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
Could you write something where Tate is teasing about using the reader’s moans in the back track of a song
+18 MDNI
word count: 2,9K
warnings: pussy eating, teasing, sex-tapping
The popcorn was cold, the movie was some pretentious indie flick neither of you was actually watching, and Tate’s left foot was currently tracing slow, agonizing circles across your thigh. You weren't talking about the plot; you were talking about the new coffee you tried that morning in the coffee shop you usually go to together and how she was doing going back in the studio after a while. She leaned back, her hips sinking deep into the velvet of the couch, the fabric straining against her curves. She looked at you with that heavy-lidded gaze, the kind that promised a total lack of sleep, and whispered something about how much she hated the main character's shoes.
"You're not even watching," you teased, your voice sounding thicker than it should.
Tate didn't deny it. Instead, she leaned forward, her lips pushing out into a soft, exaggerated pout that made her look like a bratty angel. She rested her chin on her hand, those hazel eyes blinking slowly, brimming with a sweetness that felt like a trap. She looked fragile, almost innocent, but the way her thumb continued to graze the seam of your shorts told a completely different story. It was the kind of pout that didn't want an apology; it wanted a surrender.
"Maybe I don't want to watch the movie," she murmured, her voice a low, honeyed rasp. She shifted, her wide hips sliding across the velvet with a soft shush, closing the distance until the scent of vanilla and expensive studio sweat filled your lungs. She looked up at you through her lashes, her expression a curated blend of longing and mischief, the kind of look that could make a person walk off a cliff just to see if she’d catch them.
She leaned in, her lips barely brushing the shell of your ear, her breath hot. "I think the movie is boring. But you..." she paused, her tongue darting out to lick her bottom lip, "you look like you're about to vibrate out of your skin." She pulled back just enough to give you that pout again, the one that claimed she was the innocent party here, even as her hand slid firmly between your thighs, squeezing with a possessive strength that belied her delicate frame.
“Tate, baby—“ You gasped, the word dying in your throat as her grip tightened.
She didn't answer. She just tilted her head, her lower lip jutting out in a soft, shimmering pout that would have looked precious on a postcard, if not for the way her fingers were currently mapping the heat of your core. She looked like a doll, eyes wide and shimmering with a curated, wide-eyed innocence, but her touch was predatory. She was playing the part of the sweet, devoted girlfriend, leaning into you with a fragile grace, all while her body claimed every inch of your space.
"Is this okay?" she whispered, her voice a velvet caress, sounding so genuinely concerned that you almost forgot she was the one currently dismantling your sanity. She blinked slowly, her hazel eyes searching yours with a tenderness that felt like a physical weight. She pressed a lingering, chaste kiss to your jawline, her lips soft and smelling of peppermint, acting for all the world like she was barely touching you, even as her palm slid upward, pressing firmly against your clit through the cotton of your sleep shorts.
You gasped again, biting your lip to keep from moaning as she maintained that wide-eyed, angelic expression. Tate looked like she was praying for your soul, her face a picture of pure, selfless devotion, even as her fingers began a rhythmic, relentless press against your center. She leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, her voice a fragile whisper. "I just want you to feel good, my love," she murmured, her tone so tender it was almost criminal. She looked at you with a heartbreakingly sweet smile, the kind of look that belonged in a painting of a saint, while her hand continued to work with a focused, predatory precision.
“C’mon, my pretty girl. Let me hear you,”
Tate murmured, her voice a fragile thread of silk that barely survived the distance between her lips and your ear. She was still wearing that expression, the one that belonged on a vintage postcard of a devoted sweetheart, even as she shifted her weight, her wide hips grounding her into the sofa as she used her free hand to cradle your cheek with a tenderness that felt almost cruel. She looked at you with those hazel eyes, shimmering with a simulated fragility, as if she were the one being daring by touching you, her touch as light as a prayer despite the wreckage she was wreaking on your composure.
“You just moan so prettily, babygirl. I’d record you just to hear them over and over again.”
Tate’s voice was a fragile, trembling thing, as if she were barely daring to speak. She leaned in, her forehead resting against yours, her hazel eyes searching yours with a devastatingly pure devotion. She looked like she was nursing a wounded bird, her expression one of absolute, selfless care, even as her fingers worked a relentless, rhythmic magic through your shorts. She gave you a tiny, encouraging smile, the kind a nurse might give a patient, her touch remaining soft and tentative despite the way she was systematically driving you toward a cliff.
“Maybe I could even put it on a song… Have everyone hear how pretty you sound when I make you feel good as the backtrack,”
The words were a whisper, but the intention was a landslide. Tate’s composure shifted. The fragile, angelic facade didn't break—it just evolved. The sweetness remained in her eyes, but her body began to crave a more visceral kind of honesty. She shifted, her wide hips twisting on the velvet, and suddenly she wasn’t just touching you; she was claiming you.
She slid her hand out from your shorts, not to stop, but to grab your wrist and pull your hand toward her. With a slow, deliberate movement, she guided your fingers to the waistband of her leggings, her hazel eyes locking onto yours with a hunger that was no longer simulated.
"I'm tired of the fabric," she breathed, her voice losing that fragile quality and turning into something raw and demanding.
Tate didn't wait for you to move. She arched her back, a long, fluid stretch that made her breasts strain against the thin fabric of her top, before she pivoted on the velvet. In one seamless motion, she flipped herself over, her wide, heavy hips landing squarely on your lap with a soft thump that knocked the air from your lungs. She sat back, her weight grounding you into the sofa, her gaze dropping to where your hand was still clutching the waistband of her leggings.
Your lips were parted in pure admiration, Tate on top of you, her heavy hips pinning you into the velvet. The contrast was dizzying; she still had that soft, wide-eyed look of a saint, but the way she was grinding her weight into your thighs was pure blasphemy.
A moan escaped your lips, half-stifled and desperate, as the sheer mass of her settled over you. Tate wasn’t just sitting; she was anchoring you to the earth, her wide, plush hips creating a suffocatingly perfect pressure against your lap. She leaned back, her arms locking behind her head, exposing the elegant line of her throat and the heavy, heaving rise of her chest.
"Don't just stare, baby," she rasped, her voice now a jagged edge of desire. "Take them off."
You didn't need to be told twice. Your fingers hooked into the waistband of her leggings, the fabric straining against the incredible curve of her backside. As you peeled the material down, the sight of her, the sheer, expansive plushness of her hips and the deep, inviting valley of her backside, hit you like a physical blow. She was built like a dream, all soft edges and heavy, rhythmic power.
Suddenly, Tate let out a sharp, jagged gasp, her back arching as the cool air of the room hit her skin. She didn't move from her position; she stayed perched over you, her wide rear grounding you into the velvet of the sofa, her hazel eyes darkening into something primal.
"God, you're shaking," she whispered, a smirk playing on her lips. She leaned forward, her heavy breasts brushing against your chest, her voice dropping to a raw, unfiltered growl. "Do you like how much of me there is for you to hold, baby?"
You didn't answer with words. You couldn't. Your hands, acting on a primal instinct, slid from the waistband to the full, expansive weight of her cheeks. Tate was a masterpiece of curves, her backside a plush, wide expanse that felt like warm silk stretched over solid power. As your fingers sank into the softness, Tate let out a low, guttural moan that vibrated through your entire skeletal system.
She didn't just sit there; she began to rotate, a slow, agonizingly deliberate grind of her wide hips against your thighs. The friction was electric, the sheer mass of her grounding you into the sofa until you felt like you were merging with the velvet.
"Look at me," she commanded, her voice no longer a whisper but a raw, demanding rasp. "Look at me while you touch me."
Tate shifted her weight, leaning her torso forward until her breasts were crushed against your chest, her face inches from yours. The wide-eyed innocence was gone, replaced by a hunger that felt like a physical weight. As you squeezed the plush expanse of her rear, your fingers disappearing into the warmth of her skin, she let out a sharp, jagged breath.
"Harder," she commanded, her voice a low, vibrating rasp. "I want to feel your fingerprints on me for a week."
You didn't need another word. You wanted her off your lap not because you were tired of the weight, but because you needed a better angle to worship the architecture of her body. With a sudden, explosive surge of strength, you gripped the plush expanse of her hips and heaved. Tate let out a startled, high-pitched yelp that dissolved into a breathless laugh as you flipped her, the world blurring for a second before her back hit the velvet sofa with a soft, heavy thud. The momentum left her breathless, her wide hips bouncing once against the fabric, her legs splaying open in a raw, unplanned invitation.
She looked like a fallen goddess, her chestnut hair fanned out against the dark velvet, her hazel eyes wide and dilated. Her chest heaved, those heavy breasts straining against her top, but your focus was lower.
With her legs splayed and her back pressed into the sofa, the full, breathtaking architecture of her backside was presented to you like an offering. The curves were expansive, a plush, sweeping landscape of skin that seemed to glow in the dim light of the living room.
“God, you’re so perfect,” You groaned, the words barely escaping your throat as you stared at the sheer scale of her.
Tate didn't just have a body; she had a presence. Her hips were a wide, sweeping horizon of softness, and the way her rear pressed into the velvet created a valley of plushness that looked like it could swallow you whole. She let out a shaky breath, her fingers digging into the sofa cushions, her head tilting back as she felt your gaze roaming over her.
"Stop staring and fucking touch me," she groaned, the sweetness of her voice replaced by a raw, demanding hunger.
You lowered yourself to the ground and got to work, holding her legs up and burying your face on the damp cotton of her underwear.
Tate’s breath hitched, a jagged sound that tore through the quiet of the room. She wasn't the polished pop star now; she was just a girl coming apart at the seams. As you licked a slow, deliberate line from the curve of her thigh up toward the heat of her center, her hips bucked instinctively, her wide rear lifting off the velvet like a living, breathing mountain of desire.
"Fuck... fuck," she whimpered, her voice a raw vibration. "You're killing me, baby."
The cotton of her panties was already saturated, a heavy, honeyed scent of arousal that filled your nostrils and made your head spin. You didn't just want to taste her; you wanted to devour her. You used your teeth to tug the lace aside, exposing the swollen, glistening petals of her core. As your tongue made first contact, a slow, wet swipe from bottom to top, Tate let out a sound that was less a moan and more a scream, her fingers clawing into the velvet upholstery of the sofa.
"Oh god, right there... right there," she gasped, her voice cracking.
Your own voice joined hers, a low, guttural moan that vibrated against the sensitive flesh of her inner thighs. The taste of her was an addiction, salty, sweet, and intoxicatingly thick, and as you drank her in, the sound you made was one of pure, primal hunger. It was a sound of surrender, a vocalization of the fact that you were completely undone by the scent of her and the way her body trembled beneath your lips. Every slide of your tongue was met with a corresponding shudder from her wide hips, her body reacting to you like a live wire hitting water.
You didn't just lick; you savored, your tongue swirling around her clit with a focused, rhythmic intensity that made Tate’s world shrink down to the point of contact. You moaned again, deeper this time, the sound muffled against her glistening heat, feeling the way her pelvic muscles pulsed against your mouth. The friction of your tongue against her swollen center was a symphony, and the wet, slapping sounds of your mouth working over her were the only music that mattered.
Suddenly, the feeling of her hand on your head shifted. She wasn't just guiding you; she was holding you there, her fingers curling into your hair to anchor you deep into her. Through the haze of pleasure, you heard a familiar, digital ding. You looked up, blinking, to see Tate holding her phone just inches from your face, the camera lens capturing every desperate, open-mouthed expression and the glistening trail of her own arousal on your lips.
She smirked, a sharp, predatory expression that made her look less like a saint and more like a sinner who had just found her favorite vice. "The acoustics in here are just chef's kiss," she murmured, her voice a low, vibrating hum of satisfaction. She didn't stop the recording as you let out a long, guttural moan of need, the sound echoing in the quiet room. She watched the audio levels jump on her screen, her hazel eyes shimmering with a wicked kind of pride. "Listen to that. That's the sound of you absolutely losing it for me. I'm keeping this as a reference track."
A heat that had nothing to do with the friction of skin-on-skin surged up your neck, flooding your cheeks with a deep, burning crimson. You tried to pull back, your lips still glistening with her, but the sight of that lens capturing your most undone state made your heart hammer against your ribs. "Tate! Stop it!" you protested, though your voice was a breathless, shaky wreck of a thing. You reached up to swat the phone away, but you were halfway there, your chest heaving and your eyes wide with a mix of mortification and an electric, forbidden thrill. The idea of her having a digital record of your desperation, the raw, unfiltered sounds of your hunger, sent a jolt of adrenaline straight to your core.
“What, baby? Just getting songwriting fuel from my muse.”
The heat in your cheeks wasn't just a blush; it was a full-scale riot, a scorching crimson tide that made your skin feel tight and electric. You tried to pull back, lips still slick with the honeyed weight of her, but the way she looked at you, half-smirking, completely dominant, her eyes tracing the wreckage of your composure, made your protest feel like a joke. You swatted at the phone again, movements clumsy and frantic, but the sheer absurdity of being recorded while you were buried in her thighs sent a jolt of forbidden adrenaline straight to your gut. It was mortifying, absolutely ruinous, and yet, the thought of her listening to those guttural, needy sounds when she was alone in a studio somewhere made your own core throb with a renewed, desperate intensity.
“C’mon, is not like it’s the first time we film sex,”
Tate murmured, her voice a low, vibrating hum as she finally lowered the phone, tossing it carelessly onto the coffee table. The screen flickered, still recording, capturing a tilted, blurred angle of the living room, but her focus had shifted entirely. She didn't just want to be watched; she wanted to be consumed. With a sudden, predatory grace, she arched her back, her wide hips lifting off the velvet in a slow, undulating wave that made her look like some primordial goddess of lust.
“You’re gonna be the death of me, McRae.”
The words were barely a whisper, stripped raw by the sheer weight of the atmosphere. You didn't wait for a response; you lunged back in, your mouth finding the junction of her thighs with a renewed, starving intensity. You weren't just tasting her now; you were trying to merge with her, your tongue tracing the swollen seam of her center with a slow, agonizing pressure that made Tate’s entire frame shudder.
word count: a shit ton, i forgot to put the counter
warnings: top!tate, strap, sex??? idk bro
"If you keep chewing on your lip like that, I’m going to have to find something more productive for your mouth to do," Tate muttered, her voice a low, gravelly vibration that seemed to settle right in the pit of your stomach. She wasn't looking at you; she was staring at the ceiling, one arm draped carelessly over the back of the sofa, her muscles shifting under a thin, ribbed tank top that struggled to contain the heavy swell of her chest.
