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This impetuous boy, thinks Zhongli for, probably, the millionth time.
An exhaustive thought. There is no amount of getting used to it when it comes to this rapscallion.
(“You will,” said The Tsaritsa to him the first time that he complained. “Get used to him, I mean. Everyone else has, and I think that it is fair to say the rest of the Harbingers have far shorter fuses than you.” She’d said it like he’s one himself, which no, no, he’d never be. Zhongli might be on loan to her through thinly veiled blackmail called a contract, but he draws a hard line at being a lapdog. Training them was a compromise that still allowed him some autonomy in this place. This boy, though… this boy is testing his patience—)
“So, are you just going to keep standing there, or are you going to come at me again?”
Zhongli sighs, counts to three, and feels six-thousand years of well-honed restraint erode within a second.
“Patience,” he snaps. His voice is sharp and most would rear back, wary.
The Harbinger known as Tartaglia just smirks wider, that twisted crook of his lips subtle but childish. Oh, to be so young. Zhongli claims to not remember, but he does. Unfortunately. And, truthfully, he wasn’t much different than this boy, which makes dealing with it all the worse.
“Bold words for a man about to vibrate out of his skin. Come on, Mr. Zhongli, I know you’re dying to get your hands on me again.”
So, that was a mistake.
(It was not. Childe is a grown man, youthfulness aside, and Zhongli is not made of stone, despite what the rumors might whisper. And it was worth it , even with the aftermath of dealing with…this. The teasing, the strange flip-flop of his chest, the lingering feelings and dreams. Zhongli is more sentimental than Morax is, and he blames his old age.)
“I did not tell you my name for you to use it so formally.”
Childe’s expression turns smug. “I suppose not. You certainly prefer me crying it out—”
Zhongli moves so quickly that it can barely be seen. He shoves his hand against Childe’s mouth and hisses, “Quiet, boy.”
“Everyone knows.” Childe nuzzles his palm, tilting his face just so. Another tease, another subtle movement that makes heat curl in Zhongli’s belly. “Even if you haven’t said anything, even if you’ve tried to keep it quiet, everyone knows.”
Of course, they do. You can’t hide a damn thing in this place, especially when you’re a glorified prisoner. He expected a harsh tongue-lashing from the Tsaritsa for fucking Childe. More than once. Enough times to be a concern. Instead, she laughed at Zhongli, and said that Childe was his problem now. If only he’d listened.
Childe’s hands fly up and curl around Zhongli’s wrist. His grip is strong. He twists, pulling, trying to throw Zhongli to the ground. Zhongli rolls with him, tilting away at the very last second to narrowly avoid outright tumbling to the ground. He catches Childe’s side with his fist, a sharp hit that will definitely leave a bruise.
“You missed,” teases Zhongli.
“Nah,” replies Childe, whirling around, staggering back a few steps from his reach. “I just went with it. You acted exactly as I wanted.”
“I hit you.”
“Which makes me feel alive. My blood is pumping, now—but where it goes depends on you.” Childe winks.
Oh, this boy. “You rascal. You soft, impetuous child—”
“I definitely prefer you calling me other things.”
Childe is trying to rile him up. This is always how it goes, he picks and pulls at him until Zhongli snaps—only the last time it wound up with Zhongli railing him into the training floor.
And then the showers, later. And then—
Zhongli drags a hand down his face, irritation roiling in his veins. This is why he doesn’t do things like this. He’s attracted to Childe, has been since day one, but to have that interest returned is… Childe is an eager thing in bed but a brat to be tamed, which is a challenge that Zhongli has found immense pleasure in taking on.
Childe becomes an eager thing under his touch, wanton and desperate to please. But here, now, he’s still in that fighting mood, determined to annoy Zhongli to the ends of Teyvat. Childe cracks his knuckles. Still wears that damnable crooked smirk.
“Come on,” he taunts. “Is that all you have?”
Zhongli flies, they meet in the middle, and tussle. Childe is slippery in his grip, a little too thin, a little too slight to get a good grip on. Zhongli’s hands slide down his sides, trying and failing to latch on. Childe’s dressed down today, lacking his usual straps and belts that make for an easy target. No, he wears—
“Are those my trousers?” Zhongli is close enough to recognize them now. Childe wears his own cotton shirt, but those are definitely his trousers, judging by the tight tailoring.
“You should keep a better watch on your stuff if you’re going to invite me back to your rooms.”
For Celestia’s sake.
“Did you take anything else?”
