fist.

Teomitl didn’t appear to feel the need for urgency. He met Acatl’s gaze boldly, a wicked smile on his reddened lips. His voice was the sort of purr designed to make Acatl forget all his objections. “Do you really want to, Acatl?”

He licked suddenly-dry lips. “...Later,” he muttered, and hoped he sounded stern.

“Later,” Teomitl promised.

Then he blushed as his stomach grumbled, and Acatl couldn’t help but chuckle. “I’ll make us some food, first.”

And maybe find a good spot to store his new collection. The heart-shaped one, naturally, deserved the best place.

#obsidian and blood #acatl #teomitl #teocatl #paladin writes stuff #ahuitzotl

0 notes

notapaladin · 2 years

Text

the dark of the alley, the breaking of day

Acatl is tired and horny. Teomitl, with all his teasing offers of tending to his needs, is a distraction he can’t tolerate. Surely, if he calls his bluff, the boy will leave him alone, right? It’s not like Teomitl could have possibly meant it like that.

Teomitl does, in fact, mean it like that.

Also on AO3

Last night, there had been a star demon loose in the palace, and a councilman is dead. His Emperor is dead. The safety of their world hangs by the thinnest thread, spider silk not strong enough to hold back calamity, and Acatl’s been up all night trying to patch the rift in the boundaries. Every muscle in his body aches. His limbs feel like solid lead. His ears still sting a little where he’s given blood. No matter how bright it is no matter how much sunlight filters through the window and the thin black entrance curtain, he should by all rights be unconscious right now.

He stares up at the ceiling instead, head pillowed on his arms—and his own hair, which is starting to stick disagreeably to the back of his neck—and knows he won’t be that lucky. His mind is as blank as the plaster blurring slightly in front of his eyes, but not nearly so peaceful. Usually when he can’t sleep, it’s because he can’t stop thinking. He would prefer that to this...he’s not sure what to call it. Torpor, maybe, like a great lizard. Something base and animal, far too aware of his own flesh. His blood hums in his veins.

Teomitl’s walked him home. Teomitl, all gleaming gold and gleaming muscles, has walked him home and shaken out his sleeping mat for him and won’t tell him anything about his relationship with Mihmatini even when he asks. Teomitl had smiled at him earlier, teasingly irreverent as always, and said Isn’t that proper respect? Tending to your master’s needs?

As though Acatl needs looking after. He’s exhausted, not weak. He could have managed the walk home by himself.

(If something were to happen, Teomitl had said. He’d been worried. As though he hasn’t been to war himself, as though Acatl hasn’t spent four months of the last year with his heart in his throat because dying in battle may be glorious, may be a path to the Sun’s heaven, may be the good death Teomitl deserves, but the thought of his student never coming home tears at his insides like an ahuitzotl’s claws.)

He takes a deep breath, feeling his lungs expand with it and smelling mostly dust and dried herbs in the kitchen and, ever so faintly, the incense that had lain on Teomitl’s skin. Teomitl, who’s waiting outside. Who had turned away when he’d let his cloak fall, who had actually offered—

Not like that.

It’s definitely not like that. No, Teomitl had been teasing him as always, trying to get a reaction out of him after he’d so snappishly reminded them both of their stations, and he certainly hadn’t been sincere, even though the words had come out with a tone that still sounds to Acatl’s mind—his exhausted mind, he has to remind himself, he’s too tired and not thinking clearly, he can’t be if he’s even entertaining this conclusion—as if Teomitl hadn’t completely been joking. As if he’s thought before about respect, about the things Acatl is owed as his teacher and is definitely not getting, about what he might give instead.

(Your master’s needs.)

Another deep breath, and this time there’s slow heat coiling up like smoke through his veins. He can’t stop seeing the shape of Teomitl’s mouth. Closing his eyes makes it worse, paints all that dark skin and glittering gold and a carelessly crumpled fortune in embroidered cotton across the inside of his lids. It looks like a comfortable adobe wall, Teomitl had said, because he’s never wanted for anything in his life. Because he wouldn’t say it out loud, but he must surely think Acatl’s quarters are shabby and dingy and empty as a nobleman’s promises. Because even standing in the dusty courtyard he’d looked imperial, as utterly out of reach as the Sun. Thank the Duality he hadn’t stayed in the room, but just knowing he’s waiting outside makes Acatl’s skin buzz. Teomitl will hear him, if he cries out. If he calls for him.

He doesn’t.

He doesn’t, but the grunt from his throat and the crackle of reeds as he turns over on his mat sounds so loud he’s surprised Teomitl doesn’t burst in anyway. Or maybe that’s just his ears; with vision lost to him, his hearing is sharpened tenfold. There’s a faint rustle from outside; Teomitl shifting in place, maybe? A thud and a series of splashes; that’s probably him drawing water from the well, rinsing paint from his face and most likely soaking his tunic in the process.

A muffled, muttered curse, like Teomitl thinks he won’t hear it; ah, his tunic-related suspicions are confirmed. It doesn’t make him feel better, because now he’s picturing Teomitl peeling it off, the thin fabric sticking just enough to outline firm muscles. The body of a warrior, not heavy and solid with muscle but lean and sculpted as a mountain lion.

With a groan, he shoves his face into the mat. He’s still sore with his own exhaustion, barely able to move his limbs, but that doesn’t seem to matter at all to his mind. But then, why should it? Logic—that Teomitl is his student, a dozen years younger than him, a youth of Imperial blood, sure to become the next Master of the House of Darts, and oh, yes, courting his sister, he is the worst elder brother ever—never has. He’s always been too weak for the boy.

As a general rule, he’s not the sort of man who curses out loud. It’s a bad habit to form; a priest for the Dead must have decorum, and his nieces and nephews, not to mention the youngest calmecac students, are far too happy to repeat anything he says. Right now, he wishes he was.

He sighs, breath stirring a loose strand of hair and making it flutter back against his lips, where it tickles. His skin tingles a little, lips and chest and left hipbone suddenly aware that they’re exposed to the air, and his cock gives another helpful twitch to remind him of its presence. It’s not the first time he’s wound up irritatingly aroused and too tired to take care of it, but it’s probably one of the worst, because he can’t do anything about it. Even if Teomitl wasn’t just outside, fully able to hear any noise he might make, there’s a line between knowing your student is jaw- and loincloth-droppingly attractive and jerking off to the thought of him, and it’s a line he refuses to cross.

(He can barely remember the last time he’s had even the comfort of his own hand. Looking back, maybe Teomitl’s right about his ill temper.)

He might not cross it, but just knowing the line is there—that it needs to be there, because he looks at Teomitl and Teomitl is beautiful and his body wants him even if his mind and heart scream all the reasons why he shouldn’t—makes him growl to himself.

Footsteps approach slowly, with a jerkiness that lets him know his student isn’t used to moving with such care. The bells on the entrance-curtain jingle.

Against all his better judgement, he opens his eyes to stare at Teomitl’s sandals. There’s gold on them too, still bright even though they’re a little dusty from the walk. Equally against his judgement, he trails his gaze up well-muscled calves and gold legbands to thighs that quite frankly should be a crime, framed by an embroidered loincloth and—oh. He was right about the tunic. Teomitl’s taken it off, carrying it awkwardly under one arm, and his bare chest gleams damply.

He wrenches his gaze up to Teomitl’s face. Matters don’t improve. Free of painted stripes, the boy looks younger and more serious, less the future Master of the House of Darts and far more his Teomitl, the young man who walks him home and fusses over whether he’s getting enough to eat and offers to—tend to his needs, his mind keeps getting stuck on that phrase—as though when he sees Acatl he sees more than a poor, skinny priest who’s somehow stumbled into a position of power. As though he sees someone he wants to serve.