The air in the apartment was thick, tasting of expensive vanilla candles and the lingering metallic tang of a rainstorm hitting the pavement outside. You had been dating for two years, but the tension between you didn't fade, it just mutated, becoming this heavy, invisible thing that pressed you together until we couldn't breathe.
You didn't stop chewing your lip. In fact, you did it slower, leaning back into the cushions and letting your eyes travel over her. "Is that a threat or a promise, Tate?" You whispered, your voice cracking just enough to let her know you were shaking.
Tate finally shifted, her hazel eyes locking onto yours with a predatory precision. She sat up, the movement causing her breasts to heave against the fabric of that tank top, the nipples hardening into tight peaks that strained against the ribbed cotton.
"It's a directive," she breathed.
Tate didn't move fast; she moved with a calculated, heavy inevitability. She slid across the sofa, the friction of her thighs making a dry, sliding sound that set my teeth on edge. When she reached you, she didn't lean in for a kiss. Instead, she grabbed your wrists and pinned them against the backrest with one hand, her grip like a velvet vice. With the other, she reached down and hooked two fingers into the waistband of your underwear, tugging it forward until your chest hit hers.
The impact was soft but firm, the weight of her breasts crushing against you, smelling of salt and skin.
"You think you're so clever, playing the quiet one," Tate murmured, her breath hot against the shell of your ear. She didn't let go of your wrists; instead, she shifted her weight, sliding her knee between your thighs to force them wide. The pressure was deliberate, a blunt reminder of exactly how much space she took up in your life.
Suddenly, she released your wrists, but before you could even blink, she had spun you around. The world blurred for a second until your chest was smashed flat against the sofa cushions, your face buried in the fabric that smelled of old movie nights and laundry detergent.
Tate didn’t waste time with gentleness. She climbed over you, her heavy thighs pinning your hips down with a crushing weight that made your lungs hitch. She was a solid, warm mass behind you, her chest pressing into your shoulder blades.
"Stay. Right. There," she commanded, the words vibrating through your spine.
Tate didn’t just have a body; she had a presence that felt like a physical weight, a gravity that pulled everything toward her center. She shifted, her hips grinding into the small of your back, her heavy breasts crushing against your shoulder blades. The friction of her shorts against your skin was a rough, abrasive promise.
"You've been staring at me all night," she murmured, her voice now a dark, honeyed rasp. "Watching. Wanting. But you're too shy to actually ask for it, aren't you? Even after all this time, my sweet girl.”
Tate didn’t wait for an answer. She reached down, her hand sliding under the hem of your shirt and gripping the waistband of your panties with a sudden, violent precision. With one sharp tug, she ripped them down and to the side, the fabric snapping against your skin. The cool air of the apartment hit your exposed skin for a split second before the heat of her body replaced it.
"Look at you," she whispered, her voice dropping an octave, turning into something primal. "Just shaking for me."
Tate grind her hips against your asscheeks, foreshadowing what she wanted to do to you.
"You're so damn tight," she groaned, the sound vibrating against your spine. "I can feel you trembling from here. Do you like being pinned down? Do you like knowing I could just... break you if I wanted to?"
Tate didn't give you room to answer with words. She shifted her weight, her heavy thighs bracing against the sofa cushions as she arched her back, creating a predatory angle. She reached down, her fingers splaying across the curve of your right buttock, her grip bruisingly firm. She squeezed the flesh, molding it, feeling the way your muscle jumped under her touch.
"I can't even look at you without thinking about how perfect this is," she groaned, her voice thick with an obsession that bordered on hunger. "The way you're built... it's like you were designed just to be taken from behind."
Suddenly, Tate surged off you, the sudden loss of her crushing weight making you feel momentarily adrift. She didn't walk; she stormed toward the bedroom, her footsteps heavy and purposeful. You stayed pinned to the cushions by the memory of her weight, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird, your brain already fuzzy with want. You heard the distinct clink of a bedside drawer opening, the sound of something heavy being retrieved, and then she was back, her eyes darkened to a shade of hazel that looked almost black in the dim light.
In her hand was the harness, the leather straps already cinched tight around her hips, the silicone length of the strap-on shimmering with a coat of lubricant. She didn't say a word as she stepped between your spread legs, her gaze locked on the curve of your rear. To Tate, your ass wasn't just a part of your body; it was a temple she worshipped with a kind of feral, possessive hunger. She looked at you not as her girlfriend, but as a prize to be claimed, her eyes tracing the dip of your waist and the swell of your cheeks with a clinical, starving intensity.
She didn't just want to fuck you; she wanted to sink into you until there was no space left between your skins. The way she looked at your ass, the way she obsessed over the softness and the way it trembled under her gaze, was almost more erotic than the act itself. It was a fixation, a craving for the feeling of your flesh yielding to her weight, the way you’d arch your back and gasp when she finally hit that sweet spot.
Tate didn't just walk back to the sofa; she prowled, the leather of the harness creaking with every powerful stride. The strap-on was a heavy, imposing thing, glistening under the dim living room lights, a tool designed for the kind of raw, unfiltered penetration that left a person breathless and broken in the best way possible. She stood over you, her silhouette dominating your vision, her eyes locked on the target with a predatory hunger that made your toes curl into the fabric.
To Tate, your ass wasn't just a feature; it was the center of her universe, a soft, pliant masterpiece that she lived to conquer. She obsessed over the way your cheeks dimpled at the base of your spine and how they trembled in anticipation, a rhythmic shudder she could feel even without touching you. She wanted to feel the resistance of your muscles, the way you’d fight for air as she drove herself into you, claiming every inch of your heat until you were nothing but a sobbing, shaking mess beneath her.
"Don't move a muscle," she commanded, her voice a low, dangerous rumble.
Tate didn't just lean over you; she collapsed her weight forward, her chest slamming into your back with a wet thud, pinning you so hard against the sofa that you felt the wooden frame beneath the cushions. She wasn't playing at being dominant; she was inhabiting it, her breathing heavy and ragged against the nape of your neck.
"You're practically begging for it, aren't you?" she rasped, her voice sliding over your skin like sandpaper on silk.
“Baby—“ you started, the word barely a ghost of a sound, but Tate cut you off with a sharp, wet slap across your left cheek.
The sound echoed in the quiet room, a stinging punctuation mark that made you gasp and arch your back instinctively. The shock of it sent a jolt of electricity straight to your core, making your hole pulse in a desperate, rhythmic plea.
"I didn't tell you to speak," Tate groaned, her voice vibrating through your shoulder blades.
She didn't give you a second to recover from the sting. Tate shifted, her heavy thighs bracing against the sofa, and she guided the head of the strap-on to the entrance of your heat. She didn't slide in; she paused, the lubricated silicone teasing the outer rim of your hole, pressing just enough to make you whimper. She loved that sound, the high, thin keening of your voice when you were completely at her mercy.
"Look at you, shaking like a leaf," she whispered, her hand returning to your hip to anchor you in place. "So desperate to be filled. You can't even hold still for me, can you?"
“Tate, please—“ The plea was barely out of your mouth before she silenced you, not with a word, but by driving the head of that heavy silicone length deep into the entrance of your heat.
She didn't slide in with a gentle glide. She pushed with a slow, agonizing deliberation, the girth of the toy stretching you wide, forcing your muscles to yield to her relentless pressure. You let out a ragged, guttural scream into the cushions, your fingers clawing at the fabric of the sofa as you felt her claiming the space inside you.
"There it is," Tate groaned, her voice a dark, jagged thing. "That's the sound. I want to hear you break."
She didn't give you a moment to adjust to the fullness. The second she was buried deep, she began to move, not with a rhythmic grace, but with a raw, punishing intensity. Each thrust was a collision, the heavy weight of her hips slamming into yours with a wet, slapping sound that echoed through the room. The strap-on was a relentless force, stretching you to your absolute limit, filling every void until you felt like you were being reshaped around her.
"You're taking it so well," Tate rasped, her voice thick with a mixture of pride and lust. She leaned forward, her heavy breasts crushing into your shoulder blades, her breath hot and erratic against my skin. "Every single inch of you is just... screaming for me."
The rhythm was punishing. Tate wasn't just fucking you; she was trying to merge with you, her hips driving forward with a raw, unbridled power that made the entire sofa frame groan under the onslaught. The silicone was a blunt, insistent pressure, hitting cervix with a precision that turned your vision white. You felt your muscles clenching around her, a desperate, instinctive grip that only seemed to fuel her aggression.
"You love how thick it is, don't you?" Tate groaned, her voice sounding like it had been dragged through gravel. "You love feeling every single ridge of it stretching you open."
She didn't wait for a response. She shifted her grip, her fingers digging deep into the meat of your thighs to hoist your hips even higher, tilting your pelvis at an angle that left you completely exposed and vulnerable. Suddenly, she accelerated. The slow, agonizing deliberation vanished, replaced by a frantic, primal pace. The sound of the impact became a rhythmic, wet percussion, slap, slap, slap, as her heavy hips collided with your rear, the force of it jarring your entire frame.
"You're fucking shaking," Tate gasped, her voice breaking. "God, you're so tight around it... like you're trying to swallow me whole."
Every thrust was a violent reclamation, the strap-on bottoming out with a heavy, visceral thud that echoed in the hollow of your pelvis. You were no longer a person; you were just a series of gasps and involuntary spasms, your face mashed into the cushions, tasting the salt of your own sweat.
Tate was losing it. The calculated precision of her dominance had dissolved into something feral. Her breath was coming in jagged, guttural heaves, her chest heaving against your back like a bellows. She wasn't just hitting a spot; she was excavating you, her hips driving with a raw, rhythmic desperation that threatened to push you right off the sofa.
"You're... you're fucking ruining me," she groaned, the words barely intelligible through the haze of her own lust.
Tate wasn't just driving into you anymore; she was hammering, her movements becoming erratic and desperate. She shifted her grip, sliding one hand up to clutch your throat, not to choke, but to anchor you, her thumb pressing firmly against your jawline to force your face deeper into the sofa. She wanted you silenced by the pleasure, drowned in the sensation of being completely occupied.
"Look at how you're taking it," she rasped, her voice a jagged edge. "Taking every fucking inch like it's the only thing that matters."
Tate shifted her stance, planting her feet firm on the floor to get a more powerful angle, her heavy thighs flexing as she drove herself in one last, deep, soul-crushing thrust. The impact was so visceral it felt like it rattled your teeth. You let out a choked, broken sound, half-sob, half-moan, and your internal muscles clamped around the silicone with a desperate, rhythmic intensity.
"That's it," Tate hissed, her voice a raw, guttural command. "Squeeze it. Take all of it.”
She didn't pull back. She stayed buried deep, her entire weight collapsed forward, pinning you into the fabric as she let out a long, shuddering groan that started in her chest and vibrated through your very bones. The silence that followed was heavy, filled only by the sound of two sets of lungs fighting for oxygen.
Then, the dam broke. It started as a ripple, a frantic, electric twitch in your core that triggered a landslide. Your walls clamped down on her with a violent, rhythmic force, milking the silicone length with an intensity that made you arch your back like a bow. You felt Tate stiffen, her grip on your throat tightening as she let out a choked, guttural sound. She wasn't just watching you break; she was breaking with you, her own body shuddering in a mirrored release that felt less like a climax and more like a collision.
The sensation was an explosion of white light and raw, unfiltered heat. You felt the sudden, pulsing surge of her hips, a final, desperate series of tremors that shook her entire frame as she drove herself into you one last time. Your vision blurred, the world narrowing down to the feeling of being completely filled and the sound of Tate’s voice dissolving into a series of broken, animalistic whimpers against your neck. It was a mutual collapse, a psychic and physical surrender that left you both gasping for air in a room that suddenly felt too small for the amount of electricity crackling between you.
The release didn't happen in a clean line; it was a jagged, rhythmic collision of nerves. You felt the internal walls of your heat clenching in violent, desperate waves, pulling her deeper even as you tried to arch away from the sheer intensity of it. Tate let out a guttural, strangled roar, her body stiffening into a rigid line of muscle and tension. She didn't just peak; she shattered, her heavy breasts crushing into your shoulder blades as she poured every ounce of her remaining strength into the friction of that final, soul-searing connection.
For a long minute, neither of you moved. The only sound in the apartment was the frantic, wet symphony of your shared breathing, heavy, ragged, and sounding like a war zone. The air was thick, tasting of salt, silicone, and the raw, metallic scent of adrenaline.
“I love you…”
The words were barely a vibration against the back of your neck, a fragile contrast to the violence that had just unfolded. Tate didn’t move for a long time, her forehead resting against my shoulder blade, her heart hammering a frantic, irregular rhythm against my spine. The weight of her, the heavy, solid reality of her, felt like a warm blanket after the storm, pinning you to the sofa as the world slowly stopped spinning.
Suddenly, she shifted. The leather of the harness creaked as she pulled back, the silicone sliding out of me with a wet, sucking sound that made my toes curl one last time. The sudden void where she had been felt cold, an immediate loss that left me feeling hollowed out and raw.
Tate didn't let you stay in that state of vulnerability for long. She rolled off you, her heavy thighs sliding over the cushions, and she moved away, hooking her arm around your waist and dragging you backward until your back hit her chest. She was slick with sweat, her skin tacky and hot, and as she wrapped her arms around you, her large breasts crushed against your shoulder blades once more, a possessive anchor.
She didn't say anything for a moment, just buried her face in the crook of your neck, her breathing finally slowing from a gallop to a steady, heavy thrum. Then, her hand wandered.
Tate’s fingers, still trembling slightly from the aftershock, slid down from your waist to the curve of your backside. She didn’t just touch you; she kneaded you, her palm sliding over the slick, wet surface where the silicone had just been. She obsessed over the aftermath, her thumb tracing the reddened skin of your cheeks, marking the place where her hips had collided with yours in that raw, rhythmic war.
"Look at you," she murmured, her voice returning to that low, predatory rumble, though it was now laced with a terrifyingly soft tenderness. "Completely wrecked. I can still feel you pulsing around nothing."
Tate leaned in, her lips not seeking the heat of your mouth, but instead grazing the flushed, salt-slicked curve of your cheek. It was a slow, deliberate claim, her lips pressing firmly against your skin, leaving a lingering warmth that felt like a brand. She lingered there, her breath hot and smelling of the exertion, as if she were tasting the very air you were struggling to breathe.
