Morax is hot and bothered, and he doesn't know why, only that he needs to be filled.

CW: Contains Smut

--

Tartaglia is mostly asleep when Morax storms into his quarters.

"M'what—" Tartaglia cuts himself off at the red-faced and furious expression that mars Morax's face.

So rarely does Morax feel like this. He seethes, red-hot rage rippling over his form, the bitter-tinged words of his meeting still pulsing through his veins.

Tartaglia looks sleepy and unsure as he murmurs, "Zhongli?"

Morax drags a hand through his hair. "It's—" Where to even start? The meeting? The bad news? The passive-aggressive letters from the citizens of Liyue who are losing faith in their god? Morax has no idea why he's so fucking agitated because none of this is news, and yet, everything stings, searing through his veins.

"Ajax." The soft whine that drips from his lips is at odds with the aggressive way that he paces the room.

The air is thick with his anger, choked with the Geo that rolls off of him, unable to be contained. Morax looks at Tartaglia with a tired, golden-eyed gaze. "I apologize for barging in," he continues, and though calmer, there is still a rigidness to his shoulders that Tartaglia's gaze hones in on. "I should have... I would have seen you later, I just—"

"What is going on?"

"I don't want to think about it. I don't..." Morax swallows thickly, his throat bobbing. He kicks off his slippers and crosses the room on quiet feet. The mattress sinks underneath his weight. Tartaglia's hands immediately find purchase against Morax's waist as he settles over his lap. Instantly, Morax feels better. All it takes is a touch and the feel of his knight against him.

Tartaglia looks up at him without judgment. Insufferably patient with him. Not for the first time, Morax wonders what he did to receive such devotion. "Zhongli, are you alright?"

Morax eases at the sight of his handsomeness. He cups Tartaglia's face, some of that tension bleeding away as he strokes the soft skin of his cheek. "Distract me, please." Morax's grip on his face tightens—not in warning, but to tilt Tartaglia's face up, guiding their mouths together.

Tartaglia's breath is warm. Morax sighs against him, heat curling in his gut. "Anything to forget," murmurs Morax against his lips. "Ajax, oftentimes I make absurd requests but right now I need you."

Tartaglia kisses him slowly and without rhythm, still mulling about in his sleepy haze. Morax responds eagerly, licking into his mouth, his grip biting as he angles it for better reach. Tartaglia moans, a soft sound as their tongues meet.

"You can't just ignore my question," Tartaglia whispers when they part.

He knows that. Celestia above, Morax knows that especially when he is the one who barged into Tartaglia's private quarters, demanding his attention. Morax's hold on his chin loosens. He combs through Tartaglia's hair with one hand and presses their foreheads together. He inhales, nose tilted towards Tartaglia's temple, trying to ground himself in his scent; the ocean, citrus, Ajax.

"Later," he answers. He's hot. So very hot. Tartaglia is cool against his skin, so Morax plasters himself against the length of him to quell the heat that rages through him. "I will explain later."

Morax kisses Tartaglia again, cutting off whatever he's about to say. Tartaglia sighs, giving in, curling an arm around his waist. He's hard, deliciously so, easily wound up with Morax sitting across his lap. The kiss is biting. Morax nips at his lips with too-sharp fangs, his tongue diving into Tartaglia's mouth, wet and messy.

He is in a mood and he needs to forget about everything else on his mind. "Ajax," he says, cupping Tartaglia's face, tipping it back to bite at his neck. Everything from there is quick. Fast-paced, guided by the searing need that burns through his gut.

Morax doesn't even bother to fully undress, he just slips his robes from his shoulders, parting them down the front, letting the silk pile around his hips. Tartaglia was asleep when he burst in, napping, blessedly bare from the waist down. Easy access. Perfect. All Mine. Mine, mine, mine. Morax licks his palm and squeezes Tartaglia's cock, stroking it.

"Ah—oh." Tartaglia's gaze widens as Morax wets his other fingers before reaching behind himself. "Wait, Zhongli—"

Morax ignores him, shoving two fingers right in. He moans, head tipping back, eyes fluttering closed at the slight burn as he works himself open. Tartaglia watches him, mouth open and slack. Morax knows he must be a vision, cruel and beautiful as he sits atop Tartaglia, fucking himself open on his own fingers.

"At least let me—" Tartaglia's hand sneaks around Morax's backside and tries to take over.

"No."

Tartaglia's fingers curl around Morax's wrist to still it. "Humor me," he says. "Don't worry, I'll distract you. Let me do this at least."

Morax huffs but pulls his fingers free. Tartaglia slips one, two, three in, slick with Hydro, forcing them deep to the last knuckle. Morax moans. He bucks immediately, throwing his hips back, canting them down to drive Tartaglia's fingers further. He's desperate. So, so desperate to be fucked full until his mind is hazy.

