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Dottore is not a man who gives out praise freely. A job well done, in his opinion, should be reward enough in and of itself, and for jobs exceptionally well done - well, he doesn’t often have the opportunity to weigh in on that sort of situation. Most of the exceptional things that come out of his work are the result of his own efforts alone.
But all his reservations seem to fly out the window the moment Childe’s worth comes into question. He has to admit, there are more than a few things that the Eleventh does exceptionally well.
Or maybe he’s just gotten soft. Dottore always gets like this, in the moments after or merely in between, when every muscle in his body is humming at an infrasonic frequency, giving him the sensation of vibrating even when he sits perfectly still. It’s when he’s so tired he forgets to set his jaw with the severity fitting of a Harbinger, a somber emissary tasked with ushering in the will of a Goddess’s icy vengeance. But it’s also when he’s too tired to care; too tired to fight, and yet too tired to sleep. All he can do is give into himself, the gentle thrumming of his own being and how it always seems to buzz in tandem with Childe’s own rhythm.
He can feel that now, and acutely so. It would be hard not to; he’s still nestled inside the younger man, even after going flaccid in the messy wake of his own release. Childe’s has been left there too, tacky against their bare chests and untouched since he had spilled his pleasure between the two of them. Childe had made no moves to unseat himself from Dottore’s cock after the fact, straddling the older man’s legs as Dottore sat back against the headboard, only throwing his arms around his neck and melting against him with a soft sigh, and Dottore couldn’t be bothered to disturb the scene either. Now, one of Childe’s hands lightly strokes his cheek, and he opens his eyes without realizing he had closed them.
Childe hums, and it changes the air. It makes things warmer than they already were. It's like humidity that sticks to Dottore's lungs when he breathes in, but the heavy pull is a welcome pressure, as welcoming as the weight draped over him in felicitous afterglow. Dottore has always marveled at how simply they seem to alter the properties of space around them. The world around him feels different, when they're like this.
"I could fall asleep like this," Childe mutters, drowsily petting Dottore's cheek.
Dottore's hands are at his hips, listless and half-gripping. At the sound of his voice, they squeeze a little tighter. Something changes in the air again. Childe's hand stills, and he presses his palm flush to his skin, another weight that Dottore doesn't mind bearing. Childe tucks his chin against his collarbone, and he kisses the side of Dottore's neck.
Dottore's hands start to wander. He drags his fingertips up Childe's back and finds the ridges of his spine. He feels them swell and dip beneath his touch, like waves on the water's surface that have yet to break against the shore. He's open water, uncharted and unending. Dottore can only ever tread him for so long before being pulled under.
Childe hums again, and his ring finger twitches softly against Dottore's cheek. He kisses his neck again. His lips linger there, and Dottore can feel him smile.
"That feels good," Childe breathes. He shifts again, and his lips are at Dottore's ear. "You feel so good."
The whisper makes Dottore shiver. Childe chuckles, and kisses his earlobe. Then, he sucks it between his lips, flicking his tongue out against it.
"I thought you were about to fall asleep," Dottore says softly. There's a hint of a scolding tone there that he doesn't mean. Childe knows this, and just giggles. He lets his lips brush against the shell of Dottore's ear.
"Maybe not," Childe whispers. "Maybe I'll stay up just a little longer. Only if you can, that is."
Childe slips his tongue into the inner folds of his ear, swirling it around languidly, and it draws a gentle, throaty sound out of Dottore that makes the younger man laugh again.
"It moved." Childe says with a playful lilt. The edge of his teeth lightly scrape against Dottore's ear as he smiles. "You like it like this."
And this is one of the things Childe does exceptionally well. He knows how to pull Dottore under, and pull him back out again. He can pull him over, frontways, sideways, backwards, in every perceivable direction, until Dottore doesn't know which way is up, until his orientation relative to the rest of the earth doesn't matter. Dottore is caught between drowsiness and buzzing alertness, and he doesn't know which he should lean into. So he lets Childe lead him there.
