Tartaglia wakes up Morax with the intent to indulge, but Morax is too tired to do anything but lay there and be lavished upon.

CW: Contains Smut

--

Tartaglia rises before the sun one crisp morning.

Not to nightmares, just the bitter morning and too-cold sheets. It is still dark outside. Marchosius's everlasting candle flickers on the bedside table, casting the room in an orange glow. Tartaglia groans, dragging a hand down his face, blinking the bits of crust from his eyes.

Morax is hot next to him, lying prone on his back, head cradled by his pillow. Easy, slow breaths. Out like a light.

Tartaglia turns, watching him sleepily. Xiao once told him in a rare moment of begrudging politeness that he could count on one hand those Morax trusts. All of them minus Xiao are dead. For Morax to be so relaxed in his presence is not only telling, it warms Tartaglia's heart to the point of near boiling.

Morax sleeps in a loose robe, parted at the waist, open from his collarbone to navel. His chest is on display, gleaming with a light sheen of sweat. A pink, dusty nipple peeks out from the silk, just the edge of it in sight. Tartaglia's mouth waters. Heat curls in his belly as his cock hardens, and he huffs softly at the predictable nature of his body.

What a fool he is. A fool for this god, his god, his mate. Outside of their room, Morax may be a man who commands respect, but here in their bed, in their shared space, he is only Zhongli, bared willingly for Tartaglia to pick apart. It is mutual. Tartaglia rarely trusts too, but he'd let Morax flay him alive and crawl into his body.

He swore an oath of blood—something he's refused even the Tsaritsa. Morax loves to kiss his wrist, to lathe over that scar with his tongue, to nibble at it whilst reminding Tartaglia that he belongs to him. And he does. Oh, he does. Heart, mind, body, and blood; Tartaglia knew the moment he saw Morax that first time on his throne he would not be going back to Snezhnaya.

And now—

Tartaglia scoots closer, tangling their legs together. An arm around Morax's waist. His forehead pressed against Morax's sternum. Morax mumbles something in his sleep and Tartaglia grins against his skin and kisses the spot right between his pecs.

A quick grind of their hips, Tartaglia's cock hot and heavy against Morax's groin. No response. Tartaglia rears back and flashes a look at his face. Still asleep. The only sounds in the room are the whistling breaths through his teeth.

Tartaglia reaches out and plays with the hem of Morax's robe. The silk is sheer and soft. He tugs at the fabric gently, watching it drag over Morax's skin. His nipple pebbles at the sensation, hardening in the air and pleasure.

His throat goes dry. Tartaglia wants to taste, to swirl his tongue around the taut bud. He tugs at the fabric until it slips down Morax's side, revealing smooth, tanned skin that melts into charcoal at the joints.

"Handsome," mutters Tartaglia to himself, nuzzling the soft center of Morax's chest. Morax sighs in his sleep but doesn't stir beyond that, leaving Tartaglia to grin against him. A kiss to the soft skin and the gentle nip of his teeth.

Still nothing, just the even rise and fall of Morax's chest as he lies lax in the sheets. More kisses. More tugging at Morax's silk robe, the fabric dragging across his body. Tartaglia shifts, half-sitting up as he ruts against Morax's hip. This time there is a soft whimper and a quiet, sleep-filled murmur of his name.

Tartaglia leans over him. Morax is shrouded in the orange glow of the candle on the bedside table. His face is smooth and relaxed, lacking that pinch of annoyance between his brows he's so often saddled with. Tartaglia presses his hand against Morax's waist, slipping it into his robe before bending over and licking a stripe over a pert nipple.

A hitch in Morax's breath. The tiniest fluttering of his eyelashes.

Good, thinks, smirking as he begins to feast.

Morax has given him many allowances. "You're allowed to touch me as I sleep," he'd said once. And then his tone turned dry as he continued with, "Though I cannot promise you won't awaken a horny and desperate dragon."

Tartaglia doesn't typically indulge in this; Morax is plenty needy and they spend their nights tumbling around in the sheets with wandering hands and hard cocks. There are lazy mornings, though. It is still too early—there is no sun outside the window, just the barest peek of violet on the horizon. But Tartaglia thinks that, perhaps, they need a lazy morning. It's been a while, woefully too long for them to go without enjoying time together.

