CW: Contains Smut

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In retrospect, Tartaglia brought this upon himself.

It took him ages to scrounge up the courage to ask Morax for a spar, and it wasn't that he feared rejection—no, he knew that Morax would say yes. That soft, sly little smirk as he trailed his fingers down Tartaglia's arm. A kiss to that scar on Tartaglia's wrist before saying, "It would be a pleasure, baobei."

Morax is a man of underhanded and subtle tactics. Tartaglia knew that the spar would be used as an excuse to stare unabashedly. For lingering hands and fingers digging into the meat of Tartagalia's hips as they throw each other around. Two moments in and Morax's eyes were already raking across his form, glowing golden and bright at the sight of him.

It is too early in the morning for anyone else to be there. Tartaglia rises before the sun and this time, Morax came with him, sans his usual robes and dressed in loose trousers and one of Tartaglia's shirts. A claim. No one would be able to not know, even if they still tend to kiss in the shadows, trying to keep a terribly kept secret. Morax wears his intentions on not just his robe sleeve, but every slip of his skin, bearing teeth marks and kisses for as long as they bruise.

Embarrassing. Gods, it's so embarrassing. Even more so when Tartaglia's dick twitches at the sight of it.

"Ajax?"

Right, right—the issue at hand. In hand. Specifically Morax's hand. Tartaglia is pressed against the ground with Morax settled across his thighs, an unwavering weight. Like stone. Heavy. And in his hand is Tartaglia's cock, pitifully hard and leaking from the tip.

"We shouldn't do this here." A weak protest, they both know it.

A soft click of Morax's tongue. "We already are. And who else is here to watch? You and I both know that the rest of the guards are lazy creatures. It's far too early for anyone else to be out here."

They are not but Tartaglia knows it's useless to refute it. Morax grins slyly as he thumbs across the tip to catch the precome that dribbles there. "Besides," he continues, "I don't see this guy complaining."

Tartaglia means to spit out his name, annoyed, but it comes out as a drawn-out moan when Morax strokes his length.

Another sly grin. Morax's eyes glint in the early morning sunlight that just crests the tops of the surrounding mountains. "Loud too," he muses, the crow's feet around his eyes crinkling with affection.

Tartaglia breathes a sigh of relief when Morax lets go of his cock. "You did this on purpose."

Morax tilts his head. "Did what? Win?"

"Agree to a spar—"

"Do I need a reason to enjoy some fun with my darling knight?"

Oh, Tartaglia both hates and loves being called that. It takes so little for him to fall right back into Morax's palm—which Morax knows.

He smiles then, wide and feral. This is an emperor if Tartaglia's ever seen one. A dragon of ages gone by, insufferably old and long-lived. Coy and knowing, looking at him as if those golden eyes can peer into Tartaglia's soul. Morax drags a finger down the length of Tartaglia's cock, watching it twitch.

"It is cruel, you know, implying that there are times when I don't want to just touch you. You cannot come to me with a request to spar and expect me to say no—"

"You've repeatedly said no!"

Morax's gaze narrows, his pupils thinly slit. "Have you never considered why?" He leans close, hanging over Tartaglia, the loose flyaways of his hair framing his face. He curls his fingers around Tartaglia's wrist and tugs it towards his groin. Morax is hard inside those trousers—unbearably so—and he lets out a shaky breath the moment Tartaglia's palm presses against his erection.

"Ajax," he murmurs softly, "at just the barest sigh of you, I crave more. And when we touch you reduce me to this." He rolls his hips against Tartaglia's hand to make his point.

Tartaglia's throat is dry. Okay. Okay, he understands. He can't look at Morax without his gut curling, and seeing him dressed down and in his clothing? Tartaglia was half-hard the moment they stepped into the training arena.

Morax paws at his own clothing. "A mistake on my part, perhaps?"

"What mistake?" Tartaglia's voice is raspy with want.

"While it was fun teasing you by wearing trousers, I do miss the easy access that my robes tend to offer. Damn it."

Tartaglia laughs as he swoops in to help, his fingers deft as they unclasp the front. Just enough to pull out his cock. Morax's length looks good resting in Tartaglia's palm, red at the tip, wet and dripping. Tartaglia gives it a quick stroke from base to tip and Morax's hips grind against his hold.

"I'm not fucking you—"

"Making love," says Morax, tartly. "Honestly, calling it such an absurd thing."

"I'm not fucking you here," repeats Tartaglia, finishing his thought. "And I know you want me to."

"I would be lying if there wasn't an instinctual need for you to claim me in every corner of this palace." A lofty sigh as Morax thrusts into his grip, head tilted back to show off the long column of his neck. Tartaglia wants to bite at it, nibble it, lick the sweat away from the apple of Morax's throat. He just strokes his cock instead with a teasing, light hold, enough for Morax to loose a frustrated grunt.

