Chapter Text
Tartaglia was a wild card. The recruits all said it - advised spending as little time in his presence as possible.
The youngest Harbinger was both feared and joked about by the lower ranks. He sounded more personable than some other Harbingers that came to mind, which made the discreet warnings whispered behind hands in the dormitories all the more chilling.
Your task that afternoon, simple as it seemed, was to drop off two letters and pick up any that he had to send, then return to regular duties. But this threw you right across the path of a Harbinger described in the undergrowth as a loose cannon, a nuisance, and a whirlwind of annihilation. You had heard hushed stories of seemingly nicer Harbingers practicing their Delusions on anyone that drew their ire, or worse. Delivering a letter surely could be done without drawing his attention.
Northland Bank had very narrow corridors circuiting its back rooms. Combined with all the other Fatui personnel walking the other way, turning to smirk as you waded in against their tide, it seemed like taking yourself right into the lair of a beast. To become a Harbinger required such an absence of morals that many lower rank Fatui did anything possible to avoid being in their presence, despite their genuine adulation.
The bank’s carpets were so thick your steps were silent. Its walls glossed with such fine woodcarving that you were afraid to even appear to hesitate. Tartaglia– Childe, to use the proper title, didn’t have a proper office here - he, like all Harbingers, traveled extensively and followed the Tsaritsa’s beck and call. He’d staked out an ornate side-room to do his paperwork.
The gold trim on the walls themselves could rival the amount of actual valuables stored here, you thought. The door had a rich, elegant sound, and you were careful to knock with purpose, as though you weren’t afraid.
“Yeah?”
You opened the door to peek in, seeking the owner of the jarringly casual tone. With the letters carried dutifully to Tartaglia’s desk, he continued writing without looking up. You took the opportunity to scrutinise. He clashed, the man in this embossed, high-ceilinged room meant for handshakes and signatures. Either the desk was on the small side or he was just too tall for it. He hunched over, absolute mop of sunset-orange hair flaring all over the place, dangling in his eyes. His suit, grey and tailored, pulled too much in the other direction but countered its drabness with ornamentation that befitted his title. The blood-red banner draped across his shoulders was surely there for dramatic effect.
His pen stopped scratching and he looked up, and would have caught you staring if his gaze hadn’t snapped to your bust and got stuck there for a good three seconds.
He finally forced his eyes up to your face, then quickly at the envelopes, by which time you had already folded your arms and shifted your weight to offset your hips.
“Right! Sorry,” he chirped, not sounding particularly abashed. “I was almost done.”
“You’re younger than me, aren’t you,” you said, adding, “Sir.”
The Harbinger’s eyes narrowed. “Twenty-two… ?”
“Uh-huh.”
He tilted a smirk towards you. “Why d’you think they call me Childe?”
His hand twitched as though he were about to resume scribbling. Instead he looked at your breasts again and dropped his pen. Something stirred in the pit of your stomach as it became clear that this Harbinger, for all his rumours and titles and high-flying attire, simply was still a young man, with all the flaws that came with it. You set your hands on your hips to unobstruct his view.
The upper ranks really had yet to notice the fixation you had on grabbing a weakness and making sure you got what you wanted.
“Sir,” you huffed and impatiently rolled your eyes, “you appear to be distracted.”
“If I tell you to come back in ten minutes it’s not because I want to watch you leave.”
He blinked innocently and flashed you a grin. An easy, impish, confident grin of someone who usually gets his way.
“I can wait,” you grasped one wrist behind her back, the picture of compliance. “I can come back once you’ve penned your little note. Or I can give you what you want so you can focus.”
It was possible nothing so daring had ever been said within those walls.
All Tartaglia’s fingers drummed the edge of the desk.
The fact he was thinking about it meant he’d picked option three.
“Scoot over,” you gestured to his ridiculously expensive leather chair. Tartaglia pushed back from the desk and made room for you, clearing his throat hurriedly.
“Promise me you’ll tell me your name after.”
Half tucked up in his lap on the chair with him, partly snuggled up against his shoulder (he really was tall), you brazenly nosed his ear and noticed the Harbinger shuddering.
“Sir, you don’t need to be polite while I’m sucking your cock.”
Tartaglia whined as though given permission, immediately out of breath as he palmed your breasts through your clothes and intently sought the best way to squeeze. He tangled himself up in your body like a man who needed it to live. At the same time, you could sense his nervous adjustments on you speaking volumes of inexperience. You could just glimpse his cock throbbing massively against his thigh, having been hard for long enough there was a wet-through spot steadily growing as you watched.
