The night air in Tenochtitlan carried the sharp tang of rebuilding—lime dust from fresh mortar, the acrid bite of charred wood from the siege's remnants, and the distant hum of workers laboring under torchlight to erase the scars of Castilian occupation. Ehecatl walked the uneven paths toward the modest commoner home he'd claimed a week ago, a half-intact structure tucked away from the grand palaces. It wasn't fitting for a Cihuacoatl, but he liked it that way—anonymous, grounded, a reminder that power didn't need flashy clothing and wealth to crush enemies. His steps were unhurried, but his mind raced, replaying the scene in Malinalli's cell like a fever dream.
Her nails digging into his arms, drawing blood as she hissed, "Harder. Break me." The way her body arched against the stone wall, slick and desperate, pulling him deeper. And then… the release. Burying himself inside her, no barriers, no restraint. Flooding her with pulse after pulse, marking her from the inside out.
He shook his head, trying to clear the haze, but it clung like smoke. Gods, what a fuck-up. In his old life, this would've been a reckless hookup with morning-after pills and awkward texts. Here? In 1521? It was a potential dynasty-wrecker. A child—his child—growing in the belly of La Malinche.
The woman who'd translated Cortés's lies, who'd spread her legs for him and helped topple an empire. If word got out… the priests would demand her heart on the altar. The nobles would call for her flayed alive as a warning. And him? He'd be the fool who sired a half-traitor heir.
What if she's pregnant? The thought looped, tightening like a noose. Can't let them touch her. Not flog her, not brand her, not parade her through the streets like Cortés will be. Any bruise on her is a bruise on my blood. The court will whisper—why is the prisoner getting special treatment? Why no public trial? He could already hear the excuses forming in his head: She's valuable. An interpreter. A witness against the remaining Castilians. Strategic asset. Bullshit. It was corruption, plain and simple. But hey, like a wise African man once said 'Corruption is not bad. Corruption is only bad if I'm not involved, BUT if I'm part of that corruption, I DEFEND IT!'.
He'd rewritten the rules for Cortés—war crimes, forced labor, breaking him without a drop of blood. Why not bend them for her? For this?
His cock twitched at the memory, traitorously hard again under his loincloth. Tomorrow. I'll go back. Tie her down this time. Make her scream my name louder. And yeah… come inside her again. Because pulling out now is futile at this point, I already busted a nut in her. I might as well keep doing it.
The home came into view—a squat adobe structure with a patched roof, one wall still scarred from cannon fire. Light flickered from within, a single oil lamp casting warm shadows. Catalina would be waiting. Sweet, broken Catalina.
He slid open the curtain door, the hinges creaking softly. There she was, kneeling on a reed mat near the low hearth, her pale skin glowing in the lamplight. Her dark hair was loose, falling over shoulders bare except for a simple shift she'd scavenged from Castilian supplies. At sixteen, she carried the haunted beauty of someone who'd seen too much: wide hazel eyes that darted up at his entrance, lips parting in a mix of fear and relief. Cristóbal de Olid had handed her over like a peace offering—a Castilian girl from Hispaniola, raised in taverns full of drunk soldiers, dreaming of nunneries but traded for favor. Ehecatl had accepted, of course. It appeased his people, humiliated the Castilians, and… well, the perks weren't bad.
"My lord," she whispered in halting Spanish, her voice soft as a prayer. She didn't rise— she'd learned quickly that he preferred her like this, submissive, eyes downcast. Stockholm had set in fast: no beatings, no yells, just his promises that first night. Any children we have will be legitimate. Loved. Raised by us both. Even if you anger me, I won't harm you or take them away. Coming from a world where her people raped and discarded natives like trash, where Moorish stories painted Moor men who kept Christian women with concubines as monsters, and with his self-spread rumors of being the devil incarnate who'd bought Cortés's soul… it was enough to twist her into devotion. She wasn't ahead of her time; she was of it—docile, adaptive, clinging to the one man who treated her like more than a hole… at times.
Ehecatl closed the curtain door, shedding his cloak. "Catalina." His voice was rough, still edged with the adrenaline from Malinalli. He crossed the room in two strides, looming over her. She looked up, flushing pink, her hands folding in her lap like she was at vespers.
"Did… did everything go well, my lord?" she asked, tentative. Always so eager to please, to fill the silence with submission.
He didn't answer. Instead, he reached down, fingers tangling in her hair—not harshly, but firm enough to tilt her head back. Her breath hitched, eyes widening. Malinalli's face flashed in his mind—defiant, biting, demanding. Catalina was the opposite: yielding, whimpering as he guided her mouth to his loincloth. "Show me how much you missed me," he growled in Spanish, freeing himself with his other hand.
