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The Revered Speaker’s chambers are very bright and very warm. It’s still the rainy season, after all, and the moonlight sparkles off the remains of the earlier downpour. In daylight the windows open onto a beautiful garden, blooming in a riot of color, but now the only evidence of their existence is a change in the texture of shadows and the reflection of glittering droplets of water like stars fallen to earth. (Stars that will never fall again.) The flickering torches—and there are many—spill their golden light through the windows, but they’re intended solely to illuminate the room.
And they do that admirably. The walls and columns have all been repainted since Tizoc’s death; the scenes of bloodstained captives and equally bloodstained gods he favored have given way to the rich blues and greens of the lake. Flowers march up the columns, bright flashes of orange and red, but everything else has turned...cool. Soothing. A perfect place for the Revered Speaker to rest his head. Chalchiuhtlicue holds pride of place in the middle of a wall-trimming frieze of ahuitzotls playing among the reeds. Acatl can’t see it, but he knows that somewhere there is a very small depiction of Lord Death tucked safely in a corner, and it makes his heart warm.
Tizoc’s bedding has been burned. There was a risk of contagion, Teomitl said, but Acatl thinks he just doesn’t want to sleep where his predecessor slept (where Acatl killed him). He can’t blame him. Instead there are freshly-tanned jaguar and ocelot pelts spread across intricately woven mats, with a few fine blankets folded neatly to the side in case the night turns chill; that’s impossible in the depths of summer, but then, the Revered Speaker shall want for no material comfort.
Acatl’s gaze sweeps his surroundings and dismisses them as unimportant. All his focus is on the man sitting on the bed. The Revered Speaker Ahuitzotl—his Teomitl, gods—is still dressed in all the finery of his coronation and the grand feast that followed it, and if possible he’s even more breathtaking than he was in daylight. His turquoise cape pools in rich folds on the mat, firelight making the feathers and thread of its intricate pattern shine like jewels. There are actual jewels sewn into the hem, coral alternating with mirrorlike squares of gold. More gold gleams on his fingers, his wrists, his ankles, and his usual small lip plug has been swapped for a much longer one of jade. The slender emerald rod piercing his septum is new; he’d flatly refused to wear the one Tizoc had died with.
And almost all of it is being stripped, slow and unconcerned. Or almost unconcerned; every so often he shoots a sly little glance Acatl’s way, checking to see if he’s still watching. As if Acatl could possibly tear his eyes away. Off come the rings, the arm bands, the cape. Out comes the lip plug, with a muttered curse. The emerald rod stays; the High Priest of Patecatl said healing spells over it, but it’s still only two days old. With a private, wicked smirk, the embroidered crimson loincloth falls as well.
He’s still wearing the Turquoise-and-Gold Crown. Acatl loves him so much it hurts.
But Teomitl hasn’t said he can approach yet; he’s still testing the limits of his new power, and he’d ordered Acatl to stay. He’s obeyed patiently, standing barefoot on stone tiles, and he’s shed only his cloak and rings. All the rest—the jade and silver beads in his hair, the silver bracelets and anklets—are staying on. Teomitl had said he looks beautiful in them. Acatl thinks he doesn’t spend enough time looking in a mirror. “My lord,” he breathes, when he can’t take it anymore.
Teomitl looks up, and his smile is like a rising sun. “Acatl. You’re too far away. Come here.”
He inhales. Licks his lips. Finally. “As you wish.”
He lowers himself to the dais slowly. Teomitl doesn’t help; he’s gazing at Acatl as though he’s some rare and precious treasure. Acatl doesn’t know how he can, not when he himself is a jaguar in human shape, all lazy languorous power. Even his presence is intoxicating. Acatl kneels over him, drunk on his proximity, but keeps his hands on the mat underneath them. For now.
Teomitl reaches for him first, a hand skimming Acatl’s jaw to pull him in. “Kiss me,” he murmurs.
His gaze drops to that lovely full mouth, but the emerald in Teomitl’s nose gives him pause. If nothing else, it’s a minor logistical problem. “...Are you sure?”
Teomitl wrinkles his nose automatically, and then winces. “It doesn’t hurt.” At Acatl’s unimpressed stare, he adds, “That much.”