"Old lizard." Tartaglia means to tease but it comes out fond instead.

Morax's mouth quirks into a soft smile as he looks at him again. "Like this, then, if you're as stubborn as you say." He bats Tartaglia's hand away and shifts closer until their cocks brush against each other. All it takes is Morax's hand around the both of them for Tartaglia's head to crack against the ground.

"Hah—"

"'Old lizard'," repeats Morax with the click of his tongue. "You certainly have no complaints when these bits of myself take over during..." He smirks, smoothing his thumb across the tip of Tartaglia's cock, spreading the precome there. "You get the picture, I'm sure. Now, if you would."

Morax lets go of their cocks and holds out his hand expectantly. Tartaglia gives him a pinched expression, the huffs when he realizes just wants him to do. Hydro coalesces in Morax's palm. He hums softly, his expression wrinkling around the corners of his eyes as he says, "Good boy."

Rude. But Tartaglia knows its payment for calling Morax an old lizard. And it isn't like it does nothing to him, something Morax is fully aware of. Morax strokes their cocks together, squeezing them tightly in an iron-clad grip. Hydro eases the way. Everything is slick in Morax's wet palm, and his rolling little thrusts against Tartaglia's length don't help.

Tartaglia holds him by the hips, fingers digging into the plush muscle there. "Zhongli." It's a hushed moan, one that he tries to bite back. It's one thing for Tartaglia's given name to be said, but another entirely for the emperor's preferred moniker to be thrown around so easily.

Oh, but he loves it. Morax watches him with lustful, libidinous eyes, cheeks flushed pink, and sweat beading along his brow. He moans again as he ruts into his hand, his length sliding alongside Tartaglia's aching cock.

The pressure, the friction, that look on Morax's face. Tartaglia lays prone on the ground with his emperor above him, frotting against his cock.

Morax moans, long and drawn-out. "Baobei," he practically growls, possessive in nature, and Tartaglia thinks back to what he said moments prior: I would be lying if there wasn't an instinctual need for you to claim me in every corner of this palace.

Tartaglia would, embarrassment aside. He has, even, Morax often goading him into dalliances at the worst times and places. All because Tartaglia can't say no.

Heat curls into his gut. Morax sets the pace, his hand moving far too slowly. Even with the languid roll of his hips, his cock dragging against his, it still isn't enough. Tartaglia whines, hips jerking, trying fuck against Morax's palm.

But Morax is like a stone above him, settled over his waist, hot and heavy, pinning Tartaglia to the ground as if he barely thinks about it. The strength of a dragon. The strength of a god. So often Tartaglia forgets just whose bed it is he shares.

"Handsome," murmurs Morax next, his deep baritone dripping with arousal. "Divine. Now that I think about it, perhaps I should be the only one to see you like this." He dips closer, pressing his face into Tartaglia's nape. A deep inhale. A moan against his throat, and then a kiss, lips soft against Tartaglia's neck, contradictory to the way Morax jerks their cocks together.

Tartaglia tugs at Morax's wrist. "Let me," he begs. "Zhongli, please let me."

Morax pulls back, his twinkling with amusement. "So desperate?"

"Yes." No use in not being honest. Morax lets go and Tartaglia slicks his palm with more Hydro and takes hold of their lengths. He strokes their cocks faster, twisting around the crowns.

Morax hisses in pleasure as he hangs over him, bracing his weight on his hands. "Ajax," he whispers, rolling his hips experimentally.

They both groan. Tartaglia's going to die; from the heat, the smell of sex in the air, the sounds that drip from Morax's mouth unabashedly. "No shame," he laughs as he thumbs across the tips of their cocks.

"When it comes to you? Never. Ajax, my devotion to you is clear. I wear it upon my skin like a cloak. Your markings, each little bite, and nibble, they are accessories on my skin made to be displayed proudly." Morax thrusts into his hold, rolling grinds that pull both of them closer to their ends. "And one day I'll make you fuck me out here so that everyone knows that it is a claim I do not take lightly."

Tartaglia curses, gripping their cocks tighter. "Fuck. Fuck, Zhongli—"

"Just like that." Morax slips a hand between them, covering Tartaglia's own, squeezing it tighter. He moves quickly now, fucking Tartaglia's hand eagerly. Soft grunts. The slick slapping of skin on skin. Morax's bright-eyed gaze as he watches Tartaglia with those ancient eyes as he hurtles closer to the edge. "I'm—I'm going to—"

Tartaglia comes first with a cry, arching from the ground. Morax's last few thrusts are stuttered and uneven, and he spills next, soiling Tartaglia's hand and stomach. His thighs shake as he tries to keep a hold of himself. Specks of Geo flutter around him, his antlers tinged with a sunlit glow.