She obeyed instantly, lips parting to take him in, her tongue swirling tentatively at first, then deeper as he thrust shallowly into her warm mouth.
He groaned, hand tightening in her hair, guiding her rhythm. "Buena chica," (good girl) he murmured, switching to Nahuatl for the dirtier bits to keep her off-balance. "Suck it like you need it, my little Castilian pet." She hummed around him, eyes watering but eager, her hands bracing on his thighs.
But as she worked him, his mind wandered back to the cell, fueling the roughness. He pulled out abruptly, flipping her onto all fours on the mat—doggy style, her shift hiked up, ass presented. He slapped it lightly, not to hurt, but to hear her gasp. "Spread for me," he commanded in Spanish, positioning himself behind her. She arched, whimpering as he slammed in, setting a punishing pace, hands gripping her hips. "You're mine, Catalina. Say it."
"Y-yours, my lord," she moaned, pushing back weakly.
He flipped her again after a few minutes, into mating press—legs pinned to her chest, him driving deep, face inches from hers. "I'll fill you like the devil you thought I was." he whispered in mixed tongues, thrusting harder, chasing the edge. She came first, crying out softly, her body trembling. He followed, spilling into her with a grunt, but it felt… controlled. Safe. No wildfire like with Malinalli.
They collapsed, breaths ragged. But instead of sleep, Ehecatl propped himself on an elbow, still smug from the day's victories. Catalina, sensing his mood, shifted to kneel between his legs again, resuming her oral worship lazily, like a devoted attendant. He let her, grinning maniacally as he vented in Spanish—knowing she couldn't spill to anyone who mattered, her outsider status making her the perfect confessor.
"I charged Cortés with war crimes today," he said, voice laced with triumph, even as her mouth worked him slowly.
She paused, lips still around him, pulling back with a pop, confusion furrowing her brow. "War… crimes, my lord? What does that mean? Wars have always been… just wars."
He laughed, dark and manic, hand guiding her back down. "It's a new idea—from my… visions. Crimes committed in war. Slaughtering civilians, taking hostages, burning temples. Things your people call 'conquest' when they win, but atrocities when they lose. I made it law. Now he's not just a prisoner—he's a criminal."
She hummed thoughtfully around him, resuming her rhythm, eyes wide with a mix of awe and fear. He kept talking, smug grin widening. "No torture like I've done to others, nor hearts ripped out on the altar like some people want. He'll rot in prison for life—laboring like a slave, breaking his body day by day. Your people won't get a martyr. No heroic death to rally around. And the rest? Branded like the criminals they are. Bandits. Terrorists. Just like in Cuba, where Cortes and the rest of you were branded as. They'll pay, but on my terms."
Catalina nodded submissively, her movements quickening as his excitement built. But then his grin faltered, the mania cracking. "I… messed up, though. With Marina—Malinalli. Instead of interrogating her like I planned… I fucked her. Hard. And I might have gotten her pregnant."
She froze again, pulling back, recognition flashing in her eyes. "Marina? The interpreter? My lord, she—"
He cut her off with a wave, pulling her up to lie beside him. "Don't. It's done. Sleep now."
They curled up, her head on his chest, but Ehecatl stared at the ceiling, the lamp's shadows mocking him.
'Corruption is not bad' he thought, rationalizing the plan solidifying in his mind. Not if it keeps the empire strong. Tomorrow, I'll order her cell upgraded. Better food. No visitors but me. Call it 'preparing a key witness.' No one will question the Cihuacoatl.
But he knew the truth: it was for him. For the obsession. For the child that might already be taking root.
And damn if it didn't feel good.
By dawn, he'd set the wheels in motion—quiet commands to guards, a word to the priests about "strategic mercy." Corruption? Sure. But only bad if you weren't the one in power.
He'd visit her again that night. And this time, he'd make sure she knew exactly how deep he'd buried himself in her fate.
…
…
…
The first light of dawn filtered through the cracks in the adobe walls, casting a pale glow over the modest chamber. Ehecatl stirred, Catalina's warm body curled against him, her voice soft and even. He extricated himself carefully, not wanting to wake her—last night's venting had been cathartic, but the real work started now. His mind, that endless archive of future knowledge, buzzed with details: maps of distant islands, names of kings, whispers of European fractures. He'd spin it all as "extracted" from Malinalli, turning his slip-up into a strategic win.
