“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” calls Eames, hurrying Lucas into the master en-suite, waving at Arthur through the glass shower door as they pass. He flips up the toilet seat and helps Lucas yank his pyjama bottoms gown. Lucas has been driven to tears by the urgency of his bladder combined with the hard-won dignity of being four and wearing underpants to bed. He calms down as he takes care of business, sniffling manfully, trying to aim carefully even as he shudders and hyperventilates with leftover panic. Eames pats his head and looks back over his shoulder to wink at Arthur. Arthur hates interruptions to his shower-time; it’s one of the few windows of solitude he can claim when he’s at home.
Sure enough, Arthur’s glaring steadily at Eames as he lathers his hair, his face obscured by spattered water droplets on the glass but his scowl all too visible.
“Bert’s taken over the boys’ loo and we couldn’t make it down the stairs, it was a wee-mergency,” Eames explains, grinning.
Arthur just arches his eyebrows impatiently and tips his head back into the spray to rinse. Eames’ gaze is caught for a moment by the spectacle: Arthur with his sleek wet hair and water snaking down his unshaven jaw, skin pinked from the steam, and — “No, no, sweetheart, don’t flush!” Eames exclaims, all too late, because Lucas has already pressed the lever, and it’s a very old house they live in.
“Why not?” asks Lucas, just as Arthur yips and leaps against the door, making the glass rattle in its frame.
“Jesus fuck!” Arthur yells, plastered flat to the door, trying to avoid the scalding spray. His bottom and shoulders have cleared the fog and droplets off the glass, and they’re clearly visible now, pressed as they are to the surface. Eames blinks vigorously and forgets the impulse to laugh even as Lucas looks equal parts startled and pleased by this heretofore unsuspected superpower.
“That makes the shower go hot,” Eames tells him, “because the toilet takes the cold water away from it for a bit, love.”
“Let’s do it again,” says Lucas, reaching for the toilet handle. “Daddy, I’m going to do it again!”
Eames diverts Lucas’ hand, yanks Lucas’ bottoms up and points him at the sink. “No bloody way. Wash, then downstairs for breakfast. Tell Bert to pour you some granola, please.”
Lucas washes and then thunders out of the room and down the stairs. Arthur, meanwhile, has deemed it safe to finish rinsing and is now shutting off the shower and emerging. His scowl has deepened. “Seriously?” he says, stepping out onto the bathmat.
“I tried to stop him,” says Eames, “but I was distracted by,” and now he’s distracted all over again because here’s Arthur not merely in tantalizing piecemeal glimpses but in the full, slick, dripping flesh. And — oh. Arthur. “What’s this, anyway?” Eames asks, reaching out and preventing Arthur from grabbing a towel. The first trimester was hard on Arthur’s body, with nausea stripping him of a few pounds he could ill afford to lose; but now he’s fifteen weeks gone the sickness has abated and he’s managed to regain the lost ground. He’s recovered his usual slim muscular build and not an ounce more. Now, though — “When did this happen?” asks Eames, fitting his palm over the small bump just under Arthur’s navel.
Arthur looks down, confused. “Jesus,” he says, “today, I guess. I didn’t even notice.” He knocks Eames’ palm away so he can see for himself. “Wow. Pop. There it is.” He pushes at the bump, makes a visible effort to suck in his gut. His ribs go outlined and taut, his stomach caves into the soft place under his sternum, but the baby bump is stubbornly convex.
Eames moves over and closes the bathroom door, locks it for good measure.
“I have a meeting,” says Arthur. “I’ll be late.”
Eames looks at him. “Is that a protest or a statement of fact?” He strips his t-shirt off over his head and drops his own pyjama bottoms to the floor, kicks them free.
Arthur takes Eames in: Eames, with the baby bump that’s been apparent for a month already, for all Arthur’s a week further along. Arthur’s cock shows interest before his face does, but in a moment Arthur’s expression flickers from hesitation over to pleasure. “It’s not freaking you out?” he asks, glancing back at his reflection in the fog-streaked mirror. “It’s freaking me out.” He rubs his belly again, trails a hand up to his nipples, which are darker than usual, puffy, prominent.
“It’s absolutely freaking me out,” Eames says, “but in the good way.” He comes back over to Arthur, puts his arms around him. Kisses Arthur’s faintly uncertain mouth, and reaches around behind to take a handful of Arthur’s arse and squeeze. “So, your appetite’s back at full strength,” Eames says, not asking.
“Oh, fuck you,” says Arthur, but he’s laughing now.
“I like your plump bottom,” says Eames unnecessarily, because his cock is hard between their twin bellies. “I liked seeing it spread up against the glass.”
Arthur snorts and ducks in to kiss Eames again. He’s still wet with running water and he’s starting to feel cool to the touch. In a minute he’ll be shivering, which will never do for a man in his delicate condition. Eames had better warm him up. “The kids,” says Arthur, as Eames sinks to his knees — not exactly a protest, that, Eames notes.
“The nanny’s already here,” Eames says, “I heard her come in five minutes ago. She’ll take care of them, let me take care of you.”
