( 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. )
no subject
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. )