Technically, they do not break the rules, and yet his skin feels the edge of Ajax's teeth so vividly. It is not the soft graze of lips on a ring, or the careful, curated affection of courtship, but the sharp, instinctive nip of something wild. Something unruly. Something that wants.
And wants him.
The faintest gasp catches at the back of his throat, too quiet to be called a sound, more like the flicker of a candle in a still room. His lashes flutter low over gold-lit eyes, and he watches as Ajax soothes the indentations of his bite with his thumb, as if marking the spot only to later worship it. A shiver curls down his spine from the sheer audacity of being wanted like this. It is… not what he is used to. He has been admired, yes. Desired, even. Revered and feared and bowed to. But not pursued.
And not with this much teeth.
Zhongli swallows. He is composed, of course he is. Composure is all he has, at times. But even that feels threadbare around the edges now, tugged loose like the garter Ajax’s fingers still stroke with maddening reverence. One touch, two. Still there. Still teasing. Still claiming.
Ajax’s queen has surged forward now, taking the knight that had opened the way. It’s a brilliant move—impulsive, devastating. The kind that carves into Zhongli’s strategy and leaves a wound. The kind of move that should be punished.
Instead, it is… fascinating.
Because Ajax lays himself bare, as though he has nothing to lose. Because he walks into a trap, knowing, and does so anyway with that ever-gleaming grin and a flourish that makes Zhongli feel a little drunk. He calls him xiansheng like it’s a shared joke. Like he knows what the title means. Like he might peel it from his skin with the same care he might unfasten the clasp of his belt.
His fingers tighten, just slightly, against the younger man’s, entwined as they are, and he allows his own gaze some respite from the beautiful coppered and brilliant man sitting across from him, like a trap Zhongli is finding himself wanting to be fully encased by.
Who's the hunter, truly? ]
You should be careful, [he murmurs, voice low, the words almost lost to the hush of the gallery around them.] Those who play with dragons often mistake the warmth of their breath for something safe.
[The bishop strikes.
It is not the most logical move on the board by far. There were easier targets, more immediate counters, cleaner paths to safeguard the king he has so openly left exposed. But for once, Zhongli does not do it for the sake of logic. He does it to watch Ajax react.
Ajax’s rook, proud and loyal and so rarely out of position, vanishes under the sweep of his bishop like it had never been there at all. It is, in all aspects, an elegant capture.
It does not protect Zhongli's king. It does not block Ajax’s queen. It leaves the heart of his defenses threadbare, veiled only by the illusion of caution. A gesture of strength that, when pressed, offers no resistance.
And yet, how it sings.
Because the rook was a threat, a shadow, a witness to all the traps he'd laid. Zhongli takes it not for necessity, but because it hurts. Because it matters. Because it sends a message, a blade pressed flat to skin, not to cut, but to make its weight known.
And still, the path remains open. The king is untouched. Unfleeing. Unmoved.
Zhongli watches Ajax from beneath the sweep of his lashes, gold eyes slow and hooded, as if this isn’t war, but a study. Every line of Ajax's body is wired with tension that he wears like silk, deceptive in its softness, and every bit as dangerous.
Zhongli can feel the slight shift in his grip, the subtle change in his stillness. He can sense the way his focus flickers, ever so slightly, between board and thigh, between threat and temptation. As though keeping himself tethered to something he hasn’t decided yet whether he wants to destroy or to worship.
The bishop falls into place with a delicate, hollow tap.
Zhongli exhales. The kind of sound that trembles just beneath the threshold of notice, but feels louder than thunder in the silence between them. His thumb glides once across the knuckles of Ajax’s hand, still held, still offered.
Zhongli sees it. Feels it. Knows the next step, the final step, is not his.
And yet, he doesn’t look afraid.
He looks like he’s waiting.
For the teeth. For the triumph. For the fall.
Perhaps this is what it means to be caught.
To want to be.]
