Work Text:
Il Dottore does not stumble away from his confrontation at Starsand Shoal. His tactical retreat sees him withdrawing to an abandoned research facility deep in the wilds of Nod-Krai. He leaves with his head held high, and yes, maybe knocks a few things over upon arrival— but that’s neither here nor there. He rips his mask off, ever the epitome of composure, and fires it across the room. The loud crash of something shattering does little to soothe his raging thoughts. He was close. He was so close. His meticulous planning paid off, he reminds himself. The Damselette slipping away into the moon’s reflection was only a minor setback. Two out of three is not a bad result. The descender breaking free from his pause of time itself is interesting to note but hardly something for him to be concerned about.
The real problem he has on his hands is the lack of a Frostmoon throwing the other two out of harmony. The trifecta is unbalanced; the moons attempting to draw on kuuvahki that simply is not there. It seems an adjustment will have to be made. Perhaps those fragments of the Eternal Moon’s remnants, pilfered from Natlan and endlessly toiled over in the Kuuvahki Experimental Design Bureau, might be better harnessed by his own two hands?
Regardless, to figure out his baseline and better configure his hypothetical new moon’s output, he’ll need something to test this power out against. It will have to be able to provide him with insightful feedback, so that rules out the many mindless beasts that roam Teyvat. He’ll require someone proficient in combat, willing to risk life and limb, uncaring of the inherent blasphemy of this whole endeavour, and—most vitally—generally agreeable enough to hold conversation with him. Now where might he find such an opponent… Ah!
A single thought is all it takes to transport him to Zapolyarny Palace. Her Majesty, the Tsaritsa, had recalled many of her heavy hitters in preparation for her grand schemes— he was privy to the general outline, of course, but the gritty details were seemingly on a need-to-know basis. Though he’d never admit it aloud, Dottore couldn’t care less about her so-called “Master Plan.” No, he was far too busy running experiments on any and everything that took his fancy. If his actions happened to benefit her, well, the easy funding and abundant resources were a much-appreciated bonus.
Back to the matter at hand, his adversary must also be adaptable. There are countless things he wishes to try, and he intends to only give his opponent a brief overview of his abilities. It’s for that reason he’s unenthusiastic about fighting against the general squadron leaders. They’d be too busy quaking in their boots at the sight of him to properly focus, and he needs someone willing to get serious. It would hardly be an entertaining bout otherwise. Ha! Look at him, getting agitated over how much fun he’d be having; it sounds like something Childe would be concerned over.
He pauses in his prowl down the frigid corridors of the Fatui’s stronghold. Yes, Tartaglia! If there was anyone insane enough to go all out against him at his ascended capabilities, it was certainly their dear eleventh. Turning on his heel, he continues his march now toward the stench of abyssal corruption. What an interesting turn of events this could turn out to be…
He locates Childe in the west wing and feels a small thrill shoot through him at the wary look on the eleventh’s face. This is going to be magnificent.
“Doctor! What a pleasant surprise; last I heard, you were stationed in Nod Krai.” Childe says, and he must be doing a poor job at hiding his apprehension if the pleased smile on Dottore’s face getting a little more unhinged is any indication. The other harbingers are far more experienced than him when it comes to talking circles around each other; should this conversation veer any further than light pleasantries, he’ll be out of his depth. If someone as persuasive as the second is seeking him out, then he simply must be on his guard. Something deep inside him writhes in excitement over that thought.
“Tartaglia! Fancy running into you here. Yes, I was in Nod-Krai— just moments ago, in fact.” Childe decides it’s best not to ask. Enquiring further as to what that maniac gets up to in his spare time will only lead to a headache on his end. “My investigations resulted in a stellar showing of the Fatui’s might! Glory to her majesty and all that, et cetera, et cetera.” Dottore says waving his hand. “There was a slight complication, however, and —frankly speaking— I could use some help with the repercussions.” There’s something in Dottore’s tone that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Childe forces himself to stand perfectly still so as to not give anything away. Truthfully, he’s interested in whatever the doctor's proposal is. Being called back to Sneznaya for a mysterious project with nothing to do in the meantime has him growing restless. So much for not getting involved. He swallows to clear his throat, and Dottore’s eyes track the movement.
