Chapter Text
Childe gnaws on the end of his pen. The cap grows mangled and bent. It’s a bad habit he’s picked up in recent months, as he’s grown increasingly distracted. One of his class modules drones over his headset. The powerpoint rolls by with little of his attention, as it has been caught by something else.
Someone else.
He stares out past the top of his laptop to the sparse café. The place is warm, cozy. All wood tones and heavy with the scent of ground coffee beans, and old paper from the stacks of bookshelves available to the public.
It’s off hours— around 2 PM. A couple chats in the corner over shared drinks. An elderly woman flips through one of the museum’s art encyclopedias. And a man, an exceptionally well-dressed man in a closely cut suit, is seated at the table nearest the window with an exquisitely prepared meal set out for himself.
It’s late for a lunch, but Childe can’t complain. It is this man, after all, who has wholly captured his attention.
Mr. Zhongli. The museum’s most highly regarded staff member.
The first time Childe set foot in the museum was on a date. A quick one. A joke by one of his cohorts. Setting him up with some undergrad girl Childe had no interest in, but went along with.
The date itself had been awful. Mind-numbingly boring, really. But, it hadn’t all been a waste. That Friday night had been host to one of the museum’s special events, the rare occasion in which Zhongli personally leads tours.
Childe had never seen, never heard, a man quite like Zhongli. Relaxed, strong, exuding such intelligence and thoughtfulness with each precisely chosen word. It caught Childe’s attention immediately. Captivated it, as if he were no more than a moth to a flame. How could he not? With a voice like that? Molten, honey. Thick and syrupy, as it pours over each detail and dated backstory to the artwork and artifacts held in these walls. Handsome too, in a three piece suit, a smudge of red liner under each eye, and his dark hair neatly tied back.
Childe could swoon. Along with the gaggle of elderly donors Zhongli had in tow, who were the patrons of this night’s event, which Childe only managed to sneak into after ditching his date somewhere near the modern art collection. He was no more than a suspicious flash of red hair in a sea of gray.
Ever since that day, Childe has been enamored.
It’s a little embarrassing. Childe can admit, like a schoolboy crush. Enraptured by a man he’s hardly ever spoken to, yet since that day, Childe has made a habit to drive halfway across town to study in the museum’s attached café in hopes that he may just catch a glimpse of Zhongli going about his day.
It’s fruitful, he learns.
Zhongli gets a coffee in the morning when he arrives at 8:30 AM. Blue Mountain. Hot. One ounce of milk. And, he takes his lunch breaks here every day at 12 on the dot. Monday through Thursday, he eats alone. On Friday, Hu Tao, a young girl from his college that interns at the museum, accompanies him. Childe would be annoyed, had it not been for the chance to hear him speak more in depth.
(And, Zhongli can speak . In great, mind numbing detail. In long educational diatribes. Cultural history, medical knowledge, regional architecture, all of which, Childe eagerly eats up.)
Today, Zhongli is unnaturally late, and the man is a creature of habit. There must have been a midday meeting to hold him up for so long. Childe knows Ningguang has been soliciting donations to fund the new annex. Word has made its way to campus. Mostly to get in the ears of the student’s wealthy parents, who may be looking for good publicity and a tax write-off.
For all the talk of money and donations, it seems not to be something Zhongli cares too much for.
Childe's chin rests in his hand. He blows a puff of air across his now cold coffee. Occasionally, he scribbles something down on his notepad to play the dutiful student and not draw unwanted attention to himself. When Childe peeks back up, Zhongli is peeling off his pair of gloves.
Childe rarely sees the man without them. Always sporting a pair of dark brown leather gloves the second he enters the door of his work. The only times Childe is graced with the sight of his bare hands is now. The times in which he takes his lunch or a midmorning coffee break.
It is why he likes it here, catching Zhongli in this moment where his perfect façade breaks. Each finger is plucked carefully to slide his hand free. The thin leather folds neatly, and he places them on the edge of the table.
They’re smooth, uncalloused, and unmarred. Unlike Childe’s own, which have been nicked with knives and scissors. And that have been broken and healed from his childhood in a mess of scars and uneven joints.
