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On the first day, he may appear over-confident, but one week doesn’t seem like much; he often left him for much longer, just because of his duties.
On the second day, he loses some courage, when he notices one major flaw in his assumption: he never takes Zhongli on work trips with him, and the man is more horny than he would ever think—Childe notices it just now.
On the third day, he goes on a long rant about how stupid of a bet it is, how uncomfortable his dick feels in the cage, how awful it is to come back from work and get no attention; Zhongli answers him patiently that it is his idea, that he can take it off in any given moment, that he—apparently—gets the same amount of attention, since their daily life didn’t change much.
On the fourth day, he kicks Zhongli by accident. No, he actually kicks him on purpose, but it is well deserved—the man kissed him behind the ear and insisted it doesn’t qualify as sexual touch. It may not for him, but he doesn’t have the right to say anything, since he is not the one who has to—supposedly, by his own choice—withdraw from the touch.
On the fifth day, he has his final moment of weakness, but he reminds himself that he is Tartaglia, the Eleventh Harbinger, and he has lived through worse circumstances than withholding from touching his boyfriend for seven days. Allegedly, it makes him more cranky and somewhat frustrated. Or at least that’s what he hears from one of the agents. When he comes back home in the evening, his Liyue squad is down one person.
On the sixth day, they’re supposed to go for a meal to Liuli Pavilion. Childe is not opposed to this idea, what Childe is opposed to is how Zhongli goes to extreme lengths to come back home as a single man. Maybe they agreed for Zhongli to touch him on a whim, and maybe Childe was humming with excitement just this morning, but he didn’t anticipate Zhongli can be so cruel towards him.
… Here it is! Once again this knowing smile in response to Childe shifting restlessly on his chair. Shifting in response to Zhongli’s leg not-so-subtly brushing against his calf. He is nothing more than a victim of this situation, which is very suiting since he is already caged.
The bitterness goes well with wine, and, besides, one delightful smile from the same man is enough to get his morale back. He can be Tartaglia, the Eleventh Harbinger, but Childe is also a weak, weak man, the moment Zhongli comes into the picture. He should ponder on it a little longer, but, in opposite to what he thought beforehand, restraining from sex does not clear thoughts. Quite the opposite, actually.
There is this constant buzzing in his mind, that in fact is just one word repeating over and over again. Sexsexsex. And this man seating opposite to Childe is no better. His eyes seem to repeat the same, and the lips wetted by wine, and the leg constantly nudging him under the table, and, and, and… There is no end to that.
On the seventh day, god rested. The man clearly got tired of doing fuck all, which is ironic, considering that fucking was also off his to-do list for this week. Meanwhile, Childe feels restless. When he is in need, his body betrays him and sends him the most lewd dream Childe can imagine—and forces him to wake up before he is able to finish. He has enough building anticipation for the rest of his life, so he decides to act.
There is this painfully long period of getting sure, if Zhongli actually is still asleep or only faking it—but all Childe achieves are speculations about how the Adeptus’ dream actually looks like. Though, there isn’t any conclusion coming out of it; most of this time Childe spends admiring how peaceful Zhongli is, how divine he looks. Sometimes, he forgets that he’s dating an actual god. Impressive. Good job, Ajax.
Bad job, Childe, on signing up for this insane bet and being too stubborn to call it quits. Sure, there was some excitement at the beginning, and there was even some pleasure in how every little touch made his cock strain against the cage, but there was also lack of patience. And then there was the frustration; this big need silenced by a bigger can’t. And Tartaglia, the Eleventh Fatui Harbinger, isn’t the kind of man who accepts can’t.
He wants to trace his fingers along Zhongli’s chest, so it’s exactly what he does, savouring the warmth. There is no more subtle, no more secretive, no more thoughts about swiping the key to the cage from under Zhongli’s nose. His dick is suffocating in that cage, and yet, what he craves first is intimacy. Strange thought that feels surprisingly good. In contrast to fingers tightening over his wrist.
