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You are uncertain of the exact time but at this point, the sun has long set, permitting ghostly entrails of moonlight to leak through the leaded windows to either side of the frigid wall you are chained to. Your hands feel fuzzy and limp caged within the iron shackles tethered to heavy chains and bracketed above your head. You’d ceased struggling, the movement putting too much strain on your shoulders and you dared not peer up to access the damage the cuffs have undoubtedly done against the delicate flesh of your wrists. Not that you could see much anyway, due to the veil of tresses that have fallen into your eyes, and try as you might to shake them away you cannot clear your vision. Mostly, you surmise, since your hair is stuck to the coagulated beads of saliva drooling out around the black rubber gag the red-headed men forced into your mouth before they took their leave.
You are wholly and completely unsure why you are here, bound to this wall, in this run-down cottage god only knew where. All you know is that one moment you were deciding between making an apple tart or pear pie, dourly examining the respective fruits within the produce section of your local Tesco and in an instant, you were being twisted, compressed, and twirled like that time you rode that rickety roller coaster down on the southern pier. Before long you were roughly spit onto the harsh, unforgiving earth between two red-headed strangers who looked exactly alike, only they didn’t.
Repeated, vociferous demands to know what was going on, what had just happened, and most importantly, how, were left unanswered as you were roughly hoisted to your feet and lugged, fighting and screeching, into the dilapidated farmhouse. Through the crumbling infrastructure of the living space, you were dragged into one of the back bedrooms where the two men fixed you to the far wall.
Waving thin, dark mahogany twigs, the twins muttered words you didn’t understand and some of the fight drained from your person as chains the diameter of serpents, writhing as if possessed by said creatures rose apparently out of thin air. The restraints were fixed, and the chains tightened, forcing you to raise your arms above your head, rendering you helpless. Regaining your fire, you’d daringly attempted to fight back, kicking out and screaming icy threats, making it known you would not go quietly into the night. Your captors however, had only laughed before shoving a rubber ball gag between your teeth, roughly catching strands of your hair as they cranked the leather strap tight against your scalp, tittering amongst themselves about how this was more “visually appealing than a Silencio”, whatever the bloody hell that meant!
Macabre visions of the two of them having their way with you whirled through your mind, but your fear had been unwarranted, at least for the time being, as once you were secure and mostly quiet, the men left.
They had left you alone to wait, wonder, and suffer.
Your face itched. Your shoulders were on fire. You were positive your wrists were bleeding. It was cold. Your stomach had been twisting and growling for hours!
For the hundredth time that night, you wonder why you were here. What was happening? What had you done? Were these sadistic men going to brutally assault you, snuff you out, and dispose of the evidence within a shallow grave? Did they think they were going to get some sort of ransom for your release from your deceased mother and dead-beat father? And most importantly…What had that sensation been, the method of travel that had brought you to your current whereabouts?
Whoever these men are, you know they cannot be normal human beings. They proved that, not only with how they’d taken you but with how they had attached your restraints.
With a destitute sigh, you realize there is only one thing you know for certain; You are in trouble.
You have no one. No family. The only person who currently meant anything to you…well, you had not seen him in two bloody weeks. No one knew that you’d been taken.
As you began to lose hope, the direness of your situation taking firm hold of your resolve to keep a cool head, a sudden cacophonous struggle erupted from elsewhere in the cottage. There are shouts, and bangs, followed by wracking explosions and trying your best, you curl into yourself, wincing and bracing against expected falling debris as it seems the whole fucking structure is going to come tumbling to the ground around you.
Thankfully, it doesn’t.
After a few minutes, the explosions stop, the shouting voices cease and all is still…quiet….too quiet. The air is now pregnant, indecorous with unease and an imperceptible shake begins in your fingers, sojourning through your nerves and into your jaw, causing your teeth to clatter.
Then you hear the rhythmic sounds of leather soles tapping against the ancient wood flooring, the squeak of boards long past their prime, and soon the shuffling of cumbersome fabrics right outside the grizzled wooden door. You have a momentary argument with yourself, immovable between crying out the best you can for rescue and frozen with fear as you cannot be sure if the person out in the hall is one of your captors, a savior, or some new depraved villain.
The tarnished door handle gradually dips and rusted hinges squeal as the door creaks open. A tall form swathed from head to toe in black, except for its face, which is covered in an intricate silver mask, ducks under the threshold and enters the room.
