#WKM6

[revengeoftheantichrist]

What Kind of Man

Warnings: recovering from injury, possessive behaviour    AO3  <<<Previous

Chapter 6: Haze

You woke to the sensation of someone running their fingers through your hair. Slowly opening your eyes; it must have been the afternoon. You don’t remember going to bed. You started to whimper; your leg hurt so much. Why did it hurt? What happened while you wandered the halls? “Shh shh my love, it’s alright, you’ll be better soon,” cooed the voice. You looked up, confused, why was Michael here? “M- Michael, why are you here a day early? Did something happen?” you questioned. As you tried to get up, the pain in your leg shot through you, bringing tears to your eyes. He gently pushed you back down, wiping the tears. “It’s Friday my dear,” he stated. “What do you mean its Friday? I went for a walk on Monday. And why does my leg hurt?” the questions just spilled out of you. Michael lay next to you, holding your hand in his, stroking it with his thumb. Just feeling the warmth again calmed you down a little. “I arrived on Wednesday,” he started. “Mrs Mead found you in the servants’ hallway on Monday night. You had collapsed from your fever and set fire to your night gown in the process. The fire was put out, but …” he hesitated. “your leg has been burnt a little.” A wave of nausea hit you. You finally looked down to your leg, it was wrapped in gauze. As you looked you felt the pain get worse, finally acknowledging your injury. “The shock and the fever combined had you out cold for a few days. You did wake occasionally, albeit you were a little delirious.” “H-How bad is it?” you asked. “second degree nearer to your foot, first up to your thigh. Mrs Mead had put you out very quickly. The physician is due to visit today to check the progress, to see if it’ll scar or not,” he explained. You started to cry. From the pain, from the fever, from the turn your fate seemed to have taken since you married this man. Why had the universe been so cruel to you? Who had you wronged? Had you done something in your past life and was this your punishment? He pulled you into his chest, warm arms enveloping you. He stroked his fingers through your forehead, letting you sob into him wholeheartedly. “I want to se my m-mother,” you cried. “Oh little dove, I was already on my way back before any letters could reach me. You know I would have brought her with me if I could, I’d give you the moon if u asked.” You cried until you tired out, but the pain was still unbearable. You just wanted to be held and to sleep. “No sleeping for you Mrs Langdon, you need to eat something before you put your head down again,” Michael stated. As if on que, Mrs Mead came in with a tray of food. A hearty soup and some bread, the same as before. “Dinner time seems to be the crying hour for you,” she joked. You pressed you face further into Michaels chest, embarrassed at her observation. She set the tray down and left, leaving just you and your husband. He rearranged the pillows so you could sit up comfortably and brought you meal over. As you reached for your soup, he slapped your hand away. “You’re sick, I’ll help you.” “Michael, my leg is burnt, not my hands,” you stated. “That is of no concern to me, now say ‘ahh’,” he replied, holding the spoon up to you. You hesitated and looked away before opening your mouth. You knew he wasn’t about to take no for an answer. He fed you the rest of the meal; time flew as you asked about his trip, wanting to take your mind off the pain. //// You had fallen asleep again by the time the doctor had arrived. Woken by a cold press on your forehead, your fever had returned. “Good afternoon Lady Langdon, its nice to see you finally awake. I’m Dr Montgomery and it’s a pleasure to meet you,” he introduced. You could only nod in reply, the pain making you unable to speak. “I’ve already checked your leg; Medina has changed the dressing. I suggest bed rest until next week. The wound will take a few weeks to fully heal; you’re extremely lucky, the wound isn’t too deep so scarring will be minimal,” he finished. “Will it still hurt?” you asked. “Your pain should reduce in a few days, however your fever is making it feel worse, so I have prescribed some Laudanum. All I can suggest for your illness is rest, and that too shall pass.” “Why am I sick?” you asked again. Dr Montgomery sighed, “It isn’t uncommon in new brides. Especially moving from the south to the north. It’s a sort of homesickness. The faster you get accustomed to the temperature and new surroundings, the better.” Something deep in your gut told you that he was lying, your sickness was caused by something else. And what about your nightmares? What could explain those? A simple fever could not be the culprit. But you kept your mouth shut, this man was not to be trusted. He left you alone with Medina, and you drifted off again. //// The laudanum was helping with the pain, but the constant daze it kept you in frustrated you. Michael had moved his office into your room for now to keep an eye on you; you had tried to leave the room far too many times to leave you unattended. The rustling of paper and the scratch of the pen remined you that you were being watched. Despite that, you still tried to get out of bed. “How many times