elegyoftheend
carmen dei
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ZHONGLI X CHILDE.
tw: themes of sex.
Each moan, each gasp resonated through the room like a symphony of desire, an intricate melody crafted from the delicate strings of passion's most sacred instrument. Yet, the sounds that escaped his parted lips were far from holy, steeped instead in sin and debauchery as they lay in forbidden ecstasy they willingly embraced: a fallen god riddled in erosion and a harbinger sent to bring chaos upon his sacred land. What an irony.
Oh, how low had the lord of Geo fallen from his graceful throne? He, who was once the pinnacle of power and majesty, now is being reduced to an erotic mess beneath a member of the Fatui.
His brown locks strewn across dampened sheets, released from the grip of his meticulously bound hair tie and now tangled along the crevices of Childe's fingers. The elegant attire he had donned just this morning now lay discarded on the floor, deemed unnecessary by the ocean-eyed devil who sought only the raw beauty or Zhongli's exposed form.
"Ngh-!" His golden gaze, wide and glossy, met the deep azure pools that resided within Childe's eyes. Zhongli's flushed cheeks painted red by the heat that permeated in the air of their closed quarters as they drove each other to the edge — slamming his hips against the other, driving the other deeper inside the warmth of his walls.
Long fingers found home in Zhongli's hips as the Fatui harbinger drew the god closer to him. Skin against skin, they delved deeper into the depths of their desires, driving himself deeper inside him while his free hand reached for his locks. With a possessive grasp, he tugged at Zhongli's hair, pulling him into a fervent kiss that ignited their passion further; their tongues dancing in a frenzied embrace, their moans mingling with the rhythmic symphony of their hips slamming against each other, filling the air with an intoxicating aroma of desire as they descended into a maddening ecstasy.
"Oh, archons!" The words that slipped from Zhongli's lips were a delirious plea, a desperate call for divine entities in the whirlwind of pleasure as he lost himself in the sensation of Childe's touch, momentarily forgetting that he is his own deity.
The sheer irony of the situation is laughable. Childe was sent to sow chaos upon the god of Geo's land, yet here he lay, stripped bare inside the very god's chambers, consumed by lust that overwhelmed his desire for destruction. But who could fault him in the face of such irresistible temptation? Who could condemn him when faced with the captivating allure of Zhongli's golden eyes, drawing him inexorably into the depths of desire? Surely, The Tsaritsa could understand.
Blame not the man who succumbs to his fantasies. After all, he is already a man enveloped in the sweet embrace of sin.
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tw: gore, graphic violence, death, body horror, psychological distress(?). dead dove, do not eat.
Red. It flows like a river, saturating the once pristine white silk with a depth of crimson that seems to have a life of its own. Each thread is now a conduit for anguish, transforming the fabric into a tapestry of sorrow that permeates his very being.
The golden accessories, once adorning him as his people knelt before his divine statue, now lay broken and dull against his fair skin, unblemished other than the stain of crimson which he could not wipe away, by the corruption of chaos surrounding him. Even in his thorned throne, he lies still and beautiful; ethereal even on the verge of death.
Cyan eyes, radiant in sunlight, now bear the weight of dried blood and the droplets of fresh ones that seem never to cease their flow. With each drop that stains his cheeks, leaving a trail of crimson before falling onto the cracks of the marble floor, a macabre symphony echoes through the halls—a melody of death that he was all too familiar with but had never once sung.
Red splatters across the pristine white feathers of his wing, draped over his bloodied corpse. The other torn from his flesh, scorched and broken as it lies to remind him of the desperation of his people, while his feathers, once symbols of grace and beauty, now resemble shredded flesh, tangled in a grotesque dance with blood-soaked strands.
His throat hollowed—both figuratively and literally—a horrifying mess of flesh in place of vocal cords that gifted him a voice unmatched by heaven and earth. The one who sang the most beautiful melodies now lies voiceless, unable to sing his praises to his people; unable to scream in horror at his own fate.
Red, sullied the purity of his soul as they stripped him of his divine title, drawn forcefully from his veins by the very people he swore to protect. Red that covered the hands of those who ripped his wings away from him to fulfill the desires of something much greater than a god—fed with lies that by damning the deity of their nation, they would be saved from the fate that lies ahead for their kind.
Fate is by design, unfortunately, and theirs is to be damned by the color of red that seeped from their veins, drained out of life in a torrent of gore and agony, their bodies strewn across the marble floor like discarded husks, twisted and broken, a curse ignited by the savagery of their deeds.
Oh, how tragic. He could see yet he couldn't move from where they had chained him. He wishes to call for mercy from the greater being that damned him, yet he couldn't even utter his own name. He sits still, burdened by the weight of his kingdom's crumbling walls, surrounded by blood he couldn't distinguish as his or his people's. He could only watch as the sky collapsed into them, burying them under the ruins of the world that had cursed their nation and its god.
It was their own undoing that signed their fate; their palms were riddled with sin and bathed in blood, heads filled with guilt for the fate of their archon and the desperation to save themselves. But there is no way for the children of the wind to be saved, for, right from the beginning, they are damned by Celestia fate to fall with him.
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