He dressed quickly in a simple tilmatli, jade plugs in his ears the only nod to his status. No time for breakfast—Cuauhtémoc and the remaining nobility awaited in the council hall.
The emperor, still clinging to his throne in this reversed timeline, relied on Ehecatl's guerrilla genius to rebuild. Today, he'd lean on it harder.
The hall was a shadow of its former glory: scorched murals of eagles and serpents, the air thick with incense to mask the siege's lingering rot. Cuauhtémoc sat at the head, flanked by grim-faced pipiltin—survivors of the fall, their eyes hardened by loss. They nodded as Ehecatl entered, respect mixed with wariness. At fifteen in body, he commanded like a older man.
"Brothers," Ehecatl began, voice steady, "the Caxtiltecatl, Hernán Cortés, stands accused. Not just of treachery, but of war crimes."
Murmurs rippled through the room. Cuauhtémoc leaned forward, brow furrowed. "War crimes? Explain this term, Cihuacoatl."
Ehecatl nodded, channeling his inner Wikipedia. "In the heat of battle, there are rules—even among enemies. Violations that stain the soul and invite the gods' wrath. Slaughtering civilians in Cholula under false peace. Taking hostages to force surrender. Burning temples, executing the yielded, enslaving the broken. These are not victories; they are crimes against the natural order of war. Cortés and his men committed them all. By our new laws, he will labor until his body fails—fifteen hours a day, rebuilding what he destroyed. No quick death. No martyrdom. Just endless toil, a living reminder of their defeat."
The nobles grunted approval, fists clenching. One elder spoke up: "And the others? The Caxtilteca who fled?"
"Branded as bandits and terrorists," Ehecatl replied. "Like how they are in their own distant lands—Cuba, where they mark criminals with iron. They will pay in blood and sweat."
Cuauhtémoc's eyes gleamed. "Wise. It breaks their spirit without feeding their legends."
Ehecatl paused, steering the conversation carefully. "There's more. From the prisoner Malinalli—the one they called Marina. Under interrogation, she… gave up valuable secrets. Their islands: Hispaniola, a brutal outpost where they enslave others who look like us from the east, mining gold until bodies break.
Cuba, their staging ground for invasions. Their kingdom—Castile and Aragon—ruled by a man named Charles V, who wears two crowns: King of Spain and Holy Roman Emperor, a vast realm stretching from their peninsula to cold northern lands. She revealed that just this year their state is fractured—wars brewing with a place called France, a heretic named Luther challenging their church from within, sparking what sounds like a civil war in their religion. Their emperor distracted by rebellions and councils of worms."
The room erupted in low whispers. A younger noble leaned forward, skepticism etched on his face. "France? Luther? A war within their faith? These words sound like omens from distant stars, Cihuacoatl. How can we trust such foreign tales?"
Others nodded, murmurs of "Strange gods" and "Impossible divisions" filling the air.
But Ehecatl held their gaze, his confidence unwavering like he'd seen the world.
"It is foreign," he conceded smoothly,
"but no less real. Malinalli's words align with what I've learned from Cortes. And consider this: it's no secret the Castilians crave gold and silver. That's their currency—the blood of their trade. Not cacao beans, not cloth or quetzal feathers, not gold dust or bronze axes like ours. Solely those metals, minted into coins that buy their armies and ships."
The murmurs shifted, intrigue replacing doubt. An elder stroked his chin. "Their weakness, then?"
"Exactly," Ehecatl pressed, his voice rising with manic energy.
"This chaos in their 'Europe'—wars with France, this Luther splitting their church—it's a gift from the gods. One: their king Charles isn't prioritizing these distant shores; his eyes are on his fractured empire.
Two: without steady gold and silver flowing back, they can't rearm quickly. Forging weapons, building ships—it all demands those metals. Their delays buy us time.
Time to rebuild our walls, sharpen our macuahuitls, and stolen Castilian swords, learn to use their arquebuses and cannons properly, learn to use their horses properly, and retake everything that was once ours. By the time they regroup, we'll be unbreakable."
The skepticism melted into nods of agreement, a few nobles even smiling grimly.
"The gods favor us," one muttered.
Cuauhtémoc raised a hand for silence, his expression approving.
"A keen insight," the emperor said. "It turns their strength against them."
"But Malinalli herself," the skeptical noble growled again, "the tongue who whispered their poisons. Her heart belongs on the altar."
Ehecatl raised a hand, his tone measured, empathetic.
"She is no innocent, true. But consider: sold as a slave by her own people to the Mayans, who then gave her to Cortés like chattel. Her choices? Be raped and discarded by foot soldiers, or survive by aiding the only person with power that she knew. A victim, twisted by chains we all understand."