do you have to be put back in bed?” you heard from the other side of the room. His tone was stern. “I’m getting sick of staying in bed all day,” you slurred out. Michael sighed and walked over to you. He lifted you and carried you over to his desk, sitting down and placing you in his lap. “There, now you’re not in bed.” You couldn’t bring yourself to feel embarrassed. He adjusted you so the pair of you were comfortable. The scratching of the pen starting again. “what are you doing,” you asked. “I’m finalising plans for a trip.” “You’re leaving again?” “I’m taking you with me. Once your leg is healed enough, we’ll be going to Paris,” he smiled at you. Paris. How you hated the sound of that city. Your brother’s stories echoing through your head, the anger breaking through the haze of the medication. “I don’t want to go.” “Why not, it’ll be our honeymoon and it truly is a beautiful city, quite romantic at night.” You answered before you could stop yourself, “of course you’d know all about the city at night.” Michael stopped writing, putting his pen down and inhaling. “And what do you mean by that hmm?” “Nothing,” you replied, you could feel the rage building inside him. He grabbed your face, making you look up at him. “Answer me properly. What are you talking about?” “My brother spoke about your grand tour,” you mumbled. His nostrils flared and his grip on your jaw tightened enough to bruise. The drugs only allowed you the feel the pressure and not the pain that would have come with such a tight grip. You winced anyway. “Gabriel needs his tongue cut out it seems.” “Sho itsh all true then?” you tried to get out, he was still squishing your cheeks. He finally let go of your face. Pushing your hair from your face and stroking your jaw instead. “I am a changed man Y/N. I was a different person two years ago. I was young and unmarried. I’d be a fool to betray you in such a way,” he sighed. “I’d kill you if your ever did,” you smiled at him, the Laudanum seemed to have removed all filters, making you say what was on your mind. You lightly pecked his lips, settling into his chest for another nap. //// You had been given the clear for your bandages to come off, and your fever had gone. You decided to have a bath while you were alone for the first time in almost two weeks. The water was a little cooler than you would have liked it to be, but you didn’t want to agitate your burns. You tried to relax, thinking about the past few weeks of your life. You had been married almost a month now. There was a sense of foreboding before you walked down the aisle that day; every single event since has just made it worse. The nightmares, Michael’s volatile attitude, the painting and now being scarred for life; it all weighed heavy on you. You think that you might be driven insane, or maybe even killed. You didn’t know. would you even last the year? The painting. You had forgotten about it in all the commotion. It had scared you enough to almost die. Why was Michael’s mothers face painted over? Did he want to forget her? Your thoughts stopped in their tracks as the feeling of being watched overwhelmed you. Just like the first night you were here. You got out of the tub, carefully drying yourself off before heading to the dressing room. //// The dressing room was cold as usual, making goose bumps rise all over your skin. You caught a glimpse of your scar in the mirror, moving your robe aside to get a closer look. It started just above your ankle, all the way up to your outer hip. You let your robe hang loosely around your shoulders, as you untied it to inspect the top of the scar. The skin there was sensitive, it felt different to the healthy skin around it. It made you a little self-conscious. No one would ever see it, but you would always know it was there, a reminder of the fear you let overcome you, of your fragile state of mind. You felt weak, so far from the girl you used to be. Your reputation in the local area of your home was one of an intelligent and brave girl, a tongue so sharp that even the priest had banned you from attending church on occasions. But here you were now, pathetic, letting your dreams out of all things, control your actions. “it seems that Aphrodite herself has blessed me with her presence today.” You quickly went to retie your robe and cover your leg, but Michael stopped you before you could. He rested his chin on your shoulder, looking at you through the mirror. His hair was damp, and he donned a robe; he must have had a bath too. His pulled your robe aside, exposing you leg to him. You wished he would never see it. “Don’t you see what I see? Does the mirror not show you the form that occupies my mind?” he asked, as he trailed his fingers over your scar, you almost wept at the tenderness of his touch. He let go of your waist, moving in front of you before he knelt down. “Michael! What are you doing? Get up from there please!” you cried out. This man, who many saw as a god, had knelt before you. He looked at you with a hunger and devotion seen in the faces of the worshippers in temples of the ancient world. He paid no mind to your distress. Instead moving to kiss your scar. He started at your ankle, looking up at you as he made his way up, leaving no part untouched. He stopped briefly to pull the