Morax leans over and hisses sharply.

He tries to hide it but Tartaglia sees the discomfort that shoots across his face and hears Morax's exhalation, a soft groan of pain. Tartaglia catches his wrist before he can run away. "Hey, what is it?"

"It's—nothing." And perhaps it is. Morax's brow is slightly pinched and there is a sort of tenseness to the line of his shoulders, but aside from that he seems normal enough. He has gone about his day as he usually does. Even now, Morax pours him a cup of tea for their usual afternoon ritual despite the heaviness of his being, and his awkward ducking as he walks around.

Still. Tartaglia rubs his thumb over the pulsepoint of Morax's wrist. "I am understandably worried."

Morax's expression softens. "Darling," he says, "I know that you are. And it is… well, it is a little embarrassing."

"Being in pain? Zhongli—"

Laughter cuts his thoughts short. Morax cups his chin and says, "Sweet boy. It is less so the pain and more the source of it. And it isn't even pain, merely… unpleasantness."

Tartaglia shoots him a teasing grin as the tense air lightens. "Come here," he says, pulling at him. Morax falls into his lap lacking his usual grace. "Swollen ankles? Sore back?"

"Funny," replies Morax with a dry click of his tongue. "I would blame this on you."

"It takes two for an eggnancy—"

"I am begging you to not call it that."

The thought of it still shocks him. Morax had warned him and then said it was incredibly unlikely due to his age. But precautions are just that, and they certainly don't guarantee the end result. Morax's heat came and went, and—well.

Tartaglia laughs and kisses the edge of his jaw. "The egg though," he murmurs, nuzzling Morax's nape. He doesn't know all of the particulars, just what Morax has explained on a need-to-know basis. "Is that what is causing you harm?"

"Harm is a strong word."

Tartaglia hums softly, pulling open Morax's robes to slip his hand into the silk. The flat of Tartaglia's palm settles against the slight swell of his stomach. Morax sighs, straddled over his thighs. Tartaglia's face tips forward, his forehead pressing against his sternum—

And that's what elicits a sharp gasp. Tartaglia stills and pulls back. Morax's face is tinged red with embarrassment.

"I—It's." He pinches the bridge of his nose and then grits out, knowing there's no escaping it, "My chest. It is… preparing itself for our child, so it seems. And it aches. It's… tender. Leaking. Because we developed an egg I wasn't expecting this sort of—" His gaze sharpens as regards Tartaglia. "What is that look? Ajax, I know that look."

He can't help it. Tartaglia can't help it.It's irresistible, the thought of Morax's chest swelling with milk to feed their child, or the chance to taste it for himself. He's never been into the thought of it but Morax's biology is wild and weird. The more that's revealed, the more Tartaglia falls deeper and deeper.

And Morax knows. He reads Tartaglia like a book—and his expression is one of exasperation.

"Can you blame me?"

"I expect it, I suppose," says Morax with a sigh. He brushes Tartaglia's bangs back and pets his hair. "As greedy as you can be, how can I not?"

"Hm, speaking of that—"

"Ajax."

"Remember that romance book we once read together? The smutty one that had you pink-faced and bothered—"

"Ajax."

Tartaglia tugs at the collar of Morax's robe gently, peeling it to the side. "I recall the woman in that book had a similar problem and the solution was fairly simple." Morax doesn't stop him as Tartaglia loosens his clothing, the silk parting to show off more than just a sliver of his chest. Tartaglia slides his palm up Morax's side and cups a pec, now heavier and softer.

He thumbs over his swollen nipple, and Morax groans softly, his head tipping back. It's been a while since they've been intimate, and there are many reasons why. The court has been busy. They've been hiding this secret and Morax has spent his spare time preparing for the inevitable fallout. Tartaglia, too, with his carefully penned letters, and efforts to tie up his loose ends before committing actual treason. By the time they come to bed, they are too exhausted for much more than a quick cuddle before drifting off.

"Do you want help?" He swirls his thumb over that nipple and kisses the dip in the middle of Morax's chest. "I'm more than willing to indulge."

Morax snorts. "Oh, I'm sure. I'm—oh." A soft moan as Tartaglia tilts his face, kissing the soft swell of his chest. "That's—"

"Better?" Tartaglia smiles, knowing he's likely won this bout. Not that there was concern. Morax may have teased him about his greediness, but he's worse. Tartaglia traps Morax's nipple between his thumb and forefinger. He squeezes it softly, just enough to drag a moan from Morax's mouth.

And then a bead of liquid trickles from the tip, pearlescent and thin.

Tartaglia is fascinated. Horrifically turned on. "How long have you been like this?" he murmurs, nuzzling Morax's sternum.

"Not long. Not long enough for it to be more than a mild annoyance."

"But you didn't tell me?" Tartaglia trails kisses against the underside of Morax's breast. "And don't say it's because it's embarrassing."

"It is—"

"Zhongli, can I have a taste?"

Morax's fingers tighten in his hair. "Yes," he says. "Ajax, please."

