a prayer in perfect piety

[notapaladin]

Acatl spends a night in the Master of the House of Darts' private baths, getting the treatment he deserves at his lover's hands (and mouth).

HE DESERVES TO BE PAMPERED OK.

-

“Enjoying yourself, love?”

“Mm.”

Honestly, part of him still can’t believe he let Teomitl talk him into this. Well, alright, he can, but he thinks he should probably have put up more of a fight for the sake of his dignity, no matter how much the whole thing makes him melt. In his defense, they’d been lounging in a pleasant postcoital haze, his head on Teomitl’s shoulder, when his lover had tugged on a loose curl and asked if he’d let himself be spoiled for once. What do you call this? he’d asked. And Teomitl had smiled, smiled like the dawn of the Fifth World, and said Not enough. With that smile, he would have agreed to anything.

Enough turns out to be this—the private baths of the Master of the House of Darts, which Acatl hadn’t even known he had, filled with clouds of steam and copal incense. The frescoes on the walls glow in the dim torchlight, seeming to ripple where light reflects off the water of the pool on the other side from where he sits. There is a platter of sliced fruit by his elbow—fruit from all over the empire, some he can’t even name—but he hasn’t yet tried any.

He can’t focus on food with Teomitl kneeling behind him, massaging the aches out of his shoulders with strong, warm hands. When they hit just the right spot, he’s startled into a moan.

Teomitl chuckles quietly. There’s some sort of warmly scented oil on his hands, and the spicy smell tickles Acatl’s nose. “Did you like that?”

“I..nngh. I do, but...” He trails off, shuddering as another knot of tension gives way. For a moment the ache intensifies, but then there is only boneless relief. “What prompted this?”

Teomitl hums and shifts his weight, unfolding himself so that Acatl sits between his spread legs. Besides the hands on his skin and the pressure of strong thighs against his own, they don’t touch. “I’ve wanted to do this for a long time.”

It takes him a moment to respond; Teomitl’s hands are wonderful, and the way he’s kneading the very base of Acatl’s neck where all the stress gathers is enough to send tremors down his spine. He’s suddenly extremely aware of all the places where they aren’t touching. If those hands slide upwards to cup the curve of his skull, he knows he’ll melt into it. “Really?”

“Of course.” His voice is soft and affectionate. “A student should tend to his master’s needs, after all.”

He sucks in a sharp breath, tasting incense in the back of his throat. “That’s—you’re not—“ You’re my lover. The man who holds my whole heart. How could you ever call yourself my student again, even in jest? But he can’t say any of it, because his own emotions are choking him.

Teomitl, at least, understands him anyway. “I know. But...” His hands sweep slowly down Acatl’s spine, and he shivers such that he almost misses when Teomitl continues, “Even when I was, I wanted this. To see you in gold and jewels, with quetzal feathers in your hair...” He trails off, and Acatl can hear the sly heat in his voice. “Of course, you look even better without any of that.”

I love you, he thinks, but you are ridiculous. He can’t help his own huff. “Are you sure your eyes don’t need to be looked at?”

There’s a soft—a very soft—scoff from behind him, and Teomitl takes a moment to dig his fingers into a tense knot of muscle a bit harder than necessary. Pleasure mingles with pain, and he has to inhale when Teomitl murmurs, “You don’t own a mirror? You’re beautiful, Acatl.”

Heat rises in his face that has nothing to do with the steam. “Flattery.”

“The unvarnished truth.” Soft lips press themselves to the nape of his neck, and he shivers. “I love every part of you.”

“I’m skin and bones,” he mutters, and hopes Teomitl can’t see the way his ears burn. Truthfully, it doesn’t really bother him—there’s something deep in him that thrills every time Teomitl wraps a hand around his wrists and holds him there as easily as breathing—but he knows it’s not precisely what most would find attractive in a man. He’s no warrior, and his build shows that.

