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The morning comes quietly.
Tartaglia is used to a hard mattress not because Morax is a terrible host, but because he prefers the couch to the luxury mattress. Reminds him of camping out underneath the stars, sleeping on the hard-packed ground, of his roots with his work, and where exactly it is that he came from.
He does not sleep well. Nightmares plague him, except for nights that he spends in Morax’s presence. He barely remembers the night he was poisoned—those memories come fogged and hazy. Ekaterina’s murmuring. Morax’s untrained nursing hand. Tartaglia’s crude jokes about tumbling into his bed.
But he remembers sleeping, and it wasn’t because Katya drew him a draught, it was because of Morax’s presence and his quiet murmurings. Pretty words whispered into Tartaglia’s ear, the brushing of knuckles against his heated forehead, and Morax’s soft sobs as he begged for more days together.
Tartaglia hasn’t slept through an entire night since he was a child lost in the Abyss—not even when injured to the brink of death. He was surprised to blink awake at the chirping of birds, and the warmth of the mid-morning sun peeking in through the window.
Morax is asleep, his cheek cradled by a soft silk pillow. His bangs are mussed and his hair is tangled beyond a quick combing. The sheets pile around him in stark contrast to his smooth skin.
Tartaglia then remembers exactly why he is so bone-weary and sore. Memories of the night before, of Morax keening his name, fingers curling in the sheets, of his legs locked around Tartaglia’s waist. Tartaglia’s cock, wrenched dry by his welcoming heat. The drag of Morax’s nails down his back and the breathy moans of Ajax, over and over again.
He’s already committed to treason, what more is blasphemy? Morax may be an emperor, but he is also a god, and strong as he is, Tartaglia is merely mortal. But Zhongli— Zhongli, he’d cried out as his arousal tumbled over—cares about none of that. Zhongli is the one who took him to bed, who begged to be touched and claimed, and who bears every mark that Tartaglia left on his body.
Tartaglia traces the rise and fall of Morax’s side with his fingers, marveling at the softness of his skin. Thumbs at the juncture of his shoulder where flesh bleeds into charcoal, and glittering golden lines catch the morning’s sun.
Morax’s breathing shifts. He twists slightly and cracks an eye open, and Tartaglia falls in love all over again at the ruffled sight of him. “What’re—” A soft mumble that sounds foreign compared to his usual composed words. And then a soft groan as he rolls onto his back.
“Are you sore?”
Morax huffs. “Not in the way that you think. Merely worn out. I am not as young as I once—what is with that look?”
Tartaglia realizes that he is smiling, and not just a subtle twitch of his lips, but a wide and blistering thing that rivals the sun. He moves, rising on aching joints to hang over Morax. “I want you again.”
Morax’s gaze narrows, eyes shining like liquid metal. “Oh?” Morax purrs the word, deep and low, his voice is still scratchy from sleep.
Tartaglia kisses his brow, his nose, his lips—slow and lingering. His mouth trails down Morax’s neck, biting at the apple of his throat, nibbling at the length of his collarbone. “I want you always,” he says. “Just like this.”
“Ajax.”
The soft mutter of his real name makes Tartaglia’s heart beat twice as fast. He kisses Morax’s sternum, one nipple and then the other, tongue swirling around peaked buds that tighten with pleasure and the cool air. Sheets are wrenched aside.
“Ajax.”
Morax spreads his legs eagerly, showing off his half-hard cock and bruise-bitten thighs. Tartaglia smiles against his skin, kissing every mark, soothing them with his tongue. Their love-making the night before was frantic and heady. Too long they’d danced around each other until Morax cracked, and they kissed and then fucked like they were fighting a war.
But now it is quiet. Sweet and languid with sweeping touches as Tartaglia takes his chance to explore. Morax arches underneath him, sighing at Tartaglia’s gentle fingers, at every kiss that trails across his skin. Lips against the crease of his groin. The base of his cock. Tartaglia’s tongue traces that vein down the side of Morax’s length until it slides over the tip.
Morax’s breath hitches. A hand drops to Tartaglia’s head, fingers curling into his unruly, auburn hair. “Ajax, please.”
A kiss to the crown of Morax’s cock. “I swore fealty to you, but this isn’t the sort of bending of the knee that I imagined.”