Childe’s shit-eating grin answers for him. “Maybe you should come for a visit and find out. I’d let you pick through my things if it means—”
“I swear to the Archons—”
“How bold to swear to yourself.”
Zhongli growls— growls— and that is not something he is in the habit of doing. No, no, he enjoys keeping a cool head and a refined presence. He is above these fools, these Harbingers of the Snezhnaya court.
(Except for, apparently, red-headed rapscallions, determined to wear him down to the bone.)
There is no patience when it comes to Childe. All those years of experience, of practiced politicking, goes right out the window the moment they are within sight of each other. The others are not like this. The others also ignore him for the most part, minus Il Capitano, but Childe seeks him out with admirable persistence.
“I’m retired,” is Zhongli’s terse reply. He’d given up his gnosis freely, but then was strong-armed to come her under threat of something worse.
(“There’s nothing to lose,” said the Tsaritsa all those decades ago. “You might as well live out your old age having fun.” Being underneath her thumb isn’t fun. Zhongli hadn’t had fun until—)
He should not be thinking things like that. Childe is a wily, wild thing chasing a high. Has no idea that Zhongli is tired, that he wants to properly settle down, that he’s wheedled and pulled at her Royal Pain in His Ass to just let him go.
(She did agree, actually; spun a pretty tale of his loyal servitude and told him they could end his contact. Zhongli got cold feet. Blames it on the idea that the Tsaritsa never truly frees anyone from her grasp, not because he enjoys the attention of a specific uncouth youth instead.)
“Retired.” Childe snorts. “Yeah, I can tell. When are you going to take our sparring seriously, you old lizard?”
Zhongli’s blood heats to a simmer. At least it isn’t boiling. At least he has a modicum of control, as threadbare as it is.
He moves, quick as lightning, lashing out at Childe. Childe narrowly dodges, shouting out with glee. He twists. Zhongli grabs him, hands skirting down the meat of Childe’s rib cage. Fingers dig in, catching, holding him there with adeptal strength.
Childe stops dead, letting that touch linger, letting Zhongli’s fingers sink in, stay. “I’ve missed your hands around my waist.” His grin is cocksure, and gods, Zhongli wants to wipe it right off his smug face.
“Such tart words,” he mutters. “Such a smart mouth. I should put you into your place.”
There’s a tense pause. Childe’s expression widens, and oh, Zhongli knows that look. “Put me in my place,” he repeats. “Are you saying that you took this bout?”
“I let you win.” He did not. Zhongli is about to retort when Childe’s hand drops, his knuckles brushing against the front of Zhongli’s trousers. “With you like this?” he continues, those words low and sultry.
“Ajax.”
That does something to the both of them, using that name. Zhongli reserves it for very specific purposes, the type that are not appropriate for the very public training grounds. Still, when Childe drops to his knees, Zhongli doesn’t stop him. When Childe leans forward and presses his face to the swell of his aching erection, Zhongli’s hand falls against the back of his head to keep him there.
“Here?” he hisses, looking down at him.
“You can stop me. I’m not about to force you into it.”
And Zhongli knows that he won’t. Childe might be pushy, but he’s gentlemanly enough when it counts. If Zhongli calls it off, he’ll heel and save it for a rainy day. But, but—
Childe knows him. He gives him that crooked grin as he looks up at him through thick eyelashes. Tilts his face and mouths at the bulge of Zhongli’s cock, teeth digging into the fabric of his trousers.
Zhongli wants; he wants with a visceral need, and not because he’s in the mood for taking. It’s because he needs. Childe is a soft, eager thing when swallowing his cock, and Zhongli goes to bed thinking about it a little too much. That syrupy warmth simmers in his veins. That makes him feel alive. Sparring, yes, but Childe’s teasing nature, the way that he goads him, challenges him—
The way that he gives him attention. It isn’t just these early morning fight sessions, it’s the lunches they share, those late-night teas, and how they walk through the corridors together, shoulders knocking. Childe’s friendship is quiet, in a way, quaint until they find themselves here. The rush of fighting makes him bold—but Zhongli eats it up, savors it on his tongue like the finest osmanthus wine.
“I thought so,” says Childe right before pawing at Zhongli’s trousers. “Everyone thinks you’re wound so tightly, so prim and proper, but when it comes down to it, you’re just like any other man.”
He doesn’t want to be. Zhongli doesn’t want to be just any other man, he wants to lay claim to Childe, to be the only person he thinks about, to be his—
Those are his instincts speaking. Zhongli does his best to curb them, but it’s damn near impossible when Childe’s pulling his trousers open, when his hand slips inside to wrap around his cock, yanking it free. The air is cold. Childe’s hand is cold too, his lips a frozen kiss against the head of Zhongli’s cock.