“You are slender as a deer, and as elegant.” Another kiss to his nape, and Teomitl’s hands slide down over his biceps for a teasing squeeze. “And these most assuredly are not skin and bones. You’re much stronger than you think.”

“Not as strong as you.” A hot little wave of arousal pulses through him at the memory of exactly how strong Teomitl is; it’s only been a few days since his exuberant lover last picked him up and fucked him hard against the wall, and he swears he can still feel it in his hips.

Teomitl makes a huffing noise that says he isn’t convinced. “There are other kinds of strength.”

And then his hands start sliding back up his arms and over his shoulders, pressing just firmly enough to leave a pleasant sort of languorous ache behind, and Acatl no longer wants to argue. Teomitl loves him and wants to show it; for once, he can allow himself to bask in being adored. “Hmph...oh. Mmm...” He knows there is no magic involved in this—just warm, clever fingers erasing the tension from his overworked muscles—but he’d not sure he’d be able to swear to it in a court of law. When Teomitl rubs a slow circle into the base of his skull, he sags against it with a long sigh and lets his eyes close.

“Have some fruit, love.” One hand leaves his skin, skating gently over his thigh on the way, and he shivers at the unexpected contact. Then something wet and sweet touches his mouth, and his eyes open again.

Ah, Teomitl... “I don’t need to be hand-fed,” he murmurs, but his lover’s fingers are pressing a perfect cube of papaya against his lips, and so he takes it. It’s a crime to waste food, after all.

And, feeling suddenly devilish, he nips at Teomitl’s fingers when he draws away. There’s a sweet, sharp gasp, and he can’t help but grin. “Mm?”

“Nngh.” Teomitl inhales and shifts against him, and he’s suddenly very reminded of how naked they both are. Pressed together in the heat, he can feel every inch of Teomitl’s still-mostly-soft cock, and the thought is occurring to him that he could do something about that.

Later. This isn’t a night to be rushed. “Mmm.” He chews slowly. Swallows. “Delicious.”

Whatever Teomitl hears in Acatl’s voice, it makes his own come out rough with desire. There’s a faint hitch in his breath. “...Does it please you?”

“It does.” He has to draw in another breath before he can speak, tasting fruit and incense and the lingering traces of oil on Teomitl’s skin. Teomitl’s gone back to rubbing oil into the knotted muscles between his shoulderblades, and he’s feeling pleasantly floaty as it eases pain he hadn’t even registered until it was gone. “All of this does.”

Gods, and he can hear his lover’s smile. Lips press delicately to the curve of his ear, and Teomitl’s voice lowers as though he’s imparting a great secret. “Good. Tonight...it’s all for you.”

Hands settle at his hips, and he swallows hard. “Everything?”

“Mm-hmm.” Teomitl’s voice goes soft. “Everything. Would you like me to comb your hair for you, Acatl-tzin?”

He shivers. There’s something about hearing that honorific when they’re being intimate—when Teomitl is reminding him in a thousand ways that he is respected, that he is loved—that always strikes him to the core. “...Alright.”

While Teomitl unstoppers a jar of a different oil—there’s avocado in it, probably, but the smell is cool and refreshing and makes his nose tingle—he treats himself to a few paper-thin slices of fresh cherimoya. They’re still tasty even when Teomitl isn’t insisting upon feeding them to him by hand. Sweet, he thinks, but not as sweet as you.

As if hearing his thoughts, Teomitl asks, “Good?”

“Mmm.” Fingers tug gently at his hair, and he tilts his head back automatically. Unbound, it flows to his waist like a wavy, rumpled black skein of cotton; he does his best to keep it reasonably free of mats, but the life of a High Priest doesn’t leave much time for extensive hair care even if he was a much, much vainer man than he is. He knows Teomitl won’t hurt him—not unless he asks—but he doesn’t envy him the task he’s set for himself.

Teomitl lets out a soft, contented hum and pours oil into his hands. “Don’t worry. You’ve taught me well the value of patience.”