“You are not obligated to—”
“I know.” Tartaglia nuzzles Morax’s cock and cups his balls, dragging his thumb down the seam, and rolling them across his palm.
A groan bubbles from the back of Morax’s throat. Tartaglia’s eyes flit up to see him melted in the sheets, head tipped back, eyelids fluttering. The soft brush of those long eyelashes against his cheeks. The parting of his lips, tongue licking the dryness away. Beautiful. Divine in every sense.
Morax whines when Tartaglia’s thumb slips lower and presses against his hole. Slick and loose, still stretched from the night before. Tartaglia laps at his balls as his thumb sinks in, testing the give of Morax’s ass. A guttural sound. Morax pulls at the sheets and his hips buck, thighs tensing and toes curling.
Tartaglia laughs, suckling at his balls. He kisses downwards, tongue trailing, tasting every inch that he can. Morax whimpers as his thumb is pulled away. He curses when Tartaglia presses his tongue in next, teasing his rim.
A harsh tug to Tartaglia’s hair and claws against his scalp. Another flick of Tartaglia’s tongue has Morax breathing heavily, trying not to rip the hair from Tartaglia’s head. Two fingers slide in beside his tongue, right to the last knuckle. Tartaglia crooks them, the pads of his fingers settled right against that bundle of nerves.
The sound that Morax looses is the stuff of dreams. Tartaglia could die a happy man having heard it, something so precious, so private. A gift for only him—all of his emperor, given freely. Tartaglia eats him right up, lapping at his loose hole, fucking in with his fingers, determined to make an utter mess of him.
“I… Ajax, I—”
“Can you take another?” Tartaglia’s ring finger trails Morax’s ring, resting there.
“Yes. Yes.”
Three fingers slide in with surprising ease. Morax relaxes, swallowing them up. A loose-lipped, garbled utterance of Tartaglia’s name fills the room. Morax grinds against his hand, taking his fingers deeper, riding them of his own accord.
“This was supposed to be lazy,” says Tartaglia as he kisses Morax’s inner thigh. “I was supposed to pick you apart slowly, explore you in a way I wasn’t able to last night.”
“You are. You—” Morax bites his lip as Tartaglia’s fingers just barely slide over his prostate.
Tartaglia spreads his fingers wide, stretching Morax’s rim smooth. A curse of his name. Morax’s face is pinched, cheeks pink with arousal. His cock strains, no doubt aching, purple at the tip as it leaks all over his stomach. Tartaglia is quick to wrap his mouth around it, tongue swirling around for a taste.
“Ajax, you don’t have to— oh, gods.” Morax hisses as Tartaglia sinks down, lodging his cock in the back of his throat. His fingers fuck him a little faster, wide and fat, his pinky curled against the rest of his knuckles
“Another?” he muses, pulling off just long enough to see Morax’s cock twitch at the loss of his mouth.
“I want—”
“Tell me.”
“Your cock. Ajax, fuck me.”
Morax clenches around his fingers as if to prove his point. Tartaglia looks up to see Morax flushed red to his chest, cheeks splotchy. Geo glitters around him and his antlers glitter. Tartaglia stills, caught by the sight. Last night was the same, but now he has a moment to enjoy it. His fingers slip out and Morax sighs.
Tartaglia climbs up the length of him and cups his cheeks.
A soft whine. “I asked you to—”
“I know,” says Tartaglia, laughing against his lips. He kisses him sweetly, unable to stop himself. When Morax kisses back it’s fierce and undoing, his fangs pricking Tartaglia’s lips. “Zhongli, watch it.”
Morax’s legs hitch around his waist and box him in. He squeezes Tartaglia’s cock tightly in his hand, stroking it, thumbing across the slit. Tartaglia hides his face in Morax’s neck, inhaling the scent of stone and sweat. “Zhongli.”
“Please.” Tartaglia’s heart skips a beat at Morax’s plea. “Please, just—” He lifts his hips and guides the tip of Tartaglia’s cock to his hole.
“Wait, wait—” Tartaglia catches his hand just in enough time to slick his cock with Hydro. “Needy.”
Morax huffs, affronted, mouth opening for a quick retort. It’s lost instantly the moment Tartaglia sinks his cock in with a swift thrust. “Hah.”
