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notapaladin · 2 years

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the beast you’ve made of me

Acatl, pointing at Teomitl: that's him, that's the puppet master who cursed my dick.

Acatl is not, perhaps, the wisest of men. But in his defense, when he’s struck by Teomitl’s beauty upon seeing him return from war, it seems like a logical conclusion.

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The army was due back today; according to the messengers, it was another semi-successful campaign. Then again, after a year of Tizoc’s reign, Acatl was counting it as a victory if they came back with roughly the same amount of men they started with. And they had, and so he knew he should be happy about that. But there was a hard knot in his throat just the same.

He swallowed. It didn’t help. In the back of his mind, he wondered if he was coming down with something; he’d found himself feeling...odd for a while now. Every time he thought about the army, his skin would prickle and it became slightly hard to breathe. Anxiety? But there was no reason for him to be anxious; Neutemoc and Teomitl were skilled warriors, unlikely to meet their end in battle or on a sacrificial stone.

“Acatl-tzin, are you ready?”

He adjusted the straps on his mask one more time and turned to face Ichtaca. “Let’s go.”

The plaza was, as usual, packed. Mothers with their children on their backs, noblemen with their jaguar-trimmed tunics, and priests with their bloodstained hair all vied for space. If he hadn’t been wearing his full regalia, he might have had to elbow his way through the crowd like the old peasant men who were trying to get a look at the Revered Speaker in all his unfortunate glory—or maybe just to catch the speeches, since Tizoc had a voice like a sick dog which carried incredibly poorly. But he was High Priest for the Dead, so they made space for him.

Which meant that when he saw Teomitl standing by the Revered Speaker’s side, looking resplendent in the garb of the Frightful Specter, he couldn’t blame his sudden waver on anyone bumping into him. The man he’d once called his student looked much the same now as he had when he’d marched off four months ago, but there was something more to him now—some new light in his eyes, a breadth to his shoulders that wasn’t due to his padded cotton armor. Acatl’s eyes trailed down over his body, judging his stance. He didn’t look as though he’d been injured, but the feather suit covered him from wrists to ankles so anything could be hiding under there. He found himself praying desperately that he was right. Teomitl had enough scars, he didn’t need more.

Gods, and his chest hurt. Was it the heat? He lifted his gaze again, locking eyes with Teomitl. Teomitl, who was smiling at him as Tizoc began his speech.

Ba-bump.

He sucked in a sharp breath, heat prickling across his face. He was suddenly acutely conscious of his own heartbeat, thumping away in his ribcage like a drum. It got somehow worse when Teomitl inclined his head, a wordless little acknowledgment that he was seen. That he’d maybe even been missed.

Ba-bump.

What is happening to me? His mouth felt like it had been filled with cotton, and he was painfully aware of his own limbs. By the Duality, he thought he could feel his heartbeat in his fingertips.

Ichtaca was frowning at him, concerned. “Acatl-tzin, are you well? You’re looking rather flushed.”

He unglued his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “It’s the heat.” It had to be the heat, even though the day wasn’t that warm and he hadn’t been outside that much. The weight of his cloak and mask made everything worse, anyway. He’d feel better when he got a chance to sit down.

He just had to make it through the next several hours’ worth of speeches and rewards for the warriors, first. Many of them involved Teomitl, as was right and proper; even if he hadn’t been the Master of the House of Darts, he was a strong warrior who well deserved recognition for the captives he had brought home. Quetzal feathers and cotton cloaks were his due, and he accepted them from Tizoc with a grateful smile that didn’t meet his eyes. Acatl found his heart at ease, watching it. True, Tizoc still couldn’t lead so much as a dog kennel, and Teomitl was bound to move against him one day—but it wouldn’t be yet, because Teomitl had promised him. And in the meantime, he got to see this.

Even if every time he let his gaze linger on Teomitl’s face, he felt an odd lurch in his chest, as though the atole he’d had for breakfast was in danger of coming back up. His skin still felt unpleasantly warm. He wondered, distantly, if he looked alright. Presumably the mask would hide most of his expression, but he’d never really been good at keeping track of what his face was doing. Teomitl had always found him easy to read. Had teased him about it, actually, when he’d been tired and unable to hide it. The memory made his stomach hurt.

Just a little longer, he told himself. I’ll be alright once I get through the banquet.

It was well into the afternoon before he finally found himself sitting down between Acamapichtli and Quenami, fully ready to ignore both of them in favor of his food. That, at least, was no hardship; he hated formal dinners on principle, but at least the dishes presented to him were delicious. Roast and grilled fowl, fragrant sauces, soft and steaming flatbread—all of it made him forget, even if only briefly, that he was likely coming down with something and he definitely couldn’t afford to be ill. Teomitl would urge me to rest, he thought, and looked up to see what the man was doing.

Teomitl had changed out of his armor, of course, and the gold at his ears and wrists caught the firelight in a way that made him seem wrapped in flame, wrapped in sunlight. He looked far more imperial even than the screen behind which Tizoc sat. And he was sitting next to Mihmatini, smiling at something she’d said. Whatever his reply was, it made her giggle; he laughed in response, mouth open and white teeth flashing in the light.

Acatl felt like throwing up. Like someone had jabbed a dull knife into his gut and was twisting it, making the ropes of his intestines squirm like snakes. He squeezed his eyes shut, focusing for a moment on breathing through his nose. Mihmatini was his favorite sister. He’d danced at her wedding. He’d been relieved—nay, overjoyed—when she and Teomitl had reconciled. And yet the sight of her making Teomitl laugh, the sudden sick knowledge that she probably made him laugh like that all the time, when he didn’t get to see it—

Ba-bump.

When he opened his eyes again, Acamapichtli was frowning in his direction. “If you’re going to be ill, aim the other way.”

Acatl swallowed hard and glared back at him. “I,” he snapped, “am fine.”

If Acamapichtli had a snide remark or sarcastic expression as a response to that, Acatl wasn’t paying attention. He returned his focus to his plate and resolutely did not look up. He was fine, really. He was eating good food, nothing hurt more than usual, and there were no looming magical or political disasters on the horizon. It didn’t matter that every time he thought about Teomitl—Teomitl, whose bare arms gleamed in the light—he felt like he was being lit on fire. That he couldn’t stop seeing the curve of that mouth, the flash of those slightly-too-sharp teeth, that he knew that thick black hair would be soft under his palm—

A deep breath. Another. He was fine, said his mind. But his heart, his intuition, said otherwise. Something was wrong. The last time he’d felt like that had been...

The blood of parrots. The scattered petals of a poinsettia. Xochiquetzal’s voice. He’d never forget those encounters, nor the dizzy arousal she’d made him feel. But that still wasn’t the same as this; he’d never felt so aware of his own skin, so unable to stop thinking about whatever—whoever—had caused him to feel this way. The honeyed fruit tasted like ashes in his mouth. Have I been cursed?

It seemed likely. The more he thought about it, the more plausible it seemed; he and Teomitl were both powerful people, as much as he hated to admit it, and there were surely some who’d want to see them kept apart as much as possible. Giving him this strange almost-aversion to even looking at the man would certainly accomplish that. He couldn’t suppress a shudder at the realization of what that might mean. His relationship with Teomitl could never be wholly private, but the idea that he could be some sort of weakness for him was nauseating.

Well, then. He’d just have to fix this on his own.

By the time the banquet ended, he was feeling slightly better, or at least less like his heart had lodged itself in his throat, because he had the start of a plan. If a curse of this nature had ever been employed before, there were bound to be records. His own temple might have them, or—given that it seemed more embarrassing than outright lethal—the temples of Xochiquetzal or Xochipilli. From there, he was bound to find evidence of a cure.