Short and sweet. Gives it a stroke, slow enough that Zhongli leans into it. Childe smiles against his length, his expression sordid and knowing. “Did you mean it? What you said about putting me in my place? Tell me, Mr. Zhongli, what would you do to my smart mouth?
Zhongli has to spread his legs to keep his trousers around his thighs. He cups Childe’s face, tracing the line of his cheek with his thumb. “Such a menace,” he says. The leather of his glove catches against Childe’s bottom lip as he drags over it. “I was supposed to train you to behave.”
The air shifts. Childe hums against the heated skin of his cock and says, “I behave for you. You know that. Come on, Xiansheng, tell me what you want.”
What a title. What a thing to call him. Most say it with polite gratitude, but Childe—Childe’s mouth curls around that word; treats it like it’s wine to taste, like it’s an expensive delicacy. Those long eyelashes of his flutter against his cheeks as he blinks. He still holds Zhongli’s cock, still strokes it, his mouth close enough to wash warmth against the tip.
Zhongli grasps his chin firmly, tilting it towards where he wants it. “For you to put that mouth of yours to good use.”
Childe’s grin is wide, crooked, and he wastes no time wrapping his lips around Zhongli’s cock and swallowing it down to the root. He looks obscene like this, mouth stretched wide, choking on the girth of him as the tip lodges itself in the backside of his throat.
So hot and tight—but then that tightness is gone as Childe pulls back to catch his breath. His tongue darts out to drag across the underside of Zhongli’s cock. He moans, pulling the head into his mouth, suckling at the sensitive frenulum.
Zhongli combs through his hair, taking in the sight of him. “That’s it, pet. Just like that.” He guides Childe, holding his face there as he gives a short, testing thrust.
Childe welcomes it, relishes in it, even. He bobs his head, drawing Zhongli’s cock deep, tongue pressed against the underside. He swallows, his mouth tightening until his throat is a vice grip, and Celestia, that’s almost too much. Zhongli pulls at his hair, trying to still him, guide him in what he wants.
A mistake. Childe pulls off and laughs. “Close already? Where’re those thousands of years of practice?”
Gods, the tease of it. Zhongli thinks that no man could withstand that wicked mouth of his. “Gone,” he replies, honestly. “When it comes to you, everything crumbles away, doesn’t it?”
Childe’s expression turns, softens. He hums softly and this time, takes Zhongli’s cock into his mouth, it’s gentler, more of a tease. He strokes the rest with his hand, squeezing at the base. He sinks down and down and down, until he’s gagging.
The pressure is choking. Pleasure spreads through Zhongli’s being, lighting his nerves on fire. His cock is going to melt away in Childe’s mouth, he’s going to be done in entirely by the clever pull of that tongue, and the way that his throat vibrates with every moan.
Spit bubbles at the corners of Childe’s lips until it’s dripping down his chin. He paws at his own trousers, grinding a heel against the bulge trapped against their front. Archons. A ridiculous curse considering that he’s retired, but Zhongli can barely think, let alone string together a proper curse.
He can’t breathe. Everything is tilted, off-balance as he tries and fails not to shove his cock deeper into Childe’s mouth. Gods, it feels good, but it’s Childe’s face, his fucked out expression as he chokes on his length, that nearly drives him to the end.
This is why Zhongli can’t say no, this is why he wants to lay a claim on this boy so badly. Childe is eager to please. He doesn’t just swallow his cock down and do his best, he wants to draw out that pleasure, he wants to bring Zhongli to the end of all ends.
He’s so handsome. The smell of his arousal is potent, sharp in the air. Childe is not like this with the others, only Zhongli, and oh, he’s a possessive man. For all his restraint, so easily can it crumble. So easily can he find himself wanton and needy.
“Ajax,” he mutters, watching his flushed, sweaty face. “Ajax, let me—” He can’t even form a proper request. He’s too hot, too worn-thin, hanging on by a thread. His cock twitches and swells on Childe’s tongue, dragging a long, drawn-out moan from his chest. “Please,” hisses Zhongli, rolling his hips, delighting in how easily Childe relaxes against him, how deep his cock slides.
The sound of it is filthy, the wet squelch obscenely loud in the otherwise quiet space. Time is running out. It’s early enough that others won’t come, but with every moment that ticks by, the chance of getting caught rises higher and higher.
