rthstewart | Three Sentence Ficathon 2022

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Three Sentence Ficathon 2022

This post is NOW CLOSED TO NEW PROMPTS! PLEASE POST YOUR NEW PROMPTS HERE, IN POST 2! Do continue to fill prompts here but please put all new prompts in Post 2.

Welcome to the Three Sentence Ficathon!

Here's a Friending meme!

What is the 3 Sentence Ficathon?
This is an open exchange where you answer a prompt with a fic consisting of only three sentences. It's open to all fandoms and you can post and fill as many prompts as you like, as many times as you want.

What do I do first?
You can start 3SF by posting prompts! When posting a prompt please format it this way:

fandom, character(s), prompt word/sentence.

Only one prompt per comment please. So, for example,

Star Wars, Obi-Wan Kenobi, I don't like sand."

Open ended and anthropomorphic fills are popular too, such as:

Any, Any, "I don't like sand."

or

Earth geography, sand, "I don't like humans very much, either."

What happens after that?
You answer other posters' prompts in three sentences (or more if you can't stop yourself) and fill as many prompts as you want, as many times as you wish. If you see that a prompt you loved has already been filled, go ahead and fill it again! Multiple fills of the same prompt are allowed and even encouraged! (We get really fun stories going this way).

Can I still post if I need more than 3 sentences? Or should I just abuse grammar in ways the English language never contemplated?
Yes. Yes.

But I'm not a member of Dreamwidth
No problem. You can comment anonymously or through open ID

I'm really overwhelmed by all the prompts and how much there is and how fast it goes. I can't read 1,000 prompts and fills. It's too much.
I hear this a lot and it keeps a lot of people from participating. The 3SF is big and it moves fast, especially at first. I get overwhelmed, too, and I'm hosting the thing. With 2020 and 2021 sucking so badly you don't want something that's supposed to be fun cause you anxiety. I have a couple of suggestions for managing the 3SF volume.

First, really, you don't have to read every prompt and fill on every page. You can start at the last page of this and just go forward, or back a page or two. It's fine.
You can come and go as time and energy allow, you don't have to participate the whole time, and it drops off quite at bit after about 2 weeks and especially once we open a new post because this one is approaching 4,500 comments.
Even after the 3SF and new prompting end, people fill prompts all year long.
You can fill an already filled prompt and you can can leave a prompt that's already been prompted before. People do it all the time.

Always make sure you're looking at top-level comments only, not threaded. That helps a lot. Your screen should look like this.

But shouldn't I read everything to see if someone already prompted the same prompt I want to leave if someone already filled it?
No. Prompt as many times as you want, as much as you want. It doesn't matter if someone prompted the exact same prompt. Go ahead and prompt again!

I left a prompt and no one filled it. Can I prompt it again?
Absolutely!

Can I spread the word?
Yes, please. I generally fail at creating banners and embed codes but if you create one and make it really idiot-proof, I might be able to post and share it. Feel free to cross-post this entry. If you create your own banners or icons, let me know and I'll share!
Please share the 3SF with your followers, friends, and any channels and comms you are active on. I'll post on fandom calendar, Tumblr, and Twitter, but I don't have many connections in other spaces such as Discord.

Here's my attempt at a text box that might go horribly awry.

How long will it go?
The 3SF closes to new prompts on February 13, 2022. The entry stays open permanently and people post fills all year long. (There were a bunch of new posts to the 2021 3SF this week!)

Are there any rules about cross-posting?
Nope, you can post wherever you want, whenever you want. A lot of folks collected their responses together and posted them on AO3 under the 3 sentence fiction tag. 3SFs are a terrific prompt for remixes and could be helpful for Yuletide bears, too.

What about spoilers, content and archive warnings, triggers, pairings, ratings, tags, and squick?

