Warning: Contains Smut

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"Sometimes I wonder if I've robbed the cradle."

Tartaglia is in the middle of sucking a mark into Morax's neck when he says this, and comes to a dead standstill as he absorbs these words.

"That is the phrase, is it not?" asks Morax, his brow crinkling slightly.

A terrible thought. Terrible. Tartaglia ignores it, teeth sinking into Morax's flesh, eliciting a sharp gasp.

"I—Ajax."

"Shush, I'm trying to enjoy myself."

"I am too, but—"

Tartaglia pulls back and gives Morax a look. "Why are you worried about this?"

Morax clicks his tongue. "I am not worried, but... Emperor Neuvillette might have mentioned something about—"

"Like he has room to talk," scoffs Tartaglia. "That guard dog of his is—"

"Still older than you." Morax's expression is a curious thing. "Perhaps I should take that as a win, hm?"

Oh. Oh. Tartaglia should've recognized that look on Morax's face. "You old lizard," he mutters. "You're getting off on this."

Morax welcomes the accusation, tugging Tartaglia's hand to his cock. "It takes nothing, of course." He curls Tartaglia's fingers around his length, guiding him to squeeze it tight and give it a stroke. "But I will not deny that there is a certain... pleasure in knowing that you want me in this way."

"Is there a reason that you need the reassurance? Feeling old? Decrepit?" Tartaglia means it as a tease, but Morax pushes at him in response, flipping them over in the bed effortlessly with that ancient strength of his.

"Darling." Morax gives him a crooked grin, pressing his hand against Tartaglia's sternum. "Old," he repeats, musing over it. "Decrepit."

Tartaglia swallows. "So, I, uh—"

That hand is a firm weight the anchors him to the bed, and fuck, if it doesn't make Tartaglia hot. Morax is powerful. He glitters with power, arms dark and fingertips golden as Geo surrounds them. "Incorrigible boy," he purrs, "but—" Morax dips close enough for Tartaglia to taste his power. "My boy, yes?"

Tartaglia shouldn't love this so much, but it's hard not to. Morax looks at him as if he's hung the damn moon, an expression meant for only him. No one else, not even Guizhong of the past. And she'd known—they've talked about this enough for Tartaglia to understand that she'd known this, that there'd be another, and it's him, it's him.

Still. Morax's expression turns thoughtful as he rubs his thumb across Tartaglia's nipple. "It was not worry," he says, referencing the earlier accusation, "merely a thought. You are young, impetuous—"

"Impetuous?"

"—but you are mine." Tartaglia's cock twitches, hard and aching. Morax touches it next, his fingers too light-handed as he gives it a stroke. "Are you mine?"

Tartaglia whimpers, arching in the sheets as that grip around his length tightens, pulling over it from base to tip. Morax is wild and a wonder, knowing every weakness of his. It would take nothing to yank him over the edge, to make Tartaglia spill against his palm. But no, Morax is cruel, touching him with evil sweetness, keeping him just at the precipice of his pleasure.

"Ajax?"

Shit. He expects an answer. "Yes, I—yes."

"My mate," says Morax, then. He sounds so warm, so lost with those words. "It is often hard to keep up with you, but—"

"Hard?" Tartaglia wheezes at that. It's Morax who runs him ragged and thin, who runs laps around him, and leaves him a sweaty pool of aching flesh after the rare times he indulges in a spar.

"Yes, you are," teases Morax as he gives Tartaglia's cock another stroke. "And needy, apparently. Tell me, will you be quick to come?"

No. Probably, but that isn't an age thing, it's a Morax thing, and Tartaglia's inability to not fucking lose himself the moment his dick is shoved deep inside of him. Morax isn't naked enough, still wrapped in a silk robe that's loose around his shoulders. Everything else, though... There's nothing underneath, his pale skin flushed to his collarbone. Morax's hair is loose, hanging around his face, framing his face. He brushes a section behind his ear as he shifts, sliding down the length of Tartaglia's body.

"Ajax," he says, leaning over and pressing a kiss to the tip of Tartaglia's cock, "you didn't answer my question."

"I—fuck you. Stop being mean."

"You called me decrepit. I do think I'm allowed to tease you for being a quick shot—"

"It's your damn mouth," snaps Tartaglia. "You—you..."

