#and then losing one child to the gods and then the other to the agoge

[conkeybong]

i wish there was more content about callisto she could be such an interesting character if they gave her a chance

[thecarnivorousmuffinmeta]

Bella and Beauford (your version of Beau) are twins, similar features (brown eyes), similar chip on their shoulder, similar flowery language, and Ed can't read either of their minds and both smell like grade A beefcakes. Both move to Forks. What kind of mess do you think will go down? 030 Does Eddie boi get the harem he's never wanted? How much can we destroy the B&B team self esteem? Find out on today's episode of the What if Muffin chronicles~! - Sw

Beauford is a reoccurring guest star on this blog.

Think Bella directly plastered onto a boy: absurdly pretty, still clumsy, still terribly introverted and awful socially, and smells like heroin to one Edward Cullen.

With that, onto your question

The Rules

To set some ground rules that are set in the post, I'm presuming both, somehow, are Edward's singer. Now, given that it's Bella and Beauford (fraternal twins), I'd say this is highly unlikely. Singers are rare, and Charlie and Renee don't notably smell like high quality heroin to Edward. More likely, Bella would be the singer, and Beauford would just smell generally nice (but not murder all of Biology nice).

It's also unlikely they'd have the same exact gift, or a gift that expresses itself in the same manner, blocking Edward out of their minds.

But the rules are set, both are Edward's singer, and both have Bella's absurdly powerful gift.

They're for all intents and purposes the same fucking person that somehow got stuffed in two different gendered bodies. The real genesis of this AU: Renee was abducted by aliens while pregnant and her unborn child experimented on. Beauford is, in fact, Bella's identical twin. Beauford is actually Bella's male clone grown in the womb.

After Bella and Beauford reach sexual maturity they'll be beamed back up into space and put into a zoo on Traflamador. (Except not because that would derail this post... The test pilot on Traflamador blew up their planet before Bella and Beauford could phone home. It's not important.)

Bella, Beauford, and the Time Before Forks

Bella and Beauford are probably frightfully codependent for a few reasons that go by the name of Renee. Renee's still out to lunch parenting, and it falls to Bella and Beauford to take care of adult responsibilities from a very young age.

Bella and Beauford come home from school to an empty house, are the ones to go grocery shopping, pay the bills, pay the taxes, do the laundry, pretty much anything that has "adult responsibility" stamped on it.

As a result, they don't really have time to make friends with kids out of school, and they quickly realize that they're the only ones they can depend on in their lives. More, they're the only ones who get each other on any level.

They're both social outcasts, both not what their mother wanted, both have to deal with their mother, and if they ever get in trouble then it's their sibling that they're going to call. Because no one else will ever be there.

I imagine both Bella and Beauford cling to each other tightly with both hands.

Which, of course, makes things weird.

There's getting along with your twin sibling then there's... only getting along with your twin sibling.

Bella and Beauford have lunch together, by themselves, every day in Phoenix. They partner together on everything and are very displeased if they're forced into a group project with anyone else. They participate in all the same activities and if one isn't allowed to do it then the other quits (yes, Beauford tried to get into ballet class, when Renee put her foot down Bella quit right then and there). They wear each other's clothes, if they can't, then those clothes never get worn (Bella never wears the few dresses in her closet). They actually remember their made up secret twin language and lapse into it accidentally from time to time. They're anxious when they're not in the same classes and meet up after every single class to walk down the hallways together. Rather than have any friends, most of their free time is spent at home reading the same books in the same room. They don't even talk about how amazing Heathcliff is, because they know the other knows.

I imagine they channel such the twins from The Shining. Absurdly good looking, beautiful, kids but good god what is wrong with them?

The Decision to Move

When Phil enters the picture seriously, he's not just a new boyfriend, Bella and Beauford sit down to discuss their options. Neither is quite sure how they feel about Phil.

He's awfully young, but he seems to be good for Renee, and is actually capable of paying his taxes (unlike Renee). He can probably be depended upon not to run off and to make sure Renee is taken care of.

However what about Bella and Beau?

With Bella and Beau going to school, they can't travel across the country every few weeks following Phil. Now, in theory, Renee could abandon them to follow Phil. This wouldn't make much of a difference in their daily lives (might, in fact, make things easier in a way as then Beau/Bella can just handle all the cooking rather than Renee even attempting to). However, Renee would never want to admit she's been leaving her kids to their own devices for years, and would feel horribly guilty to leave them behind.

As it is, they've already told Renee she can go on and travel with Phil and she refused, stating she had to be there for her kids.

There's also that Phil keeps trying to bond with Beau especially. As if he thinks it will be easier to bond with the teenage stepson vs. the stepdaughter. That hasn't been going well, Beau would like to avoid that if at all possible.

On the other hand... Forks, wet, cold, and being the children of the police chief's runaway bride.

Ultimately, the pair come to the same decision Bella came to in canon. They want their mother to be happy, feel desperately like third wheels, and if making Renee happy necessitates going to Forks then to Forks they shall go.

At least they'll have each other, and in the end, that's all that really matters.

Arriving in Forks

Bella and Beau arrive in Forks and receive the same reception they would otherwise. But more so. Holy god, the high school population says, it's the Cullens 2.0.

Eerily pale, beautiful, siblings, who are both sensitive intellectuals (and are also weirdly incestuous acting). All the guys want to date Bella and all the girls want to date Beau (some vice versa but they're not admitting that in a public high school in 2005).

The guys (Mike, Tylor, Eric, etc.) aren't all that thrilled by Beau's presence, he's major competition and day one is attracting all the attention. However, they see him as a way to get an in with Bella, he can set them up on a date and put in a good word. If they become his best friend, they have an excuse to go to his house, where Bella will be.

The girls (even Lauren who was initially very pissed off about Bella's sudden popularity) are much the same. Bella's overrated, but good god, that beautiful brother of hers. If they become Bella's best friend, they can have sleep overs, and might be able to see Beau without a shirt on. No matter Bella's stuffy personality, that hot brother is worth it.

Lunch that first day, as a result, is even more awful than it was in canon. Bella and Beauford, while generally oblivious about themselves, are very observant when it becomes to the behavior of others regarding their sibling.

They have an emergency meeting in the truck after school and come to the same conclusion: Bella/Beau, this entire school of hicks wants in your pants. Dump them all.

Both Bella and Beauford end the day supremely annoyed but reconfirm their commitment to this Forks plan. Beau predicts than in six months they'll be losers again and they'll go back to having lunch by themselves.

But what about the Cullens?

Edward, The Cullens, and Biology

As in canon, both Beauford and Bella notice the entrance of the alien procession into the cafeteria and ask "what the fuck?"

Nobody's thrilled about answering, because no one wants to lose Bella/Beauford to the Cullens of all people (the girls sigh with relief as, at least for them, all the lady Cullens seem to be dating one of the other guys. Beau is safe. The possibility of Edward/Beau is one they dare not contemplate in those five seconds.)

Still, Jessica reluctantly gives the run down. These are the Cullens, they moved in two years ago, are absurdly wealthy, beautiful, and supposedly not actually related. They're all dating each other. No, seriously, they are. Except the hot ginger, Edward, but don't bother because he's an ass.

Both Bella and Beauford think Jessica doth protest too much about Edward and internally give the Cullens the same bisexual Bella ranking: Rosalie, Edward (after a bit of thought), and then the rest of them.

Edward, for his own part, notes that he can't seem to hear either's thoughts. Weird. He concludes that the pair are highly overrated and he can't believe the school's so agog over the pair of them. Stupid teenagers.

Then Biology happens.

The pair open the door and good god, Edward Cullen is a demon. Luckily for them, they have each other. There may be an open seat next to Edward Cullen but Bella and Beauford go "NOPE". You see, teacher, we always sit together. No, really, we ALWAYS sit together.

The teacher is weirded out but it's so weird he actually has nothing to say to that. There's only one immediately open seat anyway, and two new students, so they're clearly in trouble with seating arrangements anyway. So he says, "Um, sure, go sit with Angela I guess." Angela is now in an overcrowded table with both Bella and Beauford, her original partner gleefully goes to sit with hottie Edward (then is in dismay sitting with Edward because this guy looks terrifying today). The twins, throughout Biology, are staring down Edward Cullen.

Edward, of course, has smelled the scent of the gods and is going through his personal hell on earth. He devises his many schemes of how he's going to murder Biology before he can get to the pair of them (Angela, for the record, gets smashed into a wall for the honor of being in Edward's way). Then, he doesn't know which he'd start on, he can't tell which scent comes from which. He tells himself he'll toss a coin, heads the boy goes first, then tails the girl.

Still, thinking of Carlisle's sad, disapproving, face as Edward massacres a room filled with children allows Edward to hold on through Biology. He'll murder them after school. Then of course he's able to clear his head and flees to Alaska.

In the meantime, thanks to being hyperaware of their sibling, and now having someone to talk to and confirm their suspicions with: Edward Cullen is Ted Bundy. This guy is creepy, dangerous, and in that moment it looked as if he was going to kill one or both of them. Bella/Beauford would be alright, though disappointed, if they were murdered then left in a dumpster. But their sibling die and meet that same awful fate? Not ever allowed to happen.

Bella and Beau have the world's most tense drive home and tense night taking turns taking guard and sleeping in the same room. Every time one questions if they're, maybe, just maybe, a little paranoid about this, the other confirms that "NOPE, THAT DUDE WAS SCARY".