I thought a lot about this. It boils down to reader beware. In my experience, this typically gets too big, moves too fast, and the stories are too short for content warnings and ratings to even apply. It is too big for me to moderate in this way. You should assume spoilers are fair game and that the initial poster and the responder have opted to use no content warnings or tags. This means AO3 content warnings for dubcon, violence, canon character death, underage, etc. COULD be present (and much more). I've found personally that I can skim and scroll by stuff that, from the prompt, I can tell isn't my favorite flavor of delicious cake. Use your best judgment, protect yourself, and be prepared to skip over things that aren't your thing. In this format, the obligation is on you, the reader, to protect yourself from triggering content.
Some posters do include warnings and spoiler tags or include spoiler space, but they don't have to do so.

Why is 3SF split among several posts? That seems confusing.
It is confusing and we always lose momentum once we have to move to a second post. The reason is because at 5,000 comments to a single post, DW installs a human test CAPTCHA, which is a pain for users. So, once this entry gets to the upper 4,000 comments, I open a new post. If you've been waiting until things slow down to participate, when we open a second post is often a good place to join.

If I have questions, what do I do?
I'm rthstewart everywhere, here, Twitter, Tumblr, gmail and AO3.

A special thank you to

conuly .
Last year, Conuly started logging all unfilled prompts.
This year's (2021) unfilled prompts are here.
Last year's (2020) unfilled prompts are here.

Conuly asks that you not reply, as they want to be able to edit and add more prompts to the list.

Here, have some icons and banners and let me know if you've created your own!

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Acatl took a deep breath and fought the urge to squeeze his eyes shut. It wouldn’t help his headache. “Now,” he said with a calmness he didn’t feel, “let’s see if we’ve got the facts straight. Your city is haunted. And you have crossed the lake to beg for my help, in person, instead of ordering your own city’s High Priest of Lord Death to deal with it, because you believe I owe you? I was not aware that I was in your debt to begin with.”

Nezahual looked irritatingly smug. “I did help save your life, you’ll recall.”

“And then you threatened to sell us right back to Tenochtitlan,” Acatl snapped. “Did you think I’d forget that?”

“Words aren’t action. And besides, there is what Teomitl’s sister did to my warriors.”

“Then take it up with her.” If you can find her, he added silently. She’d vanished from the city shortly after the plague, and even Teomitl didn’t know her whereabouts. But if Nezahual was bringing that up, then that meant he was still carrying a grudge. Acatl felt a sudden pang at the thought of Teomitl having made another enemy, one who was an even more dangerous opponent to have than his own brother.

And now the youth was raising an eyebrow at him. Acatl reminded himself that one did not smack allied Revered Speakers, even if they deserved it. And even if they said, “Since she can’t be found, I might well ask for the next best thing. Do you truly want me to declare your lover an enemy?”

Acatl’s blood ran cold. They’d been discreet. He knew they’d been discreet. So how—? No, he could worry about that later. “Tell me again about those ghosts.”

It was definitely going to rain, but that was expected. It was summer, after all, and the crops needed it. There was nothing to be concerned about. Really.

But when a crack of thunder split the leaden sky and opened up the heavens, Teomitl jumped anyway. His knife clattered from suddenly-clumsy fingers onto the tile floor, but for a moment he was too rattled to move. Lightning. Thunder. Rain. Blood in the water, and the ahuitzotls feasting—blood on his hands, and he’d licked his teeth and tasted the salt of it—the ahuitzotls singing in his head as he fought across the boats—

“Teomitl?” Acatl. His voice was low and careful as he laid a gentle hand on his arm.

“I’m fine,” he snapped without thinking, and bent to retrieve his knife before his expression gave anything away. It wasn’t his fault that the last time it had rained this hard had been...

There was a rustling noise from nearby as Acatl packed away their lesson supplies. “I think our lesson’s over for today. Why don’t we send to the palace kitchens for something to eat?”

Teomitl blinked at him. “What?” he asked, knowing he sounded like a fool. But Acatl was uncomfortable in the palace, rarely staying any longer than he had to; when they ate together, it was often in the market stalls. For him to suggest a meal in Teomitl’s courtyard was...odd.

Acatl didn’t quite smile, but there was a faint, fond softening around his eyes. “Tlaloc can’t touch us now. Let’s make some better memories of the rain.”