“What kind of help?”
His smile grows impossibly wider. “Why a battle, of course! You like those, don’t you?” His head tilts to the side as he speaks, “You see, I’ve acquired quite the boost in power recently…”
There are no rules against the harbingers sparring with each other. That doesn’t sound like what Dottore is talking about, however. To draw steel against your very own comrades—to seriously injure them—is a capital offence in the Fatui. He can’t imagine what that would look like for someone of his station. Images of the abyss flash through his mind; only this time the endless waves of monsters are wearing uniforms. Would he be hunted down like a dog till the end of his days? Childe pointedly does not bring any of this up.
“Well, I’m a bit busy at the moment,” Childe replies to him, clearly lying. “I’ve got a lot of work to do, and your proposition doesn’t exactly sound beneficial to me.” he hums out, disinterested, and Dottore knows he is close to getting what he wants. Childe has relaxed back down from his previously rigid posture. Just a little more convincing and… “Ah, a pity.” He clicks his tongue and steps a little closer. “I had thought if anyone were to be up to such a difficult task, it would certainly be you,” Hook. “I was hoping to find a fine warrior such as yourself to assist me, but I guess it’s just not meant to be.” Line. “Though I suppose I could always find a less willing participant.” Childe’s eyes widen as he stands up straighter. Sinker.
“I guess I can make time for you. Since you’re so clearly craving my company.” the poor boy replies, and it’s almost endearing how deceptive he thinks he’s being. The words are barely out of his mouth before Dottore transfers them both to an empty courtyard, desolate in the dead of night.
The false moon hangs high in the artificial sky, its soft glow cascading down onto Childe’s bewildered face. How wonderful! Dottore steps closer again, invading his personal space and savouring the warning look Childe shoots at him. “I’m afraid you’ll be working up a sweat if things go to plan; perhaps you might want to do away with that jacket of yours?”
Childe, still getting his bearings, seems to take this as a challenge. Noticeably leaving his jacket alone, he raises his hands in front of him. Slender fingers slip beneath the fabric of his gloves, slowly revealing rough and calloused hands clearly used to a hard day’s work. He’s even making a little show of it, holding the tip of his other glove between his teeth and slowly dragging his hand out. Dottore wants to make a mocking remark but can’t quite tear his gaze away long enough to comment.
Next, he runs his fingers along that ragged scarf of his and gently unclips it from his lapel. It drags across his neck as he pulls it off, his throat almost bared towards Dottore. Childe’s simpering look goes unnoticed. The scarf falls onto the ground as Childe finally moves on to the task at hand: his jacket. He deftly unfastens the clips keeping it closed and opens it up wider, uncovering a harness sitting snugly against his chest. It cups him in all the right places, accentuating his features perfectly. Dottore wants to use it as a handle to pull him closer.
Childe eases the jacket off his shoulders, the material pooling around his bent arms, drawing Dottore’s attention to the open stretch of skin at his waist. Proudly on display beneath his partially unbuttoned shirt. Childe straightens his arms, letting his jacket fall to the floor. The shoulder guard clatters noisily on impact— drawing Dottore out of his stupor. He blinks hard to pull himself together and looks Childe over once more.
It seems that with the outer layers, so too sheds his indifferent facade; hydro swiftly begins to coalesce in the air between them, and Childe tenses up, ready to pounce. An amused scoff and a wave of Dottore’s hand disperses the beginnings of a blade and dispels the smirk that Childe was starting to sport.
“If you’re quite finished, then allow me to explain in more detail, as it is crucial that this trial runs according to schedule.” He manifests a fucking clipboard of all things. “Firstly—” Childe immediately tunes him out. There are few things in Teyvat he cares less about than a scripted fight. “-will be imperative th-” A repetitive clash is of little use to him, and Dottore clearly has this all down pat. That doesn’t mean Childe can’t get a little enjoyment out of it, however. “-considering the parameters-” Watching how someone compensates when their plan goes awry can be a great insight into their character. “-data collection-” Not that he gives a damn about Dottore’s temperament, don’t be ridiculous; it’s simply in his best interests for Childe to get a proper read on him. For future encounters, he reasons. A formidable soldier must make use of every weapon in his arsenal, after all.