“I knew you weren’t asleep! You liar!” Childe exclaims, hardly coping with the feeling of betrayal. As he is betrayed not only by Zhongli, but also by his body, his cheeks flushed, his skin prickling with goosebumps.
“Oh, but I didn’t lie,” Zhongli says softly, a calm smile on his face. “You assumed, and I simply allowed it. Can you really blame me for that, love?”
He has the nerve—not just to keep his hold firm on Childe’s wrist, trapping him there—but to lift his other hand, barely brushing Childe’s cheek with his fingertips. And then, the audacity of it, his thumb grazes over Childe’s lips; a tease that only deepens the need and accentuates the can’t.
“You—” Childe begins, but his voice falters, his breath catching as Zhongli’s thumb lingers on his lips. And Childe, Archons save him, leans into the touch, mouth parting just slightly. It’s not technically breaking their bet, but it feels forbidden—and, oh, so enticing—just how close he is to tasting Zhongli’s skin. His pulse quickens, and it becomes impossible to ignore how his caged cock throbs with every touch. Heat floods low in his body, and he feels straining against the metal, desperate with need, but unable to truly get hard.
Childe’s knee shifts under the sheets, sliding higher until it’s nearly brushing Zhongli’s thigh, his body aching for every possible touch. But Zhongli notices, of course. The smile that’s been on his face morphs into a knowing smirk, and before Childe can do anything, Zhongli sits up and throws Childe’s leg off him, pulling his hand away from his lips, leaving Childe’s mouth tingling with the absence of that touch. Childe responds with a pout and a deep frown, feeling the frustration of being left unsatisfied.
“So,” Zhongli hums, clearly amused, “are you ready to concede, love? Only then may you continue as you wish.” His amber eyes gleam with challenge, his hair spilling over his shoulder, his face soft in the moonlight spilling through the window.
But Childe ignores the question. He also doesn’t focus on how divine Zhongli looks in this moment. Instead, his gaze drops—burning with frustration—straight to the pathetic, aching bulge beneath the cage. He can’t do anything but stare, his cock throbbing in its prison, miserable and helpless. It’s all he can do—look. All because of a stupid, pointless rule he set for himself. And what's worse, it's a rule he still deeply enjoys.
It takes Childe a moment to notice, but Zhongli’s gaze is also locked on the cage, his hand slowly slipping beneath his pyjamas, to stop comfortably on his own bulge. Just watching it, even through the material, makes Childe’s desperation grow stronger. He should be the one making Zhongli squirm, turning him into a needy mess, so that Childe might finally fulfil this desperate craving with his own cock. Oh, the need to just fill Zhongli up with his cock now, fuck him senseless, clouds Childe’s thoughts, making it harder to focus on anything but that desire.
“No—”, Childe cuts himself off as he watches Zhongli’s hand move slowly beneath the fabric. “I—there’s only one day left. You think I’m some quitter? No way.” He smirks, trying to mask his frustration with cocky confidence. “But… you can make the wait more pleasurable. Undress.” His gaze flicks down toward Zhongli’s cock, the subtle command clear in his eyes.
The only response Zhongli gives is a low, satisfied hum, but that’s all Childe needs. The view of Zhongli slowly unbuttoning his shirt while holding his gaze is enough to keep Childe rooted in place, despite every nerve in his body screaming to move closer. His skin glows faintly in the dim light, not quite the molten gold it becomes when Zhongli truly loses control, but still enough to leave Childe captivated. That thought alone makes Childe’s cock throb painfully in its cage.
Propping himself up against the mattress with his elbow, Childe watches as Zhongli's hand slips out from under his pyjamas, only to push the waistband down far enough to expose his semi-hard cock. Childe bites his lip, fighting the instinct to reach out and touch, to run his hands over Zhongli’s body and pull him close. He needs to do something, anything, to distract himself. So, he shifts higher on the bed, sliding back until his shoulders meet the wooden bedpost. The cool press of the sandbearer wood against his skin does nothing to ease the heated body. Zhongli notices, of course he does, and moves fluidly to the middle of the bed, positioning himself on his knees. Every move he makes is purposeful, ensuring that Childe has the perfect view.