He let the words hang, then softened his voice, hitting the dark truth.
"And brothers… think of our own women during the fall. When the city burned, how many faced the same? Ravaged by invaders, forced to choose between death or yielding to live another day. Perhaps enduring worse—torn from families, branded, broken. Malinalli's path was no different. To condemn her fully is to condemn them."
Uneasy shifts around the room. Eyes averted. He'd struck a nerve, humanizing without excusing.
"Yet she can serve us," he continued smoothly.
"What she was to the Castilians—an interpreter, a bridge to their world—she can be for the Mexica. Her knowledge of their tongues, customs, weaknesses… it's a weapon. But only if wielded carefully. Let me keep her nearby, under my watch. Others might seek revenge, clouding judgment. I will ensure she repays her debts—through information, not blood."
Cuauhtémoc stroked his chin, weighing it. "A bold proposal. But your wisdom has saved us before. So be it. Malinalli remains in your custody. Use her well."
The meeting adjourned with nods of assent, but Ehecatl caught the sidelong glances—seeds of suspicion sown. As he left, his pulse quickened. Protection secured. Now, to "interrogate" her again tonight.
…
…
…
Ehecatl's day blurred into a haze of council echoes and rebuilding decrees, but as dusk fell over Tenochtitlan, his thoughts sharpened to a single point: her cell. The "strategic mercy" he'd finessed from Cuauhtémoc and the nobles felt like a victory—better quarters, no vengeful hands near her—but it gnawed at him.
Shame twisted in his gut, a modern echo screaming idiot for the raw recklessness last night. Pissed off at himself for the weakness, yet his body betrayed him, hardening at the memory of her claws, her demands.
Excited? Gods, yes. He craved the chaos again, the hate-fueled release that Catalina's sweet submission could never match.
He slipped through the palace corridors unannounced, cloak shadowing his face.
Guards nodded, averting eyes—they knew better than to question the Cihuacoatl's "interrogations." The cell door creaked open, and there she was: Malinalli, lounging on the upgraded reed mat he'd quietly ordered, her huipil loosely tied, hair tousled like she'd been waiting. The air smelled faintly of fresh herbs now, not just damp stone—a subtle improvement, but she'd notice.
Her eyes lit up with that feral gleam as he entered, closing the door behind him. "Back so soon, my lord?" she purred, voice dripping mockery. "Couldn't stay from the tongue's cunt? Or did you come to see if your bastard's already kicking?"
He froze, shame flaring hot in his chest, quickly curdling into anger. She was teasing him—straight for the jugular, like always. "Watch your mouth, whore," he snarled, stepping forward with a threat in his eyes. "I could have you flogged for that. Paraded naked through the streets, your back striped red before the priests rip out your heart."
Malinalli laughed, low and unhinged, shifting to sit up, her legs parting slightly under the thin fabric. "Oh, please. You? The great Ehecatl, reduced to threats you won't follow through on?" She tilted her head, eyes tracing his hardening outline with smug satisfaction. "You couldn't hurt me now if you tried. Not after planting your seed in my womb last night. Face it—you're hooked. And if your seed takes? You'll be on your knees protecting me, not punishing."
The words stung, fueling his piss-off rage, but damn if she wasn't right. He grabbed her by the throat, not hard enough to bruise, but firm, shoving her back against the wall. "I should choke the defiance out of you," he growled, his free hand yanking her huipil open, exposing her breasts. "Make you beg for mercy like the slave you are."
She gasped, but her lips curled into a wicked smile, her hand sliding down to cup him through his loincloth. "Go on, then. Do it. But we both know you won't. You need this too much—need me too much. Ashamed, aren't you? Pissed that a traitor's got you by the balls?" She squeezed, drawing a hiss from him. "Admit it. You're excited. Hard just thinking about fucking me again, even if it means chaining yourself deeper."
He released her throat, shame boiling over into raw fury, but the excitement won—his cock throbbing under her touch. "Fine," he spat, shoving her down roughly. "You want to play? I'll fuck the smugness out of you. But first, prove you're worth protecting."
Malinalli sank to her knees with a taunting grin, freeing him from his loincloth. "As if you could stop me from being worth it."
Her mouth engulfed him without preamble—hot, wet, aggressive. No gentle teasing; she sucked hard, teeth grazing just enough to edge pain, her tongue swirling like a weapon. He groaned, hands fisting in her hair, thrusting into her throat with punishing force. "That's it, Tongue," he snarled. "Choke on it. Earn your fucking mercy."
