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Aether breathes in.
One.
He can’t move. Well, he can. A little pathetically with nails scraped out against tile. Cold mora soaked with rainwater shifts at his fingertips. A weight bears across his back, pinning him to the floor of the Golden House. His left leg is caught, the imprint of claw marks left ruddy and red beneath torn cloth.
Two.
Hot breaths puff along the notches of his spine. He imagines, if he were to turn, he’d see that jaw unhinge, dislocated and loose from the bone. The creature beneath Childe’s– no, Tartaglia’s– pleasant guise let free, along with rows and rows of jagged dripping teeth. A monster of the Abyss. It's what the man has twisted himself into with a battle hungry glee.
Aether indulged Childe for far too long. Continues to. He cannot deny the fight is something he enjoys. Hand to hand, sword to fist, but really what spurred him on was the man before him. His friend.
How had he turned to this ?
Three.
The Foul Legacy looms. Its massive form dwarfs him in its shadow, and Childe’s voice rumbles from its depths with a tinny echo. “Do you give up?” He toys. He picks and pries, like this is still a game, and it is to him. One Aether met every step of the way. “Have you failed your little mission, Aether?”
The name is blown out against his nape, striking gooseflesh in its wake. Aether shivers, and Childe counts it as a point towards his victory.
“I won’t let you win.”
“Good. Good!” Laughter rings in his ears. It deepens to a low purr, and with it, Childe’s mask cracks, split along the seam of what would be his mouth. A thick appendage rolls out, shimmering and wet. Aether does not feel fear. Not of the Abyss and not of Childe, but something flutters unsteadily in the pit of his stomach when he says–
“I hope you won’t disappoint me.”
In his confidence, Aether fails to factor in the monster tongue.
He loses count somewhere between getting prostrated to the floor and having this monster of a Fatui snort at his premature boner. The fight was excuse number one. Adrenaline, tense emotions. The second– all that manhandling. And the third, well…
Perhaps, Teyvat has broadened his tastes.
A moan spills between Aeither’s fingertips. Stifling it is futile. He’s almost succumbed to whatever ‘battle’ they have both convinced themselves this to be. For the Fatui? For Teyvat? Any moral high ground was tossed aside with half his dignity when Childe let that Abyss monstrosity of tongue descend upon him.
The Childe Aether first met would have wined and dined him, snuck him into the Liuli Pavillion and treated them both to a meal Paimon would never shut up about, and then sweep him away on some sly adventure in the night. But Tartaglia…
Tartaglia takes him as if he were the finest feast. Something to be savored, his little prize in exchange for a lost gnosis.
“The door’s right there. You could get away… probably. ” Childe says. Aether can feel the eye roll, if the Foul Legacy has eyes. What lies beyond the mask is still up for debate. All except for the one thing he now finds himself intimately familiar with.
“And run away?” Aether tries for bravado, tries to make a sound with some semblance of decency. Only for it to fail miserably when he’s licked in a long, slobbering stripe spanning cock to hole. “N-no…” he stammers.
Childe merely hums in response and does it again. This time Aether does moan. Terribly . The hard mask of Childe’s form buries into his ass. Along with it, his tongue teases past his rim, opening him up on slick, hot spit.
“Ah,” Aether murmurs into his forearm. His hips angle instinctively, pushed back onto the length which sinks into his guts. He’s never had a tongue down there, and certainly, not like this. It unfurls inside, the tapered tip pushing deeper and deeper until he swears he can feel the end of it tickling beneath his navel. The Foul Legacy devours him relentlessly. Globs of saliva bubble past its mouth, trickling hot down the back of his thighs. Aether’s cock twitches and smears the tile with a pathetic dribble of precum.
Oh, fuck. His eyes flutter. The tongue writhes, pushes deeper, and fucks him proper. In. Then, out. It slinks through his insides, molding to his spasming walls, and just when Aether thinks he might cum, across their battlefield and across Teyvat’s great store of mora, there is nothing.
Aether gapes. Is that it, then? Is Childe done playing these games? Can they get back to the whole ‘villain destroying Liyue’ bit and the definitely not fucked-out hero to save it? His wobbly legs don’t instill confidence. Neither does his throbbing erection, left unspent between his thighs.
“Unsatisfied? Ha, don’t worry. I am very generous.”
Aether swallows. The weight which slides over his lower back is unmistakable. Childe cannot be serious.
“It won’t fit,” Aether says bluntly of the near two feet of throbbing monster meat slicking him up with warm spend.
He tuts, disappointed. “Where’s that bravery? That bravado? Oh, Aether, I believe in you.”
Childe does not entertain him any longer. No more waiting, no more teasing. Only the blunt head of that massive cock lined up to his fluttering hole and the swift thrust which impales him on the entire thing.
It takes his breath away. Each inch fucked inside makes his body scream as its pushed to its limit. His stomach distends. The crude line of cock obvious beneath his navel. Aether touches it once in a morbid curiosity and feels it throb beneath his fingertips as his organs give way to make room for the Foul Legacy.
“See?” Childe whispers and curls his tongue along Aether’s jaw, sweeping up the sweat and tears. His hole squelches on a spurt of cum, and the monster behind him purrs. “I knew you could do it.”
The storm brews overhead. Rain falls, and the waves churn. All the while, Aether is rawed upon the floor of Liyue’s coveted Golden House– taken again and again. A thorough, overwhelming loss. One that even Childe begins to succumb to. Where once there was teasing and heated words cooed against his nape, there are only grunts and the slick sounds of each load being fucked deeper than the last.
How much time has passed? Minutes? Hours? Aether can’t tell until the moment Childe slips from him and finally sheds the monstrous guise of his transformation.
“You’ve made a mess,” Childe observes. Aether disagrees . It is much more his mess left running down his thighs and stuffing him full. He thinks the Foul Legacy nearly fucked all that cum up to his esophagus. That if he coughed upon the floor, it would be with specks of white. “A parting gift ,” his hole is tugged, the puffy rim caught on gloved fingers. Aether stifles a dry moan, only to swallow it down when he’s stuffed on something cold and flared. Childe chuckles to himself, pleased with his work.
“Now, don’t you have a city to save, Aether ?”