[ halfway through the match, he's still deciding what it means.
there's a part of him that's still watching, measuring, tallying up their damage as an accountant might: every scratch, every rising bruise, flickers of adrenaline brimming in his veins like newly minted gold. they're both more than a little unravelled by now. childe's a vicious fighter, and this was not a body made for war. but viciousness in itself's no more remarkable than a sea-storm: an hour, a moment to shake off its salt and thunder, and it'll be gone, unravelled into little more than a memory.
the fight isn't what's remarkable. it begs the question, then: what is?
strike, lash, deflect. the polearm twists in his hand. they've been locked in the golden house for some time. through the windows, the sky's charring into dusk. the air reeks of damp stone, saltwater, unearthly shadows. faintly, he registers: his lungs are burning. his grip's clenched tight on the shaft. the match's taken longer than he'd expected to allow.
what is he doing here? not the repayment of a debt. not an act of kindness. his accounts with the cryo archon have been settled. even now, stripped of his gnosis and his crowning title, he's an easy match for a snezhnayan boy who hasn't even crossed the threshold of his first century. payment, in childe's case, would be a bottle of wine over dinner; grace would be a spearpoint to his throat. in every sense: this is nothing close to what childe deserves.
his gaze drifts over childe, thoughtful -- lingering on the hard curve of his arms, drawing tight, the ragged hitch in his voice as he sights his mark and fires.
the bow's echo shrills through the pillars, sharp as any breaking tide. the arrow falls in an arc.
zhongli steps backwards, and kicks his polearm upward. jade splits through water. the arrow shimmers, trembling through its descent, and bursts into mist. ]
Grant me a moment.
[ it isn't a request. he's already turned away as the words go ringing across the floor. his fingers are threading through the catches of his coat, stripping them open to set it aside. his back is unguarded, insultingly easy. ]
Have you considered where you'll go once your business in Liyue is concluded?
( small victories, childe thinks, mid-draw, as zhongli strips off his coat.
it's a remarkably human tell for a centuries-old god who's traded his godhood for something closer to mortality, written into the sweat on his brow like a hairline crack in smooth marble. he wants to remember this: i did that, fabled stories he'll file away for the day his wide-eyed siblings discover the truth and ask him what it was like to fight a dragon. exhilarating. oddly underwhelming. not nearly enough because childe deals in blood, not sweat, and he isn't finished with liyue or this fight or zhongli until he's choking on fumes. until zhongli gives him everything.
he exhales at his question. his fingertips touch his cheek, arrow anchored in place. )
Home, unless my return is intercepted with orders to go elsewhere.
( had he taken the scheduled boat with signora as he was supposed to following the retrieval of rex lapis' gnosis, he would've already been in snezhnaya by now. another well-oiled cog in the tsaritsa's war machine to be slot into place at her mantle and dispatched at her whim, for queen and country. his own pettiness held him back, and instead he stood on the dock on an early misty morning to watch signora depart, two fingers to his brow in a mock salute, a portrait of vengeful self-sabotage.
zhongli gives him his back like they're at tea and childe doesn't have an arrow leveled in his direction. a thoughtless misstep for anyone else, but zhongli is a towering mountain of myth and legend carved from stone and shoveled into a body not meant to harness his divinity. his carelessness is intentional and salt to the wound, ground under his heel into his smarting pride.
childe presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth, lips pursing then thinning into a smile, easy and sweet, deceptively boyish. )
Why are you still here?
( better question. his eyes wander, to the rippling pull of zhongli's shoulders under a neatly pressed shirt, dark hair curling at his nape. sentimentality binds him to liyue, maybe, but there's none of that here in the golden house. his arms quiver where he holds his draw, taut angle bowing left by a degree.
moment's up. his fingers tilt off the bowstring in a clean release, arrow twirling toward zhongli's side with the intent to graze, not injure. a warning shot. )
[ his fingers twitch, but only once. light snarls in the jade studded across his glove. the arrow splashes against his shield into droplets and sea-foam, scattering across the tiled floor. ]
It would be a disservice to the teahouse, and to you, if I invited you to dine when your mind is elsewhere.
[ precisely half an answer to a question taken at face value: a funeral consultant's, not an archon's, delivered with the clarity of a man who's doing anything but fighting for his life. he might have presented it out of habit -- but that's a troublesome excuse in itself: the idea that childe's tangled enough into his routines to deserve his own accommodations or compromises.
he weighs the thought, then sets it aside. there'll be time for it later; for now, there are more interesting subjects to raise with a solipsist. ]
It has occasionally occurred to me to wonder that you use the bow at all.
[ it's the same tone that he's used a dozen times over -- in degui's tavern on a gold-struck afternoon, light glossing the sea like silk, voices murmuring around them in idling tides, when the idea of war in all its forms had seemed like nothing more than history and theory. a scholar's voice, mild and philosophical. but there seems to be no difference in the sling of his shoulders as zhongli turns. ]
Close-quarters combat seems more likely to suit you.
[ meters away, sunk into the cracking floor, the polearm trembles and comes hurtling through the air. it snaps into his hand, ringing like crystal struck out of a geode. he doesn't spare it a glance; all of his gold-eyed focus's pinned on the archer still halfway across the floor. ]
the bow came last, under the tutelage of a skilled but unsympathetic fatui archer who slapped his elbow and spine with the shaft of an arrow to correct his form. don't lift your chin, keep your head straight, the arrow needs to be parallel with the ground, ajax. )
Practice. ( he yields to zhongli's request without argument, bow shattering into a fine mist as he summons two knives in its stead. ) I only learned the bow after my conscription into Her Majesty's ranks.
( zhongli's serpentine stare β sharp and golden, glinting brighter than the flickering lamplight in the golden house β is oppressive, even at a distance. childe doesn't want him to look away. he circles the platform in an arc, spinning his blades around his wrists, and follows his polearm's speeding bolt into his hand, enough force there to snap a bone in half.
better. warmer. hotter. closer to what he wants. )
My father used to tell me stories about you, ( he says, idly. his father used to tell him stories about a lot of things. ) Your legendary prowess in battle. The many gods you felled. You were a main figurehead in at least one of my nightmares as a child. I always wondered what you'd be like in person.
( he stops mid-step and turns to face zhongli fully. his lashes dip low as his eyes leisurely track the length of zhongli's body, from feet to head, and linger on his throat, blistering and unhurried. he touches his tongue to his bottom lip, lifting his chin to meet his gaze. )
I thought you'd be taller. ( he extends his knife, beckoning him with forward with the slight tilt of his wrist. ) By all means, xiansheng. Your move.
[ something a little worse than reflex: the deliberate weight of his gaze, lingering on the gleaming curve of childe's lip; the way his hand turns at a side, as if he might reach up to test it. ]
You are too kind.
[ it isn't, after all, as if he doesn't know childe's reputation. from a fatui agent, it'd be a warning. from childe, it feels nearly like a grace note: the invitation of a man who'd look upon the throne of a god and only think to drown it.
the underlying demand's unmistakable, too -- but that's less of interest. childe'll have as strong a response as he can bear. all things in balance.
a stele shocks out of the floor, gold pulsing through the shadows like an open, molten vein. the house groans with the resonance, marble jittering like bone. he doesn't spare a moment for the echoes to settle. in a heartbeat, zhongli's lunging towards him, shields thrumming and his spear twisting up towards childe's throat as the distance between them empties out -
- to pin his collar to the stele.
close quarters, as promised -- and it's only fair. neither of them's taken it seriously so far. ]
( the stele pulses from the ground, an echoing thundercrack meant to distract him. childe already spots his own mistake, dismissing his knives in a watery flash to summon a smaller one that he flips blade to hilt and releases in a tumbling throw toward zhongli's skull. it splinters against zhongli's shield like a wave breaking over sand, powerless.
childe's back hits the stele. )
Ah, xiansheng. ( the surprised o of his mouth cracks into laughter, breathless, almost chiding. his stance shifts wider. ) You're too kind.
( all that power rolling over him like a summer storm, stopped at the steel-end of his polearm. so gracious. mercy tastes sour. he eases his shoulders flat to the stele and lifts his hand to trail a fingertip down the underside of the polarm's shaft, palm squeezing near the spear, closest to his collar.
he grips firmly then tugs, testing zhongli's hold and hitching the spear higher. )
[ closer, childe says, though he can nearly taste the echo on the tip of his tongue where he stands.
still, he goes. his steps click along the floor, carving into childe's space with the faultlessness of absolute possession. everything's gone terribly still; the silence sways between his ribs like a cut chain -- only echoes where once he might have felt the resonance of the land in soil and iron and stone.
strange, after all these centuries, to have come at last to a loose end -- to have drawn himself to a hollow room at the very edge of his former territory, with nothing to anchor him but the weapon in his hand and a would-be assassin turned -
ah. the pieces flick together like the screens of a shadow-play. there's a word for what he's doing, after all. ]
I have made my move. [ mildly. ] Yours, I believe, follows next.
[ the rest's the work of a moment. his shields shiver, splinter, and go spilling away, gold flaking out to dust. the stele thrums once, a molten warning -- but he isn't sparing childe the opportunity to consider it. his grip skims down the polearm, holding its pride of place. with the other, he reaches out to catch childe's empty hand, drawing it up to his chest. his gaze holds with the steadiness of a blade, waiting. ]
( childe was trained raw, bloody knuckles and sleepless nights spent in the snowy dark, from fourteen onward, and zhongli's eyes on him, his spear at his collar, is a looming threat quietly acknowledged by wildly firing synapses and every hammered-in instinct that demands he pulls his blades again, to spare injury or worse. he doesn't. his hand flexes once over zhongli's chest then turns, slotting his tie between his index and middle fingers and skimming down the length of it.
he catches in the v of his waistcoat, holding there. )
Here? ( a hollow echo, emphasized with another light pull on his polearm. zhongli's grip is as cemented as fossilized crystal, so he leans into him β and his polearm's gleaming spearpoint β instead. here is the ivory birdcage of his ribs, where a mortal heart beats. here isn't what he wants anymore.
then what else? he could end this, pull a blade and force zhongli back or wipe through the arena on an electrical current in a last stand kamikaze, except he can't. except he doesn't want to. except zhongli's stare eviscerates him more than the tsaritsa's delusion, and childe wants to prostrate at his feet, submit to his altar and beg for judgment, with a sudden and savage ferocity that vents all the air from his lungs en masse.
well, fuck.
his hand drifts his chest, tip-toeing across his collar and laying flat to necklace his throat with his fingers. he doesn't squeeze, just finds his pulse with his thumb and digs in firmly. it's a marvel how zhonghli's heart beats so steadily when childe's flutters so riotously, proof of his fragile humanity pitted against centuries of zhongli's unfading immortality. it was never a fair fight. )
What about here?
( closer, again, because childe is rolling forward on his toes, pushing into the polearm to the point of sharp discomfort. )
[ but the words come after the fact. the ring of childe's hands barely parses next to the wildfire radiance of his attention, all stark eyes and bladed intent, a knife casting about for a soft place to sink in. reckless -- but for the fact that the stele's an unfaltering pillar behind his back, and it's the polearm that yields as childe surges upward, blade tilting away from the stretch of his bare throat.
childe has a hunter's sense of vicious opportunity. he must know by now: he couldn't fall here if he tried.
which isn't to say that he's guaranteed a victory. zhongli wrenches, wrist flexing; the polearm twists, carving down, forcing childe to bow his head or strain to look up. the cloth's straining at its seams -- it won't last, but the moment that it buys is enough. a hand's flattening against the stele, caging childe in as zhongli presses into his roping grip. he breathes in, and feels a knuckle dig against the flex of his throat like the very last knot in a noose.
his pulse sharpens, one beat quicker. close, but still not close enough. ]
( every physical return is catalogued in childe's mind with the swiftness of a falling blade: the spear yielding first, then twisting into his jacket collar and dragging down, like kickback in a firing cannon. second tell. he tucks his chin on a laugh that pitches into a warbling hiss, loosening his white-knuckled fist on the polarm's shaft. )
This is nothing.
( one reckless decision against a lifetime of carving himself open to see what's inside, currently spurred by the soft give in zhongli's throat. he's not even bleeding yet.
zhongli's pulse jumps β just the once and barely, but childe's thumb is a glaring spotlight in the dark, hooking between tendons and seeking it out. the hand on his polearm presses down from the top as he tilts his head back in hiccuping increments, slowed by his collar tucked tight around his nape. zhongli's spear splits into tightly wound threading, fabric giving way for bare skin.
he glides his hand from his throat to his hair, curling at the base of his skull, and anchors him in, to either follow through with the spear at his collar or yield again. his throat jumps as he swallows on a ragged inhale. )
[ throat bare, spine strung like a bowstring, the flush of his mouth as dizzying as a storm-fire. it's a wonder that childe hadn't seen through him within days of landing -- he's a heart-shot made flesh, the kind of missile that lives to find its mark.
it would have been a simpler match, then. through the seasons, something's shifted. childe's fingers curl, and for a moment, all he can parse's the tilt of childe's body towards him, his eyes all fever-bright blue, everything lost between them but the echo of adrenaline and body heat.
his grip clenches against the wood. behind him, the stele thrums with one last pulse, and evaporates. the spear snaps into the floor; the pillars quake with its echo. in an instant, his arm's looping along the curve of childe's spine, pulling him flush to keep him from tipping backwards. ]
I seem to have misunderstood the purpose of the match.
[ as if he weren't speaking with childe's hand still curved against his throat. the spearpoint's struck by their feet, a gaunt and edgeless glittering at the edge of his vision. all this time, and still neither of them's drawn blood.
deliberately, he leans into childe's space, chasing the ragged curl of his breath.
he's played games with higher stakes, but none so urgent as this. ]
( the spear cleaves into marble, ringing like a final death knell, and childe's entire world tilts on its axis as zhongli nets him close, trading a stele for his arm across his back. he hooks his elbow over his shoulder, spine arching as he unfurls into him like a leisurely sprawling cat and swallows again. this is dangerous in a newer, less explored way β the jackrabbit kick of his pulse left with nowhere to hide, the distance between them cut to a single breath, leaving him exposed, easily accessible.
zhongli's molten stare slices through him cleaner than any knife. he feels thoroughly, uncomfortably seen. childe turns his hand at zhongli's nape, fisting where his hair is neatly tied and twisting; glossy black gleams like silk around his knuckles. )
Both.
( that must be obvious by now, or childe would've had a dagger in his jugular the second he brought his throat close enough to strike. every missed opportunity was shrewdly calculated.
he slides a leg forward, burrowed in the clutch of zhongli's thighs, and meets him with a full, hip-to-hip press of their bodies. his next exhale steams his mouth, tongue darting to touch the swell of zhongli's bottom lip and then hook under his top lip, kittenish and beckoning. it's a wire snapping, uncoiling all at once, as the hand in his hair pulls at his scalp and slants his head back, teeth snapping near his mouth.
he feels like a wolf who has a lion by the throat, halfheartedly struggling to maintain their deadlock as he waits for his inevitable end. he wants zhongli's teeth in him. he wants more, and fucking more, and his tongue in the wet slack of his mouth, until he's full to bursting. )
but barely's not quite the deterrent that it should be when childe's still caught flush against him. this close, everything resounds -- the shiver where his teeth had nearly caught skin, his heartbeat rolling like thunder between them, intent prickling through his frame like static. it's magnetic; it's obscene. he's craning close heartbeats after childe splits away to speak -- and the rest feels like no more than instinct. his weight shifts forward. his fingertips splay across the bow of childe's spine, tightening as he hooks a knuckle beneath childe's jaw and drags their mouths together.
it isn't a kind kiss. he's measured, steady on his feet; but this is a rhythm that his body knows, a pull inexorable as the tide. impossible not to sink into it -- to chase the spark of that last question into the open flame of childe's mouth. to give him everything that he's been asking for.
his eyes lid; his head cants as he nips at the edge of childe's lip, sharp and unforgiving, tongue laving over the ragged little scrape with the kind of urgency that's coaxing, lavish, and just short of bruising.
to anyone else, it'd be a warning. ]
You may - [ with the faintest hitch between kisses to betray him - ] have as much of my attention as you can bear.