He was halfway through a courtyard when he heard familiar footsteps behind him. Ice dripped down his spine.

“Acatl!”

Against his better judgement, he turned around.

He’d thought seeing Teomitl from a distance was bad enough. Up close, the effect was magnified tenfold. His breath came short, a hot flush rising across his face. Teomitl’s tribute from the campaign had included more riches; there was jade at his ears and a lovely, perfectly circular plug piercing his lower lip. With difficulty, Acatl dragged his eyes upwards. “Teomitl.” His voice sounded weak even to his own ears. “You look...well.”

He did not look well. He looked stunning, was what he looked like. Especially when he grinned, quite as though he had no idea Acatl was very possibly dying. “Thanks. I missed you, you know.”

“Gnkh.” He swallowed roughly, throat dry. “I’m...glad to hear it.” He supposed the feeling of moths in his stomach counted as glad, even though his brain was so blank he wasn’t sure he was having an emotion so much as a heart attack. “Mihmatini seems to have missed you too,” he forced out.

Teomitl hummed in acknowledgment. There was a softening of his eyes that sent a spear through Acatl’s guts. “She says she did.”

He forced himself to take a step back. “I’m surprised you’re not with her.”

A quick shake of Teomitl’s head set his jade-and-gold eagle-head earrings swinging. “I wanted to see you. You looked...a little off, at dinner. Have you been feeling well?”

Teomitl had been looking at him. Teomitl noticed him, cared whether he was well. And he’d known that—they were friends, after all—but until now it had never struck such a chord. He couldn’t feel his fingers and wondered if he was going to faint. The pounding of his heart almost drowned out his words. “I’m—fine. Really. I promise.”

“Are you sure?”

He nodded rapidly. Teomitl was close enough to touch him, and he wasn’t sure what it would do to him if he did. “Merely tired.”

That earned him a frown. “Go home and get some rest for once, then. I’ll see you later.”

A goodbye shouldn’t feel so much like he’d narrowly escaped death. “I’m going, I’m going. Good night.”

He wasn’t entirely sure how he made it home. Rote habit, maybe, because he definitely wasn’t paying any attention to his surroundings. He couldn’t. Teomitl was concerned about him.

That’s nothing new, he told himself. Teomitl often worried, and always denied it. It shouldn’t make his guts twist so hard that he was worried now because of whatever he’d seen in Acatl’s face at the banquet. What had he seen, anyway? A flushed face? Averted eyes? Had he noticed Acatl’s hands trembling?

He gained the safety and quiet of his courtyard and firmly put it from his mind. He really was tired—he hadn’t been lying about that—and he needed to sleep. His mind a careful blank, he washed his face and undressed. His hands didn’t seem to belong to him, and it was only when his back hit the mat and he had to reach up to shift his hair out of the way that he became properly aware of his body. He stared into the blackness of his ceiling, fingers still buried in his own loose waves, and just for a moment his hand was broader and squarer, the pattern of scars and calluses different, and he wondered if—

He yanked his hand free, painfully ripping out a few strands on the way, and snarled wordlessly. He had to be cursed. There was no other reason he could think of for him to have such a strong mental image of Teomitl’s hands, to remember in such exquisite detail all the little times they’d touched. Teomitl had never been particularly shy when it came to physical contact; it was all too easy to imagine a hand on his arm trailing up to his shoulder, and from there to the vulnerable column of his throat. All too easy to imagine a loose grip for a moment, his blood thrilling with the knowledge that Teomitl could hurt him, before letting him go and continuing downwards.

Heat pooled low in his gut. He took a shaky breath and realized as he did so that he was achingly hard. Xochiquetzal’s magic had been a mere physical sensation, easily ignored, but this? This was something deeper. His skin was alive with sensation; he was tempted, sorely, to take himself in hand.

There was no reason why he shouldn’t. It would probably help him sleep, since his suddenly pounding heart wasn’t going to be any use there. But...

But it was one thing to bring himself off without thinking of anyone in particular. It was another, somehow worse thing to do it while unable to rid himself of salacious thoughts of the very last person he should ever be having those thoughts about. He respected the man too much for that, surely. Storm Lord strike him down, Teomitl was going to be his Emperor, and it was probably treason for his mouth to water as he pictured the hard ridges of Teomitl’s abs and the way his muscles flexed when he stretched.

The first brush of his fingers against the base of his cock made him gasp. I shouldn’t do this. But that wasn’t enough to stop him; he shuddered as he wrapped a hand around himself, glad that no one was there to hear the noise that escaped.

Teomitl would be loud. Teomitl wasn’t quiet normally, so he’d definitely be noisy on the mat. And he’d want Acatl to be vocal, too; Acatl thrust roughly into his fist, panting at the thought of that low voice urging him on. “Don’t be shy,” he’d say, “I want to hear you,” and as shameful as it was Acatl knew he’d give in. Gods, and if it was his hand on Acatl’s cock he wouldn’t stop there. He’d bite at Acatl’s neck, claw his way down his side, rut his own cock against him—it would be thick and hot and perfect, dripping cum all over him—and he’d have Acatl’s legs wrapped around his waist, too, grinding against him and tempting him to more.

He was achingly close already, the heat and pressure at the base of his spine building to a head. His voice cracked on what was almost a yelp as he pumped his fist harder, eyes squeezing shut. Teomitl wouldn’t hold off; he’d keep stroking him just like this, with this perfect angle of his wrist, and he’d tell Acatl to come for him—

His orgasm hit so hard he bit the inside of his cheek by accident, but he barely felt it next to the rolling, leg-shaking waves of pleasure as he spurted all over his hand and thighs. For a perfect moment, his mind was screamingly blank.

And then awareness crashed back in like a charging peccary.

He sat up, nausea churning away inside him. He didn’t masturbate much; he rarely had the time, never mind the energy. But he couldn’t ignored how strongly or quickly his body had stirred to life at thoughts of Teomitl, nor the twitching restlessness of too-sensitive flesh that was wasting no time in informing him he had at least another round left if he really felt like it. That if he kept thinking of a wickedly smiling mouth and strong thighs, he would be having that second round anyway.

That this is my former student, the husband of the sister whom I love. That I must surely be cursed with madness to think of him like this.

And he’d thought an orgasm would help him sleep? Yes, he was definitely mad. His body might be tired, but his mind was viciously and unpleasantly awake. And he couldn’t stop feeling. The mat under him was too rough, the hair at the nape of his neck tickled, and he was horribly aware of the sweat collecting in the backs of his knees. His heart was still racing.

He hauled himself to his feet, legs still trembling as they bore his weight. He’d wash again, this time in very cold water. And he would not think about Teomitl.

But of course, his dreams weren’t so kind. In one dream, he was in warm water up to his waist, droplets scattering light into a rainbow as Teomitl splashed him until they were both soaking wet, and then Teomitl took him in his arms and breathed how good he looked. In another, he was racing through the city, heart pumping, a vile slavering thing on his heels—but he wasn’t afraid, because Teomitl was by his side. In a third dream...

In a third dream, he was back on the mat, and Teomitl was inside him. Dark eyes were locked on his own, fingers twined with his, as his mouth moved in words Acatl couldn’t make out past the all-encompassing throbbing of his flesh. “Harder,” he forced out, barely hearing his own voice. “Harder, there—gods, Teomitl!”

The conch shells flung him back to full consciousness so fast that when he opened his eyes some large part of him fully expected to meet Teomitl’s own. No. No, he was alone. He’d always been alone. There was only the fever in his brain making him think otherwise. He sucked in a ragged breath, adrenaline pumping through his veins and urging him to motion. But he was hard again, near to bursting, and it froze him in place. If he reached for his own cock again...

