Archive of Our Own ^beta

The first time it happens, you’re justifiably pissed. Because you know she exists and you know he still loves her. But he never talks about her, never mentions her, she’s a ghost as far as you’re concerned. You know he compares you to her. That eidetic memory cataloguing each reaction and cross referencing it with hers. It makes you feel sick and disgusted and used. The worst possible feeling, under your skin and visceral. You don’t say anything. You don’t bring it up. You act as if he didn’t even gasp out that soft, “Christine.” In a voice far more tender and wanting than he’s ever uttered yours.

The second time, you just feel numb. Because it is happening again and somehow it’s even worse this time. Why are you even surprised at this point? So, you screw your eyes shut and try to just focus on the feeling of him impaling you on his cock. Move on with your life and come. 

It happens again and again. You don’t even care anymore, not really. At least that’s what you tell yourself when you’re lying in his bed and his seed is drying between your thighs. You can feel the ache radiating off him, you can taste his yearning. It’s bitter and acrid and burns your tongue. And your stupid little heart just falls even more in love with him. Can you really be angry if you’re willingly putting yourself into this situation? Fool you once, shame on you. Fool you twice, you’ll still let him fuck you on every available surface of the Sanctum.

Like clockwork, another Saturday night and another text from Stephen, inviting you over. Inviting is really a generous term, his texts are brief and straight to the point just like the rest of him. So, when your phone buzzes with a ‘ Come over.’ you all but scramble to your feet. You’re long past trying to impress him, trying to earn his favor or a compliment. So, you head to the Sanctum dressed in a casual outfit consisting of sweatpants and some old t-shirt. The cab ride isn’t long and you find yourself outside 177A Bleecker Street, a weird pit sinking into your stomach.

You let yourself in as always, expertly navigating the winding hallways of the old building. You find him in his study, standing by the window, staring out at the dark New York skyline. The city lights flicker and dance, reflecting in the glass and casting an ethereal glow across his chiseled features. He takes a sip of whiskey—his drink of choice, even if it did little to numb the ache in his chest.

He hears the door open behind him and knows it’s you. The soft click of the latch, followed by the gentle swish of fabric as you enter the room. A part of him wishes to turn, to greet you with warmth and affection. But he remains still, feigning disinterest as he gazes into the night. It wasn't that he didn't care for you. In truth, you had grown close—intimately so. Nights spent tangled in his sheets, lost in the throes of passion and physical pleasure. But Stephen could never quite give his heart away, no matter how much his body craves your touch.

You deserve someone who could love you wholly and completely. And though Stephen admires your strength, your intellect, your unwavering loyalty—he could not give you the one thing he knew you yearned for. A majority of his heart still belongs to Christine—trapped in the past, frozen in time. He finishes his drink, setting the glass aside before finally turning to face you. His eyes rake over your form, taking in the curves he knows so well. The swell of your breasts, the dip of your waist, the way your hips sway as you approach him.

“I wasn’t sure if you'd be coming over tonight." His voice is low, tinged with a hint of something almost resembling tenderness. But his eyes remain guarded—shielded, as if daring you to press for more.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes at his cool demeanor, this was the game, the chase, if you could call it that. Was it really a chase if you’d willingly throw yourself at his feet if he so much as asked? You clear your throat, stepping further into the opulent room, running a fingertip along some old leather-bound tome perched on one of the many bookshelves lining the walls. “You asked me to come over, so I did,” You say, carefully neutral, not daring to toe the line yet, “I can leave, if you want…?”

You sneak a glance at him, praying to whatever God that was listening that you didn’t sound and look as pathetic as you feel. He’s not even looking at you anymore, fuck. Taking a deep breath you step closer, maintaining a somewhat respectful distance. You learned early on, you have to let him come to you. Maybe he preferred initiating, maybe it was the way you approached it. Your traitorous mind begins to wander, what was it like with her ? Did he let her take the lead? Probably.

