Tartaglia learns the hard way that Signora spiked his tea with an aphrodisiac.

CW: Contains Smut

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It was the tea.

It's the first thought that comes to Tartaglia's mind when his sight blurs and the stretch of hallways turns sideways. He catches himself against the wall and groans. He's on fire. Every pore of his being burns, nerves alight as they tingle all the way to his gut.

And then there is the stirring in his trousers. Tartaglia frowns as his cock twitches, half-hard against his thigh. The fabric is unbearable; scratchy and too thick. A quick grind of his palm and an attempt to reposition himself does nothing to alleviate the pressure that builds in his groin.

It had to be the tea. This time the thought comes flimsy, fuzzed in the haze that settles over his vision. Everything swims. His brain feels clogged with cotton. The only thing he can focus on is the ache of his cock and how it needs to be satisfied. The heel of his hand is no help.

Tartaglia whines, leaning forward until his forehead hits the wall. The stone is cool against his skin, and his mind clears enough to spend a moment to think. That afternoon. A meeting with Signora, much to his displeasure, entertained by him alone because Morax refused an audience. It is a carefully made political statement that will sour the Tsaritsa's mood, but she'll entertain their contract until she can find a loophole to get Tartaglia back home.

Signora, though, is not above dirty tricks. He's seen just how her nature is and the sorts of stories that those blood-red lips can weave. Morax would never let her—

At the mere thought of him, Tartaglia's cock aches in a way that cannot be described. His nostrils flare as need floods through him. His cock drips so much there is a wet patch where it tents his trousers.

Not even squeezing it through the rough fabric curtails the pain. All that Tartaglia can think of is Morax's tight, hot heat; wanton moans and silk sheets that muffle Morax's pleas for more. It's worse now, that burning need that boils in his gut. Tartaglia knows that his face is pink with want as he thinks Zhongli, Zhongli, Zhongli. His lips are so dry that when he licks them they sting.

It cannot be that Signora wanted this to be the outcome. No, she'd rather anything other than seeing Tartaglia as such a pitiful mess. What did she dose that damn tea with?

Suddenly, he remembers old barracks rumors when he was a recruit. La Signora is a Harbinger who uses underhanded tactics; her targets often go feral and have to be put down like dogs—unless they comply.

Her intent was likely to make him agitated and aggressive, but instead...

Tartaglia looses an embittered laugh. "It'd be my fucking horniness, wouldn't it? That's what does me in. Celestia."

Still. Thinking of these things does nothing for him at that moment. His trousers are tight against his dick to the point of pain. He needs to get out of there and find somewhere private. Maybe he can fuck his hand and it'll be over with.

A solid plan.

Tartaglia decides it's better to not tell Katya about this particular issue.

#

So, as it turns out, fucking his hand doesn't work either.

He thought it would. Celestia knows he's done it time and time again as a way to soften his need until he and Morax can find a moment alone. This time is different. This time it doesn't matter how tight his grip is, or how slick his palm. Tartaglia jerks himself off until his dick is red and raw, and that heat doesn't just not go away, it gets worse.

Tartaglia curses Signora to the depths of the Abyss as he curls into a ball in Morax's sheets. It smells like him. Tartaglia groans into Morax's pillow, drowning in that sandalwood and stone smell he's come to love and all of a sudden those baser thoughts make a lot more sense—mate, mate, mate.

He wonders if this is how Morax's old lizard brain feels, driven half-mad with lust. Tartaglia uses a spare shirt to clean off the mess on his stomach before tossing it aside. The heat is still there, just a mild simmer for the time being, but Tartaglia knows it's only a matter of time before he's rutting in the sheets again.

For now, he inhales deeply and tries (and fails) to rest.

#

Tartaglia wakes to a cool palm against his forehead.

He groans, shifting in the bed. His dream had been wildly vivid. He stirs, still tasting Morax's come in his mouth, still feeling the heft of his cock on his tongue and the way that it bullied his throat. Arousal still burns through him, tight and hot in his gut. He wants. He wants, he wants, he wants—

"Oh, darling."