Acatl forgives him. Acatl forgives him. Or, well, tells him there’s no need for apologies and shares his food with him, which amounts to much the same thing. Teomitl honestly can barely believe it. He’d thought, after what he did—what he failed to do—the way he’d treated everyone—that he’d be shunned at best. At worst...he doesn’t like to think about the worst-case scenario. Mihmatini’s already furious at him. He’s not sure he could survive it if Acatl hated him too.

But instead there’s this. The temple steps, the sunset. Drinking chocolate side-by-side, close enough that he curses the caution—alright, the fear—that had led him to wear his full armor, because if he’d dressed normally he thinks he could lean against Acatl’s shoulder. He thinks Acatl would let him.

Acatl is smiling at him.

Thanks! I... actually kind of want to explore this idea further, honestly, the Parker=rogue/Hardison=wizard/Eliot=monk parallels are just too good XD

He can always tell when she returns to the barracks after a long night, because she's never been subtle about anything since -

Well.

Since that.

She's laughing, bottle to her lips as she turns and sees him watching, and for a moment it dies and then she lifts it almost in defiance and returns to her conversation.

The curse was elegant in its simplicity. If Acatl hadn’t been so annoyed by it, he might have found it admirable. For the next week, he would be compelled to speak the honest truth of his heart, and there was no cure. He would have to live with the consequences of his speech.

So all he had to do was not talk to anyone for five days. Easy. He could manage that.

Except of course, because the fates were tormenting him, Teomitl all but sprinted into the temple an hour later, out of breath and talking a mile a minute. “Acatl! What’s this about a truth spell? Are you alright? Have you found who cursed you?”

He bit his lip hard, but it didn’t work. He couldn’t keep the words in. “No, but I’m fine. I’m just glad they were aiming for me and not you. If you were hit with a truth spell, you’d probably cause seven diplomatic incidents in the first five minutes.”

Teomitl looked about to argue, but then he paused and frowned skeptically at him. “Are you sure you’re cursed?”

“Rude!” he huffed. “I love you madly, but if you don’t learn some tact before your brother dies we’re all going to be in trouble.”

Teomitl didn’t appear to have heard him. He was staring at Acatl like a stunned rabbit, mouth slightly open. Acatl tried not to think about the curve of his lower lip until the man spoke, drawing his attention right back to it. “You...love me?”

“...Fuck.” His face felt like it was on fire. He’d never meant to say that. Teomitl was a dozen years younger than him, married to his sister, and due to become the next Emperor of the Mexica. Acatl had taken vows of celibacy. He’d long since accepted he didn’t have a chance; gods, he was lucky to still be in Teomitl’s life at all. Please don’t ask me to elaborate, he prayed.

Too late. Teomitl was stalking closer, and when he took Acatl’s hand in both of his own Acatl couldn’t pull away. Not when the man looked at him like that, as though he was on the edge of everything he’d ever wanted but wasn’t sure it was for him to have. “You love me,” he repeated. “As a man?”

He might once have at least contemplated his answer—if nothing else, his vanishingly unlikely dreams of confessing had involved more picturesque surroundings than his weedy, dusty courtyard—but with Teomitl looking so hopeful all he could say was, “Yes.”

And then he didn’t need to worry about saying anything else, because Teomitl was kissing him.

He is not a coward. Not a warrior—he will never be that—but not a coward, either. He has faced gods and ghosts and emperors, and he has not backed down, knowing that this was what he must do.

But holding Teomitl’s hand in the sunlight, kissing his mouth in the moonlight, hearing soft and tender words and returning them, even though the sheer vulnerability of it all sends his heart into his throat—he thinks those might be the bravest things he’s ever done, because they’re for himself and himself alone. There’s no rationalization about the fate of the world, no terrible sacrifice he must prepare for.

There’s only Teomitl smiling at him as they lay together in the cool dark safety of his room, murmuring, “When I am crowned, I’ll make sure all the Empire knows I love you.”

He should be cautious. He should dissuade him. But Teomitl has inspired him to new heights, so he kisses his shoulder instead and breathes, “I can’t wait.”