“Good… gosh, that’s so.. so soft?” he sounded out of breath already.
You closed your eyes and nuzzled into the man’s neck, enjoying the closeness and his scent, moving to give him access for his curiosity.
Tartaglia had an impressive grip, hands squeezing your waist. He raked his fingers up to catch your top and hike it over your breasts all at once. You took it in delightedly as the man blinked in disbelief at the way your tits bounced out.
“Wow,” you heard him mumble, swallowing hard, and then his mouth was on you, licking and biting slightly with no thought or intent. He had to keep shifting in his seat. You were intentionally letting him focus on your top half and leaving the man’s unmissable tented dick to pine away and drip and leak for you, untouched. As Childe tongued your nipple and nuzzled harder into the huge, soft pillow of your breasts, he didn’t even seem to mind waiting.
He whimpered, though, a sound that struck straight to your pussy and made you ache for the Harbinger in a way that got ever more genuine.
Every time you opened your eyes and smiled at him, you could watch the wet spot on the side of his leg growing. The man who was supposedly your superior wasn’t able to tell your own underwear was just as wet, but perhaps he could tell something from your breakneck pulse as he nipped and sighed at your chest, just above your heart.
“I didn’t expect you to be such a sweetie,” you ran your hand into his hair, drinking in satisfaction as he trembled at your touch. He cupped and kneaded your tits, completely lost in them. “I bet you’re like this to all the cicin mages who come by your desk,” you lied.
It was like he couldn’t hear you. Now his hair was messier than ever, hanging over his eyes, he tried to swipe it aside to stay focused on your nipples. For a guy who’d been so blatantly horny from the second you walked it, you actually hadn’t expected him to take this much time enjoying you.
It was a nice surprise. He was also learning fast. You were twitching when he swirled his tongue around your nipple, and now he was doing it constantly. The sense of superiority over his shiny-wet damp spot between his legs was gone, now that you felt just as compromised. Your own underwear was so slick-soaked that your thighs just slipped past each other, and you squirmed, eager to be rid of the messy fabric.
“Nice–” Childe moaned, leaving a trail of kisses from one breast to the other. “Which agent deserves a gift basket for sending me a pair as good as this today?”
“What’s your poison, Harbinger?” you cooed, running your fingers along his jaw. The coy treatment was always fun. “Are you the dirty talk kind? You clearly like taking your time despite anyone being able to walk it on us.”
He grinned at you again, cupping the weight of your breast in his hand and petting his thumb across. It shot through you and you gasped. “They wouldn’t dare,” he said, unhurried.
Now he was the one parading satisfaction. He’d figured out a lot of what you liked through sheer enthusiasm, and hadn’t gone below the belt. A stand-off. Each of you waiting for the other to get more desperate first.
“I don’t know if I like talking dirty,” he continued, and now he was holding his voice steady. His usual light, casual tone. “Maybe it’d be good to find that out, hm?”
“Well, sir,” he tensed up a little when you called him that. He went fully stiff when you leaned onto him in the chair and pressed kisses to his neck. Big, soft, full-lip kisses, and in moments you had him shuffling for purchase against you. “Are you going to fuck me here in the chair,” you said, letting the words puff against his throat so he could feel it. You watched him swallow. “Or have me bend over the desk, so you can pound into me from behind? How does the big, bad Harbinger like to claim his subordinates?”
He breathed ragged gasps as he fought to stay in control. You just hummed, pleased with yourself. You wanted him, you wanted Tartaglia’s cock to sink into your waiting pussy so badly there was slick running freely down your legs, but you ignored that.
“G-give… give me a moment–” the man stuttered. He could no longer train his voice. He was on a knife edge for you. His delicate, deep blue eyes darted back and forth away from you as he sought control.
“You can tell me,” you kept going, keeping your words sweet and warm. “Perhaps the Lord Harbinger’s preference is for me to be down on my knees…?”
You slid out of his grasp. He did make an effort to hold on, but it was no use. He was a picture of dishevelment in his expensive chair. Sunset hair in disarray, exquisite suit all out of place. The tent between his legs visibly throbbing just for you, and so much precum soaking his uniform it was drawing rivulets down his legs. He refocused his eyes on you, just you, and nothing else in the world. It thrilled you with duality - you had reduced him to this, had him splayed out and too horny to cope. But he eyed you with possession, a simple glance confirming that he was not declawed.
Almost dutifully, you sank down to the floor in front of him and started undoing his belt.
“Hurry up, I–” he stammered out, so red in the face he could have been near tears. “I can’t–”
You undid his buckle, and his button and zip, as slowly as possible.