It’s then that a silence stretches between them, and Childe belatedly realises that he was expected to respond. A muscle in Dottore’s jaw tics. “I will attack you in stages. Ramping up in difficulty each time. You will give me a brief overview at the end of each stage. I decide when we are finished.” Childe has to bite down on the hysterical giggle bubbling up over the clipped sentences being spat at him— the doctor is so easy to rile up.
“And are you planning on starting this affair of ours anytime soon? Not all of us have all the time in the world to prattle on, you know.”
Patience. If there’s anything that he’s learned in his life, a long-lived one as Childe so helpfully pointed out (an immature jab that he was not affected by, thank you very much), he has learned patience.
“C’mon, don’t keep me waiting!” Childe goads further, and Dottore starts to lose his temper. Wasting his valuable time by slowly stripping down (which he was not affected by, thank you very much) and then having the audacity to complain about being kept waiting?
“Very well.” He grits out through clenched teeth and tosses the clipboard haphazardly behind him. If it’s a show Childe wants, then it is a show he shall get.
The air hums with something potent, shaking the ground slightly and reverberating through Childe’s skull. The static in the sky charging up confirms his suspicions that this isn’t going to be a mock battle. Dottore has been messing with things he shouldn’t have, and Childe volunteered to be his guinea pig. The primordial power Dottore’s wielding fuses into a frenzied white ball, just out of reach above them. It then splits in half. Those halves then split in half once more. Again and again, the spheres of light multiply, getting smaller and smaller with each divergence. Pinpricks of luminescence surround them, hanging in the air like an overcast cloud, showering multicoloured light down onto the two of them.
The glittering sparks comes to a halt, and a sharp screech is the only thing signalling the beginning of Dottore’s attack. The constellation of sparkling light starts to rapidly rain down hell upon Childe. Laser beams of different sizes and colours whizz toward him, locked on to his location. He dodges to the side and glimpses the ground smouldering where he once stood.
He’s moving on pure instinct, swerving left and right to avoid… whatever’s being thrown at him. He needs more information. Childe knows it's a bad move; he can sense the searing heat radiating off of them and can practically hear them tearing into the floor from the sheer force at which they’re being shot at. But he wants to know what they feel like. A stray beam grazing his shoulder makes him instantly regret letting it hit him. It’s painful alright, but not piercing. More concussive than he expected. He’s too hyped up on adrenaline to even register his blood—sizzling slightly from the heat—seeping from the wound.
What follows is a convoluted game of keep-away. Every time Childe starts to get close, Dottore is gone. Warping himself away and emerging on the other side of the yard for Childe to make his way back over to again. Dottore must be getting cocky from landing a hit on him.
Dottore is downright seething that he’s only landed a single hit on Childe. He was convinced this would be a sure-fire ambush, but Childe seems dedicated to proving him wrong. Childe even went so far as to conjure up a spear and strive to launch a counterattack! Dottore aims to up the difficulty, but Childe twists and turns through his emissions like he’s dancing.
A burst of hydro sends a similarly fed-up Childe lunging towards Dottore, uncaring of the radiation stinging into him. A wall of patterned blue light manifests in front of him, shattering his outstretched polearm and preventing him from hitting his mark.
The wall advances, forcing Childe back a few paces. “That was stage one.” Dottore says, pausing the laser beams in place, “Your report?”. “Can’t we do this after? It was finally starting to get interesting.” Childe responds as he tries to progress forwards, only to be stopped by a surplus of shields encircling him— blocking his path. He sighs loudly. “Fine. The lasers-” “They are not lasers!” “-certainly pack a punch, but the patterns and timing were far too predictable for my tastes.” Dottore hmmm’s out an acknowledgement, leafing through the pages on his clipboard and noting down something wherever he deems appropriate. Childe smugly notices how roughed up the paper looks and thinks he must have trampled on it in his ministrations.