Tartaglia whines at the soft murmur of Morax's voice. He doesn't just want him, Tartaglia needs him viscerally, in any way possible. His hands on Morax's form, tracing his skin. The weight of his body as Tartaglia yanks him back to meet his thrusts. Tartaglia's cock twitches as the fantasy takes over him, reducing him to a whimpering mess in Morax's earthy, silk sheets.

Morax leans over and tilts his face back, cradling his chin. "My knight, what on earth has become of you?"

"The tea," blurts Tartaglia. "That meeting. That woman. That damned tea."

Morax's gaze narrows as it washes over Tartaglia's body. He brushes back Tartaglia's bangs, knuckles knocking against sweaty skin before resting there. "Warm." The edge of the mattress sinks under Morax's knee as he leans closer, shoving his face into Tartaglia's neck.

A deep inhale. Tartaglia's hands fly up and tighten in his robes, tugging at them. Morax isn't naked enough. Tartaglia needs to see his skin, trace that spot near his shoulder joints where pale flesh melts into deep charcoal. His hand parts the opening of Morax's clothing, sinking in. Morax's waist is cool against his hand and Tartaglia squeezes it.

Morax's nose drags the length of his face. "You smell..." He pauses and nips at Tartaglia's nape, teeth grazing the length of his throat. "Surely this wasn't the outcome that Lady Signora expected, but I must confess the result is alluring."

"Zhongli."

Morax shushes him, kissing the juncture of his neck and jaw. "The sight of you in my sheets. Your scent—" A quiet laugh, short and punctuated has his fangs graze against him. "I could smell it down the hall. What luck that our home isn't overrun with too many adepti because they would know."

"Zhongli." Tartaglia's breath hitches and he shudders. "I'm. Gods it hurts. I've—I've—"

Morax leans back, his gaze tipping down to where Tartaglia is naked from the waist down. "Yes, I see that," he muses. He drags a hand down his front, the pads of his fingers trailing crusted semen.

Fuck, he's embarassed. Tartaglia knows that his face is flushed red, but even the burn of that isn't as bad as the heat that rises in his gut. His rest was flimsy and pitiful, but with Morax within reach it's worsened ten-fold. He licks his dry lips. Nothing helps, nothing.

Morax's expression softens. "Oh, you poor thing. I'll stop my teasing. Tell me, baobei, what is it that you want?"

Tartaglia barely forms words. "You. Zhongli, you. I need—Please. Please, please—" He chokes on a moan as Morax brushes his knuckles down his hard and leaking length.

Morax cracks a grin as he leans over him. "It may be cruel to say but darling, I love you like this. Needy. So handsome. And this—" He curls his fingers around his cock and squeezes. "Already so hard for me. Perfect."

Tartaglia arches in the bed, rolling his hips to fuck against Morax's hand. The friction takes off the edge but barely. Not enough. Not enough, not— He needs to be buried in Morax's tight heat. He needs to come, to paint Morax's insides with his seed, to breed him full—

Oh, that's...

Tartaglia feels almost guilty thinking about it. This conversation again. It's always Morax who is needy in this regard, those age-old instincts coming alive as they slip deeper and deeper into their love. My heat, he's warned him. It hasn't happened yet but for the first time Tartaglia thinks he may understand just what makes Morax so hot and bothered.

Morax strokes his cock and smiles at him, a soft, affectionate thing. "What are you thinking of with that look?"

"I need to fuck you. I need to—" Tartaglia swallows. Morax will never let this go if he mutters it, but his veins are on fire, heat clogging every single pore that he has. His lips are so dry as his tongue drags around them that they sting. His request is so soft that it can barely be heard.

Morax though—his eyes narrow to serpentine half-slits as he tilts his head. "Louder," he says. "Repeat it."

Fuck.

"I need to breed you. I need to fill you and, and—"

Morax dips close and kisses him, cupping his cheek with his free hand. He tips Tartaglia's head back and coaxes his mouth open, lips slotted together just so. His tongue slips in and Tartaglia moans against him. Deep and searching. Makes the heat worse. Tartaglia could eat Morax up and drown in the fire, and it still isn't enough.

