Call me Boba • 18+ • South Asian • Wife of Doctor Strange, Thomas Shelby, and Sherlock Holmes ;) • Amatuer Fic Writer and Artist in Training ✎ • Boba Tea addict
Notice: This blog is currently on a semi-hiatus, and a full hiatus from writing. I hope you understand
*pfp not mine!*
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WELCOME to the Sanctum Sanctorum. Want some tea? ☕️ 🫖
I mostly write "x reader" stories for MCU Doctor Strange, Loki, and sometimes Willy Wonka (Johnny Depp). I do have plans and intentions to write for Thomas Shelby and BBC Sherlock in the future, but I haven't really gotten a proper idea yet. So stay tuned!
DISCLAIMERS AND RULES:
Requests are closed.
If you follow me and I don't follow back, it's because I don't follow back often so please know I am not ignoring you! I very much appreciate your follow, and I might follow back at some point. I
Minors can interact with me, however not about anything sexual related or about any smuts and NSFW content I reblog or write. I also do not encourage you to view my 18+ labeled content if you are not 18 or over. It is your and your parent's responsibility to stay away from content not appropriate for you. I have already done my part.
I do not give consent to plagiarizing, pirating, and translating my work anywhere else. All my stories are posted here. Also, if you do happen to see my work in Wattpad, it's most likely my old account, but I won't mind if you send a link of it just in case to check!
Everyone is welcome to my blog despite race, age, sex, gender identity, nationality, religion, sexuality, politics, etc... But please, respect each other. I won't tolerate any hate and quarrels in my space. Keep it civil and respectful people!
➼ @alleydog's requests (1 | 2)
➼ Part 1 of my sugar daddy Stephen Strange series.
➼ Ex-husband Stephen and female reader smut
➼ @ironstrange1991 's request (1 | 2)
➼ @aestheticpersonhere 's request: 1938!Lee Rang x Female!Mavka!Reader imagine
➼ @lei593 's request: Lee Yeon x Chinese!Female!Ninetailedfox!Reader imagine
➼ Imagine where Stephen eats out a female reader who has never had oral sex before.➼
➼ My interpretation of a Part 2 to @your-highnessmarvel 's "Her" imagine (Doctor Strange x Female!Asgardian Reader)
I dislike how some Clea and Clea x Doctor Strange fans dismiss Palmerstrange just because Clea is the canon love interest in the comics while Christine was just the ex meant for Stephen's character arc and then so easily gotten rid of.
Marvel isn't a stranger to giving the MCU version of characters a different love interest to the comics. Just because Clea is the love interest in the comics doesn't mean the writers are incapable of giving Stephen a different endgame with another love and that she is incomparable to Clea.
Yes, I am indeed alive. I've been gone for quite a long time. Quite frankly, I just didn't want to deal with the Tumblr environment anymore. So I decided to distance myself. Occasionally, I do visit for a day and then leave, and I am still going to do that. But it's actually been a long time since I was last on here.
And I do not regret my decisions lol.
But I still remember interactions I have had here. I also have people I talk to here. It would be nice to write things again but honestly, I am too busy for that. I know I have drafts, requests I have never completed, and I truly sorry. Life happened, and it got in the way of writing. Maybe some day I can come back to writing, not just fanfiction, just anything.
A/N: Yeah…this is fucked. I apologize in advance. I love Stephen with all my heart, but I believe the man has the emotional capacity of a brick. He has the potential to be a great boyfriend but he is stubborn and dumb as fuck! I’m also trying to be a bit more introspective with my writing style so I hope I pulled that off! Stephen Strange x female reader, mentioned/past Stephen x Christine, hurt no comfort, possibly unrequited love, rough fucking, dubcon, dead dove: do not eat, Stephen is a piece of shit in this, fingering, p in v sex, rough fingering, biting, scratching, dacryphilia, mean dirty talk, no aftercare, godawful relationship dynamics at play here, friends with benefits, this shit is depressing and horny.
Word count: 5.8k
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 flickered and danced, reflecting in the glass and casting an ethereal glow across his chiseled features. He took a sip of whiskey—his drink of choice, even if it did little to numb the ache in his chest.
He heard the door open behind him and knew it was you. The soft click of the latch, followed by the gentle swish of fabric as you entered the room. A part of him wished to turn, to greet you with warmth and affection. But he remained still, feigning disinterest as he gazed 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 craved your touch.
You deserved someone who could love you wholly and completely. And though Stephen admired 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 belonged to Christine—trapped in the past, frozen in time. He finished his drink, setting the glass aside before finally turning to face you. His eyes raked over your form, taking in the curves he knew so well. The swell of your breasts, the dip of your waist, the way your hips swayed as you approached him.
“I wasn’t sure if you'd be coming over tonight." His voice was low, tinged with a hint of something almost resembling tenderness. But his eyes remained 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 reached out, his fingers brushing against yours as he removed your hand from the book. His thumb lingered on your knuckles for a moment before he let his hand fall away.