So beautiful. Morax had called him divine, but he was wrong, so incredibly wrong. Tartaglia wishes he could see all of him, every inch of skin, every sweep of blush from his arousal.

Morax breathes unevenly. Tartaglia can feel his pulse rage in his own veins as he comes down from his high. Morax then hums, sweeping his fingers through their mess. "A waste," he murmurs. A soft sigh. "And to think, you could have filled me instead." A pause as he hums. "Later. I'll tie you to the bed if I have to."

"Um." Heat flares on Tartaglia's face as Morax looks at him, expectant and wanton.

Morax's gaze turns sharp. "Unless you'd rather have me face down in the sheets? You could breed me properly—"

Tartaglia shoves a hand over Morax's mouth. He feels Morax smile against his palm and then kiss it. "Celestia above, I can't go anywhere with you."

Morax pulls away. "Does that mean no more sparring?" There is a touch of sadness in his tone at the thought.

"What? No, I just—" Tartaglia drags his other hand down his face. "I'm not talking about this with my dick out and covered in semen."

There is a rustle. Tartaglia peeks out from behind his hand to find Morax tugging his shirt off with the intent to clean up with it. His shoulders roll, lithe muscles rippling. Surely this isn't proper. Surely there'd be a fit if others found their emperor half-naked, ebony arms on display.

Morax smirks when Tartaglia's cock twitches. "Have you changed your mind?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." Barely so. Tartaglia thinks if Morax asks again he just might give in. Morax huffs as if disappointed but cleans up their mess dutifully. "Zhongli—"

"A tease, I assure you. I find myself satisfied enough for the moment."

"For the moment," repeats Tartaglia bluntly.

Morax grins as he pulls off him and stands. He says nothing else, gives no further explanation, just crumples up the soiled shirt, and drapes it over his arm. "Don't give me that look. Did you think I was going to leave your clothing here? No, I'll sort out the laundry."

Strange. Morax is the type to leave clothing around and expect the maids to pick it up. Before Tartaglia can ponder the oddity of this, though, Morax tugs him to his feet. "Indecent," he chides, reaching out to tuck Tartaglia's soft cock back into his trousers before fastening them again.

Tartaglia is about to retort when Morax moves to cup his face, dragging a thumb over his lip. "A darling, though. And so good to me."

He can't help but kiss Morax then, crossing the space for something sweet and lingering. Morax laughs against his mouth, chasing the heat of it before abruptly pulling away. "I assume that you'd rather not deal with Xiao at the moment."

"I—what?"

"He'd likely be annoyed at the sight of his ruler ruffled and debased so early in the morning."

Oh. Oh. Xiao is a quiet man, so his footsteps aren't often heard, but Morax must smell him near. "I'd blame it on you," answers Tartaglia.

A wry smile spreads across Morax's face. "And you think he'd believe it?"

"Honestly?" He doesn't need to finish the thought for them to both know the answer is yes.

Morax laughs and kisses him again. "Tonight," he says. "Forgo your chambers and come to mine. Don't think I'll forget."

As if Tartaglia sleeps in his own rooms as of late. He's all but moved into Morax's private quarters as far as most of the staff is concerned.

"Is this about the..." Heat, said Morax a few days prior. My body wishes to be bred.

He'd be lying if he hasn't dreamt about it, those words lingering in the back of his mind. They never did truly discuss it, Morax being thrown into more work and meetings, his attention split for the duration of the Acting Grand Sage's visit.

"Ah." A soft chuckle of amusement. "We should talk about that, shouldn't we? Let us share lunch and I shall impart upon you the basics. For now..." Morax sighs. "A bath is in order. And then I have meetings until early afternoon. Dreadful. And you—you have work as well. These men don't train themselves."

"They aren't even my men."

"They may as well be. Do try to be patient with Xiao. I can already smell his agitation."

"What—"

But Morax is gone the moment he turns, having winked away entirely. And then Xiao steps into the training grounds on heated feet, aggravation rolling off of him in waves. They lock gazes. Xiao tilts his head, eyes narrowed at the sight of Tartaglia.

"Your servant," he mutters. "Miss Ekaterina." Oh, that's a tone that Tartaglia doesn't think he's ever heard, even with all the shenanigans he and Morax have indulged in near Xiao's presence. "She should learn some boundaries. It is not her job to feed me in the morning."

Tartaglia's expression turns sly. "Why was she in your quarters?"

Xiao's mouth drops open, gaping like a fish. Then it snaps shut, hair on the back of his neck raised like the hackles on a cat. "Irrelevant to the point."

There are a million things that Tartaglia would find possible. Katya spending the night in Xiao's private rooms is not one of them. He'll ask later because it's long overdue for her to be the one put on the spot. For now, he tips his head back and rubs the sweat from his brow.

"Want to spar?" he asks, to which Xiao emphatically declines.