Acatl was smiling. It was more common than it had been—evidently, having someone he could truly be honest with was doing wonders for his ability to relax, and with that came those beautiful smiles—but Teomitl still couldn’t look away. It wasn’t even directed at him (probably a good thing; he wasn’t sure he could handle that over lunch), but gods, he’d never been more jealous of a good plate of grilled newt.

“It’s.” He licked his too-dry lips and tried again. “It’s good, right?”

Acatl hummed in acknowledgement and took another bite. “Thank you for bringing it.”

He couldn’t help but smile fondly, hopelessly. “I knew you’d be hungry.” I want to kiss you. There was a smear of sauce at the corner of Acatl’s mouth.

Without thinking, he leaned in.

Everyone knew that High Priests bore wings, the symbol of their everlasting commitment to serving their gods and the Fifth World. Everyone knew that the heron or owl or eagle feathers shed from them were holy things.

Until he assumed the position of High Priest of Mictlantecuhtli, Acatl hadn’t known that growing them hurt. That they were heavy, awkward things that changed your entire center of gravity. That feathers itched abominably as they molted, bled if they were broken or pulled out, and needed daily preening and grooming or they left you looking like an oversized turkey. All in all, there were days where he wondered whether it had been worth it.

And then he launched himself from the top of his temple on silent wings, each beat carrying him higher and farther over his city, and he knew it was.

You're welcome: NA figure skating AU sounds like fun, though I'm not sure where it would go past the opening meet-cute. Definitely an intriguing world to set any story in.

The sob woke him like a knife in his heart, snapping him out of a deep sleep and into full consciousness before he was even aware of what was going on. It took him a moment to adjust from the landscapes of his dreams, which were even now fading into wisps, to his much more prosaic sleeping chambers.

And, more importantly, to Teomitl on the mat next to him, curled around his arm like a child and letting out another of those heartwrenching little noises. Oh, no.

It took some awkward twisting—his lover was plainly not letting go, and his back was soundly protesting their earlier activities in a way that made him wonder whether he should get a new sleeping mat—but eventually Acatl was able to get his free hand on Teomitl’s shoulder and murmur, “Love, wake up.”

The reaction was instantaneous; Teomitl jerked backwards away from his touch, kicking Acatl in the shins on the way, and stared wide-eyed and unseeing at him for an uncomfortably long moment until some awareness filtered into his gaze. “Oh,” he croaked out. There was a horrible hitching sound in his voice.

Acatl pulled him into his arms, finding him stiff and trembling. Oh, my heart. He started rubbing Teomitl’s back and sure enough, that helped; his lover started to relax by degrees, his breathing going from shallow pants to something approaching normalcy. When he judged Teomitl might be able to answer him, he asked, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” Teomitl muttered into his neck. His eyes were wet where the lashes brushed against his skin.

He sighed and slid one hand up into Teomitl’s hair, scratching his scalp lightly, while the other continued its gentle mapping of smooth skin and hard muscles. So strong. So stubborn. “Alright,” he murmured. “Get some sleep. I won’t go anywhere.” He paused. “Unless you’d like some water?”

Teomitl huffed out a breath and pressed himself tighter against him, a leg over his hip preventing him from moving. “Don’t leave,” he muttered in a voice so small it yanked at Acatl’s heartstrings.

As if there was a chance of Acatl leaving his lover alone when his brave, beautiful warrior sounded like that. He hummed softly, kissing Teomitl’s forehead. “I’ll be right here.”

Hopefully, Teomitl would feel better in the morning.

(Necessary fandom background: Acatl has taken a vow of celibacy; Mihmatini is his sister.)

To give his superior some credit, Ichtaca supposed he had to admit the man was trying to be discreet. If Acatl-tzin was any other man—say, one who regularly had some sort of social life or maybe a hobby or two—it might even have worked. But Ichtaca saw him every day, and by now he’d picked up on his usual moods. Acatl-tzin was fatalistic, cautious, and diligent to a fault. He’d seen him smile perhaps once, ever.

