warnings: spanking, silicone strap use and referred to as cock in one occasion, rough sex??, and fluff at the end cause i wanted to :D
"I bet you can't take it harder than that," Tate taunted, her hazel eyes glinting with mischief as she pressed her knee into the small of your back. The humid air clung to your skin, thick with the scent of sweat and something muskier, something desperate.
You gritted your teeth, fingers curling into the bedsheets. "Fuck you," you hissed, but the tremble in your voice betrayed you. Tate’s laugh was low, throaty, as her palm came down hard on your ass —once, twice— the sting blooming hot under your skin.
"Prove me wrong then," she murmured, leaning over your spine, her breath damp against your ear. Her tits pressed against your back, heavy and sweat-slick, and you could feel her nipples, hard, insistent, through the thin fabric of her tank top.
You gasped when her fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties, yanking them down just enough to expose the curve of your ass. The air was cool against your heated skin, but Tate’s palm was hotter when she dragged it over the swell, slow, deliberate, like she was savoring the way you shivered.
"God, you’re fucking pretty like this," she muttered, her voice rough. Her thumb pressed against your entrance, not inside, just teasing, the pressure just shy of unbearable. "All spread out for me. Bet you’ve been thinking about this all day."
You tried to arch away, but Tate’s knee pinned you harder, her free hand tangling in your hair and yanking your head back. The sharp sting made your breath hitch, your pulse hammering in your throat.
"Uh-uh," she tutted, her thumb circling your rim now, slick with your own wetness. "You don’t get to squirm away. Not when you begged for this."
You hadn’t, technically, but the way your hips jerked against her hand betrayed the lie before you could even speak. Tate’s chuckle was dark, victorious, as she leaned in closer, her lips brushing the shell of your ear. "That’s what I thought," she murmured. Her teeth grazed your earlobe, sharp enough to make you gasp, before her tongue soothed the sting.
Then, suddenly, she was gone, the absence of her heat like a vacuum against your skin. You barely had time to whine before the first slap landed, her palm connecting with your ass hard enough to send a shockwave of heat straight to your core. You yelped, arching, but Tate’s grip on your hair held you in place.
"Count," she demanded, her voice dripping with command.
"One," you choked out, already throbbing.
The next strike came before you could catch your breath, higher this time, right where your ass met your lower back. Your toes curled, your thighs pressing together instinctively, but Tate wedged her knee between them, forcing them apart.
"Two," you gasped, your voice shaking.
Her fingers traced the blooming redness, possessive, before her thumb dipped lower, pressing against your clit through the damp fabric of your ruined panties. You whimpered, your hips bucking into her touch, but she pulled away just as quickly, leaving you empty.
"Pathetic," Tate purred, but the hunger in her voice betrayed her. "Can’t even take five without falling apart." Her hands gripped your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh as she dragged you back against her. You could feel the heat of her through her jeans, the hard line of her cock straining against the denim.
Your breath hitched.
"You want it," Tate murmured, her lips trailing down your spine. "Don’t you?"
You didn’t answer, couldn’t, because her teeth sank into the curve of your ass, sharp and punishing, and the noise that tore from your throat was nothing short of obscene.
Tate laughed, low and filthy, as she pulled away, leaving your skin stinging and wet with her saliva. "Yeah," she breathed, her hands sliding around to your front, fingers dipping beneath your waistband. "You’re mine tonight."
And then finally, her fingers shoved inside you, curling just right, and the world shattered.
You came with a scream, your back arching off the bed, thighs trembling violently around Tate’s wrist. She didn’t stop, didn’t slow, just fucked you through it with brutal precision, her knuckles grinding against your clit on every thrust.
"Fuck, fuck," you sobbed, nails clawing at the sheets, your vision blurring at the edges. Tate’s breath was ragged against your ear, her teeth nipping at your pulse point as she worked you open.
"Already?" she taunted, but her voice was wrecked, her own hips rutting against the curve of your ass. "That’s cute." Her fingers crooked deeper, and your breath punched out of you—white-hot pleasure searing up your spine. "But I’m not done with you."
You barely registered the sound of her belt unbuckling before the cold press of leather looped around your throat, snug but not tight—*yet*. Tate tugged, forcing your head back against her chest, her free hand palming your breast through your shirt. Her thumb rolled your nipple, pinching just shy of pain, and you whimpered, your hips jerking against her fingers.
"Greedy," she murmured, her lips brushing your temple. Then, *suddenly*, she was moving—flipping you onto your back, your legs shoved apart by her knees as she finally took off your half-on panties. The belt tightened fractionally as she loomed over you, hazel eyes gone black with hunger.
Her jeans were undone now, the thick length of her silicone strap straining against the fly, flushed and dripping. You licked your lips instinctively, and Tate’s grin was feral. "Oh, you *want* to taste it?" she cooed, pressing the blunt head against your lips, smearing your saliva across your chin. You opened your mouth only for her to pull away with a laugh, dragging the toy down your body instead, tracing the dip of your collarbone, the swell of your breast, the trembling flat of your stomach. "Tease," you hissed, arching against the belt’s restraint. Tate’s fingers dug into your thigh, nails biting crescents into your skin as she dragged the strap lower, circling your clit with agonizing slowness.
"Beg," she whispered.
You swallowed—hard.
Then her free hand tangled in your hair again, yanking your head back just as she slammed into you in one brutal thrust, stretching you wide, the burn bright and perfect. You screamed, your thighs clamping around her hips, but Tate didn’t pause, didn’t slow, just fucked into you with relentless precision, her hips snapping forward again and again.
"Tight," she groaned, her teeth sinking into your shoulder as she pinned you deeper into the mattress. "Fuck, you take it so good—" Her hand slid between you, thumb rubbing tight circles against your clit, and you sobbed, your back bowing off the bed.
Suddenly, Tate twisted her wrist just so and your vision whited out, your body clamping around her like a vice. She didn’t stop, didn’t let you breathe, just chased her own release against the cradle of your hips, her moans ragged in your ear.
"Fuck, God—" she snarled, her rhythm stuttering as she ground into you, her fingers digging bruises into your thighs. You could feel her pulse through the strap, the way her body shuddered as she came, her teeth sinking into the curve of your neck almost hard enough to draw blood.
Tate didn’t pull out, not yet. Just collapsed against you, her breath hot and uneven against your throat. Her hand slid up your chest, fingers wrapping around the belt still looped loosely around your neck. She tugged just enough and you gasped, your hips jerking involuntarily against hers.
“Fuck,” she muttered, lips brushing your pulse. “You’re still twitching.” Her hips rolled lazily, the strap still buried deep inside you, dragging a whimper from your lips. “Greedy little thing.”
Her fingers loosened the belt, just enough for you to gulp air, but she didn’t remove it —no, that would be too kind. Instead, she traced the leather with her thumb, smirking at the way your throat worked under her touch. “Look at you,” Tate murmured, her voice rough with satisfaction. “Marked up, fucked out, mine.”
Then her lips were on yours, soft and sweet, a stark contrast to the bruising grip she’d had on your hips moments ago. Her tongue licked into your mouth, lazy and possessive, and you melted into it, your fingers tangling in her hair. She tasted like salt and sweat and something darker, something her, and you couldn’t help the whimper that escaped you when she pulled away.
Tate chuckled, low and warm, her thumbs brushing over the marks she’d left on your thighs. “Shhh,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth, then another to the pulse point in your throat. “You did so good for me.” Her voice was syrup-thick, dripping with something dangerously close to affection, and it made your chest ache.
She peeled the belt away from your neck with careful fingers, her lips following the path of the leather as if apologizing for the sting. “Breathe,” she reminded you, her palm flattening against your ribs, feeling the rise and fall. When you exhaled, shaky and uneven, she smiled, soft, almost shy, and tucked a sweat-damp strand of hair behind your ear.
The silicone strap slid free with a slick sound, but Tate didn’t pull away completely. Instead, she wrapped her arms around you, rolling onto her side and dragging you with her, your back flush against her chest. Her thighs cradled yours, her chin settling on your shoulder as her fingers traced idle patterns over your hipbone. “You okay?” she murmured, pressing a kiss to the hinge of your jaw.
Her breath was warm against your skin, her heartbeat steady against your spine, and you exhaled—slow, deliberate—letting the tension bleed from your limbs. Tate hummed in approval, her fingers trailing down to your thigh, kneading the muscle gently where she’d gripped you too hard. “Sorry,” she muttered, her lips brushing your shoulder blade. “Got carried away.”
“I loved it, Tate,” you murmured, your voice ragged and small, barely above a whisper. Her arms tightened around you, not possessive, not demanding, just holding, her fingertips tracing feather-light patterns over the fresh marks on your skin. You shivered, but not from cold. From the way her breath hitched against your shoulder when you leaned back into her, surrendering to the warmth of her body curled around yours like a shield.
“I love you.”
Tate exhaled it against your shoulder like a secret, like something fragile, her fingers stilling against the bruises she’d left on your thighs. The words weren’t new, but the *way* she said them, raw and quiet, made your breath catch. You turned in her arms, slow, wincing at the ache between your legs, and Tate’s expression flickered, guilt, then something softer, warmer, before she cupped your face, her thumb brushing the apple of your cheek.