“For stage two, I will be introducing a new variable.” Dottore remarks as strange machines materialise all over the battlefield. Childe’s given no time to rest. As soon as they’ve emerged, they take off— darting around and rattling out their volley in his direction. Dottore’s putting him hard to work when the lasers start back up again. The beams and bullets do not destroy each other like Childe had hoped, instead ricocheting off one another— keeping their momentum, but now going in the opposite direction. It is a nightmare for him to navigate through. Childe takes great delight in slicing his dual blades through the devices.
He rotates rapidly through his hydro-infused armaments, daggers switching to swords shifting to claymores. He even manages to fire a couple of arrows in the doctor’s direction, much to Dottore’s displeasure. The quick thinking and quicker moments are wearing him down, though, a stray shot clipping him here and there. The barrage of bullets from Dottore’s devices and flashes of light hurtling towards him are tiring him out. He’s starting to lag a little, but he wouldn’t be proud to call himself a harbinger if he couldn't push beyond his limits.
Fortunately, Dottore seems to be having trouble keeping up the relentless onslaught. Firing bullets and lasers at a moving target on top of shielding himself and teleporting away to reposition when Childe breaks those shields sounds exhausting. It would be far easier for Dottore to go on the offensive with little regard for his survival— like Childe does!
As the fight drags on, Childe catches on to the slight distortion in the air before and after Dottore changes position. Childe bides his time, dodging and slashing through endless contraptions as he waits for his opening and pauses for the world to warp around Dottore’s next arrival. He springs forward, his hydro dagger coming to a halt mere inches from Dottore’s neck. What the fuck? That should have connected. Should still be connecting. He tries to shift his arms and abruptly learns he can’t move a muscle.
Dottore skirts effortlessly around him, out of the way of Childe’s blade, and turns a patronising smile towards him. “I must say, Tartaglia, you are exceedingly vicious today. Is something bothering you?” he condescends, and Childe suddenly realises that they’re both hovering slightly in the air. “What the fuck?” he says, out loud this time, and Dottore chuckles darkly. “Oh, this? No more than a parlour trick compared to what I’m currently capable of.” he says, leaning in. Childe is still too rattled by the whole full-body paralysis thing to call him on his boasting. Dottore takes Childe’s chin into his hand, turning his face towards him and locking their eyes together. “Summarise.” he demands.
Childe, gathering he’s not going anywhere anytime soon, launches into a list of problems with the incursion. Dottore makes a few faces at the advice he offers, and Childe chatters away, keeping as much hostility out of his voice as he can muster until Dottore’s focus has shifted from him. The pen scratches away at his notes as Childe’s feet hit the ground and he prepares to make his displeasure known.
“As for stage thr—” Dottore is promptly cut off by Childe surging towards him, significantly faster than before. A petty attempt to catch him unawares. Dottore doesn’t even bother summoning new units to hurl at him. Merely sidesteps his paltry efforts and gives Childe a taste of his own medicine. Doesn’t feel good to barely get a hit in, does it?
Dottore is fast. Frighteningly so. Childe is swinging at him like there’s no tomorrow, but he simply sways past Childe’s blades by a hair’s breadth. Unfortunately for him, however, Childe excels in close quarters. Dottore’s expecting him to strike meticulously with his weapon, but Childe opts to pull it away at the last second. Feinting with his dagger, he uses the close proximity to sink his teeth hard into Dottore’s neck.
In the blink of an eye, Childe is in a painful heap on the other side of the yard. Scratch that, he’s actually in one of the corridors that surround the courtyard. He’s disoriented from having travelled such a distance so quickly—and also from the throbbing pain that tends to follow being thrown through a wall. “VERMIN.” Dottore roars out, taking long, furious strides toward Childe’s crumpled form. Discarded machines flare back to life in his wake, loudly whirring out their anger, and Childe delights in the idea that he may have taken things a step too far.