"Leave?" He echoed, 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 loomed over you. His eyes searched yours, looking for any hint of doubt or dissatisfaction. But he saw none. Only tentative playfulness and a spark of something deeper—something Stephen refused to acknowledge. His heart belonged to Christine, and you knew that. You were his confidante, his lover, his outlet—but never his partner in the way that truly mattered.
“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 held you against him. Stephen's other hand tucked 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 tilted your head, gazing up at Stephen with an ideally playful smirk that played at the corners of your lips. "You’re infuriatingly bossy," you murmured, 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 trailed off, letting your words hang in the air between you. You couldn't deny the way your heart raced at his proximity, or the heat gathering between your thighs. Stephen had a certain magnetism, a charisma that drew 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 came up to rest against his chest, feeling the firm muscles beneath his shirt. You bit 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 reached up to wind your fingers through the gray locks at his temple, your nails lightly scraping against his scalp. Leaning in closer, you nuzzled 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 spoke, your hand drifted lower, fingers splaying across Stephen's stomach. You could feel the hard planes and ridges you’ve come to know so intimately. Your touch lingered 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 asked, your voice a breathless tease. You arched 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 was gorgeous, because of course she was, and you picked 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 darkened with unconcealed hunger as they roamed over your curves, his gaze lingering on every dip and swell. Your teasing words and playful touches ignited a fire within him—one that could never be entirely quenched, no matter how many nights you spent tangled in his bed. Admittedly, he had 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 slid from your waist to the small of your back, pressing you flush against him as he leaned in to nuzzle your neck. Stephen's lips brushed against your pulse point, his breath hot against your skin as he inhaled 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 murmured, his voice a low, husky rumble that sent vibrations through your body. "But since you're here..."
In one swift motion, he swept you into his arms, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as he carried you towards the bedroom. Stephen kicked the door shut behind him, leaving you both alone in the dimly lit space. He lowered you onto the bed, his body covering yours as he settled 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 knew so well. Stephen's fingers danced along your ribs before cupping the heavy weight of your breasts. He kneaded 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 began to trace a path of open-mouthed kisses from your collarbone to the lobe of your ear. He nipped 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 drifted lower, slipping beneath the waistband of your sweatpants to cup your cunt through your panties. He could feel the damp heat of you, could sense the way your body responded to his touch. You wish you could be embarrassed by how soaked you were, how needy and pliant you became whenever he shoved a hand down your pants. And you knew 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 wasn't a request. It wasn't even a question. Stephen knew you would give yourself to him—mind, body, and soul. And though he could never reciprocate the depth of your devotion, he would take what you offered and give you pleasure beyond your wildest dreams. With a low growl, Stephen captured your mouth in a searing kiss—one that demanded surrender and promised ecstasy. His tongue delved deep, tangling with yours in a dance as old as time. Stephen's hands never stilled, 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 worked your body, like an instrument only he knew 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 crouched under his desk, he barely gave you a semblance of a reaction. You couldn’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 arched your back, a breathy moan escaping your lips as Stephen's hands and mouth worked over your sensitive skin. Under his expert touch, you could feel your body melting, growing pliant and eager. Your tits heaved with each ragged breath you took, nipples straining against the flimsy fabric of your lacy bra. Stephen wasted 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 shivered, goosebumps erupting across the expanses of your flesh. Stephen's eyes darkened as he drank in the sight of you, hot and hungry, taking in every dip and curve.
"Stephen..." You gasped out, his name falling from your lips like a prayer. And it was a prayer, just as much as Stephen was your god, cruel and benevolent all at once. Your fingers clenched in his dark hair, fingernails scraping against his scalp as you held him to your chest. Stephen's mouth found your nipple, his lips wrapping around the rosy peak before he sucked hard through the lace of your bra, sending jolts of pleasure-pain straight to your core. You could feel the heat gathering between your thighs, core clenching and fluttering around nothing. Stephen's hand dipped lower, fingers brushing against your panty-clad mound. He could no doubt feel the embarrassing damp patch darkening the fabric, could sense the need that throbbed in your veins.
"Please," You whimpered, hips rolling instinctively into his touch. "Please, Stephen..."
You knew you should feel self-conscious and you wish you would, splayed out beneath him like a feast for the taking. But all your idiotic brain could focus on was the way he made you feel—consumed, alive, undone. Stephen owned every piece of you in that moment, and you knew he knew it.
You feel a bit helpless as your breathing grows heavier, strands of hair plastered to your damp forehead. You gazed up at him with hooded doe eyes, your nose just inches from his. You looked young, innocent even— a far cry from the experienced woman you had become in his bed. But right then, all you wanted was 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 compared 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 clenched as he listened to the desperation in your voice. The way you gasped and arched beneath him, your body surrendering to the pleasure he inflicted, stirred something deep within him—some instinct to possess and conquer. He knew he should be gentler, should cherish and worship your body with the reverence it deserved. But Stephen was consumed by a hunger that far outweighed simple appreciation. If you wanted to be worshipped, you would have gone to a different kind of man, but no, you came to him. And he needed to ruin you in the most basic, visceral way imaginable.