( everything about zhongli draws childe in like iron to lodestone: he's caught against him, trapped in the event horizon of his rapidly expanding gravity as he tilts his head for his claiming tongue. his arm tightens over his shoulder, pushing in, a low whine rattling his chest. )
All of it. ( mindlessly, because the airy hitch in zhongli's voice rips through him like shrapnel, and he wants to say more but words are impossible when he's this close. i want you on top of me. i want to suck on your fucking tongue. i want to lick your cock like it's a decadence, drink you down like malt liquor and greedily lap up whatever i leave behind so no one else can. he's thought about this as often as he's thought about loosing an arrow in zhongli's unguarded face: too often, too much. ) All of you. I was built for this.
( shredded open at his seams and hollowed out by a hungry abyss then pieced together again in jagged edges, a volatile wild card for the tsaritsa's arsenal. this β gripping zhongli's hair with a quivering but firm hand, rubbing on him chest-to-hip, mouth bitten red, whorish, filthy β wasn't written into his training. he's a fallible weapon. he's a landmine on a fault line. he's as likely to swallow zhonghli whole as he is to crack open his own ribs and present him with his heart, just because, just to feel something.
he anchors zhongli by the nape and herds him back, to the edge of the arena into a pillar, and glides against him again. his knee slots into his thigh, angling it out so he can straddle his leg and roll his hips flush. touching zhonghli so boldly is an obscenity that won't be forgiven by any god, no matter how sweetly he prays. add it to the list.
his hand wraps around his tie, pulling at the knot and popping the first button on his collar. he licks into his mouth, as scorching hot as the rest of him, and follows with a siren's call scrape of his teeth on his tongue. )
they move together. the axis of the world shudders beneath their racing steps. his back's struck stone by the time it settles, and the rest seems to snap together in a lockstep sequence: his fist grinding into the arch of childe's spine, fingers raking beneath the cloth to splay over his hip, tightening as their bodies rock together in pulses of friction. every point where they're touching feels incandescent; his veins are roaring with the rhythm of a wardrum.
i was built for this. the words of a goad, a sacrifice. what god could ever resist them?
his tie unravels; the folds of his shirt ease apart. if he'd had any doubts, they evaporate in the instant that childe's grip knuckles tight in his hair. their mouths split apart as he guides childe's hand down the buttons of his shirt, kisses ringing in slick and filthy echoes across the stone pillars -- but that's only for an instant. each kiss sinks deeper than the last -- lavish and obscene, tongue sliding thick and indulgent over tongue, relentless enough to drown.
he knows better. he has been an archon, and the guardian of an inverted land; his name was set for centuries like a binding seal on every contract. he's too old by far to take any human being at his word.
but nothing in him was ever made for doubt or hesitation. an offering's been set before him; the arch of childe's body against his feels like all the assurance that he needs. ]
... You have had mere minutes of my time, and you look more than ready to come apart where you stand.
[ it's a lilting sort of murmur, husky where it smears along the flushed edge of childe's mouth. a hand's already skimming over the line of his waist, flicking the gemstone gleaming from his belt, rubbing down along the inseam of his trousers like he isn't thinking at all. ]
Forgive me if I set a slower pace. At least until you've proven yourself.
( until you've proven yourself. another slight, but this one sets teeth in his pride, a shattered glass burn that contrasts with the slow-curling pleasure of zhongli's hands on him. his tongue sweeps zhongli's teeth, throat bobbing as he inhales in small hitches. )
You're too greedy.
( curved into zhongli's body, looking up at him through the dark veil of his eyelashes, he's halfway to coy. he slides his hands along his shoulders, tracing the hollow divot above his collarbones, then skims his fingertips down his chest, light and skipping. zhongli looks almost mortal, from the red bite of his mouth to his hair fanning his face. for a second, childe can't think, teetering a thin line between dangerously practiced and boyishly awestruck.
a hand firmly presses between his thighs; childe furls against him quicker than a viper strike, hips canting and fingers locking at zhongli's wrist to hold him there. stupid. he knows this game. )
Wasn't I already good for you? ( he matches zhongli's throaty murmur with something sweeter and plying, mouth hovering close. his teeth scrape his bottom lip, licking once, and drop to his exposed throat to close on his pulse, digging in hard. the temptation to ride his fucking hand is overwhelming, and he breaks to it slightly, hips jerking forward in rough pitches as he rubs into him.
he's already done so much for him, masterfully puppeteered from the shadows while liyue and a roiling ocean served as the unfortunate backdrop. it doesn't seem fair.
he tilts his head and tracks his lips over the curve of his jaw, releasing his wrist to pluck at zhongli's belt and hook his thumb into his fly. his mouth finds his ear, rolling a soft lobe over his tongue and teeth. )
Didn't you get everything you wanted?
Edited (hours later bc i'm a perpetually dumb bitch who forgot zhongli already took off his jacket my complete b) 2021-05-16 03:59 (UTC)
[ trust childe to take the near-sundering of liyue harbour and call it a favour.
but it's difficult to object to any of it when childe's all over him, heavy-eyed and intent, hips rolling up with the slightest promise of friction, the taste of his mouth as heady as wine. his head cants to a side as childe's lips part against his skin, if only for a moment; a breath drags in his throat, husky, nearly distracted. ]
You, more than anyone else, should understand that there is never an end to wanting.
[ it isn't a comfortable position for anything, but the arch of childe's hips is an excellent incentive. his fingers drag over cloth; his palm turns up, grinding up a little more firmly, working into a rough, slow rhythm as childe pulls his belt apart. it's a poor choice of location; but they're alone, and unlikely to be interrupted, and the ache in childe's voice resounds through the vastness like a storm.
zhongli turns his head. a hand cups his cheek with a steadiness that's less kind than absolute, thumb rubbing the wet red curve of childe's lip with something a little startled, a little testing -- measuring the limits of what childe will permit. ]
Besides -- [ with a corroded flicker of irony - ] this is hardly a battle.
[ what it is won't be worth considering for another hour. zhongli sinks back against the pillar. his hand abandons the curve of childe's cock thickening under cloth, trailing upward; his hip tilts a little as his fingers hook in the loop of childe's belt, pulling him forward, just enough to let childe grind against his thigh.
they're steps away from a battlefield. there are certain practical limitations to what they can manage. if he wants anything, he'll have to work for it. ]
( the warm hand over his cock, a strong thigh splitting his legs wide as zhongli tacks their bodies by the hip β all of it disciplined, maddening, not unlike him in a fight. childe's chest spasms, breath rushing from him on a shivering stutter; he rocks into zhongli's thigh with a tight, involuntary jerk, betrayed by his own reflexes. )
Isn't it? ( his head rolls back, throat bared and lips parting around a peek of his tongue between his teeth, like a willing lamb for the slaughter or a carnivorous trap lying in wait for its next meal. ) I think your understanding of fucking needs a little refresher β respectfully, xiansheng.
( considerably more difficult to sound convincingly haughty while coiled so firmly in zhongli's arms, flushing rosy pink down to his collar, than it would be from a safer, less distracting distance. zhongli's steady control licks like flame to gasoline straight to his nerves, setting him on a knife's point. he'll rut on his thigh like a touch-starved, feral whore easily, with no semblance of shame or regret, but zhongli isn't a lost-at-sea sailor coaxed by childe to a rocky crag death, consumed by unyielding waves: he is the crag, twice as unforgiving, twice as unyielding.
childe's never worried about drowning until now.
this foreign, slithering feeling doesn't slow his hand from twining zhongli's hair again, or his tongue from flickering his thumb, teeth catching his knuckle to draw him into his mouth, suckling wetly. he angles his full weight into him, notching his cock against his thigh in slow, leisurely rolls, leaving enough space for his hand to pop the clasp on his trousers and readily delve inside.
his fingers ripple around his cock, teasing, then close and squeeze, twisting a loose fist once. he arches onto his thigh, thumb planted in his mouth, a picture of lascivious indecency, but his eyes stay riveted to zhongli's face, intently searching for inclusions in the stone. )
[ it feels like the worst kind of revelation. his thumb rubs against childe's tongue in thoughtful circles, feeling through the lack of resistance, the wet and wanton pressure of childe's lips working around him with the slightest push. it's barely a touch. there hasn't been an opportunity to earn that scalded flush in childe's cheek, the plush, hard curve thickening against his thigh. he'd seen the ruins of the harbour, jetsam and shrapnel glinting grey and gold on the rising tides, the roar of an abandoned god resounding out of the deeps. if he hadn't learned it in the seasons they'd had together, he knew it then: it'd take far more than anything he's done to push childe to his limit.
it begs the question: if he likes it this much, this easily, if a rough kiss and a knee between his thighs can bring childe down to this sort of haze --
how ruined will he look in a few hours' time?
his lips part; a word shivers in his teeth like a little quake. his fingers scrape over a hip, hauling childe forward through the last few critical centimeters to grind into the stirring twitch of his cock under cloth. they haven't found a rhythm, not yet -- and in the moment, it doesn't matter. childe's fingers curl around him and his breath twists in his teeth, a tangle of pleasure and the beginnings of urgency. ]
Surely you don't expect to be fucked in here.
[ his voice's gravelled, curious. a thumb skims a slick line along childe's jaw -- less for any practical purpose than for the sheer gleaming effect of it, taking every opportunity that he can to leave a mark. their mouths tilt together, but stop just short; his finger hooks in the line of childe's belt, nail scraping bare skin as his weight shifts, pressing into the uneasy friction like it's all he means to offer. ]
Moments ago, you were complaining that I was too greedy.
[ - with his eyes lidded, his mouth tipped just close enough to brush childe's, as each syllable comes drifting out between slow, deepening kisses. ]
( zhongli's voice sails over the word fucked like silk on bare skin; it's an opulent but vular thrill, searing through him hotter than the press of his thigh to his cock. he wants to suck another one just like it from his tongue. )
I've done worse for less.
( he leans away from him, shedding his jacket with a fluid shrug and shake of his arms, then returns his hand to zhongli's trousers and grips his cock again, for emphasis. zhongli is here now, solid and molten between childe's squeezing fingers, and the idea of relocating to somewhere more ideal or appropriate feels like an impossibility, like torture. not when he's giving him so much already, uncut crystal caving to muscle and flesh, everything he can kiss and touch and fuck and make flush with his teeth and tongue and wandering hands. vulnerabilities, cleanly culled from zhongli's body to be hoarded in childe's hungry mouth.
it's ridiculous. it's naΓ―ve. he's twenty-one and starved.
his focus sharpens, narrowing on the spit-slick gleam of zhongli's mouth. i did that, too. he meets every lingering kiss with a coaxing slide of his tongue, head tilted and throat arched to force zhongli into a leaning stretch over him. )
Or ( β as he parts for air, lips brushing zhongli's chin β ) would you consider this a desecration of a sacred space? ( his hand on his cock. his mouth on his cock. childe on his hands and knees, prostrated in filthy irreverence instead of worship. all of it, maybe. this is where they kept rex lapis' hollowed vessel. ) You'll have to forgive me. I'm not intimately familiar with your customs, but I'd like to learn.
( it could be the gravest, most damning blasphemy for all childe knows, but his apology carries no hint of self-reproach. he's still testing for soft give in zhongli's boundaries, places where the glass cracks on top of a bottomless chasm and he hits a point of no return β deliberate ruination, invited in on a single shattering swing of his fist.
he licks his palm to ease the rough slide of his hand over zhongli's cock, nails scraping his navel on his way back down, and shifts into a wetter and tighter rhythm. )
Is it offensive to fuck a foreigner over the floor of the Golden House?
[ the edge in childe's voice could be fitted to a guillotine.
the trouble's this: that childe runs hot, mouth and pulse and wanton viciousness. that his hand's steady, relentless, and the slick jolt of his grip dragging tight rolls through zhongli's spine like a wave. that he's a god with no obligations left to keep -- no debts, no duties, nothing to hold him but the insolent curl of childe's voice in the air and the static-salt taste of his mouth. stone might have resisted the onslaught; but he is less than stone, and his veins are already thrumming with the instinct to move, to taste, to claim. zhongli breathes out; his shoulders roll back, shirt rasping stone as his hips tilt into the urgent slide of childe's fist, slight and slow. ]
I see that you have your preferences as to which it should be.
[ the words are nearly dry, but for the current churning beneath every syllable.
but it isn't difficult to work out what suits childe. a hand twines into his hair, and knuckles tight -- and zhongli's pulling him back in to kiss him again without a flicker of force to spare, holding him fast just to see if he'll draw back. the rhythm's beginning to catch, like sparks seething from flint -- his cock's already curving up into childe's fingers, thickening with every stroke, and each pulse flushes through him like a drowning breath.
centuries ago, there'd been a common joke among the soldiers: in war, the only sin is indecision. he's lingered for long enough, hasn't he?
so he's precise in his touch: it's a moment's work to roll open the coil of childe's belt, working the folds of his trousers apart, skimming a curving hand beneath the cloth, palm grinding into the arch of his cock with the fervour of a man thinking of nothing else. his breath's gone shallow, quickening, and his eyes are hooded, heavy gold as his grip tightens, lingering on the greedy, invulnerable curl of childe's mouth. ]
Is an act of desecration always required to get you to come?
( with a sharp twist of his wrist, the glass shatters, and childe falls.
there's no bottoming out as zhongli's hand fists his hair, or his mouth descends on his mouth, swallowing his wispy laugh. zhongli pours over him unabated, a lit match to oil spreading flame, and childe is only allowed a brief moment to feel insufferably smug before he has bare skin on his cock, hot and deliciously soft for a man who has spent so many of his centuries waging divine wars.
it's good, better than even his most sordid fantasies. better than blood in his mouth. better than zhongli's spear to his throat. )
Not at all, ( is his answer, hissed through his teeth and punctuated on a breathy fuck and imploring jerk of his hips. ) But it certainly doesn't hurt.
( all youthful enthusiasm untainted by time as he rocks into the hollow of zhongli's palm, wholly unfettered. he spreads a hand across his nape, clenching his shirt by the collar and wresting down to strip zhongli half-naked against him so he can get his mouth on his clavicle; his tongue lays flat, teeth raking bone. zhongli unravels so prettily, hard in childe's stroking hand, and he commits the cadence of his breathing to memory, one breath for every slick squeeze around his flushed cockhead.
like this, stripped of his gnosis and all its accompanying celestial grace, fucking into childe's snug fist, he's a painted forgery of a human being. it's a dangerous indulgence he can't resist. he bites his collar, licking into the angry grooves he leaves behind, then drags his hand from his trousers and folds neatly to zhongli's feet. )
I think you'll find ( β a pull on his trousers, fabric rucking along the spread of his thighs; childe's hand fixes back on his cock, gentler now β ) that I'm excessively flexible in many ways.
( his voice is soft, pliant intimacy slivered into shards and ghosted on a breath near zhongli's cock. old habits die hard: he's still a knife's edge threat even here, bloomy pink and yielding on his knees. he pumps his hand loosely, tongue winding a hot path up the underside of his cock, over his own curled knuckle. )
[ as it turns out, knowing that it's a provocation does little to mitigate the effect.
childe drops to his knees, and the next minute unfolds like a staged sequence, a rhythm carved into his marrows. he isn't thinking. he doesn't have to think. his palm grinds into childe's shoulder; his head tips forward, gaze all stark and riveted gold as childe gets to work like he'd been made for it, mouth all flushed and smearing on bare skin. he makes a sound -- feels it in his lungs like a spark, startled, guttural. the rest's slipping out of his head. he's seen childe in battle, storm-edged and wild -- seen him surfacing after a long day from the grimy work of a fatui. none of it compares to the vision that he makes on his knees, half-undone with his trousers rucked loose around his hips, fist working and his mouth all slick and yielding -- a sight like flint grinding into flint, the kind of heat that consumes what it makes, and demands more, more, more. ]
Eager to serve -- I see.
