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hellinistical · 6 months ago

Text

in which 6 months have passed and caleb has come to collect.

part two to Stamen Cluster tw: implied pregnancy. minor character death. dubious consent/non-con. kidnapping. coercion. wc: 13.2k

The summer sun beats down relentlessly, golden rays drenching the village in warmth. The air hums with life—cicadas drone in the trees, the distant chatter of market-goers echoes through the streets, and the chickens in your yard cluck contentedly as they peck at the plump grains you toss their way. They've grown fat and glossy, their feathers shining in the sunlight like polished gold.

The world around you seems to have flourished. The grass is lush and vibrant, swaying lazily in the soft breeze. Wildflowers bloom in riotous colors, dotting the landscape with splashes of red, yellow, and blue. Even the market has transformed—stalls overflow with fresh produce, their owners smiling and calling out to passersby with cheer you hadn’t seen in years.

The market boomed in the village square, its stalls overflowing with fresh produce, colorful fabrics, and trinkets brought in by traveling merchants. The air was filled with laughter and the chatter of bartering voices, the scent of baked bread and spiced meat wafting through the streets. Life had seemingly returned to normal, for everyone but you.

The dreams had stopped. Weeks ago, they had ceased entirely, leaving behind a deafening silence. At first, you were relieved, grateful to sleep through the night without the suffocating presence of Caleb haunting your every thought. But relief turned to unease. The absence of dreams didn’t mean the absence of him.

You didn’t forget. Not the bite, not the basket, and certainly not the promise. Every pomegranate you passed at the market brought it all rushing back. Every glance in the mirror reminded you of the scar on your neck, now faded but still there, a ghost of that winter night.

Josephine had noticed your change, of course. She would mutter about how you’d become quieter, more distant. You’d wave her off with excuses of being busy, of chores piling up- because really, how would you go about explaining to your grandmother that some man had bit you and told you that you had to go to him every six months?

When Josephine had first noticed the bite on your neck, she squinted at you over the rim of her spectacles, her tone sharp with suspicion.

"What's that on your neck?" she asked, gesturing with her knitting needle.

You’d reached up reflexively, your fingers brushing over the faint scar. "A cat bite," you’d replied smoothly, offering her a dismissive shrug. "You know how that stray's been hanging around. Got a little too friendly."

Josephine had frowned, unconvinced, but she didn’t press.

And the pomegranates—oh, she had asked about those too.

"What’s with that basket in my room?" she’d demanded one morning, hands on her hips. "I don’t remember planting any pomegranate trees."

You’d forced a laugh, light and airy, as if her question was absurd. "A gift," you said quickly. "I was meaning to pass them along, but your room has the best sun. Didn’t want them to spoil before I could deliver them."

Her eyes had lingered on you for a beat too long, but eventually, she’d let it go, mumbling about the heat of the season and the wastefulness of letting good fruit sit too long.

The moment she’d shuffled out of the room, you’d wasted no time. Gathering the basket, you’d carried it outside, heart pounding the entire way. The sight of those glossy red fruits had turned your stomach, their weight in your hands far heavier than it should’ve been. You hadn’t even dared to bury them; instead, you hurled them into the thickest part of the woods, where the undergrowth was dense and the sun barely reached.

You’d stayed there for a moment, breathless, staring at where the pomegranates had disappeared into the shadows. Only when the breeze shifted, carrying the faintest scent of earth and fruit back to you, did you turn and walk away, refusing to look back.

But.

The next day, the damned things were back.

You froze in place the moment you entered Josephine’s room, your pulse hammering against your throat. There they were, sitting on her table as though you’d never thrown them into the woods, the basket perfectly arranged, every pomegranate still plump and gleaming with an almost unnatural sheen.

For a moment, you just stared, your breath caught somewhere between disbelief and dread. How? How could they possibly be here? You’d thrown them far—far enough that even wild animals wouldn’t have dragged them back.

"What’s wrong with you?" Josephine’s voice snapped you out of your frozen state. She was knitting by the window, her gaze flicking between you and the basket. "Don’t tell me you’ve lost your mind over a few pieces of fruit."

You shook your head quickly, forcing a shaky laugh. "No, no. Just... surprised they’re still looking so fresh in this heat."

"Hmph. They do look odd, don’t they?" she mused, squinting at them. "Almost like they’ve just been picked. I thought you said they were a gift from someone?"

"Y-Yeah," you stammered, taking a cautious step closer. "Guess they’re hardier than I thought."

She waved a hand dismissively. "Well, they’re wasting space in my room. You’d better do something with them before they rot. Lord knows I don’t want that smell in here."

You nodded, swallowing hard as you grabbed the basket again, its weight unnerving in your hands. They felt heavier than before, almost as if the fruits were mocking you with their persistence.

This time, you carried them even farther, past the woods and into the rocky streams beyond. You hurled them into the water one by one, watching as the current carried them away.

And the next day, they were on your bed.

You froze in the doorway, staring at the basket sitting squarely in the middle of your quilt, pristine and accusing. It was impossible—completely, utterly impossible—but there they were, the pomegranates gleaming as if they had just been plucked.

Your heart thundered in your chest as you stepped inside, the wooden floor creaking beneath your boots. You slammed the door shut behind you and leaned against it, your hands trembling.

You paced your room, back and forth, back and forth, the floorboards groaning under your restless movement.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," you whispered under your breath, running your hands through your hair. The pomegranates sat there, unbothered by your panic, their bright crimson skin a taunting contrast to the faded, dusty hues of your little room.

"Why won’t you leave me alone!" you hissed, throwing your hands in the air. "It hasn’t been six months! Leave me be!"

Your words echoed in the room, falling flat against the oppressive silence. The only sound was your own ragged breathing and the faint chirping of cicadas outside the window.

You glanced at the basket again, your frustration bubbling over. You stomped over to it, gripping the edge of the woven handle so tightly your knuckles turned white. "What do you want from me?!"

The basket didn’t answer.

But of course, they didn’t answer; they were pomegranates.

You let out a short, bitter laugh, rubbing your temples. "I’m going crazy. I’m actually going crazy," you muttered to yourself, pacing again.

The fruit sat there in perfect silence, unbothered by your spiraling. Their ruby-red skin seemed almost alive in the golden summer light filtering through the window, as though mocking you with their unnatural vibrance.

Bingo. The solution hit you like a lightning bolt—if they wouldn’t leave you alone, then fine. You’d just give them to someone else. Someone could eat them, and that’d be the end of it.

You turned on your heel, marched back to the underbrush, and snatched up the basket. Dirt clung to the edge of one of the fruits, but the rest were still as pristine as ever. You wiped the sweat from your brow, muttering to yourself.

"Granny thought they were a gift for someone, didn’t she? Well, might as well make them a gift. Problem solved."

You held the basket at arm’s length, like it might sprout legs and attack you, and trudged back toward the house. The sun beat down, making you squint as your boots kicked up little clouds of dust.

The market. Yes, the market would be perfect. Someone there would take them off your hands, no questions asked. You just needed to make it quick—drop them, smile, and leave. Nothing to it.

***

The market, alive with the hum of summer prosperity, bustled far busier than usual. Vendors shouted over each other, the mingling scents of fresh bread, herbs, and livestock mingling in the thick, warm air.

Luckily, Tara's stall didn’t have too long of a line. You weaved your way through the crowd, sidestepping an overzealous butcher swinging a cleaver a little too close for comfort.

By the time you reached the wooden counter, Jenna was already sorting through an armful of herbs, her hands swift and precise. She glanced up as you approached, her brows lifting.

"Well, don’t you look like you’ve been running from something," she quipped, tying a neat bundle of rosemary. "What’s in the basket?"

You hesitated, clutching the cursed thing a little tighter. "Pomegranates."

Jenna tilted her head, her curiosity piqued. "Pomegranates? In the middle of summer?"

"Yeah." You glanced down, trying not to sound as uncomfortable as you felt. "Thought Tara might want them. For...you know, preserves or something."

Jenna wiped her hands on her apron, eyeing the fruit. "Bit unusual for you to bring gifts."

"They're not—" You stopped yourself, forcing a smile. "Just...trying to get rid of them before they go bad."

She smirked but didn’t press further. "Tara’s packing up some jams right now, just give her a sec. I’ll let her know you’ve got a little surprise for her."

"Great," you said, setting the basket down on the counter. “Great, great, great.”

Not great.

Definitely not great when Tara finishes up and comes up, all happy and excited that you’ve come to visit her, with a gift no less. She wipes a streak of flour off her cheek. “Oh, hey! What’s this?”

"A gift," you replied, forcing a smile. "Thought you might like some pomegranates. Fresh. Perfectly ripe."

Her eyes lit up as she peeked inside. "Wow, really? These are so expensive in the market right now. Where’d you get them?"

"Friend of a friend," you said quickly, waving a hand as if to dismiss the question. "Figured I’d share the luck."

Tara reached out to pick one up, her fingers grazing the smooth skin of the fruit. For a moment, you almost snatched it back- almost. Instead, you took a deep breath and said, “They’re all yours, enjoy.”

And of course, she didn’t just let you leave. “Why don’t you sit? I can take a break!” “Oh, uh, no, I shouldn’t. You know, Granny is-” “Oh come on, Y/n, we need to catch up!”

You hesitated at the edge of the stall, hands suddenly feeling too warm in the heat of the market. Tara's energy was contagious, and her smile only made it harder to say no.

"No, really, I should get back. Granny's waiting—"

"Granny can wait!" Tara interrupted, her hands on her hips, playful but firm. "We haven't had a proper chat in ages. Come on, just a few minutes, I insist!"

Her insistence was like a gentle pull, urging you to sit, and before you knew it, you found yourself taking the seat she’d pulled out for you.

"Fine," you muttered, crossing your arms as if that might stop the inevitable catching-up that was coming. "Just a few minutes."

Tara beamed, pulling her apron off and hanging it over the edge of the stall. "Great! Now, tell me everything. How's Granny? You? Any guys in your life yet?"

You couldn’t help but chuckle at her eagerness, but it didn’t stop the uncomfortable flutter in your stomach. It was one thing to lie about the pomegranates, but talking about that?

You hesitated, trying to maintain a casual tone. “Granny’s good, really. She’s getting old, but tough as always,” you started, trying to keep it light.

"And me? Well, you know how it is. Just busy with things around the house, the farm..." You shrugged, brushing past the question of you.

Tara's eyes narrowed slightly, sensing the deflection. “Busy with farm stuff? You don’t even look like you’ve got your hands full these days.” She smirked, and for a moment, you could see the playful challenge in her eyes.

"You're dodging the question, Y/n," she teased. "Any guys? Any... interesting ones, maybe?"

You froze for a moment, the question hanging in the air like an unspoken weight.

“Really?” You forced a laugh, trying to ease the tension. "I'm busy with Granny. You know how it is."

But Tara wasn’t letting it slide that easily. She leaned in, a sly smile creeping onto her lips. “Come on, now. You’ve got to at least be talking to someone. There’s gotta be someone who's caught your eye, yeah?”

The words stung a little too much. You barely even remembered the last time someone caught your eye.

But you couldn’t let her see that. You smiled, shaking your head. “Nope, not really. No time for any of that.”

Tara didn’t seem entirely convinced, but she let it drop, leaning back in her seat. “Alright, alright. I’m just saying, you deserve someone who gets you.”