She shifted her head slightly, her jaw scraping against your skin in a way that made you shiver, and then she kissed you again harder this time, a bruising press of lips that spoke of a possessiveness that went far beyond the physical. It was a quiet punctuation mark to the violence of the last twenty minutes, a soft reminder that while she could break you open, she was the only one who knew exactly how to put you back together.
The kiss lingered, her mouth molding to the curve of your cheek with a slow, deliberate suction, almost as if she were trying to inhale the scent of your arousal and sweat. It wasn't an apology for the wreckage she'd left behind. She lingered there, her lips hot and heavy, claiming the flushed skin of your backside with a tenderness that felt almost more dangerous than the penetration, because it proved that she was just as obsessed with your surrender as she was with your pleasure.
Does anyone else think that Tate had a kinda masc era in 2018/2019/2020????
The last piece of Tate’s birthday cake hit the floor with a wet plop, but none of you heard it. Tate had pushed it as she tried to grip the kitchen counter where she laid, back against the cold marble and legs perched at her sides while you lapped at her cunt.
"Don't stop," she gasped, her voice a raspy command that cut through the silence of the house. "Don't you dare stop, you little brat."
Tate wasn't just a pop star; she was a force of nature, and right now, that force was concentrated in the way her fingers dug into the marble countertop, her knuckles white. She was arched like a bow, her hips tilting instinctively, driving herself harder against my mouth. The scent of vanilla frosting and raw, feminine musk filled the air, a heady cocktail that made my head swim.
You didn't stop, doubling down, your tongue swirling around her clit with a rhythmic pressure that had her toes curling against the cabinetry.
Suddenly, Tate’s hand flew from the marble to the back of your head, her grip tight, steering you like a rudder. She wasn't just receiving anymore; she was demanding. With a sharp, guttural moan, she shifted, sliding her body off the counter in one fluid, desperate motion, her arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you flush against her.
You blinked, pussy-drunk and drowning in the scent of her, as Tate’s arm locked around your waist with a strength that felt like a vice. She didn't just want your mouth; she wanted to consume the space between you.
"You think you're done?" she hissed, her breath hot against your ear, her voice dropping an octave into that smoky, stage-ready rasp. "I'm barely started with you."
You nodded, desperate to please her, but Tate didn't want a conversation; she wanted a surrender. She shifted her weight, the friction of her damp skin against your thighs creating a static charge that felt like a lightning strike. With a sudden, authoritative shove, she switched you, pinning you against the cold marble where she had just been sprawled. The contrast of the chilled stone against your skin and the furnace of her body pressing into you made your breath hitch.
"Stay," she commanded, her voice a low vibrate.
Tate didn’t give you room to breathe, let alone answer. She moved with a predatory efficiency, her hips grinding into yours, the heavy curve of her hips pressing firmly against your thigh. She reached down, her fingers hooking into the waistband of your underwear and ripping them down with a sharp, impatient tug.
"I want you open," she murmured, her voice vibrating against your collarbone. "I want to see everything you're offering me today."
“When I said we could do whatever you wanted today I kind of meant I would be doing stuff to you” You murmured, your voice shaking.
Tate didn't laugh; she just smirked, a predatory little curve of her lips that promised a total lack of mercy. She shifted her weight, her heavy, sculpted hips pivoting as she slid her body over yours, pinning your wrists to the marble with one hand while the other wandered downward.
"That's the mistake you made, baby," she whispered, her hazel eyes darkening into something molten. "Thinking you had a vote in this."
Tate didn’t just move, she colonized the space. She shifted her center of gravity, sliding her body upward until she was hovering over you, her heavy breasts brushing against your chest with every shallow, jagged breath.
Tate gripped your waist with a strength that left bruises, hauling your hips upward and flipping you over, shoving your face down into the cold marble and forcing you into a deep, trembling arch.
"Ass up," she commanded, her voice no longer a request but a law. "Right now."
You didn't need to be told twice. You groaned into the marble, cheek pressed against the stone, feeling the cool surface suck the heat from your face while the rest of your body felt like it was combusting. Your hips were thrust high, spine curving into a desperate arc that left you completely exposed, shivering as the air hit the damp heat of your center.
Tate didn't wait for you to settle. She stepped back just an inch, the sound of her bare feet on the tile, and then you felt it, the heavy weight of her palm slamming down onto one cheek with a wet, slapping sound that echoed in the quiet kitchen.
"Look at you," she murmured, her voice a low, hungry vibration. "Trembling for me before I've even really started. You're such a pathetic little mess. My pathetic little mess.”
Tate didn’t give you a second to recover. She massaged her palm deep into the meat of your glutes, her grip bruising and possessive. She wasn't just touching you, she was claiming the territory. She leaned forward, her heavy breasts pressing into your lower back, the weight of her body pinning you flat against the marble while her hand continued its ruthless exploration.
“How’s my sweet girl doing, uh?”
Tate’s voice was a low, dangerous purr right against the shell of your ear, her breath smelling of the wine she’d had earlier and the raw heat of her own arousal. She wasn't just massaging you now; she was sculpting you, her fingers kneading the muscles of your backside with a rhythmic, punishing intensity.
“Baby— I’m supposed to—“ You stuttered.
Tate grinned devilish “You’re supposed to be doing what I want you to. It’s my birthday, remember? And I want you just how you are… All laid out for me, sweet thing.”
She didn’t wait for a response. Tate shifted, her legs parting as she dropped her center of gravity, sliding her body between your thighs with a fluid, predatory grace. She didn’t just lean in; she submerged herself, her face diving into the heat of you with a hunger that felt visceral. First, her tongue found your clit, swirling in a relentless, wet circle that made your hips buck instinctively, but she didn't let you move. She pinned you down with the weight of her arm over your lower back, her mouth a vacuum of heat and suction that threatened to pull the very soul out of you.
Then, without warning, she migrated. Tate slid lower, her tongue tracing a damp, searing line down the valley of your pussy, venturing further than you expected. She didn't stop at the threshold. With a guttural sound of approval, she pressed her face flush against the tight, puckered heat of your ass, her tongue flicking out to taste you with a raw, unfiltered curiosity. The sensation was electric—a jarring, taboo shock that sent a jolt of pure adrenaline straight to your core. She began to lap at you there, her tongue broad and insistent, probing the sensitive rim of your hole with a rhythmic, swirling pressure that left you sobbing into the marble.
She was relentless, treating your backside like a delicacy she intended to savor slowly. Tate’s mouth created a vacuum of heat, sucking the sensitive skin of your perineum and up, her breath hot and humid against your most private depths. Every slide of her tongue was a claim, every wet slurp a reminder of who owned this moment. She was eating you out with a depravity that contradicted her polished pop-star image, her movements greedy and unhurried, delving deep into the musk of your heat until your entire lower body was slick with her saliva and your own leaking arousal.
Suddenly, she shifted her focus back to your clit, but she didn't leave your ass behind. She used one hand to spread your cheeks wide, exposing every inch of your vulnerability to the air and her sight, while her tongue worked a frantic, alternating rhythm between your pussy and your hole. It was a sensory overload, the searing friction of her tongue flicking against your clitoris while simultaneously probing the tight ring of your ass. You were caught in a crossfire of pleasure, your muffled screams echoing off the kitchen walls as she literally licked you clean, devouring the essence of you with a raw, animalistic hunger.
“Baby— Baby, please— I wanna taste you,”
The plea was barely a whisper, muffled by the marble, but Tate didn’t care about your desires. Not yet. She pulled back just an inch, the sound of her lips parting from your wet skin making a tacky, visceral pop that sounded obscene in the silence of the room. She stayed low, her breath hitching, her hazel eyes scanning the wreckage she’d made of you, the flushed skin of your thighs, the glistening trail of her saliva stretching from your clit to your puckered heat.
"You want to taste me?" Tate chuckled, a dark, knowing sound. "You don't get to taste anything until I've had my fill of every single inch of you."
She didn't move away. Instead, she shifted her weight, sliding her body upward so she was straddling your lower back, pinning you harder against the marble. She reached forward, her fingers threading through your hair and pulling your head back just enough so you could see her reflection in the polished chrome of the oven door. You saw her hazel eyes, blown wide, predatory, and absolutely consumed by lust.
"You're shaking," she observed, her voice a smoky vibration. "I love it when you're this fragile for me."
Tate didn't let go of your hair, using the leverage to tilt your head further, exposing the pale line of your throat. For a second, the predatory energy shifted, the violence of her grip softening into something that felt almost like a prayer. She leaned down, her lips barely brushing the skin of your cheek in a kiss so light it was practically a ghost of a touch, a tender contrast to the way she had just been devouring you.
“You’re doing so good, my sweet girl.” Another kiss to the corner of your lip. “I’m so lucky to have you,”
The tenderness was a trap. It was the lull before the storm, a psychological reset that only made the sudden shift in her energy feel more visceral. She grinned. “But I’m going to ruin you tonight.”
Tate released your hair with a snap, her hand sliding down the curve of your spine like a predator marking its path. She shifted her weight, sliding off your back but keeping her body pressed flush against your side. In one fluid movement, she reached over to the counter where her discarded clothing lay, her fingers brushing past a forgotten glass of champagne to grab a small, sleek velvet pouch she’d hidden in her pocket earlier.
The sound of the zipper opening was like a starting pistol.
Tate didn't say a word as she reached into the pouch and pulled out a bright pink bullet vibrator.
The silicone caught the overhead kitchen light, looking almost innocent until she clicked it on. The low, humming thrum vibrated through the air, a mechanical growl that made your stomach flip. You tried to shift, to perhaps get some leverage against the marble, but Tate’s hand slammed back down on the small of your back, pinning you like a specimen on a board.
"Don't you dare move," she breathed, her voice dropping into that dangerous, velvety register. "I want you to feel every single frequency of this."
The hum of the vibrator intensified as Tate clicked it to the highest setting. The sound was a blur of white noise in the small kitchen, competing with the ragged sound of your breathing. She didn't go for your clit first—that would have been too easy. Instead, she pressed the vibrating tip firmly against the sensitive valley between your pussy and your ass, the vibration rattling through your pelvic bone and sending shocks of electricity straight to your brain.
"You like that, don't you?" Tate murmured, her voice thick. "Feeling it vibrate right through you?"
She didn't wait for an answer. With a slow, agonizing deliberation, Tate slid the humming silicone tip backward, pressing it directly against the tight, puckered entrance of your ass. You let out a strangled shriek, your fingers clawing at the marble, the sensation so intense it felt like a physical intrusion into your very nerves. The vibration wasn't just on the surface; it was rattling your internal organs, turning your insides into a humming slurry of heat and desperation.
"Look at you," Tate hissed, her voice sounding like it was coming from a mile away as the world narrowed down to that single point of mechanical friction. "Just a little shaking mess. Does it feel good, baby? Does it feel like you're breaking?"
She didn't wait for a verbal answer. Tate began to circle the vibrator around the rim of your hole, a torturous, buzzing orbit that teased the entrance without fully committing. The contrast was agonizing, the cold marble beneath your chest and the searing, buzzing heat between your cheeks. You were gasping, your breath coming in short, jagged stabs, your vision blurring at the edges.
"Please... Tate, please just..." you sobbed, your voice breaking.
"Please what?" she countered, her voice a low, dangerous purr. "Be specific, baby. Tell me exactly how you want to be ruined."
She didn't give you time to formulate the words. Suddenly, Tate shifted her grip, her hand sliding under your belly to hoist your hips even higher, tilting your pelvis at an angle that left you completely splayed, an open book of desire. She drove the vibrating tip of the bullet straight into the center of your puckered heat, not inserting it, but pressing it with a firm, unrelenting force that made your entire lower body seize.
"Tell me," she commanded, her voice a guttural rasp. "Say it. Tell me you want me to wreck your little hole."
You couldn't even form a sentence. All that came out was a pathetic, high-pitched whine, your forehead pressed hard against the marble, eyes rolled back into your head. The vibration was a drilling force, turning your nerve endings into live wires. You felt the muscles of your ass clenching instinctively around the silicone tip, trying to pull it in, trying to escape the intensity by consuming it.
"Use your words, brat!" Tate snapped, though the edge of her voice was frayed with her own arousal. She leaned over you, her heavy breasts swinging and brushing against your trembling shoulder, the scent of her skin, sweet, salty, and musk, clouding your judgment.
You gasped, your voice a broken shard of sound. "Please... wreck it... please just wreck me!"
Tate let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-growl, but for a fleeting second, the mask of the predator flickered. Usually, Tate was the one who melted into your arms, the one who whispered sweet nothings into your neck while you pampered her after a grueling tour. She was the girl who liked to be held, who sought sanctuary in your softness, and who treated your body like a precious, fragile heirloom. This version of her, this demanding, authoritative force, was a rare, intoxicating deviation, a birthday indulgence where she decided to stop being the sweetheart and start being the storm.
It was a psychological alchemy; she had spent months being the one who was adored, and tonight, the power dynamic had shifted like a tectonic plate. The tenderness was still there, buried under the raw lust, but it had been weaponized. The way she looked at you wasn't just with love, but with a possessive hunger that bordered on the feral. She wasn't just playing a role; she was excavating a side of herself that only you were allowed to see, the side that didn't ask, but took.
Tate’s breath was a hot gale against your neck. "Good girl. Now stay right there."
The humming bullet didn't leave your skin; instead, Tate began to grind it in slow, circular motions, massaging the vibrating head deep into the muscle of your sphincter. The sensation was a paradox, violently intense yet strangely grounding, a mechanical drilling that felt like it was rearranging your internal chemistry. You were a live wire, every muscle in your legs locked in a rigid tremor, your fingers sliding uselessly across the slick marble.
Suddenly, the vibration stopped.
The silence that rushed back into the kitchen was deafening, leaving your nerves screaming in the sudden void. You let out a whimpering moan, your hips instinctively twitching, searching for that buzzing electricity that had just been anchoring you to the earth.
"Missing it already?" Tate’s voice was a low, cruel velvet.
The absence of the vibration left you feeling hollow, a vacuum of sensation that made the cool air hitting your damp skin feel like ice. You were still arched, your ass thrust high and trembling, your pulse thrumming visibly in the vein of your neck. You could hear her shifting, the soft shlick of her thighs rubbing together, the predatory patience of someone who knew they had already won.
“Changed my mind,”
Tate’s voice was a ghostly whisper, barely an inch from your ear. “The toy is too sterile. I want something more… organic.”