[ the rumble curls in his throat as childe's tongue trails over a vein, an inflection just short of groaning. his whole frame's gone still, staving off the terrible human reflex to pull him down the rest of the way.
but that would hardly suit the balance of things. ]
Can you manage?
[ there's a different question beneath the words. he's watching with gold-struck, molten attention; his hand's skimming upward, thumbing the set of childe's jaw, coaxing it to a better angle as the head of his cock smears over his lip -- a measured touch, nearly careful, like a man smudging the line of a boundary.
he'd said as much, after all: childe can have as much as he can bear. ]
( how he manages: a silent come and see, translated into a teasing flick of his tongue across the head of his cock and childe's fist twisting lower.
it's not a challenge he'd refuse on his worst day, let alone now, pleasantly drunk on the naked flush of zhongli's body and the salty-sharp taste of him. his eyes lid heavily, staring at zhongli through a shrouded sliver in his lashes. he shifts on his knees, thighs pressed in a tight clench, and lifts himself closer; his jaw drops as he eases zhongli's cock past the soft ring of his spit-damp mouth, into a waiting, gripping heat.
he could take him all the way β easily, he thinks, swallowing around a mouthful of spit and cock. but he stops halfway, mostly to savor the way he stretches him full, lips split wide to fit him comfortably, and a little because he's strung taut as a bone ready to fracture in half.
there's no hiding anymore. he feels every twitch and tremor, every low rumble vibrating through him like rolling thunder of an oncoming storm. it hits him harder than vertigo, and for a brief and fleeting second he's almost satisfied, it's almost enough, it's almost everything he's ever wanted. he'll suck his dick until he comes and lick every inch of him clean and he won't pathetically beg for more until he has nothing left but zhongli's name scorching his undeserving mouth like a holy prayer to the godless because this, a quick fuck in the golden house, is almost good enough.
almost.
his free hand strokes from zhongli's flexing thigh toward his hip and flank, and circles his wrist, guiding him into his hair to pull him down and fuck his mouth off or on at his leisure. it's a flash of a warning before he moves, descending in pulsing, bobbing sucks on his cock. his top lip drags over a blunt head tortuously slow, and down again, briefly loosening his mouth and slicking his cock in a dribble of saliva, worked in wet strokes around every part of him he doesn't touch with his tongue. )
[ the way that childe looks on his knees, lashes drawn and a gaze drawn bright as knifepoints. the surety of his hand closing over zhongli's wrist. the tilt of his jaw, shining with the clarity of unconquerable arrogance.
he has, perhaps, underestimated childe. it isn't entirely an unpleasant thought.
but it's a heartbeat or two before he takes advantage of the moment. in the hush, there's more than enough to savour -- the sounds drifting out through the marbled stillness, sloppy, obscene, as childe sinks onto his cock; the plush, slick friction of his tongue; the wet and greedy pulse of his mouth suckling at the head of his cock, fist working down in ruthless strokes. heat throbs in the pit of his stomach; zhongli breathes out, and it's nearly a shudder. ]
You have had -- some practice in these matters, I see.
[ it's equal parts dryness and the kind of praise that doesn't bear saying out loud -- not yet. his fingers drag through childe's hair, drawing him up until his mouth's opening up for zhongli's cock again. he eases into it with a measured rhythm that might nearly pass for gentleness -- steady as he guides childe down, down, bracing him until he can feel muscle clench around the throb of his cock, airless little flickers that stop just short of spasming.
he makes a sound, nearly guttural. gold snarls through his lidded eyes; the stone walls grumble around them like thunder. his grip knots tight, holding childe in place. ]
Your mouth is remarkable.
[ he sinks in again -- and once more after that, for good measure. it feels like a rhythm that he could carry for hours, fucking childe's mouth until he's nearly drunk on the yielding pressure of it, the bow of his lips, all flushed and gorgeously obscene.
but he's taken it more than well so far. it begs another question. ]
May I?
[ as his fingers trail down through the roots of childe's hair, tightening at the base of his skull, tilting his head up to just the right angle. the next push's just a little rougher, testing. ]
this is the first time i've ever posted this tag, on god.
( his passing praise β remarkable β flushes through him on a hiccuping swallow, idle words melted to a molten boil that fill him just as much as zhongli's cock. it's tacked to a memory he'll collect on later, when he's alone in his room in snezhnaya and desperate for release. too soft, some distant part of himself warns, scathingly. watch yourself.
the slow drag of zhongli's cock over his tongue, hand wrenched in his hair to keep him steady, feels like a filthy blessing, even as he pulls him flush and his throat flexes into a spasm. may i, he says, ever the mindful gentleman, as if childe wouldn't dismantle himself piece-by-piece at his feet, if he only asked. yes, please, fuck, you may, in the submissive arch of his neck, muscles contracting around his next thrust.
his hand scrabbles higher on his wrist and grips his forearm; it's a position that forces his spine into a mild curve, allows zhongli unyielding dominion over his body and mouth. zhongli's face swims into full view, all heavy-lashed gold glinting like the sea during sunrise, viciously captivating. a gut-punch, right to his cock.
focus. his fist unwinds from its squeezing clench on zhongli's cock, then coils between his thighs as his knees tic open and he grips himself through his trousers, too hard to stave off a cresting heat. he exhales through his nose on every deep slide, eyes watering, blinked away a second later to line his lashes like glittering tinsel. he can't think beyond the stretch of zhongli's cock down his throat, and that's fine, again, more.
he doesn't dare move off him, or test zhongli's knotted fist in his hair. when he's pulled deep, nose to pelvic bone, he drops his jaw wide and extends his tongue, curving under the softened seam of his balls, throat tightening. blunt nails scratch zhongli's hip as he releases his forearm and slides a rough palm under his ass, lifting him away from the pillar, encouraging, fucking do it. )
just wait, it's gonna happen to me in like 5 tags.
that's the worse option of the two -- that he's clear-headed for the moment where his fingers draw down through childe's hair, thumb rubbing along the roots, guiding his head to just the right angle to fuck into his throat.
a sound hitches in his teeth -- a name, a curse. but he moves through the moment, pulse after roughening pulse, and whatever slight resistance'd flickered in his veins melts away.
it'd be the prudent choice to start slowly -- but sensation's blotting out every thought in his head. there's childe's fingers branding-hot on his hip; breaths quaking in his ribs like fever, the buzz of his heartbeat racing beneath the skin as his hips jut forward, cock sinking once and again into the soft and unrelenting pressure. his grip's tightening -- but that's an abstract regret. it's all he can do to keep himself this slow -- fucking childe's mouth in drawn-out strokes, tugging at his hair just to feel if he can coax out a sound. ]
I should have put you on your knees -- weeks ago. It is a pity to have wasted your skill all this time.
[ his voice's nearly even -- the same forged-steady tone that he's used to discuss calligraphy, lacquerware, the pearl-round petals in the terrace exhibition that liuli pavilion held in spring. a tone for admiring every lovely thing in the world -- and now childe, too: on his knees with his clothes rucked open, his hand between his legs, lips parted, filthy red, to sheath zhongli's cock. ]
Tilt your head up -- [ ah. a murmur, appreciative, on the brink of shuddering. ] A little more. You're doing so well.
[ every breath's steady -- but the words are stretched taut over tongue and teeth, each syllable pinned into place by his blade-sharp control. he'd meant to last longer -- but it's impossible to tear his gaze from childe: light glittering hot at the corners of his lidded eyes, half-lost, greedy, and not nearly ruined enough.
heat's coiling in the pit of his stomach; he shifts on his heels, and keeps the pace steady. just a little more -- just a little closer. ]
( on his knees, with his mouth and throat full of cock, childe's thoughts turn electric-hot, buzzing into white static.
his mouth is an extended weapon, as practiced on his knees as he is behind a shimmering blade. but this is different, hotter, personal for reasons he doesn't want to consider while zhongli fucks his throat and tells him, courteously, how good he is, like he wouldn't cut his gnosis from his chest in a single heartbeat if he still had it, duty before honor. zhongli talks filth the same way he'd taught him how to use chopsticks, measured and endlessly patient, and every word hits its fatal mark. childe grinds his palm into his cock before he clenches tight again, a prickling throb to ground him.
he watches zhongli until he's a shifting watercolor spilled in gold and obsidian black, the finer points of his wretchedly lovely face obscured by childe's tears: his fluttery lashes, the high curve of his nose, his teeth-raw cupid's bow, all begging to be kissed. his lungs burn, and he's stupid with want. he can't imagine not having this. it'll kill him.
it's that thought β and zhongli's hand mercilessly twisting his hair, pulling him where he wants him β that locks his throat in a throttling whine. zhongli razes his last stubborn hold-out to ash, and it's beyond unfair that he stays so steady as childe flits through feelings and desperately mortal wants as volatile as the sea, all needy and cock-hungry and uselessly swallowing spit. it's not enough. it'll never be enough when he wants zhongli inside him in every way, fucked on marble or silk jacquard or over a table during tea like the most mindless of whores. he squirms, inhaling on a jittery hitch that shakes his chest and vibrates supple muscle around zhongli's cock, and slides his knees into a wider, more bracing spread.
he touches zhongli where he can, deft but trembly fingers gliding through his crease to rub down his hole and lightly feather his perineum. then it's back up again in a reaching stretch as he lays his palm flat on his abdomen, where every forward thrust into childe's mouth pushes working muscle into an exquisite flex. his fingers line his hip, bruising, keeping zhongli from pulling back.
his head tilts, relaxing his throat for what comes next. come on, coaxed with a firm, permissive squeeze on his hip and childe's watery eyes fixing on zhongli's face. )
[ it doesn't take much longer. no man could last under a siege like this one: the way that childe looks, stark-eyed and wholly pliant, more patient with this than he's ever been with any other thing; the ragged stutter of drunken, wanting sound vibrating around his cock; every touch that seems to race through his veins like a prayer, like childe's asking, pleading to be used -- as if he could take this, and more -
he has grace enough, at least, to ease his grip. his palm curves against childe's nape, a brace more than a shackle, even as his hips cant up, sinking down to the hilt -- and even now there's a faint shock to how much childe can take, the kind of revelation that lashes through his veins like hunger. he comes with barely a gasp, cock working in rough, striping shots, hips rolling until the last bolt of adrenaline unravels into empty static, until even the hot, seething pulse of childe's mouth around him's yielded and gone still.
even in the aftermath, his heartbeat's a tectonic roar in his ears.
his cock's softening; he can feel the reflexive flicker of childe's tongue against skin, an ache on the brink of crystallising. it prickles at the back of his mind like something abstract. his weight barely shifts; his thumb sweeps the blade of childe's unresisting jaw as zhongli considers him, tears studding his lashes and colour scalded across his cheek, savouring the sight before he pulls out at last.
what a gorgeous mess. ]
Well, then.
[ his voice's rust in his teeth. dusk's sifting through the high windows in rays of ash and gold. he's more than a bit dishevelled himself -- hair tumbling loose, shirt trailing open around his chest. his veins thrum with the languor of a good fuck -- and a little more: all the points where they aren't touching, everything he hasn't done drifting in his veins like premonition.
it's barely evening, and he's hardly touched childe yet. ]
( it's over far too quickly, unrolling in hazy flashes like lightning through smoke: zhongli pumping deep, and the velvet-soft yield of childe's throat around his cock, swallowing what he's given. he's too eager, choking as his throat reflexively squeezes around the hot inrush of cock and cum, and pulls back only to spit what he can't take on zhongli's cock, near the cup of his palm where he grips him again, stripped down over him in rough, twisting strokes.
obscene and crude, a messy act meant for a back alley fuck and not here, of all places, a palace lovingly crafted in gold and marble. childe mourns the loss of zhongli's cock as he pulls back, soft and wet from his warm mouth, devastatingly undone. in the following silence, every small sound echoes: childe's choppy breaths, reverberating through the golden house like an exposed pulse.
he eases his knuckled grip between his thighs and lifts his chin to stare up at zhongli. vertigo and a sudden shuddering influx of oxygen cuts him into a wobbly, backwards arch, and he braces a steadying hand on the floor, thighs spread into a sprawling v. )
Not nearly. ( each syllable catches on a throaty rasp, frayed and fucked-out.
instinct kicks in before the rest of his brain, indexing every sensation and visual detail and physical vulnerability with razor-sharp efficiency. his jaw clicks as he closes his mouth, pleasantly sore. the twin crescents bit into zhongli's collar, flushed red, and the silky spill of his gorgeous hair over his shoulders. he can still taste zhongli on his tongue and the back of his throat.
and he's still hard. painfully, miserably hard.
he rolls his weight from his knees to his toes, unwinding toward zhongli as he stands and presses him flush against the pillar. he knots a fistful of his hair, pulling his head back for his mouth and probing tongue, kissing him deep and brief. )
I want you to fuck me. ( hot and wound-up as he is, his demand is more pleading than challenging, breathily sighed over zhongli's mouth. he fits his cock against his hip and ruts once, again, needy. ) Somewhere. Anywhere. I don't care.
[ everything's a rush in the moments after the fact. salt curls over his tongue, thick and clinging; childe's fist clenches in his hair, stinging, and he feels heat seething in his veins, a lash of impossible hunger. still he takes it, and more, fingers cradling childe's nape, breaths running lush and languid, coaxing childe into one shallow kiss after another, heady with relief and urgency, and building, building - ]
Impatient as always ...
[ but there's nothing in the words like a reprimand. his thoughts are slow to surface, adrift in the haze of coming -- so it's sheer base instinct that moves him, weight shifting, shoulders grinding against the wall as he manoeuvres childe against him, leaving just enough space between them to wrap a hand over his cock. ]
What would you have me do to you, I wonder.
[ his breathing's still rough, twisting on the edge of something like laughter, like shuddering. childe's eager, is the thing -- arching, needy, mouth gleaming swollen and fever-bright in the gauzy light. even moments after his own end, heartbeat thundering between his ribs, the effect is devastating. zhongli's grip tightens; he swallows and tastes the mazy leap of adrenaline hot in his throat. it's wanting more than thinking that drags his fist tight -- his palm grinding against the head of childe's cock, feeling the throb of it across his fingertips, slick and obscenely smearing.
but not nearly enough. ]
You can hardly leave in this state. Am I simply to turn you around and fuck you here?
[ his weight shifts against the pillar; his hand goes up, fingertips trailing over childe's lips, coaxing them apart to press two inside, rubbing over his tongue with his gaze all lingering, heavy-lidded gold.
there's no promise in it at all. ]
Bent over with your hands braced against the pillar?
( blistering, impossible heat slicks his shirt to his body as a second skin, but childe β bowed taut into the firm crevices of zhongli's body, hips canting into his fist with all the clawing urgency of a drowning man β can't think long enough to consider taking it off. his head tilts sideways then back, throat arched and flexing as he swallows around zhongli's fingers the same way he'd swallowed his cock. easily. ravenously.
zhongli is a scene of limitless serenity next to childe's writhing, twitching thrusts and choked-down moans. it's a needlepoint realization that forms mid-downstroke on his cock, prickling sharp and acrid in the back of his throat. he's baiting him. he's been baited. briefly, and deliriously, he almost hates him for it. )
Don't β ( fuck with me, tease me, make me promises, wrung out around the fingers in his mouth. he'd let him fuck him here or anywhere, in front of the qixing or his beloved tsaritsa, with the kind of fleeting, graceless desperation that only a mortal mind and body can wield. weakness, he thinks, unpurged and thriving like a living thing inside him.
he drags his mouth off his fingers, teeth scraping his knuckles on release, and twists his hand in his hair, gripped tight at his nape. his other hand moves between them, snaking around zhongli's fingers and tightening his fist into an unrelenting vise for his cock to fuck, just on the edge of painful. )
Anywhere, xiansheng. ( he means it with all the disrespect in the world, but his accent, velvet-thick, hitches through each unfamiliar consonant as he unravels in zhongli's hands, and rips from his lungs in a whine, breathless and petulant. he anchors zhongli's head back for his mouth and teeth to seek his throat, tongue trailing his pulse, then stays there, bent into him, hips working in sharp, unrhythmic jolts. ) I said what I said.
