if i was born as a blackthorn tree

It's about trust, when Teomitl offers his wrists to be bound - trust, and obedience, and all the love he has in his heart.

...yeah, shameless bondage smut.

-

The wind was screaming outside, heralding a storm, but inside Acatl’s house it was still and quiet. The torches barely even flickered in their holders. Teomitl exhaled slowly, eyes sliding shut. He felt like his heart should be racing—it had, when he’d proposed this, and Acatl had been flushed and hesitant and full of are-you-sure’s and is-this-really-alright’s—but instead it lay calm and steady in his chest, each beat steady as a drum. There was no need to worry. He was safe. Acatl would take care of him.

The cords tightened a little around his wrists, and Acatl slipped two fingers between the cotton and his skin to test the fit. His touch was warm on Teomitl’s skin—warmer still because this was, at the moment, the only place they touched, even though he knelt between Teomitl’s spread legs. His voice was soft. “Alright?”

( Read more... )

tell the world that we finally got it all right

Instead of asking Acatl's permission to court Mihmatini at the end of Servant of the Underworld, Teomitl asks for permission to court him.

After some consideration, Acatl gives it. Things carry on from there, and the High Priest for the Dead discovers that love can make you feel alive.

-

“I still have to get your permission to court you, after all.”

Acatl was absolutely sure he could not have heard right. Maybe he’d hit his head in the fighting and was just now realizing it. Maybe he’d fallen asleep and this was a dream. Maybe he was dead. But the city spread out below him was still lit by torches for the funeral vigils, and there was none of the acrid smell of Mictlan in his nose. He stared out at the light reflecting on the canals, felt a breeze ruffle his cloak, and tried to form words. “You want to what,” he managed, through numb lips that didn’t seem to be attached to the rest of him.

Teomitl was still looking at him, and still smiling like the dawn. “You heard me.”

He opened his mouth. He closed his mouth.

Now, it wasn’t unheard of for priests to marry; they were not allowed children, and were still prohibited from unions that could result in them, but for two men or two women to marry was an acknowledged...well, not precisely a loophole in the vows, but certainly a long-established and permissible bending. His own mentor’s husband had died before Acatl had met him, but the man had worn the single red-wrapped braid of a married priest until his own death. Still, it was one thing to know in theory that it could happen, and another for it to be happening to him. He was High Priest of Mictlantecuhtli. He dealt with rituals, and his temple, and the bodies of the dead. He did not—had never even thought he might, no matter his most secret desires—deal with the bodies of the living. And now Teomitl, the bright and beautiful youngest brother of the Revered Speaker, was casually bringing up the idea of courting him as though it didn’t turn his world upside down.

He took a breath. Good, he could still do that and not feel like he might faint. “...Why?!”

( Read more... )

life is a road and i wanna keep going

Acatl spends his birthday finding his first gray hairs and getting attacked by the local wildlife. But with Teomitl by his side, it's not such a bad day after all.

-

Acatl woke up cold, alone, and with a nagging feeling that he’d forgotten something. The first two were normal—it was the tail end of the dry season, after all—but the third wasn’t. His memory was usually a reliable thing.

The conch shells were still blaring outside, heralding the dawn. He made his devotions to the gods, hoping the pain would jar loose whatever it was. There were no festivals he needed to prepare for, it wasn’t market day or any of his siblings’ birthdays, and his temple had been refreshingly free of any suspicious deaths for a while, so what...?

Nothing sprung to mind. Pinching his ears to stop the flow of blood, he went to wash his face and hands. There was a thin skin of ice on the surface of the basin, and he broke it with a muttered curse. As he bent his head, a lock of loose hair fell into his eyes.

There was a sliver of white in it. No. I have to have seen wrong.

He hadn’t.

( Read more... )

off to a world we call our own

Flowers bloom bright in the imperial gardens, and Acatl is in love with his Emperor.

-

The air is filled with flowers, and Acatl is in love.

If the Revered Speaker wishes a section of his garden set aside for his private use, where he can go and not be disturbed unless the world is ending, it will be done. And if he then wishes to take his High Priest for the Dead by the hand and tug him along the paths, laughing, to this spot...well, his High Priest isn’t going to tell him no. Teomitl is sprawled next to him on a cloak spread out over the still-damp grass, wearing only his loincloth and a slow, sweet smile. He plucks another cut chunk of cactus pear from its golden bowl, pops it into his mouth, chews, and swallows. As he licks his fingers clean, he asks, “Mm. More fruit?”

( Read more... )

glory and gore go hand in hand

The Great Temple has been dedicated to the gods anew in a sea of sacrificial blood, enough to drown Coyolxauhqui's rage for a lifetime or more. Teomitl's praises are being sung from one end of the empire to the other; he has eclipsed his brother's name as though it's never been. He should be proud. He should be happy.