Morax gives him a cat-eyed gaze and a smirk before swallowing his cock down. Tartaglia bucks immediately, hard enough that Morax has to hold his hips down with his free hand. So strong, that bruising grip. Makes the heat raging through Tartaglia even worse.

This is the problem, of course; Morax has centuries of experience. It doesn't matter that partners were sparse and few and far between, just that Morax has lived for eons and Tartaglia can barely begin to compare.

Morax sucks around him, drawing his length deep. He moans, bobbing along it, tracing the underside with that long, forked tongue of his. A hand drifts, tracing the soft insides of Tartaglia's thighs, then his balls, squeezing at them gently.

Tartaglia curses, bracing himself in the bed. A hand finds Morax's head and yanks at his hair to try and still him, cause fuck, he's going to come. "I'm—Zhongli."

Morax pops off and laughs. "See, that's what I meant. Young. Inexperienced. Endearing. One could wonder just what you see in me. Old Lizard, you always call me." He licks a stripe from the base to tip, flicking his tongue through the precome that drips from there. "But mine, all mine. Always mine. Forever mine."

Tartaglia could say something stupid, but all thoughts are lost when Morax wraps his mouth around his cock again. Hot. Wet. Tartaglia groans, rolling his hips, Morax encouraging him to move, which makes it so much worse. The tip of his dick hits the back of Morax's throat, and he sucks, tightening, and that's it, that's all it takes for him to come. Tartaglia spills into his mouth with a dry cry of Morax's name, embarrassed to be proven right.

But Morax—Morax just smiles around him and swallows like it's a delicacy, moaning as the taste hits his tongue. He lingers as he suckles, savoring this; the way that Tartaglia's cock twitches and softens slightly on his tongue. But the attention keeps him half-hard and overstimulated, and Tartaglia groans as the heat that coils in his gut barely quells.

"Your arousal," says Morax when he pulls off, "smells..." He drops to the crease of Tartaglia's groin and inhales deeply. Morax nips at the skin there, biting at him, teeth sinking in to leave a mark.

Tartaglia hisses at the sting, but loves it, that mark, how he'll be able to stare at it in the mirror for days on end, and how Morax will smooth salve over it with a soft and lingering touch. Another bite. Another. These are claims. For all of Morax's teasing, he's possessive in nature, and he has a mighty need today as his teeth sink into Tartaglia's flesh.

It matters not that Tartaglia will not stray, or that they're mates. The blood oath was just a start. Morax needs more, he always needs more, and so his teeth mark a new space of flesh near Tartaglia's hip.

"Fuck, like that, like—" Tartaglia melts into the sheets, whimpering.

When Morax pulls away, his mouth is red, tinged with a smidge of blood. He licks it away, sighing, his gaze heady and hot as he regards Tartaglia with unbridled lust. "Your taste," he mutters, moving, sliding back up the length of his body until he's straddling his thighs. Morax tugs at his wrist, nuzzling the scar there, thinking of the allegiance that Tartaglia swore to him.

Morax usually keeps his antlers tucked away for convenience, but he has a tendency to lose himself in moments like this. They crown his head, glittering, swathed in Geo like the rest of him—his arms, dark like charcoal, the tips of his fingers like spun gold. Morax's power swims around him, spicing the air.

Tartaglia does feel young, in comparison. There is a weight to Morax's power, and it's because he's so old, so ancient. That power has aged alongside him, and it's as if the world itself knows. Tartaglia loves being at the mercy of it. Morax drags his claws down his sternum with a controlled touch, but if he wanted, he could shred him apart.

But he doesn't. That touch is soft, gentle. Reverent. Morax regards him with hunger, but also with awe, and Tartaglia loves that he's the exception to the rule, that Morax has chosen him.

"Ajax," he says, his fingers pulling down to tangle in the coarse hair at the base of his dick, "I have a need for you. I always do, but right now it outweighs any rational thoughts. For all those teasings of my age, I fear that I am the one with thoughts befitting those of a teenager."

Tartaglia nearly laughs. Not that Tartaglia doesn't harbor horny thoughts, but it's always Morax that toes the line. He's the menace, the one unable to hold back, prone to pulling Tartaglia into compromising positions when he wants to get off.

"Zhongli, how do you want me?"

Morax hums, lifting his hand to lick at his palm, wetting it. "Inside me, of course."

He doesn't ask for Hydro, but with a wave of Tartaglia's hands, Morax's fingers are coated with it. Morax purrs. "Always so good for me. And—" He squeezes at Tartaglia's cock. "Another benefit of having a partner so young and virile."

