#Keep Your Distance Trophy | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

elikajinnie · 2 months ago

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Survive Till Daylight, My Dear - L.H

P: Dead By Daylight Killer!Heeseung X Survivor!Reader (recommended age: 17+)

Warnings: Stalking, Murder, Death, Chasing, Obsession, Blood/Injury, Psychological Thriller, Graphic Descriptions, Suggestive Content, Teasing, Hypnosis?, Yo he kinda sadistic.

Synopsis: Your life was ripped away when you were abducted into a twisted realm ruled by something called the Entity. But while most killers are fixated on winning, one seems dangerously fixated on you.

a/n: during a round of dead by daylight, this idea came when i kept stalking a survivor as ghostface on the withered isle map :3

disclaimer! all the killers and survivors in this is in dbd the game. I do not own any of them. the idea of heeseung was a creative endeavour. (Virtuoso: a person highly skilled in music or another artistic pursuit.)

now playing: the shadows by chris grey | fairytale (violin) by dramatic violin | runaway (violin) by dramatic violin | blood on white satin by naomi scott

jay vers sunghoon vers jake vers

You hated the times when you had to place your trust in other survivors during a trial because, more often than not, they'd leave you to fend for yourself. It wasn’t that they were cruel or uncaring—it was survival instinct. The generators scattered across the map weren’t going to fix themselves, and everyone knew the doors wouldn’t open without power. You’d done the same, sprinting past a screaming teammate once or twice. It wasn’t personal. It was just the way the Entity’s sick little game worked.

This time, though, you were the one left hanging—literally. The Deathslinger had caught you in his harpoon's grip, dragging you back like a trophy he was all too proud to display. Now, you dangled from the hook, the barbed steel biting into your shoulder. Blood trickled down your arm, warm and sticky, as the pain pulsed through you in sharp waves. You’d been hooked before—more times than you’d like to admit—but the agony never dulled. The most you could do was endure it, keeping your body still to avoid making it worse. Attempting to pull yourself free was always a gamble, and one you weren’t eager to take.

The Deathslinger lingered nearby, his rifle clutched tightly in his hands. His breaths came in ragged, heavy puffs, the sound grating like sandpaper against your ears. He wasn’t going anywhere, that much was clear. You groaned, tilting your head to try and catch a glimpse of your teammates. Surely someone would come for you—right?

The faint hum of a generator in the distance made your stomach twist. They were close to getting it done. That was good for them, bad for you. If they got it running, they’d bolt for the exit, and you’d be left to rot in the Entity’s clutches. A bitter laugh bubbled in your throat, but it died when you caught the glint of the Deathslinger’s weapon shifting toward the horizon. He was watching, waiting.

A flicker of movement in the corner of your eye caught your attention. Someone was coming—finally. Your heart leaped, hope flaring like a matchstick, but it fizzled just as quickly when you realized how loud their footsteps were. No stealth, no crouching, just a dead sprint toward you.

“What the hell are they doing?” you muttered under your breath, wincing as the hook shifted with your movement.

The Deathslinger didn’t need more than a second to notice. He turned on a dime, lifting his rifle to aim at the approaching figure. You clenched your teeth, bracing yourself for the sound of the chain snapping free, dragging yet another survivor into his grasp.

"Idiots," you hissed, though a small part of you couldn’t help but admire their courage—or stupidity. Maybe both.

You watched as Adam stumbled right into the Deathslinger’s trap. His scream cut through the air as the harpoon slammed into his chest, the chain rattling as the killer yanked him closer, and within seconds, Adam was up on another hook, his scream loud as the barbed metal tore through him.

Movement caught your eye again, and you turned your head just enough to see Mikaela and Leon slipping out of the shadows. Mikaela was quick on her feet, darting into the Deathslinger’s line of sight with purpose. She waved her arms, yelling something you couldn’t quite make out, and the killer turned to her immediately, his focus shifting.

“About time,” you muttered, feeling your heart race as Leon crouched low and made his way to you.

His hands were on you before you could say anything, quick and practiced as he worked the hook free from your shoulder. You bit down on your lip hard enough to taste blood, the searing pain making your vision blur for a moment. You fell to the ground, and Leon grabbed your arm, hauling you up to your feet.

“Come on!” he hissed, his voice urgent but calm.

You didn’t need to be told twice. Stumbling at first, you forced your legs to move, ignoring the fiery ache in your shoulder as you followed Leon into a nearby building.

Leon pulled you to the far corner of the room, crouching down beside you. His hands were already moving, tearing strips of cloth from somewhere, probably from some medkit he’d grabbed earlier. You barely had time to think about it before he pressed the fabric against your wound.

You hissed at the contact, the pain sharp and immediate, but you bit it back, watching as blood dripped from your shoulder onto the cold cement floor. When Leon’s voice pulled you out of your thoughts. “You’re gonna be fine. Just stay still.”

You nodded, swallowing hard as you tried to focus on something other than the pain. “Adam?” you asked, your voice hoarse.

“He’ll be okay,” Leon said quickly, though you weren’t sure if he believed it. “Mikaela’s keeping the Deathslinger busy. We’ll figure something out.”

You wanted to argue, to say there was no “figuring something out” when someone was already on the hook, but you kept quiet. Leon’s hands worked steadily, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the urgency of the situation.

The faint hum of a generator powered up somewhere nearby, followed by the unmistakable sound of the gate alarms. Your heart sank. The others were getting ready to escape, and you were still bleeding out on the floor.

Leon’s hands froze for a moment as the sound echoed through the building, but he quickly resumed. “Don’t worry,” he said, his voice steady, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of doubt. “We’ll get out of here.”

You wanted to believe him. God, you wanted to believe him. But as another scream tore through the air—Mikaela’s this time—you felt hopeless.

With your shoulder patched up, you didn’t waste a second. Leon pulled you to your feet, and together you sprinted through the dim, foggy maze of the trial grounds. The air felt heavy, the dark sky above rumbling like it could cave in at any moment. You rolled your eyes at the theatrics—because apparently, the Entity couldn’t help but crank up the dramatics just to remind you that you were always one bad move away from death.

Jumping over a pallet, you stumbled but recovered quickly, your feet pounding against the dirt as you wove around an old, rusted bench. The faint glow of the exit lights appeared ahead, like a beacon calling you home. Relief surged through you when you saw Steve standing there, frantically working the crank to open the massive steel doors.

His head whipped around when he heard your footsteps, his face tense with panic until his eyes landed on you and Leon. He let out a shaky sigh of relief, motioning for you to hurry. "Come on! Almost there!"

The door groaned loudly as it crept open, revealing the inky blackness beyond. Freedom was so close you could taste it. But just as your heart lifted, the sharp, metallic sound of a chain unspooling sent a jolt of terror down your spine.

You stopped running on pure instinct, your body frozen for a split second before the harpoon shot past you, embedding itself in a tree just inches away. The tensioned chain rattled, swaying as it recoiled. Your head snapped toward the Deathslinger, standing only a few meters away.

“Go!” Leon shouted, his voice breaking the trance as he pushed you forward.

You didn’t need to be told twice. Heart pounding, you ducked under the chain, your body nearly brushing against it as you bolted toward the exit. The pounding of your feet grew louder in your ears, mingling with the heavy, ragged breaths you couldn’t control. You threw yourself forward, crossing the threshold into the open landscape beyond just as the Deathslinger took another step closer.

Whipping around, you skidded to a stop and turned to look back. The Deathslinger stood just at the edge of the exit, his rifle lowered as he glared at you, seething. The dark, writhing tentacles of the Entity began to weave their way through the space between you, blocking his path and keeping him trapped inside the trial grounds.

Steve grabbed your arm, pulling you further away from the exit as the doors groaned shut behind you. "Come on, we don’t have time to celebrate!"

You nodded, glancing at Leon, who gave you a reassuring pat on the shoulder before jogging to catch up with Steve.

You didn’t look back again.

Suddenly, everything around you went dark. The ground beneath your feet gave way, and that all-too-familiar sensation of falling took hold. You didn’t scream—you never did anymore. Instead, you braced yourself for the impact that wouldn’t come.

Moments later, you landed on solid ground, your body jolting slightly as the world around you shifted. When you opened your eyes, the oppressive fog of the trial was gone, replaced by the dim, flickering firelight of the survivors’ camp.

You let out a long sigh, rolling your shoulder experimentally. As expected, the pain was gone, replaced by the dull, phantom ache that always lingered after a trial. You reached up to touch the spot where the hook had torn through your body, finding smooth, unbroken skin beneath your fingers. It was like it had never happened.

That was how it always was with the Entity. No matter how brutal the trial, no matter how close to death you came—or how many times you actually died—you always woke up here, whole again. The physical wounds vanished, leaving nothing but the memory of pain.

You glanced around the camp, taking in the familiar sights. The fire crackled in the center, its warmth doing little to ease the chill that seemed to seep into your bones. A few other survivors were scattered around, some tending to the fire, others sitting quietly with haunted looks in their eyes. They were all like you—trapped in this endless cycle of torment and survival, powerless to escape the Entity’s grasp.

Leon was already here, his jacket was draped over his shoulders, and he was absently cleaning the blood from his hands with a rag. When he saw you, he gave you a small, tired smile.

“Made it back,” he said, his voice low but steady.

You nodded, walking over to join him. “Barely.”

Steve, who had landed nearby, ran a hand through his hair. “That was too close,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I thought he was gonna get all of us at the end.”

You sat down beside Leon, the phantom pain in your shoulder throbbing faintly as you rested your elbows on your knees. “He almost did,” you said, glancing at the fire.

“That’s how it goes,” Feng said softly, appearing from the shadows. She had a medkit slung over her shoulder, though she didn’t need it—not here. “We survive, we heal, and then we go back in.”

Her words were a reminder of the reality you all faced. There was no end to it, no escape. The Entity would call you back into another trial soon enough, and the chase would start again.

You sighed, leaning back and closing your eyes for a moment. The camp was supposed to be a place of safety, a brief reprieve from the horrors of the trials, but it never truly felt like it. The shadows seemed to watch you, the ever-present feeling of being watched lingering even here.

“How’s Adam?” you asked after a moment, opening your eyes to look at Leon.

“He made it back,” Leon said, his voice heavy with relief. “Barely. Mikaela got him up just before the door closed.”

You nodded, grateful but knowing better than to celebrate. It was just another trial, another near-death experience in an endless cycle of them.

For now, you were safe.

Luckily, during the next trial, you weren’t one of the chosen ones. It was a relief, but it didn’t stop the restless feeling gnawing at your muscles. The camp, despite being a sanctuary of sorts, always felt suffocating when others were off risking their lives in the fog. You needed to move, so you decided to take a walk.

Of course, you never strayed too far. Not anymore.

You’d learned that lesson the hard way when you first arrived. Back then, you’d been terrified, too panicked to listen to anyone. The other survivors had tried to explain things to you—what this place was, what the trials meant—but their words only blurred together in the haze of fear clouding your mind. All you knew was that you were somewhere you didn’t belong, and you needed to get out.

So you’d run.

You sprinted as fast as your legs would carry you, ignoring the desperate calls of the others. You didn’t know where you were going, only that you had to escape. The trees around you blurred as you pushed yourself harder, your lungs burning with every frantic breath—until you slammed face-first into something solid.

It wasn’t a tree. No bark, no leaves—just an invisible wall that sent you reeling backward, clutching your nose in pain. You stumbled, dazed and confused, but before you could even think about what you’d just hit, you heard it: deep, guttural breathing, slow and deliberate.

Your head snapped up, and your blood ran cold. A obese figure loomed just on the other side of the barrier. His face was grotesque, smeared with greasepaint that cracked like old plaster. The Clown.

You screamed, scrambling to your feet and bolting back toward the camp. The sound of his laughter—wet and wheezing—chased after you, but when you risked a glance over your shoulder, he wasn’t following.

The Clown remained where he stood, staring at you with those cold eyes. Confusion flickered in your panicked mind, but you didn’t stop running until you were safely back in the camp.

Later, after you’d calmed down and stopped trembling like a leaf, Dwight had sat you down by the fire. He was the first survivor here, or so they all said, and he’d taken it upon himself to explain how the realm worked to newcomers.

“That’s why he didn’t follow you,” Dwight had said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “There’s a barrier between us and them. The Entity doesn’t let killers into our camp. Same way we can’t go into their domain. Not unless it’s during a trial.”

It had taken time for the words to fully sink in, but eventually, you understood. The killers could watch you from the other side of that invisible wall if they wanted to, but they couldn’t cross it. They weren’t allowed to harm you outside of the trials.

Still, that didn’t make the idea of running into them any less horrifying. You already saw enough of them during the trials. You didn’t need to see them here, too.

That’s why, even now, as you wandered through the edges of the camp, you kept your distance. The boundary between the survivors’ camp and the killers’ domain wasn’t visible, but you could feel it, like an unseen pressure in the air. You never dared to go too close.

But alas the camp wasn’t large, so it was almost impossible not to catch at least a glimpse of a killer lingering near the barrier from time to time. You’d gotten used to it, in a way—seeing their shadowy figures pacing just out of reach, watching.

But now, as you rounded a corner near the edge of the camp, you froze. There, just a few yards away, was Chucky.

The little doll hadn’t noticed you, too busy pacing along the barrier and cussing up a storm. You crouched low behind a boulder, not out of fear but curiosity, your eyes narrowing as you caught bits and pieces of his tirade.

“...That smug prick—thinks he’s so damn smart, huh? Always with the ‘grand plans.’ I’ll show him a plan—it’s called taking his head off with a kitchen knife!”

You tilted your head, straining to hear more. The Mastermind—you’d heard that name before. Albert Wesker. You’d faced him twice in trials, and both times, you’d died. He was fast, calculating, and far more terrifying than a doll with a knife. Where Chucky was a chaotic little bastard who relied on deception and sneak attacks, Wesker had power and strategy to back him up. You hadn’t stood a chance.

Still, the idea of Chucky throwing a tantrum over Wesker made you stifle a small, ironic laugh. The Entity certainly had a sense of humor when it came to the killers it pulled into its realm.

You were about to leave, figuring you’d heard enough, when something Chucky said made you freeze.

“...And now there’s a new guy? Already? What the hell does the Entity even need him for? We just got the Houndmaster! Isn’t that freaky dog-pack enough?”

A new killer?

Your eyes widened, and your breath hitched. You instinctively leaned forward, your curiosity overtaking your caution. You’d only just gotten used to the Houndmaster—another recent addition to the roster of killers. And now the Entity was adding someone else?

You thought about how peculiar it was. The Entity usually gave some time before introducing new killers, letting survivors adjust (or break) under the current conditions. The Houndmaster was still fresh, and you with the other survivors were still learning how to navigate her brutal trial. So why now?

You shifted slightly, your knee brushing against the dirt, and froze when Chucky suddenly stopped pacing. His head snapped up, his plastic eyes scanning the horizon, and for a moment, you thought he’d spotted you.

“Whatever,” he muttered, resuming his rant. “If this newbie thinks they can show me up, they’ve got another thing coming. I’ve been doing this way longer. What’re they gonna do? Kill me?”

You slowly backed away, keeping low until Chucky was out of sight. A new killer. The thought sent a ripple of unease through you. It wasn’t like you’d gotten comfortable with the existing ones—the trials were still brutal, the killers relentless—but the idea of facing someone new, someone whose abilities you didn’t yet understand, made your stomach churn.

Who—or what—had the Entity brought into its realm this time?

You couldn’t shake the feeling of dread as you rushed back to the survivors' camp, your mind racing with the news you’d just learned. When you burst into the center of the camp and announced the new arrival, the reactions were varied.

Some survivors, like Dwight and Leon, looked concerned but stayed quiet. Others, like Steve and Yuna, were visibly stressed. But there were those like Yunjin and Yui, who didn’t show any reaction at all.

Just as the murmurs of unease began to settle into the air, the survivors from the most recent trial landed back into the camp, their faces drawn with exhaustion. Before anyone could even ask about their experience, Claudette, always quick to speak, started rambling, her voice trembling with exhaustion.

“New killer,” Claudette gasped, wiping sweat from her brow as she collapsed onto the log near the fire. “The Virtuoso. That’s what he’s called. And he’s... terrifying.”

You felt a chill run down your spine at the name. The Virtuoso.

The other survivors gathered around, listening intently as Claudette, Meg, and Feng started explaining.

“He has a violin,” Meg said, her voice low and shaky. “A violin. He uses it as a weapon. And when he plays it... it’s like... you can’t hear anything. Our ears just—stop working. You lose all sound. It’s like you’re in a void for a few minutes, and you can’t even tell where he is. He would just come up behind us and we wouldn’t hear him at all.”

Feng nodded, her eyes wide with the memory. “And when he’s chasing you, he doesn’t stay silent. He hums or sings under his breath. It’s so creepy.”

You exchanged a look with Leon, both of you registering the horror of their words. A violin as a weapon? That was something you had never imagined.

“So, like the Huntress?” you asked quietly, trying to make sense of it. “He relies on sound to track you?”

Meg gave you a grim nod. “Kind of. But worse. It’s not just about hunting you—it’s about taking away everything you rely on. You can’t hear anything, can’t even react properly. He disorients you. Makes you feel helpless.”

“That’s... unsettling,” Leon muttered, the words heavy with the shared understanding that this new killer was unlike anything you had faced before.

It took a total of three trials before you finally faced the Virtuoso. The first round was against The Shape. You survived by a hair, heart pounding in your chest as you barely managed to escape through the exit. The second trial? Against Nemesis. You didn’t survive that one. His relentless pursuit, aided by the terrifying zombie hordes, had been too much to handle. You’d been caught and ended up on the hook. But the third trial was different—you faced Dracula, but somehow, against all odds, you survived. You’d made it through with flying colors, your team working together to power up the generators and escape.

And now, here you were, entering your fourth trial. This time, it was a new map—a small city that seemed stuck in time. Old, crumbling buildings lined the streets, abandoned cars scattered across the roads, rusted and forgotten. But the centerpiece of it all? A massive theatre that towered over everything, its marquee flickering like a faint ghost of a past long gone. The sight was eerie, and your instincts immediately kicked in.

You crouched low, moving as quietly as possible, not wanting to attract any attention. The map was unfamiliar, and you knew the key to surviving here would be finding a way to adapt quickly. You needed to figure out where the generators were, which killer you were facing this time, and if there were any survivors to find and help.

You made your way into one of the buildings—an apartment complex, judging by the layout. You tried the first door you came to. Locked. The second one, same. You didn’t linger long, knowing that if you wasted too much time, the killer would find you. You had to keep moving.

Your main focus now was to get a feel for the map. The theatre seemed to loom ominously in the distance, a place that probably had its own secrets. You had to remember that the killers loved these big, grandiose settings, where they could trap and hunt survivors in ways that felt like part of their twisted game.

As you cautiously made your way through the city, a sound broke the silence—something distant, but it sent a cold shiver down your spine. It wasn’t the usual rumbling of the Entity’s presence. This was something else. A soft, haunting melody, like the strains of a violin being played somewhere in the distance.

You froze.

That was the Virtuoso. The violin music—it was unmistakable.

You didn't know if he was close or far, but you knew that he was out there. You needed to find a generator, and fast, before he tracked you down. The eerie melody seemed to seep into the air, twisting everything, making it harder to focus. You crouched even lower, scanning the streets, every creak of the buildings or rustle of the wind making you jump. You had to keep it together. This was a new map. The city would be full of hiding spots and escape routes.

You made your way past another apartment, your heartbeat quickening as you heard the faintest hum of the violin. You weren’t sure if it was coming closer or just echoing off the buildings, but you couldn't risk staying in one place for too long. You kept your movements as quiet as possible, crouching behind abandoned cars and ducking into doorways when necessary.

And then you saw it. In the distance, hidden behind an alleyway, the faint outline of a generator. Your heart raced in your chest as you approached, the sound of the violin growing louder, now definitely closer. You had to power up the generator before it was too late.

You focused on the generator, keeping your hands steady as you worked to repair it. The rhythm of your actions matched the increasing intensity of the violin, the music growing louder, echoing through the alley like it was all around you.

Then, without warning, a sharp note sliced through the air, followed by a scream from a survivor nearby. It snapped you out of your concentration for a moment, but you forced yourself to ignore it, refocusing on the task. You had to finish this. But as you continued to work, you heard something else—a short solo, a few drawn-out notes that struck like a delicate thread of sound, and then… everything changed.

Suddenly, your body felt heavy. It was subtle at first, just a slight shift, a tug in your muscles, but then it intensified. Your hands grew sluggish, and your vision blurred at the edges. The music seemed to seep deeper into your mind, invading your senses like a drug. You could feel the melody wrapping around your thoughts, pulling you into a soft, sleepy trance.

You tried to shake it off, to focus on the generator, but the exhaustion hit you hard. You gasped, dropping to your knees, hands gripping the dirt and debris on the ground as you tried to steady yourself. What was happening? You felt dizzy, but not in a sick and bad way, no this was different—it was a comforting kind of dizziness, like being wrapped in a warm blanket that made you want to close your eyes and give in.

It was the strangest feeling. The violin’s notes was almost seductive, pulling you deeper, lulling you into a state of relaxed submission. It wasn’t painful—no, it was... pleasant. Your limbs felt like they were made of lead, and you found yourself slowing down, your movements growing languid, as if you were caught in some spell you couldn’t break. You wanted more of it. Whatever this feeling was, it was unlike anything you’d ever experienced.

Was this the Virtuoso’s ability? You felt your thoughts fuzzing at the edges as his melody played on, each note wrapping around your mind like a gentle whisper, coaxing you further into this strange, hypnotic state. What was he doing to you? The question seemed far away, like it didn’t matter. It was easier to just give in, to let the music take over and stop worrying about the generator, the trial, everything else.

But no. You couldn’t let yourself fall into that trap. You forced your hands to push against the dirt, trying to stand up, to shake off the exhaustion. You had to keep moving, keep thinking. You couldn’t afford to let him win. The Virtuoso was manipulating you with his music, using it to cloud your senses, to wear you down until you couldn’t think straight anymore.

You gritted your teeth, pushing through the haze in your mind, forcing yourself to crawl back to the generator. You had to get it done—now.

Your fingers were slow, trembling as you worked, but the sound of the violin kept playing, surrounding you, tightening its grip on your senses. You were struggling to focus, the exhaustion clouding your thoughts.

Suddenly, you heard the soft shuffle of footsteps behind you. You glanced over, your blurry vision making it hard to see clearly. But then you recognized her—Yui. She was stumbling, hurt, her clothes torn, and blood staining her skin. She looked dazed, her eyes half-lidded, like she was under the same spell you were. The exhaustion was evident in her posture, her steps unsteady as she approached.

You whispered, barely able to make the words come out, "Do you want me to heal you?"

But Yui didn’t respond to your voice. She pointed to her ears, a subtle, desperate gesture. She couldn’t hear you.

She crouched beside you, barely able to focus, but she reached for the generator. You could see the struggle in her expression as she tried to push through the same fog you were in. You both sat there working.

Then, you heard it. A scream. The unmistakable sound of a survivor being hooked. Your heart clenched, and panic began to creep in.

“Come on... finish...” You muttered under your breath, barely audible. You could barely focus, every part of you aching.

Yui’s hands were slower than they should have been, her movements sluggish, but she kept working beside you.

But just as you thought the generator might finally be finished, the air grew colder. You could sense something was coming. The music stopped. The silence was deafening.

Your hands trembled, the generator almost done, but you knew you couldn’t afford to be caught now. You had to finish this. You had to.

Just as the generator lit up and blared, signaling that it was finally done, Yui took off, her movements slow but determined. You exhaled in relief, ready to run yourself, but then something caught your eye. Yui was heading straight for a figure standing in the shadows, a tall, looming figure. She didn’t see him until it was too late.

The sound of a sharp, slicing movement filled the air, and you gasped in horror as Yui screamed, the sound cut short by a sudden thud as she crumpled to the ground. Her blood pooled around her, and there, standing over her, was the figure. A man, tall and lean, dressed in a dark and tattered suit that was stained with blood. His white undershirt was ripped, exposing skin underneath. But it wasn’t his clothing that made your heart race—it was his face.

A cracked porcelain mask covered most of it, resembling that of a twisted theater performer. From the cracks, you could see his eyes, dark and hollow, and his lips, painted with an smug expression. His black hair was slicked back, and his white gloves were stained, a deep, crimson red. He was a nightmare made flesh, a figure from a forgotten stage play brought to life in the most terrifying way.

You froze, watching as the man wiped Yui’s blood from the bow of his violin. That’s when you realized—this was him. The Virtuoso.

He looked up at you, and for a moment, you could have sworn there was no emotion in his gaze. His eyes were cold, detached. But then something shifted, the indifference was replaced with something else—something more dangerous. Interest. And that terrified you more than anything else.

The Virtuoso’s hand stretched out, and you saw him pull a black violin from his back, its surface stained with dark splatters of blood. Your heart raced as he held it to his chin, the bow raised, and began to play.

The moment his fingers touched the strings, the haunting melody flooded the air. Your body tensed, your head spinning, and that all-too-familiar exhaustion swept over you again. You gasped, trying to steady yourself, but it was like the music was pulling you under, drowning you in its grip.

Your legs buckled beneath you, and you fell to the ground. Your hands trembled, your head pounding as the exhaustion began to take over. You couldn’t think straight. Your mind felt like it was slipping away, like everything that was you was fading into the background, consumed by the tune he was playing.

Every muscle in your body thrummed with a dull, almost pleasurable ache, like your very essence was being swept away by the music. You couldn’t fight it. You didn’t want to fight it. The only thing that mattered now was the sound of that violin, that song that tugged at your soul.

But you had to stay conscious. You had to—stay awake.

You wanted to scream, to push through, but the tune was so lullingly beautiful. It was too hard to resist. Your eyes fluttered, the world around you starting to fade to black. You could see the Virtuoso’s face, his mask cracked but still emotionless, his cold gaze never leaving you as he played on, the haunting tune weaving its way deeper into your mind.

And then, everything went dark.

When you woke up, it was with a sharp, disorienting breath, your heart racing as your body jerked upright. You found yourself lying on something cold and hard, the rough texture of the floor beneath you. Confusion gripped you, and as you looked around, it hit you like a punch to the stomach: you were on a stage. The grand theater, the one you’d only glimpsed before.

How did you get here?

Did the Virtuoso bring you here? You could barely remember the last moments before everything went black. The music, his violin—it had all blurred together in a haze of exhaustion and pleasure. You shook your head, pushing yourself to your feet. Your legs wobbled slightly, but you managed to steady yourself.

The stage was crumbling around you. The curtains hung tattered and ripped, torn from years of neglect. The floorboards creaked beneath your weight, some of them so loose that they threatened to give way with even the slightest pressure. The way down was a steep, treacherous drop, the ground far below hidden by the darkness that seemed to consume the rest of the theater. The chairs facing the stage were old and covered in dust, their worn fabric peeling away like the remnants of a forgotten time. The air smelled faintly of blood, mixed with the scent of neglect.

A cold shiver ran down your spine as you looked around, your mind still foggy, struggling to grasp the situation. You needed to get out of here, but before you could take another step, you heard it—the familiar, haunting melody.

The violin. It came from somewhere deep within the theater, its sound clear and insistent, just like before. And like before, you felt it. The pull. The music wrapped around your mind like a shroud, soft yet relentless, seeping into your thoughts, digging into the very core of your being. You tried to ignore it, but the pull was too strong.

Before you could even react, you fell to your knees, gasping for air as your hands instinctively flew to your head. The pain was sudden, sharp, like a thousand tiny needles pricking at your mind, but then—then—it melted into something else. Something worse.

It felt too good. Too intoxicating. It was as if the melody had found something deep within you, something buried, and was now scratching at it, pulling it to the surface. You hated it. You hated how it made your heart race and your body burn with a strange, unbidden desire. This was different from the shock therapy The Doctor used. It wasn’t painful in the way you knew pain, like a jolt of electricity that shattered your thoughts. No. This was... pleasure of the mind, something so smooth and alluring, it felt like the essence of who you were was being coaxed from your very soul.

It was like drowning in euphoria and fear all at once. You wanted to stop it. You wanted to tear yourself away from it, but you couldn’t.

The tune continued, crawling deeper into your head, pushing against your will. Every note felt like it was peeling away at your very identity, unraveling the pieces of your mind, piece by piece, until all you could hear, all you could feel, was the melody.

You gasped again, your chest tight as the world around you began to blur. Was this what he wanted? Was this how he claimed his victims? With the music?

Your mind screamed at you to move, to run, but your body refused to obey. The melody still reverberated in your skull, a lullaby of twisted euphoria. And then, you saw him.

He emerged from behind the backstage curtains, the black violin still held under his chin, his fingers expertly gliding over the strings, pulling out notes that made your head swim. His eyes remained fixed on you as he began to hum along, the sound vibrating in the air, setting your nerves on fire.

You groaned, struggling to shake the haze from your thoughts, but it was no use. He was here now, standing before you. His presence towered over you, and you could feel the coldness of his gaze piercing through the haze that clung to your senses.

He stopped playing, the sudden silence swallowing the air around you. Your heart pounded in your chest as he crouched down, bringing his face dangerously close to yours. You could feel the heat of his breath, steady and cold at the same time, but his eyes… those eyes pierced into you, unblinking and filled with an unsettling curiosity.

You tried to look away, to break free from his stare, but before you could move, his gloved hand shot out and grasped your jaw, forcing you to look up at him. His touch was firm, not painful, but there was no escaping it. You felt small, powerless under his grasp.

He studied you, his gaze moving from your face to the rest of your body, his expression unreadable. For a moment, he didn’t speak, just letting the silence linger between you. Then, his voice broke through the tension, deep and smooth, almost like a melody of its own.

"Where has the Entity been hiding you, I wonder?" his words was laced with dark amusement. His voice was soft, but it held an edge, as if he was enjoying your discomfort, your inability to escape him.

You didn’t know how to respond. Your body felt heavy, your mind clouded, but you could hear the taunting tone in his voice.

"You’ve been so quiet," he continued. "All you can do is whine, can’t you? Letting me do whatever I want."

You wanted to fight, to scream, to tell him to stop, but all you could manage was a weak grip on his arm, your fingers barely able to hold onto the sleeve of his bloodstained suit. Your strength was gone, sapped by the music, by him.

His lips curved into a knowing smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes, and he leaned in closer, his voice a soft whisper now.

"I can’t wait to see how long you last."

His words sent a shiver down your spine, and you realized that, in this moment, you were nothing more than a puppet in his hands. You wanted to speak, to shout, to fight back, but you couldn’t form the words. His hold on you was suffocating, his fingers warm and unforgiving as they gripped your face and tilted your head back.

"You’re so adorable when you try to resist," he purred, his voice dripping with amusement. "You think you can escape, don’t you?"

You were trying to gather strength, to push him away, but before you could react, his hands shot out, swift and sure. In one fluid motion, he lifted you off the ground, throwing you effortlessly over his shoulder. You gasped, the sudden shift making the world spin around you.

You would have fought back against any other killer. You were used to wiggling free, to finding a way to outsmart and escape. But not with him.

He started humming again, each note seemed to echo in your head, making it harder and harder to think clearly, and it lulled you into a stupor.

The two of you passed through the decaying theater, the doors creaking open as he made his way out. The world outside was dark, the streets eerily empty. You tried to shake yourself awake, to fight the haze, and finally, your lips parted in a slow, slurred speech.

"W-where... where is everyone?" you managed, the words feeling foreign as they left your mouth, thick with exhaustion.

The Virtuoso didn’t even flinch, his pace steady as he continued walking, as if this was just another routine. He simply answered, his voice cold and casual.

"They’re gone," he replied, a slight edge of amusement in his tone. "Already given to the Entity. All of them."

The weight of his words sank in, and you froze, your breath catching in your throat as a realization dawned on you.

Oh. You were the only one left. The only survivor.

A wave of cold dread washed over you, and you couldn’t shake the sick feeling that had settled in your stomach.

And now, you were alone with him.

"You’ll learn to enjoy this feeling," he murmured, almost as if he were speaking to himself.

The weight of his words lingered in the air, suffocating you with their twisted promise. "You’ll learn to enjoy this feeling."

Just then the rumbling began, the map trembling under the familiar pressure, you knew the Entity was growing impatient. It wanted this to end quickly—its hunger insatiable. The last survivor, the final piece in its dark game, was about to be consumed. But then the Virtuoso suddenly released his grip on you. You were unceremoniously dropped to the ground, the rough texture of the pavement scraping your palms as you struggled to sit up.

You groaned, looking up to find the Virtuoso no longer watching you. Instead, his attention was fixed on his violin bow, the jagged edges glinting in the dim light, stained with blood.

“What’s happening?” you managed to ask, your voice shaky but filled with desperation.

Without looking up from his bow, he simply uttered one word, cold and commanding. “Crawl.”

You blinked, confusion settling in for a brief moment before your gaze drifted to the distance. Just a few meters away, the hatch—open and waiting. The escape. The only chance you had. Without thinking, you began to crawl toward it. Every movement felt like an agonizingly slow struggle, but you pushed yourself forward, determined to get to the only possible way out.

But as you moved, you heard it—his humming. It was soft at first, the haunting melody following you, filling the air around you. You dared a glance over your shoulder, and there he was. The Virtuoso was trailing behind you, his figure looming with a slow, deliberate pace. His bow was still clutched tightly in his hand, the faint sound of his humming growing louder as he moved closer. His lips curled into a manic smirk, one that sent a chill down your spine.

And then, in a voice that was far too cheerful for what was happening, he began to count.

“Ten...” His voice was smooth, almost musical, like he was savoring each number.

You could feel your heart racing, pounding in your chest, the escape hatch tantalizingly close but still so far away.

“...Nine…”

Every second felt like an eternity, the weight of his presence bearing down on you as you forced yourself to crawl. The sound of his counting echoed in your ears, filling you with dread.

“…Eight…”

You looked back again, sweat beading on your forehead. His expression was twisted, like he was enjoying this far too much.

“...Seven…”

The hatch was so close now. You could almost reach it.

“...Six…”

You pushed yourself harder, faster, but each movement felt like it drained more of your energy.

“...Five…”

The Virtuoso’s steps were closer now, his bow gliding smoothly through the air as he followed behind you, still counting, still humming.

“…Four…”

You gritted your teeth, pushing through the exhaustion, through the haze of his song, your body screaming at you to stop.

“...Three…”

The hatch was just a few inches away now. You could see it beckoning you.

“…Two…”

His humming was louder, almost deafening in its intensity.

“...One.”

And then, in a heartbeat, he stopped. The silence that followed was deafening, as if the world had held its breath. You froze, barely a few inches from the escape hatch. You could hear the sound of his violin bow slicing through the air.

And then, his voice, smooth as silk, reached your ears. “Such a shame, my dear.”

He walked past you, the sound of his footsteps echoing in the silence of the street. Without a word, he approached the escape hatch and closed it with a swift motion, the heavy metal door slamming shut behind him with an almost finality that made your heart race. When he turned back to face you, his smile was chilling, like a predator savoring the moment before the kill.

"Time to die," he said softly, his voice low, but filled with a cruel satisfaction.

He moved toward you slowly, deliberately, his every step measured as if he had all the time in the world. Your body trembled, your muscles stiff and weak from the exhaustion, the haze of the melody still clouding your mind. You struggled to move, but the world around you felt distant and blurry.

A haunting melody played in the background, filling the space between you and him, wrapping around your thoughts like a chain. Your vision swayed, the edges of the world fading into a soft blur as his presence grew closer. Then, with a gentleness that made the hairs on your neck stand on end, he positioned the bow against your throat, his touch light but firm.

His face was expressionless, calculating. His eyes locked onto yours as if studying you, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

He began to sing.

His voice was smooth, precise, almost like a lullaby. Each note slipped into your mind, soothing and terrifying all at once, as if he were performing an intimate, private piece just for you. The sound of his voice, along with the melody, distorted everything around you. The air thickened, pressing in from all sides, and you could feel your senses begin to unravel. The world seemed to twist, the music warping, growing louder, more dissonant, filling your head with confusion, a maddening disorientation that made it harder to breathe.

Your vision flickered in and out, the room around you stretching and bending with each note he sang. The pressure on your throat from the bow grew, the coldness of the violin's edge digging into your skin.

And then, without warning, in a single, fluid motion, he swept the bow across your throat.

The sharp strings bit into your skin, cutting deeply, and you gasped, feeling the hot rush of blood spilling from the wound. You fell to the ground, your body crumpling beneath the weight of the pain and the overwhelming sensation of his final song echoing in your ears.

Everything went dark.

The familiar feeling of falling overwhelmed you once more, a sinking sensation that seemed endless. And when you landed, it wasn’t the cold streets of the trial. No. You were back.

You were back in the survivors’ camp.

Alive.

Unhurt.

The sudden shift left you gasping for air, your heart racing as you blinked, trying to process what had just happened. You looked around. The camp was quiet, peaceful, almost like nothing had ever happened.

You sat there for what felt like an eternity, your back pressed against the rough bark of the tree. The camp was unusually quiet, save for the distant murmurs of other survivors. You had a clear view of the barrier between you and the killers, the oppressive feeling of the entity’s domain hanging in the air. It felt like days since you’d last faced a trial, days that stretched on, leaving you to wonder why you hadn’t been called back into the horrors of the realm.

Time blurred together. Trials came and went, but for some reason, you were left untouched, as if the entity itself had decided to leave you be. You watched as others came back, their faces etched with exhaustion and fear. Some spoke of the Virtuoso in hushed tones, their words tinged with dread. You overheard their stories: how they’d tried to outrun him, how they’d failed to survive a single trial with him, how his music had driven them to madness before the end.

But none of them had managed to make it through. None of them had escaped him.

He had become a legend in the realm, and for good reason. His abilities—his haunting song, his control over the survivors—had turned him into a killer of nightmares. No one had survived one trial against him.

