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Tate/Reader/Strade *SMUT* Ficlet

Again a huge thanks to my best friend, Xel and her beautiful mind! Hope y'all enjoy! :3

The clock glowed 3:47 AM in the dark, its numbers bleeding red into the quiet. You shivered as warmth abandoned you—the absence of skin against skin sharper than any alarm. Goosebumps prickled down your exposed lower arms where Strade’s had been draped just seconds ago.

A soft snore rattled from his direction, low and rough like a saw cutting through wet wood. You blinked blearily at his back—broad shoulders blocking the weak light from the streetlamp outside, the ridge of his spine a shadowy curve under his thin undershirt. The mattress dipped slightly as Tate shifted behind you, his exhale warm against the nape of your neck. His fingers twitched against your hipbone, possessive even in sleep.

You sighed this was actually your fault you know. You had finally escaped Strade's house, Strade was in his living room watching some true crime show he always puts on and you walked into the kitchen and there it was an open window of your freedom. You jumped out as quietly as you could and ran up the road and ended up at a supermarket. There you ran into the butcher Tate and you told him what happened to you. How could you not? the older man was very comforting and kept you talking telling you everything will be okay as he reached for the nearby phone, in what you thought was the police was actually Strade-

Turns out these two are close friends...because of course they are.

The punishment when you got home after Strade picked you up was brutal, yes, but Tate's presence changed something—not the cruelty, just the rhythm of it. You could still taste the iron-thick smear of that mystery meat on your tongue, the grit of basement concrete between your teeth as Strade forced your face down. His boot had pressed between your shoulder blades, pinning you while Tate watched from the doorway, axe dangling lazily from one hand like he'd just come from slicing ribeyes (with an axe? yes. don't question it)

And Tate began visiting more often—at first, just lingering in the doorway with that same lazy grip on his axe, watching Strade carve you open like a Sunday roast. But then he'd step in—not to stop it, never to stop it—just to add his own flavor. A thick finger dragging through the blood on your collarbone, tasting it thoughtfully before nodding approval at Strade. "Needs more salt," he'd murmur, and Strade would laugh like that was the funniest fucking thing he'd ever heard.

The mystery meat became Tate's specialty. He'd bring cuts wrapped in butcher paper, pink juices soaking through, whispering, "You'll love this one, sweetheart," while Strade pinned your jaw open. The first time you gagged, Tate sighed like a disappointed parent before backhanding you so hard your vision went white at the edges. "Wasteful," Strade tsked, wiping your split lip with his thumb before shoving the meat back into your mouth. You learned to chew fast.

Then there were days he'd come over just like this night, just to hangout or sleep over nothing too drastic sometimes you both would have sex (with Strades knowledge of course) it would start off soft his lips grazing your neck, his hands exploring your body with a gentleness that made your breath hitch. Tate knew how to make you melt—his touch deliberate, almost reverent, as if memorizing every curve and shudder. But sanity was a thin veneer; you learned that the moment his fingers twisted in your hair, dragging your head back to expose your throat while his other hand pressed bruising circles into your hip. "You like that, don't you?" he'd murmur, voice rough with something darker than affection. You'd nod, dizzy, and he'd chuckle—low and knowing—before biting down hard enough to make you scream.

You jolted from your thoughts when Tate's grip slackened—his fingers uncurling like a predator momentarily bored with its prey. The mattress sighed under his shifting weight as he rolled slightly onto his back, one arm flopping over his face. A snore bubbled from his throat, wet and thick, as if his lungs were marinating in bourbon. Your mind was racing. This was it. The gap between his forearm and your waist yawned like an open door. If you're careful and quiet enough—if you moved like smoke—you could slip out. No supermarket mistakes this time. You'd run straight to the police station downtown, not stopping even if your lungs burned into embers.

Strade’s back remained a fortress turned against you, his breathing deep and even. You counted each exhale—three, four—before sliding your leg out from under the tangled sheets. The fabric whispered against your thigh, loud as a gunshot in the silent room. You froze, eyes darting between the two men. Tate's lips twitched, but his chest continued its slow rise and fall. Strade didn’t stir.

