[It is fleeting, barely there, but Zhongli sees the precise moment desire battles restraint.
The moment when Ajax’s mind fractures between the logic of the game and the weight of their indulgence. The idea of what could be, if not for the constraints of their setting. A world without a table between them, without a chessboard dictating their careful dance. Would he pull him closer? Would he claim him with the same boldness he has wielded since the start? Would he take his victory not in chess, but in the way Zhongli’s lips part beneath his own?
And how fascinating, that Zhongli lets himself consider it.
The warmth of Ajax’s thumb, now skimming on his ankle, and he wonders if he'd ever kiss it. The heat of his body, tense and waiting, as Zhongli presses just a fraction harder, his foot a slow, deliberate weight against Ajax’s thigh.
A reminder that he is watching him.
And Ajax—
Ah.
He had suspected as much before, but now there is little doubt: Ajax does not play with the expectation of winning. He plays for the thrill. For the risk. For the moment the game turns in his favor or against it, and he gets to claw it back, just to feel it slip between his fingers again, to chase after it. The eternal unsatisfied. Never sated.
Ajax’s voice is honey-thick, smooth and self-assured, but Zhongli can see the effort behind it. The tension beneath the confidence as his fingers finally move—the queen glides across the board onto a block-challenge-invitation. Zhongli hums, the amusement curling warm behind his lips.
So he is pulling out formalities, now.
What a wonderfully dangerous game.
Two turns. He's seen this play. He knows that is what Ajax is banking on. If he can keep his king moving for just two more turns, then victory will be his. It is, still, a gamble. A high-stakes one, considering how Zhongli has already laid out the trap. But this is exactly what he's come to admire about Ajax, that he looks like a man who'd grin with a blade at his throat. Foolish.
But what of everything else?
Would Ajax ever allow himself to simply enjoy what Zhongli had to offer? Or would he tussle and wrestle for dominance each time, all bright teeth and burning want, pushing until neither of them could breathe? Would he fight for it every single time?
Zhongli could end it here.
He lets one more piece move instead.
His fingers drift, trailing with a smooth motion before nudging his knight forward. In one stroke, Zhongli has offered the king an escape route, but it comes at a price. A single open line leading straight to the waiting jaws of his final rook.
The other unremarkable dark pieces on Zhongli’s side have, until now, seemed harmless. Small pawns, scattered across the battlefield like forgotten remnants, inconsequential to the grander scheme of things. And yet, with the shift of his knight, the landscape of the board turns in an instant. What had seemed innocent now bristles with hidden intent, every minor piece aligned into an unexpected threat.
A single pebble thrown at a giant’s eye can bring him to his knees. A whisper, carried across a kingdom, can ignite a revolution. A modest, unassuming toy salesman can entice a dragon, as if his very bones are spun from gold.
And then, he reaches for Ajax’s playing hand, brings it closer, his own fingers twining with his, slow, deliberate. His eyes are half-lidded, gold smoldering with something undeniable, something that settles deep in his chest like the secret he can't speak of. Presses his lips, soft and unhurried, against the back of his own hand. Not quite kissing Ajax's, his warm breath skimming only as he lets out a sigh. He lingers, just for a breath, just long enough for the warmth of his mouth to linger, before his gaze lifts again, heavy-lidded, knowing.
What a contradiction he must be.
He could see it now, couldn’t he?
The way all those innocuous little things have turned into weapons.
And yet, the pathway for his own king? Still open, seemingly defenseless. An acknowledgement in the silence, a provocation that needs no words: 'come catch me'.
And then, as if he has done nothing at all, as if this moment isn’t curling into something thick and inescapable, he murmurs against his own skin.]
no subject
The moment when Ajax’s mind fractures between the logic of the game and the weight of their indulgence. The idea of what could be, if not for the constraints of their setting. A world without a table between them, without a chessboard dictating their careful dance. Would he pull him closer? Would he claim him with the same boldness he has wielded since the start? Would he take his victory not in chess, but in the way Zhongli’s lips part beneath his own?
And how fascinating, that Zhongli lets himself consider it.
The warmth of Ajax’s thumb, now skimming on his ankle, and he wonders if he'd ever kiss it. The heat of his body, tense and waiting, as Zhongli presses just a fraction harder, his foot a slow, deliberate weight against Ajax’s thigh.
A reminder that he is watching him.
And Ajax—
Ah.
He had suspected as much before, but now there is little doubt: Ajax does not play with the expectation of winning. He plays for the thrill. For the risk. For the moment the game turns in his favor or against it, and he gets to claw it back, just to feel it slip between his fingers again, to chase after it. The eternal unsatisfied. Never sated.
Ajax’s voice is honey-thick, smooth and self-assured, but Zhongli can see the effort behind it. The tension beneath the confidence as his fingers finally move—the queen glides across the board onto a block-challenge-invitation. Zhongli hums, the amusement curling warm behind his lips.
So he is pulling out formalities, now.
What a wonderfully dangerous game.
Two turns. He's seen this play. He knows that is what Ajax is banking on. If he can keep his king moving for just two more turns, then victory will be his. It is, still, a gamble. A high-stakes one, considering how Zhongli has already laid out the trap. But this is exactly what he's come to admire about Ajax, that he looks like a man who'd grin with a blade at his throat. Foolish.
But what of everything else?
Would Ajax ever allow himself to simply enjoy what Zhongli had to offer? Or would he tussle and wrestle for dominance each time, all bright teeth and burning want, pushing until neither of them could breathe? Would he fight for it every single time?
Zhongli could end it here.
He lets one more piece move instead.
His fingers drift, trailing with a smooth motion before nudging his knight forward. In one stroke, Zhongli has offered the king an escape route, but it comes at a price. A single open line leading straight to the waiting jaws of his final rook.
The other unremarkable dark pieces on Zhongli’s side have, until now, seemed harmless. Small pawns, scattered across the battlefield like forgotten remnants, inconsequential to the grander scheme of things. And yet, with the shift of his knight, the landscape of the board turns in an instant. What had seemed innocent now bristles with hidden intent, every minor piece aligned into an unexpected threat.
A single pebble thrown at a giant’s eye can bring him to his knees. A whisper, carried across a kingdom, can ignite a revolution. A modest, unassuming toy salesman can entice a dragon, as if his very bones are spun from gold.
And then, he reaches for Ajax’s playing hand, brings it closer, his own fingers twining with his, slow, deliberate. His eyes are half-lidded, gold smoldering with something undeniable, something that settles deep in his chest like the secret he can't speak of. Presses his lips, soft and unhurried, against the back of his own hand. Not quite kissing Ajax's, his warm breath skimming only as he lets out a sigh. He lingers, just for a breath, just long enough for the warmth of his mouth to linger, before his gaze lifts again, heavy-lidded, knowing.
What a contradiction he must be.
He could see it now, couldn’t he?
The way all those innocuous little things have turned into weapons.
And yet, the pathway for his own king? Still open, seemingly defenseless. An acknowledgement in the silence, a provocation that needs no words: 'come catch me'.
And then, as if he has done nothing at all, as if this moment isn’t curling into something thick and inescapable, he murmurs against his own skin.]
Check, Ajax.