“Shit,” she muttered, her gaze tracing the reddened bite marks on your neck. “I went too hard.” Her voice was rough, but her hands were gentle as they slid down to your waist, pulling you closer until your foreheads touched. You could feel her heartbeat—fast, uneven—against your chest, and it made something tender unfurl in your ribs. Tate, who’d just fucked you into the mattress with a strap, who’d snarled *mine* into your skin like a vow, now looked at you like you might break under her fingertips.
“I love you more.”
The words slipped out before you could swallow them down, clumsy and too honest, but Tate’s breath hitched anyway. Her fingers, calloused and rough from gripping your hips too tight, traced the curve of your cheekbone like you were something delicate, something sacred.
"You’re such a fucking sap," she murmured, but her voice cracked halfway through, and then she was kissing you, slow, unbearably soft, her lips moving against yours like an apology.
A Bobby Dadin/Connie Francis fic! So yes very RPF, ans highly self indulgent, making Bobby trans and the two having a sweet little relationship. :3
Summary: For a boisterous man with a kind heart and wonderful way of charming and speaking, one would asume Bobby Darin could sit his current girl down and give her a rundown on his..problems and how hes a bit more than meets his outwardly aperance.
Yet, everytime he tries something comes up and ruins the mood- leaving him losing track of time, and inevitably rushing off a TV program to lay down and be ill.
Thankfully, Connie is much kinder than he ever thought possible, and real understanding- even if it lands him being teased gently by her.
Notes/Warnings: Use of the word Transexural, mentions of having a period still, and wearing panties and a pad. Sickfic- Bobby Darin throws up and there's menrion of such, dizzy spells and all. This is pure fiction, and bobby dsrin was not trans, but did date Connie Francis for a while. Made for self indulgent reasons and to cope. Not Beta Read.
When switching on to the all too lovable and familiar Band Stand program, and seeing the array of singers, one never stops to think twice about them. How their clothes fit just right, and how fun they are! After all, it's typical for teenagers to watch anyway so..eh, they don't pay much mind unless they swoon for one or two guys, which was the whole point.
Other programs however, need to have an eye for the details. They need to make sure their guest look extra well, especially if there will be more talking than singing or dancing- but even in those cases one must look quite presentable and not in rough condition. Not that anyone on the Ed Sullivan show was ever shabby looking, unless it was of course a part of their..odd character, or for a skit even! No- quite the contrary, everyone typically looked their best.
Which brought us to the latest display of anxiously getting ready for the show, awaiting his turn to come up on stage with his latest and most beloved girl, Connie.
They met on the band stand, ans did a few shows together- but oh Bobby couldnt get enough of her. Maybe it had to do with the fact they both have thst sweet Italian blood pouring through them, or maybe it had something to do with the fact he just loved how sweet she was, he didnt know but..but oh he adored her so dearly, but couldnt ever find that moment to tell her the truth.
The sweet duo had been going steady for a while, manging to dodge most allegations of dating easily, but there was an anxious inducing problem bubbling in Bobby whenever they were compleatly alone, when kisses turned more passionate as thier body's fell into eachother, he often found himself feverishly pushing her off him and apologizing over and over about how he wasn't quite ready, or didnt feel like it.
He's more than thankful she's been understanding, those soft brown eyes glimmering in the light with a soft smile before laying on him to play with his hair. Something told him she was more than sweet for this, but he wasn't sure for what frankly.
So here he was once again waiting to go on with her and do a sort of small duet, and felt every single nerve in his body tense up before his big preformance.
Not due to any worry or fear of being unable to preform no, no it was becuse he asked Connie to speak with him after the show.
And no sooner than the two got on stage and were introduced did he find himself struggling to find the right words. How do you explain something like this?
That was the hang up with dating, especially when he found snd fell for a perfect girl. How she would be so sweet to him and adore him, and he'd do his dance around the bush of worry and fear, before falling over and busting his ass, making a total fool of himself infront of her as she stormed off.
He couldn't help it back then, it was somehow worse back before he got enough money to manage things, dating life and all. Yet, Connie never minded how shy he would get about undressing, how he covered himself, and tried to shield her eyes and all from any view, even a hint of him naked.
She found it, "Silly, but in a cute way!" Is what she told him once, and thats what sparked his new worry and need to tell her the truth. He didnt have the heart to keep lying to her.
"Connie..Connie-" He was trying to figure out how to get her attention again, his hands dancing air around him as they faltered around and then would become stuck to his sides as he tapped them, dancing behind her. She was speaking with someone but he needed to tell her before he lost his nerve again. "Excuse me, Connie dear, I hate to be a bother-" He spoke up for her to hear, only to get a finger on his lip and a gentle face that told him, 'Not now' which made his heart flutter sweetly. He couldn't interrupt that, not when she pulled that little trick with that smile after mouthing the word 'Shh' to him.
A while passed, and while he felt hazy, in a dream even, he also knew he needed to tell her, and as the time ticked on slowly he lost the nerve to tell her. Instead of opting to play it off as asking her to dinner, maybe he could have a private seat in the corner and gently break the news to her- or even. After dinner! That's be best. Later that week they'd go to dinner together, and he'd break it to her what a plan.
Sadly for him the plan went up im flames.
Not literally speaking, there were no physical flames at the restaurant, but just everything kept going bad that day. He woke up late from preforming even later the day prior, he had the wrong day for his dry cleaning to be delivered and was forced to wear the again, nights prior clothes which was fine but he liked being cleaner than that- then the reservations got mixed up, he was hounded by girls on the way there it was just not his night.
Connie? Oh, she had a wonderful day, and the fact that she was so chipper and eager to see him only soured his tired mood further, even more when they explained they didn't have the meal he wanted.
"Oh, come on Bobby, I'm sure it'll be a fine evening!" She told him happily, a smile on her face and sweetness in her voice which could melt away his worry and woe, but tonight was amplifying it tenfold.
"Jee, I'm sure it will be Connie, but the fact of the matter stands I'm stressed alright? And today's been a very rough day..and very exhausting day." The voice came out in a bitter cocktail of exhaustion and matter-of-fact. He loved her he did, he knew she meant well but he was exhausted and didn't know if he could handle trying to tell her, trying to explain and navigate her reactions.
So he didnt.
Dinner went about as expected too- Seeing as they both grew to laugh and get the giggles during the evening before crashing when they got to Bobby's, or rather, He crashed and she was left to sit up and smile over him, her sweet exhausted man.
The next day he tried to tell her over breakfast but got distracted when she told him about a magazine article about pipes and of cource that piqued his intrest, but his sleepy eyes even with coffee in hand wasn't wanting to cooperate over the table as he squinted, which lead to him muttering about needing his glasses, which lead to her giggling about him needing reading glasses.
The week carried on like that off and on. He'd get this grand idea of coming out to her, some romantic soothing evening planned, and then get thrown a curve ball, or something out of left field that put something akin to a broken hose kink in his plans. Not just his bravery and all getting suck- if felt like it was leaking out of him and he was losing more and more each time it passed.
He couldn't stand it, and before he knew it, it was the end of the month and thats not all that bad outside of extra exhustion, but through his haze and panic he neglected his calender, his more private schedule and calender more and more.
Bobby got careless even. He was stuck in some horrible loop where he was working himself up day and night to confess to Connie about what was between his legs, or the total lack there of, and how he still bleeds and wouldnt be able to have kids a normal way, he loved her so much he wanted to tell her his deepest fact about himself, to hold her hands and tell her, see her eyes when he spoke to her.
He was so caught up in the fear of being rejected by someone he was killing himself over to keep around, to even just see for a few hours a day, that he neglected to keep track of his cycle.
Hormonal therapy be damned to hell and back, he still bleeds and had the worst cycles ever, often debilitating him. Sure he can take a bunch of meds he does that already at times- but no..no that can get him through a show or two- but once he's off stage? He's out. He's gone for the night and won't be back until the next day and no one will hear or see from him in between the hours of the aforementioned shows.
"Bobby! Bobby- You're on!" A stage hand called to him as he felt a sharp pain shoot through him, the feeling causing him to wince as he shouted back a response. "Be right there!" Was all he managed out as he gritted his teeth from another sharp pain.
He never thought adrenaline could work you up so much that you don't feel pain, he also didn't figure or know that..well he would be so nauseous today.
He didn't have any meds, nor could he find anything to do frankly, he was standing with a bunch of tissues stuck down his pants and prayed he could do this short TV special and hightail it back home, but something in him told him it wasn't gonna be that easy-
Or maybe that was the pure nausea. Being this level of under the weather has the same effect as a gut feeling, even a bad case of the jitters. He didn't really get either all that much, so he's assuming the pooling feeling he felt was nausea telling him not to do the show.
Especially when he walked past everyone and got a waft of their scents mixing with the air and other things. The studio had a strange scent to it already, wires, rubber, a specific odd metallic scent, and whatever cleaner they used, with a lingering smoke and cologne or perfume from folks.