A keening whine makes Morax pull back. He brushes Tartaglia's sweaty bangs back and kisses his forehead sweetly. Then his weight is gone, making Tartaglia panic. "Wait—"

Tartaglia blinks as Morax turns over in the sheets next to him, ass up, chest pressed into the silk. He doesn't bother to remove his clothing, just hikes up the hems of his robes until they're bunched around his waist. Nothing underneath, just smooth round asscheeks, and a cock, hard and already dripping.

Morax's gaze is half-lidded, cheek pressed into his pillow. "Don't look so surprised," he mutters. "As if you could say you'll breed me and expect nothing to come of it. Ajax, do as you wish. Take me."

He doesn't need to be told twice. Tartaglia moves instantly, kneeling in the bed, slotting behind Morax, and taking hold of his slim waist. He rucks those robes up higher and traces the arch of Morax's spine. Tartaglia palms over his ass, and then spreads his cheeks, sighing at the sight of that tight pink pucker.

Tartaglia sweeps a thumb across, watching it clench. His thumb sinks in with the barest pressure, leaving Tartaglia with a satisfied smirk. "Who is the needy one?"

Morax huffs. "You."

"And who else?"

"I thought you were in a hurry." Morax sounds vexed, his tone rippling with impatience. "I do believe I told you to take me."

"Can't rush things."

"You certainly can."

Tartaglia pauses and looks up to see Morax watching him back. His cheeks are flush pink. He breathes hard and rolls his hips, grinding his cock against the mattress. All the heat roiling through Tartaglia's being sinks to his gut. His cock is beyond aching, he's so hard it hurts, and he thinks that he'll probably come the moment he sinks into Morax's welcoming heat.

It takes nothing to slick his fingers with Hydro. He takes Morax's advice, sinking two fingers in at once, and they slip in right to the last knuckle. Morax arches so beautifully, fucking back against his hand, demanding that he get to work. Tartaglia's mind doesn't clear, but he laughs, that fog in his brain entertained by his mate's wanton need.

Mate. Another thought that chokes his throat. The more that Morax calls him that the more he wants it. The heat in his gut churns. He presses a third finger in alongside the other two and Morax moans into the sheets, a sinful sound that makes Tartaglia's cock twitch.

It's already been too long. Tartaglia pulls his fingers out and slicks his cock, stroking it a few times to take the edge off. Morax's hole is pink and slick, loose enough that he knows it'll be an easy glide. He looks at Tartaglia just as wanton and needy, and if Tartaglia didn't know any better he might think that he's under the influence of the damn tea too. But no, no—it's just pure lust and the wish to be fucked full and stupid.

Tartaglia thrusts in sharply, his groin slapping against Morax's ass with a harsh crack. The sound that Morax looses could end him, deep and dark, thick with arousal. His ass yields easily, soft and pliant, insides rippling around Tartaglia's cock.

Evil. Tartglia might think it evil, the work of the Abyss even, and that's something that he knows intimately well. But he knows this is Morax, his love, his mate, so it can't be anything but the purest of love. He presses back, driving his cock deeper, greedy for the weight of it. Hot and tight. So hot and tight. Tartaglia's fingers curl around Morax's waist and yank.

"A-Ajax." His name is punched from Morax's chest, a groan tumbling from his mouth after it. Then he growls, shifting until he's presented properly on his knees, bracing himself. "Harder," he says, and oh he sounds drunk—as drunk as Tartaglia feels, that haze from the tea overtaking his being again. "Harder and faster. That's what I want. That's what you need."

He does. Tartaglia needs exactly that, so he fucks into Morax with wild abandon, ruthless in the pursuit of his high. He's nearly tipsy, thighs shaking, lost in the tight, hot heat of Morax's warmth. "Fuck, you—" He groans as he sinks so deep, he thinks the tip of his cock might get lost.

The angle must be good. Morax won't shut up, pleas and mumbles of praise lost in the sheets. His fingers cling to the silk as he hangs on, meeting every thrust with a roll of his hips. Tartaglia holds that position, striking the same spot over and over and over.

Heat curls. It tightens, white-hot and thin, his end already close. No, no, no. Too soon. Tartaglia has been hot and bothered too fucking long for this to be so short.