Zhongli wraps his hands around a steaming cup of tea to raise it to his mouth. His eyes flutter shut, and Childe catches on his lip with teeth. Zhongli holds him on the edge, as his throat bobs with each sip. He's so serene, calm… beautiful.
Fuck.
Childe’s head ducks down, furiously red, behind the screen of his computer. He doesn't know the man. Zhongli doesn't even know his name. How does he have it so bad?
He wants to laugh at this cruel, cruel situation his heart has thrown him in.
Zhongli returns to the museum floor forty minutes later. Childe sees him on his way out, kindly giving directions to a few students.
In the end, Childe submits a half baked assignment for the day. Still manages to get a B, though.
It starts there, innocuous enough. Childe can have a crush on an older man. Can wake up from dreams of said man with his hand wrapped over his cock and smooth words of honey dripping into his ear, coaxing him towards his pleasure.
It's fine .
Childe creams his sheets from a wet dream for the goddamn second time this week. When he wakes from it—tacky and sticky at the ripe hour of 5 AM— he shoves his hands down his pants, gnaws his lip raw and sore, and wishes that it wasn’t his own.
Zhongli has money. Childe cannot figure out how, with a respectable, but average curator salary, and his penchant for careless purchases—or so he’s overheard from Zhongli’s own coworkers. Old money is Childe’s best guess. The kind held in mysterious assets or old investment accounts he likely inherited.
It would explain things. The expensive herringbone suits he is so fond of. The collection of antique designer watches Childe spots each time Zhongli reaches and gives him a peek of scandalous wrist. It’s no wonder he gets along swimmingly with the museum’s wealthy donors.
Childe, on the other hand, has come into new money. The kind from hasty, risky investments. It paid off. Got him enrolled in a prestigious, private university he could have never afforded, otherwise.
It takes Childe a week to dig up Zhongli’s name in the town’s register.
It’s only curiosity. A simple ravenous curiosity he has to peer into this man’s life. To see what makes him tick, and what it is about him that has wormed its way into Childe’s brain like a parasite he cannot break free from.
It fuels him.
Night and day. After classes, then increasingly during them. He scrolls through the local new sites, papers, and databases searching for any mention of this enigmatic curator.
There’s a few articles pertaining to recent exhibits at the museum, or special events and fundraisers held in its halls. Some co-authored academic papers Childe only skims through. Other than that, his online presence is next to none. No social media. No family to speak of.
(No dating profile. Childe does look. Specifically altering his own and upping his age range.)
Zhongli has not lived here long, he learns. Not for a man his age. He was brought on first as adjunct staff in the college's history department five years ago, and took the museum position only two years later. It’s impressive, really. The extent of his knowledge gained in such a short time. Second nature, like he was born for it.
And only a year ago, Zhongli bought a house.
It sits on the edge of town, a good twenty minute drive from the heart, on a secluded five acre lot. Most of the land is unlivable, ruled by overgrowth and a thinning forest. But at the crest of the hill, flanked by once elaborate gardens now dead in disrepair sits an old Victorian manor.
Designated historical and dating back to the late 19th century.
It makes sense. Things click into place. The exasperated phone calls, and long discussions of construction. Childe originally thought they were about the museum’s new annex, but it appears to be Zhongli's own home undergoing extensive restoration.
Childe drives out there once to see it.
The neighborhood is quiet. Sparse with homes. Gated and prestigious, a testament to the kind of people that live here. The restoration of the building is ongoing. The old wrought iron gate left open to the spindling driveway full of vehicles from various companies all taking part in the extensive remodel of the place.
Childe lingers. He looks at the house as a new roof is installed, and the rotted wood from the terrace is removed. Huh, Zhongli really bought a money sink. He must be even better off than Childe once thought.
It becomes habit.
A few times a week, Childe stops by just to look. To see the progress on the house, as it's torn apart and reformed anew. And it's one such night, after a few too many shots when Childe really shouldn’t be driving and really should head home, that he pulls up to the driveway to see one light on in the second floor window. Someone draws the curtains close, and minutes later shuts out the light.
Zhongli…
He lives there? It is nearly uninhabitable and yet… what an enigma this Zhongli is. Historian at heart, it seems.
It makes Childe think.