Everyone also had their scent, and smoke ans just it was a lot it was a lot to Bobby as he forced a smile on stage with the blinding lights making his head spin as he cleared his throat before he began to sing.
He was set to sing a more popular and normal song, so he took up singing 'Splish Splash' since he was doing this for TV sure, it was also a small charity show for fittingly teenagers' health awareness so why not play a couple of songs the teens liked from him?
He made it through the song just fine, and got to take 5(due to a commercial break thank god) for some water, while trying to rest up he felt his abdomen cramping and he couldn't help but give out a whine and shakey breath as he held and tried to put pressure onto the spots where his ovwries lay. He was in hell, and felt weak, like he just got roped into doing a marathon and was prepared to lay down on the cold dirty floor if it ment a moment of rest.
"Are you alright Mr. Darin?" A sweet stage hand asked him, and he tried his best to nod but the movement made him want to vomit and cry. "I-I'm fine, yes, just a little under the weather I'll be alright." He reassured her, but before he could recover, he was getting dragged off again and started singing, 'Hush, somebody's callin' my name' When he felt his stomach starting to betray him, along with the rest of his body.
"Hush~ Hush~ Somebody's callin' my name~!" It started fine, he could ignore the pain in his abdomen that was causing horrible cramps to wrack through him, unable to fully save face the entire time as he felt his knees get weak as his hands became clammy. A cold sweat wracking through his body as wave, after wave of pure pain and nausea wracked through him making him feel both hot and cold, he could almost feel the fever appearing on his cheeks. "I hear a voice so~ Sweet an' Clear! Callin' me Angel and a Honey Dear~"
"Whoaa~ Hush Hush WhoaA~ HUsh Hush~!" He started mentally cursing himself whenever he'd hit a sour note, the combination of pouring most of his energy into trying to focus on singing and properly standing without pulling any funny faces as he attempted fo keep time by snapping his fingers was proving to be one of the most difficult things he's ever tried doing, especially with the sheer level of agony he felt at this moment. He felt like he was standing on pins and needles as his body ached, knees and legs feeling like jello and swaying under him as his stomach churned with a warming making him sweat as his abdomen and lower back worked together to cause him the most agony ever as he cramped. The blinding lights and his head felt off too, he needed to get through this song and fast so he could leave.
"Somebody's callin' My naaame~! Whoaa~ won't you huush? Somebody's callin' my naame~!" He sang out, managing a steadier tone but it wasn't long after he felt his world falling in on itself. It wasn't until he felt the blood pouring out of him, did he fully registered how..humiliating this felt. How he was terrified to bleed through his nice slacks, how he was sick to his core and had a sinking fear he wouldn't be able to finish this. He had sweat beading on his head he would dab away but he knew he wasn't doing well, and he's fairly certain the audience and the carma crew knew too.
"If it's the girl I've been-a Serchin' for-*ahem* I-I'll tell the world I-I won't a s-serch-" His head began spinning, as the lights felt brighter than before, that familiar dizzy and lightheaded feeling crashing over him as his legs felt numb from how weak they were as ringing sounded in his ears, causing him to try and grab a nearby microphone stand in some poor excuse of steadying himself- as he crashed onto the floor with a loud 'Thud' panting and shaking.
Someone came to help him back up since he wasn't responding, the dazed look in his eyes told the studio crew and host he wasn't well, especially after the nice young woman from earlier confirmed he wasn't doing well during a short commercial break. "Mr. Darin? Mr. Darin-" Someone was asking him as they forced him upright, and helped him offstage. His steps were wobbly as he managed to string a sentence together.
"I need a can- trash can, i-im gonna puke-" He rushed out, a hand flung over his mouth as his body convulsed on its own accord, his eyes watering as another hand came to cover his mouth more, vomit rising and getting locked in his mouth but filling fast as he suddenly stumbled to the nearest trashcan where he proceeded to empty the contents of his stomach.
He was coughing into the bin when he heard the distant announcement that they'd suddenly gone off air, or had gone off for a while now, which was understandable seeing as he not only suddenly collapsed on set but was now hurling into a trashcan not far from everyone. Dignity? He wouldn't know what that is currently..
"Bobby what the hell was all that about- ohh..jeeze you look bad." The producer and host were going to scold him, probably assuming he was hungover but seeing the very non-intoxicated state and more of a sickly, and ill state told him that the man was just sick, and bad.
"I-I think I got,*gulp* god- got food..food posing, my-my stomach- i-it hurts hmm-mm baad-" Bobby wasn't lying about his pain level, he was genuinely sick to his stomach and kneeling on weak legs as he hurled continously into the trashcan, unable to get much out outside of pain sounds and gags as he convulsed with every gag which the motions only made him push what he hoped at this point was piss- he'd rather pee himself from being so sick than push blood out and have that sort of accident.
"Okay, okay well, we're gonna get you home and resting alright? No show tonight or tomorrow if you're still sick by tomorrow? Go to a hospital please." Bobby felt himself getting helped up by two people, only to start vomiting again into the trash can. He felt awful as he whined, shaking before he even managed to respond.
"Th-thank you- an, and sorry about this, and..and the can-" He tried to get the words out, feeling genuinely bad for causing a total ruckus of a scene with everyone and for such an important show too. He felt horrible and wanted to try and continue but he couldn't, and that combined with everything that was happening made him feel so..small and alone- embarrassed and like some failure.
"Bobby it's fine! I think your girls' waiting to take you home anyhow, lookie there!" The hoast happily told him patting his back as he gestured towards the bright sweet angel come to rescue him.
Sure enough, Connie stood by a beam, holding his coat and hat for the cool weather outside to help him home, smiling as she gently swayed, the sight easing him before he felt sick again, hurling one last time before he was certain that nothing else would be coming up outside of gags or anything of the sort.
He had to tell her tonight, because if he didn't, there'd be a whole lot of questions as to why he was suddenly bleeding and so calm about something like that happening. After all, its rare and few between that one meets a guy who can just outright bleed out from..down there and be ao calm about it- or we'll hes not calm hes panicking internally and shakey while he leans on Connie for some mild support as they made their way to the car and into a little apartment..
Still, he didn't know what to do.
The car ride there was...quiet, she assumed because of how sick he was, meanwhile he was paranoid about bleeding in said car, and also worried about puking again. Nevertheless, she was more than happy to rub his head, and help him relax, hold him, and guide him insane after a while.
They were at his apartment and he felt like he was going to chicken out again, faint again rather as he leaned against a wall and started trying to rush Connie out the door- as if she would ever leave him to fend for himself in this state.
"Bobby, you're sick! There's no way you could convince me to leave- even if you had something like the mumps." She teased him, her finger coming to gently boop his nose as she helped him further inside. "Why don't I get you in the be."
"I-I need a shower.." He blurted out, feeling an uncomfortable amount of blood in between his legs that was making him feel worse somehow.
"In this state Bobby?" She shot back at him, a more baffled look of concern than anything as he just held a sad worried expression, lips pursed together in a line as he nodded.
"N-no its just that I well- I *ahem* I think I..when I was puking you see-" it's not like he needed to actively lie, she would have belived he wanted a bath regardless but the idea of trying to explain thst he could be alone to change was a vague comfort to hinself..Sadly she wouldn't let that happen.
"Oh you poor thing, well I'll run you a bath rather. How about that? So you can sit down.." A gentle kiss to his forehead before she started towards the bathroom had him suddenly falling over himself as he raced to try and get her to leave- why wouldn't she just leave!?
"Well no I-I can do that look Connie I'm better now you can go on home-!" He was suddenly next to her leaning on the wall, a pained expression painted on his face as he gasped out from the sharp feeling wrecking through him as he whined out. Not selling the fact that he wanted her gone due to his fears.
"Robert Cassotto! I'll be damned to hell and back and stricken down by God before I leave you alone after you fainted on stage!" She scolded, shouting back as her finger came up to him, waving it around in a more than scolding manner that made him look away as he whined. "Why don't you want help Bobby?" She suddenly asked him gently, seeing the pained almost scared look in his eyes. "It's just food poisoning you said, it's not like that's contagious.." She gently explained to him.
"It," His eyes met hers as he finally took her hand in his, for the first time in a while he felt a little less anxious about it all of a sudden. This was Connie, she was one of the kindest women he's ever met, she would be more than understanding surely. "It's not that, it's not I'm..I'm" he began getting stuck on whst exactly to say, hoe to say he was a transexural who was bleeding out, and ill becuse he neglected his damn calender.
"I'm.. I'm not what you want." Is all he could get out, all he could manage as he looked at her with tears in his eyes. " I'm not the kinda guy that can, can give you kids Connie, I'm not the kinda guy that-"
"So you're infertile! We can always adopt~!" She chipped out, hands cupping his face as she wiped away the tears and kissed him sweetly. "Bobby there's nothing you could say that would ever drive me away or make me like you any less.." Her gentle voice was like heavenly bells on his ears, and he couldn't help but cry more as he shook from it.