The grip on the sheets tightens, his knuckles turning white, his breath uneven. He doesn’t even notice when his tongue darts out to wet his lips, his mouth suddenly dry, nor does he stop the low, needy sound that escapes his throat when Zhongli shrugs the shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall around his elbows.
“What do you want me to do, Childe?” Zhongli doesn’t move closer, but he places a hand on Childe’s knee. Childe instinctively reaches for it, but before he can grab hold, the hand is gone, replaced by nothing but a smug smile. Oh, how infuriatingly tempting that smile is, stretching all the way to Zhongli’s eyes.
“Love?” Zhongli prompts, his tone gentle but dripping with amusement.
There’s nothing wrong with being obsessed with your partner. Especially when said partner is sitting naked before you, knees buried in the sheets, legs slightly spread, the faint strain in his thighs making the muscles stand out just enough to make Childe’s mouth water.
It’s not weakness, not really—but testing his own restraint is exhilarating in its own right. It’s what makes the cage slick with pre-cum, his cock twitching uselessly within its confines, and what sends a rush of heat to Childe’s cheeks.
“Finger yourself,” Childe finally says, his voice tight with both need and resolve. “And do it the way I always do it.”
If Childe couldn’t have the satisfaction of doing it himself, they’d meet in the middle. The thought of Zhongli matching his rhythm—chasing the memory of Childe’s fingers and their familiar pace—Zhongli focusing on him with every slow stretch and measured thrust, it’s enough to drive Childe wild. For now.
“Very well,” Zhongli replies, his voice dripping with enthusiasm. He moves smoothly, reaching for the nightstand—but in doing so, he leans over Childe, his chest brushing against Childe’s legs. The deliberate movement of his arm rubs over Childe’s caged cock, sending a jolt of sensation through him that forces a whimper from his throat.
Childe bites his lip hard, his body betraying him completely. He’s certain that if he were free, he’d come embarrassingly fast, the release overwhelming after the torturous week he’s endured. And Zhongli knows it. The bastard knows exactly what he’s doing, and the amusement painted across his face only confirms it.
And he isn’t done teasing. As if to further prove just how much he’s enjoying himself, Zhongli’s arm brushes the cage again—this time calculated. The faint touch ghosts over Childe’s swollen balls, teasing them just enough to make Childe’s hips jerk involuntarily.
But that’s all Childe gets. After slicking his fingers with oil, Zhongli shifts gracefully, lying down on his side. His legs curl forward just enough, positioning himself perfectly for Childe to have an unobstructed view. Every movement is controlled as Zhongli begins preparing himself, gently and maddeningly slowly rubbing the oil around his rim. The teasing circles, the light tapping, and the gradual stretching—it’s all part of the show, and Childe can’t tear his eyes away.
It’s mesmerizing, the way Zhongli moves, every touch eliciting soft, promising sighs. Childe doesn’t dare make a sound, determined not to miss a single moment of this breathtaking performance. Zhongli’s amber gaze locks onto his, intense and meaningful, but holding that eye contact feels impossible when Childe’s focus keeps shifting to the way those elegant fingers work.
Childe realizes he’s been tensing every muscle in his body when the dizziness sets in. He lets out a shaky breath, forcing himself to relax. His head leans back against the bedpost, his fists unclenching, one leg bent at the knee and propped on the mattress. But the moment he feels a sliver of composure returning, he notices Zhongli’s gaze drifting—down to the cage.
Childe shakes his head, a dry chuckle escaping him, though his throat feels parched. “You’re enjoying this way too much,” he mutters, his voice rough.
Zhongli doesn’t bother looking away from the cage, a soft smirk tugging at his lips. “Isn’t that the point?”
And damn it, Zhongli’s right. As much as Childe had whined and cursed about this past week, there’s no denying the thrill. The anticipation, the restraint, the challenge—it was all self-inflicted, a game he’d designed for his own indulgence. And Zhongli had mastered playing along, taking Childe’s own rules and using them against him with a grace and patience that only he could manage.