( he smears his face, damp with tears and sweat, across his neck and collar, and fucks his fist until the rough, building pressure breaks his soft gasps into a hiccuping, watery oh fuck. his hips jerk into a shivering stutter as he comes, slick and molten hot between their entwined fingers, good enough that his hand wrenches zhongli's hair painfully before loosening all at once, falling limp over his shoulder.
his mind sinks down, to a blissful quiet. even when he's bonelessly sated and no longer quivering through halfhearted thrusts, he doesn't move, braced with all five fingertips on the pillar above zhongli's shoulder and his mouth latching loosely around his collar, like an afterthought. )
[ it's a mistake. he parses it in the moment that childe's breathing shatters, as his grip snaps tight in zhongli's hair, and the quaking urgency of it strips down through his core. he breathes in; his hand drags over a hip, flexing as childe rides out the last hot, wracking pulses -- and it isn't until later, when the hush's settled over the chamber like a canopy, that he feels the crescents where his nails had dug in hard.
his mouth's gone dry. zhongli swallows against it, tasting iron, throat working as childe shudders and settles. his fingers clench around childe's cock, slick and deliberate, working up through a last, slow drag, fist knotting tight as he pulls off to contain some part of the mess. it seems a futile effort. childe's still pressed up against him, reeking of salt and sex; every exhale drifts between them like nothing but heat. without regard for human limits, he might nearly be taken as a man merely waiting -- catching his breath before he yields to the press of zhongli's fingers trailing down his spine, sinking into him.
it's a nonsense vision -- less than hunger or fantasy. none of it stops the spark that twists hot between his ribs.
his gaze flicks down; he grits back a shiver. if nothing else, this incident alone should be proof enough: time alone's no cure for recklessness or greed.
a touch smoothes over childe's hip as he shifts in place -- less guidance or urgency than the dazed, quiet luxury of feeling him there. in the hush, every mark that he's taken seems to flare awake again -- bruises, bites, every twinge and ache where childe's pressed his feral, desperate mouth. it's another moment or three before his hand drifts up again, two fingers resting against childe's chest like an anchor, as his lips tilt against childe's ear. ]
( childe eases away from zhongli, flushed but far from sated, expression rippling like armored snakeskin to conceal his smoothest, softest edges, as if this is another friendly match lost and he hadn't just begged to be fucked raw and senseless. his invitation lances through him, warm and promising, and electrifies the blood still thumping in his veins. for a second, he hesitates, orbiting between zhongli's magnetic gravity and his still-wounded pride, red and seething. he should say no. he'd gotten carried away.
his lips sweep the sleek curve of zhongli's jaw as he turns his head. )
I was taught never to go home with strange men.
( but it's not a no.
he tucks a loose strand of zhongli's hair behind his ear, then trails his fingertips down his chest to the hem of his open shirt, tracing planes of clenching, touch-sensitive muscle along the way. his throat and collar are a scattered constellation of pink bruises, not yet mottled purple, and marks from childe's unforgiving teeth. childe touches each one with a deliberate brush of his knuckle as he buttons his shirt, pausing when he reaches a deep indent near his clavicle. )
What a mess I've made of you.
( soft but unapologetic, his eyes dewy-wet and shuttered low. there's a name for the feeling that seizes his insides in an icy clench, hard iron twining his ribs and lungs like thorny vines from an untended garden. not regret, or boyish guilt riding the coattails of a thoughtless fuck because childe means everything he says and does, including this. not fear, either. he carved his nightmares out of the rotten marrow of a dark abyss and gave them a new home inside him. he's not afraid of anything anymore.
this is worse.
his next touch is a greedy indulgence, open mouth over his clavicle, tongue curling up the slope of his throat and adam's apple. he ends on his mouth, in a lazy, stroking kiss, and his hand cupping his skull above his nape. )
[ a laugh simmers in his teeth, nothing but intent and heat. in the aftermath, the world seems to turn on an axis of instinct. he takes the kiss, languid and open, sucking at the bruisy, pretty flush of childe's lip, tongue rolling against tongue, chasing every murmur of breath with the kind of slow hunger that allows for nothing but drowning. the taste curls on his tongue, iron and bitter salt -- but the prize's more than worth its price: the spread of childe's body against him, bowed to a single unyielding purpose, the burn of exhausted adrenaline sparking to new life in his veins.
(how long has it been, that a single touch can make him this greedy? but time seems suspended under the curve of childe's hand -- nothing to measure but the mazy scattering of marks across his skin, the wardrum of childe's pulse between his ribs, sharp enough to call any god to war.)
somewhere in the haze, order's restored. a handkerchief's produced out of some pocket or another; his coat's smudged dry, his fingers polished to passable cleanliness. only his gaze holds, eyes lidded, all unyielding golden attention; his palm's curving beneath childe's jacket, bracketing the arch of a hipbone, thumb tracing slow spirals over bare skin, thoroughly possessive and thoroughly possessed. ]
You are capable of worse.
[ it's barely a murmur, smearing hot between their mouths. it doesn't take a glance to pull childe's clothes together -- fingers snagging in his waistband to haul him close, nearly flush, buttoning him up even as his teeth scrape over childe's lip, an easy goad. ]
( it's a deliberate challenge where anyone else would politely recoil and deescalate so as not to feed the flickering spark that spreads to everything like dry rot. but zhongli is a god made mostly human, not bound by pitiful mortal fears, and childe is a rogue wave licking up the shores of a boy, blue-eyed and freckled, all summertime sweetness under an umbrella of black thundercloud. he yields to the solid press of zhongli's body, his hands heavy where they touch him, like it's an inevitability, and chases his own airy laugh into zhongli's soft mouth with a stroke of his tongue.
he could stay here longer, leeching off zhongli's heat. kissing him, slow and exploratory. touching him more, until he's gorged on his skin and tongue and body, until he can taste him in his sleep. )
I'll give you worse when you stop holding back.
( childe steps away, a receding tide of tightly coiled energy. he gives a dismissive twirl of two fingers, and a small wave arcs from the floor, foamy water rolling around the blockade of zhongli's boots, over the edges of the pillar, washing everything left behind away. the polearm still struck in the ground is hauled loose in a single gripping tug, then flipped down, spearpoint gleaming against zhongli's throat.
after a second, he retracts the blade and lifts it again, extended toward zhongli in silent offering. )
Shall we leave before the Millelith come knocking?
[ it's an unexpected grace note -- and if the effect's a little lost in translation with the way his gaze lingers on the wet gleam of childe's mouth, well. he can hardly be blamed for that.
but the polearm was forged of the same substance as all of his weapons: stone, steel, and delicate metallic scrollwork. he reaches out; his thumb trails down the blade of it, as if testing its jaded edge. at once the polearm collapses into a little storm of geo particles, sifting through childe's hands like dust.
by ancient habit, he smoothes back his hair, touches each of his cuffs, then turns to fasten his coat. the long sweep of it disguises any lingering stains. with the last of the clasps fastened into place, he looks nearly intact, polished, as though nothing in the world had ever touched him. ]
Have you had any difficulty with the Millelith recently?
[ his tone's courteous, sedate, as if they'd been discussing the topic all along over dinner in some discreet, gold-lit teahouse. there's no faltering about his steps as he heads towards the latticed doors, drawing them open for his guest. ]
I understand that the Qixing are in the process of evaluating their next steps with regard to the Fatui. The guard should not be acting outside the parameters of their command, except in cases of emergency.
[ such as, for instance, any suspicious activity on the part of their last ranking harbinger stationed in the port.
it's been made transparent that the tsaritsa's left no further decrees to carry out in liyue -- but that doesn't mean that childe wouldn't be inclined to make trouble on his own whim and time. ]
( zhongli erases all the hard work childe spent undoing him in less than a few moments, and the urge to run his fingers through his hair and rumple his clothes beyond repair carves a momentary snag in his long stride before he steps through the door. dusk blossoms on the horizon; shades of gold and red twinkle into a pool of inky darkness, daylight's last dwindling breath. how long had they been in there? he'd lost track of time entirely. )
No more than usual. ( maybe a little more than usual. his unfettered, fresh-faced charisma is understandably far less effective following his stunt with osial, and security has been significantly tightened in places he would've otherwise been mostly welcome. ) While I can't guarantee that they're not spitting at my turned back, they've been cordial enough considering the circumstances.
( if he's using cordial in the loosest definition possible.
he'd half expected to be thrown into the ocean, or barred entry from liyue. that he wasn't was an enormously generous courtesy, more to the tsaritsa than himself, and while his extended stay in liyue hasn't been pleasant since the incident, he'd rather gut himself at the feet of the qixing than admit to any quote-unquote difficulty aloud. in due time, he'll be called back to snezhnaya on orders from the tsaritsa, cut down into little more than a scathing sentence in liyue's future history books. the northern foreigner who fancied himself a god-killer and then failed to kill a god, end of chapter.
childe maintains his pace side-by-side with zhongli, down the many steps past the millelith dutifully holding guard, and tips two fingers to his temple in salute. neither of them look at him, though one of them blinks a little harder than necessary. )
How are you settling into your new role? Or β ( he hums, thoughtful. ) I suppose it's more of a return to an old normal than anything new, isn't it?
[ into the city they go, winding through streets resounding with footsteps and lamps glowing like match-lights. the city murmurs around them -- dusty, chattering, citizens drifting through their ordinary routines, faraway stallkeepers bawling out their mottos like seabirds.
it is, for the moment, the only sound worth hearing. ]
It is as you might expect. The funeral parlour is as selective in its rituals as ever. [ reading between the lines: hu tao's still stewing over her next marketing scheme. ] But there is more than enough to occupy me, even so. The city is remaking itself. You will likely see menus from the teahouses to the taverns shift to more traditional dishes over the next few months. There may even be a queue for loans at Northland Bank -- despite the circumstances.
[ he glances over, sidelong. the lightness of his voice is a habit by now -- learned and kept against his better judgment. he's gathered more than a few such quirks over the months: leaving the parlour at that golden hour of the evening just after the banks close; reserving pieces at mingxing jewellery that might suit a pair of sharp blue eyes; turning back in a crowd at the sound of an unfamiliar accent. in a handful of seasons, childe's worn into him like rain drawing patterns into stone.
perhaps it's better, after all, that he's leaving soon.
they cross the bridge, matched in stride, steering out of the commercial district and into the quiet, lacquered gardens that wreath the residential areas. the sudden hush draws at him; his smile crooks a little, unstintingly thoughtful. ]
But I suppose that I should clarify. Are you curious about my health, or whether I have retained my old strength?
( it isn't exactly a non-answer, but it is a sidestep to a branching direction, deliberately misleading. one of zhongli's many habits, painstakingly learned through walks along the harbor docks or evening dinners on teahouse balconies: he interprets questions how he likes.
childe doesn't call him on it, courteously quiet and attentive as he listens to zhongli speak. )
You felt robust enough to me.
( he slants a short, flickering glance at zhongli's profile, rays of honey-gold light dappling his hair like a burnished crown. childe is an unkempt, partially unbuttoned mess next to zhongli's polished exterior; they make a strange shoulder-to-shoulder pair as they walk the streets of liyue, from the bustling noise of the harbor into a lingering, intimate quiet that's both familiar and unknown.
they move in unison over a footbridge overarching a shallow pond, slats of sealed redwood groaning underfoot, and follow a stonework pathway that winds through a pavilion twined in blooming flowers. childe stops under the shade of the pavilion, snagging zhongli by the wrist. )
I'm poorly versed on the nature of the adepti, admittedly, but I've heard faraway tales of an adeptus' strength. ( mostly in passing, or in dusty books he pored over within his first few days in liyue. he turns into him, pulling his arm diagonal across his chest to force him a step closer. ) Your strength, especially. Are you afraid you'll hurt me?
[ childe's grip startles him -- but quite enough. he turns a little, and leans in a little more, head tilted, eyes bright -- stops with just enough space between them to taste the static of every breath. ]
Contrary to what my recent behaviour might suggest, I do have some self-restraint.
[ the remark's barely touched with rue. live long enough, and anyone learns the practice of selective memory: to keep those experiences that brought something of value, to leave everything else in the dust. but it's difficult to bury the fact that every instinct seems to reorient him, compass-like, in childe's direction -- that he breathes, and feels every mark of their hasty tryst in the golden house stark across his skin, teeth and salt and the ghost of heat where childe's palm had folded against his hip, urging him down his throat.
his fingers tug at childe's collar, drawing it straight to no real effect. it isn't particularly meant to restore any form of order. he knows better than to imagine that it might. at best, it might be a kind of proof: that he's still capable of these ordinary gestures, chaste and unhurried. ]
You, on the other hand, [ light and low, an invitation to a shared joke of sorts - ] seem to have few limits in your appetites. Should I be concerned on your behalf?
( even the pavilion's stretching shade isn't enough to diminish the intensity of zhongli's gaze, as heavy and bright as gold brick. no mortal man or woman could withstand a single look from him without splintering under the weight of it, but childe lifts his chin and holds his stare, steady. )
You wouldn't be the first to be concerned.
( or the last, most likely.
his hand slips down his wrist, skittering across his elbow and bicep until he's shifting into zhongli's space and loosely hooking his arm over his shoulder. it feels as natural as breathing, or wielding a blade with practiced finesse, the rising tide of zhongli's warm body drawing him close. he knows this part, has bruises on his knees now as evidence. it's everything else, all the things deeper than physical, that he can't touch or dissect into bite-sized pieces able to digested and understood as intimately as he understood his cock in his mouth. )
Surely you've heard the rumors by now, xiansheng. ( the honorific rolls off his tongue like he's been saying it all his life, dense like water-logged silk. it's easier to control every unruly syllable when he's not falling apart in zhongli's clenched, slick fist. he tucks his fingers beneath his collar, down the knot of his tie that he tightens snug against his throat, returning the gesture. ) It's why I'm the Tsaritsa's favorite. I'm insatiable.
[ there's nothing familiar about this -- but he knows it all the same. childe presses in, and he sinks back against the pillar, drawing him into shadow with his fingers splaying in a possessive star over the dip of childe's spine. there's a kind of appetite that turns everything it touches into a memory. he feels the burn of it in the snap of childe's breath, the purposeful weight of his hand just at the base of zhongli's throat.
it's been some time since he'd even considered it. the effect's almost dizzying.
his head tips towards childe's; a laugh glints between their mouths like gold. heat's kindling in the pit of his stomach as his hand skims beneath the open cut of childe's jacket where the jut of his hip gleams like an invitation. ]
Rumour has little bearing on my judgment.
[ - which explains the fact that his fingertips are, in fact, fastening the latches of childe's jacket with unseeing rigour, straightening the corner where the cloth hangs crooked, sealing away every centimeter of skin with their bodies suspended mere heartbeats apart and his lips all curving warmth. ]
I believe you can bear to wait a little longer. We are no more than a few minutes away from our destination.
[ as his hand slides down childe's chest, pressing them apart again. ]
( he stitches his jacket back together with crisp, elegant tugs and silver buttons, walling perilous temptation away, and it's such a surprise that childe moves easily when he's guided back, booted steps scuffling over stone. )
Of course.