And you would laugh. Really, you would- if not for the hand that suddenly rested on your shoulder,

Tara's voice is bright, almost musical as she greets him, completely oblivious to the cold sweat running down your back. “Well, well, someone knows how to make an entrance!” She beams, her usual warmth easily shifting toward Caleb as if he’s some kind of long-lost acquaintance.

You fight the urge to panic, to back away, but something in the pit of your stomach stops you. His presence is like a shadow draped across the market, and you can feel it weighing down on you even as he greets Tara with smooth, practiced charm.

“Caleb,” he introduces himself with a slight bow, a grin curling at the corner of his lips. “Pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard much about you.” His tone is warm, almost too warm. But what catches you most is the look in his eyes—like he didn’t like that Tara was even talking to you, or someone who’s discovered something interesting. Tara laughs, clearly enamored. “Oh, you have? I hope only good things, then!” She waves it off with a playful flourish, completely buying into his act.

And there you are, standing frozen in the middle of it all, your heart pounding. Caleb looks at you, his eyes briefly meeting yours, and you can feel the pressure building in your chest. It’s not the same as before—not the overwhelming, suffocating grip, but something colder, sharper.

“I see you’ve made yourself at home,” you manage to say, your voice coming out more steady than you feel.

Caleb’s grin widens, an eerie sort of satisfaction curling through his expression. “I couldn’t resist,” he says smoothly, his gaze lingering on you for a fraction too long.

Caleb takes your hand, kissing it. His lips brush against your skin, a shiver runs up your spine, and for a moment, the world feels distant. His touch is deliberate, slow, as if marking his claim. You want to pull your hand away, but his grip is gentle yet firm enough to hold you in place.

Tara’s voice pierces through the tension, her teasing tone rising as she watches the two of you. “Y/n, you sneaky thing! You said you weren’t seeing anyone!” She laughs.

Caleb looks at you, a playful smirk tugging at his lips, as if he’s enjoying this little game. His eyes lock with yours for a moment before he speaks, his voice smooth, seductive, and confident.

“Oh, Tara, you know how it is,” he says, the tone of his voice dripping with something almost dangerous. “Sometimes, it’s best to keep things private.” He glances at you again, his gaze holding a silent promise of something unspoken.

Tara giggles excitedly, taking your free hand in hers, and grasping it tightly. “Wow, how did you guys meet? He’s so…wow, Y/n.” Your stomach churns at her excitement.

“Oh, it’s quite the story,” Caleb says smoothly, his voice laced with charm that immediately captures Tara’s attention. He steps a little closer to you, his hand still firmly holding yours, as if to ensure you don’t slip away. “We met during one of her trips to the market. I was passing through, and, well... she caught my eye.”

Tara gasps, her eyes lighting up with excitement. “No way! That’s so romantic! Love at first sight?” She looks between the two of you, her face brimming with enthusiasm.

Caleb chuckles, the sound low and warm. “Something like that,” he replies, glancing at you with a look that feels far too intense. “She was buying pomegranates. Couldn’t take her eyes off them. I joked about how picky she was being, and she told me—well, you know how sharp she can be.” His grin widens as if he’s remembering something fond, though you know better.

Tara bursts into laughter. “That sounds just like her! She’s got quite the bite sometimes, doesn’t she?” She squeezes your free hand in a playful, affectionate way.

You manage a weak smile, your stomach twisting tighter with each passing second. Caleb’s fabricated story wraps around you like a net, trapping you in the role of a lovestruck partner. “Yeah, it was... memorable,” you mumble, hoping Tara doesn’t pick up on the strain in your voice.

“But the funny part,” Caleb continues, his tone light but his words precise, “was how she refused to accept my help carrying her things. Stubborn, determined—exactly what drew me to her.”

Tara sighs dreamily. “That’s so sweet. Y/n, why didn’t you tell me? I mean, look at him!” She gestures toward Caleb with a grin. “If I were you, I’d be showing him off.”

Your forced smile doesn’t falter, though your nails dig into your palm. You glance at Caleb, silently pleading for him to stop, but his expression is unreadable—pleased, perhaps even smug, as he tightens his grip on your hand just slightly.

Tara’s excitement is palpable, her joy genuine, and it makes you feel even worse.

"Anyway, one thing led to another, and then, as it turns out, I knew her grandmother. Josephine is lovely."

Tara’s eyes widen, her jaw dropping in surprise. “Wait, you know Josephine? Small world! How do you know her?”

Caleb’s smile doesn’t falter, his chin still resting lightly on your shoulder. “Oh, from years ago. She helped me out during a difficult time, and I never forgot her kindness. When I realized the connection…” He trails off, his voice softening. “Well, it felt like fate, you know?” He rests his chin on your shoulder before linking his hand with your other hand. His skin was like cold, calloused. You shiver involuntarily as his icy hand grazes the back of yours. The contrast to the summer heat makes it all the more unsettling. You glance sideways at Caleb, his smile perfectly crafted, as though he were born to charm.

Tara giggles again. She leans in slightly, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. "You better watch out, Y/n. If Granny likes him, then this one’s a keeper."

God, was Tara stupid or something?

You try to laugh, but it comes out more like a strangled cough. "Yeah, Granny... she, uh, she keeps her opinions to herself these days," you manage, your voice tight.

Caleb turns his head slightly, his lips brushing dangerously close to your ear. "You’ve gone quiet, darling," he murmurs softly, just for you. His breath sends a chill down your spine despite the blazing summer sun.

Tara, oblivious to the tension radiating from you, clasps her hands together. “That’s so sweet! It’s like something out of a storybook!” She laughs, nudging your arm. “Y/n, why didn’t you tell me about this? It’s so romantic!”

Your throat feels dry, and your words stick, but Caleb, of course, fills the silence effortlessly. “She’s modest. I think that’s part of her charm.” His hand tightens slightly on your shoulder, the pressure subtle but firm, a silent warning.

Tara beams, completely enchanted. “I love this for you, Y/n. I mean, not just that you’ve found someone, but that he’s clearly so thoughtful and caring.”

You force out a small laugh, the sound strained. “Yeah, it’s… something.”

Caleb’s smile grows as his icy fingers trace idle patterns along your shoulder, sending chills through you. “Something, indeed,” he echoes, his tone smooth yet loaded with a weight only you can feel.

Tara leans in conspiratorially, her excitement barely contained. “So, are there any big plans? I mean, you’ve clearly got a story worth celebrating!” She winks, completely unaware of the storm brewing behind Caleb’s pleasant facade.

Tara’s eyes light up, her smile widening as Caleb speaks, his tone casual but carrying an undercurrent that only you can decipher.

“Yeah, we’ve got a big trip coming up soon,” Caleb says smoothly, his icy hand still resting possessively on your shoulder. “She’ll be staying with me for a while, just to test the waters, you know?”

Your stomach drops, and you whip your head around to glare at him, but Caleb’s expression remains calm, even charming, as if he hasn’t just dropped a bombshell. Tara’s jaw drops, her excitement bubbling over.

“Oh my gods, Y/n! That’s huge! Where are you going? How long are you staying? I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!” She bounces slightly on her feet, her hands clasped together.

You open your mouth to speak, your heart racing, but Caleb answers before you can get a word out.

“It’s still a surprise,” he says with a soft laugh, leaning closer to you, his voice low and intimate. “But I’ll make sure she writes to you.”

Tara practically squeals, completely charmed. “A surprise? That’s so romantic! Y/n, you lucky thing!” She beams at you, clearly convinced that this is the most wonderful news.

You try to force a smile, but it falters under Caleb’s steady gaze, the grip on your shoulder tightening ever so slightly. There’s no escaping the unspoken message in his words: This isn’t up for discussion.

***

The sun hangs high, casting golden light through the trees as the two of you walk the path home. The market’s noise is far behind you now, replaced by the gentle rustle of leaves and the cheerful chirping of birds. But the air feels thick, heavy, as though the world itself can sense the tension simmering just beneath the surface. And the walk home? Suffocating. Caleb’s presence looms over you, his steps too close, too deliberate.

“That Tara,” he says casually, his tone light, as if discussing the weather. “Sweet girl, hmm?”

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, his figure far too at ease for the storm brewing in your chest. “Please, no—”

“Relax.” His voice sharpens slightly, though the smile doesn’t leave his lips. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you take me for a bad guy.” He chuckles, a sound that doesn’t quite match the amusement he pretends to feel.

You clench your fists at your sides, swallowing the sharp retort on the tip of your tongue. The birds chirp on, oblivious, their melody at odds with the undercurrent of dread knotting in your stomach. Instead, you put your focus fixed on the dirt path ahead. Caleb seems to notice your silence, tilting his head slightly to glance at you. “You wound me, truly. After everything I’ve done for you?”

"You said six months," you snap, your voice trembling as you glance at him.

"Six months before I collect you," he corrects, his tone as smooth and unbothered as ever. He steps closer, his presence suffocating. "And I said we have a big trip coming up. I never said I wouldn't visit, dollface."

Your heart pounds in your chest as his words sink in, the casual way he speaks of your future like it’s already set in stone. Like you don’t have a choice.

You stop walking, your fists clenching at your sides. "Stop calling me that," you grit out, the words slipping through your teeth before you can think better of it.

Caleb raises an eyebrow, his lips curling into a lazy smirk. "What, dollface? It suits you."

"It doesn’t," you spit back, turning your glare on him.

His smirk deepens, his eyes gleaming with something you can’t quite place—amusement, or maybe warning. "Feisty today, aren’t we? I like it."

Your stomach twists, but you force yourself to hold his gaze. "You don’t get to just... show up and act like you own my life."

"But I do," he says, his voice dropping into something softer, more dangerous. He takes a deliberate step toward you, and instinctively, you step back. "You signed the contract the moment you took the seeds. Six months, six seeds, till death. We’re bound, sweetheart. Whether you like it or not."

You stop walking. Turning to look at him, you jab a finger into his chest. "What even are you?" you spit, your voice shaking with anger.

"A god, maybe?" he says with a lazy shrug, like the answer doesn’t matter.

"You're no god of mine," you snap back, your fists trembling at your sides.

"And that," he says, his smirk widening, "is just as fine."

It’s disgusting how sure of himself he is, how he carries himself like the world bends to his whim, like even the sun would stop in its path if he commanded it. He watches you with those unnervingly calm eyes, his head tilted like he’s amused by your defiance.

You gasp as he spins you, the sudden motion leaving you breathless and disoriented. His grip is firm as he pulls you against him, his body too close, too strong.

"You gave her the basket," he murmurs, his voice low and dangerous, as his hand slides smoothly to rest against your neck. A cold shiver runs down your spine, a feeling of dread creeping over you as you fear he'll squeeze again, cut off your air like before. But he doesn’t. Instead, his fingers brush against the scar on your neck—the bite, the mark of what you never wanted to remember.

Your pulse quickens, thumping beneath his touch. You feel trapped, helpless under his gaze. His thumb traces the scar, and your body tenses, as if the very memory of that moment will come rushing back. You swallow hard, but your throat feels tight, constricted.

"Of course, I could just take your right hand," he continues, his lips curling slightly in a smirk that sends another spike of terror through you. "But, oh, you didn't seem to like that option. Or taking Josephine. So really, you're stuck with me."