"Connie no, no, I-I'm not I-I'm..I-" He broke out in a sob, as he slid down the wall, curling up to cry as Connie sat in front of him. He didn't seem to want any comfort right at this moment but she still held his hand.
"It's okay Bobby, it's okay..take your time dear." They sat on the floor for a while, and he simply grew silent, as he managed to look at her again. He seemed so..broken, and distraught over whatever it was he was trying to get out.
She offered to run his bath, to which he only gave her a hummed response and nodded, as he watched her work the magic that was running a warm bath for him. She was even extra nice and added some bubbles and salts she found, assuming he'd want the full at home spa treatment after all of that, her eyes catching something under the sink where she got said items from but she didnt say anything, just looked to Bobby with that warm smile she held throught the evening.
"Connie..do you know what a transexural is?" He asked suddenly breaking the silence, now sitting on the closed toilet lid as he whined from the pressure and pain, feeling sick from how it felt in him as he undid his tie and started to slowly take his clothes off, mostly the top half.
"Yes, I believe so, they're those..those people that change their sex right? The gender..sex thing? Boys become girls and women become men!" She told him with a smile, she'd met a few herself and they were just so sweet, she didn't have a problem with them. She didn't understand it all, but it doesn't mean she'd be rude to them. "Why do you ask? Do you think one poisoned you~?" She chuckled out as she pressed their foreheads together and kissed him, helping him with his shirt as she slipped it off.
You'd have to be oblivious or blind to not see his scars that ran across his chest. How it was perfect from one side of the chest, where one's breast could be, and stopped neatly in the middle.
"..Is that a new heart surgery method?" She teased, gently tracing it with her fingers as he smiled. There wasn't much said but she almost knew what was about to come out of his mouth, or something along those lines anyway. The way he'd been acting, how sick he was, what she found under the cabinet and in the medicine cabinet too, everything. It made..well it made sense to her, not often a guy like Bobby comes around, so of course he's keeping a whole secret deck of cards in his sleeve to show off to those closest to him.
"No Connie.. it's not that no," He told her their eyes meeting and while she was happy he felt scared again, especially as he fiddled with his belt before giving up and howling his head in his hands.
"Let me." She offered softly, helping him undo the belt and his pants, his hands shaky with anticipated fear as they held hands. She gave a small giggle, but made a face at the spot barely noticeable in the crotch of his pants. "..Are you a transsexual Bobby?" She softly asked him, smiling as he stayed silent, his hands being pulled away from his face as he looked at her.
"Would you care if I were one? If..if I bleed like a girl and get sick? If I couldn't please you like any other guy? If..If I can't give you children?" He asked, his eyes glossy with love and worry as he spoke, holding his breath as he awaited her response.
"Bobby, I would love you if you were a girl, fully and completely, I'd love you if you woke up a cat one day- I love you more than anything Bobby..regardless of what you do or don't have and can or can't do." Those were all the words he needed to hear before he lunged at her, embracing her as she gave a shrill fit of laughter as they fell onto the tiled floors. Bobby nuzzling her with his nose and showering her with kisses and kisses, and gentle nips feeling more than just a bout of love- he felt as if he could pluck stars just for her.
"You've made me the happiest man in the world Connie~!" He cheered out to her as he placed a kiss on her cheek, pulling her close to him as he just showered her in kisses as she gently began to teasingly slap his hand away and shoo him off of her. A playful smile on both their faces now that the looming topic was no more.
"Well, I'm glad you're the happiest man in the world now Bobby~ but the happiest man in the world, needs to get in the." She stared at him as he playfully whined, almost forgetting the fact that he was probably bleeding through his clothes now.
"Jeeze, don't remind me..probably ruined my pants..definitely my boxers." He sighed as he slipped out of the racing bits of clothes, and sure enough, he had bled straight through his boxers. "I don't think I can salvage these.." He said, punching them up as he got a bit of blood on his hand before simply tossing it in the trash can.
His pants could be saved maybe. Some strange remover and hydrogen peroxide can get rid of the blood almost completely..plus it helped that it was a bit on the darker side.
"Ooh~ ohh that's hmm..oh Connie you know how to make a guy feel like he's in heaven~!" He called and sang out to her from the warm water, and soppy bubbles brushing up against every part of him. He was beyond comfortable at this point and couldn't help but feel his heart swaying and mind easing up as that aching pain calmed itself down from the warmth engulfing him. "Connie.. anyway I can bribe you to get some stuff out for me after I'm done?" He asked, opening an eye to peek at her as she leaned on the sink across from him, smiling over him as he soaked up her bath efforts.
"Not at all, what does my Bobby need?" She asked out, smiling as she did so. She had a way of talking to, even if he wasn't looking at her, you could hear the smile in her voice, and he adored her more than anything.
"Just.. can you get some..some meds and clothes out for me, please? A-and..and a pad..please?" He scrunched his face up as he sank lower into the tub on that last note. He felt silly about it still- what guy needs a damn pad on?
..Him, he does, and theres nothing wrong with that, is what he kept reminding himself of yet it felt futile.
Especially when he got out of the tub.
On the bed lay his clothes, the less-than-fun underwear he kept around for putting said pad into. He never liked how the things worked, its always reccomended you get a sanitation belt to keep it in place but he finds that having the panties on and sticking it in there while in a pair of pants kept it still all night! ..Then again its not as if hes doing much while bleeding, unlike others, especially the women who wear dresses mkre often than not.
Still he'd rather die than buy a belt for the thing, just a while longer and he's getting his uterus out anyhow, that way he won't have to deal with buying a box of pads from the pharmacist and feeling like he's getting some horrible illegal thing- like weed in broad daylight it makes him feel like that no matter how many times he lies saying they're for his girl-yeah the girl HIM-
"Uughh..." Bobby groaned out as he covered his face again. The panties now snuggly on him as they slightly clung to his form, and the overwhelming urge to simply curl into bed and die came over him. He didn't even want to take the meds, he didn't deserve them after making such a fool of himself-
"Bobby come on take the meds handsome~" As if she could read his mind, Connie popped up with a warm cup of tea, and had sinxe changed into some of Bobby's clothes for the night, not minding the fact his shirt was extramly baggy on her as she guided him onto the bed to drink the tea and take his meds.
He hummed out as he swallowed the pills, the warm tea a nice change to his typical water or whatever else he would drink down the pills with- once he used his spit that..was the worst.
"Hmm-! Wanna hear a funny story?" He suddenly asked her as he snuggled in closer to her, a smile on his face as he did so.
"Sure, what's the story?" She asked back, as she pulled him to lie against her, still sitting up, just enough so that he could still drink if he wanted.
"Hmm~ cozy- Ah well so- aha hold on...it is but isn't that funny." He was beaming already as he drank up the warm, sweet, tea with its calming effect and lavenderish scent. "This was a year or so ago, but I had..an accident like today and needed a bath..Well, I did all that but the story is, I needed meds right?" Tilting his head back to look at her with a smile to see if she understood what he was saying, led to him getting a gentle hum in response.
"W-well I was so out of it, that I brought the meds to bed with me after I got my..my panties on-" He couldn't help but get quite as he let out a snicker. "Don't look at me like that I can't help it!" He scolded her.
"I didn't even look at you in any certain way!" She reassured him, leaning down to kiss his cheek which made him flash her the most dopey smile ever.
"Well, jee I feel better already~ hmm..Oh, I aha, I lay down and realized I was so sore and sick that I didn't wanna get back up for a drink..took them with my spit-" He confessed the odd story to her. Sputtering on his last bit of words as he giggled over everything suddenly.
"Bobby!! That's horrible!" Connie playfully slapped his leg in a scolding manner which made him laugh more.
"I never said it was good, just said- said I found it funny~" He beamed out, taking the last few sips of the warm tea as he hummed out in joy, his tongue darted out between his lips to lap up the last remaining bits of sweet liquid that seemed to calm him greatly and keep him warm. "This made me all warm and- *yawn* sleepy feeling." He hummed out, as Connie took the cup from him.
The feeling of having his head gently rubbed, as the covers were pulled back. The soft covers and sheet with the warmth of a quilt left him craving more as he wiggled into a spot, a more than comfortable spot under the covers. His head fell comfortably onto the pillow beneath him, as he came over to curl around Connie, pulling her closer as he buried, nuzzling into her neck as she was pulled down to be closer to him.
"Hmm you smell nice~" He murmured against her skin, kissing her softly as he reached over her to grab something, a soft, 'Click, Click, Click!' Filling the air as he turned on his heated blanket. " 'S not that cold, but it helps my cramps and back I hope you don't mind.." He murmured as Connie opened her arms for him to lie on her chest.
"Oh, I don't mind at all Bobby~ whatever ensures that you feel better my sweet." Her voice was so soothing to his ears, and she would play with his hair and gently rub his head.
The lights were down low, the blankets pulled up to their necks as the heated blanket ensured they would stay warm throughout the night. Bobby was asleep on Connie as she held him in her arms, the two the most picture-perfect example of being in love.
