Jameson tugged at the hem of his t-shirt for the third time in ten minutes, acutely aware of the fabric clinging just slightly too tight. The mirror in the cramped bathroom of his new (no, their new) house reflected his frown back at him. He’d gotten used to layering, at choosing clothes that didn’t draw attention to his once feminine figure, but today the humidity made that impossible. "Damn summer," he muttered, rubbing a hand over the faint stubble along his jaw. He’d been on testosterone for twenty months, and while his voice had dropped satisfyingly low, some days his body still felt like a work in progress.
Downstairs, the sound of a heavy duffel bag hitting the hardwood floor made him flinch. Mike had arrived an hour ago, trailing behind his dad and a bemused looking moving crew. Jameson hadn’t gone down to greet them yet. His mom had married Mike’s father in what felt like a whirlwind, just three months from meeting at some corporate retreat to signing papers at city hall. And now, suddenly, he had a stepbrother. A twenty-one-year-old, broad-shouldered, extremely buff, annoyingly cheerful stepbrother who’d just been dumped in the conjoined room right next to his.
Jameson exhaled sharply through his nose and finally pushed away from the sink. The bathroom door creaked as he opened it, revealing the narrow hallway that connected his room to Mike’s, no, *their* room now, thanks to the last minute reshuffling of furniture. He could hear muffled voices downstairs, his mom’s laughter blending with the deeper timbre of Mike’s dad. Steeling himself, Jameson padded down the hall, his socked feet silent against the hardwood.
Mike’s door was ajar, and through the gap, Jameson caught a glimpse of him wrestling with a fitted sheet, his biceps flexing as he yanked the elastic corner over the mattress. The guy was built like someone who spent more time in a gym than anywhere else, with wide shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist, the kind of physique that made Jameson’s throat go dry for reasons he refused to examine. Mike turned then, spotting him in the doorway, and grinned. "Hey, Jamie," he said, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. "Can you give me a hand with this?"
Jameson scowled out of habit, but stepped inside anyway. "Your dad couldn’t afford movers who assemble furniture?" He grabbed the opposite corner of the sheet, their fingers brushing briefly as they tugged it into place. The contact sent a jolt up Jameson’s arm, and he jerked his hand away like he’d been burned.
Mike didn’t seem to notice, flopping onto the newly made bed with a groan. "Dude, I swear, if I have to lift one more box..." He trailed off, rolling onto his side to study Jameson with an unreadable expression.
Jameson crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe as Mike sprawled across the bed like he owned the place. "You realize we are going to be sharing this space, right?" he said, nodding at the mess of half-unpacked boxes strewn across the floor. "Or did your dad forget to mention that part?"
Mike propped himself up on his elbows, eyebrows lifting. "Wait, seriously?" He glanced around the room, taking in the second dresser shoved into the corner and the twin bed frame leaning against the wall. "Shit. I thought..." He cut himself off, rubbing the back of his neck. "Guess I should’ve paid more attention when they were talking logistics."
Jameson snorted, but the tension in his shoulders eased slightly. At least Mike wasn’t being a dick about it. "Yeah, well. Welcome to blended family hell." He pushed off the doorframe and grabbed one of the boxes labeled "Mike’s stuff" in messy Sharpie, tossing it onto the bed beside him. "You gonna unpack, or are you sleeping on top of your gym shorts?"
Mike laughed, sitting up to tear into the box. "Damn, you’re bossy." His tone was light, teasing, and something about the way his grin softened the words made Jameson’s stomach flip. He busied himself with another box, pulling out a stack of neatly folded t-shirts, all of them too small, like Mike had a habit of buying clothes a size down.
The shirt Jameson pulled from the box smelled faintly of detergent and something earthy, probably Mike’s cologne, clinging stubbornly to the fabric. He folded it carefully, stacking it on the dresser with exaggerated precision just to have something to do with his hands. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Mike watching him, that same unreadable look from earlier flickering across his face before he turned back to rummaging through his duffel bag.
"You play video games?" Mike asked suddenly, holding up a battered PlayStation controller. The plastic casing was cracked near the L2 button, evidence of too many frustrated late-night sessions. Jameson blinked, thrown by the casual shift in topic.
"Sometimes," he admitted, shrugging. "Not much lately." Between work and dysphoria days that left him glued to bed, gaming had fallen by the wayside. Mike’s grin widened, as if he’d just uncovered some crucial piece of intel.
"Sweet. I have a PlayStation and an Xbox." He nodded toward a black case near the foot of the bed. "We should play one later. Unless you’re scared of getting your ass kicked."
Jameson rolled his eyes but couldn't suppress the twitch at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah, whatever." He grabbed another shirt from Mike's box, this one with the logo of some band he didn't recognize, and tossed it at Mike's head. Mike caught it with one hand, laughing, and Jameson suddenly noticed how his laugh crinkled the skin around his eyes in a way that made him look unfairly charming.
A loud thud from downstairs startled them both. "Boys!" Jameson's mom called up, her voice muffled by the floorboards. "Pizza's here if you want any before your dad inhales it all!"
Mike sprang up like he'd been electrocuted. "Hell yes, I’m starving." He paused halfway to the door, glancing back at Jameson with an awkward tilt of his head. "You... coming?" The question hung between them, loaded in a way neither of them acknowledged.
Jameson hesitated, his fingers curling into the fabric of the shirt he'd just folded. The domesticity of it, shared meals, shared space, shared *air*, was too much suddenly. What was this? But his stomach growled traitorously, and Mike's grin softened into something almost understanding. "Yeah," Jameson muttered, pushing past him into the hallway.
Mike's laugh followed Jameson down the stairs, warm and unguarded, and Jameson found himself gripping the banister tighter just to ground himself. The smell of pepperoni and melted cheese hit him halfway down, mingling with the faint citrus of his mom's cleaning spray, evidence of her frantic last-minute scrubbing before Mike and his dad arrived. The kitchen table was already crowded: Mike's dad, his massive frame dwarfing the chair, was halfway through his second slice while Jameson's mom fussed with paper plates.
"Saved you the pineapple," Mike murmured as he brushed past Jameson to grab a slice, their shoulders bumping in the narrow space between the counter and the fridge. The contact lingered a second too long, and Jameson could feel the heat of Mike's skin through the thin cotton of his shirt. He grabbed a plate mechanically, avoiding Mike's gaze as he snatched up a slice topped with the offending fruit.
Mike's dad, *Robert*, Jameson reminded himself, though the name still felt foreign, grinned at them both. "You two getting along up there?" he asked around a mouthful of crust.
Jameson's mom shot him a look that screamed *be nice*, so he forced a nod. "Yeah. Fine."
The pineapple slice stuck to the roof of Jameson’s mouth as he chewed mechanically, half-listening to Mike and Robert debate which pizza topping was objectively superior. Across the table, his mom kept shooting him glances, little silent check-ins disguised as reaching for napkins or refilling water glasses. He stabbed his crust into a puddle of red sauce just to give his hands something to do.
Mike leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight, and Jameson couldn’t help tracking the way his Adam’s apple bobbed when he laughed. "Okay, but olives are basically salty little disappointments," Mike insisted, flicking a stray pepperoni off his plate. "Like, why bother?"
Jameson’s fork clattered against his plate. "They’re briny," he said before he could stop himself. "Complex. Unlike your taste in music." He nodded pointedly at Mike’s band shirt, the one he’d folded earlier.
Mike’s eyebrows shot up, but instead of looking offended, his grin widened. "Oh, we’re *roasting* now? Bold move for someone whose Spotify wrapped is probably just podcast recaps."
Jameson scoffed, but there was no real bite behind it. He hadn’t expected Mike to *remember* the shirt he’d folded earlier, let alone use it as ammunition. "At least podcasts don’t sound like someone threw a guitar down a flight of stairs," he shot back, watching with satisfaction as Mike clutched his chest dramatically like he’d been wounded.
Robert barked out a laugh, shaking his head. "Damn, kid. You’ve got a mouth on you." There was something approving in his tone, though, and Jameson’s mom hid a smile behind her napkin. The pizza grease congealing on his plate suddenly felt less oppressive, like maybe this forced-family-dinner thing wouldn’t be entirely unbearable.
Mike leaned forward, elbows on the table, and Jameson caught the faintest whiff of his cologne again, something woodsy and warm, clinging to him like a second skin. "Okay," Mike said, eyes glinting with challenge. "Name *one* band you actually like. And if you say Coldplay, I’m legally obligated to disown you as my stepbrother."