stool behind you, making you sit down. Without a word, he started working his way up to the inside of your thighs, alternating between kisses and little bites. His actions ignited a fire in your belly. Making you shift around to alleviate some of the tension you were feeling. He stopped and rested his cheek on your thigh, you ran your fingers through his now dry hair. “There’s a hunger in me that only you can satiate,” he whispered. He pried your thighs apart, looking directly at your wet folds. “You wouldn’t be cruel enough to let me starve, now would you?” He ran his fingers through your wetness, making you moan and grip his hair. He hooked his arms around your thighs, pulling you towards his face. You had to hold the edge of the stool to stop yourself from falling back. He licked a broad stripe from your entrance to your clit. The sensation was so foreign to you, but you wanted more. He licked and sucked on your lips and clit, like a man truly starved. You felt his groans vibrating through you, bringing you closer to the edge. “M- Michael, that feels so good,” you moaned out. You could feel him smirk as you gripped his hair tighter, lightly scratching his scalp in appreciation. He dove in further, his nose pressed against you as he fucked you with his tongue. He felt you begin to tighten around him and moved up to suck on your clit, he looked you in the eyes as he brought you over the edge, licking you through your aftershocks. Both of you were breathing heavily as he finally pulled away, looking up at you with your juices covering the bottom half of his face. He got up and pulled you into a hungry kiss, tasting yourself on him. “You taste divine.” You could see his hardness through his robe. You averted your gaze, “can I return the favour? “My my, my little dove has gotten bolder hmm?” moving to make eye contact with you. “Some other time, I do not want to agitate the burn and I need to be inside you.” He pulled you from the stool, sitting down, before seating you on his lap to face the mirror. “I need you to see what I see,” he said, as he untied his robe, bringing out his dick and running it over the wetness of your folds. You mewled and tried not to look in the mirror. “Look at us as I push into you,” he ordered, “look at your greedy pussy swallowing me whole.” He pushed into you, making you watch as he did so, the sight making you wetter than before. He bottomed out with a groan and sat still. He brought your hand over your stomach, pressing it down. “Can you feel me inside you? I’m so deep.” You pressed further and made him hiss. He gripped your hips, lifting you up and down, you matched your pace with his. The pair of you mesmerised by the sight of the image in the mirror, the sight of him splitting you in half. You turned to kiss him, your tongues dancing as you picked up the pace. Neither of you lasted long, you were already sensitive from before; he was (you hoped) pent up from all those days away. The coil finally snapped, you squeezed around him with cries of his name. He followed behind, painting your insides with his seed. He pulled out and you both watched as your mixed fluids seeped out of you. “Look at yourself, you must be a goddess,” Michael stated. You looked at your fucked-out form in the mirror, lips swollen from kisses, hair mussed, and skin covered in a sheen of sweat from the exertion. In the haze of pleasure, you could almost mistake yourself for a carnal version of Botticelli’s ‘Venus’. You smiled at the thought. “We’ll need to bathe again,” you pointed out, making you and Michael laugh. //// You had your second bath of the day together. Getting ready for the evening; dinner would be served in your room as you needed to sleep early; you left for Paris tomorrow. Michael had brushed and braided your hair, and you had done the same for him. As you waited for MRs Mead to bring your meal, Michael had brought out a box, one that you had recognised. “Your mother sent this for you, your embroidery seems to be quite well known in the area and she was surprised you forgot to pack your materials.” Michael handed you the box. It was your grandmothers, then your mothers, and now it was yours. How had you forgotten your most prized possession? “Thank you so much Michael,” you hugged him. “It’s a family heirloom,” you explained, opening the compartments. You floss and needles were just as you left them. Michael reclined next to you, watching you inspect the item. “I’m sure it’ll continue to be passed down generations of Langdons,” he said. You blushed at the thought of children, you hadn’t given it much thought before. “I’ll take you to the finest cloth merchants Paris has to offer to get more materials for your liking,” he smiled at you. “I’m sure Mrs Venebale will know some locally?” “Nonsense. Why go to Paris if not to take full advantage of what the city has to offer? We can also see what the new seasons fashions are.” You raised your eyebrow, “I see, this tip is for you to dress yourself isn’t it?” “Well my love, the wardrobe does not curate itself. Personal shopping trips are must in high society,” he winked at you. You laughed and shook your head, thinking about your next project, trying to calm your nerves for the trip.

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