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The irony of the situation is overwhelming.
Childe is the accomplished one, between the two of you. He’s the one with twenty-three restaurants spread out across Teyvat, sixteen Michelin stars to his name, and a reputation of being Masterchef Teyvat’s toughest judge, despite being the youngest.
Compared to him, you’re nothing.
Even your status as a competitor in this season of MasterChef Teyvat is something you know will fall from your fingertips soon—you have a cook tomorrow where you’ll be in a pressure test against Xiangling and you know you can’t beat her—but perhaps that’s why Childe is so much more desperate today as his tongue laps at your clit: because he knows he won’t get to fuck you stupid like this afterward, because he knows that the taste of you that he’s come to savor so much will soon be out of reach.
The irony, you think.
He’s the food connoisseur, the expert gastronomer, one of the world’s greatest chefs.
He’s the one who’s tasted the food of gods, cooked most of that food, and redefined Snezhnayan cuisine.
He’s the one little chefs-in-progress like you stare at in awe, the one everyone wants to be like, the one no one can be like because his culinary acumen is so extraordinary.
All this, and it’s your cunt he’s lapping at like he’s never tasted anything like it.
“P-please,” you gasp, hips bucking into his face. Your fingers thread their way into his hair and they tug, guiding him higher. “C-close, Childe—so—so close—”
He drags his tongue in a circle around your clit, slow and purposeful to make sure he hits every single nerve ending there is, and you keen on his mouth, a shuddering orgasm washing over you from head to toe as Childe continues suckling so insistently at your folds.
“W-wait—hah—it’s—”
It’s too much, you want to say, and you’re grateful that Childe somehow understands because he instantly moves his head down to start fucking into you with his tongue. It relieves you because this always happens: he always eats you out til you can barely talk, til you can barely move, til you can barely do anything but tremble and whine from his overstimulation—and the man will inevitably be too busy lapping at your juices to notice.
Such instances have developed a safe system between you and Childe: not a safe word because you can hardly be expected to remember and speak it when his head is between your legs, but just that, a system. It’s the reason his hand is clasped so tightly around yours, his long, experienced fingers intertwined with yours in a way that makes even your palm tingle with pleasure—and as soon as Childe moves his head higher, that dexterous tongue aching to taste a little more of you a little too soon, you squeeze his hand and hard, and the man stops completely.
“Too much?” he asks with glistening lips, and before you can even respond, he’s pressing kisses against your nape, almost as if keeping his tongue away from your skin really is too difficult a task when you’re spread out so prettily beneath him.
“Y-yes,” you whisper into his ear as he trails a line of kisses down to your breasts, taking a nipple into his mouth. “I just—ah—just—”
You forget what you were trying to say, and neither of you seem to care as Childe continues mouthing at your skin like a starved man.
It has to be an oral fixation, you think.
You’ve never slept with someone who’s been so obsessed with always keeping a part of your body in his mouth. Even when he’s fucking you, he’ll have his lips attached to your chest, sucking a bruising hickey into your skin and only stopping when he chooses to move onto a different spot. It sometimes makes you jealous of the food he eats, especially when he samples your dishes in the competition, since you know how capable that mouth is, how dexterous and purposeful and strong his tongue can be because he’s almost constantly using it on you.
You shut your eyes, pleasure clouding your mind once as he overwhelms your senses, practically making out with your nipple as he plays with the bud in his mouth, the pressure of his tongue gently pushing your breasts higher on your chest.
Suddenly, Childe bites.
A strangled whine leaves your throat, and you immediately squeeze Childe’s palm out of reflex.
“Sorry, sorry,” he whispers, pulling his lips away as a teasing smile adorns his lips. He goes up to press a kiss to your forehead and finds that tears of pleasure have begun cascading down your cheeks, so he licks those away, too. “I won’t do it again.”
“Ah, no…” you mumble, almost disappointed with the idea of not getting to feel that sensation again. The bite itself was certainly surprising, but what was more surprising was how good it felt. “Just...a little warning next time?”
“Of course,” Childe purrs, and then his mouth is on your other nipple, and he’s never looked happier.
He squeezes your hand in warning, then, turquoise eyes staring up at you like twin sapphires awaiting your consent, and you gently nod your head before rolling it back, eyes falling closed.
The way Childe then brushes his teeth against your breast hardly constitutes a bite, but the sheer gentleness of the action makes you moan all over again. It’s almost as if he’s simultaneously teasing you while also assaulting your nipple with the full force of his mouth.