Gritting his teeth, he shoved himself upright and reached for his worship-thorns, drawing them through his ears so viciously that the blood splattered his hands. Then he did it again. And again, breathing hard, until the pain erased his arousal. And then he began his hymns to Lord Death, letting the emptiness of Mictlan scour him clean.

When they were over, he trudged out into his courtyard to look at himself with his priest-senses in the sunlight. Were those black smudges at his stomach, his groin, his hands? He squinted, which didn’t actually bring them into any sharper relief. They could be the marks of a curse, or they could be the little specks that sometimes invaded his vision in bright light. But he’d seen plenty of curses. Just because there were no marks on his skin, that didn’t mean they weren’t there.

When I find whoever cursed me, he thought grimly, I’m going to enact justice upon them myself.

But first he had to get through his day, which was easier said than done. People didn’t stop dying in suspicious circumstances just because the High Priest for the Dead was distracted, so he couldn’t afford to be. He threw himself headlong into his work, grunting at Ichtaca’s questions and finding himself even more reluctant to make eye contact then he usually was. Some part of him half-feared that they’d read his thoughts in his eyes.

Because despite his most fervent desires, he could not stop thinking of Teomitl. Light reflected off a knife, and he thought, I hope Teomitl slept well. He was elbow-deep in a woman’s corpse, and he reflected, Teomitl wouldn’t turn green like those novices over there. Even paperwork wasn’t safe, because when he sat down with a ledger he remembered the way Teomitl was always urging him to look at them in the light, lest he strain his eyes, and the memory turned his heart to warm honey.

He let his head fall to the table with a thunk. It’s getting worse. His plans to comb the archives hadn’t borne fruit; underworld curses tended towards a slow wasting, if not outright death, and not towards quaking arousal and...and emotions. And he was running out of time, because it would soon be noon and he doubted that half a day of rest from a long campaign would keep Teomitl from showing up for lunch. Not with his strange insistence, aided and abetted by Acatl’s priests, that he needed to eat regular meals.

Especially since he’d skipped breakfast. His stomach growled, helpfully reminding him of its existence, and he clambered back to his feet with a grimace. People wanted him to eat? Fine. He’d eat.

At Neutemoc’s house.

Petulance wasn’t the only reason, admittedly; the last time he’d seen or heard of anyone being this...besotted, it had been in connection to Elueia. It would be useful to compare symptoms before approaching the priestesses of Xochiquetzal—or the priests of Xochipilli, who he’d never really spoken to but who generally looked at him with smiles that suggested they knew far more about him than he wanted anyone to know. Neutemoc might judge him, but there was considerable comfort in knowing that his brother had been much, much worse. At least Acatl hadn’t gone to Teomitl’s mat panting like a dog.

Then again, a cold voice reminded him, Teomitl hadn’t asked. And if he did...

He picked up his walking pace, keeping his head down as he stormed through the streets. A boat would have been quicker, but he needed to move. Being out on the water reminded him too much of Teomitl’s utter and continuous failures at rowing, anyway. He hated that he found it charming.

Neutemoc’s house was less shabby than it had been; the campaign had evidently been good to him. The guard recognized Acatl and smiled as he motioned him into the courtyard, where he was only left waiting a few moments before his brother appeared from a side room.

“Acatl! What are you doing here?” And then, mercifully before he had a chance to answer, Neutemoc added, “Let’s have lunch.”

Lunch was frogs and peppers on flatbread, spicy and delicious. More importantly, he didn’t have to talk while he was shoving it into his face. For a while, there was silence broken only by the sounds of their eating. Acatl felt himself start to relax despite himself. With a full belly, he could almost pretend nothing was wrong.

Finally, Neutemoc spoke up. “I wasn’t expecting you to drop by. Normally you eat lunch with Teomitl.”

He couldn’t help but flinch. “Ah,” he muttered.

And of course, Neutemoc noticed. His eyes narrowed as he studied Acatl’s face. “Did something happen between you two?”

“I’m not his consort,” he grumbled.

“...I didn’t say you were. But he does tend to follow you around.”

That’s the problem, he thought, but what left his lips instead was, “Well, he’s not following me around today. I came because...” He swallowed, suddenly unable to meet his brother’s eyes. “I need your help.”

Neutemoc set the remainder of his flatbread down. “No one dropped dead at any homecoming ceremonies this time, did they?”

He grimaced. “No. It’s...rather more of a personal matter. When you were with Elueia, how did you feel?”

His brother blinked slowly, an odd twist to his mouth that said he wasn’t sure whether this was weird or not. Acatl didn’t blame him. At any other time, he would rather have pulled his tongue out than asked for details on that. “That...is not a question I thought you’d ever ask. Do I want to know why?”

He bit his lip. “I...” Now that it came down to it, he felt like a fool.

“What is it?”

“I might be having the same symptoms,” he muttered.

“What,” Neutemoc said flatly, and then his lips twitched. “You’re telling me you’ve finally met a woman? Well, it’s about time! What’s she like? Is she a beauty? Or—no, you’d probably go for a girl who spends all day bent over a codex.”

Teomitl was the most beautiful man Acatl had ever seen. His smile put the sun to shame. “That doesn’t matter,” he snapped, feeling his face burn. “It’s not...natural. I look at him, and I can barely breathe, and my heart feels like it’s going to burst from my chest. I can’t sleep at night for thinking about him, Neutemoc.”

Neutemoc snorted. “You sleep normally?”

“I do! Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is that this all happened so suddenly. As soon as I saw him I felt like...” He shook his head, at a loss for words.

“A boy with his first crush?”

“Worse. It...he doesn’t even do anything out of the ordinary, nothing to indicate he’s...interested, but I can’t stop thinking about him.”

Neutemoc frowned thoughtfully, puffing his cheeks out in an exact imitation of Mihmatini. If Acatl hadn’t been so frustrated at himself, it would have been funny. Finally, his brother said, “And you’re devoted to the gods. Do you think she cursed you?”

Ice settled in the pit of Acatl’s stomach. “He wouldn’t know how,” he replied, and hoped he was telling the truth. Teomitl was resourceful and inventive with his magic, but not like that. None of his skills lent themselves to that. And even if he had the ability, there was no way he’d have the inclination. No, if he wanted Acatl, he’d take him.

Neutemoc looked doubtful. “If you say so. But if this came on as suddenly as you say—how long has it been?”

“About a day.”

“And you’ve known this woman for...?”

Acatl still wasn’t going to correct him, though the mental image of Teomitl in a blouse and skirt wasn’t going to leave his mind anytime soon. Especially not since the cloth in his mind’s eye was nearly gauze. “A few years. I hadn’t seen him in a while, and when I saw him again...” He shrugged awkwardly. “Well.”

“And nothing before that?”

Of course he’d always thought Teomitl was attractive; he wasn’t blind. And of course he’d been first charmed and then made tender by his winning smiles and teasing words. That the thought of losing him felt like a knife in his chest was only to be expected; they were basically family, and there was nothing wrong with wanting to be close. Even if Teomitl’s confidence made him feel better about the future. Even if, when Teomitl touched him, he didn’t want to pull away. Even if this new and terrifying reaction to his presence didn’t entirely feel like a shock. It had to be the curse making him think that.

“No,” he said finally.

“Hm.” Neutemoc squinted at him, as though he possessed priestly training and could see magic that had escaped Acatl’s priest-senses. “Might be a curse. When I knew Elueia...she was alluring, yes, but it didn’t hit me like a hammer all at once unless she was trying.”

He grimaced. “I see. I suppose I’m for the temple, then.”

“Is she at least pretty?” Neutemoc made an unmistakably suggestive hand gesture outlining a woman’s figure.

His face burned. “I—that’s besides the point!”