Jameson rolled his eyes but found himself biting back a smirk. "You’re never gonna guess it," he muttered, tearing off another bite of crust just to delay answering.
The crust crumbled between Jameson's fingers as he hesitated, acutely aware of four pairs of eyes waiting for his answer. Mike's knee bumped against his under the table, accidental, probably, but the contact sent a jolt up his thigh. "The Clash," he muttered, wiping his hands on his jeans.
Mike's fork clattered against his plate. "*No* fucking way." His grin was downright predatory as he leaned in. "Prove it."
Jameson's mom made a soft noise of protest, but Robert just chuckled into his beer. Digging his phone from his pocket, Jameson pulled up his Spotify with deliberate slowness, watching Mike's eyebrows climb as he tapped his most-played list. "London Calling. Track three. Know that one, *brother*?"
Mike's laugh was startled, genuine. "Jesus, you're insufferable." But his foot nudged Jameson's again beneath the table, lingering this time.
The PlayStation's glow painted Mike's face blue as he cursed under his breath, thumbs hammering the controller. Jameson had demolished him three rounds straight, something about Mike's competitive streak turning him into an endearingly terrible loser. "Rematch," Mike growled, tossing his head to flick sweat-damp hair from his forehead. Their knees kept brushing on the mattress they'd dragged to the floor, the console balanced precariously on an unpacked box between them.
Jameson smirked, stretching his arms behind his head. "Dude, take the L." His socked foot nudged Mike's thigh. "Your ego's writing checks your skills can't cash."
Mike's retort died when Jameson's phone buzzed violently against the floorboards, his mom's text lighting up the screen: *Lights out by 1, love you both.* They froze, suddenly hyper-aware of the thin walls, the way Robert's snores rumbled through the heating vents. Mike exhaled sharply through his nose and muted the TV. The sudden silence felt heavier than it should have.
Jameson reached to unplug the console when Mike caught his wrist. The contact burned. "Wait," Mike murmured, thumb brushing Jameson's pulse point. The game's idle music looped softly, casting shadows across Mike's jaw where stubble caught the low light. "I..." His fingers tightened slightly. "You're really fucking good at this."
Jameson's laugh came out uneven. "At kicking your ass? Yeah, I..." The words evaporated when Mike tugged him forward. Their noses bumped, clumsy, and Jameson's brain short-circuited as Mike's breath hit his lips. The controller clattered to the floor.
The first kiss was all teeth and hesitation. The second one wasn't. Mike's hands slid into Jameson's hair, gripping, not guiding, like he'd been thinking about it for hours. Jameson's back hit the mattress with Mike half on top of him, one knee between his thighs, and oh *god*, the solid weight of him was...
A floorboard creaked overhead. They froze. Mike's dad's footsteps lumbered past the closed door toward the master bedroom. Jameson held his breath until the doorknob clicked shut down the hall.
Mike exhaled shakily against his mouth. "We should..."
Jameson kissed him again, deeper this time, fingers fumbling with the waistband of Mike's sweats. The elastic gave way too easily, and Mike groaned into his mouth when Jameson's palm slid under fabric. He was already hard, hot against Jameson's fingers, and the sheer *reality* of it, of Mike panting above him, hips stuttering forward, made Jameson's head spin.
"Fuck," Mike hissed when Jameson's thumb swiped over the head. His hips jerked, and suddenly Jameson was being rolled onto his back, Mike's hands pinning his wrists beside his head. "You sure?" Mike's voice was ragged. His pupils swallowed the blue light from the screen.
Jameson arched up, catching Mike's bottom lip between his teeth. "Shut up," he muttered, twisting free to shove Mike onto the mattress. The controller dug into his knee as he straddled Mike's thighs, but the discomfort barely registered, not when Mike's hands were already gripping his waist, pulling him closer.
The PlayStation's idle music looped softly in the background as Jameson slid down Mike's body, lips tracing the ridge of his hipbone through damp fabric. Mike's breath hitched when Jameson hooked his fingers into the waistband of his boxers, tugging them down just enough to free his cock. It bobbed against his stomach, flushed and leaking, and Jameson's mouth watered before he could second-guess himself.
The first lick made Mike jerk like he'd been electrocuted. "Jesus fuck." His fingers tangled in Jameson's hair, not pushing, just *holding*, and the helpless noise he made when Jameson took him deeper vibrated straight through Jameson's skull. He'd done this before, not often, but enough to know what he was doing, but the way Mike fell apart beneath him felt entirely new. Every twitch, every bitten-off curse, every time Mike's thighs tensed like he was holding back from fucking Jameson's mouth, it was intoxicating.
"Fuck, your mouth," Mike gasped, hips lifting off the mattress before he forced them down again. His abs flexed under Jameson's free hand, sweat-slick and trembling. "You..." The words dissolved into a groan when Jameson swallowed around him, nose pressing into coarse hair. The taste of him, salt and musk and something indefinably *Mike*, shouldn't have been as good as it was.
Jameson pulled off with a wet sound, dragging his tongue along the underside just to hear Mike whine. "Quieter," he murmured, thumbing at the slit. Mike's back arched beautifully off the mattress, his bitten-off moan muffled by his own forearm. The sight of him, muscles taut, throat working, made Jameson's t-dick throb in his jeans.
Mike's fingers tightened in Jameson's hair, not pulling, just anchoring, as Jameson took him deep again, relishing the way Mike's stomach muscles jumped under his palm. The PlayStation's idle screen flickered, casting erratic shadows across Mike's face, his lips parted around ragged breaths. Jameson could feel the tension coiling in Mike's thighs, the desperate restraint as his hips twitched upward before he forced them back down.
The taste of precum bloomed bitter on Jameson's tongue, and he hummed around Mike's cock, just to watch him unravel further. Mike's groan was strangled, his free hand fisting the sheets. "God, *Jameson*." His voice cracked halfway through the name, and Jameson slowed, dragging his lips up with deliberate slowness until only the head rested against his tongue. Mike's hips jerked helplessly. "Fuck, I'm close."
Jameson pulled off entirely, ignoring Mike's broken noise of protest. "Not yet," he muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His t-dick ached, but the desperate look on Mike's face, flushed, pupils blown, was worth the delay.
Mike sat up abruptly, grabbing Jameson by the shoulders and flipping them with a grunt. The mattress springs creaked in protest as Jameson landed on his back, Mike's weight settling between his thighs. "You're *killing* me," Mike growled, fingers scrabbling at Jameson's belt. The metal buckle clinked, too loud in the quiet room, and they both froze as another floorboard groaned somewhere down the hall.
Mike exhaled shakily against Jameson's neck, his breath scalding. "We should..."
Jameson grabbed Mike's wrist before he could pull away. "Don't stop," he breathed, arching up against him. The words hung between them, too raw to take back. Mike hesitated for half a second before his mouth crashed into Jameson's again, fingers making quick work of his jeans.
The zipper sounded obscenely loud in the quiet room, but neither of them cared anymore. Mike's hand slid into Jameson's boxers, fingers finding him with none of the hesitation from before. Jameson bit down hard on his own lip to keep from moaning as Mike's thumb pressed down over the head.
"Fuck, you're so wet," Mike murmured against his neck, teeth scraping skin. His hand moved in slow, torturous strokes, each one sending sparks up Jameson's spine. The PlayStation's idle music had long since shut off, leaving only their ragged breathing and the creak of mattress springs beneath them.
Jameson grabbed Mike's shoulder, nails digging into flesh as Mike twisted his wrist just right. "Oh *god*". He barely recognized his own voice, strained and desperate. Mike chuckled darkly, speeding up his strokes until Jameson's hips stuttered off the mattress.
Then Mike stopped abruptly. Jameson made a sound dangerously close to a whine before he could swallow it down. Mike's grin was predatory as he leaned in, lips brushing Jameson's ear. "Turn over. Get on your belly."
Jameson's pulse hammered in his throat as he rolled onto his stomach, the sheets rough against his overheated skin. Mike's weight shifted behind him, knees nudging his thighs wider, and suddenly the reality of what was about to happen crashed over him like a breaker.
Jameson exhaled sharply through his nose and nodded, pressing his forehead into the pillow. Behind him, Mike's breath hitched, a quiet, punched-out noise that sent heat pooling low in Jameson's belly.
The first press of Mike's cock against him burned in the best way. Jameson clenched his fists in the sheets as Mike pushed in slowly, his other hand gripping Jameson's hip hard enough to bruise. "Fuck, you're tight." Mike's voice was wrecked already, his thighs trembling against the backs of Jameson's legs.