Your fingers curled around Tate’s wrist, peeling it back inch by inch. His skin was warm, calloused from years of handling meat and bone. The moment his hand lifted clear of your waist, you held your breath. His fingers flexed, and for a heart-stopping second, you thought he’d wake—but then his arm flopped limply onto the mattress. Victory surged through you. You twisted onto your stomach, elbows digging into the mattress as you began to crawl toward the foot of the bed.

The sheets slithered against your bare skin, damp with sweat and the lingering musk of cigarette smoke. Every shift of your body sent tiny vibrations through the mattress. You paused halfway, watching Strade’s shoulder blades tense—then relax again. Tate’s knee bumped against your calf as he sprawled onto his back, his chest rising in a deep, whiskey-laced sigh. Almost there. The edge of the bed felt like the edge of the world. You stretched one arm out, fingers brushing the carpet’s coarse fibers—

Fingers clamped around your ankles like steel traps.

You barely had time to gasp before the world flipped—sheets tangling, hips crashing back into the mattress with a muffled thud. Two pairs of eyes burned through the darkness above you: one amber like embers in a dying fire, the other purple as a fresh bruise. Tate’s breath hit your ear first, whiskey-sour and warm. "Naughty little rabbit," he rumbled, his free hand already sliding up the inside of your thigh. "Gonna have to tie you to the bedposts next time."

Strade’s grip on your other ankle tightened, his thumb digging into the delicate bone there hard enough to make you whimper. "Or," he mused, voice thick with sleep and something far sharper, "we could just break your legs." His teeth gleamed in the dim light as he grinned. "Then you’d never run again."

Tate chuckled against your shoulder, his breath hot enough to sear through your skin. One broad hand splayed across your stomach, pinning you down while his fingers crept higher, brushing the underside of your breast. "Or," he countered, voice dripping with mock sympathy, "we could let her keep her legs." His teeth scraped your pulse point. “We take her fingers instead. One for every step she took toward the door."

Your protest died in your throat—nothing but a dry gasp as Strade’s palm slid higher, rough fingertips tracing the crease where thigh met hip. The callouses dragged against your skin, deliberate and slow, igniting a traitorous heat that coiled low in your belly. You writhed, shaking your head violently—no, no, they didn’t have to be so *drastic*—but Strade just tutted, his grip on your cheek tightening until your lips pursed involuntarily. "Shh," he murmured, thumb stroking the apple of your cheek like you were something precious. The contrast was dizzying—the gentleness of his touch while his other hand inched closer to your throbbing cunt, pausing just shy of where you needed him most.

You arched off the mattress with a broken groan, hips jerking upward shamelessly into Strade’s teasing fingers—only for him to pull away at the last second, leaving you clenching around nothing. A whine ripped from your throat as you twisted your face free from Strade’s grip, throwing your head back against Tate’s shoulder hard enough to make his teeth click together. The room spun for a dizzying second before you registered twin huffs of amusement above you.

"Well, well," Strade purred, his breath hot against your inner thigh as he nuzzled the sensitive skin there. His tongue darted out to trace the crease where your leg met your hip, the wet drag of it making you shudder. "Someone’s eager" His amber eyes flicked up to yours, gleaming with something predatory. "Almost like you *wanted* us to catch you."

Tate’s laugh vibrated against your spine, his teeth nipping at the tendon in your neck. "Course she did," he growled, fingers twisting in your hair to yank your head back further. "Look at her—dripping before we even got started." His other hand slid down your stomach, fingers slipping effortlessly through the slick heat between your thighs. You bucked against his touch, but he just tutted, withdrawing with a cruel smirk. "Uh-uh. You don’t get to come until we say so."