And being in love? Well, Bobby was positive that's all it takes to love someone wholeheartedly, especially after the more than rough day he's had, now being held secretly and comfortably by Connie.
eating tate out on the bus and her being all whiny and teary but then stevie or findlay come to the bunk curtain and have a conversation with her and she has to lock in whilst you speed up, her calling you mean and all sorts after 😋
+18 MDNI
word count: 980
warnings: pussy and cum eating, kinda exhibitionism too
The bus rattled down the highway, its diesel groan drowned out by Tate’s stifled whimpers. Her thighs trembled against your shoulders, her fingers twisting in your hair as you buried your face deeper between them, your tongue tracing slow, deliberate circles around her clit. She bit down on her own wrist to muffle a cry, her hazel eyes glazed with tears.
"F-fuck, you’re gonna—" Her voice hitched, pitching higher as your teeth grazed her inner thigh. The bus hit a pothole, jostling her hips forward, and you seized the moment to suck hard, reveling in the way her back arched off the seat. "God, please—"* she begged, her breath hitching between syllables, her cheeks flushed blotchy red.
A drop of sweat rolled down her temple as she fought to keep quiet, her chest rising and falling in erratic bursts. You could feel her thighs tensing, her hips jerking against your mouth, until suddenly, her breath caught. A choked sob escaped her lips as she came, her body shuddering violently, her nails digging crescent moons into your scalp. The scent of her arousal clung thick in the air, mingling with the stale bus AC.
Tate slumped boneless against the wall of the bunk, her chest heaving, her eyelashes clumped with tears. "You’re such an asshole," she muttered, voice wrecked, but the lazy smirk tugging at her lips betrayed her.
And you? You just licked your lips and grinned. "Yeah, but you love it."
The words dripped off your tongue like honey, thick, deliberate, designed to make her squirm again. Tate’s breath hitched, her hazel eyes narrowing as she tried to muster a glare, but the way her thighs still trembled gave her away. "Shut up," she whispered, but her voice cracked halfway through, betraying the aftershocks still rippling through her.
You leaned in again, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of her knee, relishing the way she jerked like she’d been shocked. "Thought you said I was done," you murmured against her skin, letting your teeth scrape just enough to tease. Tate whimpered—high, desperate, her fingers clawing at the sheets beneath her.
The bus lurched around another bend, throwing her hips forward, and you didn’t hesitate. Your tongue dragged slow and filthy up her slit, savoring the taste of her still-spasming cunt. Tate cried out, her back arching off the mattress again, her thighs clamping around your head like a vice.
"Fuck—" she gasped, but her hips rolled against your mouth like she was begging for the opposite.
Three sharp raps against the flimsy bunk wood. "Tate? You there?" Stevie’s voice, clipped and impatient, cut through the humid haze of sex clinging to the air. Tate froze, her entire body going rigid, except for the way her pussy clenched around nothing, dripping onto the seat beneath her. You smirked against her thigh, watching the panic flash in her glassy eyes.
"Uh—y-yeah! Just— fuck— changing!" Tate stammered, her voice pitching unnaturally high as your tongue flicked over her clit again. Her hand flew down to clamp over your mouth, but you just nipped at her fingers, lapping at her slick with deliberate, wet strokes. She shuddered, her other hand fisting in the curtain to keep herself upright as Stevie sighed on the other side.
"We’ve got 2 hours before soundcheck. Wardrobe wants you in the silver set tonight, the one with the lace-up sides." Stevie’s footsteps lingered, the sound of her shuffling outside the curtain making Tate’s breath hitch. You didn’t stop, couldn’t stop. Your tongue swirling slow circles around her swollen clit, the salt and musk of her coating your lips. Tate’s thighs trembled, her fingers twisting into the curtain fabric like a lifeline as she tried to keep her voice steady.
"Silver—got it," she choked out, her voice strangled as your teeth grazed her inner thigh. A whimper escaped before she could bite it back, and she clapped a hand over her mouth, her hazel eyes darting to the shadow of Stevie’s silhouette just beyond the thin fabric. "I’ll—uh—be out in a minute!"
“Also, Sean wanted to show you some new choreographies in case you wanted to change them before—“ Stevie paused. "You okay? You sound—"
"Fine!" Tate squeaked, her hips jerking forward as you buried your face deeper, lips sealing around her clit to suck hard. Her back arched off the seat, her free hand fisting in your hair, half shoving you away, half dragging you closer. A shudder ripped through her, her cunt pulsing against your tongue as she bit down on her own wrist to stifle a moan.
"Right." Stevie sounded skeptical, but the click of her heels retreating down the bus aisle was the only warning Tate got before you redoubled your efforts, fingers curling inside her, tongue lapping at her slick in quick, filthy strokes. "Oh my god—" Tate gasped, her legs kicking out instinctively as another orgasm ripped through her, her body convulsing against the seat.
You pulled back just enough to smirk up at her, her arousal glistening on your chin. "Knew you wouldn’t stay quiet."
Tate’s chest heaved, her hazel eyes blown wide, equal parts fury and fucked-out bliss. "You’re evil," she hissed, but the way her thighs twitched, still spread wide around your shoulders, betrayed her. Her fingers trembled as they tangled in your hair, tugging just shy of painful. "What if she’d opened the curtain? Fuck—you’re mean."
Laughing, you dragged your tongue up her inner thigh, tasting the salt of her sweat. "You loved it," you murmured, nipping at the delicate skin. "Could feel how much you loved it." Her clit pulsed under your breath, and she whimpered, her hips jerking like she was fighting the urge to grind against your mouth again.
"Shut up," she muttered, but her voice cracked, weak, ruined.
You leaned in, lips brushing her ear. "Next time, I won’t stop."
making tate squirt for the first time after she confesses none of her bum ass ex boyfs made her cum properly and she can’t look you in the eyes after
+18 MDNI
word count: 1.4K
warnings: over use of the word fuck ngl, pussy and cum eating, biting
"Tell me what you want."
Tate's voice was a low hum against the curve of your ear, her fingers accent curling around the words like smoke. Her fingers traced idle circles over your hipbone, slow, teasing, deliberate, while her other hand tangled possessively in your hair, tugging just enough to make you whimper.
"How about—," You breathed, arching into her touch, thighs pressing together instinctively. The scent of her perfume, something dark and expensive, clung to her skin, mixing with the salt-sweet sweat at the base of her throat. Your pulse jumped when her teeth scraped the shell of your ear. “—We change the dynamics a little?”
Tate paused. Her grip tightened, not painfully, but with the kind of firmness that made your stomach flip. “Oh?” A smirk curled her lips. “You think you can handle me?”
“I wanna fuck you…”
The words tumbled out of you, rough and unpolished, before you could second-guess them. Your fingers dug into the sheets, twisting the fabric as Tate’s smirk deepened into something darker, more dangerous. Her hazel eyes flickered with amusement, and something else, something hungry.
"Say that again."
Tate's voice dropped to a growl, her fingers tightening in your hair as she dragged your head back, forcing your eyes to meet hers. The playful dominance had sharpened into something edged like the moment before a storm breaks. You swallowed hard, your pulse hammering against your throat, but you didn't look away.
"I said," you breathed, pushing up onto your elbows until your lips brushed hers, "I wanna fuck you this time. Let me make you feel good… please."
Tate exhaled sharply through her nose, half laugh, half shudder, before her fingers left your hair to trace your collarbone, slow and considering. "You’re serious," she murmured, more statement than question. Her thumb pressed against your pulse point, feeling the wild flutter beneath skin. "You wanna take control?"
The challenge in her voice sent heat spiraling down your spine. You nodded, biting your lip when her other hand slid down your stomach, fingertips skating just above where you wanted her most.
"Prove it," Tate murmured, shifting her weight back onto the pillows, her hazel eyes locked onto yours with heavy-lidded intensity. The curve of her hip jutted out as she spread her legs slightly, an unspoken invitation, a dare.
You didn’t hesitate.
Your hands were on Tate’s hips before she could blink, fingers digging into the soft flesh as you straddled her thighs. The shift in power made her breath hitch, just once, barely audible, but you caught it. Her pupils dilated, swallowing the hazel in rings of black as you leaned down, your lips grazing the column of her throat.
“You like that?” you murmured, nipping at her pulse point just hard enough to make her hips jerk. Tate’s hands flew to your shoulders, fingers flexing, unsure whether to push or pull.
“Fuck—” Her breath hitched when you ground down against her thigh, the friction deliciously rough through the thin fabric of her panties. You could feel the heat of her through it, the dampness already seeping against your skin.
Tate’s fingers tightened on your shoulders, her nails digging in just shy of pain. “You’re—ah—really gonna do this?” Her voice was half-laugh, half-gasp, the usual smugness flickering under the weight of your touch.
You didn’t answer with words. Instead, you dragged your tongue up the sweat-slick column of her throat, slow and deliberate, savoring the way her breath stuttered. When you reached her jaw, you bit down, not gently, and Tate’s hips arched off the bed with a sharp cry.
"Shit—!" Her fingers scrambled against your back, blunt nails dragging over skin as you shifted lower, your lips tracing the lace edge of her bra. You could feel her heartbeat hammering beneath your mouth, wild and erratic, and the taste of her skin, salt and perfume and something unmistakably her, made your head spin.