He took a step towards you, closing the distance between your bodies. Bingo , he was close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his skin. Stephen reaches out, his fingers brushing against yours as he removes your hand from the book. His thumb lingering on your knuckles for a moment before he lets his hand fall away.

"Leave?" He echoes, his gravelly voice dripping with disbelief. "Why would I ask you to come over if I wanted you to leave?"

It was a rhetorical question—one Stephen didn't expect an answer to. Instead, he took another step closer, invading your personal space as he looms over you. His eyes search yours, looking for any hint of doubt or dissatisfaction. But he saw none. Only tentative playfulness and a spark of something deeper—something Stephen refuses to acknowledge. His heart belongs to Christine, and you know that. You’re his confidante, his lover, his outlet—but never his partner in the way that truly matters.

“Stay." It wasn't a request, but a command. Firm and unwavering, just like everything else about him. "You're not going anywhere. We both know you don't want to."

His hand found your waist, fingers splaying across the curve of your hip as he holds you against him. Stephen's other hand tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, the brush of his fingers against your cheek sending a shiver down your spine. You melt in his arms, preening under his attention like a flower in sunshine. You wish it was easier to resist him, that you could put on the same aloof act and leave him wanting, but you can’t. It’s not in your nature and you’re sure you’d never say no to him, never deny him. He could hurt you, break you, shape you into something, someone unrecognizable. And you’d stay, you’d let it happen, you’d fucking thank him.

You tilt your head, gazing up at Stephen with an ideally playful smirk that plays at the corner of your lips. "You’re infuriatingly bossy," you murmur, your voice a low, teasing purr. "Good thing you're utterly gorgeous, or I swear your arrogance would drive me up the wall. As it is..."

You trail off, letting your words hang in the air between you. You can’t deny the way your heart races at his proximity, or the heat gathering between your thighs. Stephen has a certain magnetism, a charisma that draws you in. And you’d never get enough of him, you were addicted. The high you got from his praise, his touch, his attention…it was your own personal drug, heady and just for you. Your small hand comes up to rest against his chest, feeling the firm muscles beneath his shirt. You bite your lower lip, glancing away briefly before meeting his gaze again with a wry, almost challenging smile. "No one else could get away with being so damn bossy. But you? With your pretty eyes and gray hairs?"

You reach up to wind your fingers through the gray locks at his temple, your nails lightly scraping against his scalp. Leaning in closer, you nuzzle your nose against his jaw, breathing in the scent of his cologne—a mix of sandalwood, pepper, and something undeniably magical.

"Guess that's why I keep allowing you to invite me over."

As you speak, your hand drifts lower, fingers splaying across Stephen's stomach. You can feel the hard planes and ridges you’ve come to know so intimately. Your touch lingers at the waistband of his pants before drifting back up to hook a finger in his collar. "And the real question is, Doctor Strange, what are you going to do with me now that you've got me here?" you ask, your voice a breathless tease. You arch a brow, awaiting his answer with anticipation simmering in your eyes.

You’d never met Christine, but you saw her in the news occasionally and once you found a picture of her in Stephen’s nightstand. She’s gorgeous, because of course she was, and you pick up the vibe that she was witty like Stephen. So, you try to play it coy, teasing and flirty, hoping he’ll get off on it the way he got off with Christine. If he does, maybe, just maybe he’ll love you as much as he loved her, if not more.

Stephen's eyes darken with unconcealed hunger as they roam over your curves, his gaze lingering on every dip and swell. Your teasing words and playful touches ignite a fire within him—one that could never be entirely quenched, no matter how many nights you spend tangled in his bed. Admittedly, he has always been drawn to you—your intelligence, your wit, your unshakable spirit. On the nights when the darkness threatened to consume him, he sought solace in your arms. Found a different kind of escape in the way your body moved beneath his, in the breathy moans that slipped past your lips. But Stephen could never quite bring himself to cross that invisible line. To bare his soul completely and lay it at your feet. A part of him remained closed off, forever locked away in the past. Still bound to Christine, even as his hands explored the soft skin of your thighs. Your finger in his collar drew him back to the present, and Stephen caught your gaze with a look that spoke of unbridled desire. In the space between your bodies, he could feel the air crackling with tension, heavy with promise.