“I—” Childe starts, scrambling for a coherent response, but his thoughts are a mess, clouded with the overwhelming thirst for Zhongli’s body, his intimacy—and, if he’s honest, the desperate need to finally release this unbearable tension. He exhales sharply, his voice strained as he teases, “Just continue, and this time, keep to character. I wouldn’t be so patient with you.”
It’s a playful jab, but not far from the truth. Childe might try to take his time, of course—try to savour it—but meticulous restraint wasn’t exactly his kink. That was Zhongli’s speciality.
As he liked to say, good things come to those who wait.
And, Archons, how Childe was hoping for that to be true.
Zhongli shifts back into the same comfortable position as before, settling with a calmness that makes Childe’s skin prickle with anticipation. Then, with a moan muffled by the sheets, Zhongli pushes two fingers into himself, burying them to the knuckle in one fluid motion. Childe’s eyes burn with the sight—how Zhongli’s muscles tighten around his fingers, how his hips roll upward instinctively.
And then, just like that, Zhongli pauses. Without a word, he adjusts, reaching for a pillow and sliding it beneath his hips, arching his back into a position so perfectly obscene it makes Childe’s breath hitch.
Childe presses his legs together, his thighs rubbing against each other in a futile search for relief, but it only makes him more aware of the cage. The sight of Zhongli—glistening and ready, fingers working him open, and Childe’s mind running wild with thoughts of taking his place—drives him mad. He imagines grabbing Zhongli by the ponytail, tilting him back for a kiss, covering his body in desperate touches. He craves the shift from the wet, rhythmic sounds of fingers to the raw slap of skin on skin, the way it would echo in the room.
“Is that more to your liking?” Zhongli asks, his voice low and heavy with pleasure, but still insanely polite. His head turns slightly, amber eyes glinting in the dim light.
Childe doesn’t have a chance to respond before Zhongli gasps softly, his composure slipping as his fingers graze something inside. His face betrays the exact moment he finds that wonderful bundle of nerves—the one Childe would’ve mercilessly abused by now, stealing every moan, every gasp, if only he could trade places.
Zhongli’s soft, breathy “Oh” makes Childe’s restraint feel like pure agony, a weight pressing against every nerve screaming for release.
“If that’s all you have to say, then you’re not doing it right,” Childe quips, his tone laced with mock critique, even though every nerve in his body screams otherwise. The teasing, the commanding—it’s all he has left, his only way to maintain some semblance of control in this infuriating situation. And Childe has never been one to back down, even when it feels like he’s losing the upper hand.
But Zhongli doesn’t respond—not verbally, at least. Instead, the room fills with the wet sounds of his fingers picking up speed, sliding in and out of himself with increasing fervour. Then, Zhongli shifts, stretching one leg out deliberately, his foot brushing against Childe’s calf. The contact is fleeting at first, but it doesn’t stop there; the teasing stroke travels upward, along Childe’s thigh, finally resting at his hip.
The pressure is light at first, maddeningly so, but constant—just enough to remind Childe of everything he can’t do. And it’s worse than keeping their distance. The sensation of Zhongli’s touch, so tantalizingly close yet impossibly restrained, makes Childe’s skin burn where they connect.
The pressure against his thigh grows steadily as Zhongli’s movements become more frantic, his fingers losing their once-meticulous rhythm. What began as a calculated performance devolves into something desperate, sloppy, and highly intoxicating.
Childe drinks it all in, the way Zhongli’s breath hitches, how his perfectly composed demeanour starts to crack. A flush spreads across his chest and neck, and the faint sheen of sweat highlights the tension in his muscles. Childe loves every second of it—how Zhongli’s body betrays him, how raw and needy he becomes, the way his moans catch in his throat.
The faster Zhongli’s fingers work him open, the harder he presses into Childe’s thigh, his hips moving in time with his hand. Childe’s hands tighten on the sheets, white-knuckled and trembling. He wants so badly to grab Zhongli, to kiss him senseless, to replace those fingers with his own cock and ruin him completely.
But all he can do is watch.
And Zhongli knows it.
