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Childe only knows the love of a cold embrace.
The snow-tipped mountains of Snezhnaya, and the dead, dull and frozen permafrost. The frigid grin of Tsaritsa as she smooths her thumb across his cheek, crooning meaningless words into his ears. The icy depths of the Abyss, and the sinking feeling as it still pulls at him. It seeps into his pores and corrupts him, still to this day.
It isn’t so much love, as it is a claiming. Childe fell into a hole one day and came out different. Fought his way to the top, and has kept fighting every day. The Tsaritsa rules over him with a cold, iron grip, and whilst she says it’s love, Childe knows that it’s a twisted and dark thing.
The irony of it all; The Archon of love has no idea what it is.
But Childe— oh, he knows love. It lays over him in a blanket of warm Geo, and a tangle of limbs; legs and arms, and quiet words whispered into his skin. It fills him, like the thick, hefty cock that sits heavy in his ass.
Zhongli moves, steady thrusts in and out. His presence settles over Childe, comforting in a way that he isn’t sure that he deserves. Zhongli moans against his ear, his breath warm. He whispers soft and dirty things that no one else could begin to imagine— so tight for me, my love; look at you, so, so beautiful; Darling—
“Ajax.” Zhongli kisses his neck, teeth latching on and sucking a mark there, “Gods, you—”
Childe knows. He scrabbles against him, raising his hips to meet every stroke. “Celestia,” he bites out, “Fuck.”
His back arches and he sinks into Zhongli’s pillow, surrounded by the subtle scent of earth and sandalwood. Childe soaks it up and loses himself. Pleasure churns in his gut, and his chest tightens.
He doesn’t deserve this. A nagging thought. He isn’t a good man, he’s done many bad things— particularly to Zhongli. And despite it, despite all the betrayal and the chaos he’s wrought upon his land, Zhongli chooses to love him. He chooses to treat him so gently and take such good care of him.
The Serenitea Pot is a sacred place, almost. Zhongli’s oldest home. No one else has been here, not since Guizhong passed. But here is Childe, tucked into his bed, pulled apart and ravished, thoroughly worshipped as though he were a God, and not the man between his legs.
Zhongli’s hands are warm. The jut of his wrist bone drags across the soft skin of Childe’s belly. And he wants, he wants so much more than just this moment, Childe wants an eternity with him.
Tears slip down his face and he sobs at the thought, suddenly overcome with emotion. Which causes Zhongli to stop. “No, no, no, don’t,” begs Childe, his fingers curling into the meat of his forearms. “Don’t stop, please—”
“Ajax,” says Zhongli quietly. His fingers brush his bangs back sweetly.
Childe looks at him and nearly dies. The way that Zhongli watches him back— it’s like fire, it’s indescribable, it just makes him love the man more and more and more—
He sobs again, a pathetic little thing. He’s so fucking touch-starved and punch-drunk on the idea that someone loves him like this, it’s overwhelming. It breaks his heart and then forges it anew. Enraptured, he is. Childe feels wholly healed in the wake of Zhongli's affection, which is like a balm against the raging, stormy tide of his heart.
“Darling.” Zhongli sighs the word as he thumbs soft circles into Childe’s hip bone. What a soft, soothing touch. Childe melts.
“Zhongli,” he murmurs, gripping at him tightly. A litany of curses. He tells him that he loves him, over and over.
Zhongli’s gaze is warm, but feral, as he fucks into him again. His cock pulls at his rim, and spreads him so wide as it drags through his insides. It carves its way deep into his body, just like Zhongli and his love. Childe never wants to forget this feeling.
And he won’t.
Zhongli leans close and bites at his neck. Childe’s arm is wrapped around his neck and holds him there, tight, unwilling to let go. He’s crying again, lost in the feel of it all as he just tumbles and tumbles into his pleasure. All he feels is Zhongli— the heat of his skin and the way that his teeth tug at him; how Geo swirls about the room, casting the edges of it in glittering amber; how Zhongli’s skin tints black and honey-gold as he loses himself too.
Childe wonders what he thinks in moments like this, just what exactly that expression that sits across his face is. Zhongli’s gaze is intense as he watches him as though he’s the only thing in the world.
Made for each other, he thinks.
Then he surrenders himself completely.
Coda
When Childe cries, Zhongli is at a loss.
He can barely focus, his cock swathed in his warm, tight heat— but Childe’s face reels him back in. His pink cheeks, wet and ruddy skin, ground him. Zhongli cannot stop looking at him. Childe sobs, and hides his face in the crook of his elbow, embarrassed.
Zhongli wants to fuck the pain away until all Childe can think of is him and his cock.
He kisses him instead. His hips stutter as he comes to a pause, and Childe whines. Zhongli leans forward and noses along the skin of his neck. He inhales deep and smells the ocean. Snow. Ice. Childe.
Zhongli’s heart is possessive and he wants. Childe deserves this. The soft touches, the kisses, the whispers against his skin. He deserves to be worshiped by a god, and so that’s what Zhongli does.
He smooths his hands along Childe’s skin. He tells him that he’s beautiful and that he feels so, so good. Childe keens, responsive to his touch. Just what Zhongli wants, just what he craves— this powerful man, below him and at his mercy.
Zhongli adores pulling him apart and putting him back together, because no one else has.
He doesn’t fuck into him faster, he’s languid with the soft rolling of his hips, perfectly aimed. Childe cries out, fingers digging into his shoulders.
“Darling,” he says, quietly. Childe’s ass is tight around his dick, the friction addicting. Zhongli could get lost in him for the rest of his days, and it’d be retirement well worth it.
There’s something else that lurks there, in the corners of his mind.
It’s the first time that Zhongli considers it, an old and instinctual idea he’d nearly forgotten about. Childe rouses things within him that he doesn’t dare think of, dare to entertain. But this one he cannot ignore. The idea of it pulses in his veins with every thrust of his hips, and strengthens with every whine that Childe looses.
“Zhongi,” he moans, fingers scrabbling against him, nails dragging lines down his back. “Zhongli— Fuck, fuck, fuck—”
Zhongli is drunk on it, the way that his heart floats in his throat. Made for each other. What a tender thought, too kind for Celestia, but Zhongli can dream. He licks at Childe’s tear-stained cheeks and presses soft kisses to the shell of his ear. Zhongli sinks into the feel and smell of Childe as he clings to him.
The dragon rises within him. Zhongli moans against Childe’s throat, mouthing and biting at it. Tender, but just enough to mark him up for days. But it’s enough to drive the urge of sinking his teeth into the soft skin there in the most ancient of claims.
“I love you,” says Childe, hot words against his face, “Gods, Archons, Zhongli. I love you, I—”
And all that Zhongli can think of is, Mate.