Tate bucked up when your teeth grazed her nipple through the fabric, her breath catching in a ragged gasp. "Fucking— tease," she managed, voice thick. One of her hands fisted in your hair, but there was no real force behind it—just the desperate pull of someone losing control, inch by inch.
You smirked against her skin, sliding lower, your tongue tracing the dip of her navel. Her hips jerked when you hooked your fingers into the waistband of her panties, dragging them down slow enough to make her groan. "You're killing me," Tate hissed, thighs tensing as you settled between them.
Her scent hit you first, musky, sweet, undeniable. Your mouth watered before your tongue even touched her, and when you finally dragged a slow, flat stroke up her slit, Tate's back arched off the bed with a choked-out cry. "Oh— fuck—!" Her hands flew to your hair, gripping hard, but she didn't push you away. Instead, she ground against your mouth, desperate, shameless.
You hummed against her, savoring the way her thighs trembled around your ears, the way her hips jerked when you circled her clit with the tip of your tongue. Tate tasted like sin and honey, and the way her breath came in ragged pants told you she was already close. But you weren't done yet.
With a wicked grin, you pulled back just enough to watch her face twist in frustration. "Don't stop—" she begged, her voice cracking. Her hazel eyes were glassy, lips swollen from biting them.
"Beg properly," you murmured, blowing a cool breath over her wetness. Tate shuddered, her thighs quivering.
"Fuck— please," she gasped, fingers yanking your hair. "I need your mouth— god, I'm so close—"
Her words dissolved into a moan as you finally gave in, licking a hot stripe up her soaked folds before swirling your tongue around her clit in tight, rapid circles. Tate's thighs clamped around your head instantly, her hips jerking off the bed in erratic thrusts.
"Shit— shit— right there—!" Her voice was raw, stripped of its usual playful dominance, reduced to breathless, broken syllables. You pressed your palms flat against her trembling stomach, pinning her down just enough to keep her from bucking away as you sucked her clit into your mouth, flicking the tip of your tongue against it in quick, relentless strokes.
Tate's fingers scrambled against the sheets, twisting fabric, her knuckles white. Her moans pitched higher, tighter, until suddenly, her whole body locked, her back arching off the bed in a silent scream. The orgasm hit her like a storm surge, violent and unstoppable. You groaned against her, lapping up every pulse of her release, your own hips grinding into the mattress at the sheer sound of her unraveling.
Then, warmth. Flooding your chin, your lips, dripping down onto the sheets. Tate squirted, gasping like she'd been punched, her thighs shaking violently around your head. "Ohmygod—ohmygod—" Her voice was shattered, her hands fluttering uselessly in the air before covering her face.
You pulled back, licking your lips slowly, watching Tate’s chest heave. Her hazel eyes were wide, stunned, staring at the ceiling like she’d just witnessed a miracle. "Tate?" you murmured, crawling up her body, kissing the damp skin of her stomach.
She let out a weak, disbelieving laugh. "I—uh—" Her cheeks burned scarlet, her fingers still hiding half her face. "That’s never… happened before."
You paused mid-kiss, brow furrowed. "Never?"
Tate shook her head, swallowing hard. The admission spilled out in a rush, like she couldn't hold it back now that her body had betrayed her. "None of those stupid boys— fuck— they couldn’t even find my clit with a map and a flashlight." Her laugh was brittle, edged with something raw. "And you just—" She gestured vaguely at the mess between her legs, her voice cracking. "—ruined me."
You grinned against her hipbone, nipping the soft skin there. "Good."
"Asshole." She groaned, but her thighs trembled when your fingers traced lazy circles on the inside of them. "Jesus Christ, I can’t even—" Her breath hitched as you dragged your thumb through the slickness still dripping from her. "—look at you right now."
"Why not?" You pressed a kiss to her inner thigh, tasting salt and her. "Scared I’ll do it again?"
Tate’s hips jerked involuntarily. "Yes." The word came out strangled. "Fuck, I feel—" She bit her lip, hazel eyes finally flickering down to meet yours. "—owned."
Your stomach flipped. Slowly, you crawled up her body, straddling her hips, watching her chest rise and fall too fast. Tate’s hands hovered over your waist, like she wasn’t sure if she should grab or push.
"You are," you murmured, leaning down until your lips brushed hers. Her breath shuddered against your mouth. "Mine."
Tate made a broken noise, her fingers finally digging into your hips. "Again."
It wasn’t a plea. It was an order.
You smirked. "Say please."
She growled, but her thighs were already spreading. "Please."
hope no one is tired of me yet cause i have like ten more drafts😛
I low-key like the idea of tate eating reader out she has to push her away because tate was jealous
+18 MDNI
word count: 2,4K
warnings: overstimulation, tate not communicating her feelings, a tiny bit of angst
"If you touch me right now, I might actually scream," Tate spat, her voice a jagged blade of ice that sliced through the silence of the foyer. She didn't look at you; she was too busy ripping the straps of her designer dress down her shoulders with a violence that threatened to tear the silk.
You stood there, still holding the door handle, watching the way her chest heaved under the fabric. She was vibrating, not with sadness, but with a concentrated, humming rage that made the air between us feel electric. She looked like a goddess of war trapped in a cocktail dress, her hazel eyes flashing like flint striking steel. She hadn’t spoken a word since you left the party, some event organized by some of her influencer friends, only humming a low, menacing tune under her breath while the cameras flashed.
“What?” You ask, confused, because how wouldn’t you be.
Tate doesn’t answer. She just lets out a sound, a guttural, frustrated groan that vibrates in the back of her throat, and hurls her clutch across the room. It hits the mahogany side table with a wet thud, spilling a lipstick and a diamond earring across the hardwood. She’s pacing now, a caged predator in four-inch heels, her hips swaying with a violent, rhythmic precision that makes the silk of her dress cling to every curve of her backside. She looks like she wants to burn the house down or tear someone apart; it’s a toss-up.
She lets the dress fall to the floor as she walks up to the living room’s couch like it’s a sacrificial altar. Tate doesn't just walk; she prowls, the movement of her heavy hips creating a hypnotic, violent sway that contradicts the silence of the room. She isn't crying; she's simmering, a pressure cooker of unnamed resentment that has turned her gaze into something predatory.
You imitate her, letting your dress fall to the floor in the entrance and walking towards the couch cautiously, leaning over the armrest. “Baby?”
Tate doesn’t look at you. She just arches her back, pressing her chest into the velvet cushions of the sofa, her skin flushed a deep, angry crimson. The silence is thick, heavy with the scent of her expensive perfume and something sharper, adrenaline. She looks like she’s trying to fight the air itself, her fingers digging into the fabric of the couch, clutching it as if she’s trying to anchor herself to the earth while her mind spins out of control.
She’s a storm that refuses to break. Every time she glances at you, it’s a flicker of lightning, sharp, accusing, and suffocating. She isn't thinking about the party, the music, or the fake smiles of the influencers; she’s thinking about the way that girl, that little socialite, had leaned in just a fraction too close to you. She’s thinking about the way your hand had lingered on the other woman's waist for a heartbeat too long, a ghost of a touch that Tate had tracked with the precision of a hawk.
You crawl over the couch, the velvet scratching against your knees, but Tate is a statue of vibrating tension. She isn’t looking at you; she’s staring at the blank wall as if she can project a movie of your betrayal there for both of you to watch. Every time you try to touch the curve of her waist, she flinches, not away, but into it, a violent contradiction. She’s a locked vault of possessiveness, her jaw clamped so tight it looks like it might snap, refusing to give you the satisfaction of a word because words would mean she had to admit that a three-second touch from a stranger had reduced her to a shaking mess.
“What’s wrong, babygirl?”
The question hung in the air, pathetic and fragile, while Tate remained frozen, her body a taut wire of resentment. She didn't want to tell you that the image of that woman’s fingers grazing your hip was playing on a loop in her mind, a jagged film strip of perceived betrayal. To admit it would be to admit that she was territorial, that she was consumed by a hunger for you that bordered on the pathological. She wanted to scream that she hated the way you looked when you were being admired by others, but instead, she just gripped the velvet of the couch so hard her knuckles turned a ghostly white.
Tate didn’t answer with words; she answered with a violent, fluid motion that caught you completely off guard. Her hand shot out, gripping your wrist with a strength that bordered on bruising, and she yanked you forward, flipping your body over the velvet expanse of the couch with a suddenness that knocked the breath from your lungs. You landed with a soft thud, your back hitting the cushions and your legs splayed, staring up at her with wide, confused eyes.
She didn't give you a second to blink. Tate lunged forward, her body a heavy, warm weight that pinned you down, her hazel eyes now dark, swirling pits of possessiveness. There was no tenderness in the way she shoved your underwear aside; it was a reclamation. She buried her face between your thighs with a guttural snarl, her tongue striking your clit with a raw, demanding pressure that felt less like a caress and more like a brand. She wasn't just tasting you; she was erasing every single ghost of another person's touch, her mouth working with a frantic, starving intensity that made your hips jerk instinctively against the velvet.