They can't tell Charlie, he wouldn't believe them and they have no evidence, but when Edward tries to climb through their window maybe one of them will get in a good hit with the baseball bat (they won't, they're both debilitatingly clumsy).

The next day, to their confusion and relief, Edward Cullen isn't at school. He's not there the day after that either, or the day after that...

Beau and Bella start to relax, if only a little bit.

Edward, Alaska, and the Prodigal Son Returns

Edward in Alaska calms down and goes through the same thought process he did in canon. He keeps picturing the twins' faces, his obsession beginning to blossom, and convinces himself that he can't let these unremarkable humans get in the way of his life and his family.

After a week of brooding, much to Carlisle's horror, Edward returns to Forks and goes straight back to school. Specifically, he wants to do damage control with the twins and see just how much they actually noticed.

This goes worse than in canon.

First, Edward has to approach their shared table with Angela like a loser. There, Bella and Beau clearly don't want to talk at him, at all, and both clearly vividly remember exactly what happened last Biology class.

Edward barely gets a word in before he has to go to his seat. When he notices Bella, Beau, and Angela get their lab done as quickly as him (thanks to Bella and Beau), he tries again.

Bella and Beau both ask to go to the bathroom. (Yes, teacher, at the same time. Don't question this.) They don't come back. Edward, after ten minutes, also goes to the bathroom. He finds the pair in their giant, red, truck in the parking lot, deep in conversation (trying to figure out what the fuck is up with Edward Cullen).

He approaches them again, being as charming as possible. This has the opposite effect. Directed towards only them, Beau/Bella would probably let this slide. Directed towards Beloved Sibling, their "DANGER, WILL ROBINSON" sirens are blaring in their head. Beau floors it, and the pair tear out of the parking lot as fast as the truck will take them, they're telling Charlie they're taking a sick day. What will they do next Biology class? FUCK IF THEY KNOW.

Edward, standing in the parking lot with his mouth open, feels very very embarrassed and ashamed. He is a man eating demon and these two are perfectly aware of it. The rest of the Cullens find him there not long after, they find this both sad and hilarious.

Bella and Beau Get Hit by a Van

Well, this would all be well and good. Edward tells himself that if the pair are so determined to avoid him then he'll just avoid them. Problem solved. More, the pair don't seem to be chatterboxes, there's no weird rumors spreading about Edward Cullen or his siblings. At least, no more than usual.

Instead, it seems that everyone's trying to ask the twins to the dance, and are very confused when the twins say that they're going with each other. Sibling policy. You see. (They don't see, nobody sees, this is weird.)

Then it happens. Bella nearly gets hit by a van, Edward saves her, with Beau as a full not-concussed witness. FUCK. Bella and Beau travel to the hospital, Edward driving along behind them, and then after Carlisle checks Bella out they have their awkward talk.

Bella wants to insist that Edward was clearly the one who saved her, with his strange superhuman strength, but thanks to twin telepathy (which either is actual telepathy or is just reading twin body language, who even knows) knows that Beau wants her to shut up. They say nothing, the truth isn't important.

Instead, Beau states that he was the one who pulled Bella out of the way, Bella's just confused. Edward stares at Beau like he's an alien. Beau just smiles, thanks Edward for his concern, then throws Edward out of the room.

Bella and Beau madly discuss that Edward's clearly not human. More, while he saved her life today and that was very noble of him, neither has truly forgotten how he was in that first day of Biology. More, did you see him now? He clearly wanted, desperately for Bella to not remember what happened. He crushed that van like a pretzel, what if they told him that they saw him? What would happen to them? Beau doesn't want to take chances, not even for the truth, and in retrospect Bella doesn't either. Now is not the time to look gifted horses in the mouth.

Given Bella's injured, Beau's on full guard duty that night.

Meanwhile, the Cullens have their vote. It's even more dramatic, because instead of just one innocent, injured, witness, there's two witnesses and one was completely uninjured. Carlisle is utterly appalled that Rosalie genuinely suggests murdering them both so she doesn't have to move. He's more appalled when Edward reveals that he believes the twins may believe that Edward... wishes them harm for having witnessed his heroics.

Because the irony being that the twins are right, the family is voting on this very issue right now. And what does that say about all of them?

Thankfully for Beau and Bella, the vote goes very similarly to canon. Jasper's not convinced until Alice has her vision.

And she drops the bomb. Edward's in love with Bella, Beau will be Edward's best friend and Bella Alice's, and both Bella and her brother will be turned and join the coven.

(Now, what Alice doesn't tell Edward is that, actually, Edward's in love with them both. It's safer to say that Edward's in love with the woman, as that's what Edward will far more readily accept. Throwing Beau into that mix would just make things very messy, if Alice wants her best friend and Edward's happy ending then she has to be smart about this.)

The family has a similar reaction. Carlisle gives his, "Well, alright then" and the family doesn't move. Edward, in despair and self-hatred, heads to the Swan house to see sleeping Bella for himself.

And lo and behold, Beau has been waiting for him. Beau tries to smash Edward's face in with a bat. Unfortunately, a) Edward's a vampire, b) Beau misses.

Beau and Edward end up talking, man to man, while Bella is sleeping. Edward decides that, yes, oh woe, he is in love with Beauford's sister and confesses as much (while also confessing that he might, you know, actually be dangerous). Beau suggests that Edward stay far away from his sister.

No, there's nothing Beau can do to stop Edward. Yes, he is just a pathetic human even more pathetic than most, but he promises that he will make Edward and his family's life hell on Earth if Edward ever thinks of assaulting his sister.

Edward protests he would never, Beau points out that Edward just climbed through his injured sister's window in the dead of night. Edward... tries and fails to explain away that one.

He actually does succeed in that he explains that Bella was in danger from... his siblings. Edward had come to protect Bella, to make sure none came to harm her. It's not necessarily his siblings' fault, it's complicated but... Well, Edward was trying to be somewhat noble.

Then something strange happens. Edward finds himself fascinated by this Beauford Swan. Such courage in the world's weakest, no most delicate, body. Look at those eyelashes, his big dark eyes, his perfectly shaped features. This boy is beautiful, as beautiful as his sister, and just as courageous as she is. And look at him now, nobly facing down a demon he knows he cannot win against for the sake of his sister.

How virtuous.

Edward tells himself that what he's feeling is kinship and admiration for Beauford Swan. Bella could not have a worthier brother. Edward leaves with the promise that he'll respect Beau's wishes (Beau doesn't believe that for a second).

The next morning, Beau tells Bella that Edward's the world's biggest creep and that the Twin Watch is not stopping anytime soon. They're going to need to make a big purchase of coffee.

Edward and His Torment

As in canon, Edward decides he should nobly stay out of Bella's life. He'll see if either twin really does talk (they don't) and then he'll ignore them until they disappear. They will forget him.

They don't, but they do discuss him. See, after much pondering, the twins realize that Edward truly is a Grade A hottie. More, he's so mysterious and inhuman. In retrospect, his saving Bella's life goes a long way, and for all that he's been... menacing, he's never truly threatened them and does seem intent on protecting Bella. More, he seems to be keeping his promise: he's staying out of Bella's life and he hasn't been back to the house since (he has, but they haven't caught him, Edward waits until they both crash until he can sneak in and stare at them both).

And he's never lied about being dangerous. Their glares soften into pondering glances, wondering just what the truth of this Edward Cullen and his family really is, and wonder what it'd be like to let him into their small, insular, world that no one before has ever managed to breach in the way he has.

Bella doesn't believe he's truly interested in her, despite Beau's insistence, and wonders if he's interested in Beau. Beau, for his own part, doesn't believe Edward's interested in him and insists that he's clearly very interested in Bella.

Reluctantly, the pair conclude that Edward is something likely very dangerous, against Edward's will, but benign. Whatever it was they sensed from Edward that first day, it was not something in his control.

Helping this is Edward enabling the mysterious mystery by breaking. He can't stay away from the twins. He tells them that he's tired of staying away from them, that they shouldn't be friends, that he doesn't want to be friends (but wants to be something hint, hint, wink, wink). Except he's convinced he and Beauford are friends, dual protectors of the angel Bella Swan. If he stares a little too much at Beau's perfect figure then that's because he's the perfect, male, version of his perfect sister.

Anyway, the twins go to Long Beach with the others and the twins are now just too curious. Edward's giving them nothing and they must know. Bella flirts with Jake for information, Beau is appalled that this works, and they hear the cold ones story. That night, they both have the prophetic Slayer dream: Edward is a vampire.

Bella tells Beauford that she knows three things. One is that she's in love with Edward. Beau's not sure how to take that for a second but, being Bella's twin and on the same weird wavelength, he gets it. He's in love with Edward too.

Neither finds it strange that they both confess to being in love with the same demon and that they see no conflict of interest in this.

The pair go to Port Angeles to help Jessica and Angela pick up dresses. (Angela and Jessica aren't sure why a man is coming, but they've learned not to question this twin thing). Bella and Beau ultimately decided not to go to the dance, too risky giving the deluge of invitations they received, and instead they'll be headed to Seattle that weekend. They claim this is not a date, Angela and Jessica just stare.

Due to Beau being with Bella, though the pair get hopelessly lost looking for the book store, Bella doesn't get followed by rapists. Edward shows up anyway, as Alice saw the possibility, and takes the pair of them to romantic Italian dinner. It's weird.

He then drives them home and Bella blurts it out. Edward's a vampire, she and Beau know. Edward has his miniature meltdown and realizes that these pair of siblings forgive him this. Beau, beautiful man that he is, is giving Edward his beloved sister and Bella is giving not only herself but her wonderful brother's hand in friendship.

