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Childe doesn’t know what he is expecting when he agrees to go on an excursion with Aether.
Miles into the wilderness of Liyue. Smoke smearing into the night sky. Two children sleeping by campfire under the stars. And the master of some tavern in Mondstadt, Diluc, Childe thinks his name is, in a cave behind the waterfall. Completely flustered, heaving, biting the hems of his shirt and dick in his hand.
Whatever he expected, it certainly isn’t this.
“And I thought I was depraved.” Childe finds himself commenting, tilting his head towards the dense alignment of Ginko trees beyond the cascade. He doesn’t see Aether and Paimon from this distance.
He catches Diluc’s winded claymore between his manifested daggers. Despite the bloodlust in his eyes, Childe doesn’t feel pressure in his strike. Diluc collapses in his arms. Scalding breaths on the crevices of his neck, bleeding enough heat to poach an egg.
Even for a pyro Vision, his temperature is abnormal.
Childe sees the cut on his side, bits of satin unveiling a shallow wound. A Whopperflower sting. And he’s reminded.
It’s spring.
“Don’t touch me.” Diluc mutters harshly in a tangle.
Although his body, pressed upon him, is conveying quite the opposite.
“Must be hurting bad by now huh.” Childe doesn’t bother hiding the sadistic muse in his voice as he lowers him against the cave wall.
And it is intriguing. Because ever since he’s joined Aether’s little circus for the McGuffin hunt. Diluc only addresses him with murder in his eyes. Which only gets increasingly intense each time Diluc sets an enemy on fire, and he puts it out. Their elements, like their allegiances, are conflicting.
Sometimes, he thinks, the only thing between him and Diluc beheading him in his sleep is the respect he holds for Aether. And Childe doesn’t need to ask to understand that he has a deep seeded vendetta against the Fatui.
But, this. This is something...
It’s been hours since they encountered the Whopperflowers. The aphrodisiac must have thoroughly made it to every nook and cranny of his veins at this point.
So he isn’t sure why he teases him, “need some help?”
Perhaps it’s the alluring way his clothes are just perfectly disheveled. Coat hiking down his shoulders, and shirt pulled apart exposing his shredded abs. Or the pristine elegance on his face shatters into a perfect blend of humiliation and disgust. And Childe will be lying if he says he hasn’t taken the liberty to look at Diluc dripping lust all over his stomach (and it’s rather erotic).
“Do all Harbingers lack complete human decency?” he’s rasping,
“Leave.” and Diluc contradicts himself.
Arms still wrapped around his nape. Pulling with an arresting strength. Hot breathes feathering through the salivating, minute part of his lips. As if he’s horridly famished and Childe’s the next delectable meal.
Childe reminds him, “I will if you let me.”
Although, now that they’re less than a hair apart. Childe sees beyond the half lidding eyes sharpened to strike, beyond the agitating heat on his cheeks matching his hair.
And he'll admit, Diluc’s quite gorgeous.
Diluc lowers his head, hand fisted into his shirt, nuzzling in his neck. And under a spell, he serenades almost sweetly, “you smell good...”
The poison must have reached his brain, because he’s beginning to lose himself.
It’s his hot ragged breaths Childe feel at first, following by the tracing of tongue, and the sting of fangs biting into him seeking alleviation to cure the unwarranted lust in his blood. And Childe wonders, if the drumming he hears in his ears still belongs to Diluc.
Whopperflower pollens are known to be... contagious.
When he offers, “want me to touch you?”
Childe knows his intentions aren’t simply out of graciousness.
There’s pride and sternness to Diluc’s answer,
“No.” despite he’s unravelling like a ball of yarn.
And it’s ironic, because he's kissing his neck, with an increasing crave hitched in his throat that stops him from forming tangible sentences. Marring with the seeping arousal he can no longer contain,
“Your skin feels cool.” he breathes sultrily, but Childe hears enough to understand his implications.
Needless to say, the hatred Diluc holds run deeper than his tragic predicament. Childe concludes,
“In other words, you want to use me as a glorified ice pack while you jack yourself off.”
And he decides, this time – from the graciousness of his heart – to respect his wishes. But he doesn’t give up the chance to mock him regardless,
“You’re quite the kinky princess.” yet Childe finds own glance lingering inappropriately.
Oh , but what he’s witnessing, unlike his pretty face. Is anything but feminine. Horrendously engorged and dripping, and Childe almost feels empathy for him. From the sheer rawness and friction bruises, he knows Diluc must be in immense pain from overstimulation. Despite so, Childe sees the death grip he has in his fingers.
But the potency of the aphrodisiacs deny any form of release from his torment, even if he were to come, again.
He’s being kind when he tells him, “you know, it won’t go down until the effects wear off. There’s no point abusing yourself.”
