Tartaglia and Morax indulge in a fantasy about collars.

CW: Contains Smut

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Tartaglia just wanted to share tea with his beloved, not watch him stomp around the room in an agitated haze. "I suppose court activities went well," he says, albeit sarcastically.

Morax pauses in his pacing and looks at him, hand pressed against his forehead. Then his fingers slide down to pinch the bridge of his nose, and he sighs. "I apologize. I should spend this time enjoying our time together, not—"

"You can do whatever you wish."

Morax blinks. "Ajax, I cannot—"

"Does it make you feel better when you..." Tartaglia pauses and waves towards him before sipping his tea.

"I feel better when you're with me." Morax crosses the room and plucks the teacup from Tartaglia's hands.

"Hey—"

"You soothe me," says Morax as he sets the cup on the low table beside the couch. "Just your scent alone is enough to calm my raging mood." He drops into Tartaglia's lap, cups his cheeks, and presses their foreheads together for a gentle nuzzle.

Old dragon. Tartaglia hums, arms curling around Morax's waist. "Just what has your mood in such a state?"

Morax grunts. "Politics. The general state of my beloved homeland. Karma. Ajax, there are many things which set me alight."

"In a bad way," muses Tartaglia, unable to stop the grin that widens across his face.

"I do not appreciate your teasing."

Tartaglia lets the joke linger before shifting into a more serious tone. "Did something happen?"

Morax dips closer and hides his face against Tartaglia's nape, inhaling deeply. Grounding himself. He always does that to sink back to the earth, and Tartaglia lets him without a second thought. "Nothing happened, per se," says Morax eventually. He pulls back to give him a rueful look. "As you said once, the Grand Sage is not a bad man, merely difficult. I find him hard to bargain with."

"Was he rude to you?" Tartaglia asks sincerely, his protective drive cutting through his chest like a flash fire.

"No more so than most. Mildly aggravating."

Tartaglia buries his face in the crook of Morax's neck, kissing the soft skin there. "I should've been there," he murmurs softly.

Morax laughs, his throat bobbing. "There may have been a comment that I was lacking my guard dog."

"Oh?" Tartaglia leans back until his neck is cradled by the edge of the couch. "Is that what I am?"

A soft hum as Morax's gaze trails the length of him. "Hm, a lot of bark. You could do with a little more bite." His mouth curls into an affectionate smile as he drags his hand down Tartaglia's sternum, fingers hooking into the open hemline of his shirt. "But you'd protect me, right?"

"Always." Tartaglia's answer is immediate.

Morax pulls at Tartaglia's forearm, pressing a sweet and lingering kiss to the thick scar right over his pulse. Tartaglia groans, thinking back to that day in the throne room—the sharp pain of Morax's teeth sinking into his skin; the river of crimson that flowed freely, and Morax's face as he lapped it all away. Feral and divine. A sight that haunts Tartaglia's most sordid dreams.

"A good boy," continues Morax. "Perhaps I should give you such a title. Guard Dog. I could collar you. A beautiful leather leash clasped to your neck to tether you to me as you stand by my side."

Tartaglia's cock stirs. And perhaps it is the way that Morax sits across his lap, or how he nuzzles his pulse and kisses that scar. Or maybe it's the deep timbre of his voice and how it curls around his words, his praise, his utter devotion. But it's the thought of a collar, the threat of being owned—which Morax does. He owns Tartaglia's heart and Morax knows it.

Morax's eyes narrow and his pupils narrowly slit. His gaze tips down and he smirks at the sight of Tartaglia's half-hard cock, already nudging at the front of his trousers.

"Zhongli—"

"Just at the thought of it," purrs Morax. His hand drops to press against Tartaglia's erection, palm grinding against it. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? I can smell it—your arousal."

Truth be told, anything to do with Morax arouses him, but Tartaglia finds his breath caught nonetheless. Morax's fingers chase the length of his cock, chuckling as Tartaglia whines softly. He settles his other hand around Tartaglia's throat, not squeezing, just resting it there, a collar made of his fingers.

"You would be so handsome," he says, thumbing at Tartaglia's rapid pulse. "I would have it crafted from the finest of leathers and you would wear it so well."

"Zhongli."

"Are you imagining it?"

"I—"

And then darker, quieter, Morax asks, "Ajax, do you trust me?"

"Of course," he mutters.

"To do what I want without explanation?"

Tartaglia swallows. "Of course," he repeats.

Morax drags his fingers over the column of his throat, thinking. Geo sparkles through the air as he calls it forth, dancing over his knuckles before he redirects it. Morax's eyes glow like the sunset. Geo wraps around Tartaglia's neck before hardening in a shell, snug, just underneath the apple of his throat. Morax presses a finger between the ring and his skin, testing the space.

"Alright?"

