butterfingers (l.s mpreg)

nineteen, week 22

The wheelchair jokes got old quickly.

This was one of several reasons that Louis was so damn eager to get out of that thing during Harry's 20th week that he would've crawled to Dr. Paynes office and begged for a new fibula.

By then, the minor (and temporary) limp didn't seem so bad, especially when he got to hold Harry's hand to keep from dragging his feet.

The cast on his arm still remained, but Louis didn't really mind that. He loved the little sharpie doodles (courtesy of Caleb and Harry) that scattered all over the red plaster that had been tightly encasing his wrist for a month now. And thankfully Mark seemed to understand he couldn't get as many pats from Lou because of it ((yet the pup still nudged it once in a while.))

And while time continued to race, Harry had finally passed the five month mark and his bump was in full force.

No one was happier about that than the green eyed boy, who gushed each and every morning and evening about his growing tummy to his fond boyfriend.

Their tiny spaghetti squash was looking quite cute, and (she) finally reached a full pound!

"A pound, Lou! She's so big! You couldn't even hold her with your cast arm!" He'd smile so goddamn big, and Louis would giggle, typing and typing away, despite the fact he'd been out of work most days.

And yes, despite Harry's objections, Louis was quite right about the little blob lacking the familiar male anatomy. Their tiny little girl was cooking healthily, and Harry spent every second of his day making sure of that.

The other most ecstatic group of people over the new addition to the family happened to be Harry's new first graders, who adored Harry's "lump" so fiercely he grew fearful they'd steal her.

And he wouldn't ever allow that.

The one thing about his pregnancy hasn't quite shared just yet is the unbelievably intense sex drive. He doesn't mean it, truly, it's just when Louis limps slightly into the kitchen with his hair all messy and his white t shirt so fucking tight, with that little smirk on his face, he absolutely loses it.

And he doesn't understand why it's so frustrating, but lately he's been making up for it on his own in the bathroom (and the laundry room, and bed.)

And Louis doesn't even notice. Yet, deep down, Harry hopes that one morning he'll leave the bathroom with his cheeks red and flushed and Louis would just maybe lead him to the bedroom and "show him what he's been waiting for." At least, that's what he's expressed to Cass (and mark too, some days: he always listens.)

For some reason both of them had been holding off on doing that very deed, the only time being the time little Louise was conceived on that fateful night. Both would be properly lying if they said they didn't think of it every time they climbed into Louis' bed.

And they most definitely did everywhere else, when Louis walked the apartment in his heather gray boxers and a black v-neck, his big blue eyes glossy from sleep and masked by his black framed glasses. His hands always looked so gentle, and Harry ached to feel them all over him.

And Louis stared, Louis always fucking stared: at Harry's little brown wisps, (which had been short since Harry's most recent trim) his broad chest and big doe eyes.

Louis could trace every damn inch of him on a Harry sized canvas, with big messy legs and a big toothed smile encased in his plump red lips.

And that was the thing; Louis ached to feel him all the same.

Ached to watch him undress and climb into bed beside him, tugging his oversized Kings of Leon t shirt over his curly mop and tossing onto the hardwood floor beside Mark's dog bed.