His hand slides from your waist to the small of your back, pressing you flush against him as he leans in to nuzzle your neck. Stephen's lips brush against your pulse point, his breath hot against your skin as he inhales your scent—sweet and floral, with a hint of something uniquely you.

"If you wanted a man with subtlety, perhaps you shouldn't have come to me," Stephen murmurs, his voice a low, husky rumble that sends vibrations through your body. "But since you're here..."

In one swift motion, he sweeps you into his arms, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as he carries you towards the bedroom. Stephen kicks the door shut behind him, leaving you both alone in the dimly lit space. He lowers you onto the bed, his body covering yours as he settles between your parted thighs. Stephen's eyes held yours captive, his gaze intense and consuming. There was no tenderness in his expression—only a raw, fierce hunger that made your heart race. His hands began to wander, mapping out the curves he knows so well. Stephen's fingers dance along your ribs before cupping the heavy weight of your breasts. He kneads the soft flesh, his thumbs brushing against the peaks of your nipples until they strained against the fabric of your bra and your shirt. Stephen leaned down, his lips finding the sensitive skin of your neck as he begins to trace a path of open-mouth kisses from your collarbone to the lobe of your ear. He nips at the tender flesh, soothing the sting with his tongue before whispering, "Now, I'm going to fuck you until you can't walk straight. Until my name is the only word you remember."

His words go straight to your pussy, hot and gooey and slick. The butterflies in your belly fluttering downwards. It was a promise and a threat all in one, delivered in the same low, gravelly tone that never failed to make your toes curl. Stephen's hand drifts lower, slipping beneath the waistband of your sweatpants to cup your cunt through your panties. He can feel the damp heat of you, can sense the way your body responds to his touch. You wish you could be embarrassed by how soaked you are, how needy and pliant you become whenever he shoves a hand down your pants. And you know that he would gladly take advantage of your weakness for him, he’d do it without a second thought or your permission.

"This is my pussy to wreck, and wreck it I will."

It isn’t a request. It isn’t even a question. Stephen knows you will give yourself to him—mind, body, and soul. And though he could never reciprocate the depth of your devotion, he will take what you offer and give you pleasure beyond your wildest dreams. With a low growl, Stephen captures your mouth in a searing kiss—one that demands surrender and promises ecstasy. His tongue delves deep, tangling with yours in a dance as old as time. Stephen's hands never stills, continuing to stroke and tease, to knead and caress every inch of exposed skin until your body was aching with need. It was unfair how easily he works your body, like an instrument only he knows how to play. On the rare occasions you went down on him, took his fat dick in your mouth or gave him a hand job as you crouch under his desk, he barely gives you a semblance of a reaction. You can’t get a read on him, didn’t know if he liked it or hated it, if he wanted more or for you to stop. His face was impassive, save for the occasional twitch of his eyebrow or that little vein in his temple popping. Whereas you were maybe too enthusiastic, too loud. There was a part of you though, that’s glad you don’t know what’s going on his mind, because you’re almost certain you wouldn’t like it.

You arch your back, a breathy moan escaping your lips as Stephen's hands and mouth work over your sensitive skin. Under his expert touch, you could feel your body melting, growing pliant and eager. Your tits heaving with each ragged breath you took, nipples straining against the flimsy fabric of your lacy bra. Stephen wastes no time in divesting you of your top, yanking it a bit too roughly over your head as his impatience got the better of him. Cool air hit your flushed skin and you shiver, goosebumps erupting across the expanse of your flesh. Stephen's eyes darken as he drinks in the sight of you, hot and hungry, taking in every dip and curve.