( somehow, fully buttoned in his jacket, he feels more exposed than when he's outright naked, like ajax the schoolboy writing mantras on a chalkboard for naughty behavior or tartaglia the eleventh knelt in front of the tsaritsa's crystal throne awaiting orders, head bowed in reverence. it's paralyzing. he pops the bottom button on his jacket one-handed, more reflex than a pouty rebuff of zhongli's focused attention, then turns to graciously sweep his arm toward the path ahead. )
Far be it from me to lead you astray a second time.
( his tone is pleasant, paired with a dimpled smile crinkling across the bridge of his nose. it's one of many sincere smiles he's given zhongli in their time together, over a teahouse table or while bartering a merchant for a fairer price on whatever priceless trinket's caught his eye. strange how effortlessly zhongli finesses his possesions from him, time and time again. strange how much he'll miss it, this, him.
they exit the shelter of the pavilion, back on the stone pathway that circles through the entire city. childe pops another button on his jacket as they walk, his vision glowing vividly in the setting sun. )
[ true to his word, the trip doesn't take much longer. the gardens curl to an end; they pass between a pair of star magnolia trees, two shadows adrift in the dusk, and then they're through.
zhongli lives, apparently, at the end of an older block, where the balconies are flush with faded scrollwork and the stairs curve with the studied red gleam of retouched paint. his door opens to a perfectly ordinary set of sprawling, modern quarters: a parlour; a distant study bricked with silk-bound books; two doors standing half-open, inviting. it's the kind of layout that any merchant might rent for a week or two in the city. but in the parlour, there rests more than a few trinkets that childe might recognise from the last few seasons of rampant spending: lacquerware boxes on the mantel, a bamboo palm in a jade-rimmed pot, a glossy black cabinet with designs drawn in gold foil, filigree-winged cranes peering up through a cloud of greenery.
not that childe's getting much of an opportunity to admire the decor. the door clicks shut, and zhongli stops in the narrow foyer, half-turned, mouth curving with a thought that needs no translation. ]
You have my thanks for permitting me to take you so far out of your way.
[ one step, another. he closes the little distance without hurry, pressing childe back against the door. ]
Now - [ with the gentle, bright-eyed irony of a man indulging in a comfortable cliche. ] Where were we?
( it's the kind of quiet elegance that childe has come to expect from zhongli, refined and luxurious without being ostentatious. he feels wrong even setting foot past the door, like he's crossed a threshold to a private world he was never supposed to witness. part of him would have sooner been sloppily fucked over the marble floor in the golden house; he's as out of place in zhongli's airy foyer as he is anywhere else in liyue, a bizarre stranger who doesn't belong.
but then zhongli fills his empty spaces with his warmth, and any sense of lingering strangeness disappears, gone with the ghost of his breath across his mouth. )
You should never interrupt a man when he's deep in study. How am I supposed to remember where I left off?
( his voice curls like smoke between them, past a flicker of his tongue over zhongli's jaw. he unfolds into him, knees bumping knees and arms circling his shoulders, and sets his heel against the door, pushing their linked bodies several steps forward. lesson one, drilled into him at a tenderly impressionable age: never let yourself be cornered, even when you want it. maybe especially when you want it, and he wants it now more than anything.
he loosens zhongli's tie with a squeeze of his fist near his throat, licking down the juncture where his jaw meets his ear. his body hovers close, pressed flush, rippling muscle held back in knots, barely restrained. he bites zhongli's pulse, swallowing around salt and skin and the hot, prickling desire to take his cock into his mouth for a second time. )
I believe I was asking you politely to fuck me, please. Pretty please.
[ it isn't messy, but it's close -- more reckless than he ought to be when it's childe, who knows no limits and no law but his own appetite. the trouble's that the thought comes after -- after they've gone stumbling down the hall, childe's body stretched hot against his, fingers raking through the last few buttons of his jacket as childe's teeth scathe over skin, shuddering all over with laughter and inexorable wanting. ]
Ah -- thank you for your reminder.
[ the interim between the foyer and the bedroom's a jumble of greed and heat. the world flashes by in sensation and ghostly impressions -- the slow charring friction of body against body, the obscene salt curve of childe's mouth under his, kissing him in slow, relentless pulses as they cross the floor in strides. he's half-undone by the time they're at the threshold of his room -- shoes kicked off, jacket rumpled, the tie trailing loose around his throat.
the rest takes no thought at all.
he turns on the carpet and sinks back onto the bed, drawing childe down with him. daylight's fading across the walls, red and gold; in the evening flush of the room, childe looks nothing less than ornamental -- sunlight dazzling through his bright hair, the foxish set of his jaw burning like ivory. like something to be caught, kept, thoroughly possessed.
he sinks back a little, one hand bracing against the bed, thighs tilting apart; his gaze sweeps over childe's face for a moment's consideration before his fingertips snag in the loop of childe's belt, tugging him forward into his lap. reckless, careless -- but none of that feels like a reason to stop now. ]
Would you undress yourself for me?
[ notably, he's got other priorities -- chief among them, sucking a kiss into the soft stretch just beneath childe's jaw. ]
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no subject
there's a part of him that's still watching, measuring, tallying up their damage as an accountant might: every scratch, every rising bruise, flickers of adrenaline brimming in his veins like newly minted gold. they're both more than a little unravelled by now. childe's a vicious fighter, and this was not a body made for war. but viciousness in itself's no more remarkable than a sea-storm: an hour, a moment to shake off its salt and thunder, and it'll be gone, unravelled into little more than a memory.
the fight isn't what's remarkable. it begs the question, then: what is?
strike, lash, deflect. the polearm twists in his hand. they've been locked in the golden house for some time. through the windows, the sky's charring into dusk. the air reeks of damp stone, saltwater, unearthly shadows. faintly, he registers: his lungs are burning. his grip's clenched tight on the shaft. the match's taken longer than he'd expected to allow.
what is he doing here? not the repayment of a debt. not an act of kindness. his accounts with the cryo archon have been settled. even now, stripped of his gnosis and his crowning title, he's an easy match for a snezhnayan boy who hasn't even crossed the threshold of his first century. payment, in childe's case, would be a bottle of wine over dinner; grace would be a spearpoint to his throat. in every sense: this is nothing close to what childe deserves.
his gaze drifts over childe, thoughtful -- lingering on the hard curve of his arms, drawing tight, the ragged hitch in his voice as he sights his mark and fires.
the bow's echo shrills through the pillars, sharp as any breaking tide. the arrow falls in an arc.
zhongli steps backwards, and kicks his polearm upward. jade splits through water. the arrow shimmers, trembling through its descent, and bursts into mist. ]
Grant me a moment.
[ it isn't a request. he's already turned away as the words go ringing across the floor. his fingers are threading through the catches of his coat, stripping them open to set it aside. his back is unguarded, insultingly easy. ]
Have you considered where you'll go once your business in Liyue is concluded?
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it's a remarkably human tell for a centuries-old god who's traded his godhood for something closer to mortality, written into the sweat on his brow like a hairline crack in smooth marble. he wants to remember this: i did that, fabled stories he'll file away for the day his wide-eyed siblings discover the truth and ask him what it was like to fight a dragon. exhilarating. oddly underwhelming. not nearly enough because childe deals in blood, not sweat, and he isn't finished with liyue or this fight or zhongli until he's choking on fumes. until zhongli gives him everything.
he exhales at his question. his fingertips touch his cheek, arrow anchored in place. )
Home, unless my return is intercepted with orders to go elsewhere.
( had he taken the scheduled boat with signora as he was supposed to following the retrieval of rex lapis' gnosis, he would've already been in snezhnaya by now. another well-oiled cog in the tsaritsa's war machine to be slot into place at her mantle and dispatched at her whim, for queen and country. his own pettiness held him back, and instead he stood on the dock on an early misty morning to watch signora depart, two fingers to his brow in a mock salute, a portrait of vengeful self-sabotage.
zhongli gives him his back like they're at tea and childe doesn't have an arrow leveled in his direction. a thoughtless misstep for anyone else, but zhongli is a towering mountain of myth and legend carved from stone and shoveled into a body not meant to harness his divinity. his carelessness is intentional and salt to the wound, ground under his heel into his smarting pride.
childe presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth, lips pursing then thinning into a smile, easy and sweet, deceptively boyish. )
Why are you still here?
( better question. his eyes wander, to the rippling pull of zhongli's shoulders under a neatly pressed shirt, dark hair curling at his nape. sentimentality binds him to liyue, maybe, but there's none of that here in the golden house. his arms quiver where he holds his draw, taut angle bowing left by a degree.
moment's up. his fingers tilt off the bowstring in a clean release, arrow twirling toward zhongli's side with the intent to graze, not injure. a warning shot. )
no subject
It would be a disservice to the teahouse, and to you, if I invited you to dine when your mind is elsewhere.
[ precisely half an answer to a question taken at face value: a funeral consultant's, not an archon's, delivered with the clarity of a man who's doing anything but fighting for his life. he might have presented it out of habit -- but that's a troublesome excuse in itself: the idea that childe's tangled enough into his routines to deserve his own accommodations or compromises.
he weighs the thought, then sets it aside. there'll be time for it later; for now, there are more interesting subjects to raise with a solipsist. ]
It has occasionally occurred to me to wonder that you use the bow at all.
[ it's the same tone that he's used a dozen times over -- in degui's tavern on a gold-struck afternoon, light glossing the sea like silk, voices murmuring around them in idling tides, when the idea of war in all its forms had seemed like nothing more than history and theory. a scholar's voice, mild and philosophical. but there seems to be no difference in the sling of his shoulders as zhongli turns. ]
Close-quarters combat seems more likely to suit you.
[ meters away, sunk into the cracking floor, the polearm trembles and comes hurtling through the air. it snaps into his hand, ringing like crystal struck out of a geode. he doesn't spare it a glance; all of his gold-eyed focus's pinned on the archer still halfway across the floor. ]
Shall we try it?
no subject
the bow came last, under the tutelage of a skilled but unsympathetic fatui archer who slapped his elbow and spine with the shaft of an arrow to correct his form. don't lift your chin, keep your head straight, the arrow needs to be parallel with the ground, ajax. )
Practice. ( he yields to zhongli's request without argument, bow shattering into a fine mist as he summons two knives in its stead. ) I only learned the bow after my conscription into Her Majesty's ranks.
( zhongli's serpentine stare β sharp and golden, glinting brighter than the flickering lamplight in the golden house β is oppressive, even at a distance. childe doesn't want him to look away. he circles the platform in an arc, spinning his blades around his wrists, and follows his polearm's speeding bolt into his hand, enough force there to snap a bone in half.
better. warmer. hotter. closer to what he wants. )
My father used to tell me stories about you, ( he says, idly. his father used to tell him stories about a lot of things. ) Your legendary prowess in battle. The many gods you felled. You were a main figurehead in at least one of my nightmares as a child. I always wondered what you'd be like in person.
( he stops mid-step and turns to face zhongli fully. his lashes dip low as his eyes leisurely track the length of zhongli's body, from feet to head, and linger on his throat, blistering and unhurried. he touches his tongue to his bottom lip, lifting his chin to meet his gaze. )
I thought you'd be taller. ( he extends his knife, beckoning him with forward with the slight tilt of his wrist. ) By all means, xiansheng. Your move.
no subject
You are too kind.
[ it isn't, after all, as if he doesn't know childe's reputation. from a fatui agent, it'd be a warning. from childe, it feels nearly like a grace note: the invitation of a man who'd look upon the throne of a god and only think to drown it.
the underlying demand's unmistakable, too -- but that's less of interest. childe'll have as strong a response as he can bear. all things in balance.
a stele shocks out of the floor, gold pulsing through the shadows like an open, molten vein. the house groans with the resonance, marble jittering like bone. he doesn't spare a moment for the echoes to settle. in a heartbeat, zhongli's lunging towards him, shields thrumming and his spear twisting up towards childe's throat as the distance between them empties out -
- to pin his collar to the stele.
close quarters, as promised -- and it's only fair. neither of them's taken it seriously so far. ]
no subject
childe's back hits the stele. )
Ah, xiansheng. ( the surprised o of his mouth cracks into laughter, breathless, almost chiding. his stance shifts wider. ) You're too kind.
( all that power rolling over him like a summer storm, stopped at the steel-end of his polearm. so gracious. mercy tastes sour. he eases his shoulders flat to the stele and lifts his hand to trail a fingertip down the underside of the polarm's shaft, palm squeezing near the spear, closest to his collar.
he grips firmly then tugs, testing zhongli's hold and hitching the spear higher. )
Come a little closer.
no subject
still, he goes. his steps click along the floor, carving into childe's space with the faultlessness of absolute possession. everything's gone terribly still; the silence sways between his ribs like a cut chain -- only echoes where once he might have felt the resonance of the land in soil and iron and stone.
strange, after all these centuries, to have come at last to a loose end -- to have drawn himself to a hollow room at the very edge of his former territory, with nothing to anchor him but the weapon in his hand and a would-be assassin turned -
ah. the pieces flick together like the screens of a shadow-play. there's a word for what he's doing, after all. ]
I have made my move. [ mildly. ] Yours, I believe, follows next.
[ the rest's the work of a moment. his shields shiver, splinter, and go spilling away, gold flaking out to dust. the stele thrums once, a molten warning -- but he isn't sparing childe the opportunity to consider it. his grip skims down the polearm, holding its pride of place. with the other, he reaches out to catch childe's empty hand, drawing it up to his chest. his gaze holds with the steadiness of a blade, waiting. ]
I would suggest aiming here.
no subject
he catches in the v of his waistcoat, holding there. )
Here? ( a hollow echo, emphasized with another light pull on his polearm. zhongli's grip is as cemented as fossilized crystal, so he leans into him β and his polearm's gleaming spearpoint β instead. here is the ivory birdcage of his ribs, where a mortal heart beats. here isn't what he wants anymore.
then what else? he could end this, pull a blade and force zhongli back or wipe through the arena on an electrical current in a last stand kamikaze, except he can't. except he doesn't want to. except zhongli's stare eviscerates him more than the tsaritsa's delusion, and childe wants to prostrate at his feet, submit to his altar and beg for judgment, with a sudden and savage ferocity that vents all the air from his lungs en masse.
well, fuck.
his hand drifts his chest, tip-toeing across his collar and laying flat to necklace his throat with his fingers. he doesn't squeeze, just finds his pulse with his thumb and digs in firmly. it's a marvel how zhonghli's heart beats so steadily when childe's flutters so riotously, proof of his fragile humanity pitted against centuries of zhongli's unfading immortality. it was never a fair fight. )
What about here?
( closer, again, because childe is rolling forward on his toes, pushing into the polearm to the point of sharp discomfort. )
no subject
[ but the words come after the fact. the ring of childe's hands barely parses next to the wildfire radiance of his attention, all stark eyes and bladed intent, a knife casting about for a soft place to sink in. reckless -- but for the fact that the stele's an unfaltering pillar behind his back, and it's the polearm that yields as childe surges upward, blade tilting away from the stretch of his bare throat.
childe has a hunter's sense of vicious opportunity. he must know by now: he couldn't fall here if he tried.
which isn't to say that he's guaranteed a victory. zhongli wrenches, wrist flexing; the polearm twists, carving down, forcing childe to bow his head or strain to look up. the cloth's straining at its seams -- it won't last, but the moment that it buys is enough. a hand's flattening against the stele, caging childe in as zhongli presses into his roping grip. he breathes in, and feels a knuckle dig against the flex of his throat like the very last knot in a noose.
his pulse sharpens, one beat quicker. close, but still not close enough. ]
Are you always so careless with yourself?
no subject
This is nothing.
