𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐲𝐫𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
subsidence) wrote2018-08-22 11:06 pm
subsidence) wrote2018-08-22 11:06 pm
will my affection pull the strings?
[It was only a quick trip down the hall to the kitchenette. Estinien could have gotten it herself. She told Aymeric just that for ages, and when she was saying it, the kitchen was much further away. It was all the way across Aymeric's manor. But early on, she would grunt and climb out of bed before he could put his feet down on the floor. She would tell him she could get it herself, 'twas only a blasted pudding or some biscuits from the pantry...
One night, with starlight filtering past the window curtains, Aymeric pressed her back down against the bed and kissed her forehead. He told her to stay where she was, and this time, she obeyed him. He came back to her with scones slathered in lemon curd and he fed them to her by hand. She was very quiet while she let that happen, and he was patient about her silence. How vulnerable, to be fed from her lover's fingertips. He thumbed the last of the lemon zest from her mouth and set the plate on the bedside table. Estinien curled and uncurled her toes, over and over again, while she listened to him go back to sleep. Then, the next night, she rolled over and whispered, "Aymeric, I'm hungry."
It's summer, so dawn comes early, and Estinien's cravings usually hit just a few hours before then. In the beginning of this vulnerable arrangement, she would tell Aymeric what she wanted and he would retrieve it for her. Now she lets him choose. It's a wonder and a secret, but the Saint of Ferndale lets Aymeric choose what to feed her. Some nights, he does give it to her bite by bite; other times, she knows how tired he is, and how willing he is to stay awake to feed her despite it, so she'll swat away his hands and tell him to go to sleep. And then there are her favorite nights: those on which they eat together. They'll pass bites between each other, barely able to see more than the outline of his hand, the line of her neck and shoulder, for the darkness of the hour. Sometimes she falls asleep listening to the slow way he appreciates buttery shortbreads and their layer of smooth chocolate. Sometimes he falls asleep with his head on her stomach, and wakes up with crumbs in his hair. When he wakes up and finds them, he has to kiss her. He just has to kiss her when he's granted the evidence of how she stays with him through the night. And she knows that she did that to him. She sowed that need with worse than her crumbs.
This night would be one to see Aymeric back to sleep. He's brought Estinien her plate of sweets, and she can already hear his breathing begin to even out. She would be all right with that. If he had brought her anything else to eat, she would be all right with his quick doze. But this... But what he's cut and served for her... Well, it's not meant to be eaten by just one person. The cake was a feat of butter and silken icing, the jam in between the layers not too sweet, the spices a fragrant surprise. Their wedding cake was so large that neither Aymeric nor Estinien could have eaten it themselves; it's meant to be eaten by both of them. Even now, the second night into their honeymoon, the great section of cake Aymeric made sure to bring along remains enough for both of them, and too much for one of them. Too much, even, for Estinien and her growing appetite, her growing belly, Aymeric's children growing inside her.
Sucking on the tines of her fork, she considers Aymeric's easy breathing. Then she scoots so she's resting on her side, nudging up against him--belly first, then more of her, and one foot hooked over his ankle. She finds his face in the darkness. It's not hard; her ears are keen for the way he breathes, and from whence it comes. His cheek, his chin... and here is his mouth, his bottom lip, and up closer to his teeth. Her thumb is what touches him there, bringing with it a dollop of icing.]
Here, now, [she says. Her voice is as soft as his mouth; she wants to give him what she gets. She spent so long refusing to do that.] You have some, too.
One night, with starlight filtering past the window curtains, Aymeric pressed her back down against the bed and kissed her forehead. He told her to stay where she was, and this time, she obeyed him. He came back to her with scones slathered in lemon curd and he fed them to her by hand. She was very quiet while she let that happen, and he was patient about her silence. How vulnerable, to be fed from her lover's fingertips. He thumbed the last of the lemon zest from her mouth and set the plate on the bedside table. Estinien curled and uncurled her toes, over and over again, while she listened to him go back to sleep. Then, the next night, she rolled over and whispered, "Aymeric, I'm hungry."
It's summer, so dawn comes early, and Estinien's cravings usually hit just a few hours before then. In the beginning of this vulnerable arrangement, she would tell Aymeric what she wanted and he would retrieve it for her. Now she lets him choose. It's a wonder and a secret, but the Saint of Ferndale lets Aymeric choose what to feed her. Some nights, he does give it to her bite by bite; other times, she knows how tired he is, and how willing he is to stay awake to feed her despite it, so she'll swat away his hands and tell him to go to sleep. And then there are her favorite nights: those on which they eat together. They'll pass bites between each other, barely able to see more than the outline of his hand, the line of her neck and shoulder, for the darkness of the hour. Sometimes she falls asleep listening to the slow way he appreciates buttery shortbreads and their layer of smooth chocolate. Sometimes he falls asleep with his head on her stomach, and wakes up with crumbs in his hair. When he wakes up and finds them, he has to kiss her. He just has to kiss her when he's granted the evidence of how she stays with him through the night. And she knows that she did that to him. She sowed that need with worse than her crumbs.
This night would be one to see Aymeric back to sleep. He's brought Estinien her plate of sweets, and she can already hear his breathing begin to even out. She would be all right with that. If he had brought her anything else to eat, she would be all right with his quick doze. But this... But what he's cut and served for her... Well, it's not meant to be eaten by just one person. The cake was a feat of butter and silken icing, the jam in between the layers not too sweet, the spices a fragrant surprise. Their wedding cake was so large that neither Aymeric nor Estinien could have eaten it themselves; it's meant to be eaten by both of them. Even now, the second night into their honeymoon, the great section of cake Aymeric made sure to bring along remains enough for both of them, and too much for one of them. Too much, even, for Estinien and her growing appetite, her growing belly, Aymeric's children growing inside her.
Sucking on the tines of her fork, she considers Aymeric's easy breathing. Then she scoots so she's resting on her side, nudging up against him--belly first, then more of her, and one foot hooked over his ankle. She finds his face in the darkness. It's not hard; her ears are keen for the way he breathes, and from whence it comes. His cheek, his chin... and here is his mouth, his bottom lip, and up closer to his teeth. Her thumb is what touches him there, bringing with it a dollop of icing.]
Here, now, [she says. Her voice is as soft as his mouth; she wants to give him what she gets. She spent so long refusing to do that.] You have some, too.