Firing a piece of debris in the doctor’s direction, he scrambles to his feet and begins to resummon his blades. He attempts to be agile while putting space between them, but he’s near trembling, from either the pain or the anticipation; he can’t quite tell. He chances a look at Dottore, and oh, it is glorious. To say that he’s pissed off would be an understatement. He’s genuinely glowing—there’s glaring blue light roiling off him in waves. It’s an awfully alluring contrast to the dark red blood staining into his pale overcoat. Childe did that to him.
Dottore has given up on keeping his distance, instead using his warp trick to get nearer to Childe. Hailing bullets down upon them to corral Childe into his clutches and then swiping at him whenever he gets the chance. The punches that land aren’t even satisfying; his fist slams into Childe's face, and he feels nothing. All because the ungrateful bastard before him looks like he’s having the time of his life.
Childe thankfully trips over a fallen device wedged deep into a gash in the ground, his fancy footwork betraying him as he tumbles down hard. Dottore finally, finally gets Childe restrained beneath him, both wrists held firmly in his punishing grip. “Got you.” he taunts. “Your pitiful game is— are you seriously hard right now?!” His knee had shifted between Childe’s legs, unintentionally brushing against his growing erection. “How—why—what is wrong with you?”
Childe tilts his pretty little head, seemingly unaffected by the whole situation, and takes a sharp breath in. “You know what I think?” he purrs out, and Dottore is so caught off guard by the sudden shift that he barely even registers Childe flipping him onto his back and reversing their positions. “I think...” and he’s much closer than the respectful distance Dottore was so graciously affording him earlier. That infuriating harness is flush against Dottore’s chest, Childe’s erection is pressing urgently into his leg, and warm lips are brushing against his ear, sending shivers down his spine. “You’re enjoying this just as much as I am.” Childe whispers out the accusation that is perhaps a little too close to the truth than Dottore is willing to accept.
A bright flash of light is the only warning Childe gets before the delightfully flustered, wide-eyed doctor beneath him is there no longer. Pinned one moment, gone the next. He barely manages to catch himself from falling onto his face before a gloved hand is firmly gripping his hair, forcefully pulling him up into a kneel. Dottore is standing regally above him—a god in all but name—clothes immaculate, injuries healed, not a hair out of place. He looks untouchable. Childe can tell the difference, though— Dottore’s face is flushed, and he sounds slightly breathless as he bites out,
“You disgust me.” The hand migrates from his hair down to his cheek as he speaks, jerking Childe’s head up and forcing eye contact. “We are nothing alike,” he sneers. “To even suggest that I’d stoop to your level is—”
Childe tries to interject that Dottore was the one to initiate all of this, but as soon as he opens his mouth, Dottore’s hand shifts to under his jaw to keep it closed, placing his thumb over Childe’s lips—not allowing him to speak.
Struggling lightly against the soft glow keeping him in place and staring into those angry red eyes, Childe gets a terrible, terrible idea and decides to enact it before he can talk himself out of it. He parts his lips and brings the thumb into his mouth. He is immediately rewarded by Dottore cutting his own monologue off with a downright pathetic noise.
Dottore’s staring. He’s also breathing a little heavier now, his self-righteous rant all but forgotten. The soft fabric in Childe’s mouth creeps forward and pushes down slightly on his tongue. He sucks it in further, closing his lips around the intrusion and humming lightly when the grip on his jaw tightens.
His amusement at this whole ordeal must be showing on his face, as Dottore instantly becomes enraged, “Think this is funny, do we?” Another bright flash assaults his vision, and his hair is being yanked much harder than before. He opens his mouth wider as he gasps harshly, a loud keening sound echoing across the courtyard, soon cut off by Dottore mercilessly ramming his dick down Childe’s throat.
Childe’s throat spasms as he gags, pulling a harsh laugh out from Dottore. “Too much for you, boy?” he says in that sardonic tone, and Childe has to fight hard against the urge to bite down. Partially because that might actually spell his end, but mostly because he wants to see how far he can take this. He wraps his lips around Dottore’s cock and gets to sucking.