Acatl opens his mouth to speak, but then those gentle fingers are carding through his hair and the only noise that escapes him is a shuddering moan. It should be illegal for fingers rubbing along his scalp to feel this good, but it does; when Teomitl presses a little harder, scratching lightly, he tilts his head helplessly into it. “Nnn...”

“Oh, you enjoy that.” If he wasn’t riding a slow wave of arousal, he might be annoyed at Teomitl’s smug tone; as it is, he can only sigh and arch when his lover’s hands leave his scalp to gently through the rest of his hair in search of knots. One catches his fingers and makes Acatl hiss; Teomitl murmurs an apology into the air and sets about detangling it.

He’s right. I have taught him well. True, Teomitl will never be an investigator of the sort of thorny cases Acatl has to deal with on the regular, but when it comes to the things he loves, the things he finds worthwhile—the army, the magic of living blood, the people he cares for—he’s willing to take as much time as he needs to do a thorough job of appreciating them. He’s so careful in picking apart the knot that Acatl barely even feels it.

And then he’s picking up a comb in one hand and a lock of Acatl’s hair in the other, and starts softly combing the rest of it. The scent of that hair oil is all around them now, and Acatl breathes it in with a long, hungry inhale. Something in his chest feels close to the melting point.

Teomitl’s voice is quiet, as though he’s afraid to break the silence. “Your hair is beautiful, you know. It’s so soft. The first time I saw you, I swear I was struck dumb by it.”

He has to smile at that. “You didn’t act like it.”

“You are High Priest for the Dead,” he murmurs. “I knew you weren’t for me. But I wanted you, even then.”

The wave of love coursing through his heart nearly swamps him. If Teomitl wasn’t working his way up through his hair, he’d pull him into a kiss; as it is, he settles for placing a hand on his lover’s thigh and giving it a squeeze. “And now you have me.”

“Hmm...no.” Teomitl shifts his hair aside, dropping a kiss to his shoulder. “We have each other.”

Gods, I love you. But the first press of the comb at the crown of his head is too light, so what he actually breathes into the smoky, steamy air is, “Do that harder.”

Teomitl makes a soft noise, his free hand dropping to Acatl’s waist as though he needs to be held in place. It’s another point of contact between them, and it makes Acatl’s whole body tremble—but then his lover is doing exactly what he asked for, drawing the teeth of that fine-carved comb just that little bit harder along his scalp, and his nerve buzz with liquid pleasure. Desire is starting to coil low and simmering in his gut, and he lets it.

And of course, Teomitl notices. “Mmm. You really enjoy that.”

He takes a long breath. Words aren’t his strong point right now, and he doesn’t need them here anyway. Teomitl can see the state he’s in just fine from over his shoulder. Patience, he scolds himself, but it’s becoming a much harder struggle.

It takes an eternity for Teomitl to finally set the comb aside and run his hands one last time through Acatl’s hair, letting it ripple down through his fingers, but at the same time it’s not nearly long enough. The skittering little sparks along his spine haven’t yet built into a respectable flame, but he can feel more fuel being added to the fire every time Teomitl shifts his leg or brushes against his back. It’s almost a relief when he murmurs, “All done. I wish you’d let me braid it.”

He feels himself blush. “People will talk.” It’s not the first time Teomitl’s offered to dress his hair for him—to set it in a thousand braids, woven with silver and beaded with carved jade to protect him from the beasts of the underworld—but he feels his resolve weakening now. It would be...pleasant, to have Teomitl’s hands in his hair for a while longer, to appear in public with such visible signs of someone’s regard. Which is why I can’t. Not while Tizoc lives. So he sighs and shakes his head, feeling his hair shift in sheets along his spine.

Teomitl hums a tone he knows well, the one that says I know you’re right, but I don’t like it. He kisses the shell of Acatl’s ear, though, so he can’t be too upset. “Shall I rub your legs for you? I know how they ache sometimes.”

He imagines those talented hands on him again, and all he can do is nod.