As he rose from the mat, Neutemoc put a hand out to stop him. “There’s a man I know who specializes in healing curses. Maybe he can take a look at you.”

On one hand, that didn’t sound particularly likely to help. On the other hand...this was Neutemoc reaching out to him, showing concern, reminding him of the days when his relationship with his brother had been simply good instead of the tangled wreck it had grown into as they’d aged. “I’ll talk to him. Give me his directions?”

Neutemoc did. And added, “If you’d like me to come with you—”

“Eurgh,” he muttered. Some things he decidedly did not want company for. “No, I’ll be fine. Thank you, though. For the food, and...for listening.”

“Anytime. You’re my brother, after all.” Neutemoc patted his shoulder, an awkward yet comforting gesture. “Good luck.”

He’d need Chicomecoatl’s own luck to make it through this, but he didn’t say it out loud. “Thanks,” he muttered, and left.

The healer Neutemoc had recommended lived far enough away that he needed to borrow a boat and a slave to row it; Oyahuaca smiled at him when she saw him, though she kept her eyes politely downcast. He smiled back, making a mental note to tip her for the work she was putting in. Evidently she hadn’t yet woven enough cotton cloaks to cover the debt that had seen her sold into slavery in the first place, and he hadn’t rewarded her as much as he probably should have for pulling him out of an ahuitzotl’s jaws all those years ago.

The problem with being rowed was that it left him far too much space to think. He’d never had anything to do with Xochipilli or His priests; the idea of showing up at their temple now, when he needed their help, was mortifying. That assumed they would help in the first place; the Flower Prince was among other things the god of hedonistic excess, and He’d probably think a priest filled with irrational—call it what it was—lust was hilarious regardless of who it was aimed at. It being another man, even a married one? They’d probably cheer him on. Even though it was certainly a curse.

It had to be a curse. He had missed Teomitl when he was gone, but surely not that much. He’d thought of him in the rare moments when he wasn’t working, but that didn’t mean anything.

Oyahuaca’s voice snapped him out of his reverie. “We’re here, Acatl-tzin.”

He picked himself up out of the boat, pressing a fistful of cacao beans into her palm as he did so. “Wait here for me; hopefully I won’t be long.”

His target was a small house tucked into the corner of a quiet street, unremarkable from the outside save for its bright frescoes of medicinal herbs and flowers. He approached quietly, battling back an odd swell of nervousness.

There was a rangy youth sweeping the courtyard when he came in. Acatl cleared his throat and asked, “Is Tlatzcan-tzin in?”

The boy nodded. “I’ll let him know he has a customer if you’ll just wait here a moment, sir.”

There were several benches arranged around a tidy patch of garden, but Acatl didn’t feel like sitting. He paced instead, scraping his hair into a tighter tail as he did. It helped him focus.

Footsteps announced the arrival of Tlatzcan, who turned out to be an old man with the most wildly curly gray hair Acatl had ever seen. It made his own look tame. He wore a faded once-black cloak and a pleasant if somewhat vague smile, but his eyes were sharp as a hawk’s as he looked Acatl over. “Come inside, young man, and tell me what’s troubling you.”

He followed Tlatzcan inside. The room he was shown to contained worn straw mats, a sturdy low table long enough for a man to lay down upon, and shelves and shelves of containers that varied wildly in size, color, and composition. There was a distinctly astringent smell in the air that probably didn’t come from the dried herbs clustered in the ceiling. Acatl decided he didn’t want to know what it was.

Tlatzcan didn’t give him much time to look around before showing him to the mat. “Name and age? Ah, one moment—” One of the containers held paper, ink, and a reed pen, and he settled down opposite with the air of a man just waiting to take notes.

“Acatl. I’m thirty-three.” He was fairly sure of that; he didn’t usually bother celebrating his birthdays much.

Tlatzan nodded, pen scratching. “And what brings you here? It’s not every day I have a priest for a customer.”

He swallowed, knowing he had to be blushing. “Well. Since yesterday, very suddenly, I’ve been having these...thoughts.”

Tlatzcan frowned. “Tell me about them.”

Face possibly on fire, gaze fixed firmly on the wall to Tlatzcan’s left, Acatl muttered his way through an explanation. He left some things out—Tlatzcan did not need to know just how turned on he’d been by the thought of rolling around on the mat with his years-younger sister’s husband—but he did his best to convey the gist of things. That he couldn’t remember having ever thought about the man like that before, that it was affecting his focus, that he had urges to act on it that he absolutely could not give into, that Teomitl wasn’t capable of working such a spell even if he’d had the inclination.

Tlatzcan listened patiently, without judgement. Or at least, none that showed. He kept taking notes while Acatl talked, occasionally pausing him to ask questions.

“I see,” Tlatzcan said finally. “And you used to be his teacher? Is he in the priesthood now?”

Acatl shook his head. “No, he’s—he’s married. And a warrior. A successful one.”

It didn’t even rate a raised eyebrow. “Hmm. Any enemies?”

He winced. “...Regrettably. He has a very...abrasive personality, and he’s not shy of expressing his opinions. But if you’re asking if someone might use me to get to him, I’m not so sure. They’d be more likely to go for his wife—and they’d regret that.”

“Hmmm.” Tlatzcan made another note on his paper, frowning in thought. “Well. I’m not sure if I can help you, but I’ll have a look. Give me your wrist.”

Acatl did so, and Tlatzcan made a shallow nick in it so that he bled onto a piece of paper flecked with herbs. Another slash on the old man’s arm mingled their blood, and Tlatzcan gingerly picked it up with thumb and forefinger. “I’m going to burn this. It will awaken my senses, and I’ll be able to see if there’s anything magically wrong with you.”

“What else could it be?”

Tlatzcan chortled. “You did say he was a handsome young warrior!”

With that mortifying reply—gods, Acatl actually had said that earlier, it had slipped out before he could even catch himself—Tlatzcan rose with the paper and went into what was probably the kitchen. Soon, there was the familiar smell of burnt blood and incense. Acatl waited, hand clasped over his wrist to stop the bleeding, until the man returned.

He smelled of fresh-cut grass, blue pinpricks of light swimming in his pupils. And he took one look at Acatl and whistled through his teeth. “Well, now. I stand corrected. You’re definitely cursed.”

Strangely, the words didn’t make Acatl feel any better. “Can you cure it?”

Tlatzcan nodded. “It’s a fairly light hunger curse; I’m not surprised you didn’t see it yourself. What are your eating habits like? No, don’t answer that, I can see they’re not the best. Give me a moment to prepare what we’ll need.”

What Tlatzcan needed was apparently a selection of herbs from various jars, none of which Acatl recognized on sight. It all went in a bowl with living blood, mashed into a fine paste with water added until it resembled the consistency, though not the color or scent, of thin atole. And then he handed the bowl to Acatl. “Drink this and try not to puke.”

Acatl took a gulp and had never in his life been more glad for his priestly training. If he hadn’t developed a strong stomach, there would have been no hope at all of following Tlatzcan’s instructions. As it was, he was hard-pressed to keep it down with his belly still full from lunch, and when the bowl was empty he had to take shallow breaths until his mouth stopped trying to rebel.

Tlatzcan had been taking industrious notes while he drank, but as Acatl finished he looked at him again with that blue-lit gaze. “And it’s gone. You did well.”

“You mean I’m cured?”

Tlatzcan smiled, and this time it was far from vague. “You’re cured. How do you feel?”

“Nauseous,” he confessed.

“No intrusive thoughts about a particularly attractive youth?”

Acatl flushed. He still couldn’t believe he’d said that out loud, even if it was true. “None.”

