˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ 𝔍𝔢𝔞𝔩𝔬𝔲𝔰, 𝔧𝔢𝔞𝔩𝔬𝔲𝔰 𝔪𝔞𝔫…
starring: ᯓ★ husband!Tartaglia & wife!reader
synopsis: Tartaglia's taken his stunning wife (you) as his plus-one to a gala held by the Fatui. All goes well, until a Snezhnayan diplomat’s flirtation earns a laugh from you and awakens the Eleventh Harbinger’s possessive side. And you being, well... you, can't resist an opportunity to tease your husband. Tartaglia makes it clear in a low whisper that his wife’s teasing will have consequences, and once returned home, you discover just how long a night he had in mind.
wc: ~ 3.7k
forewarning: mdni, contains NSFW content after the cut. · vanilla degrading · rough sex · edging · praise · creampie · p in v · light dom. let me know if I missed anything.
no pronouns for reader are used, but they are referred to as 'wife', 'lady', and 'ma'am', as well as having female genitalia. no use of 'y/n' either.
The gala held by the Fatui was a spectacle. Of wealth, power and everything in between to disguise the greed for more that filled the hearts of the rich.
Crystal chandeliers glittered overhead, hanging from intricately designed high ceilings. They cast a muted white light across the grand ballroom while the strings played something elegant and haunting in the background.
Nobles, diplomats, officials, and high-ranking members of the Fatui mingled all around the grand room, every smile polished and every conversation layered with hidden meanings.
You had attended plenty of formal events like these in your life.
But tonight, it was just a little different. Tonight, you were attending as the wife of the Eleventh Fatui Harbinger. The Tsaritsa's personal war-hound.
Admittedly, that made things a little more interesting. Even if it was just a tad.
"You're staring."
Your husband's voice came from beside you, amused and warm. You blinked, turning your attention away from him for perhaps the third time in the last minute.
"I am not."
That smug grin on Tartaglia's face widened. "You absolutely are."
You gave him a pointed look, though the effect was somewhat ruined by the fact your gaze immediately wandered over him once again.
Well, what were you to do? He looked unfairly handsome tonight, and that definitely wasn't your fault.
His formal Harbinger attire suited him perfectly to a tee. A long and tailored black military uniform fitted neatly beneath a white coat trimmed with thick fur. The coat gave him an almost imposing, aristocratic presence, which was only enhanced further by the red accents woven throughout his clothes. The polished black boots on his feet reflected the low light of the ballroom.
Your husband hardly wore his official uniform, unless he was required to for business. He preferred something lighter on him that allowed him to move with that dangerous agility he was so well known for. Practical, and comfortable.
But in the rare days he did wear this masterpiece of an outfit, you could hardly get enough. So it was only fair you got eyefuls while you still could, right?
Perched atop his usually unruly orange hair was his signature red mask. It wasn't covering any part of his face tonight.
Which was, in your opinion, a very good thing. Because you quite liked looking at him, and especially his face.
"You look handsome," you told him.
His smile softened for a moment as he looked down at you, before curling into a small smirk.
"Just handsome?"
You rolled your eyes good-naturedly. "Don't push your luck."
He laughed, low and pleased. The sound sent a warm little flutter through your chest.
"And here I thought you'd have more to say after staring at me repeatedly."
You lightly swatted the arm yours was hooked through fondly.
Cocky bastard.
He chuckled a little more, enjoying your reaction.
And then his eyes dipped, very slowly. From your face, to your exposed throat, and slid down to the cut of your deep red dress.
And his gaze settled there.
You glanced down at yourself.
The gown you had chosen to wear tonight was a rich, dark crimson. The colour was deep enough to resemble red wine in the low light, but vibrant enough to catch an eye whenever you moved. The smooth fabric clung elegantly to your figure before falling into a smooth, sweeping skirt that brushed the floor from the knee down. The neckline was low and flattering, but tasteful, and the fitted bodice emphasised your waist perfectly.
