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When the clock hits seven, you sigh and figure that your husband, Ivan, will be home late yet again.
He had told you earlier that he would absolutely have his work wrapped up by five-thirty and he’d be home by six— not because his workday always ends at exactly five or five-thirty every day, because when his workday ends depends entirely on his workload and the good graces of his boss, but because he promised to come back home to spend time with you in the evening.
You’re hopeful that he’ll at least come home before you resign yourself to bed for the evening— though you’re no stranger to staying up late in hopes of seeing him before you finally fall asleep, forcing yourself to stay awake until one or two in the morning every day takes a toll on you. Have your under-eye bags been looking more pronounced lately, or are you just imagining that?
Like any other wife would be at first, you were suspicious he was spending his free time with someone else, but as he began to come home sleepier and sleepier with more and more muscle aches as the days went on, you knew he was working himself to the bone rather than cheating on you.
Honestly, you felt guilty for having ever doubted your husband in the first place— here he was, working so hard for your sake, and you had needlessly and selfishly worried that he was doing something as stupid as cheating on you instead. With your doubts finally laid to rest, you learned to be more optimistic and patient for the man you had wed a year prior.
You wait for Ivan and you do your best for him, preparing him meals and keeping the house tidy for him, but you wouldn’t be able to deny that you’re lonely. Nobody would blame you for feeling that way— any good, devoted little wife would grow lonely while her workaholic husband pours so much of his time into his job. He always makes it up to you; he’s exceptionally kind and he’s brought you gifts he had collected from his tasks when he’s sent out to Mondstadt, and you know he cares. Of course he cares, but that aimless feeling you get once you’ve finished tidying up the house, preparing dinner, and bringing in the laundry is enough to make anyone feel lonely.
Perhaps Ivan’s boss is to blame— all of his jobs come straight from his boss, after all, so maybe he’s been the one piling work onto your husband? Your husband’s boss wouldn’t be so cruel as to push his own work off onto his underlings, would he?
Before you begin to speculate about a man you’ve only met in passing once or twice, you figure you should start boxing up dinner rather than just leaving it to sit out on the table untouched. Rising from the couch to make your way towards the kitchen, you’re stopped in your tracks by a knock on the door.
At this hour? You ask yourself, turning around to walk back towards the front door. It wouldn’t be your husband—who knocks on the door to their own house? Well, unless he forgot his keys at home before he left for the day, but you didn’t find them while you were straightening up the house and washing the bedsheets outside. What could a guest require of you at seven in the evening on a weekday?
They knock again, a little louder and harsher this time. “Ah, ah, I’m coming, I’m coming,” you call to them, and the knocking stops. You open the door just slightly, and you’re met with a face you recognize only from passing— your husband’s boss.
You assume the worst— that he’s here to tell you that your husband has been killed, that he’s been MIA for hours now and there’s no sign of his return, that he—
“Oh, good evening, girlie!” Your husband’s boss, a man known to you only as Tartaglia, chirps happily, looking at you through the tiny crack in the door and offering a wave. “I got something here for Ivan.”
“Oh, really?” you stutter, surprised. What could he possibly want with you at this hour? Surely he knows your husband isn’t home— all of his jobs come straight from Tartaglia, so surely he knows where he is at any given time. “Please come in.”
You open the door wider and step to the side to let him in, and he smiles innocently at you before he moves to remove his shoes. “Don’t want to get your cute little house all dirty,” he explains, unlacing his boots before he sets them to the side. “If I messed up a pretty little housewife’s house with mud, I’d have to spend the rest of my life atoning, wouldn’t I?”
You smile bashfully and play with your thumbs, glancing over at the clock on the kitchen counter. It’s not like you’re doing anything wrong right now, and you doubt Ivan would get angry at you for talking with his boss, but you still feel like you’re doing something wrong by having another man over while you’re waiting for your husband as a dutiful housewife should.
“So, uh,” you stutter. Why are you so nervous? “Is there something you need from me?”
Tartaglia rises back to his full height and turns to face you, smiling broadly and invitingly. “I was hoping I could stop by to deliver some papers that he left on my desk today, but Ivan isn’t here right now, is he?”
Why is he asking you that? He’s the one who gives your husband his jobs, so he would know where he is better than you would, right?
You shake your head and Tartaglia frowns. “That’s a shame,” he says. “He’ll be back soon though, won’t he? You mind if I just wait here with you until he gets back? I just need to make sure that these papers get into his hands and all that and then I’ll be on my way, girlie.”
Couldn’t he just drop the papers off and leave? You live here too; you could just save them for Ivan once he gets home. There’s no real reason why he needs to stay, is there?
“Oh, but I don’t have any refreshments prepared for you or anything,” you stammer, nervousness bubbling up in your chest. Something feels wrong here, but you can’t just forcefully kick your husband’s boss out— you have no idea how the Fatui work; would doing such a thing come back to bite your husband in the ass in the workplace? When your husband reports to Tartaglia directly and gets all of his tasks from the harbinger, it’s probably in your best interest to stay on Tartaglia’s good side. “I couldn’t possibly have my husband’s boss over when I hardly have anything ready for you; I’d be embarrassed to be such a poor host…”
What a lovely little thing, Tartaglia muses to himself, eyes narrowing as he watches you squirm and try to come up with excuses to get him to leave. Does she think I don’t know she’s trying to kick me out as politely as possible? So sweet.
He doubles down with a broad smile. “Is that what you’re worried about? Oh, girlie, you don’t need to worry about things like that!” Tartaglia beams, leaning in closer. “I won’t be here for too long. Ivan’s finishing up a little task for me over in the Harbor and he should be on his way home soon… You don’t mind if I just wait with you, right, girlie?”
If you know exactly where he is and when he’s coming home, why did you ask me if he was here?
Before you can voice your suspicions and ask, Tartaglia cuts in. “I won’t be here long, and you don’t need to worry about pouring me any tea or anything,” he promises, smiling at you. “After all, I’m the one who dropped in unannounced, so I would be the rude one to expect you to have had anything ready for me.” His smile borders on reassuring, but there’s a certain edge to it that makes you nervous. He’s far more calculating than he lets on.
Your eyes dart back to the clock and then to the food still sitting out on the table, and Tartaglia follows your gaze to the kitchen. “My, what a spread,” he praises. “You work hard for him, don’t you? I’ve seen those cute little boxed lunches he comes to work with; you make those, right?”
Your face grows hot and you nod. “Yes, I make them,” you say with a smile. You’re proud of your work; you work hard on those lunches and you’re sure Ivan appreciates them— at the very least, he always finishes them.