Strade’s chuckle was a dark ripple against your lips before he crushed his mouth to yours—hot and insistent, the bitter tang of cigar smoke and stale beer flooding your senses. You gasped into the kiss, your fingers scrabbling uselessly at his shoulders as he licked into your mouth like he was searching for something lost. His teeth grazed your bottom lip hard enough to sting, and you whimpered, arching against Tate’s chest behind you. The butcher’s hands tightened on your hips in warning, his breath a humid counterpoint to Strade’s dominance.

Then Strade was gone—pulling away with a wet smack of parting flesh—and you barely had time to whine before his hands shoved your thighs apart, his amber eyes glinting up at you from between your legs. You tensed instinctively, muscles quivering—until Tate’s fingers dug into your inner thighs like meat hooks, forcing them wider. “Try it,” he murmured, voice thick with amusement as he leaned over your shoulder, his stubble scraping your cheek. “Close those pretty legs on him. See what happens.” His grip tightened, nails biting crescents into your skin as Strade’s tongue swiped a long, taunting stripe up your slit.

Tate’s hand on your stomach then traveled to find purchase in your loose hair. His fingers tightened in your hair, tilting your head back until your throat was exposed. His thumb traced the column of your neck, pressing just hard enough to make your breath hitch. "You really thought you could slip out?" His voice was a low rumble against your ear, lips brushing the shell with each word. "Looks like You forgot who you belong to." The hand on your inner thigh went further inward, his fingers spreading you open with a rough, wet sound that made your face burn. Now that he had more access, Strade’s tongue lapped at your dripping cunt with slow, deliberate strokes. The vibration of his groan against your sensitive flesh sent sparks up your spine.

You gasped, hips lifting involuntarily—only for Tate’s grip on your hair to yank you back down. "Ah-ah," he chided, fingers tightening until your scalp stung. "Stay still." His other hand left your thigh to wrap around your throat, squeezing just enough to make spots dance in your vision. "Unless you want me to cut off your air completely?"

Your breath hitched, and—god help you—a dopey smile curled your lips despite yourself. That familiar cocktail of fear and arousal flooded your veins, thick as syrup. You *hated* them. Hated the way Tate’s fingers dug into your windpipe like he was testing the ripeness of fruit, hated how Strade’s tongue flicked over your clit with the same detached precision he used to skin rabbits. But the darkness in you purred under their hands, arching into the pain like a cat stretching in sunlight.

Strade’s chuckle vibrated against your cunt, his breath hot and damp. "Look at her," he murmured, pulling back just enough to watch your face as Tate’s grip tightened. Your vision blurred at the edges, the room tilting drunkenly as oxygen thinned. "She’s *happy*." His fingers replaced his tongue, two dipping inside you with a wet squelch that made Tate groan against your ear. "Aren’t you, sha~?" You could only nod, delirious, as Strade crooked his fingers just *so*, the sweet pressure coiling tight in your belly.

Then his lips crashed into yours—hard enough to bruise, his tongue forcing your mouth open like he owned it. Which, of course, he did. You mewled into the kiss, hips jerking helplessly against his wrist as his fingers sped up, scissoring you open with ruthless precision. Tate’s nails bite into your scalp, holding you still as his tongue continues to explore your mouth. Your moans dissolved into whimpers. The heat in your gut coiled tighter, tighter—until Strade suddenly ripped his fingers out with a slick pop. You broke the kiss to let out an agitated groan, thrashing your legs against the older man's waist, but Tate’s thighs clamped around your hips like a vise. "No," Strade laughed, wiping your slick across your thigh. His smirk was molten in the dark. "Not yet."

A second later, both men retreated—their body heat vanishing so abruptly you whimpered before you could stop yourself. The mattress groaned as they shifted upright, twin silhouettes blotting out the weak moonlight. Shadows pooled in the hollow of Tate’s collarbone, in the crease of Strade’s smirk. You blinked up at them, legs slightly shaking still from Strade’s fingers, thighs sticky with your own arousal—but their attention wasn’t on you anymore. Tate’s hand shot out, fingers curling around Strade’s arm with a grip that made the tendons stand out stark under his skin. His knuckles whitened as he yanked Strade closer—forceful enough that Strade’s shoulder collided with Tate’s chest with a dull thud.