Suddenly, she groaned, the sound vibrating against your sensitive skin, and she began to lap at you with a violent rhythm, her tongue broad and insistent. She was eating you out with a focused, angry hunger, sucking your folds into her mouth as if she could swallow your very essence and lock it away where no one else could ever see it. Every flick of her tongue was a sentence, telling you exactly who you belonged to, her breath hot and ragged against your damp skin.
"You think you're so fucking innocent," Tate muttered, her voice a low, gravelly rasp as she pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes. Her face was flushed, her lips swollen and glistening with your own moisture. "The way you let her touch you... the way you didn't even flinch."
“What?” You breath out, the word barely a whisper, but Tate doesn’t want answers anymore; she wants submission.
She dives back in, her tongue not just licking, but drilling into you with a rhythmic, punishing precision. She catches your clit with a suction so powerful it feels like she’s trying to pull the very soul out of your body. You arch your back, fingers digging into the velvet of the sofa, as the first wave of pleasure crashes over you, a violent, shaking release that leaves you gasping. But Tate doesn't stop. She doesn't give you the luxury of the afterglow. The moment your muscles begin to twitch in the aftermath of the first peak, she doubles down, her tongue swirling in a frantic, demanding circle that drags you right back up the cliffside.
"Again," she mumbles against your soaking wet skin, the word more of a command than a request. She drinks from you like a starving woman, her mouth creating a vacuum that pulls every nerve ending to the surface. You're sobbing now, your hips bucking wildly, trying to escape the intensity and sink deeper into it all at once. You come a second time, then a third, your body becoming a humming wire of overstimulated electricity, each climax hitting harder than the last because she refuses to let you breathe. She is consuming you, her lips molding to your shape, her tongue flicking with a predatory speed that turns your vision white.
Tate doesn't stop when your thighs start to shake uncontrollably; she just grips your ass, her fingers digging deep into the soft flesh to hold you still for the onslaught. She laps at you with a raw, focused desperation, her breath coming in jagged hitches between the wet, slapping sounds of her mouth working over your clit. You are nothing but a collection of gasps and arched spines, your voice breaking as you call her name, but she just groans into your heat, swallowing every drop of your release as if it were the only thing keeping her alive.
But the intensity is too much. The air in the room feels like it’s being sucked out by a vacuum, and the sheer weight of her possessiveness starts to feel less like passion and more like she's trying to erase you. Your nerves are screaming, the pleasure tipping over into a sharp, electric sensitivity that borders on pain. You can't take another flicker of her tongue without shattering.
In a blind, reflexive jerk, you plant your palms against her flushed cheeks and shove. It isn't a gentle push; it's a desperate, frantic heave that sends Tate reeling backward, her head snapping back as she’s forced off your heat. The sudden void where her mouth had been leaves you shivering, your thighs still twitching with the remnants of a forced peak, your chest heaving in the sudden silence.
"Stop! Tate, just— stop!" you gasp, your voice sounding foreign to your own ears, thin and strained. You scramble back toward the armrest, your skin feeling raw, almost bruised by the sheer velocity of her hunger. The air in the room feels cold now, the contrast between her burning skin and the sudden distance making you feel exposed, like a nerve stripped of its insulation.
You don't just want space; you need a bulkhead between your body and her intensity. You wrap your arms around your chest, clutching yourself as if you could physically hold the fragments of your sanity together. Tate stays frozen where she landed, her chest heaving, her hazel eyes wide and shimmering with a mixture of shock and unspent rage. For a second, the silence is so heavy it feels like it might crush the floorboards, the only sound the wet, rhythmic thud of your heart hammering against your ribs.
Then, the tension in her shoulders doesn't just fade; it collapses. The predatory mask she’d been wearing, the one that had turned her into a creature of pure, territorial hunger, shatters like a glass vase hit by a brick. Her face crumples, the hard line of her jaw softening into a tremble, and she lets out a sound that is half-sob, half-gasp. The goddess of war is gone, replaced by the girl who leaves handwritten notes on your bedside table and cries during Pixar movies. She looks at you, really looks at you, and sees the way you're shaking, the way your eyes are darting around the room in a panic.
Tate doesn't move toward you, not yet. She stays where she fell, her limbs heavy and loose, the fire in her hazel eyes extinguished by a flood of immediate, crushing regret. The silence that follows isn't heavy anymore; it's hollow. She reaches out a hand, her fingers twitching in the air between you, not daring to touch you, as if she’s suddenly realized she’s been treating you like a piece of property rather than the person she loves most in the world.
“I– I’m so sorry, baby,”
The words didn’t just fall; they crumbled. The jagged edge of her voice had vanished, replaced by a fragile, wet tremor that sounded like it was fighting its way through a throat constricted by a sob. Tate looked down at her own hands, the ones that had just been pinning you down with a bruising intensity, and she recoiled from them as if they belonged to a stranger. The territorial predator had evaporated, leaving behind a girl who looked small and shattered amidst the velvet wreckage of the sofa. She didn't just even out; she collapsed inward, her shoulders slouching as the adrenaline that had fueled her rage leaked out of her, leaving her hollow and shaking.
"I just... I saw her look at you," Tate whispered, her eyes searching yours with a desperate, pleading hunger for forgiveness. "Not just look, but *want*. And I felt this... this fucking black hole open up in my chest. I felt like if I didn't mark you right now, if I didn't swallow every part of you, you'd just slip away into that crowd and I'd be nothing." She let out a shuddering breath, a tear finally escaping and carving a path through the flush on her cheek. "I turned you into a target because I couldn't handle the thought of anyone else even breathing your air. God, I'm such a fucking mess. I didn't mean to scare you. I never want to be the reason you're shaking for the wrong reasons."
She crawled forward an inch, her movements hesitant, the predatory grace replaced by a tentative, wounded softness. She didn't reach for you, instead resting her forehead against the velvet cushion, her voice muffled and thick. "You're the only thing that's real to me, and I just... I let my head go to this dark place where I thought I had to fight for you. But you're not a prize to be won. You're my girl. Please, baby... tell me you don't hate me."
Your face softens and you cradle her cheeks softly. "I could never hate you, Tate. But you have to breathe, okay? Just breathe."
Tate lets out a broken sound, a mix of a sob and a sigh, and collapses against you, burying her face in the crook of your neck. She clings to you with a desperate, trembling strength, her body shaking with the effort of calming down. The silence of the living room is no longer heavy with rage; it’s thick with a raw, aching tenderness. You can feel her heartbeat drumming against your chest, a frantic rhythm that slowly begins to synchronize with yours.
“I love you so much, I’m really sorry, love”
Tate whispered into your skin, her voice a ghost of the roar it had been moments ago. She was shivering, not from cold, but from the sheer emotional crash of the adrenaline leaving her system. She stayed there for a long time, just breathing you in, her lips brushing against your collarbone with a softness that felt like an apology in physical form. The tension in the room had shifted from a jagged electricity to something dense and humid, a heavy sort of longing that didn't want to be rushed.
“I love you too, my little miss possessive.”
i believe my girl is a very jealous girlfriend, i mean she didn’t wrote miss possessive for a reason.
also, really sorry to the anon who had to wait 13 days for this shit
warnings: yapping tate, pussy fingering, thigh fucking, biting, praise kink if you squint???
"Look at me—just at me, baby" Tate murmured, her voice honey-thick and deliberate, fingers tracing the sharp dip of your hipbone as you arched beneath her. The stage lights still hummed in her veins, that electric adrenaline from her performance simmering into something slower, hotter. Her hazel eyes were dark, pupils swallowing gold as she pressed you into the mattress, the weight of her hips deliberate. "You're shaking," she observed, thumb brushing your lower lip. "You don't have to. I've got you."
You whimpered, half protest, half plea, as her hand slid down, fingertips skimming your ribs, your stomach, lower. Tate tsked her tongue, leaning close enough that her breath ghosted over your ear. "Tell me what you need," she coaxed, her other hand tangling in your hair, not yanking, guiding. "Use your words, baby. I wanna hear how bad you want it."
You squirmed, thighs pressing together, but her knee nudged them apart effortlessly. "I—" Your voice cracked, heat flooding your cheeks. Tate laughed, low and knowing, her teeth grazing your earlobe. "God, you're adorable when you're flustered. But I need you to say it." Her thumb circled your clit through your panties, slow, torturous. "Or I stop."
"Don't stop," you gasped, fingers twisting in the sheets. The scent of her perfume, something expensive, smoky, mixed with sweat from the concert, and you could still taste the champagne she’d sipped backstage, stolen from her lips earlier.
Tate exhaled sharply through her nose, her grip tightening on your thigh. "Look at you," she murmured, voice rough like the edge of a guitar riff. "All worked up just ‘cause I told you to be patient." Her thumb pressed harder, deliberate, and you bucked against her hand. "Shh, shh—I said look at me." Her free hand caught your chin, forcing your gaze up. Her hazel eyes were glazed, the adrenaline from performing still coiled tight in her muscles. "You think I don’t know how bad you want it? How bad you’ve been all night?" She leaned down, nipping at your jaw. "Watching me up there, knowing I’d wreck you after."