She didn’t just reach for you; she invaded. Tate slid two fingers deep into your soaking heat in one singular, ruthless thrust that knocked the wind out of you. There was no slow build, no gentle preparation, just the sudden, stretching fullness of her that forced a strangled cry from your throat. She didn't stop there; she hooked her fingers, curving them upward to find that precise, swollen knot of nerves that governed your entire existence. She began to pump a relentless, driving rhythm, her knuckles grinding against your clit with every downward stroke, treating your pussy like a instrument she intended to play until the strings snapped.
The pace was frantic, a blurring friction that turned the moisture between your thighs into a frothy, slick lubricant. Tate was breathing in jagged, hungry syncopation with your gasps, her hand a piston of pure desire. She began to vary the pressure, switching from deep, guttural plunges to shallow, fluttering flicks that teased the entrance before diving back in to claim the depths. It was a sensory assault, a rhythmic pounding that pushed you higher and higher up a cliffside of pleasure, the friction building into a searing heat that felt like it was melting your internal organs.
You weren't just peaking; you were being dismantled. Every time you thought you had hit the ceiling, Tate shifted her angle, digging her fingertips into the sensitive ridges of your walls, finding a hidden trigger that sent a fresh bolt of lightning through your spine. Your vision began to tunnel, the edges of the kitchen blurring into a haze of white and gold. The pleasure became so concentrated, so sharp and overwhelming, that it crossed the threshold into something that felt like a beautiful, exquisite pain.
The rhythm became a blur, a frantic, wet slapping sound of her hand against your thighs, a relentless drumming that wouldn't let you breathe. You were sobbing now, not from sadness, but from the sheer, violent intensity of the stimulation. Your breath came in broken, jagged hitches, and as the first wave of the orgasm crashed over you, the tension finally snapped. Hot, silent tears began to leak from the corners of your eyes, spilling onto the cold marble, mixing with the sweat and the remnants of the birthday cake. You were weeping from the pure, unadulterated overload of it, your body shaking with such force that you felt like you were vibrating at the same frequency as the toy she had just discarded.
“You’re so pretty when you cry, my love,”
Tate’s voice was a jagged, honeyed rasp, sounding more like a confession than a compliment. She didn’t pull her fingers out as your orgasm rippled through you in violent, rhythmic spasms. Instead, she held them there, feeling the internal walls of your pussy clamp down on her in a desperate, milking grip. She watched you unravel, her hazel eyes wide and dark, drinking in the sight of your total collapse against the marble.
Then, at the absolute zenith, just as your brain felt like it was dissolving into a puddle of static and gold, she withdrew.
The sudden void was a physical blow. The fingers that had been the center of your universe vanished in a single, sharp motion, leaving you suspended in a state of agonizing, unfinished electricity. You let out a sound that wasn't even human, a broken, wounded keening, your hips bucking upward in a desperate, reflexive attempt to find the friction that had just been stolen. You were a live wire stripped of its insulation, sparking and raw, hovering on the precipice of a peak you weren't allowed to summit.
But the cruelty didn't last. The predatory energy evaporated, replaced by a tidal wave of warmth that felt like coming home. Tate collapsed over you, her heavy breasts cushioning your head, her body molding to yours with a tenderness that made the previous violence feel like a distant dream. She didn't return to the friction; instead, she began to rain a thousand tiny, fluttering kisses across your shoulder blades, your neck, and the salt-stained skin of your cheeks.
"I've got you, baby," she whispered, her voice no longer a command but a caress. "I've got you."
You were still vibrating, your nerves firing off erratic, phantom signals of pleasure that felt like static electricity dancing under your skin. You were suspended in that shimmering, fragile afterglow where the world felt liquid and your bones felt like they were made of warm wax. Tate didn't give you back the friction; she gave you her presence. She shifted, her weight becoming a soft, protective blanket, her lips tracing the jagged line of your spine with an almost religious devotion. Each kiss was a slow, deliberate punctuation mark to the chaos of the last hour, a gentle reclamation of your body.
“You did so good, my baby.”
Tate’s voice was a velvet hum against your skin, but as you lay there, limp and shattered on the marble, you could feel the tension returning to her muscles. The tenderness was a beautiful cloak, but the fire underneath hadn't been extinguished—it had only been banked. She shifted her weight, her heavy hips sliding against yours with a slow, deliberate friction that told you the 'ruining' part of the evening was far from over.
"I don't think you realize how much I needed this," she murmured, her lips grazing the sensitive skin behind your ear. "Not just the sex. The way you let me... take. The way you just gave yourself over to me." She pressed a deep, lingering kiss to the nape of your neck, her breath hot and heavy. "Thank you for the most amazing birthday, baby. Seriously. This is the only gift I actually wanted."
Tate’s hands, once predatory and bruising, became instruments of an almost clinical tenderness. She didn't just let you lay there in your own ruins; she moved with a slow, methodical grace, reaching for a clean dish towel and dipping it into a bowl of warm water she’d left on the counter earlier. With a soft, humming sound in the back of her throat, she began to wipe the slurry of saliva, lubricant, and cake frosting from your thighs and the puckered heat of your ass. Every swipe of the warm cloth was a slow reclamation, a gentle scrubbing that felt like a baptism after the storm. She didn't rush, her hazel eyes scanning your skin with a possessive pride, as if she were polishing a trophy she’d fought hard to win.
"Look at the mess we made," she whispered, a playful, smoky giggle escaping her lips as she wiped a stray smudge of vanilla frosting from the curve of your hip. She didn't just clean you; she worshipped the aftermath. Once you were glistening and clean, she scooped you up in her arms, surprising you with a sudden burst of strength, and carried you toward the living room. You felt small and fragile against her, your head resting on the swell of her breast, listening to the heavy, satisfied thrum of her heart against your ear.
The couch was a sprawling, oversized velvet beast of a sofa, and Tate didn't just sit, she plummeted. She sank into the cushions with a heavy, contented sigh, pulling you flush against her body until there wasn't a single molecule of oxygen between your skin and hers. She wrapped her long legs around yours, locking you into a cocoon of warmth, her arm draped possessively over your waist as if she feared you might evaporate if she let go for even a second.
For a long stretch of time, the only sound was the rhythmic, wet clicking of the house settling and the synchronized thrum of two hearts slowing down from a frantic gallop. Tate buried her face in the crown of your head, inhaling the scent of your hair, a mixture of vanilla, salt, and the lingering musk of their shared depravity. She let out a low, vibrating hum, a sound of pure, unadulterated ownership that resonated from her chest into your own.
“Happy birthday to me,” Tate murmured softly, though the words sounded more like a prayer than a celebration. She didn’t just lay you on the velvet; she absorbed you into the fabric, molding your spine against hers until you were less like two separate people and more like a single, tangled knot of cooling skin and racing pulses. The couch didn’t just hold you; it swallowed you, the deep plush of the upholstery acting as a velvet grave for the remnants of your intensity.
“Happy birthday to you, Tate” You murmured against her skin.
Better late than never. I think I’m projecting my top!tate a lot lately, i actually think she’s a lover girl and just really sweet during sex (someone ask me for my headcanons i’m begging)
Anyway, I think I’ll start writing something other than smut too and I’ve been dying to do a social media au or something😛
tate once offhandedly admitting she never likes to bottom after her useless ex boys because they never cared about her experience but then asking to bottom for you for the first time months later after a hard week and you ruining her gently
+18 MDNI
word count: 5,1K
warnings: use of strap-on, mix of praise and humiliation kink, a bad attempt of writing top!reader
Tate collapsed against the hallway wall, the expensive cotton of her blouse snagging on a stray nail in the drywall. She didn't even notice. She just leaned there, her chest heaving in a rhythm that was less about breathing and more about trying to remember how to exist without a script.
She didn't just look tired; she looked eroded. The week had been a relentless centrifuge of press junkets, sixteen-hour recording sessions where the producer kept asking for 'more emotion' while draining her dry, and a legal battle over royalties that felt like fighting a ghost. By the time she stepped through the front door of our apartment, she didn't walk; she drifted, a ghost of the girl who usually vibrated with kinetic energy.
You caught her just as her knees buckled. You didn’t ask if she was ok, that’s a question for people who don't know the sound of a nervous system finally snapping.
"Don't touch me," she whispered, though she was leaning her entire weight into your chest, her fingers clawing into your shirt. "If you touch me, I’m going to start screaming and I don't think I'll ever stop."
"It's okay, you can scream if you need to," You murmured, bringing her closer in a hug that felt more like a containment field.
Tate let out a sound, half-sob, half-laugh, that vibrated against your collarbone. The tension in her was a physical thing, a coiled spring made of cortisol and exhaustion. She pulled back just enough to look at you, her hazel eyes bloodshot, the pupils blown wide. The vulnerability there was raw, almost violent. She didn't want a bath, she didn't want tea, and she certainly didn't want to talk about her day. She wanted to be erased.
"I don't want to be the boss anymore," she rasped, her voice cracking. "I don't want to make a single fucking decision. I don't want to lead, or guide, or… handle it."
She looked up at you, and for the first time in the two years you'd been together, the power dynamic shifted. Usually, Tate was the storm, the one who pushed you against the wall, the one who dictated the pace and the position, fueled by a subconscious need to control every variable because her past partners had treated her like a prop in their own fantasies. She had spent years compensating for men who saw her as a trophy to be used, never bothering to ask where she liked to be touched or how hard she liked it. To survive them, she had learned to take the wheel, to dominate the space so she wouldn't be ignored.
But now, the mask didn't just slip; it disintegrated. She didn't want the wheel. She wanted to be stripped of every choice, every expectation, and every ounce of authority. She wanted to be owned.
The realization hit you like a physical blow. For two years, Tate had played the conqueror in the bedroom, a protective reflex forged in the fires of past relationships where she was nothing more than a curated object, a pretty thing for men to fuck without ever asking if she was breathing. To those ghosts of her past, her pleasure was an afterthought, a footnote in their own ego-trips. So, she had learned to lead, to command, and to dominate, ensuring her needs were met by simply taking them. But staring at her now, the hunger in her eyes wasn't for control; it was for the relief of losing it.
"You don't have to make a single choice," you said, your voice dropping an octave, becoming a command. "Not one."
The shift in the air was instantaneous. Tate shivered, a violent tremor that started in her shoulders and rippled down to her hips. She didn’t move; she waited, her breath coming in shallow, jagged hitches. The silence in the hallway became heavy, thick with the sudden scent of ozone and desperation.
"Strip," you commanded. "And get on our bed, quick."
The word wasn't a request; it was a tether, and Tate snapped toward it with a desperation that bordered on feral. She didn't even pause to unbutton the blouse that had been snagged on the wall; she ripped the fabric open, buttons scattering across the hardwood like tiny, plastic raindrops. She stepped out of her trousers with a clumsy urgency, her movements devoid of the polished grace the world knew. Here, in the dim light of the bedroom, she wasn't a pop star; she was a woman coming apart at the seams, begging for someone to sew her back together or tear her open further.
She scrambled down the hallway and onto the bed in your bedroom, her limbs tangling in the sheets, and collapsed face-down. Her hips, wide and plush, arched instinctively, creating a valley of soft, pale skin that practically glowed against the charcoal grey of the duvet. She buried her face in the pillow, a muffled moan escaping her as she waited, her entire body vibrating like a plucked string.
You didn't rush. You walked toward her with a slow, predatory deliberation, letting the silence stretch until the only sound was the ragged edge of her breathing.
The sight of her was a masterpiece of surrender. Tate, who commanded arenas of thousands, was now just a heap of shivering curves and desperation. Her back was a graceful slope leading down to the heavy, rounded swell of her ass, which pushed upward, practically begging for the weight of you to crush her into the mattress.
You didn't say a word, just stepped onto the bed, the mattress dipping under your weight, and crawled over her like a predator claiming its territory. You could feel the heat radiating off her skin, a fever of stress and longing.
You reached down and gripped her hips, your fingers sinking into the plush, soft meat of her sides. Tate let out a sharp, jagged gasp, her fingers clawing into the duvet. She was shaking, her muscles twitching in anticipation of the first blow of pleasure to break the tension of her day.
"You're so fucking quiet now, aren't you?" you whispered, leaning down so your breath hot-cocked the shell of her ear. "Where's the girl who tells everyone what to do? Where's the boss?"
Tate let out a whimpering sound, a broken chord of a moan that vibrated through her entire frame. She didn't answer, she couldn't. She was too busy drowning in the sensation of your palms crushing her hips, pinning her into the fabric of the bed. The power shift was visceral; she wasn't just surrendering her day, she was surrendering her identity, stripping away the polished veneer of 'Tate McRae' until there was nothing left but skin and a desperate need to be handled.
"I… I don't know," she gasped, her voice muffled by the pillow, her words thick with a sudden, heavy lust. "I just… please… just take it."
You didn't give her a second to think. You shifted your weight, driving your knee into the mattress to hoist her hips even higher, exposing the deep, trembling divide of her backside. The sight was intoxicating, those heavy, rounded cheeks shivering with every jagged breath she took. You reached forward and slapped her right cheek, a sharp, stinging crack that echoed through the quiet room.
Tate screamed into the pillow, a raw, guttural sound that wasn't about pain, but about the sudden, violent erasure of her consciousness. The sting woke her up from the numbness of the day and slammed her directly into the present.
"You like that, don't you?" you murmured, your voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the mattress and into her chest. "The boss doesn't get to speak. She just takes it."
Suddenly, you slammed another palm across the other cheek, the sound like a gunshot in the sterile quiet of the room. Tate’s body bucked, her hips snapping upward in a violent, involuntary reflex. She wasn't just shaking now; she was vibrating, her skin flushing a deep, bruised crimson where your hand had landed. The contrast of her pale, plush skin against the dark duvet was obscene, a visual map of her surrender.
But as soon as the sting peaked, you softened. You didn't let the violence linger; instead, you smoothed your palms over the heat you'd just created, your fingers splaying wide to encompass the heavy, rounded curves of her ass. You massaged the sting away with slow, heavy circles, your touch turning from a strike to a caress. It was a rhythmic oscillation, the shock of the hit followed by the sanctuary of your touch, that kept her suspended in a state of breathless anticipation.
You kneel behind her, spreading her open before you like a prayer. Your movements aren't rushed; instead, you move with a heavy, grounding presence, your hands sliding from the flushed skin of her cheeks to the small of her back, pressing her down into the mattress with a slow, steady weight. It is a claim, a silent promise that you have her, that the world outside the bedroom door has ceased to exist, and the only thing that matters is the gravity of your body against hers.