He exhales. You never will accept your own limits, will you? But it makes him feel impossibly fond, even so. “Well, then.”
Their mouths meet. Slow at first; Teomitl may be eager, but he’s still sore, and Acatl is being as careful as he can. But then Teomitl’s hand slides up into Acatl’s loose hair and he moans out loud, and that breaks the spell. The hand in his hair tightens, all but yanking him in, and he goes willingly. The slide of their bodies together as he presses Teomitl—his Emperor!—down onto the mat is the sweetest torture he’s ever felt, hot and solid and perfect, and he spares a thought to regret that he’s still wearing a loincloth.
When Teomitl breaks the kiss, his clever, callused fingers immediately begin rectifying that dreadful oversight. He doesn’t even look at what he’s doing; his gaze is entirely fixed on Acatl’s face, as though he can’t get enough of looking at him. It’s nearly too much to bear, and Acatl feels himself blush. He can’t meet his eyes. Don’t look at me like that. Don’t. I’m just a man. But Teomitl keeps staring, and so finally he asks, “What?”
He doesn’t need to look at Teomitl to know he’s beaming. “Gods, Acatl, you...” There’s so much fondness in that voice—so much love —that his heart skips a beat. But then he’s properly naked, and he has more important things to think about; he rocks his hips, shuddering in pleasure at the friction of their half-hard cocks against each other, and Teomitl closes his eyes as he breathes, “You gave me a crown.”
Acatl shivers, and not just at the stimulation. “No. You earned your crown. I only made sure you could claim it.”
Teomitl kisses him again. This time it’s hard and rough and messy, and either Acatl rolls or he lunges but somehow they wind up with their positions reversed, Acatl flat on his back with jaguar fur tickling his ear and a carelessly discarded fortune in gold getting lightly caught in his hair. It barely registers next to the way Teomitl is touching him, hands skimming down over his hips and in to wrap around his cock. He’s achingly hard in an instant, shuddering at each teasing stroke.
“Mmm.” Teomitl’s grin shows sharp teeth as he settles between Acatl’s spread legs; his crown is askew, and it’s somehow the most erotic thing Acatl’s ever seen. “What say we celebrate my ascension properly?”
He sucks in a hard breath. Gods, yes. “Yes,” he whispers , and then Teomitl is reaching for the oil and he takes the moment of clarity due to those glorious hands not actually being on his body to ask, “How do you want me?”
Oil gleams on Teomitl’s fingers, golden as his crown. His smile is positively feral. “Like this.”
Acatl doesn’t try to bite back the noises that escape him when Teomitl’s fingers slide into him. They’ve been discreet since the beginning. Indeed, he’s spent so long being quiet that letting his voice out now sends his heart tripping a stuttery little cascade of embarrassment. But Teomitl is the Revered Speaker, and if he wants what he’s always saying he does—to hear Acatl scream —then Acatl has to obey . He can’t do anything else, not with the way Teomitl is working him open so damn slowly . “Ahh—nnh, please...” He rocks his hips, trying to urge him on, and finally gasps— pleads— “Faster.”
“No,” Teomitl whispers. “For once we have all night long, and I’m going to take advantage of it.”
“Teomitl!” he snaps, but then Teomitl’s fingers curl and lightning flashes through his veins and he bucks hard, grabbing up fistfuls of jaguar fur underneath him to have something to hang onto. “Oh—oh, my lord, please.”
But Teomitl doesn’t vary the movement of his hand at all. No, he just keeps working him, slow and careful and so deliciously slick, letting the heat and the hunger build in Acatl’s core until he’s letting out breathless little cries with each slide inwards. He’s past begging by now—you need words for that—but he doesn’t have to. Teomitl’ s not that cruel, or that patient. He looks downright smug at the sight of Acatl’s legs falling open a little wider, and gives his hip an encouraging squeeze with his free hand. “Mmm. That’s it.”
Then Teomitl’s replacing his fingers with his cock and oh, maybe he hadn’t gone slow enough, but that’s alright. That’s more than alright. At a time like this, Acatl welcomes the stretch and the burn of being filled. Of being claimed. His eyelids flutter as he takes Teomitl deeper, arching his back—yes, there it is, the angle that sends sparks down his spine. “Gods,” he pants, and then, “My Emperor.”