Edward invites them both, that's right, them both, to the meadow. Neither thinks this is strange. And when they get there. Boom, it's over, any chance to question this is gone. Both Bella and Beau are seduced by Edward's sparkling chest and his quotes about lions.

He rests his head on Bella's chest but puts his right hand on Beau's. They sit like that. For hours.

The Cullens (Again)

Well, this went from weird to fucking weirder. It was weird enough when Edward became obsessed with this rando teenage girl. Now, it turns out that Edward's a horn dog panting after bisexual twins, clearly intending to romance them both at the same time.

Carlisle dearly tries to have an intervention. He sends Esme to do it, as in canon, this doesn't work (Esme is perfectly fine with Edward's twincest fetish and thinks it's wonderful).

Alice tells a dubious Jasper that Edward and Beau are just friends. Jasper doesn't believe her, but he's not sure what to even say.

Emmett is desperately holding in Edward sandwich jokes. Desperately.

When Beau and Bella are invited to the house (together of course), the entire family has no idea what to say to them. At all. They don't know how to process this. Rosalie is actually there this time, because somebody needs to warn these two about what Edward really wants, but then they're too weird.

It's all just too weird.

And... the rest of canon happens.

The baseball game occurs, James dies, Victoria's not sure which Swan she should target and so she targets them both anyway. They're in the same damn place so it makes 0 difference.

Bella and Beau joint hallucinate Hallucination Edward, somehow, and get even weirdly more codependent in their zombie fugue state. This tanks their popularity as now there's no denying the incest. Bella and Beau don't care.

Bella and Beau reach out to get Jake to build them the motorcycles. Jake doesn't necessarily want Beau around, the dude's weird and getting in the way of Bella time, but alright. Bella and Jake's friendship doesn't take off because Bella's codependent on Beau.

They do learn about the wolves though thanks to Jake's crush on Bella. Jake never realizes that he's coming in third place not only to Edward Cullen but to Beauford Swan. He thinks he has a chance. That poor boy.

Bella and Beau jump off the cliff together, convinced they weren't committing suicide.

Alice returns, gets Bella and Beau to go to Volterra, because Edward has to see that they're both alive. There's a joyful reunion, Aro is really weirded out by this whole damn thing and has a five second pause after touching Marcus' hand. "Well." he says afterwards, "You and your brother are close. I see."

They get to go home, Aro insists they turn. Eclipse happens. Edward proposes marriage to Bella. Neither Beau nor Bella are thrilled (mostly about the marriage and also about the question of how the twin enters this equation) but ultimately Bella accepts. Bella and Edward marry publicly.

Beau is invited for the honeymoon. Edward, Bella, nor Beau question this. Everyone else does. A lot. On Isle Esme, the three confirm their commitment to each other: they have a secret marriage. Edward and Beau are both convinced they're not in a relationship. Bella and Beau are convinced they're not incestuous.

Sex is had by... someone. Unclear who.

Bella gets pregnant, this seems to confirm Edward must be the father but... Bella and Beau are both very strange, almost alien, and very gifted. There is some red in their hair. Questions the Cullens dare not speak aloud are thought, Edward doesn't seem to notice.

TL;DR Basically, the books still happen but Edward is cuckolded and enables twincest.

...

I did not see this one coming guys. I swear. I did not.

[sabraeal]

The Great Chain, Chapter 5

The Hierarchy of Beings | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

Written for @nebluus​ for her birthday! It was a MUCH WELCOME break to have something non-obiyuki to work on during bingo, especially to play with HMH, even if this did turn mostly into two OCs having a nice chat with one another XD

Ambassador Prak is punctual, as would be expected from a man raised to the grace of Chanvaty’s gaze, sharply dressed and not a hair out of place. He favors the style of these heathen lands, mirror-shined boots and indecently tight pants, as well as the ridiculous high-collared coats that they wear. She peers at him through a haze of gold, and with the same swiftness as the God’s breath, decides that the costume is not entirely unbecoming. After all, he is here to live among the heathens, to learn their ways so that he may better come to understand what value they can be to Wati. Imitation is but one tool through which trust may be forged.

“I must admit, Most High,” he says, bowing at the waist as these heathens do, “I did not expect your summons. Nor your...request.”

She nods, and ah, it is strange to talk to a man with no screen between them, nor a woman of proper birth to serve as their go between. It is only she and him and the God’s breath around them.

“Nor should you,” she agrees gracefully. “It is not a whim I am accustomed to having. However--” he lips curl behind her veil slyly-- “I have been told that it would be beneficial for the vessel which houses what is most womanly and sacred if I were to...take in the gardens.”

His neck cranes up, brows raised nearly to his hairline. She grits her teeth. In her brother’s court, a man would lose his head for such blasphemy.

Here, she can expect no such justice.

“Is that so?” His voice is strained from the angle.

“It is.” She draws herself straight on her seat, shoulder rolled proudly back. “Do you find that strange, Ambassador?”

“No, no, not at all,” he assures her. “It is common for the ladies of the court to take a daily turn about its pathways.”

"Am I not a member of the same court?” If she were her brother, she would raise that single, dangerous brow, but she settles for tapping a displeased finger. “Should I not partake in their preferred pastimes?”

“I...” His jaw shuts with a quiet snick. “Of course, Most High.”

“Then come.”

She stands, though not without difficulty. Her brother always had a strong presence, moving with the grace of a warrior and the gravitas of a god. She is neither, levering herself to her feet only by virtue of the rests on either side of her arms. Still, her ambassador is awed when she holds out a hand. “It is time that I walk on my own two feet.”

The pace the ambassador sets is slow; so slow she assumes he mocks her until she sees the other pairs that promenade down the garden paths. It makes some sense, in a way-- this is, after all, an activity of leisure, not exercise. Though even with the veritable crawl he sets, her feet ache mere minutes after their start. By the time he suggests a rest to smell the roses, it has spread all the way up her legs, even into her hips.

“Thank you,” she pants, bending over a large, ruffled bloom. Through the veil she can hardly smell it, but she’s glad for the excuse to linger, to let the burning in her legs subside. After all, she has not yet even begun to complete the business she set out to do on this walk.

“My pleasure,” the Ambassador assures her. “It is my great honor that you have brought me along as your particular companion.”

She straightens, examining another flower on a higher branch. “Is that not how it is done here? We have passed many pairs.”

“Yes, Most High. The paths are narrow, and the ladies prefer to keep their parties small, or plan to be paired.” Prak nods, leading her to another bush, one with a flower nothing like the last, but still labeled a rose. “Most choose to come with their closest female companions. However...”

She turns to him. “However...?”

“Ah, well...” He smiles, sly. “Some choose to take advantage of the garden’s more secluded nature and take a turn or two with their, ah, intended. Or perhaps, more accurately, their...intended intended.”

She stares for a long moment. “You mean assignations?”

His mouth twitches. “The court is quite young, Most High. They have a tendency to get into...shall we say...spirited follies.” He slants her a look from the corner of his eyes. “Perhaps you might invite Prince Zen on your next walk, should you enjoy this one.”

She is glad for the veil, for then no one can see how her jaw drops, how her face heats. To think that she-- that he--!

“I do not think that would be prudent.” Or enjoyable, she does not add. “And the prince must have other duties that need his attention.”

Prak barks out a laugh, muzzling it when she stares. “I think,” he says, careful, “that his most pressing duty is your attention, Most High.”

Her fingers hesitate on the bloom she holds, its silky petals slipping against her skin. “What do you mean?”

She is not used to being stared at in such a way, let alone by a man of the God, but the ambassador does, both brows raised. “Surely you have not forgotten, Most High, that the contract between our countries relies on whether you accept his suit.”

She had, entirely. After all, it was not as if her brother would welcome her home with open arms if she refused. He had made that clear enough before she left.

To return would disappoint the God. His face is as smooth and forbidding as any statue of the God, with the same chill as stone. You will stand in his shadow should you return to feel his light.

Her hand clenches in her sleeve. “Of course.”

Prak holds out his arm. They have apparently lingered enough. “It would not surprise me if the king had informed his brother that wooing you was his highest priority.”

She hesitates, her hand hovering in the air between them. This is how the others have walked, ladies arm-in-arm and gentlemen with hand either placed on top of or tucked into their elbow. This is what is polite here, what is expected.

But still, still. She is the sacred feminine, a child of the God himself. To touch another is to profane herself. To touch another is to spell their death.

Or that was what she had been told. But when she had laid a hand upon the prince he hand not burned, and when the concubine had looked upon her bare form--

Nothing. Perhaps this country is a sight too far for even Atar Wat’s gaze.

She lays down her hand, his coat rough beneath the sensitive pads of her fingers. “He has a strange way of showing it.”

“Has he not come to see you?”

“No.” It has been a relief; she had thought a man who loved his own voice so would importune her with it more often. “We spoke only the once. The first day.”

Were he not a man of dignity and gravitas proper to his station, she might say that Ambassador Prak was agog. “That was nearly a week ago.”

She shrugs a hand. “So you say.”

“Hah.” Prak hums, thoughtful. “Did you say anything to make him think you would not want his company?”

Until we are married, she had said, so sure, so proud, I will remain untouched by your eyes.

“Ah, there.” She points around a bend in the path. “Come, tell me the name of this flower.”

She might not be much of a hunter, but by the God’s grace, she still finds her quarry.

