my rock, my shield

oath of ages

Tartaglia and Morax make work of those vows in the midst of the morning after.

CW: Contains Smut

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The morning comes quietly.

Tartaglia is used to a hard mattress not because Morax is a terrible host, but because he prefers the couch to the luxury mattress. Reminds him of camping out underneath the stars, sleeping on the hard-packed ground, of his roots with his work, and where exactly it is that he came from.

He does not sleep well. Nightmares plague him, except for nights that he spends in Morax's presence. He barely remembers the night he was poisoned—those memories come fogged and hazy. Ekaterina's murmuring. Morax's untrained nursing hand. Tartaglia's crude jokes about tumbling into his bed.

But he remembers sleeping, and it wasn't because Katya drew him a draught, it was because of Morax's presence and his quiet murmurings. Pretty words whispered into Tartaglia's ear, the brushing of knuckles against his heated forehead, and Morax's soft sobs as he begged for more days together.

Tartaglia hasn't slept through an entire night since he was a child lost in the Abyss—not even when injured to the brink of death. He was surprised to blink awake at the chirping of birds, and the warmth of the mid-morning sun peeking in through the window.

Morax is asleep, his cheek cradled by a soft silk pillow. His bangs are mussed and his hair is tangled beyond a quick combing. The sheets pile around him in stark contrast to his smooth skin.

Tartaglia then remembers exactly why he is so bone-weary and sore. Memories of the night before, of Morax keening his name, fingers curling in the sheets, of his legs locked around Tartaglia's waist. Tartaglia's cock, wrenched dry by his welcoming heat. The drag of Morax's nails down his back and the breathy moans of Ajax, over and over again.

He's already committed to treason, what more is blasphemy? Morax may be an emperor, but he is also a god, and strong as he is, Tartaglia is merely mortal. But Zhongli—Zhongli, he'd cried out as his arousal tumbled over—cares about none of that. Zhongli is the one who took him to bed, who begged to be touched and claimed, and who bears every mark that Tartaglia left on his body.

Tartaglia traces the rise and fall of Morax's side with his fingers, marveling at the softness of his skin. Thumbs at the juncture of his shoulder where flesh bleeds into charcoal, and glittering golden lines catch the morning's sun.

Morax's breathing shifts. He twists slightly and cracks an eye open, and Tartaglia falls in love all over again at the ruffled sight of him. "What're—" A soft mumble that sounds foreign compared to his usual composed words. And then a soft groan as he rolls onto his back.

"Are you sore?"

Morax huffs. "Not in the way that you think. Merely worn out. I am not as young as I once—what is with that look?"

Tartaglia realizes that he is smiling, and not just a subtle twitch of his lips, but a wide and blistering thing that rivals the sun. He moves, rising on aching joints to hang over Morax. "I want you again."

Morax's gaze narrows, eyes shining like liquid metal. "Oh?" Morax purrs the word, deep and low, his voice is still scratchy from sleep.

Tartaglia kisses his brow, his nose, his lips—slow and lingering. His mouth trails down Morax's neck, biting at the apple of his throat, nibbling at the length of his collarbone. "I want you always," he says. "Just like this."

"Ajax."

The soft mutter of his real name makes Tartaglia's heart beat twice as fast. He kisses Morax's sternum, one nipple and then the other, tongue swirling around peaked buds that tighten with pleasure and the cool air. Sheets are wrenched aside.