The kiss was messy, all clashing teeth and spit-slick grins, their stubble rasping together like sandpaper. Tate’s free hand fisted in Strade’s greasy hair, tugging his head back at an angle that should’ve hurt—but Strade just groaned into it, his tongue sliding against Tate’s with a wet, obscene sound. Your stomach twisted as Tate’s other hand—still glistening with your slick—rubbed slow circles on Strade’s lower back, dipping beneath the waistband of his boxers. Strade shuddered, biting down on Tate’s lip hard enough to draw blood; Tate laughed against his mouth, the sound guttural and dark.

You squirmed against the sheets, the ache between your thighs throbbing in time with your pulse. The movement was involuntary, desperate—but it snapped their attention back to you like wolves scenting weakness. Their heads turned in unison, amber and violet eyes pinning you to the mattress with predatory focus. Your breath hitched.

Their murmurs tangled above you, a low hum of German and something darker—laughs punctuated by the wet crack of knuckles popping. You blinked curiously, not able to hear what they were saying to each other, Until Tate was flipping you onto your stomach and Strade slightly moved your upper body, your face now inches away from his crotch, his erection pressing hot against your forehead The mattress dipped as Strade straddled your thighs,. Tate’s hands spread your cheeks apart, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh hard enough to leave marks. "Hope you can handle this Mon Cher~" he purred, voice thick with lust. You shuddered as something cold and slick dribbled down your crack—lube, when did they open the nightstand? Strade’s chuckle takes you out of your thoughts as he grabs you by your scalp, positioning your face to his throbbing cock. "Count of three," he murmured. "One—"

Strade’s hips snapped forward, his cock ramming down your throat with a brutal thrust that made your gag reflex convulse violently. At the same moment, Tate’s thick length speared into your cunt, bottoming out with a wet smack of skin on skin. Your scream was muffled, reduced to a strangled gurgle around Strade’s shaft as tears welled up and spilled over, streaking hot down your cheeks. The double penetration was too much—your body arched like a bowstring, legs trembling violently in Tate’s bruising grip as your orgasm ripped through you without warning.

They groaned in unison above you, hips stuttering at the sudden vise-like clench of your muscles. Strade’s fingers tightened in your hair, pulling just enough to make your scalp sting as he chuckled darkly. "Already?" His thumb swiped at the mess of saliva and tears on your chin, then shoved two fingers back into your mouth alongside his cock. "We barely started." Tate’s answering laugh was a rough exhale against your spine, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave bruises as he dragged you back onto him. "Told you she’d break quick," he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction.

They quickly started back up again barely giving you anytime to recover. The stretch burned your throat convulsing around Strade’s girth, your cunt fluttering around Tate’s relentless thrusts. Every inch of you was stuffed full, overstimulated, your body torn between pleasure and pain. A sob caught in your chest, muffled by the cock fucking your mouth, as Tate’s pelvis smacked against your ass with a wet crack. Strade’s thighs tensed under your cheek, his breath hitching when you gagged around him. "Fuck," he growled, pulling out just enough to let you gasp before slamming back in. "She’s made for this."

Tate’s fingers dug crescent moons into your hips, dragging you back onto him harder, faster, until your thighs quivered from the force of it. His voice was ragged, strained—barely more than a growl against your shoulder blade. "Gonna ruin you." He punctuated each word with a brutal thrust, his cock hitting that spot inside you that made white-hot sparks explode behind your eyelids.

Your arm shot out weakly, palm pressing against Tate’s sweat-slicked thigh in a futile attempt to slow him down—but he just laughed, catching your wrist and pinning it to the small of your back. The angle forced your spine into a sharp arch, your face grinding harder against Strade’s pelvis as Tate’s thrusts grew erratic. The wet slap of skin echoed obscenely in the dim room, mingling with the choked sounds bubbling past Strade’s cock. Every muscle in your body coiled tight, trembling on the precipice of another orgasm—but the pressure was too much, the stretch too deep, the relentless pace tearing pleasure from your nerves like strips of flesh.