Fall comes quickly. Crisp with the change of seasons, and accompanied by midterms. Childe has disappointingly less time to appreciate the museum’s staff over its collection. He only makes it to the cafe once this week on a particularly mundane Wednesday.
The sky is gray and the leaves have just started to turn.
Campus twitters with excitement over the upcoming break, but Childe feels none of it. Instead, he drags his sleep deprived ass across town. Yet again. Old habits are hard to break.
Childe runs the red light at the intersection between museum parking and the adjacent university run botanical garden. Gets flipped off once. Honked at twice. Curses, and does the same back before pulling into the lot.
It’s an addiction. This clawing feeling at the base of his skull. The intrusive thoughts that he cannot seem to shake. Zhongli… how is he doing? Is he sick? Is Ningguang offering him up as a trading token for more donations again?
(People do tend to gravitate towards him. A kind of charisma, he’d say, but not the same that you’d see on a politician or a celebrity. It’s demure and thoughtful.)
Childe grabs his things in haste, and bounds up the steps towards the double paned doors of the main entrance. He’s only halfway up the stairs when he turns at a sound and barrels right into something solid.
Too solid. Too vocal with this deep, surprised grunt.
Childe’s bag clatters to the ground. He cringes at the thought of his laptop.
“Ah—!”
It lands at the foot of wing tipped oxfords and the hem of herringbone slacks. Childe knows of only one person who dresses this way around here. He stares for a moment, and this bubbling excitement fills his chest.
He peeks up to Zhongli. Zhongli. Dressed down today in a cream mockneck and scarf. “My apologies,” He offers, touching his shoulder. His shoulder. To steady him.
Zhongli picks up the bag at his feet and hands it to Childe. He melts, the moment their hands brush. It’s fast, only the ghost of his index finger over his knuckles, but it is enough. Enough for Childe to memorize the texture of his gloves for later… purchases…
“Are you alright?” Zhongli takes a pause. Childe’s holding onto his tongue. His face heats up in what he hopes reads as embarrassment and not what it actually is.
Arousal.
“Y-yeah. Fine!”
“You’re a student, are you not? I recall seeing you here often. It’s quite the distance from the university. Are you interested in history?”
Childe wishes he was so he could share knowledge with him as an equal. Much like how Hu Tao effortlessly talks with him over historical funerary practices.
But, alas.
“No.” Childe says to a disappointed frown. His chest gives a flip, and he scrambles over his faux pas. “I’m, uh, in the business program. But I— like the atmosphere! I tour the exhibits when I need a break. The new one on classical sculpture, I like it a lot.”
Zhongli exhales with this airy chuckle, and gives him a small secret smile. Childe’s head spins.
“I appreciate hearing that, as I organized the acquisition of the reproductions and prepared many of the materials myself.”
Oh, Childe knew that.
(It’s not like he hasn’t poured over every paper and plaque written out in Zhongli’s own words throughout the halls.)
“If you have any questions about the exhibitions, feel free to speak with me.” Zhongli pulls his wallet from his pocket with a business card outstretched. “Zhongli. Head Curator.”
He offers it along with his hand.
Oh.
“Um.” Wow. Way to stay cool. Childe steels his nerves and takes Zhongli’s hand in a firm grip. “Childe,” he says.
“A pleasure, Childe. I do hope that I did not manage to damage any of your things. If there is an issue, do not hesitate to contact me.”
Childechildechildechilde.
His name. His name. Zhongli said his name. Childe could burst right here.
He does not, and tries to ignore how quick his dick springs to life at the sole sound of it formed in such precise, deliberate syllables.
Childe continues his day as usual, despite how Zhongli has frayed the very core of his attention span. (The five espresso shots he’s had in the past hour haven’t helped either.) He can’t get him off his mind. Worse than usual. The screen he stares at jumbles to nothing. All Childe can hear is the echo of his name.
Childe. Childe.
How he wants Zhongli to say it more. To kiss it into his mouth and steal his breath with Zhongli’s tongue shoved down his throat, licking over his teeth and forcing him to submit.
Zhongli stops by the cafe at half past noon, and this time, unlike before, Zhongli’s gaze sweeps the room and for the briefest time— it settles on him.
Childe squirms.