"Please never say that again. That's—Zhongli, that's—oh." Morax gives him no warning, just sinks onto his cock, rolling his hips as he forces it deeper. "Oh fuck, fuck."

"That too." Morax groans when Tartaglia's cock is fully settled inside of him. "So open with your words. No need for propriety or manners—"

"I can't think about manners when my dick is inside of you," hisses Tartaglia, his eyes squeezing shut as Morax moves overtop him.

"Darling, that wasn't a complaint. I—" Morax lets loose a shuddering breath as he pulls up and sinks back down, setting a slow pace. "Hah, yes, you feel—"

Tartaglia doesn't think this could be described as anything other than divine. Laying with Morax is a rapturous experience. He throws around words like making love, and he's right, Morax is right. Tartaglia doesn't just get lost in the heat of his body, or the way that it clenches tightly around his cock, he loses himself to his being entirely.

Morax watches back with a ruddy gaze, his pupils blown wide with want. He moves against him, rising and falling, riding his cock with calculated precision. Those years, that experience—it drives Tartaglia wild. Morax looks at him with eyes as old as time, but his attention is rapt, focused on only him.

"Baobei," he says, pulling Tartaglia's wrist close again. He mouths at it, nipping at that scar, his fangs catching on it. "Laogong. Mate. My perfect, perfect boy—"

Tartaglia's free hand rests against Morax's hip, guiding him. "Zhongli," he mutters, bucking into him, meeting the next sway of Morax's body with a sharp thrust. "Zhongli, I—"

Morax laughs, kissing his pulse. It rages in Tartaglia's wrist, in his chest, in his ears. Morax moves quicker, pulls himself up and down on straining, shuddering thighs. Lofty sighs and airy moans drip from his mouth, and Tartaglia can tell that it takes everything within him to not bite at his wrist too.

"I love you," says Tartaglia. "I—you can—go on and do it."

It takes Morax a moment to realize what he means. Another kiss to his wrist, his time his lips lingering. "The things you do to me," he murmurs, breath hot against Tartaglia's skin. "I was gone the moment that you stepped into my court. On loan to me—that's what your Tsaritsa said. Little did she know that I would hoard you for myself."

Morax mouths at his skin. "Your taste," he whispers, just like he had earlier. "I still think of it, the taste of your blood. Mine."

Tartaglia swallows, heat pooling in his gut. "Please," he says. And then, "I love you."

Morax's teeth sink into his wrist like a knife through butter. It takes nothing. Tartaglia gasps as blood rushes to his head. His cock twitches, and Morax grinds against it, moaning—at his taste, at the feel of him. He sucks and then pulls off, lapping at the wound, tongue dragging over Tartaglia's torn skin.

It's too much. Tartaglia is drunk on it. "Fuck, fuck, I—"

Morax moves again, riding him with wild abandon. This time, when he drags himself up and down on his cock, it has no rhythm; it's with stilted, stuttering movements as Morax tries and fails to contain himself.

And the entire time, he watches Tartaglia, his gaze never wavering. He licks at his lips and still nuzzles his wrist, uncaring of the mess the bite as left. It stings, but it stings so good. Tartaglia moans as Morax grinds against him, taking his cock deep, squeezing around it.

"So good," he says, his voice like the silk of his robe, loose around his shoulder. "So big, so—you always fill me in a way that is unfathomable. Darling, Ajax—"

"I'm going to—" Tartaglia chokes on a wheeze, his face scrunching as he tries to hold on. Nails dig into Morax's hip as he tries to hold him still, but Morax is stronger, breaking free from that grasp and riding his cock with sharp, hard movements. He ruts against Tartaglia, up and down, hitting the perfect angle. A swivel of his hips. Claws digging into the meat of Tartaglia's wrist.

"Good boy," he purrs. "Such a good boy. Are you going to come again?"

"Yes, yes."

"Are you going to fill me up? I want to feel it, Ajax."

Tartaglia whimpers as he comes, spilling for a second time. This time it's thin and pitiful. His orgasm rolls through him slowly, a weak wave that crashes against shore.

But Morax is not done. "I'm—" He grunts, leaning back, throwing his hips down against Tartaglia's thighs. It could bruise, him doing this, ass slapping against Tartaglia's legs. Morax has a hand pinned against Tartaglia's stomach, and the power exerted could easily backfire.