Another sweep of his tongue, swirling around Morax's pink areola. He nibbles at it then, his blunt teeth just barely sinking into the bud. The other, he ghosts his fingers over, smiling as it hardens, quick to respond to his touch. He sucks, drawing Morax's nipple into his mouth, tracing every ridge, the crease of the bud, tonguing around its risen edge.

A sharp gasp. A soft moan. Tartaglia's eyes flicker to Morax's face to find him arched in the sheets, eyes half-open and still glazed with sleep. His mouth parts. He licks his dry lips, wetting them. Another groan as Tartaglia sinks his teeth into his skin.

"M'jax," he murmurs. His voice is slurred with sleep. Adorable. Perfect.

Tartaglia pulls off and kisses his swollen nipple. "Always so tempting."

Morax blinks slowly and looks down. He's sluggish but more alert. One hand finds the back of Tartaglia's head, fingers sliding through his hair. "Mhm. Me?"

"That damned silk." Tartaglia hums, nuzzling his chest, licking the valley between his pecs. "It slips off you and suddenly you're on display, and I—" He grinds his cock against Morax's hip, making his need apparent.

"Needy thing." Morax sounds still half-gone, his voice cracked with sleep. "Darling, it's the middle of the night—"

Tartaglia settles over him properly, slipping between his thighs as Morax spreads them without a word. Gorgeous. Swathed in silk, melted into the bed, head tipped back, and the length of his neck on display. Old marks litter his skin because Tartaglia knows no restraint and Morax goads him into it. "It's morning."

"It's—dark out—" Morax moans when Tartaglia drops his hips, their cocks brushing together. He's hard too, his length having filled out as he dozed, body responding eagerly to Tartaglia's touch.

More kisses; to Morax's collarbone, to the swell of his breast at the rise of his chest and the deep valley in between. His nipples are swollen and red, perked by Tartaglia's dutiful attention. He licks a strip over one, and then the other, suckling it because he didn't get the chance to before.

"Ajax," cries out Morax, rolling his hips, seeking out friction against his leaking cock.

Tartaglia laughs, tongue circling his stiff nipple before pulling off with a pop. A sweet kiss to the sensitive flesh, pulling a groan from Morax's lips. "More?" he asks, ghosting his thumb over it.

"I'm—Ajax, I'm tired."

"That isn't a no." And, Tartaglia knows Morax. It isn't a matter of if he'll give in, it's when. Morax teased him for being needy but Morax is already arching in the bed, arousal thickening in the air. When sleepy like this, his form wavers. Geo crackles down his skin, glowing golden, settling the room alight.

Morax huffs. "I—" He jerks when Tartaglia grabs hold of his cock and gives it a stroke. "Ah—" His antlers get caught in the pillows. He writhes, bucking against Tartaglia's calloused palm. Adorable. So predictable. Tartaglia laughs as his fingers dance along Morax's cock, bringing it to full hardness.

"I will be lazy," says Morax. "You will—oh—" A stuttering breath. "You will take care of me properly and do all the work."

Tartaglia slides up the length of his body until they knock noses. Morax huffs again, watching him back with a half-lidded, sleepy gaze. His eyes though—golden-eyed and hazy with want. Tartaglia lets go of his cock and kisses him instead.

Morax cups his face and kisses back eagerly, tongue slipping into his mouth. It is unhurried, languid. There is no rhythm. They knock teeth and tongues, and Tartaglia laughs against his lips as Morax rolls his hips.

"Impatient," he murmurs, chasing his mouth for another kiss. "What happened to being lazy and making me do all the work?"

Morax stills and goes limp in the sheets. "Tend to me, then. I'm already tired of your slacking." Tartaglia snorts. "And as your boss—"

"Please don't." Tartaglia hates that tease.

Morax's face crinkles as he smiles. "As my darling knight, then." He tilts his face to nuzzle the length of Tartaglia's wrist where he braces it against the mattress beside him. "As my mate. Indulge in me, please."

"Gladly," says Tartaglia with a grin.