You lean forward, your lips grazing the inside of her thigh, your voice a velvet thread in the silence. "Shhh. Just breathe, Tate. Just let it all go." You aren't demanding her submission now; you are cradling it, guiding her deeper into the void where she doesn't have to be a star, a brand, or a leader. "You are so wet, babygirl. I can see it. You're practically dripping for me."
Your hands, which had been instruments of sharp impact, now become anchors. You slide them under her belly, lifting her just enough to shift her position, your touch as light as a prayer but as firm as an oath. You aren't rushing toward the finish; you are savoring the way her body shudders under the gentlest pressure, the way her breath hitches not from fear, but from the sheer, overwhelming relief of being handled with a precision that knows exactly where she is most fragile.
You guide her with a low, humming murmur, your fingers tracing the delicate line of her spine with the patience of a cartographer mapping a new world. There is a deliberate slowness to it, a conscious decision to let the tension drain out of her muscles like water from a broken dam. You are the current now, pulling her deeper into the mattress, your weight a warm, heavy blanket that smothers the noise of the outside world until the only thing she can hear is the thrum of your heartbeat against her shoulder.
Suddenly, you shift, your hand sliding beneath her, hooking into the soft crease where her thigh meets her hip. You hoist her up, tilting her pelvis toward the ceiling, exposing the glistening, trembling heat of her center. She is drenched, a slick, honeyed invitation that smells of musk and absolute surrender.
"Look at you," you growl, your voice scraping against the silence. "The world thinks you're a fortress, but here you are… wide open and shaking."
Tate lets out a strangled sound, her fingers curling into the sheets, knuckles white. She isn't the pop star anymore; she’s just a collection of nerve endings and desperate hunger. The sight of her, chest pressed flat against the bed, her heavy, plush ass arched high and shimmering with a fine sheen of sweat, is a visual feast of vulnerability.
"I'm not a fortress," she whimpers, the words vibrating against the pillow. "I'm… I'm nothing. Just… please… fuck…"
"You want me to lick you, doll? Want me to taste how much of a mess you've made for me?"
The words were barely a whisper, but they hit Tate like a physical weight. She let out a sound that wasn't human, a high, thin wail of desperation that vibrated through the mattress. She didn't answer with words; she just shoved her hips backward, a blind, instinctive thrust that practically offered her center up to you on a silver platter.
You didn't make her wait. You dove forward, your tongue tracing a long, slow, wet line from her perineum and straight into the heat.
Tate shrieked, her body snapping like a whip. The sensation of your tongue meeting her slick, swollen center was a violent collision. You didn't just lick her; you devoured her, your tongue broad and insistent, swirling around her clit before diving deep into the honeyed depths. You could taste the desperation in her, a salty, musk-heavy flavor that tasted like a woman who had been holding her breath for a decade and finally found oxygen.
"Oh god… oh god," she sobbed, her voice muffled by the duvet, her hips beginning to buck in a frantic, uneven rhythm.
You didn't let up. You used your hands to spread those heavy, plush cheeks wider, pulling her open until she was completely exposed to the cool air and your searing heat. You focused on the sensitive skin of her clit, flicking your tongue against her with a precision that made her back arch so high she was practically hovering off the mattress.
"You're shaking so hard you're going to rattle the bed, Tate," you murmured, pulling back just enough to let her gasp for air, your voice a low, predatory rumble. "Do you like being my little mess? Do you like having nothing left to do but feel?"
Tate’s response was a broken, incoherent wail. She was no longer the polished image on a billboard; she was a heap of flushed skin and shivering nerves, her fingers gripping the duvet so hard she was practically ripping the fabric. Her ass was a vivid, pulsing crimson from the slaps, the heat radiating off her like a furnace.
"Yes… please… god, yes," she choked out, her voice sounding like it had been dragged through gravel.
You didn't give her the luxury of a pause. You shifted, sliding your body up until your chest was flushing against her arched back, your heartbeat drumming a frantic counterpoint to hers. You reached down, your fingers finding the slick, swollen entrance of her heat, but instead of sliding inside, you used your palm to press firmly against her clit, pinning her down while your other hand reached for the bedside drawer.
You pulled out a thick, silicone strap, the material cold and heavy, a stark contrast to the furnace of her skin. Usually, she was the one to bury you in the mattress by pounding on you like it had personally offended her, with you asking many times to do the same for her, so now was your chance.
"Hold still," you commanded, your voice a jagged edge.
The sound of the strap clicking into place was like a gavel hitting a sounding block. Tate whimpered, a sound of pure, unadulterated anticipation, her face still mashed into the pillow. She could hear the leather creaking, the weight of the toy settling against your hips. The shift in the room was electric; the air felt thick, saturated with the smell of her own arousal and the raw, musk-heavy scent of a woman who had been completely dismantled.
You didn't slide in immediately. You liked the way she was trembling, the way her heavy, plush ass was practically vibrating in the air, begging for the intrusion. You reached down, your fingers splaying across the flushed, crimson globes of her backside, and gave her one more sharp, ringing smack.
"You okay, honey?"
The question was a trick. It was a soft, velvet lure designed to make her think for a split second, and the moment she opened her mouth to answer, you slammed the head of the toy home.
Tate didn't just scream; she detonated. The impact was visceral, a heavy, sliding collision that drove her chest deep into the mattress and sent a shockwave of pleasure rippling from her pelvis to her fingertips. She let out a guttural, distorted sound, somewhere between a sob and a roar, as the thickness of the silicone stretched her open, filling the void she had been begging for with a relentless, uncompromising weight.
"Oh… fuck… oh god, fuck!" she wailed, her voice breaking into a raw, jagged rasp.
The impact hadn't just filled her; it had anchored her. For the first time in years, Tate wasn't the one navigating the storm, she was the shore, and you were the tide, crashing into her with a rhythmic, punishing force. You didn't give her a second to adjust. You gripped her hips with a bruising intensity, your knuckles digging into the soft, pale meat of her waist, and began to drive.
Each thrust was a heavy, sliding collision that echoed through the quiet room. The sound was wet, a visceral slap-squelch as the silicone slammed against her drenched heat and the plush, crimson-flushed globes of her ass. Tate was a chaotic mess beneath you, her legs splaying wide, her toes curling into the charcoal duvet as she fought for air.
"You’re taking it so well, Tate," you growled, your voice scraping like sandpaper. "None of the labels, none of the charts… just this. Just my weight breaking you."
You didn't just pump into her; you carved into her. You shifted your angle, driving the toy upward, hitting that sweet spot that made her vision blur. Tate’s response was a series of broken, rhythmic shrieks, her head tossing wildly against the pillow. She was no longer a person; she was a collection of spasms and slick, honeyed heat.
Suddenly, you pulled out almost entirely, leaving only the tip teasing the entrance of her swollen heat. The sudden void made her let out a strangled, desperate wail, her hips bucking instinctively to pull you back in.
"Tell me what's been bothering that pretty head of yours, what made my precious girl upset?"
The question was a cruelty, a sudden shift into softness that only served to make the hunger in her gut scream louder. Tate tried to speak, her voice a ruined thing, a ghost of the melody she sold to millions. "The… the producers… the lawyers… I just—"
You didn't let her finish the sentence. You slammed back into her with a force that rattled the headboard, the impact sounding like a wet thunderclap in the dim room. The toy buried itself deep, stretching her wide, the friction creating a searing heat that blurred the lines between pleasure and total annihilation.
"The lawyers aren't in this room, Tate," you growled, your voice a low, predatory vibration. "The producers can't hear you screaming. Right now, you don't belong to a label. You belong to me."
You shifted your grip, sliding your hands from her waist to the back of her neck, pressing her face harder into the pillow to stifle the noise, though you knew she wouldn't stop. You began a relentless, driving pace, the silicone toy sliding through her slickness with a rhythmic, visceral thwack against her plush, flushed cheeks. Every impact sent a shudder through her spine, her heavy ass undulating beneath you like a wave of raw, shivering heat.
"Please… please don't stop…" she whimpered, the words barely audible, her voice a ruined rasp of a thing.
You didn't stop. You ramped up the tempo, the friction between the silicone and her drenched walls creating a searing, sliding heat that felt like it was melting her from the inside out. You could feel her internal muscles clamping down around the toy, a rhythmic, involuntary pulsing that tried to pull you deeper even as you were already bottoming out.
"Look at you," you hissed, your voice thick with a possessive hunger. "The great Tate McRae, reduced to a shaking, dripping mess."
Suddenly, you shifted your weight, rolling her over with a forceful tug on her hips. The movement was jarring, leaving her breathless and blinking as she stared up at you, her hazel eyes clouded with a cocktail of lust and utter submission. She looked wrecked, hair splayed like a dark halo across the pillow, skin flushed a deep, bruised pink, her chest heaving.
You didn't give her time to recover. You grabbed her ankles and yanked her legs upward and backward, pinning her shoulders to the mattress and arching her pelvis toward you. This position left her completely exposed, her heavy, rounded ass pushed toward the ceiling, a glistening, trembling target of plush, crimson-stained skin.
"You're not done being a mess," you whispered, the sound of your voice a low vibration that seemed to echo in the hollow of her throat.
Tate let out a broken, stuttering moan, her fingers clawing at the mattress as her legs were pinned back. She was utterly open, her breathing a series of jagged, high-pitched hitches. The sight of her was intoxicating, the wide, plush curve of her hips framing the glistening, swollen center of her, and the heavy, rounded globes of her backside trembling with every pulse of her heart.
"You're so fucking open for me," you growled, the raw edge of your voice cutting through her haze.
You didn't slide back in. Not yet. Instead, you reached down and gripped the heavy, rounded globes of her ass, your fingers sinking deep into the plush, overheated skin. You squeezed with a bruising intensity, molding her flesh in your palms, feeling the way her internal muscles spasmed in a desperate attempt to find the friction she’d just been denied.
"I can feel your heart beating in your skin, Tate," you murmured, your voice a dark, velvet scrape. "Everything in you is screaming for it."
Tate’s head thrashed against the pillow, her hazel eyes rolled back so far only the whites were showing. She was beyond words, beyond the capacity to form a sentence. She was just a raw nerve, a collection of shivering curves and desperate, wet heat. Her heavy, plush ass was still vibrating under your grip, the skin there a deep, pulsing crimson from the earlier strikes, now slick with a fine sheen of sweat and lubricant.
"I… I can't… please…" she choked out, her voice a ruined, gravelly thing.
You didn't give her the relief of a slow entry. You shifted your weight, aligning the head of the toy with the slick, swollen entrance of her heat, and slammed home with a violent, singular force.
Tate’s entire body stiffened, her spine arching like a bow as a guttural, primal shriek ripped from her throat. The impact was tectonic, driving the toy deep into her, stretching her wide and filling her with a pressure that bordered on agony and absolute ecstasy. She wasn't just taking it; she was absorbing it, her internal walls clamping around the silicone with a rhythmic, desperate hunger.
"You’re so tight," you growled, the sound vibrating against her inner thigh as you leaned in. "Like you're trying to hold onto me so I can't leave."
Tate’s response was a broken, incoherent wail. Her legs, pinned back by your grip, shook with a violent intensity. Every time the toy slid deep, the friction against her G-spot sent a jolt through her that made her toes curl and her hips jerk upward, trying to meet the blow. The sound in the room had become a rhythmic, wet percussion, the slap of your pelvis against her plush, flushed cheeks and the squelch of the silicone sliding through her over-saturated heat.
She was hovering on the razor's edge, her consciousness narrowing down to a single, pulsing point of white-hot intensity. Her internal muscles were no longer just clamping; they were seizing, rhythmic spasms of surrender that tried to milk the toy out of her even as she begged for more. Her hazel eyes were blown wide, the pupils swallowing the iris, her chest heaving in short, frantic gasps that sounded like she was drowning in the air.
The tension in her body had reached a critical mass, a coiled spring of pleasure and pressure that was about to snap. Every nerve ending from her pinned shoulders to her shaking toes was screaming in a unified, desperate frequency. She was a storm surge, a tidal wave of slick, honeyed heat that had reached its peak and was now crashing violently against the shore of her own skin.
Suddenly, you shifted the angle, driving the toy in a sharp, rhythmic upward tilt that hammered directly into her most sensitive depths.
Tate’s voice didn't just break; it shattered. She let out a high, piercing scream that echoed off the bedroom walls, her body bucking against your grip like a landed fish. The pleasure was too much, a violent surge of electricity that short-circuited every thought in her head. Her internal muscles clamped down in a series of rhythmic, crushing contractions, milking the silicone with a desperate, involuntary strength.
"That's it, babygirl, let it go!" you roared, your voice raw and commanding.
You didn't slow down. As Tate spiraled into the first wave of her climax, you ramped up the speed, your hips becoming a blur of rhythmic, punishing motion. The slap-slap-slap of your pelvis against her plush, crimson-flushed ass became a frantic drumbeat, a visceral sound of ownership. Tate was no longer a person; she was a collection of shivering, wet surfaces, her body vibrating under you like a tuning fork.
"Look at me, Tate! Look at me while you break!" you commanded, releasing one of her legs to grip her chin, forcing her clouded gaze to meet yours.
Tate’s eyes were vacant, swimming in a sea of dopamine and raw, unfiltered lust. She looked like she had been dismantled and put back together wrong, her mouth hanging open, a thin silver thread of saliva bridging her lips. She tried to speak, but all that came out was a broken, wet whimper. She wasn't the girl on the posters anymore; she was just a shivering, open thing, her body a map of your ownership.
"My pretty girl…"
The command in your voice didn't just soften; it evaporated, replaced by a tenderness so sudden it felt like a physical warmth flooding the room. You released the grip on her chin, your hand sliding upward to cradle her cheek with a lightness that contradicted the violence of the last ten minutes. You leaned down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to her forehead, your lips tasting the salt of her sweat and the purity of her exhaustion. The predator had vanished, leaving behind the only person in the world who truly knew how to hold the pieces of her together.
Your movements shifted from a rhythmic assault to a slow, grounding drift. You began to withdraw the toy with an agonizingly gentle deliberation, the silicone sliding out of her pulsing heat with a soft, wet sound. You wrapped your arms around her, cocooning her in the safety of your scent and your strength, turning her from a conquered territory back into a cherished partner.