More than alright. Tartaglia sighs, melting into the couch. His cock is fully hard, aching, and the way Morax's fingers squeeze it through his trousers does nothing but tease him. "Yeah," he finally manages.

Morax's expression is a licentious thing, heated as he licks his lips, unable to stop staring. Tartaglia's gut burns with pleasure. His veins tingle as Morax traces the edge of the collar with his thumb, over and over, watching the way that it digs into his muscle.

His other hand unfastens Tartaglia's trousers deftly.

"Wait, are you—"

"How can I not?" asks Morax. "Look at you, my handsome, darling knight. So eager to please. So willing to be leashed. In what other ways would you let me mark you?"

A facetious question. Bedroom talk. Morax knows every way that Tartaglia would want to be marked—he's let Morax indulge and even begged for more. There's nothing quite like those sharp fangs ghosting his skin, or the sting of when he decides to bite.

As if sensing his thoughts, Morax nips at his mouth, catching Tartaglia's lip between those dangerous fangs. Tartaglia hisses when they sink in, which only spurs Morax further. Morax's hand shoves itself into Tartaglia's trousers as he bites at his mouth. The pain is arousing and his cock twitches in Morax's palm, drawing an amused laugh against his lips.

But then, Morax eases, his kiss tempered as he laps the wound he's left. He pulls away, thumbing over the mark sweetly. "Not as permanent as I'd like."

"It could be." The words slip from Tartaglia's mouth unbidden.

Morax's gaze narrows with lust. "You and your bedroom talk," he teases. Morax squeezes Tartaglia's cock, drawing out a pitiful moan. "Tell me, baobei, are you close?"

As if it's a question. Tartaglia's breath catches as Morax strokes him from base to tip, thumb spreading the precome that drools from the tip. It's too hot in their rooms, to still be wearing his trousers with Morax's hand shoved into them. Morax still cups his face, pressed close, lips trailing over his face with butterfly kisses, a soft cry from his aggressiveness just moments before.

Tartaglia whines, hips buck, driving his cock into the tight space of Morax's fist.

Morax laughs, the sound dipped in that same crimson blood that stains his mouth. "Good boys answer their masters."

It's a tease—Tartaglia knows this—but the lust in his got flares to life all the same. A pitiful groan as he sinks into the couch. Morax leans over him, half in his lap, pressed so close they may as well be one person. One hand down Tartaglia's trousers, pulling at his cock, driving him closer and closer to the edge.

His other hand drags down the line of Tartaglia's cheek. Morax's thumb traces the line of the collar he made, Geo glowing underneath the pad of it, marking him as its owner. He made this and he made Tartaglia too, in a way; tossed the Harbinger that was into a forge and remolded him into the man he is now.

Woefully gone. Gods, he's in love. With everything; the way that Morax goads him, his possessive streak, how he quiets in their chambers, dressed down and wanton. Even now, as Tartaglia bares his neck, Morax makes sure that he's comfortable and satiated.

"Ajax," he murmurs against his ear, a reminder that he asked him a question.

"I'm close—fuck, I'm—" Tartaglia had lost himself so easily he forgot just how near his end he was. His cock is so wet at the tip that the inside of his trousers is a mess.

Morax too—his own erection is hot against Tartaglia's thigh, but it goes ignored as Morax whispers praise into his ear. My darling knight. My would-be Guard. Baobei, Ajax, Mate—

Tartaglia comes with a hoarse cry of Morax's preferred name, white-hot warmth spilling across his hand. Morax smiles into his neck. He mouths at that collar, fangs ghosting his skin as he strokes him through it, and suddenly those praises turn into sordid wishes to mark him up instead.

Overstimulated bliss. Tartaglia has to squeeze at Morax's wrist to pause his hand. "Gods," he murmurs.

Morax peels back slowly, eyes half-lidded. He wants more. That is evident enough. He traces that collar again, admiring his craftsmanship. "Does this need to come off yet?"

"No." Tartaglia's voice is ragged.

A sweet, lingering kiss to Tartaglia's forehead as Morax removes his hand. "You've given me so much, and yet I find that my thirst has yet to be quenched." He licks his fingers clean, making a show of swallowing Tartaglia's come, a soft, breathy moan slipping from his mouth as his tongue trails his knuckles. Tartaglia pants. He knows his face is red, and how that must delight Morax's old instincts.

Morax's gaze sharpens like a knife. "Ajax, fuck me," he says. The distinct lack of make love is dutifully noted. "Let me ride you as I imagine a leash next."

"I—"

Morax's other hand finds his chin and grips it just this side of too hard. He clicks his tongue in disappointment. "That isn't what a guard dog says. Try again." He dips closer, brushing their noses, laughter on the tip of his tongue. More teasing. "Ajax," repeats Morax, "Be a good boy and fuck me."

This time, Tartaglia answers with a tease of his own, one that apparently sets the feral pleasure that burns through Morax on fire. "Woof."