Azael's Chains

Forest

The insidious scent of pine and freshly turned leaves and sunlight through the trees imprinted on her bare flesh where Antonin's hands and mouth painted her with his possession. Currently his lips were on Hermione's throat and she was immersed in the spill of his short, dark curls.

"Why do you smell like that?" The thought streamed out with her breath, her whole body loose and languid as though on a pool float. He pulled away and his hair tickled her nose.

His grey eyes were still swallowed up by the New Moon of his irises as he frowned down at her. "Is it offensive, my love? I will endeavor to correct it if so."

"Not at all. You just... smell like the forest. Sometimes the forest and fire, and firewhiskey even. But always the forest." She played at a dangling ringlet, absently twirling it around her fingers. It was odd, Hermione mused. Most of the people close to her in life didn't have curls. Harry's hair was a mess, but wavy at best. She got her curls from her father, and his were cut short. Was this why others loved playing with her curls? It was quite fascinating, and all curls seemed about as dissimilar as they were alike.

A fond smile played along his lips as Antonin studied her. "Perhaps because we are surrounded by forest." At the parting of her lips, he chuckled and cupped her cheek. "I have lived around forests my entire life, and always enjoyed my forays beneath the trees." Thoughtfulness tugged at his brows. "Would you like to take a walk with me?"

"In the forest?" Her voice rose in a hopeful chime. "Yes, please! I would love that."

Antonin's mile unfurled completely as he lowered his lips to take her own, tongue sweeping through the cavern of her mouth. His hands slipped the buttons at her front, diving into the tempting flesh of her breasts to knead and grasp. He was eager to taste her gratitude, settling a brutal rhythm over her.

"Sweet Hermione," he groaned, pulling her legs over his shoulder to pound into her, tight grip bruising the soft skin of her hips, nails digging in to the point of blood. "You take me so well, kitten."

Bent double, hair clinging to her from sweat, Hermione couldn't help but think the price worthwhile; she was going to go outside.

Antonin tugged a light cloak across her shoulders, securing it with a shining enamel pin fashioned in the shape of a rose. He'd provided Hermione with sturdy boots that morning and her heart had raced into a hum as she laced them over her ankles.

"Are you ready?" He brushed back her hair and she nodded. "Very good." He held out his arm to her and led toward the front door; it swung open to reveal gilded emerald light streaming and they passed into it, Hermione's breath shallow as a koi pond and thoughts excitedly darting like the fish therein.

The sky was open, more open than she had even noticed before. It climbed overhead with grey and white clouds piled atop each other and stopped only where the trees began. And the trees passed into the distance until they disappeared into velvety shadow.

It was beautiful and terrifying and Hermione was small in the face of nature's vastness.

Antonin squeezed her hand, grounding her back into her body and she favored him with a wan smile. They began their walk, his weight beside her tethering her perspective so she didn't have an anxiety attack.

How odd. Hermione had never felt this way before. She knew what the sensation was though; it had an individual name. Agoraphobia. Fear of places where one may be unable to escape, including open spaces, crowds, even bridges. Hermione had never particularly suffered from it, but now she thought she might.

Deep breaths, Hermione. Use reason. You are no more in danger here than you are in the manor, familiar though it may be. Breathe. She was supposed to enjoy this, so she set about immersing her study in the details of the experience.