You saw him in your dreams sometimes, his haunting music echoing in your ears, his voice soft and cruel. You shivered at the thought of facing him again, knowing that if the entity ever called you back, you wouldn’t stand a chance.

Trials passed, and yet the call never came. You began to wonder if you had been forgotten—left behind, abandoned in the shadows of the camp. Or maybe the entity was just waiting for the perfect moment to drag you back into the trial, to see if you would survive a second time.

Eventually, the call came. You were thrust back into the realm, pulled from the relative peace of the survivors’ camp and thrown into the chaos of the trials once again.

First came the Dredge, you were constantly on edge, and you barely made it through, but you survived.

Next, you found yourself up against the Demogorgon. You escaped—barely—each breath ragged, the taste of fear still fresh in your mouth.

Then, the Oni came, you barely manage to survive, barely.

The Doctor came next, his shock therapy was unbearable, his laughter echoing in your head. But again, somehow, you survived.

And then there was the Hillbilly, you sprinted, dodged, and hid, your heart pounding in your chest as you narrowly escaped the carnage.

You groaned loudly as the familiar feeling of being pulled into the trial washed over you, the world around you spinning before it all dropped away into darkness. When your feet hit the ground, you staggered, blinking against the sudden brightness.

Your eyes widened in horror as you looked around.

You were on his map.

The surroundings were hauntingly familiar—the dilapidated theater looming in the distance, the cracked, decaying streets, the smell of dust and blood in the air. It was as if the very atmosphere of the map itself was alive, pulsing with a sinister energy, beckoning you to come face to face with your worst nightmare.

You had to survive him. You had no choice. You couldn’t afford to fall victim to him again. The thought of hearing that haunting tune again, of being caught in his eerie, hypnotic grip, made your stomach turn. But there was no time for hesitation now.

With a deep breath, you forced yourself to focus. The trial had begun, and your survival depended on staying sharp, on staying one step ahead of him. You crouched low, scanning the environment for any signs of life, any survivors, and most importantly—any generators. You had to find a way out.

The air grew colder, and then you heard it—the soft, deliberate hum of his melody, distant at first, but slowly getting closer. You felt the weight of it, the pull in your chest, as the music seemed to crawl into your mind, trying to seduce you into a false sense of safety. You clenched your fists, forcing yourself not to give in. You couldn’t afford that.

You started moving, every step measured, trying to remain as quiet as possible. Your heart pounded in your chest, and the hairs on the back of your neck stood up as you passed through the eerie streets, passing abandoned vehicles and broken-down walls.

You reached the edge of the map, your eyes scanning the horizon, but no sign of him yet. But you knew better than to relax—he could be anywhere, and the moment you let your guard down was the moment you’d pay for it. You had to stay focused.

Suddenly, you saw movement in the distance. Another survivor? Or was it him, creeping closer? You couldn’t tell, but you had no intention of waiting around to find out. You bolted for the nearest building, hoping to find some semblance of safety.

As you ducked inside, the door creaked loudly behind you, and you froze. The sound of his humming was unmistakable now, closer, almost as if it were right behind you. Panic surged through your veins, but you forced yourself to stay calm. You had survived against killers like the Demogorgon, the Xenomorph, and the Nemesis. You could survive this.

You quickly turned to look for a generator, anything to give you a chance to escape. But before you could make a move, the faintest touch of a violin note reached your ears—and with it, the world around you began to blur.

You staggered, your head spinning, the familiar exhaustion sinking in as the haunting melody wove its way into your mind. It was him, so close now.

Then everything suddenly went quiet.

You froze, your breath shallow, listening intently. There was no sign of the Virtuoso—no sound, no humming. Just silence.

You dared to peek out from behind the window, your eyes scanning the desolate street outside. It was empty, the shadows stretching across the cracked pavement, but you didn’t trust it. You couldn’t trust it. Still, it seemed safe enough to move.

Just as you were about to vault over the low wall and make a break for it, you were hit by a wave of music, a sudden, intense surge that made you gasp. It was like the sound wrapped around your body, heavy, suffocating, and in an instant, your vision blurred. The world felt distorted, like a fog had rolled in, the edges of everything softening into nothingness.

No.

You blinked rapidly, trying to regain focus, and when you turned to your left, you saw him.

He was standing there, so still, his gaze fixed directly on you.

How long had he been standing there?

You didn’t get the chance to ponder over that question, not with the sharp sting that followed.

His bow came down, slicing through the air with a sound that sent chills down your spine. You gasped in pain as the sharp edge slashed through your side, the blade cutting deep into your flesh.

The pain was immediate, and for a moment, everything stopped.

But instinct kicked in.

With a strangled cry, you vaulted, your body screaming in protest, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. You held your side tightly, feeling the blood seep through your fingers as you sprinted down the street, desperate to put distance between yourself and him.

Behind you, you could hear the faint hum of his violin, the melody now twisted and taunting, as if it was mocking your attempt to escape.

"Run," he teased, his voice soft and smooth, almost playful as it floated on the wind. "It won’t help."

Your heart hammered in your chest as you pushed yourself harder, the pain in your side nearly blinding, but you refused to stop. The sound of his footsteps echoed behind you, slow and measured, but every time you glanced over your shoulder, you saw him gaining on you, moving like a shadow, a predator closing in.

Your breath came in ragged gasps, each step taking everything out of you. The street stretched out in front of you, the buildings offering little cover. The world felt so small here.

You ran past two survivors, Yui and Meg, working on a generator in the distance. You barely spared them a glance as they turned to look at you, their faces filled with terror before the Virtuoso's haunting violin notes reached them. Their screams echoed behind you, sharp and full of pain as the bow sliced into them.

But you couldn’t look back. You couldn’t afford to stop. You had to keep moving.

With your heart pounding, you bolted for the theatre, slipping through the back door just as his music faded behind you. The building was dark and quiet, save for the creaking of the old floorboards.

Inside, you found a room. Dimly lit, but it had a palette lying against the far wall, a perfect place to take a breath, even for a moment.

You crouched down and pulled out the medkit you had brought with you for this trial, you hissed through your teeth as you started to treat the wound in your side, carefully bandaging it, the blood still dripping down your hands. The pain was a constant throb, but it was nothing you couldn’t handle. You had learned to survive worse.

The violin music grew louder, and you could feel him getting closer, his presence near the door.

You couldn’t stay in one place for too long. Not with him hunting you.

You took a deep breath and prepared to move again. You crept toward the door, every muscle tense, ready to spring into action the moment you heard his violin hum. The sound was becoming more insistent, like a heartbeat you couldn't escape from. You slowly cracked the door open, peering out into the dark hallway beyond.

No sign of him yet.

You made a break for the other side of the room, slipping past the shadowy corners and moving carefully toward a nearby window, hoping to get a glimpse of your surroundings. You had to figure out where the others were, or better yet, where a generator was.

Just as you reached the window, you heard it—a faint humming, followed by a low, dissonant note that made your spine stiffen.

He was here.

The unmistakable sound of the bow scraping against the strings pierced the silence, sending a shiver down your spine. You pressed yourself against the wall, barely breathing, trying to blend into the darkness.

You dared to peek out, your eyes scanning the edges of the room, and there he was. He was standing still, his back to you, seemingly unaware of your presence… but his head tilted slightly, as though sensing you.

Then, without warning, he turned, his eyes narrowed as he locked onto yours.

"Found you," he purred, his voice smooth.

In an instant, his violin was in his hands again, the bow raised, and before you could react, the first note rang out, and you felt it—the exhaustion, the pull of his music sinking into your mind. Your vision blurred, the world spinning around you.

Your body rebelled, but your legs wouldn’t move. It was like his melody had a grip on your very soul, twisting you with every note.

"Run," you whispered to yourself, but the word was drowned out by the haunting sound of the violin as he started moving toward you.

"Why run?" he hummed, his voice taunting as he advanced slowly.

You collapsed to your knees, gasping for air as the melody wrapped around your senses like a velvet noose. Each note sent a shiver down your spine, your body trembling with a mix of fear and something you hated to acknowledge.

The Virtuoso stopped a few feet in front of you, tilting his head as if admiring his handiwork. "Look at you," he murmured, his voice dripping with satisfaction. "On your knees, just like the music intended. Isn't it beautiful? The way it breaks you down, piece by piece."

You tried to push yourself up, to fight the pull of his haunting melody, but your arms gave out, and you slumped forward, your hands trembling against the floor.

"Stop..." you managed to choke out, though your voice was weak, barely audible over the sound of his violin.

The Virtuoso chuckled, low and smooth, as he crouched down in front of you. He gently rested the bow under your chin, tilting your head up to face him. The cold, sharp edge of the bow scraped lightly against your skin, sending a shiver through you.

"Stop?" he repeated, feigning surprise. "But you don’t really want me to, do you?" His voice softened, almost a whisper. "The Entity chose you for a reason. You were made for this... to be shaped, to be played."

You tried to shake your head, to deny his words, but his gaze pinned you in place. His hand, gloved and stained with dirt and blood, reached out and gently brushed a strand of hair away from your face.

"Tell me," he continued, leaning closer, his voice dropping into a husky murmur. "How does it feel to be a part of something so... exquisite? To be at the mercy of art itself?"

You bit your lip, fighting the fog in your mind. Somewhere, deep inside, you knew this wasn’t right. You were a survivor—you had fought through so many trials, endured countless horrors. You had to fight this, too.

But his music was unlike anything you’d faced before. It wasn’t just a weapon—it was a manipulation of your very being, twisting your will, blurring the line between fear and something darker.

He tilted his head, waiting for a response, his eyes glinting with cruel amusement when you stayed silent. "No answer?" he said, his tone mocking. "Perhaps you're finally starting to understand... There's no escape from me."

Your breath hitched as he slung the violin onto his back with an almost practiced elegance. You saw your chance and scrambled to your feet, trying to make a run for it. But you barely got a few steps before a sharp pain erupted across your back.

You screamed as his jagged violin bow slashed through your skin, the searing pain causing you to stumble and fall forward. Blood trickled down your side as you tried to crawl away, but before you could even attempt to push yourself up, his hand gripped your wrist like iron.

With alarming strength, he yanked you back and slammed you against the cold, crumbling wall. The force knocked the wind out of you, leaving you gasping as the world spun.

"Still trying to run?" he murmured, his tone dripping with amusement.

You tried to push him off, but he pressed his body against yours, trapping you between him and the wall.

"Let me go!" you gasped, writhing beneath his grip.

His response was to catch your wrists in one swift motion, slamming them above your head and pinning them there with a single hand. His strength was inhuman, and no amount of struggling could break you free.

With his other hand, he grabbed your chin, forcing you to look at him. His gloved fingers dug into your jaw, tilting your head back as his eyes roamed over your face.

"Such defiance," he said softly, almost as if he were admiring you. "But even fire can be tamed."

Before you could muster a reply, before you could even process the fear coursing through you, he leaned in. His lips crushed against yours with a sudden, ferocious intensity that left you utterly stunned.

Your muffled gasp filled the air as his mouth moved against yours, his kiss possessive and unrelenting. His grip on your wrists tightened as you tried to pull away, your attempts feeble against the strength that held you in place.

Your heart thundered in your chest, torn between fear, anger, and a bewildering sense of helplessness. The world seemed to narrow down to him—his lips, his overwhelming presence, and the haunting melody of his violin still ringing faintly in the background.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes searched yours. "You can fight all you want," he murmured, his voice dangerously soft, his gloved thumb brushing against your trembling lip. "But you’ll never escape me."

Your legs felt like jelly, trembling beneath you. The weight of his gaze pinned you in place. You should’ve tried to run, screamed for help, done something, but your body betrayed you, too weak to move.

His thumb lingered on your lip, pressing lightly, as if testing your limits. He tilted his head, and that haunting hum escaped his throat again—a melody low and sinister that seemed to seep into your very bones.

“You’re trembling,” he said, his voice smooth and mocking as he studied you. “Is it fear? Or something else?”

You glared at him—or tried to—but the faint tremor in your chin betrayed your attempt at defiance.

He chuckled, low and dark, and his gloved hand left your face, sliding down to your neck. His fingers trailed lazily over your skin, the rough texture of the worn leather leaving a cold, ghostly sensation in their wake.

“You’re so fragile,” he mused as his hand traveled further, tracing the curve of your shoulder and down your arm. “And yet, so strong…”

His words trailed off as he moved closer again, his body pressing lightly against yours to keep you pinned to the wall. His free hand glided down your side, brushing over the torn fabric of your shirt and the faint wound left by his bow. His fingers paused there, pressing gently, almost mockingly.

You flinched, gasping softly at the sting of pain, and he hummed again, as if pleased by your reaction.

“Every mark I leave on you…” he whispered, his voice dripping with sadistic delight. “It’s a masterpiece in its own right.”

His hands didn’t stop, exploring further—over your waist, down to your hips. Each touch was deliberate, calculated, as if he were memorizing every inch of you he could reach. You tried to push him away, but he didn’t even budge.

“Still fighting?” he teased, his lips curling into a cruel smile as his eyes locked onto yours. “I admire your persistence… but we both know how this ends.”

Tears pricked at your eyes, frustration and helplessness bubbling as his hand continued. His touch wasn’t violent—it was careful—but that only made it worse. It wasn’t pain he was inflicting now, but a complete violation of your sense of control.

His gloved hand came back to your face, tilting your chin up so you were forced to look at him. His thumb brushed over your trembling lip again, his gaze piercing into yours.

“I could keep you here forever,” he said, the words chilling in their sincerity.

His lips crashed against yours again, firm and unrelenting, leaving you breathless. You struggled at first, your body instinctively trying to push him away, but his grip on your wrists remained iron-clad. The cold leather of his glove against your skin sent a shiver down your spine, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his mouth on yours.

You whimpered into the kiss, your resolve crumbling as the sheer intensity of it overwhelmed you. It wasn’t just the act itself—it was him. His presence, his control, the way he seemed to consume you entirely.

His hand on your chin slid down, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw before resting on your throat. The weight of his touch there, firm but not constricting, made your breath hitch, and that only seemed to fuel him further. His tongue brushed against your lower lip, demanding entrance, and though you wanted to resist, your body betrayed you.

You parted your lips, and he wasted no time, deepening the kiss with a hunger that sent sparks of something unfamiliar coursing through you. You should’ve been disgusted, horrified even, but instead, a warmth began to bloom in your chest, spreading through your body like wildfire.

Why did this feel so good?

You had never had time for… this. Whatever this was. After being abducted by the Entity, survival had been your only focus. There was no room for affection, no space for intimacy, no chance to feel anything beyond fear and desperation. But now, under his touch, under his spell, you felt yourself slipping into something dangerously close to surrender.

And then it happened.

You kissed him back.

It was tentative at first, a soft, hesitant movement of your lips against his, as if testing the waters. But when he felt your response, his grip on your wrists tightened, and a low, satisfied hum rumbled in his chest. His other hand, still resting on your throat, flexed slightly, his fingers curling against your skin as if claiming you.

The kiss grew deeper, more intense, and you found yourself leaning into him despite everything. Your mind screamed at you to stop, to pull away, to fight, but your body refused to listen. Every brush of his lips, every flick of his tongue, every subtle shift of his body against yours sent another wave of that intoxicating warmth crashing over you.

You hated him. You feared him. And yet, in this moment, you couldn’t bring yourself to resist.

When he finally pulled back, his lips parted from yours with a soft, wet sound, leaving you gasping for air. His eyes bored into yours, dark and unreadable, as he studied your flushed face.

“There it is,” he murmured, his voice low and almost… tender? “I knew you’d come around.”

You tried to look away, shame and confusion twisting in your chest, but he wouldn’t let you. His hand on your throat moved back to your chin, tilting your face up again so you had no choice but to meet his gaze.

“Don’t look so conflicted,” he teased, his lips curling into a smirk. “You’re mine now, remember? There’s no going back.”

His hand lingered on your chin, thumb brushing against your skin with an unsettling softness, as though savoring the moment. His smirk widened as he leaned in close, his lips brushing against your ear.

“You feel it too, don’t you?” he murmured, his voice a velvet whisper that sent shivers down your spine. “The pull… the surrender. Fighting me is pointless.”

You swallowed hard, your breath hitching as his free hand began to trail down your body, gliding over your shoulder, tracing the curve of your arm, and finally resting at your waist.

Your heart raced as you tried to push him away again, weakly pressing against his chest, but he didn’t budge. If anything, the pressure of his body against yours only increased.

“Shh,” he cooed, his lips ghosting over your ear. “Why do you still resist? Haven’t I shown you how… good this can feel?”

You hated how his words stirred something inside you, how the warmth from before was now spreading like fire under your skin.

He leaned back just enough to study your face, his gaze softened slightly, but there was still a glint of amusement in his eyes, as though he was enjoying watching you struggle with your own emotions.

“You’re so used to running,” he said, almost thoughtfully, as if speaking to himself. “So used to fighting. But here, with me…” His hand on your waist tightened, pulling you closer. “You’ll learn to stay. To submit.”

The word sent a jolt through you, and your eyes widened as you finally found your voice.

“I’ll never—”

But before you could finish, his lips were on yours again, silencing your protest with a kiss far more intense than the last. It was consuming, overwhelming, and despite your words, you felt yourself melting into it. His grip on your wrists remained firm as his other hand moved to cup the back of your neck, holding you in place.

You tried to focus, to think, to fight, but his kiss drowned out every thought, leaving you with nothing but the sensation of him.

When he pulled back this time, he was breathing heavier, his dark eyes locked onto yours. “See?” he said softly, his voice a mix of satisfaction and something deeper. “You’re already mine.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, frustration and confusion boiling inside you. You hated him. You hated how he made you feel, how he twisted your will, how he toyed with you like you were nothing more than a plaything. But most of all, you hated how a part of you wanted to stay.

He tilted his head, watching you with a curious expression, as though trying to decipher the storm of emotions on your face. Then, with a smirk, he leaned in close, his lips brushing against your ear once more.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered, his voice dripping with dark amusement. “We have all the time in the world to figure this out.”

And with that, he released your wrists, stepping back and letting you collapse to the ground, your legs too weak to hold you up. You looked up at him, your body trembling, your mind spinning, as he simply stood there, staring down at you with that infuriatingly smug expression.

“Run,” he said, his voice almost playful as he gestured toward the door. “I’ll even give you a head start.”

But you didn’t move. You couldn’t. You were trapped—not just by him, but by your own warring emotions.

He watched you with those sharp, unrelenting eyes as you remained frozen, staring up at him. His smirk faded, replaced by a look of amused annoyance.

“Pathetic,” he muttered, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “I offer you a chance, and yet you just sit there like a lost little lamb.”

Before you could react, he moved with frightening speed, grabbing you and slinging you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing. You let out a small yelp, weakly squirming in his grip, but his hold was ironclad.

“Keep struggling if you want,” he said, his tone dripping with disdain. “It won’t make a difference.”

He started walking, his steps slow and deliberate, as though savoring the moment. The sound of his boots against the cracked floorboards echoed through the empty halls of the theater. You hung limply over his shoulder, your mind racing as you tried to process what was happening.

Then, out of nowhere, he started talking.

“You know,” he began, his voice calm and eerily conversational, “they called me a genius once. A prodigy.” He chuckled darkly. “The greatest violinist of my time. My performances brought crowds to their knees. They cried, they cheered… They worshipped me.”

You frowned, unsure of where he was going with this, but he continued, as though you weren’t even there.

“But it wasn’t enough,” he said, his voice tightening with anger. “I wanted more. I needed to create the perfect symphony. Something timeless. Something unforgettable.”

His grip on you tightened slightly, his gloved hand pressing into your back.

“So I poured everything into my masterpiece,” he went on, his tone shifting into something almost wistful. “Years of work. Painstaking detail. Every note, every pause, every crescendo—perfection.”

You hesitated, your curiosity getting the better of you. “…What happened?”

He stopped walking for a moment, his silence heavy and foreboding. Then, he let out a bitter laugh.

“They rejected it,” he said, his voice cold. “Those self-important critics. They said it lacked ‘soul,’ that it was too mechanical, too precise. They dared to insult my work.”

You swallowed hard, already sensing where this was going.

“So,” he continued, resuming his slow, steady pace, “I invited them all to a private concert. My ‘final performance,’ I told them. And they came, eager to tear me apart one last time.”

He chuckled darkly, the sound sending a chill down your spine.

“But this time, they didn’t leave. Not alive, anyway.”

You stiffened, your breath catching as his words sank in.

“They didn’t understand art,” he said, his voice growing colder. “Not until they became part of it. Their screams, their fear… It was the most beautiful symphony I ever created.”

You could barely comprehend what you were hearing. He wasn’t just mad—he was completely deranged.

“And then,” he said, his tone shifting into something almost reverent, “the Entity came. It saw my genius, my passion, and it gave me a new stage. A new audience.”

He stopped walking, his gloved hand coming up to idly adjust the strap of his violin, which was still slung across his back.

“And now,” he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, “I perform for eternity. Each trial, a new composition. Each scream, a new note.”

You shuddered, your mind racing. His story was horrifying, but what scared you the most was the way he spoke about it—with pride, with satisfaction.

“Why are you telling me this?” you asked weakly, your voice trembling.

He tilted his head, as though considering your question. Then, he chuckled softly.

“Because,” he said, his voice laced with amusement, “you’ll be part of my next masterpiece.”

Your blood ran cold as his words sank in. You wanted to scream, to fight, but your body felt too weak, too drained. All you could do was hang there, helpless, as he carried you deeper into the dark, abandoned theater.

And all you could think was, he’s completely mad.

He carried you through the desolate theater, his footsteps unhurried, as though he were savoring every moment of your despair. When he finally stopped, you felt your stomach churn as your gaze landed on a rusted, blood-stained hook.

“No,” you croaked, struggling weakly in his grip, but he only chuckled darkly, his gloved hand tightening around you.

“Oh, yes,” he replied, his voice dripping with mockery.

With terrifying ease, he lifted you off his shoulder and slammed you onto the hook. Pain shot through your body as the sharp metal pierced your flesh, forcing a scream from your lips. You writhed and struggled, the agony unbearable, but the hook held firm.

Your scream echoed through the empty halls, and his reaction was chilling. His head tilted back slightly, his lips parting as though he were savoring a fine wine. His eyes gleamed with a wild, crazed light, and the corners of his mouth curled into a manic grin.

“Yes,” he whispered, his voice low and trembling with excitement. “That’s it. That’s the sound I’ve been waiting for.”

You gasped for breath, tears stinging your eyes as you glared at him. “You’re insane,” you spat weakly.

His grin only widened. He stepped closer, tilting his head, his gaze fixed on you with a kind of sick fascination.

“Next time I put you up here,” he said, his voice soft but dripping with menace, “I expect to hear you scream my name instead.”

You flinched at his words, your breath hitching. “I—I don’t know your name,” you managed to choke out.

At that, his grin shifted into something even more unsettling—a sickeningly sweet smile that made your blood run cold.

“Then let me enlighten you,” he said, leaning in closer. “It’s Heeseung. And you’d better not forget it.”

His voice dropped lower, dangerously smooth. “Because if you do… I’ll make sure you never forget. I’ll carve it into your mind, your body, your soul.”

Your heart raced as his words sank in, his soft, mocking tone making your skin crawl.

He straightened up, pulling his violin from his back with a flourish. Heeseung’s eyes never left you as he adjusted the instrument beneath his chin, his gloved fingers dancing over the strings.

“And now,” he said, his voice almost playful, “I leave you with a parting gift.”

He raised his bow, but before he began to play, he blew you a kiss—a mocking, exaggerated gesture that sent a chill down your spine.

“Until next time, my dear,” he said, his voice dripping with malice.

Then, he walked away, the haunting melody of his violin filled the air. You hung there, trembling and bleeding, as his tune echoed through the empty theater.

And all you could think, through the haze of pain and exhaustion, was how he and Ghostface would make the best buddies. If they hadn’t already.

You could practically imagine it: Ghostface with his twisted sense of humor, showing pictures of his victims, while Heeseung played a chilling melody in the background. The thought almost made you laugh—a bitter, hysterical sound that was quickly swallowed by a wave of pain.

"Perfect little psychopaths," you muttered under your breath, your voice weak and trembling.

And yet, part of you wondered if they had met. The Entity’s domain wasn’t small, and the killers had their own ways of crossing paths. You could imagine Ghostface mocking Heeseung’s perfectionism, while Heeseung would likely call Ghostface’s theatrics "childish." Still, their combined sadism would leave anyone unfortunate enough to cross their paths wishing for a quicker end.

“Maybe they’re pen pals,” you muttered weakly, clinging to the absurdity of the thought to distract from the throbbing pain.

"How funny would that be," you mumbled to yourself, letting out a breathless, bitter laugh as the Entity’s claws dug deeper. The pain was unbearable, and you could feel your strength fading fast. The realization hit you like a brick wall: no one was coming.

You glanced around weakly, but the map was eerily quiet, void of footsteps or whispers of another survivor. It was just you—hooked, bleeding, and alone.

With a sigh of resignation, you let your hands drop, giving up the fight against the Entity’s claws. “Guess this is it,” you whispered to yourself, closing your eyes as the final pull of the Entity claimed you.

It wasn’t like you hadn’t been through this before. You knew you’d wake up in the survivors’ camp, alive and unhurt. But this time… this time felt different.

When you opened your eyes again, you were sprawled beneath the familiar tree in the survivor camp, your body whole and your wounds gone. The gentle hum of the campfire reached your ears, and the familiar sounds of chatter surrounded you.

But you didn’t join the others. Instead, you sat there, frozen, your thoughts a whirlwind.

Your fingers absentmindedly moved to your lips, grazing the soft skin as if to confirm something. Heeseung’s kiss had been like his music—intoxicating, haunting, impossible to forget. You hated that you could still feel it, like a ghost of his touch lingering there.

You clenched your fists, cursing under your breath. What the hell was wrong with you? He was a killer. A deranged, sadistic monster who found joy in tormenting you. And yet…

You shook your head, trying to banish the thought. But the image of him wouldn’t leave your mind.

The other survivors’ voices seemed to fade into the background as you stared into the campfire, lost in your thoughts. You’d faced countless killers before, survived their wrath, even laughed off their brutality. But this… this was something else entirely.

Heeseung, you thought, his name echoing in your mind like a song you couldn’t forget.

Heeseung.

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covenofagatha · 18 days ago

Note

Hey! I would love to give you an idea of your next fic!

How about G!p!Director!Agatha asks Actress!R if they can make a sex tape, so she won't be lonely that much when R is away for work(They're married). Turns out she feels even more lonely and hornier when R is away. She's going crazy when she sees her cum leaking out of R in the video. She's been sending R videos of her fucking fleshlight and express how much she needs R. And when R gets back home, they fuck like a horny teen. (Breeding would be perfect for this🤩🤩)

Thank you so much!! I love all your fics!!!🩷

Ohhh 🫠🥵 writing this one killed me in the best possible way

Baby, you're a star

Word count: 8.3k

Warnings: mommy kink, filming, GP Agatha, sex toys, breeding kink, masturbation, blowjobs, sex, oral sex, fingering, minor spanking, so much filth, porn with very little plot, I have never written this much smut in a single post

Taglist: @lostbutlovely33 @diorrxckstar @whoreforolderfictionalwomen @katekathry @onemansdreamisanothermansdeath @tayasmellsapples @natashashill @mybraininblood @mysticalmoonlight7 @cactuslover2600 @loveem0mo @readysteddiero-nance @lonelyhalfwitch @lesbiantortilla @crescendoofstars @sol-in-wonderland @ahsfan05 @gbab09 @sasheemo @agathaharness @live-laugh-love-lupone @chiar4anna @fuckedupforkhahn @lowlyjelly

You’re running, running from something, and it’s closing in on you. Looking back over your shoulder, a terrified look on your face, you trip and end up sprawling onto the ground.

It’s about to get you. Your eyes widen in fear, a loud sound coming from the distance —

“And…cut! That’s a wrap!” With the shout from your director, your character of Samantha Wren, a girl haunted by a dark creature from her past that finally catches up to her, melts away and you push yourself off the set floor, brushing your hands on your torn pants.

The scene you just shot is the cliffhanger ending to the film, The Figure in the Walls, where Samantha is sprinting through the woods after realizing what the monster is, trying to get away. It’s unclear if she does, which leaves some room for a sequel.

The movie’s director, Agatha Harkness, steps out from behind the cameras and slow-claps, smirking at you. You make a beeline for her and she wraps an arm around your shoulders and steers you away from the set. A PA jogs over and hands you a cup of coffee and a bagel. You’ve been filming for the past five hours, doing scenes from earlier that weren’t as good and finishing up the movie sequence, and you’re starving.

“You did so good, honey,” Agatha murmurs into your ear and presses a quick kiss to your temple.

It’s not a secret on set that the two of you are married, you both just prefer to keep it professional for the most part, at least when other people can see you.

You first met Agatha at the Golden Globes about two and a half years ago. You had never met, but were both nominated for separate projects: you for Best Supporting Actress in a Comedy, and her for Best Director. A mutual friend had introduced you to her during a commercial break, and you hit it off instantly.

There was almost something magnetic between you, and it just kept pulling you to her all night long. You won for your category, and so did she, and the picture of you two with your Globes is framed above the fireplace mantle in your mansion.

You’re beaming at the camera while Agatha is staring down your dress, trying to look inconspicuous. When you tease her about it, she says she was just looking at the trophy.

It’s unclear if she means the Globe, or you.

She had invited you to go to an afterparty with her and you had immediately agreed. It was a quiet, intimate sort of thing with an open bar, and she had brazenly flirted while the warmth from the alcohol settled pleasantly in your stomach.

After a few hours and after you had been practically sitting in her lap for quite some time, she said that she should get going, but asked for your number.

You had clasped her cheeks and pulled her into a hot kiss right there and promptly dragged her out the door into your car and back to your apartment.

A year and a half later, she asked you to marry her as you were walking along the Santa Monica Pier. The sun was setting, purples and pinks reflecting off the ocean waves, and you had never felt so happy in your entire life. You bought a mansion in Beverly Hills together, and you’ve lived there ever since.

When Agatha first signed onto direct The Figure in the Walls, your name had been already thrown around as for who would play the lead. You still don’t know if she pulled some strings, and there was obviously gossip that you had only gotten the role because your wife was directing, but Agatha assured you that once everyone saw your performance, there would be no doubt that you had earned every part of it.

“Thank you,” you whisper to your wife. You can’t believe the movie is finally done, but your turn-around is quick. Tomorrow, you fly out to meet with an agent in New York about a new film franchise in the works. If you land the lead role, it would be absolutely huge for your career.

You will be gone for a week, though, and you and Agatha have been looking forward to some time for just yourselves. You’re eager to get home and at least have tonight, but with the wrap party and the closing speeches, it’s going to be awhile before you’re able to.

Some of the other cast members come over and mingle while you sip on a soda, but you can feel Agatha’s eyes on you the whole time. At one point, you give in and glance over to where she’s sitting — all alone in her director’s chair for some reason, but she’s facing you.

She uncrosses her legs and slouches back, casually putting a hand on her right upper thigh. Agatha ever so slightly spreads the fabric of her dark gray pants and you can see — she’s half-hard. Just from watching you, just from the thought of finally getting some quality time. You’ve made it work with the busy schedule, always finding a half hour for a quick fuck every now and then, but it’s been too long since you’ve been able to take your time. There’s the unspoken promise that neither of you will be sleeping much tonight.

Swallowing roughly and trying to fight back the heat creeping into your cheeks, you turn back to your co-stars and try to look like you’re listening.

And then finally everyone starts to leave. With Agatha being the director, she waits until every single member of the cast and crew has gone while you sit and impatiently tap your foot.

“You ready?” Agatha asks and you jump out of your seat, eagerly nodding, and she laughs. “Looking forward to something?”

“I can’t wait for you to fuck me, mommy,” you answer matter-of-factly and it catches her off-guard for the slightest second.

It’s not often you’re this bold and straight-forward without her prompting. And she fucking loves it.

The car is already waiting outside — you called it while you were waiting for everyone to leave — and the air between the two of you crackles with electricity. The tension is thick, but neither of you move to disturb it, instead just choosing to let it build until you’re in the sanctity of your home.

But your breathing quickens and you can feel your underwear getting gradually wetter, the anticipation steadily rising. When you look over at your wife, you can see her fully-hardened cock straining against the fabric of her tailored pants and her long fingers are digging into her thighs, making her veins pop.

It’s about twenty minutes later of lingering looks between darkened eyes when the car pulls into the driveway of your house.

Agatha barely thanks the driver before you’re both scrambling out of the car and up to your front door.

The moment it’s closed, you’re shoved against the pillar next to it, Agatha’s mouth on yours in a bruising kiss.

“Fuck,” you moan, her tongue hotly licking against yours. She grunts in agreement before grabbing your wrists and holding them over your head, thrusting her right leg between yours. You can feel her cock, can feel the heat radiating off it, and you throb against it and swiftly grind down.

She groans into your mouth and angles her leg up higher and you can feel her dick pulse, which makes the ache inside you grow unbearable. Your kiss has become sloppy, a flurry of teeth and lips and tongue, and she pulls back to trail her mouth down your neck. You hiss when she sucks a bite and it makes your hips jerk involuntarily.

“Agatha — mommy, please,” you whimper, your cunt absolutely dripping. All of your thoughts are being consumed by her right now, and you just need more. You need her fingers, her mouth, her cock inside you, you need her.

Agatha chuckles breathlessly, planting an open-mouth kiss on your lips. “What do you need, honey?”

It’s almost frustrating that she’s making you say it, like it isn’t the most obvious thing in the world how desperate you are for her. “Can we — upstairs?” Your head is spinning and it feels like you’re drunk with need.

If it were any other time, she would make you repeat it and ask clearly. But she knows, she always knows, and there’s no time to waste.

She lets go of one of your wrists but pulls you by the other to the staircase and then stops on the third stair to kiss you again, like she can’t possibly wait. She sucks on your tongue and you gasp.

“Fuck, mommy’s going to miss you tomorrow,” she mutters and in the haze in your head, you feel a slight pang of sadness. Agatha would’ve come with you, but she has a meeting here that she can’t miss either. It’s tough to be apart, even for just a week.

But then the sentimental moment is gone and her teeth sink into your bottom lip, her hand coming up to rest around your throat. She barely even squeezes but it does wonders — you clench around nothing, eyes glazing over, and you let out a strangled gasp.

Agatha smirks and tugs you the rest of the way to your bedroom. Shoes are kicked off and she quickly helps you take off the shirt and pants you changed into after filming and then you rip open the silk button-down shirt she’s wearing, sending buttons flying everywhere. She pushes down her pants and underwear and a ragged gasp tears itself out of your mouth when you see her cock, hard and red and leaking.

You let out a small moan and move closer to touch it, but she stops you.

“Honey,” she says, a bit timidly, and concern washes over you like a bucket of cold water.

“What’s wrong, is everything okay?” you ask. She looks around, biting her lip like she’s not sure how to phrase it. “Hey, whatever it is, you can tell me. Is it something bad?”

Agatha shakes her head. “No, it’s just something I was thinking of. Something I wanted to see if you’d want to try, just because you’re going to be away for a bit.” A flash of heat bursts through you — usually you’re the one who brings up wanting to try new things in the bedroom, but now that it’s Agatha, fuck, you can’t wait.

“Yeah?” you breathe.

“I was wondering if you’d let me film you — us. While we have sex,” she says and your cunt throbs. You’d never thought of it, but you can see it in your mind now. You can imagine how hot it would be to watch yourself take her cock. “So when you’re gone and I get lonely, I can watch it back and remember what a good girl you are for me.”

The praise settles right into your stomach and now you can’t stop thinking about Agatha stroking her cock while watching the two of you have sex.

“You want to, what, direct me in a porno?” you ask, partly as a joke, but there’s no missing the involuntary sound that slips out of her lips, no missing the darkening of her already hungry eyes. “Fuck. Okay.”

She looks a little surprised at your easy agreement, but presses a chaste kiss to your lips, and then another one, and then leaves the room. You sit down on your bed, the excitement almost overwhelming, and try to slow your racing heart.

It’s only a minute before Agatha comes back, holding the iPad that she uses for work sometimes, and a stand for it. Has she been preparing for this? The thought sears through your veins and you feel yourself getting even more wetter.

Her cock seems to get harder if possible as she sets it up close to the bed and the moment she nods and steps back, you feel a new-found sense of confidence wash over you.

You’ve always come alive in front of the cameras, you thrive under being watched, and it feels no different now, even if you’re not becoming a character.

It’s exhilarating. And you’re going to do your best to put on a show.

“Move to the center of the bed,” Agatha orders, still watching through the screen. You swallow roughly and obey — you’ve always found it incredibly sexy watching her command a scene with just her words, and now that she’s doing it in this context?

Fuck.

You lean back against the pillows and look at her, awaiting her next instruction. Agatha nods and her eyes rake over you appreciatively. “Spread your legs and touch yourself over your underwear.”

Moaning softly, you widen your legs and plant your feet flat on the bed so your knees are bent. And then you cup your pussy and your lips part involuntarily when you feel how wet you are. The fabric is absolutely drenched and you can see from the look on Agatha’s face that she can tell too.

You slowly start to trace the outline of your pussy lips through your panties, up and down over your slit, and then when you circle over your clit finally, your back arches off the bed and you sigh heavily. The pleasure is so much more acute now — is it because of the camera? Because you know that Agatha is going to fuck herself later to this?

“There you go, honey,” your wife says approvingly. There’s a wild look in her eyes and her hands are twitching like she’s dying to touch her cock. The tip is even more red now, and you can see beads of liquid collecting and dripping onto the floor. Your hips jolt when you press down harder on your clit. “Take your underwear off and tease your entrance — but don’t go inside just yet.”

You have to peel your panties off your sopping wet pussy and you teasingly toss them over to her. She catches them and lets out a surprised groan when she actually feels them.

And then she lifts them to her nose and breathes in the scent of your wetness and your clit pulses. You try to focus on her instructions and glide a finger through your folds, molten hot and dripping. You dip into your pussy and then withdraw. You repeat and whimper at how good you know it’s going to feel when she finally lets you fuck yourself.