“Yes,” Teomitl growls. Then he draws back—but before Acatl can do more than open his mouth, he thrusts back in, rough and hard enough to punch a cry out of him. “Yours.”
He sets a fast pace after that, and it’s all Acatl can do to hang on. His legs wrap around Teomitl’s waist, hiking his hips up at an angle that he knows his back won’t like in the morning, but right now he absolutely doesn’t care. It’s more important to cling to him, his nails marking half-moons in Teomitl’s back and his face buried in his shoulder. He mouths hard at Teomitl’s skin, not quite bites but certainly hard enough to bruise. He hopes that they do bruise, that his Emperor can carry the marks for a week.
He doesn’t have the focus for anything else. He doesn’t have the mind for anything else. Teomitl is driving that right out of him, and the only word he can find is a heartfelt, “Fuck.” Another thrust. Another. “Fuck.” And then, half choked out of him because Teomitl’s not so much as slowing down, pounding into him like he means to leave a permanent imprint of their bodies in the mats, “Gods— more.”
Teomitl grins, wild and bright. “More? Like this?” His hips snap forward, jarring a cry out of Acatl’s throat, and then he reaches down between their bodies and wraps a firm hand around Acatl’s cock. Acatl writhes, thrusting into his pumping fist, and Teomitl squeezes.
It’s too much. He comes with a near-scream, clawing down Teomitl’s back, and his lover snarls in his ear as he follows him over the edge.
Finally Teomitl pulls out with a shudder, eyes squeezing shut. He has to take a few deep breaths before he wrenches them open again. When he shakes his head, his crown finally falls off. “Duality preserve me. That was...”
“A wonderful beginning to your reign,” Acatl murmurs as Teomitl draws away. He’s not sure his legs will obey him yet, but luckily he doesn’t have to test that idea; Teomitl is cleaning them up gently, and all he has to do is shift positions as he’s directed. His eyes slide shut. There’s sweat drying on his skin, leaving him chilled—that’s why there are blankets laid out, he suspects—but Teomitl’s hands are so warm.
His lover will be a wonderful Revered Speaker. Huitzilopochtli’s magic flowed down over him like a cloak as soon as the Turquoise-and-Gold crown was placed on his head; Acatl, standing in the crowd below, had had to shield his eyes. He’d actually felt the boundaries settle into place, shivering as they solidified into something as solid as the walls of the Sacred Precinct or the painted ceiling above his head. F or the first time in years, he’d drawn a deep breath. Yes, he’d thought, and now he thinks Yes again. He knows deep in his bones that not even the scandal of half a dozen foreign rulers failing to attend (gods, another sin to lay at Tizoc’s feet) will dent Teomitl’s might for long; already, there are plans to rededicate the Great Temple as it should be, with a river of blood flowing down the steps. He will erase Tizoc’s name as the sun burns away morning mist, and spread the Empire from one end of the world to the other. His army will march under the shade of the Southern Hummingbird’s wings, and He will laugh to see the carnage they bring.
And yet, for all that—oh, Acatl knows the shape of the soft caresses petting over the insides of his thighs, and it makes him smile. His Emperor will be magnificent, but underneath all the gold and turquoise will be the heart of a man who loves him. A man he’ll be proud to serve.
They’re both clean now; Teomitl has snuffed the torches, and it’s cooler still when the room’s lit only by moonlight, but he doesn’t have the time to feel cold. Not when Teomitl (his Emperor, his Emperor) stretches out on the mat by his side, the heat of his body like a furnace, and starts running his fingers through his hair. As he gently picks out some of the heavier jewels braided into it, Acatl yawns. He’s tired after their exertions, and the feeling is intensely soothing. Maybe there’s something to displaying his lover’s presents after all. “Mmm...”
He’s half asleep when Teomitl whispers, “Stay?”
It strikes him to the core—that Teomitl would ask, that Teomitl would think he has to ask. Oh, my love, he thinks, and out loud he says again, “Yes.”
When the sun rises, they greet it together.