You began to murmur into the crook of her neck, your voice no longer a command but a lullaby of whispered affirmations. "I've got you, Tate. I've got all of you," you breathed, your lips grazing the salt-slicked skin of her shoulder. You started to kiss away the remnants of her stress, your tongue tracing the lines where the tension had lived for years, replacing the fire of the climax with a cooling, liquid tenderness. You were the sanctuary now, the quiet after the storm, holding her as if she were made of the finest, most fragile porcelain.
Your hands, which had been instruments of bruising intensity, transitioned into a slow, rhythmic massage. You traced the curve of her spine with the tips of your fingers, your touch as light as a falling leaf, smoothing over the flushed, crimson skin of her backside. You began to hum a low, wordless tune, a vibration that resonated from your chest directly into hers, grounding her back into the physical world. You weren't just holding her; you were absorbing the last of her tremors, pulling the residual shakes from her muscles and folding them into your own steady heartbeat.
Tate let out a sound, not a moan, not a scream, but a long, shuddering exhale that seemed to empty her entire soul. She collapsed into you, her limbs turning to lead, her head resting heavily on your shoulder. The silence of the room returned, no longer heavy with tension, but saturated with the scent of sex, sweat, and the lingering musk of absolute surrender.
For a few minutes, neither of you moved. You just stayed there, locked in a tangle of limbs and dampened skin, the only sound the synchronization of two hearts slowing down from a frantic pace.
Tate’s breathing was still ragged, her chest hitching in small, involuntary aftershocks. She felt smaller in your arms now, the armor of her celebrity not just stripped, but incinerated. She shifted slightly, her skin sticking to the charcoal duvet with a wet, tacky sound, and she let out a soft, broken giggle that sounded like it had been pulled from the bottom of her lungs.
"You're a menace," she whispered, her voice a ruined, husky rasp. "A complete… fucking menace."
She didn't pull away. Instead, she arched her back slightly, pressing the flushed, sensitive heat of her backside deeper into your touch, as if she were trying to merge her skin with yours. The vulnerability was still there, but it had shifted; it was no longer the desperation of a woman drowning, but the quiet contentment of someone who had finally reached the shore.
Suddenly, she shifted, her movements heavy and sluggish, and rolled over in your arms. She looked up at you, her hazel eyes still hazy, the pupils wide and dark. She reached up, her fingers trembling as she traced the line of your jaw, her touch light and questioning.
"I feel like I've been disassembled," she murmured, her voice a low, gravelly hum. "Like you took every single piece of me apart and just… left them on the floor."
She didn't move to get up; she couldn't. Her muscles were humming with a residual electricity, a lingering afterglow that made her skin feel hyper-sensitive to the slightest brush of the air. She looked at you, and for a second, the pop star was entirely gone. There was no stage presence, no curated gaze. There was only a girl, wrecked and radiant, basking in the wreckage of her own surrender.
"Do it again," she whispered, the request barely a breath, her eyes dropping to your lips. "Not the… not the intensity. Just… touch me. Everywhere."
You shifted, your body sliding over hers like a slow-moving tide, your skin tacky and hot against hers. You started with her neck, your tongue tracing the frantic pulse point where her heart was still trying to remember how to beat in a normal rhythm. You could taste the salt, the musk, and the lingering scent of the silicone, all mixing into a cocktail of raw, unbridled passion. "As you wish boss,"
I loved miss possesivs. Tate with a boob fixation?
+18 MDNI
word count: 888
warnings: foul language, titty eating and apretiation😱, teasing girlfriends who love each other
"If you keep staring at them, I might have to actually start charging you," You joked, leaning back against the sofa and letting out a breathy laugh.
Tate didn't even blink. She was perched on the edge of the cushion, her hazel eyes dilated, locked onto the swell of your chest with a hunger that bordered on religious. She wasn't just looking; she was studying the way the fabric of your thin tank top strained, the way your breath hitched when she leaned in. Her hand drifted upward, not touching yet, just hovering in the heat radiating off your skin. "I’m just wondering if they’re as soft as they look," she murmured, her voice a low, gravelly rasp that sent a shiver straight down your spine. "Or if they’re actually made of something celestial. Because honestly? I could stare at them for three business days and still feel like I’ve missed a detail."
"Tate, you've touched them plenty of times," You crossed your arms, making your chest more acentuated now. "A picture will last you longer, you know? "
"I have plenty, thank you for your concern" Tate answered, crossing her arms too to mirror you, but adding her signature pout.
She didn't just like your chest; she was obsessed with the architecture of it, the way they shifted whenever you laughed, the specific weight of them in her palms. To her, they were the center of the universe, a gravitational pull she couldn't fight even if she wanted to. She leaned in, her nose brushing against the fabric of your tank top, inhaling the scent of your skin and laundry detergent. "Pictures are two-dimensional, baby. I need the three-dimensional, tactile experience. I need the… squish," she whispered, and before you could retort, she lunged forward, burying her face directly into the valley of your chest with a muffled, contented moan.
"Don't you dare bite my tit, McRae. They're already sensitive as they are."
Tate didn't answer with words; she answered by humming against your skin, her teeth grazing the underside of your breast through the thin cotton. She was like a cat with a ball of yarn, completely focused and dangerously determined. You tried to maintain some semblance of a conversation about the new track she was producing, but it's hard to discuss bridge transitions when a pop star is treating your chest like a five-course meal. You laughed, the sound vibrating through your ribs, and that vibration seemed to trigger something in her. She pulled back just an inch, her hazel eyes blown wide, looking less like a girlfriend and more like a predator who had just spotted something delicious.
"Then they need a kiss…" She murmured against your skin with that tone that could make half the world fumble before her, but she only used with you. Her fingers slowly crept up your sides, pulling the fabric of your top down and exposing more of your breasts for her lips to explore.
Suddenly, she shifted her weight, her movements fluid and urgent. She didn't just want to graze; she wanted to claim. Tate’s mouth locked onto your nipple, her tongue swirling around it with a wet, insistent pressure that made you arch your back, your fingers digging into the fabric of the sofa. The sound she made—a deep, guttural growl of satisfaction—was raw, stripping away the pop-star polish and leaving only the woman who was starving for you.
"Tate—" you gasped, the word breaking as her teeth nipped the peak of your breast. "You're… you're actually a menace."
"A hungry one," she murmured, her voice vibrating against your skin. She didn't stop, her tongue tracing a wet, searing line from your nipple toward the center of your chest, her breathing heavy and jagged.
Tate’s hands weren't idle. While her mouth continued to devour your breasts, her palms slid downward, slipping under the waistband of your shorts with a sudden, possessive grip. She knew exactly where your tension lived, and she loved to play with it. She shifted her body, sliding her leg between yours to press her heat against your core, creating a friction that made your vision blur.
"You talk so much for someone who's shaking," Tate whispered, her voice dripping with a playful, predatory edge. She pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, her hazel gaze darkened, almost amber in the dim light of the living room.
She was enamoured with what she saw. You, your parted lips, hair disheveled. Looking at her like she was everything to you, she hoped she was, just like you were for her.
Suddenly, Tate’s arms hooked under your thighs and around your back with a strength that caught you off guard, hoisting you up in one fluid, athletic motion. You let out a startled shriek, your legs instinctively wrapping around her waist to keep from slipping. She didn't just carry you; she marched toward the bedroom with a focused, singular intensity, her breathing heavy and ragged against your neck. "The living room is for talking," she grunted, her voice a low vibration that echoed in your chest. "The bedroom is where I actually get to taste you."
You yelped at the sudden movement, grabbing onto her. "Tate, we can't. You have to finish this—"
Request for Tate smut set after the met gala????? Ready didn’t go to the met gala but it is just super soft and sweet when the reader waits up for her. (Tate is also a little drunk)
+18 MDNI
word count: 3,8k
warnings: pet names, intoxication (drunk tate), barely any fingering and pussy eating (i'm sorry)
“Home sweet home,” Tate muttered as she closed the door behind herself, her voice a husky, champagne-soaked rasp. She stepped into the dim light of the foyer, her heels clicking unevenly, the high of her first Met Gala still humming in her veins, though the alcohol had begun to blur the edges of her vision.
She looked like a fallen star, her golden dress clinging to her hips in a way that felt like a crime against gravity. Then she saw you. Curled up on the oversized sofa, a book forgotten in your lap, eyes wide and waiting. You hadn't slept; couldn’t. Not while she was out there in the chaos.
Tate let out a sound that was half-sigh, half-groan, leaning against the mahogany doorframe. The Met Gala had been a blur of flashes and fake smiles, but the sight of you, tired and utterly devoted, was the only thing that felt real. "You're still awake," she murmured, her voice dripping like honey over gravel. She didn't just walk toward you; she drifted, the champagne making her gait a dangerous, swaying dance.
She reached out, her fingertips grazing your jawline with a tenderness that bordered on ache. To Tate, you were a fragile, shimmering thing, a soft place to land in a world that wanted to tear her apart. The way you looked at her, with those wide eyes full of an uncomplicated, unwavering love, made her chest tighten. You were the only person who didn't want something from her, only for her.
“Hi, baby.” You murmured, but the words were swallowed by the sudden, predatory weight of her.
Tate didn’t just lean in; she collapsed into you, the scent of expensive iris perfume and stale champagne flooding your senses. She pulled back just enough to look at you, her hazel eyes clouded with a cocktail of exhaustion and an intensifying, raw hunger. A slow, dangerous smile curved her lips as she realized you’d spent the last twelve hours staring at the clock, counting the seconds until she stepped back through that door. The purity of it, the simple, pathetic sweetness of your devotion, sent a jolt of electricity straight to her core. It made her want to cherish you, and it made her want to absolutely ruin you.
"You're such a little saint, aren't you?" she whispered, her voice dropping an octave, vibrating against your skin. She grazed your lower lip with her thumb, her touch possessive, marking you as her territory before the night had even truly begun. "Waiting up for me. Thinking about me. Just sitting here in the dark, longing for me to come home."
She didn't just appreciate the gesture; she feasted on it. The knowledge that you had sacrificed sleep just to be the first thing she saw upon her return acted like an aphrodisiac, turning her exhaustion into a sharp, jagged edge of desire. Tate pulled back slightly, her gaze raking over your frame, the contrast of your delicate features against the heavy, opulent leather of the sofa making you look like a piece of art she wanted to break.
"I can't even get this dress off by myself," she lied, her voice a low, humming vibration. She knew exactly how the zipper worked, but the invitation was a trap, and she knew you’d walk right into it.
You reached out, your fingers trembling slightly as you gripped the cold fabric of her dress. As you worked the fastening, Tate didn't wait for the fabric to fall. She pivoted, her movements fluid despite the champagne, and shoved you back into the cushions with a suddenness that knocked the breath from your lungs. The contrast was jarring, the softness of her gaze replaced by a predatory focus.
"You’re shaking," she noted, her voice a low, humming vibration. She didn't sound concerned; she sounded hungry. "Do I make you nervous, baby? Even when we're alone?"
Tate didn't give you time to answer. She lunged forward, her body pinning yours into the leather with a heavy, suffocating heat. The dress, half-unzipped, flared around her hips like a dying star. She captured your lips in a kiss that tasted of expensive bubbles and desperation, her tongue sweeping through your mouth with a possessive force that left you gasping.
She pulled back just an inch, her hazel eyes darkening, pupils blown wide. "I spent hours tonight being stared at by people who think they own a piece of me," she breathed, her voice a raw, jagged edge. "But you… you're the only one who actually does."
Suddenly, she shifted her weight, her knee sliding between your thighs with a blunt, heavy pressure that made your breath hitch. She didn't just want a kiss; she wanted to reclaim every inch of her autonomy by asserting total control over yours. Tate’s hand slid from your jaw down to your waist, her grip tightening until it bordered on bruising, dragging you upward so your chest pressed against the swell of hers.
"The dress," she commanded, her voice a low, vibrating thrum against your lips. "Get it off me. Now."
It wasn't a request; it was an order that sent a shiver of submission racing down your spine. Your fingers, clumsy and frantic, fought with the stubborn fabric and the intricate hooks of the garment. As the fabric finally gave way, sliding off her shoulders to pool around her waist, the sight of her, bare-chested, her heavy breasts heaving with a rhythmic, hungry intensity, made your head spin.
Tate didn’t wait for you to admire the view. She gripped your wrists, pinning them against the sofa with one hand, while her other hand dove beneath your clothes, her palm flat against your stomach, sliding downward with a slow, agonizing deliberation.
"You're so sweet," she whispered, her voice a jagged rasp as she flipped you underneath her, pressing her bare chest against your back. "So fucking delicate. It makes me want to see exactly how much you can take before you break."
Tate’s hand traveled downward, her fingers splaying across the swell of your backside with a possessive slap that echoed in the quiet room. She didn't just touch; she gripped, her nails digging into your skin, marking you. You let out a sharp, involuntary whimper, and the sound seemed to fuel her.
"That's it," she hissed, her voice thick with a raw, unbridled lust. "Let me hear it."
With a sudden, fluid movement, Tate stripped away the remaining fabric of her dress, her hips shifting against you. The feeling of her bare, curved hips pressing into your rear was a revelation of heat and pressure. She leaned forward, her chest crushing your lungs, her voice a low, dangerous murmur in your ear.
"I've been thinking about this since the limo ride," she whispered, her hand sliding lower, her fingertips tracing the seam of your underwear. "About how much you'd shake when I finally got you in this position."
She didn't waste any more time. Tate reached around, her fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties and ripping them down with a sharp, decisive tug. The air hit your exposed skin for only a second before Tate’s palm connected with your cheek in a firm, resounding smack that made you arch your back, a cry of shock and pleasure escaping your throat.
"God, you're so soft," she groaned, her voice sounding like it had been dragged through velvet and gravel. "So fucking soft, and so ready for me."
Tate didn't just touch you; she explored you with a hunger that felt like an excavation. Her fingers, long and dexterous, began to probe the sensitive folds of your heat, her touch alternating between a teasing light graze and a demanding, deep pressure. She knew exactly where you were most sensitive, and she played you like an instrument, her movements rhythmic and relentless.
"Look at you," she breathed, her voice a jagged edge of passion. "Trembling for me. Shaking under me."
She reached down, her fingers finding the wet, aching center of your desire. As she slid inside you, one finger, then two, she felt the internal walls of your heat clamping around her, a desperate, instinctive grip. Tate let out a guttural moan, the sound vibrating through your entire frame.
"You're so tight, baby," she gasped, her movements becoming faster, more urgent. "Just a little, fragile thing, taking everything I give you."