Mike bottomed out with a groan, hips flush against Jameson's ass, and for a moment neither of them moved. The silence between them was charged, Jameson could hear Mike's labored breathing, could feel the way his fingers trembled where they gripped his waist. Then Mike shifted, just slightly, and the drag of him inside sent sparks up Jameson's spine. "Jesus," Jameson gasped into the pillow, the word muffled against fabric.
Mike leaned forward, his chest pressing against Jameson's back, lips brushing the nape of his neck. "Okay?" His voice was rough, strained, and Jameson could feel the effort it took for him to hold still.
Jameson nodded, twisting his fingers tighter in the sheets. "Yeah, just move, fuck."
Mike didn't need to be told twice. His first thrust was experimental, shallow, but the second one was deeper, harder, knocking the breath from Jameson's lungs. The rhythm built quickly, Mike's hips snapping forward with increasing urgency, his breath hot against Jameson's shoulder. Every drag of him inside sent heat pooling low in Jameson's belly, his neglected t-dick aching where it pressed against the mattress.
Jameson arched his back, trying to get more friction, more *space*, but Mike's weight pinned him down. "Fuck, Mike..." His voice cracked as Mike angled his hips just right, hitting *that* spot with devastating accuracy.
Mike’s rhythm stuttered when Jameson gasped his name, his grip tightening impossibly harder on Jameson’s hips. The headboard knocked against the wall with each thrust, too loud, too reckless, but neither of them cared anymore. Jameson buried his face in the pillow to muffle the sounds clawing up his throat, but Mike dragged him back by the shoulder, lips crashing against his in a messy, off-center kiss. "Wanna hear you," he panted against Jameson’s mouth, his thrusts turning erratic.
Jameson came first, back arching as white heat ripped through him, his fingers scrambling for purchase on Mike’s sweat-slick shoulders. Mike followed with a bitten-off groan, his forehead dropping heavily against Jameson’s spine as his hips jerked through the aftershocks. The room smelled like sex and salt.
Mike emptied himself deep into Jameson. For a long moment, neither of them moved. Mike’s breath tickled the nape of Jameson’s neck, his weight half-draped across Jameson’s back. The silence stretched, taut and uneasy, until Mike finally pulled out with a wince and collapsed onto the mattress beside him.
Jameson stared at the ceiling, his pulse hammering in his throat. What the *fuck* had they just done? Next to him, Mike dragged a hand down his face, exhaling sharply through his nose. The PlayStation’s power light blinked at them from the floor, a silent witness.
"You good?" Mike’s voice was hoarse, his fingers brushing Jameson’s wrist where it lay between them. The contact burned. Jameson felt Mike's hot cum leaking from him.
The first time was an accident. The second time was a mistake. By the seventh, neither of them bothered pretending anymore.
Mike’s bedsprings creaked under Jameson’s knees in the predawn light, the sound muffled by the hum of the air conditioner they’d cranked up to cover their noises. Mike’s hands gripped Jameson’s hips hard enough to leave fingerprints, guiding him down onto his cock with a groan that vibrated through Jameson’s ribs. It had been three weeks since the PlayStation incident, and they’d developed a rhythm as familiar as the layout of their conjoined rooms. Quick, desperate fucks before dawn, slower ones when the house emptied on weekends, once against the shower wall with Mike’s teeth in Jameson’s shoulder while the water ran cold.
Jameson braced his hands on Mike’s chest, rolling his hips experimentally. Mike swore, head thudding back against the pillow. "Fuck, do that again." His thumbs dug into the divots of Jameson’s hip bones, urging him into a pace that made the bedframe knock against the wall. Jameson bit his lip to keep from moaning when Mike sat up abruptly, catching his mouth in a kiss that tasted like sleep and mint toothpaste.
The comforter slid to the floor as Mike flipped them, pinning Jameson to the mattress with his weight. Jameson hooked a leg over Mike’s waist, heels digging into the small of his back. "Quieter," Mike breathed against his throat, thrusting deep enough to punch the air from Jameson’s lungs. Down the hall, Robert’s alarm clock beeped once, twice, before being silenced.
The alarm clock's red digits blinked 6:03 AM when Mike finally pulled out, his breath ragged against Jameson's collarbone. Jameson stared at the ceiling, feeling the slow trickle between his thighs, the ache in his muscles a familiar companion now. Mike rolled onto his back beside him, their shoulders brushing in the narrow bed, the silence between them charged with something neither of them named.
Robert's shower turned on down the hall, the pipes groaning. Mike exhaled sharply and sat up, running a hand through his damp hair. "We should..."
"Shower," Jameson finished for him, already swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. The hardwood was cold under his bare feet. He didn't look back as he grabbed his discarded boxers and padded to the bathroom they now shared, the door clicking shut behind him with finality.
The water was scalding when Jameson stepped under the spray, his skin prickling as he scrubbed at the evidence of Mike still clinging to him. His reflection in the fogged-up mirror was blurred at the edges, the lines of his body softened by steam. He pressed a palm to the glass, watching the condensation ripple outward.
A knock at the door startled him. "You almost done?" Mike's voice was muffled through the wood. "I've got work at seven."
The bathroom door clicked shut behind Mike with a quiet finality that made Jameson's fingers tighten around his toothbrush. Steam still curled from the shower where he'd stood minutes ago, scrubbing Mike's scent from his skin with the same clinical detachment he used to clean protein shake residue from his shaker bottles. Outside, Mike's footsteps retreated down the hall toward his room, *their* hall now, their *house*, their fucked up little secret pooling between the floorboards like spilled detergent.
Jameson spat into the sink and watched the toothpaste foam swirl down the drain. Six weeks. Six weeks of stolen moments before dawn, of Mike's hands mapping his body like he was memorizing the layout for an exam, of coming with Mike's teeth in his shoulder so hard it left bruises that took days to fade. Six weeks of pretending not to notice the way Mike's gaze lingered on his waistband during family dinners, of accidental touches that weren't accidents at all.
The mirror had fogged over again. Jameson wiped it clear with his forearm and stared at his reflection, the dark circles under his eyes, the stubble coming in uneven across his jaw. His sweatpants hung low on his hips, revealing the fresh bite mark just above his pelvic bone. He pressed his thumb into it and watched his breath hitch in the glass.
Downstairs, the smell of burnt toast signaled his mom's attempt at breakfast. Jameson tugged his shirt on just as Mike's door creaked open across the hall. They met in the doorway, Mike already dressed for his construction job in paint splattered jeans and a tight white tee that stretched across his shoulders. His hair was still wet from the shower, curling slightly at the nape of his neck where Jameson had gripped him an hour earlier.
"Morning," Mike murmured, his gaze dropping to Jameson's throat before flicking back up. His knuckles brushed Jameson's hip as he passed, so light it could've been accidental if Jameson didn't know better.
Jameson was halfway through his second protein shake of the morning when the nausea hit like a sucker punch. He barely made it to the sink before he was retching, the chalky vanilla taste of his breakfast burning the back of his throat. Behind him, Mike froze in the act of tying his work boots, fingers still tangled in the laces.
"You okay?" Mike's voice was casual, but his gaze was too sharp, tracking the way Jameson's knuckles whitened around the edge of the counter.
"Fine." Jameson spat into the sink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Just drank it too fast." He could feel Mike's eyes on the back of his neck as he turned the faucet on full blast, letting the water drown out the silence between them.
Mike hummed, noncommittal, but didn't press. Not then.
The denial became a ritual over the next two weeks. Jameson blaming his sudden aversion to coffee on caffeine sensitivity, the tenderness in his chest on a too tight shirt, the dizzy spells on skipped meals. He cataloged each symptom with clinical detachment, filed them away under *stress* and *hormones*.
Mike noticed anyway. Jameson caught him staring at breakfast when he pushed his eggs away untouched, saw the way his gaze lingered on Jameson's waistline when he thought Jameson wasn't looking. Once, after Jameson nearly doubled over from a cramp in the grocery store parking lot, Mike's hand hovered over his lower back before dropping away.
"I'm *fine*," Jameson snapped, louder than necessary, startling an elderly woman by the shopping carts.
The fifth time Jameson bolted from the dinner table to vomit, Mike followed him upstairs. He found Jameson hunched over the toilet, forehead pressed to the cool porcelain, fingers trembling against the seat. Mike hovered in the doorway, torn between stepping closer and giving him space. The bathroom smelled of bile and mint mouthwash, the fan humming weakly overhead.
"You're not fine," Mike said quietly, watching Jameson's shoulders stiffen. "This isn't just whatever bullshit you've been telling yourself.