“Then you’re free to go, and I hope you’ll understand me when I say you aren’t a repeat customer!” Tlatzcan snickered at his own joke, a sound like a turkey with something stuck in his throat.

“Hrmph,” Acatl said, and carefully got to his feet. “Thank you. Goodbye, then.”

Then there was only the matter of payment and making his way back to the canals, where Oyahuaca was waiting. “Are you well, Acatl-tzin?”

He nodded. “I’m fine. Take me back to the Sacred Precinct, please.”

She was already starting to row; he sat back and let her, watching the traffic on the canals with unseeing eyes. He would probably have an autopsy lined up for him back at the temple by now. The thought filled him with curiosity, but not enthusiasm. And he certainly wasn’t thinking of Teomitl’s hands.

He let out a long sigh. Well...that was that, he supposed. He was cured. These thoughts and emotions would no longer torment him. He couldn’t help a sigh of relief, even though something nagged at the back of his mind. Something that said he was still unsatisfied with this resolution.

He’d probably feel better when he saw Teomitl again and looked upon him with only warm friendship. Probably.

But of course, the fates weren’t so kind. He looked forward to the next day’s lunch in an abstract way, but as it loomed closer he found a knot of nerves in his belly. The sound of impatient footsteps approaching nearly made him drop his pen, even though he knew it was coming as soon as the noon bell rang.

“Acatl!”

Ba-bump.

Oh, no.

But then Teomitl was coming around the corner, fistful of tamales in hand and a beaming smile on his face. “I missed you yesterday! Ichtaca said you were out on a case. What happened? Is it something you might need my help with?”

Nothing could help him now. He was blushing so hard he knew Teomitl had to notice, and he couldn’t make words pass his lips for an embarrassing amount of time before he finally managed to blurt out, “It’s fine. It’s nothing serious.”

Teomitl’s shoulders relaxed at that. “That’s a relief. Come have something to eat, I brought us those tamales with the greens you like.”

He was fond of those tamales, especially when they were dunked in chili sauce, but that didn’t make him feel better. Not when he’d be eating with Teomitl, who looked utterly pleased and at peace with this return to their routine after four months. Who was leading him out to the courtyard and sitting down with an eager motion at the bench next to him, indicating that they should share.

Before, Acatl would have taken the seat without a second thought. Now he hovered awkwardly as he sat down, too aware of the casual way in which Teomitl was brushing against him with every little movement. His skin prickled everywhere they touched, and yet he couldn’t move away. No, he didn’t want to move away. His heart cried for the sensation of skin on skin. “So,” he said, groping for a conversation topic. “The campaign seems to have gone well.”

“Eh.” Teomitl waved a hand in a so-so gesture, shrugging one perfectly sculpted shoulder. “It could have been better. We lost some good men. But the war council listens to me.”

Despite himself, he smiled. That was good to hear. “You’re growing your power base.”

Teomitl frowned as he unwrapped his tamale, unfortunately drawing Acatl’s attention to his lip plug. “I suppose I am.”

Acatl blinked. “...It wasn’t part of your plan?” That seemed unlikely; Teomitl was always driven towards excellence, towards becoming worthy of the crown, and surely the war council approving of him was a stepping stone on that path.

Teomitl shook his head. “I did say I’d wait, remember? But in the meantime, I’m doing what I can to minimize the impact of his...foolishness.” The pause suggested he’d been about to use a much stronger word.

He felt himself smiling, happiness coiling through him like warm incense. Gods, Teomitl had grown so much. He was keeping a cool head and thinking about the consequences to everyone around him. He didn’t need Acatl to worry about his choices anymore, even after four months with Tizoc’s company no doubt tempting him to regicide on a regular basis. “You’re doing a good job.”

“You think so?”

Ah. Fuck. Teomitl was looking up at him now, eyes shining, clearly warmed by the praise, and his heart felt like someone had wrapped a fist around it. How was it even possible for someone to be this radiant? Like a luminous pearl, he thought distantly. He’d burn me, if I touched him. And I think I’d let him. But Teomitl deserved an answer instead of Acatl staring at him like a gormless fool, so he hummed an affirmative note and unwrapped his tamale. If he was eating, he didn’t have to talk.

But he only managed a few bites before setting it down again, throat tight. Every time Teomitl shifted in his seat, his calf brushed against Acatl’s shin, and it was impossible to apply himself to lunch with the primal awareness of warm skin and the faint scent of copal incense.

It didn’t help when Teomitl nudged him, having all but inhaled his own tamale. “You’re not eating?”

“...I’m not hungry,” he muttered.

He practically felt the weight of Teomitl’s concerned look. “That’s not like you. Are you feeling well?”

No. No, he wasn’t feeling well at all. The hot, prickly flush across his skin was back, and his heart was a hammer in his chest wielded by a very angry goldsmith. “I...”

Teomitl frowned and reached out, pressing the back of his hand against Acatl’s forehead. Acatl forgot to breathe. The dark eyes locked onto his were serious and worried. “You don’t have a fever, I think.”

He swallowed. Air. Right. He needed air. “Your hand is warm,” he said lamely.

And it was still there, the edge of his thumb resting against Acatl’s hairline like a brand. “And you always run a little cold. I’ve noticed.”

Well, he definitely wasn’t running cold now. Teomitl had made note of his temperature? His fist clenched, but he kept his voice casual as he shrugged, “I’m a priest of Lord Death.”

This seemed to mollify Teomitl, who sat back, blessedly not touching him anymore, and motioned to his tamale. “Are you really not going to eat that?”

He was fairly sure that if he tried to swallow, he’d throw up. “No, do you want it?”

“Well, if it would go to waste...”

That meant yes. Acatl could recognize a hint when it was lobbed at him with great speed. He handed Teomitl the rest of the tamale, moths fluttering in his stomach at the expression on his face. He looks happy. And I did that.

All at once, it was too much to handle. He shot to his feet, brushing crumbs from his lap. “I think I have to go,” he blurted out.

The expression on Teomitl’s face, eyebrows knit like a puppy, almost looked hurt. “Already?”

He took a deep breath, sudden fury stiffening his limbs. He was supposed to have been cured. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He was supposed to be able to look at Teomitl, his sister’s husband, and not feel his blood pound with desire. “There’s a man I have to talk to.”

Teomitl didn’t look satisfied by this, but he nodded anyway. “...Alright. I’ll see you around. Take care.”

“Mm,” he murmured. If you knew what I thought when you’re near me, you wouldn’t be saying that.

It didn’t get better when he was on the water. Tlatzcan’s house was quite a ways away from the Sacred Precinct, but he rowed himself due to the vague hope that the burn of his muscles would clear his head. It didn’t work; his shoulders flexed, and he pictured Teomitl’s. The worried little wrinkle of the man’s brows felt seared into his mind. That old man was a charlatan, he thought savagely. A hunger curse? Bah!

And yet, as water splashed the hull of his boat and he pointedly did not look at any of the people he passed on the canals, a nasty thread of doubt wormed its way into his mind. He’d studied himself as best he could with his priest-senses, and he’d seen no curse-like shadows. And he’d never heard of a curse that could make a man feel happy. Lustful, yes. Obsessed, certainly. But never melting like warm honey when the object of his desires smiled at him.

But if it wasn’t a curse, that left only one possibility. That these feelings didn’t come from some unknown enemy, but from his own heart. That at some point, his regard for Teomitl had morphed into something he was afraid to name.

He let out a frustrated snarl and kept rowing. Tlatzcan had better have some answers for him.

The little house with its fresco of herbs and flowers was still as quiet as it had been the day before, with the same rangy youth watering the plants in the garden. He looked up, saw Acatl’s face, and went pale. “Ah. My lord...?”

He sucked in a breath. He would not shout. “Tlatzcan-tzin. Is he available?”