Then Teomitl is shifting around him like an ahuitzotl, eeling his way off the bench and down to the floor in a single smooth motion, and he’s got to shut his eyes for a moment because his brain—fogged with desire and incense and Teomitl’s presence—hadn’t quite registered until now that his lover’s proposed course of action would involve him kneeling between his legs, and that’s a sight he really has to work his way up to lest he embarrass himself with his own arousal. He’s more than half hard already, and thinking too hard about the Master of the House of Darts on his knees in front of him won’t help.

Teomitl laughs softly and presses his lips to Acatl’s knee. “You’re so tense. Don’t tell me you’re nervous, love.”

He wedges one eye open, the better to frown down at him. “If I’m tense, it’s your fault.” There’s no heat in it; between the thrumming arousal in his veins and the utter magic Teomitl’s worked on his aching back, he’s far too relaxed to be annoyed.

“Well.” Teomitl’s smile is wickedly happy. “Let me make it up to you, then.”

He starts with both hands on Acatl’s ankle, fingers slick with massage oil and tracing the curve of the bones as though he holds something precious. Quetzal feathers, maybe, or jaguar fangs carved to translucency. Acatl exhales slowly and lets himself fall backwards until his head comes to rest against the wall behind him, tilting his face towards the ceiling. It’s been painted too, the heavenly grounds of Tamoanchan shining in brilliant colors through the smoke. He wonders, idly, if this is how those fortunate enough to join the Sun in His heaven feel.

Probably not, he thinks. Heaven probably has fruit, but—he selects a cube of pineapple and pops it into his mouth, licking the juice from his fingers and utterly failing to ignore the softly wrecked noise Teomitl makes—it doesn’t have fruit like this. And it certainly doesn’t have Teomitl slowly and rhythmically massaging his aching calf, making him sigh and press himself further into those hands. “Nnhh...”

“Enjoying yourself, Acatl-tzin?”

“Mmm.” There’s definitely still lust there, but it’s banked embers rather than a raging bonfire. His legs do tend to ache when it’s damp, and with the rainy season in full swing he’s thoroughly relieved to not be in pain for once. He can’t remember ever being this relaxed. When Teomitl switches to his other leg, he lets out a long sigh. “Gods, that feels incredible...”

Strong hands are busy repeating the same path upwards, but something in Teomitl’s demeanor—a catch in his breath, a pause in the rhythm—makes Acatl look down along the length of his own body to meet his eyes, and so he gets to see when his lover tilts his head and breaths, “I can make it much better,” in that tone that only ever means good things.

He swallows. Takes a breath. Lets it out. “Go on, then.” It comes out as more of an order than he’d meant it to, but Teomitl likes that sometimes.

Now must be one of those times, because he trembles and lowers his head to kiss the inside of Acatl’s thigh. It’s slight, almost teasing, but when Acatl gasps he does it again, harder and a little higher up, and there’s no question about his mouth’s ultimate destination.

Acatl is abruptly not nearly as relaxed anymore. He lifts his hand with the idea of sliding it into Teomitl’s hair or tracing the line of his jaw, but he has to drop it as a clenched fist in the next instant because Teomitl is marking a hot, wet trail over his thighs and his previously flagging arousal is building into something that sends the blood roaring in his ears. He arches his back, spreading his legs wider, and when he feels the first scrape of teeth he makes a sound that, for his dignity’s sake, he will not call a whine.

And Teomitl—Teomitl’s hands are wrapped around his calves, holding him in place, and he repeats the action on his other thigh. This one he lingers over, only lifting his head when they both know it’ll leave a mark. “Duality preserve me.” His voice is thick with desire. “Look at you.”

He sucks in a breath. This time he does manage to reach out, letting his hand come to rest in Teomitl’s thick, soft hair. His lover’s mouth is red, and his eyes glitter like stars in the dim light. “I’d rather look at you. Forever.”

“...Forever?” Another kiss to his skin, just next to where a pale scar slices over it.