Icy eyes raked 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 made quick work of the clasp, the scrap of lace falling away to reveal the perfect globes of your flesh. He couldn't help but compare them silently to Christine's, as he always did. Not that it mattered—not with the way your nipples pebbled under his searing gaze, begging for his touch.
Irreverently, Stephen's mouth found your nipple, engulfing the rosy peak as he sucked hard. He groaned against your breast as he felt the dampness of your arousal grow tenfold, your body already so eager and ready for him. Stephen circled your clothed slit, feeling your hips buck instinctively into his touch. The way you whimpered his name, the breathless desperation in your voice, only fueled his own desire.
Stephen's cock throbbed insistently against the confines of his pants, straining towards you like there was some kind of magnetic pull between your flesh. He was achingly hard, painfully aroused—every fiber of his being focused on the stunning creature splayed out before him. With a muttered curse, he practically ripped your panties from your body, leaving you bare and exposed. Stephen settled between your parted thighs, the thick ridge of his erection nestling perfectly against your soaked, swollen folds.
He captured your mouth in a bruising kiss, swallowing your gasps and whimpers as his fingers dipped between your legs. Stephen's digits slid through your slick arousal, stroking and circling your sensitive clit until your hips began to grind urgently against his hand. He settled over you, the scorching heat of his bare skin searing yours. Stephen's lips found the tender spot on your neck, his mouth open and hungry as he suckled and nipped at the delicate flesh. He thrusted his fingers deep into your hot, clasping pussy. Stephen pumped in and out of your channel, curling and stroking that spot within you that made your toes curl and your back arch off the bed. His other hand drifted down to the straining bulge in his pants, palming his cock through the fabric before finally freeing it from its confines. Stephen knew you could feel every thick, throbbing inch of him as he ground against you—could sense the way his body ached 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 lived 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 cursed himself for the slip, watching the color drain from your face as you stared up at him with wounded eyes. In that moment, Stephen felt a pang of guilt, a twinge of regret. But it was quickly replaced by something darker—the frustrated rage of a man who had lost control. Lost control of his heart, his life, his very identity.
Stephen surged forward, his fingers plunging deeper into your dripping cunt as his cock jerked angrily against your thigh. He could feel the way your silken walls clenched around his digits, hear your gasp of hurt morph into a moan of reluctant pleasure. You didn’t want to like this, didn’t want to give him the satisfaction or let it slide that he just fucking moaned her name. His touch turned rougher, more demanding. Stephen's palm ground mercilessly against your clit as he finger-fucked you with sharp, brutal thrusts. He could feel the wet, obscene slap of flesh against flesh as he violated your cunt.
"Stop being ridiculous," Stephen growled, 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 trailed off, swallowing the rest of Christine's name as if it left a bitter taste on his tongue. Stephen's eyes flashed with anger, his expression tight and unyielding as he loomed over you.
"And who else would I be calling out to, sweetheart? Who else would I be begging for? Certainly not you," he taunted, punctuating his words with a particularly harsh thrust of his fingers. Stephen knew he was being cruel, but he couldn'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 drifted up to wrap around your throat, not squeezing, but firm and possessive. Stephen's thumb brushed 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 was a command, not a request. Stephen's voice was 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 pulled his fingers out of your dripping cunt, bringing them up to his mouth. Stephen licked 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 gripped your hips bruisingly tight and thrust forward— burying himself to the hilt inside your perfect, velvety heat with one ruthless stroke. Hot, bitter tears slipped down your flushed cheeks as you lay there, frozen beneath Stephen. Your heart felt like it was being carved out of your chest with each ragged breath. It hurt, God did it hurt, knowing you were just a poor imitation in his eyes. But despite the anguish clawing at your throat, you found yourself arching your back, hips tilting up to take him deeper.
You couldn't explain it nor did you really want to acknowledge it, but some dark, masochistic part of you reveled in the brutal way he wrecked your body. As if proving he could still want you, even if it was just for the physical act. You bit your lip hard, tasting blood, as he began 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 whimpered brokenly, even as you wrapped your legs around his waist. You clung to him, fingernails digging into the bunched muscles of his back, anchoring yourself against the overwhelming sensations. More insults spilled 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 submitted to his brutal pace. Your body betrayed you, surrendering to the searing slide of Stephen's cock splitting you open. You could feel every thick, throbbing inch of him, stretching you in ways that edged pleasure and agony. The wet, filthy sounds of your cunt filled the room, a perverse symphony of slick skin slapping against skin and strangled cries etched with despairing ecstasy. You fought 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 was a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts, but your body sang with a life of its own. Stephen owned it, possessed it, fucking you with a single-minded intensity that stole your breath and shattered your composure. You were 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 liked being used like this. Needed to be punished, to feel his fury and his hate and all the things he could never put into words. You buried 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—flooded your senses. You inhaled deeply, drowning in him, even as you wept for the woman you could never be. You felt so fucking tired, so utterly exhausted down to your very soul. But your body was a liar, writhing and bucking beneath his brutal assault, chasing an impossible climax. You knew you were going to come harder than you ever had before and the fact left you feeling mortified.