She began to move her fingers in a relentless, driving pace, her thumb finding the swollen peak of your clit and grinding against it with a calculated, rhythmic intensity. The friction was blinding, a white-hot spark that ignited in your core and radiated outward, turning your muscles to liquid.
You tried to speak, to tell her how much you needed her, but the words were lost in a series of fragmented moans. Tate loved the sound; she fed on it, her breathing becoming heavy and erratic.
"That's it, scream for me," she commanded, her voice a low, possessive thrum. "Let the whole fucking building know who you belong to."
She increased the pressure, her fingers driving deeper, pushing you toward a ledge you weren't sure you could survive. Your vision blurred, the scent of the sofa and her iris perfume blending into a sensory overload of pure, unadulterated passion.
Just as you felt yourself peaking, Tate withdrew her fingers with a sudden, teasing precision, leaving you hovering on the edge of a precipice, gasping for air.
"Not yet," she whispered, a predatory smile playing on her lips. "I want you absolutely ruined first."
Suddenly, Tate shifted her grip, grabbing your hips and hoisting your lower half upward, tilting your pelvis toward the ceiling. The position left you completely exposed, your vulnerability a feast for her hazel eyes. She didn't just look; she admired the way your skin flushed a deep, frantic pink, the contrast of your pale, skinny frame against the dark mahogany leather of the sofa.
"You're practically begging for it, aren't you?" Tate murmured, her voice a low, vibrating frequency that seemed to hum right through your nerves.
She didn't wait for a verbal answer; she didn't need one. The way your hips were instinctively twitching, seeking the contact she had just denied you, was answer enough. Tate shifted her weight, her knees digging on either side of your thighs, locking you into place. She leaned over you, her heavy breasts grazing your shoulder blades, the friction of her skin against yours sending fresh jolts of electricity through your spine.
Suddenly, she shifted her center of gravity, sliding her hand back to grip your jaw, forcing your head to tilt, giving her a clear view of the wreckage she was making of you. With a sudden, sharp movement, she reached down and grabbed both of your cheeks, her fingers sinking into the soft flesh with a possessive strength. She pulled you back against her, the friction of her thighs against your backside creating a searing heat that made your vision swim.
"I can feel you pulsing," she groaned, her voice a raw, jagged edge of lust. "You're practically vibrating under my hands, you little freak."
Tate didn’t just hold you; she owned the space you occupied. She shifted her weight, the heavy curve of her thighs pressing deep into your backside, grounding you as she began to manipulate you like a piece of clay. She wasn't interested in a gentle glide; she wanted friction, she wanted the sound of skin slapping skin, and she wanted to feel the exact moment your composure shattered.
"Tate— Baby—"
The plea was cut short as Tate’s palms slammed against your cheeks with a rhythmic, bruising intensity. The sound was wet, heavy, and absolute, echoing through the cavernous silence of the foyer. She wasn't just touching you; she was drumming a cadence of ownership into your skin, her fingers splaying wide to encompass the entirety of your backside.
"Don't interrupt me, sweetheart," Tate hissed, her voice a low, vibrating thrum that felt like a physical weight on your neck.
She didn't just want your submission; she wanted to devour your resolve. Suddenly, Tate shifted, her grip on your hips tightening until her knuckles went white, and she hauled you backward, slamming your backside flush against the center of her own heat. The impact was visceral, the heavy, plush curve of her hips meeting yours with a meaty, wet thud that sent a shockwave of pleasure straight to your brain.
"Oww— Fuck, Tate—"
The sound of your own voice was a ragged, broken thing, half-sob and half-shriek. Tate didn’t flinch; she leaned into it, her teeth grazing the junction where your neck met your shoulder, marking you with a territorial hunger. She could feel the way you were trembling, not just a shiver, but a full-body seismic event.
Tate didn’t let the momentum die. She shifted her weight, her knees spreading wider on the couch to lock you in a vice-grip of flesh and fabric. She reached down, her fingers hooking into the fabric of your remaining clothes and ripping them away with a violent, decisive efficiency. You were completely bare now, your skin stark against the dark couch, shivering not from cold, but from the sheer intensity of her focus.
"Look at you," Tate groaned, her voice a raw, jagged rasp. "Just a shivering little thing. So open. So fucking ready. You're so cute, my love."
Suddenly, the predatory tension in her muscles snapped. The sharp, demanding edge of her hunger dissolved, replaced by a sudden, overwhelming wave of tenderness that caught you off guard. She collapsed forward, her heavy breasts cushioning your back, and buried her face in the crook of your neck. She wasn't gripping you like a trophy anymore; she was clinging to you like you were the only thing keeping her anchored to the earth. A soft, broken whimper escaped her, a sound of total surrender, as she felt the slick, pulsing heat of your body against hers. She was pussy-drunk, intoxicated by your scent and the wet, clinging reality of your desire, her dominant facade melting into a puddle of desperate, mushy longing, and she even hadn't tasted you yet.
"God, you're so perfect," she murmured, her voice no longer a command but a prayer, thick with a dizzying kind of adoration. She began to pepper your shoulder and neck with soft, lingering kisses, her lips tasting of salt and lingering champagne. The predatory hunt had ended, and in its place was a raw, unguarded sweetness. She breathed you in, her lungs expanding against your spine, her movements now slow and languid, as if she wanted to memorize the exact texture of your skin before the world rushed back in.
Tate’s hands, which had been so demanding moments ago, now drifted over your curves with a reverence that bordered on worship. She let out a long, shuddering sigh, her forehead resting against the nape of your neck, her body humming with a fragile, exhausted kind of love. Her mind clouded by the sheer, intoxicating proximity of you, her dominant edge dissolved into a soft, mushy longing that made her feel small despite her height.
"I can't even think straight," she whimpered, the sound muffled against your skin. "Everything is just… noise. Except for you. You're the only thing that's quiet. The only thing that's real." She began to nuzzle into your shoulder, her kisses no longer predatory but desperate and sweet, like a child clinging to a favorite blanket. The raw power she had wielded minutes ago had collapsed into a puddle of adoration, her heart drumming a frantic, uneven rhythm against your back.
She shifted slightly, her voice becoming a soft, honeyed murmur that made your chest ache. "I love you so much it actually hurts, baby. I don't want the crowds. I don't want the lights. I just want to be right here, curled up in you, until the rest of the world just disappears." She let out a shaky breath, her hands sliding from your hips to wrap around your waist in a protective, crushing embrace, squeezing you as if you might evaporate if she let go for even a second.
"Tate, I love you too, but I swear to God— If you don't fuck me right this second—"
The words were cut off by the wet, heavy sound of Tate’s mouth colliding with the sensitive curve of your inner thigh. The transition was violent, a sudden snap back from her soft whimpering to a predatory focus that left you gasping. She wasn't just kissing you; she was tasting you, her tongue tracing the seam of your heat with a slow, agonizing deliberation that made your hips jerk instinctively against the leather.
"Patience, my little saint," she murmured, her voice returning to that low, vibrating thrum, though it was now laced with a wicked, playful edge. She pulled back just enough to look at you, her hazel eyes were blown wide, shimmering with a mixture of adoration and absolute depravity.
Suddenly, she shifted her grip, her fingers locking around your thighs with a strength that left no room for escape. She didn't just slide back in; she lunged, her tongue sweeping upward in one long, wet stroke from the base of your heat to the very peak of your clit. You let out a strangled yelp, your back arching so hard your spine nearly cracked against the leather.
Tate groaned, her voice a raw, jagged rasp. She didn't stop; she began to lap at you with a rhythmic, starving intensity, her tongue mimicking the driving pace of her fingers from before. She was drinking you in, her breath hot and erratic against your soaking skin, her cheeks hollowing as she sucked the sensitive flesh of your inner thighs, marking you with deep, purple bruises that would be a secret between the two of you for a week.
You were a chaotic mess of sensation, your fingers clawing into the leather of the sofa, your head tossing from side to side as you felt the world dissolve into a white-hot blur of pleasure. Tate loved the way you fell apart under her, the way your frame shuddered, the way your breath came in fragmented, desperate hitches.
Suddenly, she stopped.
The silence that rushed back into the room was deafening, punctuated only by your ragged, sobbing breaths. You were hovering on the precipice, your muscles locked in a state of agonizing tension, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You tried to push your hips forward, seeking the wet heat of her tongue, but Tate had already shifted.
"I love you so much…" Tate murmured, laying on the couch, eyes fluttering closed. You shifted quickly to straddle her lap carefully. "Tate? Baby?"
But it was too late, she was already lost in her exhaustion. Tate’s eyes were heavy, half-lidded with a cocktail of champagne and sensory burnout, her body feeling as though it had been replaced by lead. The adrenaline of the Met Gala had finally ebbed, leaving her hollowed out, yet as she looked up at you, straddling her, eyes wide and searching, a slow, syrupy warmth flooded her chest. She was too tired to hunt, too spent to lead the dance, but the sight of your desperate, longing face triggered a primal need to give back. She didn't have the strength to conquer you anymore, but she had more than enough left to cherish you, to use the last of her reserves to ensure you felt every ounce of the devotion she held for you.
You chuckled, leaning down and leaving a swift kiss on her lips before getting off the couch. "C'mon, you casanova. Let's get you to bed."
This took so long cause 1. i wrote a different one and lost it, 2. i got so mad i surrended (i got ragebaited by my memory) and 3. i'm in the middle of exams. i'm so sorry to the anon, hope you at least like it 🙏😭
happy tate mcrae’s birthday for all of you who celebrate it!
i’m actually shocked no one has posted anything for the queen’s birthday so i’ll be posting two or three asks today (not because i’m late with the request, definitely…) and maybe a oneshot to celebrate her 💋🤸♀️⭐️🧚♀️💐
little piece of lore: i always wanted to be a writer but i just dropped out of literature at uni cause i cant fuck with linguistics so writing smut it is🤸♀️
Tate smut with long term reader after a show???? Like just using her gf to burn off adrenaline after
+18 MDNI
word count: 3,1K
warning: filthy sex, biting, thigh riding, fingering, lowkey don't know why i keep puting these if i write vanilla sex
The hotel door barely clicked shut behind you two before Tate’s hand was tangled in your hair, yanking your head back hard enough to make your knees wobble. "Missed me, little thing?" she purred, her voice still rough from singing, lips slick with gloss that smelled like cherries and vodka. The scent of her sweat, the heat radiating off her skin, fuck, you could taste the exhaustion and adrenaline clinging to her, the aftermath of another sold-out show.
You chuckled softly and kissed her slow, letting your lips linger against hers, her breath tasted like stolen backstage champagne and the mint gum she chewed when she was nervous. "Missed you," you murmured against her mouth, fingertips ghosting down the sweat-damp line of her spine.
She let out a noise, something between a growl and a whimper, and suddenly her arms were around you, squeezing tight enough to bruise. "Fuck, baby—" Tate buried her face in your neck, inhaling like she was trying to memorize your skin. Her body was trembling, the adrenaline crash hitting her hard now that she was alone with you. "Need you close," she mumbled, voice muffled against your shoulder.
You laughed softly, carding your fingers through her damp hair. "Tate, you're crushing me—" But she only clung harder, her nails digging crescent moons into your back. It was rare for her to be like this, all soft edges and desperate neediness after a show, usually she was a wildfire, burning through you with greedy hands and filthy demands. But tonight? Tonight she just wanted to hold you, like she was afraid you'd dissolve if she let go.
Her breath hitched when you pressed a kiss to her temple, and for a heartbeat, the only sound was the distant hum of the hotel's AC and the rustle of her shorts as she shifted against you. Then, suddenly, her hips rolled forward, grinding against your thigh with a shudder. "Shit," she muttered, voice thick. "Thought I just wanted to— fuck—"
You knew that tone. The way it frayed at the edges, like a wire pulled too tight. The aftermath of a show always left her like this, wired and restless, fingers twitching for something to claw into. "Thought wrong, huh?" you teased, but your fingers were already tightening in her hair, tugging just enough to make her gasp.
Her hips jerked again, harder this time, the rough denim seam of her shorts dragging against your bare thigh. "Need—" Tate’s breath was ragged, her lips slick and parted against your neck. "Need you to fuck it off of me." Not a request. Not even a demand. Just a raw, unfiltered truth ripped from her chest. She bit down on your collarbone, sharp enough to sting, and you hissed, but the pain melted into warmth when her tongue swiped over the mark, apologetic and filthy all at once.
You shoved her back against the hotel room door, her shoulder blades hitting the wood with a thud. Her pupils were blown wide, hazel swallowed by black, and the way she licked her lips, like she was already tasting you, sent a bolt of heat straight to your core. "How?" you murmured, dragging your thumb over her bottom lip, smearing her gloss. "How do you want it?"
Tate exhaled sharply through her nose, fingers curling into your waistband. "Rough," she said, voice cracking like a whip. "Make me forget my name." And then her hands were everywhere, yanking your shirt over your head, nails scraping down your ribs, palms cupping your ass hard enough to lift you onto your toes. She wasn’t asking. She was taking.
The adrenaline still thrummed under her skin, you could feel it in the way her pulse hammered against your lips when you bit her throat, in the sharp jerk of her hips when you shoved a knee between her thighs. She groaned, grinding down against you, the denim of her shorts soaked through with heat. "Fuck—" Her teeth caught your earlobe, tugging just shy of pain. "Wanna feel you everywhere."
Tate wasn’t thinking. She was burning. Her hands were wildfire, one second clawing at your waistband, the next tangled in your hair, dragging you back to her mouth like she needed your tongue more than oxygen. The taste of her was intoxicating, sweat and gloss and something raw, something hers. You could’ve drowned in it.
Her teeth sank into your lower lip, sharp enough to make you gasp, and she swallowed the sound greedily. “Fuck, fuck—” Tate’s voice was wrecked already, her breath coming in ragged bursts against your skin. Her hips jerked forward again, grinding against your thigh with a desperation that bordered on violence. The denim of her shorts was rough, the seam digging into your bare skin, but the friction only made her shudder harder. “Need— need—” She didn’t finish the sentence. Didn’t have to. Her body said it all, the way her fingers trembled as they yanked your pants down, the way her breath hitched when you shoved her back onto the bed.