Tartaglia reaches a hand out to stroke your cheek, and he chuckles when you suddenly go quiet and your eyes widen. “What a good wife you are, girlie,” he sighs happily, smiling sweetly at you. “It does my heart well to know that my little underlings have such devoted, lovely wives at home to take care of them. Means that they’re putting their all into the work I give them when they know they have their wives’ love backing them and all that, yeah?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” you reply hesitantly. His thumb is rubbing gentle circles into your cheek and you stand there stupidly, frozen in place and shivering ever-so-slightly. Is this just the kind of man Tartaglia is? Are all people from Snezhnaya this handsy? Your husband certainly isn’t— not that you’d know, he isn’t home often enough to get handsy with you. “I worry about him while he’s away…”
“Oh, why’s that, girlie? Is there anything I can do to ease your worries?” Tartaglia asks, stepping closer and resting his other hand on your shoulder, rubbing a thumb gently into your neck. That feels nice...
Though you know that his touch is just a little too friendly for you as a married woman, you can’t exactly find it in you to push his hands away from you, both because you know better than to risk angering him for your husband’s sake and because you can’t recall the last time you’ve been touched so lovingly and sweetly. When Ivan has been coming home well after you’ve fallen asleep and leaving for work before you wake up more and more, there’s not much time for sharing loving embraces, is there?
However, you still don’t exactly melt into Tartaglia’s touch, and he notices this. You’re letting him touch you, but you’re not exactly begging him for more— just like a caged animal with no other option than to let whatever happens happen. Why bite the hand that feeds your husband and, by extension, you?
She learns quickly, he muses. Just another reason why I love you, girlie. Soon enough I’ll have you begging to be my wife instead.
“Sometimes I worry his work is dangerous,” you whisper, averting your gaze from Tartaglia’s eyes. “He doesn’t tell me much about what he does, so I can’t help but worry he feels he has a reason to keep secrets from me.”
“Oh, is that so?” he hums. “That’s not very nice of him, is it? Does he have any idea how much his lovely little wife frets over him? The least he could do is keep you in the loop, girlie. Want me to talk to him for you?”
Your reply is immediate, and that elicits a smirk from him. “No!”
“No,” you repeat yourself in a softer tone, fearing that you’ve offended Tartagalia by raising your voice and/or declining his surely generous offer. “It’s fine, uh… sir.”
He laughs. “You don’t need to be so formal with me, girlie. I’m not your boss, am I?”
That feels like a trick question.
“I wasn’t sure what you wanted me to call you,” you say sheepishly. “I know you’re important… Ivan’s told me you rank high in the Fatui.”
Oh, sweet thing, he thinks. So demure. So innocent. “All my underlings call me sir, but you, girlie?” Tartaglia chirps, leaning in close to your ear. He’s too close. “You just call me Tartaglia, alright? I want to be on a first-name basis with you.”
You swallow hard. There are thousands of alarm bells ringing in your head, so you make your escape. “Ah, wait, I need to go put dinner away…”
Tartaglia pulls his hands away and watches with a smirk as you hastily make your way to the kitchen, your head bowed and arms pulled close to your body as if to protect yourself. This is too much fun, he thinks sadistically, watching as you work at wrapping up the leftovers in parchment paper. Just gotta butter her up a little and she’ll be falling into my arms in no time.
Tartaglia takes a seat on your couch and watches with narrowed eyes as you move about the kitchen, and he figures you’re still rattled from his touch and his words because, every so often, you drop something, accidentally knock something over with your hands, or take a deep, shaky breath in a futile attempt to collect yourself.
This is how he knows he’s already ‘in’— now that he’s made his mark on you, all that’s left is to take you all for himself. He almost, almost feels bad for tricking you— whereas you’re under the impression that your husband’s going to return any moment now, that couldn’t be any further than the truth; to ensure that he would have ample time alone with you, Tartaglia was sure to send your husband on a task that he knows would take upwards of six hours even for a harbinger, let alone a regular Fatui grunt. In fact, Tartaglia doesn’t think Ivan’s even arrived at the site of the mission yet.
As much as he’d just love to see the look on your husband’s face when he comes home to find his dear little wife being fucked senseless by his boss, the last thing he needs is one of his underlings stupidly trying to kill him in a blind fit of rage before Tartaglia mows him down with ease. He’d like to have his underlings alive and none the wiser; his lackeys aren’t much use to him if they’re dead.
Tartaglia rises to his feet once more and makes his way over to the kitchen where you work at drying the leftover dishes from dinner, absentmindedly wiping off a plate with a towel. What a dutiful little wife— it makes Tartaglia’s heart soar to know that his dearest is every bit as devoted, loving, and kind as he had imagined. The love you pour into those cute little bento boxes you learned to make for your husband after hearing about Inazuman cuisine carries over into every area of life, and Tartaglia just can’t wait to take you for himself.
“You know, girlie,” he breathes, coming up behind you and placing two hands on your hips. You jolt and nearly drop the plate you’re holding as he chuckles at your reaction, hands rubbing firm circles into your hips. Suddenly your skirt feels way too thin and his hands feel way too warm and he’s way too close like this, breathing into your ear and tickling your neck with his hot breath. “This house is so clean it almost looks brand-new. It doesn’t look like anyone lives here… If I didn’t already personally know your husband, I’d assume you live alone.”
“What are you saying?” you squeak out, shakily setting the plate and towel down on the counter as your hands grow shaky with fear. There’s nowhere you can run now; he has you pinned under his thumb like a canary under a cat’s paw.
“I’m saying,” Tartaglia grins, pressing his front up against your backside so he can feel every inch of you against him. “That I think you’re far too hardworking for a man who doesn’t seem to appreciate it. He’s over an hour late now; I didn’t think that mission I’d given him would take this long… My, I would hate to think that he’s off bumming around in a bar rather than coming home to his lovely little wife.”
That’s a lie, of course, but she doesn’t need to know that. Tartaglia hums smugly, pressing you up against the edge of the counter and caging you against the hard surface.
“Please don’t say that about him,” you whimper, and you sound like you’re on the verge of tears to him. “He appreciates it, he’s not a bad man… he’s just so busy but he does it for my sake…”
“I just feel so bad,” Tartaglia mumbles in your ear, and you let out a strained gasp when you feel his hands grope harder at your thighs. “Seeing such a pretty little thing like you all lonely… It’s not fair for you to have to sit in such a nice house all alone while your husband’s away…”
“Tartaglia, stop,” you plead, thrashing lightly in his grip to try and get him to take his hands off of you. He doesn’t budge; in fact, he just pushes you harder against the counter and you quickly realize that you’re absolutely no match for his strength. You don’t even have the space to elbow him in the stomach or jab him in the eyes; he was sure to loop his arms through yours to prevent you from trying anything like that. “Please let me go, please go home, I promise I’ll give those papers to my husband and tell him you stopped by, so please…”
“Papers?” he blinks, humming. “Oh, yes, that’s right. Don’t you worry your pretty little head, girlie. There’s nothing you have to give him; I didn’t even bring any ‘papers’ with me!” Tartaglia laughs like he’s just heard the funniest joke in his entire life, and you only just now realize that that was nothing more than an excuse to get you to let him in.