Whoever this is, they are not one of the men who had taken you. This being is much taller, and much more imposing.
Every nerve and muscle of yours becomes impliable as the swarthy amassment silently creeps forward, the groaning of the longevous footing under every one of their steps the only proof they are walking at all and not simply floating. In their left hand is another one of those sticks, raised at hip level, with a faint green glow fading from the tip. It’s the strangest flashlight you’ve ever seen as it does nothing to light the figures' way as they cross the incandescence-streaked room.
You start to scream, whine, thrash, anything to make yourself seem more imposing, but it’s no use. You’re chained up and at the mercy of this stranger, whoever they are, just like the last.
He (because you are almost sure now that this is a man because of his height, his shoulders too broad to belong to a woman) stops in front of you and slides the stick, the tip now lackluster, into the pocket of his trousers. In a flash he relieves his person of his heavy cloak, removing his hood in the process and you can barely see a thick mass of riotous curls billowing out behind the mask. Though you cannot discern their true color in the ethereal moonlight, blistering suspicion ignites.
The masked face dips down and you hear a sharp, nasally inhale behind the covering. A soft chuckle reverberates as the man raises a hand and you brace, not knowing whether he intends to strike you or simply remove your gag. As it turns out, he does neither, only sweeps the hair out of your eyes, giving you full countenance of his form, dressed in simple black trousers and a full-sleeved black sweater. His long fingers push your chaotic hair behind your ears before lingering down the sides of your face. As he strokes your jaw, you jerk away from his touch, positively seething, familiarity now festering in your chest.
It was such a simple motion, but one you are well acquainted with. But it couldn’t be! He would have had no way to find you!
His muffled chuckle continues which only serves to make you angrier. You don’t find this the least bit comical and you attempt to inform him of that but every word is stifled by the gag lodged between your teeth.
“Such a spitfire,” a heavily accented voice rumbles out into the night and your heart drops into the pit of your stomach.
You’d know that fucking voice anywhere!
The figure removes his mask, carelessly tossing it to the side along with his discarded cloak. As he pushes the locks of hair that have fallen into his eyes back into order, you’re not sure whether to cry out in relief or scream in a torrent of rage.
"It would seem you are in a little bit of a predicament, no?” The man you’ve come to know as Antonin Dolohov, or “bloody bastard" when you are mad at him, and “baby” when you are not, rumbles as he runs a single finger down the side of your face again which you violently shake off.
“Milaya,” Antonin barks, his alluringly thick eyebrows knitted in umbrage, oceanic eyes darkening with ire as he reprimands you, “You would do well to be nice to me. I have rescued you, you ungrateful brat.”
You are not sure under whose mercy you would prefer to reside. The red-headed kidnappers, or this Russian renegade you have not seen in two weeks, ever since your heated row, who is now regarding you as if you were a plate full of pryaniki and him on a very…very restrictive diet.
A succession of unintelligible censure squeals out around the rubber ball and you attempt to level the most dreadful glare you can muster at Antonin. For all your effort, he simply stands there, a mischievous smirk spread across his countenance, those delightful dimples etched into the outline of his coffee-colored beard on full display that under any other circumstance cause your heart to flutter, but right now only make you more cross.
You have not seen or heard from him since the night he’d firmly demanded that you were not to leave the house without him. These were dangerous times he’d said. In return, you’d adamantly informed him where he could stick his demands and that he could get fucked. After more infuriated shrieks from both of you, he’d fled in a swirl of wrath, leveling a litany of rapid-fire Russian that you didn’t need to be able to understand to discern the meaning of.
“You see now? Do you see what happens when you disobey me? What did I say? I said times were dangerous, did I not?” Antonin repined, standing there with his arms crossed over his chest as he admonished you.
You shake your head violently, stretching to the very ends of your bonds in an attempt to hit him, kick him, entice him to remove your gag so you could bite him, anything! How dare he blame you for this! You were at the bloody store for fuck sake! What did he expect you to do, STARVE?
“You sound very eager to say something, milaya. Shall I remove this gag?” Antonin leans down, expertly avoiding your thrashes as he whispers in your ear, his tantalizing fingers running up over your head. As he grasps the leather strap, he malevolently snarls, “But I expect the first words out of your little insolent mouth to be an apology.”
Yanking your head back in an explosion of indignation, the gag is ripped from betwixt your teeth, a string of drool momentarily suspended from your lips to the rubber ball. Your mouth now free, you erupt with fury, screaming at the top of your lungs that he will get a fucking apology from you the day hell freezes over!