"Are you tired?" Childe asks. Dottore only lets out a soft grunt in response; not really a response at all. He doesn't know the answer well enough to give a proper one. It's only an acknowledgement. He's listening. He'll heed. Wherever Childe's going, he will follow. Childe seems to understand, and he hums against his ear. "You can just relax. Just stay like this."
Childe starts moving. His hips sway slightly, a gentle rocking backwards and forwards as he slides his tongue back into Dottore's ear. All of Dottore's senses are soon overtaken; his eyes fall closed on their own as the hot wetness and breathy moans are soon all he can fathom hearing, and every inch of skin on Childe's back feels like flames licking at his fingertips. The air is thick with the scent of sweat and sex, but more than that, Dottore just smells Childe - an aroma he will never be able to describe in words but one that has become unmistakably distinguishable over time, one that he can sometimes smell on his own clothes after long moments of tender embrace. Childe's thumb eventually moves to brush over his lips, and Dottore parts them, flicks his tongue out and tastes the whorls of his fingerprint, the microscopic edges of all he is laced with the saline tang of skin. Dottore's rising arousal is almost insignificant, in comparison to every other sensation. But that overtakes him too, and Dottore lets it all build up until he thinks it will kill him, until it sends a bolt of lightning through him that makes him dig his nails into taut flesh and rake them down Childe's back. His hips buck upwards with a shudder, jaw falling slack as a moan escapes him.
"Fuck, you feel good," Dottore groans breathlessly. Childe lets out a sublime, wordless exclamation at the roll of his hips, punctuated by an airy laugh and a bite to Dottore's earlobe.
"Oh, I'll make it feel even better," Childe mutters hotly. "I'll make you feel so good. I'll make you come inside me again. I'll be so good for you."
This is a reassurance Dottore doesn't need. He knows he will. He always has been. Childe leans back then, and Dottore could almost mourn the loss of rapturous heat being whispered against his ear, but there is nothing to grieve for once he opens his eyes and sees the younger man before him. Childe’s cheeks are dusted with a flush, lips parted and pink as he sinks down on Dottore’s cock, taking all of him - taking every last inch, every last breath, every last scrap of whatever soul Dottore has left to his name and claiming it for his own. And he does it with a smile on his lips and eyes of oblivion, eyes that can’t hold even the barest glimmer of light and yet are somehow overflowing with reverence as they’re turned on him. Childe holds Dottore’s face in his hands, lacing his fingers into the flyaway strands of blue at the nape of his neck.
“Don’t move. You don’t have to move, okay?” Childe coos. He slots their lips together, and he’s smiling, always smiling, always the second summer in the wake of killing frost, breathing life into the lifeless. “I’ll make it feel good, okay?”
Dottore grabs his face in his hands and pulls him back in like his life depends on it, like he needs him more than air, and some days, he thinks this might be true.
“Mm, you’re so good.” More praise that slips out of him unbidden, pliant words to be coming from a man made of stone. They always fall out too easily like this, when there’s not much space for them to travel before Childe can swallow them up. And he does, because it’s not an utterance for the space between them; it’s for their lips alone. Childe pulls back with a moan, straightening his back out and bracing his hands against Dottore’s thighs. He starts moving steadily up Dottore’s length, then steadily back down. It’s almost tortuous, how slowly he goes, his insides pulling at him, dragging, beckoning him to thrust up into that heat and let sweet madness take hold. But Dottore is still caught in a space in between this and serenity. He isn’t drowsy, but he feels something close to that - it’s a sensation of drifting, and he doesn’t know where he’s letting himself drift, but he wants Childe to be the tide that takes him there. I’ll make it feel good, he had said. Dottore wants to let him. He wants to let him give, because it’s one of the few chances Childe has to do so. He takes so much in his line of work - everything from friendly sparring matches to the lives of their enemies - and it's only in these moments when Dottore realizes what a pity it is.