“Mmm. Yes.” Fingers tighten in Teomitl’s hair before Acatl can think better of it; he releases his hold the next instant, but Teomitl’s already let out the kind of moan that makes him think strongly of doing it again. He has to take a deep breath. No. This isn’t the time to be rough. I want to make it last.

His lover mouths at the soft skin of his inner thigh and flicks his gaze upward through long lashes, looking at him with dark, hungry eyes. “When I am Revered Speaker,” he murmurs, “I’ll do this for you on my throne.”

He can picture it too clearly—himself sprawled on the imperial throne with Teomitl, Ahuitzotl, his Emperor, wearing turquoise and jade and sucking his cock like he was born to it. Even the idea makes him harden. “Oh gods, ” he says. And then, breathless, when Teomitl’s mouth inches upwards at a snail’s pace, “Teomitl, please.”

“As you wish.”

Then there’s a hot, wet mouth sliding along his shaft in a teasing caress, and his whole body trembles. Desperate for some outlet, he runs his fingers through Teomitl’s hair, tracing the curve of one ear; it must meet with his approval, because he hums quietly and shuffles closer, one calloused hand gripping his thigh while the other—slick with oil, and thank the gods for that—slips between them to cup Acatl’s balls. His eyes are closed in concentration, and Acatl’s mouth waters. “Ah...”

Teomitl makes a quiet sound low in his throat, and then he opens his mouth and takes Acatl in. Just the head, to start with—he can take much more than that, Acatl knows, but this time he seems to want to go slow. Part of him is grateful. The rest of him...the rest of him burns. Teomitl is playing with him, lapping at the head of his cock and rubbing his thumb against that absurdly sensitive spot just behind his balls, and all Acatl can do is arch his back and take it. He feels his own fingers tighten in Teomitl’s hair, subtly urging him on, but he can’t find the words to say it; the only noises that escape him are breathy little gasps.

“Mmm...” He can feel the vibrations of that hum in his damn spine, and it’s all the warning he has before Teomitl relaxes his jaw and swallows him nearly to the hilt.

“Oh, fuck.” His head thunks back against the wall, but he barely notices. His entire world has just become all-encompassing heat and suction, the barest suggestion of teeth and the spasmodic tightening and release of his fingers in Teomitl’s hair. Teomitl’s still taking his time, bobbing his head at a pace that suggests he could do this all night, and Acatl thinks that might kill him. He’d die happy, but it might kill him.

A warm touch circles his hole, the angle a little awkward, and the part of his brain that’s still capable of controlling his limbs shifts his weight for him. There’s a hum that might be a question from Teomitl because of course he wouldn’t stop, not when he can continue taking Acatl apart with his lips and tongue and throat, and he gasps out, “Yes—“

Two fingers slide in at once, the stretch aching and perfect, and he keens with pleasure at being filled. It’s an assault from both ends; Teomitl’s working his way in slowly, but he knows Acatl’s body as well as his own now and so he must be doing it on purpose when he deliberately avoids the spot that sends lightning through his veins. He rolls his hips to force him in deeper. “Gods, Teomitl, don’t start teasing me now...!”

Teomitl pauses. Acatl looks down automatically, and the breath is knocked out of him. His lover is holding his gaze through heavy lashes, lips stretched obscenely around his cock, and he is glorious. Acatl shudders, holding himself very still lest he come on the spot, and thinks, Oh, I love you.

Then the fingers buried deep in him curl in exactly the right way, and all thoughts of making it last leave his mind entirely. He doesn’t think before tugging Teomitl down further, grip tightening in his hair to the point where it must hurt—but his lover doesn’t growl a warning or dig his nails punishingly hard into the meat of his thigh, only whines and ushers him in until his cock hits the back of his throat. It’s slick and tight and perfect, and his hips jerk hard. “Dear gods,” he gasps into the air, and then—

Teomitl swallows. Swallows and starts pumping his fingers in and out, slick and firm as he spreads him open, reshapes him, and there is absolutely no chance of Acatl holding himself back. He knows he’s pulling Teomitl’s hair, knows his lover is making little choking sounds around his cock each time he fucks deeper into his throat, but Teomitl is welcoming it. Teomitl, in fact, is moving into each thrust like it’s all he’s ever wanted to do in his life. Acatl trembles on a particularly wicked movement of Teomitl’s hands, words tumbling over themselves as they spill from his lips. “Teomitl, sweet and blessed gods, Teo —you’re so good for me...”