Jameson spat into the bowl and flushed, avoiding Mike's gaze as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Drop it," he muttered, pushing past Mike into the hallway. His sweatshirt rode up as he moved, revealing a strip of skin above his waistband that was noticeably more tender than it had been a month ago.
Mike caught his wrist. "Jameson." His thumb brushed over the pulse point, the same way he had that first night. "When was your last period?"
Jameson wrenched his arm free with a sound halfway between a laugh and a snarl. "Fuck *off*." He cut himself off before he could continue, jaw working. The denial was automatic, reflex at this point, but the way his hand drifted to his stomach betrayed him.
The bathroom door slammed shut behind them with enough force to rattle the medicine cabinet. Mike had Jameson pressed against the sink before the lock clicked, his hands rough on Jameson's hips, mouth hot and desperate against his throat. "Tell me I'm wrong," Mike growled between kisses, his teeth scraping Jameson's pulse point. "Say it."
Jameson's hips jerked forward of their own accord, the friction of Mike's jeans against his wetting mound sending sparks up his spine. "You're wrong," he gasped, but his fingers were already clawing at Mike's belt buckle, the metal clinking loudly in the small space. The lie tasted bitter on his tongue, bitter like the bile he'd been choking down for weeks, bitter like the fear curdling in his gut every time he caught his reflection in the mirror.
Mike's laugh was dark, humorless. He shoved Jameson's sweatpants down with one sharp tug, fingers digging into the softness of his thighs, new softness, the kind that hadn't been there three months ago when this started. "Bullshit." His palm slapped against Jameson's ass hard enough to sting, the sound echoing off the tile. "You've been puking every morning. Your nipples are fucking *sore*, I can tell every time you flinch when I touch them." His thumb pressed into the dip of Jameson's hip, right where the skin had started stretching tight. "And this? This isn't just you skipping the gym."
Jameson's breath hitched as Mike spun him around to face the mirror. Steam from the shower they'd never turned on fogged the edges, but the reflection was clear enough, Mike's broad chest pressed against his back, his own flushed face, the undeniable bloat of his lower belly. Mike's hand splayed across it possessively, fingers spanning the slight curve. "You're pregnant," he murmured against Jameson's shoulder, voice cracking on the word. "Say it."
The denial died in Jameson's throat when Mike's other hand slid between his thighs, fingers finding him already wet. "Fuck," Jameson gasped, his knees buckling as Mike worked him with rough, knowing strokes. The sink dug into his hips, the cold porcelain a sharp contrast to Mike's scorching touch. Behind him, Mike's erection pressed against his ass, hot even through layers of denim.
Jameson didn’t tell his mom about the morning sickness. He didn’t tell her about the way his sweatpants strained against a waistline that refused to stay flat no matter how many crunches he did at 3 AM. He certainly didn’t tell her about Mike’s hands gripping his hips every night, fingers splayed possessively over the swell of his stomach as he fucked into him from behind, whispering things like *look at you* and *mine* against the nape of his neck until Jameson came with his teeth sunk into a pillow.
Instead, he stole one of Mike’s hoodies, the oversized navy one that smelled like sawdust and cheap body spray, and wore it constantly, the hem hanging low enough to hide the evidence. At dinner, he pushed food around his plate while his mom frowned at his untouched portions, her concern sharp as a blade between his ribs. "You’re not eating," she said one evening, reaching across the table to press the back of her hand to his forehead. Jameson flinched away, knocking over his water glass.
Mike’s foot hooked around his ankle under the table, a silent *breathe*. "He’s just stressed about work," Mike said easily, mopping up the spill with his napkin. His knee pressed into Jameson’s thigh, warm and solid.
Robert grunted around a mouthful of mashed potatoes. "Kid needs to bulk up if he wants to keep up with you on the job site."
Jameson’s stomach lurched. The *job site*. Mike’s offhand comment two weeks ago about needing summer help at his construction gig, the way Jameson’s mom had brightened at the idea of them bonding over manual labor. He gripped his fork too tight, the metal biting into his palm.
His mom was still watching him, her gaze flicking between his untouched plate and the oversized hoodie swallowing his frame. "Are you sick? You’ve been so pale lately."
Mike’s hand landed on Jameson’s wrist beneath the table, thumb stroking his pulse point. "Probably just that stomach thing going around," he lied smoothly. "Half my crew’s out with it."
Jameson exhaled through his nose and reached for his water glass with forced calm. The hoodie rode up as he stretched, revealing a sliver of skin above his waistband,pale, stretched taut over the subtle curve of his belly. His mom’s eyes caught on it, her brow furrowing.
Mike kicked him sharply under the table.
"I’m *fine*," Jameson snapped, yanking the hoodie down with shaking fingers. The lie tasted like bile. Across the table, his mom opened her mouth, but Robert launched into a story about a raccoon in the worksite porta-potty, and the moment passed.
Later, in the shower, Jameson pressed his forehead to the tiles and let the scalding water pound against his back. His hands drifted to his stomach, fuller now, unmistakably rounded when he let himself look. The steam curled around his shoulders as he traced the swell with trembling fingers, counting the weeks in his head. Three months. Twelve weeks. Far enough along that denial was a joke.
The shower curtain rustled. Mike’s hands slid around his waist from behind, palms flattening against his belly with possessive certainty. Jameson stiffened, but Mike just pressed closer, his cock already hard against Jameson’s ass. "See?" Mike murmured against his shoulder, fingers splaying wide. "You’re showing."
Jameson shoved his elbow back, catching Mike in the ribs. "Fuck off." His voice cracked.
Mike laughed, low and rough, and bit the nape of Jameson’s neck. "Make me."
They fucked against the shower wall with the water running cold, Mike’s grip bruising on Jameson’s hips, his teeth marks blooming purple on Jameson’s shoulders. Jameson came with his face pressed to the tiles, Mike’s hand clamped over his mouth to muffle the sounds.
Wrapped in Mike’s hoodie again, Jameson stood in front of the full length mirror in Mike’s room and traced the curve of his belly with clinical detachment. Five months. Twenty weeks. Halfway there. The hoodie couldn’t hide it anymore, not when he turned sideways, not when he moved too fast and the fabric clung. Mike came up behind him and pressed a palm to the swell, his other hand slipping under the hem to stroke Jameson. Mike murmured against his ear. "Beautiful."
Jameson punched him in the thigh. "Shut up."
Mike just grinned and pushed him onto the bed.
At breakfast, Jameson piled his plate high and ate mechanically, forcing down every bite under his mom’s watchful gaze. Protein shakes, eggs, toast slathered in peanut butter, anything to keep her from noticing the way his sweatshirt stretched tight when he leaned forward. Mike kicked him under the table whenever he slowed, his expression unreadable.
"You’re looking better," his mom said one morning, stirring cream into her coffee. Her gaze lingered on the empty plate in front of Jameson. "Whatever was bothering you must’ve passed."
Jameson swallowed a mouthful of orange juice too fast, the acid burning his throat. "Yeah," he muttered, pushing his chair back. "Just stress."
Mike’s fingers brushed his wrist as he stood, brief, barely there, but Jameson felt it like a brand.
By month six, the denial became a performance. Jameson wore Mike’s hoodies two sizes too big, kept his arms crossed during family dinners, and avoided mirrors like they’d crack under the weight of the truth. But at night, when the house creaked with sleep, Mike’s hands mapped the changes with possessive fascination, the swell of Jameson’s chest, the tight curve of his belly, the way his hips had widened just enough to make his old jeans impossible to button.
"You’re fucking glowing," Mike murmured one night, mouth hot against Jameson’s throat as he rocked into him from behind. His palm splayed across Jameson’s stomach, fingers spanning the taut skin. "Can’t wait to see how big you get."
Jameson bit down on a moan, his fingers scrabbling at the sheets. "Shut up," he hissed, but his hips rocked back anyway, chasing the friction.
Mike chuckled darkly, his grip tightening. "You love it." His thumb pressed into the dip of Jameson’s navel, now shallow from the stretching. "Love knowing I put this in you."
The words sent heat licking up Jameson’s spine, shame and desire twisting together until he couldn’t tell them apart. He came with Mike’s teeth in his shoulder, muffling his cries into the pillow.
Morning brought the charade. Jameson stood in front of his closet, staring at the row of hoodies like they were armor. He grabbed the black one, Mike’s, stolen weeks ago, and tugged it over his head. The fabric still barely covered the swell when he moved too quickly, but he’d perfected the art of slow, deliberate motions, keeping his arms strategically crossed or holding a textbook against his chest.