“Slide one finger in slowly,” she demands and your head drops back as you do, the stretch nowhere near enough but still feeling delicious. Your walls immediately clench down around it and you moan.

When you look back at Agatha, your hips roll of their own accord — she’s started stroking her cock with your underwear. You can see how she’s glistening with your wetness and she thrusts every few times like she can’t control it.

“Mommy, can you…” Pleasure swims in your mind when you curl your finger and it interrupts your thoughts for a second. “Want you to be in the video, too.” You want to watch it back and see her as well.

Agatha inhales sharply. “Yeah, okay, babygirl. Whatever you want.” And then she steps around the iPad and comes into view of the shot, standing near the side of the bed so you can see each other more clearly.

Her cock bobs up and down and you time your thrusts inside you with each of her strokes so you can imagine it’s her inside you.

“Put another finger in,” she rasps and starts to speed up, your underwear moving frictionlessly over her with how wet it is.

The addition of a second finger makes you groan loudly and you can’t even tell if you’re trying to show off for the camera or not. Everything is so much more heightened now.

She makes you fuck yourself like that for about ten minutes, every now and then telling you to fuck yourself faster, babygirl and slow down, sweetheart and fuck, honey, you look so fucking hot for mommy.

You’re a complete mess now, absolutely ruined and babbling incoherently, soaking the sheets beneath you. Your orgasm has been steadily building this whole time and you know it won’t be much longer before you cum.

Agatha is also close by the looks of it; she’s completely flushed, her chest and neck tinted the prettiest pink, and her cock is leaking even more, her hips moving more sporadically. The ache inside you isn’t going away — it’s only getting worse the more you look at her.

“Mommy,” you whine, needing to feel your wife on you more than anything. “Please, please fuck me.”

“I know, baby,” she pants. “Just a second, let mommy move the camera.” And god, it makes you throb when she grabs the stand and angles it perpendicularly to the bed.

And then she climbs on the bed and situates herself between your open legs and leans over you so she can drag her cock through your soaked folds. The gasp she lets out drives you crazy and you keen when she rubs her tip against your clit.

“Beg for mommy,” she says, hair falling down over her face as she bites her lip. She positions herself right at your opening.

“I need you so bad, please fill me up, please fuck me, I need you so bad, mommy —” She pushes into you in one motion and your mouth drops open. Your walls immediately clamp down around her and she groans at the feeling.

It’s exactly what you need and when she starts to move, soft sounds fall from your lips with every thrust.

She twitches inside you when you pull her down for a quick kiss. “God, I can’t wait to watch this,” she grunts and it makes you clench. Her hips stutter. “You’re so good, such a good slut for me. Taking my cock like a superstar. Fuck, honey, I’m going to watch the video everyday, gonna figure out how to make it my home screen.”

The thought of Agatha opening up her phone to immediately see you being fucked by her makes you moan gutteraly and she huffs out a laugh. “Mommy, please.”

“Fuck, baby, you really like this, don’t you?” You nod your head quickly under her and her cock throbs inside you. You’re so fucking close. She feels so good inside you, her cock dragging deliciously against your walls, and hitting that spot inside you that she always does.

Pleasure is rolling over your body in waves and you lift your hips to meet each of her thrusts. It’s never been this intense before and you can’t believe you never thought to try filming sex before.

Agatha’s rhythm starts to falter inside you, she’s cursing, short of breath. She reaches between you to rub at your clit with two fingers and it makes you sob with how good it feels.

“Agatha, I’m so close,” you whine, beg. She ruts into you urgently, like she’s about to cum but needs to make sure you get there too, and she scrapes her teeth against your collarbone with a sharp thrust and presses on your clit and you explode, your orgasm tearing through your body and absolutely blowing your mind.

Your walls convulse around her and she stiffens, her breathing tightening, and then she lets out a long moan and you feel her pulse before her seed spreads through your cunt. You gasp at the warmth and Agatha collapses on top of you.

She lays there until she starts to soften before pulling out. Her cum starts to trickle out of your swollen pussy and you grind against nothing at the sensation but Agatha quickly jumps off the bed and grabs the iPad off the camera.

You gasp when you figure out what she’s doing — Agatha holds your legs open and holds the camera down close to your pussy.

“Spread your folds,” she directs, but without any of the authority she usually has. You reach down and do as she asks, more of her cum oozing out as you do. She swears under your breath. “Make yourself messy.”

You know what she means. You collect the wetness between your legs, both hers and your own, and start to stroke it all over your cunt.

“Fuck, honey, just like that,” she says and you rub your clit again, your body jerking under your own touch. “Clean your fingers.”

And then she lifts the camera to film you sucking your two cum-covered fingers into your mouth. You moan at the taste of both of you and Agatha looks like she might ravish you all over again.

The iPad gets tossed somewhere else on the bed and she leans over to kiss you before crawling down your body and cleans out her cum from inside you with her tongue.

Agatha doesn’t stop until she’s made you cum three more times.

When you wake up in the morning, there’s a pleasant soreness in between your legs and the sheets are still slightly damp. Light has started to stream in through the curtains on the large windows and you roll onto your side to find that it’s 8 am.

You have to be at the airport in an hour.

“Fuck,” you curse and jump out of bed, rushing around to get dressed and throw some clothes into a suitcase. With the end of the film, you haven’t had much time to get ready for this trip, and you are sorely regretting it now.

Agatha stirs while you’re trying to find the black dress for the cocktail party you have to go to in New York and mumbles something. You pause and wait for her to repeat herself. “Why don’t you come back to bed?” she asks suggestively, picking her head up to watch you.

“Babe, I have to be at the airport in an hour,” you say apologetically. “How do you still have energy after last night?”

Agatha chuckles and gets out of bed, coming over to wrap her arms around your shoulders from behind. You can feel her semi-erection through your suit pants. “I just always want to fuck you,” she murmurs into your ear and you debate whether or not you have enough time.

In the end, logic wins and you twist in her arms to give her a quick peck on the lips. “I’m sorry. When I get back I’ll make it up to you. Plus,” you say, eyebrows raising mischievously, “you have that video from last night.” The memory of making it heats through you — Agatha directing you on how to touch yourself.

You will definitely need to revisit that in the future.

But it does very little to quell Agatha’s lust and she grumbles as she goes to get dressed. “Maybe, when you get back, I’ll make you cockwarm me while we watch our little home movie and if you make one move, I won’t let you cum for a week.”

The idea runs straight through you right into your cunt and you seriously debate saying fuck it to New York entirely.

But an hour later, Agatha’s pulling up to the airport to drop you off and giving you a tight hug while she whispers in her ear how much she loves you.

You miss her the second you walk into the terminal, but you try to focus on preparing for your trip. There’s a few dinners, meetings, and parties that you’re expected to attend, just to get to know the right people for the next project that you could potentially be in. You know the other actresses being considered will also be there, so you need to be on your A-game.

And you’re able to focus for the entire plane ride, memorizing parts of the script they gave you, and when you land, you pull out your phone to text Agatha that you made it, only to find that she’s already messaged you a few times.

I miss you already, honey.

Hope you have a great time in NY! I know they’ll love you.

I wish I didn’t have to be here for this stupid meeting. I’d have loved to be there with you.

The first ones make you smile at how sweet your wife can be. But then the next couple are enough to reignite the fire in your stomach from earlier.

I miss your pussy, babygirl.

Can’t wait for you to come home so I can taste you.

Fuck, baby, mommy is so hard for you.

You’re too caught up in the messages to realize that your row is moving and the person in the middle seat taps your shoulder to get your attention. You startle and mutter an apology, hoping he didn’t accidentally see anything she sent you.

As you’re getting checked into the hotel, you get another text from your wife and the second you open it, you have to slam your phone down on the receptionist’s desk. She gives you a weird look but you pretend not to see it.

Watching the video — mommy loves watching her cum drip out of you. Fuck, honey. I’m going crazy.

Your heart is pounding, blood rushing to your cheeks, and you quickly take your room key and hurry up to the room. You press the call button and put your phone on speaker so you can start unpacking.

Agatha answers immediately. “Hey, sweetheart,” she says, the most casual you’ve ever heard, and you clench your jaw.

“Agatha, what are you doing? I haven’t even been gone six hours. You’re going to kill the both of us!”

Her low chuckle makes you squeeze your legs together involuntarily. “I’m actually all right, baby. Remember that fleshlight you got me as a gag gift last Christmas?”

Fuck. “Agatha,” you say warningly. You have to be at a steakhouse in about thirty minutes — you don’t have time for her to get you all worked up. You were so distracted this morning you didn’t even bring any of your toys with you either.

“Of course it’s not as good as the real thing,” she sighs, and you can hear a soft slapping noise on the other side. You feel dizzy with heat.

“Are you…” you trail off, not even sure you could say the rest out loud. Could you pretend to be sick tonight?

Agatha lets out a little moan and you’re sure it must be for show, just to rub it in. “Fucking this toy and pretending it’s your pussy?”

You can’t stop the gasp that escapes your lips and you have to sit down on the bed. “Fuck, mommy,” you whine and she laughs cruelly.

“Don’t you have that dinner to get ready for?” she asks and with a sinking feeling in your stomach, you know what’s going to happen. You hum, almost wishing you would’ve lied. Agatha grunts, the slapping sound speeding up, and you have to close your eyes. “Well, I’ll leave you to it, then. Love you.”

She hangs up before you can protest and you’re forced to get into the shower, the heat in your stomach burning more than the water, and your hand makes its way between your legs to furiously rub your clit.

You cum in about three minutes.

You can barely focus at dinner with the thought of her using a fleshlight, one that you got her as a joke nonetheless. Her hard thrusts into the toy, picturing your mouth or pussy.

When you finally get back to the hotel, you’re absolutely exhausted. The travel, being teased by Agatha, and now that dinner where you had to pretend like your body wasn’t screaming for you to get on a plane and go home to your wife wiped you out, and you barely press send on a goodnight text to her before you’re passed out.

The next few days pass in a blur with events jam-packed into your schedule and you hardly have any time to talk to Agatha. She’s good for the most part, with the occasional dirty text every now and then.

But on your second-to-last day in New York, she starts to play a different game.

You’re sightseeing, checking out the American Museum of Natural History, when your phone buzzes. It’s a video from Agatha.

You don’t really think much and you click on it and your jaw drops as your entire body freezes.

It starts out shaky and it takes a few moments for it to focus, Agatha clearly in the middle of something. And then it points down and you see Agatha fucking the fleshlight.

Turn your phone off your brain screams. But it’s as if you’re stuck, your eyes glued to the screen to watch her thrust over and over into the silicone toy. She’s holding it with her left hand, her phone in her right, and her hips are driving her cock into the fake pussy hard. You can almost feel her cock inside you, as if the toy and you are connected.

She’s going faster and you wish more than anything you weren’t out in public so you could turn up the volume and hear her moaning, hear if she’s saying anything. It cuts off right as she’s about to cum. You have no doubt that you will be very busy with the video once you get back to your room.

And by the time you get back to the hotel, she’s sent you another one. Luckily, you don’t have anything for two hours, so you’re free to do whatever you want.

You’re almost afraid to click on it, and you shimmy off your jeans and underwear preemptively. You’ve been worked up for so long and you’ve barely had a chance to touch yourself and you breathe a sigh of relief when your fingers press against your clit.

Clicking on the new video, your pussy spasms when you realize what you’re watching.

Agatha has the iPad set up on the table, the video of you two open and playing. It’s strange to see your own face contorted with pleasure on film while Agatha tells you how to touch yourself.

And then in the lower half of the video she just sent is her, thrusting into the fleshlight again.

“Fuck,” you whisper. She’s fucking the toy while watching you fuck yourself. You turn the volume all the way up so you don’t miss anything and her little grunts with each drive only turn you on more.

Your wetness makes a squelching sound when you drag your fingers up and down through your folds and when you come back up to circle at your clit, there’s almost no friction.

“God, babygirl, mommy can’t wait for you to come back,” Agatha groans and it makes your heart skip a beat. On the iPad, Agatha has slid her cock into you and you’re in awe at how hot it is watching yourself get fucked.

It becomes quite clear to you that Agatha’s idea of having you cockwarm her while watching this video would not bode well for you. There is absolutely no way you’d be able to stay still, as evidenced by your squirming hips grinding against your hand right now.

Agatha takes her cock out of the fleshlight, puts it down, and strokes her hand quickly over it and a flash of heat bolts through you when you see it glistening. And then she places the toy on the table and teases her tip against the opening, sliding it up and down, you keen and your back arches off the bed.

All you’re doing is touching your clit a little.

On the iPad, Agatha’s speeding up and you’re whimpering underneath her. In the video you just got, she starts to slowly push her cock back into the fleshlight.

In your hotel room, you shove two fingers inside you, moaning at the stretch, and begin to thrust in time with Agatha, who is thrusting in time with the video you made.

“Fuck, honey, I need your pussy,” she babbles and you curl your fingers just right, a moan slipping out of your mouth. “Can’t wait to fuck you when you come back, can’t wait to fill you up.”

Her thrusts are becoming shallower into the toy, her sounds getting louder, and you’re right there with her.

You’re determined not to cum before she does, even though it’s a video and you could speed it up to cum with her. But you don’t want to miss a thing.

Turns out, you don’t have to wait too long, because when Agatha on the iPad moves the camera close to your pussy after she came inside you, her cum gushing out of you, that’s it for your wife.

“You feel so good,” Agatha says on the video before letting out a long moan and thrusting roughly one more time into the fleshlight. She stiffens and grunts and then pulls her cock out and lowers her phone so you can see her cum still spurting out onto the lips of the fleshlight.

That makes you cum almost immediately and you clamp a hand over your mouth so you don’t get any neighbors in the hotel wondering what you’re up to.

The video ends shortly after that and leaves you gasping for breath on the bed. You type out a quick Can’t wait to get home tomorrow and hit send. Thankfully, your plane leaves in the morning so you’ll be home soon.

Agatha immediately sends you back a wink emoji and then an eggplant emoji, making you laugh.

After the last dinner, you watch the video again and make yourself cum two more times.

It’s been the longest week of your life, and when the agent for the franchise drops you off at the airport, you barely remember to shake her hand.

“We’ll be in touch,” she says. “But between you and me, I think you have a very good shot of getting this part.”

Even through the horny fog in your mind, you realize just how big of a deal this is and you can’t wait to tell Agatha.

You call her while you’re waiting to board and tell her.

“Honey, that is amazing,” she gushes and your heart swells. Agatha has been your number one cheerleader since you met.

“You know I’d be spending a lot of time in New York. If you could barely last a week, imagine how hard that would be,” you joke.

Agatha snorts. “I’d come visit you all the time. Or I’ll just quit my job and become your trophy wife.”

The thought of the legendary director quitting her job for anyone makes you laugh. “Yeah, yeah. Got to get on the plane, Mrs. Harkness. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

“I can’t wait, baby,” she says, her voice dropping an octave and making your stomach warm.

The entire plane ride, you can’t stop thinking about Agatha — about her hands, her mouth, her legs, her cock.

Would anyone notice if you pulled up that video again? Maybe you could go to the bathroom. With how you’re feeling right now, you wouldn’t need more than a few minutes.

And it only gets worse when you finally land and a car is already waiting for you to take you back. Excitement vibrates under your skin as you get closer to your house and you have to fan yourself to calm down. You can already feel your underwear sticking to you uncomfortably — lacy purple lingerie you brought on the trip just so you could wear it home.

When the car pulls into your driveway, you tip the driver and try to walk up to the door as slowly as possible, not wanting to seem too urgent.

The front door opens right when you get there and your wife is standing there, two glasses of red wine in her hand, casual pants and a tank top on, hair in a loose ponytail. You’re not sure she’s ever looked so hot.

“Hi,” you breathe, shutting the door behind you and leaning in for a quick kiss. Agatha deepens it and presses a glass into your hand and you take a long gulp.

“How was the flight?” she asks, sipping on her own wine. You drop the suitcase in the foyer and walk into your living room before plopping down on the white couch. She follows and sits next to you, her thigh touching yours.

Your heart is pumping so fast and you couldn’t care less about the flight because you’re finally here, with her. So you take her wine glass and put it on the coffee table with yours before climbing into her lap and kissing her roughly.

She makes a slightly surprised “oomph” before her tongue is in your mouth, entangling with yours, her hands creeping under your shirt and stroking up and down the skin of your sides. Her fingers are cold and they make you gasp.

“I missed you so much,” you murmur against her mouth and grind down hard on her rapidly growing bulge. She hisses and digs her fingernails into you. “You fucking tortured me.”

She laughs breathlessly, tugging on your bottom lip with her teeth. “I thought the video would help. It just made it so much fucking worse,” she admits and your entire body heats up. “I was so lonely — so horny — fuck, baby.” She loses her train of thought when you kiss down her neck and nip.

“I need your cock so bad,” you whimper, having thought of little else for the last twenty-four hours. You slide off her lap and onto the floor between her legs, your body moving faster than your mind, and you’re undoing her pants before either of you realize what you’re doing.

You pull her cock out and lick up the length with your flattened tongue and the sound she makes, somewhere between a gasp and a groan, goes straight to your cunt. She slouches more onto the couch so it’s easier for you to start lathering your saliva all over her. Her hips thrust up every now and then, and when you take the tip in and hollow your cheeks out, her ass fully lifts off the couch.

“God, honey, you suck mommy’s cock so well,” she whimpers and it spurs you on to go further down. There’s an ache in your stomach already and you can feel your wetness on your upper thighs.

Agatha’s hand tangles in your hair, but just rests and lets you go at your own pace. You can feel her twitch against your tongue and you suck harder.

“Baby, god, fuck — you’re so hot, mommy loves your mouth,” Agatha rambles and she throbs when her cock hits the back of your throat and you gag, tightening around her. She’s not going to last long, you can feel her pulsing and swelling, her cock growing heavier on your tongue. You think you could cum right now if you touched yourself.

You look up at her through your eyelashes and she groans like she’s in pain and then you pull your mouth off her, gasping for breath, while strands of spit still connect your lips to her cock. “Use me, mommy,” you say hoarsely and her hips involuntarily jump. “Fuck my mouth.”

This time, when you take her cock again, she thrusts her cock deep into your throat over and over. The only sounds in the room are you gagging and her moaning.

“Fuck, honey, I’m going to cum,” she pants and you nod slightly before trying to say something around her cock. But the vibrations against her feel too good and she stiffens before spurts of her cum fill your mouth. She slows her thrusts while she pumps her seed down your throat and you take it all, groaning at the somewhat salty taste.

She pulls out, cock soft, and slumps onto the couch and you wipe a strand of cum off your lip and suck it from your finger. You shift on your knees and she tracks the motion with her eyes, smirking wickedly.

“I always forget how hot and bothered sucking my cock gets you,” she purrs and then jerks her head to the couch. “Take your clothes off and lay down.”

You swallow roughly and get to your feet before teasing her by slowly taking your clothes off. Her fingers dig into the couch beneath her and her limp cock twitches just a bit when you reveal that you’re wearing her favorite lingerie. She’s always been able to recover relatively quickly and your mouth waters at the thought that, soon enough, you’ll have her inside you.

Once you’re naked, you settle on your back, one leg up over the pillows and your other foot resting on the floor, baring your dripping cunt to her. The look in her eyes is positively ravenous and she tosses the hair that’s come loose from her hair tie over her shoulder before situating herself so that she’s on her knees in front of you.

And then she leans down and runs her tongue through your folds — which are practically fused together with how wet you are — and you keen.

“Mommy,” you gasp, back arching. She chuckles against you and the feeling makes you moan. “I need you, please.”

She teases you a little, her tongue circling around your clit but never quite touching it, and your hips grind up to try to get just a little more stimulation. One of her hands trails up your body to pinch your nipple right as she sucks on your clit and you’ve never made such a high-pitched sound in your life.

Your noise drags a strangled moan from her mouth and her hips jerk. She starts to devour you, her tongue lashing against your clit and then thrusting inside you as far as she can go. Her other hand digs into your thigh, holding it open and using it for leverage just the same.

It takes you a little bit to notice what she’s doing — her hot mouth on your pussy has made your brain go completely fuzzy — but when you pick up on her flattened out body on the couch and her ass flexing in a steady rhythm, you clench violently around her tongue.

Agatha is grinding her cock against the couch. Eating you out for three minutes has gotten her so hard that she’s desperately getting any stimulation that she can.

Her fingers continue to tug and roll your nipple and her mouth is furiously lapping at your cunt and you can feel yourself getting so close.

“Please, mommy, Agatha, I’m —” you whine and her hand on your leg removes itself before she quickly slides two fingers into you while she rubs her tongue against your clit. Your walls bear down immediately around her and she curls them up and presses deep inside you. It makes you sob and your hips move on their own accord to chase the orgasm that is about to wash over you.

Agatha’s thrusts against the couch are getting more and more sloppy and she’s moaning against your cunt like she’s never been more content in her life. Your breathing becomes short and shallow and tingles spread through your entire body.

“Fuck, I’m gonna—” You can’t even finish your sentence before she sucks roughly on your clit and sends you right over the edge. Your vision goes white for a second, completely overwhelmed with pleasure as she keeps fucking you through your orgasm. She doesn’t stop, and although you have no doubt you’d be able to cum again in no time at all, it’s been too long without her cock inside you.

You tug at her hair weakly until she finally stops and looks up at you, her nose and the entire bottom half of her face absolutely coated with your wetness. Heat flares through your stomach and you almost shove her right back down between your legs.

“What’s wrong, baby?” Agatha coos and you whimper at her sweet voice. “Do you need more? Do you need mommy’s cock?”

When you nod eagerly, Agatha grins and crawls back up to her knees and you moan when you see her cock. It’s just as hard as it was before — maybe even harder? Is that possible? — and so red. It looks almost painful.

She bends over you and slides her cock against your entrance, both of you letting out heavy sighs of relief. “Wait,” you choke out, and she stops. You need to feel her deeper.

You turn over from your position on your back and get on your knees and elbows so that your ass is straight up in the air. Agatha sharply inhales and her hands cup your asscheeks before giving each one a little spank simultaneously.

Agatha drags her cock through your folds and then circles your clit with it, the feeling of her skin against yours making you keen.

And then she pushes into you, your mouth dropping open in a silent moan. Agatha mews once she bottoms out and holds still for a second, savoring the feeling of your walls milking her.

She starts to move, not even giving you a chance to adjust before setting a fast pace, her hips making a sound every time they slap against your ass. She’s filling you up so good, hitting a spot so deep inside you that makes you gasp each time, and your head drops to rest on your elbows while you start to push back against her thrusts.

Her pace stutters when you clench around her and she grabs onto your hips so tightly that your chest warms at the possibility of having bruises so you can remember just how good she fucked you. She practically slams you back and forth on her cock and there are no other thoughts in your head, no other words you can say, besides “Mommy!”

“I know, babygirl,” she rasps. “You’re taking my cock so well — fuck, I think this pussy was made for me. You were made for mommy’s cock, weren’t you?”

“Yes, god, yes, I was,” you pant, letting her completely use you. It’s like she’s just fucking her fleshlight and, god, that shouldn’t turn you on as much as it does.

She spanks your ass again and the familiar feeling of your orgasm rises steadily in your stomach. You can feel Agatha’s cock throbbing inside you with each thrust, can hear her groans become less restrained as she loses composure for the second time, and you need more.

Your hand snakes down between your body and couch to rub at your clit and your walls instantly clench around Agatha.

“Fuck, babygirl, mommy’s about to cum,” she gasps and it only drives you closer.

You press on your clit while her drives become short and fast, effectively knocking the wind out of you every time. “Cum inside me, mommy, want you to breed me,” you breathe and she falters for a second, a loud, guttural moan tearing from her lips, before recovering and fucking you even harder.

“Yeah, honey, mommy’s gonna breed you,” she babbles in agreement, an urgency you usually don’t hear from her lacing her tone. When you fuck, she usually does cum inside you anyway, but there’s something about asking her to breed you that turns you on beyond words. Seems like it has a similar effect on her too.

Tears gather in your eyes as she keeps thrusting into you and you’re not even aware that you’re cumming before your body spasms and jerks around her, and you keep frantically rubbing your clit to prolong the feeling spreading through you.

Your pussy convulses around her and she stills, grunting lowly, and then her cock stutters a few times inside you before pulsing and you whimper at the feeling of her cum spreading through you, and fuck, you’re so full.

Agatha stays inside you for a few moments, both of you enjoying the feeling, before pulling out. You curse under your breath when her cum oozes out of you in globs and Agatha runs and grabs a towel to clean you up.

You swear when she rubs the towel over your pussy, she brushes against your clit on purpose, and it makes you wince. You’re already sensitive from your two explosive orgasms and you don’t know if you could take anymore.

She helps you stand and the two of you walk up the stairs together, whispering sweet nothings and exchanging soft kisses, and then once you get to your room, Agatha turns on the shower while you sit on the edge of the tub and wait for it to warm up.

“I think next time you leave, I should come with you no matter what so I can fuck you every night for the rest of our lives,” she jokes and you laugh.

“Why did we even make that sex tape then?” you tease.

Her eyebrows wiggle teasingly and she comes closer to you and tugs you off the tub. “I seem to remember you liking that quite a bit. Plus, now when I’m at work and I get bored, I can just pull out my phone and watch what a good slut you are for me.”

Despite you being completely worn out, there’s no ignoring the heat that runs through when she says that. “God, you’re insatiable,” you say, mockingly dropping your jaw, and she chuckles before kissing your lips.

And then she opens the door to the shower for you both to get in and sinks to her knees in front of you. You gasp.

“You love it,” she says before licking through your swollen pussy and you have to lean back against the wall.

Yes, you do.

#agatha harkness x fem!reader #agatha harkness x reader #agatha x reader #agatha x you #agatha harkness x you #agatha harkness smut #agatha smut #agatha all along

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beloveds-embrace · 1 month ago

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NORTHERN DUKE KÖNIG STEALING DUCHESS PRICE PT 2 !! Where he finally puts his plans into action and maybe gets a moment alone with the duchess and confesses his feelings and maybe she tells him she's been wanting an escape because she's been trapped in a loveless marriage and has lost hope on John ever loving her so she's 100% on board with his plan. Maybe König even tells her that he doesn't believe in the rumors of her being barren, that he thinks it's John whose infertile only for the duchess to reveal she hasn't slept with John at all and idk maybe Konig becomes angry with how neglected she's been and makes an intense vow to never leave her unsatisfied.. mentally, emotionally, physically 😏.

The garden was silent beneath the heavy cloak of snow, save for the crunch of your boots as you followed Duke König down the winding path. Lanterns lit the walkway, their golden glow casting long shadows against the frost-kissed hedges and frozen roses.

It was beautiful. Quiet. Safe.

But your pulse pounded in your ears. König hadn’t spoken since he’d asked you to walk with him, and the weight of his silence filled the space between you like smoke.

You stopped beside a stone bench, your breath curling in the cold air. “Your Grace?”

He turned sharply at the sound of your voice, his pale blue eyes catching the light and glowing like ice under a full moon. For the first time, you saw something raw there- uncertainty, vulnerability, and something far more dangerous simmering beneath the surface.

“I cannot keep this to myself any longer, Duchess,” He said, voice low and rough.

Your lips parted, but he stepped closer, towering over you with a presence that stole your breath.

“I have tried to resist it,” König continued. “To be honorable, to keep my distance- but it is impossible when every moment apart from you feels like torment.” His gloved hand brushed your cheek, hesitant and reverent, as though he thought you might disappear if he touched you too firmly.

You shivered, not from the cold, but from the intensity in his gaze.

“Your Grace…”

“Tell me I am not mad,” he pleaded, soft and fervent. “Tell me I am not imagining this connection between us.”

Tears burned at the corners of your eyes, and your throat tightened. “You’re not.” You whispered.

Relief washed over him like a crashing wave, but it didn’t temper the fire in his eyes. He cupped your face with both hands, his calloused thumbs brushing over your skin as if memorizing the very shape of you.

“Then come with me,” he said fiercely. “Let me take you away from all of this.”

Your breath hitched, eyes wide. “You mean… leave John?”

His lips curled in frustration. “A man who does not deserve you,” he snapped. “Who parades you around as a trophy while the world whispers lies about you. Who neglects you so cruelly that you-” He stopped, exhaling sharply as if the thought pained him. “You deserve more.”

You swallowed, your voice trembling. Even if you wanted to, you couldn’t hold back the next words that poured out. How many nights have you spent in the aching loneliness of your bedroom, aware that your husband merely tolerated you out of necessity and nothing else?

“I know.”

König froze, searching your face. “You… know?”

You nodded, tears finally spilling down your cheeks. “I’ve wanted to escape for so long. I just… I didn’t think anyone would ever care enough to take me away.”

His expression twisted, anguished and furious. “Care enough?” he repeated, dangerous. “I would burn kingdoms for you.”

A sob broke from your throat, and before you could stop yourself, you leaned into him, letting him pull you into the warmth of his embrace. His arms wrapped around you tightly, as if he could shield you from the world. There was something so delightful, so safe, in the way he held you so wholly- hiding you in his arms from all the world.

“But what if the rumors are true?” you whispered against his chest, saying aloud the doubts that have started to take root in your mind from hearing all the rumors swirling about you. “What if I can’t give you the future you want? What if I can’t give you children?”

König pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his hands bracketing your face. “I don’t believe the rumors,” he said firmly. “Not for a second. It is Price who is unworthy- he is the one who has failed you, mein Liebe, not the other way around.”

You shook your head, a bitter laugh escaping you. “He hasn’t failed me because we’ve never even tried.”

König stilled, his eyes narrowing. “What do you mean?”

You looked away, ashamed. “We’ve never lain together. Not once.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

König’s hands dropped to his sides, his shoulders trembling with barely contained rage. “Not once?”

You flinched at the venom in his tone, but when you looked back at him, there was no anger directed at you- only heartbreak.

“He’s treated you like this?” König growled. “As though you are unworthy of his attention, his affection? Like a possession to be displayed but never cherished?”

The tears were freely flowing now, and no verbal confirmation was needed.

A guttural sound rumbled in König’s chest, his fury barely leashed. “He has neglected you. Deprived you.” His voice dropped, dangerously soft. “I swear to you, I will never make that mistake.”

You blinked up at him, startled.

He stepped closer, his presence alone overwhelming. “I will never leave you unsatisfied- mentally, emotionally, or physically.” His voice was a vow, sharp and unyielding, not allowing any space for doubt. “You will never have to wonder if you are loved, worshiped.”

The heat in his words sent a shiver down your spine, but you didn’t step away. If anything, you leaned closer, tearful eyes wide.

“Say you’ll come with me,” König urged, his thumb brushing away your tears. “Say you’ll let me take you away from this emptiness and give you the life you deserve. Be my Duchess.”

Your breath caught. This was a horrible decision- you couldn’t imagine what would be said about you, about König, what your parents might do, what John might do-

“Yes.”

König didn’t wait. His lips crashed against yours, fierce and desperate, as though he’d been holding himself back for far too long. You melted into him, clutching at his coat as he deepened the kiss, claiming you with every stroke and sigh.

When he finally pulled away, his breath was ragged, and his eyes burned with promise.

“Two days from now,” he said. “I will send that Narr your divorce papers, and I will take you away from this nightmare.”

And for the first time in years, hope bloomed in your chest.

#noona.asks #cod x you #cod x reader #cod #konig x you #konig x reader #könig x you #könig x reader #konig drabble #könig drabble

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littlelamy · 3 months ago

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omggg more trophy wife reader and dad rafe!!!!!

hope you like it! ⭐️As you sipped your morning coffee in the sunlit kitchen, you felt Rafe’s arms slip around your waist. You leaned into his embrace, a warm smile already forming as he pressed a kiss to your temple.

“You know,” he murmured, his voice low and smooth against your ear, “you’ve been working so damn hard at looking this good. I think it’s time I gave my gorgeous wife a little break.”

You tilted your head to look up at him, raising a brow in playful suspicion. “A break?”

He nodded, that familiar spark lighting up his eyes. “Yeah, baby. Just you and me, on a little escape. Thought we could take the jet and get the hell out of here for the weekend. Maybe somewhere with beaches, crystal-clear water… Bora Bora sound good?”

Your heart skipped a beat. A spontaneous trip to Bora Bora with your loving, impossibly charming husband? Rafe had a knack for sweeping you off your feet just when you needed it most.

“What about the kids?” you asked, though the excitement was already building.

“Sarah said she’d take care of them for us,” he replied with a grin. “And, well, John B too. But don’t worry—Sarah’s got it handled.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, knowing Sarah’s responsible nature meant you could leave without a worry in the world, even if John B tagged along.

Within hours, you were on the jet, Rafe sitting close enough to reach for your hand whenever he wanted, his gaze lingering on you like you were the only thing that mattered. The flight was long, but with Rafe, every second felt exciting, like the anticipation was part of the fun. When you finally landed in Bora Bora, the warm, tropical breeze welcomed you, along with Rafe’s arm slung around your waist.

After checking into a luxurious overwater bungalow with panoramic views of turquoise water and Mount Otemanu in the distance, Rafe guided you to the finest boutiques in Vaitape, his arm resting possessively around your waist as he led you through each store, his attention unwavering. He watched you try on outfits, his gaze lingering just a little too long, his words low and flirtatious.

“That dress,” he said, leaning close, his fingers brushing your arm as you showed him the deep, fitted silk gown, “fits you like it was fucking made for you. But then again, everything looks incredible on you.” He tilted his head, a playful smirk forming. “Or off you. Either way, it’s perfect.”

You felt your cheeks warm as you turned back to the mirror, pretending to study the dress while you caught him watching you through the reflection, admiration practically radiating from him.

The afternoon continued with him indulging your every whim. Shoes, dresses, jewelry—Rafe insisted on all of it. As you browsed, he found excuses to pull you close, whispering little compliments, his voice laced with that confident charm that never failed to make you feel like the only woman in the world.

Later, as the day faded into a golden evening, Rafe arranged for a private dinner with a view over the lagoon, where the soft waves lapped beneath you and the sky turned pink and orange above. You sat across from him, candles flickering softly between you, casting warm light across his face.

“I love seeing you like this,” he said, leaning forward, his eyes tracing over your features. “Spoiled, relaxed. You fucking deserve it, you know.”

You smirked, raising a brow. “You’re spoiling me, Rafe. What did I ever do to deserve a husband who takes me halfway across the world just to treat me?”

He chuckled, his hand reaching across the table to catch yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles in a slow, reassuring rhythm. “Just by being you, sweetheart. You’re stunning, charming, and somehow, all mine. I’m the lucky bastard.”

As the night went on, Rafe didn’t let a moment go by without reminding you how much he adored you. His flirting was relentless, with just enough edge to keep you smiling and blushing.

By the time you returned to your bungalow, the soft sound of water below and a starlit sky above, you felt completely cherished and at ease, like there was no place you’d rather be. And as Rafe pulled you close, murmuring one last promise to keep making days like this for you, you knew you’d never doubt just how damn much this man adored you.

taglist: @namelesslosers @princessslutt @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @starkeysprincess @sixrosberg @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @dinakisser @rafecameroninterlude @sstargirln

#rafe obx #rafe cameron #rafe imagine #outerbanks rafe #rafe x reader #rafe x you #rafe outer banks #rafe fic #rafe #rafe cameron x reader #dad!rafe cameron #dad!rafe au #dad!rafe x trophywife #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron angst #rafe cameron blurb

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heartfullofleeches · 2 months ago

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Miniature Horse Hybrid Yan who's the reigning champion in several competitions across the county.

Miniature Horse Hybrid Yan who moves to a quieter neck of the town to get away from the buzz their success brings.

Miniature Horse Hybrid Yan who meets and quickly befriends another horse - A Shire thrice their size with the added bonus of being the gentlest giant anyone could have as a neighbor.

Minature Horse Hybrid Yan who falls head over heels for their new neighbor in no time.

Shire Horse Hybtid Darling who works several odd jobs all revolving around the manual labor fit for a person of their stature.

Miniature Horse Hybrid Yan who tries to keep up with their darling during their daily commute, but their shorter legs can barely make up half the distance the larger horse can cross with their stride.

Miniature Horse Hybrid Yan who cries about their feet hurting after stalking following their darling around town so they'll give them a piggyback ride home.

Miniature Horse Hybrid Yan who has some their trophies, their most prized possessions, melted into a ring to propose with to their Darling someday.

Shire Hybrid Darling who thinks their new friend is an angel, but politely rejects their advances due to the height differences.

Minature Horse Hybrid Yan who buys a stepping ladder to prove that's not an issue at all.

Workaholic Shire Hybrid Darling who works themselves to the point of collapsing when they return home.

Miniature Horse Hybrid Yan who sneaks in with their spare key to tend to their darling and snuggle up to them while they haven't the strength to be concerned about crushing the smaller horse.

Shire Hybrid Darling who's essentially a body pillow for their tiny companion - and they wouldn't have it any other way

Miniature Horse Hybrid Yan: Why can't I be your spouse? :,(

Shire Horse Hybrid Reader: My penis thigh is nearly the size of your entire torso.

#yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere headcanons #yandere scenarios #yandere insert #yandere blurb #yandere imagines #yandere #yandere oc #hybrid reader #yandere hybrid

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twirlyleafs · 2 months ago

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Finally

Lando Norris x McLaren worker! Reader

Summary: McLaren won. The 2024 seasons has come to an end and McLaren won the championship. You and Lando find yourselves at the team party, reminiscing about the grueling past year.