And true to Morax's promise, he does absolutely nothing aside from lazing about in the sheets. Tartaglia kisses the length of him, chasing sweat-slick skin with his tongue. He sucks marks into the creases of his joints and the soft expanse of his thighs. Morax's cock is dripping by the time he swirls his tongue around the tip of it, sighing at the tang of his precome.

Oh, and indulge he does. Tartaglia makes a mess of himself as he swallows Morax's cock right to the root. His fingers press into the cleft of Morax's ass, slick with Hydro, teasing his rim. Morax instantly yields. He sighs and raises his hips, and Tartaglia sinks two fingers right into his tight heat.

A keen; a breathy cry of Tartaglia's name, wrapped in the sleepy glow that still coats Morax's words. Only then does he move, his palm resting against Tartaglia's head to hold him there. Tartaglia moans around his cock. Full to the throat. His nose nestled against Morax's pubic bone, buried in the coarse hair there.

Morax bucks his hips in a slow, lazy motion, bullying deeper into Tartaglia's mouth.

Tartaglia groans, choking on the weight of his cock, tongue flat against the bottom of his length. Spit pools and leaks from his mouth. A mess. Morax's grip loosens and Tartaglia pulls off to lap at the top of his cock again. "Delicious," he mutters. "Fuck. I could suck you off forever."

"I'd rather—"

"You'd rather?" Tartaglia smirks as he shoots Morax a haughty gaze. "You told me to indulge, so I am."

"Ajax. Oh—"

Tartaglia's fingers are still inside of him, pressed deep. He sweeps them across Morax's prostate, cutting his words off in an intelligible garble. Tartaglia kisses the inside of his thigh and then the crease where it meets his hip. A soft nip to the base of Morax's cock.

"Mhmn, what a thing to wake up to," he murmurs. "Just what did you dream of?"

Tartaglia used to have nightmares, fear-soaked memories of the dark Abyss that used to haunt him. Morax's presence has all but chased them away. Now, Tartaglia sleeps with a cheek to Morax's chest and thinks of the future they could share instead; of the warmth of his body and the tea they share.

He fucks Morax on his fingers slowly, pressing against writhing, undulating insides. His cock next, he thinks, bullying Morax's insides as he lies slack in the bed. He's more alert now; tiredness still tugs at his joints and he blinks hazily, but his eyes are sharp enough, and his nostrils flare at the acrid scent of arousal in the air.

Morax moans, back arching, head dipping back into the pillows. The sinuous line of his neck is on display. Tartaglia's gaze tracks old bruises and marks left in the wake of his mouth. He'll leave more later, purpling things that bloom on his skin not because he actually does damage, but because Morax chooses to wear them for all to see.

Tartaglia thinks of that mark on his wrist, that blood oath murmured as he swore his loyalty. This is a different sort of loyalty, he supposes, quiet, rapturous pleasure tattooed into Morax's skin. And Morax knows it, he loves it, hoarding Tartaglia's affection like the dragon that he is. For all his teasing, Tartaglia knows just what it means for Morax to be so loose and loving in their sheets, hackles lowered and instincts focused on one thing alone.

Morax's cock twitches. His ass clamps down on Tartaglia's fingers as his prostate is bullied, an evident sign of his impending end.

Tartaglia kisses the tip of his drooling cock. "On my fingers?" he asks.

"Hm?"

He sounds so perfect, sleepy like this. Tartaglia chuckles and noses at his length, breath puffing against the heated curve of it. "Do you want to come on my fingers? Make a mess of my face? Or would you rather come on my cock?"

Morax gives him a drowsy reply: "Both."

Tartaglia stills. Morax's ass is tight around his fingers and he's just moments away from tipping over the edge. He can see it now; Morax's stomach covered in his spend, his cock, instantly hard again, his legs shaking as Tartaglia finally sinks it and fucks him deeply into the sheets.

His throat bobs. His hand works its wicked magic, fingers brushing over that bundle of nerves over and over until Morax jerks and spills all over himself. He cries out his name, raspy, choked, murmured as he still dozes. And Tartaglia doesn't stop, just keeps petting his prostate with curled fingers, leaning over to clean up Morax's semen with his tongue.

When he finally sinks in properly, it's with a drawn-out moan. Morax is a lump in the bed underneath him, a shaking, overstimulated mess as he whimpers in pleasure. Tartaglia wastes no time. He rolls his hips, thrusting deep, and Morax cries out in a throaty, scratchy gasp.