Mistress Shirayuki. Prak good humor is unfeigned when the woman startles, red tail whipping over her shoulder. I suppose it should be no surprise to find you here.

Ambassador Prak. The concubine stands, her smile more strained than his. Munkhtsesteg. Prak’s brow twitches at the name. I didn’t expect to have visitors.

We were only passing through, he assures her, slanting her a questioning glance as her hand tightens on his sleeve. Her Most High wished to see the gardens.

They are lovely this time of year. Or any time of year, really! The girl’s smile puts the sun to shame. She might be the god’s vessel, but it is she who is blinded when Shirayuki looks at her. I’m happy to see you’re taking my advice.

The ambassador’s brow twitches again, and she resists the urge to hunch in on herself, to become smaller as the lesser folk do in the presence of their betters. But there is no man or woman who can claim themself her better, save for her brother and the God, so she stands tall. Who is this man, born under the gaze of Rith, to question her?

I had thought it might be prudent to see these much vaunted gardens, she allows graciously. Since it seems this...promenading is the activity favored by the young ladies of this court.

The concubine nods, pulling at the thick gloves covering her hands. And what do you think?

“It’s vulgar,” she says, the disgust on her face masked by the weave of her veil. The concubine’s smile does not fade, but she glances up at Prak, brows raised in question.

Her Most High means that it is quite different from her brother’s court. Her glances down at her, mouth pinched. The transition between them if quite...difficult.

A politique answer from a politique man. She would have expected no less from their finest diplomat.

Oh? Shirayuki’s face is alight with interest. Are the gardens very different there? Do you have colder place to grow plant from other countries, or--?

Ah. Prak smiles, chagrined. I do believe Her Most High meant that the...activities are different, not so much the gardens.

But they are, she supplies, too eager. Come, you shall walk with us, and I will tell you of them.

The concubine stiffens, every inch of her pale skin blooming with crimson. She worries-- surely the girl would not be so gauche as to suffer apoplexy here, now, in the garden of her king.

Most High, the ambassador says, as harsh as a whip’s crack. Surely Mistress Shirayuki has duties to attend to.

Oh, no! When she looks again, the girl is smiling, wide and bright. I would be happy to come. I just need to finish a few things here first. Do you mind waiting?

Of course not. Her lips curve wickedly beneath her veil. There are times where even the God must hold his breath.

The girl’s gaze skitters to the ambassador before meeting hers again. Then I’ll be just a moment.

[boneandfur]

Marry in Haste [6, pt2]

Notes: historical notes are at the end. // Words: 2806 // Catch up: Ch 6 (contains links to other chapters)

CHAPTER SIX, pt 2 :: Song: Scarborough Fair, Amy Nuttall.

The housekeeper unlocked the door with a flourish. I prayed to God it was not too late. "My lady, take James and Alf in with ye," she said with a respectful gleam in her eye.

With James, Alf, and Sinclaire at my side, I dashed into the room just as MacDougal laid his saw to Ned's flesh. 

Edmund was pale as a sheet, hand on the bottle of whiskey, agog. "Dita?!" 

"Stop!" I screamed, and MacDougal reared back, his face like thunder.

"Get out!" he roared like a bull, and then he turned on me. For such a big man, he moved fast. I darted towards him, grabbing the handle of the saw from his hand, and in my madness, wrested it from his grip. The teeth were brown and rusty with old blood, and I shuddered in disgust. I flung it from me, it went skittering across the floor. “Sairpent!” He grabbed me by the wrist, throwing me to the floor, but I was back on my feet and in his face with an anger I had not known I possessed. 

"Get out of my house!" I said in a voice of deadly quiet. "You'll not harm a hair on his head, do you hear me, you wicked old butcher?!" 

"I'll no' be ordered about by a woman!" MacDougal bared his teeth, shaking with anger. 

"Get out!" I roared, pointing a shaking finger at the door. I whirled on one of our footmen. "James, run and get a boy to fetch the bonesetter, as fast as you can!" 

"Yes, my lady!" James dashed from the room. 

"My lady!" MacDougal lunged for me, and Sinclaire stepped forward as though to stop him. "I told ye tae stay out o' it! I'll not be told ma business by some slanty-eyed, foreign bitch!" 

Edmund was on his feet before Sinclaire could move, and his fist hit the doctor square in the mouth. "You forget your place!" he roared, breathing in sharp, jerky pants. "You'll not lay hands on a peeress of the realm, sir! Now get out before we call Bow Street!" 

"Mr Greaves!" I shouted, and the butler came into the room at once, he had likely been waiting in the hallway for my summons. He was a big African man, balding, with a kindly smile, but today he had none, his mouth was set as hard as stone as he looked at the surgeon.

"My lady," Greaves said respectfully. "Mr Marlcaster." 

"Escort this charlatan from the property!" I ordered in a voice like steel, praying none of them could sense how I shook inside. Ye may murder yer husband here an' now... As if ye'd stabbed a knife intae his heart.

"Unhand me at once! I'll show m'self out!" MacDougal cried. "Jamie, ye wee idiot! Bring ma bag!" 

"But sir!" Jamie cried, finding his voice at last. And it squeaked. 

"We are no' welcome in this house. I wish good day to you, Madam!" MacDougal thundered at me. As he turned to go, he whispered, in a voice like ice, "Let all who hear me bear witness! I say ye do murder -- an' I'll testify against ye and yer lover at the trial!" Slamming his hat on his head and shoving his bag under his arm, he stormed out, tripping over the person coming up the steps as he shouted for Jamie to call a cab. 

When he had gone, I turned to Edmund, and as though he knew how I trembled inside, he took me into his arms and held me for a long, sweet moment. Then he sat back down on the bed, he was sweating and pale. "What have we done, Dita?" he whispered. 

"She's saved your life, most likely, Marlcaster," Sinclaire said from the doorway, and I jumped back, feeling guilty for comforting my own husband in front of my lover, though why I should feel such a confusing emotion, I knew not. "I'm not a man for medicine, but that blade would have poisoned your blood and condemned you to a long and lingering death." 

Edmund scoffed, but I saw how ill he looked, and my heart squeezed hard. "Always the bearer of good news, aren't you, Sinclaire? I think you would love comforting my widow overmuch, if I should perish."

Sinclaire ground his teeth audibly. “Is that not why you chose me as your second, sir?”

“Oh, you call yourself an honorable man, Sinclaire, but I've seen how you make eyes at my wife as though I were not right in front of you!” Edmund jeered. I placed a hand on his arm, and he pulled me roughly to him, as though he would kiss me, but at the last moment I turned my face away. I saw hurt flash in his eyes, he let go of me, and I put my hand to my lips. I did not want to be a pawn in that game, and yet suddenly I felt bereft, and ached for the kiss I had denied him. “You hope to wear the fair lady's favor and win the race, I suppose. But do you really think it shall be so easy?” he sneered.

“Enough, Ned!” I snapped, hearing the bell ring for the door. “The bonesetter will be here any moment! Do you want her to see you brawling like a common peasant, or acting like the gentleman I know you to be?”

“Send for the bishop, wife, we may as well give last rites. I will be half a man without my leg, I...” his voice dropped and he turned back to me, stroking the back of his hand across my cheek. He was shaking, his teeth chattering, and his voice had begun to slur from the drink. "But why are you crying? Will you mind so overmuch when I am dead?”

"You're not going to die!" My voice quaked a little on the last word. 

"Who in't going t' die?" It was a little old lady, ugly and wizened, with a wide mouth like a toad and shoulders wide as a dockworker's. She had a thick accent, and leaned upon a walking stick. "I be Mrs Mapp, the bonesetter. Ye must be that high-faultin' foreign miss what married this foolish man who's t' race that wicked Duke. Aye, all o' London is talkin' about it." She eyed Edmund's leg with a gimlet gaze. 

"The race!" I gasped, swallowing hard. If I gambled nothing, I would lose everything. "But how do you know, madam?" 

The bonesetter barked back a sharp laugh. "'Tis the Talk of the Town, girl!" 

When she moved toward the bed, her clothes letting off a not unappealing cloud of herbal smells, Edmund set down the bottle. "What witchcraft is this?" He stared at the old woman, throughly appalled. "Who is this hag?" 

"You respect your ma, boy?" Mrs Mapp bent her ear to his leg and then began massaging it roughly, and he howled. "That's what I thought. Feels like it ain't shattered."

"That is what the surgeon said, madam. He wanted to amputate." At Sinclaire's words, Edmund clenched his jaw and went quite pale.

"An' it was you that kicked him out, eh?" She poked a knobbly finger at me. "I like yer brass, girl. Want ter make yerself useful? Fetch me some hot water, as hot as ye can make it, and fresh, clean towels. Well? Are ye waitin' for infection tae set in, ye wee mort?" She fixed me with a gimlet eye, throwing a pitcher off the washstand to me, and then drew herself up to her full height. "Now, boy," she said, turning her attention back to my husband, "you're goin' ter want t' get very drunk." 

When I returned, my husband had drunk nearly the entire second bottle of whiskey, and when he saw me, his eyes lit up. "Look, Shinclaire, it's Dita," he slurred. "My angel." 

"Aye, she's yer angel all right, boy." The bonesetter cackled, handing Sinclaire a strap of leather, and he put it in Edmund's teeth. "Now we'll set the bone. You, lads --" and she jabbed a finger at Sinclaire and Alf, who I had quite forgotten. "Hold 'is lordship down. An' you, Angel, since ye insist on makin' use o' yerself, cant a tune fer yer man t' keep 'im calmed." She chewed on her spit. "Ye can sing, can't ye?" 