( one reckless decision against a lifetime of carving himself open to see what's inside, currently spurred by the soft give in zhongli's throat. he's not even bleeding yet.
zhongli's pulse jumps β just the once and barely, but childe's thumb is a glaring spotlight in the dark, hooking between tendons and seeking it out. the hand on his polearm presses down from the top as he tilts his head back in hiccuping increments, slowed by his collar tucked tight around his nape. zhongli's spear splits into tightly wound threading, fabric giving way for bare skin.
he glides his hand from his throat to his hair, curling at the base of his skull, and anchors him in, to either follow through with the spear at his collar or yield again. his throat jumps as he swallows on a ragged inhale. )
I get so much worse.
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it would have been a simpler match, then. through the seasons, something's shifted. childe's fingers curl, and for a moment, all he can parse's the tilt of childe's body towards him, his eyes all fever-bright blue, everything lost between them but the echo of adrenaline and body heat.
his grip clenches against the wood. behind him, the stele thrums with one last pulse, and evaporates. the spear snaps into the floor; the pillars quake with its echo. in an instant, his arm's looping along the curve of childe's spine, pulling him flush to keep him from tipping backwards. ]
I seem to have misunderstood the purpose of the match.
[ as if he weren't speaking with childe's hand still curved against his throat. the spearpoint's struck by their feet, a gaunt and edgeless glittering at the edge of his vision. all this time, and still neither of them's drawn blood.
deliberately, he leans into childe's space, chasing the ragged curl of his breath.
he's played games with higher stakes, but none so urgent as this. ]
Were you seeking my blood or my attention?
no subject
zhongli's molten stare slices through him cleaner than any knife. he feels thoroughly, uncomfortably seen. childe turns his hand at zhongli's nape, fisting where his hair is neatly tied and twisting; glossy black gleams like silk around his knuckles. )
Both.
( that must be obvious by now, or childe would've had a dagger in his jugular the second he brought his throat close enough to strike. every missed opportunity was shrewdly calculated.
he slides a leg forward, burrowed in the clutch of zhongli's thighs, and meets him with a full, hip-to-hip press of their bodies. his next exhale steams his mouth, tongue darting to touch the swell of zhongli's bottom lip and then hook under his top lip, kittenish and beckoning. it's a wire snapping, uncoiling all at once, as the hand in his hair pulls at his scalp and slants his head back, teeth snapping near his mouth.
he feels like a wolf who has a lion by the throat, halfheartedly struggling to maintain their deadlock as he waits for his inevitable end. he wants zhongli's teeth in him. he wants more, and fucking more, and his tongue in the wet slack of his mouth, until he's full to bursting. )
Do I have your attention, then?
no subject
but barely's not quite the deterrent that it should be when childe's still caught flush against him. this close, everything resounds -- the shiver where his teeth had nearly caught skin, his heartbeat rolling like thunder between them, intent prickling through his frame like static. it's magnetic; it's obscene. he's craning close heartbeats after childe splits away to speak -- and the rest feels like no more than instinct. his weight shifts forward. his fingertips splay across the bow of childe's spine, tightening as he hooks a knuckle beneath childe's jaw and drags their mouths together.
it isn't a kind kiss. he's measured, steady on his feet; but this is a rhythm that his body knows, a pull inexorable as the tide. impossible not to sink into it -- to chase the spark of that last question into the open flame of childe's mouth. to give him everything that he's been asking for.
his eyes lid; his head cants as he nips at the edge of childe's lip, sharp and unforgiving, tongue laving over the ragged little scrape with the kind of urgency that's coaxing, lavish, and just short of bruising.
to anyone else, it'd be a warning. ]
You may - [ with the faintest hitch between kisses to betray him - ] have as much of my attention as you can bear.
no subject
All of it. ( mindlessly, because the airy hitch in zhongli's voice rips through him like shrapnel, and he wants to say more but words are impossible when he's this close. i want you on top of me. i want to suck on your fucking tongue. i want to lick your cock like it's a decadence, drink you down like malt liquor and greedily lap up whatever i leave behind so no one else can. he's thought about this as often as he's thought about loosing an arrow in zhongli's unguarded face: too often, too much. ) All of you. I was built for this.
( shredded open at his seams and hollowed out by a hungry abyss then pieced together again in jagged edges, a volatile wild card for the tsaritsa's arsenal. this β gripping zhongli's hair with a quivering but firm hand, rubbing on him chest-to-hip, mouth bitten red, whorish, filthy β wasn't written into his training. he's a fallible weapon. he's a landmine on a fault line. he's as likely to swallow zhonghli whole as he is to crack open his own ribs and present him with his heart, just because, just to feel something.
he anchors zhongli by the nape and herds him back, to the edge of the arena into a pillar, and glides against him again. his knee slots into his thigh, angling it out so he can straddle his leg and roll his hips flush. touching zhonghli so boldly is an obscenity that won't be forgiven by any god, no matter how sweetly he prays. add it to the list.
his hand wraps around his tie, pulling at the knot and popping the first button on his collar. he licks into his mouth, as scorching hot as the rest of him, and follows with a siren's call scrape of his teeth on his tongue. )
no subject
they move together. the axis of the world shudders beneath their racing steps. his back's struck stone by the time it settles, and the rest seems to snap together in a lockstep sequence: his fist grinding into the arch of childe's spine, fingers raking beneath the cloth to splay over his hip, tightening as their bodies rock together in pulses of friction. every point where they're touching feels incandescent; his veins are roaring with the rhythm of a wardrum.
i was built for this. the words of a goad, a sacrifice. what god could ever resist them?
his tie unravels; the folds of his shirt ease apart. if he'd had any doubts, they evaporate in the instant that childe's grip knuckles tight in his hair. their mouths split apart as he guides childe's hand down the buttons of his shirt, kisses ringing in slick and filthy echoes across the stone pillars -- but that's only for an instant. each kiss sinks deeper than the last -- lavish and obscene, tongue sliding thick and indulgent over tongue, relentless enough to drown.
he knows better. he has been an archon, and the guardian of an inverted land; his name was set for centuries like a binding seal on every contract. he's too old by far to take any human being at his word.
but nothing in him was ever made for doubt or hesitation. an offering's been set before him; the arch of childe's body against his feels like all the assurance that he needs. ]
... You have had mere minutes of my time, and you look more than ready to come apart where you stand.
[ it's a lilting sort of murmur, husky where it smears along the flushed edge of childe's mouth. a hand's already skimming over the line of his waist, flicking the gemstone gleaming from his belt, rubbing down along the inseam of his trousers like he isn't thinking at all. ]
Forgive me if I set a slower pace. At least until you've proven yourself.
no subject
You're too greedy.
( curved into zhongli's body, looking up at him through the dark veil of his eyelashes, he's halfway to coy. he slides his hands along his shoulders, tracing the hollow divot above his collarbones, then skims his fingertips down his chest, light and skipping. zhongli looks almost mortal, from the red bite of his mouth to his hair fanning his face. for a second, childe can't think, teetering a thin line between dangerously practiced and boyishly awestruck.
a hand firmly presses between his thighs; childe furls against him quicker than a viper strike, hips canting and fingers locking at zhongli's wrist to hold him there. stupid. he knows this game. )
Wasn't I already good for you? ( he matches zhongli's throaty murmur with something sweeter and plying, mouth hovering close. his teeth scrape his bottom lip, licking once, and drop to his exposed throat to close on his pulse, digging in hard. the temptation to ride his fucking hand is overwhelming, and he breaks to it slightly, hips jerking forward in rough pitches as he rubs into him.
he's already done so much for him, masterfully puppeteered from the shadows while liyue and a roiling ocean served as the unfortunate backdrop. it doesn't seem fair.
he tilts his head and tracks his lips over the curve of his jaw, releasing his wrist to pluck at zhongli's belt and hook his thumb into his fly. his mouth finds his ear, rolling a soft lobe over his tongue and teeth. )
Didn't you get everything you wanted?
no subject
but it's difficult to object to any of it when childe's all over him, heavy-eyed and intent, hips rolling up with the slightest promise of friction, the taste of his mouth as heady as wine. his head cants to a side as childe's lips part against his skin, if only for a moment; a breath drags in his throat, husky, nearly distracted. ]
You, more than anyone else, should understand that there is never an end to wanting.
[ it isn't a comfortable position for anything, but the arch of childe's hips is an excellent incentive. his fingers drag over cloth; his palm turns up, grinding up a little more firmly, working into a rough, slow rhythm as childe pulls his belt apart. it's a poor choice of location; but they're alone, and unlikely to be interrupted, and the ache in childe's voice resounds through the vastness like a storm.
zhongli turns his head. a hand cups his cheek with a steadiness that's less kind than absolute, thumb rubbing the wet red curve of childe's lip with something a little startled, a little testing -- measuring the limits of what childe will permit. ]
Besides -- [ with a corroded flicker of irony - ] this is hardly a battle.
[ what it is won't be worth considering for another hour. zhongli sinks back against the pillar. his hand abandons the curve of childe's cock thickening under cloth, trailing upward; his hip tilts a little as his fingers hook in the loop of childe's belt, pulling him forward, just enough to let childe grind against his thigh.
they're steps away from a battlefield. there are certain practical limitations to what they can manage. if he wants anything, he'll have to work for it. ]
no subject
Isn't it? ( his head rolls back, throat bared and lips parting around a peek of his tongue between his teeth, like a willing lamb for the slaughter or a carnivorous trap lying in wait for its next meal. ) I think your understanding of fucking needs a little refresher β respectfully, xiansheng.
( considerably more difficult to sound convincingly haughty while coiled so firmly in zhongli's arms, flushing rosy pink down to his collar, than it would be from a safer, less distracting distance. zhongli's steady control licks like flame to gasoline straight to his nerves, setting him on a knife's point. he'll rut on his thigh like a touch-starved, feral whore easily, with no semblance of shame or regret, but zhongli isn't a lost-at-sea sailor coaxed by childe to a rocky crag death, consumed by unyielding waves: he is the crag, twice as unforgiving, twice as unyielding.
childe's never worried about drowning until now.
this foreign, slithering feeling doesn't slow his hand from twining zhongli's hair again, or his tongue from flickering his thumb, teeth catching his knuckle to draw him into his mouth, suckling wetly. he angles his full weight into him, notching his cock against his thigh in slow, leisurely rolls, leaving enough space for his hand to pop the clasp on his trousers and readily delve inside.
his fingers ripple around his cock, teasing, then close and squeeze, twisting a loose fist once. he arches onto his thigh, thumb planted in his mouth, a picture of lascivious indecency, but his eyes stay riveted to zhongli's face, intently searching for inclusions in the stone. )
no subject
it begs the question: if he likes it this much, this easily, if a rough kiss and a knee between his thighs can bring childe down to this sort of haze --
how ruined will he look in a few hours' time?
his lips part; a word shivers in his teeth like a little quake. his fingers scrape over a hip, hauling childe forward through the last few critical centimeters to grind into the stirring twitch of his cock under cloth. they haven't found a rhythm, not yet -- and in the moment, it doesn't matter. childe's fingers curl around him and his breath twists in his teeth, a tangle of pleasure and the beginnings of urgency. ]
Surely you don't expect to be fucked in here.
[ his voice's gravelled, curious. a thumb skims a slick line along childe's jaw -- less for any practical purpose than for the sheer gleaming effect of it, taking every opportunity that he can to leave a mark. their mouths tilt together, but stop just short; his finger hooks in the line of childe's belt, nail scraping bare skin as his weight shifts, pressing into the uneasy friction like it's all he means to offer. ]
Moments ago, you were complaining that I was too greedy.
[ - with his eyes lidded, his mouth tipped just close enough to brush childe's, as each syllable comes drifting out between slow, deepening kisses. ]
Set a better example.
no subject
I've done worse for less.
( he leans away from him, shedding his jacket with a fluid shrug and shake of his arms, then returns his hand to zhongli's trousers and grips his cock again, for emphasis. zhongli is here now, solid and molten between childe's squeezing fingers, and the idea of relocating to somewhere more ideal or appropriate feels like an impossibility, like torture. not when he's giving him so much already, uncut crystal caving to muscle and flesh, everything he can kiss and touch and fuck and make flush with his teeth and tongue and wandering hands. vulnerabilities, cleanly culled from zhongli's body to be hoarded in childe's hungry mouth.
it's ridiculous. it's naΓ―ve. he's twenty-one and starved.
his focus sharpens, narrowing on the spit-slick gleam of zhongli's mouth. i did that, too. he meets every lingering kiss with a coaxing slide of his tongue, head tilted and throat arched to force zhongli into a leaning stretch over him. )
Or ( β as he parts for air, lips brushing zhongli's chin β ) would you consider this a desecration of a sacred space? ( his hand on his cock. his mouth on his cock. childe on his hands and knees, prostrated in filthy irreverence instead of worship. all of it, maybe. this is where they kept rex lapis' hollowed vessel. ) You'll have to forgive me. I'm not intimately familiar with your customs, but I'd like to learn.
( it could be the gravest, most damning blasphemy for all childe knows, but his apology carries no hint of self-reproach. he's still testing for soft give in zhongli's boundaries, places where the glass cracks on top of a bottomless chasm and he hits a point of no return β deliberate ruination, invited in on a single shattering swing of his fist.
he licks his palm to ease the rough slide of his hand over zhongli's cock, nails scraping his navel on his way back down, and shifts into a wetter and tighter rhythm. )
Is it offensive to fuck a foreigner over the floor of the Golden House?
5000 years later, jfc
the trouble's this: that childe runs hot, mouth and pulse and wanton viciousness. that his hand's steady, relentless, and the slick jolt of his grip dragging tight rolls through zhongli's spine like a wave. that he's a god with no obligations left to keep -- no debts, no duties, nothing to hold him but the insolent curl of childe's voice in the air and the static-salt taste of his mouth. stone might have resisted the onslaught; but he is less than stone, and his veins are already thrumming with the instinct to move, to taste, to claim. zhongli breathes out; his shoulders roll back, shirt rasping stone as his hips tilt into the urgent slide of childe's fist, slight and slow. ]
I see that you have your preferences as to which it should be.
[ the words are nearly dry, but for the current churning beneath every syllable.
but it isn't difficult to work out what suits childe. a hand twines into his hair, and knuckles tight -- and zhongli's pulling him back in to kiss him again without a flicker of force to spare, holding him fast just to see if he'll draw back. the rhythm's beginning to catch, like sparks seething from flint -- his cock's already curving up into childe's fingers, thickening with every stroke, and each pulse flushes through him like a drowning breath.
centuries ago, there'd been a common joke among the soldiers: in war, the only sin is indecision. he's lingered for long enough, hasn't he?
so he's precise in his touch: it's a moment's work to roll open the coil of childe's belt, working the folds of his trousers apart, skimming a curving hand beneath the cloth, palm grinding into the arch of his cock with the fervour of a man thinking of nothing else. his breath's gone shallow, quickening, and his eyes are hooded, heavy gold as his grip tightens, lingering on the greedy, invulnerable curl of childe's mouth. ]
Is an act of desecration always required to get you to come?
i will wait forever for filth
there's no bottoming out as zhongli's hand fists his hair, or his mouth descends on his mouth, swallowing his wispy laugh. zhongli pours over him unabated, a lit match to oil spreading flame, and childe is only allowed a brief moment to feel insufferably smug before he has bare skin on his cock, hot and deliciously soft for a man who has spent so many of his centuries waging divine wars.
it's good, better than even his most sordid fantasies. better than blood in his mouth. better than zhongli's spear to his throat. )
Not at all, ( is his answer, hissed through his teeth and punctuated on a breathy fuck and imploring jerk of his hips. ) But it certainly doesn't hurt.