"Ajax," he mutters, bracing himself against the bad on shaking arms. "Ajax."

Tartaglia isn't a fool. He knows that something is off judging by the wrinkle between his brows. And even Morax doesn't know what's come over him, only that he's agitated and hot and that he needs Tartaglia's cock. Tartaglia says nothing, just goes along with Morax's whims, fingers spreading him open. "Needy," he murmurs. Tartaglia nuzzles and kisses the apple of Morax's throat. "I love that."

Morax is impatient. He lifts from Tartaglia's fingers and angles over his cock instead, reaching down to press the tip of it to his rim. Tartaglia spreads his asscheeks, fingers sweeping over the loosened pucker of his hole. Morax sinks down in one fell swoop.

He wastes no time, rolling his hips immediately. He grinds against him, rising and falling, relishing in the drag of Tartaglia's length. So thick. Perfect. Morax keens, punchdrunk on the fullness of it all.

"Fuck. Fuck." Tartaglia hisses, arching from the bed, fingers help guide his cock deep.

Morax leans over, closing the distance. He knows he's moving too fast. This isn't the sort of lovemaking they're used to; this is clipped and feral, claws digging into Tartaglia's shoulders as Morax leverages his weight against him. Tartaglia moans. He clings to Morax, fingers tight around his hip bones, dragging over the soft skin there.

There will be bruises. Morax will love them, tracing patterns over purpled flesh later, and Tartaglia will kiss each and every one as if embarrassed by the aftermath. The silk of Morax's robes piles around them, showing just a peek of what's underneath, Morax's cock bobbing as he fucks himself.

It still isn't enough. Even with Tartaglia moaning, whispering, keening his name; even with his cock filling his ass and lighting Morax's nerves on fire, it isn't enough. He needs to be filled to completion, fucked full until he's crying from overstimulation, Tartaglia's spend sloshing through his insides.

"Ajax." Morax's fingers are curled around his wrist, dragging it around to the cleft of his ass. "More."

Tartaglia misunderstands. He guides Morax into a different angle, meeting each thrust, but he misunderstands. A grunt of frustration. The clipped call of his name— "Ajax, I said more."

This time, Morax guides Tartaglia's fingers to where his hole is stretched tight around Tartaglia's cock. "It's not enough. I need—" A groan as he grinds down. Desperation claws through Morax's chest, unable to be satisfied until he's full to the brim. "Please, please—"

It dawns on Tartaglia then, what Morax is asking for. His fingers skirt the spot where they're connected, tracing the smooth skin of Morax's loosened hole. Morax presses his face into Tartaglia's nape, licking the stripe of skin there. He holds himself stock still, Tartaglia's cock pressed deep, twitching in his insides.

"Easy does it," says Tartaglia then, slicking his fingers with another round of Hydro. His finger drags over Morax's hole before slipping in, just to the first knuckle. Testing the give.

Oh. Morax's breath hitches at the extra fullness as Tartaglia sinks that finger in deeper alongside his cock.

"Zhongli?"

"Celestia," he curses. He moans, the sound caught against Tartaglia's throat. "Feels—Gods, it feels good."

Tartaglia laughs, a short sound, raspy. "Another?" A second finger teases his rim and Morax nods his head eagerly. Tartaglia eases it in, Morax's ass swallowing everything greedily. "Tight. You're so tight—Mmhn." Tartaglia's brow is covered in sweat. He must be hanging on for dear life, trying not to spend himself.

Morax kisses his brow sweetly. "Perfect," he mutters, cupping his face, pressing their foreheads together. "You always do as I ask, don't you? I couldn't ask for a better mate."

Tartaglia's eyes widen at that. And no—they haven't, but— They've talked about it, gentle whispers of will-they, won't-they that leave Morax's toes curling in the sheets. Bedroom talk. Flitting dreams that cause pleasure to burn through his gut.

Here, at this moment, though, it carries weight. Morax leans back and tugs Tartaglia's free hand to his mouth, kissing that scar on his wrist. Tartaglia's oath, sealed in blood, claimed by Morax's less-than-human nature. "Darling," he says. "Laogong," he mutters, grinding his hips down, rolling across Tartaglia's cock and his fingers.

The hint is received. Tartaglia thrusts, gentler than before, but with the added presence of his fingers, Morax still feels pulled apart and stretched thin. So full, filled to the brim with his darling knight. This is what Morax needed, to be lost in the feel of him and fucked until he can't think of anything but Tartaglia's name.

All the worries of his land, angry meetings, and heated words; of not knowing what to do and how to fix things—all of it melts away as Morax rides Tartaglia with gusto. He rises and falls against him, meeting every slick thrust. The hot slap of skin fills the air. Geo wafts about them, filling the air as Morax just slips and slips, finding it harder to keep a hold of himself.