Which meant that when Teomitl-tzin came by and Acatl-tzin lit up like a torch...well. It was enough to make Ichtaca think, and he wasn’t sure he liked the conclusions he was coming to. Teomitl was the Master of the House of Darts, destined for a life of war and politics. His brother had tried to kill Acatl-tzin. He himself had behaved so abominably during the plague that most of Acatl-tzin’s priests still wouldn’t even look directly at him, and not out of respect. It was true that he was Mihmatini’s husband, but when had marriage vows ever stopped a bored nobleman who saw something he couldn’t have? Ichtaca had seen firsthand how persuasive he could be, how easily Acatl-tzin yielded to him. Even plans for regicide had only been deferred, not stopped, and if Acatl-tzin could be persuaded to break those vows despite how hard he’d clung to them in the face of Tizoc-tzin’s instability...

(Not to mention what the Master of the House of Darts, chosen of Chalchiuhtlicue, could do to a man who turned him down. Ichtaca didn’t even want to think about that.)

It probably wasn’t his place to say anything. They were comrades, not close friends. But he couldn’t simply shut his eyes to unnecessary touches or Acatl-tzin’s smiles or the way Teomitl’s eyes gleamed like a hunting caiman’s when Acatl-tzin walked by. Finally, it was too much. I’ll ask how Teomitl is, he decided, and go from there based on Acatl-tzin’s reaction.

As he approached, it took him a moment to realize Acatl-tzin’s courtyard was occupied. Teomitl was speaking, voice clipped and distant, and he slowed down to listen.

“—rgive me, Acatl-tzin. I overstepped. I don’t mean to press my affections where—where they’re not wanted—mmph.”

Ichtaca knew what he would see and that he didn’t especially want to, but he cautiously peered around the entryway anyway. There was Acatl-tzin with his arms around Teomitl, kissing him with surprising ardor; Teomitl was stiff with shock, but then melted into it with a happy sigh.

Grimacing, he turned away. My lord, I hope you know what you’re doing.

The conch shells woke them both up, but even though Acatl knew it was dawn and they needed to make their devotions to the gods he couldn’t bring himself to reach for his knife. For one thing, he could barely see it; it had been raining when they’d fallen asleep and it hadn’t stopped yet. Sunlight seemed like more of a faint suggestion.

Teomitl had a little more energy, or at least a little more determination. Grumbling indistinctly, he rolled upright to grab paper and the ball of grass studded with maguey spines that had somehow migrated to Acatl’s sleeping chambers to join multiple spare embroidered loincloths and a very nice pair of gold-beaded sandals in the pile of things Acatl was sure hadn’t been property of any High Priest. “Grnk,” he said as he nicked his scabbed-over earlobes and mumbled his way through a prayer to the Sun.

Once Acatl might have chided him for sloppiness, but now he just accepted the papers Teomitl held out to him to catch his own blood as he muttered a prayer to Lord Death and to the Sun that was definitely, probably behind the clouds somewhere. He would burn them in the hearth when he was capable of getting up, which he didn’t think would be anytime soon. It was just so dark out. Every fiber of his being wanted to be asleep again.

“Should eat something,” Teomitl muttered. “Breakfast.”

He started to reply, but his own yawn cut the words off. In a moment, he wanted to say. Let me just rest my eyes first.

There was a soft huff of amusement. “I can make some atole for us.”

Reluctantly, he wedged one eye open. If Teomitl was going to cook, he wanted to make sure his lover didn’t burn the house down. “...Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. Go back to sleep, love.”

Teomitl smiled at him, and the sun came out.

Edited 2022-04-25 04:02 (UTC)

“You hear all the stories of my childhood, but I haven’t heard any of yours. What was it like?”

They’re lazing together in the shaded summer heat of their courtyard, using Teomitl’s cloak as a blanket underneath them, when it occurs to her to ask. Because thanks to her brothers, her husband knows nearly every moment of her childhood—but he’s frustratingly close-mouthed about his own.

Before he can answer, she remembers what she knows about his family and hastens to add, “You don’t have to tell me if you’d rather not.” His commitment to honesty between them is admirable, but the last thing she wants is to bring up bad memories.