You whined, squirming, but Tate chuckled darkly, fingers slipping beneath the soaked fabric of your panties. "Uh-uh. You don’t get to rush me." Her touch was slow, maddening, tracing your folds with agonizing precision. "I had to perform for all those people," she breathed, lips brushing your ear. "Smile, wave, act like I wasn’t thinking about this. About how you’d let me take whatever I wanted." Her middle finger slid inside you, curling just right, and your hips jerked. Tate groaned, her teeth grazing your shoulder. "Fuck, you’re tight— like you’ve been waiting for me."
She crooked her finger again, dragging a gasp from your throat. "Tell me," she murmured, palm grinding against your clit with each shallow thrust. "Tell me you thought about it too. About my hands on you while I was on stage." You nodded frantically, and she nipped your collarbone. "Words, baby."
"I—I kept imagining—" You choked as she added a second finger, stretching you slow. Tate laughed, breath hot against your skin. "Yeah? Imagined what? Me bending you over the dressing room couch while my dancers waited outside?" Her hips rolled against your thigh, the damp heat of her own arousal soaking through your tangled sheets. "Or maybe," she mused, twisting her wrist just so, "you wanted the whole crowd to see how good you take me—hmm?"
Her rhythm stuttered when your teeth sank into her shoulder, muffling your cry. Tate growled, a sound you'd never heard her make onstage, and slammed her free hand beside your head. "Fuck, that's how you want it?" Her fingers curled harder, deeper, her thumb a relentless circle against your clit. "You wanna bite? Take it then." She fucked into you with rough, uneven strokes, her voice fraying. "God, you— shit—you clench around me like you're scared I'll stop—"
The irony was, she couldn't. Not now, not when your thighs trembled around her wrist, not when the scent of your desperation slicked her knuckles. Tate's breath hitched as you arched, her name a broken syllable on your tongue. She watched, needed to watch, as your back bowed off the mattress, her other hand splayed over your ribs to feel the stutter of your heartbeat. "That's it," she murmured, lips brushing your temple. "Let go. I'm right here."
Her voice was rougher than the one she used onstage, syllables frayed at the edges from panting. "You should see yourself," she continued, fingers slowing just enough to make you whimper. "All mine. All messy for me." The stage-high still thrummed under her skin, but this, the way your eyelashes stuck to your cheeks, the way your hips chased her touch, was better than any encore. Tate dragged her thumb through the wetness smeared on your thigh, holding your gaze as she licked it clean. "Tastes like you couldn't wait," she teased, though her own thighs clenched at the flavor.
"Tell me," she demanded suddenly, gripping your chin when your eyes fluttered shut. "Tell me what you thought about when I was singing Like I Do." You hesitated, and she pinched your clit, hard enough to make you yelp. "Uh-uh. Don't lie." Her fingers curled inside you, pressing up, there and your moan was answer enough. Tate grinned, wild and a little mean. "Knew it. You were squirming in your seat, weren't you? Imagining my mouth right here—" She punctuated it with a vicious circle of her thumb. "—while I danced with the boys."
You gasped as she flipped you onto your stomach, pressing your cheek into the mattress with one hand while the other yanked your hips up. The sudden shift punched a whine from your throat. "Shh," Tate murmured, smearing your slick down the back of your thigh like she was marking territory. "Now you get to take it how I want." Her palm cracked against your ass, twice. The sting blooming hot before she soothed the skin with her tongue. "Fuck, you even sound pretty when I hurt you," she mused, biting the swell of your cheek just to hear you keen.
Tate didn’t give you time to adjust. She shoved in three fingers without warning, your body stretching tight around her knuckles. "Christ— fuck— you're still clenching," she groaned, her free hand fisting in your hair to wrench your head back. "You like this, don’t you? Being my little fucktoy after a show?" Her thrusts were brutal, the wet slap of skin drowning out your choked moans. "Answer me." Another sharp smack to your ass. "Do you?"
You couldn’t. Words evaporated under the sheer force of her, the way her hips rutted against your thigh like she was trying to imprint herself there. Tate cursed under her breath, her rhythm faltering when you arched back against her. "Greedy," she hissed, biting the nape of your neck. "Always so greedy for it." Her fingers twisted deeper, curling in a way that had you seeing white. "Should’ve made you wait— should’ve left you dripping backstage while I hung out with the crew—" She punctuated each word with a thrust, your thighs slick with proof of how much you'd needed this.
Tate pulled her fingers free suddenly, ignoring your whine, and flipped you onto your back again. Her hazel eyes were almost black now, lips parted as she shoved her soaked panties to the side and straddled your thigh. The first grind of her cunt against your skin wrenched a groan from both of you. "Fuck— fuck— you feel that?" Tate gasped, riding your leg with shameless, jerky rolls of her hips. "That’s what you do to me." Her nails dug into your hips hard enough to bruise, her voice cracking. "Every goddamn show—every time I’m up there—all I think about is this—"
She didn’t let you answer. One hand fisted in your hair, wrenching your head back as her other hand slapped over your mouth. "No," she panted, her rhythm turning erratic. "You don’t get to talk. Not when you— fuck— when you look at me like that." Her clit dragged against your thigh, swollen and insistent, her breath coming in sharp, punched-out bursts. "You knew—" A harder grind, her teeth sinking into her own bottom lip. "You knew I’d lose it if you wore these fucking panties—" The lace tore under her grip, the sound obscenely loud in the humid dark of the bedroom.
You arched beneath her, muffled whimpers escaping around her fingers. Tate groaned, her hips stuttering as she fucked herself against your skin. "Gonna come," she warned, voice frayed at the edges like a worn-out guitar string. "Gonna come all over you— mark you—" Her thighs trembled, her grip on your hair tightening to the point of pain. "And you’re gonna take it, aren’t you? My good girl—my perfect—"
Her orgasm hit like a snapped high note, sharp and unrestrained. You felt it. The slick heat of her dripping down your thigh, the way her whole body shuddered, the bitten-off curse she snarled against your shoulder blade. She didn’t let up, grinding through it, chasing the aftershocks with a desperation that made your own neglected arousal pulse between your legs.
Then she flipped you again unexpectedly, pressing your chest into the mattress with one hand while the other shoved between your thighs from behind. Her fingers were still soaked with her own release, slippery and warm as they parted you without preamble. “Fuck,” Tate gasped, her voice wrecked. “You’re drowning down here.” She didn’t tease this time. Two fingers plunged deep, her thumb pressing ruthless circles against your clit.
You writhed, muffled cries smothered by the sheets, but Tate only laughed—breathless, unhinged—her hips pinning yours down. “Nuh-uh,” she panted, her teeth scraping the knob of your spine. “You don’t get to squirm away now.” Her palm smacked your ass again, the sharp sting making you jerk against her hand. “Take it. Take what I give you like the good girl I know you are.”
Her fingers curled just right, and the sob that tore from your throat was raw, unfiltered. Tate moaned in response, her forehead dropping between your shoulder blades. “Fuck, yes—that sound—” She fucked into you harder, her rhythm uneven, desperate. “Gonna make you come so hard you forget your own name.”
Your thighs shook, toes curling into the sheets as the pressure built, coiling tight, unbearable. Tate’s breath hitched against your skin, her voice a ragged whisper. “Look at you,” she murmured, her free hand sliding up your spine to grip the back of your neck. “All mine. Ruined.” Her fingers twisted deeper, pressing up against that sweet, aching spot. “Come on, baby. Let go.”
The command shattered you. Your back arched, a silent scream tearing through your chest as the orgasm ripped through you, violent, merciless. Tate’s fingers worked you through it, relentless, her own moans muffled against your shoulder blades. “Fuck,” she hissed, her grip tightening. “You’re so tight. Clenching around me like you don’t want me to leave.”
And you didn’t. Not when her touch was the only thing tethering you to reality, not when her scent, sweat and perfume and her, filled your lungs. You whimpered as she slowed, her fingers dragging lazily through your slick folds, gathering every drop before pressing them back inside. “Insatiable,” Tate murmured, her lips brushing the nape of your neck. “Even now.”
Her weight shifted, knees nudging your thighs wider. You shuddered at the sudden cool air between your legs, then gasped when her tongue replaced her fingers, licking a slow, filthy stripe from your clit to your asshole. “Tate—” Your voice cracked, fingers twisting in the sheets. She chuckled, the vibration against your oversensitive flesh making you jerk. “Uh-uh,” she teased, nipping the inside of your thigh.
Her tongue dove back in, relentless, circling your clit before plunging deep. You arched off the bed, but Tate’s hands pinned your hips down, her nails biting into your skin. “Stay,” she ordered, voice muffled against your cunt. “I’m not done.” Her tongue flicked faster, her nose nudging your clit as she fucked you with her mouth, messy and unhinged.
Okey so I kinda dissappeared there for a second and I thought I had left these in the queue to publish by themself but it didn't so here you go, I'm back btw