The longer and louder you howl, the wider his goddamned enticing smile gets which only serves to increase the degree to which you want to hate him.
“Did you do this? Did you orchestrate this so I would be afraid? So you could get your way, you bloody ba…”
“You would do well to choose your next words carefully, milaya!” Antonin shouts, slamming his balled fists against the wall to either side of your head, his smile disappearing and giving way to a menacing glare, his blue eyes blazing under the glinting moonlight with unholy rage and undisguised want. “That's no way to speak to the man who’s just saved your fucking life.”
“I was at the store! What would you have had me do, go hungry?” You raise your chin and bellow in determinedness, but your rage softens ever so slightly as you remember back to your fight, and how just as this bastard had absconded from your presence, you’d wanted him to return immediately (to your utter chagrin). “I didn’t think you were ever coming back.”
“I never left,” Antonin snips, running an agitated hand down his face. “Do you think I so glib? I told you I fucking loved you and I meant it. I simply stuck to the shadows where you and your petulant obstinance would not notice me.”
There is an edge of hurt to his words, a momentary softening of his glare before it fortifies and he is bearing down on you again with every ounce of angst that has developed over your separation.
“I told you times were dangerous, did I not? There are things you do not know. Things you do not understand. We are at war and I only want to keep you safe. Though how can I do this when you must perpetually disobey me?”
This is all news to you. There is no war as far as you know. The papers would have said something, surely.
“I don’t understand…” You shake your head, confusion drawing the corners of your lips down and dousing your temper.
“Of course you don’t,” Antonin snaps, pounding his fists against the wall before taking two steps back, putting a chasm of distance between the two of you that you instantly despise. “All you know is your prosaic routine. Your walk around the park every night at 4:15. Your Earl Grey Creme with a splash of milk from the corner shop. Your short commute Mondays and Wednesdays to the office where you spend more time fixing what others have muddled than making any real progress…”
As Antonin continues to rattle off every mundane detail of your life you begin to realize that he has been following you, obsessed with you for far longer than you have been together and you are not sure why this causes a tingle between your thighs.
“How could you think I would simply walk away? No, devochka. I stayed nearby. Watching. Waiting for you to admit you were being a fool.”
Another thing Antonin is exceedingly adept at?
Ramping up your anger from zero to Battle of the Somme.
“If you were watching me then how did I get here?” You scream accusingly, venom dripping from every syllable. Like hell you were going down for this alone! If he wanted to keep you safe, where the hell had he gone?
Antonin’s icy stare softens again as he runs a hand through his disheveled locks, casting his glare then to the crumbling ceiling as he mutters to himself in his native tongue before dropping his eyes back to you. “I was called away. I had a mission, a duty I could not refuse…not even for you, krasavitsa.”
You can sense his remorse in every syllable he utters, but against your better judgment, your indignation continues. “I see. So you get to run around willy-nilly while I’m left holed up or kidnapped by the gingers?”
The crack his jaw makes echoes against the vacant walls of the barren room as Antonin steps back into you, so close you can feel the heat radiating from his towering frame. “Do not worry. They will never touch you again.”
The way he says it. The finality. The earnestness. It causes your next exhale to shudder as you ask, “Did you kill them?”
Without blinking, Antonin dips his chin once. “Of course I did. They touched what is mine.”
An avalanche of emotion cascades down the peaks of your mind, entrenching your lucidity within cold, hard facts.
Antonin killed those men.
He’s a murderer.
He did it for you because you are his.
Deciding to wade through the irksome realization that you have fallen in love with a gorgeous, deranged person later, you school your features, switch tactics, and ask as sweetly as you can, “Baby, untie me please?”
The corner of Antonin’s lips lift ever so slightly as he cups your chin. “I don’t think I will.”
Before one more ounce of apoplectic discourse can explode from your gaping mouth, the rubber gag flies back between your teeth and the strap securely stretches around the back of your head.
“Only good girls get to speak, and you…have not been a good girl,” Antonin says churlishly as he begins to unfasten his belt and roughly pulls it through the loops of his trousers.
You thrash harder, spittle already draining from your mouth as you try to convey to him that he is an asshole and that he’s the worst shit to have ever lived, and that when you get out of these bonds you're going to…
Your next thought evaporates, along with every scrape of clothing you’d had on, your nipples immediately pebbling in the cool night air and gooseflesh wracking your entire frame.