Downstairs, his mom frowned over her coffee. "You’re wearing that again?" Her gaze flicked to the hoodie’s frayed cuffs. "I thought we bought you new clothes for summer."
Jameson shrugged, reaching for the cereal box with deliberate slowness. "Comfortable."
Mike’s fork clinked against his plate as he leaned back in his chair, watching Jameson with that infuriating smirk. "Maybe he likes my scent," he said, voice dripping with faux innocence. Robert snorted into his newspaper while Jameson’s mom rolled her eyes.
Jameson stabbed his spoon into his cereal with more force than necessary. The milk sloshed dangerously close to the edge of the bowl, mirroring the nausea churning in his gut. He’d been awake since 4 AM, hunched over the toilet, silently cursing the way his body betrayed him with every heave.
Mike’s foot nudged his under the table, a silent *breathe*. Jameson ignored it, focusing instead on the way the cereal turned to mush between his fingers. His mom was still watching him, her brow furrowed. "You’re not eating again."
"Not hungry," Jameson muttered. The lie tasted like bile.
Mike kicked him harder this time. Jameson glared at him, but Mike just raised an eyebrow and shoved a piece of toast across the table. "Eat," he said, voice low. "You’ll feel better."
Jameson's spoon hovered halfway to his mouth, the cereal swimming in milk suddenly looking like wet cement. His stomach lurched violently at the thought of swallowing it. Across the table, Mike watched with sharp eyes as Jameson pushed the bowl away with trembling fingers, too fast, too telling. His mom's coffee cup paused halfway to her lips.
"Something wrong with your cereal?" Her voice carried that particular maternal concern that made Jameson want to crawl out of his skin.
Mike's knee bumped his under the table hard. "He's just nervous about his work again," Mike lied smoothly, reaching over to pluck a strawberry from Jameson's abandoned fruit bowl. "Ate earlier." The lie rolled off his tongue effortlessly, but his fingers dug into Jameson's thigh beneath the tablecloth, promising retribution.
The thought of manual labor at seven months pregnant made Jameson's throat close up entirely. He stood abruptly, chair screeching against the hardwood. "Gotta piss."
The bathroom door hadn't even clicked shut before Jameson was dropping to his knees, dry heaving into the toilet bowl. Nothing came up, just bile and the phantom taste of cereal he couldn't stomach. His hands shook against the porcelain as he spat, the hoodie riding up to expose the undeniable swell pressing against his waistband. The reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror showed hollow cheeks above that telltale curve, his skin pale with nausea.
The door creaked open behind him without a knock. Mike's work boots scuffed against the tile as he stepped inside, locking the door with a quiet click. Jameson didn't bother turning around, just slumped back against the bathtub, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Go away."
Mike crouched in front of him, fingers catching Jameson's chin to tilt his face upward. "You didn't eat shit this morning." His thumb brushed over Jameson's bottom lip, calloused and insistent. "Again."
Jameson jerked his head away. "Not hungry."
Mike's laugh was dark as he reached for Jameson's waistband, popping the button with practiced ease. "Bullshit." The zipper sounded obscenely loud in the small space. "You're starving."
Jameson barely registered Mike unbuckling his belt before his knees hit the tile, the cold porcelain biting into his skin. He blinked up at Mike through bleary eyes, the taste of bile still sharp on his tongue. Mike's fingers tangled roughly in his hair, guiding his mouth forward with none of the usual preamble, no teasing strokes, no slow buildup. Just the blunt press of Mike's cock against his lips, demanding entry. "Open," Mike ordered, voice rough with something that wasn't entirely anger.
The first thrust punched the air from Jameson's lungs. He gagged reflexively, tears springing to his eyes as Mike bottomed out, the head of his cock hitting the back of Jameson's throat. Mike didn't pause, just set a brutal pace, his hips snapping forward with each shallow thrust. Jameson's hands scrambled for purchase on Mike's thighs, nails digging into denim as he struggled to breathe through his nose. Spit dripped down his chin, mixing with the tears streaking his cheeks.
Mike's free hand found the curve of Jameson's belly beneath the hoodie, fingers splaying possessively across the swell. "Fuck," Mike groaned, his thrusts stuttering as Jameson's pregnant body clenched around nothing. "Feel how fucking round you are?" His thumb pressed into the dip of Jameson's navel, now shallow from stretching skin. "All because of me."
Jameson whined around Mike's cock, the vibration drawing a ragged curse from above. Mike's grip tightened in his hair, angling his head back for deeper access. The new position made Jameson's jaw ache, his throat working desperately around each thrust. Mike's other hand kneaded his belly with rough affection, tracing the taut curve where their child grew.
"Gonna feed you properly," Mike panted, his hips losing their rhythm. "Since you won't fucking eat." His fingers dug into Jameson's scalp, holding him in place as his cock pulsed down Jameson's throat. Jameson swallowed convulsively, tears spilling over as Mike emptied himself with a groan.
The bathroom fan hummed weakly overhead as Jameson slumped back against the tub, wiping his mouth with a shaking hand. Mike's cum dripped down his chin, warm and thick, tasting of salt and something faintly metallic. The fluorescent light flickered, casting harsh shadows across Mike's face as he tucked himself back into his jeans with casual indifference.
Jameson's hoodie had ridden up during the rough handling, exposing the swell of his belly. Mike's gaze lingered there, his fingers twitching like he wanted to touch again. Instead, he reached past Jameson to grab his toothbrush, squeezing paste onto the bristles with more force than necessary. "You're fucking lucky no one heard that," he muttered around the brush.
Jameson pressed his palms against his stomach, feeling the tightness there. Seven months. Too far to hide anymore. Downstairs, Robert's chair scraped against the kitchen floor, a reminder of how thin the walls were.
Mike spat into the sink and caught Jameson's wrist before he could stand. His grip wasn't rough, but it wasn't gentle either. "You're eating lunch," he said, voice low. "Or I'll drag your ass to urgent care and let them figure out why you're puking every morning."
Jameson yanked his arm free. "Fuck you."
The knock came at 7:23 AM, three sharp raps that made Jameson’s swollen abdomen tighten uncomfortably against the waistband of Mike’s stolen sweatpants. He bit his lip against the cramp radiating through his lower back and pressed a palm to the taut curve of his stomach, where tiny feet were currently rearranging his internal organs.
"Jameson Steven Holt, if you don’t open this door in ten seconds, I’m taking it off the hinges." His mom’s voice carried that particular blend of maternal concern and steel-toe-boot determination that meant business.
Jameson glanced at the discarded hoodies strewn across his floor, all Mike’s, all stretched beyond recognition from months of desperate concealment. He grabbed the gray one with the torn pocket, tugging it over his head with practiced motions that minimized the fabric clinging to his belly. The hem barely skimmed his thighs now, barely hid the way his sweatpants dug into the underside of his swollen stomach.
The door flew open before he could brace himself. His mom froze in the doorway, her eyes sweeping over his hunched posture, the way his arms were crossed protectively over his abdomen. Nine months. Thirty-eight weeks. The due date circled in red on the calendar hidden under his mattress.
"You look like death," she said bluntly, stepping into the room. The smell of bacon and coffee clung to her robe, a taunt to Jameson’s perpetually nauseated stomach. "When was the last time you ate a full meal?"
Mike appeared behind her, already dressed in his work jeans, hair damp from the shower. His gaze flicked to Jameson’s belly, to the way his fingers dug into his own sides. "Come on," he said smoothly, stepping around Jameson’s mom to grip his elbow. "Robert made pancakes."
Jameson let Mike haul him upright, biting back a groan as the movement sent a sharp twinge through his lower back. The baby shifted violently, a foot or elbow jabbing into his ribs hard enough to make him stumble. Mike’s arm locked around his waist, steadying him before his mom could notice.
"Cramp," Jameson gritted out, forcing a tight smile. "Just slept wrong."
His mom’s frown deepened as Mike half-carried him toward the hallway. Jameson moved with the slow, waddling gait he’d perfected, legs spread slightly to accommodate the weight, one hand braced against the small of his back. The hoodie billowed around him with each step, but nothing could hide the way his sweatpants strained against the full, round curve of his stomach when he walked.
Mike’s fingers dug into his hip, silently urging him faster as his mom trailed behind them. "You’ve lost weight," she said suddenly, reaching out to pinch the loose fabric at Jameson’s shoulder. "But your face is... puffy."
Jameson’s pulse spiked. "Allergies," he lied automatically, gripping the banister with white knuckled force as he navigated the stairs one laborious step at a time. The baby chose that moment to shift violently, pressing what felt like an entire foot against his bladder. He sucked in a sharp breath through his nose, pausing mid-step.