The idea makes him dizzy, heat prickling across his skin and pooling low in his gut. This is madness. He is a fool.

Those dark eyes are soft and gentle where they rest on him, so much more innocent than when he’d smirked in the sunlight and teased him so shockingly. “What’s the matter, Acatl-tzin? Can’t sleep?”

A question deserves an answer. And Teomitl’s looking at him in the dim light and can see him looking back, so there’s no way he can feign sleep now. Taking another breath—when had each one started feeling almost like an ordeal?—he mutters, “No.”

Storm Lord strike him down. Storm Lord strike him dead, because Teomitl’s biting his lip and leaning in the doorway with his hip cocked and he sounds so fucking sincere as he asks, “Am I distracting you?” that Acatl would probably be completely taken in if it wasn’t for the light in his eyes which says that he knows he’s pushing his luck. That he knows, and isn’t sorry about it. Am I distracting you, as though walking him home and smiling like that and looking like that, looking like that in his house, where Acatl sleeps, could be anything other than a distraction.

Acatl feels like a man who’s been sat down in front of a feast and only now realized he’s starving. He can’t bite back the noise that escapes him, something between a groan and a snarl, and shuts his eyes again. Yes. Gods, yes.

Because Teomitl’s never been anything but a distraction. Even when they first met, when his thoughts had been distinctly uncharitable, when he’d looked at Teomitl and mostly seen an annoyance, a burden he didn’t ask for, a responsibility he couldn’t take on—even then, his blood had stirred in response. He’d told himself it was just natural interest, that it had been a long time since he’d had anyone who looked at him with admiration, that of course he wasn’t blind and could recognize a beautiful young man when he saw one. He knows it should just be natural interest. But right now he’s too tired to care about any of that; his brain is a slow, heavy thing in his skull, his only coherent thought that he desperately should be sleeping, but Teomitl is all gold and jewels and skin in front of him and no matter how sluggish his limbs are he can’t stop feeling the memory of that skin on his own. His pulse seems to have settled in his belly, thick and hot like warm honey.

That’s about the moment he realizes he’s trapped, because the shadows hide it now but if he rolls over onto his back Teomitl can’t miss that he’s half-hard. Hard and getting harder, just from the memory of Teomitl’s teasing smile.

Good, he thinks a moment later as irritation and lust curdle together in his chest. Let him see. Maybe now he’ll think better of saying things like that.

(Proper respect. Hah. Teomitl’s never been respectful a day in his life.)

He tips himself to one side to land heavily on the mat, giving his head an automatic little shake as he does so in a futile attempt to not lean directly on his own hair. If he was awake enough he’d probably be horrified at his own shamelessness and what he’s about to do, but there’s not even the whisper of a dissenting twinge in his mind as he stretches extravagantly, his wrists crossing loosely above his head and his back arching like a jaguar’s. It feels good, the strain of his muscles, and the noise that hisses through his teeth isn’t just for effect. The little roll of his hips—well, he’s not sure. He certainly doesn’t plan it. But it, too, feels good.

Finally, he cracks his eyes open and studies Teomitl through his lashes, unable to keep the tension from his voice.

“...If I say yes, will you leave?” Will you go back to the palace where you’re supposed to be? Back to courting Mihmatini, like you’re supposed to be? Back to entangling yourself in this entire business of star demons and sorcerers, like you’re not supposed to be but I know I might as well hold back a volcano as try to stop you?

Teomitl’s already crimson, his gaze seemingly glued both to the bulge in Acatl’s loincloth and the knot just above it, which has loosened a little from how Acatl’s been turning over. He sucks in a ragged breath and whispers, “...I should go.”

Too late for that. This time when he drags his gaze up Teomitl’s body, it’s slow. Deliberate. He lets his eyes linger on the curve of a hipbone bordered by bright cotton, on forearms marked here and there with pale scars he’s bandaged himself and wants desperately to trace. "Already? I thought you said you'd tend to my needs, hm?" He can’t help the raised eyebrow, even though it’s mean and unworthy of him. It’s not his fault Teomitl had actually said the words first.

And it gets Teomitl to make a sound like he’s been stabbed, eyes darkening as he chokes out a shaky, “By the Duality, Acatl-tzin.”

He flicks a pointed look down his own body, and then back to Teomitl’s face. This time it’s direct, a clear challenge. “Well?”

For just a moment, everything falls still. Neither of them move.

He’s not sure what he’s expecting. For Teomitl to turn and leave, probably. To walk away, say it was all a misunderstanding, probably angrily demand to know what sort of fool Acatl thought he was if he thought he’d meant anything sordid by it—he’d probably just meant to rub his shoulders and tidy up around the house, to take some of the strain of daily tasks off his master’s back, and absolutely not any of the sort of things Acatl knows full well can be got up to between two reasonably fit men even if one of them currently has as much energy as a slug, because Teomitl has more than enough for the both of them and it’s certainly not Teomitl’s fault if Acatl can think of plenty of ways his lovely student might burn it off. Not even if it had sounded to his ears, fool that he is, that Teomitl is offering; why would he? What can he possibly have to gain, when all laws of decency say Acatl can’t accept?

Yes, Acatl knows in the next instant that Teomitl will storm off, outraged and offended, and he’ll feel like the scum of the earth for having been so cruel to him even if the boy is an awful brat who deserves it.

So when Teomitl instead lets the curtain fall with a jangle of bells, takes three steps into the room, and rolls easily from kneeling on the mat besides him to straddling Acatl’s thighs in a single smooth motion, he’s shocked into speechlessness. The hot solid weight of the man on top of him and the expression on his face—hunger, eagerness, hope, joy all mixed together—robs him of thought.

He makes a sound. It’s not a word, but Teomitl must take it as assent anyway because he breathes, “Gods, yes,” and kisses him.

Oh, fuck.

Something resembling energy lances through his sleep-stiffened limbs; not enough, not nearly enough, but it lets him bring his hands down and rest one across the small of Teomitl’s back while the other grabs for the base of his neck, feeling Teomitl make a desperate noise into his mouth as his fingers dig in. He’s been kissed before—once, when he was still in calmecac—but that sad wet fumbling when he was fifteen has as much in common with this as a turtle does with the moon. Teomitl’s braced on his elbows, fingers tangling in the already-tangled fall of Acatl’s hair, and his mouth is moving against Acatl’s with such surety that it’s the easiest thing in the world to follow his lead, to let his lips part like this and shift under him like that, pressing their bodies together with a moan at the heat and the welcome friction on his wanting skin. Teomitl makes another noise, and this time the grind is purposeful, and Acatl has to break away to gasp.

Teomitl doesn’t let him get far. He just moves his attention downwards, mouthing along his chin and jaw, heedless of the stubble Acatl hasn’t yet had time to shave, and pants, “So beautiful, gods, fuck, I’ve dreamed about this...”

He groans, letting his head fall back. The fact that it gives Teomitl more room to work on his throat, the hot wet suction of his mouth and occasional delicious spark of sharp teeth setting his nerves on fire, is irrelevant; he just can’t process his student’s words any other way. Teomitl thinks he’s beautiful. Teomitl’s dreamed of this. He’d call it a lie if the proof wasn’t impossible to ignore, pressing hot and insistent against his thigh. “Yes,” he gasps out, and when his grip tightens on the back of Teomitl’s neck Teomitl bucks against him in a way that makes his skin sing. “More.”

There’s no mistaking that noise for anything but a growl as Teomitl grinds down again, this time dragging his teeth over Acatl’s pulse. “Acatl-tzin,” he says, and he sounds wrecked already. Wrecked and starving.