“Back so soon, Acatl? Don’t tell me you got cursed again.”

Tlatzcan was ambling out from a side room, looking utterly unconcerned by this turn of events. Acatl sort of wanted to punch him. Through gritted teeth, he snapped, “No. I am still cursed, because whatever you did did not work.”

Tlatzcan blinked at him. “What do you mean?”

He cast a glance at Tlatzcan’s assistant, who was still holding a bucket and looked paralyzed with indecision. “May we speak in private?”

The healer sighed and waved a hand at the boy. “Go weed the back garden while I talk with our customer.” The boy didn’t hesitate; he all but sprinted into the building, leaving them alone.

Acatl fixed his gaze on Tlatzcan again. “So.”

“So,” Tlatzcan echoed, and folded his skinny arms across his chest. “You think you’re still cursed?”

He took a rough breath, his chest feeling too tight. “I must be. Or else...”

Tlatzcan tilted his head, birdlike. “Or else?”

“Every time I see him, my heart races and I can barely breathe,” he blurted out. “He smiled at me earlier—he was happy in my company—and I thought I was going to die. When I look at him, I can’t even think clearly.”

Tlatzcan continued to look singularly unimpressed by this. “Acatl-tzin, if you still have this...reaction when you see the man, perhaps you might try simply not looking at him? Out of sight, out of mind.”

Not look at Teomitl? He shook his head, aghast at the thought. “You haven’t seen him. Believe me when I say that’s not possible. He is...he’s radiant, the sort of man who brings dignity and glory to the Empire with his actions. This last campaign alone, he took six captives by himself! When he smiles, it lights up the entire room. I am a priest of Lord Death, and it makes me feel alive. And...and he treats me like a friend, and not a former teacher.” He bit his lip, remembering the way Teomitl always looked at him. “Even if I wanted to abandon him, I...”

“You love him too much to do that.”

Love? He swallowed past the lump in his throat. “I...I don’t...”

Surely, love wasn’t meant to hit like a thunderbolt. Surely, he should have noticed some signs before this. Should have noticed lingering glances, lingering thoughts, the staccato pounding of his heart.

Tlatzcan snorted. “Still think it’s a curse?”

He couldn’t respond.

“...Acatl?”

Teomitl’s hesitant voice came from behind him. His stomach dropped. Movement abruptly became impossible.

Tlatzcan looked at his face and then past him to where Teomitl was hovering awkwardly at the gate. His eyes widened for a moment, and then he sighed heavily, shaking his head in clear amusement. “I’m going to organize my storehouse. Don’t think you’re getting your money back, young man!”

Acatl let the man go. It wasn’t like he could stop him. It wasn’t like he could do anything, really, except turn around and meet Teomitl’s wide, stunned eyes. His stomach felt like lead.

Teomitl was the one to break the silence that hung heavy between them. “I didn’t mean to—I followed you because I was worried; you never run off like that. What’s this about a curse?”

It was too late to run. And even if he hadn’t been, he wasn’t such a coward. Still...still, he dropped his gaze to Teomitl’s sandals, unable to meet his eyes. They were brown leather and red cord today, with a single pale jade bead. “It was very sudden. But I don’t—I don’t think it’s anything that concerns you.”

Teomitl took a step closer, tension in the lines of his body. “If it’s about me, I think it does.”

His mouth was dry, his skin hot and cold at once. “You won’t like hearing it.” And surely—surely, it would wreck his relationship with Teomitl forever, whether it was a curse or not. No man could stay friends with someone who was half-mad with desire for him.

“As if that’s ever stopped you before?” Teomitl scoffed, but there was fondness in it. And he kept coming closer, before finally reaching out and—oh, gods—taking Acatl’s hand. “Come on, Acatl. Tell me what’s wrong.”

He’d never wanted to do anything less in his life. But Teomitl had asked, and he was right that Acatl had never shied away from unpleasant truths before. It was easier if he thought of it as a curse, as something outside his control. Teomitl wouldn’t blame him for that.

“...Well...” he muttered, and told him.

It was easier to list his symptoms the third time, even if he kept his voice flat and the descriptions as vague and clinical as possible. A pounding heart. Hot and cold flashes. Giddiness. Loss of appetite. Constant intrusive thoughts. A desire to be...closer, yet at the same time a fear of getting too close.

Throughout his dull recitation, Teomitl didn’t let go of his hand. Absurdly, it helped. When he finally ran out of words, Teomitl gave his fingers a gentle squeeze. “...Acatl?” he said cautiously.

“Yes?” he croaked out.

There was a moment’s hesitation before Teomitl responded. “Mihmatini...said something like this might happen. And...”

Mihmatini said what? Well, she’d always been perceptive. If she’d suspected this—a curse, Acatl’s own heart turning traitor—and hadn’t seen fit to be angry about it, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Even though it would have been nice if she’d told him, and he was certainly going to have words with her on that score later.

But he looked up to meet Teomitl’s eyes, and his mouth went dry again. There was a wicked light in them, one he’d rarely seen but that always presaged some plan Teomitl was excited about. Through numb lips, he said, “Go on.”

Teomitl drew closer yet, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “...I might have a way to fix it. If you’d like.”

He licked his lips. His fingers seemed to have gone numb at some point. “Alright,” he whispered.

Even knowing it was coming, the first brush of Teomitl’s lips against his own—the realization that he was being kissed, that those lips were deliriously soft, that Teomitl was dropping his hand in order to settle his own at his waist instead—was like being struck by lightning. He was absolutely sure he wasn’t breathing, and wouldn’t have laid great odds on his heart beating either. There was no thought in his head; he moved on pure instinct, hands sliding up into Teomitl’s hair and grabbing his shoulder to pull him closer, and Teomitl made a soft noise against his lips and kissed him harder.

The part of his brain that was never quiet noticed the calluses on Teomitl’s hands and the heat of his skin, cataloged the sensation of one of those hands sliding up his spine and leaving tingling heat in its wake. The rest of it thought only, Yes. Yes, gods, yes. For the first time, his racing heartbeat was calm again, and the butterflies in his stomach didn’t hide knives in their wings. He kissed Teomitl desperately, not caring that he was definitely forgetting to breathe. He didn’t need air. He just needed this.

Slowly, Teomitl pulled away. His mouth was red and wet, lips swollen slightly. Because Acatl had just kissed him breathless. Because he’d done that. Those beautiful lips curved into a grin. “Did it work?”

He didn’t think his mouth had ever been so dry, nor his heart so full to bursting with emotion. He didn’t know if he was cursed, but it didn’t matter. What he did know was that he never wanted this feeling to stop. “I’m not sure,” he said finally. “I think we might...ah...”

Teomitl pressed against him, skin like a brand and eyes full of a filthy, wicked promise. “Do you want more, Acatl-tzin?”

And there was his lurching heart again. He didn’t need to ask what more would entail; his cock throbbed just at the thought, and from the appreciative little noise Teomitl made he wasn’t the only one who had ideas. “Yes,” he breathed.

“Good,” Teomitl said with probably-justified smugness. “That old man won’t be back for a while. We can...” His fingers trailed downwards again, hooking themselves in Acatl’s belt.

Acatl’s cock was certainly interested in that, but his face burned anyway. “Not here,” he muttered, remembering the fantasies that had gotten him off so effectively the other night. No, he wanted Teomitl on his own mat, making those dreams a reality. “Come home with me.”

It was Teomitl’s turn to blush, which made him feel a little better about the whole thing. His grin, though, was just the same as it always was. “You have the best ideas.”

Unfortunately, even with the blessings of Chalchiuhtlicue, it was a long trip. A long trip where they couldn’t touch, couldn’t talk privately, and where Acatl’s mind was free to revolve in circles as he rowed steadily through the canals.