Notes: I needed some time to collect myself bc my team fucking won and I’ve been on cloud nine. Here’s a dream I had lol.

~~~~

The McLaren headquarters buzzed with conversations and laughter. The larger party, with sponsors and media, was still a few hours away and for the moment you just enjoyed being surrounded by the team. Your team. After a season like this it felt deserved to really celebrate. McLaren had clinched the Constructors Championship in the final race, both Oscar and Lando had secured their first wins and Lando had managed to claim a second place in the drivers championship. The journey had been nothing short of incredible and as one of Mclarens leading strategists you couldn’t be prouder. Adding the fact that you were, outside of your roll on the McLaren team, also girlfriend of their golden boy Mr. Lando Norris you were also filled with a sense of pride for him that you couldn’t even begin to describe. You and Lando had been together for almost three years now, you’d only worked at McLaren for a few months when he asked you out and since then the two of you had been more or less inseparable.

Now you stood near at display of trophies, chatting with some of the mechanics about the highs and lows of the season. Lando was across the large hall, deep in conversation with Andrea Stella and a few others. Even from where you stood you could see the giant grin on his face as his hands waves around animatedly. It wasn’t unusual for the two of you to keep your distance at work gatherings, even though everyone on the team knew about your relationship. It had, however, taken them more than a year to figure it out since you and Lando always made an effort to remain professional during work hours. Now, though, with the season wrapped up and the stakes momentarily lowered there was an ease in the air, a sense of relief that made everything seem lighter. You caught Landos gaze across the room and for a moment the buzz around you faded. His eyes held yours, soft and full of unspoken emotion, until he was eventually pulled back to his conversation. The warm of his gaze lingered even as he directed his attention elsewhere and you couldn’t help but smile.

Barely a few seconds later your attention was pulled to the stage, the sound of a crackling microphone and the clinking off glass filling the room. You and the others let out soft laughs as you laid eyes on Zac Brown, wide smile on his face and a champagne flute in hand.

”Alright, alright let’s settle down.” His tone was light but commanding, like so often he had a way of making everyone actually want to listen. ”I will keep this short because I know we have a long night ahead of us with different, quite honestly, boring speeches but I just felt I needed to take a moment.” The room broke into murmurs of agreement and soft applause before falling silent again. Zac took a deep breath. ”What a season. Wow. What a year, huh? Two first-time race winners, the championship, Lando coming in second in the drivers…we have- you have all worked your asses off and it’s together we’ve made this possible. This team is something so special and it’s all thanks to you. All of you.” As Zac spoke you felt a shift behind you and then the familiar warmth of a chest against your back. You didn’t need to turn around, not when he so naturally found your hips, pressing his fingers into your soft skin as you relaxed back against him. Lando brushed his lips against the top of your head, a fleeting yet tender gesture that had your heart swell. For a moment you forgot to listen to Zac, your focus only on the grounding warmth of Lando behind you. Your haze snapped back up to the man on the stage when he shifted tone.

”And to Lando and Oscar,” he raised his glass and you couldn’t help but smile when you felt Lando inhale deeply. ”You two have made history this year. You’ve both grown so much and will continue to do so. The future is bright, papaya bright, and I can’t wait to see where it takes us.” Cheers erupted from the whole team and you too raised your hands to applaud. Some people whistled loudly, others shouted celebrations, and you simply enjoyed it. As it all slowly died down Zac spoke again, this time the proud grin on his face replaced by a mischievous smile. ”Before we get back to celebrating I have just one thing I want to show you, a small video our PR-team has worked on that will only be shown in this room. This is for you, the team, and only for you. Enjoy.” As he stepped back the whole room dimmed and curious murmurs swept through it. The bright McLaren logo appeared briefly on the large screen before it transitioned into a montage of clips from the season. Laughter rippled through the crowd as the first few moments showed Oscar and Lando engaging in a ridiculous game of rock-paper-scissors that somehow turned into a wrestling match. More pranks were shown, like hidden helmets and jump scares. There was one clip of one of the mechanics, Teddy, hiding behind a stack of tyres before jumping forward to scare you and your colleague. Lando laughed loudly when he saw the way you screamed on the screen. You smiled too, shaking your head at the memory of the endless pranks, but you also focused on the subtle shifts in Lando now. The way his body vibrated with chuckles and how his grip on your hips tightened from time to time. Once or twice he dropped his forehead to the top of yours, hiding away in embarrassment. The next clip was from the weekend in Brazil, showing a bunch of McLaren employees running around in the rain before zooming in on you. You were stood hiding under an awning, arms wrapped around yourself and headset slightly askew. The pout on your face suddenly melted into a warm smile and a second later Lando came into frame, hurriedly making his way in under the safety of the awning. You felt Landos fingers press into your skin, his lips brushing the top of your head as the video showed him steal a quick kiss from you before handing you a steaming cup of what you remembered was hot chocolate he had stolen from the Ferrari hospitality.

”I didn’t know they caught that.” You felt his hushed words behind you, smiling sheepishly at the people around you offering teasing grins. Suddenly the mood of the video shifted, transitioning to show Miami. Landos first win. He tensed behind you and as the roar of the crowd in the room mirrored those shown on the video you could practically feel the pride radiating of him. As you all rewatched him cross the finish line his grip on you loosened and you knew he was thinking back on that day. You couldn’t help but do too, mind beginning to wander. That weekend had been a blur of tension and triumph, of long hours and high stakes, of watching him push himself to the limit and come out victorious. You remembered the way the garage erupted in cheers, the way he’d stumbled into your arms afterward, his helmet still on, his voice cracking with disbelief. Your chest tightened as you thought back on everything leading up to that moment. The late nights spent together, just you, him and the data. All the fights you had when he was being stubbornly hard on himself or all the times you celebrated the small victories together. Your vision blurred as the pride you felt for him settled in your whole body and you blinked rapidly to try and keep the tears at bay. The video on the big screen moved on to show Oscars first win too but you barely even registered it. Not until you felt Lando lean down, lips close to your ear.

”Do you remember-” he began with a soft smile, voice low enough for only you to hear, but paused. He noted the way your hand swept across your cheek and the way you blinked a little too much and he couldn’t help his smile widening. ”Are you- baby are you crying?”

”It’s the music, okay?” You sniffed, letting out a soft chuckle as you did so. ”And it’s been a big year.”

”Uh-huh.” Lando murmured teasingly, although you were pretty sure you heard his own voice waver a bit too.

”Shut up Lan.”

”Hey, you’re allowed to cry.” He grinned, fingers on your hips pressing enough for you to know he wanted you to turn around. You did so barely halfway, leaning your cheek against his chest but kept your eyes train on the screen. Lando hummed, wrapping his arms around you and placing a couple of kisses against the top of your head. He was quiet for a few moments before he whispered again, the grin on his lips loud in his voice. ”I might start crying too.”

”Shut. Up. Lando.” You tried to sound stern but couldn’t help but giggle, poking your finger in his side. The video eventually wound down with some final clips from last years end of the seasons party, more or less exactly a year ago. As the music faded out the whole screen showed a large picture taken in the same room you were all standing in now, the whole team grinning up towards the camera. Your eyes scanned the photo and you let out a small huff when you found what you were looking for. Somewhere in the front, off a bit to the side, were you and Lando. He was behind you, arms wrapped around you body more or less like now, and chin resting on your head.

”Deja vu, huh?” Lando murmured softly, hand stroking up and down you back, and you exhaled contently. The screen faded to black and Zacs voice filled the room again, thanking everybody for watching and wishing you a nice evening. The room once again burst into applause and cheers but you stayed still, tucked against Landos chest, feeling all the stress and pressure from this season finally fading away.

”Come on.” Your eyes fluttered open as Lando leaned down to whisper in your ear. ”Let’s run away.” You gave him a curious look, tilting your chin up. His signature smile and the glint in his eye was impossible to resist and you let him thread his fingers through yours, quickly but discreetly steering you towards the nearest exit. No one stopped you, most of the team still caught up in conversations and laughter, leaving the two of you to slip away unnoticed. The cool evening air greeted you as Lando led you out on one of the balconies overlooking the large lake. It was still quiet, the guests for the larger party hadn’t started arriving yet, and the clicking of your heels was the only sound being heard. Lando let you go as you walked up to the railing, slowing down to watch you for a moment. The sleek fabric of your dress shimmered slightly in the low light from the windows and you smoothed it down as you turned to face him, leaning back against the railing. You eyed him as he made his way closer, pursing your lips as he stopped just infront of you.

”What are your intentions, Mr. Norris? Stealing me away like this?”

”Oh, only bad intentions. As usual.” He hummed, fingers trailing over yours hips and up your waist. They stopped just on the side of your chest, pausing before trailing down again. When his eyes met yours his expression softened. ”I just figured we deserved a moment to ourselves. It’s been a hectic year.” You smiled up at him, eyes watching the way his curls moved slightly in the breeze before flickering down to meet his.

”Hectic is one word. Crazy is another.”

”I know I’ve said it before, but baby I really couldn’t have done it without you.” His expression softened, grip on your waist tightening. ”This season, everything…it wouldn’t have been the same without you. I don’t even know if I would’ve survived without you-”

”Don’t say that.”

”But it’s true.” He shook his head, a small self-deprecating smile on his lips. ”Honestly. On-track, off-track- just, I always need you.”With a pout you reached up to cup his cheeks, thumbs brushing over his skin in a way that had him close his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again you could see all the emotions swirling in them. Relief, content, love.

”I wouldn’t have survived this season without you either, you know. I always need you.” Those words had Lando finally slip his arms around you, stepping impossibly closer. He dipped his head, forehead resting against yours for a moment before he leaned in to connect your lips. The kiss wasn’t hurried or heated, just a quiet declaration of love. When he eventually pulled back his green eyes sparkled with something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

”I love you.”

”Good, I was starting to worry-” you began, voice teasing as your hands snaked in under his suit jacket. Lando didn’t let you finish, fingers pressing into your sides hard enough for you to yelp.

”Don’t be a brat now that we were having such a nice moment.” He murmured, making you giggle and lean in closer, brushing your lips against his.

”I love you too.”

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bunny-jpeg · 3 months ago

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team principal!max verstappen - he really did take a shining to his new driver. verstappen racing needed all the driving power it could get and max had to take a few risks. when he saw you cross the track, not even twenty-five yet. he saw the championship in your eyes.

"want to make a deal?" "a deal, sir. i'm a driver not a prostitute." "no, no. you're far too talented to do those kinds of tricks." max's finger dragged down your wrist, "how do you feel about becoming a formula one driver?" only an idiot would've said no.

you became his star, his champion. more trophies than stars in the monaco night sky. as he clinked glasses with you over a stellar season. you mirrored your mentor. you raced the way we did, was sarcastic the way he was. there were even side-by-side photos of how you stood. you broke his records and did it with a bright smile.

but even at the top. you craved more. and while you carried max's advice in your back pocket. you wanted more than pats on the shoulder and sound guidance. in a way it meant tugging on the man's jealousy. encourage thoughts of you that were lewd. what started as sly touches and lingering stares eventually turned into max kissing you in the middle of the garage after another successful weekend. and when he held you face and looked into your eyes. you knew that you had him.

but, you didn't realize that max wasn't letting you go anytime soon. your shadow in the paddock, the voice in your ear as you drove. he left you little time to form any romantic connections. "you wanted to be the best." he held you by the chin to make you look at him, "winners don't take short cuts." and you nodded at him. max wondered as he held you chin, how red he could make you lips once he finished biting at them. he couldn't leave your neck covered in hickies, but he could leave your lips red and swollen. even in the off season you were close to him. often at his apartment in monaco, there he could be a little more forthcoming with his affection. blinds drawn to keep out the afternoon light as his eagerly ate you out. his hands on your thighs, applying enough pressure to keep you in his grasp.

there were more than enough rumors circulating around you and max. you tried to distance yourself as a result, fearing what others thought of you. but max only brought you in closer. "who cares what they think." he purred, "they're just jealous. you have the skills, the team, the team principal. they're envious that they'll never accomplish as much as you." then pulled you in a little closer to kiss the top of your head. a promise that you'd never squirm out of his grasp, there was a reason why in your contract there wasn't a way to get out of it for at least five years. after that time max had bigger plans for you.

you knew you should be worried. but you were blinded by the glory. the victories, the trophies, the money. the pouring of champagne and the world knowing your name. you owed everything to max. the one who plucked you out of obscurity and into the dazzling lights of formula one. but when you were in his apartment, dressed in just his t-shirt and panties as he made you dinner after a tumble in the sheets. you could feel the bites on your thighs and stomach, the ache in your knees and back from when you rode him. when you were alone with him outside the track, the worry set in.

max's words hung in your mind, "there's no need to worry, my prize.", it was simply an accident that there was a hole in your team shirt. max happily gave you his! don't look too closely at the shape of the hole and don't start wondering if it was a pair of scissors that did it. it was simply a mix up in the computer that your last name on your paddock pass was 'verstappen', the intern who put in all the information must've clicked the wrong thing! (even though you knew it was max who sent over all your details at the beginning of the season). and definitely don't worry about what happened to that mechanic from ferrari who had a habit of coming over to talk with you. as your team principal, max will ensure that you're taken care of. right now you need to think about the qualifiers and the races!

"thank you so much, mrs. verstappen." a pa chirped before one of the races and you felt a cold shiver run through you.

it was only warmed when max placed his hand on your lower back. he chuckled, "does sound nice, doesn't it? mrs. verstappen." he smiled at you and you swallowed.

you feared that maybe, just maybe, you got in over your head.

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vidalsbeloved · 3 months ago

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Deaths Trophy

Rio Vidal x Female Reader! x (mentioned but not really said Agatha Harkness)

warnings: slightly possessive Rio, steamy and hawt, idk what else to put on here.

Authors note: this bitch is confusing, I woke up and wrote it and I’m just going along with it lol.

Words written: 1.7k

“Hmmmm….” the green witch preened at you, shuffling closer and into your space.

“Hello beautiful,” she said in a sultry voice.

Agatha growls and pulls you behind her away from the green witch. “Stay away from her, Rio.”

Rio as witty as ever raises her arms in mock defense as her gaze flickers back to Agatha and then back to you. She winks at you before slipping away and skipping further down the road. You stare after her in curiosity and glance at Agatha.

“Stay away from her, please.” is all she murmurs before releasing your wrist and walking slightly ahead of you— but still within reach, close enough that if Rio did try to make any move on you, she’d be there to put an end to it.

—

It is when you are all gathered around the fire, talking about battle scars when you make a move to go settle In for the night, when you feel a hot breath on your neck. You don’t turn around, already knowing who it is, and sigh. You may not have known Rio for barely a day, but she was quickly becoming a nuisance to both Agatha and you.

“Boo,” she whispers against your ear. “Where you off to, gorgeous?”

“Nowhere,” you say sharply.

She whistles and brushes a hand against your back, causing goosebumps to form in their wake. “No need to be so harsh, baby girl. I only want to talk.”

“Why?”

“Because you interest me,” she shrugs. “A pretty thing like you, though, sweetheart, should know better than to wander in the dark by yourself.”

You look over your shoulder at her, she smirks at you and runs her hand further up your back. “What are you doing, Rio? Agatha won’t like that you’re touching me.”

She releases a low cackle responding, “Won’t she though? I don’t remember her caring so much about her playthings.”

“I’m not her plaything, she is my mentor.” You hiss.

“A mentor without power, baby.”

You swallow. “Not for long.”

She chuckles again. “I like you,” she says. “You’ve got fire.”

The hand on your spine gets higher and her touch gets firmer, not enough to hurt, but enough to leave a reminder that once her hands left your body, her touch would yet remain. You shivered and pulled away, looking over your shoulder to hiss.

“Stay away from me.”

You felt her eyes on you as you retreated to where you were going to sleep— you heard her faint cackle as you moved further away, a shiver going up your spine.

___

“The bodies are really starting to pile up now, Agatha,” says Rio, standing over the dirt that Teen and Jen disappeared into.

Her eyes settle on you and her smile widens, “Did you miss me, beautiful?”

Agatha gets in front of you. “What do you want, Rio?”

Rio smirks, “Well for starters, you’re standing in the way for one of them.”

You’re tense when you peer at Rio over Agatha‘s shoulder.

“She’s not available,” Agatha said tersely.

“I know how you feel about her, Agatha. I watch you, just as you watch everyone else.” Rio steps over the mud and into the leaves and walks the distance to the two of you.

“Please, I’m her teacher, nothing more.” Agatha scoffs and reaches behind her to grab your elbow, trying to walk around Rio, but is stopped abruptly when Rio reaches for her knife.

“If that’s so, then why do you keep her from me?” asks Rio, twirling her knife between her fingertips and watching with furrowed brows.

“What do you want with her?”

Rio’s eyes turn to you and a small smirk etches up her lips as she answers, “A well-deserved trophy,” she says. “For what I have to do to keep the sacred balance of the universe.”

“Whatever do you mean, Rio?” Agatha snaps.

“You and I both know that the boy is the son of the Scarlett Witch,” says Rio. “And that he will eventually go looking for his brother and I can’t let that happen. That boy's brother isn’t out there, yet, but he will be if I don’t take him.”

Agatha tenses abruptly and releases a shaken sigh, “Fine, whatever, take him. I don’t care anymore.”

For a second you think you see a flicker of guilt pass through Rio’s eyes, but it’s gone just as quickly.

“You can’t,” Agatha then says, leaning forward, towards Rio. “Because if you kill him and take him, you know he will reincarnate again and you can’t let that happen.”

Rio watches her intently as she ponders over her next words, “You want me to bring him to you, fine. I will. But you leave Y\N out of this, got it?”

Rio’s eyes flicker to you and then back to Agatha. “Deal.”

And in a whirl, she is gone.

___

You feel her eyes boring into the back of your head, when she comes from the shadows. The clanking of her heels on the ground and then the feel of her front pressed against your back.

Her breath on your ear made you shudder, and the feel of cool hands pressing into your stomach to pull you back further into her.

You sigh, trapped under her spell, as one of her hands moves your hair away from your neck, revealing your neck. Her lips trail along the length of your neck to your pulse where she presses a kiss, your skin buzzing alight with a newfound need. You know you despised her, wanted nothing to do with her. But something inside you compelled you, pulled you towards her in a way that drew you into wanting to feel her breath on your skin.

When she had revealed herself as death to you, you had been terrified— wanting to get yourself as far away from her as possible, but she trailed you, hunting you down, and claiming her so-called trophy. And you loved every second of it just as much as you hated it. You loved the thrill of being wanted by death, an ordinary witch, and one of Agatha Harkness's prodigies. You loved the way she craved you just as much as you craved her, it was a force to be reckoned with— and how unfortunate of you, to be drawn like a moth to a flame.

“Never fear me, my trophy,” she whispered huskily against your skin. “My blackened heart only beats for you.”

You knew it wasn’t true— she had used you at first to get to Agatha when you had met. But there was no denying your beauty, her sudden attraction to you. But Agatha had her heart way before you did, and you knew you’d always be second and never first. It was hard to accept, but you lived with the fact that you knew in some way, she loved you just the same.

Her thumb and pointer finger came to your chin, tilting it towards her. Her lips are centimeters from your own.

“Rio,” you gasped. “Please I need—“

She chuckled against your cheek, her fingers tracing your skin as if you were delicate. “Shhhhh…”

“I hate you, so much.” You say breathlessly when you feel her lips press to yours teasingly, then pull away.

She laughs against you, “We know that’s not true.”

“I hate you so much,” you whisper again, “that I’m madly in love with you,”

She turns you around in her arms and guides you backward until you feel the press of a wall behind you. Her eyes look deeply into your soul, searching for truth in your words. And you can tell when she doesn’t detect a lie, her shoulders sagging even further and her head pressing to yours.

“Kiss me,” you plea. “Rio, I need you.”

And then her tantalizing smirk is back and she’s pressing her front to yours— “If you think I’m going to make this easy for you, sweetheart. You’re wrong.”

You nod desperately, “I know…. just please,”

She leans to kiss you and stops short, watching you. You know she’s teasing you, trying to bring you to your breaking point. And she knows that you know— it just makes torturing you all the more fun for her.

You growl in frustration and move to close the distance you two still had, but she tuts and murmurs into your ear, “Don’t get greedy,”

“Just fucking kiss me already, then,” you practically growl.

She purrs against you, “I love it when you get all hot and bothered by me, it just makes me want to eat you up, baby.”

“Then do it.” You growl.

She chuckles and leans back to look you in the eyes, “Okay, trophy,”

And then she’s kissing you, roughly, and you don’t have it in you to fight for dominance and she knows it. She puts an arm around your waist and tilts your head back further to deepen the kiss. She forces her tongue into your mouth and savors the taste of you on her lips greatly. You gasp into her mouth when you pull back for air.

“Rio,” you say. “More…”

She shakes her head, “Not here,”

You whine, pulling her back in for a kiss, and she lets you. Kissing you feverishly, her teeth biting into your lower lip and drinking up the sounds you made for her. She pulls away smirking and whispers against your ear, “I’ve got you so wrapped around my finger, beautiful. It’s irresistible.”

“Rio, please..”

“Hush…” she says, “I’ll come back for you, eventually and next time I won’t hesitate.”

You grip her even tighter to you. This is the game you two play after all. She leaves you wanting more every time she visits you, only to leave you all over again.

She takes your face in her hands and presses her head to yours, eyes closed, and you know without a doubt through her witty and flirtatious facade she tries to keep up, that you are the only thing precious in her life now. That losing Agatha wasn’t for nothing. Even if it had hurt her more than she let on.

“I’ll be back for you, my sweet, beautiful, trophy.”

And then she pressed a kiss to your temple, pulling you into her arm, wrapping you in such an embrace that you’d never want to escape from. You hated her and loved her and there was no escaping it, because you knew the more you fought, the harder the restraint was, the harder it was for her to stay away from you.

“I love you, too.”

In a cool whisk of air, she is gone.

But you know she will be back.

#agatha all along #rio vidal #rio vidal x reader #claim me rio #i can’t with this hot bitch

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skzdarlings · 1 year ago

Text

bets and situations ; skz ; minho x reader

original ask: requested by anonymous: minho and “is that how you usually get out of these situations? by fucking your way out of them?” please

pairing: lee minho/reader content info: rivals to lovers. street racing. stubborn!reader. placing bets, betting sex (still explicit consent), fucking vs making love. outdoor sex. sex on a car. explicit sexual content. word count: 3400 words.

masterlist. part of the valentine’s day stories series. credit to prompts. requests are closed.

enjoy! <3

Sure, you are a little insufferable.

But Lee Minho is worse.

He carries himself with an elitist pomposity, like he is above the other drivers just because he once raced professionally. Trophies or not, he is out here with the rest of you, illegally racing cars down desert roads, placing bets in the dead of night.

You were content until this fucker came along. Lee Minho and the stupid pretty face that won him fan clubs and brand deals. Ugh. You hate him for having that life and for giving it up when it is a fantasy for you. The world of professional racing is notoriously hostile to women. You admit there is a tinge of bitterness on your side of every interaction, but he goads you like an asshole.

He arrives with his usual entourage. A couple of them are racers, though not professionals, and a couple just spectate and mind his vehicle. He has a nice car, almost as pretty as him.

You whistle as he approaches. He looks at you with his usual exasperation, delicate features pinched with annoyance. His hair was a vibrant red in his racing days, quite the act of showmanship, but it’s a natural dark brown now, framing his mean, stupid, handsome face.

“Hey, pretty boy,” you say. “Finally gonna grow a pair and race me?”

His scowl turns to a bitchy little sneer. He laughs sarcastically.

“Not worth the mileage,” he says. He shoulders past you, his leather jacket against your denim. “Winning against a little girl does nothing for my massive ego.” He says this with a sarcastic flourish, mocking your derision of him.

You know the comment is a deliberately cheap shot. Unfortunately, in reality, Minho is the least chauvinist racer you have ever met, treating the women here with the same basic dignity as the men.

It’s just you he hates, because you hate him too. It was inevitable. You were hostile when first meeting. You challenged him to a few too many personal races. You were a sore loser and even worse winner. What started as an effort to prove something spiralled into a rivalry.

You won the last couple races. You gloated a little too hard and now he is refusing to race you again.

“Sure,” you say. “Sounds to me like you’re scared to lose for the third time in a row.”

He just keeps walking, ignoring you, which is so much more infuriating than when he snaps back.

You decide to keep your distance tonight. If you continue to agitate yourself, you are going to develop a stress aneurysm. So you keep to your own group, race your own races, and collect your own winnings.

But, ugh.

He is right there.

Just in the corner of your eye, just skirting the periphery of your space, just breathing the same night air. When you are looking at him, he captivates you. When you look away, he is like an impossible itch, begging for your attention again. You constantly catch him looking at you too, which does not help matters.

By the end of the night, you feel like a live wire, all electricity and unbound energy. Not a single race has satisfied you. You won three of four, making way more money than you lost, but it is not enough. It is never enough. You already know how good you are. You know you can beat most of these guys blindfolded.

Your only perfect match is Lee Minho. The only victory that matters is that one.

As the crowd disperses and everyone departs, you march towards him. He is saying goodbye to his crewmates, his back to you, but his buddy cracks a grin when he sees you coming. He smacks Minho on the shoulder before turning away.

Minho turns around with a befuddled look on his face. When he sees you, it slackens to that unamused vexation. He pockets his hands in his leather jacket and slouches against his car. He shakes his head as you stomp up to him.

“One race,” you say.

“No,” he replies, without missing a beat.

“Why not?”

“Because I said so,” is his insufferable reply.

“That’s not an answer,” you say.

“That’s too bad.” He gives you a final shrug then turns, opening his car door, preparing to leave.

“Wait,” you say.

You heart is racing. Somehow, you feel like tonight is different from every other night. Maybe it is the perfect crispness on the breeze, the remarkably clear sky, or maybe just the way those jeans seem to hug his thighs. Stupid hottie. You will have him and his attention. You will get the better of him, one way or another. It was all leading to this.

“One race,” you say. “A bet worth the mileage.”

“I don’t need your money,” he says.

“I’m not offering money,” you reply.

Finally, he closes the car door. He sighs, a very loud and dramatic sigh, like you are the biggest inconvenience on earth.

“What are you offering?” he says, facing you. The disinterest in his tone is betrayed by the curious sweep of his gaze, an up-and-down perusal like he expects to find his prize somewhere on your body.

Oh.

You feel flushed inside, realizing that it exactly what he is thinking. Looking at you with a hungry, lecherous gaze, anticipating you are about to offer up yourself as a potential prize.

It makes your heart stutter and your lips do the same, your next words all tangled up on your tongue. It did not even occur to you to offer such a thing. You hate him, so of course you would never think about him that way. But now that he is looking at you like that, his expression coloured with interest and suggestion, you find yourself too shocked to even parse your feelings.

The only thing that is obvious, abundantly obvious, is the punch of heat in your gut. No, lower. Heat that curls up inside you and makes you second guess. Heat that is curious about the look in his eye.

Then you shake your head. You resist the urge to smack him for throwing you off. You were in control and now you are flustered.

“Not me,” you snap.

His eyes, which have made their way down your whole body, follow the same path up. He meets your gaze eventually. Then he says nothing, because he is the worst, and just lifts an eyebrow at you.

“My car,” you say, with no-nonsense finality. “I bet my car.”

He blinks at you. Long, slow blinks like a cat. It takes him a second to find a sentence.

“Your car,” he says. He tilts his head and squints, looking at you with scrutiny, like he is trying to see through your ploy. “And what do you want if you win?”

“Admit I’m the better driver once and for all,” you say. The words feel a little foolish leaving your mouth. You have been chasing the high of that confession, aggravated every time he dodged it, but saying it out loud makes you feel needy. You clear your throat and stand straight like you are unbothered. “That’s all I want,” you say.

He rubs a hand across his jaw, laughs incredulously, then swings his arms out at his sides.

“Fine,” he says.

By now, everyone else has gone. It is just you and him under the streetlights, the long empty road stretched across the dunes ahead. You stare at one another, like there is no road and no sky, no world at all outside each other. It is intense and all-consuming.

You hold out a hand. He takes it and yanks you closer to him.

“I would have told you that for free,” he says. “Since it’s the truth. You just had to ask.”

Now it is your turn to blink, looking at him with shock. You would have been less stupefied if he called you a tirade of rude names, or tried to weave doubts in your mind. Instead, he smiles at you, and it is not half as smarmy as usual. He drops your hand and turns away, leaving you gawking at the air as he ducks into his car.

He honks the horn, snapping you to attention.

The heat rushes back in a hurry. You swallow, then walk to your car on suddenly shaky legs.

He wins.

Of course he wins.

You were distracted by his parting words. You and him are so closely matched in skill that a fleeting weakness is all it takes for one to overtake the other. You were faring well at the start, but his engine revved and your attention strayed. Your prize was somewhat nullified by his confession, your behaviour embarrassing in hindsight. You bet your car. What were you thinking?

You weren’t. And it was all his fault.

Your car skids to a screaming halt just seconds after him. You smack the steering wheel with frustration.

Maybe I should have just bet my body, you think to yourself, a thought that has you shivering from something other than adrenaline. Thoughts like that are not like you. And Lee Minho is the last man on earth you could ever want. Even though he is simultaneously the only man you want, or at least the only one with an opinion that matters, the only man whose attention you ever want. He is always the highlight of your night.

Oh god, you think with a nervous twist in your gut, I like that arrogant loser.

Facing him is hard and it has nothing to do with losing your car.

He is not gloating because he is not the type. He is just leaning against his vehicle with his arms crossed, watching your nerves and passion get the better of you. He does not flinch when you get right in his face, huffing from exertion.

“Do-over,” you say.

“Absolutely not,” he replies.

“You got in my head on purpose.”

“I can only do that if you let me in,” he says, looking smug.

“One more race,” you insist.

“You have nothing left to bet.”

“Me,” you blurt. “I bet myself.”

You feel some satisfaction at the flicker of surprise that creases his brow, but then he is just staring and blinking again. Your heart still thinks it is in a race, stampeding so far ahead that your whole body is awash with heat.

“You,” he finally says. His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, then he tilts his head in that studious way. “What does that mean?”

You feel so hot it is making you a little woozy. It’s just aftershocks from the race, you tell yourself, even though that heat comes from somewhere much more intimate.

You cross your arms stubbornly. You look away. You even stomp your foot.

“You know what I fucking mean,” you snap.

“Is that how you usually get out of these situations?” he asks in a teasing tone. “By fucking your way out of them?”

You refuse to answer. You arms are still crossed, your face still turned.

He touches your chin, a painfully delicate touch. Whenever you do fuck someone, it is hard and fast, like everything else you enjoy. Your greatest rival should be touching you with the roughest touch of all, but it is the very opposite. It is a suggestion of a touch, little more than a caress as he turns your face to his. You swallow until the intense focus of his sharp eyes.

“I don’t fuck like that,” he says. He bats his pretty eyelashes while smirking like a devil. “I don’t have to make bets. I make love to people because they want it. Sorry.” He rolls his eyes and turns away, wiggling his fingers in a sarcastic good-bye wave as he slides into his driver seat. “You can keep your car. I don’t want or need it. Good night.”

You put yourself between the door and car, stopping him from closing it. He looks at you, eyes narrowed more intensely.

“Now, now,” he says.

“I’m a big girl,” you snap. “I don’t need you protecting my honour. I wouldn’t offer to let you fuck me if I didn’t mean it.”

He stares at you, contemplative behind those dark eyes. He has just returned your vehicle so you have no reason to make another bet, other than to prove the veracity of your previous offer: that you do want to fuck him, even if you don’t want to admit it.

“I told you that you can keep your car,” he says.

You are amazed smoke is not blowing out of your ears, considering how hot your face feels.

“I heard you,” you say.

He gets out of the car slowly, holding your gaze the entire time. You take a step back.

Then he walks at you, which forces you to take another backwards step. Step by step across the tarmac. The breeze tousles a bit of his hair, but nothing stops his stride and his eyes never leave yours.

You find it difficult to catch your breath. Garnering this man’s undivided attention has been your only goal for months, and the reality of it is heady. He is intoxicating.

It seems the feeling is reciprocated, given how he looks at you, which just makes you stumble in your backwards trek. He catches your wrist, tugging you upright, yanking you closer. You collide with his chest, disoriented from so little.

“So,” he says. “If you win, we fuck. And if I win, we make love. Is that correct?”

“Whatever, there’s no difference,” you say. You are instinctively combative when flustered, redirecting the source of your embarrassment to confrontation.

It seemingly works. His attention diverts and he says, “Yes, there is.”

“No, there isn’t.”

“Yes, there—” He stops himself from retaliating with the same childish rejoinder. He props his hands on his hips, shaking his head at himself as he stares up at the stars.

Eventually he huffs, rakes his teeth over his bottom lip, then looks at you.

“Fine,” he says. “We’ll race.”

Your heart is already revving like an engine. You take another couple steps back to smirk at him triumphantly. You walk right into your car, that smug face dropping in surprise. It gives him the opportunity to crowd you against it, planting his hands on either side of your head. You hold your breath.

“You have to pass my test first,” he says.

“Excuse me!” Your own incredulity resounds. You smack his chest but he does not move.

“It’s just two questions,” he says. “You’re a smart girl. You’ll figure it out.”

He is tormenting you. You hate him. You hope he never stops.

“Fine,” you snap. His smirk makes your whole belly swoop with anticipation.

“Good,” he says, then stands back.

You hold his stare, refusing to show any weakness. At least you can catch your breath in the space between you.

Then he says, “Get on your knees.”

Your legs are already shaky – from nerves, from the dwindling adrenaline of your race. There are a lot of reasons your knees buckle. Plenty of explanations for why you do not hesitate, sinking to your knees right there on the road.

Your gaze drops, flustered by his demand and your response. You look at his shoes, all black, well-worn, scuffing the tarmac as he steps towards you.

“Now tell me,” he says, then gathers a fistful of your hair and yanks your head back. He meets your gaze as he says, “Is this fucking or making love?”

Then his fingers are in your mouth. You let him in without any hesitation, like your whole body is instinctively attuned to his. His grip is firm, his fingers relentless, undoubtedly fucking your mouth with the sloppy, mean thrust you would expect from an enemy. Still, it feels good, unbelievably so, your mouth wet and hot and his fingers sliding over your tongue, the soft suction of your lips making his eyes blaze and his throat bob as he swallows.

When he slides out, a trail of spit connects his fingers to your lips. Your lips quiver with a shuddering breath.

“Well?” he says.

You swallow, but eventually manage a weak, “Fucking.”

“Good,” he says, grinning that wicked grin. “That’s one out of two. How about this one?”

He drops to his knees. You are face-to-face now, kneeling on the road in the dead of night. There are no witnesses to this scene except maybe the stars, the clear night revealing all your secrets.

His face is as open, his expression suddenly so devastatingly soft and vulnerable. Your breath stutters before he even moves. He cups your cheeks with both hands and draws you to him.

Your eyes close when your lips touch. He strokes his thumbs across your cheeks and licks into your mouth with decadent slowness, like he wants to savour every second of your taste. Your mouths move together like they were made for each other, never racing too far ahead. A perfect give-and-take.

When he stops, you feel dizzy and bereft, but only for a second. He cups your jaw and tilts your face just so, then his fingers are parting your tender lips and the taste of him is on your tongue once more. Your eyes close and you moan thoughtlessly, bobbing your head to the gentle rhythm he sets.

“This,” he says in a feathery-light voice.

You shiver as he slowly withdraws his fingers. He wipes his thumb across your lips to clean you. You let him cup your chin and tilt your face, this time so he can look you in the eye.

“Tell me what we’re doing,” he says.

The suggestion makes you throb. You are hot and aching when you admit, “Making love.”

“Good,” he says, then pecks your lips before rolling onto the balls of his feet and shooting upright. “Now we can race.”

It is a perfect draw.

You are both distracted. When you slam on the brakes in the same place at the same moment, it is with a singular purpose in mind.

Doors slam. You meet in the space between your vehicles.

“I won,” you say, just to be argumentative.

He is shrugging out of his jacket. It his the ground. He does not break his stride, already going for his belt. Your knees nearly buckle again.

“Fine,” he replies. “Then get over here. I’m fucking you on the hood of my car.”

Fucking you is exactly what he does. It is not making love. He strips you methodically, your jacket and shirt and bra. Your jeans get shoved down past your knees and he bends you over the hood, still warm from the purring engine. You are hot and frantic, cheek pressed to the hood of your rival’s car while he works you open and shoves himself inside you.

You make a sharp sound then a low moan, hands plastered to the hot hood. He fucks you like he races you, without holding anything back because he knows you can take him.

It feels as primal as a race, the animal instinct that conquers you in a rush of adrenaline. It is your singular focus, the steady thud of him inside you. You do not care about appearances, about seeming ridiculous, meeting every thrust and moan with your own. He sounds good and feels better, your bodies in harmony, chasing each other to the finish line.

He yanks you up, your back arching as he turns your head for a kiss. It puts you over, clenching hard around him, setting him off. He makes a soft sound then groans with pleasure. He stays there for a minute, both of you breathing hard.

“I want you to keep your car,” he finally speaks, “because I need you to come back tomorrow and race me again.”

You gasp when his hand moves between your legs, working you up again, slowly but surely.

“Because next time I’ll win,” he says. “You sounded so good getting fucked. I want to see your face when you come on my cock again and again from making love.”

“Won’t happen,” you say, even while your on the cusp of doing just that.

“Mm,” he says, then laughs that light, evil laugh as you come all over his hand. He kisses the side of your head and says, “Wanna bet?”

#lee know x reader #lee know smut #lee minho x reader #lee minho smut #skz x reader #skz smut #stray kids x reader #skz x you #lee know x you #lee minho x you #valentinesdaystories

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twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat · 5 months ago

Text

suguru’s knuckles are tainted with blood.

oftentimes, you think of yourself as supportive — supportive of him, his passions, supportive of the career he chose. you’d really, really like to think so.

moments like these make it difficult to say that with conviction.

(he won, of course. suguru always wins.)

but his knuckles are bruised, splotches of purple and blue seeping into the skin, split and dripping with droplets of red. it smudges your palms, when you reach out to take his hand into yours; warm, trickling slowly down the valley between your fingers.

your brows furrow, in badly concealed worry. suguru notices, because he always does.

“don’t worry,” he says, voice a soothing salve to your heart. honeyed, like a coo is resting at the tip of his tongue, waiting to be let out. “it doesn’t hurt.”

he’s lying. you know he’s lying. wounds like these hurt, no matter who you are — even if you’re 6’3, all muscle, a professional boxer with several trophies under your belt. even if your hands are big enough to cover your lover’s like a warm blanket, envelop them wholly, the way he’s doing now; wiping the bloodtrail away with his thumb. even then, it hurts to bleed.

(don’t worry.)

”… how could i not?”