The words sting, sharper than they have any right to be, and you struggle against his hold, the feeling of being caged growing stronger by the second. You try to step back, to pull away, but his grip doesn’t loosen; it only tightens, holding you in place.

"You don't own me," you force out, though your voice trembles more than you'd like to admit.

He tilts his head, as if genuinely amused by your words. "Oh, sweetheart. You gave me a choice. You decided this, not me."

His words pierce through you like a cold dagger, sharp and unrelenting. The memory of what you've done—the seeds, the promise you made, the trap you unknowingly walked into—plays over and over again in your mind. His grip on your face is firm, forcing you to look at him, to meet his gaze.

"You chose this," he repeats, his voice low and sinister. "And it was your fault for stealing the seeds." The way he says it makes your skin crawl, as if he's savoring your guilt, your helplessness.

You try to resist the urge to recoil, but you're trapped. His touch on your face is cold, like the ice of winter, but it's also familiar—too familiar, in a way that makes you want to escape, to break free from the suffocating weight of everything he's saying and doing.

His thumb brushes across your cheek, a mocking tenderness that doesn't match the malice in his eyes. "Luckily for you, I'm already familiar with this. Wouldn't you agree?"

The question hangs in the air, suffocating, and you can't help but feel like there's no way out. No way to undo what you've done, no way to take back the seeds, no way to escape this twisted cycle. The worst part is that you do agree, in a way. He knows you. He knows your weakness, your fear. He’s always been there, watching, waiting for this moment.

You force yourself to breathe, to try to steady your nerves. "You don’t control me," you say through gritted teeth, though your words sound weaker than you intend.

His lips twitch upward, and for a moment, the smile he gives you is almost... fond. "Oh, darling," he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin. "You have no idea how much control I have over you."

Your stomach drops as he leans in closer, his face inches from yours. The air between you feels charged, electric, and you can't tell whether it's fear or something else that makes your heart race.

His kiss lands on your lips with an eerie gentleness, like the touch of a predator feigning affection. It's soft, almost too soft, as if he's savoring the moment—savoring the control he has over you. The cold of his lips contrasts with the heat in your chest, a confusing, disorienting sensation that makes your skin prickle with discomfort.

For a second, you almost want to pull away, to slap him, to scream—anything—but his presence is suffocating. His hand still cups your face, keeping you locked in place, and the pressure of his lips, though gentle, is impossible to ignore.

You don’t respond to it. You refuse to. It feels wrong—so wrong, like he's trying to erase your will with every soft, calculated press of his mouth. But somehow, you can’t break free. It’s like a force you can’t fight, and you hate yourself for not being able to.

When he finally pulls away, it’s not with a sense of victory, but something far more disturbing: a quiet satisfaction, as though this kiss, this small victory over you, is simply one piece of a much larger, more intricate plan. His eyes meet yours, those unsettling, dark eyes that never seem to leave you.

"You're mine, whether you want it or not," he says, his voice a low murmur, lips still close enough that you can feel the brush of his breath. "You always were, Y/n."

You blink again, your heart racing in your chest, trying to make sense of what just happened. One moment, Caleb's lips were on yours, his hand cradling your face, and the next... you're standing in the familiar confines of your own home. The walls, the creaking floors, the smell of old wood and herbs—everything is just as you left it.

But the air feels different. Heavier. The shadows in the corners seem deeper, and your breath feels sharp in your lungs as you slowly process the shift. Caleb is gone, and you have no idea how or when he left. It feels like time skipped ahead, like something changed, but you don’t know how.

Your fingers touch your lips reflexively, still tingling from his kiss. The bite on your neck pulses, a quiet reminder of what he's done, what he's taken from you. You want to scream, to rip the memories out of your mind, but they cling to you like a dark cloud.

You glance around the room. Josephine's door is still shut, the house is eerily quiet, yet you feel... watched. But he’s gone. For now. You have no idea when he’ll return—or what he'll want next.

For now, all you can do is breathe, steady yourself, and pray the walls hold up against the darkness he's brought into your life.

But at least that basket was gone.

***

The dreams returned, but they weren't the same. Not like before, when they had been fragmented, hazy, and fleeting. No, now they were sharp, clear, as if the night itself had become a canvas, and every stroke of it was painted with purpose, with intent.

In the first dream, you were back in the field. The pomegranates stood tall and ripe, their red skin gleaming under the moonlight. The soil beneath your feet was soft, too soft, as if the earth itself had swallowed up everything you once knew. You walked through the rows, reaching out, your fingers grazing the dark fruits, feeling their weight like a burden. And then, you saw him—Caleb. He was standing at the far end, his silhouette stark against the sky, his eyes glinting as if he could see straight through you.

“You’ll learn to love them,” his voice echoed, though his lips never moved. The fruit was delicious. So utterly, maddeningly delicious. Its stain tainted your lips, the color matching his fingertips, bloody.

You tried to turn, to run, but your feet were rooted in place. The pomegranates were all around you now, their roots tangled like vines, pulling you down, pulling you into the earth.

Another dream followed. This time, you stood before a mirror, but it wasn’t your reflection that stared back at you. It was something... wrong. A version of you with darker eyes, wilder hair, a version that had been changed, warped by the seeds, by the bargain you had made. You reached out to touch the mirror, but the reflection didn’t move in sync with you, it was always a moment ahead, always watching, always waiting.

The bite on your neck burned as if it had never healed, the scar still angry and red beneath your skin, even in the dream. And Caleb’s laughter, soft and mocking, rang out in the background, swirling around you like smoke.

The dreams weren’t dreams anymore. They were memories, and they felt like warnings.

And when you woke, your heart hammered in your chest, your breath coming in frantic gasps. For a brief, terrifying moment, you wondered if the line between sleep and reality had blurred completely.

You clutched the covers tightly, as if trying to hold yourself together.

The chickens clucked outside. It was…comforting.

***

The tension in the air was palpable, thick with a sense of desperation, of something dangerous stirring. Lips pressed together in a fierce, bruising kiss—teeth clashing, not out of passion, but out of something more primal. Something almost violent. There was no tenderness here, no softness. Just a raw, chaotic hunger that neither of you could control.

Your hands were everywhere, grasping, pulling, pushing. His fingers dug into your skin, scratching and clawing like they were trying to leave a mark, trying to stake some claim on you, on your very essence. You didn’t know if you wanted to break free or if you wanted to pull him closer, as if the intensity of the moment could somehow swallow both of you whole.

His hands were on your body, your neck, your waist, burning through your clothes as if they weren’t even there. The sharpness of his grip, the way he maneuvered you against him, felt almost like a punishment. He was everywhere, his scent, his touch, his voice. You couldn’t escape him. No matter how much you struggled, you were trapped in this moment.

Your pulse raced in your throat, and his lips trailed down, leaving fire in their wake. But the world around you was blurring, the edges of reality slipping away like water between your fingers. All you knew was him, all you felt was him.

And still, it wasn’t enough.

You didn’t even know how you got here, but it felt like you’d been drowning in this moment for hours, for years—time didn’t seem to matter anymore. All that mattered was the chaos of his presence, the way it shook you, the way it marked you.

When you finally pulled away, gasping for air, your lips swollen and red, your body burning from the heat of it all, Caleb’s eyes were on you—dark, intense, unreadable. His chest heaved as he stared at you, as if trying to decide what to do next. A string of spit connected your lips. He brushed it away with his thumb from the corner of your lips.

“You’ll learn to crave this,” he whispered, his voice a low murmur that sent shivers down your spine.

And for a moment, he looks almost guilty.

Your heart races in your chest, your breath shallow as you gasp for air, the remnants of the dream still clinging to your skin. The sheets are tangled around you, your body slick with sweat. You clutch your pillow tight to your face, muffling the scream that rises in your throat.

It felt so real. Too real. His touch, his words—everything about it lingered like a shadow in your mind. You couldn’t shake the sensation of him, the feeling of his hands, his presence, suffocating you.

You sit up, your legs shaky beneath you, fighting the panic that claws at your chest. The sunlight filtering through your window is harsh, but it does little to clear the fog that clouds your thoughts. The world outside feels like a distant memory, too distant from the nightmare that still echoes in your mind.

As you moved, you paused.

Your underwear felt warm. Warm and wet.

Of course, you rush to the bathroom and tug your waistband and underwear to see.

You stare at the crimson stain, your heart pounding in your chest. This isn’t normal. It’s too soon—weeks too soon. You grip the edge of the sink, your legs trembling as you try to make sense of it.

Your reflection in the mirror looks pale, almost ghostly. Panic rises as your mind races. You’ve never been early before. Never like this. You fumble for the calendar on your phone, quickly scrolling through the dates. It confirms what you already knew: this isn’t right.

“Okay, okay,” you mutter to yourself, trying to calm down. Maybe it’s stress. That’s a thing, right? Stress can mess with your cycle. Or maybe it was something you ate.

But deep down, you know this isn’t just stress.

The dreams, the bite, the pomegranates—it all feels like pieces of a puzzle you’re too afraid to put together. You grab a fresh pair of underwear and a pad, trying to shake off the nagging feeling in the pit of your stomach. The bright light of the bathroom feels too harsh, too exposing.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s just a fluke.

Yeah. A fluke.

***

The crisp air of fall settles over the village, painting the trees in fiery reds and golden yellows. The scent of earth and fallen leaves lingers, grounding you in a way that summer never could. For the first time in months, your life feels...ordinary.

The pomegranates no longer appear on your bed or at your door. The oppressive weight of Caleb’s presence, real or imagined, seems to have lifted. You can breathe again.

The chickens are still assholes, the market bustles with preparations for the harvest festival, and the days bleed into one another in a blur of chores, conversations, and fleeting smiles. It’s not happiness exactly, but it’s close enough that you don’t question it.

Josephine scolds you for tracking mud into the house, Tara chats with you in the market, and for once, you don’t feel like the shadow of someone else lingers behind you. Nights are quieter now. The dreams are gone, leaving you with nothing but the sound of wind brushing against the windows and the occasional hoot of an owl.

You stop keeping track of the days. It doesn’t feel important anymore. Caleb fades like the last vestiges of summer, distant and unreal.

Josephine hums softly as her fingers work through your hair, weaving seeds and flowers with the kind of care that only she could manage. You sit still, trying not to squirm under her meticulous touch.

"You look lovely," she says, her voice soft, almost reverent. "This shade of pink suits you."

You glance down at the folds of the doric chiton, its fabric catching the golden afternoon light. It feels too delicate, too perfect. A stark contrast to the mud-streaked skirts and work-worn tunics you’ve grown used to.

"Granny really outdid herself," you mutter, trying to muster some semblance of gratitude.

Josephine chuckles. "I just want you to shine at the festival. You know how much this means to me. Besides, it’s not every day you get to dress up for the gods. And the festival only comes once a year. Make sure you give them a proper thanks for all we’ve been given this season.”

Your eyes flicker to the small table by the window, where your offerings sit—a neatly arranged basket of bread, fruit, and herbs, alongside a small clay figure you’d crafted. It feels enough. It has to be enough.

“Do you think they’ll listen?” you ask softly, almost to yourself.

Josephine frowns, her hands coming to rest on your shoulders. “The gods are always listening, child. Whether they answer is another thing entirely. But you must offer with a full heart and trust that they’ll hear.”

You didn’t know if you even believed in the gods after well, that.