The mattress groaned under her weight as she landed, her hair fanned out in a messy halo, her chest rising and falling too fast. Her eyes were wild, her lips parted, and when you climbed over her, she arched like she was trying to fuse her body to yours, like she couldn’t stand even the whisper of space between you. “Bite me,” she demanded, her voice raw. “Harder.” And you did, your teeth sinking into the curve of her shoulder, your tongue swiping over the sting. She whined, her hips bucking up against you, her nails raking down your back. “Fuck, yes— more—”
She wasn’t Tate McRae, pop star, right now. She was just Tate, desperate and undone, her body vibrating with leftover adrenaline, her skin flushed hot under your hands. You could feel the tension coiled in her muscles, the way she needed this, needed the sharp edge of pain to cut through the high, needed the press of your body to remind her she was real. Her breath hitched when your fingers slid under the waistband of her shorts, dragging them down her hips. “God, finally—” she gasped, her thighs falling open in invitation.
The second your mouth touched her, she arched, her back bowing off the bed, her hands fisting in the sheets. Her taste was fucking intoxicating, bitter and sweet and hers, and you groaned against her, your tongue dragging slow and filthy over her clit. Tate let out a strangled noise, her hips jerking up against your mouth. “Fuck, fuck— don’t tease—” Her voice was wrecked already, ragged at the edges, her fingers tangling in your hair. “Need it—”
You could feel the adrenaline still thrumming under her skin, in the way her thighs trembled when you sucked, hard, in the sharp gasp she let out when you fucked two fingers into her without warning. She clenched around you, her body tight and hot, her breath coming in ragged pants. “God— yes—” Tate’s voice was raw, her nails digging into your scalp, her hips rolling against your mouth like she was trying to drown in it.
She wasn’t gentle. She wasn’t patient. She was desperate, her body still wired from the stage, from the lights and the noise and the fucking high of it all. You could taste it on her skin, the sweat, the heat, the way she trembled when your teeth grazed her clit. She jerked like she’d been shocked, her back arching off the bed, her thighs squeezing around your head. “Fuck— fuck—” Her voice cracked, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts.
Tate didn’t just want to come, she wanted to explode, wanted the fire under her skin to consume her until there was nothing left but ash and aftershocks. And you were happy to oblige. Your fingers crooked inside her, pressing hard against that spot that made her scream, your mouth sucking at her clit like you were trying to drink her in. She writhed under you, her hips bucking wildly, her fingers twisted in your hair hard enough to hurt. “Don’t stop— don’t fucking stop—”
The bedframe slammed against the wall with every jerk of her hips, the sound drowned out by her ragged gasps and the slick, filthy noise of your fingers fucking into her. She was close, you could feel it in the way her thighs trembled, the way her breath hitched in her throat. But Tate wasn’t the type to go quietly. She fought it, her back arching off the bed, her teeth sinking into her own wrist to muffle a scream. “Fuck— baby— I’m gonna—” Her voice shattered, her body tightening like a coiled spring.
And suddenly, she broke. Her orgasm ripped through her like a wildfire, her hips stuttering against your mouth, her thighs clamping around your head hard enough to make your ears ring. She didn’t just come, she detonated. Her back bowing off the bed, her fingers clawing at the sheets like she was trying to tear them apart. Her scream was raw, unfiltered, her voice cracking under the weight of it. “Fuck!”
Her whole body convulsed, her muscles locking tight before shuddering apart, her chest heaving as she gasped for air. The scent of her, salt and sweat and her, flooded your senses, thick and intoxicating. You didn’t let up, your fingers still working inside her, your tongue lapping at her oversensitive clit, drawing out every last twitch and whimper. Tate’s breath hitched, her hips jerking weakly, her hands fluttering to your hair like she wasn’t sure whether to push you away or pull you closer. “Too— too much—” she whimpered, but her body betrayed her, her thighs trembling as another aftershock rolled through her.
You finally eased off, pressing one last kiss to her inner thigh before crawling up her body, your own skin flushed and buzzing. Tate’s eyes were half-lidded, her lips parted, her chest rising and falling in uneven bursts. She looked wrecked, beautifully wrecked, her hair a tangled mess, her skin glistening with sweat, her shorts still bunched around one thigh.
But the fire in her wasn’t out yet. Not even close.
Tate’s fingers, still trembling from her climax, suddenly dug into your hips with bruising force. Before you could react, she flipped you. Your back hit the mattress, her body pressing down on yours like a brand. Her hazel eyes, still blown wide with lust, locked onto yours as she straddled your waist.
“My turn,” she growled, voice hoarse and low, the kind of tone that sent lightning straight to your core. Her hands slid up your ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts, and you arched into her touch instinctively. But Tate wasn’t in the mood for gentle. Her nails scraped down your sides hard enough to leave red trails, her teeth catching your nipple in a sharp bite that made you gasp.
“Tate— fuck—” You writhed under her, but she pinned your hips down with her own, her soaked shorts pressing hot against your bare skin. The friction was maddening, the rough denim dragging over your clit with every roll of her hips. She smirked, slow and predatory, her fingers tightening around your wrists as she shoved them above your head. “Uh-uh,” she murmured, lips brushing your earlobe. “You don’t get to move. Not until I say so.”
Her teeth grazed your throat, sharp and sudden, and you gasped, but the sound was swallowed by her mouth crashing onto yours. The kiss was filthy, all tongue and teeth, her hips grinding down in slow, torturous circles. You could feel her heat through the fabric, the way her knee pressed against the seam of your shorts with every roll of her hips. She was using you, riding your thigh like she needed the friction more than air, and the thought sent a bolt of pure lust straight to your core.
Tate pulled back just enough to smirk, her lips swollen and glistening. "You like that?" she purred, her voice rough. "Like feeling me all over you?" Her fingers trailed down your chest, nails scraping lightly over your ribs before cupping your breasts. She pinched your nipples hard, twisting just shy of pain, and you arched off the bed with a whimper. "Fuck, yes—" you gasped, your hips bucking up against her.
But Tate tsked, her grip tightening on your wrists. "I said you don’t get to move," she growled, grinding down harder, the rough fabric of your shorts rubbing against your slick folds because of her knee. The friction was electric, just enough to tease, not enough to satisfy. You whined, squirming under her, but she just laughed, low and dark. "Patience, baby. I’m not done with you yet."
Her free hand trailed down your stomach, nails digging faint crescents into your skin, before slipping inside your pants. She didn’t touch you where you needed her most. No, she was torturing you, her fingers dancing along your inner thighs, skimming so close to your clit but never quite there. "Tate— please—" you begged, your voice cracking.
"Please what?" she murmured, her breath hot against your neck. Her hips rolled again, the soaked fabric of her shorts dragging against your bare skin, and you whimpered. "Use your words, baby." Her teeth grazed your pulse point, sharp and sudden, and you jerked—but her grip on your wrists was ironclad.
You swallowed hard, your throat dry. "Please—fuck—touch me." The words tumbled out in a rush, ragged and desperate. Tate smirked, slow and predatory, her fingers finally—finally—dipping lower. But she didn’t give you what you wanted. No, she traced your slick folds with one teasing fingertip, circling your clit just barely, just enough to make you gasp.
"Like this?" she murmured, her voice thick with lust. Her hips rolled again, grinding her soaked folds against your thigh, her own arousal smearing hot against your skin. You could feel her trembling, not from exhaustion now, but from need, from the way she was holding herself back just to watch you squirm.
You gasped when her fingertip circled your clit again, feather-light, maddening. "Tate— fuck— don't tease—"
She grinned, all teeth and hunger, her hips grinding down harder. "But you're so fucking pretty when you beg." Her voice was smoke and sin, her breath hot against your ear as she dragged her tongue along the shell of it. The hand pinning your wrists tightened, not enough to bruise, but enough to remind you who was in control.
Then, finally, her fingers dipped lower, not teasing, not circling, but plunging into you without warning. You gasped, arching off the bed as she fucked into you with two fingers, her knuckles pressing against your slick walls. "God, listen to you," Tate growled, her voice wrecked. She curled her fingers inside you, that rough, perfect pressure against your sweet spot, and your vision whited out for a second. "So fucking tight— like you were made for me."
Her thumb found your clit, rubbing tight circles as her fingers pistoned inside you, the heel of her palm grinding against you with every thrust. The sounds were filthy, her ragged breath, the wet slap of skin, the creak of the bedframe as you writhed under her. Tate's eyes were locked onto yours, her lips parted, her chest heaving. She looked feral, like she wanted to devour you whole.
"Come for me," she growled, her voice raw. "I wanna feel you shatter." And you did, your orgasm ripped through you like a lightning strike, your back arching off the bed, your thighs clamping around her wrist as you screamed. Tate didn't let up, her fingers working you through it, drawing out every last twitch and whimper until you were boneless beneath her, gasping for air.
The moment your muscles went slack, Tate collapsed on top of you, not with her usual predatory grace, but with a heavy, exhausted thud. Her forehead pressed against your collarbone, her breath hot and uneven against your skin. "Fuck," she mumbled, voice muffled. Her fingers, still slick with you, curled loosely against your ribs. "That—" she exhaled sharply, "that was a fucking workout."
You snorted, dragging your fingers through her sweat-damp hair. "You're the one who pinned me down."
Tate let out a noise halfway between a groan and a laugh, nuzzling into the crook of your neck like a disgruntled cat. "Shut up," she grumbled, but there was no bite to it, just the rough edges of exhaustion smoothing into something softer. Her breath ghosted over your skin, warm and slow, her body a deadweight pressing you into the mattress. The adrenaline was gone now, burned out of her system, leaving behind nothing but trembling limbs and the occasional aftershock twitching through her thighs.
You carded your fingers through her tangled hair, scratching lightly at her scalp the way she liked, and she melted, her whole body going lax against yours with a shuddering sigh. "Fuck," she mumbled against your collarbone, lips moving sluggishly. "Think I broke myself." Her voice was slurred with exhaustion, the words blurring together like smudged ink. One hand flopped limply against your ribs, her fingers twitching like she was trying, and failing, to muster the energy to grip you.
You chuckled, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "Dramatic," you murmured, but your arms tightened around her anyway, pulling her closer until her heartbeat thudded against your chest. Tate made a noise, something between a whine and a grunt, and burrowed deeper into your neck, her breath hot and uneven against your skin. The scent of her, sweat and gloss and her, clung to you both, thick and heady.
"Shut up," Tate mumbled, but her voice was muffled against your collarbone, her lips brushing the bite mark she’d left earlier. She exhaled sharply, her whole body going limp against yours, her legs tangled haphazardly with yours like she couldn’t bear even an inch of space between you. "Just— hold me." It wasn’t a request. It was a plea, raw and unfiltered, the kind of vulnerability she only ever showed you like this, when the high of the stage had burned out of her system, leaving behind nothing but trembling limbs and the occasional aftershock twitching through her thighs.
You chuckled softly, wrapping your arms tighter around her, your fingers tracing idle patterns down the sweat-slick curve of her spine. Tate huffed, nuzzling deeper into the crook of your neck, her breath hot and uneven against your skin. "Stop laughing," she grumbled, but there was no heat in it, just the rough edges of exhaustion smoothing into something softer, something yours.
The hotel room was silent now, save for the distant hum of the AC and Tate’s slow, shuddering breaths. The scent of sex and sweat clung to the sheets, thick and heady, and you inhaled deeply, committing the moment to memory, the weight of her body pressing you into the mattress, the way her thigh hooked possessively over yours, the faint thump of her heartbeat against your chest.
this sat too long on my drafts i’m sorry to the anon, as i said twice already, the queue decided to not post 🫠
tate needing her inhaler during sex and she panics and cries
+18 MDNI
word count: 583
warnings: tate obviously panics in here, reader comforts her??? oh and sex happens
You bent forward, kissing the salt from her collarbone as your fingers circled her in slow, teasing strokes. “Such a fucking brat,” you muttered against her skin, but the way she gasped when you slipped two fingers inside betrayed how much she loved it.
Her thighs trembled, her hips rocking to meet each thrust, and when you curled your fingers just right, Tate’s head tipped back with a shattered moan. “Y-yeah,” she stammered, her voice breaking, “just like—fuck—”
Then it hit. Her chest tightened like a vice, her breath turning ragged in all the wrong ways. Her hazel eyes flew open, panic flashing through them as she clawed at her own throat. “B-baby,” she choked out, her voice thin, desperate. The inhaler—where the fuck was it? She twisted beneath you, frantic, tears already spilling down her flushed cheeks as she gasped uselessly for air.
You scrambled off her, heart hammering, and snatched the inhaler from the nightstand. Tate snatched it from your hands with trembling fingers, pressing it to her lips and sucking in sharp, wheezing breaths. The sound was ugly, terrifying, nothing like the moans and whimpers that had filled the room seconds before. Her shoulders hunched, her body curling inward as she coughed violently, her knuckles white around the plastic.
“Easy, easy,” you murmured, rubbing circles on her back, feeling the way her ribs jerked with every choked inhale. Tears streaked her mascara down her cheeks, and when she finally managed a full breath, she collapsed against you with a shuddering sob. “I’m sorry,” she gasped, clinging to your shoulders like you were the only thing keeping her grounded. “Fuck, I’m sorry—”
“It’s okay… You don’t have to say sorry. Just breathe, please,”
Tate clutched onto you tighter, her nails digging crescent moons into your skin as she gasped between shuddering breaths. The wheeze in her lungs rattled loud enough to fill the room, drowning out the wet sounds of arousal still slick between her thighs. Her panic was visceral, her chest heaved, her pulse thundered against your fingertips where they pressed into her neck. You could taste the sharp tang of adrenaline on her skin when you kissed her forehead, your own hands shaking as you smoothed her sweat-damp hair back. "You're okay," you lied, because neither of you felt okay, not when her inhaler had been buried under discarded lingerie and forgotten in the heat of the moment.
She coughed again, wet and ragged, her body curling into yours like a wounded animal seeking shelter. The sound was gutting, so far from the breathy moans and teasing commands she'd been whispering into your ear just minutes ago. Tate McRae, pop's rising princess, the girl who commanded stages with a smirk and hips that made critics lose their words, now trembled against you, her mascara smeared into streaks of black down her flushed cheeks. "D-don't look at me," she rasped, turning her face away like the vulnerability was worse than the asthma clawing at her ribs.
You caught her chin anyway, thumb brushing the tear tracks. "Bullshit." The word came out rougher than you meant, but fuck if you'd let her hide. Not after years of tangled sheets and stolen kisses, not after knowing the way she whimpered when you bit her inner thigh just right. Her inhaler lay discarded on the nightstand, a neon orange reminder of how close things had gotten. You pressed it back into her shaking hand. "Breathe, superstar. Then tell me where you want my mouth."
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
theartofmadeline
jacobvanloon
izzy806
titsay
discoholicmusic
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