"Stephen..." You gasp out, his name falling from your lips like a prayer. And it is a prayer, just as much as Stephen is your god, cruel and benevolent all at once. Your fingers clench in his dark hair, fingernails scraping against his scalp as you hold him to your chest. Stephen's mouth finds your nipple, his lips wrapping around the rosy peak before he sucks hard through the lace of your bra, sending jolts of pleasure-pain straight to your core. You can feel the heat gathering between your thighs, core clenching and fluttering around nothing. Stephen's hand dips lower, fingers brushing against your panty-clad mound. He can no doubt feel the embarrassing damp patch darkening the fabric, can sense the need that throbs in your veins.

"Please," You whimper, hips rolling instinctively into his touch. "Please, Stephen..."

You know you should feel self-conscious and you wish you could, splayed out beneath him like a feast for the taking. But all your idiotic brain could focus on was the way he makes you feel—consumed, alive, undone. Stephen owns every piece of you in that moment, and you know he knows it.

You feel a bit helpless as your breathing grows heavier, strands of hair plastered to your damp forehead. You gaze up at him with hooded doe eyes, your nose just inches from his. You look young, innocent even— a far cry from the experienced woman you had become in his bed. But right then, all you want is for Stephen to take you, to fill you, to make good on all his promises. Though he knows he shouldn’t, Stephen can’t help but silently compare your reactions to Christine’s. It’s second-nature at this point and his eidetic memory is a burden in moments like this. He always, always, always compares the memory of her to you. The way the pitch of your laugh is strikingly similar to hers, the way your skin flushes in different spots under his gaze than hers did, the taste of your cunt, the way you feel coming apart on his cock. You’re a pretty distraction, not necessarily a cheap substitute, he made sure of that. He took his time, ensuring there were plenty of differences, many ways you were nothing like her at all. 

Stephen's heart clenches as he listens to the desperation in your voice. The way you gasp and arch beneath him, your body surrendering to the pleasure he’s inflicting, stirring something deep within him—some instinct to possess and conquer. He knows he should be gentler, should cherish and worship your body with the reverence it deserves. But Stephen is consumed by a hunger that far outweighed simple appreciation. If you want to be worshipped, you would go to a different kind of man, but no, you came to him. And he needs to ruin you in the most basic, visceral way imaginable.

Icy eyes rake over you, drinking in every inch of exposed skin. The way your tits heaved and strained against the confines of your bra, begging to be freed. Stephen's shaky hands make quick work of the clasp, the scrap of lace falling away to reveal the perfect globes of your flesh. He can’t help but compare them silently to Christine's, as he always does. Not that it matters—not with the way your nipples pebble under his searing gaze, begging for his touch.

Irreverently, Stephen's mouth finds your nipple, engulfing the rosy peak as he sucks hard. He groans against your breast as he feels the dampness of your arousal growing tenfold, your body already so eager and ready for him. Stephen circles your clothed slit, feeling your hips buck instinctively into his touch. The way you whimper his name, the breathless desperation in your voice, only fuels his own desire.

Stephen's cock throbs insistently against the confines of his pants, straining towards you like there’s some kind of magnetic pull between your flesh. He’s achingly hard, painfully aroused—every fiber of his being focused on the stunning creature splayed out before him. With a muttered curse, he practically rips your panties from your body, leaving you bare and exposed. Stephen settles between your parted thighs, the thick ridge of his erection nestling perfectly against your soaked, swollen folds.

He captures your mouth in a bruising kiss, swallowing your gasps and whimpers as his fingers dip between your legs. Stephen's digits slide through your slick arousal, stroking and circling your sensitive clit until your hips begin to grind urgently against his hand. He settles over you, the scorching heat of his bare skin searing yours. Stephen's lips find the tender spot on your neck, his mouth open and hungry as he suckles and nips at the delicate flesh. He thrusts his fingers deep into your hot, clasping pussy. Stephen pumps in and out of your channel, curling and stroking that spot within you that makes your toes curl and your back arch off the bed. His other hand drifts down to the straining bulge in his pants, palming his cock through the fabric before finally freeing it from its confines. Stephen knows you can feel every thick, throbbing inch of him as he grinds against you—can sense the way his body aches to be buried inside you.