Acatl can’t get his hands between them to start working on their clothes—there isn’t space, and anyway he’s so disjointed with lust and sleep deprivation that he’s not sure how well his fingers will obey him—but he manages to grab for Teomitl’s hips and say, “You promised,” which sounds stupid and demanding and far more entitled than he really feels because this is a gift he does not deserve, but which clearly does something for Teomitl because the man snarls as he shoves himself up to lock eyes with Acatl, hands in his hair ensuring he can’t get away.

“Tell me what you want,” he says, and maybe he means it to sound like an order but it comes out more like a plea. “My mouth? My ass? My cock? Gods, I’ll give you anything.”

Acatl hears himself make a noise that sounds like he’s dying. Teomitl wants him to think? He’s offering him all these choices, and he expects him to makes a decision when quite possibly half his total volume of blood is in his cock? “You’re the one doing all the work,” he huffs. “You pick.”

Teomitl’s smile is wicked and radiant and a little shy. “Are you sure? I know you’re tired, I don’t want to push you—”

“Then don’t,” he snaps, and digs his fingers hard into the meat of Teomitl’s thighs to prove he might be exhausted but he’s perfectly capable of bearing up under whatever Teomitl might be about to put him through.

(Probably perfectly capable. Having Teomitl on top of him like this, all lean strong muscles and flashing eyes, feels a bit like being cornered by a jaguar with something to prove. Every inch of his skin is acutely aware of just how much stronger Teomitl is than him, how easily he could be manhandled. How easily he could be broken, if Teomitl felt like it.)

It should be frightening, but instead it’s thrilling—especially when Teomitl flushes and grins and says, “I won’t, I promise, but if there’s oil in this house I really want to fuck you.”

It takes a second for that to sink in. Then it does, and lust hits him so hard he goes, “Gnkh.” He’s used his own fingers before, and it’s always incredible—in the state he’s in now, an orgasm like that would probably knock him out cold—but it’s tiring and he can never get the angle quite right before his wrist starts to hate him. He’s wondered what it might be like with someone else, someone he trusts, someone powerful and athletic and passionate who cares enough to make it good, but the details have always been ghostly shapes in his mind. This is real. This is real, and he wants it, and just in this moment he can’t think of any reason why he shouldn’t have it.

Before Teomitl can think to take it back, he snaps, “Wicker chest in the corner, jar shaped like an avocado. Get it. Now.”

Teomitl practically scrambles away from him, eager enough to be clumsy and clumsy enough to sink warm and endearing into Acatl’s heart. “Right, yes, got it—” He’s rifling through the chest with one hand and tearing at his loincloth with the other; at any other time the sight of Teomitl getting naked in a situation where he’s allowed to look would stop Acatl’s brain in its tracks, but right now it only reminds him that he himself is still dressed and that absolutely won’t do.

He’s not sure how he manages the knot in his loincloth. Sheer habit, maybe, because he’s absolutely not thinking about what he’s doing. Teomitl is barely an arm’s length away, wearing only his jewels—he resorts to his teeth to wrench one stubborn ring off so it won’t get in the way, which is possibly one of the hottest things Acatl’s ever seen—and so insofar as Acatl’s aware of his own body it’s in flashes. An achingly hard cock, limbs loose and sluggish, one elbow aching a bit where he’s automatically pushed himself up for a better view.

Loincloths don’t hide much, as a general rule. He’s gotten very used to not letting himself look at or think about what lays beneath. Now that he is, he can’t look away. Teomitl’s cock is maybe a little larger than his—it’s hard to tell in the dim light—with a slight upward curve, and a shuddery little tremor curls through his gut at the realization that it’s going to be inside him. At any other time, he might wonder whether it’s going to fit.

He’s not particularly concerned about that now. Teomitl is...impatient at the best of times, but he takes direction remarkably well, especially when it’s something he wants to do. And this was his student’s idea in the first place. Surely it’s respectful to follow orders.

As Teomitl rolls back towards him, he lets his legs fall open. It’s easy to do; he feels boneless now, his limbs so heavy that it’s all he can do to bend his knees for better access. If Teomitl wants more, he’ll have to arrange him to his liking himself.

He doesn’t. Instead he kneels between Acatl’s legs, open jar in hand, and spends a long moment just looking at him. Acatl knows what he must be seeing—black hair, brown skin, cock flushed dark where it lays against his flat stomach, legs scarred from bloodletting and battles and falls, hole twitching a little in anticipation of what’s about to happen—but he can’t tell what Teomitl thinks about it.

(He’s called him beautiful.)

“Look at you,” Teomitl whispers, and oh. There’s his answer. Teomitl sounds awestruck, as though instead of a scarred and battered priest who’s missed a few too many meals he’s worshipping between the thighs of Xochipilli Himself. His expression may be unreadable, but that voice removes all doubt. He slides a hand up Acatl’s calf, warm fingers digging lightly into the muscle. Too lightly, like he’s afraid he’ll hurt him.

It makes Acatl flush and shiver, which in turn makes him feel snappish. “Having second thoughts?” he asks waspishly, and curses himself for a fool in the next moment because there’s always the chance Teomitl will say yes.

Teomitl does not say yes. Teomitl, in fact, sucks in a breath like he’s been burned and blurts out, “No.” He’s red all the way up to his ears; Acatl has a split second to wonder why (he’s asked for this, he’s jumped at the chance, surely he isn’t shy?) before his reckless, prideful, sun-bright student presses his face into Acatl’s knee and mutters, “It’s just—I know the mechanics, but I’ve never...done this before.”

Acatl is entirely too sluggish for the shock of pure, possessive hunger that rips through his veins. He’s never done this before charges through his mind, trips over its own feet, and collides messily with Mine. It doesn’t matter that he’s just as inexperienced; he’s older, he’s certainly more knowledgeable when it comes to anatomy, and he’s very, very good at being patient. Everyone starts somewhere, after all.

When he inhales, it feels like resurfacing from Tlalocan. “Don’t worry,” he hears himself say, “I’ll teach you.” Some perversity makes him smirk as he adds, “It can’t be worse than your rowing.”

Teomitl jerks back, stung. “I could leave,” he huffs.

“You won’t,” he says, and realizes a moment afterwards that he’s absolutely sure of it. Teomitl’s promised. He’s not the sort of person to renege on that, no matter how many jibes Acatl throws his way.

Besides, he can’t be too annoyed since he’s running his hands up Acatl’s thighs in a distinctly appreciative manner. “Mm. You’re right.” Teomitl’s smile is far too tender for someone who’s naked and kneeling between his legs like that. “I’ll take such good care of you, Acatl-tzin.”

The words probably shouldn’t make him melt, but he feels tension leak out of his spine that he hadn’t even realized was in there. Teomitl’s staying. Teomitl will take care of him. Teomitl will, very probably, do anything he wants if he can find the words to ask, and that realization is a little intoxicating; he lets himself flop back on the mat, one hand pillowing his head and the other half-heartedly reaching for the nearest bit of Teomitl he can reach, because they aren’t touching enough. “When you’re ready,” he murmurs, as his fingers fall against Teomitl’s knee.

It’s not that he’s expecting Teomitl to dive right into it. It just wouldn’t surprise him. He’s half expecting slick fingers pushing messily at his entrance, but what he actually gets instead is one strong hand grabbing his hip while the other—ignores everything between his legs completely in favor of trailing hot and callused over his chest, making him arch into it automatically. “I like you like this,” Teomitl murmurs. “I get to explore.”

He huffs out a breath, a retort ready on his tongue—there’s not much to explore, not unless Teomitl is actually aroused by the skin-and-bones look—but then a thumb circles one nipple and what comes out is, “Nngh.”