He's so, so tired. In Acatl's arms, he finds the equilibrium he needs.

-

There is blood on his hands. And in the creases of his elbows. And under his fingernails. It’s starting to dry, sticky and cold and disgusting, on his skin.

He can’t stop shaking. His skin feels too tight and too dry, still almost feverish, and it’s a blessing he’s still on his feet. At least he’s alone; at least nobody is here to see the Revered Speaker of Tenochtitlan struggling even with the simple task of washing his hands. Oh, they’d tried, of course—he’d left the dais and almost immediately been surrounded by his nobles and his attendants, all seeking to bring him aid, but he’d sent them all away. He thinks he’s seen too many people today, even with Huitzilopochtli’s light a blinding, scorching presence under his skin.

He’s definitely seen too many people. He hadn’t been able to look at their faces, hadn’t been able to bear their expressions, but—

There’s so much blood. He scrubs harder, cold water splashing from the basin onto the floor. His skin is crawling, but the rough towels help a little. When he tries to take a slow breath—slow, something to calm his racing heart—the action makes his shoulders ache again.

He can still feel the knife in his hands. He hadn’t been able to feel much while it was going on—his world had been heat and light and fire, lava pouring through his veins and the Southern Hummingbird’s breath in his ears—but he’d known he was holding the knife, had felt the resistance of muscle and bone and hot blood pumping over his hands as he’d grabbed and twisted and pulled.

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Notes:

the renovation & rededication of the great temple happened in 1487, with the number of sacrifices given as anywhere from a (completely impossible) 80,400 to a (still impossible; humans are not made to be easily disassembled) 20,000 over four days. though we don't know the exact number, a couple thousand seems like a safe bet. teomitl would not have been performing ALL of these himself, but still. lotta blood.

i want the storm inside you awoken now

Teomitl comes back victorious from a long campaign. Acatl welcomes him home the best way he knows how. (with sex)

-

The army was home, and they were celebrating a rare victory. Acatl almost didn’t care. Yes, they would maintain their hold on whichever province they’d been sent to, and yes, this was no doubt a fine deed by Tizoc’s standards, but he stared across the plaza in the bright sunshine and he only saw Teomitl.

Teomitl, whose feather suit was ruffled and torn in places, who’d walked miles that day and the day before on aching feet in a mass of his equally tired and worn-down comrades. Teomitl, who stood straight as an arrow despite all that. Teomitl, who had locked eyes with him and was smiling brighter than the sun above, as though none of it mattered except the sight of Acatl’s face.

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such a fool for sacrifice

Acatl knows he shouldn't keep doing this. Teomitl doesn't - can't possibly - return his feelings, no matter how many times he rolls across Acatl's mat. But gods, it feels so good that he almost doesn't care. Every time, Teomitl smiles and asks if he wants company, and every time Acatl - weak, foolish, selfish Acatl - grinds his heart and his vows underfoot and says yes.

-

We can’t keep doing this.

Acatl rolled over, staring at the darkened ceiling without seeing it. His blood still simmered with heat, but the dull ache in his overtired limbs and other places said there would be no more activity tonight, thank you, even if Teomitl woke and proposed another round. Two was his absolute limit, and he knew he’d overtaxed himself. Oh, not physically—he’d been far more wrung-out than this even with all his clothes on—but in all the other ways that mattered, it had been two rounds too many.

( Read more... )

when the sun came up (i was looking at you)

Tizoc-tzin is finally, finally dead, and Teomitl will be crowned Revered Speaker. He will. Acatl just has to wait for it, for all their dreams to be realized - but Quenami's suspicions of their true relationship and the circumstances of the Emperor's death will test every ounce of his patience first.

-

When Axayacatl died, Acatl had felt the snap of it in his bones. When Tizoc died, it was barely even a breath.

Then again, he was somewhat preoccupied at the moment.( Read more... )

and this faith is gettin' heavy (but you know it carries me)

Teomitl goes missing on a foreign battlefield. The city mourns, and Acatl mourns with it. But his dreams - and Mihmatini's magic - suggest that maybe, just maybe, he doesn't have to. That Teomitl is only lost, and will find his way home eventually. Acatl doesn't want to believe in hope, not when grief is carving open his chest with a thousand dull knives...but hope, apparently, believes in him.

-

Acatl grimaced as he stepped from the coolness of his home into the day’s bright, punishing sunlight. Today was the day the army was due to return from their campaign in Mixtec lands, and so he was forced to don his skull mask and owl-trimmed cloak on a day that was far too hot for it. Not for the first time, he was thankful that priests of Lord Death weren’t required to paint their faces and bodies for special occasions; the thought of anything else touching his skin made him shudder.