He’s noticed him. Not only does Zhongli know his name. For the first time, he’s actually acknowledged his presence. Childe hides his elation with a carefully timed chug of his drink. What’s this feeling? It flutters in his gut with a sickly, nauseating sensation.
Zhongli’s phone rings halfway through his meal. Default ringtone, of course. Childe shamelessly eavesdrops when he picks it up.
“Yes?” Zhongli answers. The neutral expression on his face begins to sour the longer the conversation continues. “No, that is not what I requested, nor what I paid for.” Irritation grows in his voice, and his brows start to pinch in a way Childe has never seen. Zhongli always wears this near eerie calmness around him. It's fascinating to watch the cracks form in it.
“These are delicate matters requiring a delicate hand. If you continue like this, it will be damaged beyond repair. You do understand that this building dates back over a century?” His eyes sharpen with a dark intensity. The muscles in his jaw clench tighter. (It makes him sweat. What Childe wouldn't give to feel it on him.) And, Zhongli lets out a huff before pinching the bridge of his nose. “Very well. Have them pause. I will be there momentarily.”
Zhongli ends the call with a curse muttered beneath his breath. (The first one Childe’s ever heard from him.) And, hastily collects his things. In his distraction, he leaves something behind. That tartan wool scarf Childe had seen him wearing when they bumped into each other. It’s left folded over the back of the chair.
Childe leaves the cafe with it in hand.
It smells like Zhongli. Of cardamom and cedar. Aged parchment and wood. Mature and refined, soaked deep into the fabric. He’s never been this close. It’s overwhelming.
When Childe returns home, he shoves it in his face and desperately palms himself over his pants until he can fall into bed and wring them off.
It doesn’t take much to get him hard after a full day of being pent up and half-chub, trying to keep it together in the public eye, when Zhongli seems so very determined to make him break. He leaks with sticky precum smeared all over his stomach. His cock swollen full with each fervent stroke.
Childe groans. He breathes in Zhongli scent and twists in his own sheets. It’s like he’s edged him all day, bringing him to the brink, only to let off before Childe can get his satisfaction.
Childe. Childe—
It rings in his head like a mantra. Sultry and smooth. It clings to every crevasse of his brain. How Zhongli would sound, what he would do to him. Childe can’t get enough.
‘Oh, Childe. You’re doing so well, aren’t you? Can you feel how beautifully you open for me? It’s what you want, isn’t it…” Zhongli would smirk. Those long fingers would expertly slip between his cheeks, easing his rim apart with each hot word blown across his nape. ‘To be treated like the whore you are?’
Childe stumbles on his own laughter. What would Zhongli think? If he knew what this innocuous college student really wanted from him?
That he’s no more than a slut. Trying to fuck an older, wealthy man. Eager to be thrown across his desk tucked away in the oldest wing of the museum. Ruining all those carefully written grants with spit and cum. Letting himself be rawed with moans ricocheting off the marble of those long hallways, so there’s no question of what Childe is there for.
“Zhongli, ah— fuck—!”
He aches. Oh god, Childe aches for him.
His own hand is torturously dry and disappointingly rough. If he closes his eyes, he can almost imagine Zhongli above him encouraging him to reach his peak. His thumbs would rub away Childe’s frustrated tears, and he’d whisper with such a sweetness until Childe’s breath hitches— caught on the fingers that dig into his windpipe.
It’s not Zhongli’s hand, when Childe chokes in reality. But his own, and the scarf he has wrapped so tight around his neck. His fist is clenched in it, the fabric pulled completely taut. The pressure sends a spark down his spine and a twitch through his cock.
Childe only lets off enough for him to take one breath.
He blinks up at the spinning ceiling fan in a dazed confusion. He’s… never done anything like this before.
Would Zhongli do this? Hold him down? Pin his arms above his head, as the other curls over his throat? The leather of his gloves would creak and crease, pinching Childe’s throat closed with expert medical precision. Childe wouldn’t even be able to beg like this. Reduced to a thrashing, sobbing mess as the air is ripped from him.
Childe pulls tighter, fisting over his cock and the fabric. His face grows hot, and the tingle of oxygen deprivation prickles at his senses. A knot forms in the base of his throat unable to fill his lungs with much needed air. Childe’s legs scrape out against his bed, bucking his spilling cock into furious fingers. Close. So, so close.