"Fuck you," You choked 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 didn'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 knew was the searing ache between your legs, the cruel twist in your guts, and the overwhelming, inescapable truth that you were hopelessly in love with Stephen Strange. A love that consumed you, body and soul, even as it destroyed you.
Stephen got off on your anger, got off on your tears, it spurred him on and he couldn’t help but continue to moan Christine’s name, each one raising in volume. You were an ache, an appetite, a means to an end for him. Nothing more, nothing less. Stephen ignored your anguished sobs and hateful words, lost in the silken heat of your body as he pounded into you without mercy. He could feel your nails raking down his back, your legs clinging desperately to his waist as he split 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 groaned at the exquisite sensation, his hips snapping forward with brutal precision. He was fucking you with a single-minded intensity, determined to ruin your body utterly and completely. Even as he lost himself in your cunt, memories of her haunted him—the way her voice would catch on a moan, the hot stickiness of her cunt around his cock. But you were here now, writhing and mewling beneath him, taking everything he gave you without a word of true protest.
Stephen tangled a hand in your hair, wrenching your head back to bare the slender column of your throat to his hungry mouth. He bit and suckled at the tender skin, marking you, claiming you as his if only on a superficial level. His other hand drifted down to where you were joined, fingers finding your aching clit and rubbing merciless circles over the swollen nub.
"That's it," Stephen growled, his voice a dark, sinful rumble against your throat. "Take it all, you little slut. Take everything I give you."
He could feel your body drawing taut, could sense your impending orgasm building like a storm deep in your belly. You tried to stave off the impending ecstasy, screwing your eyes shut and whimpering but that only encouraged him. Stephen pistoned his hips faster, fucking into you with sharp, brutal thrusts that struck sparks off his nerve endings. Lost in a haze of lust and longing and bitter, twisted memories, Stephen thought he heard you whisper that you loved him. But it couldn't be—that must be some cruel trick of his imagination. He was too far gone, too consumed by the tight, velvet grip of your cunt to pay it any mind. Instead, Stephen lost himself in the debauched symphony of skin slapping against skin, of your strangled sobs and gasps. He chased his pleasure in the slick, fluttering heat of your pussy, the way your body opened and surrendered and begged 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 came hard and deep—his cock pulsing and jerking as he spilled himself inside you. He flooded your womb with his hot, thick seed, his hips rocking shallowly against yours as he rode out the waves of his release.
In the aftermath, Stephen collapsed against you, his weight crushing you into the mattress. He could feel your tears soaking into his chest, hear your choked, trembling breaths as you fought to regain your composure.
But Stephen didn't offer any words of comfort or reassurance. Instead, he simply rolled over onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, his chest heaving and sweat glistening on his skin. Silently, he cursed himself for letting Christine's memory intrude, for reducing you to this weepy, pathetic thing. But Stephen knew, 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 prayed, 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 couldn'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 needed to escape this gilded cage before the cruel whims of his desire trapped you forever.
So you pushed yourself up on quivering arms, the silk sheets tangling around your thighs as you levered your form off the bed. You didn't dare look back at Stephen as you gathered your scattered clothes, fingers fumbling to tug your t-shirt back on. You couldn'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.
This smut was so good and so painful like wtf??? I am begging you please write a happier part 2 if you are willing to. Because this ruined me while satisfying my horny cravings but our girl y/n deserves some love and happiness and Stephen a major humbling and reality check in the form of a punch to the face. 😭
Thank you angel!!! You are so sweet! I am definitely willing to write a sequel that is less emotionally distressing LOL. (However I am also working on a very sweet fluffy smutty Stephen fic that is totally unrelated to this one ;)
I am reaching out on behalf of my dear friend, Mohamad S., who is facing one of the most challenging times of his life. Mohamad is 37 years old and left his homeland in 2015 in search of a safer and better future. He’s a kind, hardworking man, and his small family has always been his greatest priority.
Living abroad, Mohamad has recently endured unimaginable loss and financial strain. Amidst the ongoing conflict in his homeland, his mother passed away, leaving behind his sister and her five young children—the last remaining members of his immediate family.
As the situation worsened, Mohamad managed to help his sister and her children escape to safety in Egypt, covering their immediate needs and securing a temporary refuge for them. Since then, he has been fully responsible for providing everything they need to survive during this transition.