That’s why Zhongli keeps his gaze locked on Childe, watching as he pathetically spills over himself. Cum drips lazily through the bars of the cage onto his thigh. The heat pooling in Childe’s abdomen and spreading through his body brings a flicker of relief, but it’s nowhere near enough. If anything, the weak, muffled climax leaves him even more riled up, without achieving any satisfaction, his cock throbbing in the cage, helplessly leaking. He grunts, low and frustrated, while Zhongli watches, entirely too satisfied, his golden eyes tracing the sticky mess sliding toward Childe’s inner thigh.
“Stop looking at me like that,” Childe mumbles, though it comes out more annoyed than he intends. Not that it’s real annoyance—no, he’s just needy, greedy, desperate for something more than this agonizing teasing. Every nerve in his body burns, and he’s painfully aware of how Zhongli’s gaze on him only makes it worse.
Zhongli doesn’t say anything right away. The mix of it all—arousal, frustration, yearning—must be written all over Childe’s face because he slows his movements, pulling his fingers free with a wet sound that blends into a soft, breathless sigh. Then Zhongli shifts, his body turning to face Childe.
“Is there a problem? Do you wish us to stop?” Zhongli’s tone is calm and gentle, but his voice is hoarse from pleasure.
“I wish you’d fuck me.”
“I don’t see why not.”
Zhongli lowers himself onto his belly, nestling against Childe’s closed legs. Resting his head on Childe’s thigh, he looks up at him, that infuriatingly composed gaze betraying just the barest flicker of mischief.
“Please, cooperate; how can you suggest that I should quit the chastity on the last day?” Childe looks at Zhongli and the way hair spilling messily over his skin, and how the proximity makes saying no to him even harder. If Zhongli had looked at him like this on the first day of his chastity, there wouldn’t have been a chastity week at all.
“Oh,” Zhongli muses, as though he’s realized something profound. He turns his head slightly, lips brushing against the streak of cum on Childe’s thigh. “I understand the flaw in your reasoning,” he murmurs, and then—then—he presses soft kisses to the sticky skin, his tongue darting out to taste.
Childe jerks involuntarily, his whole body twitching at the sensation. A single, helpless moan escapes him before he can stop it.
“Isn’t the point of this contr—” Zhongli catches himself, a faint smile gracing his lips as he corrects his usual habit, “this plan, that you’re the one forbidden from touching me or yourself?”
This revelation doesn't even get a response. Instead, Childe moves, shoving Zhongli off him with more force than necessary and scrambling toward the centre of the bed. He throws himself back against the pillows, flushed and panting, his lips parted. His whole body is an invitation—knees slightly bent, thighs spread just enough, his skin slick with sweat.
The desire had flooded Childe's mind, leaving no room for logic or foresight, and in the haze of it, he missed the obvious. The audacity of this man—not to point it out! Zhongli had known all along that they could play this game differently, that there were ways for Childe to get what he wanted without breaking the rules outright. But no, the bastard chose to torment him with lingering, accidental touches, coy flirtation, and this entire agonizing performance. It was evil—evil in the most tempting way.
“You’re the God of Bending the Rules, you know that?”
Zhongli’s response is predictably infuriating. He doesn’t rise to Childe’s bait—instead, he slows down even further, deliberately taking his time as if to match Childe’s impatience with a maddening calm. The contrast is thrilling in its way, though it doesn’t stop Childe from acting on impulse.
If Zhongli doesn't hurry, he will.
Childe reaches for the bottle instead, snatching it before Zhongli could. He tilts it over, spilling the oil onto Zhongli’s cock in a clumsy, desperate motion. The oil doesn’t just coat Zhongli; it splashes across the sheets, creating a mess, and instead of reprimanding him for the mess, Zhongli rewards Childe with the sight of him smoothing the oil over his length. And he doesn’t stop there; his fingers move with purpose, slicking the oil not only over himself but around Childe’s rim.
But that is all the preparation Zhongli gives him—just enough to make it smooth, enough to ensure there would be no complaints. And then he thrusts forward in one decisive, unrelenting motion.