The noise Teomitl makes at that vibrates through him, and he knows he won’t last any longer. “Like that—just like that, don’t stop, I’m—“

His release hits him hard and fast and all at once, and he’s coming straight down his lover’s throat. Teomitl coughs, almost chokes, but then he’s swallowing it all down and his fingers don’t stop —he seems determined to wring every last bit of pleasure from him that he can, and it’s not until Acatl’s legs stop shaking and he’s almost sobbing with the aftershocks of it that he finally eases up. It takes a while. He doesn’t think he’s ever come that hard in his life.

Duality, comes the first coherent thought. And then, Flower Prince, I will sacrifice at Your altar for this.

Teomitl swallows again, licking his lips, and wipes his mouth off on his forearm. “Sated yet, Acatl-tzin?” His voice is hoarse, wrecked, and his eyes are still watering—but he’s achingly hard, and the smile that’s curving his lips is as proud and confident as ever. Acatl almost can’t breathe. He’s doing that for him.

Suddenly, the idea of not touching him is unbearable. “No. Get up here.”

“Oh, you don’t have to—“

“Now,” he snarls.

Teomitl doesn’t test his patience. He surges up into his lap, straddling his hips, and Acatl yanks him into a rough, messy kiss. He can taste himself when he licks into Teomitl’s mouth, and the thought makes him go a little wild. He pets restlessly along his sides, down over his thighs, splays a hand over the small of his back to keep him in place when a sharp nip to his collarbone makes him writhe. Barely lifting his lips from his skin, he manages to say, “I want—“ but he can’t quite get the words to pass his lips. Want you. Need you. Need to touch you like I need air to breathe.

“What?” Teomitl gasps. “I’ll give it to you—oh.” Acatl’s closed a hand around his cock, and he must be desperate for the contact because he shuts up immediately, a bone-deep shudder going through him when Acatl slides his thumb over the head.

Acatl hums wordlessly, mouthing along his throat. This is one of his favorite sides to Teomitl—when his lover is all coiled power in his arms, desire unleashed at his touch. Teomitl’s blunt nails dig into his shoulders, marking him as his, and he loves it. “Gods, you feel so good...”

Now Teomitl whines a little, rolling his hips when the hand that’s pumping him speeds up. “You—nngh, ah, there—“ Acatl is stroking him faster now, and his voice cracks on a cry of pleasure when he squeezes. It’s an intoxicating noise, one that demands a kiss in response; Teomitl moans into it, filthy and eager, and Acatl clutches him tighter.

“Like this?” It’s a rhetorical question; he knows, by now, how Teomitl loves to be touched. He knows to keep his hand steady, how to twist his wrist like that and bite gently at his throat here, how the way Teomitl’s breath catches means he’s got to be close.

“Yes.” It’s a ragged gasp; he’s working his hips in a tight little circle, desperate for more. His cock pulses in Acatl’s grip—a little more, and he’ll fall over the edge.

“Mmm. Good boy.” Teomitl jolts at that, the praise striking clean through him just the way Acatl knew it would, and he smiles at his lover’s lust-glazed eyes. “Let go for me, I’ve got you.”

Teomitl cries out when he comes, spilling himself all over Acatl’s hand and both their stomachs. It takes a moment for the full force of his orgasm to fade, a moment Acatl is more than happy to spend stroking his back and mouthing a mark into the spot where his neck meets his shoulder, but then he’s panting, “Gods—too much—“ and Acatl pulls away.