Oh, but Childe would love that. He’d wear Zhongli’s cock in his mouth like a badge of honor; he’d bathe in his come if it meant the others seeing that claim.
Zhongli tries not to think about that, tries not to imagine his thick spend soiling Childe’s freckled face. That would be perfect. Childe’s pert little tongue would dart out, lapping at what he could. He’d scoop away the rest, pulling it into his mouth for a taste, to swallow everything down like the good boy that he is.
A soft groan—from Zhongli. Another thrust of his hips, this one sharper, lacking rhythm. Childe’s hands flies to his thighs, fingers digging into his flesh to brace himself. A tap of his fingers. Another tap, tap, tap, and then pulling at Zhongli’s thighs in conjunction with Childe bobbing his head.
Right, right. Zhongli gets the message. Wordless as he is, Childe’s wishes are clear. Just fuck my mouth, those teary eyes beg.
Zhongli cups his face between his hands, holding it just so. He pulls out until just the tip of his dick is left resting on the tip of Childe’s tongue. Then the thrusts, hard, deep into his throat.
Childe jerks, sputtering around him at the sudden intrusion. He moans pitifully, needily, his arousal as clear as day. It leaks from his pores, spicy, syrupy, like the sap that leaks from the evergreen trees here in Snezhnaya.
Gods, his mouth. Spit-slick, wet with saliva. Childe swallows him and takes it like he was born for this, like it’s all he’s ever known. Nails dig into Zhongli’s thighs, Childe clawing at him as he just holds on, taking each rut of his hips with flared nostrils, and the sort of determination that damns mortal men. A hand slips down, around, resting against the apple of Childe’s throat to feel himself there, the bulge of his dick, settled past Childe’s jaw.
“Perfect,” he murmurs. “So perfect for me, darling boy.”
Zhongli feels himself eroding away, cracking apart. The skin of his forearms is charcoal now, glittering with gold. Geo swirls around the room as his being melts under the pressure of his pleasure mounting. “Ajax,” he says again, cradling his face as if he’s precious. “Ajax.”
Claiming him is all that is on his mind. Zhongli cracks, splitting right down the middle, as he thinks about how he’d be a good mate, how Childe would wear his mark so well. Floods his mouth with thick, frothy come spilling in ropes.
Childe is a greedy thing. He moans, sucking at him, swallowing his fill. Swallowing and swallowing until that vacuum is too much, and Zhongli is trying to tug his face away. “Off, off.”
His cock slips from Childe’s mouth. Childe coughs, gasping for fresh breath. “Fuck,” he hisses. “Fuck, that was—”
Childe’s voice is almost gone, raspy with the brutal beating that his throat took. He falls to the ground, catching himself on his hand. His trousers are wet, damp with his own mess. Oh, he came like that. What a thought, what a beautiful, perfect thought.
Zhongli’s mouth goes dry as he considers what other terrible, wonderful things they could do together.
(But they can’t. These aren’t his chambers. He can’t hide Childe away in the sheets for the rest of the day, dragging orgasm after orgasm from his being. Zhongli has a full day of meetings and more, and Childe is about to head out on a week-long mission to do Tsaritsa knows what.)
He’ll ache with that loss. The palace halls will be emptier, and his bed cold. Zhongli swallows thickly, trying to ignore the implication of his mind wandering to more… domestic things.
Zhongli grunts, pulling his trousers up and fastening them. “That was—” He wishes that he could say it was a mistake. “Ill-timed,” he settles on.
Childe barks a laugh. “It’s always ill-timed with you. It could be the dead of the night, and me sneaking into your rooms, and it’d still be ill-timed.” He scrambles to his feet, cringing at the tacking feel of his clothing. “When will you realize that there’s never a good time for anything—”
His words are cut off by a kiss. A surprise kiss because they’ve never shared in one, never indulged in such an intimate thing. But the moment that Childe was on his feet, Zhongli couldn’t help himself. He swept close, tugged Childe’s face towards his, and pressed their mouths together.
“I can taste myself,” he muses, tongue sneaking past Childe’s teeth to swipe through his mouth. But Childe’s taste, all Snezhnayan pine, and the honeyed arousal, the way that it melds with his own—Zhongli can feel the stirrings of pleasure for a second time, heating his gut.
Later. Later. Maybe he will steal Childe away for the night.
“What was that for?” asks Childe as he pulls back. Hesitant. A little. The question lacks its usual surety, that mildly condescending snark. No, this is him dressed down, baring himself slightly, that mask he wears falling to the side.