You’re in raptures, trembling and arching and writhing beneath him. His mouth on your tit and fingers on your cunt could probably make you come right now if he tried. But you know he won’t, he lives for the build up, for the opportunity to show you how well he knows your body and how desperate he can make you. You moan eagerly, spreading your thighs wider to accommodate Stephen, “Yes, right there,” You sigh out dreamily, eyes fluttering shut and arching into his hand and mouth. You can hear the shlicking of his other hand, wet from your cunt, wrapped around his dick as he strokes it in tandem with his fingers. He groans, fuck he finally makes a fucking noise, and you whine in response, pussy leaking in delight.

“Fuck, Christine,” he grunts around your tit, and he’s committed to it, not even hesitating to murmur out that name. You freeze, your heart plummeting into your stomach, the fever Stephen was stoking beneath your skin doused in cold water. Your hands in his hair drop, sitting uselessly by your side as you try to swallow what feels like shards of glass. 

“What the fuck?” You whisper, voice thick, trying to stave off the tears of shame and hurt welling up in your eyes, “Are you fucking for real?” You wanted to sound angry, but it comes out small and pathetic, almost whiny. Your cheeks burn with shame as you gaze at the man above you, silently begging for an explanation that won’t shatter your heart into a million irreparable pieces.

The utterance of Christine's name slipped out before Stephen could stop it—the ghost of her memory still lingering, even now. He curses himself for the slip, watching the color drain from your face as you stare up at him with wounded eyes. In that moment, Stephen feels a pang of guilt, a twinge of regret. But it’s quickly replaced by something darker—the frustrated rage of a man who has lost control. Lost control of his heart, his life, his very identity.

Stephen surges forward, his fingers plunging deeper into your dripping cunt as his cock jerks angrily against your thigh. He can feel the way your silken walls clench around his digits, hear your gasp of hurt morph into a moan of reluctant pleasure. You don’t want to like this, don’t want to give him the satisfaction or let it slide that he just fucking moaned her name. His touch turns rougher, more demanding. Stephen's palm grinding mercilessly against your clit as he finger-fucks you with sharp, brutal thrusts. He can feel the wet, obscene slap of flesh against flesh as he violates your cunt.

"Stop being ridiculous," Stephen growls, his voice a low, furious rumble. "You think I don't know what I want? You think I can't tell the difference between you and..."

He trails off, swallowing the rest of Christine's name as if it left a bitter taste on his tongue. Stephen's eyes flash with anger, his expression tight and unyielding as he looms over you.

"And who else would I be calling out to, sweetheart? Who else would I be begging for? Certainly not you," he taunts, punctuating his words with a particularly harsh thrust of his fingers. Stephen knows he’s being cruel, but he can’t seem to stop himself. You whimper at his words, bottom lip trembling. You’re going to fucking cry, you know that much, and you’ll probably come too. His other hand drifts up to wrap around your throat, not squeezing, but firm and possessive. Stephen's thumb brushes over your racing pulse, feeling it jump beneath his touch.

"You are the one in my bed, sweetheart. You are the one spreading your legs for me, begging me to fill you. So stop your whining, and take what I give you." It’s a command, not a request. Stephen's voice is rough with barely restrained lust, his eyes burning into yours with a fierceness that made your heart stutter. You feel a mixture of terror, anger, hurt, and traitorous arousal. Damn him, damn his silver tongue, his gorgeous face, damn Stephen Strange. Most of all, damn the fact that you hadn’t met him first. It was unlikely and nearly impossible that you would have, but you’d like to imagine if you had…He’d love you, you’d be married, three kids, white picket fence. The whole nine yards and you wouldn’t have to exist with this fucking rain cloud looming over you.