But didn't he fuck his hand over and over? His refractory period is non-existence, whatever the fuck Signora put into his tea lighting not just a fire, but setting his whole being ablaze as if his skin is nothing but kindling.

"Zhongli, I'm going to—"

"Inside. Inside. Ajax, be a good boy and breed me full. I want to feel it. I—" He grunts, shifting to touch himself, hand curled around his cock as he fucks his fist.

Tartaglia does. Oh, he does, tipping over the edge the moment Morax cries out his name, choked and hoarse. He spills inside him, filling Morax to the brim. The heat doesn't go away. The pleasure is neverending, surging through every nerve, tingling, and buzzing.

Sweat drops down his brow. He throws off his shirt to alleviate the heat but nothing works. "Zhongli," he chokes out. Then he whines pitifully. It's painful. It hurts, both the heat and his cock which has been wrung dry. He shouldn't have any more in him but his dick is still stiff, still twitching, still begging to come again.

Morax pulls forward, Tartaglia's cock slipping from him with a wet sound. Comes leaks from his puffy, wrecked hole, and any other time Tartaglia would treasure the sight. Maybe fingering him slowly, lazily. Clean him up sweetly, either with towels or his tongue.

But all he can think about is breeding Morax again until it takes.

Morax moves, pressing a hand against Tartaglia's chest and pushing him over until he's on his back. He straddles his waist. Morax's palm is cool against Tartaglia's chest as he rubs it gently. "Darling," he says, "does it still hurt? I'll have to talk to that damned woman, won't I?"

"Fuck," hisses Tartaglia when Morax leans over him and rolls his hips, frotting their cocks together. Morax is still hard and leaking, hot against him as he ruts. The friction only serves to make it worse. Tartaglia is desperate to be swathed by his insides again, painting them white over and over—

Morax catches his jaw between clawed fingers. "Ajax," he says, dipping forward. He thumbs over Tartaglia's bottom lip, considering him. "I could end her, you know. She has not only attacked a member of my court but my chosen mate. Even if in jest it isn't something I tolerate."

He kisses him sweetly, lips lingering as his tongue sweeps across Tartaglia's. Then Morax sinks his teeth into that swollen, lower lip, marking his claim. The taste of his blood is tangy. Ironlike. Celestia, his dick is so hard it's going to burst.

"Zhongli. Zhongli. Again. I need—"

Another kiss, just a short peck before Morax lets go of his chin and leans back. He takes hold of Tartaglia's cock, strokes it once, and then sinks onto it right to the hilt. Tartaglia hisses at the sudden tightness, Morax clenching around him, insides writhing.

"So full," purrs Morax. His robes are a mess of silk, piling around him, open of the front, his sternum peeking out. Claws, not fingers. A ghost of antlers crowning his head. "Gods," he moans, uncaring that he's blaspheming himself as he grinds against Tartaglia, bullying his cock deep into his gut.

Tartaglia is caught by that ancient, golden gaze. Morax stares as he rides him, cool and even-tempered even in his rousing lust. Unlike Tartaglia, who jerks underneath him, wriggling in the sheets. It's too hot. He's too close, near the edge of his orgasm again. So easy. Takes nothing but the soft sheets and his god hovering over him.

And Morax knows that, judging by the slight tilt of his mouth. "Are you going to come again?" And then quieter, hushed. "How many more times, Ajax? I haven't come yet. How many more times can I wring you dry? That you'll fill me up? How long until that heat subsides and I have my darling back?"

Despite the question and Morax's penchant to call it lovemaking instead, he looks as though he's enjoying this just as much. He rides Tartaglia hard and fast. Tartaglia can barely keep up, holding onto his hips with a bruising touch.

Morax drags a hand down his front until he parts his clothing to show off his cock. The tip is red. Precome dribbles, leaking like a fountain. Tartaglia's mouth waters at the sight of him stroking himself, grinding his palm against the crown with a groan. Morax's head tips back, eyelids fluttering. Those long lashes. The line of his throat, sinuous and on display.

Tartaglia shifts, bracing his heels against the mattress, thrusting his hips to meet Morax's next grind.

"Ajax!" A strangled cry of his name.

They move together instinctually, anticipating each other's movements. Perfection. Tartaglia couldn't ask for more.