“If you insist,” says Arthur, widening his stance, threading his fingers through Eames’ hair, feeding his cock into Eames’ open mouth. “Oh, god, I’ve missed sex. Fuck you, morning sickness.”
Eames makes a sound of agreement, closes his eyes, lets himself get a little lost in the act of stripping away the clean-soap taste from Arthur’s skin, pulling the nicer, deeper Arthur-scent to the surface. It’s funny, bumping his nose up against the baby when Eames goes all the way down and holds there for a minute, working his throat around Arthur.
Arthur clenches his fingers and fucks into Eames’ mouth gently, little barely-there curls of his hips. Eames holds tight to Arthur’s round soft arse: dizzy, besotted, frantic for Arthur. When he pulls off it’s noisy, a lewd suck of wet, but the children are safely downstairs. It doesn’t matter. Eames settles back on his heels and looks up at Arthur, catching his breath for a moment. Arthur is blushing, or maybe flushed — impossible to know which. “This feels kinky,” he says, “why does this feel kinky?”
“Because you’re all pregnant and round and delicious?” Eames suggests, coming back in to suck a mark onto Arthur’s stomach.
“Don’t do that,” says Arthur, “I have an ultrasound in a couple of days, they’ll think you’re a deviant or a domestic abuser.”
“That never bloody stopped you doing it to me,” Eames points out before he bites down gently.
“Mmph,” says Arthur, which isn’t his strongest comeback ever, but he’s obviously feeling a little compromised at the moment. “Can you just — suck my dick? Please?”
Eames considers Arthur’s request, because it was very prettily phrased by Arthur’s standards. “No,” he decides, and takes Arthur by the hips, turns him to face the bathroom vanity. “I’d rather enjoy this wondrous arse you’re fattening up for me.”
“There’s no lube in here,” Arthur says, “you have to — oh. You mean. Oh.”
Eames grins at Arthur’s arse, knowing Arthur can see his expression in the streaky mirror. He scrapes his stubbled cheek over Arthur’s smooth one, holds Arthur open and kisses him rather chastely given what they’re up to. Arthur’s always been possessed of a very fine bottom but it’s never been quite this — generous. Eames backs away and delivers an experimental slap just to see Arthur’s flesh wobble faintly. Arthur exhales shakily and pushes his arse back, asking for more of the same. Eames helplessly obliges.
“I thought you were anti-spanking,” Arthur says, looking back over his shoulder, smug bastard that he is.
Eames slaps him again and doesn’t bother being playful about it this time. The crack of his palm over Arthur’s arse is loud in the echoing bathroom. Arthur’s stifled whimper is louder. “I save my spankings for the great big arses that can take the punishment,” Eames says, and bites into Arthur’s flesh where it’s gone hectic pink. It works him up, unexpectedly, the physical work of striking Arthur and the glowing heat of skin that results. Eames goes for another kiss, but it’s far from chaste this time, all open mouth and pressing tongue and holding Arthur steady because Arthur’s shifted his balance from two palms on the sink to only one. His right hand is busy working his cock, fast and eager. It seems Eames isn’t the only one surprisingly keyed up by this little experiment.
Eames curves his hand around Arthur’s hip, helping him balance, and then snakes it over a little further until he can feel that hard round swell of baby in the cup of his palm. He pushes against it as he works his tongue into Arthur’s hole, and the base of Arthur’s fist bumps into Eames’ hand over and over as he jerks himself off. “Shit, shit,” he’s whispering, “oh, fuck, Eames.” Eames makes a sound of encouragement and flutters the tip of his tongue, and Arthur’s coming, his swollen pregnant belly rocking into Eames’ hand with every pulse from his cock.
Eames stumbles clumsily to his feet and wraps himself around Arthur, somewhere between fondness and desperation. His cock finds the cleft of Arthur’s arse, slick for the moment with saliva. It won’t last, and it’s not quite slippery enough, but — Eames holds onto Arthur with arms wrapped around his sore puffy chest, ruts against him rough and needy — it’ll do, it’s fine. Eames grits his teeth, rubs his cock against Arthur wildly, and there — there — “Oh, christ,” Eames exhales, coming up the small of Arthur’s back. He shifts his hand and pinches one of Arthur’s nipples, just to feel Arthur squirm against him while Eames finishes coming.
“Ow,” says Arthur, “motherfucker.”
Eames crooks his chin over Arthur’s shoulder and laughs, unrepentant. “That’s for every sodding time you’ve insisted on squeezing my tits when I’m sore and pregnant as fuck.”
“Yeah, but when I do it, it’s hot,” says Arthur. Eames can see his grin in the mirror, though.
“Fine,” says Eames, “I’ll limit myself to spanking you when you’re naughty.”
Arthur gives in to laughing aloud now, straightening up and reaching for a washcloth. He dampens it in the sink and wipes himself down, staring quite openly at his own body in the mirror. “This is just going to get weirder, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” says Eames, “I’m afraid so.”
“Wonder if you’ll still want to bend me over the sink and eat me out when my ass is three times this size,” Arthur says.
“That sounds absolutely delightful,” Eames says, “I’m pencilling that in my schedule for January right this minute.”