Work Text:
Welcome home.
It feels like a foreign concept for Dottore, to be honest. Home has never been the deepest depths of Zapolyarny that contain his laboratory, nor the wings of residence that the Harbingers have. It hasn’t been the hearth contained in the bedroom he uses only when his eyes are about to slip shut, nor has it ever been the office where mountains of paperwork always await him. There aren’t enough hands, nor enough segments, to deal with the overflowing amount of work that they all must deal with.
Yet Childe’s breath is so warm where he speaks against his ear, and that warmth seeps into his cheeks without his own permission. His sharp canines scrape against his earlobe, catching near a grown-over mark from a piercing, and Dottore’s only thought is that predators attract predators. Maybe there truly is something to call home in this frozen wasteland where he often hunkers down and works – maybe there is something worth his attention aside from his experiments.
Maybe it’s the gentle blue eyes that stare down at him now. It feels as though his body is so often working without his instruction, but Dottore’s hand cups the other man’s cheek and brings him down to connect their lips. The taste of chocolate and vanilla lingers on his tongue from the hot cocoa that sits unattended on the side table now, but oh gods, he also tastes a bit like a home that the Second Harbinger hasn’t ever known.
The kiss is a little too sweet for the both of them.
Teeth sink into his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, and when Childe leans back, a tongue swipes mindlessly over his own red-tinted mouth.
“You taste…” His voice is soft, and before he can finish, Dottore is dragging him back in to steal a taste. Chocolate and vanilla and the taste of his own blood, coppery and sweet. He chases it even as he’s denied more, even as the Eleventh pulls back to speak. There’s something being spoken against his own mouth, but he doesn’t even register what it is. He can’t even make out the shapes being made. What’s been done to him to make him so unobservant?
There’s a soft sigh against the younger’s lips. Mindless and wanting as he is, he still isn’t sure what Childe wants from this moment until a forehead bumps at his jaw. Much like a cat who’s been left without attention for just a spare moment, the ginger’s hand splays out on the other side of his neck. Nails dig in and drag down, drawing up red lines in their wake, and Dottore thinks he catches a whimper at the start of his words. “Please,” Childe asks, voice high and pitchy, “please, can I?”
“Yes,” Dottore answers without thinking, and then doubles down on it when Childe’s hands slide to the buttons of his shirt, “yes.”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you–” It spills out from Childe’s lips so eagerly, working at the buttons of Dottore’s shirt. The haste to open it leaves one button scattered onto the floor, bouncing off of the hardwood and skittering somewhere to never be found, but it doesn’t matter. Childe’s working off his own shirt, working at the straps of his own harness. He gives up on the frustration of that, too. The harness stays on as he drags the fabric out from beneath it. “Let me…”
A couch isn’t the right place to do this, but like that’ll stop either of them.
Childe leans away to readjust and Dottore shifts himself so he’s leaning against the armrest, hands working at the clasp on his belt. The button on his pants next, and then he’s arching his hips – and Childe is taking over. He hooks over-worked, calloused hands between skin and underwear to remove all of Dottore’s layers at once, and only once he’s done does he lean down to press a kiss to his abdomen.
Dottore’s mouth feels dry when those blue eyes meet his own. If Childe looks sinful, then Dottore feels like a downright heretic – which, to be fair, he regularly feels like, both with and without Childe’s involvement. The gods of Teyvat may have forgotten their own people, but where he strove to replace them, to create a new generation of them, to wipe the slate clean and try again…
He thinks Childe could be that. Maybe not when he’s dragging a bottle of lube out of his pants he’d discarded on the floor, but eventually. Eventually, Dottore will get him to see that, too. He doesn’t need The Tsaritsa or any of that pesky morality holding him back, though his humanity remains to be seen. It may be the only thing that differentiates him from the rest.
“Dottore,” Childe’s voice sounds rather petulant, and the cap of the bottle opens all too noisily, “you’re in your head.”
“Give me a reason not to be.” He sounds snarky, feigning all the confidence in the universe, so Childe does him the disservice of not warming the lube at all. He earns an undignified yelp, and a kick in the thigh for that one. “Not – Not like that, brat.”
Childe offers him a shining smile. “You can take a finger, come on,” he crooks said finger just to be a bastard, “bet you can take three without me even needing to work you up to it. You’ve been away for weeks. Did you do this and think of me? Your fingers are longer than mine, sure, but mine are thicker. Bet they fill you up so much nicer than your own. Did you wish I was there?”
Of course he wished Childe was there. Dottore had been gone for nearly a month, driven insane by useless drivel from subordinates who knew nothing about his work and even less about how to keep their mouths shut, much like the Eleventh now. He doesn’t seem to be able to keep his mouth shut whenever it isn’t occupied, and a hand that had been previously wound up in the couch cushion behind him drags Childe forward by the hair. “And If I did?”
Childe’s breathing hitches with a little whine, head ducked as he slips another finger inside, testing, and stretching. Dottore can tell he’s growing impatient, and by the gods, so is he.
“Childe,” he interrupts, “I can take it.”
There’s a pause, and Childe slowly slips his fingers out, wipes them off onto his own thigh – they’re going to discuss cleanliness later – and wraps his own fingers around his length. He hisses at the contact, but then he’s aligning himself with Dottore and sinking in.
It still feels like a stretch with how much he’s been prepped, but Dottore tilts his head back with a measured inhale and counts back from five. When he opens his eyes, Childe’s face is flushed red, his hands slowly pushing Dottore’s legs up until his calves rest on his shoulders. He’s not as young as the Eleventh is, but he can stretch this much. It’s only pushing it when Childe leans in to try and kiss him. A small burn from his muscles, underworked, but gods is it worth it to hear those soft, whiny pants next to his ear.
“There you go,” Dottore musters, a hand cupping the back of the ginger’s head, “aren’t you doing so well?”
A particularly harsh thrust sends him sprawling up a little further against the armrest, clutching onto Childe’s arm with a gasp. He can feel the warm breath of the other against his ear, the closeness, the throbbing to signal he’s already so close. “How pent-up you must have been,” his voice is sickly sweet and sympathetic, “you’ve done so good. Are you finished already?”
Childe doesn’t answer with words. Instead, he’s shifting a hand between them to work the heel of his palm against Dottore’s neglected dick. Suffice to say that it’s far, far too much for the both of them, and their sweet little welcome home. There are a little too many emotions in this room, by this hearth, in every whiny pant.
“Good boy,” Dottore chokes out through his own climax, nails digging in hard enough to draw blood against Childe’s shoulder, “you can–”
Finish. Eloquent how Childe listens so well, all but collapsing forward against his chest just as Dottore feels that familiar warmth flooding him. He’s going to complain about that later, really, but he has no energy for the moment. The only complaint he does have the energy for is to gently shove Childe upwards until he can tuck his legs down beneath him, and then the other crawls up a little closer to his chest.
“I love you,” Childe says quietly, “good night.”
Dottore pretends he didn’t hear him.