"I asked you a question earlier," muses Morax. His words waver, choked and raspy. He's close. Tartaglia can tell by how Morax's cock twitches in his palm. "How many more?"

"As many as I can. As many as—Fuck."

"Breed me, Ajax. How many times have I asked for you to? I won't be satisfied until I have a clutch—"

It's all talk. It's all talk, but Celestia above, that's what does it. Tartaglia comes with a shout, spending himself just as Morax sinks down the entire way. He strokes his cock roughly until he spills all over Tartaglia's stomach in thick, pearlescent streaks.

The heat settles to a simmer. Tartaglia is bone weary in a way he hasn't felt since running drills in the Fatui ranks. His muscles burn, everything twinges, even his throat is sore with all his crying out.

Morax rubs his chest in a soothing touch. "Ajax, are you better?"

"A little," he murmurs. "I'm so fucking tired. I can't—" His cock twitches as if teasing him.

A soft chuckle as Morax rises and his cock slips out in a wet mess. Come pours from him, and usually, Morax would frown at such a mess, but this time he seems to pay it no mind. Instead, he leans over and licks a stripe across Tartaglia's stomach, tasting his own come.

Tartaglia lets out a horrified sound and refuses to watch. "No. No. I'm begging for some rest."

Morax kisses the spot directly next to his navel and then rises. "A towel, I think. I'll be back. I know it still hurts but I agree that you should rest while you can."

The bed shifts under his weight as he moves. Tartaglia melts into the sheets, unable to move, doing his best to ignore the arousal that simmers in his gut. When Morax comes back with a damp towel, Tartaglia says, "I'm going to kill her."

"I already offered to," hums Morax, cleaning up their mess with a gentle touch.

"This is her idea of fun, by the way."

Morax raises an eyebrow. "Dosing you with what is clearly an aphrodisiac?"

"No." Tartaglia drapes his forearm across his eyes. "She's never used it on me, but I know the rumors. It's supposed to make you annoyed and agitated, but I got horny, and I couldn't stop thinking of you and so I—Well, your bed smells like you."

Another hum. Morax drops the towel to the side and settles back into the sheets. "As much as it smells of you. And it is your bed as well." He traces Tartaglia's tense muscles with his fingers, using sparks of Geo to try to ease the soreness. "I'm no healer, as you know."

Tartaglia laughs, thinking back to Morax's panic when he was poisoned.

His mind is still foggy but he feels more like himself. It isn't over though—not yet. He can tell that he'll be on fire again sooner than later. He rolls onto his side and buries his face against Morax's chest. "It's embarrassing," he says, muffled by skin. "But it's less embarrassing than going to Katya for an antidote."

Morax pets his hair. "I would imagine so," he says dryly. "That sounds like the sort of blackmail material Katya would hang onto longer than either of us would like." A pause. "More, then?"

"Hm, later." Tartaglia finds himself lulled the slightest bit underneath Morax's touch. "I think I may actually be able to nap but I can't promise I won't get handsy in my sleep."

"Is that a promise or an apology?"

Tartaglia cracks an eye open and tilts his face up. "Why does it sound like you'd rather it be the former?" Morax's feral grin is answer enough. "Insatiable," grumbles Tartaglia.

"No, that is you at the moment, which I intend to indulge in for as long as possible. So rarely are you—"

"Like you? That's a good thing."

Tartaglia's face is pressed into Morax's neck this time, resting in the crook of it. He knows that Morax is smiling, though. Jerk.

"I will say something to the Tsaritsa—"

"Please don't."

"Nothing specific, but I do not take kindly to assault, even if meant to be mostly harmless." Morax's nose buries itself in Tartaglia's hair and he inhales. "Now sleep and dream of me. I'll be here when you wake, whatever your state."

"Horny. I'll be unreasonably horny." Tartaglia is exhausted by the mere thought of it. "I've jacked off enough today that I don't even know if I can enjoy it again."

"Hm. We'll see."

A suspicious, but very Morax-like answer. A challenge, even, if Tartaglia's ever heard one. Suddenly he knows he'll need the rest because he has no doubt in his mind that Morax is cooking up a plan.