And it worked— why wouldn’t it work? Anybody would do the same in your situation— if their spouse’s boss dropped in and insisted that they had very important paperwork for their spouse to sign, of course they would let them in. You’re no different. Nobody could blame you.
And yet, you’re just now realizing you played right into Tartaglia’s hands— there was never any paperwork, there was never any sense of urgency, there was never any need for him to be here.
“Then why— why did you—” you stammer weakly, sucking in a shaky breath as he runs a hand up the curve of your hip to clutch onto your waist. “If you knew that he was gone, and there were no papers, then why—”
“Let me cut you off right there, girlie,” he mumbles, pressing his lips just behind the shell of your ear to kiss your neck. “You’re a smart girl. Surely you can make a guess, right?”
If Tartaglia’s not here to visit your husband because he knew he was gone, and if he isn’t here to give you anything to pass on to your husband, then…
You take a deep, shaky breath and screw your eyes shut. “Tartaglia, are you…” you start carefully. You don’t think you’re prepared for the mortifying embarrassment he’s sure to subject you to if your guess ends up being horribly incorrect. What if he mocks you for being so selfish and full of yourself? “Are you here to see… me?”
“There you go,” Tartaglia murmurs, squeezing your waist with both of his hands and bringing your hips further back against his. “I’m here for you, not him. I see enough of that guy every day at work; if I really had some “urgent paperwork” for him I would just save it to give to him the next day. I have better things to do than babysit my underlings and stop by their houses to see them, you know.”
“If you wanted to come in, you could have just asked,” you squeak. “Why did you— why would you lie to me?”
He hums again. “Didn’t want to take my chances,” he explains. “What’s there to say you wouldn’t have told me to just go away? It’s not like it’s normal for bosses to drop in on their employees’ houses at night— I needed a reason, honey.”
“Besides, sweet thing,” he continues. “You’re the one who offered to let me in; I never had to ask. Were you that excited to see me?”
He’s right. He never asked to come in, you asked if he wanted to come in. All he said was that he had something for your husband.
Maybe this really is your fault.
“But why,” you whine weakly, and you can almost feel tears forming in your eyes from the fear and humiliation of having him press his body against yours like this. “Why me?” Does he visit everybody’s wives just to humiliate them like this? Is this his idea of a thrill?
“If you’re going to ask if I come to hit on all my underlings’ wives, I don’t,” he chuckles, reaching a hand around your front to rest on your tummy to keep your body pinned back against his. “It’s just you, angel.”
“Then why me,” you repeat yourself, trying to ignore the feeling of Tartaglia gently rubbing his palms all over your waist and hips. “Please, what did I do?”
“‘Why you,’ you ask?” Tartaglia hums, chuckling. “Archons, girlie. If you really need me to spell it out for you…” He pauses to kiss down your neck before he presses his lips to the curve of your shoulder, and you wince. “Well, girlie… I want to make you mine, that’s why.”
You freeze.
“Tartaglia, I— I’m married,” you whimper stupidly as if he didn’t already know that. Of course he already knows that— he just doesn’t care.
He laughs, amused. “Oh yeah? Well, color me surprised, I had no idea,” he teases, eyes darting down to the wedding ring on your left hand. “You mean to tell me this ring isn’t just for show?”
You’re humiliated. Completely and utterly humiliated. He slinked into your house so easily and now he has you caged in his arms as he tells you all about his very simple desire to make you his. A hot tear slips down your cheek and you whimper his name in a desperate plea, and Tartaglia only tsks in response.
“There’s no need to cry, angel,” he soothes, bringing a hand up to your cheek to wipe the tears away with his thumb, and you can’t find it in you to flinch away from his touch or even feel sickened by it. Is this hopelessness? “I’m not gonna hurt you, sweet thing.”
You already have, your mind utters as Tartaglia offers you soothing kisses to the nape of your neck. You feel as if time is standing still in your kitchen, the world offering little for you beyond the reaches of Tartaglia’s touch.
“Tartaglia?” you ask, voice as small and shaky as you are. You’ve never felt smaller in your life than you do like this, pinned under the thumb of the gleeful sadist behind you.
“Yes, angel?” he replies, pressing another kiss to your neck.
“Uh, my husband, is he—” you begin. “Is he… on his way home?” Or was that a lie too?
“Oh man, I thought you were about to ask me if I killed him or something,” he hums. “Hmm, well… I don’t think he’ll be home until morning, if I had to guess… I made sure to give him a task that I knew would take a good while even for a harbinger, let alone a run-of-the-mill grunt like him.”
The panic sets in as you realize that that means it’ll be just you and Tartaglia until whenever he finally finds the good graces to leave— which won’t be until he either get what he wants from you or becomes so bored with you he gives up.
You don’t find that latter outcome likely.
“Isn’t that great?” Tartaglia continues, humming. “It means we’ll have lots of time together tonight, my angel!”
“No,” you cry, shaking in his arms and thrashing weakly. “Please don’t, please…”
He chuckles darkly, grabbing your chin in one of his hands and you freeze. “You know, darling,” he chirps, “I can’t imagine how lonely you must be… with as much as I’ve been working your husband, you probably don’t have much time with him, huh?”
“Do you mean—”
Tartaglia nods, wrapping his other arm tight around your waist. “Sweet thing, you don’t think this is all coincidence, do you? Him going to work so early and coming home so late… I just wanted to make sure that you weren’t getting too close to him before I had the opportunity to make my move!”
Your heart sinks. All this time, and despite all his hard work, your husband’s never been in the good graces of Tartaglia— as the year since your marriage went on, he’s only been going to work earlier, coming home later, working harder, and going out farther away from home— and he’s never gotten vacation or anything of the sort since. He’s been working so hard for your sake, but Tartaglia’s been working him so much that he barely has anything to show for it aside from a paycheck. Tartaglia’s right— it’s not that you two are particularly close… If principle is the only thing keeping you loyal to your husband rather than genuine love, is that still a loving, committed marriage?
No, you do love your husband— you love him, why else would you work so hard for him, why else would you stay up late to see him, why else would you remain by his side?
In hopes that someday maybe, just maybe, you two will be able to form an actual bond once work slows down? In hopes that he’ll finally be able to pay more attention to you?