suguru softens. his eyes, still gleaming with the afterglory of victory, crumble with warmth, with fondness. it makes him look a bit like an angel.

his hands, meant to ground you, withdraw for a moment — one of them slipping down to capture your wrist. he leans forward, and presses his lips against your fingers, your knuckles, right up to the center of your hand. softly, chastely.

(he always does this, bends down to reach you. there’s never any need to chase him.)

”i’m sorry,” he murmurs, breath hot against your skin. forehead still damp with sweat, glistening under the dim lights of the locker room. you tuck a sticky strand of raven hair behind his ear, and he smiles. ”that was a mean thing to say.”

”it was,” you agree, gaze still stuck on the bruising.

a raspy chuckle leaves his lips. “forgive me, sweetheart,” he exhales a softened breath, leaving the ridges of your knuckles. ”i won’t tell you how to feel. just don’t want you anxious, you know that.”

”… of course i’d be anxious,” you can’t help but mutter, struggling to keep your spite at bay; lips curling down into a frown. ”you’re hurt.”

”barely,” he soothes you, massaging your hands with his big palms. you should tell him to stop, to just let his busted hands rest, but it feels too good. ”i’ll be fine. and i gave you a good show, didn’t i?”

you snort. ”a little too good…”

suguru breathes out a chuckle, and you can’t help but smile. remembering his form, his punches and jabs, the fire in his low-lidded eyes — it’s always a treat to see him in the zone, even if it leaves you sick with worry. and when he gets truly heated, sweat running down his abs, heavy pants leaving his lips in time with his dodges…

well.

it’s hard to hate it. hard not to enjoy it. even though you have to close your eyes, every time he takes a hit.

”made you proud?” he asks, awfully polite for a plea. leaning closer, a magnet to your touch, bare thigh brushing against your own. tilting his head, with a softness the average person wouldn’t think him capable of. he’s anything but gentle, in the ring.

he’s silly for asking.

”of course,” you whisper, letting him come as close as he wants. his lips are inching closer to yours, and you say the words without thinking. it’s instinct, muscle memory, you don’t have to try. ”always. you did so well, suguru...”

a hum. low, pleased, buzzing at the base of his throat. his eyes flutter shut, smile creeping up his lips, and you know it does more for him than you’ll ever know — living up to your expectations.

”did you think i was cool?”

a breathy giggle spills from your lips. he cracks a single eye open, pouting, leaning closer still; as if the distance between you could kill him. breath ghosting against your teeth, a shiver trailing down your spine.

”’m serious.”

”of course i did,” you huff, eyes bright with laughter, lips melting into a grin. ”of course you are. pretty sure my knees buckled, once or twice.”

now he’s laughing, and it’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever heard — breathy and raspy, like a trail of smoke, going straight into your lungs. he closes the distance between you, then, still chuckling slightly. grinning, teeth against teeth, stars lighting up his eyes.

your bruised up angel.

(yours to patch.)

”let me see,” you mumble, pulling away from the clumsy kiss, fleeing from his hands at the same time. wrapping yours around his, instead; the warmth doesn’t have time to leave him. you examine his purple knuckles, once more, still leaking crimson. ”does it hurt when you move your fingers?”

he tries to close his fist, testing the limits, not quite making the cut. unfurling his fingers, one by one, with a low hum. ”just a bit… feels more numb, really.”

a crease forms between your brows. two sharp teeth digging into the skin of your bottom lip, as you mutter. “… did you already take painkillers?”

”coach gave me some,” he nods, untangling his fingers from yours — lifting just one hand up, bringing his thumb to your forehead, to smooth away the worried crease. ”i barely feel it, anymore. really.”

you wish it was enough to put your heart at ease. but it’s still restless, still trembling, puppeteered by the anxious thread that keeps it tethered to your veins.

”… and you know i’m used to it,” he adds, smiling sweetly, hand slipping down to cup your cheek. tugging a little at your lip, silently urging you not to bite down on the tender flesh. ”you don’t care, though… do you? my little sweetheart.”

(… uh oh. he’s shifting into mother hen mode.)

you breathe out a sigh, standing up from the bench, before he can start babying you properly. unfurling your fingers from his, reluctantly, not really wanting to let go. ”i’ll clean it. c’mon.”

suguru simply smiles, tilting his head to the right, disheveled bangs following along. fully aware of his own charm, when he’s like this, sweaty and tuckered out — chest exposed, droplets dripping down his stomach, stopping near the trail of hair just below his belly button. you could do without the injuries, but he’s still lethal like this. eyes gleaming with pride, something pleased, when he notices your lingering gaze. you clear your throat, and his smile grows.

when you step away, suguru gets up too. trailing after you, like an overgrown puppy, all the way to the sink, dirty with rust — this venue is older than what you’re used to from his sponsors. but it’s fully functional, cold water spurting out the tap and running through the gaps between your fingers.

you adjust it, until it’s almost lukewarm, and put your hand out towards suguru.

he places his palm over yours.

then you bring it right under the tap. both of them, eventually, watching as the blood gets washed off his fingers and trickles down the drain — a murky spiral, muddying the clear water. you clean the wound as thoroughly as you can, with a wet cloth, without putting too much pressure on the bruising.

suguru gazes at you all the while. waiting.

he’s always been good at it.

”… there,” you exhale, a gust of anxiety leaving your lungs. the pressure on your chest feels lighter, but it’s not enough; your hands start digging through your pockets, through band-aids adorned with sunflowers, a blister pack of paracetamol, fingers curling around a roll of bandages. his very own first-aid kit, always within reach.

without you having to ask, he holds his hands out. letting you work in silence, wrap the bandage around his hand — beginning at the inside of his wrist, twice around, moving up diagonally to the bottom of his ring finger. around, around, making sure it’s not too tight, but firm enough to help. before long, both his hands are covered in cotton gauze, the bruising nowhere to be seen. you can’t help but feel better, even though you know it’s still there.

when you look up, into your fiancé’s eyes, his eyes are crinkled at the edges. he looks terribly fond.

”… thank you, honey.”

(your angel, the inside of your mind repeats. your precious boy.)

his hands radiate warmth, gently cradled by your own. his heart pumping fiercely, hot blood flowing through his veins, even below the coverage. you let out something like a coo, a caring little noise, leaning forward — tipping your head down. you press your lips against his patched-up knuckles, all of them, and you can practically hear the hitch of his breath.

you kiss him with all the care you can muster. like the wounds will disappear, if you cover them in love.

suguru can’t bear it.

”angel,” he musters, and you want to correct him, but you know he wouldn’t pay it any mind. ”look at me?”

you do. drawn to him, a flicker of light, gazing up at him through lidded eyes. he cups the right side of your jaw, and leans in close — one kiss to your cheek.

then another.

”you’re too sweet,” he murmurs, almost agonized. ”too sweet to me, i don’t deserve it.”

you should smack him for that. you won’t, though.

”… you do,” is all you say, shoulders slumping just a little, a breathy exhale slipping past your pursed lips. ”you deserve it. and your knuckles do, too.”

an amused huff of air, ghosting against the skin of your neck as he travels down. leaving a trail of butterfly kisses behind him. ”do they? after they made you all worried…”

”because someone doesn’t look after them properly,” you scoff, smiling all the while, squirming when his lips meet your pulse-point. ”don’t blame your poor hands for your career choice, they didn’t ask for this.”

suguru laughs, and you can practically feel it; his chest rumbling along, like a joyous thunderstorm.

”sorry,” he murmurs, pulling back to look you in the eye, his own sparkling with delight. ”you’re right… good thing they have you to look after them, hm?”

”mhm.”

another little breath of a laugh. he reaches for your head, fingers threading through your locks, ruffling your tousled hair with a cotton-clad hand. gently.

”well, i’m sure they’re very grateful, too.” he gives you a smile, and it burns straight through your lungs — almost piercing, in this dim corner of the room. ”we’re lucky to have you, sweetheart.”

a small grin tugs at your lips. at his praise, his attention, just the way he looks at you. suguru has a way of burning brighter than anyone else, even in a crowded room, a turbulent boxing ring. your eyes remain on him, him, him, and it isn’t just his stature, his broad shoulders. it’s his charisma, blinding, a bullet in a loaded gun — the click just before your finger meets the trigger. it demands attention.

(you couldn’t look away, even if you wanted to.)

silence stretches, unwinds, settles somewhere in the space between you. it’s comfortable, being in the same space as him, just resting idly, with his hand falling down to rest at your back. your heart at ease, safe and protected. both of you.

before long, you’re reaching for his face. peaceful, but still gleaming with something like pride, a little sticky with the residue of sweat. his chest moves, the fat of his pecs lifted up, and down, in tandem with his steady breathing. the back of your fingers meet his skin, running against the apple of his cheek.

”… congratulations,” you whisper, soft with pride, even fiercer than what he must be feeling. ”… on another victory, suguru.”

and his eyes soften, again — inevitable, bleeding heart between battered ribs. he smiles, looking at you like you’re the prize he’s bringing home.

”for you,” he croons. ”always for you.”

(he’s too sweet; but you already know. he always looks right at you, after the finishing blow.)

suguru leans into your touch, and puts his hand over yours, and you think to yourself that he hasn’t changed at all — in all the years you’ve known him. he’s still that bright-eyed, fire-in-his-veins kinda guy, still just as tender as he’s always been. bruised knuckles, bloodied hands, and all. when he asked you out, he made a promise to protect you — your knight in shining armour, always there to keep you safe.

you’d thought him a bit of an idealist. a romantic.

but that’s the thing, about suguru, about everything he does. he doesn’t know how to sweep memories under the rug, how to love people without wanting to bleed for them, without tearing himself open and letting them see inside. he doesn’t know how to love in a way that doesn’t feel a little like a blow, and he keeps his promises the same way he catches a swinging fist with his palm; without trying.

you don’t think there’s a language that could hold his love. that could translate it properly.

(maybe boxing is all there really is.)

“… are you tired?” you ask him, after a brief pause, lightly pinching the fat of his cheek between your fingers. watching his nose scrunch up. “wanna go home and sleep?”

“yes, please,” he mutters, a weak smile and a soft groan. “feels like my knees are about to buckle.”

you let out a laugh, raspy with the same fatigue he must be feeling, only tenfold. “oh? what happened to the tough guy act, all of a sudden?”

“i’m always your tough guy,” he tuts, but it doesn’t sound very confident when he has to stifle a yawn in the same breath. nuzzling into your palm, like a sleepy kitten. “tough guys need their rest, too…”

a soft, sleepy grin. “especially tough guys who have been throwing their fists around all day, huh?”

“especially those, yes,” he hums, eyes fluttering shut. “those guys need some extra care.”

“i’ll have to pamper you, won’t i?” you wouldn’t mind at all. he only gives you the chance when he’s a little too exhausted to pretend he doesn’t need it. “make you tea, tuck you into bed? kiss you goodnight?”

at that, he lets out a weak scoff. cracking an eye open, a single slice of amber dye, gleaming with amusement. “extra care. not coddling, angel.”

“oh, don’t be like that,” you coo, almost letting a bout of laughter slip between your teeth. pinching his cheek, again, while he feigns a little frown. “you’re my tough guy, aren’t you? you can take it.”

a breath bubbles up from his throat, too sleepy to be a proper giggle, but dangerously close. dangerous for your heart, the adoration already urging you to pinch his cheek again, maybe bite his exposed chest a bit. he’s so cute it makes you angry. the cutest, most gentle boxer in the world.

“if you say so,” he hums, and you know he craves some pampering if he’s already relenting this early. “what the baby wants, the baby gets.”

“exactly.” your smile is so big it’s hurting your cheeks, but you can’t help it when you look at him. “and my baby wants to go home, doesn’t he?”

a huff. he can’t hide a smile, either. “ah, now you’re just upsetting me on purpose, aren’t you?��

he says that, but his hand still finds yours, fumbles for it in the dark. cotton gauze on warm skin. he squeezes it, gently, and then it’s moving again — curling around your waist, guiding you towards the exit, his jacket hanging on the coat rack. made of wool, a little oversized, even on him. he drapes it over his shoulders, dragging the zipper up to his neck.

then his hand finds your waist, again.

when you pull the door open, cold air flows into your lungs — a tingle down your spine, the tips of your fingers, cool and crispy autumn air. the dark sky greets you, suguru’s car parked just outside. before you can even shiver, he’s tugging you closer.

“don’t worry,” he whispers, squeezing you against him, eyes rich with care. “i’ll warm you up, sweetheart. just stay close.”

he gives you another blinding smile, the lamp post above you like a halo over his head. breathtaking. your angel, your protector — your big, wooly wolf.

suguru keeps his promises. he holds your hand, all the way through the car ride home, bandaged skin on top of yours. he melts the cold around your heart, melts all your worries away. supportive, always.

you want to be the same, for him. a pillar of support, something to lean on — a hand to hold, a roll of bandages, a rock to ground his unsteady feet. you want to be there for him, watching him shine. there to meet his eyes, when they search for yours after a narrow victory. there to give him the love he needs.

if he’s the bruise, then you’re the disinfectant.

(you’ll be there, to patch him up.)

#geto x reader #geto x you #geto x y/n #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk x y/n #geto suguru x reader #suguru geto x reader #geto fluff #jjk fluff #boxer!sugu

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senseofnewness · 6 months ago

Text

double fault

idea by @diyasgarden

pairing : patrick zweig x f!reader (mistress!patrick zweig x trophywife!reader)

rating : explicit

word count : 31.4k

contains : smut 18+, infidelity, vaginal sex, anal sex, oral sex (m and f receiving), period sex, pregnant sex, mention of noncon, emotionally absent mother, body dysmorphia

summary : Running into Patrick Zweig, your childhood crush, was a much-needed distraction from your otherwise unhappy life as a housewife. Though others might envy your life of ease, with no obligations and a generous husband showering you with gifts, you felt something was lacking. You missed the excitement, the fire. Someting Patrick reignited in you, drawing you into an affair that forces you to reevaluate your life and what you truly desire as woman.

It was undeniable, you loved your husband more than anything. From the moment you met, he swept you off your feet with his charms. He was successful, ambitious, intelligent and a lot older than you. Raised in a wealthy traditional family, marrying up and dedicating yourself to your household was an expectation you couldn't escape. While you found this somewhat outdated, you reluctantly complied, feeling unprepared to pursue anything else in life. Your parents had always controlled the course of your life, never allowing you the freedom to explore and experience life on your own terms. Every decision, every step, had been meticulously planned and dictated by them. But now you found yourself without a degree, a clear passion, or a career beyond a few modeling gigs in your youth, so the path seemed set. Yet, when you met your husband, the weight of obligation lifted. You found comfort in his embrace, a sense of security that enveloped you. His reliability reassured you, brushing off any concerns you had about conforming to your parents' plans. And from the shelter of your father, you passed into the care of your husband.

In the early years of your relationship and marriage, he treated you like a precious jewel, a dazzling trophy wife to parade and whose happiness was at the forefront of his priorities. Together, you surrounded yourselves with luxury, enjoying a life of comfort and abundance. Three-star restaurants, exotic getaways, lavish hotels, designer wardrobes and expensive handbags, all gifted to you in gratitude for being such a devoted obedient wife. In return, all you had to do was maintain a firm body, keep your pussy tight and preserve your young-looking face. The only obligations you had were at the gym, visits to your plastic surgeon, or social events. You loved how easy your life was, how everything was thought of for you.

As time passed, cracks really began to show. While the material comfort remained, you found yourself starved for attention. His demanding career increasingly pulled him away from home, leaving you on your own in your cold mansion with no one to care for. No husband. No pet. No baby. A child was what you desired the most, a need that consumed your thoughts more and more as years passed. You had discussed it countless times, but he remained firmly convinced that he was happy with just the two of you. He was content with your only presence and so were you, but most of the time, he wasn’t even there.

He still made efforts to show he cared despite the distance but his gestures seemed mechanical, lacking the spark that once setted you on fire. Nights once filled with whispered promises, hushed moans and stolen kisses now echoed with silence. Sometimes, in the quiet hours of the night, you caught yourself remembering a time when sheets were warmed by your shared intimacy, and the steady rhythm of his breathing lulled you into sleep. Now, those moments felt like distant memories, fading with each passing day.

The loneliness was particularly bitter today, on your birthday, a day you had eagerly awaited. You had spent the hours ticking by, hopeful for a phone call or a surprise gift that never arrived. By 9pm, it was clear : he had either forgotten. Or worse, was too busy with someone else. Thoughts of another woman, younger and more captivating, raced through your mind. Had he become so consumed with impressing her that he had forgotten his own wife? There was no concrete reason to doubt him, yet you couldn't help but imagine the worst-case scenario.

You had spent the day in tears. Now, as evening settled in, all you craved was a small comfort, something sweet to numb the ache. For six years, you had diligently avoided indulging in anything sugary so that your husband would always find a thin and toned wife waiting for him in bed. But tonight, those sacrifices felt meaningless. You needed cake.

●

When the Uber dropped you off at the bakery, disappointment washed over you as you discovered they didn't sell individual slices of cake. You opted for a whole 6-inch cake instead, decorated with a simple ‘Happy Birthday’ message on it. You were sitting outside at a table with a spoon in hand, about to dig in, when you spotted a familiar face crossing the street. A face you had not seen in ages. A face that one couldn’t forget. It was Patrick Zweig.

You had grown up alongside the Zweig family, close friends of your parents. While you and Patrick couldn't call yourselves great friends, you shared many fond memories together. Beach trips, parties, amusement parks, you had experienced it all with him. Your parents always paired you up during events, likely because you were the same age. But you knew age wasn’t the only reason. Both your parents had ulterior motives. Your mother often remarked on how sweet and caring Patrick was, though you knew better. Her words had little effect on your opinion of the boy so she eventually suggested he would be a ‘great marriage candidate’ for you. You thought she was crazy : you were only fourteen and there was nothing remotely husband-material about Patrick.

As children, you got along well enough, despite Patrick's habit of using you to get whatever he wanted from his parents, who adored you, by making you ask for anything on his behalf, but as teenagers, you fought frequently. Patrick was wild and messy, while you were the opposite, always obedient. He saw you as a pain in the ass for always sticking to the rules, and you hated how unserious he was. But, eventually, at fifteen, he had grown on you. You developed a bit of a crush on him, having been the victim of his constant teasing. However, witnessing the way Patrick treated other girls had convinced you not to pursue it or even mention it.

●

"Patrick!" You called out, raising your voice to catch his attention. He looked up, scanning the area until his eyes met yours. A grin spread across his face as he recognized you, closing the distance between you with quick steps. "No way!" He exclaimed as you stood and enveloped him in a warm hug.

After exchanging pleasantries, you gestured towards your dessert. "Want some cake?" Patrick hesitated for a moment, you could tell he had better things to do but his curiosity piqued as he read the inscription on the cake. "Sure." He replied, taking a seat opposite you and grabbing a spoon from your plastic bag. "Is it your birthday?" He asked, already digging into the chocolate cake. You nodded. "Happy birthday then." He said with a smile, clinking his spoon against yours before indulging in the sweet treat.

You talked for a while about your lives. Patrick was still involved in professional tennis, just as you remembered your mother mentioning, but the prodigy of your youth now confided he struggled to make a living from it, only occasionally qualifying for tournaments. You shared your life as a housewife with him, mentioning your involvement in philanthropic events when he asked you how you occupied your days, half lying as you felt there wasn't much else noteworthy to say.

He began reminiscing about your shared childhood, managing to bring laughter to such a somber day. The way his smile made his lips curl stirred butterflies in your stomach and brought a blush to your cheeks. You thought he looked even better than you remembered, his face now adorned with a beard and subtle lines of age that only enhanced his charm. You regretted wearing yoga pants and a cozy sweatshirt that evening. You were now also extra aware that your hair was likely disheveled and your face swollen from crying. Not that you sought his approval of your appearance, but you couldn't help but hope he didn't see you as a complete mess. Well, perhaps a part of you secretly wished he found you attractive too.

The shop had closed, and you found yourself standing on the sidewalk with Patrick, engrossed in conversation as he smoked a cigarette. He had offered one to you, but you declined, mentioning that your husband would never allow it. "Do you always do what your husband tells you to do?" He asked, curiosity in his eyes. You paused, genuinely considering the question. Doing what your husband wanted was easier than thinking for yourself. "Pretty much." You answered with a shrug. "And where is that amazing husband today?" He continued, a smirk playing on his lips as the cigarette dangled precariously. You bit your lower lip, unable to respond, knowing that voicing the truth would bring you to tears again. Instead, you faked a smile, but your downturned eyebrows betrayed your true emotions. Patrick studied you intensely and sighed. "I can’t believe you became such a boring little housewife." He spat out, clearly not trying to comfort you. You shot him a death glare. "Where is the brat I grew up with? You used to give me shit all the time. That was hot." He mumbled the last part. He thought you were hot back then? If only you had known, your life might have turned out differently. Not that you wouldn't still be married to the same guy, but you'd probably be hating Patrick's guts right now. After a bit of fooling around, he would have found a way to let you down and become your enemy. Perhaps it would be better than feeling giddy inside because your childhood crush had finally called you hot, more than ten years later. "You know, fifteen years old me would have died hearing you call me hot." You revealed, letting out an amused snort. "Really? Damn, another missed opportunity for Zweig." He said, clicking his tongue and shaking his head, feigning disappointment. "But you still are, you know, hot." You grinned at him, genuinely pleased by his compliment. Your heartbeat was going crazy. This was even worse than you had thought, you liked the attention. "Even if you have the personality of wet bread now." You whined loudly and slapped his arm as he burst into laughter. Typical Patrick, always disappointing you somehow.

You continued to talk for a while. When your legs grew tired, you sat on the edge of the sidewalk, and Patrick followed, sitting next to you, his muscular thigh resting against yours. You asked about his friend Art, the boy who always followed him around when you were kids. His expression grew somber for a moment, and you sensed it was a complicated story. "We don’t really talk anymore." He said quietly. Whatever had happened between them, it had clearly affected him deeply. He pinched his lips together, and you gently patted his back. Under the streetlight, you noticed a smudge of chocolate at the corner of his mouth. Without thinking, you licked your thumb and wiped it away. "So messy." You remarked, feeling oddly maternal with him when he was acting all vulnerable in front of you. "Gross." He snorted, but there was a hint of a smile in his eyes.

After exchanging contacts and promising to ‘do this again’, a comfortable silence finally settled between you. "Let me walk you back to your car." Patrick offered, his gaze fixed on you. "I took an Uber." You admitted. He rolled his eyes. Of course, you did. If he wasn’t already convinced you were living the high life, he certainly was now. "Want me to drive you back?" He asked. You nodded. It was cold outside and you didn’t want to wait for someone to pick you up. "Okay, follow me. I parked over there to avoid the fees." He stood up and extended his hand to you, helping you stand up. He didn’t let go as he led you to the other side of the street. "So cheap." You chuckled. The contrast between the spoiled child you once knew and the thrifty man he had become was startling. "I was just around here to buy some smokes. Imagine the fees, it’s almost midnight now!" He said, defending his frugality. The skin of his hand felt rough against yours, but the firm grip was pleasant. It had been so long since your husband had held your hand that way, so tightly, as if he didn’t want to lose you.

●

You walked hand in hand in silence, the only sound being your heavy breathing as you struggled to keep up with his pace. The low temperature added a slight chill to your heated cheeks. Once you reached his car, Patrick opened the passenger door for you. It took you a moment to register his gesture, so out of character for the Patrick you remembered. "So gentlemanly. Have you gotten soft?" You teased, a smirk playing on your lips. "Me soft? I’ll show you soft!" He snorted, pinching your waist in the same teasing way he did when you were teenagers. You covered your stomach with your arms, trying to protect yourself from his touch. "As always, all talk." You joked. But Patrick’s expression shifted, he wasn’t joking anymore. His eyes locked onto yours, intense and searching, as if trying to read your mind. Were you flirting back for the sake of it, or did you really want him? Maybe a bit of both. Your heart raced, and you had difficulty swallowing as you stared back at him. Without warning, he grabbed your jaw and pulled you into a passionate kiss, his lips crashing against yours with an urgency that took your breath away. His tongue tasted your lips, and before you knew it, he had you pinned against the car, deepening the kiss with an intensity that made your head spin. "I'm married…" You mumbled against his lips, the words muffled but not breaking away from the kiss. Patrick pulled back slightly, sharing his breath with yours, a mischievous grin spread across his face. "That's not my problem, though, is it?" He whispered, his voice husky and teasing. There was the Patrick you knew. You felt a shiver run down your spine, a mix of excitement and guilt swirling inside you. You decided to brush aside that feeling, wrapping your arms around his neck and eagerly savoring the taste of his lips once more.

In an instant, you found yourself sprawled across the back seat of Patrick's messy car, his body pressed against yours. His mouth trailed hot kisses down your neck as his hands roamed under your top, sending shivers through your body. The rational part of your mind knew this was wrong, but the pleasure coursing through you felt undeniably right. It had been so long since you had experienced such intimacy that the touch of his calloused hands fondling your breasts and his warm tongue teasing your jaw was almost enough to send you over the edge. Patrick's intense focus on your body made it difficult to think clearly. You gasped when his thumbs flicked your nipples, the sensation sending jolts of pleasure through you. "Kiss me." You breathed, your voice barely more than a moan. He obliged, capturing your mouth with his in a searing kiss. Your hands wandered over his back, feeling the taut muscles beneath his shirt, a vivid contrast to your husband's softer figure. The car's cramped space seemed to heighten the intensity of your connection, every touch and kiss amplified in the enclosed, chaotic setting. You could swear you were lying on top of dirty gym clothes reeking of sweat, but you didn’t care. Patrick's kisses grew more demanding, and you responded with equal enthusiasm, losing yourself in the passion of the moment. This was wrong but you needed him.

You hooked one of your legs around his hips, pulling him closer to your core as your hands slid under the hem of his pants, grasping his firm butt. Your fingernails dug into his skin, coaxing a deep grunt from his throat. A triumphant smile spread across your lips. You were the reason Patrick Zweig was moaning. He broke the kiss, his eyes locking onto yours, as if silently questioning how far you were willing to go. You knew he wanted to be sure you wanted this, but in that moment, wisdom was far from your reach. Biting your lower lip, you rolled your hips under him, feeling the undeniable heat between you. "You’re a tease." He whispered, his voice serious. You shook your head in response, your eyes conveying your desire. "No." You murmured, your lips barely an inch from his. "I just know what I want." With those words, Patrick's hesitation vanished. He removed your sweatshirt with practiced ease as he trailed kisses down your neck to your cleavage, each press of his lips leaving a burning imprint on your skin, his tongue circling your nipple until it hardened under the attention. You arched into him, your body begging for more.

"Fuck, you have such nice tits." His words turned you on almost as much as his skilled tongue on your body. Your husband used to speak to you this way, lavishing you with compliments and adoration as if you were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He had once worshiped your body with such devotion. Now, the only comments he made were about changes in your figure, like when the cold weather made you skip your runs and your thighs lost some of their muscles. You hadn’t given it much thought until this moment, when Patrick began showering you with attention. It was then only that you realized how much you missed hearing those praises.

Patrick was drooling all over your chest, his teeth grazing against the skin of your perky breasts as he explored every inch of your skin with his tongue. You ran your fingers through the dark curls of his hair, tugging gently whenever his sucking made your legs tremble. His kisses traced a path down your stomach, and all you could think about was how much you wanted his mouth to continue lower. It seemed he had the same plan in mind when he slid your pants off. You glanced down and felt a wave of embarrassment. How could you have left the house in those unflattering worn-out grandma panties? The waistband elastic barely clung to the fabric, but thankfully, Patrick didn’t seem to notice or mind. Before you knew it, your panties were lost somewhere in the mess of his car, between old socks and empty Gatorade bottles. He spread your legs, positioning himself between them, his hands holding your knees apart and his eyes burning with desire as he took in the sight of you. At least you were relieved that the laser removal had done its job, leaving you smooth and bare. "I’m going to make you feel good, babe." He murmured as he spread your folds, revealing your glistening clit, inner lips and opening. You had been wet ever since you had felt his mouth on yours. He slid the tip of his tongue against your entrance, sending a tickling sensation through your insides. He spent a few teasing seconds with slow, short licks before pushing his tongue deep inside. "More…" You moaned, your eyes closing in pleasure. "Look at me." He commanded, his voice steady. You obeyed, locking eyes with him. The sight of him between your legs made you even wetter. Your husband did this from time to time, on special occasions, like your birthday. Your birthday. The memory of that neglected day suddenly filled you with sadness, but there was no time to dwell on it as Patrick’s eager mouth worked its magic. His enthusiastic attention left you breathless, pushing away any lingering thoughts of the man who shared your life. He shoved his whole face into your cunt, devouring you with voracious hunger as his nose bumped against your reddened clit. The sensation was more than you could handle. You raised your arms above your head, grasping the door handle for support, and pushed your hips against his face, desperate for more. All you wanted was to wrap your legs around his head and ride his mouth, but his strong hands held your thighs apart, preventing you from moving.

Patrick was messy, spreading your juices across his face as he sloppily made out with your pussy. The chaos of his approach only heightened the whole experience. You weren’t entirely sure if it was intentional, but you could have sworn you felt his tongue brush against your asshole at one point. "Pat…" You tried to warn him, sensing that his tongue was, once again, dangerously close to your ass. "Shh." He hushed you, his voice low as he continued to do whatever he wished of your body. You tightened your grip on the door handle, feeling the muscles in your legs twitching as your orgasm neared. "I’m c-c..lose…" You babbled, your cheeks flushed with heat. You didn’t recognize the sounds escaping your lips. You were usually more reserved in bed. You had always believed that such sounds were exaggerated in porn, but here you were, proving yourself wrong with every moan and gasp. "Patrick!" You cried out as you came against his tongue, your toes curling and your eyes squeezing shut with pleasure. The intensity of the climax made it impossible to maintain eye contact with him.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then his lips were back on yours, kissing you passionately. You could taste yourself, all tingy, on his tongue. Still panting from the orgasm he had just given you, the kiss made you crave for more. You craved the sensation of his body against yours. Until now, you had let Patrick take the lead, knowing you could later blame him for your straying. But now, you wanted to cross that line yourself, to break the rules. Consequences were the furthest thing from your mind, you were too consumed by desire. All you needed was him between your legs. You reached for the waistband of his shorts, but he gently pushed your hand away. "It's your birthday. Tonight, it's all about you." He murmured, sucking on your lower lip. Despite his desire, you sensed his genuine intention to make sure you felt special tonight. "Believe me, I couldn’t be more selfish than I am being right now." You assured him as you sneaked your hand back under the hem of his pants, pulling his length out. He was fully hard, it would make things easier. Yet, the impressive size of his cock presented a challenge you weren't entirely prepared for. There was only so much that your body could take. "Fuck, you’re big." You blurted out, unable to contain your surprise. He chuckled in response, a mixture of amusement and pride.

You attempted to roll him under, but the cramped space of the car made it difficult for either of you to change positions. Thankfully, Patrick understood your intention. With a swift, effortless movement, he flipped you on top of him, handling you as if you were weightless. He settled comfortably beneath you as you straddled him, your legs on either side of his body.

He placed his hands on your exposed breasts, squeezing them firmly with his strong grip. Though his touch was a bit rough, you felt safe in his hands. You trusted him. You reached behind you and grasped his length, locking eyes with him as you gently stroked it. "Bab-..." He began, his voice breaking. Growing up, you had endured endless hours of Patrick’s chatter, but never had you heard him struggle to form words. You bit your lower lip, turned on by the sight of him being so reactive to your touch. You drew back his foreskin, then lifted your hips to guide his engorged tip against your slick folds, slightly rubbing it against your wet opening and overstimulated clit. As you felt his cock pressing eagerly against your entrance, it became clear that your body wasn’t ready to take him all at once, it would need time to accommodate him fully. With deliberate care, you eased the head of his erection into your already-sensitive entrance, the sensation making you both gasp. You took your time, gradually taking more of him in, until his head was finally enveloped in your warmth. Growing impatient, Patrick's hands abandoned your tits and gripped your hips, guiding you down onto his length with a firm push until you were sitting on it. You whimpered in pain, your hands resting on his chest as you urged him to stop. You weren’t used to such intrusion, the only man you had ever been with was your husband, who was nowhere near as large as Patrick.

"It hurts..." You whispered, your voice trembling. The burn of him stretching you in ways you had never experienced was too much for you. You needed a second to breath. "Shit, sorry..." He muttered, holding you still as you tried to adjust. "Fuck, you’re tight." You fell forward, pressing your lips to his, partly to seek comfort in the kiss and partly to make him shut up while you tried to focus. Kissing had always been your favorite part of lovemaking, it was when you felt most intimately connected to your husband, his mouth against yours while he was inside you. Now, you needed to feel Patrick sucking on your tongue to calm down and make you forget the temporary sting. "I’m okay…" You reassured him, starting to roll your hips on top of him. Feeling finally ready for more, you leaned back and placed your hands on his knees, beginning to ride him with a steady rhythm. He rested his hands on your hip bones, guiding your movements as his thumbs spread your folds apart. His gaze was locked on the connection between your bodies, completely absorbed in the sight of your tiny pussy sucking in his thick cock, while you kept your eyes on him. His breath grew uneven, his mouth slightly open as he focused on the pace of your body. "Look at you taking my dick so well." He groaned, his voice rough with desire. You responded with a moan, arching your back and pushing your chest forward, savoring every sensation.

You were fucking like never before, each thrust sending waves of pleasure that promised to leave your thighs sore for days to come. But you didn’t want to think about the aftermath. All that mattered in this moment was feeling his meaty length buried deep inside you, his tip bumping against your cervix as you forced yourself to take every inch he had to offer. You craved the sensation of his heavy sack squeezed under you as you sat back on his cock. "Fuck!" He gasped, his tongue hanging out in pure pleasure. "If I had known what a…" Bounce. "S-slut you were…" Bounce. "I would have fucked you years ago." You could only moan in response, overwhelmed by the intense pleasure. He planted his feet firmly into the backseat and started thrusting upward, perfectly syncing with your bouncing. "Patrick…" You breathed out, overwhelmed by the sensation of his pubic bone grinding against yours. Your clit was on fire, and you could feel yourself nearing the edge. You weren’t sure you were going to last much longer. "I know, baby." He murmured back, his eyes locked on yours for the first time in minutes. You both continued to move in perfect harmony, your motions becoming more urgent. The long, languid strokes were replaced by rapid, short thrusts. From the outside, you probably resembled animals in heat more than two people having sex. After minutes of fucking each other, it was clear that he was as desperate for release as you were.

"Babe… I’m close… Tell me you’re close…" His voice was urgent, and you met his gaze, nodding as you felt the tension build up tightly in your lower stomach. "I’m coming…" He warned, but you continued to ride him, unable to come just yet. "Off…" He begged, grabbing your ass, ready to help you dismount him. But you clenched around him, coaxing him with your tight grip, and felt his cum painting your walls. The sensation pushed you over the edge, and you moaned his name, but your orgasm was abruptly interrupted as Patrick hurriedly lifted you off him. He pulled out, glazing the remainder of his cum on your ass and lower back. "Fuck, I’m so sorry." What was he apologizing for? For interrupting you mid-high? For coming inside you? You were nothing but grateful. Besides, you were the one who had held onto him as he was about to climax. If anything, you should have been the one apologizing. But, in truth, you felt no remorse whatsoever. He grabbed a towel from his gym bag and began to wipe his semen from your skin. You leaned in closer, wrapping your arms snugly around his neck. "Don’t worry about it…" You whispered in his ear, playfully nibbling on his earlobe.

●

The drive back to your house was quiet, both of your minds still reeling from what had just occurred. When Patrick finally parked in front of your house, the reality of the moment sank in, it was time to leave. The warmth and comfort of his embrace had felt so right that the thought of parting was almost unbearable. You glanced around, scanning the darkened windows of your neighborhood to ensure no prying eyes would witness your misbehavior. Then, heart pounding, you leaned closer to Patrick, your breath hitching in anticipation. You planted your lips on his, the kiss starting soft and hesitant, but quickly growing more passionate. His hand slid to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair as he deepened the kiss. Your lips moved against his with a hunger you hadn't felt in years, a desperate need to hold onto the connection you had found tonight. Patrick responded eagerly, his other hand cupping your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin with a tenderness that sent shivers down your spine. The intensity of the kiss was overwhelming. His tongue teased the seam of your lips, and you opened for him, allowing the kiss to deepen even further. Patrick's way of kissing was delightfully messy, a trait you found endearing. The exchange of saliva between you two was all-consuming. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, pulling him closer, unwilling to let go. The taste of him, the feel of him, was intoxicating.

For a moment, you allowed yourself to get lost in the kiss, to forget about the world outside the car. Your hand wandered down his pants, feeling his length, still slick with your juices. But the reality of your situation clawed its way back into your mind when Patrick placed his hand on top of yours, gently urging it to stop. You broke away, breathless and conflicted, looking into Patrick's eyes one last time. "You should go back inside before I fuck you in front of all your neighbors." He whispered, his voice thick with desire and amusement. You giggled softly, the sound echoing in the car, and withdrew your hand from his crotch. The moment left you both in a lingering silence, your heart pounding against your ribs as you tried to gather your thoughts.

With a reluctant sigh, you stepped out of the car, the cool night air a sharp reminder of the warmth in Patrick’s embrace. As you walked towards your front door, you glanced back one last time. Patrick was still watching you, his gaze unwavering. You waved him goodbye and watched him leave, a huge smile spreading across your face. As you approached your door, you noticed a package waiting for you. Bending down, you saw it was from your husband, with a note attached wishing you a happy birthday. A stab of guilt twisted in your stomach, and the smile faded from your lips. Now, you felt sorry.

●

That night, you tossed and turned, unable to sleep, haunted by the events of the evening. You had washed your clothes, but ultimately threw your panties into the trash, unable to bear the guilt they embodied. No amount of scrubbing in the shower could rid you of the feeling of dirt clinging to your skin. Even the Birkin bag your husband had gifted you seemed to judge you silently from its place in the closet.

Countless scenarios played out in your mind, each one a punishment for your infidelity. You worried about the possibility of being pregnant with another man's child, despite your IUD. What if someone had seen you with Patrick and informed your husband? Or worse, what if you had contracted a life-altering illness from Patrick? He was kind of the manwhore when you were teenagers, what if that was still the case and your body was slowly killing you?

Fear was eating you from the inside, compelling you to schedule an appointment with your gynecologist first thing in the morning. However, the thought of facing your regular doctor and his inevitable judgment was unbearable. Instead, you booked an appointment with a clinic out of town, taking great care to show up with sunglasses to avoid recognition.