Fact: Teomitl had kissed him. There had been tongue.

Fact: He’d kissed Teomitl back.

Fact: He had definitely enjoyed the experience. In fact, even thinking about it sent a low burn of arousal through his core.

It was possible—and sounding more likely by the minute—that he wasn’t cursed. That these feelings had come solely from his own heart, and seeing Teomitl again had simply brought them to the forefront. Like a son to me, he’d thought once, but that had changed without him even realizing it. But if it wasn’t the result of a curse, did that give him the right to be selfish? To break his vows?

Ah, but he’d sworn vows to serve Tizoc, and he’d felt far more regret at the prospect of breaking those. There was exhilaration and mild terror coursing through him now, a heady combination, but no regret. But as for what it might do to Mihmatini...

He cleared his throat. “You said Mihmatini knew.”

Teomitl was silent for a moment, then he murmured, barely audible above the traffic on the canals, “She knows...how I think about you. I didn’t think she would, but she swears she’s fine with it.” There was a soft huff, almost amused. “She also said that if I hurt you, she’d have me castrated.”

That did sound like his sister. Acatl snorted. “No. You said she foresaw all...this?”

“She told me to have hope,” Teomitl said quietly.

Oh. Acatl nearly dropped the oar, pulse pounding so hard he felt it in his gut. Teomitl hoped for this. He wanted me before this. Before he knew—before I ever thought I might...

Gritting his teeth, he rowed faster.

Steering a boat through the canals all the way back to the Sacred Precinct was an excellent way to sublimate the simmering arousal in his veins. From the outside, he knew he looked entirely normal, even though his hands were shaking as he finally tied up his boat at the Precinct pier. If anyone except Teomitl spoke to him for the next—hour? Day? Week?—he was going to lose his mind. Please, he prayed, don’t let any emergencies crop up now. Let me at least come to grips with this, if nothing else.

Luck must have been on his side, because he and Teomitl slid through the crowds like smoke. No one seemed to find it remarkable that Teomitl was walking much closer than he normally did or that Acatl was unable to stop himself from restlessly scanning the area like a man being hunted. By the time they stepped into his courtyard, he was wound tight as a drawn bowstring.

Teomitl let out a long, gusty breath, shoulders loosening. “Thank the Duality.”

Acatl made a noise he refused to term a squeak. Now that he was home, staring at the little tree and the covered well and the bare dirt of his own courtyard, it was sinking in that this was real. That he was really going to do this, because...because he wanted to.

And Teomitl was turning to face him, twining their fingers together with a smile that took his breath away. “So,” he said. “Aren’t you going to kiss me again, Acatl?”

He was.

He’d had a vague idea, when their mouths met, of being more careful. Less desperate. But Teomitl sighed against his mouth and his lips parted, and then there was no question of holding back. His hands fell to Teomitl’s hips, hauling them together; Teomitl made an inarticulate noise and clawed at his shoulder blades, grinding against him in a way that left no doubt how much he was enjoying this. Even the sting of blunt nails got Acatl’s blood pumping, and if he and Teomitl hadn’t been wrapped around each other so tightly his legs might have buckled.

The only reason they broke apart was because he needed to breathe, but even then he didn’t go far; Teomitl started to murmur his name, but it came out in a gasp instead as he lowered his lips to his neck, mouthing over the pulse there until Teomitl’s hips bucked and he panted, “Fuck, Acatl, you’re...”

“You asked me if I wanted more.” He barely recognized his own voice; he hadn’t known desire would turn it rough and low, almost a growl, nor that Teomitl’s cock against his own would get him this hard this quickly. “I said yes.”

Teomitl sucked in a harsh breath. “Gods, If we don’t get inside, I swear I’ll have you right here.”

Truthfully, Acatl wasn’t entirely sure he’d mind that, but laying down on hard-packed earth would probably result in his back muscles taking immediate revenge. So he nodded, a little shakily, and pulled Teomitl with him towards his bedroom.

The entrance-curtain jangled as they stumbled through, with some very awkward hopping-on-one-leg as they yanked their sandals off—the gods only knew where they landed—but Acatl barely noticed; Teomitl was wasting no time steering him towards the mat, tugging him until they tumbled down in a tangle of limbs. His elbow was caught in his cloak and he was laying on his hair, but that was a very distant secondary sensation next to Teomitl’s mouth on his throat and his hands mapping the muscles of his chest. He opened his mouth to say something—we should get naked, probably—but what came out as he felt the pressure of sharp little teeth on his collarbone was a heartfelt, “Fuck.”

Teomitl grinned down at him and swung a leg over so that he knelt between Acatl’s spread thighs, which was so exactly like his fantasies that he had to bite back a ridiculous grin of his own. “That’s the idea, but I think we’re both still wearing too many clothes.”

His fantasies hadn’t included this. He hadn’t known that he would grin as he tugged at the knot of Teomitl’s cloak, that Teomitl would swear quietly as he fumbled with the double knot of his own—“Seriously, are you afraid you’re going to lose it?”—that when he slid his hands down the hard ridges of Teomitl’s stomach on the way to his loincloth the man would shudder all over at the touch. And he definitely hadn’t known how it would feel to have Teomitl bare and hot and hard against him. He’d had some idea, but he hadn’t known.

He was already hard, and Teomitl hadn’t even touched him yet. But the man didn’t seem to be in a great hurry; he sat back, gaze slowly sliding up Acatl’s body, and breathed, “Gods. You’re beautiful.”

Acatl fought an absurd urge to hide his face in his hair. “So are you,” he muttered.

Teomitl made a slightly strangled noise in his throat, but before Acatl could ask what that was about—surely the man owned a mirror—he surged forward to capture his mouth in a hot, messy kiss. Acatl moaned into it, hands coming up to catch at Teomitl’s shoulderblades, his spine, the nape of his neck. There was no room for thought, not anymore; the only thing running through his soul was pure need. He rolled his hips in an inexpert grind, but from the way Teomitl slid against him he seemed to like that, and the friction of their cocks sliding together send sparks down his spine.

“Gods,” he panted, but then Teomitl’s mouth was at his throat again, a hand sliding between them to tease and pinch at one nipple, and he clamped his mouth shut around a muffled cry. He hadn’t thought he’d be sensitive there at all, but evidently it was another thing he’d been wrong about.

Teomitl sucked at his collarbone again, sure to leave a mark later, and ground their hips together as he breathed, “Don’t be shy, Acatl-tzin. I want to hear you.”

Then he bit the spot he licked, so that Acatl had no choice but to cry out. “Ah...!” And Teomitl wasn’t stopping; he was running his hand down over his stomach to wrap around Acatl’s cock, and the feeling of a hand not his own wrapping around the shaft positively knocked the breath out of him. “Fuck,” he panted, “I dreamed about this...”

Teomitl lifted his head, looking down at him with a heat that made him dizzy. Swallowing visibly, he asked, “You dreamed? About this?”

He nodded frantically, but even if he’d wanted to respond verbally he couldn’t; Teomitl took that as a sign to seize his mouth again, one hand burying itself in Acatl’s hair and the other grabbing both their cocks to stroke them together, and all Acatl could do was moan and buck against him. More things he hadn’t imagined: the heat and weight of Teomitl on top of him, the scent of his skin, the way his voice hitched as he fucked against his fist and Acatl’s cock. “Feels so good, fuck, Acatl-tzin...”

His veins felt like they were on fire. He clawed at Teomitl’s back, wrapping a leg around his waist, but it wasn’t enough; he needed more. So he worked a hand between them as well, fingers grazing Teomitl’s thighs and the base of his cock before taking it in a firm grim. Teomitl gasped, squeezing his eyes shut, and Acatl found himself asking, “You like that?”