She gagged but didn't pull back, eyes watering as she looked up, defiant even on her knees. Her hands dug into his thighs, nails breaking skin, pushing him deeper until he hit the back of her throat. "You think this breaks me?" she mumbled around him, pulling off for a breath before diving back in, hollowing her cheeks with brutal suction. He bucked, cursing in English and Nahuatl, the toxicity fueling him—hating her, wanting her, ashamed of how she owned him.
But he wasn't done. Yanking her up by the hair, he spun her around, slamming her chest against the wall. "Spread," he commanded, kicking her legs apart, his hand slapping her ass hard enough to leave a red print. She arched back, laughing breathlessly. "Is that all? Hit me harder if you mean it—but you won't. Can't risk your precious heir."
"Fuck you," he growled, thrusting into her from behind without warning, the stretch making her cry out. It was savage—no prep, no mercy—just raw, pounding rhythm, his hips slamming against her ass. One hand snaked around to her throat again, squeezing as he drove deeper, the other pinching her clit roughly. "I'll fill you again, bitch. Make sure you're bred. Then you'll really be mine—trapped, begging."
She pushed back, meeting every thrust, her walls clenching like a vise. "Promises, promises," she taunted, voice strangled but smug. "You say that like it's a threat. But we both know—if I'm carrying your bastard, you'll worship me. Protect me. Fuck me whenever I snap my fingers." Her nails raked the wall, body trembling as he angled to hit that spot, drawing moans she tried to bite back.
He flipped her onto the mat, pinning her wrists above her head, legs spread wide in a brutal mating press. "Shut up and come," he ordered, thrusting erratically, close to the edge. His mouth latched onto her breast, biting down hard—marking her with teeth prints, sucking until she screamed. "You're nothing without me now. Say it."
"Never," she hissed, but her body betrayed her, orgasm crashing through her like a storm, walls pulsing around him, milking him dry. "You'll… always… come back."
He roared, spilling deep inside her again—deliberate, possessive, flooding her until it leaked out. The shame hit like a wave, but so did the high, leaving him collapsed over her, breaths ragged.
She rolled onto her side, tracing a bruise on her hip with a satisfied smirk. "See? All threats, no follow-through. Now… about that better treatment."
He glared, pissed and spent, but already plotting round three. "You'll get it. Food, clothes, palace access. In exchange for 'info'—real or not." He pulled her close despite himself, hand resting low on her belly. "But push me, and—"
"You won't do shit," she interrupted, laughing softly. "Especially if this takes."
He hated how right she was. Obsession? Understatement.
…
…
…
They lay tangled on the mat, bodies slick with sweat and the remnants of their frenzy, the cell's dim torchlight casting flickering shadows over their naked forms. Ehecatl's arm draped possessively over Malinalli's waist, his hand splayed low on her belly—half threat, half claim. She nestled against him, not out of affection, but strategy, her head on his chest as if listening for the cracks in his armor. The air hung heavy with the scent of sex and unspoken power plays.
"You're under my care now," he murmured, voice low and smug, tracing idle circles on her skin. "My watch. No more rotting in this hole. You'll be moved—closer to me. Safer."
Malinalli shifted, propping herself on an elbow to look down at him, her breasts brushing his arm. Her eyes narrowed, a mix of suspicion and triumph.
"Convenient for you, isn't it?" she said, her tone mocking but laced with that unhinged edge. "The only man in this cursed city who wants me alive… or at least, wants me enough to guarantee my safety. Everyone else? They'd skin me alive and dance on my bones. But you… you'll keep me close, fuck me whenever the mood strikes, and call it 'protection.'"
He chuckled darkly, hand sliding up to cup her breast, thumb grazing her nipple roughly—just enough to remind her who held the power. "Damn right it's convenient. I finessed the emperor and nobles—spun your 'confessions' into gold. You're my asset now. No one touches you but me." Shame flickered in his chest again, but it was drowned by the thrill, the possession. He pulled her closer, their naked bodies pressing together, his hardening cock twitching against her thigh. "And if that seed takes? Even better. Ties you to me tighter."
She laughed softly, her fingers trailing down his chest, nails scraping lightly over his scars. "Ties you to me, you mean. A traitor's bastard in the Cihuacoatl's line? You'd burn the city down to keep us safe." She paused, her touch pausing at his hip. "Where, exactly? Some grand palace wing, hidden away like a dirty secret?"
Ehecatl hesitated, then smirked. "Not yet. I'm not holed up in some noble's feather-bedded mansion. A half-intact commoner home for now—simple, out of the way. Keeps me grounded. And… there's Catalina there."