He’d barely made it out of his courtyard when Acamapichtli strode up to him, face grave underneath his blue and black paint. “Ah, Acatl. I’m glad I could catch you.”

“Come to tell me that the army is at our gates again?” They would never be friends, he and Acamapichtli, but they had achieved something like a truce in the year since the plague. Still, Acatl couldn’t help but be on his guard. There was something...off about the expression on the other man’s face, and it took him a moment to realize what it was. He’d borne the same look when delivering the news of a death to a grieving family. Ah. A loss, then.

He’d expected Acamapichtli to spread his hands, a wordless statement of there having been nothing he could have done. He didn’t expect him to take a deep breath and slide his sightless eyes away. “I have. The runners all say it is a great victory; Tizoc-tzin has brought back several hundred prisoners.”

It should have pleased him. Instead, a cold chill slid down his spine. “What are you not telling me? I’ve no time for games.”

Acamapichtli let out a long sigh. “There were losses. A flood swept across the plain, carrying away several of our best warriors. Among them...the Master of the House of Darts. They looked—I’m assured that they looked!—but his body was not found.”

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know i need you more

Teomitl wants Acatl to wreck him. Acatl is gentle, considerate, and perfectly capable of pleasing his lover at his own, slower pace.

Teomitl very quickly decides he likes that better.

-

They’ve been tangled together on Acatl’s mat for hours, trading long slow kisses, when Teomitl finds his courage and wakes it up.

“I love you,” he whispers into the space between their mouths, and his heart hammers fit to escape his ribs entirely. Because it’s true, of course it’s true, and he’s said it before—but he’s never said it like this, with Acatl half on top of him and the long lines of his body like a brand, with hands in each other’s hair and a leg nudging his thighs apart. The sun has long since set, but he knows that he won’t be going home to his own mat tonight if he can avoid it. I love you. I want more.

( Read more... )

oh you take all of the pain away

Even in Teomitl's arms, Acatl's sleeping mind conjures nightmares. When he wakes, his lover shows him that he has nothing to fear.

-

The shadows on the wall were taunting him. Acatl closed his eyes again, but it didn’t help.

This is ridiculous.

( Read more... )

harmonic orchestra (3-sentence ficathon 2021 fills, plus extras!)

(MUFFLED SHRIEKING okay this! fucking! post! is a HOWLING NIGHTMARE to format so just pretend everything is the same font because I refuse to sit here manually stripping calibri out of it, Fuck You Very Much Dreamwidth Coders)

1 (acatl – autistic)

His tutors all said the same things about him—what a smart boy, what a studious boy, he'll go far in the priesthood.

Acatl supposed they were probably correct about that; he was smart, he was studious, and he threw himself into the rituals with a fervor that annoyed the nobles' sons who were only there for power. They didn't understand how he could ponder the codices for hours, how he could sit silent as the statue of Lord Death and watch the funeral pyres burn.

He didn't understand it himself, really; all he knew, in those moments when he contemplated the inside of his own mind, was that having it consumed by devotion to the gods felt right.

-

2 (teomitl & chalchiuhnenetl – a deal with the devil)"I can give you the crown you deserve," his elder sister says.

Teomitl thinks of their brother on the throne, twisted and craven; he is no fit warrior, no fit Emperor, no fit conduit of Huitzilopochtli's power in the Fifth World, but to slay him and take the crown by force of arms would be treason, would no doubt sever the ties between Teomitl and the people who, somehow, love him.

But if he doesn't, Tizoc will twist and twist until he tears the Empire apart, and Teomitl's loved ones will not be alive to hate him...so he meets his sister's eyes, and nods his assent. ( Read more... )

harmonic orchestra pt 2

I flatly refuse to try and reformat this bullshit. I give up. Life is too short.

-

55 (acatl – narnia crossover pt 2; aslan is not a tame lion & christianity is the religion of conquerors)

Oh giver of life! Who could conquer Tenochtitlan? Who could shake the foundation of heaven?

Acatl is an old, old man. He's seen much in his life—many horrors, yes, but many wonders too. (His nieces' and nephews' births. The dedication of the new Great Temple, shining with blood and light and life. Teomitl's smile, radiant as the dawn.)

When he sees the pale men in their great boats, with their moon-shining armor and their shorn priests in heavy robes, he does not see horrors. He sees only men like other men—foolish, greedy, grasping men, but men that can bleed and die. Men whose hearts will feed the Sun if they dare lift their swords against his city. The beast that stands at Cortes's side, the golden shaggy-maned cat they call a lion (though he has seen miztli, the puma, and they are much sleeker than this one) is only a beast, as their giant dogs and great hornless deer are only beasts.

And then

the Lion

speaks

Acatl goes to one knee, reeling from the pain of it, and reaches for his gods.

Lord and Lady Death do not answer. They are too busy screaming.

( Read more... )