In his efforts to support his family and cope with this devastating loss, Mohamad has found himself deeply in debt. To make matters even more difficult, he recently underwent knee surgery, which limits his ability to return to work for the foreseeable future. This has made it even harder for him to manage his financial responsibilities and the pressing need to provide his family with a stable future.
Mohamad is now working to bring his sister and her five children to join him in Belgium, where he hopes they can find stability and opportunity after all they’ve endured. This transition, however, requires significant resources that he is currently unable to meet alone.
For privacy reasons, we are not sharing Mohamad’s full name, as he has chosen to keep his identity discreet. While he initially refused the idea of asking for help, I couldn’t stand by and watch him struggle alone. I insisted on doing this for him because he deserves a chance to overcome these challenges.
Your contribution will help Mohamad repay the debt incurred during this difficult time, cover ongoing living expenses for his family, and assist with the costs involved in bringing them safely to Belgium.
Mohamad has been a good friend of mine for years, and I’ve always admired his resilience and generosity. Any support, no matter the size, will make an incredible difference in helping Mohamad and his family rebuild their lives after these painful experiences.
Thank you for reading his story and considering helping a man who has always done everything he can for his loved ones.
Adam
✅ Vetted by Association: @bilal-salah0
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I am reaching out on behalf of my dear friend, Mohamad S., who is faci… Adam Bin Ali needs your support for Help Mohamad reunite his family
A/N: Yeah…this is fucked. I apologize in advance. I love Stephen with all my heart, but I believe the man has the emotional capacity of a brick. He has the potential to be a great boyfriend but he is stubborn and dumb as fuck! I’m also trying to be a bit more introspective with my writing style so I hope I pulled that off! Stephen Strange x female reader, mentioned/past Stephen x Christine, hurt no comfort, possibly unrequited love, rough fucking, dubcon, dead dove: do not eat, Stephen is a piece of shit in this, fingering, p in v sex, rough fingering, biting, scratching, dacryphilia, mean dirty talk, no aftercare, godawful relationship dynamics at play here, friends with benefits, this shit is depressing and horny.
Word count: 5.8k
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 flickered and danced, reflecting in the glass and casting an ethereal glow across his chiseled features. He took a sip of whiskey—his drink of choice, even if it did little to numb the ache in his chest.
He heard the door open behind him and knew it was you. The soft click of the latch, followed by the gentle swish of fabric as you entered the room. A part of him wished to turn, to greet you with warmth and affection. But he remained still, feigning disinterest as he gazed 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 craved your touch.
You deserved someone who could love you wholly and completely. And though Stephen admired 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 belonged to Christine—trapped in the past, frozen in time. He finished his drink, setting the glass aside before finally turning to face you. His eyes raked over your form, taking in the curves he knew so well. The swell of your breasts, the dip of your waist, the way your hips swayed as you approached him.
“I wasn’t sure if you'd be coming over tonight." His voice was low, tinged with a hint of something almost resembling tenderness. But his eyes remained 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 reached out, his fingers brushing against yours as he removed your hand from the book. His thumb lingered on your knuckles for a moment before he let his hand fall away.
"Leave?" He echoed, 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 loomed over you. His eyes searched yours, looking for any hint of doubt or dissatisfaction. But he saw none. Only tentative playfulness and a spark of something deeper—something Stephen refused to acknowledge. His heart belonged to Christine, and you knew that. You were his confidante, his lover, his outlet—but never his partner in the way that truly mattered.
“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 held you against him. Stephen's other hand tucked 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 tilted your head, gazing up at Stephen with an ideally playful smirk that played at the corners of your lips. "You’re infuriatingly bossy," you murmured, 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 trailed off, letting your words hang in the air between you. You couldn't deny the way your heart raced at his proximity, or the heat gathering between your thighs. Stephen had a certain magnetism, a charisma that drew 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 came up to rest against his chest, feeling the firm muscles beneath his shirt. You bit 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 reached up to wind your fingers through the gray locks at his temple, your nails lightly scraping against his scalp. Leaning in closer, you nuzzled 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 spoke, your hand drifted lower, fingers splaying across Stephen's stomach. You could feel the hard planes and ridges you’ve come to know so intimately. Your touch lingered 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 asked, your voice a breathless tease. You arched 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 was gorgeous, because of course she was, and you picked 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 darkened with unconcealed hunger as they roamed over your curves, his gaze lingering on every dip and swell. Your teasing words and playful touches ignited a fire within him—one that could never be entirely quenched, no matter how many nights you spent tangled in his bed. Admittedly, he had 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 slid from your waist to the small of your back, pressing you flush against him as he leaned in to nuzzle your neck. Stephen's lips brushed against your pulse point, his breath hot against your skin as he inhaled 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 murmured, his voice a low, husky rumble that sent vibrations through your body. "But since you're here..."
