in his daze, he thinks he remembers that zhongli had been missing. that seemed right- and the small, green-haired man from the wangshu inn nearly killed him over it, accusing him of stealing him away.
there might have been talk of some sort of abyssal rift. or maybe it was an ancient god in need of resealing. either way, he knows, for certain, that he had gone to retrieve the funeral consultant.
something went wrong. yes, he thinks that maybe, something went horribly wrong. maybe. he wasn’t really sure, anymore.
he groans. the man resting on top of him shifts, weakly propping himself up onto his elbows. his long, dark hair tickles the expanse of childe’s chest as he rises, the tips faintly glowing a warm amber in the dark.
childe can hardly find the energy to move. with what little he has, he tilts his head to the side and squints, he can make out where their right arms meet; the honeyed skin of the other man’s forearm is lodged within the paleness of his own upper arm, his flesh rippling lazily around the intrusion.
it was stringy and wet where their skin had begun to meld together, and it felt sinfully good. he moaned, inching his arm across the strangely smooth, watery floor beneath him. there’s a wet shlurp as their conjoined limb partially disconnects, and a thin film of something pink and moist fans out between the separation.
it retreats back into them as the man above him droops forward, the slimy tips of his hair stick to childe’s throat as he rests his head against the crook of his neck, a bit like the puckers of an octopus.
he thinks… he’s with zhongli. a lazy smile pulls at the corners of his lips, and there’s a content warmth spreading throughout his body. yes, he was with zhongli.
a distant, rolling purr that permeates the surrounding darkness. it sends goosebumps across his skin and warm vibrations up along the ridges of his spine; his back arches with a whole body shudder as he moans aloud. by tsarista, it all felt so incredibly blissful and pure.
with his free hand, childe drags his digits along the side of zhongli’s body. a mucousy substance clings to the tips of his fingers, smearing along the man’s skin. in the past, zhongli had felt a bit cold to the touch; his mortal form was merely an imitation of a human, a bit poor in the details sometimes. but here he was with a smoldering body heat, his skin sticky and buttery and alive.
his fingertips slip into the man's side as though it were softened candle wax, nails scraping against sensitive layers of yielding flesh. zhongli keens, his own hand rising to join childe. their digits bend around each other, twirling and prodding so far within his side that childe could swear the tip of his finger brushes against the spongy exterior of a lung.
zhongli slides his legs forward, his thighs pressing against childe’s hips, where their skin begins to cling together. he removes his fingers from his insides with a wet pop, sitting up with an awkward tug of their conjoined limb. it slips upwards, a milky, warm substance dripping down onto the floor beneath them where their skin stretches thin.
his eyes are all wrong, he thinks, too cloudy and flat for the funeral consultant. but zhongli’s expression is so lovely, so soft with admiration and love for the man beneath him, his usual small and shy smile passionate and wide. his hair cascades around them like a waterfall, longer than childe remembers it being. his sticky hand feels a bit like a tongue as it cradles the side of childe’s face, thumb teasing his lips. he whines when he pulls away.
there’s something warm and moist pressed against childe’s cock, bringing it to his attention that he’s hard. his dick throbs with desire, hips weakly bucking up into the heat presented to him. it slips inside easily, although it does not feel like any sort of normal penetration; there’s no stretch, no friction- zhongli’s insides feel a bit like jello, thick and slippery. the pulsating edges of slimy objects brush against the head of his cock and his shaft as it pushes deeper within the brunet.
his eyes flutter closed with a moan. zhongli trembles with pleasure above him, crying out loud and desperate at the sensation of a cock buried so peculiarly within him. it echoes around them, almost mockingly.
a fleshy tendrel emerges from the darkness and brushes against his shoulder, sliding down his chest and stopping short of touching childe. it looks a bit like a tumorous eel, body bumpy and sloppy with a thick outer liquid that drips onto childe’s abdomen in heavy clumps. it feels tingly where it pools over his abs, sliding between the dibs in his skin.
just as the first one appears, more join in. they don’t seem to care for childe, unknowingly dripping their fluids onto the snezhnayan man while they rub themselves over zhongli. they dip easily into his body as though it were a pool of water, moving about beneath his skin as little, taut bumps.
perhaps a more sane person would have paled at the sight of the bulbous intrusions burrowing themselves within their lover's flesh, but childe found himself entranced by the sight. zhongli looks like he was in the highest throes of pleasure, expression dumb from the overwhelming sensations.
the tentacles seem to cradle him gently, manipulating his body as though he were a porcelain doll. they look like saltwater taffy being stretched when they part from him, meaty strings pulled thin; zhongli’s body has gone limp, held upwards only by the tentacles still partially curled sweetly within him.
he’s dragged upwards, smooth insides gliding up the side of childe’s dick with such a buttery, delicious feeling. it’s so perfect it almost makes him nauseous. childe chokes when the tentacles let him drop back down onto him, the cavity wrapped around his shaft warm like sunshine.
zhongli looks so malleable, his form slipping at the strangest angles. he melts, almost like a popsicle, the liquidy residue warm against childe’s skin. he’s vaguely human still, beautiful little face clearly defined despite the way his hair drips down and gets tangled in his skin, the glow of the tips buried within his flesh.
it must feel good. zhongli can’t stop trembling. he looks stupid, completely and utterly stupid, mouth open in a clumsy smile as the tentacles explore his insides and pump him, slow and steady, up and down on childe’s hardened member. his moans and cries are nothing more than a wet gurgle now.
childe feels good, too. he feels like he's in love, he thinks. everything is wet and warm and wonderful. he’s never been closer to anyone in his life, the connection of their flesh entirely new and pure. yes, it was pure. raw and pure and tender.
he thinks he’s crying. maybe. it’s hard to tell, his body coated in a layer of sticky, foreign fluids.
when zhongli cums, childe almost expects his form to completely give out in a burst of heavenly liquid. instead his eyes roll into the back of his head, body jerking as the tendrils hold him still. a frothy, pink liquid pours from his lips, globs of the stuff mixing with the tentacles slime on childe’s chest.
he doesn’t come. he’s not sure if he can. he feels worn down, almost.
zhongli says something to him. it doesn’t sound like liyue or snezhnayan, or even the common trade language of teyvat. it almost sounds like the words have been tugged in reverse, or somehow lost in translation. but they’re warm and soft, somehow.
he doesn’t feel scared. the tentacles finally touch him, binding themselves around the two men, tugging them together in what felt almost like a hug. he relaxes into the embrace and he feels happy, he thinks.