You glance down at your newly nude form, then up, down, and up again, eyes wide and unbelieving.
How… where had your bloody clothes gone?
Who the fuck was this man?
“I am sure you have questions, which I might answer,” Antonin taunts as he unbuttons and unzips his trousers, letting them slide down his thighs into a pile at his feet before stripping his shoes and sweater in succession. As his sinuous arms drop to begin divesting himself of his briefs, you cannot help but luxuriate in the way his lithe, abounding muscles dance under taut skin seductively illuminated by the sheen of the moonlight, especially his collarbones which are crying out to be nibbled and sucked.
“Depending on how good you are for me, milaya, I will tell you everything.” Having shed his briefs as well, Antonin steps nearer, close enough now that you can smell the cedar and musk from the soap he uses, feel the electricity that always reverberates when the two of you are proximate, and of course, descry with immense detail the thickening implement that bounds heavily between his rugged thighs.
“I’ve missed you, you irascible woman. Watching you these weeks and not being able to have you…do you know what that has done to me?” Antonin snaps, captivating crinkles forming around the corners of his squinted eyes as he chides you.
Against your better judgment, you cannot refrain from emitting a solicitous moan as his large hands reach up to grasp both of your breasts, kneading them harshly and pushing you back flush against the wall you are still chained to. You can barely keep up with your shifting emotions, as all your previous displeasure has deliquesced, making substantial space for pure, unadulterated need for the specimen before you to take over. No matter how rankled the two of you got with one another, you wanted this man morning, noon, and night, every which way you could possibly have him.
“You should have trusted me, krasavitsa,” Antonin whispers, his lips lingering after a soft press to your forehead. “You should have listened to me but instead you were foolish and sent me away. Now, you will have no choice but to be my captive. To be at my mercy.”
With a wave of his hand, the iron cuffs mutate and the heavy chains restraining you begin to snake across your flesh, no longer harsh and cold, rather transforming into soft but no less restrictive ropes. The new bounds braid around your body, zigzagging around your breasts, trussing them up before winding down to your thighs. The tendrils lift you against the wall, the cords of cotton looping around your legs, pulling them wide and holding them open at the perfect level with respect to Antonin’s hips.
In truth, within a far bastion of your mind, you are still upset with him. You are confused, immeasurably so, but all that will have to wait as you cannot deny the way simply seeing him naked makes you lose all reason. It is nearly impossible for you to think about anything but primal need when he is there, regarding you as if you are the lost city of gold and he, a conquistador primed and ready to pillage.
It’s been weeks for you too, and Antonin is not just any man.
He is not just an ambrosian bundle of lithesome muscle, lightly tanned skin, convex veins, and formidable cock but a finely crafted buffet of everything you cannot get enough of.
He wants you.
And fuck, do you want him too.
He steps closer, settling himself between your split thighs, so close that the dark brown curls surrounding his cock tickle against your labia, and he blinks rapidly as he inhales heavily through his nose while digging his fingers into the back of your neck. “I can smell how much you need this.”
Fuck him for being so right.
As you nod erratically to agree with his statement, you are hoisted further up the wall, your sex dragging along his chilled abs, through the light spattering of chest hair adorning his pecks till your cunt is level with his roguish mouth.
Wetting his lips with a dart of his tongue, Antonin says nothing as his hands grip each of your knees, spreading you impossibly further and his head tips forward to make contact with your slit. You squeal over the gag, tugging relentlessly against your bounds as he devilishly laps and twists through your folds. A long, salacious moan echoes into the night as your head drops forward to feast upon fleeting glimpses of his pink tongue as it plunges over and over against the ground zero of your destruction.
“Your fear and rage taste divine. Perhaps I should have waited another hour to retrieve you. Perhaps you would have soaked down your pretty thighs,” Antonin growls between dips and dives and soon he focuses on it, there, the exact spot that will annihilate any further outrage for him from your bones.
Of course he is right, the bastard. While you had been scared, that fear had all faded the moment Antonin appeared, your traitorous body immediately giving into his presence. You would have said it was because you knew the danger had passed, but that was a lie.
You were not stupid.
Antonin was his own breed of danger.
Just as you feel the heat building deep within the pit of your stomach, completely sagging against your bounds, moaning lasciviously in anticipation for the pleasure that will soon be wracking your body, Antonin’s tongue is gone and you are left twitching, right on the edge with no way to push yourself over. You look incredulously at him, begging him with every fiber of your being to finish what he’s started.