“Do you like that?” Teomitl’s voice is honey-sweet, his eyes alight with triumph.

“Don’t tease,” he grumbles. He can feel his face burning. It’s worse when Teomitl does it again, this time adding the faint scrape of a nail that makes him gasp and close his eyes.

Teomitl’s fingers find the ends of his hair and give it a sharp little tug. His voice is a low, firm hum on the air, somehow both tender and commanding at once. “Look at me when we’re doing this, Acatl-tzin.”

He can’t do anything else when Teomitl asks like that; the way the man’s tongue curls around Acatl-tzin sends such a spike of lust through him his cock jumps untouched against his belly, and when he opens his eyes the answering hunger in Teomitl’s face has his mouth watering. By the Duality, if he hadn’t been up all night—if he just had the energy—! But he absolutely does not, so instead of following through on his wild thought of yanking Teomitl over on top of him he just rolls his hips, almost but not quite rubbing up against Teomitl’s cock, and huffs, “Get on with it, then.”

“Aren’t you always telling me to be patient?” Teomitl’s tone might be innocent, but the catlike tilt of his head and the gleam in his eye is anything but. He mercifully stops playing with Acatl’s nipple, but the way he proceeds to slide the flat of his palm down Acatl’s stomach—slowly, inexorably, as though his skin is precious jade instead of a meager barrier between his guts and the outside world—is just as pleasurable in a different way, because it presses Acatl down into the mat and reminds him he really can’t get away from this even if he wants to.

He has told him that. He’s at least ninety percent sure Teomitl’s never listened. Then again, he’s not feeling very patient himself; Teomitl’s promised to fuck him, and he isn’t, and he’s definitely not going to be satisfied with just the man’s hand. “Hah,” he pants shakily.

Teomitl’s nails scratch lightly at what passes for his abs, and as he squirms at the sensation his student actually chuckles. “Let me show you how well you’ve taught me, Acatl-tzin,” he breathes, and finally—finally—wraps a hand around Acatl’s cock.

Fuck, that shouldn’t turn him on. Teomitl’s his student. The man looks up to him, expects him to guide him through life’s trials, thinks he’s a good man worthy of respect. He should be disgusted with himself. But his student is stroking his cock, fondling his balls, pumping first lightly and then a little harder to test what kind of reactions it gets, and only the fact that it’s the middle of the day is stopping Acatl from moaning out loud. His breath hisses out in increasingly heavy pants as he works his hips, and he barely has the presence of mind to manage, “You can do that harder, I’m not made of cotton fluff—oh.” That oh is because Teomitl’s wasted no time, and the next firm downward stroke has him biting his lip to stop the sound that wants to escape.

Teomitl makes a rough little noise in his own throat, rutting forward against the crease of Acatl’s thigh. “Gods—like that? You like that?”

“Obviously,” he huffs, shifting his weight; moving under his own power is almost a shock to his system, muscles protesting anything that isn’t just laying there and taking whatever Teomitl gives him, but each pump of his cock—firmer, less cautious now that Teomitl’s getting a sense of what he likes—leaves him with little choice. He wants, very badly, to touch him. To be pressed down by him, feel the heat and weight of that warrior’s body atop him. He wants Teomitl’s cock, which is so frustratingly close it makes him growl.

He must look impatient, because Teomitl grins. “I do aim to please,” he purrs, and the way his grip tightens just a bit more near the head of his cock makes Acatl’s brain go fuzzy around the edges.

He can’t think. Teomitl’s not stopping, and each stroke is slick enough with his own oozing precum to stoke the fire in his veins. He pushes himself up, makes an abortive movement towards Teomitl’s wrist. “You’ve never aimed—nnh—to please me in your life.”

Teomitl’s fingers ripple. His other hand slides lower down, rolling his balls in his palm and feeling the weight of them before pressing against the sensitive spot behind them, and that makes Acatl’s body jolt so hard he falls back to the mat again. “Teomitl,” he gasps.

Teomitl hums, pressing a kiss to the side of his knee. Then a little higher, on his thigh, where Acatl hadn’t thought he’d be sensitive but is rapidly learning otherwise. “Am I not pleasing you now, Acatl-tzin? Do you want me to stop?”

Gods, why does this little brat keep asking him questions? He’s never wanted anything less in his life, but he knows that if Teomitl keeps going he’ll come, and then he most certainly won’t have the energy for anything other than sleep. Maybe he should say yes, let this be as far as they go—no, he knows he should. He’s taken vows. A helping hand is one thing, but letting Teomitl bend him in half and sink into him the way he so clearly wants to will shatter all promises of chastity like a carelessly thrown plate down a staircase. His virginity isn’t something he can take back.

(Let me tend to your needs, Teomitl has said, and I really want to fuck you, and I’ll take care of you.)

He closes his eyes, toes curling, as Teomitl mouths at his inner thigh again and does something with his thumb on the head of his cock that pulls a sharp breath out of him. Teomitl might have offered, but he’s the one who called his bluff. Who took him up on it. Those vows are shattered shards already.

So no, he doesn’t want to stop. But he still has his pride, tattered as it is, so he thrusts into Teomitl’s grip and huffs, “Didn’t I say to get on with it?”

Teomitl makes another one of those smug little sounds, but instead of stopping right away he angles his wrist and pumps Acatl’s cock hard once, twice, three times until Acatl knows he’s so achingly close it would only take a little more to send him over the edge. There’s no biting back the half-strangled gritted moans that escape him. His mind has narrowed down to one thing and one thing only.

More.

And then Teomitl lets him go, the heat of his touch vanishing so quickly that Acatl’s got his eyes open and his torso shoved up on one elbow in the next instant, a frustrated snarl at the tip of his tongue that comes out in a sharp, “Teomitl.”

The raw heat in Teomitl’s eyes strikes Acatl to the core, but his voice is a near-innocent purr as he murmurs, “Sorry. I got carried away.” The way he’s running his hands up the insides of Acatl’s thighs says he’s not sorry at all.

As weak as Acatl’s limbs are, it’s making no difference to the rest of him; his heart is hammering fit to escape its prison of ribs, and his cock is throbbing in a way that’s almost too sensitive. His tongue is clumsy in his mouth, and the first and second and third things that come to mind are varying degrees of profane—but, he realizes a moment later, Teomitl’s right to apologize. There’s so much more he wants to do before he lets himself pass out. It would positively be a waste to find release now.

So instead of cursing or begging, what comes out is, “Thought you said you were going to fuck me.”

Teomitl gets the strangest look on his face, almost hurt. “And I will. Don’t you trust me?”

What an odd question. Acatl is aware, of course, that there are men for whom the act of sexual intercourse is as meaningless and prosaic as scratching an itch, who look at their partners and see not another person but a means to their own selfish ends, but he’s never been one of them. Being naked with someone, showing them all the most private and tender parts of himself—he can hardly imagine an act that requires more trust. Teomitl has walked into Tlalocan with him, fought beasts of shadows with him, put himself and his pride into Acatl’s hands and said I still need you. Acatl’s never once doubted his honor or his bravery or his willingness to do what he thinks is right, has never felt anything other than safe with him.

(Well, unless Jade Skirt is speaking through him. A man has some limits, and being creeped out by an ageless, malicious goddess using his lovely student as a mouthpiece is only a matter of self-preservation. Or unless they’re on the water, because Teomitl still can’t steer in a straight line to save his life.)

So he licks his lips, watches Teomitl’s eyes follow the movement of his tongue, and says, “You’ve never given me cause to doubt you before.”