In one swift motion, he swept you into his arms, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as he carried you towards the bedroom. Stephen kicked the door shut behind him, leaving you both alone in the dimly lit space. He lowered you onto the bed, his body covering yours as he settled 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 knew so well. Stephen's fingers danced along your ribs before cupping the heavy weight of your breasts. He kneaded 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 began to trace a path of open-mouthed kisses from your collarbone to the lobe of your ear. He nipped 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 drifted lower, slipping beneath the waistband of your sweatpants to cup your cunt through your panties. He could feel the damp heat of you, could sense the way your body responded to his touch. You wish you could be embarrassed by how soaked you were, how needy and pliant you became whenever he shoved a hand down your pants. And you knew 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 wasn't a request. It wasn't even a question. Stephen knew you would give yourself to him—mind, body, and soul. And though he could never reciprocate the depth of your devotion, he would take what you offered and give you pleasure beyond your wildest dreams. With a low growl, Stephen captured your mouth in a searing kiss—one that demanded surrender and promised ecstasy. His tongue delved deep, tangling with yours in a dance as old as time. Stephen's hands never stilled, 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 worked your body, like an instrument only he knew 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 crouched under his desk, he barely gave you a semblance of a reaction. You couldn’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 arched your back, a breathy moan escaping your lips as Stephen's hands and mouth worked over your sensitive skin. Under his expert touch, you could feel your body melting, growing pliant and eager. Your tits heaved with each ragged breath you took, nipples straining against the flimsy fabric of your lacy bra. Stephen wasted 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 shivered, goosebumps erupting across the expanses of your flesh. Stephen's eyes darkened as he drank in the sight of you, hot and hungry, taking in every dip and curve.
"Stephen..." You gasped out, his name falling from your lips like a prayer. And it was a prayer, just as much as Stephen was your god, cruel and benevolent all at once. Your fingers clenched in his dark hair, fingernails scraping against his scalp as you held him to your chest. Stephen's mouth found your nipple, his lips wrapping around the rosy peak before he sucked hard through the lace of your bra, sending jolts of pleasure-pain straight to your core. You could feel the heat gathering between your thighs, core clenching and fluttering around nothing. Stephen's hand dipped lower, fingers brushing against your panty-clad mound. He could no doubt feel the embarrassing damp patch darkening the fabric, could sense the need that throbbed in your veins.
"Please," You whimpered, hips rolling instinctively into his touch. "Please, Stephen..."
You knew you should feel self-conscious and you wish you would, splayed out beneath him like a feast for the taking. But all your idiotic brain could focus on was the way he made you feel—consumed, alive, undone. Stephen owned every piece of you in that moment, and you knew he knew it.
You feel a bit helpless as your breathing grows heavier, strands of hair plastered to your damp forehead. You gazed up at him with hooded doe eyes, your nose just inches from his. You looked young, innocent even— a far cry from the experienced woman you had become in his bed. But right then, all you wanted was 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 compared 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 clenched as he listened to the desperation in your voice. The way you gasped and arched beneath him, your body surrendering to the pleasure he inflicted, stirred something deep within him—some instinct to possess and conquer. He knew he should be gentler, should cherish and worship your body with the reverence it deserved. But Stephen was consumed by a hunger that far outweighed simple appreciation. If you wanted to be worshipped, you would have gone to a different kind of man, but no, you came to him. And he needed to ruin you in the most basic, visceral way imaginable.
Icy eyes raked 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 made quick work of the clasp, the scrap of lace falling away to reveal the perfect globes of your flesh. He couldn't help but compare them silently to Christine's, as he always did. Not that it mattered—not with the way your nipples pebbled under his searing gaze, begging for his touch.
Irreverently, Stephen's mouth found your nipple, engulfing the rosy peak as he sucked hard. He groaned against your breast as he felt the dampness of your arousal grow tenfold, your body already so eager and ready for him. Stephen circled your clothed slit, feeling your hips buck instinctively into his touch. The way you whimpered his name, the breathless desperation in your voice, only fueled his own desire.
Stephen's cock throbbed insistently against the confines of his pants, straining towards you like there was some kind of magnetic pull between your flesh. He was achingly hard, painfully aroused—every fiber of his being focused on the stunning creature splayed out before him. With a muttered curse, he practically ripped your panties from your body, leaving you bare and exposed. Stephen settled between your parted thighs, the thick ridge of his erection nestling perfectly against your soaked, swollen folds.