Dottore’s hips stutter, taken by surprise by his sudden eagerness, and Childe exploits the opening. Running his tongue flat against the base, he draws the dick in deeper, stretching his mouth open wider and letting it hit the back of his throat. He’s slow to drag it back out, taking it into his hand to not give Dottore a moment of respite. He pumps his hand up and down the shaft, tongue lapping at the head and keeping eye contact all the while.
Dottore doesn’t know what to do. That was meant to be a power play, an action so reprehensible it would immediately give him back control of the situation, and it backfired spectacularly. Childe has outdone him yet again. He tries to decide what to do next, timidly scratching his nails against Childe’s scalp. His cock is stiffening, and he’s failing to stop himself from jerking forward into Childe’s pliant mouth.
Because he should be stopping this, probably. He should be prying Childe off of him and belittling his efforts. But— doesn’t Tartaglia, the Tsaritsa’s very own vanguard, just look downright divine teary-eyed and drooling beneath him? The poor thing is struggling to find a rhythm at the erratic pace he’s been unintentionally setting. A simple solution if ever he’s seen one. Mind made up, he fists both his hands tightly in Childe’s hair—holding him in place—and starts to fuck slowly into his mouth.
He tries to keep an easygoing tempo; he really does, but thrusting into the wet heat of Childe’s open mouth renders him incapable of controlling himself. The muffled sounds Childe makes, stifled by Dottore’s cock filling his mouth, vibrate through him— replacing all rational thought. He speeds up, forcing Childe’s head down in tandem with his thrusts, unrestrained as he loses himself in the pleasure. Childe looks like he’s struggling to breathe.
The arousal piling high in him tightens, and he realises with a start that the restraints have long since fallen away; Childe has made no move to resist, instead choosing to submit to him. Near dizzy, he pulls Childe in closer, who gags around him once more, contracting further around him in turn— and spills heavily down his throat.
He groans through deep breaths, revelling in the throes of his ecstasy. His mind glazes over, thoughts fuzzy with contentment as he pulls out. Faintly listening to Childe cough and splutter, hastily sucking in air, he feels slightly amazed that Tartaglia actually let him get away with that. He leisurely turns his gaze toward the solitary moon standing guard silently up above. Hundreds upon thousands of miles away, and his worries from before seem just as far. Who would’ve thought his perspective could be changed so easily? Suffice to say, this was not how he foresaw his evening playing out.
He's brought out of his musings by a high-pitched whine. Pulling his eyes from the so-called heavens, he brings them back down onto Childe. He’s shifted forward, soft and warm against Dottore’s leg and grinding down desperately against his boot. The moonlight is reflecting beautifully off his tear-streaked face. Childe’s whimpering starts to get frantic, dick rutting vigorously against him like an animal. Dottore finds himself running his fingers gently through Childe’s hair, quietly murmuring assurances— like one would towards a frightened pet.
Dottore idly scans the courtyard, still and lifeless without them trying to kill each other. It’s almost peaceful, the whole sector having fallen silent in the aftermath of their battle – save for the indecent sounds Childe makes while shuddering at his heel, of course. They certainly did a number on their surroundings; scrap metal is strewn about the place, falling into the large gashes carved into the ground from his orbital assault. Perhaps he went a little overboard. Not to mention the now crumbling wall he threw Childe through. Best to wrap things up here before anyone can pin the blame on him. Dottore halts in his soft petting of Childe as he freezes up, his eyes finally catching on the long-forgotten clipboard. “My notes!” he exclaims. “I cannot believe you derailed—”
Childe, still pressed up against him and seemingly satisfied to stay where he is, lazily runs his tongue over his split lip — slick saliva mixing with blood and cum. Dottore benevolently makes the executive decision to pause his frustrations so he can really take in the mess he’s made of Childe. His shirt is singed from their tussle, any visible patches of his skin are littered in cuts and bruises, he’s bleeding sluggishly from his injuries, panting for breath, eyes are half-lidded, and he has a cheeky smile on his face. All in all, he looks positively ravished.
“Guess we’ll just have to do this all over again then.” Childe rasps out, nuzzling his head further into Dottore’s palm.