I don't own Twilight.

For Anne, Mary, and Sue.

See this, Ashley? This double-update is for your birthday.

(I would have written anything for you; that's why I asked.)

Third Trimester: Part One

I wanted to kill him, and I wanted to fuck him. I just wasn't sure in which order.

"What's wrong?" Edward stood in the archway that led from the dining room to the kitchen, barefoot and unshaven with his scrub pants hanging low on his hips. One arm was above his head leaning on the woodwork, the other rested on his hip.

That image alone was enough to make me want to fuck him. Add to it the fact that we hadn't had real sex since we were caught at my gyno's, my lust was bordering on explosive. At first, I blamed pregnancy hormones and his scrub pants. Then I realized Edward was far from innocent—he had to be torturing me intentionally.

"You don't typically wear scrub pants," I said accusingly.

He snorted. "You don't typically do laundry."

"What's your point?"

"I had to go to the hospital today, and these were the only clean pants I had."

"Scrub pants torture me."

"Oh, but they torture me, too—the 'real doctors' make fun of me. I'll make a deal with you. If you make sure I never run out of clean pants, I won't be forced to go True Scotsman in scrub pants."

For a moment, I forgave him. Then I remembered that he not only ate all of my ice cream, but he left the spoon and the bowl in the sink after doing so. I was back to wanting to hurt him—or, at the very least, to ride him hard.

Intellectually, I knew it was hormonal. I'd seen it with Rose when she was pregnant—intense, almost contradictory emotions would overcome them frequently in response to things that were no big deal. Eating my ice cream was no big deal. Not really. Except it was a big deal because the baby liked it. I could always feel her kick after eating ice cream. I was now far enough along that the kicks were uncomfortable—sometimes even painful—but I relished them. They reminded me that this was real, a fact I still had a hard time wrapping my mind around despite being in my eigth month of pregnancy.

"Would it kill you to wash your own dishes?"

His face was completely serious as he spoke. "There are some days I think it might."

Un-pregnant Bella would laugh. Un-pregnant Bella realized how ridiculous it was to get this pissed off at him for something so minor. Pregnant Bella wanted to call Rose for her recipe and make matzo-ball soup with his testicles.

He walked into the kitchen and put his arms around me. His chest was hard, and there was the faintest scent of the cologne he'd put on this morning. Maybe I would let him live—but only if he fucked me immediately.

My belly made it awkward, but somehow I managed to press my lips against his throat. "I need you," I whispered between licks.

"I need you, too. More than you'll ever understand."

"I need all of you."

"You have me."

I squeezed his cock over his pants. "I want you inside me."

He let out a low groan. "Oh, god. You don't know how much I miss that."

"Nothing is stopping us."

He placed his hand over mine, stilling my movements. "I told you I'm not comfortable with intercourse right now."

"I'm not comfortable without it."

"Bella, you're eight-months pregnant. You're not comfortable with anything."

"You're unbelievable. You're a doctor; you know it's safe."

"It's not about safety," he insisted. "I can't bring myself to jizz on my unborn daughter's face."

"There's this thing called the amniotic sac, maybe you heard about it in medical school during your rotation in obstetrics? It seals the baby off from external elements. You could produce more come than the entire male cast of a bukake blockbuster, and there's still no way the little guy will end up swallowing."

"The mental image you just gave me isn't helping your case. And please, never mention our daughter and bukake in the same sentence again."

It was time to change tactics.

"You know, your parents did it nonstop while your mother was pregnant. You turned out okay."

"Oh, god," he wailed, covering his ears. "No, Bella, you're wrong. I'm not okay. I was okay—past tense—until you shared that piece of information with me. Now I think I'm going to go throw up."

"You do realize you wouldn't be here if they didn't have sex, right?"

"Oh, I'm completely aware my parents had a very healthy marriage. Old houses have thin walls, you know."

I ran my fingertips across his chest. "You always said you wanted the kind of marriage they had."

"I think we have that."

"Do you think your mother would be able to go without sex?"

"I don't even want to think about that. And when I consider who she's dating..." He shook his head. "I'm really glad I'm a shrink because let me tell you—after I see my mom and Liam together at Kate's wedding, I'm going to need one."

I leaned against the counter top, sighing. "How do you propose we solve this problem? I mean, I can live without sex. I could even live without ice cream. But I can't live without sex and ice cream. And then to have to do the dishes even though I'm not getting sex or ice cream..."