Diluc heaves under his chin. Hot breathes flaring down his chest, and it’s a pitiful whimper he manages out,
“Hurts... It hurts.” mixed with distressing moans because his strokes aren’t relenting. Ripping in anguished cries. Diluc bites bitterly to stifle himself until blood starts drawing from his lips. And Childe grabs his wrist,
“You’re going to rip it off.” to remove his hand. “I can hold you down until you’re sober.”
Diluc’s tugs away, pushing him onto the ground and pinning above him. The bitter indignation in his eyes when he finds that fragment of his rationality is sharper than daggers. And Childe, with his line of work, is brilliant at analyzing thoughts. He doesn’t need to hear it from Diluc’s mouth, to understand that he’s the last person Diluc wants around at this moment.
The mortification must be eating him alive. He says it regardless, “I don’t need your help.”
Because Diluc’s fighting against his instincts, with sheer will power. But he’s flaking, petal by petal, in each harsh breath. Childe is surprised to hear him admit, with an irritated glare,
“You’re obnoxiously good looking.” and bites into his neck.
And Childe merely laughs, “so you can be honest sometimes.”
He’s perhaps, enjoying Diluc’s unfortunate predicament a little too much. Although, he isn’t quite sure what he’s trying to obtain from it, confused boner aside. That Diluc more than notices. Rubbing him with a hand he slips beneath his belt.
Childe flinches from the pyre hot touch, slowly seeping across his nerves. Scoffing, “for someone that hates my guts. You can’t seem to get your hands off me.”
Guess the same rule doesn't apply vice versa.
He’s staring at the cave ceiling, noticing the jagged spikes hanging above. Dew condensing on the points and dripping into puddles around them. Thinking to himself, as Diluc undoes his clothes, this is quite the perilous location to be having sex.
Or... whatever they’re doing.
He doesn’t know what Diluc wants. Although, it’s as if Diluc’s challenging him silently to snap from his restrains. His lips feathering so insistently on his neck. Tongue tracing the dents of his collarbones, sucking to leave bruises. Because those unbearably warm caresses, are beginning to make his heart unsettle.
And Diluc doesn’t even have the decency to pretend he isn’t straight up stroking his cock through the fabric of his underwear.
So, Childe says again, trying to distract himself from the flaring arousal that’s pushing a little too far from simply physiological reactions,
“I might end up raping you if you don’t stop.” and he knows he isn’t entirely joking. Neither is he above that moral depravity.
Diluc freezes above him. Ludicrously enough, it’s his restrains that snaps first. He pushes his body against him, pressing Childe into the ground that could swallow him whole. And whispers dangerously against his ear, “god, I want to fuck you so bad.”
Oh...
Oh!
Childe realizes, aside from their conflicting elements and allegiances. They’re both, main dps.
He sighs, pushing Diluc off as he sits up. Graciousness of his heart withdrawn, and this time. He touches him. Fingers wrapping gently, reminded that Diluc’s suffered quite enough abuse from himself. Yet he’s smirking slyly, idea flashing bright in his head,
“It’s a race then.”
And Diluc understood his implications, already working through Childe’s belt to release him from his pants. Straddling across his lap, and Childe feels the desynchronized thumping of his heart against his own. Their breaths, feathering, lips brushing and gaze seizing into a kiss.
Childe tastes every bit of the heat, and aphrodisiac driven lust on his tongue that’s tangling. Flaring into moans and stutters, of his voice. Intentionally lewd and disheveled as Childe caresses him with water on his touch to quench the fiction between his palm. The way Diluc rubs himself against him is more intimate than he would ever imagine as the vulgar fluids mix like a contagion. Shuddering down his spine. Now, Childe's growing horribly aroused.
And that searing heat bleeding on him, bright as the red in his hair. Is enough to make Childe pull away and gasp for air. Saliva tangling, and he rasps harshly,
“Aren’t you too used to giving another man a hand job?” because, despite the little Childe knows about him. He’d never imagined someone like Diluc, all prim and proper, would be so fluent in seduction.
And he’s getting everything right with a pinpoint accuracy. The pace of his wrist, the strength of his grip, the spots that makes him tense, all coddled by that satiating warmth.
“I’ve had some practice.” Diluc chokes breathlessly. As if he’s just barely losing control, and looking at him with so much vulnerability and bewitching beauty. That it slips into his mind, a thought to push him onto the ground and fuck him brutally. Or that may be the poison speaking, because he’s certain that he’ll never again, see Diluc in this light.
Childe may just end up losing at this point, lose to a man doped up on aphrodisiac. He scoffs internally, might as well find a hole and bury himself.