Tartaglia did all of this on purpose to ensure that you’d feel lonely. Obviously not lonely enough to fall into his arms right off the bat, but all in due time— he knows he’s almost got you right where he wants you. Not that a crying, shaking, nervous you isn’t cute too, of course. He did all of this to get you to prey on the vulnerability of a lonely, pining housewife, and now look at you— so desperate for attention that you couldn’t even bring yourself to hate his gentle touch earlier.
“I’ve been working your husband so hard I almost feel bad,” he chuckles wickedly. “You two never even went on that— oh, what’s it called in non-Snezhnayan terms— honeymoon, right? When he asked for time off then, it was the fastest I’ve ever turned down a request in my life!”
He says it so gleefully and so lightly; what a sadist. You think back to that time nearly a year ago when your husband told you that his request for time-off so you two could go on your honeymoon to Mondstadt was denied— and how he vowed to take you there once he did manage to get some vacation time.
What a cruel twist of fate— here you are, trapped in your own home in the arms of the man who’s to blame for the growing emotional distance between you and your husband, his unintentional workaholic nature, and, perhaps most importantly, your loneliness. When you realize that Tartaglia has been patient enough to wait a whole year while he was carefully and meticulously driving a wedge between you and your husband before he would finally sweep in to stake his claim on you, you realize that you’ve lost.
“I guess I owe you an apology, angel,” he murmurs, releasing your chin from his grip so he can snake both of his arms around your waist, wrapping you in a tight hug. “You must have been so lonely without me… I just had to bide my time for a bit, but I’m here now, alright?”
So delusional. So cruel. So sick and sadistic and horrible and—
You don’t know what to do with yourself. Here’s this monster that’s twisted his way into your life and forced your husband away from you by working him to the bone on purpose— you think about all the times where your husband arrived home late, late in the night after a long day of work, all the missed opportunities to get closer on account of him being away so often, all the time you cooked dinners you ended up throwing out because he never came home in time to eat them, all the time you did nothing but wait—
You’ve hit a wall. “What do you want, Tartaglia?” you whimper weakly.
“You,” he says simply, breathing your name into your ear. “There’s nothing I want more, really. When I think about you falling apart in my arms and giving yourself up to me, I just can’t control myself. Don’t you want some attention, sweet thing? After a year of nothing, don’t you want me to touch you?”
“If I let you touch me,” you whisper helplessly, voice breaking into a sob as he moves his hands down to rest on your thighs just under the hem of your skirt. “Will you leave when you’re done?”
You can’t believe this. Here you are, a married little housewife, offering to let another man touch you. If it’ll get him to leave, maybe it’s worth it— anything to get him to leave. Maybe he’ll let up on your husband at work if you allow him to toy with you for a little while.
This is all for his sake, you tell yourself. I can bear this.
Tartaglia hums like he’s deep in thought, mouthing at your neck all the while. “I’d want to do more than just touch you, you know,” he says finally, dragging his hands up your thighs until they’re settled just under the last row of ruffles detailing the hem of your skirt.
“But we can’t,” you plead.
“And why not?”
How are you supposed to answer that? He knows you don’t have any kind of answer; that’s the entire reason why he asked— to put you on the spot and get you to freeze up.
“I meant what I said about making you mine,” Tartaglia breathes against your neck, delighting in the way you whimper again.
“But I haven’t even done that with my husband yet,” you finally admit, voice sounding just as small as you feel.
He laughs.
“Wait, wait, wait,” Tartaglia manages between laughs, and you bite into your lower lip in a futile attempt to keep yourself from sobbing as his laughter finally begins to die down. “You mean… I’ve kept Ivan so busy that he hasn’t even had the time to fuck you? A whole year without ever consummating his marriage with his darling little wife?”
“Oh, wait, I just remembered,” he continues gleefully, mockingly. “That’s because I made him work early that day right after the wedding! Man, that’s too far in hindsight, even for me!”
Of course he planned that too. Of course he did. Between the exhaustion you two felt following that eventful day and the knowledge that he had to be back at work early the next day, sex was the last thing on your minds.
And you still haven’t found an opportunity to have your first time since then.
“Are you a virgin, sweet thing? Have you ever been with anyone else before him?” Tartaglia invasively asks, hands drawing nearer and nearer to your panties before he abruptly slides them back down your thighs. He repeats this exact process, relishing in every apprehensive and pleading whimper you give when his fingers almost, almost touch the hem of your panties.
You nod your head so subtly he almost doesn’t catch it. You’re so embarrassed you wish you could just shrink into yourself and disappear— but no matter how much you sulk and cry, you can’t escape Tartaglia’s arms.
“Archons, does a whole year really go that fast?” Tartaglia wonders aloud. “You know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d guess that you were saving yourself for me… did you want to give me your first time and not your husband?”
“No, please, that’s not it…” you beg shakily, but you don’t do anything to try and shake Tartaglia’s hands off of you when he traces them up your thighs again.
He ignores your words and keeps on talking, divulging every single fantasy and thought he’s had about you in the course of the past year— or maybe even beyond that. You’re not sure when Tartaglia first took interest in you, and you’re too scared to ask.
“It’s really turning me on, you know,” he purrs in your ear, and you freeze where you stand when you feel him playfully rut the bulge in his pants against your ass. “Knowing that I’m gonna be the first one to fuck you… knowing that I’m gonna get you so addicted to me that you’ll start begging for me to fuck you whenever your husband’s away… Who knows? Maybe I’ll get you to beg me to send him away more often…”
“I would never,” you whisper, and another tear slips down your cheek. Why won’t he just shut up? You’re so humiliated, you’re beyond humiliated and you’re just absolutely mortified, but he doesn’t care. He thinks your plight is cute— that shocked, deer-in-headlights expression you’re giving him really does do something to a very prominently sadistic side of him. Everything about you belongs to him, and that includes your tears, your shaky pleas, your sobs, your shallow breaths, and every last twitch you make in his arms.
“Cute,” Tartaglia affirms, spinning you around suddenly so you’re toe-to-toe, nose-to-nose. He’s too goddamn close like this; you can almost feel his lips moving against yours, you can smell his cologne like this, and you can’t see anything but him— not even the front door that you wish you could run through right this second.
“Can I kiss you?” Tartaglia finally asks, wrapping his arms once more around your hips to remind you that you’re trapped here with him and that he will be taking you. “It’s a shame to know I won’t be your first kiss, but that’s okay— knowing that I get to be the first to fuck you makes up for that!”
