notapaladin

(hi, guess who is FINALLY reposting her fics here, on the basis that if you are looking for me on DW it's for teocatl) (i'm more often on tumblr)

Guess who up and wrote the ONLY Obsidian and Blood fics that seem to exist anywhere? Yup. Me. Because of course, after my previous rare book fandom, I couldn’t be satisfied with a fandom that still has a few fics. (Not enough OT3 ones but you take what you can get)

I wind up in love with a series that has zero. Nada. Zip. Zilch. And of course I wind up shipping serious, cynical Priest of the Dead Acatl with his confident, impetuous protege Teomitl, who has more chemistry with him than with his canon love interest.

…Anyway, I wrote smutty fic. Mild spoilers for some events in the first book, and you can of course read it on AO3 too.

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If he was feeling uncharitable, Acatl could have blamed it on the wine—Teomitl was slightly tipsy, his eyes fever-bright and his voice rough with it. But that would only explain Teomitl’s actions, and come nowhere near to excusing his own. For Teomitl might be a bit drunk, but he, Acatl, was cold sober. He could stop this. He should stop this. Should have nudged him away the moment Teomitl started leaning against him at the banquet, never mind that first electrifying touch of fingers caressing his wrist and a murmured, “Acatl-tzin, you look so handsome when you smile…” Should have reminded him that—but he’d looked up, terrified, and met Mihmatini’s eyes to see her looking relieved and more than a little smug, and did that mean she approved? He shouldn’t have risked it. Even if the laws didn’t cover this exact situation, he was sure there were rules. He’d been sure that they mattered.

They hadn’t mattered much when Teomitl had offered to walk him home, had smiled like a filthy invitation in the dark of the street. Hadn’t mattered at all when Teomitl had swayed into him, loose and languid, and reached up to bury a hand in his hair, putting their faces so close that Acatl still couldn’t say who had initiated that first kiss.

It had definitely been Teomitl who’d responded the most eagerly, though. Acatl had made a downright undignified noise when he’d dug his nails into his shoulders; when Teomitl slid a thigh between his legs, he’d barely been able to stifle a groan. Even then, some part of him had been holding back, a hissing voice in his mind telling him It’s not too late for you to stop this.

But they’d barely reached his house when Teomitl pressed him up against the outside wall, lips like fire on his throat as he breathed, “I never thought you wanted me,” and Acatl felt something in his heart shift and crack open. All the times he’d wanted Teomitl—gleaming in full regalia, jade-carved and terrible with Chalchiuhtlicue’s power, brilliant and eager and shining in the sun, full of life and joy—seared through him in an instant.

Oh, Teomitl. Who couldn’t want you?

So, instead of stopping it—instead of pushing Teomitl away, telling him to find his own house, going to his mat cold and alone—he reached out blindly until he felt the edge of the entrance-curtain, yanked it open, and all but dragged Teomitl inside.

It was only later—much later, when Acatl was spent and sticky and hovering on the edge of sleep, Teomitl a solid source of drowsy warmth next to him—that he found the words to whisper, “I love you.”