When the doctor informed you that most STDs could not be detected so soon after exposure, your heart sank. The test results might not be accurate, even if you were infected. "Contacting your partner to ask if they've been tested recently might be more reassuring." He suggested. But that was not an option. You knew yourself and you knew you wanted nothing to do with Patrick, it would only complicate matters further. He mentioned taking PEP as a precaution, and you readily agreed.

You swallowed the pill with a gulp of water, nerves taut as you awaited the test results. Just then, your phone rang, displaying your husband's name. Panic surged through you. Did he already know? Taking a deep breath, you answered as calmly as possible. "Yes, lovey?" He was calling to ask about the package and to apologize for not being able to call the previous night. "Yes, I did. Thank you so much. I love it." You truly adored the bag, your husband knew you so well. You couldn’t believe what you had done to him. How could you betray such a good man? "You shouldn’t work so much." You replied when he explained that work had kept him late. A nurse approached, handing you an envelope. The results. "Oh, I’m sorry, someone’s at the door. I’ll call you later. Love you." You hung up and tore open the envelope, your hands trembling. The results were there in black and white : you were clean. You were overcome with contentment, but doubt lingered. What if you weren’t? What if it was too soon to be sure? You needed certainty.

Grabbing your phone, you began to text Patrick, the cause of all your problems. You had blocked his number the night before, determined to erase him from your life and never speak to him again. But now, faced with an emergency, you had no choice but to unblock his number and confront your past mistake. Your fingers hesitated over the keys, but you knew you needed answers, if not for yourself, for your marriage that was at risk.

← [To : Patrick Zweig - 10:15am] Look, I’m freaking out… Have you been tested for STDs?

You watched the screen, seeing the three little dots appear, indicating he was typing. Relief washed over you, thank god he was awake.

→ [From : Patrick Zweig - 10:15am] wtf… ← [To : Patrick Zweig - 10:16am] I don’t feel so well… → [From : Patrick Zweig - 10:17am] Well that’s not because of me, I’m clean. But next time, maybe ask that before you let a random guy fuck you raw.

Next time? Oh, there wasn’t going to be a next time. And it was all his fault that you had lost your mind and become so desperate last night. He had awakened a beast within you, one incapable of rational thoughts. Thoughts like condoms.

← [To : Patrick Zweig - 10:17am] Patrick… → [From : Patrick Zweig - 10:18am] I’m serious, I’m clean. ← [To : Patrick Zweig - 10:18am] Thank you.

You exhaled in reassurance. It was easy for men to lie but deep down, you knew you could trust him. He had nothing to gain from lying to you. Plus he wasn’t just a stranger, he was the boy who grew up with you. He had cared about you in the past, he wouldn’t put you at risk, right?

On your way back, you made a point to stop at the nearest pharmacy, securing Plan B as an extra precaution.

●

Later in the afternoon, another text arrived from him.

→ [From : Patrick Zweig - 3:33pm] I took a test, just for you, so stop being so… psycho, okay? [picture attached]

The image displayed the results of his blood test. You couldn't help but be grateful that he had taken such steps to reassure you.

← [To : Patrick Zweig - 3:34pm] I trusted you but thank you. That means a lot. → [From : Patrick Zweig - 3:34pm] A lot? Like enough to let me hit it again now that you know I’m clean?

You scoffed at his text, but a smile tugged at your lips nonetheless. He wanted you again. You hesitated to answer. There was something about the chase that thrilled you more than giving in, a line you swore never to cross again. Biting nervously on your acrylic nails, you dialed his number. "You're such a homewrecker." You blurted when he finally answered. "Excuse me?" His laughter filled the line. "We can't do this, I'm married!" You reminded him, though his chuckle only widened your grin. "And?" His response made you whine in frustration. How did you end up entangled with someone with such loose morals? "Don't you care that I belong to someone else?" You pressed, wondering if he was even capable of feeling jealousy. "You belonged to me last night." He whispered. So he only lived purely in the moment? "You sucked me in so well, sitting on my dick like you were meant to be there." He added, his words making you nibble on your lower lip. Your body heated at the memory. "Can you still feel me?" His question hung in the air. "Patrick!" You whimpered, torn between wanting him to stop and wanting him to continue so you could sneak your hand between your legs and play with yourself.

●

It didn’t take long for you to fall back into his arms. A few phone calls, some initiated by him, others by you. You felt powerless against him, and he knew it well, his words stirring up desire and leaving you perpetually hungry for more. So when he asked you out for coffee, of course, you went.

Initially, your encounters were under the cover of night, hidden away in his car, far from curious eyes. He would pick you up discreetly, down the street, driving aimlessly until finding a secluded spot. But now, caution faded as your craving intensified. He took you in broad daylight, parking just blocks from your home. You had done it all. On every seat, every position and he had explored every inch of your body, bullied your tight little pussy and throat. His fat cock had stretched you out in any possible way and you just couldn’t put an end to it. In just six days, Patrick had unraveled you, making you come more than you ever did. You knew there was no returning to the old you, to the days of vanilla sex and mundane desires. You had transformed into a new woman. Cravings you never knew existed now consumed you, discovering your body in ways previously unimagined and experiencing climaxes that sent waves through your entire being. Patrick had opened your eyes to the fact that, despite what you believed, you had never truly experienced an orgasm before, certainly not like this. It was now clear that you had always been naturally submissive, longing for domination, but you had never encountered a man who could fulfill that role.

You had also discovered that you didn't hate giving head as much as you once thought. With your husband, it had been a chore, something you did out of obligation rather than desire. But with Patrick, it was different. You found yourself loving it, even though he was far from gentle with it. The first time you had done it, he had let you take the lead initially, but he quickly took control when he realized how truly inexperienced you were. You knew the basics, but you hadn't ventured beyond them. All those years, it had done the job to make your husband come so you had never questioned it. Now, most of the time, Patrick held your hair in a tight fist, tugging it forcefully as he fucked your throat. You had come to enjoy the roughness and the humiliation that accompanied it, savoring the moments when he would slap your face lightly with the head of his dick before releasing his sticky load on your bare face. He praised you every time he came, calling you his obedient little slut, and you were eager to impress him with how naughty you could be, pushing the limits each time. You loved it so much that when your mouth wasn't on his cock, you found yourself nuzzling his fuzzy sack, drawn to the addictive, musky scent of his sweat.

Patrick insisted that he couldn't commit to anything beyond tennis. Serious relationships, marriage, children. None of it interested him. You didn’t mind, though, you already had a husband for those things. Still, you found it amusing how the supposedly untamable Patrick always ended up texting you, seeking more, making time for your meetings in his routine.

The whole STD scare had, however, left you cautious about letting him come inside you. You suspected he had other partners. So Patrick pulled out, like a good boy. Instead, he made sure to cover you with his cum. Breasts, stomach, ass, neck, face, and hair coated with the pearly liquid. Showers had become even more of a necessity after every encounter. He knew how embarrassed you felt rushing home in stained clothes, and oddly enough, he seemed to take great pleasure in it. You even had a sneaking suspicion he might had been driving behind you to witness every single step of your walks of shame. If he kept this up, your cover wouldn’t last a day when your husband would be back. He would surely notice the gigantic pile of dirty crusty laundry. Or the cum dripping from your chin every time you came back from your promenades. So you found yourself begging him to fill you up again. Patrick's smile in response was so bright, you knew he had once again manipulated you into getting exactly what he wanted. Just like when you were kids.

●

A few days had passed, and your husband returned home, showering you with gifts he had bought on his trip. You felt relieved that your relationship dynamic remained unchanged. You cherished his presence, he loved you deeply and expressed it in many ways. Yet, in return, you found yourself reverting to the role of devoted housewife : doing his laundry, preparing his meals, and jerking him off until he fell asleep. But you weren’t as available for Patrick, and he made sure to make you pay for it. He flooded your phone with pictures of his cock and videos of him touching himself. To avoid constant interruptions, you kept your phone on 'do not disturb'. You had also cleverly changed Patrick's contact name to 'Patricia'. To your husband, she was your new friend you had met at the gym. And Patricia was a very demanding friend.

← [To : Patricia - 11:44am] Stop it! → [From : Patricia - 11:44am] Send me a picture of your tits and I will stop.

You hurried to the bathroom and obliged, sending him pictures of you squeezing your full boobs together. Yet, that didn’t stop him from asking you more. And each time, you provided him with pictures of your ass or your cunt spread out enticingly just for him. You didn’t have enough time in your day to take care of your husband and satisfy Patrick’s never ending requests. Why on earth did you have to engage with a jobless man?

→ [From : Patricia - 11:49am] You’re so hot, I want more. Are you free for a ride right now?

With your husband beside you, loneliness could no longer be blamed for drawing you closer to Patrick. You found yourself forced to respond to every message. You craved to be the center of his world, yearning to occupy his thoughts every hour of the day. You longed for his love. It wasn't the thrill of the chase that excited you anymore, it was the idea of being possessed by Patrick completely.

●

The freezing cold outside finally drove you both to Patrick's place. It just wasn’t possible anymore to fuck in the car. Until then, your encounters had been confined to the cramped vehicle, so entering his apartment felt refreshing, and a bit scary. As Patrick swung open the door, the lingering scent of unwashed dishes hit you. Sports bags cluttered every corner, empty soda bottles covered the table, and a layer of dust settled over the few ornaments he owned. His place was a mess. "That's really where you live?" You couldn't help but ask, taken aback to find the Zweigs’ golden child living in such chaotic conditions. Patrick chuckled in response, clearly unfazed. "Are you being judgmental? Not all of us are blowing billionaires." He joked, gesturing for you to come inside. Up close, it was even worse.

With nothing edible in his fridge, you both decided on take-out. Unable to ignore the mess, you took it upon yourself to tackle the dirty dishes. "You really don't have to do that." Patrick insisted repeatedly. "But I do." You retorted firmly, scrubbing away. "Can't you smell this?" You teased, glancing back at him. He shrugged, unbothered. "Maybe I should get myself a wife too." His comment caught you off guard. You snorted and turned toward him, staring at him in disbelief. He had told you many times that the idea of marriage made him gag. Plus, you knew his aversion to commitment and serious relationships. "So she can be your cleaning slave?" You challenged, raising an eyebrow. He really wasn’t any different than any other man. "No, so she can force me to do it." He admitted with a grin. He surprised you with his response. You couldn't help but smile back. "Clean the table, you pig." You playfully commanded, swatting his ass with the dish towel. He laughed and began gathering the discarded bottles for disposal. "See, that’s motivating."

Fucking Patrick in his bed felt strangely intimate. Despite his sheets looking and smelling like a dozen people had been there before you, laying there, idly, with him made you feel special. It was as if he were inviting you into the most private part of his life, the place where he was most vulnerable. His bed was just slightly larger than his car's backseat but smaller than your own bed. Even when you lay on opposite sides, it felt as though you were still all over each other. And you were, unable to keep your hands off each other, like horny teenagers.

Patrick was driving into you from behind, his other hand pressing your face into the pillow while the other firmly gripped your waist. The pillow, soaked with the heavy scent of sweat, was the object of your frantic nuzzling, much like a cat in heat . "I can’t believe…" He started, his voice strained as he thrust into you harder than he was before. "...he’s letting a slut like you be u..u-unfucked." His moan was raw, punctuated by a sharp smack as his hand spanked your exposed behind. You couldn’t believe it either. You were ready to explore nearly any boundary, nothing could be off limits with enough convincing. You knew you could have been your husband’s ultimate fantasy if only he was interested. The spank sent jolts through your body, causing your legs to tremble beneath him. Now, the pillow was completely soaked with your drool.

As he continued to fuck you, you felt his thumb grazing teasingly against your asshole. Well, maybe there were, in fact, some boundaries you weren’t just ready to cross. "Pat… What are you doing?" You gasped, feeling a thick gob of his spit trickling down your crack. "No…" You whimpered, feeling him smear his saliva over you. "Just a finger." He assured you, pushing his thumb into the tight ring of flesh without any warning. You closed your eyes, clenching around the unexpected intrusion, but remained silent. You knew you couldn’t deny him anything.

In the end, it turned out to be more than just one finger. And now, you were nestling against him, spent, face buried in the curve of his neck while he lazily smoked a cigarette. "Do you think your husband is seeing other women?" He asked, his free hand aimlessly tracing circles on your hip. Just the thought of it made you mad. "He must be." You admitted quietly, lifting your head to meet Patrick's gaze, sadness in your eyes. "He never fucks me." You revealed. "Never?" Patrick's disbelief was evident, his voice rising in shock. You knew it wasn't entirely true, there were some moments, perhaps once a month, when he would crawl on top of you. "Can that old fuck even get it up?" He scoffed, taking a deep drag on his cigarette. You knew he could, just not with you. Your suspicions about another woman lingered, the subtle scent of women's perfume on his clothes when he returned home, the constant need to check his phone, or his newfound obsession with meticulously trimming his pubes, details you chose to ignore. "He's an idiot." Patrick spat out, his voice thick with disdain. You hated whenever he brought up your husband, knowing Patrick had nothing but contempt for him. "He's got the hottest wife, a Rolls-Royce of a pussy, and he's messing around." His blunt words gave you butterflies. Did he genuinely think of you as the 'hottest wife' with the 'Rolls-Royce of pussies' or was he simply buttering you up for another round? It didn't matter in that moment, your mouth was already wrapped around his cock, tasting yourself on him.

It was dark outside, and you knew it was time to head home. You were relying on Patrick to drive you back but he was so deeply asleep you couldn’t wake him up. So you ordered an Uber, and it would be arriving soon. You carefully crawled out of bed, gathering your clothes from the floor. As you were dressing, you noticed Patrick stirring. "Mmh, you’re leaving?" He mumbled, still half-asleep. "You know I can't stay the night…" You replied softly, leaning over to place a gentle kiss on his cheek. He smiled, though his eyes remained closed. "Next time, clean your place, or I’m not fucking you." You whispered into his ear. "By just being in those sheets, I probably tripled my body count." You playfully bit his ear, eliciting a soft whimper from him. "Goodnight, Patrick." You said once you were fully dressed. "Night, honey." He responded in a playful tone. Despite the unseriousness of it, his affectionate nickname brought a smile to your face.

On your way out, you noticed pictures adorning the walls. They depicted various eras of Patrick’s life, and you paused to observe them. There were photos of Patrick with his cousins, whom you had met a few times, pictures of him winning tournaments and proudly lifting his trophies, and candid moments with Art, both of them acting like fools. He looked the same yet so different, the joy in his eyes from those earlier days seemed absent now. You wanted to understand what had changed. Despite Patrick slowly revealing parts of himself to you, there were still many things he kept hidden. Your phone beeped, the Uber had arrived, and with a final glance at the pictures, you left his apartment.

The next time you visited Patrick's apartment, you were pleasantly surprised by the transformation. Gone were the dirty dishes, the floor had been vacuumed, and fresh sheets adorned the bed. It seemed he had taken your words to heart. A smile tugged at your lips as you thought, perhaps Patrick did need a wife to keep him in order.

●

Patrick’s apartment had become your cocoon, the place you retreated to whenever the monotony of your housewife life became too suffocating. It was here that you felt truly alive, where Patrick would wake up the woman in you. You now only met during the day, finding it far easier to sneak away while your husband was at work than to lie about your whereabouts in the evenings. As soon as Patrick was done with practice, you would meet him at his place. Most of the time, you were so eager to see him that you would be waiting for minutes in front of his front door. You knew he was just as eager to see you, as he would still be covered in sweat from his workout. He never took the time to shower first, and you secretly loved it. The feel of his tense, sweat-dampened body against yours, his intoxicating scent, a mix of musk and cheap drugstore deodorant, made your desire for him even stronger.

However, this new routine left you with no time to visit the gym yourself. But that was alright. Patrick had become your new workout, his intense touch keeping your heart rate up in ways no treadmill ever could. The rush of adrenaline, the rapid beat of your heart, the fire in your veins, all of it was more exhilarating than any exercise. Plus, Patrick’s adoration of your body made you love it more than ever, making trips to the gym unnecessary anyway. No exercise had ever made you appreciate the way your breasts sat so nicely on your chest, a bit heavy from their natural weight. You had once considered getting them done as gravity began to take its toll, but now you thought they were perfect. And Patrick thought so too, as they fitted so nicely in his mouth. Your hips, which you once found too bulky, never looked better than when he had his hands on them as he plunged deeply into you. Your butt that you thought was too flat never looked fuller than when you were sitting on his cock. It wasn't just Patrick's actions that made you feel like the sexiest woman alive, it was his words. He would whisper all kinds of things in your ear when he was inside you, words that made you so wet, it was almost embarrassing. He talked about how tight you were, how sexy your body was, and how gorgeous your face looked when you were coming. Whether they were lies or the truth, you couldn't tell, but he boosted your confidence like no one ever had. You felt like a goddess in his arms.

Whenever you would show up, he would greet you with a knowing smile, pulling you into a deep kiss that made your knees weak. Patrick's hands roamed over your body, making you forget everything else. His whispers in your ear, his touch, his very presence, they all made you feel desired, wanted, alive. Every rendez-vous left you craving more, and each time you left his apartment, you knew you'd be back in no time, unable to leave him for more than half a day. But as days turned into weeks, you knew you were playing with fire, and the thrill of the affair was as intoxicating as it was dangerous. One afternoon, as you lay tangled in Patrick’s sheets, you found yourself wondering how long you could keep up with this. You knew you couldn’t choose between the two anymore. In the past, you would have chosen your husband without a single thought, because he had taken such good care of you for so long and you loved him. But now, everything had changed. Patrick had entered your life and turned your world upside down. The passion, the excitement, the way he made you feel, things you had never experienced with your husband, had left you utterly confused. The lines between love and lust blurred, and you found yourself falling for Patrick in a way you never anticipated. Of course, you still loved your husband more than you loved Patrick, but you loved who you were when you were with Patrick.

●

As he searched for a lighter, cigarette dangling from his lips, he opened the drawer of the bedside table. Unable to resist your curiosity about Patrick's nighttime essentials, you peered into the drawer, intrigued by what he considered indispensable for his bedtime routine. Your gaze fell upon something unexpected. Well, not totally unexpected since it was Patrick, but something curious. Crawling over him, you reached into the drawer and pulled out the object, examining it closely. It was a fleshlight and it looked well-used. "What’s this?" You asked, holding the item up in front of his face. He simply stared back at you, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. "Come on, don’t play dumb." He replied nonchalantly as he lit his cigarette. To be honest, you only had a vague idea of what it was, you had heard about those but had never seen one in person, with your own two eyes.

"Show me how you use it?" You asked, extending the toy toward him. "Really?" He raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised, but you nodded firmly in response. You had always enjoyed watching Patrick jerk off, though typically you watched from beneath him as he fucked his fist close to your face, coating it with his slimy release. This was an opportunity to watch him from a different angle. "So I guess tennis is not the reason your arm is so big?" He shot a death glare at you and you stole the cigarette from his lips, taking a long drag of it. He grabbed the lube from the drawer and coated his length with it. "Will you be able to keep your hands away from me?" He joked and you rolled your eyes, blowing the smoke in his face, placing the cigarette back between his lips.

He slid the silicone sleeve over his length, the fake pussy spreading wide against the base of his shaft. You gasped at the sight, aroused by the image of another pussy, even if artificial, spread open for him. It was undeniably hot, but deep down, you doubted you could ever enjoy watching a real pussy receive Patrick in the same way. Patrick's eyes were locked on the fleshlight, his wrist moving frantically, and his mouth hung open in a silent expression. Seeing the cigarette balanced between his lips, you quickly snatched it away and extinguished it in the ashtray, preventing it from falling onto his chest and burning him. You watched closely as Patrick's length thrust rhythmically into the toy, the slick movements captivating your gaze. "Touch yourself." He commanded, his voice heavy with lust. You looked up at him, biting the inside of your cheek, your eyes reflecting both hesitation and excitement. Slowly, you reached for the aching spot between your legs, your fingers beginning to stroke your folds with agonizing slowness, a deliberate tease meant to drive him wild. "Fuck, that’s hot." He murmured, his eyes glued to your hand as it disappeared between your crossed legs. "Spread your legs. I want to see." He demanded, his voice low and urgent. You spread your legs, allowing him a clear view of your wet cunt and the fingers dancing over it. As you slid your middle finger inside yourself, your eyes locked onto his cock.

"Baby…" He groaned, his free hand reaching down to squeeze his balls. You added a second digit, riding your hand the way you did when no one else was watching. Despite your efforts, you couldn’t be as vocal as you were when Patrick fucked you. Touching yourself had always been a secret act, performed silently under the blanket to avoid waking your husband up. Still, you panted heavily, the pleasure building with every stroke. After a few minutes of you both pleasuring yourselves on either side of the bed, Patrick lifted his hips, his thighs twitching. He came with a low grunt into the plastic toy, his body shuddering with release. You continued to rub your clit, your fingers moving in desperate, needy circles. It only took a few more strokes of your swollen bud before you reached your climax, your eyes locked with his as you moaned his name, the scent of both your orgasms filling the room.

You glanced at him through half-lidded eyes, your chest rising and falling with each breath. He was grinning from ear to ear, a look of triumph in his eyes. Reaching for your hand, which was resting between your legs, he lifted it to his face and examined it. "Why did you remove it?" He asked, his voice a low murmur, as he sucked on your fingers, licking them clean. It? Oh, your ring. "Felt weird wearing it when my hand's always on your dick." You explained, watching him lavish attention on your slick fingers, covered with your juices. You couldn’t help but bite your lower lip at the sight of him. "That was the fun part of it." He replied, a mischievous glint in his eyes. You frowned, studying his face. The fun part of it? Was the thought of fucking a married woman more exciting than fucking you? "Wait, is this turning you on?" You asked, your voice rising with shock.

Now that you thought about it, there was something deeply perverse about the way he always ensured you went home with his cum dripping from your cunt and pooling in your panties. Or how he'd make you swallow his load and then ask you to ‘give your husband a kiss’ for him. He was actually enjoying this situation.

"Duh. Obviously." He said with a smirk. "You're a freak." You muttered, pushing his face with your hand, interrupting his intense sucking. "And you're a cheating whore. We all have our crosses to bear." He retorted, his tone carrying a hint of cynicism. You opened your mouth in shock. "Little shit." You said, slapping his shoulder. Patrick just chuckled, the sound resonating through the walls. You stared at him, a mixture of annoyance and amusement swirling within you. It was moments like this that confused you. Sometimes, in Patrick’s embrace, you felt so alive that you questioned your life choices. You wondered if sacrificing your womanhood for a comfortable life was worth it. Yet, leaving your husband for Patrick would be a foolish decision. While your heart fluttered in his presence, you understood that you were just something exciting for him to play with, just a new toy he had stolen from someone else.

●

But whenever you began to question your feelings, he had a way of reminding you just how much better he was for you than your husband, with his hands on your throat and his tongue all over your chest.

"Such a needy whore." He groaned, feeling you clench around his cock with desperation. "Please…" You pleaded, your voice trembling as you begged him to move inside you, but he remained still, toying with you. You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist, pulling him closer to your core, yearning for more. "Always begging for my dick, huh?" He said, his grip on your neck tightening just enough to make you feel lightheaded. Finally, he gave in and began to pound into you, the sharp sound of his full balls smacking against your ass filling the room. You tried to moan in pure bliss, your mouth open in a silent scream as your hands roamed down his back. "Does he…" He asked, his voice husky as you gazed at him in awe. "f-f… fuck you like that?" While missionary was your husband’s favorite position, and yours as well, since it allowed you to kiss him, he had never gripped your neck so harshly or treated you as if you were just a hole to be filled. "N-no…" You gasped, struggling to produce any sound. "Only you…" You breathed out, your face flushed a bright red as you fought to catch your breath. Each thrust brought you closer to the edge, and before you realized it, you climaxed in a wave of silent pleasure, your eyes closed and mouth agape. Your juices spilled over his lower stomach and sack. You were barely aware of when Patrick followed, lost in near-unconsciousness beneath him. When you finally regained your senses, you could feel his thick warmth filling you deep inside.

You appreciated the aftercare with Patrick, especially when he felt he had gone a bit too far. Although he was turned on by pushing your limits, he felt guilty about making you nearly pass out. Now, both of you stood in his cramped shower, lathering each other with soap and enjoying the warm, calming water together. His tongue playfully brushed your earlobe as he whispered praises, his hands caressing your asscheeks. He told you how hot you were and how special it felt that you had abandoned yourself to him, allowing him to indulge in all sorts of twisted things. Yet, it wasn’t enough, he always wanted more. "I want to fuck your ass." He murmured, trying to gently ease the words into your brain and convince you. "I kinda noticed." You chuckled, feeling his warm breath tickle your skin. "I’ve never done it before." You confessed, though the knowing look in his eyes had already revealed your inexperience. He smirked, a hint of satisfaction in his gaze. "Ah, a virgin." He said, as he spread your cheeks apart, letting the warm water from the shower cascade down your crack. "What if it hurts?" You asked, your eyes searching his for reassurance. It’s not like he was exactly small. "I can prepare you so it won’t." He promised, his tone soothing. "But what’s the point if it doesn’t feel good?" You questioned, your voice trembling slightly. It wasn’t that the idea of anal sex was unpleasant, it just went against everything you had been taught about intimacy between a man and a woman. You weren't totally against the idea, to be fair, you were just scared of the discomfort. Also, it felt almost wrong to let another man be the first to explore that part of you, despite your husband’s lack of interest in it. "I can make you feel really good." He said, his breath warm against your neck as he trailed soft kisses from your ear to your collarbone. You shivered at the sensation, a mix of desire and hesitation in your voice. "You already make me feel really good." You refused yourself to him. Tonight wouldn’t be the night.

After drying off and dressing, you shared a lingering kiss. There was an unspoken understanding between you. This couldn’t last forever, but for now, it was enough. You slipped your ring back on, feeling the weight of it, both physically and mentally.

As you prepared to leave, Patrick walked you to the door. "Take care, and don’t forget to leave his ass." He said softly, wrapping your scarf around your neck with a tenderness that made your heart ache. "Sure." You replied, forcing a smile before stepping out into the cold night.

Patrick no longer bothered to mask the depth of his hatred for your husband. His remarks were frequent and biting, urging you to divorce. Yet, you knew his words were hollow, born from a contempt rather than a genuine desire to build a future with you. He would often stress how your happiness was the most important thing and that your husband no longer provided it, thus there was no point in staying. But he never said the words you desperately wanted to hear. You longed for him to tell you to divorce because he wanted you to be his. Only his.

●

While you wanted him to be fully yours as well, there were still many things you ignored about Patrick. As close as you wanted to be to him, he always maintained a distance, dismissing your questions or reminding you of your husband. You craved to know everything about him : What happened with his family? What happened with Art? How was his career doing? What were his dreams and hopes? Was he dating anyone? All these questions lingered in your mind, but you didn’t feel legitimate enough to ask those as his fuck buddy. Yet, you needed these answers to sneak your way into his heart and maybe become more than just a warm hole to him.

You knew the best way to pull information out of him was to ask at his most vulnerable moment : right after he came. "Are you seeing other girls?" You asked softly, brushing his hair back. His head was resting on your chest, your breasts glazed with his saliva and sweat. "Are you really asking me that when you have a whole ass husband waiting for you at home?" He stared at you, amused. "You're fucking me without condoms, I have every right to know!" You retorted, but the truth was you wanted to know if there was any competition for Patrick’s affection. You wanted to be the only one for him. "Don't worry, I'm being extra careful with other people." So there were other girls. Your stomach turned. You had no right to be jealous, but you were. Your mind raced in all directions. What did they look like? What was his type? Did they look anything like you? Were they also married women? Did he do to them the things he did to you? "But to be fair, you’re taking a lot of my time, so I don’t really meet new people lately." If keeping him busy was keeping him from other girls, you surely could find time to pay him more visits, at any time of the day. You were sure you could manage to make him stay home with you, no matter if he had practice or not, plans with friends or dates or whatever. You had a skilled tongue he couldn’t resist. "But no one is as good as you." He mumbled against your breast before circling one of your nipples with his tongue. His words hit you like a wave, flooding you with happiness and leaving you breathless. No one is as good as you. You wanted to scream with joy, your heart nearly bursting. In that instant, whether his dick was speaking for himself or not, he made you feel like you were the only one in the world that mattered.

●

Seeing Patrick was no longer just about the sex, even if he thought otherwise. While he was fucking you like a whore, you were quietly sneaking into his life. It had become your personal mission to form an emotional bond with him, to make yourself indispensable. It started with the meals you shared. You had bragged about your cooking, promising to let him taste your creations, and soon his kitchen had become your workshop. You were filling his stomach with your love, and in exchange, he filled your cunt with his own.

You also spent evenings watching movies and cuddling for hours on his worn-out couch on nights when your husband wasn’t home. You would always pretend to fall asleep, hoping this time Patrick would allow you to stay over. But he would always wake you at the end of the movie and drive you home.

But you would be back by morning, letting yourself in with the key under the doormat that had become unofficially your key and cooking him breakfast. Maybe you were intrusive, but he didn’t seem to mind when you would wake him up with your tongue on his balls.

And every time he welcomed you a bit more into his life, you would push it farther. You wanted to know more, to dig deeper. "Patrick?" You asked one evening, nervous about whether your questions would be dismissed like all the other ones you had asked before. "Yes, babe?" He answered, his eyes closed, face buried into the pillow. "What really happened with your family?" Silence. He opened his eyes and turned to face you, a shadow of wariness crossing his features. "Why do you want to know?" He responded quickly. "It’s just, I knew your parents, and I’m surprised they would allow their precious boy to… struggle." You hesitated on that last word. While Patrick’s lifestyle seemed like chaos to you, he appeared content enough with it. Patrick sighed, rolling onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. "They didn’t allow it. I chose it." He finally said, his voice low and guarded. You shifted closer, resting your head on his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath your ear. "Why?" You pressed gently. He hesitated, his fingers idly playing with your hair. "Because I didn’t want to be their perfect little son. I wanted to live my own life, make my own mistakes. I don’t care about their fucking board, I’m a tennis player."

"Yes, you are." You murmured, fingers playfully tangling in his chest hair. It had been so long since you'd seen him play a real match, but you knew he was a gifted kid. "I remember how everyone raved about your talent when we were kids. Your parents always said you were going to be the biggest tennis star." He glanced away, nervously nibbling his lower lip. "Well, they don’t really think so anymore." His voice was tinged with hurt, a vulnerability he rarely showed. "And it wasn’t the only thing." He added, his tone darker. "It wasn’t?" You asked, curiosity piqued. What else could have happened? Did he get a girl pregnant or something? "They didn’t really accept me coming out." He revealed quietly. "Coming out? Wait, you’re into boys?" You sat up, shocked by his revelation. He nodded, his nervousness palpable, as if he feared your reaction. "Don’t you want to be our third?" You joked, trying to lighten the mood with a giggle. "I’m not fucking the disgusting geriatric asshole you’re married to." He whined, pinching your waist. You grabbed his hand, stopping him from pinching you further. "He’s a handsome man!" You tried to defend your husband, though Patrick’s grossed out face made it clear he wasn’t convinced by your words. "He’s like a hundred years old!" Patrick exclaimed, typical in his exaggeration. "He’s 49!" You responded. "And you’re 27. He’s a fucking creep." Patrick said, his face twisted in disgust.

You frowned at his words. You had never thought of it that way. Sure, he was older, and you had met him when you were young, but it wasn’t as if he had preyed on you. Your father had introduced you to one of his business partners, and you had simply fallen in love. Right?

"If you’re into boys…" You began, tracing delicate patterns on his chest. "Can I fuck you then?" You asked with a teasing smirk. You were usually the submissive type, you loved it, but a part of you had always been curious about what it would feel like to top someone. You imagined yourself putting on a strap and taking control of someone’s body, and not just anyone, but Patrick’s. You fantasized about how he would look, all hot and flustered, under you, his face flushed and his body trembling with anticipation. The thought of seeing him all vulnerable and overwhelmed by your plastic cock deep inside him made your heart beat faster. "Do you think I’m just going to let anyone have my ass? Do you think I’m a whore or something?" He shot back, abruptly shutting down any fantasies you had. His refusal stung. Anyone? You weren’t just anyone.

●

As days passed, Patrick’s words replayed in your mind like a broken record. The more you thought about it, the more it felt off. The age gap that seemed romantic and reassuring once now felt predatory. You were 21 when you married your husband, but he was well into his 40s. He had courted you when you had barely graduated, still fresh from the confines of your parents’ home. You didn’t have much experience with love or even boys so you felt flattered. He became your first boyfriend. Apart from your first kiss, which had been stolen by some random guy at the country club, he had been your first everything. He, on the other hand, had been married before and had dated numerous women. What was in it for him to date you? Your innocence? Now, the fact that he had waited for you to turn the specific age of 21 before marrying you, despite the fact that you had been living together for a while, seemed calculated and unsettling.

It was as if you were looking at your husband through a different lens, a perspective vastly different from the adoration you once held for him. You didn’t think so highly of him anymore. All the red flags you had so mindlessly ignored before were now glaringly obvious.

Was the fact that you were growing older the reason he was now so distant lately? You had noticed the subtle changes over the years, from the way he looked at your body to the way he touched you. At first, he just couldn’t keep his hands away from you and now he simply petted you, like a dog. You had always thought that it was how couples evolved with time : passion at first and then comfort. But the gossips at the country club painted a different picture. The women there often complained about feigning migraines to escape their marital obligations. Your situation was the opposite, the man who had been so eager to introduce you to sex now seemed to avoid it altogether. This didn't feel like a natural progression. And you were sure of it when you thought about Patrick and how you could hardly imagine growing tired of making him come.

So why wasn’t he attracted to you anymore? Your body had not changed that drastically. Was he receiving attention from other women? Younger women? You needed to know for sure.

As soon as he left to take a shower, you seized his phone and began scrolling through his messages. You didn’t recognize yourself, the normal you would never had invaded his privacy. You had been raised to believe that a wife should stay in her place and respect her husband’s boundaries, but at that point, you didn’t give a fuck. It didn’t take much searching to discover an interesting conversation with another woman. They were exchanging flirtatious texts and pictures. As you read through the messages, you realized it wasn't just flirting, there were feelings involved. Your husband was feeding her sweet words, just as he had once done with you in the past. The proof was there : he was cheating on you. And even worse, he was in a relationship with her.

Who had been the first one to stray? Did it even matter? Yes, for your own guilt. You needed to erase the doubt that you had betrayed him first. You scrolled back to your birthday, that fateful day that had changed everything. There, you found him telling her he would be home soon. So your husband had indeed been with another woman while you were alone and crying. The guilt that had been eating you was gone. He had only gotten what he deserved. But now, you were consumed by anger and disgust.

You stared at the picture of the woman who had now taken your place. She looked young, way too young. Her skin was smooth, her cheeks full and her eyes bright with the innocence of youth. She could be your little sister. She could be his daughter. The realization hit you like a punch to the gut. A wave of hatred for her took over you, but beneath it was an unexpected urge to protect her. How could you see how wrong it was so clearly when it involved someone else, yet remain blind when it came to yourself?

The woman in the photo seemed fragile, her smile unaware of the storm she was caught in. You could imagine her excitement, the thrill of attention from an older, experienced man. It was a cruel irony that the very things that had once drawn you to him were now being used to entrap someone else. You thought of your younger self, so eager to please, so willing to overlook the small red flags. You wondered if she knew about you. She had to. She had to wonder why your husband was leaving her every night. What did he tell her about you? Was he telling her you were the problem?

Patrick had been right all along, your husband was a creep.

●

Your chest felt tight, as if an invisible weight was pressing down, making it hard to breathe. Your heart pounded erratically, its rapid thumping loud in your ears, drowning out all other sounds. Your vision blurred with unshed tears, and your hands started to tremble uncontrollably. The room spun, making it hard to focus on anything. You clutched your chest, trying to steady the dizzy feeling inside. A cold sweat broke out across your skin, chilling you despite the warmth of the room. With shaky hands, you grabbed your phone and dialed Patrick's number. You needed to get out of the house, whether your husband noticed your absence or not. "Baby, can you pick me up, please?"

After fifteen minutes, he texted that he was at the corner of the street. You walked to his car, the short distance feeling like an eternity. You tried to dry your tears before meeting him, not wanting to spoil the mood with your problems, but your red, puffy eyes betrayed you. Spotting the car, you quickly opened the door and stepped in, planting a soft kiss on his lips. "So, what did he do?" He asked against your lips. He knew you way too well. His question caused your lips to tremble, and tears to well up in your eyes. As he drove off to his place, you told him the whole story between sobs. He rolled his eyes as if it were expected news, sighing at each new detail. "What does it change? You were almost sure of it already." He glanced at you. Unable to answer, you also wondered why it hurt so much. Maybe the fact that he had a second home. Fucking another girl was one thing, creating a home with her was another. "Let me tell you, if you weren't such a fucking coward, you'd leave his ass." You stared at him, your eyes widening with disbelief. He had never talked to you that way. His words were as harsh and sharp as a knife. You opened your mouth to respond, but he cut you off. "But I know you. You're so greedy, you would never give up your designer bags, your nice clothes, and your big fucking house." Speechless, you wondered if he truly thought so lowly of you. Did he believe you had married your husband solely for the money? Yes, living comfortably was pleasant, but you had fallen in love with that man. He was your family. "Are you always going to call me when you're fucking miserable and expect me to just watch you ruin your life and fuck you?" His words hit you like a slap. You gasped, too stunned to immediately respond. "You're a piece of shit, Patrick." You mumbled between clenched teeth, barely able to contain your anger. He stopped at a red light and turned to you, his face inches from yours. "I may be shit, but you like to roll in it, you cunt." He spat out. Before he could say more, you slapped him across the face, desperate to silence him. Words like that had only ever been thrilling when said in passionate moments, when they didn’t cut to the bone but made you wet and beg for more. Now, they shattered your heart into a million pieces. Without a word, you opened the door and stepped out of the vehicle. You couldn’t bear to stay near him. You believed that Patrick would always be there to comfort you, but now you saw the truth. He was just as hurtful, if not more, than your husband. In that moment, you realized how truly alone you were in your misery.