Giving becomes him. He wears it like divinity; in Dottore's mind, it is the only divinity worth witnessing. The supposed radiance of the Gods is a false, flickering flame in comparison to the beacon that draws him in now.
Dottore knows some men refer to him as faithless. In truth, he is the farthest thing from it. He has simply found his faith in something greater.
So Dottore curbs the urge to move, only letting his hands wander as they slide down Childe's collarbone, over his chest, down the tuck of his waist, across the plane of his stomach. Anywhere, everywhere he can reach.
"You are so gorgeous," Dottore breathes, and Childe lets out a moan that sends his head briefly lolling back.
"Oh, yes," Childe pants. "Oh, tell me how good I look like this, please."
Dottore brings one of his hands back up to Childe's chest, and he gently swipes his thumb across his nipple. Childe whimpers, and his cock twitches. "Mm, you look amazing, gorgeous."
"Oh." Childe pulls up Dottore's length, then jerks himself back down, taking him to the hilt. He lingers there, rolling his hips around in little circles. "Does it- ah- does it feel good when you're fucking me deep like this?"
"It feels so good," Dottore mutters, gently pinching his nipple between his thumb and forefinger and teasing it between them.
Childe drags one of his hands up his own thigh, lets it drift to his stomach, and Dottore thinks he's going to touch himself. Instead, he lets it rest below his navel, and his eyes fall closed as a giddy laugh escapes him. They open again, and Childe gazes at him through red lashes.
"I can feel you right here," Childe says, breathless, fingers trembling softly against his stomach. "It feels so good right here."
Dottore's breath catches in his throat. "Oh, you are such a good boy."
Childe rolls his hips forward, his stomach muscles rippling with the movement, and he lets out a mewl when Dottore's other hand mirrors the first, fondling both of the sensitive nubs on his chest until his eyelids flutter closed. "A-ah, Dottore…."
"Shit, yes, just like that," Dottore urges with a hiss of pleasure. "Keep going like that, good boy, good boy."
Childe's jaw falls slack as he continues to grind against Dottore's cock. "Mm, ah, does it- mm- does it feel good?"
"So good," Dottore replies eagerly. "Keep going."
"Do I-" Childe shudders suddenly, and the hand on his stomach rises, hangs in suspension in mid-air for a moment before he brings it up and laces his fingers in his copper hair. He doesn't know what else to do with it; he's become directionless in ecstasy, letting his body take control as he chases after building euphoria. "Oh, shit, do I- mm- do I look- ah, do I look-"
"You look so fucking good. Just like that, beautiful. You-" Dottore almost chokes on a moan as he fights back another buck of his hips. "You look perfect."
"I-" Childe gasps. His eyes are still closed, still so overcome with pleasure that he doesn't seem to have control over the undulations of his hips. He had gone looking for release, and got lost in the throes of bliss along the way. His cock is dripping with his own juices, but he hasn't touched it once. He just keeps fisting and unfisting his hand in his own hair, like he's trying to grasp something grounding but can't quite get a good hold on it. His throat is tight, and his breath is short. He continues to try speaking with a tremendous amount of effort. "D-do you- I'm- It's, a-ah- Do you want- Mm, fuck, fuck, fuck…."
The last curse comes out as a long, guttural whine, drawn out until he's gasping for air. In between the wheezes, bursts of laughter start bubbling out of him, and his eyes finally fly open with a sudden jerk forward of his hips.
"Oh, shit shit shit shit, hold on a second," Childe mutters urgently, though he's giggling all the while. He is quick to grab both of Dottore's wrists, and he can feel the younger man's fingers twitch against his pulse points as he urges him off his chest. Childe leads Dottore's hands to his flushed face, and makes him press his knuckles against his lips. He holds him there, laughter hot against his skin but tapering off in gentle sighs. "No more touching. I'm gonna- fuck, I almost came. If you touch me any more, I'm gonna come."