Teomitl blushes. Acatl’s heart stutters, but before he can say anything else—you always do so well for me, maybe, or you work so hard—the man grabs his thigh with one hand and the nearly-neglected jar with the other, and every nerve in his body jumps to attention at once. He’d thought he was relaxed before—he’s too tired not to be, surely—but after that near-climax and how aroused he still is, it takes actual conscious effort for him not to tense up. To remember to breathe, because they’re actually going to do this.

After a moment of watching Teomitl wrestle with the lid, though, he points out, “You need both hands.”

Teomitl looks actually offended by that. “Why? Who designed this?!”

“Someone who didn’t want it to spill; have you ever tried to clean oil off anything?” he huffs back.

The sound of the lid coming off is remarkably loud, but he barely notices it because Teomitl’s eyes are gleaming in a way that says he’s found a way to prove himself. “Oh, I know. It sinks into everything. I’ll buy you a new sleeping mat later, if you want.”

Hindsight helpfully informs him that they probably should have put a sheet down. Since there’s no chance of either of them actually doing that—he’s so aroused he can barely remember how his legs work, and Teomitl is slicking his fingers up and looking at him like a starving man at a feast—he mentally consigns the mat he’s just broken in to the midden heap. It’s a worthy sacrifice.

Especially because now Teomitl is parting his thighs with his gaze locked on Acatl’s face, lip lightly bitten in concentration as he runs one finger around the rim of Acatl’s hole without penetrating. “Breathe,” he murmurs.

Acatl breathes. Teomitl presses in. It’s not—painful, it doesn’t hurt, but it doesn’t feel like much of anything else, either. Strange, mostly because he’s used to his own touch and this is another man’s hands on him, in him, for the first time. Teomitl’s hands are larger than his, the fingers broader, and he’s being so cautious. Quetzal feathers, Acatl thinks again, and raises his hips up a little. “Deeper, come on.”

“Like this?” Teomitl asks, and when Acatl nods that exploring finger sinks in to the knuckle and curls and Teomitl wasn’t exaggerating about knowing the mechanics, because that does feel good. Good enough to make Acatl shudder and clench down, breath leaving him in a sharp gasp.

Teomitl’s own breath hitches. “Gods—was that too much? Oh, you’re so tight—” And he seems to find that irresistible, because though he��s not deliberately striking that spot again he starts probing deeper.

Gods, without the distractions of his own touch Acatl can feel everything. He makes an animal sound, working his hips in a rough circle before scraps of words—of instructions—come back to him. “More,” he breathes, and then, raw and honest, “I want all of you, Teomitl—nngh.” That’s almost a moan, and he barely clamps his jaw shut in time to keep it down, because hearing I want all of you seems to galvanize this best student he’s ever had; Teomitl starts working him with purpose, pulling halfway out only to pour more oil onto his skin and Acatl’s thighs, and Acatl is panting and rocking into it before he knows it.

But it’s still not enough. “I said more,” he snaps, and Teomitl growls low in his throat and adds a second finger alongside the first. Now it’s a stretch, but he’s so open and hungry for it that it doesn’t burn.

(He kind of wants it to. Pain might help him last longer, and he doesn’t want this to end yet.)

And Teomitl has always been a fast learner. He pumps his fingers in and out, so slick Acatl can actually hear the wet squelch of his own flesh as Teomitl opens him up, and now that he’s found the right angle he’s making sure that each clever movement at least glides past that one spot that makes Acatl see stars. It’s like the boy is determined to drive him mad. If he is, he’s succeeding; Acatl’s having an increasingly hard time keeping his voice at an acceptable level, until finally he has to clap a hand over his own mouth—

Faster than a striking snake, Teomitl lunges forward and grabs his wrist. “No,” he grits out, and since his other hand hasn’t stopped—since, in fact, the way he’s moved has forced Acatl to move with him, and now those fingers can get even deeper—Acatl’s attempted retort comes out as a filthy moan instead.

Filthy and loud, and his skin burns. “It’s the middle of the day,” he does not whine.

Teomitl shakes his head, a firm dismissal. “I don’t care. I want to hear you, Acatl-tzin. I want to know how good you feel.”

“You,” he starts, but he can’t finish whatever he’s going to say because Teomitl’s judged him loose enough to fit a third finger and it’s so much that his hips buck, thighs flexing and free hand scrabbling for Teomitl’s waist. The weight and heat of him is perfect, and all Acatl can do is arch his back when those fingers spread wide. This time, he doesn’t bother trying to swallow his groan of pleasure.

It’s not enough for Teomitl, who twines their fingers together and nips sharply at Acatl’s throat. “Louder,” he whispers.

The sharp sting of teeth reminds him he’s not as in control of this as he probably should be, and the mingled frustration and lust that courses through him at that realization (of course Teomitl would take control, of course he would let him) makes his voice shake as he snaps, “Teomitl!” Someone might hear, he wants to say, but the words don’t come out. He tries, but then Teomitl bites at his collarbone and he just gasps instead.

And then Teomitl lifts his head and meets his eyes and grins so sweetly, so wickedly, and says, “You said you’d teach me. How am I supposed to learn without feedback?”

Acatl could strangle him. “Get your fucking cock in me and we’ll see about feedback, you little bastard.”

Teomitl jerks back, fingers slipping half out of him as he makes a sound of delighted surprise. He’s probably never even considered Acatl knows words like that, but it’s clear he approves. “...Oh, what a filthy mouth,” he breathes, eyes sparkling. “You must really want it.”

Acatl just glares at him. His limbs may be loose and uncoordinated as warm rubber, but his hole is stretched and twitching around Teomitl’s fingers, sparks flickering through his core every time Teomitl shifts the angle even slightly. His hips keep shuddering restlessly in a futile attempt to establish a rhythm, and his cock—still leaking where it rests against his belly—is so hard it almost hurts. Right now, he’s pretty sure he could come on Teomitl’s fingers alone, but he doesn’t want to.

Not when Teomitl’s promised to fuck him, and his cock is right there and untouched and so thick and hard, gods, he’s suddenly remembering the way Teomitl flushed when he said he hadn’t done this before and clenches hard around Teomitl’s fingers, breath leaving him in a sound like a jaguar in search of prey.

“Alright,” Teomitl says, and takes a deep breath as though he needs to gather his courage. “Alright, just—give me a moment.”

Slowly, Teomitl pulls his fingers out. Acatl’s exhale is almost a sob as he’s left empty, and for the first time he thinks, Please.

He knows Teomitl is slicking himself up without looking—the little bitten-off hitch of breath is sweet music to his ears—but the feeling of a blunt cockhead pressed against his entrance still makes him tense a little without realizing it before he makes himself relax.

“Acatl-tzin,” Teomitl breathes.

He opens his eyes—when had he closed them?—and meets Teomitl’s gaze. There’s hunger there, yes, and desperate need, but also something soft he can’t dwell on, not now. So instead he nods, and Teomitl starts sinking in.

The very small part of his mind that’s capable of any conscious thought right now muses that maybe Teomitl’s more patient than he’s previously realized. The rest—the rest is blank. Frozen. Entirely silent. Because he’s known Teomitl’s a decent size, but it’s one thing to look at that cock while feeling those strong, clever fingers and another thing entirely to have it pushing its way inside, Teomitl’s hands on his hips tight enough to bruise as they hold him in place. A low and guttural moan pours out of his throat that he can’t even think about muffling, because little things like the time of day or the likelihood of being caught don’t matter next to the blessed relief of being filled. Teomitl’s done such a good job opening him up that it doesn’t hurt, but he can’t help clenching up around the intrusion anyway.

Teomitl bottoms out, hips flush against his ass, and makes a breathless sound of his own. “Gods. You’re so—you feel—” And then he drops to his elbows, cutting himself off because he’s apparently decided kissing Acatl is more important than talking.