"Dita caterwauls like a cat in heat!" Edmund winked at the bonesetter. "Her mama was a celebrated opera soprano, but m' wife can't carry a tune in a bucket!" 

"Ned!" I scowled, crossing my arms. "You told me I had a beautiful voice!" 

Sinclaire coughed, looking ashamed. "He's right, y'know. Your singing voice sounds like a cat yowling. Madam, you'll want to cover your ears." 

The old woman cackled loudly, and set to her work. I opened my mouth, and began to sing a song from when I was a child, Edmund's eyes never leaving my face. 

Tell him to buy me an acre of land,

Between the salt water and the sea sand. 

Tell him to plough it with a ram's horn,

And sow it all over with one peppercorn. 

Tell him to sheer't with a sickle of leather,

And bind it up with a peacock's feather. 

Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme...

When at last the grisly task was finished, Edmund had passed out from the pain, and the men were sweating from the exertion it had taken to hold him down. I escorted the bonesetter to the back gate and paid her a golden crown, she bit down on it, satisfied, and then looked at me with eyes that saw beyond mortal knowing, and I shivered all over at the sorrow in her eyes. 

"When he wakes, Angel, he'll be cursin' both god an' the devil. Don't ye let him go t' that race tomorrow." 

I gasped, I had quite forgotten it. "But his second will race the Duke, madam. Mr Sinclaire." 

"Oh, aye? Your lover they say, and they also say this." And she bent her lips to my ear, dry and cracked like leather. "When men and women make plans, the Devil laughs." She slipped something into my hand.

"What?" I gasped. But when I turned around, she was gone, and the breeze brought the smell of ash and bone from the charnel houses beyond the lichgate, though perhaps I only imagined it.

And inside my palm lay a knucklebone.

•••

"I'm afraid, Ernest," I whispered. We were in the back garden, sitting on the bench together in perfect propriety, as Susanna played ball with her puppy, a little white eared runt Edmund's favorite bitch, Cleopatra, had thrown. He doted on his daughter whenever he could, and I wondered how he could ever think her the child of the man beside me, who twirled his finger through one of my red curls, bringing it to his lips. 

"I do not intend to lose the race, if that is what you fear." He tugged whimsically on one ringlet. "Perhaps I need a lady's token, for luck." 

I kissed him chastely near the mouth, mindful of my husband lying inside. "Very well." He handed me his knife, and I wrapped the ringlet in my handkerchief, slipping it into his front pocket. He caught my chin in his hand, brushing his lips against mine as he stared into my eyes. We both took a sharp breath, and moved back -- and not a moment too soon. 

My Lady Grandmother walked into the garden and came up short upon seeing us, her brows shooting up in surprise. We jumped guiltily apart.  "Granddaughter, your husband is awake and asking for you." 

•••

Edmund was sitting up in bed, his face contorted in a grimace of pain. His leg was bound in boiled linen bandages and kept immobile in a splint. When he saw me, his whole aspect lightened, and he patted the space beside him. 

I sat down next to him with my knees drawn up to my chest, and when he put his arm around me, I pressed my face to his broad chest, unable to hold back my tears. "Ned, Ned." 

He tilted up my chin. "Don't cry, I am still living." He brushed his lips across my cheeks, tasting my tears. Of course, this only made me cry all the more, and I nuzzled my face into the crook of his neck, lying back against the pillows with him, my body curled up against his. When he spoke, it was husky, ragged. "I don't know how I should have made it back without the thought of you in my head. When the horse threw me... I remembered that race with the Duke, years ago, before we eloped, and I thought, At last my luck has run out. And then I knew I could not live a single moment more unless I..." he turned his face, his eyes softening, and he swallowed, hard. "Unless I had but one more kiss from you, Lady wife." 

His lips on mine were gentle, but demanding: his tongue teased the seam of my lips apart, and I opened them to him, moaning a little as a ripple of heat lit up every nerve ending along my skin. He tasted of whiskey and clear, green water. "You do not know how badly I want to be buried deep inside of you, Dita." Edmund's husky admittance kindled such a longing inside of me that I was staggered by it. He took a small sip of his tea, and his eyes held the glazed look of one whose head is filled with opium Dreams. "Do you not ever think that Susanna might like a little brother to play with?" 

"She has brothers." I was referring, of course, to Briar's children, Harry and Joss, who we saw little to none of, though that was more her doing than mine. If she had not been so ridiculously jealous of me, I would have had the boys to play with Susanna, and often. Besides, it would do Edmund good to see his boys more frequently, for I knew he missed them sore.

In Edmund's voice was a bone-deep ache that made my heart fair turn over with pain for him. "I did not know my father, Dita. And I barely see the boys, for she has sent them to be raised by her mother, back in Grovershire." His lips twisted. "She says it is so she can give all her attention to me, but I... Oh, Dita, it kills me not to see my sons." 

This was the drink loosening his tongue, I was sure of it. Edmund had never expressed such a desire heretofore. In this state, I would be able to get him to admit to anything. But I was not that cruel, not yet. "Tell me again how you want to make another babe with me." I twined my fingers through his, and his brow crinkled before he burst out laughing, half sitting up. 

"Why, in the usual way, Dita. Where I take you every which way possible until you conceive, and then you do not touch me again, but go back to your lover." His voice was void of mirth as he leaned back again. "Do I have that aright?" 

"Ned..." my voice was stricken. "You know that is not... I mean..."

"It is what we do, Perdita." He sounded weary suddenly, and a shadow moved across his face. "It is the game we play. By God, I am sick to heart of it."

"Edmund, would you -- oh!" My mother in law clapped a hand over her heart, shocked to see me curled up beside her son in the bed. "You need your rest, my son." She kissed his brow, smoothing the lines away, and looked steadily at me. For once, we were at an accord. 

Very gently, I sat up, attempting to disentangle our fingers, but he gripped my hand hard, pulling me back to his chest.

"No, stay with me. I shan't be able to sleep unless you are here." His lips brushed against my ear. "I need you, Dita." 

"Well, you need your sleep more, husband." I laid my head back down upon his chest, pressing a soft kiss to the place where his heart beat so steadily beneath my cheek. "But I will stay." 

"Stay forever, Dita," he whispered. 

"I will." My false promise fell on deaf ears, he was asleep. 

•••

I could not sleep before the morning of the race, I tossed and turned in bed all night, the knucklebones upon the wash stand, mocking me. The Duke... This was under his saddle... You are a clever girl, Perdita...

I bolted up in the darkness. 

Sinclaire. 

•••

Historical notes: 

(1) Burial in consecrated ground was only permitted after 1823 without ritual, and with ritual only after the 1880 Burial Act. Usually suicides and unchristened babies were not buried in the family plot, but outside the churchyard, or to the north. I wasn't able to find much. 

Source: http://www.sacred-texts.com/etc/fcod/fcod11.htm

https://genealogy.stackexchange.com/questions/10193/burial-of-a-person-who-committed-suicide-in-18th-century-england

(2) the lyrics that Perdita sings are from a traditional ballad, a version of Scarborough Fair which can be found here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scarborough_Fair_(ballad)

••• 

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Permanent tag list: @breaumonts @gardeningourmet @writtenbycandy @thatcatlady0716 @drakewalkerwhipped @quartzandarrow @the-everlasting-dream @remis-choices @debramcg1106 @lizeboredom @anneross41 @enmchoices @walkerismychoice @darley1101 @blackcatkita

[initiala]

CS prompt: First sex after childbirth

I missed Storybrooke Downs. A lot. Also this went kinky. And super Real. If you aren’t comfortable with what probably falls under ‘erotic lactation’, then keep on scrolling.

And it’s pronounced “EE-fah” ;)

March 3, 2020

They wind up naming her for his mother.

Aoife Elizabeth Jones, dark of hair and strong of lungs, has his nose and her mother’s chin. Her eyes haven’t quite made up their mind on what color they want to be just yet and she spends an abnormal amount of time simply observing the world around her.

She’s been in his life for only a few short months, and yet he can hardly remember a time without her in it.

Emma’s been slow to get back on her feet, poor lass; her pregnancy had been a difficult one and a whole slew of postpartum difficulties had kept her down for much of the last few months. He’s tried not to hover, truly, but it wasn’t easy (still isn’t, sometimes) to see her lethargic and unable or unwilling to get out of bed some days. The crying jags were the worst of it: the mood swings he was used to, but seeing her still and sad and prone made his heart stutter and a sense of hypervigilance to take over. When Killian had decided to all but pass the reins, as it were, of the farm to Will while throwing himself headfirst into fatherhood and caring for his wife, she’d been able to get the necessary treatments to be well once more. It had been difficult to promote Will, to take a step back in the day-to-day affairs of the farm. But his family had supported his decision, encouraged it, and if he was honest with himself it was worth it to see the look of shock on Will’s face. And with his extra support of her at home, Emma began to improve, slowly returning to her old self once more.

Now, Killian leans against the door with his arms lightly folded across his chest, watching as Emma bounces Aoife gently, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet as she hums. He tries not to hover much these days, but it can be hard to shake the habit. And, if he’s honest, he’d rather not miss out on little moments like this. Emma’s not wearing a shirt, a sure sign that Aoife’s bedtime snack has just ended. Her hair is pulled up in a messy ponytail and away from little fingers just learning to grasp with intent. There’s a burping cloth over her shoulder and the nightlight that sends stars and moons-shaped light across the walls is already turned on. The floor creaks as he steps into the nursery and Emma speaks quietly, without turning to look. “She’s almost asleep.”