It’s been months since...since then. Long enough that you’ve almost convinced yourself it’s behind you. Caleb is gone, the pomegranates stopped appearing, and life has returned to a semblance of normalcy.

But as Josephine ties the final braid and steps back to admire her work, you can’t help but roll your stiff shoulders. The seeds in your hair feel heavier than they should, but maybe that was just the style.

Shaking off the thought, you stand, smoothing the folds of your dress. “I should go finish preparing,” you say, reaching for the basket.

Josephine nods, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Go, then. And don’t forget to enjoy yourself tonight. The festival isn’t just for the gods, you know- Oh!”

“Hm?”

She goes to your basket, her fingers deftly plucking a single cherry from the offerings. Without hesitation, she bites into it, the juice running faintly down her chin. Then, before you can ask what she’s doing, she takes your face in her hands. “Hold still.”

And you do. You do as she rubs the exposed half of the cherry onto your lips, the sweet, sticky juice staining them a deep red (or as red as they could get).

“Isn’t this a bit much?” “Nonsense. The gods love beauty, and they care for presentation. Now, I want you to be safe- don’t over-do the wine, but mingle. Don’t stay with Tara the whole time, understand?” “Yes, grandmother.” “And if you get hungry and have lost your coin, there’s seeds in your hair.” “Of course, grandmother.”

A gentle smile plays at your lips. She returns it halfway.

“Soon, you’ll have to leave me, you know.” “...I know.” “You’ll have a husband, children- but don’t forget about me,” theres a happy lit to her voice now.

“I’d never!”

“I know.”

It’s quiet for some time. The sun would surely set soon.

Josephine sighs, clapping her hands together.

Well… off you go. And don’t smudge it before anyone gets a good look- enjoy yourself! But go before I find something else to start fussing over.”

You laugh, and with that, she gives you a light push toward the door. The warmth of her hands lingers on your cheeks as you step outside, basket in hand. The cherry’s taste stays with you, its sweetness mingling with the crisp autumn air as you make your way toward the heart of the village. It’s a small thing, but as you catch your reflection in a passing window, you can’t help but admit—Josephine might be onto something.

As you step outside again, the cherry’s sweetness lingers, mingling with the crisp autumn air. You adjust your grip on the basket, glancing down at its carefully arranged contents. The offerings look the same as before, but now, with the touch of Josephine’s flair, they feel... different.

Special.

You shake off the odd sense of unease that creeps up your spine and head toward the square. The distant hum of the festival grows louder with every step, the laughter and music pulling you in like a current.

Let them notice, you think, the faint taste of cherry on your tongue. Let them see.

***

The festival buzzed with life, every sound and sight merging into a symphony of joy. Flutes and lyras trilled high notes, while the deeper, resonant hum of lyres and kitharas anchored the music. The bonfire crackled at the heart of it all, sending sparks spiraling into the night sky like fireflies escaping into freedom.

Your shoes were long forgotten, discarded somewhere along the edge of the square. The cool earth kissed your feet as you spun and swayed, the soft fabric of your chiton billowing with each movement. You held your skirts high, free from the constraints of formality, your laughter blending into the melody of the celebration.

Tara appeared beside you, her cheeks flushed from the heat of the fire and the exhilaration of the dance. She grabbed your hand and twirled you around, both of you stumbling and giggling like children. “Look at you!” Tara shouted over the music, her voice full of laughter. “Who knew you could dance like this?”

“Shut up!” you replied, grinning as you spun her around. “You’re the one showing off!” The two of you laughed, the sound blending with the music and the cheerful chatter of the crowd. Around you, other women joined in, their movements graceful and free, their laughter ringing out like bells. For a moment, the world felt simple, unburdened by the weight of your thoughts or the strange, dark memories that lingered in the back of your mind. The firelight painted everyone in shades of gold and amber, and the music carried you, light as air.

“Come on!” Tara shouted, pulling you closer to the fire. “Let’s see if you can keep up!”

You laughed, following her lead as the music grew faster, your feet moving instinctively to the rhythm. Around the fire, the festival carried on, a celebration of life, of the gods, of the turning seasons.

As the flames illuminated your face even more, more compliments seemed to spill from Tara’s lips. Her cheeks were rosy as if she’d been wined and dined, greedy for more. “You look stunning tonight!” she shouted over the music, her voice brimming with sincerity and joy. “I swear, you’ve outdone yourself!”

“Oh, please,” you replied, laughing as you caught your breath. “It’s the dress! Granny picked it.” She shakes her head, giggling. “Remind me to thank her!” Linking your arms together, the other women link as well, circling and dancing.

Brightly dressed women clapped their hands and twirled, their skirts fanning out like petals in the firelight. Children darted between the adults, their giggles carrying on the wind. Men cheered and clapped from the sidelines, some joining in to pair off with dancers, while others lingered with mugs of spiced wine.

For a moment, everything else melted away. The tension, the strange unease you’d carried with you for weeks—it was all burned away by the fire, drowned out by the music and the easy joy of the festival.

"Come on!" Tara called, pulling you further into the throng. "No holding back tonight, Y/n!"

And for once, you let yourself go. You danced until your feet ached, until the world spun from more than just twirling. The festival carried on, vibrant and alive, as if nothing else mattered but this night and its revelry. And nothing did.

***

The hours blurred together in a haze of laughter, music, and the smoky scent of the bonfire. You barely noticed the passage of time, caught up in the festival’s intoxicating energy.

Jenna, Tara, and you had become an inseparable trio for the night, weaving through the crowd and sharing stories between bites of roasted lamb. The juices ran down your fingers as you tore into the leg, the savory richness melting on your tongue. Each bite was perfection, seasoned just right and charred to smoky deliciousness.

Jenna, however, was in her own world, her cheeks flushed from more than just the firelight.

"I swear," she slurred, her words tumbling over each other as she clung to your arm for balance, "if I see that baker again, I’m—I'm gonna marry him! Just—poof! Right then and there."

Tara snorted, nearly choking on her drink. "Jenna, you said that about the butcher last week."

"I changed my mind," Jenna declared dramatically, swaying as she gestured with her cup. "He gave me free bread, Tara! Bread! What more do you need in life?"

"Steady legs, for starters," you teased, catching her just as she stumbled.

Jenna burst out laughing, her head tipping back as she clung to you tighter. "Oh, Y/n, you’re the best. If this baker thing doesn’t work out, maybe I’ll just marry you instead!"

Jenna hiccups, a sound so sudden and loud it startles both you and Tara. She blinks, swaying slightly as she grins mischievously.

"Let’s—hic—let’s play a game," she announces, slurring just enough to make you nervous about where this might be headed. "Truth or dare!"

Tara groans, shaking her head as she leans back against the bench. "Oh, no. Jenna, you’re terrible at this game when you’re sober. I can’t imagine how this is going to go right now."

Jenna waves her hand dismissively, nearly whacking you in the face. "Nonsense! I’m great at this game." She hiccups again, giggling. "Come on, Y/n, Tara—hic—it’ll be fun! I’ll go first."

You exchange a glance with Tara, her raised eyebrow mirroring your own apprehension. Still, you can’t help but smile at Jenna’s enthusiasm.

"Fine," you sigh, playing along. "Go ahead, Jenna. I’ll go first- uh, hmm…dare.”

And Jenna gets all into your face, and you swear she was pretending to be drunk with how sober she suddenly seemed. “I dare you to go to the temple- not Kore’s temple. The other one. Take a fruit.”

You blink, momentarily taken aback by the sudden shift in Jenna's demeanor. The air feels heavier, and there's an odd intensity in her gaze that makes you hesitate. You swallow, trying to maintain your casual tone.

"Wait, the temple?" You glance at Tara, hoping for some kind of reassurance, but she looks just as confused as you. "Jenna, what are you talking about?"

Her smile widens, almost predatory in its sharpness, though her eyes are clouded with drunkenness again. "You know," she says slowly, as if speaking to a child, "the temple. The one at the edge of town. There's fruit there.”

"Why would I..." you trail off, not sure if you even want to entertain this idea. The thought of taking fruit from there doesn’t sit right with you, especially given everything that’s happened in the past.

Tara looks between you and Jenna, narrowing her eyes. "You really want her to do that, Jenna?" she asks, her tone cautious.

Jenna's grin widens again, though there's a glimmer of something else behind her eyes. "You don’t have to do it," she says in a sing-song voice. "It’s just a dare.” She makes a sound as if to imitate a chicken.

"I—I can’t," you mutter, shaking your head as you try to laugh it off. "That’s... that’s too much."

But Jenna leans in closer, her eyes boring into yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch. "I dare you," she whispers, like it’s a secret only you need to hear. "Go. Take a fruit."

Tara’s laugh is nervous now, her voice dropping lower. "Jenna, what is this really about? What’s going on with you?"

The tension hangs in the air. You feel the weight of Jenna’s dare pulling at you. The temple... What could go wrong, right? Just grab a fruit.

Your feet move before your mind catches up, and you feel the heat of the wine still dancing in your veins. With a strange sense of defiance, you rise to your feet, your voice louder than you intended. "Grandmother didn't raise a coward."

Tara looks at you, her expression a mix of concern and confusion, but you don’t give her the chance to voice her concerns. You begin walking toward the temple, the dare fueling your movements.

You tell yourself it’s a joke, a simple dare. You won’t actually take a fruit. You’ll just go in and out. No harm done. What’s the worst that could happen?

The night air feels cool on your skin, a contrast to the warmth of the wine still swirling in your head. The temple stands ahead, its silhouette looming against the starlit sky, its pillars casting long shadows. Something about it feels...wrong. You try to shake off the feeling, but it lingers.

As you approach the entrance, the heavy wooden doors stand slightly ajar, an invitation or a warning? You can’t decide.

With a deep breath, you step inside. The air shifts as you cross the threshold, and a strange silence envelops you. There are no sounds of night creatures, no rustle of wind—just stillness. The faint glow of candles illuminates the altar ahead, and there, piled with offerings, sits an assortment of fruits, their colors deep and vivid in the dim light.

You freeze for a moment, your pulse quickening. The temptation to grab just one, to complete the dare and return before anyone notices, rises within you.

But you hesitate. The air seems to thicken, and you feel eyes on you, though you see no one. The weight of something ancient presses on your chest.

Just take a fruit. Just one.

***

The marble feels slick beneath your feet as you step further into the temple, the coldness biting into your bare soles. You hadn't expected it to be this cold, this quiet. The usual sounds of the night outside, the rustle of leaves or the calls of distant animals, were replaced by an eerie stillness, as though the air itself had frozen in time.

You glance around, the space stretching before you, each stone gleaming under the faint light of flickering candles placed carefully on the altar. The faint scent of incense lingers in the air, sharp and intoxicating. It's a strange place, a place of both reverence and... something else.

You bow low, instinctively following the rituals your grandmother drilled into you. Your lips whisper the necessary prayers, your fingers curling around the edges of the hem of your chiton, your heart pounding in your chest. You can almost hear your own heartbeat echoing in the silence.

And then you hear it.

Footsteps behind you. Jenna. She had followed you, hadn't she? She didn’t trust you to do it alone, didn’t trust you to carry through with the dare. You don't have to look to know she’s there, watching, waiting.