You desperately whimper his name once more, and Tartaglia, entirely unable to hold himself back any further after having done so for a year now, expertly slides his lips over yours and steals a kiss from you. It’s invasive, it’s hot, and it’s all-encompassing— you can’t focus on anything but the alarm bells ringing in your head and the feeling of Tartaglia’s lips brushing against yours. Every movement of his lips robs more and more air from your lungs, and you’ve only just now realized you’ve long since stopped shaking in his hold— maybe you’ve finally realized that there’s no point in trying to run away from him anymore. Maybe you’ve given up and you’re allowing him to do whatever he wants so he’ll just hurry up, get on with it, and leave once he’s done.
However, if the way he’s kissing you slowly and sweetly is any indication, he’s going to be taking his time with you. He won’t be so kind as to fuck you quickly, get it over with, then leave you to clean yourself up afterward.
It’s cruel in a sense, really— he kisses much slower than your husband does simply because he can. Ivan’s been restricted only to quick, light pecks lately as he’s rushing out the door on his way to work because he doesn’t have the time to kiss you deeply, but Tartaglia’s kissing you like he has all the time in the world because he does. Whenever he wants time with you, all he has to do is send your husband on a stupid, menial task he doesn’t feel like taking care of himself.
His slow kisses are certainly his way of bragging. It’s his way of reminding you that he can do whatever he wants with you.
You let your eyes flutter shut, if only so you don’t have to keep on looking at him as he kisses you. When his tongue brushes along your lower lip, you don’t fight him— you part your lips obediently to let him in and he chuckles breathlessly.
“Good girl,” Tartaglia praises, holding your hips in his hands. “So sweet and obedient for me… finally letting me show you how much I love you?”
You don’t answer him; you just let him do as he pleases. His tongue pushes into your mouth and you don’t fight it, swirling your tongue against his as he groans your name reverently. You can’t help but moan weakly as he continues to kiss you deeply and passionately, and your little sound earns a groan of approval from him. Archons, you’re going to be the death of him. This is the exact moment he’s been dreaming about since he first saw you all those months ago.
You’re sure there’s some drool running down your chin from how Tartaglia’s kissing you, but you don’t care. You can’t bother to care. Your knees knock together as his hands move to grope your ass, and you whimper helplessly— when’s the last time your husband’s playfully touched you? You don’t think he’s ever touched you anywhere beyond just your hands, your cheeks, or your shoulders.
“As much as I’d love to take you bent over the table, sweetheart,” Tartaglia laughs darkly against your lips. “I’d like our first time to be done right, okay? Let’s go to your room.”
Oh, how cruel— he’s going to fuck you on the very bed that you’ve spent so much time alone in lately. Will he ever stop mocking you?
“Okay,” you utter in a small voice. “Okay.”
“I told you I’d have you falling right into my arms,” he chuckles, offering your ass a light, playful slap before he lets you go. You could run right for the front door, you could shove it open and fly right through the doorway and run, run, run— but what’s the point? You have nowhere to go. It’s not like you could run to your husband, who’s hours and hours away from here, could you? So, you do just as Tartaglia asks and make your way to the bedroom instead.
He saw the way your eyes flickered towards the front door if only for a second, but he doesn’t comment on it. You ended up obeying him all the same; you’re learning quickly.
Archons, he just loves you so much.
With your head spinning and your knees shaking, you make your way to your room, and perhaps the universe is mocking you now, too, because you just now realize that this is the first time you’ve actually gone to bed with a man in months. You aren’t defeatedly slinking off to bed in hopes that you’ll be joined later this time, you’re going to bed with someone.
With someone you shouldn’t be.
“Not that I expect him to be home anytime soon,” Tartaglia warmly reminds you as he locks the bedroom door behind him. “But just to get in the mood, right? Can’t have you distracted by an unlocked door, can I?”
“I’m not going to run,” you whisper, sitting on the foot of your bed and folding your hands in your lap.
“That’s right, you aren’t, are you?” he says, and you can hear him shedding his jacket and undoing his belt as you stare down at your hands. “You belong here with me, not out there with him. That is, unless you’d like me to take you back to my place? My bed always has room for you, sweet thing.”
You don’t answer, but he wasn’t really expecting you to. Once he’s left in only his tight briefs, he joins you on the bed, gently easing you up and leaning you back towards your pillow before caging you down once more.
“Beautiful,” he breathes, eyes wide and grin wild as he drinks in the sight of his beloved beneath him like this. You look like you’re trying to curl into yourself and make yourself so small that you could just slip through the threads of the sheets and leave— oh, how cute.
“You’re so beautiful,” he repeats. “Oh, sweet thing. You’re mine.”
Tartaglia settles himself back onto his knees and reaches for the hem of your shirt, and you freeze again— does he have to see you naked?
“Wait, I can do it myself,” you protest, moving your hands down to your shirt, and he shakes his head.
“Well, I’m sure you can, but I want to strip you,” he chirps, gently pushing your hands to the side. “I’ve fantasized about it for so long, angel. How pretty you’d look, half-naked and squirming beneath me… taking your panties off before you spread your legs for me…”
You swallow hard and hesitantly raise your arms over your head, closing your eyes so you don’t have to watch as he strips you. Tartaglia chuckles at your quiet obedience before he begins to tug your shirt up your body, slowly revealing more and more of your skin to his gaze.
You must look pathetic— here you are, allowing another man to strip you and allowing yourself to be bared before someone other than your husband. When Tartaglia finally gets your shirt over your head and tosses it carelessly to the side, you have to fight the urge to cover your body with your arms in a final attempt at modesty.
He notices that you don’t even try to hide yourself from him, and he grins devilishly— Oh, sweet thing, he thinks to himself. You’re so eager.
“So beautiful,” Tartaglia murmurs, eyes raking down your body that’s left only in your bra and a skirt, and he immediately goes to remove those, too. Oh, so now he’s moving quickly. “Archons, you have no idea how long I’ve waited for this. How long I’ve wanted to see you like this. Fuck, I won’t be able to hold myself back for very long…”
Part of you wants him to hurry up and get it over with, like ripping off a bandage, to hurry up and strip you bare so you don’t have to put up with this apprehension any longer. Part of you wants him to take his time so you can have more time to prepare, but you realize that’s useless— it doesn’t matter how long you get to prepare yourself; you’ll never be ready enough for him.
Tartaglia hums as he works your skirt down your thighs, gently lifting your legs up off the bed so he has a little more room. You gasp out in surprise when he reaches a hand down to gently cup your clothed pussy in his broad palm, and you’re beyond mortified to realize that you’re whimpering excitedly, gently grinding yourself against his hand.
“Oh, baby, look at you,” he purrs. “So eager… your body’s wanted this so bad. Fuck, you must have been so desperate to get fucked… a year without any sex at all, especially with that husband of yours? You must have been so lonely…” Tartaglia presses his hand harder against your pussy and you cry out, moaning weakly when he expertly rubs his thumb into your clothed clit.