( all youthful enthusiasm untainted by time as he rocks into the hollow of zhongli's palm, wholly unfettered. he spreads a hand across his nape, clenching his shirt by the collar and wresting down to strip zhongli half-naked against him so he can get his mouth on his clavicle; his tongue lays flat, teeth raking bone. zhongli unravels so prettily, hard in childe's stroking hand, and he commits the cadence of his breathing to memory, one breath for every slick squeeze around his flushed cockhead.
like this, stripped of his gnosis and all its accompanying celestial grace, fucking into childe's snug fist, he's a painted forgery of a human being. it's a dangerous indulgence he can't resist. he bites his collar, licking into the angry grooves he leaves behind, then drags his hand from his trousers and folds neatly to zhongli's feet. )
I think you'll find ( β a pull on his trousers, fabric rucking along the spread of his thighs; childe's hand fixes back on his cock, gentler now β ) that I'm excessively flexible in many ways.
( his voice is soft, pliant intimacy slivered into shards and ghosted on a breath near zhongli's cock. old habits die hard: he's still a knife's edge threat even here, bloomy pink and yielding on his knees. he pumps his hand loosely, tongue winding a hot path up the underside of his cock, over his own curled knuckle. )
no subject
childe drops to his knees, and the next minute unfolds like a staged sequence, a rhythm carved into his marrows. he isn't thinking. he doesn't have to think. his palm grinds into childe's shoulder; his head tips forward, gaze all stark and riveted gold as childe gets to work like he'd been made for it, mouth all flushed and smearing on bare skin. he makes a sound -- feels it in his lungs like a spark, startled, guttural. the rest's slipping out of his head. he's seen childe in battle, storm-edged and wild -- seen him surfacing after a long day from the grimy work of a fatui. none of it compares to the vision that he makes on his knees, half-undone with his trousers rucked loose around his hips, fist working and his mouth all slick and yielding -- a sight like flint grinding into flint, the kind of heat that consumes what it makes, and demands more, more, more. ]
Eager to serve -- I see.
[ the rumble curls in his throat as childe's tongue trails over a vein, an inflection just short of groaning. his whole frame's gone still, staving off the terrible human reflex to pull him down the rest of the way.
but that would hardly suit the balance of things. ]
Can you manage?
[ there's a different question beneath the words. he's watching with gold-struck, molten attention; his hand's skimming upward, thumbing the set of childe's jaw, coaxing it to a better angle as the head of his cock smears over his lip -- a measured touch, nearly careful, like a man smudging the line of a boundary.
he'd said as much, after all: childe can have as much as he can bear. ]
no subject
it's not a challenge he'd refuse on his worst day, let alone now, pleasantly drunk on the naked flush of zhongli's body and the salty-sharp taste of him. his eyes lid heavily, staring at zhongli through a shrouded sliver in his lashes. he shifts on his knees, thighs pressed in a tight clench, and lifts himself closer; his jaw drops as he eases zhongli's cock past the soft ring of his spit-damp mouth, into a waiting, gripping heat.
he could take him all the way β easily, he thinks, swallowing around a mouthful of spit and cock. but he stops halfway, mostly to savor the way he stretches him full, lips split wide to fit him comfortably, and a little because he's strung taut as a bone ready to fracture in half.
there's no hiding anymore. he feels every twitch and tremor, every low rumble vibrating through him like rolling thunder of an oncoming storm. it hits him harder than vertigo, and for a brief and fleeting second he's almost satisfied, it's almost enough, it's almost everything he's ever wanted. he'll suck his dick until he comes and lick every inch of him clean and he won't pathetically beg for more until he has nothing left but zhongli's name scorching his undeserving mouth like a holy prayer to the godless because this, a quick fuck in the golden house, is almost good enough.
almost.
his free hand strokes from zhongli's flexing thigh toward his hip and flank, and circles his wrist, guiding him into his hair to pull him down and fuck his mouth off or on at his leisure. it's a flash of a warning before he moves, descending in pulsing, bobbing sucks on his cock. his top lip drags over a blunt head tortuously slow, and down again, briefly loosening his mouth and slicking his cock in a dribble of saliva, worked in wet strokes around every part of him he doesn't touch with his tongue. )
no subject
he has, perhaps, underestimated childe. it isn't entirely an unpleasant thought.
but it's a heartbeat or two before he takes advantage of the moment. in the hush, there's more than enough to savour -- the sounds drifting out through the marbled stillness, sloppy, obscene, as childe sinks onto his cock; the plush, slick friction of his tongue; the wet and greedy pulse of his mouth suckling at the head of his cock, fist working down in ruthless strokes. heat throbs in the pit of his stomach; zhongli breathes out, and it's nearly a shudder. ]
You have had -- some practice in these matters, I see.
[ it's equal parts dryness and the kind of praise that doesn't bear saying out loud -- not yet. his fingers drag through childe's hair, drawing him up until his mouth's opening up for zhongli's cock again. he eases into it with a measured rhythm that might nearly pass for gentleness -- steady as he guides childe down, down, bracing him until he can feel muscle clench around the throb of his cock, airless little flickers that stop just short of spasming.
he makes a sound, nearly guttural. gold snarls through his lidded eyes; the stone walls grumble around them like thunder. his grip knots tight, holding childe in place. ]
Your mouth is remarkable.
[ he sinks in again -- and once more after that, for good measure. it feels like a rhythm that he could carry for hours, fucking childe's mouth until he's nearly drunk on the yielding pressure of it, the bow of his lips, all flushed and gorgeously obscene.
but he's taken it more than well so far. it begs another question. ]
May I?
[ as his fingers trail down through the roots of childe's hair, tightening at the base of his skull, tilting his head up to just the right angle. the next push's just a little rougher, testing. ]
this is the first time i've ever posted this tag, on god.
the slow drag of zhongli's cock over his tongue, hand wrenched in his hair to keep him steady, feels like a filthy blessing, even as he pulls him flush and his throat flexes into a spasm. may i, he says, ever the mindful gentleman, as if childe wouldn't dismantle himself piece-by-piece at his feet, if he only asked. yes, please, fuck, you may, in the submissive arch of his neck, muscles contracting around his next thrust.
his hand scrabbles higher on his wrist and grips his forearm; it's a position that forces his spine into a mild curve, allows zhongli unyielding dominion over his body and mouth. zhongli's face swims into full view, all heavy-lashed gold glinting like the sea during sunrise, viciously captivating. a gut-punch, right to his cock.
focus. his fist unwinds from its squeezing clench on zhongli's cock, then coils between his thighs as his knees tic open and he grips himself through his trousers, too hard to stave off a cresting heat. he exhales through his nose on every deep slide, eyes watering, blinked away a second later to line his lashes like glittering tinsel. he can't think beyond the stretch of zhongli's cock down his throat, and that's fine, again, more.
he doesn't dare move off him, or test zhongli's knotted fist in his hair. when he's pulled deep, nose to pelvic bone, he drops his jaw wide and extends his tongue, curving under the softened seam of his balls, throat tightening. blunt nails scratch zhongli's hip as he releases his forearm and slides a rough palm under his ass, lifting him away from the pillar, encouraging, fucking do it. )
just wait, it's gonna happen to me in like 5 tags.
that's the worse option of the two -- that he's clear-headed for the moment where his fingers draw down through childe's hair, thumb rubbing along the roots, guiding his head to just the right angle to fuck into his throat.
a sound hitches in his teeth -- a name, a curse. but he moves through the moment, pulse after roughening pulse, and whatever slight resistance'd flickered in his veins melts away.
it'd be the prudent choice to start slowly -- but sensation's blotting out every thought in his head. there's childe's fingers branding-hot on his hip; breaths quaking in his ribs like fever, the buzz of his heartbeat racing beneath the skin as his hips jut forward, cock sinking once and again into the soft and unrelenting pressure. his grip's tightening -- but that's an abstract regret. it's all he can do to keep himself this slow -- fucking childe's mouth in drawn-out strokes, tugging at his hair just to feel if he can coax out a sound. ]
I should have put you on your knees -- weeks ago. It is a pity to have wasted your skill all this time.
[ his voice's nearly even -- the same forged-steady tone that he's used to discuss calligraphy, lacquerware, the pearl-round petals in the terrace exhibition that liuli pavilion held in spring. a tone for admiring every lovely thing in the world -- and now childe, too: on his knees with his clothes rucked open, his hand between his legs, lips parted, filthy red, to sheath zhongli's cock. ]
Tilt your head up -- [ ah. a murmur, appreciative, on the brink of shuddering. ] A little more. You're doing so well.
[ every breath's steady -- but the words are stretched taut over tongue and teeth, each syllable pinned into place by his blade-sharp control. he'd meant to last longer -- but it's impossible to tear his gaze from childe: light glittering hot at the corners of his lidded eyes, half-lost, greedy, and not nearly ruined enough.
heat's coiling in the pit of his stomach; he shifts on his heels, and keeps the pace steady. just a little more -- just a little closer. ]
Bear with me for - [ ah. ] a little longer.
the curse of chronic previewers
his mouth is an extended weapon, as practiced on his knees as he is behind a shimmering blade. but this is different, hotter, personal for reasons he doesn't want to consider while zhongli fucks his throat and tells him, courteously, how good he is, like he wouldn't cut his gnosis from his chest in a single heartbeat if he still had it, duty before honor. zhongli talks filth the same way he'd taught him how to use chopsticks, measured and endlessly patient, and every word hits its fatal mark. childe grinds his palm into his cock before he clenches tight again, a prickling throb to ground him.
he watches zhongli until he's a shifting watercolor spilled in gold and obsidian black, the finer points of his wretchedly lovely face obscured by childe's tears: his fluttery lashes, the high curve of his nose, his teeth-raw cupid's bow, all begging to be kissed. his lungs burn, and he's stupid with want. he can't imagine not having this. it'll kill him.
it's that thought β and zhongli's hand mercilessly twisting his hair, pulling him where he wants him β that locks his throat in a throttling whine. zhongli razes his last stubborn hold-out to ash, and it's beyond unfair that he stays so steady as childe flits through feelings and desperately mortal wants as volatile as the sea, all needy and cock-hungry and uselessly swallowing spit. it's not enough. it'll never be enough when he wants zhongli inside him in every way, fucked on marble or silk jacquard or over a table during tea like the most mindless of whores. he squirms, inhaling on a jittery hitch that shakes his chest and vibrates supple muscle around zhongli's cock, and slides his knees into a wider, more bracing spread.
he touches zhongli where he can, deft but trembly fingers gliding through his crease to rub down his hole and lightly feather his perineum. then it's back up again in a reaching stretch as he lays his palm flat on his abdomen, where every forward thrust into childe's mouth pushes working muscle into an exquisite flex. his fingers line his hip, bruising, keeping zhongli from pulling back.
his head tilts, relaxing his throat for what comes next. come on, coaxed with a firm, permissive squeeze on his hip and childe's watery eyes fixing on zhongli's face. )
no subject
he has grace enough, at least, to ease his grip. his palm curves against childe's nape, a brace more than a shackle, even as his hips cant up, sinking down to the hilt -- and even now there's a faint shock to how much childe can take, the kind of revelation that lashes through his veins like hunger. he comes with barely a gasp, cock working in rough, striping shots, hips rolling until the last bolt of adrenaline unravels into empty static, until even the hot, seething pulse of childe's mouth around him's yielded and gone still.
even in the aftermath, his heartbeat's a tectonic roar in his ears.
his cock's softening; he can feel the reflexive flicker of childe's tongue against skin, an ache on the brink of crystallising. it prickles at the back of his mind like something abstract. his weight barely shifts; his thumb sweeps the blade of childe's unresisting jaw as zhongli considers him, tears studding his lashes and colour scalded across his cheek, savouring the sight before he pulls out at last.
what a gorgeous mess. ]
Well, then.
[ his voice's rust in his teeth. dusk's sifting through the high windows in rays of ash and gold. he's more than a bit dishevelled himself -- hair tumbling loose, shirt trailing open around his chest. his veins thrum with the languor of a good fuck -- and a little more: all the points where they aren't touching, everything he hasn't done drifting in his veins like premonition.
it's barely evening, and he's hardly touched childe yet. ]
Was that sacrilege enough?
no subject
obscene and crude, a messy act meant for a back alley fuck and not here, of all places, a palace lovingly crafted in gold and marble. childe mourns the loss of zhongli's cock as he pulls back, soft and wet from his warm mouth, devastatingly undone. in the following silence, every small sound echoes: childe's choppy breaths, reverberating through the golden house like an exposed pulse.
he eases his knuckled grip between his thighs and lifts his chin to stare up at zhongli. vertigo and a sudden shuddering influx of oxygen cuts him into a wobbly, backwards arch, and he braces a steadying hand on the floor, thighs spread into a sprawling v. )
Not nearly. ( each syllable catches on a throaty rasp, frayed and fucked-out.
instinct kicks in before the rest of his brain, indexing every sensation and visual detail and physical vulnerability with razor-sharp efficiency. his jaw clicks as he closes his mouth, pleasantly sore. the twin crescents bit into zhongli's collar, flushed red, and the silky spill of his gorgeous hair over his shoulders. he can still taste zhongli on his tongue and the back of his throat.
and he's still hard. painfully, miserably hard.
he rolls his weight from his knees to his toes, unwinding toward zhongli as he stands and presses him flush against the pillar. he knots a fistful of his hair, pulling his head back for his mouth and probing tongue, kissing him deep and brief. )
I want you to fuck me. ( hot and wound-up as he is, his demand is more pleading than challenging, breathily sighed over zhongli's mouth. he fits his cock against his hip and ruts once, again, needy. ) Somewhere. Anywhere. I don't care.
no subject
Impatient as always ...
[ but there's nothing in the words like a reprimand. his thoughts are slow to surface, adrift in the haze of coming -- so it's sheer base instinct that moves him, weight shifting, shoulders grinding against the wall as he manoeuvres childe against him, leaving just enough space between them to wrap a hand over his cock. ]
What would you have me do to you, I wonder.
[ his breathing's still rough, twisting on the edge of something like laughter, like shuddering. childe's eager, is the thing -- arching, needy, mouth gleaming swollen and fever-bright in the gauzy light. even moments after his own end, heartbeat thundering between his ribs, the effect is devastating. zhongli's grip tightens; he swallows and tastes the mazy leap of adrenaline hot in his throat. it's wanting more than thinking that drags his fist tight -- his palm grinding against the head of childe's cock, feeling the throb of it across his fingertips, slick and obscenely smearing.
but not nearly enough. ]
You can hardly leave in this state. Am I simply to turn you around and fuck you here?
[ his weight shifts against the pillar; his hand goes up, fingertips trailing over childe's lips, coaxing them apart to press two inside, rubbing over his tongue with his gaze all lingering, heavy-lidded gold.
there's no promise in it at all. ]
Bent over with your hands braced against the pillar?
no subject
zhongli is a scene of limitless serenity next to childe's writhing, twitching thrusts and choked-down moans. it's a needlepoint realization that forms mid-downstroke on his cock, prickling sharp and acrid in the back of his throat. he's baiting him. he's been baited. briefly, and deliriously, he almost hates him for it. )
Don't β ( fuck with me, tease me, make me promises, wrung out around the fingers in his mouth. he'd let him fuck him here or anywhere, in front of the qixing or his beloved tsaritsa, with the kind of fleeting, graceless desperation that only a mortal mind and body can wield. weakness, he thinks, unpurged and thriving like a living thing inside him.
he drags his mouth off his fingers, teeth scraping his knuckles on release, and twists his hand in his hair, gripped tight at his nape. his other hand moves between them, snaking around zhongli's fingers and tightening his fist into an unrelenting vise for his cock to fuck, just on the edge of painful. )
Anywhere, xiansheng. ( he means it with all the disrespect in the world, but his accent, velvet-thick, hitches through each unfamiliar consonant as he unravels in zhongli's hands, and rips from his lungs in a whine, breathless and petulant. he anchors zhongli's head back for his mouth and teeth to seek his throat, tongue trailing his pulse, then stays there, bent into him, hips working in sharp, unrhythmic jolts. ) I said what I said.