Tartaglia tugs Morax's nipple into his mouth. He laps at it, teasing the bud until it's stiff, moaning at the taste of the sweet milk that leaks from the tip. Addicting. He'll have to fight the baby for it. Tartaglia laughs at the absurd thought.

Morax sighs, going slack in his lap, arms curled around Tartaglia's neck as he clings to him. "Ah—"

"Sorry," mutters Tartaglia, having nibbled a little too hard—or so he thought.

"No, again."

And who is he to deny such a request? Another soft chuckle as Tartaglia bites it again, pulling the bud between his teeth. Not too hard. Just enough for Morax's breath to hitch, for his fingers to curl into Tartaglia's hair and hold him there. He rolls his hips, grinding against—

Morax pulls back. "There's that look again," he teases. Morax's hand slips between them to fall against Tartaglia's cock, which is still trapped in his clothing. "You're hard."

"Remember what I said earlier? Can you blame me? Zhongli, you can't just sit in my lap and not expect it."

Morax laughs and cups his cheek. He traces Tartaglia's bottom lip with his thumb. "Always so eager. I love that." He bends and kisses him, a short nip of his teeth. Then Morax pulls back again, dragging himself across Tartaglia's erection.

Tartaglia moans. He holds Morax by the hips and guides him, cursing the trousers that are still in the way. He whines when Morax lifts his hips. "Hey, that's—"

"I thought this was about helping me?"

For a second, Tartaglia thinks that Morax is going to beg for him to lap at his chest again. But then Morax grabs at his wrist and pulls it between his legs.

"I ache in many ways," purrs Morax, pulling the rest of his robes free. "And just like the annoyance of my chest, I find myself… uniquely bothered."

Morax always is. Gods, it's so bad that Tartaglia sometimes cannot keep up, but carrying an egg seems to have doubled that drive two-fold. Even now, Morax's face is flush. His grip on Tartaglia's hand is sharp enough to sting, and the moment his fingers slip between Morax's thighs, he feels slick wetness.

Right—that. As it turns out, the cock that Tartaglia has come to love isn't his original form. "Have you forgotten I'm a dragon?" he muttered into Tartaglia's ear during his heat, showing off the slit between his legs, and the unusual, spade-shaped length hidden within instead. And the words still haunt him, teasing him in the headiest of his dreams. "Tartaglia, I am a god."

Morax has never been afraid to show him these parts of himself, effortlessly at ease when it comes to his mate. Tartaglia treasures that trust, and loves his draconian features even if Morax tends to monologue about their technical names and functions.

"You like this," he says, nuzzling Morax's sternum. His fingers slide over Morax's slit— "A cloaca," he was told, which sounds terribly unsexy. It still makes Tartaglia laugh. "You're so wet." He drags the calloused pads of them down the length of it, just barely slipping into that tight heat.

"Ajax."

Tartaglia kisses the swell of Morax's pec. Then further down, swirling his tongue around the nipple he left lonely earlier. The taste of milk bursts on his tongue, and Morax groans as he swallows it down.

"Ajax, I—Oh, that's—"

Morax's words die in his throat as Tartaglia presses two fingers into his cunt, eased by his slickness. Tartaglia bites at Morax's nipple, rolling the bud between his teeth before soothing the sting with the flat of his tongue. All that while, he fucks Morax on his fingers slowly, the white-hot heat of his insides squeezing around his knuckles.

It feels different than his ass. Not as tight. Wetter and sticky with its warmth. And then, at the upper end, the swell of his half-hard, unrevealed cock. Tartaglia curls his fingers, stroking the underside bulge of where Morax's cock still hides. And all the while he suckles Morax's nipple, lapping at the liquid that trickles from the tip.

Morax rides his hand, hips rising and falling as he forces Tartaglia's fingers deeper. He whines, pulling at his hair, holding Tartaglia's face flush to his chest in a bruising grip.

Tartaglia could drown in all of it; the taste of him, and the sweet, milky smell that seems to permeate from his skin. His cock is hard, trapped in his trousers. Later, he thinks. He'll take care of it later; for now he just lavishes Morax with the attention he demands.

"Like that," says Morax, petting his hair. "Just like that—Ajax." A soft, keening moan as Tartaglia sucks harder, sealing his entire mouth around the round of his areola. The sound Morax looses is the stuff of legends. Tartaglia fucks him on his fingers lazily, languidly, spreading them as he parts his heat. "I'm going to—" Morax doesn't need to explain. His cunt clenches tightly as he comes.

Tartaglia helps him ride through it, his fingers slipping out and tracing the edges of his slit, smooth and swollen. He eases off Morax's chest, kissing his nipple, chuckling. "You're going to blame the egg."

"It is the egg, otherwise—"

"You'd still be in my lap, only I'd be stroking your cock instead. But this—" Tartaglia shifts and kisses his other nipple, and Morax shudders at the touch. "This was fun. Do you feel better?"

Morax dips, kissing Tartaglia's brow. "So sweet for me. Yes, but—"

"But?"

Morax's mouth curves into a wicked grin. "You're still hard," he murmurs into Tartaglia's ear. "And you didn't fuck me."