But you're here now. You’ve come this far. The fruit sits before you, gleaming temptingly in the dim light. You were supposed to take one, weren’t you? It felt like part of some unspoken pact, an offering, a symbol of submission. You glance back briefly and catch the gleam of Jenna’s eyes, expectant and a little too eager.

Should you? Should you take it, just like the dare demanded?

The weight of the moment presses heavily on you.

His voice cuts through the silence, smooth and teasing, and you freeze, your heart skipping a beat. The words, the tone—it's all too familiar. It's Caleb, standing there, his presence like a shadow you can never quite shake off.

You didn't even hear him approach. How long had he been watching? The cold air grows heavier, the weight of his gaze pressing on your back. His footsteps echo as he moves closer, and you can feel the tension building in the space between you.

You don't turn to face him. You can't. But you hear him step forward, his boots clicking softly on the marble floor.

"Don't act so surprised," Caleb continues, his voice low and almost intimate, "I’ve been watching, you know. You think you can just sneak away to the temple and pretend I won’t notice?"

The way he says it makes your skin prickle, like he's always one step ahead, always aware of what you're doing. You grip the hem of your chiton tighter, your pulse quickening.

"Perfect timing," he repeats, almost as if savoring the moment, "And look at you, all dressed up. For me? You shouldn't have."

You try to keep your composure, but the unease crawling along your skin betrays you. It’s the last thing you expected — no, it’s the last thing you wanted. Of course, it’s no coincidence that he’s here now. You shouldn’t have come, shouldn’t have even considered it. His presence, his- Jenna.

That motherfucker.

You swallow, your throat dry, and force yourself to face him. He’s not even hiding now, stepping fully into the dim light, his figure outlined against the shadows. The flickering candlelight casts a soft glow on his features, but his eyes — those eyes — they’re colder than the stone beneath your feet.

You glance down at the fruit on the altar, the one Jenna dared you to take. For a fleeting moment, you wonder if that would make a difference, if taking it would somehow tie you closer to him.

But you know better. You know there’s no way out.

“So,” he continues, his voice lowering, his footsteps slow and deliberate as he approaches, “which fruit will you choose, hmm?”

He waits for an answer for a good 5 minutes before saying anything. “Come on, Kore. Don’t keep me waiting, yeah? After midnight, well- it’s been six months, love. So come on. Pick a fruit.”

The nickname makes your blood run cold. Kore. The name slips from his lips like a promise, laced with meanings you can��t fully grasp but feel all too keenly. It’s mocking and intimate all at once, and it burrows under your skin like a splinter.

“Stop calling me that,” you snap, but your voice wavers.

Caleb only smirks, his head tilting ever so slightly as if amused by your defiance. “Oh, but it suits you so well. Don’t you think?” He gestures to the altar, the fruits glistening under the faint candlelight. “Now, let’s not waste time. Pick one.”

You glance at the altar, then back at him, your chest tightening. The air feels too thick, the weight of his gaze pinning you in place.

“I’m not playing your game,” you say, taking a step back.

His smile doesn’t falter, but there’s something sharper in his eyes now, a warning hidden behind his otherwise relaxed demeanor. “It’s not a game, love. It’s a choice. Your choice. But let me remind you,” he steps closer, the click of his shoes echoing off the temple walls, “I’ve been patient. Six months, patient. And patience, well… it has its limits.”

You shake your head, backing up until the altar presses against your lower back. The cold stone is a stark reminder that you’re cornered. “You said—”

“I said I’d give you six months before I collected you,” Caleb interrupts smoothly, his voice dangerously soft now. “And here I am. But you… you’re still making this difficult. Always so stubborn, aren’t you, Kore?”

Your heart pounds against your ribs as his fingers trail along the edge of the altar, dangerously close to the fruit. “Why are you doing this?” you whisper.

His laugh is low, dark, and it curls around you like smoke. “Because I can,” he says simply, his hand finally stopping above a ripe pomegranate. He picks it up, rolling it in his hand as he inspects it. “Because you invited me in when you took the seeds. And because…”

He leans in, his lips brushing your ear as he finishes, “You’re mine, and you always will be.”

You want to scream, to run, to fight, but your body won’t move. Instead, you stare at the pomegranate in his hand, its dark red skin gleaming like blood.

“Pick a fruit, Y/n,” Caleb murmurs again, his voice a silken command. “Or I’ll pick one for you.”

His breath brushes your neck, and you can feel his gaze on the back of your head, lingering in a way that feels like a predator eyeing its prey. His hand in your hair sends shivers down your spine, an unsettling mix of warmth and danger. The sweetness of his scent is thick now, almost overpowering, making it hard to think clearly.

“Beautiful work,” he repeats, his voice soft and almost teasing as his fingers gently tug at the strands of your hair, weaving through the braids. “Compliments to Josephine.” There’s a bite of something else in his tone, something that makes the compliment feel less genuine and more like a warning.

Your heart races, but it’s not from fear alone—it’s the confusion, the fury, and the helplessness all blending together. You don’t know what you want more: to break free from his grip or to slap the smirk off his face.

You’re so close to him now, his body just a breath away from yours. His warmth spreads across your skin, and it makes you dizzy. You struggle to pull yourself together, your mind desperately searching for something, anything to do.

"You're not playing fair," you manage to choke out, the words tasting like ash in your mouth. "I won't—"

“Won’t what?” His lips brush your ear again, and this time, his words are like poison. “Won’t take the fruit? Won’t accept what you’ve already given me?”

He reaches over to a basket, pucking a fruit. The pomegranate he holds glistens in the dim light, its bright red skin a cruel reminder of the price you’re about to pay. His fingers slide through your hair one last time, his hand holding your head just firmly enough to make sure you don’t look away from the fruit.

"All this time, and you still don’t see the inevitable, do you, Kore?” He chuckles low in his throat. “Six months ago, you ate the seeds. And now… it’s time to collect what’s due."

Your breath catches in your throat. You feel trapped. Stuck. There’s nowhere to run. No way to fight this. And worse, part of you… part of you wants to give in, just to make it stop.

His words hang heavy in the air, the mockery laced with something far darker. The way his gaze roams over you makes your skin crawl, even as heat rises to your cheeks against your will.

"Oh, would you look at that," he says, tilting his head as though examining a prized possession. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you got all dolled up for someone else. But that couldn't be, could it?"

His smirk widens, sharp and cutting, as his hand trails down to brush the fabric of your chiton, lingering just enough to make your stomach twist in disgust. “No, this was for me, wasn’t it, Y/n? Everything you do always circles back to me.”

You grit your teeth, your pulse pounding so hard it’s a roar in your ears. “I dressed for the gods. Not you.”

He laughs, low and rich, the sound vibrating through the marble halls. "Sweetheart, I am your god now. Whether you like it or not."

You recoil from his touch, jerking away enough to put a sliver of distance between you. His grin doesn't falter; if anything, it grows wider, as though your resistance only amuses him further.

“You don’t have to keep fighting it,” he says, stepping closer, erasing the space you just created. “The sooner you stop pretending, the easier it’ll be. For both of us.”

Your jaw clenches, the fire in your chest sparking again. “I’m not pretending,” you snap. “You don’t own me.”

“Don’t I?” His voice drops, the teasing edge sharpening into something far more menacing. He leans in, his lips so close to your ear that you can feel the chill of his breath. “You gave me your soul the moment you swallowed those seeds. Whether you meant to or not.”

His words send a cold dread creeping through your veins, but you refuse to show it. Instead, you glare at him, your voice trembling but steady. “I didn’t know. That wasn’t a choice.”

“And yet, here we are,” he says smoothly, straightening and gesturing to the temple around you. “All roads lead to me, love. Always have, always will.”

His confidence, his dominance—it’s suffocating, and yet, somewhere deep inside, something stirs. A spark of defiance that refuses to die, no matter how much he tries to smother it.

You take a deep breath, forcing steel into your spine. “You don’t scare me,” you lie, the words falling from your lips like a challenge.

His smirk turns predatory, his eyes glinting with dark amusement. “Oh, Kore,” he murmurs, stepping so close that your breaths mingle. “You should be scared. But that’s what makes this fun.”

His finger presses lightly against your temple, the touch cold and electric. A shiver runs through you, but before you can pull away, the world slips out from under you.

The marble of the temple dissolves, the flickering torches extinguish, and the air grows heavy and still. Darkness consumes everything, as thick and impenetrable as ink.

You try to speak, to move, but your limbs feel weighted, your voice trapped in your throat. Panic flares in your chest, and you struggle against the void, your thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind.

“Shh,” Caleb’s voice whispers, soft and velvety, reverberating all around you. It feels as though it’s coming from inside your head. “Don’t fight it, love. You’ll only make it worse.”

His laughter echoes, sharp and cruel, slicing through the oppressive silence. “Relax. It’s just a little... adjustment.”

You want to scream, to demand what he’s done, but all you can do is drift, weightless and disoriented.

And then, just as abruptly as it began, the darkness recedes.

You’re standing in a field bathed in golden sunlight. The sky above is impossibly blue, the air sweet with the scent of wildflowers. Everything is vivid, dreamlike in its perfection.

But something feels off.

You look down and realize you’re still in the pink chiton, its fabric shimmering unnaturally in the sunlight. A crown of flowers rests on your head, their petals vibrant and freshly bloomed.

And then you hear it—a low hum, melodic and haunting, carrying on the breeze. It sends a chill down your spine despite the warmth of the sun.

Turning, you see him standing at the edge of the field, his figure dark against the brightness. Caleb, watching you with that ever-present smirk, his eyes gleaming with triumph.

“Welcome home,” he says, his voice carrying effortlessly across the distance. “Do you like what I’ve made for you?”

The pomegranates were alive again. Alive and thriving. But just as soon as you saw them you were back, Back in that bed- the one from before, where he had choked you- nearly killed you0 and left that horrible, horrible bite.

Caleb leaned against the door frame as you sat up. There was no smirk on his face, no smile, no frown. His voice is surprisingly gentle and…wanting?

“It’s midnight, You’ve had your wine and dance. Just…just 6 months of your time. Not a year, not forever. I just want you back K-Y/n.”

His steps are soft, and it seems he’s done a 180 in his manners.

His touch is a contradiction—gentle enough to soothe, yet possessive enough to remind you of the control he wields. His fingers trace the curve of your arm, light as a feather, but it sends a jolt down your spine. You hate how your body responds, how his touch lingers like a ghost long after he moves away.

The bed beneath you is a trap, its plush surface too soft, too inviting, pulling you in as though it has a will of its own. You shift uncomfortably, trying to push back against the suffocating comfort, but it only seems to draw you in deeper.

Caleb’s hands slide down to your waist, his grip tightening just enough to make you notice. There’s an aching sort of yearning in the way he touches you, as though he’s memorizing the shape of you, mapping out every curve, every hollow. It’s suffocating, intoxicating, infuriating.

“Relax,” he murmurs, his voice low, a whisper of honeyed command. “I’m not going to hurt you... not unless you make me.”

The threat is veiled in sweetness, his tone so soft it almost feels like a caress in itself. You clench your fists, nails digging into your palms as you fight the overwhelming sensation of helplessness.

And you ask what seems like for the millionth time: “What do you want from me?” you ask, voice trembling despite your effort to sound strong.

His lips curve into a slow, soft smile. “Everything.”

It’s a single word, but it feels like the ground shifting beneath your feet, the air being sucked from your lungs. His hands remain on you, warm and firm, a reminder of the weight of his presence, the inevitability of his claim.