Dottore opens his palms with a flourish, rolling his wrists around until his fingers are splayed out like a rose in bloom, and he takes Childe by the face and pulls him into a heated kiss.
"Yes. Come for me. Come for me."
Childe laughs. "You first." His hands slide over Dottore's, and holds them there as he swoops in to fleetingly join their lips again. "Mm, I don't want to come yet. I want to come while you're coming inside me."
Childe kisses him once more and pulls back, but not far. He touches his forehead to Dottore's, and gently urges him to let his hands slide down his face. He takes Dottore by the wrists, and pushes them towards his chest.
"I'll be good to you. Let me be good to you." Childe breathes. He slowly starts working his hips again. As he does, his fingers playfully tickle the center of Dottore's palm. The sensations are little bolts of lightning shooting up Dottore's arms, somehow more striking than the feeling of his arousal buried in Childe's heat, so crisp and affectionate and tender that it draws a shuddering exhale from his depths. Childe slips his fingers in between Dottore's and they interlock. Palms flush, digits laced, and breaths shared, Dottore does not think it's possible for Childe to be any better to him than he already is.
Childe holds onto his hands, uses them for leverage as he continues ravishing Dottore with his own body, giving the older man everything he is, things Dottore didn't know could be given. He gives him a sense of clarity that Dottore always forgets he is lacking, and as always, that in and of itself is almost too excruciating to bear. It's the recognition that Dottore doesn't deserve this. That there isn't a single thing he's ever done - not in all his life, not in all the tiresome, insidious decades he's existed in - to deserve any of this. Praise can fall from his lips as freely as it wants to, but all the praise in the world wouldn't be enough. He could spend the rest of his life from this moment forward praising him, up until his final, dying breaths are spent revering his name, and it still wouldn't be enough. It couldn't possibly be enough.
And yet somehow, it is. He can see it now, looking into Childe's eyes, and he realizes that beyond all reasonable explanation, it is enough.
Dottore doesn't question it. It is the one thing he will never question, because the answer is one of the many things Childe gives him unbidden. Dottore has no choice but to take it. It would be a far greater sin not to.
Childe kisses him, unraveling him and tying him back together all at once.
"Does it feel good?" Childe whispers.
Better than words can describe. So Dottore stops trying to.
"I love you," Dottore croaks. And it's enough.
Childe lets out a breathless, shuddering moan. "Ohh, Dottore-"
With the last bit of lucidity he can muster before he feels himself hurtling over the edge, Dottore finally wrenches one of his hands out of Childe's grip, and he wraps it around the younger man's neglected cock. He strokes, and Childe sobs in pleasure, and Dottore is undone.
Dottore comes with a broken moan, and it is not long before the pulsing arousal in his hand is overflowing in time with Childe’s own cries of ecstasy. His back arches as he’s filled, and his spent comes hot and heavy against Dottore’s heaving chest. With it comes praise, from Childe’s lips this time; it’s fast and mewling and delirious, but he tells him how good he feels, he tells him how perfect it is, he tells him he loves him, he tells him he loves him, he tells him he loves him.
And this… this is more than enough.
Childe eventually slumps forward, resting his head against Dottore’s shoulder, occasionally pressing a kiss to the skin under his lips as Dottore runs a hand through his hair. Soon, he falls asleep like this, and despite his better judgement, Dottore lets him.
They really ought to clean up a little. They’re an absolute mess now, and if anything, Dottore knows if he stays in this position for too much longer, his back will hurt like hell in the morning.
But Childe looks good like this, flushed and disheveled in his arms. He looks happy. Serene. Elysian.
Dottore just sighs lightly, shifting around as much as he can to make himself comfortable without rousing Childe. Even after drifting off, it seems he’s far too adept at pulling Dottore in whatever direction he pleases. But Dottore is in no position to fight the tide, even if he wanted to. And he doesn’t.
So Dottore lets himself be pulled. And soon, he drifts off with him.