"Get in the damn car!" He shouted through the open window, his voice slicing through the night as he drove slowly alongside you on the sidewalk. "No!" You shot back, your teeth sinking into your lower lip until you tasted blood. The urge to cry was almost overwhelming, but you couldn't allow yourself to break down. Not in front of Patrick fucking Zweig. Not in front of that fucking loser. Maybe you were a gold digger, but at least you weren't a broke motherfucker with shattered dreams and no future. You wanted to throw that in his face, to lash out with the truth, but you couldn't bring yourself to do it. You couldn't hurt him. Even though he hurt you. Deep down you knew from the start that it was meant to happen, that he would inevitably disappoint you. He always did. He let everyone down, yet you clung to the hope that things might have been different with you. You didn't want to believe otherwise but here you were. "It's dangerous." Oh, so he cared about you now? Sure, it was nighttime, but the streets were empty. You felt safer outside than in that car or even in your own house. "Go fuck yourself." You finally yelled back. He sighed, pulling over and parking the car right in front of you, forcing you to stop. You crossed your arms without a word, determined to wait him out. Let him get bored of the silence and leave you alone. He opened the passenger door, waiting for you to climb in. You had no intention of doing so. After a few minutes, Patrick stepped out of the car and stood in front of you. "Babe, I'm sorry..."

He pulled you into an embrace, and you remained still, unwilling to give in until you felt his lips brush against your neck. "I shouldn't have said that." He mumbled against your jaw. Despite yourself, you smiled at the warmth of his lips on your skin. Something must be wrong with you. He had insulted you moments ago, wounding you in ways he never had before, yet here you were, back in his arms, ready to follow him like a lovesick puppy and forget every hurtful word. You wrapped your arms around his neck, tilting your head to give him room to explore your neck. His hands found their way to your butt, gently squeezing. You were in public, being intimate with another man besides your husband. Anyone driving by could see you cheating, but it didn’t matter. You pressed your body as close to his as possible, merging with him. You felt his hard length pressing against your lower abdomen. "Wait, are you hard?" You asked, your voice rising in surprise. "You were so hot being all mad and stuff." He revealed, his lips inching closer to yours. "I slap you and you get hard? You’re really deranged." You whispered against his lips, amused. You felt his tongue trying to breach the barrier of your lips. Did he really think it would be that easy? True, you were already melting under his touch, but he couldn’t just keep getting away with everything. He couldn’t treat you like shit and expect you to let him take you right here on the sidewalk. "I just can't go on watching you waste your life with him. You deserve better." He murmured between soft pecks on your lips. His words made your heart skip a beat, it was the closest he would get to saying how much he cared about you. And was the 'better' you deserved, him? After all, he wasn't running away from you to protect you, he was trying to get into your pants, which surely meant he thought himself worthy of you. With Patrick, it was always what he didn't say that left you hoping. As your tongue found its way to his lips, you were now the one devouring his mouth. Okay, he was forgiven. You would totally let him fuck you right there on the sidewalk.

You let your hands roam down his back, finding their way to his ass, groping it in a similar way he was grabbing yours. You pulled away from the kiss and looked into his eyes, noticing his smirk. Did he think he had won? "If you're really sorry, let me fuck you." You blurted out, your fingers sneaking between his cheeks, the fabric of his shorts the only obstacle. "What?" He asked, eyes squinting in confusion. "Let me fuck you." You repeated, pinching your lips together to hide your grin. "No way." He chuckled, probably thinking you were joking. But you were as serious as a heart attack. "I want to own you like you own me." You wanted Patrick to commit to your relationship as much as you had. You had let him take control of your body, marking his territory on every part of you. Well, almost every part. "You won’t let me fuck your ass and you think I’ll let you fuck mine?" He questioned, and you sighed in response. In reality, if Patrick had really wanted to, he could have had his way with you a long time ago. But so far, he had always stopped at the slightest hint of resistance from you, which in theory was a good thing. Still, you wanted him to beg for it. Which he didn’t. But now that you had made your objective clear, perhaps you would let him have his way with you, just to get your way with him later on.

Your phone kept buzzing in your pocket. Reluctantly, you pulled away from his embrace and fished it out of your pants. Your husband’s name flashed on the screen. You sighed, seeing that he had already tried to call you seven times. Patrick's eyes fixed on the screen, his face twisted in a grimace. "Drive me back home then." You commanded, disentangling yourself from him. You stepped into the car, settling into the passenger seat. Patrick quickly joined you, taking his place behind the wheel. "Are you still mad at me?" He asked, nervously chewing the inside of his cheek as he drove back to your place. "Maybe." You replied. The anger was actually long gone, you had forgiven him the moment his lips touched your skin. But you weren't against letting him stew in a bit of guilt, even if it meant sacrificing your own pleasure for the night.

After a few minutes of Patrick's attempts to win your complete forgiveness by being extra affectionate, stroking your thigh and smiling sweetly, you found yourself back on your street. You had tried your hardest not to show any sign of giving in, but his puppy eyes made it difficult not to jump his bones. "I'm home alone this weekend." You announced, placing your hand on top of his. "Wanna come over?" You proposed, a smile spreading across your face. You didn't care anymore about respecting your husband’s space. If he didn’t respect you, there was no way you were going to respect him either. "Really? Your house?" He asked, surprised that you were now inviting him into the one place that had always been off-limits to him. You nodded eagerly, your eyes burning with a desire for revenge.

●

After an intense make-out session interrupted by a couple of whispered apologies, Patrick finally let you go despite the raging boner in his pants. As you walked back into your house, you found your husband waiting at the door, his hands resting on his hips. He looked worried sick. What was with the men in your life acting out of character tonight? When he saw you, his expression shifted from relief to anger. "Where the hell have you been?" He demanded, his voice thundering through the hallway. The tone made you jump. Your husband could be scary sometimes, and tonight was one of those times. You calmly explained that you had to help one of your girlfriends with an emergency. He took a step closer, his gaze piercing. "And you couldn't call?" You shrugged, feeling the weight of his glare. "I-..I didn't have the time." He opened his mouth to ask more questions, but you cut him off with a half-hearted apology. "I'm sorry, lovey, okay? I'm exhausted. I just need to go to bed." You rushed up the stairs, your heart pounding, eager to escape the questions you couldn’t answer.

"Seriously, where the hell have you been?" His voice erupted from behind you as you stood at the vanity, removing the last traces of makeup from your face. You caught his reflection in the mirror, and the anger in his eyes was unmistakable. His expression was taut with frustration, and it was clear he was nowhere near ready to let this go. He had displayed jealousy in the early years of your marriage, but it had been so long that you had almost forgotten the depths of his paranoia. "With a friend." You repeated, sticking to your fabricated story. "Call her. I want to speak with her." He demanded, his voice icy and insistent. His insistence took you by surprise, and for a moment, you wondered if he doubted your faithfulness. Did he also find out about your little affair? "You’re being ridiculous." You said with a chuckle, trying to diffuse the tension. "Call her." He said again, his teeth clenched with frustration. "I don’t want my friends to see my husband acting irrationally. What will they think?" You replied, hoping to use his reputation as leverage. You knew that using his concern for how others perceived him was likely your best chance. It always seemed to come down to how others viewed him. "They will think you have a caring husband. Call her." He insisted, stepping closer until his presence loomed over you. You clutched your phone tightly, keeping it away from his reach. Turning to face him, you felt so small in front of him. "Okay, but what if we call your friend first?" You suggested, trying to sound as confident as possible. However, your voice faltered as you stressed the word ‘friend’. You locked eyes with him, the silence settling between you. The moment his gaze shifted away from yours, you knew he understood. He sighed heavily and turned his back on you, his frustration palpable. "Whatever. Who’s the irrational one now?" He muttered, his tone dripping with resentment as he walked away.

Later that night, you felt his untoned body pressed against your back. The sensation sent shivers across your skin, not from excitement as it did with Patrick, but from dread. He had remained silent until then, and now he was whispering in your ear how much he craved you, his fingers toying with the waistband of your pajama shorts. He had waited for the lights to go out before slipping into bed, placing his nasty eager hands all over you. "Not tonight..." You whispered, placing your hand over his in an attempt to stop him. Ignoring your plea, he slid your shorts down your ankles. You felt the tip of his length against your entrance, and he penetrated you, pulling your hips back with a sudden, unwelcome force. He took you without any warning, whispering sweet nothings in your ear, repeatedly reminding you how much he loved you and how you were the only one for him. Tears welled in your eyes as you forced yourself to fulfill your duty as a wife. You pushed your ass back against him, desperate to make him finish quickly and bring an end to this. When it was over, the urge to throw up overwhelmed you.

●

Patrick had followed your instructions not to ring the doorbell and trigger the recording of the camera, so he texted you upon his arrival. You opened the door and quickly pulled him inside, gripping his shirt. "Where did you park your car?" You asked, your arms wrapping around his neck as you kissed him hungrily. "Down the street." He replied between breaths. After a few minutes of showing him how glad you were that he was here, you offered to give him a tour. "Damn, he’s making big money." Patrick exclaimed as you led him through yet another room. The Zweigs’ home seemed modest in comparison to yours, and yet, when you were growing up, they owned the largest house you had ever seen. Patrick paused in the corridor, his gaze fixed on the large wedding portrait hanging on the wall. In the photo, your husband stood behind you as you sat in front of him, your voluminous, puffy dress filling the frame. "How cute." Patrick said with a smirk. "You took a father-daughter picture on your wedding day." You playfully slapped his arm. You knew he only wanted to tease you but there was some truth to his words. The age difference, so obvious in that image, had only become clear to you now, thanks to Patrick’s perspective. You locked eyes with your younger self in the photograph, remembering how innocent and full of life she once was. She was so happy and in love. You missed her.

"You know your parents were actually there that day." You said, recalling how your parents had insisted on inviting the Zweigs out of old friendship, despite the distance that had grown between you and them over the years. You were genuinely glad to see them, and they had been remarkably generous with their wedding gift. You were fairly certain Patrick had been invited as well, but he never showed up. "They would probably be very disappointed in you for letting yourself be corrupted by their failure of a son." He murmured, his gaze still fixed intently on the picture. "Or very pleased." You countered. Patrick glanced at you, puzzled. "You can’t imagine how hard our moms tried to set us up." Patrick snorted at the comment, disbelief evident in his eyes. "No way!" You nodded insistently. "Don’t you remember how they always forced us to hang out?" A smile played on your lips. Did he really think you were willingly following him around everywhere back then? "I was a kid, and my mom tried to convince me you’d make a good husband!" The memory of your mother’s persistent hints came flooding back. "Really? You didn’t notice anything?" You asked, astonished. He shrugged, genuinely confused. "Damn, you really never consider me as a woman!" You blurted out, chuckling. It stung a bit that Patrick had never even glanced your way despite your mothers’ scheming, but it was all in the past. You knew the effect you had on him now. "I was too focused on tennis!" He tried to explain. "Liar!" You teased. "You always had a new girlfriend. Like that girl…" You began, your voice trailing off as you tried to recall the name of the first one who had lingered long enough to be introduced to his parents. You recalled meeting her too, and thinking she was the most beautiful woman you’d ever seen. Back then, you couldn’t understand why she’d settled for someone like Patrick. But that was before you knew how much of a good fuck he was. Now it made sense. "Ah, yes, Tashi Duncan!" At the mention of her name, his smile faded, and the mood in the room changed. There was history there. Sensing the need to divert the conversation, you quickly continued. "But it’s alright. I can deal with the fact that I didn’t make you hard when you were a teenager." You shrugged nonchalantly. "I can make you hard quite alright now." With a playful tug on the waistband of his pants, you drew him closer and pressed your lips firmly against his.

Patrick had one mission that day : to claim every room in your house as his own by fucking you there. It began in the living room with a quickie on the couch. "Did he fuck you there?" He asked then, gesturing toward the kitchen counter. You nodded, though the truth was that your husband had never touched you in that space. The house was new, and your sex life had long since declined. Yet, Patrick seemed intent on marking his territory in your husband's home. He took you on the kitchen counter, and later, on the desk in your husband's office. By the time you reached the bedroom, you were already sore and overstimulated. "Now you’ll think about me every time you’re fucking him in this bed." Patrick babbled as he bounced you on top of him. You clawed at his chest, whimpering in pain as your pussy burned from the relentless penetration. Despite the discomfort, you couldn’t stop. If you could erase every memory of your husband in that bed and only keep thoughts of Patrick, you would take it gladly.

"I’m sure this is the first time you’ve come in that bed." He mumbled as you got off him and laid beside him, panting heavily from your orgasm. You chuckled, finding his bitterness amusing. "Don’t be ridiculous." You teased, calling him out. "I’ve masturbated there before." You burst into laughter, and his chuckle soon joined yours.

Though it was still early, you felt utterly drained. All you wished for was to close your eyes and wake up a week later. It was the first time you were sharing a bed with Patrick solely for the purpose of sleeping, rather than for sex. Even though he had fucked you in your marital bed, you had moved to the guest room for the night. You nestled close to him, your face pressed against his neck, fully immersed in his comforting scent. With your eyes closed, you drifted into sleep almost immediately and so did he.

Waking up next to Patrick felt even better than falling asleep beside him. As he pulled you closer, his eyes still closed, your heart pounded out of your chest. Was this what it felt like to be Patrick’s girlfriend? You enjoyed the domesticity of the moment, the simplicity and comfort of sharing a bed. The fact that, even half asleep, he sought your presence warmed your heart deeply. Feeling his morning wood pressing against the back of your thigh only added to your delight. It was these small, tender moments that made you crave more than just a fling, that made you yearn for a life that was intertwined with his in every way.

After a few moments of cuddling in bed, you slipped out quietly to give Patrick time to wake up properly. Embracing the role of his wife for the day, you busied yourself in the kitchen, preparing a healthy breakfast with the best ingredients from your fridge. You arranged a plate with fruits, eggs, and bacon, ensuring it offered everything his body needed. When he finally emerged from the bedroom, you served him the meal and then headed to the shower. Of course, it wasn't long before Patrick joined you. "Already done?" You asked, surprised that he had finished his plate so quickly. He nodded and wrapped his arms around you, his embrace growing warm under the stream of hot water. "Can I have my breakfast now?" You asked with a playful smirk, lowering yourself to your knees. Holding his length close to your lips, you glanced up to ensure he was watching as you took him fully into your mouth.

You were barely dressed when he began demanding more. He pinned you against the living room window, the curtains barely hiding the view of you with a man who wasn’t your husband. He yanked your panties down to your ankles and lifted your skirt as he penetrated you. "Now anyone who walks by can see that you’re a whore." He murmured, his voice low, filled with possessiveness. Your face was pressed against the glass, giving you a full view of your neighbor’s front yard. Anyone passing by could, indeed, see you if they looked up, but you didn’t care. In fact, part of you wanted them to see who you truly belonged to.

●

As the months went by, Patrick became your priority. You weren’t buying so many designer bags anymore, instead, you found yourself financing Patrick's career. He had no remorse about taking your husband's money, and you were more than willing to provide. You wanted him to have the best tennis equipment, the nicest furniture, and the softest bed sheets. You hoped that every time he used his racket or laid in bed, he would think of you, knowing that every element of his life had your touch.

There was something in you that made you want to take care of Patrick like he was an innocent baby lamb. You just wanted to make this boy’s life easier, ease all the pain he had to go through in his life. Once, you even suggested selling some pieces from your collection to help him secure a decent place to stay. That was where he drew the line, refusing to let your loss be his gain.

"Thanks for the bag!" He exclaimed, the strap of the brand new tennis backpack hanging off his shoulder. He stood in front of the mirror in his underwear, admiring the bag from every angle. You gazed lovingly at him while lying on his bed on your stomach, chin resting on your hands. Patrick had always been good-looking, but lately, he seemed even more handsome. Perhaps it was the feelings you had developed, making you see him in a new light. Just the sight of his biceps made you a little weak. You had always thought you weren't the type to swoon over athletes and their muscles, but you had been wrong. Patrick’s body was a masterpiece. You could never get tired of looking at him. Your eyes traced the lines of his chiseled jawline, lingering on the reddish hairs covering his chin. From there, your gaze moved to his broad shoulders, strong and imposing, a testament to the years he had spent perfecting his serve. You drifted over his strong, veiny arms that always held you so effortlessly, and settled his small, pink nipples stood out against the firmness of his chest. Your stare lingered on his sculpted stomach, captivated by the defined muscles, before following the strip of dark hair that trailed down his lower abdomen. "You're welcome, baby." You mumbled, eyes fixed on the curve of his ass. You had to bite your lip to stifle a moan as you drifted to the hem of his boxers and his fuzzy thighs. It was impossible to look away when Patrick was in a room. For a second, you wondered if his fans were as captivated as you when they watched him on a tennis court.

"I want to see you play someday." You said with a sigh of frustration, watching him model the new bag. It was a line you had always been careful not to cross. You already occupied most of his free time, intruding on his professional life felt like overstepping. You weren’t his devoted girlfriend or his tennis wife, just the woman he fucked from time to time. He turned to face you, setting the bag down on the floor. "Then come watch the tournament next Friday?" He suggested, a proud smile spreading across his face. The tournament? You recalled him mentioning he was training for a state-level challenger, one that could be a pivotal moment in his career. It might be the very thing that lifted him out of the slump he’d been in. "Wait, you qualified?" You asked, your voice rising with excitement. He nodded enthusiastically. "Why didn’t you tell me?" You exclaimed, leaping into his arms and wrapping your limbs around him. He lifted you effortlessly, his hands gripping your thighs firmly as you showered his face with kisses.

●

Friday couldn’t come fast enough. You were thrilled to finally watch Patrick play after all these years. Back in your teenage days, you usually avoided his matches, uninterested in tennis and reluctant to spend hours watching boys hit a ball. But now, you were so eager that you arrived an hour early. Sitting in the bleachers, you hid behind a hat and sunglasses, hoping to avoid running into anyone you knew. Tennis was quite popular in your community, so you wouldn't be surprised if someone from the country club showed up and saw you getting all cozy with a tennis player.

A few minutes after you sent Patrick one final good luck text, he stepped onto the court. He scanned the audience with a focused gaze, as if searching for something, or someone. Was he looking for you? Did he anticipate your presence as much as you had longed to be there? You hesitated for a moment before raising your hand and giving a small wave, not wanting to embarrass yourself if he happened to acknowledge someone else. When his eyes finally found you, his face lit up with a grin that left you breathless, and he nodded in your direction.

The match began with each player standing on their side of the net. Patrick wasn’t the server for this set. When his opponent served the first ball, it flew across the court and met Patrick’s racket. A succession of strokes followed, the sound of sneakers grating on the cement echoing with every quick move as the ball zipped back and forth. Patrick scored the first point by powerfully slamming the ball over the net, where it hit the ground. His opponent was skilled, but Patrick played with a level of determination you had never witnessed before. If he had been bringing as little as half the same energy in bed when fucking you, you were certain you’d be dead by now. When his opponent scored the first point, Patrick’s confident expression slipped, replaced by a grimace. Despite this, he didn’t allow the other player to score again, ultimately winning the first set by five points.

As the match went on, you found yourself on the edge of your seat, your heart racing with the set’s rhythm. For a moment, your attention drifted from the ball to Patrick’s muscular arms, glistening with a thin layer of sweat. From the way his arm flexed with every motion, veins on his forearms bulging, to the way his fingers gripped the racket tightly, reminding you of how he fisted his cock to milk himself all over your face. You couldn’t help but be turned on by the sight of him, everything reminded you of him fucking you. Realizing another point was added to the score during your daydream, you tried to shake off the inappropriate thoughts and focus on the match. After a few minutes, your eyes wandered to his ridiculously short shorts, barely concealing how big he was underneath. His bulge bounced with each leap and sprint, and you craved to have it, hot and salty, in your mouth. Damn. Fuck the game, you couldn’t keep your eyes off him. There was something about the way his shirt clung to his torso, drenched with sweat, accentuating the contours of his sculpted stomach that made you almost bark like a dog. And you didn’t even want to mention the way his thick, fuzzy thighs jiggled with every step, making you salivate, or how his firm ass filled out those shorts so perfectly.

You felt a stir of guilt, feeling like a perv, as you watched him play. What had begun as a desire to connect with him, to know more about his passion, had turned into a fixation that overshadowed the game itself. You sighed deeply, crossing your legs to prevent the dampness in your underwear from showing. You shifted your gaze to his opponent, realizing that watching that ugly loser was probably the best way to regain your focus and follow the match.

As the final ball of the second set landed on the opposite side of the court, you clapped with excitement a broad smile spreading across your face. That’s when you noticed two girls in the audience, cheering louder than anyone else, screaming his name at the top of their lungs. You couldn’t help but glare at them. They were young and cute, with tiny skirts showing just enough thighs, their hairs flowing in the wind, their firm asses and perky tits. It was obvious that Patrick was an attractive man, but it had never truly hit you that he could have anyone he wanted. Maybe he even already had them. And just like that, with one wild thought, another competition started on the court. You needed to outscream them. You were going to yell his name louder than anyone had before. You no longer cared if someone recognized you, you just wanted to make those little bitches shut the fuck up.

When the last point of the third set was won, the crowd erupted in applause. Patrick stood victorious, his face glistening with sweat, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. Pride radiated from his expression. He looked up at you once more, and this time, you didn't shy away. You stood and cheered as loud as possible, your heart swelling with adoration. You had seen a new side of him, and you didn't think it was possible to fall even harder for him.

In just two hours, you felt transformed, a whole new woman, as if you had undergone a grueling religious experience. Watching Patrick being so passionate on the court almost made you resent his racket and ball. You yearned for him to feel that way about you, to be his priority, the one thing that consumed his thoughts. You wanted him to love you.

After the match, you were determined not to give his two fans the chance to monopolize his attention, so you waited for him, despite knowing your husband was probably waiting for you at home. Truth be told, you didn't even want to let them congratulate him. You watched as every single member of the audience left the court, your eyes narrowing on the two girls who skipped down the bleachers to join Patrick as he put his racket away in his bag. "Fucking cunts." You muttered under your breath, fuming as they interacted with your man. Patrick was all smiles, engaged in an animated conversation with them. Was he trying to piss you off on purpose? You sighed and leaned back in your seat, arms crossed, glaring at them with such hate that it felt like you were burning holes into the backs of their heads.

When the court was finally empty, you made your way to his car and waited for him there. When he arrived, his new tennis bag slung over his shoulder, you were leaning against his car. "You’re alone? You didn’t bring one of your fangirls?" You asked, unable to hide the jealousy in your voice. "I knew I already had one waiting for me." He replied smoothly, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips as he opened the trunk and began placing his tennis equipment inside.

Once his arms were free, he pulled you into a tight hug, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. You wore the perfume he loved on purpose, knowing it drove him wild. His hair, still damp from the shower, left a wet spot on your shirt, but you didn't care. He gently slid your sunglasses off, his eyes locking onto yours for a moment before he leaned in for a deep, passionate kiss. You wrapped your arms around his waist, pulling him as close as you could, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. The kiss was intense, his tongue eagerly exploring your mouth. After a few moments, you tried to break away to congratulate him, but he was having none of it. Eventually, you managed to pull back, your lips tingling. "Congrats!" You said, breathless, placing a soft peck on his lips. "You were so hot." Your hands slid down to his butt, squeezing it firmly. Patrick let out a deep throaty sound, and began peppering your face with kisses, his arousal evident from the hardness against your stomach.

"So hot that I want to fuck you..." Standing on your tiptoes, you whispered into his ear, your fingers sliding provocatively between his asscheeks. You pressed your index finger against the fabric covering his asshole. "Nuh uh." He shook his head firmly. "You don’t know what you’re doing." It was true, you didn’t know anything about pleasuring a man this way, but you were willing to learn. You could watch instructional videos, order the best lube, and even get the perfect strap. You just wanted to claim him completely. "Then show me how to do it." You said, your voice filled with determination. "Really, should I show you how?" He raised his eyebrows, a smirk dancing on his lips. You nodded eagerly, ready to absorb everything he had to teach. He quickly slid your sunglasses into his pocket and placed his hands on your ass, mirroring your earlier action. He rubbed your crack through your pants with the side of his hand. "You know that’s not what I meant." You kissed his lips as he slid his hands back over your cheeks with a sigh. This had become a game for you, seeing how long you could tease and deny him until he finally took charge. But that idiot didn’t seem to catch on. He just gave up as soon as you said no.

"I really thought you were going home with those two girls." You confessed, a pout forming on your lips as you looked up at him. "What two girls?" He asked, genuinely puzzled. "The cute ones, the girl in white with her hair braided and the other one in pink-" You began to explain before he cut you off. "My cousins?" He exclaimed, his eyes widening in realization. His cousins? Now that you thought about it, they did look familiar but the last time you had seen them they were kids. So, you had been unfairly resenting two innocent girls for hours? "Gross!" He added with a look of disgust. "Get in the car before you start accusing me of banging my dad." You burst out laughing as he opened the passenger door for you. "Wouldn’t blame you, your dad’s kinda cute." You admitted with a playful grin as you jumped into the car. Patrick resembled Mr. Zweig quite a bit, same hair, same freckles, same nose. He was undeniably a handsome man, but you much preferred the son. Patrick slid into the driver’s seat, his brow furrowing at your comment. "Of course, you love fossils." He retorted. You playfully slapped his arm as he started the car and drove away. You glanced at the clock. It was late, too late to head back to his place. Surely, you would find a spot to park for a few minutes on the way back, just enough time for you to blow Patrick before you had to return home to far less enjoyable obligations.

●

You hadn't shared the news with Patrick yet, but after weighing up the pros and cons, you were now certain you wanted to leave your husband. The decision had come after another sleepless night, lying beside a man you no longer felt connected to, your mind wandering to thoughts of Patrick's face, his touch, the way he made you feel alive. You were now certain that whatever you had with your husband, it wasn’t love. Perhaps it had never been. Patrick was the one who occupied your every thought now. Months had passed before you came to understand that there was no point in staying married when every trait you once admired in your husband now repelled you. The comfort he offered no longer outweighed the ache you felt inside. You weren’t afraid of disappointing your family with the decision to end things anymore, nor were you scared by the prospect of being single. You had Patrick, and though you were certain he would never claim you as his girlfriend, you believed you could remain in his life after the divorce, as long as you allowed him his freedom. He would continue to be with others, and you would maintain the pretense that it didn’t fucking kill you. The only change would be the absence of guilt, the relief from constant deception and self-loathing. You envisioned a life where Patrick's presence, however brief and elusive, would be enough to make you the happiest of women. The thought of living without the shadows of betrayal hanging over you felt liberating.

Now, all that remained was to find a place of your own and save up enough money. You had begun parting with some of your treasured bags, a significant step for you. With no personal bank account, you had to open one just to deposit the funds. Though the account was gradually filling, it still fell short of what you needed to live independently. Mentally, you were at your breaking point, the idea of staying in your marriage any longer was unbearable. You needed the divorce to happen now. Though you were certain Patrick would offer you a place to stay for a few days, you couldn’t bear the thought of overstaying your welcome. The only option left was to hope that your husband would allow you to remain in the house until you found a place of your own.

The only thing left was to break the news. You wanted to wait for a moment that felt right to announce a divorce, if such a moment did exist. You were clueless, having never imagined yourself as one of those divorcees. When you first married, you were convinced it would be forever, yet here you were, anxiously flipping bacon in a pan, rehearsing the impending conversation in your head. You decided that telling him in the morning, before he left for work, would give him a few hours to process the news and offer you some space away from any potential outburst. Though your husband was not a violent man, you knew he would react with anger and accusations, blaming you for ruining his life, like his previous wife did. Telling him in the morning would not only give him time to come to terms with the situation but also allow you to use the day to pack your bags.

You placed a plate of eggs and bacon before him, its presentation less neat than usual, and settled into the chair across from him as he began to eat. "I’m not happy…" You said, your eyes focused on your hands, nervously picking at your cuticles to avoid meeting his gaze. He paused, setting his fork and knife down with a resigned sigh. "I can tell." He replied, his voice carrying a hint of resignation. Gathering your courage, you took a deep breath, ready to deliver the news in one swift motion. "I want-..." You were startled by the sudden sound of his deep voice. "I know what you want…" Did he? Was he about to make things easier for you? Had he noticed the growing distance between you two? Your mind raced as he continued, "I’ve thought about it, and I think I’m ready for us to have a baby." The words hit you like a punch to the gut. A baby? Was he serious? After all those years of rejecting the idea, he chose this moment, as you were on the brink of leaving, to bring it up?

You stared at him in stunned silence, the weight of his words sinking in. The only sounds that penetrated the stillness were the hum of the refrigerator and the rapid beating of your heart. He knew that this was the one thing you had always yearned for, a dream you had long since abandoned, believing it would never come true. You had grieved motherhood when you married a man who had no interest in having children, and you had buried the hope even deeper when you planned to leave him for another man who was equally unwilling to grant you that wish. But now, here was an opportunity, one you could not bring yourself to refuse. The meticulously crafted plans for escape now seemed like a distant, fading dream. Finally, you managed to talk. "Let’s do it." The words slipped out before you could fully comprehend their meaning. The prospect of a baby had momentarily overshadowed all other thoughts. His eyes brightened with a blend of relief and joy. The rest of breakfast passed in a blur of forced smiles and muted conversation. As you cleared the table, the reality of what you had just agreed to began to settle in. A baby meant Patrick had to go.

You needed to talk this through with Patrick. Despite not being his wife, you felt he deserved as much input into this decision as you did. A pregnancy would inevitably affect your relationship. You waited until your husband had left the house before calling an Uber to Patrick’s place. When Patrick opened the door, his eyes widened with concern at the sight of your distressed expression. "What’s wrong?" He asked, guiding you inside. You sank onto the couch with a sigh. "He wants a baby." You admitted. The room fell into a heavy silence. Patrick settled beside you, his gaze unwavering as you struggled to meet his eyes. "Do you want one?" He asked softly. You nodded, your desire unmistakable. It had been your dream for so long, and you couldn’t lie to him, even if it meant that dream might drive you apart. "Then I think you’d make a great mom." He said, pressing a tender kiss to your lips. Was it all? Did he not grasp what it meant? Did he not care that it meant you had to break things off with him?

●

Weeks passed, and you hadn't brought up the subject again with Patrick. You thought your husband might change his mind about having a baby, so there seemed no reason to discuss it further. However, he was more than serious. He had booked an appointment with the gynecologist and accompanied you to the clinic. He was even present when the doctor removed your IUD, explaining that fertility could return immediately after its removal. That very night, your husband insisted that you start trying. The whole ordeal had lasted a bit longer than ten minutes, most of which had been spent with you jerking him off. Before Patrick, you had always wondered if something was wrong with you because your husband had always preferred your hand over your cunt. But now you knew you weren’t bad at sex, so what was the issue? Was it the same for him as it was for you? Was he so in love with his mistress that it felt wrong fucking his own wife? When he had felt the orgasm nearing, he had spread your legs and penetrated you. After a few lazy thrusts, he had came, filling you up with his load. If baby making was anything like this, it was cold, unloving and unenjoyable.

Not as pleasant as what was happening at the moment. Patrick was fondling your breasts as you cooked him dinner. His warm breath tickled your neck as he placed dozens of sweet kisses against your nape. You could feel his hard cock against your ass and feel yourself getting lost in the feeling of his fingers against your nipples. But you couldn’t just let him have his way, there were consequences to your actions now. "Pat, stop. I just got my IUD removed..." You explained as you flipped the omelet in the pan. He sighed and pulled his hands away from under your shirt, his face showing clear disappointment. "So, no more fucking?" He asked, a pout on his face. "Pull out?" You suggested. "Oh because that worked so well the first time." He said with a hint of sarcasm. You remembered the whole STD scare that had happened on the very first day together. After a pause, he offered. "I could fuck you in the ass." You shook your head without even glancing in his direction. Sure, you could do that once or twice, but more than that? Hell no. You needed to feel him stretch your pussy. "Condoms." You suggested, offering what seemed like the only initiative. "Or anal." He insisted, his tone unwavering. You turned to face him, your arms crossing tightly over your chest, your eyes narrowing in frustration. "So you plan on fucking me in the ass for the rest of my life?" You asked, your voice edged with disbelief. You had given alternatives, yet he was still adamant about ignoring your poor needy little cunt. His attitude shifted dramatically. The usual playful Patrick had vanished, replaced by someone way more resentful. "I wouldn’t have to if you hadn’t been a coward and left him when I told you to." He snapped. So it was all out of spite. You had never seen such anger in his eyes, and you couldn’t tell whether it came from you denying him the right to unload in your cunt or from the fact that your desire for a baby was getting more concrete. "So should I just leave him?" You asked, turning off the gas burner with a click. His response came sharply. "Duh, he’s a piece of shit." Patrick’s words offered no comfort. He was unaware of your earlier plans to divorce and how you had abandoned them at the mere mention of a child. He had no idea how deeply you longed to be a mother, or how lonely you had been until he came into your life. This had never been a topic of discussion between you. Despite what he seemed to believe, you hadn’t taken the easy way out. You remained married to a neglectful husband who neither loved you nor you loved, but you had chosen a life that provided what Patrick couldn’t : belongingness. He was unaware that even the slightest hint of a promise of being his girlfriend, or any other status, would have made you leave your husband right away. Sure, you longed for marriage and babies, but you were ready to give up on those dreams if Patrick promised to be by your side for the rest of his life.

"Do you think I have a choice, Patrick? What else can I do except be a wife?" His mouth opened as if to respond, but you cut him off, not giving him the chance to speak. "If I leave him, where do I go? I belong nowhere." The realization had only struck you during your plans to divorce him : your husband had made you so dependent on him while giving you the illusion of independence. You believed you were free to spend your days as you wished and buy whatever you wanted without justification. But in reality, you lived to please your husband, organizing your schedule around his own and the money you spent was his money : nothing was truly yours. Not even your free time. The only thing that was truly yours was your relationship with Patrick. "What should I do for a living? Sell my ass?" Your voice rose with the last question, an attempt to mask the cry threatening to escape. "Don’t be ridiculous." He responded, his tone soft trying to soothe you. "You’re going to take care of me then?" You asked, looking at him straight in the eyes. He remained silent. "And you know what? It’s not even about him anymore." The words spilled out. You were ready to leave your husband, but you weren’t ready to give up on the dream of a child now that it seemed almost within your grasp. "If I leave him, are you going to be the one giving me a baby? Or should I just fuck some random guy, hoping he gives me what I want?" All you wanted was to hear him say that you could leave your husband, he would provide for you, help you find a career and make you a mother, but he couldn’t promise you that, he didn’t want that. "I’m sorry." He whispered as he wrapped his arms tightly around you. While his arms offered comfort, they couldn’t soothe the pain within you caused from his lack of words.

●

Despite the argument, you had let Patrick get what he wanted. You were unable to say no to him. He now took you from behind on a regular basis. Despite your fear of pain, your first experience with anal sex had been unexpectedly very pleasurable. Patrick had been meticulous in his preparation, first using his tongue, then his fingers, and plenty of lube to ensure you were thoroughly ready. You appreciated the burn of stretching as he eased into your tightness. Still, you missed the deep, relentless pounding that had once bruised your cervix and left you dazed. Yet, you had come to realize that having anal sex with Patrick Zweig was better than not having sex at all. Although on some lucky nights, he would begin fucking your pussy like he always did and finish in your ass. Those were your favorite kinds of nights. Tonight was one of them.

You were bent over the couch, your hips raised in the air, while he stood behind you, thrusting into you with force. "I-I.. should just put a… baby in you." He groaned, his voice heavy with desire as the sound of his fat sack smacking against you filled the room. His words sent a shiver through you, leaving you breathless and trembling. Your legs began to shake, nearly giving out under the surge of pleasure. "Please, do it!" You pleaded, your eyes shutting tightly with ecstasy. His words sent a jolt of electricity straight to your clit. Patrick being your baby daddy? That was all you wanted now. "That’s all that asshole deserves... raising my bastard child..." He mumbled, fucking you like a maniac. His words weren’t the only things filled with resentment, you could feel how much he despised your husband in the way he pounded into you. For a fleeting second, you thought maybe you should piss him off more often. "Please, Patrick." You moaned, pushing your hips back against him, craving every thrust. "He doesn’t deserve to soil your body." Patrick growled through clenched teeth, his voice thick with anger. He grabbed a fistful of your hair, forcing you to tilt your head back as his teeth sank into your neck. He was usually careful not to leave marks, but this time, you felt his teeth dig a bit too hard into your skin. "I want your baby, Pat…" You begged, clenching hard around his length, your desperation palpable. "Don’t be stupid." He snapped, his tone harsh. "You would hate me for it." Hate him for it? If only he knew how many times you had imagined yourself carrying his child. Without warning, he switched holes, slamming himself into your ass. You let out a pained whine, your body tensing at the sudden intrusion. This time, he hadn't prepared you in the slightest, only using your juices as lube, and the sharp discomfort interrupted the orgasm that had been building up. You quickly reached between your legs, fingers finding your already throbbing clit as he forced himself into your ass. The mere thought of him breeding you reignited the tension, building the pressure toward another climax. "So tight... I can't even pull away." He whispered against your neck, his hand joining yours between your legs, guiding the rhythm of your touches. After minutes of relentless rutting, you both climaxed together, Patrick's release buried deeply within your guts.