***

His lips are molten against your skin, every kiss igniting a trail of fire that seems to seep straight into your veins. He’s deliberate, moving with the confidence of someone who knows exactly what effect he has on you, and you hate how your body betrays you, arching instinctively to grant him more access.

His hands, strong and unyielding, pin yours on either side of your head, fingers interlocked as if he’s binding you to him. There’s a dangerous intimacy in the way he holds you—gentle, yet unrelenting, as though he’s savoring the moment of your surrender.

You’re disgusted with yourself, with the way your breath hitches when his mouth finds that sensitive spot below your jaw. You can feel his smirk against your skin, a silent acknowledgment of your weakness.

“See?” he murmurs, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction. “Your body knows what it wants, even if you don’t.”

Your teeth clench, and you glare up at him, but your defiance feels hollow when your pulse betrays you, pounding under his touch. “Get off me,” you hiss, though your voice wavers, lacking the strength you want it to have.

He chuckles softly, his breath warm against your ear. “Oh, sweet girl,” he says, his tone both teasing and reverent, “we both know that’s the last thing you want.”

Your heart races, your thoughts a chaotic storm of anger, fear, and something else you refuse to name. You hate how easily he unravels you, how effortlessly he reduces you to this trembling, conflicted mess.

And yet, even as you fight against him, a part of you wonders if he’s right.

A part of you winders if he’s right as he cups your face, kissing your eyes, your cheeks, your nose, your lips.

A part of you winders if he’s right when his lashes brush across your skin, butterfly kisses soft as he promises devotion.

And a part of you winder if he’s right as his hands are so, so genlte that it makes you cry.

The tears come without warning, hot and unbidden, slipping down your cheeks even as his hands continue their soft ministrations, brushing tenderly across your skin. His touch feels like silk, each movement almost reverent, as if he’s cherishing you in a way that feels far too intimate, far too real for you to grasp.

His lips continue everywhere.

Your cheeks, your nose, your lips. Each kiss is so light, so gentle, that it feels like a confession in itself, as if he’s offering something more than just a physical connection.

The soft brush of his lashes against your skin feels like a whisper from some dark, hidden part of yourself, and for a moment, you almost want to believe him. You almost want to surrender to the devotion he promises, even though every fiber of your being screams that it’s a lie, a manipulation, a trap. His kisses, tender and patient, ghosting over your cheeks and lips, seem to slow time, stretching the moment into something agonizingly beautiful. His hands, impossibly gentle, caress your face with such reverence that it stirs something deep inside of you. Something raw and fragile.

You hate how vulnerable you’ve become in his presence, how his careful tenderness is unraveling the walls you’ve spent so long building.

“You don’t have to fight,” he murmurs, his voice like silk, soothing, coaxing. “I can give you what you need. All you have to do is let go.”

Your chest tightens with emotion you can’t name, a surge of dread and longing so tangled together you can't separate them. You want to pull away, to tear yourself from his embrace, but your body betrays you, sinking deeper into the warmth he offers, yearning for something you can’t understand. The contradictions inside you churn.

“Stop it,” you whisper, your voice cracked, but even the words feel weak as they leave your lips. You’re terrified of what might happen if you give in, terrified of what part of yourself you might lose in the process. But you’re equally terrified of what’s left—this part of you, so full of confusion and tears.

He just smiles, a slow, knowing smile. “No, love. You’re too precious to let go now.”

"Such a beautiful, perfect creature," he murmurs, his voice so sweet it feels like honey dripping into your ears. It’s intoxicating. His breath is warm against your skin, and for a moment, you feel like you’re drowning in him, in the sweetness of his devotion, in the promise of something you can’t name but long for anyway.

But the tears—why are there tears? You’re angry, confused, terrified, and yet his gentleness makes you break, makes you lose control in the most vulnerable way possible. Your body is betraying you, responding to him in a way that makes you hate yourself for giving him even the smallest hint of satisfaction.

"Don’t cry," he whispers softly, brushing away the tears with his thumb, as if the mere touch of him could erase your fear, your resistance. "You’re safe here. You’re mine."

The words send a chill down your spine, and part of you wants to push him away, to reject everything he says, every soft caress, every whisper of devotion. But another part, a treacherous, aching part of you, wonders if there’s truth in his words.

If you are his.

***

Clothes had been forgotten long ago. Only the sounds of your gasps for air, moans, and whimpers fill the room, save for the blasphemous squelch of his fingres dragging inside you, curling at that spongey spot that makes your eyes close, the darkness swimming with floating lights.

One calloused hand is working through your sobbing cunt, the other pressing two fingers down on your tongue. His teeth dig into your shoulder as he works you through another orgasm.

Spit pools in your mouth, and you find yourself twitching, shaking drooling when he adds a third finger, working you open.

“Like I said, this is only the beginning. Let’s do good, yeah?”

And Caleb is so sure- so incredibly sure that you’re his that there is simply no room for doubt in his mind. Why would there be, when he takes his fingers out and watches your cunt glisten, connected to his fingers by the strings of your juices. He licks them clean, save for his index. That, he removes his fingers from your mouth, replacing it with that so you taste yourself.

“See? See what I can do for you?”

He’s greedy. He doesn’t wait for any answer- he doesn’t need to hear one. Because he knows. He knows as he lays you on your back, his lips finding your tits, worshipping them for some time, his tongue swirling around the erected, hard nipple, relishing in how your thighs twitch again, as if you’re just not going to get used to this.

He lets them go with a lewd pop before he gets between your legs. You don’t dare look, lest your face burn hotter than it was already, as his cock leaks, a pearl of divinity seeping at its pink tip, just waiting to be of use. The vien is big, and he’s thick- you’re sure that it’s not going to fit.

You try to close your thighs but he just doesn’t let you, kissing away your worries as he lines himself up.

Your breathing quickens, and he pushes himself in.

If you screamed, you didn’t hear it.

Not when you feel yourself being torn open so carelessly, when there’s a wild look in his eyes as he’s finally, finally inside you, finally splitting you open.

When you open a pomegranate carelessly, it’s so messy. You hardly have time to enjoy it. The pomegranate bursts open in your hands, the seeds spilling out with reckless abandon. Juice splatters across your fingers, dripping down your wrists, staining the fabric of your dress. It's sticky and messy, and it leaves behind a trail of crimson marks wherever it touches. The sweet-sour scent fills the air, but it's no longer the delightful fragrance you once associated with the fruit.

You try to clean it up, but the more you do, the messier it becomes. The juice smears across your hands and lips, irreversible.

You don’t miss the gasp he takes as he spills inside, nor the smile of finality.

***

The ring slips on your finger unnoticed, a subtle weight you don’t even feel at first, not when his touch is so consuming, so overwhelming. His presence fills every inch of the space around you, and everything else, every shred of reality, fades into the background.

The soft gleam of the ring feels like an afterthought, an inconsequential detail, as your focus is entirely on him—his voice, his breath, his touch. His promises. His devotion. It’s intoxicating, and for that fleeting moment, you almost forget the consequences of what you’re allowing, the choices you’ve made without truly thinking.

But then your mind snaps back, and the weight of the ring finally registers—your gaze falling to it with a sharp, sinking realization. How did it get there? Was it his doing, was it the culmination of everything he had whispered, everything he had touched you with?

You look up to meet his gaze, and in the depths of his eyes, you see something—too familiar, too sure. His smile is soft, but there’s something possessive, something triumphant in it. He knows. He knows the ring is on your finger, and he doesn’t have to say it out loud to make it clear.

You are his.

And that realization, that truth, sits heavy in your chest.

***

The next morning, as you woke up, you noticed the sunlight streaming in from a window you didn't see yesterday. And beside you, on the nightstand, was a bulbous figure.

A scream tore through your throat.

Jenna's head, with her skin peeled back like the arils of a pomegranate.

#pandoras box writing #hellinistical #x y/n #love and deepspace #afab reader #caleb x reader #lads caleb #love and deep space caleb #caleb x you #caleb x mc #yandere caleb #love and deepspace caleb #lds caleb #lnds caleb #caleb love and deepspace #caleb smut #caleb lads

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rioromanoffroses · 4 months ago

Text

Ovulation (Part 2)

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Warnings: 18+ content, G!P Natasha, finger sucking, oral sex (R and Natasha receiving), implied non-con, unprotected sex (P in V), breast sucking, degrading, toxic relationship, obsessive Natasha, jealousy and slight possessiveness

Summary: It's been three months since your heated encounter with the Black Widow. When your paths cross again at a work party, it doesn't take much for both of you to crack...

Pairings: dom!Reader x sub!Natasha but they switch halfway through

WC: 5.7k

It was just like any other S.H.I.E.L.D. party you had attended many times before but you decided to dress like a slut anyway.

You were wearing all black, brightened by gold jewellery that gleamed whenever a streak of light hit the metal. Your lacy corset was mostly hidden by your cropped blazer and your tight, formal trousers outlined your curves, your outfit finished by formidable, 6-inch heels.

It was three months since you’d last seen Natasha Romanoff but it had felt like so much longer. She had left while you were still asleep — the only evidence of her departure had been the lipstick stain on your forehead.

You made sure you were wearing the same lipstick shade that night and the most dramatic eye look you had ever done. Three months was a long time for resentment and rage to grow and evolve.

There was no guarantee Natasha would even be at the party. You didn’t recall seeing Natasha at one before. But for some reason, there was a nagging feeling in your gut that insisted you’d see her. She’d see you; in the outfit you’d picked out for her.

As soon as you walked into the party, you noticed several eyes lingering on your figure. The room was dark, lit only by violet ceiling lights. There were clusters of agents everywhere and the dance floor was relatively empty, the night still too young and the people still too sober.

You spotted one of your friends by the bar and strode over to her, your heels echoing against the marble floor.

“Hey Maria,” you said, taking a seat next to her. Her eyes widened when she saw you.

“Oh my God, what are you wearing?” You had always been on the reserved side in front of your colleagues, even though your style had always been quite bold and formal, so your new look was a slight shock to her. “Is that top see-through?”

“Everywhere except the chest area, yeah,” you said, turning to the bartender, “I’d like a glass of champagne, please.” He nodded and began preparing your drink. Maria sighed.

“You’d better avoid Fury like the plague,” she said, “This is a work party, you do realise that?” You knew it wasn’t an appropriate place to look so provocative but you hadn’t been thinking straight for months. Natasha had been on your mind non-stop and like a drug, you were craving her and burning for a high that would rid you of your withdrawal symptoms.

The bartender placed the glass of champagne in front of you and you carefully took a sip, making sure the liquid didn’t disturb your lipstick.

Maria took a sip from her glass before spotting something behind you and her jaw dropped. She quickly drained the glass and scrambled to her feet, causing you to frown. “Are you okay?”

“She looks pissed,” she said, dragging out the ‘i’ vowel, “And I am not getting involved. Have a good night.” She gave you a quick tap on the shoulder before hurrying away while you were still processing her words. You were about to call after Maria until a voice sounded behind you and your heartbeat ceased.

“God, I’m going to kill you.” You snapped your head around and stared at the redhead, blinking a few times to make sure she was real. Her hair was curled onto her bare shoulders, the red, satin straps of her dress tight across her arm muscles and chest, allowing some of her breasts to spill over the material.