It isn’t the first time that Zhongli has seen this. He drags his thumb across the arch of Childe’s cheek, the leather smooth against his skin. He wishes he could properly touch, feel. “Indulgence,” he says. “I am merely indulging upon something I’ve thought of.”
Childe sucks in a breath. Presses closer and kisses him again. This is more passionate, more exploratory as his tongue slides against Zhongli’s, desperate for a proper taste. He makes a soft, keening sound, a sort of whimper that’s lost to the heat of Zhongli’s mouth.
Pure indulgence for the both of them. Childe kisses him as if he’s wanted this too, as if these are uncharted waters, and he’s sailing right through them, mapping every inch. It’s lazy, but full of spark. He laughs against Zhongli’s mouth, a genuine sound, not his usual sharp and sarcastic tone.
When they finally part to breathe, Childe says, his mouth close enough to feel the warm wash of his breath, “If you keep doing that, Zhongli, you’re going to make a guy think there’s something to this.”
Zhongli. Just his name. Makes Zhongli’s chest ache for more.
“Would that be such a terrible thing?” An intrusive thought said aloud.
Childe, though, just smiles, wide and easy. Genuine. His freckles dance as the skin around his eyes wrinkles. “Don’t let the Tsaritsa hear you say that. She doesn’t take kindly to those stealing her things.”
Things. What a distasteful thought.
“You are more than a weapon, Ajax.”
“I have no wants and needs. You know that. Everything that I am belongs to her Highness.” Childe pulls at the soft cotton of Zhongli’s shirt. Sighs. Distracts himself as he takes in the shape and form of Zhongli instead. “That being said, there’s nothing wrong with having fun. As long as it stays fun.”
Ah. Perhaps Zhongli has toed beyond the accepted line. When he meets Childe’s face, though, his expression is torn. Annoyed. Frustrated. Oh, sweet boy.
Zhongli cups his face again and presses their foreheads together. “Tonight,” he murmurs, “come to my chambers and we can forget about your duty. In my rooms, you can be yourself.”
Childe does not whine, nor whimper. His eyes slip closed and he sighs, tilting his face up, seeking out the warmth of Zhongli’s face. He nuzzles him, just barely, before pulling away. It was a small moment, but a moment nonetheless. As he steps back, those walls are thrown back up. Again, he smiles that crooked, cocky grin that belies his true intentions.
For the few times they’ve fucked, Zhongkli knows that moment they just shared is the first time he’s had a genuine peek behind the curtain. He’s realized just how good Childe is at acting. He isn’t a young and impetuous fool, everything he does is with carefully calculated intent.
No wonder Zhongli is smitten. No wonder he wishes to claim him so. Like calls to like, and they are two men caught playing nice in court of poisonous snakes.
“Mr. Zhongli,” says Childe, lifting his head. “How nice of you to invite me to another session. One must wonder, though—what’s the point of tussling in the sheets?”
“I suppose that you should listen to your xiansheng and find out.”
Childe gives him a long look up and own. Pulls at his own trousers, trying to adjust the now crusted and uncomfy fabric. “Later, then. It’d be a shame to make you drink your tea alone.”
On the far end of the room a door slams shut. They both jerk, pulled from their thoughts, quick to move and right themselves.
“That’s my cue,” says Childe, dragging a hand through his wild and unruly hair. “I—yeah, later. That’s—” One last look at Zhongli shows that softness again.
Zhongli craves to go to him, to brush those worry wrinkles away. Instead, he remains rooted to the spot, sighing softly as he straightens his trousers. “Go. Our day is just starting.”
“Hopefully off to a better start, at least.”
Of course, Childe would want validation.
“One complaint.” Childe’s face falls. “We never did sort out that smart mouth of yours. So. Later, tonight.” Zhongli taps his lips and gives him a crooked smile of his own.
Childe’s face turns beet red, flustered. Then he shoots Zhongli a very rude gesture, which is caught by Il Capitano as he strides into the space.
The masked, fathomless gaze stares, unable to be read, but Childe turns that gesture onto him next before brushing by.
Capitano turns to Zhongli, head tilted. “Bad mood?”
“Downright foul,” he replies. Building a ruse is the smart thing to do, unlike fucking Childe’s mouth when anyone could walk in. “But you know how the boy is. Come, let’s talk about the plans for today. Thank you for helping with the recruits.”
It’s strange to ease off as if nothing happened, as if his thoughts aren’t consumed with sinking his teeth into the soft flesh of Childe’s neck.
But at least there’s the night. Zhongli looks forward to darkness falling.