"This was supposed to be a tea date."

"And we've had our tea."

They have not. The pot sits on the table, growing cold by the moment. Tartaglia's cup is still half full having been set aside to taste Morax's milk instead. "Needy thing," he teases, resting his face against Morax's smooth sternum. He undoes his trousers as he kisses Morax's breastbone, tongue sneaking to lick over his skin.

"Who's the needy one? You or I?" Morax tugs Tartaglia's head back by the hair. "You were quick to assist with my problem." He reaches down and frees Tartaglia's cock, stroking it once from the tip to the base.

"Zhongli."

"A tease, I assure you." Morax is quick to move, canter his hips until the tip of Tartaglia's cock is pressed against his slit.

He sinks down quickly, Tartaglia's cock snug inside. Tartaglia curses, fingers digging into Morax's waist. His robes are open and free, slipping off his shoulders. Stiff, swollen nipples are on display, trickles of milk dribbling from their peaks. A vision to behold, and Tartaglia cannot stop staring. So handsome, so perfect, and entirely his.

Morax moves, riding him, rising and falling against his lap. He clings to Tartaglia, holding him close. His cunt is slick and warm. Tight, almost uncomfortably so, because his cock never fully hardened and slipped out. Morax is focused on this instead, of being stuffed full. Tartaglia knows that neither of them will last very long.

Tartaglia laps at Morax's milk before pulling the taut nipple into his mouth. Morax cries out, his hips stuttering. Soft, silken insides squeeze Tartaglia's cock dry.

"Gods," he murmurs. "You feel so—" Morax moans, long and drawn out as Tartaglia suckles at his chest.

It's slow and languid. The slick slap of skin fills the air. Their tea is still forgotten and the chair that Tartaglia sits in creaks. Tartaglia guides him, the rise and fall of his hips. The tip of Morax's flushed cock just barely peeks out from his slit, nestled right above where Tartaglia's length is swallowed deep.

Tartaglia thumbs over it, chuckling at the way Morax's cunt tightens in response. So wet, so perfect for him. Mine, mine, mine, is all that fills Tartaglia's mind.

"Ajax, I'm—"

"Mhmn, me too." Tartaglia bites his nipple, teeth sinking into sensitive flesh. He yanks Morax against him, shoving his cock as deep as it can go, groaning as it twitches.

"Inside," begs Morax. "Darling, inside. Give me another."

Another egg. Tartaglia lifts his face and bites at the column of Morax's neck. "Greedy," he mutters, nibbling at the apple of his throat. It's all talk. Morax assured him that outside his heat it wouldn't happen again, but it doesn't stop Tartaglia from pressing the flat of his palm against the bump of his stomach, dreaming of more children.

A happy accident. They were a little stupid, even when taking precautions. Tartaglia should've known better but couldn't say no to Morax's heat-addled brain. And now here they are, Morax heavy with an egg, desperate as he fucks himself on Tartaglia's cock. Aching with full breasts. Full of hunger and neediness that belies his swollen and sore joints.

Tartaglia is the first to come, the heat inside his gut raging like an inferno. Morax spurs him on, whispering praise into his ear. A few more grinds of his hips, riding Tartaglia's overstimulated cock has him tipping over soon after. He milks Tartaglia dry.

He groans into Morax's neck, suddenly spent. "This was supposed to be a tea break."

Morax laughs, his voice thin and raspy. He combs through Tartaglia's sweat-slick bangs. "Thank you for the indulgence."

"Oh, so it is your fault."

"I do think it's Peanut's fault."

Tartaglia blinks, confused. "Uh, who?" And then he remembers something Katya said several days prior—she'd called the egg Peanut in jest. "Wait—"

Morax rises and Tartaglia slips out with a wet plop. "I'll find a towel."

"Wait, no—are you seriously calling it that?"

Morax digs around in a drawer and finds a fresh linen. He meets Tartaglia's gaze with a raised eyebrow. "It's better than the egg."

Tartaglia says nothing as Morax wipes him down, a duty befitting a mate, not an Emperor. He catches his wrist when Morax is done, tugging it to his mouth for a quick kiss against the knuckles. "Peanut," he mutters.

"Obviously, that will not be our child's name," replies Morax, his eyes dancing with mirth. "But it is its fault—as earlier stated, I wasn't expecting to lactate."

Tartaglia cringes. "I—okay, stop being so technical. It's decidedly unsexy."

Morax hums and tosses the towel to the side. Then he dips close and cups Tartaglia's face between his hands. "Such a dear," he says. "My darling mate." He kisses him sweetly, just a short peck of his lips. Then he pulls back and straightens his robe. "Now then, the tea." Morax frowns, sighing softly. "Ruined."

A quick glance at the clock on the wall shows Tartaglia that he still has some time left before he has to make himself scarce. "Here, let me brew some more," he says, standing on wobbly feet.

Morax gives him a crooked smile and instead of sitting, he follows him to the kettle that hangs in the fireplace. He doesn't help; if anything, plastering himself to Tartaglia's side makes the chore more difficult, but Tartaglia wouldn't have it any other way.