Mike’s arm tightened around his waist, hauling him upright before his knees could buckle. "Breathe," Mike muttered against his temple, low enough that his mom wouldn’t hear. His palm slid beneath the hoodie to press against the small of Jameson’s back, fingers splaying possessively over the stretched fabric of his t-shirt. The contact burned even through layers of clothing.
The kitchen smelled overwhelmingly of syrup and coffee, a nauseating combination that had Jameson’s stomach churning before they even crossed the threshold. Robert glanced up from his newspaper, eyebrows climbing as he took in Jameson’s hunched posture, the way Mike practically carried him to the table. "Kid looks like hell," he remarked around a mouthful of pancakes.
Mike kicked out a chair for Jameson, guiding him down with a hand on his elbow. The wooden table pressed uncomfortably against his swollen stomach, forcing him to sit with his legs spread wide to accommodate the size. He folded his arms over his belly instinctively, the hoodie pooling in his lap like a makeshift shield.
His mom set a plate in front of him, eggs, bacon, toast cut into soldiers the way he’d liked as a child. The sight of it made his throat close. Nine months of morning sickness had trained his body to reject food before noon. "Eat," his mom ordered, pouring orange juice into his glass with a firmness that brooked no argument.
Jameson picked up a fork with deliberate slowness, willing his hands not to shake. The baby shifted violently inside him, a sharp kick to his ribs that made him grit his teeth. Mike’s knee bumped his beneath the table, a silent warning. He forced a bite of eggs past his lips, chewing mechanically while his stomach rolled in protest.
Robert snorted. "Boy eats like a fucking bird."
Mike reached across the table to steal Jameson’s bacon, popping the entire strip into his mouth with exaggerated relish. "More for me," he said through a full mouth, nudging Jameson’s plate closer with his elbow.
Jameson's fingers dug into Mike's shoulders hard enough to leave crescent shaped marks, his thighs trembling as he sank down onto Mike's cock with a ragged gasp. The stretch burned, not just from the girth, but from the way his body had changed, how everything felt tighter and more sensitive now. Now heavily pregnant, hips spread wide from the baby's weight, and still all he could think about was being filled.
"Fuck," Mike groaned beneath him, hands sliding up to cradle the massive swell of Jameson's belly. His thumbs pressed into the taut skin where their child kicked violently, reacting to the movement. "You're fucking insatiable."
Jameson rocked forward, grinding his swollen stomach against Mike's abs, the pressure delicious against his oversensitive skin. He couldn't get enough, couldn't stop the desperate little rolls of his hips, the way he clenched around Mike just to feel him twitch inside. A sharp cramp radiated through his lower back, making him freeze mid-motion, nails biting into Mike's biceps.
Mike's grip tightened instantly. "Contraction?"
Jameson exhaled through clenched teeth, nodding as the pain crested and ebbed. "Just...just keep going," he panted, shifting his weight to take Mike deeper. The stretch grounded him, the fullness a counterpoint to the erratic pulses tightening his abdomen.
Mike swore under his breath but obeyed, thrusting shallowly as Jameson rode him through the contraction. His palms smoothed over the stretched skin of Jameson's belly, fingers spreading wide to feel the way their baby shifted beneath. "Fuck, you're..." His words dissolved into a groan as Jameson clenched down hard, his swollen belly pressing flush against Mike's torso.
Another cramp seized Jameson halfway up Mike's cock, forcing him to slump forward against Mike's chest. He gasped into the sweaty hollow of Mike's collarbone, fingers scrabbling at his shoulders as the pain radiated outward. Mike's hands slid down to cradle his hips, stilling him with firm pressure. "Breathe," he ordered, voice rough.
Jameson shook his head, grinding his forehead against Mike's pectoral. "Hurts," he admitted through gritted teeth, the words foreign on his tongue after months of stoic denial.
Mike's thumbs dug into the dimples above Jameson's ass, kneading the tense muscles there. "Then let me-"
"No." Jameson cut him off with a roll of his hips, forcing Mike deeper. "Need you inside." The admission burned worse than the contraction, this raw, animal need to be filled as his body tore itself apart.
Mike exhaled sharply through his nose but obeyed, rocking up into the slick heat of Jameson's body with measured thrusts. His hands never left Jameson's belly, fingers tracing the tight skin where their child pressed outward in protest. Between Jameson's thighs, pre-come smeared across Mike's abdomen with each shallow grind, mixing with the sweat beading along his stretch marks.
Another contraction seized Jameson mid-thrust, freezing him with Mike's cock buried to the hilt. His back arched involuntarily, pulling a ragged cry from his throat as pain radiated down his thighs. Mike's hands slid up to frame his ribs, holding him steady as the wave crested.
"Breathe through it," Mike murmured, lips brushing the damp hair at Jameson's temple. His own breath came in short pants, muscles taut with restraint beneath Jameson's weight.
Jameson choked on a laugh, nails scraping down Mike's chest. "Easy for you to-ah-fuck..." The pain crested again, sharper this time, dragging a groan from his lungs. His thighs trembled violently where they bracketed Mike's hips, the strain sending fresh sweat trickling down the small of his back.
Mike's grip tightened. "You're close." It wasn't a question. He knew Jameson's body better than his own now, knew the telltale flush creeping up his throat, the way his hole fluttered around Mike's cock when labor pains morphed into something more.
Mike's fingers dug into Jameson's hips, holding him still through the contraction as his cock throbbed inside him, hot and insistent, stretching Jameson just shy of pain. "Come on," he growled against Jameson's collarbone, breath scalding against sweat-slick skin. His thumb found Jameson's clit in rough, circular strokes, the pressure just shy of unbearable. "You can take it. Pregnant bitch."
Jameson's head dropped back with a broken noise, his spine arching as the dual sensations tore through him, Mike's relentless fingers and the deep, grinding fullness of his cock. Another contraction coiled low in his belly, tightening around the intrusion until pleasure and pain blurred into something molten. His thighs trembled violently, toes curling against the rumpled sheets.
"That's it," Mike murmured, shifting to suck a bruise into the delicate skin beneath Jameson's jaw. His hips rolled upward in shallow thrusts, dragging his cock along oversensitive inner walls. "Feel how fucking tight you are?" His free hand splayed across the taut curve of Jameson's stomach, fingers spanning the stretch marks radiating from his navel. "All clenched up around me. Full of my baby."
Jameson's breath hitched, his fingers scrabbling at Mike's shoulders as his orgasm built, slow and inexorable, coiling tighter with each brush of Mike's thumb. The contraction crested suddenly, wringing a ragged cry from his throat as his body clamped down hard around Mike's cock. Mike swore violently, his thrusts turning erratic as Jameson came with his back bowed and his swollen belly pressed flush between them.
For one suspended moment, everything was heat and pulse and the slick sound of skin on skin. Then Jameson collapsed forward, his forehead thudding against Mike's sternum as aftershocks wracked his body. Mike's arms locked around him, holding him through the tremors as his own hips stuttered to a halt, buried deep.
The contraction hit Jameson like a sledgehammer to the spine, doubling him over with a gasp so sharp it stole his breath entirely. Mike’s hands were on him instantly, fingers digging into his hips as Jameson clawed at the sheets, his body bowing with the force of it.
The contraction crested like a wave dragging him under, forcing a sound from Jameson’s throat that was half-groan, half-sob. Mike’s palm flattened against the small of his back, pressing hard against the knotted muscles there. "Breathe," he ordered, voice rough with something that wasn’t quite panic.
Jameson sucked in air through clenched teeth, fingers twisting in the sheets. The pain radiated down his thighs, sharp enough to make his vision blur at the edges. Beneath him, Mike’s cock twitched inside him, still hard despite the interruption, a relentless presence grounding him.
"Another one?" Mike’s thumb traced the dip of Jameson’s spine, calloused and familiar.
Jameson shook his head, exhaling shakily. "Not-not yet." His voice cracked. The pause between contractions was shortening, the reprieve barely enough to catch his breath before the next one hit.
Mike’s hands slid up to cradle Jameson’s belly, fingers spanning the tight curve where their child pressed outward in protest. "You’re shaking," he observed, voice low. "It won't be long now."
The contraction passed like a retreating tide, leaving Jameson limp and trembling atop Mike, their sweat-slick skin sticking where his belly pressed against Mike’s torso. He forced himself to breathe through his nose, the air thick with the scent of sex and salt and something primal beneath it. Mike’s hands never left his hips, fingers kneading the dimples above his ass with rough affection.