He pulls his fingers out of your dripping cunt, bringing them up to his mouth. Stephen licks them clean with a low moan, his tongue swirling around the digits to lap up every drop of your arousal. Then, positioning himself at your entrance, Stephen grips your hips bruisingly tight and thrusts forward— burying himself to the hilt inside your perfect, velvety heat with one ruthless stroke. Hot, bitter tears slip down your flushed cheeks as you lie there, frozen beneath Stephen. Your heart feels like it’s being carved out of your chest with each ragged breath. It hurt, God did it hurt, knowing you’re just a poor imitation in his eyes. But despite the anguish clawing at your throat, you find yourself arching your back, hips tilting up to take him deeper.

You can’t explain it nor did you really want to acknowledge it, but some dark, masochistic part of you revels in the brutal way he wrecks your body. As if proving he can still want you, even if it is just for the physical act. You bite your lip hard, tasting blood, as he begins to move. Each violent thrust sent waves of reluctant pleasure radiating through you, making you clench and quiver around his pistoning cock. You kept crying, pathetic and stretched out, lost to the sensations, to the heartbreak.

"I hate you, I hate her, I hate this whole fucked up thing," You whimper brokenly, even as you wrap your legs around his waist. You cling to him, fingernails digging into the bunched muscles of his back, anchoring yourself against the overwhelming sensations. More insults spilling from your lips between hitching sobs and choked moans. Apologies for not being her. For failing to live up to some unattainable standard only Stephen could see.

But even through the pain and the tears, you submit to his brutal pace. Your body betraying you, surrendering to the searing slide of Stephen's cock splitting you open. You can feel every thick, throbbing inch of him, stretching you in ways that edged pleasure and agony. The wet, filthy sounds of your cunt fill the room, a perverse symphony of slick skin slapping against skin and strangled cries etched with despairing ecstasy. You fight an internal battle, torn between not wanting to come, not wanting to give him the satisfaction and the bone deep, all consuming burn of needing to do just that like you needed oxygen.

Your mind is a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts, but your body sings with a life of its own. Stephen owns it, possesses it, fucking you with a single-minded intensity that steals your breath and shatters your composure. You’re just a vessel for his lust, a set of holes to pour his frustration into. And God help you, but some dark, secret part of you likes being used like this. Needs to be punished, to feel his fury and his hate and all the things he can never put into words. You bury your face in his shoulder, biting down hard on the corded muscle to muffle your sobs. The taste of his skin, the scent of him—pepper and smoke and something uniquely Stephen—floods your senses. You inhale deeply, drowning in him, even as you wept for the woman you can never be. You feel so fucking tired, so utterly exhausted down to your very soul. But your body is a liar, writhing and bucking beneath his brutal assault, chasing an impossible climax. You know you’re going to come harder than you ever have before and the fact left you feeling mortified.

"Fuck you," You choke out, voice raw and ragged. "Fuck you for making me feel like this. For reducing me to this...this thing. I love you. I fucking love you."

You don’t know if you said it out loud or just screamed it in your head, trapped in the hell of your own making. All you know is the searing ache between your legs, the cruel twist in your guts, and the overwhelming, inescapable truth that you’re hopelessly in love with Stephen Strange. A love that consumes you, body and soul, even as it destroys you.

Stephen gets off on your anger, gets off on your tears, it spurs him on and he can’t help but continue to moan Christine’s name, each one raising in volume. You’re an ache, an appetite, a means to an end for him. Nothing more, nothing less. Stephen ignores your anguished sobs and hateful words, lost in the silken heat of your body as he pounds into you without mercy. He can feel your nails raking down his back, your legs clinging desperately to his waist as he splits you open on his throbbing cock.

Each brutal thrust sent jolts of reluctant pleasure coursing through you, your cunt clenching and fluttering around him like a vice. Stephen groans at the exquisite sensation, his hips snapping forward with brutal precision. He’s fucking you with a single-minded intensity, determined to ruin your body utterly and completely. Even as he loses himself in your cunt, memories of her haunt him—the way her voice would catch on a moan, the hot stickiness of her cunt around his cock. But you’re here now, writhing and mewling beneath him, taking everything he gives you without a word of true protest.