Acatl’s inclined to agree. Teomitl’s good with his hands and his cock is already incredible even if he hasn’t yet proved he knows how to use it, but he’s really missed that mouth. This time it’s fiercer, rougher, but his lips are still soft. The way he licks into Acatl’s mouth has him moaning and grabbing for the back of Teomitl’s neck again, but now he digs his nails in, drags them over the nape of Teomitl’s neck, and Teomitl growls into his mouth and thrusts roughly into him.

“Anh!” It’s half gasp, half whine, and entirely filthy. He doesn’t care anymore. His back arches, trying to draw Teomitl in deeper, and Teomitl’s whole body trembles.

Trembles, but doesn’t move. No, instead Teomitl lifts his head and looks at him, hips rocking forward ever so slightly like it’s a real struggle to hold himself still, like he wants so badly to just take—but he’s not. He’s being careful, considerate, and something in Acatl’s chest twists hard as he asks, “Good?”

He nods. Teomitl takes a deep breath, braces himself on the mat—gods, Acatl can feel all the muscles flex in his back when he does that, and it makes him wonder briefly whether he’d survive if Teomitl decided to get rough with him—and does it again, faster this time and knocking another one of those noises out of him. Acatl tries to work his hips, keeping him to that rhythm, but on the next thrust he can’t suppress a growl of frustration. Faster, he thinks, and more.

He scratches at Teomitl’s shoulders, “Wait,” he pants. It comes out ragged, because Teomitl chooses that moment to snap his hips forward and it’s just hard enough to be jarring and he knows that’s the kind of thing he wants right now.

Teomitl’s hips jerk once more, seemingly automatically—and then he must register what Acatl’s said, because he freezes. “Acatl-tzin?”

By the Duality. He sounds worried. As if he thinks he’s hurt him—as if he thinks it matters, when pain is an offering to the gods and a little soreness is such a small price for the slick wet perfect heat of Teomitl’s cock inside him. Acatl wriggles, tries to bring his legs up more. “Angle’s wrong,” he huffs. “Up a bit—oh!”

Because Teomitl’s drawn back, grabbed for his thighs, and without any apparent effort bent him nearly in half, and this time when he fucks back in it’s so deep it steals the breath from his lungs. “Like this?” And then he has the nerve to look down at him and grin, all sharp teeth and confidence.

Acatl whines. Maybe at any other time he’d feel embarrassed about that noise, but not now. Teomitl’s just moved him like he weighs nothing, and he’s stretched so open that all he can do is spasm and squeeze around him, feeling every inch of the cock buried in him. His nails dig into Teomitl’s back for something to hold onto; even pinned to the mat by Teomitl’s weight, his cock between their stomachs, he finds himself squirming in a bid for more.

Teomitl thrusts deep, this time hitting spots that make Acatl’s nerves light up like a thunderstorm, and snarls through gritted teeth, “I asked you a question.”

He can’t think about anything like respect or status anymore. It doesn’t matter. What matters is Teomitl’s hands on him, Teomitl’s cock in him—he twists a little, pushes, and his ankles fall into place around Teomitl’s waist and pull them closer, which means he gets Teomitl’s mouth on his neck too—and he’s willing to throw away all his pride in an instant for more of this. “Please,” he gasps out.

He can feel Teomitl’s teeth graze his throat as the man speaks, low and sure. “That’s what I hoped you’d say.”

And then Teomitl starts fucking him.

It’s deep and hard and steady, and every time he draws his hips back it drags against that bundle of nerves that sends tremors down Acatl’s spine, and even though his breath is hot against his throat he seems determined to keep it up for as long as it takes to drive Acatl mad. Acatl’s so hungry for it he can’t keep to any sort of regular rhythm; instead he only manages to gasp and tighten around him, catching blurry glimpses of the ceiling whenever his eyes flutter open, whenever he’s not squeezing them shut at each fresh thrust. He’d thought it would feel—good, yes, he’d expected good. He hadn’t expected that his breath would stutter out in little gasping cries, that Teomitl would make little punched-out groans every time he fucked back in, that he’d be getting fucked so full and still crave more.

Teomitl’s cock has officially shoved all the thoughts out of his head. Well. Almost all the thoughts. “Gods, gods, Teomitl—” Another thrust, cutting him off in a near-sob, and he claws roughly at Teomitl’s back to urge him on. Faster, he thinks but can’t say—but Teomitl picks up on it anyway, because he’s finally picking up the pace and now Acatl’s toes are curling, his own voice nearly a stranger to him. “You’re so good, that feels perfect, don’t stop—”

Teomitl’s hips stutter inside him. Pressed this close, he can feel how fast the man’s heart is beating, how rough his breathing is—but he knows he’s still holding back. Not because he doesn’t think Acatl can take it, but because...

His voice in Acatl’s ear sounds like he’s holding onto his control by a thread. “I won’t,” he growls. “Not until you’re satisfied.”

Something goes soft in Acatl’s chest. “Good boy,” he breathes, but he doesn’t have any time to dwell on the way Teomitl’s breath catches at his words because Teomitl is a good boy, the best boy, and just as he promised he’s not stopping.

No, he’s keeping that pace and that angle, every sharp snap of his hips drawing Acatl closer and closer to the edge, and all Acatl has to do—all he can do, really, between the steadily mounting pleasure and the state of his limbs—is lay there and take it. He digs his nails hard into Teomitl’s back and shoulders, mouths at his throat when the opportunity presents itself, hears and feels Teomitl gasp his name when Acatl’s teeth meet the underside of his jaw a bit too hard. He’s beyond coherent thought, mind a steady babble of yes please more.

(And just one obsidian-sharp scrap, erased in the next instant, that if he ever finds out who’s responsible for priestly vows of chastity he’s going to murder them.)

Teomitl’s picking up speed now, pace rougher and more erratic, and his voice cracks wetly as he gasps, “Acatl-tzin—c’mon, please.”

It’s the please that does it. He has a split second to think yes—yes, he can deny this man nothing, yes, he’ll give him everything he wants—and then Teomitl’s slamming into him and he’s coming so hard his vision whites out, so hard that when he spasms wildly around Teomitl’s cock Teomitl bites his shoulder and only barely muffles his own dying-animal groan. The man holds out a little longer, but not much; a few more thrusts, and just when Acatl thinks the aftershocks are starting to fade his legs tremble all over again because by the Duality, he can actually feel Teomitl’s cock throb inside him as he’s filled up. It makes him whine, just on the edge of overstimulation, and he knows he’ll feel it later. He doesn’t care.

Caring starts to filter in a long moment later, when Teomitl pulls out with a breathy gasp and his hips roll, instinctively chasing the sensation. As he adjusts to being empty again he becomes gradually aware of what seems, to his still-foggy brain and racing heart, to be the most important problem. Namely, Oh, we’ve made a mess.

He flops back bonelessly onto the mat that will now definitely need to be washed—if not replaced entirely, because out of the corner of his eye he can see Teomitl’s fingers have put holes in it. Teomitl, who is still on top of him, still panting into his neck, who’s now smoothing his hand down his side as though he’s content to stay here forever even though it’s too sticky and hot to tolerate skin-on-skin contact for long. Acatl finds he doesn’t particularly want to push him off. An arm has landed across Teomitl’s back, and his knee is pressing into the outside of Teomitl’s thigh, and both limbs are perfectly content to stay there. And besides, he’s still catching his breath. If he was exhausted before, he’s shattered now.

Teomitl breaks the silence. “...I’ll clean us up.”