Slowly, deliberately, Jameson rocked forward, taking Mike back inside him with a shuddering exhale. The stretch burned differently now. Not just from the girth, but from the way his body had loosened, dilated, every nerve alight with the twin fires of pleasure and impending birth. He moved with agonizing slowness, savoring the drag of Mike’s cock against his oversensitive walls, the way his swollen belly brushed Mike’s abs with each shallow grind.
Mike’s grip tightened, his breath hitching as Jameson sank down inch by torturous inch. "Fuck," he rasped, thumbs digging into the stretch marks spidering across Jameson’s hips.
Another contraction coiled low in Jameson’s belly. He froze mid-motion, fingers scrabbling at Mike’s shoulders as pain radiated down his thighs. Mike’s hands slid up to frame his ribs, holding him steady as the wave crested, his cock twitching inside Jameson as if in sympathy.
"Breathe," Mike murmured against Jameson’s temple, lips brushing the damp hair there.
Jameson rolled his hips in slow, deliberate circles, savoring the drag of Mike’s cock inside him as another contraction built low in his belly. The pain was a distant thrum beneath the pleasure now, his body too focused on the thick stretch of Mike filling him to care about anything else. Sweat dripped down his spine, pooling in the dip of his lower back where Mike’s fingers pressed possessively into his skin.
Mike’s breath hitched as Jameson sank down again, taking him deeper with a shuddering exhale. "Fuck," he muttered, palms smoothing up the swollen curve of Jameson’s belly. "You are so tight." His thumbs traced the stretch marks radiating from Jameson’s navel, the touch feather-light but electric against oversensitive skin. "And massive."
Jameson braced his hands on Mike’s chest, fingers splayed across the sweat-slick planes of muscle as he rocked forward. The movement was slow, almost lazy, the drag of Mike’s cock against his walls sending sparks up his spine. Another contraction coiled low in his belly, but he ignored it, focusing instead on the way Mike’s breath stuttered beneath him, the way his hips twitched upward in tiny, aborted thrusts.
"Look at you," Mike murmured, voice rough. His fingers tightened around Jameson’s hips, guiding him into a slow grind that made them both groan. "Taking me so fucking good." His thumb brushed the underside of Jameson’s belly, where the skin was taut and hot to the touch. "My pregnant bitch."
Jameson’s breath caught as the contraction crested suddenly, sharper this time, wringing a ragged noise from his throat. His back arched involuntarily, pulling Mike deeper as his body clenched around him. Mike’s grip tightened, holding him steady as the pain radiated outward, his cock twitching inside Jameson as if in sympathy.
The first warm gush hit Mike’s thighs like a slap. Jameson froze mid-rock, his breath stuttering to a stop as liquid spilled between them, not just the slickness of arousal, but something thicker, unmistakable. The mattress beneath them darkened instantly.
Mike’s fingers dug into Jameson’s hips hard enough to bruise. "Fuck," he rasped, staring down at the mess spreading across his skin. His cock twitched inside Jameson, still buried to the hilt, as another hot rush pulsed around him. "I broke your water with my dick."
Jameson’s mouth fell open in a silent gasp, his body locking up as the contraction hit like a freight train. The pain radiated outward from his spine, white-hot and all-consuming, wringing a ragged cry from his throat. He barely registered Mike cursing violently beneath him, hands scrambling to grip Jameson’s trembling thighs as his hips jerked in shallow, involuntary thrusts.
"Don’t...don’t stop," Jameson choked out, nails carving half-moons into Mike’s shoulders. The pressure was unbearable, his hole fluttering wildly around Mike’s cock as another gush of fluid spilled between them. The scent, musky and metallic, filled the room, mingling with the sweat dripping down Jameson’s back.
Mike’s laugh was breathless, disbelieving. "Holy fuck, man." His words dissolved into a groan as Jameson clenched down hard, riding out the contraction with desperate, rolling grinds. The wet slide of his walls around Mike’s cock was obscene, fluids dripping down Mike’s balls onto the ruined sheets.
Mike's breath came in ragged bursts against Jameson's shoulder as the second hot gush of amniotic fluid spilled around his cock, impossibly slick and thick between them. Jameson's thighs trembled violently where they bracketed Mike's hips, his entire body locking up as the contraction peaked, a white-hot knife of pain that dragged a strangled cry from his throat. The sensation was overwhelming, his hole closing around Mike's cock as another rush of fluid pulsed out, soaking the sheets even more beneath them in a spreading, lukewarm pool.
"Fuck, *fuck*," Mike hissed, fingers digging bruises into Jameson's thighs. His cock twitched inside Jameson, trapped between the relentless clench of his body and the sudden slick flood of fluid.
Mike’s hands slid up to cradle Jameson’s belly, fingers spanning the taut curve where their child had lowered significantly from. "Breathe, breathe for me, baby," he ordered, voice rough. His thumbs traced the stretch marks spidering across Jameson’s hips.
Mike's hands slid from Jameson's hips to his waist, grip firm but careful as he eased Jameson off his cock with a wet sound that made them both shudder. Jameson's breath hitched at the sudden emptiness, his hole clenching around nothing before another contraction seized him, sharper this time, forcing a groan through gritted teeth.
"Easy," Mike murmured, guiding Jameson forward onto his hands and knees. The mattress dipped beneath them as Mike shifted to kneel behind him, palms smoothing up the sweat-slick curve of Jameson's spine. "There you go."
Jameson's elbows trembled as he braced himself, forehead pressing into the damp sheets. The position stretched his belly low between his thighs, the weight of it pulling uncomfortably until Mike's hands settled on his hips, thumbs kneading the dimples above his ass. Another contraction rolled through him, and Jameson bit down on a whimper as his back arched involuntarily, his body bowing with the force of it.
Mike's breath was hot against the small of Jameson's back. "Breathe through it," he instructed, voice roughened by exhaustion and something else, something awed. His fingers traced Jameson's hips, the touch tender. "Fuck, look at you."
Jameson barely registered the words, too focused on the pain radiating down his thighs, the pressure building low in his pelvis. He gasped as another contraction crested, his fingers twisting in the sheets. The wet sound of amniotic fluid dripping onto the mattress beneath him was obscenely loud in the quiet room.
Jameson whined high in his throat, his hips twitching backward in frantic little circles, seeking the heat of Mike’s cock again. His hole vacant, still slick and loose from being stretched open, and the emptiness was unbearable. “Mike, *please*,” he gasped, fingers scrabbling at the damp sheets beneath him. His back arched obscenely, the swollen curve of his belly dragging against the mattress as he tried to push himself backward onto Mike’s groin. “Need you, fuck, *need* you.”
Mike’s hands clamped down on Jameson’s hips, holding him still with a grip that bordered on painful. “No,” he said, voice low and firm, the way someone might speak to a toddler mid-tantrum. “You don’t get that right now, baby.” His thumbs dug into the dimples above Jameson’s ass, grounding him as another contraction rolled through his body. “Your job is to get this kid out, not ride my dick.”
Jameson choked on a sob, his thighs trembling violently. The denial burned worse than the contraction cresting in his pelvis, the ache between his legs sharper than any pain. “But-but I *can’t*,” he wailed, fingers twisting in the sheets until the fabric threatened to tear. “I need you *inside* me, Mike, please."
Mike exhaled sharply through his nose, shifting to kneel closer behind Jameson. One hand slid up to cradle the taut underside of Jameson’s belly, supporting the weight as he leaned down to press a rough kiss to the knobs of Jameson’s spine. “I know you do,” he murmured against sweat-slick skin. “But you’re gonna have to wait.” His other hand slid between Jameson’s thighs, fingers brushing over his flushed rim-*teasing*, the bastard. “Feel that? You’re *dripping*. Baby’s right there.”
Jameson’s breath hitched as Mike’s fingertip traced his stretched hole, the light touch sending sparks up his spine. He tried to push back, to take Mike inside again, but Mike withdrew his hand with a soft *tsk*. The loss punched a ragged noise from Jameson’s throat, his vision blurring with frustrated tears. “*Mike*,” he begged, voice cracking.
“Uh-uh.” Mike’s palm smacked Jameson’s ass, not hard, just enough to sting, before smoothing over the reddened skin. “Listen to me. You’re gonna push *this* baby out first.” His thumb pressed against Jameson’s perineum, where the skin stretched obscenely thin. “Then you can have my cock all you want.”