Stephen tangles a hand in your hair, wrenching your head back to bare the slender column of your throat to his hungry mouth. He bites and suckles at the tender skin, marking you, claiming you as his if only on a superficial level. His other hand drifts down to where you’re joined, fingers finding your aching clit and rubbing merciless circles over the swollen nub.

"That's it," Stephen growls, his voice a dark, sinful rumble against your throat. "Take it all, you little slut. Take everything I give you."

He can feel your body drawing taut, can sense your impending orgasm building like a storm deep in your belly. You try to stave off the impending ecstasy, screwing your eyes shut and whimpering but that only encouraged him. Stephen pistons his hips faster, fucking into you with sharp, brutal thrusts that strikes sparks off his nerve endings. Lost in a haze of lust and longing and bitter, twisted memories, Stephen thinks he hears you whisper that you love him. But it can’t be—it must be some cruel trick of his imagination. He’s too far gone, too consumed by the tight, velvet grip of your cunt to pay it any mind. Instead, Stephen loses himself in the debauched symphony of skin slapping against skin, of your strangled sobs and gasps. He chases his pleasure in the slick, fluttering heat of your pussy, the way your body opens and surrenders and begs for more.

You come harder than you ever have in your life, body convulsing uncontrollably as you sob and hiccup beneath Stephen. Tears stream down your flushed cheeks, dripping off your chin and onto the sweat-slicked sheets. You weakly push at his chest, still reeling from the intensity of your climax, anger and overwhelming heartache coursing through your veins. You try to regain some semblance of composure. Your hair a wild, just-fucked mess around your blotchy, tear-streaked face. You feel utterly wrecked, inside and out, your soul laid bare and your body defiled by his brutal fucking.

“I love you, you arrogant, infuriating bastard. I must be out of my goddamn mind…”  You whisper hoarsely, the words torn from the depths of your shattered heart. Your fingers curl into the sweat-soaked sheets, craving something—anything—to anchor yourself to reality. With a harsh, guttural moan, Stephen comes hard and deep—his cock pulsing and jerking as he spills himself inside you. He floods your womb with his hot, thick seed, his hips rocking shallowly against yours as he rides out the waves of his release.

In the aftermath, Stephen collapses against you, his weight crushing you into the mattress. He can feel your tears soaking into his chest, hear your choked, trembling breaths as you fight to regain your composure.

But Stephen doesn’t offer any words of comfort or reassurance. Instead, he simply rolls over onto his back and stares up at the ceiling, his chest heaving and sweat glistening on his skin. Silently, he curses himself for letting Christine's memory intrude, for reducing you to this weepy, pathetic thing. But Stephen knows, with a dark and twisted sense of satisfaction, that he would fuck you like this again. He would use your body for his pleasure, would make you cry over and over until there was no question of how either of you felt.

“I'm going to leave.” The words left your chapped lips in a hoarse whisper, your voice ragged from your sobs of anguish and moans of rapture. Part of you prays, foolishly perhaps, that Stephen would reach out and ask you to stay. That he would pull you close, whisper that he did, in fact, love you too and he could finally forget all about Christine. But you can’t linger here, not with the bitter taste of tears still fresh on your tongue and the lingering ache of his possession throbbing between your thighs. You need to escape this gilded cage before the cruel whims of his desire trap you forever. 

So you push yourself up on quivering arms, the silk sheets tangling around your thighs as you lever your form off the bed. You don’t dare look back at Stephen as you gather your scattered clothes, fingers fumbling to tug your t-shirt back on. You can’t bear to see the surface-level hunger in his eyes, the flickering ghosts of a love long lost. Or worse, the apathetic indifference. And he doesn’t call out, he doesn’t stop you, he doesn’t say goodbye. You know as much as you know the sun will rise tomorrow, that when he beckons you once more, you’ll come without question and relive this all over again.