He comes up behind them, loosely wrapping his arms around Emma’s waist and pressing a gentle kiss against Aoife’s crown. She fusses a little, her tiny fist clenching and relaxing as her face scrunches up in discontent. Killian chuckles. “Apologies, little love, Papa didn’t meant to disturb you.”

“You get to be on sleep duty if she doesn’t settle down,” Emma tells him as he reaches up to take the cloth and toss it into the washing pile.

But settle she does, as her parents sway and her mother starts humming again. Killian’s chin tucks up against Emma’s shoulder and he presses kisses against her skin. This is his favorite time of the day – the quiet moments before Aoife’s bedtime when she makes little cooing sounds as she falls asleep; when Emma, tired after a long day, leans into him a little more and allows him to set the pace of their gentle sway, rocking their daughter to sleep; when his whole world fits right here in the circle of his embrace.

He sticks close by as Emma lays Aoife in her crib. She fusses a little, her face scrunching up once more as she’s left to lay alone in her crib, and Killian can’t help but sympathize: between sleeping alone or cuddling with Emma, he’d choose the latter every time. They watch her settle for a moment before walking quietly towards the door. The moment they’re out of the nursery, the door left open just a bit, Killian sweeps Emma up in his arms, grinning at her surprised squeak. “What the hell?”

“Am I not allowed to spoil my wife?”

She glowers at him, but wraps her arms around his neck and if he isn’t mistaken (and he rarely is when it comes to her) there’s a small smile threatening to spread on her lips. “You spoil me plenty, I just can’t figure out the occasion.”

What little ire remains in her tone and face is rendered exponentially less threatening by her half-bare state. He carries her down the hall to their bedroom, bypasses the bed, and straight into the bathroom where he’s run her a hot bath. Her doctors have all told him that anything that can be done to ease her burdens (imagined or not) will help exponentially, and he’s taken to doing such things whenever the thought occurs to him; he also figures that little reminders of his love and care for her never hurts. He’s added some of those fizzy, scented, confetti configurations she’s grown to like, and lit a few candles and placed them around the rim. She inhales sharply at the sight, her arms tightening around his neck. “Oh, Killian.”

He sets her down, his hands lingering on her hips. He kisses her forehead, then both cheeks, watching the way her eyes close and smiling at how she leans into his touch. “The occasion is that I love you, that I can’t remember a time I’ve been happier, and that it’s entirely due to you that I feel this way.”

She ducks her head and he catches her smile before she tries to hide it. “That’s the sleep deprivation talking.”

“Perhaps, but perhaps you should also take advantage of it while I’m feeling charitable,” Killian teases.

She demures. “Seriously, Killian, I know I’ve been a pain in the ass and none of this has been easy. If anything, I need to be doing all this nice stuff for you, not the other way around.”

There’s an itch under his skin that he wouldn’t be able to scratch even if he wanted to remove his hands from her. His heart aches for her, his stubborn Swan; if it hadn’t been for the Nolans nagging her as much as he did himself, he’s not sure she would have accepted help for her problems. “Emma, you’re not a pain in my arse or anyone else’s. Aye, it’s not been easy, but this is how our partnership works. Even without the vows,” his hand finds hers, fingers running over the rings on her fingers, the ones she’d had to wear on a chain around her neck for months, the ones he’d sworn for better or for worse over, “I’d not want to be anywhere else but here by your side.” Her eyes are shining at this point, a watery smile on her lips, and he kisses her forehead. “Take your bath, sweetling, I’ll keep an ear out for the little one.”

Her hands catch his before he can pull away. “Stay? Er – you can join me? If you want to?” she asks and the hopeful look in her eyes makes his breath catch in his throat.

It’s been almost a year since they’d last lain together. She’d been a tempting sight for months, lovely and glowing as their child grew within her, but the difficulties with her health had prevented them from being able to indulge in their desires for one another – and God only knew how irritated Emma had been about that. He’d seen her phone’s calendar with certain dates marked for when she might be cleared for sex again. But that had changed after Aoife arrived in a whirlwind of long labor and eventual emergency C-section, and then the host of other issues Emma had to combat in recovery. He’d done his best to keep from causing his wife any unnecessary guilt or pressure, and truly her health matters more to him than anything else.

As she’d said it hasn’t been easy. None of it has. And while part of him really, truly misses his wife in the biblical sense, the rest of him prioritizes gratefulness for Emma’s returning health and happiness, and the health of their daughter.

Emma smiles as she searches his eyes. “I wouldn’t suggest it unless I felt ready,” she says, as if she’s reading his mind.

Some days he’s not so sure she can’t.

“I know, love, it’s just – you’re certain? Truly?”

She nods and slides his hands up to her bare ribs, her smile turning decidedly more devious as his breath catches. “It’s been way too long since we’ve done something like this together.”

She giggles at how quickly he divests himself of his clothing, her own strip out of her leggings and underwear much slower than his hurried flinging of garments this way and that. He’s not sure if his speed coming from his own fear that she’ll change her mind or that he’ll lose his nerve. (Maybe both. Maybe something else he can’t name.) He almost stumbles when she kicks her clothing aside, as agog as he’d been as a lad at his first sight of a woman bared. Her breasts and hips are fuller these days, and a thin red line scars her lower abdomen, but little else has changed; it’s only enhanced her natural beauty and he finds her as beautiful as she was the day they met almost six years ago.

The water is pleasantly warm as he steps in, easing the minor aches of the day as he sits down and holds out his hand to assist her. She fits easily between his legs, her back resting against his chest, and they share a sigh of content as she lays her head back against him and his arms envelop her. He turns into her a bit, breathes her in and grazes his lips against the shell of her ear; in a way it’s almost an extension of earlier, being pressed against her like this, but decidedly… more. It’s not her skin against his, not the way water clings to her skin, the ends of her hair as they sink down a little farther. It’s just — he feels closer to her like this, lighter and less anxious (because he’s always anxious, deep down, feels it flare up at each hiccup or setback, every bad day even after a string of seven good ones), and there is something about water that simply makes him feel… safe.

(Like he could drift, and not drown, and keep his love afloat with him.)

And, well, the view from here isn’t too bad, either, a fact his wife seems to know all too well if the stifled snicker she lets out is any indication. “I’d say my eyes are up here, but.”

Killian hums into her hair, drags his lips down her jaw and tries (fails, miserably) to hide his smile against her skin. “Lovely as they are, Swan, I can’t say I’m all that displeased to finally have these,” he murmurs, hands reaching up under the water to cup the underside of her breasts, a soft, gentle thing that has her breath hitching, “and you all to myself for a little while.” He can tell she’s smiling even without seeing her, can practically feel it rising up out of her chest and blossoming bright onto her face as he drops his lips to her shoulder.

“All I ask is for you to be gentle,” she says with a sigh, turning her head slightly to nestle against him better. “Your daughter doesn’t seem to understand the word just yet.”

Her skin feels like silk under his fingers as they glide down her stomach, coasting over new curves and scars. “Ah, so she’s my daughter when she’s misbehaving, is that how it is?”

“Absolutely.”

He chuckles, his lips brushing against the soft skin of her temple, then her forehead. He skims down the length of her nose and captures her lips in a kiss. Emma sighs happily, opening for him immediately. Something about the glide of her tongue against his, coupled with the delightful way her arse wriggles against his cock, causes his restraint to snap. He groans, surging forward and causing the water to slosh noisily in the tub, turning her enough to better devour her mouth. She mewls into him, her hand slipping between them to grasp his cock. The feel of her nimble fingers on him after so many months without makes him shudder. He allows her a few pumps before taking her hand in his. “Need you,” she whispers against his lips.

“I know, pet, but if you don’t stop then it’ll be over all too soon,” he says.

She whines in protest, but soon they turn to whines of pleasure as he kisses her again. His tongue tangles with hers, his teeth scraping against her lower lips and sucking it into his mouth; he does so love the way her lips plump up, full and red, when he kisses her. He turns her back to their original position, keeping their left hands entwined as his right slides down her stomach to the thatch of hair between her legs.

God but she’s soft, softer than he remembers. There’s slickness between her folds that’s pure Emma and he slides two fingers into her pliant flesh with ease. She gasps into his mouth, her body arching as he begins a gentle thrust with his fingers. His thumb grazes the side of her clit in a pattern that alternates between rough and gentle, and judging by the way her hips cant against his hand, she likes it very much.

She turns her head, meeting his mouth with hers again. Her kisses are rough and demanding, more tooth than lip, and it awakens something darker, something greedier inside of him. He brings their hands to her breasts, kneading and massaging each in turn. Their fingers trace nonsense on her chest, on her stomach, trailing up and down and returning to tweak and tease her nipples at each pass. “More,” she demands, gasping the word between a kiss, and he’s more than willing to give it to her.

He slides in a third finger, stretching her, prepping her for later, and groans in unison with her as her walls squeeze him. “I can’t wait to feel you,” he tells her, surging forward to kiss her again. “Been so long – missed you –”

“‘M right here,” she says, her voice cracking as he puts more pressure on her clit. “God, Killian – close –” 

His eyes drop to her chest as her head falls back with a broken moan; there’s a flush creeping down her neck towards her lovely, full breasts. “Are you going to come for me?” he murmurs right behind her ear, kissing a sensitive spot along her hairline. “Look at you, all flushed and pink and wanton.”