Malinalli stiffened slightly, recognition flashing in her eyes. She'd been close to the Spanish inner circle—close enough to know the names, the faces, the traded women. "Catalina? The Castilian girl Olid handed over like a peace offering? Pale little thing from the islands, dreaming of nunneries but fucked into submission? You actually kept her around after she was given to you!?" She propped herself higher, a jealous gleam mixing with amusement.
"You're keeping her too? Sharing your bed with the enemy's scraps while you obsess over me?"
He gripped her hip harder, rolling her beneath him, their naked bodies aligning in that familiar, dangerous way. "Jealous?" he taunted, grinding against her slowly, already half-hard again. "She's convenient too—sweet, obedient. Doesn't bite back like you. But don't worry… she's no threat. You're the one I can't stop thinking about."
Malinalli wrapped her legs around him, pulling him closer despite the taunt, her nails digging into his back. "Good. Keep it that way. But if I'm moving in… make sure she knows her place. Or I'll remind her."
He growled, capturing her mouth in a bruising kiss, the conversation dissolving into heat. But he wasn't done—not by a long shot. The jealousy in her voice ignited something primal, and he pulled back, eyes dark with intent. "You think you can make demands? Threaten my other toys?" He reached for the torn remnants of her huipil, ripping strips of fabric free. "Time to remind you who's in chains here."
She smirked, but her breath hitched as he bound her wrists above her head, tying them to a rough protrusion in the stone wall—tight enough to restrict, not enough to cut. "Big man with your ropes," she mocked, testing the bonds with a tug. "But we both know—you tie me up because you can't handle me free."
"Shut up," he snarled, slapping her thigh hard, the crack echoing in the cell. She gasped, legs parting instinctively as heat bloomed on her skin. He followed with another slap to her ass, then her breast, watching her arch into the sting. "You like it, don't you? Being marked. Owned." His hand wrapped around her throat, squeezing just enough to make her vision blur, his thumb pressing her pulse. "I could choke the life out of you right now. End this obsession."
"Do it," she hissed, eyes defiant even as her hips bucked against him. "But you won't. Can't. Not when my womb might be swelling with your heir already." She ground against his hardness, taunting. "Go on—breed me again. Fill me up like the traitor whore you crave. Make sure your bastard takes root."
The words snapped something in him. With a feral growl, he thrust into her bound form without warning, burying himself deep in one savage stroke. She cried out, the stretch burning, but she locked her legs around his waist, pulling him harder. "That's it," he grunted, hand tightening on her throat as he set a brutal pace, hips slamming forward. "Take it. Every drop. I'll flood you until you're dripping, until you're ruined for anyone else." He slapped her ass again mid-thrust, the impact jolting through her, then leaned down to bite her shoulder—hard enough to draw a whimper, leaving teeth marks.
Malinalli moaned, straining against the bonds, her body clenching around him like a vice. "Harder, you bastard," she demanded, voice strangled under his grip. "Choke me properly if you're going to taunt about breeding. Make me beg for your seed."
He obliged, fingers digging into her throat, controlling her air as he pounded deeper, the breeding kink fueling his frenzy. "Beg then," he commanded, free hand slapping her clit sharply, making her buck. "Beg for my cum, traitor. Beg to carry my child—half conqueror, half betrayer. I'll keep filling you until it sticks, until you're mine forever."
"Please," she gasped, hating the word but chasing the edge, her walls pulsing. "Breed me. Spill inside—make me yours." The orgasm ripped through her, body convulsing, milking him relentlessly.
He followed with a roar, thrusting deep and holding as he came—hot, endless pulses flooding her, marking her insides again. The bonds held her wrists taut, her body arched in submission and defiance.
They collapsed, him untying her roughly, rubbing her wrists with unexpected care. But the air crackled—jealousy, possession, corruption all deepening.
…
…
…
The torchlight dimmed as the night deepened, but the heat between them lingered like smoke. Ehecatl untangled himself from Malinalli's limbs, his body aching in that satisfied, bruised way only she could inflict. He dressed first—pulling on his loincloth and tilmatli with efficient movements, his eyes never leaving her naked form sprawled on the mat. She watched him, smug and sated, her skin marked with fresh bruises and bites that would bloom purple by morning.
"Get up," he ordered, voice rough but lacking the earlier fury. "We're not staying here."