He captured your mouth in a bruising kiss, swallowing your gasps and whimpers as his fingers dipped between your legs. Stephen's digits slid through your slick arousal, stroking and circling your sensitive clit until your hips began to grind urgently against his hand. He settled over you, the scorching heat of his bare skin searing yours. Stephen's lips found the tender spot on your neck, his mouth open and hungry as he suckled and nipped at the delicate flesh. He thrusted his fingers deep into your hot, clasping pussy. Stephen pumped in and out of your channel, curling and stroking that spot within you that made your toes curl and your back arch off the bed. His other hand drifted down to the straining bulge in his pants, palming his cock through the fabric before finally freeing it from its confines. Stephen knew you could feel every thick, throbbing inch of him as he ground against you—could sense the way his body ached 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 lived 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 cursed himself for the slip, watching the color drain from your face as you stared up at him with wounded eyes. In that moment, Stephen felt a pang of guilt, a twinge of regret. But it was quickly replaced by something darker—the frustrated rage of a man who had lost control. Lost control of his heart, his life, his very identity.
Stephen surged forward, his fingers plunging deeper into your dripping cunt as his cock jerked angrily against your thigh. He could feel the way your silken walls clenched around his digits, hear your gasp of hurt morph into a moan of reluctant pleasure. You didn’t want to like this, didn’t want to give him the satisfaction or let it slide that he just fucking moaned her name. His touch turned rougher, more demanding. Stephen's palm ground mercilessly against your clit as he finger-fucked you with sharp, brutal thrusts. He could feel the wet, obscene slap of flesh against flesh as he violated your cunt.
"Stop being ridiculous," Stephen growled, 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 trailed off, swallowing the rest of Christine's name as if it left a bitter taste on his tongue. Stephen's eyes flashed with anger, his expression tight and unyielding as he loomed over you.
"And who else would I be calling out to, sweetheart? Who else would I be begging for? Certainly not you," he taunted, punctuating his words with a particularly harsh thrust of his fingers. Stephen knew he was being cruel, but he couldn'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 drifted up to wrap around your throat, not squeezing, but firm and possessive. Stephen's thumb brushed 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 was a command, not a request. Stephen's voice was 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 pulled his fingers out of your dripping cunt, bringing them up to his mouth. Stephen licked 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 gripped your hips bruisingly tight and thrust forward— burying himself to the hilt inside your perfect, velvety heat with one ruthless stroke. Hot, bitter tears slipped down your flushed cheeks as you lay there, frozen beneath Stephen. Your heart felt like it was being carved out of your chest with each ragged breath. It hurt, God did it hurt, knowing you were just a poor imitation in his eyes. But despite the anguish clawing at your throat, you found yourself arching your back, hips tilting up to take him deeper.
You couldn't explain it nor did you really want to acknowledge it, but some dark, masochistic part of you reveled in the brutal way he wrecked your body. As if proving he could still want you, even if it was just for the physical act. You bit your lip hard, tasting blood, as he began 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 whimpered brokenly, even as you wrapped your legs around his waist. You clung to him, fingernails digging into the bunched muscles of his back, anchoring yourself against the overwhelming sensations. More insults spilled 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 submitted to his brutal pace. Your body betrayed you, surrendering to the searing slide of Stephen's cock splitting you open. You could feel every thick, throbbing inch of him, stretching you in ways that edged pleasure and agony. The wet, filthy sounds of your cunt filled the room, a perverse symphony of slick skin slapping against skin and strangled cries etched with despairing ecstasy. You fought 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 was a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts, but your body sang with a life of its own. Stephen owned it, possessed it, fucking you with a single-minded intensity that stole your breath and shattered your composure. You were 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 liked being used like this. Needed to be punished, to feel his fury and his hate and all the things he could never put into words. You buried 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—flooded your senses. You inhaled deeply, drowning in him, even as you wept for the woman you could never be. You felt so fucking tired, so utterly exhausted down to your very soul. But your body was a liar, writhing and bucking beneath his brutal assault, chasing an impossible climax. You knew you were going to come harder than you ever had before and the fact left you feeling mortified.
"Fuck you," You choked 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 didn'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 knew was the searing ache between your legs, the cruel twist in your guts, and the overwhelming, inescapable truth that you were hopelessly in love with Stephen Strange. A love that consumed you, body and soul, even as it destroyed you.
Stephen got off on your anger, got off on your tears, it spurred him on and he couldn’t help but continue to moan Christine’s name, each one raising in volume. You were an ache, an appetite, a means to an end for him. Nothing more, nothing less. Stephen ignored your anguished sobs and hateful words, lost in the silken heat of your body as he pounded into you without mercy. He could feel your nails raking down his back, your legs clinging desperately to his waist as he split 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 groaned at the exquisite sensation, his hips snapping forward with brutal precision. He was fucking you with a single-minded intensity, determined to ruin your body utterly and completely. Even as he lost himself in your cunt, memories of her haunted him—the way her voice would catch on a moan, the hot stickiness of her cunt around his cock. But you were here now, writhing and mewling beneath him, taking everything he gave you without a word of true protest.
Stephen tangled a hand in your hair, wrenching your head back to bare the slender column of your throat to his hungry mouth. He bit and suckled at the tender skin, marking you, claiming you as his if only on a superficial level. His other hand drifted down to where you were joined, fingers finding your aching clit and rubbing merciless circles over the swollen nub.