Acatl’s hand is filthy. He lifts it, considering for a moment—then he remembers the way Teomitl reacted earlier, with the pineapple, and slowly licks it clean. It’s salty, not his favorite taste in the world, but the fact that it gets Teomitl to make a sound suggesting he’s swallowed his own tongue makes up for it. He flicks a look at him and is immensely gratified to see him blushing.

In fact, he seems to be slightly dumbstruck; he has to work his jaw before he can speak. Finally, he mutters, “...Duality preserve me,” and slides his hands down Acatl’s arms, sagging against him bonelessly. When lips brush his temple, Acatl can feel the heat from his skin.

He lets out a long sigh. Now that the frantic need burning through his veins has faded to a barely-there simmer—it’s never entirely gone, not when Teomitl is in his arms—he’s registering that he’s sticky and not especially comfortable. The steam of the baths isn’t quite so soothing anymore. There’s that pool on the much cooler side of the room, deep enough for them to wash themselves if they bother getting up. “...I think we both need to get properly clean now.”

“Mm-hmm.” Teomitl doesn’t seem inclined to move.

Truthfully, neither does Acatl. He’s still feeling the aftereffects of that orgasm, and everything is slow and hazy in his bones. Getting up would be effort. Nestling into the curve of Teomitl’s shoulder is much more comfortable, at least until his legs start to go numb from the weight of his lover in his lap. “Come on.” He strokes Teomitl’s back gently. “Let’s get up.”

“Mrrrr...” Teomitl grumbles like a sleepy hound, but—reluctantly—oozes his way off Acatl’s lap and gets to his feet. His pout doesn’t last long; when he meets Acatl’s eyes, he’s smiling again. “You’re right. Shall we?”

The baths aren’t large, keeping everything more or less warm, but the water is cool enough to be almost a shock after the heat of the air. He steps down into it with a shuddering sigh, acutely aware of Teomitl doing the same next to him. There’s peeled soapberry and soft cloths within arms’ reach, but he still sort of wants to be holding Teomitl instead. Later, he tells himself.

After all, Teomitl is standing to wash himself, and that’s a sight that deserves his full attention. Teomitl is beautiful at any time; here, in the flickering firelight, with the water beading on his skin and sliding in rivulets over the lean muscles of his chest and arms and stomach, he’s breathtaking.

He must know Acatl is staring at him—there’s that faint glimmer of heat in his eyes that says he’s well aware of being appreciated—but he doesn’t reach for him. All his focus is on sluicing cool water over his skin. There’s no hint of jade here, not even the slightest tinge of Chalchiuhtlicue’s power, but still he looks like something that belongs to the lake. A drop of water makes its way down the lean muscles of his stomach, caught for an instant in the line of an old scar, and Acatl wants to trace it with his tongue.

He watches Teomitl for a long, long moment before, sighing, he reaches to scrub himself down as well. Gawking at his beloved won’t make him any cleaner. He’s sliding the cloth down over his stomach when Teomitl makes a soft noise and stops him with a hand on his arm. “No, let me.”

His heart melts at the way Teomitl smiles. “...Alright.” It’s not at all a surprise when he’s kissed, slow and sweet, as the cloth is plucked from his unresisting fingers and slowly moved down over his skin. Teomitl is gentle and inexorable, washing sweat and oil from his skin with a lover’s devotion. And he takes his time with this, too; hands roam purposefully over his thighs and buttocks, never quite where he wants them. Acatl, trembling, holds himself still aside from an unconscious arch into a particularly pointed caress down his flank. It’s too easy to lean into it; he knows that if Teomitl has his way, he’ll be pliable in his hands again.

The cotton is smooth, a delicious contrast to the faint roughness of Teomitl’s calloused fingers flirting over the surface of his skin as though he can’t quite decide where to put them. It’s a feeling Acatl can’t blame him for; the gods know he can never decide where to touch first, with Teomitl looking like Xochipilli incarnate in front of him. His eyes are narrowed and focused like a jaguar on the hunt, and it makes Acatl hunger again. They’re so close. He could kiss him, if he wanted. He trembles, caught between the desire to do just that and the one that says he never wants Teomitl to stop this slow torture—but then Teomitl meets his gaze and smiles, and he’s frozen. “Feeling better?”