Her breathless agreement has him quickening his pace, his thumb swiping her clit in rapid succession as he pumps his fingers into her. Her walls flutter around him, not quite at the peak of pleasure but well on the way there. He turns his attention to her ear, her neck, nibbling and sucking little red marks into her skin, relishing in her gasps at each addition. She’s starting to shudder, and his lips find her ear, his voice dropping to a growl, “My needy, greedy wife.”

At the word wife, Emma tenses, her cries filling their small bathroom as her body convulses around him. If his eyes weren’t trained on the way her breasts pinked up from pleasure, he’s sure to have missed the liquid leaking from her nipples.

That’s interesting.

She relaxes as he withdraws his fingers, pressing a few kisses along her neck and shoulder while pondering this new discovery. Sure, there’d been all sorts of cautionary details in their numerous baby books about milk leaking out when the baby cries, but unless he’s going quite deaf (she’d been loud, but not that loud) that’s not the case here. He leans back, sliding them both down into the water a little more as his hand rests lightly on her thigh. Her grip on his other hand loosens and he flexes his fingers slightly to bring the feeling back into them. After another long minute, she exhales slowly. “Hand me the soap?” Emma asks quietly, reaching for a washcloth.

He obliges, hardly noticing at how quickly and efficiently she scrubs herself, rationalizing it at how she must be in a hurry to get to the bedroom. He does get to fix her ponytail for her, tucking it up into a bun so it doesn’t get soapy as well as wet at the ends, but she hardly swipes at her back where she can reach with the cloth before she’s rinsing off. “I’ll clean up in here,” he tells her, kissing her wet shoulder. “Go dry off, I’ll be with you in a mo’.”

She hums, her tone noncommittal, and gets to her feet. He’s treated to a lovely view of her backside while she reaches for a towel, but she steps out and away before he can tease her with his hand.

He gives himself a brief scrub and rinse before opening the drain, grabbing his own towel and slinging it around his shoulders before blowing out the candles. It’s only when he’s emerged from the bathroom and toweling himself dry, the simmering smell of smoke still lingering in his nose, that Killian really takes note of Emma in the aftermath of that little incident. She’s standing idly next to their dresser, hair tugged out of the bun he’d crafted for her as she towels the damp ends dry and she is, much to his surprise and dismay, wearing a robe.

That’s… decidedly rather against what he’d been hoping for — what he’d been expecting, really.

But she looks… almost churlish, his Swan, brow furrowed and lips thinned into a line. Any traces of that lovely little high she’d experienced at his hands seem virtually non-existent now and that — that just won’t do. Anxiety flares briefly under his breastbone as he wonders what he could have possibly done to cause such a pivot in her mood, but he does his best to stamp it down. After another moment’s consideration he crosses the room toward her, towel still grasped in hand as he steps just outside of her space, hovering just around the edges. “Emma?” he prompts. “What —”

“Nothing,” she says, a short, clipped thing that doesn’t bear much heat. The flare in temper evaporates as quickly as it had appeared, and at the breath she lets out the room suddenly feels unusually empty. Her shoulders sag slightly. “Can we just… not? I really don’t want to do this.”

“Do what?” he asks, but she’s already out of the conversation, pressing her towel against his chest as brushes past him quickly, deliberately avoiding his gaze. It’s his turn for his brow to furrow but he turns toward her again with put-upon ease, intent on finding out what’s bothering her. He falters, though, over the first question that might have followed when he sees the way she nearly throws herself onto the bed with a disgruntled huff and draws her knees up toward her chest, face turning toward one of the plumper (his) pillows.

The arousal he’d felt earlier has completely disappeared by now, quickly consumed by confusion and worry. It’s been ages since he’s seen her so defensive, her walls and her armor long since shed, but she curls in on herself ever so slightly even as he sits on the edge of the bed to try and talk. His pulse hammers in his throat; it feels paper dry and his voice feels very small as he asks, “Did I hurt you?”

Her eyes flick up to his, the lines between her brows vanishing as her gaze softens. “No,” she says, the honesty plain on her face. “No, Killian, it wasn’t… it’s not you.”

Killian drapes the towel over his hips for modesty’s sake as he stretches out on the bed next to her. He believes her (she’s a terrible liar, he always could read her like a book) but the anxiety gnawing at his insides makes him ask, “Are you certain?”

She reaches across the gap between them and he takes the offered hand, lacing their fingers together. She looks tired, drawn, the circles under her eyes not entirely from the little sleep Aoife allows them. As much as he’s been able to do for her, it pains him that he cannot relieve all of the burdens that weigh her down, that catch her off guard when she’s unawares. “It’s everything I’ve been missing,” Emma says. “Well, almost.” The faint smile on her lips brings one out on his own face. “But the—the thing. I knew it was a possibility, but I wasn’t really expecting it? And it…”

He’s about to ask for clarification, but she’s frowning down towards her chest, red flags burning on her cheeks, and he’s struck with understanding. “Emma, that wasn’t at all odd.”

“Yeah, but it’s kind of embarrassing. And weird. And it ruined the mood.”

He waits until she’s out of qualifiers before reaching for her and pulling her close. She stiffens briefly, but she inhales and then buries her nose in his chest and relaxes against him. Killian feels the anxiety easing off at her touch, resting his chin on the top of her head. “First, it did not ruin the mood.”

“You were all distracted after it happened.”

“Yes, but not because I was thinking ‘goodness, Emma’s breasts are disgusting, producing the very thing that keeps our child alive at what may not be the most opportune moment’.” She snorts at that and he smiles. “I was thinking ‘that’s very interesting, how quickly can I get her to do that again and will it disgust her if I wanted to taste?’”

Emma jerks back, looking up at him with a raised eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“So it does disgust you?”

She chews on her bottom lip, looking uncertain. “Well, I don’t know. It’s not like I’ve ever thought you’d want to, so I guess it never crossed my mind.“

He shrugs. “It’s not like I’d thought of it before now either, but I have to admit I’m curious now. Aren’t you?”

She makes a face, shaking her head, and he supposes everyone has their limits. He strokes her back, soothing circles. “I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable,” he says quietly.

“Don’t,” she replies, just as quiet. “I should have expected them to leak.”

“There’s no way you’d have known it would make you feel this way, though.”

“I just don’t like not being in control of my own body,” Emma admits. Her breath hitches and Killian stills, feeling that this is about a lot more than leaking breast milk. “Everything over the past year… I love Aoife and I’m glad we have her, but… I don’t like feeling like this.” She sniffles and he pulls her in even closer. “First all the crap with my body changing and then every goddamn scare and bed rest and my hormones all over the place and now this… I seriously don’t know how you haven’t run for the fucking hills at this point. God knows I want to leave me behind.”

He doesn’t know what to say, but he knows enough from his own experiences that just letting her get it all out there can be enough; he might not have to say anything. There’s another moment of silence and then she laughs wetly. “God, first I throw myself at you and now I’m a crying mess, talking about what a terrible mom I am. I’m a fucking trainwreck.”

However, he has his limits, and letting her beat herself up over something like this is one of them. “No, love,” he says, urging her to look at him. He wipes some stray tears from her cheeks. “You’re my same, beautiful Swan. We made promises to each other, you remember? No secrets, no hiding anything, just you and me. After everything we’ve been through, you truly think I’d want to leave when things got hard? I love you far, far too much for that.” She’s quiet and watches him with those big, sad eyes. “And you, my own sweet lass, are far from a terrible mother. I know this hasn’t been easy on you, and I know that you know it’s okay that you aren’t bouncing back so quickly. But you’re fighting, love, and that’s what matters.”

He holds her close as she breaks a little, soothing her with soft words and light touches. This is not something he’s unused to, more mood swings and tears, and it kills him to be unable to do anything but be there to hold her and let her work it out; he’ll have to convince her in the morning to make another appointment with her doctor, but perhaps if she’s being so insightful about how she’s feeling it won’t be the wheedling and pleading it normally is.

When she stills and her breathing evens out, Killian gently untangles himself from her. “Let me hang up the towels and put something on, we’ll turn in early, aye?”

She’s so quiet that he thinks she must have fallen asleep. He presses a kiss to the crown of her head and gets up, heading to the bathroom with both towels in hand. The evening’s gone down several extremely unexpected avenues and Killian suddenly finds himself exhausted; guilt pinches in his gut – it’s not as if he’s the one going through these severe mood swings, he’s just along for the ride – but weariness drags at his bones regardless. He braces himself on the sink with one hand, scrubbing his face with the other.

Perhaps Emma’s not the only one who needs to call their doctor in the morning.

Picking up his pyjama pants from where they’re slung over a clothes rack, he heads back into the bedroom, then stops short.

Emma’s ditched her robe, lounging enticingly across their bed.

Killlian’s chest feels tight and he knows he’s failing from going slack-jawed. Emma’s mouth curls into a delightfully devious smile as she takes him in. “Cat got your tongue?” she asks.

Actually, his head’s spinning from how quickly things are changing, but he shakes his head and climbs onto the bed next to her. “A bit confused, but never speechless,” he tells her. “Regardless of how stunning you are.”

Her hand splays across his chest. Her face is a little puffy and her eyes are still a little red, but her breathing’s steady and her gaze is sure. “Look, I know I’m being a crazy person today, but I started something earlier and I damn well intend to finish it,” she explains. “And before you start, I’m positive it’s okay. I love you, I want to do this, and I want to do this with you.”