Tartaglia bends him in half, leaning close. "Fuck, you feel good," he whispers into Morax's ear before kissing the shell of it. "So tight. Perfect. Just what I needed this morning."

"Ajax." Another gasp as Tartaglia's cock spears him open, striking his prostate dead on. "Ajax."

Morax shudders. His fingers curl in the sheets as he pulls at them. His throat bobs. Eyelashes flutter as they shutter, half-lidded, ghosting his cheeks pinked with arousal. Tartaglia knows that look. Overstimulated, pulled to the edge and back again. Morax's cock is hard for a second time, leaking a thin line of precome from the tip.

He's lost himself entirely, his hold on his form wavering. Geo glitters in the air around him. His horns are caught against the pillows. His skin glows, those etched, golden lines a stark contrast against the charcoal bits of his skin.

And where Morax's skin is still pale—it's flushed red and ruddy. His nipples are swollen and stiff in the cool air, and the silk of his robes is open and loose, showing off the taut line of his sides.

What a vision. Tartaglia's breath catches at the sight of him. Morax has called him a mate so many times but this is a moment where the word sears deep in his gut, set alight by the pleasure that churns there. Tartagalia's cock twitches. It aches, begging for release as he thrusts into Morax's yielding ass over and over.

Their foreheads brush together, Tartaglia seeking out as much skin-to-skin contact as he can muster. One of Morax's hands cups his cheek, holding his face there, nuzzling. Tartaglia finds his other hand, linking their fingers together.

"Darling." Morax's tone is punch-drunk and hazy. "My darling, darling Ajax."

"Zhongli, I'm going to—"

"You must've ached," continues Morax, their breaths mixing. He seeks out a kiss, short and sweet. "Did you wake up dreaming of this?"

Yes, yes, yes.

Morax hums as if he knows the answer. A moan, a soft, airy sigh. "I dream of this too. What a delight to wake up to you having your way with me."

"Gods," hisses Tartaglia. His movements lose their rhythm. He reaches between them and takes Morax's cock into his hand.

A sharp intake of breath. "Darling," he murmurs. "Ajax." Morax comes a second time, his ass squeezing Tartaglia's cock in a vice grip.

All it takes is one, two more thrusts, and Tartaglia tips over the edge as well, his cock swelling as he paints Morax's insides white. Unending, writhing heat, choking the life out of his spent cock. Tartaglia collapses against Morax, pressing his face into his nape, trying and failing to keep his weight off.

Morax will not care. Morax was carved from stone itself and holds an entire country across his shoulders.

He should clean up. Tartaglia tries to move but Morax's grip is firm like steel, unyielding. "Stay," he says, pulling Tartaglia closer, turning to kiss his brow and whisper sweet nothings into his sweaty skin. "I wish to stay just like this, soak up your scent, and sleep in until the late morning."

"You have work." Tartaglia's voice is muffled. His muscles are like jelly and Morax's hand digging into his back to soothe away those aches makes him want to never leave their bed.

A sharp laugh. Morax is more awake now. He tugs gently at Tartaglia's hair as a tease. "Liyue will be fine if I take a day off."

"Yes, but will Xiao?"

"This doesn't concern him."

"It will if he walks in here." Which he will. They both know it.

Morax presses his nose against Tartaglia's scalp and inhales. "These are our chambers. He runs the risk of seeing us... indulging."

"You've used that word a lot today."

The room goes quiet save for Morax's claws as they scrape over Tartaglia's skin. The scritch scritch lulls him, and Tartaglia finds himself dozing off. And Morax does too, those teasing touches growing slower with every moment. Eventually, his palm comes to rest against Tartaglia's neck.

"Laogong," he says softly. Sleepily. Sluggishly. Tartaglia will ask him about the word later if he remembers.

There is something to be said about the comfort of relaxing with your mate. He doesn't miss the nightmares. Morax chases those away with his presence alone, a dragon lurking about in the shadows of Tartaglia's mind.

So good to him. In so many ways. Sweet like a dream that he never wants to end. Tartaglia hums before slipping under, tugging Morax right along with him.