Tartaglia moves instantly, fucking into his wet heat. “Fuck, you’re—”
Morax clings to him, claws digging into the meat of Tartaglia’s arms. He raises his hips, meeting every rolling thrust, choking on a moan as he sinks into the sheets. Tartaglia’s arms shake as he holds himself up. He pounds into him with uneven thrusts, already close to his end.
“I’m already—” A grunt as he slows, trying to stave off his orgasm.
Palms press against his cheeks. Morax guides his face close, pressing their forwards together. “Baobei,” he whispers as if it’s a secret. “I’m so full. You’re so perfect, so— just like that.”
“Fuck, you feel good. Zhongli.”
Morax drinks up the name, tilting Tartaglia’s face towards his for a sloppy kiss. He hums against him, tracing the angles of his face, fingertips light as they roam. This is lovemaking, Tartaglia realizes, the slow, rolling of their hips, the wandering of hands. How Morax gasps against his mouth and grinds his hips down for more.
He’s balls deep when he says it, those three damning words that seal his fate.
Morax stills, head tilted. He combs through Tartaglia’s hair before tugging at it, baring Tartaglia’s neck. “Say it again.”
“I love you,” breathes Tartaglia, louder this time.
Morax thumbs across his throat, feeling his racing pulse. His eyes are narrowly slit, glowing golden. Unearthly. Inhuman. Tartaglia so easily forgets just who he submits to. Treason, he thinks, but treason is worth it to see Morax spread out underneath him.
He purrs, his chest rumbling. His antlers are tangled in the sheets. A gentle press against Tartaglia’s racing pulse as he counts the seconds, and then he lets up. “And I you.” Morax’s reply is caught between sweet and sultry, heavy with power. “This is the most ancient of contracts, one that concerns my heart, taken by the knight I so cleverly stole.”
Morax’s hand presses to Tartaglia’s side, smoothing over a fresh and pink scar. Months ago, poison lanced through his veins. Morax no doubt remembers the scare and the nights kept vigil at Tartaglia’s side.
Tartaglia pulls his hand away and kisses his knuckles. “I’m fine.” He pins Morax’s hand to the mattress, fingers locking together. “I’m okay. And I’m— Celestia.”
“I’d prefer you curse my name if you’re going to bring a god into this.”
“Morax, then. Rex Lapis. Whatever ridiculous names you’ve gathered over the eons.” Tartaglia fucks him earnestly again, his cock slipping deep and drilling against the perfect spot.
Morax tenses, arching from the bed. He rolls his hips, forcing Tartaglia’s length deeper, hand pressed below his navel as if he can feel the bulge of it.
“Zhongli,” whispers Tartaglia into Morax’s ear. His hand slides down Morax’s front to curl around his cock, stroking it loosely. “We are a set, do you remember? My rock and shield. That was the oath that you swore to me.”
“Set in blood.” Morax’s nostrils flare, his fangs ghosting over Tartaglia’s jawline. “I remember that taste of it. Sweet. Nothing else like it. That is when I knew—”
“That you loved me?”
“That you were mine.”
Tartaglia groans. His cock twitches, pleasure twisting into his gut. Morax doesn’t bite him but he kisses his pulse, sucking that spot just underneath his jaw. The thought of Morax sinking his teeth in sets his veins on fire. He fucks him faster and harder, cock searing through Morax’s slick insides.
The sounds are filthy. The wet slap of their skin. Morax, begging for more in hushed, harsh whispers as he keens into Tartaglia’s ear. His grip tightens on Morax’s cock, stroking it in time with every punch of his own.
Morax holds Tartaglia’s face close to him, a heavy weight against the back of his neck. “Darling,” he mutters, nuzzling the just of Tartaglia’s chin.
“I’m— I’m—” Tartaglia comes suddenly, his orgasm slamming into him, filling Morax to the brim. He thrusts through it, a couple more stuttering movements, fingers clamped tight around Morax’s dick. “Come on,” he murmurs, nose pressed into Morax’s nape. The wet slap of his hand as Morax’s cock twitches. “Zhongli, come for me, please.”
A grunt. Morax’s hand joins his own, squeezing his palm tighter. He guides Tartaglia in showing just what he wants, what he likes, and what it takes for him to tilt over the edge. Tartaglia thumb the slit, sweeping through the thick precome there and that’s all it takes. Morax spills into their hands with a hiss.