Teomitl dropped his forehead into the crook of Acatl’s neck, breath coming out in hot, harsh pants. And his hand didn’t stop, short little strokes that built the fire in his veins into an inferno. “A little—a little tighter, just like that—”

He’d imagined himself as a mostly passive participant. He hadn’t imagined this—that he could make Teomitl’s voice crack with just the movement of his hand, that when he buried his free hand in Teomitl’s hair and pulled his head back to suck marks into his throat Teomitl would writhe against him, that it would be so easy to buck his hips and thrust against him, that when he thought of more with what little higher brain function he currently possessed he’d picture himself sinking into Teomitl’s tight heat or fucking between his perfect muscular thighs. It was so much better than his hand that he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to go back, the slick slide driving him wild. More, he thought, and don’t stop.

He couldn’t say it out loud, but Teomitl seemed to be thinking along the same lines; as though he could read his mind, he spend up his strokes, twisting his wrist in a way that made Acatl’s cock pulse. His impending climax loomed so closely he could barely think. “Teomitl,” he panted, and Teomitl lifted his head and locked eyes with him.

“Acatl-tzin,” he rasped. He had to be close too, by the erratic rhythm of his hips. “Acatl, c’mon, I want to feel you.”

He’d dreamed about this. And it was that thought that sent him over the edge, clawing at Teomitl’s back hard enough to draw blood and coming with an inarticulate cry in great spurts over their hands and thighs. His legs shook, one kicking out weakly as though the sheer rolling shock was too much for his muscles to handle. Teomitl followed him a moment later, hand squeezing almost painfully hard as he spilled all over Acatl’s stomach. He was quieter, but not by much.

It seemed to take forever for the aftershocks to fade. Teomitl all but collapsed on top of him, a braced elbow the only thing saving Acatl from being squashed. His breath came in heaving pants. He didn’t speak, and with his face in Acatl’s chest he couldn’t tell what expression was on his face.

Something resembling clarity was starting to filter back into Acatl’s mind. Clarity, and deep shame. Not for what they’d just done—he could hardly have asked for a more concrete demonstration that his feelings weren’t unwelcome, and hence there was no shame in having them as long as this whole thing was kept discreet—but for his sheer, flaming stupidity. He’d thought this was a curse? It was a good thing he hadn’t gone to the priests of Xochipilli; they would have laughed him right out of the temple, and they would have been right. He stroked Teomitl’s back slowly, marveling quietly at the sensation of hot, smooth skin.

Teomitl shivered, muscles twitching under his hand. Ah, he thought, the scratches must sting. Now that he was capable of focusing, he did feel the heat of living blood. “Sorry,” he murmured.

“It’s alright,” Teomitl murmured, and pushed himself up. Now Acatl could see his face, and the smile that was spreading across it. He was sweaty and his hair was a mess, but he was glorious. “You’re passionate. I like that.”

As spent as he was, Acatl’s cock twitched, and he sucked in a breath. “You can’t just say things like that!”

Teomitl’s smile turned to a smirk. “Why not? It’s true.”

“That’s besides the point,” he grumbled. The point was that it was the middle of the day, and they hardly had time for the second or third round Teomitl’s cock against his thigh was helpfully reminding him he could probably have. Especially when the sweat and drying cum on his skin was not only sticky, but annoyingly itchy. “You can’t keep tempting me like this, we have work to get back to.”

Rolling his eyes heavily, Teomitl sat up. “I’m Master of the House of Darts. You’re the High Priest of Mictlantecuhtli. We can delegate.”

Acatl thought about that for a moment. “I can delegate. But you’ve been very explicit regarding the competence of your peers. Do you really want to leave them to their own devices so soon after your return from war?”

Teomitl grimaced. “No. Especially not since Nezahual-tzin is still in the city. Where’s a towel? We, uh...made a mess.”

A towel was found. Teomitl wiped them both clean in silence; after a moment, Acatl realized he was making the face that meant he was chewing at the back of his lip plug. Something was making him thoughtful...and concerned.

Eventually, Teomitl broke the silence. He was still kneeling between Acatl’s legs, but his gaze seemed stuck around his belly button. “So...” he said slowly, “do you still think you’re cursed?”

He sounded like he was dreading the answer. Acatl bit his lip, a hot flush of mortification prickling his skin. I thought I was. I stood in front of Teomitl, who wants me, who wanted me before this entirely of his own volition though the Duality knows why, and I said I thought my desires were the result of a curse. Storm Lord strike me down. “No,” he replied. “I’m not cursed. I don’t know if I ever was. I just...”

Teomitl lifted his head, his expression one of careful hope. Acatl had seen the same look on bereaved family members when he vowed to catch their loved ones’ murderers. “Just?” he echoed.

I just want you. I just adore you. I just look at you, and my heart is so full of love and pride that there’s barely any room in my chest for air. I just desire you madly.

“I,” he said finally, “am an idiot.”

Teomitl’s smile put the sun to shame. “But I love you anyway.”

As if he needed further confirmation, that proved he wasn’t under any sort of curse or compulsion. If he had been, the spike of giddy joy that rushed through him would probably have killed him. He still felt gutted; unable to muster words, all he could do was stare at Teomitl’s face and think, I am the luckiest man in the Fifth World.

But his silence must have looked like rejection, because Teomitl drew back and started looking for his loincloth with the precise care of a man trying to hide his emotions and being very bad at it. As much as he’d grown, the ability to put on a mask would probably always be beyond him. “...Ah,” he muttered, not looking in Acatl’s direction. “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry. I’ll go—”

No matter that he’d said they shouldn’t linger in each other’s company, this sort of parting was an affront to every scrap of decency and kindness. He was not going—he absolutely refused—to let Teomitl leave thinking he was unloved. “Don’t you dare,” Acatl snapped, and pulled him into a kiss.

It was fast and rough, almost bruising, and he might have felt a little bad about grabbing Teomitl’s arm hard enough to leave a mark if Teomitl hadn’t responded by kissing him back just as enthusiastically. They were still naked, and the heat of Teomitl’s body against him sent a rush of arousal through his veins. When he broke away, they were both breathing hard.

At least Teomitl didn’t seem likely to run off anymore. He looked a little stunned, eyes wide and lips lightly parted in a way that rather made Acatl want to bite him. “Well,” he huffed quietly.

Acatl slid his arms around him, pulling him close. “You’ve bewitched me,” he breathed, “and a man takes responsibility for his actions.”

Teomitl’s eyes gleamed as he ran a hand down his chest, nails digging in just enough to sting. “Does that mean you want me to stay?”

His tone left absolutely no doubt as to what they’d be doing if he did; as tempting as the prospect was, Acatl knew that lingering too long would inevitably result in someone coming to look for one of them. Plus, with how energetic Teomitl was there was a very real risk of dehydration. “I thought you wanted to go,” he teased.

His—lover? He supposed that was the right word now, because he certainly wasn’t letting him go—snorted and shook his head. “I wanted to make sure the palace won’t catch fire in my absence. But when that’s sorted, I want to come back to you.”

He wants to be by my side. He loves me, and he loves that I love him. A curse? This is a blessing. Acatl had never before smiled so broadly that his cheeks hurt. “Then hurry back, love.”

Teomitl spluttered, turning spectacularly crimson, and seemed at a loss for words before snapping, “Oh, now who’s the one who shouldn’t say things like that?”

“You started it!”

The joy bubbling up in him—over the fact that he had this, that he was allowed to have this, that there was no outside influence but the call of his own heart, and that following it had earned him this—was too much to contain. Acatl threw his head back and laughed.

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

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