The colour choice, on your part, was admittedly deliberate.
You knew perfectly well that red was Tartaglia's favourite colour. And especially this shade.
Your eyes had been on him sure, but the only reason your husband knew so often was because he eyes had been on you too for most of the evening.
His hand had found your waist more times than necessary, his fingers had brushed against the small of your back whenever someone approached, and he head leaned down to speak into your ear when there was absolutely no need to do so.
He was being slick about it. But you were his wife, and you had been married to him long enough to recognise the signs.
You glanced at him as his gloved hand casually brushed against the curve of your ass.
"Tartaglia," you murmured.
"Hm?"
"If you keep touching me every time someone looks in our direction, people are going to start talking."
He gave you an innocent look, his sapphire eyes faintly sparkling with mischief. "Would that be so bad?"
"You're impossible."
"And yet you married me."
"Unfortunately," you sighed, but there was fondness in the sound. He chuckled once more, holding you a little closer as you leaned into him.
Your throat was beginning to feel a little dry, you'd been here for an hour or so but was yet to drink anything yet. And then an idea came to you.
You turned towards the tall ginger, and offered him your most charming smile.
"Since you're an absolute darling, would you be kind enough to grab me a drink, my love?"
He stared down at you.
"Buttering me up to do something for you, are you?"
"Yes," you replied shamelessly.
"And leave your side?"
You blinked innocently. "Only for a moment."
His eyes narrowed just slightly. You smiled wider, hoping he would fold and agree.
He knew exactly what that smile was for. And, because he adored you and was apparently incapable denying you anything when you asked sweetly enough, he sighed.
"Fine."
"Thank you, darling."
He leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. Then, with one more look at the mingling people around, he left your side.
You watched his broad frame disappear through the crowd for a few seconds before turning back towards the dancers in the center of the ballroom.
He was gone for no more than two minutes.
Perhaps less than that.
Which was why you were mildly amused when a Snezhnayan diplomat appeared beside you.
He was polished, well-dressed, and confident in the way of a man who had never been told no often enough.
“My lady,” he greeted, bowing his head slightly.
You forced a polite smile. “Good evening.”
"I hope you don't mind me saying so, but you look particularly stunning tonight."
"How kind of you." You knew your husband wouldn't be too happy to hear this.
"Any man lucky enough to have you is a fortunate man."
"He is."
You briefly wondered if the man even knew you were spoken for. Though the fairly large diamond ring that sat on your finger was hard to miss and said what needed not be said anyway.
The diplomat might have not noticed. Or perhaps he was ignorant.
His lips curved into an easy smile, and his eyes lingered on you. It wasn't quite long enough to be blatantly rude, but long enough to let you know he was in fact checking you out.
"I wonder," he began, "if my lady is aware of how many people in this room are admiring your poise."
"Oh? Is that so?"
From the edge of the ballroom, Tartaglia returned from his short venture to the table of drinks with two flutes in his hand.
And now he stood, stuck in place a little over two meters away from where he had left his beloved wife.
His beloved wife.
You could feel the weight of his stare before you had even turned to look at him. His blue gaze was trained on the diplomat conversing with you by your side.
His jaw clenched at the sight, and the hand holding the two champagne flutes tightened around the delicate glass so it made a soft clink sound.
The diplomat continued on to speak, but instead of excusing yourself and moving to your husband's side, you listened.
And that was risky, because you knew Tartaglia knew that you knew he was standing right there. And furthermore, just to tease your watching spouse just a little, and because you were a terrible wife in the very best way, you let your eyes brighten just a little. Like you were paying attention to every word the diplomat had to say.
And when he said something that was perhaps meant to be a mild joke, you let out a soft, amused laugh.
The effect on the man was immediate.
His face lit up at the fact he had pulled a laugh out of you, and he looked positively delighted.