Part of you wanted to slap her across the face… another part of you wanted to kiss her right there and then. You raised an eyebrow.

“And what would call for such unnecessary violence, Agent Romanoff?” She grabbed your wrist, sinking her sharp, scarlet nails into your skin. Despite the thumping, irregular beat of your heart, you stood your ground and didn’t break eye contact with her as her eyes burnt right into your skull.

She leaned forward and whispered into your ear, “That wasn’t the name you were screaming a few months ago.” From the corner of your eye, you could see Natasha’s pupils darkening. “I’m going to kill you for thinking of this outfit, deciding to wear it and letting half this room stare at you with it on.”

She tried to pull you onto your feet but you didn’t budge. You took a sip of your champagne, looking up at her through your eyelashes.

“What’s wrong with my outfit?” you mocked, your tone of feigned innocence, “You don’t like it?” Natasha clenched her fists and scowled.

“When did you become such a smart-ass?” You smirked, taking another sip of alcohol. You had become as soft as unheated clay the last time you were together and you had let her mould you into whatever she wanted.

That night, you were on fire, and your silhouette was shaped exactly how you liked it — how it was before your first encounter. “I don’t like you looking like a whore when you’re mine.”

“Oh, I’m yours, am I?” you snapped, “I didn’t get that impression when I woke up to an empty bed stained with your bodily fluids. I didn’t get that impression after not hearing from you for months.”

You turned your body away from her and tilted back your head, the remaining champagne running down the glass and into your mouth. As soon as you set the glass down, you felt Natasha’s hand on your jaw, forcing you to look at her.

“I didn’t want to leave like that,” she said, her voice becoming serious, “It’s complicated.” She hesitated. “Do you know who I am?” You smiled. You were stupid not to realise it until Maria told you, after you confessed to having slept with a fellow agent.

Natasha was the Black Widow, the most formidable S.H.I.E.L.D. agent there was. You wondered if knowing her identity earlier would’ve changed anything. Perhaps you wouldn’t have been so reckless in the shower. Perhaps you wouldn’t have stared at her like a fool. Perhaps you wouldn’t have spread your legs for her.

“I don’t care if you’re the Black Widow, Natasha,” you said, “You left me. That’s the only thing I care about.” You pushed her arm away, forcing her to let go of your face. Natasha’s expression fell. She reached for your fingers and brushed her own against them, sending goosebumps down your arm.

“Let me make it up to you.” You looked down at where your skin made contact before switching your focus to her face. You knew she was a woman of many masks but she seemed genuinely apologetic.

You were undeniably angry with her still but your need was too strong and from the sound of her short, sharp breaths, you knew she was feeling the same. You slipped off the bar stool and took a step towards her so you were less than an inch apart.

“Don’t make me regret this, Romanoff.” You spun around and started to march towards the door, the crowd parting like the red sea as soon as they saw the Black Widow behind you. You were too far in front for her to touch you without being obvious about it but you could hear each beat of her footsteps.

You decided to play into your wrath and aggravate Natasha; she deserved it. It would be fun. Your teasing started as soon as the taxi drew up on the pavement and you opened the door for her, wordlessly instructing her to get in first with your eyes.

On the drive there, you pretended to adjust your bra strap, moving it just enough so Natasha could catch a glimpse of the vibrant red colour. You did it more than once, just enough times to piss her off.

You were enjoying the game and kept it going, leaning forward between the two seats and flirting with the taxi driver. The compromising position meant your breasts were pressed together slightly, making your cleavage more noticeable.

The driver was struggling to keep his eyes on the road and as uncomfortable as it made you feel, as soon as you saw Natasha’s eyes in the rearview mirror, you knew it was totally worth it. Her pupils were on fire.

By the time you had shut the door of the hurriedly booked motel room, you could see sweat on her forehead and her breath was heavy, like an animal being driven by primal desire. She pushed you against the wood before you could even turn on a light, sending a shot of pain down your spine and you had to bite down on your lip to stop yourself from whining.

You knew what she wanted. You weren’t going to give in to her just yet. You had a queen firmly clutched in your hands and she was still gliding across the chest board under your will and control.

Natasha tried to kiss you but you stopped her with your finger on her chin, moving your other hand to her thigh. She pressed into you more urgently, your chests touching, your foreheads only inches apart. Her hands were on your hips, her nails digging into the material of your trousers.

You inhaled sharply when you felt her against your lower stomach. She heard the difference in your breath and she started to move her hands, massaging your sides in slow circles. She wanted to see how long it would take for you to give in; Natasha wanted to know what your weakness was.

You couldn’t see her in the dark, amplifying the sensation of her touch and you could feel your control slip from your fingers but you caught it just before it was lost.

“Was that all I had to do?” you mocked, scratching her chin with the edge of your nail, “Look pretty and say some nice words to the driver?”

Your hand drifted in between her legs and up her dress so you could feel just how hard she was and emphasise your point. You let out a low whistle when you felt the wet patch on her boxers. “Slut.”

Natasha pushed away from the door, your heart pounding in your ears, and strode towards the bedside table lamp. The light cast an amber glow onto the furniture, exposing the off-whites and beiges of the cheap room. It was better than the place you’d been together in Moldova but it was still small and underwhelming.

You were distracted from the room as soon as your eyes fell on Natasha again. There was a reason you had fallen so easily the first night you’d met.

You had rejected the most important part of yourself, your dignity, partly because of your raging hormones but mostly because of her: the venom of her eyes, the blood of her hair, the skull-white of her skin carved by Lucifer himself. Her looks were only the surface, though — the deeper you dived, the faster you drowned.

The sight of you had a similar effect on her and a few seconds passed in silence without a single movement between you. You were both in a trance, your eyes taking each other in the privacy of the room.

You were alone; it made you vulnerable to each other. Natasha already knew you were becoming a weak spot and if you’d been less self-driven, it would’ve dawned on you too.

She was the first one to move, the electricity between you weak against the current of her desire. She sat on the edge of the bed and let her dress ride up her thighs, exposing the black of her boxers. You strode towards Natasha, looking down at her, and you slipped your blazer off your shoulders, letting it fall onto the carpet.

You stopped in between her legs, capturing her face in your hands, your fingertips touching her scalp. She leaned back on one arm, wrapping a hand around your wrist, not breaking away from your gaze.

“You’re right,” she said, “I am a slut. And so would anyone if they’d been allowed to touch you.” You traced your thumb along her jaw and then along her bottom lip before pushing it into her mouth. ‘This is so much more fun,’ you thought, ‘why didn’t I try this before?’ Your walls weren’t going to be so easy to knock down that time.

Her tongue pressed against the tip of your thumb and when you dragged it out of her mouth down her chin, it left a trail of spit on her bottom lip, quickening your pulse even more.

The sight of Natasha below you, her face a mess, started feeding into your own twisted desires. You could feel the heat building between your thighs and the cool air was a relief against the beads of sweat forming on your arm.

“The Black Widow, huh?” you said. Red pricked her cheeks like a thorn and you knew if she wasn’t so desperate to be inside of you, your neck would be in the chokehold of her bare hands.

She was more skilled than you; she was stronger too. She could kill you at any given moment… yet she was letting you have power over her.

“Bitch,” she muttered. You straddled Natasha’s lap and wrapped your legs tightly around her waist to keep yourself firmly in place.

As soon as your lips touched, it was like your muscle memory and body took over, suppressing your logical thoughts. She grabbed the back of your neck and pulled you closer, slamming your lips together.

You forgot about the game and your confidence, the chess board falling to the floor and you held her face so you could kiss her more harshly. You were swallowing each other’s moans, the months of tension and pent-up emotions spilling like blood from a wound. You had only spent two nights together but you had missed her more than any of your exes, even more than some of your old friends.

Your lips separated for only half a second at a time so you could take a breath and change the angle. Her back fell against the sheets as your legs loosened, your kisses growing more desperate.

Your tongue dove into Natasha’s mouth and you almost let her win against you until you noticed the intensity of her moans and the movement of your hips. You had been so lost in kissing her you hadn’t realised that you were grinding against her subtly — just enough to worsen her hard-on. You ripped your lips away from hers when you felt her fingers on the buttons of your trousers.

“No,” you said, stopping her movements, a smirk forming on your face. She whined.

“Please,” she said. She looked up at you through her eyelashes and you could feel her trembling beneath you, her sweat forming tears that ran down her face. “Please just let me fuck you.” Natasha would never admit it to anyone but she’d touched herself while thinking of you ever since she’d seen your photos in the mission brief. It had been easy to get relief before she’d actually met you and slept with you.

Following the mission, she hadn’t been able to release at all, not by her own hands, toys or even the few women she’d had a one-night stand with in an attempt to get you off her mind. You were the only thing she thought about some days. She couldn’t wait much longer; she had needed you for months; she had ached for you night after endless night.

You sat on top of her like she was a podium with a shit-eating grin on your face. You had gotten Natasha so wound up that she was begging you. You couldn’t smell a single trace of alcohol on her lips, meaning she was sober and her words were her own.

You leaned down and nudged your mouth against the shell of her, arching your back to make sure she had a clear view of your ass.

“You want my cunt?” you said into her ear, tightening your grip around her squirming fingers.

“I need it,” she breathed, turning her head towards you, connecting your lips for a brief second. You didn’t return the kiss, moving away from her instead.

You sat up, shifting to the centre of the bed and relaxed against the pillows behind you, spreading your legs.

You gave her a show as you watched her panting form, unbuttoning your trousers slowly and shimmering out of the black material. You threw them to the floor before hooking two fingers under the red of your panties, the colour matching your bra.

“Don’t you dare move.” As you dragged your lacy underwear down your thighs, her pupils widened, the black in her eyes like obsidian. Natasha could see that you were dripping and the sight of your slicked folds and porcelain-stained thighs caused the rope in her stomach to tighten into a knot.

As soon as the red underwear was on the floor, you started touching your stiff clit just so she could watch your arousal spill onto the sheets beneath you. Natasha’s hands tightened into fists, her gaze fixated on your slit. She swallowed hard.

“Make me feel good,” you said. She crawled towards you without hesitation, diving into your pussy like she was starved. You moaned as soon as her tongue pressed against your warm, soaked folds and your nerves buzzed with adrenaline as she dragged the muscle all the way up to your clit.

She wrapped her mouth around your sensitive bud and you guided her hands to your thighs before lying back on the sheets, allowing yourself to concentrate on your body’s reactions.

You lifted your legs onto her shoulders to give her more access and bit down on your lip as her mouth continued to work your pussy, not wanting to expose how she was making you feel just yet.

It was a pathetic facade, though — Natasha could tell how much you loved her tongue from the amount of arousal that flooded her throat. A bubble began to form around you as her movements sped up, cutting off the outside world and lifting you off the ground, far away from reality.

You had tried to convince yourself to hate her during the weeks following the night she abandoned you. You knew it was irrational deep down — you understood the nature of your jobs.

You knew her position as well — it was bigger than yours and she was responsible for more. Her past wasn’t a secret either and although yours had its fair share of trauma, it had affected you differently. You had failed to hate her; it was impossible.

You reached for Natasha’s head and pushed it further into your folds, finally letting a moan slip past your lips as she slid her tongue inside of you.

You started to grind against her face and her groans sent vibrations through your cunt, heightening the pleasure building in your stomach. You looked down to admire the sight of her face buried in your thighs and you noticed the movements of her hips against the mattress. She was so, so desperate for relief.