He blinks at her, clearly surprised, and then smiles. “Not like yours. It was...well, you can imagine.” She can. She wants to find whoever was responsible for Teomitl (or not responsible, as the case may be) and hunt them down like dogs. Now’s not the time, though, because Teomitl seems to have found a good memory. “But there was the time I escaped my nannies and fell into the ocelot enclosure at the House of Animals.”

Ocelots are not small animals. “How are you alive?!”

He flushes adorably. “I was five! I think the mother ocelot thought I was one of her cubs! I think she still thinks that, honestly, every time I go to visit she starts licking my arm. You climbed an actual cactus, why are you looking at me like that?!”

She shakes her head, fond and exasperated in equal measure. “At least the cactus couldn’t follow me and tear me limb from limb.” She pauses. “At least, not that type of cactus.”

“...I do not want to know.”

t is one thing to be loved, and to love in return. If they were only ordinary men with ordinary lives, Acatl would have been content with that. But perhaps that very ordinariness would have spelt their doom; perhaps he would have walked out with their first argument, or perhaps Teomitl would have found other, more pleasant people to give his heart to.

They are not ordinary men. He is the High Priest of Mictlantecuhtli in desperate love with the Master of the House of Darts; Lord and Lady Death smile upon their relationship, and their arguments decide the fate of kings. With a single word, he can twist the order of the world; with a single smile, Teomitl can do the same. The power they balance between them is as terrifying as it is intoxicating, and sometimes he wonders whether he can handle it. Whether it would be safer after all to go back to his cold, lonely bed.

But then...

“You have chosen well,” say his patrons.

“The boundaries of the world are safe,” say his priests.

“I’m listening,” says Teomitl.

Yes, love on its own is a fine thing. But the way their love has benefited the Fifth World? The way that Acatl knows, thanks to that same love, that when Teomitl is Revered Speaker they will never fear again? That’s something else entirely.

Eve was wiping down the last of the tables at the end of the long Saturday shift in her cafe on Great Western Road when the woman, all long hair and feminine wiles, wheeled in with her dogs, or perhaps children, strangely hairy children if so, and paused, staring at the remainder of the days' sweets — there weren't very many now as Eve had taken most of the ones that were out-of-date but still good to eat to be packaged up for the homeless shelter — before dropping her shoulders and making as if to leave, the children running about on all fours around her wheelchair, so Eve called out before the other woman reached the door, "Our selection is limited because it's the end of the day, but I have some stuff out the back still, if you want something that isn't available," although Eve feared she hadn't heard her until one of the maybe-dogs barked something sounding suspiciously like language, at which point the woman turned towards her, who continued, "I can give you whatever want for free, as you've come in just as I was about to close the doors so I'm not actually required to charge you anything, and the till is off anyway, so why make not make both our lives a little better," and I want you to stay, Eve didn't add, as she had felt a brightness spark in her chest reminiscient of when she first saw her own reflection in that glorious pond soon after her birth — she wanted to look at this woman forever, wanted to touch her face and smile and converse with her, felt drawn towards instinctually more than she had initially been with dear Adam, wanted to smooth the pain lines around her eyes and share their life stories together.

The other woman turned back into the cafe, wheeling around while expertedly avoiding her childrens' paws even as they flocked around her, and looked over at Eve, who did smile but then began rearranging the table's cultery, trying to hide her frantic energy because it felt like she'd just seen, in this stranger's face, a long-lost sister or lover whom she wanted to embrace, "I saw the other day, as I walked past with my son," she indicated outside, and not at any of her dogs in the cafe, "strawberry tartlets on the menu — they are my absolute favourite, but I didn't want to buy any then as he, my son, would have eaten them all — you know how boys are with their insatiable appetites — so I have managed to sneak away for a moment's respite to get some for myself, and perhaps these runts, if they behave, but only if they aren't the chocolate covered ones," she said, indicating what Eve had apparently mistaken for small dogs but where clearly toddlers, each now sitting with rapt attention towards their mother.