( he smears his face, damp with tears and sweat, across his neck and collar, and fucks his fist until the rough, building pressure breaks his soft gasps into a hiccuping, watery oh fuck. his hips jerk into a shivering stutter as he comes, slick and molten hot between their entwined fingers, good enough that his hand wrenches zhongli's hair painfully before loosening all at once, falling limp over his shoulder.
his mind sinks down, to a blissful quiet. even when he's bonelessly sated and no longer quivering through halfhearted thrusts, he doesn't move, braced with all five fingertips on the pillar above zhongli's shoulder and his mouth latching loosely around his collar, like an afterthought. )
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his mouth's gone dry. zhongli swallows against it, tasting iron, throat working as childe shudders and settles. his fingers clench around childe's cock, slick and deliberate, working up through a last, slow drag, fist knotting tight as he pulls off to contain some part of the mess. it seems a futile effort. childe's still pressed up against him, reeking of salt and sex; every exhale drifts between them like nothing but heat. without regard for human limits, he might nearly be taken as a man merely waiting -- catching his breath before he yields to the press of zhongli's fingers trailing down his spine, sinking into him.
it's a nonsense vision -- less than hunger or fantasy. none of it stops the spark that twists hot between his ribs.
his gaze flicks down; he grits back a shiver. if nothing else, this incident alone should be proof enough: time alone's no cure for recklessness or greed.
a touch smoothes over childe's hip as he shifts in place -- less guidance or urgency than the dazed, quiet luxury of feeling him there. in the hush, every mark that he's taken seems to flare awake again -- bruises, bites, every twinge and ache where childe's pressed his feral, desperate mouth. it's another moment or three before his hand drifts up again, two fingers resting against childe's chest like an anchor, as his lips tilt against childe's ear. ]
Come back with me.
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his lips sweep the sleek curve of zhongli's jaw as he turns his head. )
I was taught never to go home with strange men.
( but it's not a no.
he tucks a loose strand of zhongli's hair behind his ear, then trails his fingertips down his chest to the hem of his open shirt, tracing planes of clenching, touch-sensitive muscle along the way. his throat and collar are a scattered constellation of pink bruises, not yet mottled purple, and marks from childe's unforgiving teeth. childe touches each one with a deliberate brush of his knuckle as he buttons his shirt, pausing when he reaches a deep indent near his clavicle. )
What a mess I've made of you.
( soft but unapologetic, his eyes dewy-wet and shuttered low. there's a name for the feeling that seizes his insides in an icy clench, hard iron twining his ribs and lungs like thorny vines from an untended garden. not regret, or boyish guilt riding the coattails of a thoughtless fuck because childe means everything he says and does, including this. not fear, either. he carved his nightmares out of the rotten marrow of a dark abyss and gave them a new home inside him. he's not afraid of anything anymore.
this is worse.
his next touch is a greedy indulgence, open mouth over his clavicle, tongue curling up the slope of his throat and adam's apple. he ends on his mouth, in a lazy, stroking kiss, and his hand cupping his skull above his nape. )
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(how long has it been, that a single touch can make him this greedy? but time seems suspended under the curve of childe's hand -- nothing to measure but the mazy scattering of marks across his skin, the wardrum of childe's pulse between his ribs, sharp enough to call any god to war.)
somewhere in the haze, order's restored. a handkerchief's produced out of some pocket or another; his coat's smudged dry, his fingers polished to passable cleanliness. only his gaze holds, eyes lidded, all unyielding golden attention; his palm's curving beneath childe's jacket, bracketing the arch of a hipbone, thumb tracing slow spirals over bare skin, thoroughly possessive and thoroughly possessed. ]
You are capable of worse.
[ it's barely a murmur, smearing hot between their mouths. it doesn't take a glance to pull childe's clothes together -- fingers snagging in his waistband to haul him close, nearly flush, buttoning him up even as his teeth scrape over childe's lip, an easy goad. ]
And I confess -- I am curious to see you try.
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he could stay here longer, leeching off zhongli's heat. kissing him, slow and exploratory. touching him more, until he's gorged on his skin and tongue and body, until he can taste him in his sleep. )
I'll give you worse when you stop holding back.
( childe steps away, a receding tide of tightly coiled energy. he gives a dismissive twirl of two fingers, and a small wave arcs from the floor, foamy water rolling around the blockade of zhongli's boots, over the edges of the pillar, washing everything left behind away. the polearm still struck in the ground is hauled loose in a single gripping tug, then flipped down, spearpoint gleaming against zhongli's throat.
after a second, he retracts the blade and lifts it again, extended toward zhongli in silent offering. )
Shall we leave before the Millelith come knocking?
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but the polearm was forged of the same substance as all of his weapons: stone, steel, and delicate metallic scrollwork. he reaches out; his thumb trails down the blade of it, as if testing its jaded edge. at once the polearm collapses into a little storm of geo particles, sifting through childe's hands like dust.
by ancient habit, he smoothes back his hair, touches each of his cuffs, then turns to fasten his coat. the long sweep of it disguises any lingering stains. with the last of the clasps fastened into place, he looks nearly intact, polished, as though nothing in the world had ever touched him. ]
Have you had any difficulty with the Millelith recently?
[ his tone's courteous, sedate, as if they'd been discussing the topic all along over dinner in some discreet, gold-lit teahouse. there's no faltering about his steps as he heads towards the latticed doors, drawing them open for his guest. ]
I understand that the Qixing are in the process of evaluating their next steps with regard to the Fatui. The guard should not be acting outside the parameters of their command, except in cases of emergency.
[ such as, for instance, any suspicious activity on the part of their last ranking harbinger stationed in the port.
it's been made transparent that the tsaritsa's left no further decrees to carry out in liyue -- but that doesn't mean that childe wouldn't be inclined to make trouble on his own whim and time. ]
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No more than usual. ( maybe a little more than usual. his unfettered, fresh-faced charisma is understandably far less effective following his stunt with osial, and security has been significantly tightened in places he would've otherwise been mostly welcome. ) While I can't guarantee that they're not spitting at my turned back, they've been cordial enough considering the circumstances.
( if he's using cordial in the loosest definition possible.
he'd half expected to be thrown into the ocean, or barred entry from liyue. that he wasn't was an enormously generous courtesy, more to the tsaritsa than himself, and while his extended stay in liyue hasn't been pleasant since the incident, he'd rather gut himself at the feet of the qixing than admit to any quote-unquote difficulty aloud. in due time, he'll be called back to snezhnaya on orders from the tsaritsa, cut down into little more than a scathing sentence in liyue's future history books. the northern foreigner who fancied himself a god-killer and then failed to kill a god, end of chapter.
childe maintains his pace side-by-side with zhongli, down the many steps past the millelith dutifully holding guard, and tips two fingers to his temple in salute. neither of them look at him, though one of them blinks a little harder than necessary. )
How are you settling into your new role? Or β ( he hums, thoughtful. ) I suppose it's more of a return to an old normal than anything new, isn't it?
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it is, for the moment, the only sound worth hearing. ]
It is as you might expect. The funeral parlour is as selective in its rituals as ever. [ reading between the lines: hu tao's still stewing over her next marketing scheme. ] But there is more than enough to occupy me, even so. The city is remaking itself. You will likely see menus from the teahouses to the taverns shift to more traditional dishes over the next few months. There may even be a queue for loans at Northland Bank -- despite the circumstances.
[ he glances over, sidelong. the lightness of his voice is a habit by now -- learned and kept against his better judgment. he's gathered more than a few such quirks over the months: leaving the parlour at that golden hour of the evening just after the banks close; reserving pieces at mingxing jewellery that might suit a pair of sharp blue eyes; turning back in a crowd at the sound of an unfamiliar accent. in a handful of seasons, childe's worn into him like rain drawing patterns into stone.
perhaps it's better, after all, that he's leaving soon.
they cross the bridge, matched in stride, steering out of the commercial district and into the quiet, lacquered gardens that wreath the residential areas. the sudden hush draws at him; his smile crooks a little, unstintingly thoughtful. ]
But I suppose that I should clarify. Are you curious about my health, or whether I have retained my old strength?
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childe doesn't call him on it, courteously quiet and attentive as he listens to zhongli speak. )
You felt robust enough to me.
( he slants a short, flickering glance at zhongli's profile, rays of honey-gold light dappling his hair like a burnished crown. childe is an unkempt, partially unbuttoned mess next to zhongli's polished exterior; they make a strange shoulder-to-shoulder pair as they walk the streets of liyue, from the bustling noise of the harbor into a lingering, intimate quiet that's both familiar and unknown.
they move in unison over a footbridge overarching a shallow pond, slats of sealed redwood groaning underfoot, and follow a stonework pathway that winds through a pavilion twined in blooming flowers. childe stops under the shade of the pavilion, snagging zhongli by the wrist. )
I'm poorly versed on the nature of the adepti, admittedly, but I've heard faraway tales of an adeptus' strength. ( mostly in passing, or in dusty books he pored over within his first few days in liyue. he turns into him, pulling his arm diagonal across his chest to force him a step closer. ) Your strength, especially. Are you afraid you'll hurt me?
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Contrary to what my recent behaviour might suggest, I do have some self-restraint.
[ the remark's barely touched with rue. live long enough, and anyone learns the practice of selective memory: to keep those experiences that brought something of value, to leave everything else in the dust. but it's difficult to bury the fact that every instinct seems to reorient him, compass-like, in childe's direction -- that he breathes, and feels every mark of their hasty tryst in the golden house stark across his skin, teeth and salt and the ghost of heat where childe's palm had folded against his hip, urging him down his throat.
his fingers tug at childe's collar, drawing it straight to no real effect. it isn't particularly meant to restore any form of order. he knows better than to imagine that it might. at best, it might be a kind of proof: that he's still capable of these ordinary gestures, chaste and unhurried. ]
You, on the other hand, [ light and low, an invitation to a shared joke of sorts - ] seem to have few limits in your appetites. Should I be concerned on your behalf?
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You wouldn't be the first to be concerned.
( or the last, most likely.
his hand slips down his wrist, skittering across his elbow and bicep until he's shifting into zhongli's space and loosely hooking his arm over his shoulder. it feels as natural as breathing, or wielding a blade with practiced finesse, the rising tide of zhongli's warm body drawing him close. he knows this part, has bruises on his knees now as evidence. it's everything else, all the things deeper than physical, that he can't touch or dissect into bite-sized pieces able to digested and understood as intimately as he understood his cock in his mouth. )
Surely you've heard the rumors by now, xiansheng. ( the honorific rolls off his tongue like he's been saying it all his life, dense like water-logged silk. it's easier to control every unruly syllable when he's not falling apart in zhongli's clenched, slick fist. he tucks his fingers beneath his collar, down the knot of his tie that he tightens snug against his throat, returning the gesture. ) It's why I'm the Tsaritsa's favorite. I'm insatiable.
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it's been some time since he'd even considered it. the effect's almost dizzying.
his head tips towards childe's; a laugh glints between their mouths like gold. heat's kindling in the pit of his stomach as his hand skims beneath the open cut of childe's jacket where the jut of his hip gleams like an invitation. ]
Rumour has little bearing on my judgment.
[ - which explains the fact that his fingertips are, in fact, fastening the latches of childe's jacket with unseeing rigour, straightening the corner where the cloth hangs crooked, sealing away every centimeter of skin with their bodies suspended mere heartbeats apart and his lips all curving warmth. ]
I believe you can bear to wait a little longer. We are no more than a few minutes away from our destination.
[ as his hand slides down childe's chest, pressing them apart again. ]
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Of course.
( somehow, fully buttoned in his jacket, he feels more exposed than when he's outright naked, like ajax the schoolboy writing mantras on a chalkboard for naughty behavior or tartaglia the eleventh knelt in front of the tsaritsa's crystal throne awaiting orders, head bowed in reverence. it's paralyzing. he pops the bottom button on his jacket one-handed, more reflex than a pouty rebuff of zhongli's focused attention, then turns to graciously sweep his arm toward the path ahead. )
Far be it from me to lead you astray a second time.
( his tone is pleasant, paired with a dimpled smile crinkling across the bridge of his nose. it's one of many sincere smiles he's given zhongli in their time together, over a teahouse table or while bartering a merchant for a fairer price on whatever priceless trinket's caught his eye. strange how effortlessly zhongli finesses his possesions from him, time and time again. strange how much he'll miss it, this, him.
they exit the shelter of the pavilion, back on the stone pathway that circles through the entire city. childe pops another button on his jacket as they walk, his vision glowing vividly in the setting sun. )
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zhongli lives, apparently, at the end of an older block, where the balconies are flush with faded scrollwork and the stairs curve with the studied red gleam of retouched paint. his door opens to a perfectly ordinary set of sprawling, modern quarters: a parlour; a distant study bricked with silk-bound books; two doors standing half-open, inviting. it's the kind of layout that any merchant might rent for a week or two in the city. but in the parlour, there rests more than a few trinkets that childe might recognise from the last few seasons of rampant spending: lacquerware boxes on the mantel, a bamboo palm in a jade-rimmed pot, a glossy black cabinet with designs drawn in gold foil, filigree-winged cranes peering up through a cloud of greenery.
not that childe's getting much of an opportunity to admire the decor. the door clicks shut, and zhongli stops in the narrow foyer, half-turned, mouth curving with a thought that needs no translation. ]
You have my thanks for permitting me to take you so far out of your way.
[ one step, another. he closes the little distance without hurry, pressing childe back against the door. ]
Now - [ with the gentle, bright-eyed irony of a man indulging in a comfortable cliche. ] Where were we?
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but then zhongli fills his empty spaces with his warmth, and any sense of lingering strangeness disappears, gone with the ghost of his breath across his mouth. )
You should never interrupt a man when he's deep in study. How am I supposed to remember where I left off?
( his voice curls like smoke between them, past a flicker of his tongue over zhongli's jaw. he unfolds into him, knees bumping knees and arms circling his shoulders, and sets his heel against the door, pushing their linked bodies several steps forward. lesson one, drilled into him at a tenderly impressionable age: never let yourself be cornered, even when you want it. maybe especially when you want it, and he wants it now more than anything.
he loosens zhongli's tie with a squeeze of his fist near his throat, licking down the juncture where his jaw meets his ear. his body hovers close, pressed flush, rippling muscle held back in knots, barely restrained. he bites zhongli's pulse, swallowing around salt and skin and the hot, prickling desire to take his cock into his mouth for a second time. )
I believe I was asking you politely to fuck me, please. Pretty please.
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Ah -- thank you for your reminder.
[ the interim between the foyer and the bedroom's a jumble of greed and heat. the world flashes by in sensation and ghostly impressions -- the slow charring friction of body against body, the obscene salt curve of childe's mouth under his, kissing him in slow, relentless pulses as they cross the floor in strides. he's half-undone by the time they're at the threshold of his room -- shoes kicked off, jacket rumpled, the tie trailing loose around his throat.
the rest takes no thought at all.
he turns on the carpet and sinks back onto the bed, drawing childe down with him. daylight's fading across the walls, red and gold; in the evening flush of the room, childe looks nothing less than ornamental -- sunlight dazzling through his bright hair, the foxish set of his jaw burning like ivory. like something to be caught, kept, thoroughly possessed.
he sinks back a little, one hand bracing against the bed, thighs tilting apart; his gaze sweeps over childe's face for a moment's consideration before his fingertips snag in the loop of childe's belt, tugging him forward into his lap. reckless, careless -- but none of that feels like a reason to stop now. ]
Would you undress yourself for me?
[ notably, he's got other priorities -- chief among them, sucking a kiss into the soft stretch just beneath childe's jaw. ]