All that Tartaglia does is moan, watching him. "Zhongli, you look—gods, I can't stop looking at you. I love you. I—I love you. Our oath, our promise—"

"I know, Ajax." Morax noses at his wrist, this time the touch soft and affectionate. His saliva has already done its job, the wound scabbed over, reddened and irritated, but no longer bleeding. "I love you, too. Only you, and I—Hmmhn..."

He sinks all the way down, relishing Tartaglia's cock, even as it softens. Morax drops his wrist and takes hold of his own length instead, head tossed back as he gives it a few strokes and weathers entirely. His orgasm is quieter, understated, but messy. Morax paints Tartaglia's stomach white with his come, tugging himself through it.

"Look at you," says Tartaglia, reaching up to cup his face. He pulls Morax's face close and kisses him, biting at his lips, licking into his mouth, desperate for a taste. Blood. Power. Tartaglia can taste his age an oh it's good. He wants to douse himself in it, to utterly drown.

Their comedown is sloppy. Morax swallows his tongue right back; licks over his teeth, across the roof of his mouth. This is the sort of heat that makes Tartaglia last and last—and even his cock agrees, still half-hard and aching inside of Morax's ass.

Morax feels it, of course. He strokes Tartaglia's face and chuckles. "Needy boy. What is the word? Horny? Do you want more?"

"Yes, I—fuck, I always want more. I can't get enough, I—"

"What a treasure I've stowed away. My precious baobei, indeed." Morax shrugs off his robe, the silk pooling his hips, and Tartaglia's middle. "What luck I have—or, perhaps, divine wisdom? I was smart in courting someone so... youthful."

"Zhongli—"

"Would you like to see how long it takes for you to get hard again?"

"Zhongli."

Morax smiles, half-feral, half-teasing. "A tease... unless you truly want to—"

"I'm beat. I—fuck, even I have my limits, you know."

"That isn't a no," drawls Morax, squeezing around his cock.

Tartaglia moans. Melts into the sheets. Sweat beads on his brow and he wipes at it with a forearm. "I'd rather lay here. Nap together? When was the last time that we did that?"

Morax's expression softens. He says nothing, just drags his hands down Tartaglia's sides and up his chest. Then, he pulls off, Tartaglia's cock slipping from him with a wet sound. "I'll clean up, then. It will only take a moment. A nap though... laying about with my mate, scenting him."

"Sounds nice, right?"

The sound that Morax makes his a strange trilling noise that is decidedly inhuman.

Tartaglia watches him as he wanders around the room. He wipes them down. He picks up their clothing and puts them away, even though there are servants for that. When Morax slips back into the sheets, Tartaglia is dozing, half pulled under in his exhaustion.

"I did most of the work," says Morax, booping Tartaglia's nose.

"That's the price you pay for being older. You have to guide me through it."

Morax gives him a narrowly-slit look. "You need no guidance, Ajax. Perhaps a nudge in my direction, but—"

"I didn't even need that, you know. You already said it, earlier. I was gone the moment I saw you, too."

"She knew." Morax whispers this, pressing close enough that they share a pillow, and their noses nearly touch. "There isn't a chance that your Tsaritsa wouldn't know I'd want you as my own."

Ah, here it is, the mostly-unspoken and complicated nature of their relationship. But Morax doesn't push it, he just lets the thought linger, and then pulls Tartaglia's wrist to his face for a nuzzle. Scenting him, as he promised. All that tension bleeds away that moment that Morax inhales.

"I swore an oath to you."

"And her."

"No, I got on a knee for her and said fancy things. But I swore an oath to you. I don't bare any marks for her. Her love isn't bitten into my skin for all to see."

Morax stills. He smiles and tilts his face to kiss that mark. Then he kisses it again, and again, and again, and Tartaglia thinks that age matters not here. This is where he belongs, that gap between them be damned.

Still, it's fun to tease. So he asks, "Would your back protest to being bent in half again? Or, are you too old to have another go?"

Morax is more virile than Tartaglia, and his recovery period is almost nonexistent. His expression is cool, mildly amused. "You wicked boy," he says, nipping at his wrist. "Is it smart to rile up an old dragon?"

"Probably not, but I've got decades to test your limits."

Morax laughs then, loud, filling the space. That third tumble in the sheets comes sooner than expected, Morax writhing underneath him, begging for more.