One of the children wagged their tail as Eve nodded, smiled, and with great effort managed to walk into the back room, although every step away from the woman felt like that first day when she'd been called away from her own reflection by that voice, ultimately to be lead towards Adam, and had not wanted to leave, yet obeyed anyway, and here there was not even a voice to pull her away, only her desire to please guests as a good host, which lead her to carefully package up four of the best strawberry tarts with extra whipped oat cream, and walk back out to hand the box to the woman, who took one for herself and laid the opened box on the floor, where her dogs, dressed in jumpsuits, dove at the remaining tarts, then she took one of Eve's hands in her own, "I cannot recall ever meeting you before, my love, but you feel so familiar, like my reflection fully seen for the first time and not in some puddle of water; I wish we had met long ago before certain events tied me down," at which point she kicked one of the dogs, who yelped but continued stuffing strawberry tart into its face with its hands, "We could have been goddesses together, but, please, let us become friends; alas, I must go now, my son will wonder where I have been - know I will be back, but until then I hope you will write to me!" She took her hand delicately from Eve's, letting her fingers trail over her palm, and wheeled out of the cafe, the dogs trotting after her on two legs as they licked the remains of the tarts off their hands, and Eve wanted to reach out to her but instead looked at what had been left in her hand — a small, off-white calling card with a name and number on it:

Minerva "Sin" Djöfulsinsdóttir — 666 65000 —

I always write such long sentences for 3 Sentence Ficathon things, and have embraced the liberal use of the em-dash! Also available on AO3 here - https://archiveofourown.org/works/38605464

Edited 2022-04-25 16:25 (UTC)

Once, he would have spoken to his brother with honest respect, if not quite with affection. (Tizoc is a hard man to like, and they’ve never been especially close.) Once, his brother would have responded with fondness in his own voice. (At least, until Teomitl did something foolish, like fall in love with a peasant.)

But then there was a knife at Acatl’s throat, that peasant’s daughter spoken in a vile hiss, blood in the streets of their city and on the rocks at Meztitlan, plague rattling through his chest and the horrible certainty that Tizoc was unworthy rattling through his mind.

“It’s been a while since you’ve deigned to speak with me,” Tizoc says now.

He keeps his eyes downcast, so his Revered Speaker can’t see the expression in them. “Forgive me, my lord.”

Between them, there’s only the rustling of the wind.

Acatl hates to say it. He hates even to think it. But it’s the only thing that makes sense. “If the council is so corrupt that Tizoc can bribe them, perhaps we can pay them more.” Priests are not wealthy as a rule, and both of them are in disgrace, but surely they can come up with something. He bites his lip and studies the tops of his feet, deep in thought.

When he looks up, no better option having presented itself, Acamapichtli is smiling at him. It’s warm and genuine and almost proud, and it sends a chill down his spine. “What?” he snaps.

Acamapichtli actually has the nerve to pat his shoulder as though they’re friends. “Now you’re starting to think like a politician. I knew you had it in you.”

He shudders, stepping away. “Forget I said anything.”

They’ll find another way. If Acamapichtli agrees with him, he knows he’s going down the wrong path.

Honestly, Teomitl wanted to kill her. She’d manipulated him into breaking Mihmatini’s heart, hurting Acatl—gods, he’d been ready and willing to break the world, just because she’d told him it would all come out right in the end. That it would be worth it to be able to steer the Empire on a better course, even if the people he loved hated him. That he would only be useful and worthy of their mother’s legacy once he was crowned. Yes, he would have been very happy to kill Chalchiuhnenetl with his bare hands.

But he kept thinking about Mihmatini’s steady gaze and the bitter sorrow in Acatl’s eyes. They had only barely approved of his plans to kill Tizoc, who was a danger to them and to the Fifth World. They wouldn’t approve of that.

On the other hand, if his sister just happened to die in her sleep...well. Fate could be so cruel.

Mihmatini loves her husband. Unfortunately, so does her brother.

And equally unfortunately, it’s clear that her husband loves him back. Oh, they haven’t told her any of this. But when one man turns an army around for another, she can connect the dots. Teomitl looks at her brother as though he set the sun in the sky, positively gushing over him whenever he gets the chance. By the Duality, he was willing to kill the Emperor for him. That’s not even considering Acatl himself, whose dour face turns fond whenever they’re in the same room. Who was willing to break vows when Teomitl made it clear it was necessary. It’s positively embarrassing.

