( the fight — long anticipated, from zhonghli's traitorous reveal at the northland bank to now, locked inside the bottom level of the golden house — doesn't go exactly as childe plans.
zhongli is a storm of undented grace and strength unrolling on childe like a cresting wave, but his control holds as steady as steel. when childe pushes, zhongli endures readily, deflecting falling arrows with a casual flick of his polearm and retaliating to subdue, not injure. his centuries-built discipline bites into the bleeding wound of his pride, insulting, maddening; he refuses to bend even as childe glides through a shifting tide of weapons, discarding his bow for blades, his blades for a sword, his sword for a polearm.
come on, he says, more than once. his polearm hits the ground following a well-timed blow from zhongli, and childe exhales through his teeth, hooking his toe under the shaft and kicking up. he catches the shaft in an outstretched hand, poles crossing as he surges forward into zhongli's returning swing. )
Xiansheng. ( on another punched exhale that shivers into a slow-winding hiss on the last syllable. zhongli looms over him, held back by childe's own polearm as he repositions into a wider stance to slow his slide on water-slick marble.
he tuts and pins zhongli with a sharp-eyed stare, eyelashes fluttering to a half-mast veil, almost demure. )
I said I wanted a fight, not a match.
( his grip on his polearm tightens into a white-knuckle fist, shoulders quivering in his strain to maintain their deadlock. zhongli is far stronger than he looks — fitting, childe supposes, for a god who has felled so many. he should unwind from this, reset and start again from a better angle where he has the advantage, but the heat peeling off zhongli is an inviting abyss, and it cleaves into childe's reflexes like a honed knife. he's warm enough to touch. close enough to lick his serrated edges. sweet enough to swallow him whole and steep in the burn.
he tips his head back and bares his throat like a willing lamb for the slaughter, then tangles his hand in his tie and twists, tugs, anchoring him into his space. the pressure bearing down on top of him increases; childe arches slightly against it, and snaps his teeth near zhongli's mouth.
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zhongli is a storm of undented grace and strength unrolling on childe like a cresting wave, but his control holds as steady as steel. when childe pushes, zhongli endures readily, deflecting falling arrows with a casual flick of his polearm and retaliating to subdue, not injure. his centuries-built discipline bites into the bleeding wound of his pride, insulting, maddening; he refuses to bend even as childe glides through a shifting tide of weapons, discarding his bow for blades, his blades for a sword, his sword for a polearm.
come on, he says, more than once. his polearm hits the ground following a well-timed blow from zhongli, and childe exhales through his teeth, hooking his toe under the shaft and kicking up. he catches the shaft in an outstretched hand, poles crossing as he surges forward into zhongli's returning swing. )
Xiansheng. ( on another punched exhale that shivers into a slow-winding hiss on the last syllable. zhongli looms over him, held back by childe's own polearm as he repositions into a wider stance to slow his slide on water-slick marble.
he tuts and pins zhongli with a sharp-eyed stare, eyelashes fluttering to a half-mast veil, almost demure. )
I said I wanted a fight, not a match.
( his grip on his polearm tightens into a white-knuckle fist, shoulders quivering in his strain to maintain their deadlock. zhongli is far stronger than he looks — fitting, childe supposes, for a god who has felled so many. he should unwind from this, reset and start again from a better angle where he has the advantage, but the heat peeling off zhongli is an inviting abyss, and it cleaves into childe's reflexes like a honed knife. he's warm enough to touch. close enough to lick his serrated edges. sweet enough to swallow him whole and steep in the burn.
he tips his head back and bares his throat like a willing lamb for the slaughter, then tangles his hand in his tie and twists, tugs, anchoring him into his space. the pressure bearing down on top of him increases; childe arches slightly against it, and snaps his teeth near zhongli's mouth.
better. )
Stop playing with me.
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