Malinalli stretched lazily, making no effort to cover herself, her curves on full display as if daring him to take her again. "So eager to parade your new prize home?" she taunted, but she rose anyway, slipping into a fresh huipil—one of the recent "upgrades" he'd arranged: finer cotton, less threadbare, with a few simple jade beads sewn in. It hugged her figure just enough to remind him why he'd risked everything. She gathered the scant belongings she'd accumulated—a bone comb, a vial of oil, a small bundle of herbs for… whatever women used to prevent or encourage what he'd just flooded her with twice.
Ehecatl stepped to the door, sliding it over, revealing two guards—loyal men he'd handpicked, sworn to silence. "You," he pointed to one, a burly warrior with ritual scars across his arms. "Carry her things. And you—escort us. No stops, no questions."
The guard nodded, eyes flicking to Malinalli for a split second before averting—knowing better than to linger on the Cihuacoatl's "asset." He scooped up her bundle without a word, slinging it over his shoulder like it was nothing. Malinalli smirked, falling into step beside Ehecatl as they exited the cell, the second guard trailing behind. The corridors were quiet, the palace asleep, but the air buzzed with the weight of what they were doing—smuggling the empire's most hated woman into his private world.
As they walked, Malinalli leaned close, her voice a whisper laced with venom. "How will your little Castilian pet react? Seeing me waltz in, marked by your hands, maybe already breeding while she plays the obedient whore?"
Ehecatl's jaw tightened, but he didn't stop her—part of him thrilled at the chaos ahead. "She'll learn her place. Just like you."
The group emerged into the cool night air, torches guttering in the breeze. The path to his modest home wound through rubble-strewn streets, guards' footsteps echoing like warnings. Malinalli walked with her chin high, unbound and unashamed, the bundle-bearer glancing back occasionally as if expecting her to bolt. But she didn't—she was exactly where she wanted to be: under his roof, in his bed, twisting the knife deeper.
They arrived at the half-intact adobe structure, its patched roof silhouetted against the stars. Ehecatl dismissed the guards with a nod—"Leave the things inside, then go. Speak of this to no one." As the door creaked open, the faint glow of a lamp revealed Catalina stirring from sleep, her eyes widening at the sight of Malinalli stepping in like she owned the place.
The air thickened. Two women. One boy-king. Infinite sparks.
…
…
…
The door shut behind the departing guards with a soft thud, leaving the three of them alone in the modest adobe home. The space was simple—a single main room with reed mats on the dirt floor, a low hearth flickering with embers, and scattered belongings from Ehecatl's makeshift life: a few clay vessels, looted Spanish blankets, and Catalina's small bundle of scavenged clothes. The air was thick, charged with the scent of night air and unspoken tension as Malinalli stepped further in, her bundle dropped unceremoniously by the wall.
Catalina sat up on the mat where she'd been sleeping, her shift rumpled, eyes wide and bleary from being roused. She rubbed her face, confusion turning to shock as she took in the scene: Ehecatl, disheveled and marked with fresh scratches; Malinalli—Marina, the infamous interpreter—standing tall and unashamed, her huipil slightly askew, bruises blooming on her neck like badges. Catalina's pale skin flushed, a mix of fear and something sharper—jealousy?—flashing in her eyes.
"My lord?" she whispered in Spanish, voice tentative, pulling the blanket around her like a shield. "What's… what's she doing here?"
Ehecatl crossed the room, sitting on the edge of the mat beside her, his hand resting on her knee in a gesture that was half-reassuring, half-possessive. Malinalli lingered by the wall, arms crossed, watching with that feral amusement. "Catalina," he said calmly, switching to Spanish for her benefit. "Remember what I told you last night? About Malinalli—Marina. I fucked her. Might've gotten her pregnant."
Catalina nodded slowly, her gaze darting to Malinalli, recognition dawning. She'd heard the whispers in the Spanish camp—the native woman who'd been Cortés's voice, his bed warmer, the key to their conquests. "Yes, my lord… but why is she here?"
He squeezed her knee, his tone smooth, matter-of-fact. "Because of that. The risk—the possibility—gave me leverage. I passed off some information as her 'confessions' to the emperor and nobles. Secrets about your people's lands, their king, their weaknesses. It worked. She's too valuable to waste in a cell now. Safer, more comfortable under my watch."
Catalina's eyes widened further, but she didn't protest—her Stockholm loyalty kicking in, mixed with the promises he'd made her. "And… she'll live here?"
"For a while," Ehecatl confirmed, glancing at Malinalli with a possessive gleam. "Until the city's rebuilt enough. Walls mended, streets cleared. Then I'll focus on a bigger place—something fitting a Cihuacoatl. For now, the three of us live together. You'll share the space. No fighting. No drama."