“Just like that,” he praises, swiping his thumb over your clit again just to hear you moan. “So sweet… you’ve just wanted to be touched and loved properly all this time, haven’t you? All you’ve wanted is for somebody to touch you and hold you, isn’t that right?”
You want to refute him, you want to deny him, you want to fight him, you want to remind him that he’s the whole reason why you’ve been so lonely— but you can’t because he’s right; this is what you’ve always wanted. You’ve been so lonely all this time, forced to get yourself off only with your own fingers for the past year while you lie awake, waiting for your husband to come home.
“So cute,” Tartaglia murmurs. “Can’t wait to fuck this tight little cunt… Archons, knowing that you’re a virgin is turning me on so badly, baby. Knowing I’ll get to be your first… I’m gonna get you addicted to me, sweet thing.”
Your mouth opens, but no words come out— what’s there to say? There’s no point in refuting him, not when you’re melting into his touch like this and letting him do whatever he wants with your pretty body. Your words aren’t able to betray your body anymore because you’re into this, much to your dismay. Despite your prior anxiety and fear at how Tartaglia was so cruelly touching you in the kitchen and so casually talking about how he’s been driving a wedge between you and your husband all this time, you’re melting into his touch because all you’ve ever wanted was to be loved.
Tartaglia knows this; he’s an expert at exploiting that desire. All the boxed lunches you make for your husband, all you’ve done around the house, all you’ve done for him— it’s all in hopes that he’ll offer you some sweet words and affection once he finally has the time to. If he ever has the time to, that is— you don’t think Tartaglia will be letting up on him anytime soon.
“Here, let’s try this…” Tartaglia hums, moving his hands to pull your panties down your legs, chuckling when you make a surprised squeak at his actions. He makes a mental note to take your panties with him once he finally goes to leave, and he throws them somewhere by his pants so he can slip them into his pocket later— they’ll be a perfect memento of your time together once he’s back home and jerking himself off to the memory.
“Don’t look,” you squeak shyly as he goes to part your thighs, broad hands massaging the soft skin of your inner thighs.
“If I’m gonna make you feel even better, beautiful,” Tartaglia says simply, spreading your legs wide and lowering himself down so his face is level with your pussy. “Then I’m gonna need to take your panties off, won’t I?”
He’s staring; of course he is— he finally has you right where he wants you, almost completely naked and pinned beneath him with your pussy just inches from his face— Archons , how he’s wanted this for so, so long…
“Wait, wait just a second, I need to prepare myself,” you stammer in a desperate attempt to stave off the inevitable, but you melt beneath his touch when he gently slides a finger through the lips of your pussy. It feels so much better than when you touch yourself; it’s foreign and different and you’re ashamed to admit that it feels good.
Tartaglia chuckles when your words break into a moan as he focuses the attention of his fingers on your clit, gently rubbing the bead with the pad of his thumb to unravel you even further for him. You’re humiliated to know that you’re enjoying this— it would be pointless to pretend you’re not.
Nobody would blame you for letting him into your house and believing his lies, and surely nobody would blame you for enjoying his touch. Anybody in your position would be just as lonely as you are— and surely nobody would even be able to fathom what it’s like to be a wife to a man for a whole year without ever having sex with him even once.
“Tartaglia, please,” you breathe, bucking your hips gently into his hands and he smirks.
I’ve won.
“‘Please’ what, angel? What’s wrong?” he asks, looking up at you from between your legs as he moves his hand down to swipe over your pussy. “Oh, sweetheart, you’re already getting so wet for me… what an honest body.”
Even if his intentions are anything but genuine, his concern surely is— his fingers slow as he’s waiting for your response, and you whimper helplessly. “You can go faster,” you mumble shamefully, lowering your head and closing your eyes so you don’t have to look at his smug expression any longer.
“Finally giving in to me, huh?” Tartaglia teases, but obliges, shoving two fingers inside of you before he grunts at the feeling. Fuck, you’re tight— can’t wait to feel this pussy around my cock, holy shit—
Your pussy squeezes down hard on his fingers as he expertly twists and curls them inside of you, exploiting the difference in experience between you and him. You’re so cute, keeping your legs spread wide for him as he toys with you however he wants— and it does his heart well to know that you spread your legs for him faster than you’ve ever spread them for your husband.
You wince when you feel Tartaglia spit onto your cunt before using his other hand to rub hard circles into your swollen clit, spit serving as additional lubricant as his finger glides smoothly over the bead. Your legs are shaking and your hips are arching as he plays with your body, all while praises flow from his lips like running water.
“Look at you, so fucking pretty. Such a pretty pussy, and it’s all mine now, isn’t it? Now that I’m about to be the first to fuck you, I’ll be taking you all for myself— gonna be fucking this pretty little cunt whenever I want from now on, isn’t that right?” he mutters darkly, grinning.
You had only given in and submitted yourself to him so he’d fuck you and then leave, but perhaps that was your second mistake—if letting him in in the first place was your first mistake, then allowing him to stake his claim on your body was your second. Now that he’s gotten a taste, he’s never going to let you go.
You’ve, once again, fallen right into his trap.
He’s never leaving. Even if he does go home for the night once he’s done, he’s not leaving your life. He’ll probably just be back tomorrow once your husband leaves for the day.
You swallow hard. “That’s right,” you reply weakly, crying out his name when he curls his fingers and bumps them up against a sensitive spot inside of you. “I’m yours now.”
It’s best to avoid angering him. Fighting him isn’t going to get you anywhere— you’re his little plaything now and you’d like to remain in one piece because you don’t doubt that he could be a whole lot meaner and rougher with you. This gentleness surely isn’t his norm, it’s a gift; a warning.
“Perfect,” Tartaglia breathes, rewarding you with a gentle kiss to your clit before he closes his lips around it and sucks hard. Your legs kick outwards and one hand flies to his hair to grab on tight, anchoring yourself to him for purchase as he swirls his tongue around your throbbing clit. Feels so good, feels so good, feels so good, I can’t—
“So cute, look at you,” he purrs. “This close to coming just from my tongue and my fingers, is that it? Gonna come for me, gonna come just for me?”
Pleasure swamps and envelops the guilt and anxiety in your brain until all you can focus on is the feeling of Tartaglia massaging your clit with his tongue as his fingers curl and stretch your virgin cunt open in preparation for his cock, and just like that, you’re gone.
You can’t even think about the fact that this is your first time coming for anybody but yourself, and you can’t even think about the fact that you’re coming for Tartaglia, not your husband. Your hips shake hard against his hands and his lips as he works you through your orgasm, grinning proudly against your pussy as he watches you unravel for him.