He grumbles something indistinct as Teomitl pulls away, too tired and too sated to be much more than dead weight as his limbs are rearranged. There’s cum all over their chests and stomachs, sticky and white against Teomitl’s glistening brown skin. He’s vaguely aware he can feel it dripping out of him, but next to everything else—the dull ache in his core, the thin pull of a strand of hair that’s wound up trapped in the crook of his elbow, the throbbing of his lethargic, overworked limbs—it barely registers. His hamstrings are already starting to voice complaints. He wonders if he’ll be able to walk later, or if Teomitl will insist he rest more.

He probably will. He always worries too much. But then, none of this would be happening if he didn’t.

Acatl drifts a little. He’s distantly aware of Teomitl leaving the room, a faint splash, a return accompanied by a cool wet cloth and warm, strong hands on his body. Teomitl murmurs something—an explanation, a request for him to move—and he lets it happen. Lets Teomitl wipe them both clean, lets himself be molded into new positions and rolled halfway off the mat so that can be wiped down too. When Teomitl deposits him back in the same (now drier) spot he’s been in, he lets out a long sigh.

I love you.

The thought drops into his mind like a rock on the surface of the lake.

It is followed a moment later by a different, worse thought, less a coherent word than a shot of adrenaline. Fuck.

Because there are star demons loose in the palace, a hole in the Fifth World, and a dead Emperor he needs to see safely to Mictlan. Because this isn’t something that can be undone or taken back. Because Teomitl is stretched out on the mat next to him, fingers carding gently through his hair, and he never wants him to stop.

Teomitl’s voice is soft. “...Think you can sleep now?”

It’s a rhetorical question. He’s barely conscious as it is, and when the words register he only hums and nestles into the mat. “Mmm...”

There’s a fond huff of laughter as Teomitl draws his hair off his neck, bundling it out behind him so he won’t lay on it. “I’ll be here when you wake up, Acatl-tzin.”

I know, he thinks, and drifts away.

When he wakes, he knows he’s alone before he even opens his eyes. There’s none of the warmth of Teomitl’s body or the steady rhythm of his breathing, and just for a moment he can’t remember why he thinks there should be—but then he shifts, just a little, and the telltale soreness in hips and thighs and buttocks reminds him, with exquisite clarity, just what he’s done. What they’ve done, together.

His eyes are already closed. He wishes he could close them more, like that would somehow block it all out. He feels like something that’s been dead a week.

(Physically. Emotionally, he’s vaguely aware he should feel worse. But he thinks about Teomitl’s hands on his skin, in his hair, and the knife-edge of emotion that slices through him isn’t as bad as it should be.)

Grimacing, he makes himself stretch, gritting his teeth as his muscles protest. It’s odd—he certainly feels rested, mentally if nothing else, but it’s been a long time since he’s exerted himself like that in a situation where nobody’s trying to kill him, and now he doesn’t have blood loss or impending doom or grief for those he’s lost to distract him from how generally out of shape he is. A thought flits across his mind that maybe he should have asked Teomitl for a massage. Duality knows he would have obliged him.

The thought stutters to a halt, and his face burns at the extremely fresh recollection of how obliging Teomitl’s already been. He prods at his collarbone and feels what’s probably a bruise. Ah. It can be hidden, if he ties his cloak right. If he’s careful. He’ll have to be very, very careful from now on.

He dresses slowly, carefully. His hands tremble a little as he ties his loincloth, the incidental brush of his own fingers reminding him too much of Teomitl’s warm hands. Teomitl, who’d promised to be there when he woke up and is therefore definitely still hovering outside. Teomitl, who he’ll have to look in the eye and tell—what? We shouldn’t have done that? True. That was foolish of me? I’m sorry? Both true, and his guts twist hard. No matter how eager Teomitl had been—how eager they’d both been—there’s no way Teomitl can look at him the same now.

Part of him, the shamefully weak part, wants to avoid it. If they don’t talk about it, they can pretend it never happened. Their relationship won’t change. Teomitl will still be his student, still tailing him like an overeager hound, still fussing over him and disrespecting him at every turn and shining bright, so bright, burning like the sun but it won’t matter because Acatl can’t ever touch him again—

No.

He takes a breath. Ties his hair back tightly.

And walks out into the courtyard, because he’s not going to run away from this. Maybe he’s gone too far, maybe Teomitl will hate him now, maybe the memory of those gentle hands and that all-encompassing pleasure will curdle into something dark and terrible and shameful, but he won’t know if they don’t talk. Teomitl had asked if Acatl trusted him. The man who’s ripped his way into his heart deserves to know the answer.

He doesn’t know what Teomitl’s been doing while he was asleep. Though he’s bathed again, collarbones still slightly damp, from the way he’s glaring at the tree in Acatl’s courtyard it hasn’t relaxed him. The tunic and all the rings are back on, but the effect isn’t so much dazzling as armored. Some of those rings are quite heavy, and Teomitl’s a strong man. Acatl has bruises that map out just how strong.

(The part of his vision not wholly focused on his student notices that the rest of the courtyard is spotless.)

As he steps out of the entranceway, their eyes meet. Teomitl, already still, goes even stiller.

Acatl swallows past a lump in his throat and makes himself break the silence. “About earlier, Teomitl—”

Teomitl goes instantly red. He’s still not moving, but now it’s less jaguar-before-the-hunt and more rabbit-before-the-caiman. Acatl’s teeth have left a little mark just under his jaw. “Acatl-tzin,” he croaks out.

You offered to tend to my needs. You asked me to tell you what I wanted. And then you gave it to me, and you were so patient and sweet and I love you, gods, I can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner. He has to close his eyes for a moment, overwhelmed. He knows he’s not an eloquent man, but there has to be a way to phrase this that won’t wreck what lays between them forever.

It’s a moment too long, because Teomitl’s found his voice and stammers out, “Look, it doesn’t have to—to mean anything, what we did. I mean, it can, I’d like it to, but if you don’t want—I know how seriously you take your vows, I know what you think about me—”

Acatl’s fists clench. What I think? Suddenly and sharply, he remembers the way he’d all but sneered at Teomitl’s earlier teasing, so acidic even the memory burns through him. He could stab something. Himself, maybe. But first, he has some corrections to make, because there’s absolutely no way he can let this continue. Maybe we can’t be master and student anymore, but you still have a lot to learn. “Do you think I’m so free with my affections?” he snarls, and it comes out harsher than he means to but maybe that’ll help, maybe that’ll make Teomitl see that this was neither casual nor some sort of whim.

“Your affections?” Teomitl stutters, flushed, but then he snaps back, “I don’t know what to think! I didn’t even think you liked me, never mind...never mind wanting me!”

Not like you? Not want you? The words take some time to arrange themselves properly in his head, because they’re absurd. Yes, Teomitl can be the most annoying person in the Fifth World sometimes, but if Acatl didn’t like him he certainly wouldn’t have agreed to teach him. Teomitl’s impossible not to like, even when he wants to strangle him. “Teomitl,” he says, and takes a deep breath, deliberately setting his heart aside for the moment. He’s pretty sure that if he says that, Teomitl won’t believe him. Not yet. As for the second point... “Who in the Fifth World couldn’t want you? Do you think I’m made of stone?!”

Teomitl bites his lip, staring at the ground. “Not after earlier, no,” he mutters. “But...you said it yourself. I’m the student, and you the teacher. I wasn’t expecting you to ever look at me as a man. And I know you’re not the sort of person who’d go to bed with anyone you thought was so far beneath you.”

Gods, Teomitl’s voice is as brittle and cold as one of Acatl’s knives, and it’s his fault. His guts feel like ice. He’d thought having Teomitl as a student would be the only way to have him in his life, and he’s an idiot. “You have no idea,” he manages, and he’s not sure where the words come from because his brain definitely isn’t involved in the proceedings, “how hard it’s been for me to try not to see you as a man, Teomitl. But...”