But from where Tartaglia stood, his grip tightened further around the glasses. You glanced back just in time to see the muscle in his jaw twitch.
Oh.
He was ticked. And you'd be lying if you didn't find it attractive on him.
You hid your smile behind your own gloved hand, and the diplomat, blissfully unaware of the impending danger, continued to speak foolishly.
"Perhaps, I might persuade you to join me for a dance later."
But before you could open your mouth to answer, a familiar voice spoke up from behind you.
"Viktor."
You didn't know when Tartaglia had made his way to stand behind you, but he was there as you turned your head to look. The tall ginger stood there with a smile on his face, taking a small step closer to wrap his free arm around your waist and gripping it just a little tighter.
It was everything; bright, beautiful and perfectly charming. But it was also entirely, completely, utterly not genuine.
"Enjoying your chat with my wife?"
The diplomat, Viktor, froze. He slowly looked up. And up. The Eleventh Harbinger was tall enough to be imposing even when he was relaxed. And he was considerably more imposing when he had just watched another man flirt with his wife.
The diplomat surely knew who he was. Everyone did.
Tartaglia was a man whose bloodlust for battle was known far beyond Snezhnaya. A man feared on battlefields, spoken about in lowered voices by those who had seen him fight. And those he fought never lived to tell their tale.
And currently, he was standing directly beside his wife. With a dangerous smile playing on his lips.
The diplomat swallowed thickly. He realised he may have overstepped.
"Lord Tartaglia, I-"
"Childe," your husband corrected pleasantly.
The diplomat blinked, and when Tartaglia's smile darkened a tad, the man scrambled to apologise.
"Apologies, right of course."
There was a long pause, and Viktor decided that for his safety it was perhaps ideal for him to take his leave now. He gave you a stiff little bow.
"It was a pleasure to meet you, ma'am. Lord Childe."
"Likewise."
And then he had retreated, quite quickly. Almost like a mouse scurrying away from a predator. That was probably wise of him. You watched him leave for a small second before turning back to your husband.
The smile on his face had dropped slightly as he made sure Viktor was far enough, and his grip on you had tightened a smidge.
You looked up at him with the most innocent expression you could manage. "Hello, darling."
His cerulean eyes dropped down to you. "Hello, sweetheart."
You tilted your head slightly.
"Did you get my drink? I'm quite parched." He held it out to you, and you gladly accepted it. "Thank you, love."
"You're welcome."
You took a sip of the bubbly drink as you observed your silent husband. And finally, unable to resist, you opened your mouth to ask him. "Are you all right?"
"Perfect."
"Are you sure?"
"Completely."
You took another sip, and then smiled. Your husband was jealous.
He stared down at you for another moment before he leaned in closer. The hand on your waist pulled you in too, and his fingers pressed into the fabric of your dress just firmly enough to let you know that his mood had not improved.
His lips brushed the shell of your ear. His voice dropped into a rough whisper that was meant for you alone.
"Keep laughing with other men like that, sweetheart, and I'll remind you exactly who you belong to the moment we get home."
Your breath caught.
And despite the obvious possessiveness and the quiet warning, the promise beneath it bloomed a small fire at the bottom of your stomach.
He pulled back slightly and you could see that his expression was perfectly composed for the benefit of everyone watching, like he hadn't said anything in my ear at all.
But his eyes held the truth.
You knew those eyes.
And you knew that the moment the gala ended, the moment you were finally alone, he would make good on what he said.
You smiled up at him sweetly.
"Is that a threat?"
His gloved hand rubbed a circle over the fabric at your waist. "No, my love." He leaned in once more, his mouth close enough to your ear to brush it once again. "It's a promise."
And with that, he straightened, and lifted his own champagne flute to his lips, resuming back to looking every bit like the Harbinger he was. Like he hadn't whispered something filthy enough to make your pulse jump in excitement.
And all because he had gotten jealous.
You took another sip of your champagne, and smiled to yourself.
It was going to be a very long night.