His vision begins to flicker around the edges, and his limbs feel strange. This ecstatic, airy sensation fills him.
‘Hold out for me. Only a little longer.’
He can. He can—!
It is only when he’s on the verge of unconsciousness and the edge of pleasure that Childe releases his grasp. His cock jerks, and his orgasm hits. Cum spatters hot across his stomach, and relief fills his chest with a greedy gulp of air. Childe falls back bonelessly to the bed, enraptured by the click, click of the fan blades, as he waits out his high breathlessly.
Well… that was new.
Childe jacks off two more times before he’s satisfied. He coats the scarf with his cum and sweat until Zhongli’s scent is smothered with his own.
He washes it the next day. Cold and left to air dry, as not to be suspicious. When he returns to the museum, he dumps it in the lost and found. A week later, Childe sees Zhongli wearing the very same scarf once drenched in his cum around his neck like it's nothing. Childe allows himself some satisfaction in that.
Childe’s desperation grows with each passing day. He caves after a week and buys himself a pair of leather gloves. Smooth and aged to a certain softness so when he fucks himself on his fingers, he can almost convince himself it's Zhongli with each desperate wail of the man’s name.
It's not enough.
The deeper Childe goes, the less he cares about the repercussions of his actions. It's not long until observation and the brief interactions they share in Zhongli’s workplace fail to satiate this growing hunger. He needs more. To know him, to feel him, to be enveloped by Zhongli's very essence.
Childe’s waited outside Zhongli’s home a few times. Pulled his car up to the edge of the gate, where the home Zhongli dedicates so much time and effort to looms just overhead. The lights flick on and off in the windows, as Zhongli makes his way through his nightly routine. Eventually, he settles into the corner room on the second floor. Childe sees his silhouette when he draws the curtains closed.
(For a time, Childe is satisfied with just watching. And only once does he rub himself off, stifling his whines into the back of his hand, when he is plagued by the knowledge that Zhongli could be doing the same.)
But he has never trespassed. Never trekked his way up that hill to his home. That is, until today, when Childe felt something in his resolve finally crack.
The sun hangs heavy in the sky, casting long shadows across the twisting trees and weeds that fill the once well-kept gardens. The driveway is full of work vehicles, but Zhongli’s is notably absent. Childe thought this through. Zhongli shouldn’t return home until later tonight after a work event held at the museum.
Childe’s presence is hardly suspicious. He bought himself a pair of coveralls a few days ago, and with so many people working on the house, he hardly stands out. All it takes is a little confidence, and he’s in.
Childe knows the floor plans. At least, the historical record of them that was uploaded to the county’s public property register. He expects a mess when he first pushes open the large front door, and… it is. Protective plastic separates off the right side of the house where the sound of electric tools whir from behind them. Sawdust and dirt trails across tile and sanded down hardwood.
It’s filthy.
Not what Childe would picture for a man like Zhongli. One so proper and meticulous. Each crease of his clothing, perfectly ironed, perfectly folded. That he would continue to live in this place in its current state…
Childe ducks out of the way when two men lug in a large slab of pitch black granite, swirled with flecks of white like the night sky, to the kitchen in the back of the house.
Maybe there’s something to it. That there’s a part of Zhongli Childe misjudged.
(Only later would he realize, there was a lot about Zhongli he misjudged.)
The protective mat scrunches beneath his feet to reveal an ornate slab of tile. Based on the intricate design, Childe would guess it is original to the house. It leads from the entryway to a set of newly repaired stairs. The ceiling is raised to a grand height, just over the second story, and arches into a coffering design with an elaborate gold chandelier that hangs from the center.
The foyer is lined with antique furniture, still wrapped up for protection. A few tables, large art canvases framed and covered in peeling paper, and a towering grandfather clock that ticks beneath its fabric wrappings.
Childe grazes his fingers over them with a plume of dust, and he feels the thrum of the clock as it strikes 4:00 PM just before he ascends to the second floor.
It’s completely devoid of construction. Quieter, and wears the damage of its age more clearly. The walls are browned with smoke. The floors are uneven and squeak with each step. Childe jiggles each door handle, checking the rooms available along the hall.