“Silly girl. You did not think I would let you come apart that quickly, did you?” he rasps as he kisses the inside of your left thigh, slowly and methodically making his way back towards your twitching nexus, applying just enough pressure to stimulate, but not enough to shatter.
You lose count of how many times he brings you to the edge and have not the faintest clue on how he seems to know the exact moment to pull back, leaving your cunt twitching, your thighs quaking, and you on the cusp of hysteria.
On the brink of insanity, you are then lowered, your entrance now level with his twitching monstrousness, bounding against his thigh with his every movement. After coating two of his fingers in the saliva dribbling down your chin, one of his hands grips your neck as the other travels down to your cunt. Of course, he hadn’t needed the excess moisture because you know, even without being able to move, that you are positively dripping for him. By his triumphant sigh as he sinks those two fingers inside of you, you know you are right.
You stretch deliciously around his incursion, moaning in unabashed pleasure as he curls and caresses, his dexterous fingers lovingly stroking, torturously brushing your swollen clit with his thumb every so often to keep you wobbling right on the edge.
“Ppwweasssseeee!!!” You attempt to enunciate around the gag, your entire body now wracked with the sensation that if Antonin did not make you cum right then and there, you were simply going to perish.
“Begging is a good start, milaya.” Antonin gloats, pumping his fingers relentlessly in and out of your bewitching heat. “But those are not the words I want to hear tonight. I told you. I want an apology.”
With every ounce of strength you have left you scream out a hoard of muffled threats, praises, condemnations, and desires. Just about every word in the English lexicon bursts from your throat. Every one, but the one word he demands.
“Perhaps if I fuck you I can loosen those pertinacious lips of yours,” Antonin utters, deep and husky, his face pressed against yours, his hot pants ghosting across your chilled face.
Retracting his sodden fingers, Antonin fists his massive cock and rubs the head through your ample desperation, very carefully avoiding touching the quaking nub just north of his current trajectory. His cock is now knocked barely within you, and with his punishing fingers gripping the back of your head so tightly you can look nowhere but into his brutish eyes, he lets out a feral grunt as he slowly pushes into you, inch by barbarous inch.
You let out an unmitigated high-pitched squeal as he stretches you, the initial plunge of his cock always your favorite part, and tonight is no different. In fact, it's more gratifying than ever.
As he bottoms out moments later, Antonin graciously pulls the leather strap from your head and lets the gag fall from your mouth and bound across the floor as his hands move to cup your face.
“You are a beautiful mess, do you know that?” He whispers before crushing his lips against yours. It is not a gentle kiss. His lips are bruising, and with every lap of his tongue, you try to bite him, succeeding with a quarter of your attempts, relishing the agonizing, dulcet growls he emits.
For a few minutes, the room descends into whines and pants as Antonin’s cock torturously invades your body over and over, snapping his hips in feverish abandon in an attempt to bring you to heel. You relish his incursions so long absent, though staunchly school your features, carefully guarding your felicitous reactions so he is deprived audible and visual proof of your pleasure. Simply because you yearn for him and your release does not mean you are not still mad at him for listening to your demands and leaving you without this…without him.
Soon, however, it all becomes too much. His prodigious cock, reverent hands, and whispered affections cause your treacherous tongue to slip.
“Please, please baby! I…I need...I’m…” The last word teeters on the tip of your tongue but try as you might you cannot utter it. With the last twitching brain cell you have left, you are obstinate to a fault.
“Yes sweet one, that’s it,” Antonin pants, his thrusts shortening, hips barbarically rolling, the head of his cock grinding deliriously against your back wall. “Beg me! You are doing so well. You’re so close, just one more word, and I’ll grant you all that you wish.”
No matter how ravenous you are you cannot give him what he seeks and oddly enough, it brings him considerable pleasure to see your wretched resolve.
“You are going to make a very good wife, you stubborn little thing. We are going to have so much fun together,” He praises, tipping your head back with his thumbs underneath your chin so he can ravish your lips.
Though you continue to deny him the words that he seeks, his kisses change in intensity. They are no less aching but no longer as bruising. His tongue languishes against yours, the grip of his broad fingers no longer as ferocious against the back of your head, and in return you no longer attempt to bite him, simply nip and suckle on his tongue and lips just hard enough to elicit soft huffs and breaks of breath from your despot.