These are his baser instincts; the need to be filled, to cling to his mate. He whines softly, pressing his face into Tartaglia's neck, dragging his fangs over the tender flesh of his neck.

"I wish I could see." Tartaglia's voice sounds lost. He moans, hips stuttering as he fucks Morax a little harder, a little deeper, pulling at his rim lightly with those two fingers hooked inside. "A mirror, next time. Right at the foot of the bed so I can see you take both."

Yes. Yes, yes, yes. Next time, Morax won't still be piled high in silk. They can watch together as he's split open, palming his own cock in time, crying out Tartaglia's name. He'll be bred—

Oh. The thought comes as a surprise, an old, ancient desire that feels almost foreign. And then everything clicks into place; his need, the greediness of his body, thoughts of Tartaglia as his mate, the deep desire to be filled until sated. Morax had forgotten about these things because it's been so long since he's loved another, and even then, this wasn't the sort of desire he held.

Tartaglia kisses the spot where his shoulder meets darkened skin. He traces those glittering, golden lines with his thumb, all the while fucking him with languid thrusts that knock the breath loose from Morax's chest. "Zhongli," he murmurs, nuzzling his skin, mouthing at what he can reach. "I'm close. I'm going to come."

Morax presses back, sinking onto his cock and fingers until he's so full he feels it in his throat. A low, drawn-out moan fills the air. "Ajax." Morax strokes his own cock, fingers squeezing the head tightly. He drips precome, leaking all over his robes and Tartaglia's stomach. "Ajax," he hisses, his gut tightening, white-hot pleasure surging through his veins.

He comes first, spilling between them. Tartaglia watches with wide, bright eyes, every twitch of Morax's being. Tartaglia pulls his fingers free, grunting as Morax's ass wrings his cock dry. He fucks him hard, pulling at Morax by the waist, guiding his hips to a slow, rolling grind.

Morax keens in overstimulation. His cock twitches as everything bleeds red with pleasure. He hunches over Tartaglia, bracing himself against his shoulders, claws sunk into his flesh. "Inside," he says. "Ajax, breed me—"

Tartaglia looses a strangled groan, coming at the demand. Wet, hot warmth fills Morax, settling into his bones, satisfaction sinking into his gut.

With that, the mood lightens. Morax still sits overtop Tartaglia, determined to remain full until his cock softens and slips out. A waste, his lizard brain things. A waste of his seed. A waste—

"What was that all about?" Tartaglia's question comes as an amused drawl. "Not that I'm complaining, by the way."

"I—" How does Morax even begin to explain?

"Was the meeting with the Akademiya that terrible? I know the stories of the Acting Grand Sage are terrible but I've met the guy, and he really isn't that bad—"

"It... as it turns out, it's nothing of the sort. I had thought, perhaps our mild disagreement was what left me agitated, but..." Morax rubs the sweat from his brow.

"But?"

Morax tugs Tartaglia's wrist to his mouth for another kiss against that beloved oath. "I have forgotten that there are cycles to a dragon's life. It seems as though my body may be preparing for a heat."

Tartaglia's expression is confused, contorted as he tries to process this information. "Heat?"

Morax hums, smoothing his other hand down Tartaglia's sternum. "Surely the concept isn't so difficult to understand. My body wishes to be bred. That, in turn, makes me particularly needy, as you saw. It will only get worse."

"I... okay." Tartaglia bites at his lip, a question burning on his tongue, which makes Morax smile fondly. Oh, he wants to tease him.

"Would you like to breed me?"

"Zhongli."

"Sow your seed? See me round with—"

"Zhongli."

Morax laughs and pulls away from him, rolling over until he's nestled on his side in Tartaglia's bed. It isn't as large or luxurious as his own, but it smells like Ajax, and Morax finds that comforting. "For all my teasing, those instincts have calmed for the moment."

Tartaglia rests a cheek against his pillow. "Is that... I mean... Surely you can't bear young?"

What a dear, young thing. Morax laughs again, his face crinkling with affection. "Ajax, have you forgotten? This is merely the form that I choose. If you were to want a child, I could easily provide one in a variety of ways."

"In a variety—Okay, no actually, nevermind."

"Ajax—"

"Later. You can explain later. For now, I'd like to finish the nap you so rudely interrupted." Tartaglia presses close, resting his cheek against Morax's chest, curling against his side. "Warm," he mutters. "Hmm, and you smell good too."

Morax pets his hair. "Unsurprising, considering that I see you as—" He pauses. Tartaglia doesn't need to hear the intricacies of pheromones at the moment. "As I've said before, my heart beats for you. That does things to me, as you just saw."

A soft huff against his skin. "I love you, too," says Tartaglia then, a soft whisper as he begins to doze.