my rock, my shield

woof

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."