Go on, [he says softly, eyes glittering as the last of the bishop’s echo fades between them.] Let’s see if you can truly reach me.
no subject
Technically, they do not break the rules, and yet his skin feels the edge of Ajax's teeth so vividly. It is not the soft graze of lips on a ring, or the careful, curated affection of courtship, but the sharp, instinctive nip of something wild. Something unruly. Something that wants.
And wants him.
The faintest gasp catches at the back of his throat, too quiet to be called a sound, more like the flicker of a candle in a still room. His lashes flutter low over gold-lit eyes, and he watches as Ajax soothes the indentations of his bite with his thumb, as if marking the spot only to later worship it. A shiver curls down his spine from the sheer audacity of being wanted like this. It is… not what he is used to. He has been admired, yes. Desired, even. Revered and feared and bowed to. But not pursued.
And not with this much teeth.
Zhongli swallows. He is composed, of course he is. Composure is all he has, at times. But even that feels threadbare around the edges now, tugged loose like the garter Ajax’s fingers still stroke with maddening reverence. One touch, two. Still there. Still teasing. Still claiming.
Ajax’s queen has surged forward now, taking the knight that had opened the way. It’s a brilliant move—impulsive, devastating. The kind that carves into Zhongli’s strategy and leaves a wound. The kind of move that should be punished.
Instead, it is… fascinating.
Because Ajax lays himself bare, as though he has nothing to lose. Because he walks into a trap, knowing, and does so anyway with that ever-gleaming grin and a flourish that makes Zhongli feel a little drunk. He calls him xiansheng like it’s a shared joke. Like he knows what the title means. Like he might peel it from his skin with the same care he might unfasten the clasp of his belt.
His fingers tighten, just slightly, against the younger man’s, entwined as they are, and he allows his own gaze some respite from the beautiful coppered and brilliant man sitting across from him, like a trap Zhongli is finding himself wanting to be fully encased by.
Who's the hunter, truly? ]
You should be careful, [he murmurs, voice low, the words almost lost to the hush of the gallery around them.] Those who play with dragons often mistake the warmth of their breath for something safe.
[The bishop strikes.
It is not the most logical move on the board by far. There were easier targets, more immediate counters, cleaner paths to safeguard the king he has so openly left exposed. But for once, Zhongli does not do it for the sake of logic. He does it to watch Ajax react.
Ajax’s rook, proud and loyal and so rarely out of position, vanishes under the sweep of his bishop like it had never been there at all. It is, in all aspects, an elegant capture.
It does not protect Zhongli's king. It does not block Ajax’s queen. It leaves the heart of his defenses threadbare, veiled only by the illusion of caution. A gesture of strength that, when pressed, offers no resistance.
And yet, how it sings.
Because the rook was a threat, a shadow, a witness to all the traps he'd laid. Zhongli takes it not for necessity, but because it hurts. Because it matters. Because it sends a message, a blade pressed flat to skin, not to cut, but to make its weight known.
And still, the path remains open. The king is untouched. Unfleeing. Unmoved.
Zhongli watches Ajax from beneath the sweep of his lashes, gold eyes slow and hooded, as if this isn’t war, but a study. Every line of Ajax's body is wired with tension that he wears like silk, deceptive in its softness, and every bit as dangerous.
Zhongli can feel the slight shift in his grip, the subtle change in his stillness. He can sense the way his focus flickers, ever so slightly, between board and thigh, between threat and temptation. As though keeping himself tethered to something he hasn’t decided yet whether he wants to destroy or to worship.
The bishop falls into place with a delicate, hollow tap.
Zhongli exhales. The kind of sound that trembles just beneath the threshold of notice, but feels louder than thunder in the silence between them. His thumb glides once across the knuckles of Ajax’s hand, still held, still offered.
Zhongli sees it. Feels it. Knows the next step, the final step, is not his.
And yet, he doesn’t look afraid.
He looks like he’s waiting.
For the teeth. For the triumph. For the fall.
Perhaps this is what it means to be caught.
To want to be.]
Go on, [he says softly, eyes glittering as the last of the bishop’s echo fades between them.] Let’s see if you can truly reach me.