Instinctively, you roll your hips up against Childe, aching for some friction against his thigh.
Immediately, the man freezes.
“Can I?” he asks, already grabbing your hips, and he stares at you with such a pleading expression that you almost give in immediately. “Please?” he begs, and you swear that his lip twitches at the idea of getting to eat you out again.
“I—”
You cut yourself off before you can acquiesce to his request when another idea pops into your mind.
“Can you…” you trail off shyly, mustering the courage to look Childe in the eye. “C-can you fuck me first? And then you can…”
You timidly wrap your legs around Childe’s hips to further tempt him, and his entire face changes.
“Yes,” he blurts, blinking. “God, yes.”
The two of you are already completely naked, you having been stripped down earlier when Childe first tugged you into his bed and then him a little later when you told him you needed a break from his tongue. He’s been hard for practically an hour now, more obsessed with keeping your cunt and tits in his mouth than he’s ever cared about his cock, and you know that he would have happily done so for the rest of the night.
It’s your one grievance for sleeping with Childe, actually.
If you want him to fuck you, you need to explicitly ask. Otherwise, he’ll eat you out all night until you’re too overstimulated to possibly request anything more.
“Are you ready?” Childe asks sweetly, lining his cock up with your pussy. This is always the one time when he doesn’t allow himself to get lost in kissing your lips or sucking hickeys into your skin, and it melts your heart. For a man who does literal hours of foreplay, he never fails to remain cautious about actually penetrating you.
“Yes,” you whisper, and then you feel him pushing inside.
Your eyelids instinctively flutter shut at the sensation. You know Childe is watching you, carefully waiting to sense any discomfort on your part, but he’s prepped you so well that there isn’t any, not even for the last two inches that usually have you struggling.
When he finally bottoms out, a breathy moan falls from both your lips.
“Ready?” he whispers, resting his forehead against yours for a second.
“Yeah,” you whisper, already knowing what’s to come.
The next second, you’re being railed into oblivion.
It’s always like this with Childe: the concept of holding back isn’t something he’s remotely familiar with, and he effortlessly finds the one spot inside of you that feels different from the rest, the tip of his cock drilling into it at full force. Your legs, previously wrapped around his hips, instinctively shift higher and higher as Childe pulls you closer and closer, and the man pushes your calves over his shoulders as he finally bends forward to kiss your lips.
His tongue enters your mouth instantly, not waiting for permission as he sets two different rhythms: one with his lower half that fucks into you like you’ve never been fucked before and one with his mouth where practically sucks on your tongue. The kiss makes your mind hazy, his tongue never failing to fill your brain with a familiar fog, and your muscles relax completely underneath Childe, trusting him to the fullest.
“God, you—hah—” Childe grunts in the short time it takes him to move from kissing your lips to sucking on your tits. “You taste so—so good.”
You find that difficult to believe.
This is a man who’s a certified restaurateur, a world-renowned chef, a literal legend when it comes to flavor profiles. You always struggle to believe him when he fixes his tongue to your body and talks about how he never wants to move away, how he’d be happy for the rest of his life if he could lap at your clit for his daily meals.
“It's—nngh—” You can barely speak right now, lips not strong enough to make the words and your mind too fuzzy to think of them, but you force yourself to continue: “It's o-okay. Y-you don’t need to—hah—to keep p-pretending about—”
The way Childe abruptly stops fucking you silences you faster than anything else ever could.
“Hey,” he mutters, a single bead of sweat trickling down his forehead. “Hey, listen, I’m not pretending.”
You close your eyes and groan.
You’ll never understand how Childe manages to restrain himself so effortlessly whenever he hears you say something like that, but he stills completely, hands shifting from your hips to the bed underneath you so that he can better look you in the eye.
“Childe, it’s fine. I didn’t mean it. Please just—”
“No,” he blurts, eyebrows furrowing cutely. “No, listen. I mean it when I say you taste good.”
A kiss, pressed against your jaw.
“You’re the—”
Another kiss, this time at your ear.
“Hottest—”
Kiss.
“Sexiest—”
Kiss.
“Prettiest—”
Kiss.
“Girl I’ve ever met, and I swear—”
Childe presses two kisses against both your cheeks.
“Everything about you tastes like heaven.”
He stares down at you with such intensity that his eyes almost seem to glow, and slowly, gently, his hips press deeper into you, subtly grinding against your insides.
“Say it,” he says with a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “Say you believe me.”
“I—ngh—”
You’re cut off with a sharp thrust of Childe’s hips, perfectly aimed and perfectly delivered.
