[ 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. ]
no subject
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.