“Not your other husband?” Killian asks and she smacks him lightly, giving him a look.

“Killian, you’re being super great about all of this and I’m grateful for it. And I know, I know, vows and promises, but it still means a lot to me that you actually hold yourself accountable for all of that. So let me make love to my damn husband for the first time in forever, okay?”

“Twist my arm a little,” he says, and she takes his wrist, struggling to twist it behind his back as he chuckled. “Alright, love, if you’re sure, then I submit myself to your carnal desires.”

She rolls her eyes, then pushes him onto his back. “You’re so dramatic.” He opens his mouth and she promptly covers it with one hand. “Not a word, buster, or I’ll edge you for an hour.”

Killian’s not sure he’d be able to last that long and Emma has to know that, but he nods anyway. She replaces her hand with her mouth, kissing him deeply. He can’t help the groan that slips out as her tongue slips between his lips. He feels her climb on top of him, her weight a welcome presence on top of his body. Her hands wander, sliding up and down his arms, his chest, reaching behind her to play with the hairs at the base of his cock. He’s rapidly growing hard again, any lingering worries washing away under waves of lust and love for this woman –  his wife – currently trying to kill him with her bare hands.

She rolls them, mumbling, “You’re on top but I’m in charge,” against his lips. He can only moan an affirmative, his lips too busy being sucked and nibbled on to be used for much else.

He pushes her hands away from their exploration, feeling certain that even a light breeze could set him off at this point. He sinks his teeth into her lip and she groans, a throaty thing dripping with lust, before he dips his head down lower. Killian nips at her collarbones and makes his way down between the valley of her breasts, intent on tasting her core, but her hand in his hair stops him. “I thought you wanted to try something,” she says, guiding him towards her left breast.

“I thought you weren’t comfortable with it?”

She shrugs a little. “Can’t know for sure if you don’t try, right?”

Killian meets her eyes and she nods, ever so slightly. He smiles and runs his nose along the curve of her breast, noting not for the first time how much firmer, how much fuller it is. He draws lazy circles with his tongue, meandering his way to her peak, mindful of her whispered “Gentle” before wrapping his lips around her nipple.

He nails dig into his scalp and he eases off the pressure. He listens to the way she gasps, moans, or whines, switching up ministrations and how hard he sucks depending on her reaction. Some milk does leak out, just a little, and Killian hums in surprise. “What?” Emma asks, her voice thick.

“It’s sweet,” he mumbles, kissing the side of her breast before moving to the other, neglected one. “Like… that vanilla coffee creamer you buy me.”

“Oh my God.”

“You asked,” he tells her before getting to work on her other breast.

There’s nothing to taste but her skin this time, and how much pressure and what kind he puts on her doesn’t seem to matter as much as it did before. When she tugs on his hair, he starts to move towards her sex, thinking that’s what she wants next. She doesn’t let him go down on her, though; he does whine rather pitifully about it, giving her a full pout, but she only glares at him, reminding him that she’s in charge tonight. Instead, she rolls them once more so that his head is nestled between their pillows and slides down the length of his body. Hurriedly, Killian shoves a pillow under his head so he can watch, his breathing growing shallower and quicker as Emma’s hand wraps around the base of his cock and her tongue flicks out to taste the tip.

It takes every ounce of his willpower not to come immediately as she wraps her lips around him. He grasps at the sheets, at the pillows, at her hair – he can’t seem to keep still, even as she lays her arm hard across his hips to keep him from thrusting too deeply down her throat. After a few moments, she lets him go, reaching down between her legs. “You like this?” Killian rasps.

She nods, his cock not leaving her mouth; she brings her hand back up and smears her own wetness around his length, tasting them both the next time she bobs her head. He groans deep at the sight, babbling as she alternates licking and sucking him. “Turns you on, doesn’t it? Having a cock in your mouth, it makes you so fucking wet–” 

Her cheeks hollow out when she pulls away, cutting off any more words and drawing a long, throaty groan from him – he’s so close, he’s gonna –

She stops and he almost snarls in frustration; this must be how she feels when he teases her.

“Do you want to come or do you want to fuck me?” Emma asks idly, still stroking him lightly.

He notices she’s got her other hand between her legs again. His cock twitches, watching her pleasure them both at once.“Both,” he says, trying to catch his breath.

She smiles, then does the cruelest possible thing by letting him go. He watches her as she reaches into their bedside stand, pulling out tissues and a bottle of lube. “Just to be safe,” she says at his inquiring look.

She’s using the warming kind, he discovers, sending tingling pleasure all the way down to the tips of his toes as she strokes him and makes sure every inch of his cock is coated in the stuff. He grips her hips as she straddles him, positioning him at her entrance, and slowly sinks down.

Neither of them breathe for a long moment, the seconds ticking by as she takes him in inch by agonizing inch. He feels her tense up and as distracted as he is by how wonderful and warm and soft she feels, he still tries to get her to relax, gently rubbing her thighs and her backside, wherever he can reach. “Alright there, love?” he asks through gritted teeth.

She nods, but her face says otherwise. “Just – give me a minute to adjust. You’re big.”

In another circumstance he may have gloated at that admission, but for now he just felt too overwhelmed and elated at being seated within her again. He forced himself to breathe normally, for his hips to remain still, for his wilder urges to have, take, possess to settle down and let her set their pace. His hands continued to roam and soothe, and soon Emma’s hands were stroking his chest in return. He ventures a smile and she returns it, wiggling a little in place to see if it hurt; judging by the way her face brightens, it doesn’t, but it’s another cruel trick and one that Killian has difficulty restraining himself from reacting to.

Something must show on his face, though, because Emma giggles and it’s that more than anything that sets a soothing balm on his heart. “All right, I’ll have mercy on you,” she says.

He opens his mouth to respond, but she rocks forward and all coherent thought flies out of his head. The only things running through his mind is God yes, harder, so soft, so warm, so wet, harder Emma, and some of those things he’s not entirely unsure he hasn’t said out loud. Her mouth finds his several times, biting and nipping and kissing, and her nails run in progressively harder lines down his sides, but despite all of her attention he’s trying his very hardest not to come before she does.

She takes one of his hands in hers and guides it to her clit, her fingers staying with his as they rub circles around her sensitive nub. Killian pushes himself up on his elbow, planting his feet on the bed and thrusting up hard into her core. Emma rakes her fingers through his hair, anchoring her hand in the short hairs at the nape of his neck as her breath hitches. His thrusts turn wilder as soft pleas escape her lips, “Please, Killian, let me come, come for me,” and he loses whatever rational thought is left to him as he chases their highs.

It gets sloppier with Emma bouncing in his lap, but she’s trying to meet him thrust for thrust. He’s damned if he comes before she does, but it’ll be a near thing –

She squeezes him once, twice, and white heat courses through him, his hips stuttering as he spills himself deep into her womb. Emma’s cries are faint after the roaring in his own ears, but he feels her sex rippling and constricting around him, milking him for every drop of seed he’s got. There’s dampness on his chest, and as he regains sense, he looks down, seeing several pale droplets sprayed across his dark hair that must have come from her breasts. Emma’s cheeks are red again, likely not entirely from her own orgasm, and Killian surges forward, cupping her face with one hand as he kisses her. “You were magnificent,” he mumbles between kisses.

She holds him tight, wriggling delightfully in his lap and causing them both to groan over too much stimulation, peppering his face in kisses. “You weren’t half bad yourself – you’re getting us both messy.”

“Should probably take a shower.”

“Yeah, probably.”

But neither make the effort to move, too sated and relieved and eager to have this renewed closeness, instead falling back on the bed in favor of trading more kisses. It’s only when he feels his cock has gone too soft that he urges Emma off of him, not wanting to hurt either of them and cause another lengthy separation. She keeps rolling, right to the edge of the bed and then to her feet, beckoning him to the shower with a sly smile he hasn’t seen in far, far too long. As helpless to her wiles as a sailor is to a siren, Killian gets up with a groan, muscles that haven’t been used in far too long protesting the movement. He follows her into the shower, where he proceeds to not only clean them both thoroughly, but gets her a little dirty again by fingering her one more time; this time he holds her up, with one of her legs lifted up onto the soap dish so she’s spread nice and wide for him. She’s almost dead weight when it’s over, her legs useless and she’s more than willing to let him carry her back to bed after they dry off. Her cries of pleasure echoing off the tiles stay in his mind, the most delightful lullaby to soothe him into sleep later, Emma curled in his arms.

When Aoife wakes them a few hours later for her midnight feeding, Killian gently urges Emma back to bed. “I’ve got her, sweet, rest.”

“Have I mentioned I love you?” she mumbles, pilfering his pillow.

“A few times.” He kisses her brow, then leaves her reluctantly. He heads into the nursery, gathering a sobbing Aoife into his arms and bouncing her gently, gently shushing her as he takes her down into the kitchen. Movement always helps, and her sobs quiet into whining hiccups as Killian goes about the process of warming a bottle. “There, there, little love, Papa’s got you. There’s a lass, we don’t want to wake your mother.”

“Even if she’s still awake?”

Killian turns; Emma’s wearing her robe, leaning against the doorway, smiling at them both sleepily. “Love, I told you to go back to bed.”

“I know. I just… wanted to be with my family.”

She tests the bottle for him, then lets him hold it while Aoife drinks greedily. Emma tucks herself against Killian’s side and for the second time that night, he finds himself thinking that this is his favorite place to be: when the whole world fits in the circle of his embrace, all three of them sleepy, content, and together.