Cautiously, Teomitl lifts his eyes again. He still looks like he wants to bolt, but there’s something like hope starting to bloom in his expression. “But?”

He clears his throat, battling down the swarm of moths taking flight in his stomach. “I never expected—I didn’t think you’d look twice at me. Ever. You’re—you weren’t for me to think of in that way.”

Teomitl blinks at him as though he’s said something bizarre. “Why?”

“You’re younger than me, and my apprentice—though I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be able to teach you anything.” True. “You’re surely going to be Master of the House of Darts, and in a few decades from now I won’t be surprised if I’m kneeling to you as my Revered Speaker.” Also true. “My sister—” He cuts himself off, realization dawning. “...She’s going to kill us both.”

(He’s not even remotely exaggerating.)

By the Duality. He’s barely even thought about Mihmatini, too caught up in exhaustion and pleasure and the realization of his own feelings to spare any for his sister. Who goes soft and bright when she thinks about Teomitl, who’s going to be absolutely heartbroken and then absolutely furious when she learns about this. And who will learn about this, because it would be even more of a betrayal to keep it from her. Then again, if Teomitl suggests that they do...well, there won’t be anything to keep from her, because no matter his feelings there are limits. He won’t be with a man who would do that.

(Not that he really thinks Teomitl would, the man’s always been honest and forthright to a fault, but he’s used to thinking of the worst-case scenarios. Someone has to.)

Teomitl winces, seemingly coming to the same realization. “Ah. About that. I swear, I am still going to marry her, if you don’t mind, that is, but she...that is...well...” He’s steadily going redder, which Acatl hadn’t previously realized was possible.

Acatl feels like he doesn’t want to know the answer to this, but he has to ask. “What?”

The doorframe behind Acatl’s head must be fascinating with how hard Teomitl’s staring at it. “Well.” He swallows visibly. “She is. Very observant.”

It takes an embarrassingly long moment for that to sink in. When it does, Acatl feels his own face catch fire, and he gapes at Teomitl like a stunned fish before finding words and arranging them into something like a sentence. Hard on the heels of shock comes embarrassment, because he might not be good with people but—really. Really. “Are you saying I’m the last person to find out that you—that is—”

That bright blush hasn’t faded, but Teomitl’s starting to look exasperated instead of like he’s about to die of mortification, so Acatl will take what progress he can get. “I thought you knew. That you knew, and you were just...ignoring it.”

Acatl opens his mouth, very nearly says something stupid—are you insane, how could I have known, do you really think I’d be so cruel—and closes it. Because he doesn’t think he’d have ignored it, if he knew, but he’s not sure what he would have done instead. It’s not like he’s ever considered the possibility. “You give me too much credit.”

“I’m beginning to realize this,” Teomitl says drily. But he’s starting to smile, so that’s a victory.

“You little brat,” he mutters with a fondness that doesn’t even surprise him anymore. Out loud, he says only, “Can you blame me? A handsome youth like you, Imperial blood flowing through your veins, a warrior destined for glory—I know when I’m outmatched. You can do better.”

Teomitl blinks at him for a moment. “Outmatched?!” he echoes, seemingly stunned, but before Acatl can confirm that he’s heard right he’s shaking his head and saying firmly, “You’re the best and bravest man in Tenochtitlan!”

Now it’s his turn to blush. “Teomitl!”

“It’s true,” Teomitl says simply. As if he’s saying The sun rises in the east or Quenami is the bastard son of a dog and a tannery midden. (Not that Acatl’s ever actually heard him say that last one, but he has a very expressive face.)

He goes to rake his hand through his hair, remembers how tightly he’s tied it, and settles for yanking on an escaped lock behind his ear instead. He’s not sure he can look at Teomitl right now; his chest feels distinctly warm and floaty with...embarrassment, yes, but also something he can tentatively identify as pleasure. “You really flatter me far too much.”

Teomitl takes a step forward. And then another and another, until they’re close enough to touch and Acatl can’t avoid looking at him. His eyes are dark, and when he speaks his voice is low and steady and serious. “What do I have to do to get you to believe me, then?”

He’s just called him the best man in Tenochtitlan. He’s called him beautiful, touched him like he’s made of jade and precious quetzal feathers, and then stood guard outside his chambers for hours. He, who is sweet and bold and shy and bright as the dawn on the first day of the Fifth World, looks at Acatl and seems to honestly believe there’s something there worth sincerely desiring.

“Uh,” Acatl says intelligently, and his gaze falls to Teomitl’s mouth.

Teomitl kisses him. It’s not the same as before; those were heady, passionate, sweeping Acatl away in the tide. This? This is to make a point, and Acatl accepts. His hands wind up at Teomitl’s waist, hauling their bodies together, and when Teomitl buries his hands in his hair he moans and deepens the kiss. Teomitl’s little growl thrills him, spurs him on; he pulls back only to catch Teomitl’s lip between his teeth, and Teomitl makes a breathless noise and presses against him so hard he stumbles backwards and smacks his shoulder into the doorframe.

When they break apart, they’re both breathing hard. Teomitl’s mouth is red. “Well?” he breathes, and grins in a way that says he knows he’s won. “Did that convince you?”

“Ngh,” he manages, mostly because he can’t quite get his tongue in order to say I love you. He gives Teomitl’s waist a squeeze instead, just to feel the firm muscles under his hands, and finds himself enjoying the way Teomitl shivers appreciatively. It makes him wonder what other reactions he might get, now that he’s well-rested, and his blood heats a little at the thought. “...Well,” he finally says, mouth dry. “If you were worried I might not see you as a man, I think you may decidedly put that worry to rest.”

Tension bleeds out of Teomitl’s shoulders at that, and Acatl can’t help but tease him. It won’t do for the man to get too prideful, after all. “Even if you do still have a lot to learn. What was that earlier about respect?”

Teomitl’s eyes go dark with interest. “Was I not respectful enough earlier? Would you like me on my knees this time, Acatl-tzin?”

Acatl sucks in a sharp breath. It’s so easy to picture—Teomitl dropping to his knees, wrapping his mouth around his cock, being very thoroughly shut up for once—but he can’t. If he dwells on that possibility for too long, they’re going to end up right back on the mat, and they don’t have time. And so Acatl makes himself pull away, folding his arms across his chest. “...Later.” Before Teomitl’s face can fall too far, he adds pointedly, “If I touch you again, I’m not going to want to stop, and we have work to do.”

Teomitl shakes himself like an ahuitzotl, and it’s probably a sign of how much Acatl cares for him that the sight isn’t even all that creepy anymore. Then he rolls his shoulders back and meets Acatl’s gaze, looking every inch the warrior he is. “Back to the palace?”

“Mm.” They have people to question and a funeral vigil to begin. The stars are faint pinpricks in the blue afternoon sky. Acatl knows his next words are risky, but he says them anyway. Because—because he wants to. Because Teomitl feels like sunlight, and he wants all that sunlight on his skin. Because he’d like to see Teomitl stripped of everything but his jewels again, and this time be able to properly appreciate the view. Because Teomitl, with his back straight and his face set, already looks imperial, and that makes his heart beat a little faster as he pictures the Turquoise-and-Gold Crown, pictures what a man who takes such good care of him and melts so passionately at his praise might one day do with an Empire to command. “And then you’re coming home with me.”

Teomitl’s grin is sudden and radiant. “Well, what are we waiting for? Come on, Acatl-tzin. Let’s go.”

#obsidian and blood #acatl #teomitl #teocatl #not work safe #paladin writes stuff

1 note · View note