Strade’s fingers curled tighter in your hair, yanking your head back just far enough to meet your tear-blurred gaze. His amber eyes burned brighter than the sunrise you’d never see again, pupils blown wide with lust. "Look at you," he crooned, thumb stroking the hinge of your jaw where it strained around him. His voice was velvet wrapped around a blade—soft, deadly. "Taking me so well, *liebling*. Your throat—*ah*—clings to me like you were made for it." His hips snapped forward, driving himself deeper until your nose brushed the wiry curls at his base. Your gag reflex convulsed violently, drool dripping in thick strands down your chin, but he only groaned, grinding against your face as if savoring the choke. "Yes, just like that. Squeeze me tighter." His free hand slid down to palm your throat, fingers pressing lightly against the bulge of his cock beneath your skin. "You feel that? That’s how deep I am inside your pretty mouth."

Tate’s growl vibrated against your spine, his breath coming in ragged and huffy, as his thrusts grew harder and erratic, each one punching a wet gasp from your lungs. "Fuck, she’s pulsing around me," he snarled, His cock twitched inside you, the thick veins along its length dragging against your oversensitive walls with every punishing stroke. "You’re—shit, gripping me like you don’t want me to leave." His rhythm stuttered, his pelvis slamming against your ass with enough force to jolt you forward into Strade’s grip. The butcher’s laugh was ragged, his breath hot against your nape as he pistoned into you with brutal precision. "Come on, mon cher," he taunted, voice dripping with dark amusement. "I wanna see you lose it for us."

Your vision blurred at the edges, lungs burning as Strade’s cock choked your throat, your lips stretched obscenely around him. Tate’s fingers found your clit with merciless precision, rubbing tight circles that sent jolts of electric pleasure straight to your core. You convulsed around him—your thighs shaking violently, toes curling into the sheets—as another orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave. Tate groaned, hips snapping forward one last time before he stilled, buried to the hilt inside you. His cock pulsed, flooding your cunt with thick spurts of cum that spilled out around his shaft, dripping down your thighs in sticky rivulets. Strade’s grip tightened in your hair as he groaned above you, his own release spilling down your throat in hot, bitter bursts that made your stomach lurch.

They pulled out simultaneously—Strade’s cock slipping from your lips with a wet pop, Tate’s dragging out of your dripping cunt with a lewd squelch—and you collapsed forward onto the mattress, limp as a ragdoll. Your body trembled, every muscle slack with exhaustion, your breath coming in ragged, wet gasps. Sweat slicked your skin, mingling with the mess of saliva, and cum that coated your thighs. Tate’s cum seeped out of you in slow, thick pulses, pooling between your legs and staining the sheets beneath you. Strade’s thumb swiped lazily at the corner of your mouth, collecting a stray dribble of cum before pushing it back past your lips watching you lick it up with a satisfied hum.

Then Strade’s voice cut through the heavy silence, low and amused. “Switch.”

The word sent a bolt of cold panic down your spine. Tate chuckled, his breath hot against your shoulder as he rolled off you with a satisfied groan. Before you could scramble away, Strade’s hands flipped you onto your back, his weight settling between your thighs like a predator pinning prey. His amber eyes gleamed in the dim light, pupils blown wide with something darker than lust. “Did you think we were done?” he murmured, fingertips tracing the bruises Tate had left on your hips.

Tate’s shadow loomed over the bed as he stretched, the muscles in his back flexing. Then he was moving—not away, but circling like a shark. His fingers tangled in your hair, yanking your head back until your throat arched. “Poor thing,” he cooed, his free hand skimming down your trembling belly. “Thought you’d get off easy after that little stunt?” His thumb pressed hard against your clit, drawing a broken whimper from your lips. Strade smirked, rocking his hips just enough to remind you of the half-hard cock still nestled against your entrance. “We’re just getting started.”