You have mentally primed yourself to go about this all night, fully prepared now to be teased and fucked into the weening hours of the dawn but Antonin has other plans. Releasing your face, he presses the palm of his hand right below your belly button, compressing your walls against the pistoning head of his bulbous cock and it is your undoing.
You can no longer think about tenacity as stars burst behind your eyelids, all the planets align, the rings are reunited, and the words he’s been longing to hear burst from your mouth in a fevered warble. “Please, baby! I’m sorry, I'm sorry! For the love of god, please Antonin!”
Damn him and damn his cock for always having this effect on you.
"Good girl, krasavitsa," Antonin purrs, the speed at which his hand soars to your cunt alarming. All it takes is a feather-light touch from the pad of his thumb before you combust, writhing and screaming as Antonin’s teeth sink into the side of your neck.
The moment of your relief is immaculate ecstasy. It is everything and more. If you were not busy screaming, overtaken by rhapsodic pulses, you would hate him. You would hate him for letting you be kidnapped, for making you admit you’d been wrong, for how fast he had you gushing, for how hard your walls were now shuddering and contracting around him, and for how fucking pleased he is with himself.
“That’s it milaya, scream for me! Let me hear you! You were such a good girl, come again for me.”
You haven’t even stopped shaking from your first before another orgasm rips through your body, cresting even higher than the first before exploding into rapturous tremors. Antonin does not stop the succor of his thumb, painting ardent, circular affections against the heady nub. For as long as he’d denied you, now he pushes you again and again to shatter, impossibly stretched around his plundering girth. Soon thereafter, Antonin is bellowing, raging, deifying, and exorcising his love for you in overweening exhaled gasps of praise and admonishment as he pumps surge after surge of pearly asseveration deep within your quivering body.
As he stills with his immensity buried to the hilt inside of you, Antonin presses adoring kisses down your flushed cheek. With a whispered word, the ropes holding you hostage evaporate and you drop down into the secure arms of your lover. Though the air within the cottage is chilled, his skin is warm, flushed and slightly damp from his exertions and you can feel the rapid thumping of his heart hammering against your ear as it rests sedately upon his chest.
Your legs barely have the strength to hold yourself around his hips, but as if he can read your mind, he expertly shifts your body so you are cradled in his arms bridal style. With another whisper, his cloak flutters into the air and drapes over your body, stilling the light shivers and giving a most welcome warmth to your exhausted frame. Soon, the rest of his clothes are seated on your chest as well.
“Don’t be frightened milaya, I am going to take us home. Just hold onto me,” Antonin says tenderly as he grips you tighter.
Having had all the sass fucked out of you, you simply nod against his pectoral, your nose gazing against one of his nipples.
He then transports you both, in the same manner as you’d come to be at the shack, to your home, though this time upon re-materializing you are held firmly within his arms inside your living room. The bed too far of a jaunt at this particular moment, Antonin lays you onto the couch, pulling his cloak from your naked form before draping the blue quilt you’d spent many nights cuddled underneath together over you.
Through sleep-bleary eyes, you watch as Antonin, still gloriously naked, pulls the stick he’d stowed in his trousers and begins to mutter a litany of words while making a flutter of motions. With a final flick, the tip of the switch now glowing a curious magenta, he drops it into the pile of his clothes next to the couch before crawling underneath the quilt, cuddling up behind you and wrapping every limb of his around every one of yours.
In the morning Antonin will mutter more words, and you’ll watch as the bruises from the ropes crisscrossed across your chest disappear, though the small round ones on either thigh left by his overzealous fingers will not (which won't bother you in the slightest). He will kiss and lick the marks left by the cuffs while, much easier than you did, apologizing for allowing you to be taken before those injuries too, disappear, as if they’d never happened.
You will then make tea, Earl Grey Creme with a splash of milk, to accompany your omelets, and as you both enjoy your nourishments, Antonin will slowly and precisely explain who he is and what exactly you have gotten yourself into.
For now, however, you are content to just lay, entombed within Antonin’s strong arms as he whispers in your ear that he will never leave your side again, no matter what your verbose tongue might demand, and at this juncture, you cannot bring yourself to be at odds with his devotion thinly veiled within his own personal brand of menace.
As far as you are concerned, you could never leave the immovable security of this man’s arms, could spend a lifetime caged within his mercy and you would die a happy woman.