How cute, Tartaglia thinks sadistically, pressing gentle kisses to your clit as he swirls his tongue around the bead. Look at you, sweet thing. Shaking like that and dripping into my mouth… such a good girl.
You’re sure you cried out his name as you came, but your mind’s too fuzzy to really tell. He slides his fingers out of your cunt and pops them into his mouth, groaning under his breath at the taste as he pushes himself back up onto his knees.
“Beautiful,” he praises, eyes wide and hair wild. “You should see yourself right now, girlie. See how you’re looking at me… you’re just begging me to fuck you with eyes like that.” You’re looking at him like a lost, scared animal, mouth open in a soft gasp as you catch your breath and squirm in place beneath him. You’re just throbbing, pussy desperate to finally, finally be filled by something, by anything, by anyone—
Even Tartaglia will do right now. You’re just so lonely; you’ve been so lonely for so, so long and he knows this. He’s almost surprised at how easy your loneliness is to exploit. Despite your prior resistance and anxiety, he’s finally got you right where he wants you: desperate, needy, and completely and utterly his.
In fact, if he weren’t so wholly and totally in love with you, perhaps he’d consider how easily and eagerly you’ve submitted yourself to him almost pathetic.
His hands reach up to your chest to unhook your bra, and as he slides the straps down your arms to finally bare every last inch of you to him, you look up at him and pleadingly whisper his name. “Please, Tartaglia…” you breathe, spreading your legs wider to show off how wet you’ve gotten for him. You can’t care that you’re a virgin about to give your first time to your husband’s boss rather than your husband, you can’t care that you shouldn’t be here with him like this, all you can manage to care about is finally, finally being doted on and held after a whole year of feeling so lonely in an empty house with dinner sitting cold and untouched on the table.
“Oh, you know how I love to hear you beg, angel,” he chuckles, bringing a hand up to cup your cheek in his hand. “Tell me you love me.”
You hesitate for a moment, choking on your words as they come up, and with the declaration of those three simple-yet-heavy words, you realize that you’re really about to do this and that there’s absolutely no turning back after this.
“I love you,” you whisper. It’s a lie, of course, but who knows? You might not love him, but maybe you love the attention he’s giving you, and that attention lies just adjacent to him. Soon enough, you’ll be falling in love with him by association— what a dangerous thought that is.
Tartaglia hunches over to press his lips against yours, slowly and methodically kissing you as he slides his tongue into your mouth. These kisses feel good— they’re overwhelming and dizzying and they send heat pooling in the pit of your tummy in the most delightful way possible. He’s invading every one of your senses as he leaves his metaphorical and physical mark on every inch of your body.
He slides the hand that’s on your cheek down to wrap around your neck in a makeshift collar, and he chuckles against your lips when your breath hitches in your throat and you jolt beneath him. “Relax,” he soothes with a sadistic, breathless laugh. “So cute…”
His hand gives your neck a gentle squeeze before it continues running down your body, stopping to pinch at your nipples and grope at your breasts, rub down your stomach, and swipe across your thigh until he’s grabbing one of your hips. His other hand comes up to join, holding your other hip in a tight grip that you could never wriggle free from even if you wanted to.
Tartaglia pulls away so he can sit back and watch as he readies himself, tugging your hips up into his lap to align your dripping pussy with the flushed, weeping head of his cock. As much as he loves kissing you (Archons, he could do it all day), he wants to watch as your pussy sucks him in, clamping down tight around his cock as he fills you in a way you’ve never been filled before. Your fingers won’t even come close to satisfying you once he’s done getting you addicted to the way your pussy stretches to accommodate his size.
“Sweet girl, you’re gonna feel so good,” Tartaglia breathes, licking his lips and squeezing harder into your hips. You want to look away from the sight before you as he teasingly slides himself through the wet lips of your cunt, relishing in the little whimpers you make when his cock slides over your clit, head bumping against the sensitive bundle of nerves on each smooth motion of his hips. He’s teasing you and you know it, but the feeling of him grinding his cock against you feels good.
With a quick glance back up at your needy expression, Tartaglia chuckles and prods the tip of his cock at your pussy, and with one thrust of his hips, he’s pushing inside and taking the one thing you should have saved for your husband.
“Archons, you’re tight,” he grunts, eyes glued to the sight as he pushes inch after inch of his thick cock into your tight little cunt. You’re swallowing him up so well that he couldn’t avert his eyes from the sight even if his life depended on it— he just loves how you’re sucking him in so desperately like you were made to take his cock.
Oh, that’s right, you were.
“Look at you, you were made to take my cock,” he breathes as he bottoms out inside of you, hips pressed snug and flat against yours. “Fuck, so tight, so wet. Feels even better than I could have ever imagined…”
He’s been fantasizing about this day ever since he laid eyes on you, and the feeling of your pussy squeezing down tight onto him more than makes up for the careful planning he’s been doing all this time and the waiting game he’s been playing all this time. Meanwhile, you’re whimpering breathlessly as your body adjusts to the size of his cock— though you failed to get a good look at it before, you can sure feel how big and long he is like this, filling you in a way that your fingers have never filled you before.
You gasp out his name as he begins to slap his hips against yours, cock sliding in and out with a lewd, wet sound that he could listen to all day long. Tartaglia’s eyes remain fixated on the sight of his cock pushing into you before pulling back out, staring filthily at the way your pussy eagerly sucks him back in every time he slides his hips forward. Archons, he could watch this all day as well— look at how eager your body is for his, look at how greedy your pussy is, sucking him in like this— you’ll never want to even try to have sex with your husband again once he’s done with you.
When Tartaglia moves a hand over your thigh to tease at your clit with his thumb, you cry out his name, tossing your head back against the pillow and moaning shakily as he picks up the pace, hips slapping harder and harder against yours and finger rubbing faster and faster over your clit. Involuntarily, your legs hook around his waist as he fucks into you faster, harder, and deeper, cock pushing the air up and out of your lungs with each thrust he gives into you.
Tartaglia groans your name reverently before his eyes flit away from the glorious sight in his lap and up to your face, where he’s met with a sight just as lovely. Your eyes are screwed shut from the sheer pleasure of him fucking you, your head laid back against the pillow as you gasp, moan, and whine for him over and over as your hands grab at the sheets in a desperate attempt for purchase. You’ve never looked lovelier than you do now, losing yourself to him and allowing him to wreck you on his cock as he fucks you the way he’s wanted to for the past year now.
“Look at you, feels good, doesn’t it?” he teases, chuckling. “So good for me. You should see how you’re just swallowing me up down here, angel. Pussy’s so addicted to my cock that you squeeze down every time I go to pull out— body doesn’t wanna let go, huh?”