Two extra bedrooms. A small bathroom and a closet. A study, stacked high with books and other research materials. A spare room only filled with unopened boxes and the reeking stench of mothballs. At the corner of the house, he hits the last room.
His hand hovers over the doorknob. He knows it's the right one. The corner room. Eastward facing, and perfect to be woken naturally in the morning by the rising sun.
It's unlocked.
Zhongli… Zhongli. Is he really so trusting? Childe slides in with barely a glance back. His back rests against the door with a sigh when it clicks behind him and he locks it in place.
It’s Zhongli’s room.
Adrenaline shoots through his veins. It’s taboo. He shouldn’t be here. Not when Zhongli is unaware, and barely even knows his name. But— Childe begins to unzip his coveralls, and leaves his boots by the door— it feels so… right.
This space… it's so him.
Functional, yet ornate. Cluttered, but organized. A large mirror hangs on the back wall and faces the four poster bed. Far too large for a room of this size, and covered in a plush, red duvet which is neatly folded over with each pillow positioned perfectly.
Childe drags his hands down the detailed carvings of the post, and digs into each knot and dip with his nail. He wonders, with an intrusive thought, how well it would hold up to rope.
Childe laughs. He brushes away the thought, and the tempting mental image of his own hands bound, reflected back at him in the full view of the mirror. It’s lewd to place it like that. Above an innocent vanity that houses a collection of watches in a glass case, with books stacked and bookmarked topped with a pair of thin framed reading glasses.
He can’t help but watch himself, as he climbs into Zhongli’s bed.
How many times has Zhongli cum here? By his own hand, teeth tearing into his lips, or buried in the wet hole of some partner? His jaw tenses, hands fisted tight in the duvet.
No, Childe doesn’t want to think about that. It spurs a bitter jealousy in his soul.
Him, then.
How many times could Zhongli fuck him here? Would he take the bait from a younger, hornier, desperate man? Childe has no reservations about his sex appeal, and it wouldn’t be the first time he used them for his own means. Is Zhongli the kind of man to fall victim to them?
He can’t quite tell.
(Part of him hopes not, as he so loves the chase.)
His brain is foggy, and his body grows hot. Childe nestles back against the pillows and takes a deep inhale. His hand cups over his half hard cock with a thinly swallowed moan. Only to work his way beneath his waistband and around the shaft.
His cheek shoves into the pillows, and his eyes squeeze shut with each dry stroke.
“Ah, Zhongli~”
His face scrunches in frustration. Childe’s own touch brings him little pleasure. He wants this to be real. He wants more.
And, Childe is given nothing of what he wishes for.
“Dammit—!” He hisses. He twists in his constricting clothes, tossing his pants onto the floor.
He falls to his knees on the bed. His cock throbs. Swollen a dark red, dripping eagerly with beads of precum. More. A quick handjob in Zhongli’s home isn’t enough. He was foolish to think it would ever be. Not with this hunger that swells inside him like a surging wave.
Childe rips off his shirt. He bunches it beneath him so that when his cock drags the bed, it dirties his own shirt and not the duvet. Childe’s forehead meets the bed. He stuffs his mouth full of his fingers and shoves them down so far, they penetrate the back of his throat. Each suck and swipe of his tongue over the digits threatens to make him gag. But, he doesn’t and coats them with thick spit. Childe pulls them out with an obscene pop.
It’s this desperation. This pent up need he’s harbored for weeks that pushes him overboard.
Childe’s eyes swipe over the mirror, yet again, where he’s prostrated himself ass up on Zhongli’s bed. Spit covers his lips shiny and drips in globs of drool onto the pillows.
Obscene. He looks obscene . Like he’s waiting for Zhongli to return home. To pry open that lock with the old skeleton key and see the student who frequents his work presenting himself in his own bed, begging to be fucked.
Childe’s head buries further into the crook of his arm. His groan is muffled by his skin, so as not to arouse the suspicion of any of the workers just a floor beneath him.
He needs this. He reminds himself, the moment his slicked fingers work their way past his hole.
Childe is held close in Zhongli’s scent, enveloped in the sanctity of his personal space. Buried in his pillows like the idea of a lover, taking his own pleasure in the man’s bed. Childe rocks back on his own hand, and slowly fucks himself with the crook of his fingers in his wanting, wet heat. The bed frame gently creaks beneath him with the rhythmic motion of his body.