“Come on,” Childe encourages, as if he wasn’t solely responsible for why you fell silent. “You have to finish your sentence if you want me to fuck you.”
“I—” Another thrust, and harder this time. “Fuck, Childe. Just—please—faster—”
“No,” he blurts, coaxing your legs higher over his shoulders and biting at your bottom lip. “You’ve gotta say it, babe. Tell me how good you taste. Tell me you believe me.”
“I—”
You don’t, you don’t believe Childe, you don’t think it’s remotely possible that your natural body can even begin to compare to the flavors that the world’s greatest chef has conjured and sampled, but his dick is grinding against you again and you’ve already had too many orgasms to count and you’re starting to forget why you didn’t believe him before and your mind is growing too hazy to properly think about anything other than his cock and—
“I believe you,” you blurt, the words falling from your lips more out of instinct than out of intention. “I believe you, I believe you, I believe you, so please, Childe, pleasepleaseplease—”
He doesn’t wait any longer, pushing your thighs back for a single second before he’s fucking you into paradise like it’s the only thing he knows how to do.
His head is thrown back completely, mouth fallen open in a debauched display of how good this feels, and you know that you must look even worse, tears dripping down the sides of your cheeks from how rough he's being, fingers feebly grasping at his muscles but too weak to hold on because of how hard he’s fucking into you, legs thrown over Childe’s shoulder like they were never meant to do anything else.
“H—hah—harder,” you plead, growing boneless in Childe’s hold.
He complies instantly, lips finding your neck as he stops licking and begins to bite—and you know from how intense everything is that you’ll need to wear a turtleneck tomorrow to hide this hickey, if you can get out of bed at all.
“Fuck,” Childe moans into your skin, voice so deep and husky that the very sound of it brings you closer to the edge. “I-I’m close, so close—”
You’ve orgasmed so many times tonight that you almost don’t believe you have another one in you, as if you can grow close to a climax but never power far enough to actually tip over it, but then Childe’s mouth dips lower to go back to mouthing at your breasts, and the way his body moves to accommodate the change in position completely reangles his cock inside you so that it’s hitting a new spot, deeper inside you and hardly touched, completely sensitive and mind-blowing as he rails you with nothing holding him back.
The sudden change is so overwhelming that it pushes you over the edge instantly, and a silent scream leaves your lips as Childe fucks you through your high.
“Fuck,” he groans, his entire body twitching when he feels how your walls immediately close in and start trembling around his cock, the pressure of your orgasm beginning to overwhelm him as well.
“Gonna cum—” he blurts, squeezing your hand desperately as his mouth falls open and empty in a breathless moan. “Fuckfuckfuck—”
The second you squeeze his palm back, a silent message of yes, you can, he cums inside you with a sound so lewd that it should be illegal. His entire body collapses, the man just barely holding his upper body up above yours, and his head comes down to rest against your shoulders, lips locked in an open-mouthed kiss against your collarbone.
You can’t feel much of his cum—the warm fluid buried so deep inside of you that it’s overshadowed by the soft sensation of Childe pulling out, but slowly, it begins to trickle out, a warm stickiness that serves as a physical reminder of Childe’s ministrations.
“F-fuck,” you mutter, your head lolling to the left as you try to gather enough strength to lift your body up. “We have to clean up,” you mumble.
“Why?” Childe asks instantly, and his head shoots up, completely rejuvenated, as if the two of you didn’t just fuck to the point of exhaustion. Eager blue eyes stare at you imploringly, begging, pleading. “Why should we clean up? I—I can do it so much better—”
He instinctively lips his licks, not caring about how obvious he’s being as his eyes dart down to your wrecked cunt, dripping with a mix of both his and your fluids.
Your clit instinctively flutters at the thought of his warm, experienced lips wrapped around it again.
“I…” you trail off as Childe’s grip immediately tightens, and you bite your lip.
You don’t know if you can handle another orgasm, not after you’ve already been in bed with this man for so long. But then, his fingers twitch gently and you feel that his hand is still clasped in yours, waiting for a sharp squeeze on your part to indicate any discomfort, any pain, any hint of a sign that it’s too much so that Childe can stop everything, and you relax.
“Okay,” you mutter shyly, spreading your legs an inch wider as you watch Childe’s face shift from hopefulness to unbridled joy. “Okay, do it.”
And with the speed at which Childe’s head dives between your thighs, his soft, ginger hair tickling the bottom of your abdomen as he already begins to move, you know that this man has no plans of letting you out of his bed anytime soon.