His dirty words make you whimper as he continues to ramble, hips as unrelenting as his mouth. “You were made for this. Made to get fucked by me and made to be mine. Look at how good your pretty cunt takes my cock, fuck, taking cock so well for a virgin… have you been craving sex this badly? What a slut.”
“No, I’m not, I’m not,” you protest shyly, shaking your head and whimpering his name when his thumb rubs at your clit again.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Tartaglia replies. “You know I love you all the same. It’s beyond exciting to know that your body’s been longing for me so badly… don’t worry, sweetheart, because I’m gonna fuck you every single day from now on.”
You cry out his name and he smirks, working hard at getting you to come again so he can feel the way you’ll squeeze around his cock as you come, body shaking against his as you whimper for him. It’s too much like this— oh, Archons, he’s fucking you so deep and so fast and his finger moves downright brutally over your clit as you try to keep yourself together, but it’s pointless.
Tartaglia watches with a frenzied grin as you come undone, hips arching up and off of his lap in an attempt to squirm away from the overwhelming pleasure as your orgasm overtakes you, pleasure coursing red and hot through your veins. He’s so cruel like this, rubbing his thumb harder into your aching clit and pounding deeper into your cunt even as you’re coming for him and whining his name in the most desperate of pleas for mercy.
Hot tears pour down your cheeks and you’re not sure if they’re from the humiliation of being dominated so easily by the conniving man before you or from the hot, all-consuming pleasure wrapping around your body like a weighted blanket, but it doesn’t matter. He’ll find them cute all the same, and the chuckle he gave just now is certainly proof of that. Tartaglia presses his hips hard against yours and then he stills, allowing you to just feel his cock inside of you.
“You know, angel,” he chuckles, moving his hand away from your clit as you come back down from your second orgasm of the night. You weakly whimper for him to pull out and give you a break; even when he's not moving, the mere feeling of him sheathed inside of you is too much for your body to handle. “I still haven’t come yet, darling. Should I come inside of you?”
“Wait, wait, Tartaglia—“ you moan, voice hoarse. No, you can’t do that, you want to say. Please pull out, please, don’t come inside, what if I get pregnant—
Your words fail you just as intensely as your mind does as he continues to wreck you. Maybe that’s part of the reason why he wanted to overstimulate you— not only are you cute when you’re a helpless, squirming, moaning mess for him, you’re cute when you can barely form words.
“That’s a nice thought,” he breathes, licking his lips. “Filling you with my cum and watching it drip down those lovely little thighs… getting you pregnant with my baby…”
Your hands claw helplessly at the sheets as he resumes thrusting, chasing his own orgasm as he pounds into your poor, overstimulated cunt while he continues to paint a twisted picture for you. “Would be so fucking lovely,” he grunts, his breathing growing ragged as he gets closer and closer to coming. “Putting my baby in you… making sure that you’ll never leave me— well, not that you’re able to now, but you know what I mean.”
“You’ll be such a cute little mommy,” he continues mockingly, voice dark and teasing. “What a nice fantasy… coming home every day to my wife with my kid clinging to her leg… I’d be home on time every single day, my love.”
Way to rub salt in the wound— you can’t help but imagine it, imagine having the domestic life you’ve been dreaming of for the past year now. Tartaglia thinks about it too, returning home to his lovely little wife with her belly big and round with his baby. He’s sure you’d kiss him lovingly and say that dinner will be ready in twenty, so he better go wash up.
The fantasy pushes him over the edge, and before he has the chance to pull out (not like he would have anyways), he’s coming inside of you, hot cum spurting out into you as he presses himself as deep inside as he can.
It’s hot, it’s sticky, and it’s overwhelming— Tartaglia groans your name as he continues to pump every drop he has to offer inside of you, eyes squeezed shut as he just lets himself fill you. There’s so much— it’s already dripping down your thighs and he hasn’t even pulled out yet.
“Tell me you love me,” he says finally, broad chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. “Say it.”
You shiver as he pulls out, leaving some of his cum to drip out of your pussy now that it’s not plugged up anymore. It’s sticky and thick against your skin as it drips out of you, and now that you’re free to collect yourself, you lie back and try and let yourself process what just happened. The cum splattered between your thighs serves as the harshest reminder of all that you just let another man fuck you.
Speaking of which, you glance over at Tartaglia, who’s since rolled over to lie by your side on his back as he wipes a hand across his sweaty forehead. You watch with a dull, defeated expression as he combs his bangs with his fingers, pushing the hair back off his forehead before he looks at you.
“Well?” he says. “Tell me you love me, angel.”
Oh, that’s right— he did tell you to do that a few minutes ago, didn’t he? You were too busy trying to ignore the feeling of his cum running down your thighs to notice. You’ll have to go clean up in a moment once he’s appeased enough to let you go.
“I love you,” you reply, looking past his face and at the wall behind him just so you don’t have to make eye contact with him. He leans in and offers you another slow, deliberate kiss as praise for your words, forcing himself back into your gaze.
“I love you too,” Tartaglia murmurs with a chuckle, bringing a hand up to cup your chin. “Let’s go get you cleaned up and then let’s go to bed, yeah?”
You don’t move; your body feels too heavy and exhausted to even bother attempting to get up. You also don’t bother reminding him that he said Ivan would be home by morning and that the last thing you want is to be caught in bed with Tartaglia because it doesn’t matter— that’s far from enough to get him to leave and let you sleep alone as you always, always do.
Who knows? Maybe the warmth of another human being beside you as you sleep will be a welcome change, even if that other human being is Tartaglia. As he begins kissing down your jaw to mouth gently at your neck, you look over towards the window and out at the hills.
You think for just a brief, passing moment about where Ivan must be, surely hours and hours away from here by foot, but your thoughts about him end there. Maybe Tartaglia’s broken you, maybe you’re just too tired and fucked-out to think too intensely about anything in particular right now, or maybe you just can’t find anything to do with him worth thinking about while Tartaglia’s by your side, occupying all of your attention.
Your husband doesn’t cross your mind again after that. There’s no guilt, there’s no sorrow, there’s no fear— there’s just nothing. You can’t seem to find the energy to muster up to care about anything, not even wishing Tartaglia would leave already because it just doesn’t matter anymore. Whatever he decides to do with you is your burden to bear.
Your eyes flutter shut as Tartaglia murmurs against your skin, lips pressing gentle kisses into your neck. He figures you’re too tired to get up, but that’s alright— it just leaves him with more time to hold you in his arms as you sleep soundly.
His voice is gentle, low, and soothing. “Sweet dreams, princess.”