Tartaglia loosens his grip and strokes him through it, kissing him again. Morax responds eagerly, tongue chasing his, tasting and teasing every corner of his mouth. They come down lazily, mouths latched together, loose-limbed and aching. Morax doesn’t let go of his face, stroking his cheekbone, bearing Tartaglia’s weight as they sink into the sheets.
Once soft, his cock slips from Morax’s heat, come trailing after it. Tartaglia thumbs at his hole, soothing the sore and puffy rim, and Morax sighs in response.
“I could look at this forever.”
Morax huffs but gives him a sly grin. “Forever is what you have of me. I’ve made my oath.”
Tartaglia stills at that. He drops to his side and rests his temple against the soft pillow. Once again, he reaches out to trace the edge of Morax’s side, following each dip and curve. And Morax watches him back, gaze placid and serene, another unearthly look that tugs at Tartaglia’s being.
Morax catches his hand. Brings it to his face and laps at the scar there, evidence of their bond. And then a kiss and a nuzzle, treating that blood oath as if it were something holy—which, to Morax, perhaps it is. “My knight in shining armor,” he muses.
“Pretty sure my armor is thrown about your parlor. You weren’t very careful when ripping it off me last night.”
“Truly a loss.” Morax sounds not one bit apologetic. A soft hum as he tamps his thumb down to count Tartaglia’s pulse again. “I knew that you loved me, by the way. You have rather loose lips when dying of poison.”
Oh, that’s embarrassing.
“To hear you say it, though,” continues Morax. “And by that, I mean without it being a deathbed utterance—” A soft sigh. “It has been a long time, Ajax. I have forgotten what it feels like, and even then it wasn’t ever so…” His golden eyes flit up to meet Tartaglia’s gaze. “You are different, is all. And I love you more for that.”
The rest of their morning is truly lazy. They share tea in bed, much to the disdain of Xiao’s poor, tortured eyes when he brings them a tray.
Katya, at least, isn’t surprised. She just raises a brow when she brings Tartaglia a fresh set of clothing. “Sirs,” she greets with a quirk of her mouth, unabashedly staring them down from head to toe. She drops the clothing onto the edge of the duvet, gives a small salute, and then says, “I’ll keep Xiao away for the day. Rest.”
Tartaglia is red-faced and embarrassed. “Gods, she’s so—”
“Wonderful. How kind of her to let us keep to ourselves. Remind me to reward her later.”
“She’s my minion—”
“I don’t think dear Katya would enjoy being called that.”
“Don’t call her Katya—”
“She asked me to, you know.”
Tartaglia laughs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Of course, she did.”
Morax reaches out and boops his nose, and just like that, everything falls back into place. Tartaglia sighs, bones aching, body beat. “Well, since I now have the day off—”
“As your boss, I’ll approve as many as you need.”
“That’s—that sounds awful.”
“The days off?”
“The boss part.”
Morax looks amused by it, which makes it even worse. “You said it earlier when you repeated my vow. We are a set, Ajax. Teasing aside, you must know we are equals.”
Tartaglia swallows thickly. They are not, they can’t be, but he also knows he’ll never change Morax’s mind. He changes the subject instead. “What do you want to do today? Anything you want.”
Silence stretches. Morax just watches him with a stupidly fond expression. “Once, long ago, Guizhong once told me that though I had love for her, it was not the sort of love that would quake the earth, or tumble mountains into the sea. That I hadn’t yet found the one who wouldn’t just make my pulse race, they would be the reason that it beats.”
Tartaglia has only seen glimpses of her, portraits hung in the empty halls of the palace, and painted by Morax’s fond memories when he decides to share them.
“Ajax, I would fight a war for you. I would crush mountains in the palm of my hand to keep you here.” Morax’s voice then falls to a whisper, nearly swallowed up by the swatches of silk sheets. “And so, today, I would like to go to Guizhong’s garden and tell her that she was right.”
It is the one place in the palace that Tartaglia has never been. “Zhongli, I don’t need you to fight a war for me. I’d be there at your side.”
“I know,” replies Morax, lofty and light-hearted. He reaches out with a blackened hand to tug Tartaglia close by the hip. “How terribly romantic of you.”
Tartaglia’s resulting laughter is caught by Morax’s lips. Legs tangled and wandering hands; praises mumbled against heated, sweaty skin—Tartaglia drinks up every moment of it.
And, true to Katya’s word, not one inkling of Xiao for the rest of the day.