Acatl had thought he was spent, but desire pours through him like honey. I’d feel better if you touched me properly. He has his hands free, but he hasn’t yet dared to touch his lover again; now he trails his fingers over Teomitl’s arms and shivers when his eyes go dark and the hand not clutching a washcloth settles at his hip. “Mmm...”

Teomitl chuckles at the evidence of his renewed arousal. “Up for more already?”

“It’s all your doing.” He can’t even pretend to be huffy at Teomitl’s smug glance downwards; he’s half-hard, sharing a bath with the man he loves, and the temperature of the water is doing nothing to hide Teomitl’s own interested state.

Teomitl drops the cloth and steps closer, pressing him back until he has to heave himself up out of the water and sit on the edge of the pool. The adobe is rough on his bare skin, but he doesn’t care. “Then I’ll take responsibility.”

They kiss again, and Acatl keeps it gentle. The fire in his veins still burns, but the flames don’t leap quite as high now that he’s taken the edge off. Teomitl is eager as ever; there’s probably something to be said for youthful vigor, but Acatl’s not going to be the one to say it when he can instead trail kisses over the wet, warm skin of Teomitl’s throat and take him firmly in hand.

Teomitl shivers and reaches for him, groping blindly until he can set a hand on his cock. “...Oh, come here.”

It quickly becomes apparent that he’s not as spent as he thought he was. Teomitl is bracketed by his spread legs again, but this time they can kiss properly, and when he guides Acatl to grip them both together the sweet friction tears a moan from his throat. “Oh, that’s wonderful...”

Teomitl hums, low and wicked, and slides his free hand up into Acatl’s hair to tilt his head up for another kiss. This one has a hint of teeth that sends sizzling pleasure through him; he deepens it with a whine that turns into a growl when Teomitl’s grip on his hair tightens. Teomitl’s voice is rough when he breathes, “Gods, you sound so sweet like this, I could listen to you forever.”

“You’ll have me.” It comes out shaky; Teomitl’s working their cocks steadily, fingers laced with his own, and the building pressure at the base of his spine is letting him know that yes, he definitely has at least one more orgasm in him for tonight. “Nnnh...”

Teomitl doesn’t let up. There’s nothing but the slide of their flesh together, hips working in tiny little tremors as they both chase their release. Acatl has to brace himself with his free hand white-knuckled on the edge of the pool, because he thinks it’s that or he might fall over even with Teomitl’s fingers digging into the back of his neck. Their pants and soft gasps mingle in the still-steamy air, and when they come together Acatl’s moan trails off in a ragged, “...Gods, Teomitl.”

Teomitl smiles and gives his thigh one last teasing pet before stepping away. The air is cold without his immediate presence, but Acatl’s skin still feels warm when he grins. “Mm. Relaxed now?”

“Relaxed? My legs feel like melted rubber,” he mutters. Honestly, everything feels like melted rubber; he has to clean himself again, a slow and lazy process, but even when that’s done all he can think of is a nap.

Teomitl’s grin only widens. “I can carry you to my chambers if you’d like.”

“...Hmm.” Teomitl is stepping out of the pool and toweling himself dry, and the sight is appealing even in his present state. He’s reminded once again that Teomitl could carry him, and the path to his chambers won’t expose them to any prying eyes. Whichever former Master of the House of Darts had built these baths had valued his privacy. “To sleep?”

“And to finish off that fruit. I’m sure you’re hungry. Unless...” Teomitl’s eyes gleam. “You want another round?”

He huffs fondly, shaking his head. “Insatiable.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Teomitl!”

And then Teomitl is laughing and tweaking the ends of his hair where the steam’s curled it, and he feels energized enough to make it to his lover’s chambers under his own power after all.