The sight he makes, opening himself up. His entrance spread wide over his fingers, as they dig against his prostate. He whimpers and coos softly to be filled the way his body desires. Thoroughly. Completely. With thick, hot cock.
But only Zhongli’s. Nothing else can satisfy him. Childe has trapped himself in this insatiable hole, full of fantasies for a man so out of his reach.
He wants to be touched. To feel hot breath hissed across his back when he’s shoved down by the nape of his neck and taken by this man that has earned his adoration. Lovingly with kisses drawn down his spine, and Zhongli’s cock entering him with long, languid strokes. Or, brutally with bites, bloodied and bruised into his flesh. Speared open on a dick so thick, he’d never be satisfied by anything else.
Childe chokes. His legs tense and kick back. He almost falls from his position flat on the bed, when his ass clenches around his fingers, and he spurts in thick ropes of cum hastily caught in his shirt. A few drops spatter onto the bed, but he can’t be bothered to care with the trembling sound he bites into his cheek.
Zhongli, I—
Ah.
Childe sighs. He wants to stay, bury himself in these blankets and fall asleep. But he can’t. So, he cleans up. Stuffs his shirt in the bag he’s brought, and wipes up the remnants of his load, hoping that Zhongli does not notice upon his return this night.
Before he leaves, Childe roots through Zhongli’s things. He snatches one of Zhongli’s button downs for the road. A cream one, he has seen the man wear on numerous occasions. It smells clean of detergent and dryer sheets. A gift, he convinces himself. For getting in and out of Zhongli’s home without ever raising alarm.
That night, Childe falls asleep wrapped in it.
It’s the first blood that finally breaks him.
Childe’s been good by all accounts. He hasn’t been to Zhongli’s home in a week, and he hasn’t taken anything of his either. Though the day before when Zhongli left his thermos in the cafe had been awfully tempting. Childe had resisted.
Good, right?
Any pretense Childe holds that his predilection for one Mr. Zhongli is something normal comes crashing down at a simple accident.
It’s Friday. One week before Halloween, and even the cafe is decorated for the festivities. Pumpkins, candies, and themed drinks.
Hu Tao sits across the room with Zhongli. She excitedly exclaims something Childe cannot make out beneath the drone of his homework with exuberant gesticulation. He frowns and loathes how amused Zhongli seems by it. And, with a misplaced swing of her hand, she sends his mug flying to the floor with a loud shatter. Childe’s ears perk up. He slides down his headphones.
“Sorry!” He hears her say.
Zhongli is already crouched next to the table, picking up the larger pieces of ceramic into an open napkin. Childe watches in awe and catches the moment when his lips part in a hiss.
Oh.
Childe’s brain feels as if it's stuffed full of fuzz.
“Mr. Zhongli, I can get it myself. Please, don’t hurt yourself.” Hu Tao insists, but the damage is already done. Blood drips down his fingers in this long, jagged cut. Childe swallows. His eyes focus on it with precision. Red, hot. It pools over his palm in a deep crimson. Zhongli inspects it for some time to ensure no fragments have gotten stuck.
His blood… it drip, drips onto the floor in a small spatter.
Childe’s heart races. The voices and low cafe music are garbled in the background. He can only see Zhongli. His beautiful expression of discomfort, and the beautiful blood that flows freely from his body.
His fingers scrape against the table top. The pen held in his hand is pushed to the breaking point. He doesn’t realize it until it's too late, and it snaps in half.
Childe’s dreams are plagued with something new after that.
It overwhelms him. The sensation of himself wrapped in Zhongli’s arms with the cool drip of blood between them. It's smeared across his lips in a kiss. The bitter, metallic taste fills his mouth, as Zhongli force feeds it to him with his tongue.
Zhongli’s hands twist in his guts. His nails bite into his flesh. It's raw with a pain his nerves blur to pleasure. Childe moans and cries in a voice he hardly recognizes. His own plunge deep past the craggily white of broken bone, tangled in threads of muscle and tendon, to hold Zhongli’s beating heart like fire in his hands.
Childe has never cum so hard in his life, as the moment he wakes.