Most women would be jealous. Or angry. Or both. She...well, she won’t lie and say it doesn’t annoy her a little—really, she’s not sure which of them has worse taste—but what’s worse than watching her husband’s distracted glances or her brother’s lingering smiles is knowing for a fact that it’s going to continue on exactly like this forever if she doesn’t do something.

And it will have to be her, because for all their flaws, these are men that love her. Teomitl has made it clear in a thousand ways that he’ll never break her heart again, and she doesn’t have to ask Acatl to know he’d move mountains for her. Men like that don’t snap and act on their simmering sexual-romantic tension unprompted, even when it’s so thick she could cut it with a knife.

One night, they’re eating dinner together, just the three of them in a loose triangle around the table. After the third time Teomitl’s fingers “accidentally” brush Acatl’s hand while passing a side dish and the fourth time Acatl smiles at him, her fraying patience snaps.

“Acatl. Teomitl,” she says very evenly.

Her brother blinks at her, probably warned by the tension in her voice. “What’s the matter?”

She considers subtlety—I don’t care what you do on your mat, or Both of you should be happy—but discards it. They’re not quick on the uptake in this area. So what she actually says is, “I have no problem sharing my husband, and if you two don’t start kissing instead of hovering around each other like a pair of courting hummingbirds, I am going to scream.”

Teomitl’s jaw drops. Acatl makes a choking noise. Neither of them appear to be breathing.

“Now,” she continues, “I am going to get up and take a walk around the Sacred Precinct. You have an hour to do—something, I don’t care what, as long as your clothes are back on by the time I return. I said I don’t mind sharing but I draw the line at seeing my brother naked. There’s a gourd full of avocado oil in Teomitl’s bedchambers. Have fun.”

And then she gets up, brushes crumbs from her skirt, and leaves. She’s almost out of earshot before she catches Teomitl’s stunned whisper of, “What the fuck did I just hear,” and it’s too much.

She bursts out into giggles.

Ooh, very nice! :)

Thanks! I love these books a lot. My other fills for this year are here!

Ooh I don't know the fandom but this was so terrific!!! lololol, love that she has just had enought of their nonsense

The canon is a rather grim/gloomy noir fantasy/mystery series set in 1400s Tenochtitlan. The fanfic is me grabbing it by the throat and snarling "BUT WHAT IF THEY WERE IN LOVE AND NOTHING HURT." They just have so many emotions! Mihmatini is going to fix everything.

He’d seen love twist and break and ruin the people affected by it. He’d seen how love could turn even the best intentions sour, how it could morph into obsession if left unchecked. He’d seen what happened when flames turned to ashes swept away by the wind.

He’d seen all that, but he hadn’t known. Teomitl had taught him better. Had taught him that love could lighten his heart, that he could feel both held and free in the circle of Teomitl’s arms. That when Teomitl pressed delicate little shivery kisses along his neck he’d laugh—because it tickled, because he was happy—even as he arched for more.

That it made Teomitl chuckle too, the sound rich and warm in his ear. “I love hearing you like that. I wish I could bottle it and carry it around with me.”

“You’re ridiculous,” he murmured, and there was freedom in that too; he could say things like that, and for once know there was someone who wouldn’t take it the wrong way. Who’d made the decision to trust him, and be trusted in return.

“I’m serious!” Teomitl huffed, but a grin was starting to peek through anyway.

It was too much to resist. Acatl twisted in his lover’s arms, laughing into a breathless kiss as they rolled across the mat in a tangle of sheets and cloaks. When they stopped he was on top, hair hanging in his face—he’d lost his hair tie at some point—and almost obscuring his view of Teomitl’s grin. But moving to push it back again would mean letting go of the man, and that would never do.

Teomitl took care of it for him, fingers tangling in heavy waves and brushing softly against his cheek. “Oh look,” he murmured happily, “it’s the best view in Tenochtitlan.”

He was wrong. The best view in Tenochtitlan, Acatl knew, was the one in front of him.

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Page 242 of 247

Three Sentence Ficathon 2022

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