"There is no problem. I suggested we move into a bigger place when we decided we were going to try to conceive, and you wouldn't hear of it–"

"Because I like this house. I like that it's mine, that I bought it on my own. I'm not willing to
let that part of myself go."

"Which is your choice, Bella. But you know as well as I do your stubborn pride is why we haven't remodeled the kitchen. As far as sex is concerned, I'm more than willing to eat at the Bella buffet—even if decide to make it all-you-can-eat and keep your legs open twenty-four hours a day. But I'm not going to jizz on my unborn daughter." He shook his head. "I have nothing else to say about this. I feel disgusting; I'm going to take a shower."

He turned on his heel and went upstairs. Once again, I was enraged. What kind of man would take a shower—probably a cold one—when he could be fucking me on the kitchen floor? If this kept up, I'll be so cock-starved by the time I had the baby, I'll go crazy. I wondered if Emmett was this weird at the end Rose's pregnancy—if so, her world-infamous hospital-room blow job made sense.

In an ideal world, I'd fling myself onto the bed and cry into my pillow. Even this comfort wasn't possible—I couldn't lie on my stomach because of my bump. I couldn't for the life me understand women who claimed pregnancy made them feel sexy. I was the size of a whale and in need of some anti-psychotic medication. The more I thought about it, the more I realized, I couldn't blame Edward for not wanting to have sex with me—I wouldn't want to have sex with me, either. I went upstairs and tried to get comfortable, laying on my side facing away from the door. My silent tears did little to relieve my pent-up frustration and nothing to calm my biggest fear. Parenting was going to change our relationship and not necessarily for the better.

I didn't notice Edward joining me in bed until he snaked his arm snaked around my body and rested his hand on top of my belly.

"I know you feel awkward—none of this has been easy on your body. But I'm not lying when I tell you you've never been more beautiful than you are right now."

Wanting to see his face, I onto my other side. "You're just saying that, but thank you anyway."

"Why would I make this up?"

"You wouldn't, but..."

"But what?"

"You're twenty-nine years old."

"Okay?"

"I'm advanced maternal age." I made air quotes as I muttered the jargon that for the past year had been the curse of my existence.

He let out a small laugh. "That's a medical term meant to identify potential risks; it's not a statement on sex appeal."

"Yeah. Risks like my stretch marks, sagging skin, never getting my body back..."

"As long as I get your body back, I don't care if you never get your body back."

I rolled my eyes. "You're missing the point."

"No, you're missing the point. I don't think you fully get this." He pushed the enormous t-shirt I was wearing to my shoulders. "Let's get rid of this."

I sat up so he could pull it the rest of the way off, then settled back against the pillows.

"I love your breasts. I love that they spill over my hand when I hold them, that they're rounder and fuller than they've ever been."

"Yes. Too bad my areolae are roughly the diameter of a frisbee, and my nipples look like pencil erasers."

"They do not! They're perfect, and they're going to feed our daughter." He placed a kiss on of each my nipples before dragging his hands down my body and settling them onto my hips. "And these...these are new. I can't wait to see her sit on your hip. And this..." He rested his cheek against my belly. "This is our child."

"Sometimes, it still doesn't feel real to me," I whispered.

"The baby? That's how it is for most first-time parents. Until they hold the baby, it's too abstract."

"I have to pee every two minutes. Believe me, the baby feels real to me."

He lifted his head off my belly and scooted across the bed so his face was close to mine. "You mean us."

I nodded. "There are times I look at you, and I can't believe it."

"Believe what?"

"That you're mine."

"I am, and I will be eternally."

"Do you ever worry that you'll regret it?"

"Huh." He snorted. "No."

"What if I turn into my mother?"

"You won't."

"You don't know that. I mean, I'm a very selfish person."

"Exactly."

"Huh?"

"Truly selfish persons never wonder if they're being selfish."

I wanted more than anything to believe him.

"Is there anything I can do to make you feel better about things?"

I answered without thinking, "You can fuck my brains out."

He shook his head. "I'm not willing to do that–"

"I figured."

"But I would like to make love to you."

And he did.

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Also, I'm participating in Fandom for Sexual Assault awareness. I'll be writing a one-shot, but I have no idea what. I'm open to suggestions.

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