Childe’s breath catches in his throat, a sharp inhale forced from him as he takes Zhongli’s cock fully, his body adjusting to the stretch and burn in an instant. His hands fly to the sheets, gripping them tightly—both to brace himself and to ensure he doesn’t break the rule, doesn’t touch Zhongli directly.
Zhongli, for his part, wastes no time in asserting control. His hands grip Childe’s hips, firm and unyielding, holding him in place. There is no space for grinding, no control from Childe’s end—this is all Zhongli, taking him thoroughly, deeply, with knowing thrusts that leave Childe trembling and breathless.
It is frustrating, not being able to touch, not being able to move in sync. And yet, the lack of control, the vulnerability of simply being touched, is its own kind of thrill. He can’t act—can’t do anything but take it—and somehow that makes everything feel sharper, deeper, more all-consuming.
The sensation is peculiar—entirely different from what he is used to—but amazing in its own right. With his cock still locked in the cage and no way to stimulate any other part of his body, every nerve in Childe’s being seems to focus in on the overwhelming fullness.
He hears every sound—the rhythmic slap of skin meeting skin, the wet noises of Zhongli moving inside him, the rustle of sheets beneath them. He notices every detail—the shallow, uneven breaths that catch in his dry mouth when he tries to close his lips, the tears stinging at the corners of his eyes, and the cool, unyielding press of steel against his swollen balls.
And Zhongli, of course, has to make it worse, or better, or something in between. His palm presses lightly over the cage, his fingers barely stroking the skin trapped beneath the bars, hardly enough to stimulate. “You look beautiful like this,” Zhongli murmurs, his voice sincere and his amber eyes holding a lovesick softness that catches Childe off guard.
Beautiful? The word isn’t one he expected, certainly not when his cock is straining uselessly against the cold, unyielding metal. But he doesn’t argue. Instead, he tries desperately to grind his hips, taking advantage of the moment when Zhongli’s grip on his pelvis loosens.
His eagerness backfires, obviously. Zhongli’s hand leaves the cage entirely, his teasing caress replaced with a punishing rhythm as he thrust harder, deeper, drawing gasps and broken whimpers from Childe’s lips. He lifts his hips higher, holding Childe steady, and Childe gives in fully, offering everything he had in return—his moans, his sighs, and the desperate, breathless sounds that escape him without care.
The meagre spill from before isn't even worth mentioning—Childe refuses to call that an orgasm. Not when compared to this. This is something else entirely: overwhelming waves of pleasure crashing through him, intensifying with every thrust, every time Zhongli’s cock presses against his prostate. It’s infuriatingly good, enough to make Childe almost angry that it actually works. That he doesn’t need to grip his cock and pump himself dry to reach satisfaction.
The tingling sensation radiating from his ass builds slowly, crawling up his spine and tightening his core as he instinctively clenches around Zhongli. It's pulling a strained groan from Childe's lips as his abs tighten instinctively, his body trying to ride out the sensation. He wants more, needs more, and for once, it’s all coming from this—the undeniable pleasure of Zhongli fucking him senseless. It’s absolutely not the kind of satisfaction he expected when he first pitched this chastity idea just for the thrill of it. The sensation is leaving Childe shamelessly moaning his release, his body trembling as the familiar post-orgasm haze clouds his mind.
And Zhongli follows close behind; he comes inside him, his moans low and breathless as his pace stutters to a stop. The cum drips from Childe's ass the moment Zhongli pulls out, thick and warm against his thighs as it spills onto the sheets.
Childe doesn’t waste a second. Reaching out, he tugs Zhongli forward by his hair, crashing their lips together in a sloppy, desperate kiss. It’s all teeth and tongue, the kind of kiss that leaves no room for air, stealing every breath and moan until Childe’s head spins from lack of oxygen.
Zhongli pulls back just enough to murmur against Childe’s lips, almost prompting another unrestricted kiss. “I’m afraid,” he starts, his amber gaze holding Childe’s as a smug smile spreads across his flushed face. “You didn’t make it past one week.”