The thought of all this cum going to waste filled you with a surge of frustration. Once he pulled out, you could only think if only you could push back hard enough to let it drip onto your cunt, maybe, with a bit of luck, you could become Patrick Zweig’s baby mama. Before you could even attempt it, however, Patrick’s tongue was already working its way to your asshole, eagerly lapping up every last drop of his semen.

"So, are you two really trying for a baby?" He asked, his voice tinged with curiosity as you both lay sprawled naked in bed. You nodded, a hint of determination in your eyes. "He’s actually fucking you?" He pressed, his tone incredulous. You nodded once more, feeling the weight of his questions. He grimaced, a look of disgust crossing his face. "Don’t you know how babies are made?" You joked lightly, reaching over to pinch his nipple playfully. "Does he make you come?" He asked suddenly, his gaze intense. You had never seen him so serious, gone was the casual tone of before. You shook your head. Of course, he did not. In comparison to the rush you felt with Patrick, having sex with your husband truly felt like a chore. It wasn’t unpleasant most of the time but nothing truly enjoyable. "I’m the only one who knows how your body really works." He said. You nodded eagerly in agreement. You couldn’t even make yourself come as hard as you did with him.

He started by letting his mouth wander down your neck, his lips brushing softly against the curves of your chest. "My tits." He murmured, adding a playful bite to his kisses as he grazed your skin, each nip sending shivers down to your stomach. His lips traced a heated path across your body, leaving a lingering warmth. As his attention drifted lower, he took hold of your ass with a possessive yet gentle grip. "My ass." He declared, his hands exploring your curves with a blend of desire and affection. Then, he devoted his full attention to the most intimate part of you. "My tight little cunt." He whispered, his voice low as he began to feast upon your core. You grasped his hair tightly, pulling on the soft curls as he used his tongue with fervor.

"Mine, mine, mine." He repeated like a mantra. You wanted to believe him. Yet, despite his claims of possession, you knew deep down that he didn’t truly desire to own you. If he did, he wouldn’t let you return to your husband at the end of each night.

●

Your period had started, and you felt like dying. The cramps were bearable, but the emotional pain was killing you. You had spent the morning with a dull ache in your lower stomach, a sign that something was definitely wrong. Although you recognized the pain, you clung to a small hope that it might be a good sign. You didn’t know much about pregnancy, after all. Perhaps there was still a chance. But it was the sight of the bloodstain on your panties that made you break down in sobs. It was concrete proof you weren’t pregnant. All those times you forced yourself to smile while your husband snuck his hands under your clothes had been for nothing? Unprepared and caught off guard, you had nothing to take care of it. You had to stuff your underwear with toilet paper and order pads through a delivery service. After they arrived, you took a long hot shower to wash away the blood from your inner thighs. Then, instinctively, you made your way to Patrick’s place despite knowing he couldn’t fuck you. You weren’t sure why you were there. Maybe you were seeking some comfort.

When he opened the door, you wrapped your arms tightly around him without saying a word. Patrick just let you in and kissed you gently. You were surprised he didn’t immediately jump your bones like he usually did the second you passed through the door. You wanted to believe he could sense you weren’t feeling right, that he knew you better than anyone. But the truth was, he was most likely oblivious to your issue. Instead, he held you close, his embrace warm and comforting, as you laid on his couch, watching TV with him. You lay beneath him, gently stroking his hair as his head rested on your chest. His breath was warm against your skin, and you felt a surprising sense of peace despite the chaos within you. After more than an hour of cuddling, he shifted, lifting your shirt and slipping his head underneath it. His lips left a trail of burning kisses across your stomach, each one sending a shiver through you. "I need to fuck you." Patrick whispered against your bare skin. You sighed inwardly. Of course, you couldn’t just hang out with Patrick without sex being involved. Not that you usually complained, but right now, you couldn’t and didn’t need to add frustration to the swirling mix of emotions you felt. "I'm on my period." You interrupted him. He quickly removed his head from under your shirt and looked at you with a wide smile on his face. "Really?" He asked, looking quite happy for a man you were rejecting. Was he glad you were bleeding? Was it some kind of kink of his? Or was he just glad you weren’t pregnant? "Do you think I care about a little bit of blood?" He questioned, and you frowned in disgust. He truly had no limits. "At least, I will be able to fill your cunt this time." Oh, so that was the reason? That was enough to make you consider it.

You resisted at first, holding back until the intensity of his grinding against your core left you begging for it. You felt uneasy about letting him inside you while you were bleeding heavily, but he insisted it didn't bother him in the slightest. He pulled down your sweats and underwear, revealing the blood-soaked pad. You braced yourself for his reaction, expecting it to turn him off, but instead, he remained unfazed. "Do you have cramps?" He asked, his voice steady as he tapped his thighs, signaling you to straddle him. On his couch? He didn’t seem to know how messy things could get . You positioned yourself on his lap, facing him, and wrapped your arms around his neck. "A bit." You admitted. "Apparently, it helps." He pulled his length free from his shorts as you lifted your hips. You reached for him, guiding his shaft to your core before you sat down onto it. As he began thrusting upward, you were already moving wildly against him, driven by an insatiable craving for his touch. Your period made you extra horny and sensitive, amplifying every touch and sensation. He gripped your buttcheeks firmly, pulling you down onto his length with deliberate, slow strokes. Your eyes rolled back in your head. “Ah...” You moaned, glancing down to ensure you weren’t fucking in a pool of blood. All you could see was a pinkish blend of cream and blood covering the base of his cock. Reassured that you weren’t bleeding to death in your lover’s arms, you started bouncing on him with renewed fervor. A grunt escaped his lips when you planted a passionate kiss on them.

“Patrick…” You sighed in bliss. “I’m coming…” He dug his fingernails into your ass cheeks as you clenched around his length, feeling the climax build. A few extra well-angled thrusts pushed you over the edge. “Fuck!” You cried out. You hid your face in the crook of his neck, eyes closed, a smile spreading across your face as you came, feeling both overwhelmed and dizzy. You pressed your lips against his neck, feeling the pulse of his heartbeat against your mouth.

When he finally followed you into climax and you felt his warmth spreading deep inside you, a sensation you had been missing for weeks, you couldn’t help but admit that maybe he was right. Period sex, despite your initial reservations, was actually quite alright.

You both ended up in the shower, trying to clean up the mess you had made. "Are you disappointed you're on your period?" He asked, his voice echoing softly against the tiled walls while he rubbed soap over his body. Disappointed was an understatement. "A bit… I knew it could take some time to get pregnant, but I kinda hoped it would be quick." You admitted, feeling already exhausted of the baby-making process. "You should be prepared that it might take a while. The sperm is like centuries old. Fucking expired." Patrick replied, mocking your husband once more. "Patrick." You glared at him. The truth was, you didn’t care that he was making fun of the man you shared your life with. It didn’t matter. What irked you was the unsettling possibility that he might be right and that getting pregnant wouldn’t be as easy as you hoped.

●

Taking pregnancy tests each day had become an obsessive routine. Each morning, you felt the urge to pee on the stick as soon as you woke up. Your desire to become a mother was only matched by your eagerness to escape the never-ending cycle of trying. Your attraction to your husband had faded, so you had to mentally prepare yourself each time, struggling to even become slightly wet. It was painful most of the time, and his lack of attention to your pleasure made the whole experience a struggle. You were convinced that if he were more attentive with foreplay, things might have been better. For now, lube was your best friend, and you blamed your dryness on nervousness. After all, making a baby was a pretty big deal. During the act, you had to do some of your best acting, pretending to be overwhelmed with pleasure the second he was inside you just to boost his ego and make him jizz quicker. And once he came, you felt disgusting, but you had to keep it together and raise your legs above your head.

But today, the test looked different. Two lines appeared, with the second line so faint it was almost invisible. You took another test, and then another, each one revealed the same faint line. As you gazed at the positive pregnancy tests lined up next to the sink, a wave of mixed emotions washed over you. Part of you was filled with happiness, knowing your dream was finally about to become a reality. Yet, another part of you was torn, for this also meant the end of things with Patrick. For a brief, tempting moment, you wondered if you could keep it a secret from him a bit longer, until you started showing, just to keep seeing him a few more months. But deep down, you knew you couldn't lie to him. You couldn’t betray him, not like you did with your husband.

Patrick was the first person you wanted to tell, even before your husband. When you arrived at his place, you realized you had no idea on how to break the news. You kissed him lightly on the lips as he opened the door and let you in, but you remained silent. You wished you had rehearsed what to say before rushing over. "What’s wrong?" He asked, sensing your discomfort as you barely responded to his caresses and kisses against your neck. "I think I’m pregnant..." You blurted out. You felt his hands instinctively pull away from your ass, and the smile vanished from his face. "Oh." His gaze dropped to your stomach. "Wow." He murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "Congrats?" Patrick had never been good at lying, and his half-hearted congratulations made that evident. He looked at you, chewing on the inside of his cheek, struggling to mask his emotions. You knew how delicate the situation was, but you had hoped he would show a bit more happiness for you. Yet, deep down, you were also relieved that he didn’t. It meant he wasn’t ready to let go of you.

You had never broached the subject of what would happen between the two of you once you became pregnant. Truthfully, you had avoided thinking about it completely. It had always seemed clear to you that it would mark the end of your affair and you hated it. But apparently, that wasn’t as obvious for Patrick. "Do you want to stop seeing each other?" He suddenly asked, his voice trembling with uncertainty. Was it even a real question? You shook your head in denial. Giving the opposite answer would have been the right thing to do for your family but you had no desire to end things. "Thank god." He murmured with palpable relief, drawing you into a passionate kiss. You were stunned by his reaction. What kind of guy would continue a casual relationship with someone who was pregnant with someone else’s child? It seemed so morally wrong. Yet, nothing felt more intensely right than the sensation of Patrick’s fingers wandering beneath your panties.

●

The first two months of your pregnancy felt like the beginning of your relationship all over again. Patrick was back to fucking you at least four times a week, taking full advantage of the freedom to fill you with his cum without any worries. And you never brought the subject up again, not even once. You knew life was growing inside you, but you pretended to ignore it and be your old self. You were as present for Patrick as you could be. Despite your husband being a bit more attentive since you gave him the news, you made time, making sure to be at Patrick’s place as soon as your husband left for work. As much as you wanted things to remain that way, you noticed Patrick had become a bit more cautious around you. No more throwing you against every piece of furniture, no more strangling your neck with his strong hands or sitting on your chest, pinning you down while he made you gag on his cock. He still treated you like a cock-hungry whore, calling you all sorts of names and covering you with his cum, but he was more gentle about it. You hated it. You hated how he pretended everything was unchanged, while you found yourself begging for even the slightest hint of roughness. He had even stopped smoking in your presence, and you nearly had to put a cigarette between his lips for him to feel relaxed enough to light it up. You had spent months yearning for him to show some consideration, and now, when he did, you craved the uncaring treatment you once had. What was wrong with you?

And then, just when you thought nothing could burst your bubble, he had to leave for a tour. You were thrilled for him, celebrating his success and impressive rankings, but you also felt resentment. He always seemed to choose tennis over you. You found it unsettling when you realized that you actually preferred it when he was miserable and struggling with his career because it meant he needed you more. How twisted was that?

While he was away, he made a point to check in on you, sending you a daily picture of his cock. You were grateful for it, especially since the hormones had you unbearably horny, making you hump your pillow several times a day. You were also thankful for FaceTime, allowing you to watch his face as he came, your name on his lips and his hand gripping his cock.

When he finally returned, defeated and unvictorious, you rushed to his apartment like an addict craving her fix. You had missed him so much, it almost felt like dying. Now that he was back, you were determined not to let him go. As he opened the door and you saw him standing there, you could swear he looked even more handsome than you remembered. He greeted you with a grin, though his eyes quickly flickered to your stomach. You had spent countless hours on your knees, desperately praying that you wouldn't start showing, wishing to remain physically the same woman you had always been. But despite your efforts, your body had grown larger and fuller, and loose clothing could no longer cover it. "Come in, fatty." He teased as he let you inside. It was probably the last thing you wanted to hear as an emotional, pregnant woman who yearned to stay slim and hot for her athletic lover. Yet, the playful smack on your ass as you walked in reassured you and made you smile. Maybe you were a bit of a "fatty", but you were a "fatty" he wanted to fuck. Once inside, you grasped him by the collar and drew him close, savoring the warmth of his body against yours. You had missed his touch, his scent, his smile. The moment you were reunited, you pressed your lips to his with an urgent, desperate kiss. "I’m so horny…" You murmured breathlessly against his tongue. "When aren’t you?" He replied with a playful smirk, effortlessly lifting you off the ground and gripping your thighs with a firm, possessive hold. "I swear the hormones are driving me crazy." You whispered into his ear, your breath hot and heavy as you nibbled on his earlobe. "Show me then." He urged, biting his lower lip at the sensation of your tongue against his sensitive ear. You spent the rest of the day in bed, riding him into oblivion. Being on top allowed you to grind against him, the friction offering sweet relief to your aching, swollen clit. Even when his body could no longer keep up, you continued, desperately humping his thigh like a starved animal.

After a couple of months, your growing belly made it difficult to have sex in most positions. So now, he mostly fucked you from behind, either spooning you or in doggy style. To be fair, if you really wanted to, you would still ride him, but you suspected that the sight of your pregnant body turned him off. It was either that or Patrick Zweig, the most sexual being you knew, had somehow turned into a saint.

He no longer initiated sex, it was always you who made the first move. While he obliged and fucked you, it was clear he wasn't doing it for his own pleasure. Sure, he would come but he wasn’t using you like he used to. He barely spoke during the act, no more crude talk, he was only asking if you liked it from time to time. Of course, it was still enjoyable, Patrick Zweig would always be a good fuck, whether he put in the effort or not, but the passion was gone. You missed the wild intensity of the past. There were no more forceful poundings. He was delicate now, his strokes long and gentle, his hands tenderly cradling your hips. Throat fucking had become a thing of the past too, he wouldn’t even finish in your mouth anymore. Anal sex, once one of his biggest turn-ons, was suddenly off the table. He had even stopped going down on you. He had tried once, but after a few minutes of his view being blocked by your growing belly, he gave up, leaving you unsatisfied and longing for more.

You didn’t want to admit that your relationship with Patrick had lost part of its thrill. Yet, it became painfully clear when, during a particularly intimate moment, you accidentally called him by your husband’s pet name. "L-lovey…" The forbidden term slipped out while he was spooning you, his cock deeply buried inside. The slow, languid thrusts were so reminiscent of your husband’s lazy fucking and the position so familiar that the mix-up was almost inevitable.

You wanted to ask Patrick what was wrong, whether your changing body was troubling him. Why wasn’t he fucking you like the whore you were anymore? But bringing it up would mean confronting the reality of your pregnancy, something you weren’t ready to face. You still needed him in your life, whether he fucked you or not. You were convinced that keeping him at a distance from your baby was for the best. You had intentionally shielded him from that part of your world. So you never mentioned the countless doctor visits or the preparatory classes you attended. You kept your aches and symptoms to yourself, and he remained oblivious to the fact that you already knew the baby’s gender, and how happy you were about it. It was a girl, just as you had hoped.

●

"Your friend Patricia says she really needs to see you." Your husband said, handing you your phone as it buzzed with a new message. Patricia? Why on earth would Patrick contact you on the weekend? He knew your husband was home. "Ah yes, she’s going through a hard time." Knowing Patrick, probably a really, really, really hard time. "I should probably go, she needs me." You said, making your way to the door. Your husband let out a sigh that made you freeze. It was a sigh that hinted at trouble. "Does Patricia know you’re pregnant?" He asked, his voice carrying an edge. You squinted at him, trying to understand the motive behind his question. Was he still questioning your faithfulness? You knew he had doubts, but you had no way of knowing what he knew or didn’t know. With the lack of honest communication between you, you only knew deception and secrecy, making it unlikely he would confront you directly. He was as much of a coward as you were. For a brief moment, you wondered if his question came from concerns that you might be pregnant with another man’s child. "Yes, it’s not like I can hide it." You answered, trying to sound casual and unconcerned. "She must be happy for you." He said, clearly pressing for more information. "Sure. Like any friend would be." You replied, trying to clear up his doubts. You wanted to reassure him that despite the mess in your relationship, you still respected him enough to be honest about such an important matter. You gave him a quick peck on the cheek, grabbed your jacket, and headed for the door before he could say anything more. As you left the house, you texted Patrick back.

← [To : Patricia - 2:22pm] Don’t text me when he’s home! My husband saw your message! → [From : Patricia - 2:22am] Oh really? Did he see this too? [video attached]

Attached was a video of his cock sliding out of you as he fucked you from behind, one hand pressed against the small of your back while the other held his phone. You had no idea he had even recorded such a video. You’d never seen him use his phone to film before. Judging by your size in the video, it was clearly recent. You found yourself wondering why he had felt the need to capture that moment.

← [To : Patricia - 2:24pm] Is that blackmail material? → [From : Patricia - 2:25pm] More like jerk off material. → [From : Patricia - 2:26pm] You know I would never blackmail you. I want you to be safe and living a comfortable life.

You kept re-reading his words. A comfortable life? What about happiness?

← [To : Patricia - 2:31pm] I’m on my way.

●

Before you knew it, you were back to your monotonous housewife routine. Your husband had returned to his business trips, and the attention he had showered on you after the pregnancy announcement had died down. Once again, you were reduced to just being a part of the house he lived in.

You were now free to invite Patrick over as often as you wished during the week, eager for his company. While sex was mostly why you met him, what you truly craved was his presence. So, he came over to watch movies, play video games, or simply chat. The guest bedroom had essentially become his, and by extension, yours as well. Patrick grew increasingly comfortable in your home, moving through the hallways with the ease of someone who belonged there. You were confident that if you asked him for anything, he would locate it in no time.

You were in the bathtub, savoring a rare moment of intimacy as the warm water enveloped both of you. Patrick's cramped shower barely allowed for such comfortable closeness, but tonight, your spacious bathtub had made it possible. One of his hands rested on your breast while the other lay absentmindedly on your stomach. It was the first time Patrick had ever touched you there. He usually made a conscious effort to avoid this part of your body. Was it because he didn’t want to hurt your baby? Out of respect for your husband? Or was he simply grossed out? The last theory seemed the most probable. For weeks, you had prayed that your child wouldn’t show any sign of life in Patrick’s presence, but it had happened more than once. You always made sure to dismiss it, no matter how hard it kicked, masking any sign of discomfort or awareness. Even though your life was on the brink of a monumental change, you were determined to remain the same old you for Patrick.

You placed your hand on top of his, intertwining your fingers, allowing yourself to imagine, just for a second, that you were living this life with Patrick. That he was your cherished husband with a successful career, and you were carrying his child, a child you both eagerly awaited. When he realized where his hand was, he quickly pulled it away, resting it on your thigh. "Don't you want one of your own someday?" You asked, breaking the silence. "Hell no." He replied, his voice tinged with disgust. "You keep calling me deranged. Do you think it’s a wise decision to pass down those genes?" Sure, he was deranged, but he was also caring, attentive, and sweet. "I think you’d make the best daddy." You said, a warmth in your voice. Silence followed your words, and you could tell they had some kind of impact on him. You doubted anyone had ever thought so highly of him or simply believed he was capable of any kind of responsibility. "Aren’t I already?" He teased, sneaking his hand between your legs, his fingers finding your clit with slow, intense rubs. You bit your lip, knowing he was trying to divert your attention from the seriousness of your words. "I’m serious, Patrick!" You insisted, your voice trembling. "One day, you’re going to make a woman the happiest, and I’m so pissed that it’s not me." There. You said it. You couldn’t pretend anymore that this was a normal, casual relationship. You would have traded the world to be the one Patrick would settle for.

Patrick sighed deeply. And here you were, crying again, your emotions a chaotic mix fueled by hormones. His fingers were still on your cunt, and you were sobbing. "I don’t want to be the reason you’re crying." He murmured, his voice full of regret and tenderness. He placed a soft kiss on your head and wrapped his arms as tightly as he could around your torso. But he was the reason for your tears. If he wanted you to stop crying, he only had to say one word and make you the happiest woman on earth. But he would never. Patrick Zweig would remain a selfish and immature man, unable to commit. Not unable. Unwilling. The future you longed for with Patrick was a fantasy, one that couldn’t coexist with the life you already had, and it had to stop. The bathwater grew colder as your tears continued to fall down your cheeks.

●

You were madly in love with Patrick, it was a fact you could no longer deny, no matter how hard you tried for the sake of your marriage. It was becoming impossible for you to conceal the depth of your distress. It was when you started resenting your baby for straining your relationship that you knew it was time to stop seeing Patrick. You had been so eager to be a mom, but Patrick had made it difficult to look forward to it, and you didn’t want him to ruin your relationship with your unborn child. Ending this relationship would, without a doubt, be the hardest thing you would ever do, but it was necessary. The weight of guilt had become unbearable. It wasn’t your husband you felt sorry for, it was your child. Your rendez-vous with Patrick had lost all its enjoyment. You were fairly certain he could sense how much you loved him and it was starting to scare him. You couldn’t help but constantly message him and tell him how much you missed him. You had to know where he was and with who, acting like his jealous wife. You knew he was fucking other people, you could smell on him and you had no right to say a thing about it. Each time you met, you ended up in tears on his couch, overwhelmed by the betrayal that wasn't even a betrayal. You knew he was grossed out by your swollen body and your unpredictable mood swings. He wasn’t even fucking your brains out anymore, he mostly just held you, cuddled you, and offered reassurances, as a friend might. And those meetings were happening less and less often as he always had a great excuse to cancel on you. His career was doing better than ever and he had to be away from home. You suspected that for him, the end of the relationship had come long before it had for you, and that realization was breaking your heart. Without him, you faced a future alone, and the thought of it frightened you. Breaking up with him felt like a huge mistake, but you couldn’t back down. Your daughter deserved to have parents who respected each other and loved her unconditionally.

"I think we should stop seeing each other." You were lying in bed, spooning when you finally said it, your voice trembling with apprehension. The words you had dreaded to utter hung heavily in the air. "I really need to focus on my child and husband." You attempted to explain, though it felt out of place, considering the months you had spent neglecting both. "I get it." He replied softly, as if he had been expecting this for some time. Wasn’t he going to fight for you? You longed for him to beg, to declare he couldn’t live without you. But instead, he remained silent, simply holding you, his arms wrapped around your chest. Tears began to fall down your cheeks, but you tried to stay quiet, unwilling to show weakness. If he didn’t care about you leaving, why should you care? Fuck it. You were not strong enough to maintain the facade. You wanted him to understand how much he meant to you, how grateful you were for the way he had helped you discover yourself. Because of him, you had learned what love was truly meant to be, and now you had to say goodbye to it. "I will miss you so much." You whispered, a lump forming painfully in your throat. You recognized that you were being unfair by forcing your feelings upon him. Although not answering would make him seem like an asshole, you needed to hear his response. "I know." He replied, but his words offered little comfort. Of course, he wouldn’t answer. "Me too." He finally added, his voice barely a whisper. The words sent you into a fit of loud, uncontrollable crying. Patrick did his best to soothe you, pressing gentle kisses along your neck. For a brief moment, it felt like his face was as wet as yours, though you suspected that was just wishful thinking.

You both stood in front of the door to his apartment, tightly wrapped in an embrace, his chin resting gently on the top of your head as he stroked your back. It had been months since he had held you so closely. It seemed that your enormous belly that used to be an issue for him wasn’t anymore. The hug didn’t help the tears streaming down your face. "I better see you on TV as the best fucking tennis player on earth." You sniffled against his chest. You only wished for the best for him, knowing he had the potential to achieve it. "Don’t worry, I’ll make myself impossible to avoid." He teased, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. "And you’d better be the happiest woman on earth. You and the little one." You nodded, though you had doubts about ever finding happiness without him. At the very least, you hoped your child would.

You had decided it was best for the two of you to call a driver to pick you up, avoiding the extended goodbye that would come if Patrick drove you home. Patrick’s car was also weirdly sentimental for you. It was where everything had started, where you had become a new woman, where he had fucked you so good that you had forgotten your miserable life. You didn’t want it to be where it ended. You knew the moment you saw him behind that wheel, your knees would get weak, and you would beg him to take you back. So here you were, sobbing in the backseat of a stranger’s car. You didn’t miss the driver’s quick glances in the rear-view mirror but you didn’t give a fuck. You needed to release the sadness before you reached your house. Once near your home, you asked the driver to stop at the exact spot where Patrick always parked when he picked you up. There, you cried until you couldn’t anymore. After a few minutes of loud cries, your eyes had simply stopped shedding tears and had become bloodshot and very dry. All there was left was a lump in your throat and a headache. When you finally exited the car to return to the emptiness of your house, you made sure to tip the driver extra money for the inconvenience. You were also very grateful he didn’t ask any question.

When your husband walked through the door that evening, he was unprepared for the request you were about to make. "I need you to focus entirely on me and our daughter from now on." You said, your voice a low but firm whisper. Your gaze met his with an intensity that left no room for misunderstanding. Your eyes were still swollen and red from the tears. "No one else." You added as he looked at you curiously at the unspoken implication of the other woman. He could feign ignorance all he wanted, but you were about to make it very clear to him. "I don’t want this family to fall apart." You said, your hand resting gently on your stomach. You had sacrificed your own happiness for your child, and you wanted him to share in that sacrifice, to be as miserable as you were. He let out a deep sigh, his shoulders slumping as he nodded in agreement. "Only you two." He replied, trying to reassure you. You wanted to believe him, but deep down you knew you would need to check his phone for proof in the coming days. You knew better than anyone how challenging it could be to end things.

●

A week later, your daughter was born. The postpartum depression hit you hard, a dark cloud that you couldn’t shake off. You found yourself unable to form a bond with your child, hating her for being the reason Patrick was no longer in your life. Each day felt like a struggle, and the baby in your arms was a constant reminder of what you had lost. And Patrick didn't make it any easier for you.

→ [From : Patricia - 9:29pm] I heard about the baby. Congratulations. I hope you’re taking care of yourself.

You almost dropped your phone at the sight of the message. You had no friends in common, so how could he possibly know? You hadn't posted anything about your kid. There was no way he should be aware of it, unless he had been stalking your husband’s account. Your husband, who proudly posted hundreds of pictures of his daughter. A daughter who looked so much like him, you resented both him and her for it. You knew the chances were slim, but you had hoped that somehow, someway, it would be Patrick’s twin that came out of you, that you would see his ears and his nose in her face. So meeting your daughter and her annoyingly tiny ears had been nothing but a disappointment.

← [To : Patricia - 9:30pm] I miss you so much…

You felt weak, already yearning to be back in his arms after only a few days. But to your disappointment, he left the message on read. Deep down, you knew he had done this for your own good.

●

As your daughter grew, you had hoped that having a child would ease your loneliness. In some ways, it did, but the misery lingered. You were still lonely, just too busy to dwell on it. Your husband remained a devoted father, yet he no longer fulfilled the role of a husband. He had replaced you, his affection solely devoted to your daughter. The little attention he used to give you now went entirely to the baby, and you couldn't voice your resentment without looking like a heartless mother.

For years, you had dreamed of being a mother, but now you regretted it. You had hoped the bond would come with time, but you found yourself unable to grow attached to your own child. And she demanded your constant attention, clinging to your breast like a leech. She was draining the life out of you. Day after day, you felt your own beauty slip away as she grew prettier. Your face appeared dull and blotchy, your body still swollen from the pregnancy, and your skin loose from the drastic changes. Breastfeeding had left you with empty, sagging boobs. You couldn't even bring yourself to think about what childbirth had done to your once perfect, tight little pussy. You knew that pelvic floor exercises would eventually help but you feared nothing could restore it to its former glory. And the stretch marks… They were a constant reminder of how ugly you felt. But that didn’t matter, it wasn't as if anyone was interested in fucking you anymore.

Your affair with Patrick had remained a secret, and now he was just a shadow in your life. He was the one you imagined to make yourself come, the one who lingered in your thoughts whenever you smelled a cigarette or heard about tennis. He was the one you had in mind every time you told your husband you loved him. Though Patrick wasn't entirely gone from your life. For your birthday, a chocolate cake arrived, unsigned but unmistakably from the bakery where it had all begun. It was a thoughtful gesture from him, ensuring that your special day was not forgotten. Knowing you crossed his mind even once was the only thing keeping you alive at the moment.

●

At two and a half years old, your daughter had begun to be a bit more independant, making things somewhat easier for you to manage. She no longer depended on you for her survival, allowing you to leave her with the nanny while you retreated to the garage to cry. The guilt had returned and was slowly killing you, as you watched her from afar, feeling sorry that you, unlike her father, or other mothers did with their kids, struggled to give her the unconditional love she deserved. You had some sort of fondness for her, but it fell short of the love you wished you could offer. Deep down, you feared that your emotional unavailability was already creating traumas she could never overcome as an adult. And despite your efforts to force yourself into a more loving role, each embrace and kiss felt like an exhausting obligation.

Your therapist was your only confidant on that matter. You didn't have many friends to begin with, and you were too ashamed of yourself to open up to anyone else. You knew you would face judgment for being a cheater and a terrible mother. So she knew everything about you, even about the affair. She had discussed your upbringing as a factor in your overall unhappiness, noting the family's pressure to marry and become a wife without allowing you to experience passions and interests or love and relationships. She believed this was why you couldn't move on once you had found thrill in Patrick's arms.

Despite the many issues you had, Patrick was the center every session. It always circled back to him. She no longer mentioned him by name because you would burst into tears every time you talked about him. For her, you had fooled yourself into believing he was your true partner, and being happy with your husband and your daughter meant you were cheating on him. You just couldn’t do that. And your daughter was a constant reminder of who you truly belonged to, and until you accepted the reality of your situation, forming a bond with her would remain impossible. So you tried to remind yourself that Patrick wasn’t the one. All you had to do was to dull the feelings and the pills she prescribed helped with that.

While you were grappling with your struggles with your daughter, your husband was constantly talking about having a second child. The thought of bringing another kid into the world, only to potentially ruin their life as well by being their mother, was unbearable. At first, you told your husband you were too tired to take care of another child, but he persisted. He had even hired a nanny to help with your daughter, easing some of the pressure on you. You then tried to convince him that your body couldn’t handle another pregnancy, that it would be ruined, but he promised to pay for liposuction and any other procedure you needed. You mentioned that your daughter might be jealous of a sibling, but he was confident she would end up loving it. No matter what argument you brought up, he always found a solution, unwavering in his determination. But when you discovered he had returned to his mistress, his phone constantly beeping with her name flashing on the screen, you wanted to make him pay. So you made the drastic decision to get your tubes tied without his knowledge, ending any chance of continuing your lineage. Now, all you had to endure was his gross body on top of yours, moaning into your ear, filling you up, while you pretended to struggle with fertility issues.

●

That day, you were out grocery shopping, your little girl perched in the shopping cart. As you navigated the aisles, you sighed when you saw her stretching out, trying to grab something from the shelf. "Don’t touch anything." You said, your tone dry. The endless choice of snacks blurred before your eyes, and you could never quite remember which brand was her favorite. You were studying the list of ingredients closely when you felt a sharp pinch on your waist, making you jump. The last thing you had energy for was dealing with some inappropriate stranger. Ready to unleash your anger, you turned around and froze. It was Patrick. Your heart skipped a beat at the sight of him. "Hey you." He said, his lips curling into a familiar smile. He stood there, his hair a mess of dark curls, face unshaven, wearing ridiculously tiny gym shorts. Earphones dangled from his ears, and a cigarette perched precariously atop one. He clutched a bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand. He looked like a mess, a beautiful, breathtaking mess nonetheless. You couldn’t help but smile back, your grin so wide it felt like your jaw might dislocate. Despite the heartache from the end of your relationship, seeing him filled you with unparalleled joy. It had been so long since you felt anything, and with just a word, he had awakened something in you. It took all your strength not to jump into his arms and run away with him, leaving your child and everything else behind. "H-hi." You stammered, your voice betraying the flood of emotions surging within you.

You both remained silent for a moment, staring into each other's eyes. Patrick's gaze briefly shifted to your daughter, who remained oblivious to the stranger standing beside her. She had not even noticed him. If the bond between a mother and child was supposed to be so strong, how could she not recognize the man who had been there almost every single day while she grew in your womb? You didn't know what you really expected from her. Perhaps to recognize his voice and accidentally call him ‘daddy’? That was stupid. All you knew was that you felt irritated that Patrick's presence didn't affect her in the slightest while it was turning your world upside down.

He licked his lower lip, a small gesture that used to send you over the edge, before locking eyes with you once more. You tried to start a conversation, asking him how he was doing, how tennis was going, or if he missed you as much as you missed him. But all that came out were a few random, babbled syllables. A chuckle escaped his lips, a sound that felt like a slap in the face. Without another word, he turned and staggered away, clearly intoxicated. Wait. That was it? You stood there, paralyzed by the abruptness of his departure, your mind racing. You wanted to run after him, to grab his arm and beg him to take you back. But before you could find the courage to move, his figure had already disappeared into the distance. What was that about? Did the sight of you disgust him so much that he couldn't even bring himself to say goodbye properly? His indifference cut deeper than a knife, leaving you standing there, hurt and abandoned.

Finishing grocery shopping felt like the hardest task on earth. Your mind was consumed by thoughts of Patrick, and each step you took felt like it might be your last. Your legs trembled under the weight of the encounter, threatening to give out at any moment. Once back home, you handed your daughter over to your husband, muttering an excuse about needing the bathroom. The moment the door closed behind you, you collapsed in tears.

You stared at your reflection in the mirror. The face looking back at you was a stranger : aging lines carved deep and dark circles shadowing your eyes. Your hair, with its roots showing and a few rebellious white strands, only added to the sense of unfamiliarity. You used to visit the plastic surgeon’s office and the hairdresser more often than you visited your own family. If it were truly you staring back at yourself in the mirror, you would never have allowed yourself to become like this. You were thin, but not in a way that spoke of health or tone. Instead, you looked sickly, your skin stretched over a frame that had once been strong and full of life. Your breasts had lost their firmness, now small, empty, and sagging.

No wonder Patrick had laughed. How could he gaze upon you and perceive anything other than the mere shadow of the person you once were? His laughter was a painful reminder of how far you had fallen from the days when you were the woman he desired the most. The urge to end it all welled up inside you, dark and overpowering. The thought of continuing to exist in a world where Patrick Zweig thought you were laughable seemed unbearable. No one would miss you anyway. Your daughter had your husband and your husband had his younger mistress. But how would you do it? You didn’t want to burden your family. You didn’t want them to discover your body and endure the pain of funerals, you just wanted to vanish without a trace.

Sinking to the floor, you sobbed uncontrollably for what felt like an eternity. As you contemplated every possible way to exit this life, you eventually rose to your feet, still trembling. Splashing cold water on your face, you washed away the tears and evidence of your breakdown

●

Later that night, after hours of your daughter's never-ending screaming, she finally drifted off to sleep. You had left your husband to tend to her, feeling unable to function ever since locking eyes with Patrick again. You believed her father was the safer choice anyway. You sensed yourself slipping from reality and feared that you might end up hurting her as well as yourself.

You laid beside your husband in bed, observing him engrossed in his book. You envied how peaceful he looked. He seemed so unaware of the despair that was slowly gnawing at your insides. You wondered if he could even think for a second that you wanted everything to end at this instant, to fade away knowing your final memory would be of another man.

The buzzing of your phone pulled you out of your dark thoughts. An incoming message. Seeing the name of the sender, you stole a quick glance at your husband to ensure he remained absorbed in his reading before cautiously unlocking your phone, your fingers trembling with fear.

→ [From : Patricia - 11:18pm] Damn, mama! I forgot how hot you looked. Had to leave before I did something stupid, didn’t want you to see me that way…

And you were paralyzed. Your limbs felt numb, as if disconnected from your head, yet your eyes welled up with tears. A tightening sensation gripped your throat, making each breath a struggle, while your heart pounded furiously in your chest. Was this it? All this planning to end it all just to die of a heart attack?

→ [From : Patricia - 11:19pm] Fuck… I lied, I didn’t forget. → [From : Patricia - 11:19pm] I really miss my tight little cunt.

He didn’t miss your tight little cunt, he missed his tight little cunt.

And just like that, you fell back into the whirlwind : the constant texting, the secret rendez-vous, the passionate fucking in the back of his car and once again, you found yourself falling madly in love with a man who wasn’t your husband. Except this time, it was different, he loved you too and you possessed him in ways you never had before.

♠♣♥♦

a/n : This was an anon request to begin with and I'm so thankful because the idea was so good. It was going to be a headcanon but I quickly turned this into a fic because I had not been so inspired in SO LONG. I'm so sorry it took forever (a month a half!!!!) to write it but life got in the way and I changed stuff so many times. Also sorry for the smut fans, I tried to be elusive a lot of time, did a lot of fade to black because they do fuck a lot and i didn't feel like writing 10k of sucking dick and cock (time and place, and you did it at my birthday dinner).

#patrick zweig #patrick zweig smut #patrick zweig x reader #challengers #challengers fanfic #challengers fic #challengers fanfiction #challengers fiction #challengers 🎾#challengers smut #challengers 2024

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