"That's it," Stephen growled, his voice a dark, sinful rumble against your throat. "Take it all, you little slut. Take everything I give you."
He could feel your body drawing taut, could sense your impending orgasm building like a storm deep in your belly. You tried to stave off the impending ecstasy, screwing your eyes shut and whimpering but that only encouraged him. Stephen pistoned his hips faster, fucking into you with sharp, brutal thrusts that struck sparks off his nerve endings. Lost in a haze of lust and longing and bitter, twisted memories, Stephen thought he heard you whisper that you loved him. But it couldn't be—that must be some cruel trick of his imagination. He was too far gone, too consumed by the tight, velvet grip of your cunt to pay it any mind. Instead, Stephen lost himself in the debauched symphony of skin slapping against skin, of your strangled sobs and gasps. He chased his pleasure in the slick, fluttering heat of your pussy, the way your body opened and surrendered and begged 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 came hard and deep—his cock pulsing and jerking as he spilled himself inside you. He flooded your womb with his hot, thick seed, his hips rocking shallowly against yours as he rode out the waves of his release.
In the aftermath, Stephen collapsed against you, his weight crushing you into the mattress. He could feel your tears soaking into his chest, hear your choked, trembling breaths as you fought to regain your composure.
But Stephen didn't offer any words of comfort or reassurance. Instead, he simply rolled over onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, his chest heaving and sweat glistening on his skin. Silently, he cursed himself for letting Christine's memory intrude, for reducing you to this weepy, pathetic thing. But Stephen knew, 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 prayed, 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 couldn'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 needed to escape this gilded cage before the cruel whims of his desire trapped you forever.
So you pushed yourself up on quivering arms, the silk sheets tangling around your thighs as you levered your form off the bed. You didn't dare look back at Stephen as you gathered your scattered clothes, fingers fumbling to tug your t-shirt back on. You couldn'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.
This smut was so good and so painful like wtf??? I am begging you please write a happier part 2 if you are willing to. Because this ruined me while satisfying my horny cravings but our girl y/n deserves some love and happiness and Stephen a major humbling and reality check in the form of a punch to the face. 😭
Listen, I don't ship Doctor Strange and Clea. I am not excited at all that they will be canon in the MCU. That's why I haven't been that thrilled about her appearance in the MCU.
However,
That doesn't mean I won't thirst after this purple-faltine-sorcerer mommy. Just look at her.
One thing I hate about Stephen (at least in his movie version, I don't know if he's also like that in the comics) is the fact that until now his whole life has revolved around some woman, first it was Christine who, in my opinion, is completely boring, and now when I finally thought they were going to explore him as a character they just introduce another romantic interest! This makes a character that had a lot of potential become superficial.
Personally, I love Christine, and i ship Palmerstrange. Not because I don't think she was underused because she was but because of the potential she and the Palmerstrange ship had that the writers never chose to explore. But I agree with you tbh. I mean, he did just move on from Christine, and he also said, "I love you in every universe," which doesn't sound like a moving on line to me. I mean, I am happy he said it to Christine. But I see your point. They did bring Clea pretty much right soon after he had some form of closure with Christine. I wish they had explored more into the Donna storyline and his past more. I can understand what the writers were trying to do with Christine, to show his fear of close relationships and feelings because of a past trauma, but they never address what that past trauma.
Listen, I don't ship Doctor Strange and Clea. I am not excited at all that they will be canon in the MCU. That's why I haven't been that thrilled about her appearance in the MCU.
However,
That doesn't mean I won't thirst after this purple-faltine-sorcerer mommy. Just look at her.
Interesting offer because I also want him at the same time AND I ship him and Christine. But if you insist we can have joint custody, maybe per week? Lol
And if you're going to refuse, WANNA FIGHT THIS IN COURT BRO!?!?!
No no, i am well adapt at shareing. Just sounded like you didn't want him there, and in that case i'd take him off your hands. Shared custody is good by me, as long as he's cared for. I'm just collecting strange's😌😂
Haha, i actually like Doctor Strange too. I'm not familiar with Clea, to be honest. I just decided to make a little joke, lol. Shared custody it is, then 😉😂
Listen, I don't ship Doctor Strange and Clea. I am not excited at all that they will be canon in the MCU. That's why I haven't been that thrilled about her appearance in the MCU.
However,
That doesn't mean I won't thirst after this purple-faltine-sorcerer mommy. Just look at her.
Interesting offer because I also want him at the same time AND I ship him and Christine. But if you insist we can have joint custody, maybe per week? Lol
And if you're going to refuse, WANNA FIGHT THIS IN COURT BRO!?!?!
Listen, I don't ship Doctor Strange and Clea. I am not excited at all that they will be canon in the MCU. That's why I haven't been that thrilled about her appearance in the MCU.
However,
That doesn't mean I won't thirst after this purple-faltine-sorcerer mommy. Just look at her.