He weaves a hand into Diluc’s hair, tilting his head to expose the pale of his neck. Leans into the warm embers of his scent, and bites. Desperately trying to find the buttons that makes him tick. Although, the way Diluc’s responding. Everything seems to make him tick.
Childe traces, up his neck, to the shell of his ear. Running a tongue liberally on the flushed skin to solicit a sharp moan from him. His breath hitches shamelessly on top of the plunging waterfall. And god, he hadn’t anticipated the almost violent reaction he receives. Spilling down his hand in streams.
When he finally realizes, “oh.” a smile forms on his lips, “so your ears are sensitive huh.”
And Diluc's hyperventilating with a delectable mesmer in his eyes as if he’s telling him, more, he isn’t gratified.
Childe’s witnessing first handedly, the effects of the drug. Because he’s certain that it isn’t Diluc that’s pleading right now, in bated breaths and tattering sentences,
“you win. Fuck me.”
And he’s still rigorously hard.
Childe doesn’t wait to push him down, kissing him on the ground. Hands flaring, parting his legs and sheaths his fingers. Already lubricated by the waterworks a moment prior. Moaning a taunt deliberately into his ears with a shrewd temptation for him to feel every breath and syllabus,
“That’s quite the face you’re making.”
Diluc tenses around him. And it’s an understatement to say that his body temperature is high.
He’s practically burning.
It makes Childe uncertain if he’s anticipating, or fearing to stick his dick inside him. Diluc isn’t looking at him, when he says, lips parted, gasping for air,
“Quit pushing your luck before I change my mind.”
Right. He’s a top, this won’t work on him. So Childe shuts up and licks him instead. This time, he responds with a suffocated grunt, grabbing his cock impatiently,
“I’m not a woman. You don’t need to treat me so tenderly.”
And Childe laughs, removing his fingers and angles his body.
“Alright, princess.” he replies regardless, and pushes within him. Flinching from the almost devastating swelter around him. And fuck, he’s muttering involuntarily,
“You need to relax. You’re going to rip my dick off.” and he knows Diluc isn’t use to this either. Back arching off the ground in a tense, digging his hands in dirt. And when he releases the breath he’s been holding, it’s a desperate gulp for air. As if he’s being asphyxiated.
Childe isn’t a heartless man. So he licks his ear again, slobbering with saliva. To distract him from the sudden intrusion. Nibbling against the lobe, until the vice grip around his cock relinquishes along with the harshness of Diluc's breaths. Enough for him to find shallow beats.
However, the way Diluc’s sprawled out on the ground with pieces of clothes missing and hair completely disheveled. Is rather mesmerizing.
Childe pulls a leg over his shoulder, catching every wince and shudder he coerces. As he attempts to ease him from the pressure. Although he's unsure if he’s beginning to become influenced by the aphrodisiac. Because his patience, to alleviate Diluc’s discomfort, is wearing painfully thin.
And the heat of his body, collapses so radiantly, gratifyingly on him like a puppeteering string that pulls, and pulls, until he’s thrusting, far from gently. Yet, the voice tearing out of Diluc, isn’t quite narrating pain,
“Go harder...” and he’s thrashing against him. Meeting the fluid of his motions to angle him a spot.
So Childe abides, guided by brutality. And he doesn't know if it’s Diluc, or the contagious poison that’s flaring in his veins to make him almost entranced and inebriated. Blossoming like fire, in a vibrant rose pitted in his stomach, and he’s leaning over to kiss him.
Parting his lips with his tongue, and desperately trying the quell the flames. But Diluc only spurs him on, with moans and stutters. Pretty noises in the dead of night. And when he turns his head away, spit trailing from his lips. Heaving desperately and starts stroking himself beneath him. It undoes him, and Childe’s saying between rasping breaths,
“God, you’re ganna make me come.”
Now Childe’s the one that’s hyperventilating, anchoring his hips to stifle his actions. Because his mind’s going numb from the enveloping heat that’s just pulsing, and pulsing along with the erratic beating of his heart in his chest. It’s almost illegal how alluring Diluc is. And he pulls him, until Childe collapses, to tell him, challenge him,
“Come inside me.”
So uncharacteristically depraved of the man that’s ready to kill him in his sleep just hours ago. But Childe does anyway. Giving in to the searing flames of his existence that ignites his nerves in a vibrant flare, until he’s spilling, tensing, quivering under the pleasure avalanche. And when he finds his sobriety, he realizes.
Diluc actually has a reason to kill him in his sleep now.
Childe perches on an arm, asking him, appeasing him,
“Alright. I can offer you my mouth, or my hands. Take your pick.”
There’s a cold smile on his lips when Diluc flips him on his back,
“I’m afraid you’ll have to give more than that.”
And Childe sighs defeatedly, “guess that’s only fair.”
.:.:.: