Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on May 15, 2008 13:52:26 GMT -5
Title: Guilty Pleasures
Author’s Disclaimer: I do not own any of the A Series of Unfortunate Events characters or places mentioned herein. They belong to Lemony Snicket a.k.a. Daniel Handler.
Rating: PG (for very brief nudity)
Genre: General/Romance
Story-Type: One-Shot
Summery: Esmé comes down with a cold and Jerome cares for her.
With her arm draped over the side of the white ceramic tub, Esmé Squalor leaned back in the warm bubbles and closed her eyes.
Her head throbbed and her nose was stuffy, and on top of that she had just started her period. She had been pouting profusely ever since Jerome had taken the thermometer out of her mouth and informed her that they would be unable to attend the masquerade ball at Veblen Hall that evening.
Out of her own resentment and anger, Esmé had insisted to Jerome that he be the one to telephone Arthur Poe and explain why she would be unable to host the event like she had promised. After all, it was Jerome who had insisted that he and Esmé go ice skating; though it had been Esmé who had spent the entire afternoon falling down and sliding unsteadily across the ice.
A knock at the door soon interrupted her thoughts. Clearing her sore throat a little, she uttered in as clear of a voice as she could: “Come in.”
The door opened and Jerome walked in, carrying a saucer on which sat a steaming cup. “How are you feeling, Esmé?” he asked. “I brought you some hot cocoa. I made it just the way you like it, with just a spot of whipped cream on top.”
Esmé waited a moment before answering. “Set it down on the edge of the tub,” she said.
Jerome did as his wife requested before sitting down on the (closed) toilet seat. “I’m terribly sorry about this, darling,” he said. “I know how much you were looking forward to this evening.”
“You’ve certainly ruined it, if that’s what you mean.”
Jerome nodded. “It’s true. I wouldn’t blame you one bit if you want to argue with me. I’d even argue back if it would make you feel better.”
Esmé groaned, raising her other arm out of the tub and running her long-nailed hand over her forehead, leaving behind a trail of bubbles. “I’m too ill to argue,” she moaned dramatically. “Besides, doing so would only make my headache worse.”
“Here,” Jerome said, and leaned over to retrieve the cup of cocoa from the edge of the bathtub. “Sit up and drink your cocoa.”
For once, Esmé didn’t argue with her husband. Instead, she followed his advice and sat up. He handed her the cup of cocoa and watched as she lifted it to her lips.
“You know, darling,” Jerome said. “You’re very beautiful, even when you’re ill.”
And it was true. With her swollen pink nose, puffy eyes, and flushed cheeks, Esmé was an incredibly, devastatingly, picture-perfect beauty. She looked so sweet and vulnerable sitting there in the bathtub, naked and shivering beneath the warm water and vanilla-scented bubbles. Jerome watched as a bubble floated up and landed on the tip of Esmé’s nose. In a moment it began to twitch, and soon after that her long, dark lashes started to flutter. These were, of course, the first signs that she was getting ready to sneeze, and were quickly joined by a series of sharp, gasping breaths. All of these things led up to a sound that was so sweet and so charming that Jerome nearly tumbled off the side of the toilet in his moment of happiness. One of the few guilty pleasures he had was in his delight of getting to hear his wife sneeze every time she came down with a cold.
Esmé whimpered, doubling over in the bathtub. Jerome slid off of the toilet seat and knelt down in front of the tub. “What is it, sweetheart?” he asked. “Are you in pain?”
“My stomach hurts,” Esmé said, right before she sneezed again. “Every time I sneeze, my cramps— they…” She trailed off, sneezing into her knees. “Jerome, it hurts!”
Jerome reached over and held her protectively in his arms, smiling a little at the feeling of her soapy, slippery body pressing against him. Esmé sneezed once more, then again, and finally a third time, each sound sweeter than the last. He listened as she began to cry, probably due to a combination of the pain and her overactive hormones. He kissed her on the forehead, the cheeks and on the nose, which were all warm to the touch aside from her nose, which felt more like ice.
“I hate this,” Esmé sobbed. “It isn’t fair! I hate being sick!”
As she lay there against him and continued to weep, Jerome loosened one arm from around her so that he could grab a towel from the rack beside him. He wrapped the towel around her and then helped her stand, ushering her by one hand out of the bathtub. As he was helping her to sit down on the closed seat of the toilet, he noticed a small bruise located on her belly.
“How did you get this?” Jerome asked, touching the spot lightly with his finger so that he wouldn’t hurt her.
“Yesterday,” replied Esmé tearfully. “I fell on my stomach while I was skating.”
“Oh, Esmé. Oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry.”
Jerome was just about to bend down and kiss Esmé on the stomach when she squeaked again. Instead, he wrapped the towel tighter around her small shoulders before feeling her forehead, not surprised at how feverish she still was.
“Come along, darling,” Jerome said, and scooped her up— towel and all —into his arms. “Let’s get you back to bed.”
They returned to the bedroom where Jerome carefully deposited Esmé into the bed. He tightened the towel around her waist to keep the blood from staining the silk sheets, making sure to leave her belly fully exposed.
Esmé was still crying as Jerome pulled the blankets up to her chin and leaned down to kiss her feverish forehead. He gently brushed back the strand of hair that always fell into her eyes before planting a second kiss on her lips, which were cracked and swollen. He nuzzled her sore nose with his, and pulled back a bit when he heard her sniffle.
“Jerome, hurry up and get me a tissue,” Esmé said, motioning with her hand to the box on the nightstand. “I have to…”
Jerome snatched a handful of tissues and held them in front of Esmé’s face while she sneezed. She cried out in pain, a high-pitched sound that was just below a scream. Fresh tears broke free from her eyes, and she began to sob.
Jerome crawled into bed and threw his arms around Esmé, letting her soak his shirt with her tears. He could only imagine the amount of physical pain she was in. She squeaked again, her scream muffled as she buried her face in his chest.
“Esmé,” he asked carefully. “Is there anything I can do? Something I can get you?”
“I want my plushy,” she replied tearfully. “I think it fell between the mattress and the footboard last night.”
Jerome sat up and crawled toward the footboard, slipping his hand between it and the mattress. He fished around until his hand grazed over something familiar, and he scooped up the Jerome plushy he had made for Esmé.
He scooted back up to the head of the bed and held the plushy in front of her face. “Here you are, sweetheart,” Jerome said.
Esmé’s eyes fluttered open and she grabbed the plushy from him. She hugged it to her chest and threw her other arm around her husband, pressing her warm body close against his.
“Can I do anything for you?”
“My belly,” Esmé said softly. “It hurts. Will you rub it for me until it stops?”
Esmé had first become aware of Jerome’s obsession with her stomach right after her pregnancy had become obvious. She did not quite understand what he found so stimulating about the soft, baby-fat curve of her belly. All she knew was that he would take any excuse he could to touch and kiss it, something that she was more than willing to let him have— especially now.
As Esmé felt her husband’s fingertips gently caress her soft skin, goose bumps prickled her belly and she let out a tiny murmur to indicate her happiness. Jerome smiled up at her, and then lowered his head down into the blankets where he kissed the bruise located on her stomach.
Guilty pleasures indeed.
Author’s Disclaimer: I do not own any of the A Series of Unfortunate Events characters or places mentioned herein. They belong to Lemony Snicket a.k.a. Daniel Handler.
Rating: PG (for very brief nudity)
Genre: General/Romance
Story-Type: One-Shot
Summery: Esmé comes down with a cold and Jerome cares for her.
************************************************************************************************************************
With her arm draped over the side of the white ceramic tub, Esmé Squalor leaned back in the warm bubbles and closed her eyes.
Her head throbbed and her nose was stuffy, and on top of that she had just started her period. She had been pouting profusely ever since Jerome had taken the thermometer out of her mouth and informed her that they would be unable to attend the masquerade ball at Veblen Hall that evening.
Out of her own resentment and anger, Esmé had insisted to Jerome that he be the one to telephone Arthur Poe and explain why she would be unable to host the event like she had promised. After all, it was Jerome who had insisted that he and Esmé go ice skating; though it had been Esmé who had spent the entire afternoon falling down and sliding unsteadily across the ice.
A knock at the door soon interrupted her thoughts. Clearing her sore throat a little, she uttered in as clear of a voice as she could: “Come in.”
The door opened and Jerome walked in, carrying a saucer on which sat a steaming cup. “How are you feeling, Esmé?” he asked. “I brought you some hot cocoa. I made it just the way you like it, with just a spot of whipped cream on top.”
Esmé waited a moment before answering. “Set it down on the edge of the tub,” she said.
Jerome did as his wife requested before sitting down on the (closed) toilet seat. “I’m terribly sorry about this, darling,” he said. “I know how much you were looking forward to this evening.”
“You’ve certainly ruined it, if that’s what you mean.”
Jerome nodded. “It’s true. I wouldn’t blame you one bit if you want to argue with me. I’d even argue back if it would make you feel better.”
Esmé groaned, raising her other arm out of the tub and running her long-nailed hand over her forehead, leaving behind a trail of bubbles. “I’m too ill to argue,” she moaned dramatically. “Besides, doing so would only make my headache worse.”
“Here,” Jerome said, and leaned over to retrieve the cup of cocoa from the edge of the bathtub. “Sit up and drink your cocoa.”
For once, Esmé didn’t argue with her husband. Instead, she followed his advice and sat up. He handed her the cup of cocoa and watched as she lifted it to her lips.
“You know, darling,” Jerome said. “You’re very beautiful, even when you’re ill.”
And it was true. With her swollen pink nose, puffy eyes, and flushed cheeks, Esmé was an incredibly, devastatingly, picture-perfect beauty. She looked so sweet and vulnerable sitting there in the bathtub, naked and shivering beneath the warm water and vanilla-scented bubbles. Jerome watched as a bubble floated up and landed on the tip of Esmé’s nose. In a moment it began to twitch, and soon after that her long, dark lashes started to flutter. These were, of course, the first signs that she was getting ready to sneeze, and were quickly joined by a series of sharp, gasping breaths. All of these things led up to a sound that was so sweet and so charming that Jerome nearly tumbled off the side of the toilet in his moment of happiness. One of the few guilty pleasures he had was in his delight of getting to hear his wife sneeze every time she came down with a cold.
Esmé whimpered, doubling over in the bathtub. Jerome slid off of the toilet seat and knelt down in front of the tub. “What is it, sweetheart?” he asked. “Are you in pain?”
“My stomach hurts,” Esmé said, right before she sneezed again. “Every time I sneeze, my cramps— they…” She trailed off, sneezing into her knees. “Jerome, it hurts!”
Jerome reached over and held her protectively in his arms, smiling a little at the feeling of her soapy, slippery body pressing against him. Esmé sneezed once more, then again, and finally a third time, each sound sweeter than the last. He listened as she began to cry, probably due to a combination of the pain and her overactive hormones. He kissed her on the forehead, the cheeks and on the nose, which were all warm to the touch aside from her nose, which felt more like ice.
“I hate this,” Esmé sobbed. “It isn’t fair! I hate being sick!”
As she lay there against him and continued to weep, Jerome loosened one arm from around her so that he could grab a towel from the rack beside him. He wrapped the towel around her and then helped her stand, ushering her by one hand out of the bathtub. As he was helping her to sit down on the closed seat of the toilet, he noticed a small bruise located on her belly.
“How did you get this?” Jerome asked, touching the spot lightly with his finger so that he wouldn’t hurt her.
“Yesterday,” replied Esmé tearfully. “I fell on my stomach while I was skating.”
“Oh, Esmé. Oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry.”
Jerome was just about to bend down and kiss Esmé on the stomach when she squeaked again. Instead, he wrapped the towel tighter around her small shoulders before feeling her forehead, not surprised at how feverish she still was.
“Come along, darling,” Jerome said, and scooped her up— towel and all —into his arms. “Let’s get you back to bed.”
They returned to the bedroom where Jerome carefully deposited Esmé into the bed. He tightened the towel around her waist to keep the blood from staining the silk sheets, making sure to leave her belly fully exposed.
Esmé was still crying as Jerome pulled the blankets up to her chin and leaned down to kiss her feverish forehead. He gently brushed back the strand of hair that always fell into her eyes before planting a second kiss on her lips, which were cracked and swollen. He nuzzled her sore nose with his, and pulled back a bit when he heard her sniffle.
“Jerome, hurry up and get me a tissue,” Esmé said, motioning with her hand to the box on the nightstand. “I have to…”
Jerome snatched a handful of tissues and held them in front of Esmé’s face while she sneezed. She cried out in pain, a high-pitched sound that was just below a scream. Fresh tears broke free from her eyes, and she began to sob.
Jerome crawled into bed and threw his arms around Esmé, letting her soak his shirt with her tears. He could only imagine the amount of physical pain she was in. She squeaked again, her scream muffled as she buried her face in his chest.
“Esmé,” he asked carefully. “Is there anything I can do? Something I can get you?”
“I want my plushy,” she replied tearfully. “I think it fell between the mattress and the footboard last night.”
Jerome sat up and crawled toward the footboard, slipping his hand between it and the mattress. He fished around until his hand grazed over something familiar, and he scooped up the Jerome plushy he had made for Esmé.
He scooted back up to the head of the bed and held the plushy in front of her face. “Here you are, sweetheart,” Jerome said.
Esmé’s eyes fluttered open and she grabbed the plushy from him. She hugged it to her chest and threw her other arm around her husband, pressing her warm body close against his.
“Can I do anything for you?”
“My belly,” Esmé said softly. “It hurts. Will you rub it for me until it stops?”
Esmé had first become aware of Jerome’s obsession with her stomach right after her pregnancy had become obvious. She did not quite understand what he found so stimulating about the soft, baby-fat curve of her belly. All she knew was that he would take any excuse he could to touch and kiss it, something that she was more than willing to let him have— especially now.
As Esmé felt her husband’s fingertips gently caress her soft skin, goose bumps prickled her belly and she let out a tiny murmur to indicate her happiness. Jerome smiled up at her, and then lowered his head down into the blankets where he kissed the bruise located on her stomach.
Guilty pleasures indeed.
The End