As your orgasm approached, you moved your hands into her hair, tightening your grip on her curls as you came undone, gasping and repeating her name as your release gushed into her mouth and spilled over her lips.

You let go and your limbs slumped onto the sheets, your heaving breasts straining against your bra, your corset top soaked with sweat.

“I want you to get undressed,” you said in between gasps. Natasha lifted herself from between your legs and shot you a dark look. You could see the moment she snapped.

“If one more word comes out of that pretty mouth of yours, I’m going to wrap my hand around your throat until you pass out.” Your eyes widened at the sudden change in her demeanour. Natasha wasn’t following your rules anymore; she had reached a breaking point.

She seized your hips and dragged you onto her lap, letting you feel the outline of her straining cock against your cunt. Your mind raced with things to say; you wanted to fight and keep taunting her but you were craving her too.

No one had ever compared to her and if it hadn’t been so arousing to tease her, you would’ve let her fill you up as soon as the door closed.

She untied your top and threw it behind her without caring where it landed before ripping the bra you had teased her with in the taxi in two. You gasped but before you could recover from your shock, her fingers were squeezing your nipples and the bubble around you was rising into the clouds again. You were both fucking insane.

“Such a stupid slut,” Natasha spat and before your desire-drunk mind could process what was happening, she was guiding your hand to her cock and moving it up and down. You looked down to see the reddened tip spilling with pre-cum, her dick angry and aching. “This is what you’ve done to me. You’ve fucking ruined me.” And she had every intent of ruining you in return.

She knew it would be better for her to stop and breathe but the redhead wasn’t in control anymore. She had liked sex with different people before you; she had enjoyed touching herself but you had taken that from her. You had also ignited feelings that she had suppressed and had made her question too much at once. They were questions Natasha refused to think about.

She lifted you from her lap and positioned you above her cock, the tip nudging against your entrance, which was still sensitive from your orgasm, before pushing in. You both cried out at the same time, your voice a mix of pain and ecstasy.

Your walls immediately began sucking Natasha in as you sank further and further onto her length. You gripped her shoulders as you watched her disappear inside you, your mouth stuck in an ‘O’ shape as she filled you completely.

The stretch was almost as uncomfortable as the first time, reminding you how long it had been. You thought about having to wait for months before seeing Natasha again sent a pang through you. You didn’t know how you’d get through it — you were already growing dependent on Natasha. It was pathetic. You hated yourself for it.

“Fuck, I missed this pussy,” Natasha said as she started to bounce you up and down on her cock without giving you a moment to adjust. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head and you moved your hips in time with hers, your tits bouncing with each thrust.

She buried her face between them to try and stifle her moans but it was no use. Anyone in the rooms next to you or above you would be able to hear but neither of you had any thoughts left to spare.

The bubble had soared above the atmosphere and there were stars streaked across your vision, the light intensifying as Natasha continued to pump inside of you. She lifted her head and collided your lips together with a bruising force, her teeth sinking into your bottom lip.

You could still taste yourself on her tongue as she delved deeper into your mouth, not letting you win against her that time. There was a metallic sting against your tongue as her teeth punctured your lip and drew blood.

Your head was dizzy with lust and bliss; your vision blurred with tears as you were overwhelmed by the sensations of her. You didn’t understand how or why she felt so good but you knew you’d do anything she asked if it meant she’d keep fucking you. She separated your lips and started peppering your jaw with kisses, your nails clawing down her clothed back as she continued to forcefully drill into you.

The blood from your lip dribbled down your chin and ended up smeared over your face as Natasha kissed down your neck, pausing against your sweet spot. She sunk her teeth into your neck and sucked on the skin, forcing a cry from your lips.

“How the fuck does this cunt stay so tight?” she groaned against your skin. Your head fell back as her mouth moved to your collarbone and she marked you again, her tongue cooling against the scorching skin.

“Please, Natasha,” you whined, “Don’t stop.” The stars dancing along your vision shifted into a kaleidoscope, the colours disorientating and bright, the shapes blurring at the edges. You had broken her demand not to speak but she dismissed it when your walls clenched around her, causing her to practically scream.

Her hands slowed down their rhythm so she could sink deeper inside of you, hitting that specific spot that caused the pockets of white in front of you to spin impossibly faster.

She was met with no resistance as she slid in and out of your fluttering walls, the movement made easy by the arousal gushing out from your entrance. The wet sounds of your cunt echoed through the room every time your thighs met with hers, the noise drowned out by your loud moans.

Each time her tip brushed against that one place inside you, your cunt squeezed her tight and you could tell by the erratic timing of her hips that she was getting close. As soon as you felt Natasha’s thighs shaking beneath you, the stars in your eyes burst, sending hot sparks flying through your veins, the heat setting the end of your nerves on fire.

She followed immediately after you, releasing inside of you in waves as she screamed your name. She didn’t stop bouncing you on her dick until you slumped against her shoulders, crushed beneath the weight of your orgasm.

You lifted yourself from her softening cock and moved to the centre of the bed, lowering yourself onto your back. You hooked your hands underneath your knees and pulled them up to your chin, exposing your lower half to her eyes. She drank the sight of you in, still gasping for air.

“You already want more?” Natasha tutted. “Greedy whore.” She didn’t even ask you to beg; the sight of you exposed to her was enough. She pulled her dress above her head and it joined the growing pile of clothes on the floor before releasing her breasts from their confines, her nipples sore from the restraint.

She placed her hands on either side of your head, admiring your blown-out pupils and the streaks of mascara on your cheek; you hadn’t even realised you’d been crying.

Natasha didn’t know if it was from exhaustion or the way your beauty struck her but she decided to take her time with you that time. Her fingers dipped into your folds, caressing you with a gentleness you hadn’t felt from her before, the whines she earned from you quiet and subtle.

She ran her tip through your slit, soaking it with a mix of both your releases before nudging it against your entrance again. She dipped into you slowly, savouring the feeling of each new nerve that came into contact with your walls, re-tightening the released knot inside her stomach. Natasha didn’t start moving until she was fully inside of you, her face flushed by crimson.

As she leaned down to press her forehead against yours, you picked up her scent, the same vanilla and brown sugar perfume from before flooding your senses. Your hips met as she thrust into you with purpose; she was focusing on hitting exactly where you needed her to.

She lifted your legs onto her shoulders so she could fill you to the brim and free your hands. You moved them into her hair, your nails running along her scalp.

Each breath that left her lips met with your skin, the faint sound intertwining with the oxygen leaving your lungs, your body buzzing with exhilaration. You could already feel yourself tipping over the edge, each wave that hit you stronger than the last.

“You love this, don’t you? You love being put in your place,” Natasha said. It was like she was holding a blade to your every seam and she was cutting them one by one, splitting you apart slowly. “You’re taking my cock so well.” You closed your eyes as the ecstasy racing through your veins lifted you higher and higher, loud whimpers leaving your mouth.

“I’m so close,” you admitted. She increased her pace as she rocked her hips into you and as you tightened around her, without either of you saying a word, you let go at the same time. You could feel her cock pulsing inside of you as you spilled over her and you plummeted back to earth, your nose nudging against hers as you arched your back.

As soon as your climaxes were over, she shuddered and collapsed on top of you. Natasha didn’t move for a few minutes, nuzzling her face against your neck and you ran a hand over her hair, absorbing the softness underneath your fingertips, hoping it would stay in your memory.

Your chests were pressed together and the weight of her on top of you was comforting, although a little warm. The intimacy of the moment was dangerous but you were both too tired to notice it.

“You look so pretty when you come undone,” Natasha murmured against your skin, her finger tracing shapes along your jaw. You weren’t thinking about what she was doing; you hadn’t caught onto her tone. A few moments passed before she added, “I was being serious earlier. I want you to be mine.” The organ in your chest dropped.

Your hand halted and you slipped it out of her hair, causing her to lift her head. She was inches away from your face, close enough to see the electricity in your eyes, crackling with anxiety and something more. Your pupils were shrinking rapidly and there were lines were forming across your forehead.

“What do you mean?” You thought she had meant it in a possessive way; it was said from a place of jealousy and lust. How could it mean anymore? She shook her head.

“I don’t know what it is about you. I just can’t get you out of my head.” Natasha knew it wasn’t just for sexual reasons either but she couldn’t quite confront that fact. She slipped herself out of you and rolled onto the mattress beside you.

You stared up at the ceiling, hyperaware of her every movement. Your muscles tensed as soon as she touched your arm, her fingertips dancing over the goosebumps forming along your skin. You weren’t someone who liked feelings or showed any vulnerabilities. You didn’t think she was either.

“What are we doing, Natasha?” you said, your chest tightening. You started nibbling on the corner of your lip, the room suddenly becoming too hot and small all at once. The situation between you had started off so normal; you had needed to blow off some steam and you were both attracted to each other, so it was an easy solution.

Then, it had become an orchestrated plan to get her back for leaving you, even though she had no obligation to stay and after spending yet another night together, you were discussing your fucking emotions. “We both know you won’t be with me.”

“I’m sorry,” Natasha said. You barely caught her words. She kissed your shoulder and hesitated before tilting your face towards her, pressing her lips to yours.

Her kisses were slow and sensual, her lips moving against you as you kept yours still. She stopped when she noticed you weren’t reciprocating, brushing the strands of your hair stuck to your sticky forehead from your face. “It’s not that simple. You know that.”

You felt a stab of anger and your nails dug into the palms of your hands. It wasn’t like you to break easily. Perhaps you were still too young to withstand the pain after all; your heart was inexperienced and malleable. You had dated before but it had never been serious or long-term. You couldn’t truly say that you’d ever loved someone (not that you loved Natasha or ever would, of course).

You had a strange urge to get to know her better; you wanted to have a conversation with her beyond sex. You wanted to spend time with her without it involving the two of you being wrapped up together in the sheets of a cheap motel bedroom. It was stupid of you to even think about the idea.

You could feel your barriers crumbling, so you ran back to what you knew, to what was comforting. If it was only lust between you, then that’s what you’d drink.

You climbed on top of Natasha and started kissing down her neck, grazing your teeth over her pulse point. You didn’t stop when she whispered your name in a confused tone, in fact, it only spurred you on. Your mouth wrapped around her nipple and you squeezed the other one in between your fingers, refusing to look into her eyes.

Her hands remained by her sides, refusing to touch you. Her bottom lip was caught between her teeth and she itched to push you off, to ignore the hunger coursing through her body and to be honest with you, she wanted to talk to you properly. She didn’t want to use you. She wanted it to be something more.

You released her nipple and dragged your fingers down her stomach, tracing the taunt muscles of her abs and dulling her mind to everything that wasn’t your touch. When you reached her thighs, her cock was already hard again and you could feel tears building in your eyes but they weren’t caused by overstimulation or exhaustion. You knew how twisted the whole thing was. It was sick — you were sick.

The first drops of translucent hurt slipped down your cheeks as you ran your tongue along her tip, your bare body on complete display to her as you settled in front of her on all fours, gripping her thighs. You were going to give Natasha everything but your soul that night and she was going to watch as you slowly but surely fell apart under her gaze.

A/n - I have an idea for part 3 (which would be the last part). If anyone has any ideas for the actual smut bit, please don't hesitate to send a request about it.

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