The volume of the gasps he made were going to summon concerned colleagues. He’d looked big underneath his clothes, but that hadn’t done it justice. Teasing was now at the back of your mind. His pleas for you to hurry were ignored. You simply had to appreciate that you’d gotten a Harbinger’s pants down, cock swollen in front of you, in his office with the door ajar.
Making Childe wait seemed to have let him grab a mental foothold. He blinked at you with a little more clarity, some sense of intent, and then lost it completely when you touched his cock with your mouth and pressed your lips around the tip.
Childe covered his face with one hand.
“I– I, um, h-hh–” Tartaglia had sounded boyish before, but his voice had gone up a few registers.
“Mmmn?”
“F–fu– I- that’s so… good…”
“Mnm.”
The man’s deft fingers wove into your hair. You just carried on, paying attention to his reactions. He applied no pressure to your movement, but he did tug your hair. Testing at first, then quite a lot harder.
“Mnmm!” you moaned, causing him to repeat it.
“Please don’t– don’t fu– fgnn… just don’t stop, honey–”
You started grinning. You released his cock for a deep breath and tilted your head.
“What. I said don’t stop.”
“You just called me ‘honey’,” you noticed him twitching and lapped up the precum he was spilling. “That’s nice of you.”
He opened his mouth to try and respond, but all that he managed was a damning, needy whimper.
You weren’t even trying to plunge more of his cock into your mouth. That was pointless. Instead you focused on giving the very best attention to what you could reach, just the head and below the tip, flicking your tongue across it. The man was biting his lip and succeeding in holding his words, and you couldn’t have that. You ran your fingers along the rest of his pulsing shaft. At the end of it, you cupped and gently comforted his overloaded balls for him, taking more daring liberties than you ever expected yourself to.
The Harbinger gasped for you. Threw his arm up to cover his eyes as he made quiet, needy sobs for you.
“Sweetie, please, I’m almost there, please…”
Still steadily applying the stimulation he craved, you chuckled slightly. He must’ve felt it. He peeked out from under his arm down at you, pouting.
“Hey, you’ve obviously got a thing for having a moment of power over a Harbinger. You have your fantasies, I have mine. I thought we were here to indulge that.”
“Of course,” you purred, coaxing his heavy balls again so that he bucked his hips in an effort to fuck your mouth.
Tartaglia clenched one hand into your hair again as he bounced his hips in the chair. “F-fuck, fuck– fuck –”
The way he flexed against your tongue could only mean one thing. Part of you was surprised to finally hear him curse. The usual stream of pre-cum ceased, allowing you to prepare yourself as he continued to stammer helplessly.
“I can’t– I can’t, oh fuck sweetie, honey darling–”
For a second his dick flexed in your mouth, then a second twitch, and finally you were given a warm, thick load to swallow. Tartaglia gasped broken, mismatched words to the air, trying to grip the chair’s arms for purchase and slipping.
“G–gods, honey– babe please, please–”
You gulped on his cockhead several times while swirling your tongue and using one hand to rock the whole half of his erection you couldn’t fit between her lips, determined to leave him ready to get back to work per your flimsy agreement.
His voice, thin, airless, a high tenor, sobbed out, “I can’t stop-”
You hummed on him to bid him to continue. You were going to make damn sure he never forgot today, or you, or what you could do with your tongue. Cum surged into your mouth in several more heated pulses. He tugged weakly on your hair, shuddered under your hands, and fell back spent.
You watched him. Arm still over his face, his jaw slack as he panted for air, his little red earring hanging by a thread. Ignoring the sticky, aching mess between your legs was well worth the sight of him like this.
With one hand over his mouth and still jittery, Tartaglia tried to sit up and recover himself a little. He shuffled his clothes back on, clearly drained of energy, looking at you from under his even messier hair.
“I like the cute names,” you made an effort to go softer on him. A peace offering. “I could try using them too, next time.”
Childe immediately looked at you in expectation, naked attentiveness at the promise of more. You tried not to chuckle at him for being so obvious. Instead you shifted your hips, still aroused beyond belief, and let him have the whole chair to himself again.
“Right. You were going to…”
“So, uh, my letter’s still not finished.” Tartaglia tucked his chair back properly under the desk as you straightened your clothes. He tried to flatten down his collar. “Come back in ten minutes?”
He was grinning at you now, allowing you, and only you, to see his eager puppy side. Next time you were definitely going to throw in a ‘good boy’.
“Of course, sir.”
You neatly made to leave, pausing to glance over your shoulder and noting that his eyeline was firmly on your ass.