Malinalli snorted softly, picking up her bundle and moving to the opposite side of the room as instructed. She unrolled a spare mat, arranging her comb, oil vial, and herbs with deliberate slowness, claiming her territory. "How cozy," she muttered in Nahuatl, loud enough for him to hear. "Your little Caxtilteca pet and the tongue, all under one roof. Hope she doesn't mind the noise."
Ehecatl shot her a warning look, then turned back to Catalina, his voice firm but not unkind. "Rules," he said, addressing both women—switching to Spanish to ensure they understood. "One: No one leaves without my say. Guards will watch the door—safety, not prison." He looked at Malinalli pointedly. "Two: You share chores, food, space. Catalina, show her where things are. Malinalli, pull your weight—no lazing like a noble." Catalina nodded obediently; Malinalli rolled her eyes but didn't argue.
"Three," he continued, standing now, looming over the room like the boy-king he was. "This is my house. My bed. If I want one of you—or both—that's my call. No jealousy, no scheming. Break that, and there are consequences." His eyes flicked between them, the air crackling with potential. "We're rebuilding an empire. Start by not tearing this down."
Catalina lowered her gaze submissively. "As you wish, my lord." Malinalli smirked, settling on her mat. "Fine. But don't blame me if she cracks first."
Ehecatl exhaled, the weight of his corruption settling heavier. Three under one roof. Peace? Unlikely. But the chaos… that he could handle.
Ehecatl paced the small room, the embers in the hearth casting a warm, unsteady glow over the three of them. Malinalli had finished arranging her meager belongings on her side, claiming a corner with a defiant flourish, while Catalina sat quietly on the main mat, knees drawn up, eyes flicking between them like a deer sensing predators. The tension was palpable—Malinalli's presence already shifting the air, her scent mingling with the faint herbs from her bundle, a reminder of the cell they'd just left.
He stopped pacing, turning to Malinalli with a calculated look. "We're not done yet," he said in Nahuatl, his voice low but commanding. "Cortés's trial is coming. Soon. And you'll be there—not as a prisoner, but as a witness. My witness."
Malinalli leaned against the wall, arms crossed under her breasts, pushing them up just enough to draw his eye. "Oh? And what pearls of wisdom do you need me to spit at the bearded fool? Or is this just another way to parade me like a trophy?"
Ehecatl stepped closer, ignoring Catalina's watchful gaze for now. "You'll say exactly what I tell you. Confirm the war crimes—his massacres in Cholula, the hostages, the broken oaths. Paint him as the monster he is, but twist it: admit you translated out of fear, that he forced your hand, used you like a tool. Make it clear you had no choice—sold as a slave, traded to him, surviving the only way you could." He paused, his hand brushing her arm possessively. "And throw in details about their weaknesses—their fractured kingdom, the heretic splitting their church. I'll feed you more if needed. Make it sound like you've been 'cooperating' all along."
She tilted her head, a sly smile playing on her lips. "And if I don't? If I decide to sing a different song—tell them how you fucked me raw, spilled your seed like a boy with no control?"
His grip tightened on her arm, pulling her close enough to feel his breath. "You won't. Because if you do, protection or not, I'll make sure you regret it. But play nice… and you'll get more than just this roof." The threat hung, but so did the promise—their toxic pull making his words half-bluff.
Malinalli's eyes sparkled with that unhinged fire. "Fine. I'll be your good little tongue—for now."
Ehecatl nodded, then glanced at Catalina, switching to Spanish. "And you'll translate it all for her," he told Malinalli, jerking his head toward the Castilian girl. "Every word. Let her hear what her people did, what Cortés faces. No softening it."
Catalina shifted uncomfortably, her voice small. "My lord… why? I know what he did. I was there, in the camp…"
"Because," Ehecatl said firmly, sitting between them now, one hand on each woman's knee—a king dividing his domain. "She needs to understand. You're both mine now. No secrets. Malinalli—start. Translate as I go."
Malinalli obliged, her voice smooth as she relayed the instructions in Spanish, her tone laced with mockery that made Catalina flinch. As she spoke, detailing the trial script—the massacres, the forced translations, the "cooperation"—Catalina's face paled, but she listened, nodding submissively. Malinalli added her own flair in the translation, slipping in barbs like "Your Capitán General will break under the weight of his own lies," watching Catalina's reaction with predatory interest.
By the end, the room felt smaller, the hearth's warmth doing little to ease the chill of impending drama. Ehecatl leaned back, satisfied. "Good. Practice it tomorrow. For now… sleep. We've got a long day ahead."