Jameson whimpered, his hips twitching forward instinctively, seeking friction. The contraction hit like a freight train, stealing his breath as his spine arched violently. His fingers scrambled at the sheets, knuckles whitening as pain radiated down his thighs. “Fuck, holy *fuck*,” he gasped, forehead pressing into the mattress. The pressure was unbearable, his hole aching for Mike’s cock.
Mike’s hands returned to Jameson’s hips, gripping tight. “Breathe through it,” he ordered, voice steady despite the ragged edge beneath. “That’s it. Good boy.”
Jameson sobbed at the praise, his thighs trembling. “I can’t.” His words turned into a whine as another wave of pain rolled through him. His belly tightened visibly, the skin stretched taut as their child pressed downward. The sensation was overwhelming, pressure and pain and the relentless *need* for Mike inside him.
Mike exhaled sharply, shifting to press his chest against Jameson’s back. His lips brushed Jameson’s ear, breath hot. “You *can*,” he murmured. “You’re gonna push this baby out, and then," his hand slid between Jameson’s thighs again, fingers tracing his weeping hole. “Then I’ll fuck you so full you won’t remember your own name.”
Mike's fingers curled into the damp fabric of Jameson's shirt, peeling it up over the swollen curve of his belly with careful deliberation. The material clung stubbornly to sweaty skin before finally surrendering, leaving Jameson bare beneath the flickering blue glow of the PlayStation's idle screen. He shuddered as cool air hit his overheated body, his belly pressing heavily into the mattress while his ass stayed stubbornly raised, an offering Mike couldn't resist.
Positioning himself on his knees in front of Jameson, Mike groaned as those familiar lips parted for him without hesitation. Jameson's mouth was obscenely hot, his tongue dragging along the underside of Mike's cock with practiced precision. The sight alone, Jameson's flushed face, his swollen belly trapped beneath him, his thighs trembling with the effort of holding position, was almost enough to make Mike come untouched.
Then Jameson made a muffled noise around him, something between a groan and a whimper. His body tensed suddenly, shoulders bowing inward as his fingers twisted in the sheets. Mike barely registered the garbled words, something about pushing, before Jameson's throat convulsed around him, his jaw going slack as another contraction seized him.
"Fuck," Mike hissed, gripping the base of his cock to keep from thrusting forward. He could feel the rhythmic clenching of Jameson's body even through the haze of pleasure, the way his breath stuttered against Mike's thighs. "That's it, baby," he murmured, petting Jameson's damp hair with his free hand. "Good boy, pushing so good for me."
Jameson whimpered around him, his lips stretching wider as another wave of pressure crested. His nose bumped Mike's pelvis, breath coming in ragged bursts through flared nostrils. The vibrations sent sparks up Mike's spine, his hips twitching forward instinctively before he caught himself.
Jameson's breath hitched as another contraction tore through him, his fingers scrambling for purchase on Mike’s thighs. The pain was white-hot, radiating down his spine and pooling low in his pelvis, but the stretch of Mike’s cock in his mouth grounded him, gave him something to focus on besides the relentless pressure building inside him. He hollowed his cheeks, sucking reflexively as the contraction peaked, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.
Mike’s groan was ragged above him, fingers tightening in Jameson’s hair. “Jesus, *fuck*,” he hissed, hips jerking forward before he caught himself. His knuckles brushed against Jameson’s flushed cheek, thumb swiping at the tear tracks there. “You’re doing so good, baby. Just breathe through it.”
Jameson whimpered around him, his jaw aching, but he didn’t pull away. The taste of Mike on his tongue was familiar, comforting, even as another gush of fluid spilled from between his thighs, soaking the sheets beneath him.
Jameson's breath hitched sharply as the next contraction seized him, different this time, deeper, like his body was splitting apart from the inside. His fingers clawed at Mike's thighs as his back arched violently. A garbled cry vibrated around Mike's cock before he could choke it back, his throat convulsing in a way that made Mike hiss and grip the headboard for balance.
Jameson pulled off with a wet gasp, saliva trailing from his swollen lips as he fumbled blindly for Mike's wrist. His fingers trembled against Mike's pulse point, too hot, too frantic, as he dragged Mike's hand down between his spread thighs. The sheets beneath them were soaked, warm with amniotic fluid and the persistent drip of Jameson's neglected arousal, but that wasn't what made Mike's breath stutter to a halt.
His fingertips brushed something *solid* and soft and wet.
"Holy shit," Mike breathed, the last word cracking halfway through. His palm flattened against Jameson's opening, feeling the unmistakable curve of their child's head pressing outward, stretching Jameson obscenely wide. The skin burned beneath his touch, stretched taut and thinned to near-translucency. "You're doing such a good job." His thumb brushed the crown of their baby's head, and Jameson *shrieked*, his back twitching as his body seized around the intrusion.
Mike watched, transfixed, as Jameson's hole stretched, the tight ring of muscle yielding incrementally with each ragged pant. The scent, coppery and thick, hung heavy in the air between them. Jameson's thighs shook, his entire body locked in a desperate, suspended tension.
"Push," Mike ordered, his free hand sliding up to grip Jameson's hip. His fingers spanned the curve of Jameson's waist. "Come on, baby, *push*. Push our baby out."
Jameson gave up trying to contain himself and his scream tore through the room, raw and guttural, as his body bowed forward with the force of the contraction. Mike's fingers flexed against his perineum, feeling the inexorable stretch of skin as their child's head reached a full crown.
"That's it," Mike growled, pressing his forehead between Jameson's shoulder blades. His free hand slid around to cradle the taut underside of Jameson's belly, supporting the weight as Jameson's muscles rippled beneath. "Just like that."
The door slammed open with enough force to rattle the PlayStation off the dresser. Jameson barely registered the sound over his own ragged panting, until his mother's choked gasp cut through the haze of pain.
"Oh my *GOD*!" Her voice pitched into a register Jameson hadn't heard since he'd totaled her Camry at sixteen. The horror in her tone was visceral, sharper than the contractions ripping through him.
Jameson twisted his head just enough to see her frozen in the doorway, one hand clutching her chest like she might collapse. Her wide eyes darted from Jameson, arched obscenely over the ruined sheets, to Mike kneeling over him, naked and flushed, hands still braced against Jameson's spread thighs. The tableau was undeniable: the scent of sex and birth thick in the air, fluids glistening on skin, their baby's head *right there*, crowning between Jameson's parted legs.
Mike's grip on Jameson's hips tightened reflexively. "Uh," he said instinctively.
Jameson's mother made a sound like a deflating balloon. Her knees buckled.
Jameson's mother swayed on her feet, her face draining of color so fast Mike was half-convinced she'd actually faint. Hiding the pregnancy this long had been one thing. But *this*, her stepson's hands braced between her son's spread thighs, the glistening crown of a baby's head visible between them, was several bridges too far.
"*Oh my god*," she wheezed, gripping the doorframe like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Her gaze flicked between the crowning head and the mess of fluids staining the sheets beneath her son. "I-you-*what*-"
Jameson could barely registered her presence before another contraction shot through him. He threw his head back with a guttural scream, fingers clawing at the mattress as his body bowed violently. The pressure was unbearable, all-consuming, and suddenly he didn't care who was watching. He just needed this baby *out*.
"Fuck, holy fuck, come on baby," he gasped, and pushed with everything he had.
The baby came all at once, a slick, wriggling weight that slid into Mike's waiting hands with a final gush of fluid. The room fell silent except for Jameson's ragged panting and the wet, hiccuping cries of their newborn. Mike stared down at the tiny, perfect human in his palms, a boy, pink and squalling, his fists clenched tight like he was already preparing to fight the world.
Jameson's mother swayed dangerously, her fingers scrabbling against the doorframe for balance. Her mouth opened and closed soundlessly, like a fish gasping on dry land. The room smelled like something she could never forget: sex and amniotic fluid, an overwhelmingly primal combination that made her clutch her stomach.
Mike forgot all about his step mother's presence at once. His hands were full, literally, with their newborn son, umbilical cord still pulsing between his tiny legs. The baby's fists flailed, his cries sharp and indignant, as if offended by the sudden brightness of the world.
Jameson twisted onto his side with a groan, his trembling arms reaching out. "Give him here." His voice cracked, raw from screaming. Mike carefully transferred their son into Jameson's waiting arms, the baby's warm weight settling against his chest. Their fingers brushed, sticky with sweat and birth fluids, and something unspoken passed between them.
Then Jameson grabbed Mike by the back of the neck and yanked him down into a searing kiss. Mike tasted like salt and exhaustion, his lips chapped from biting back his own noises during labor. Jameson didn't care. He kissed him like it was the first time all over again, desperate and claiming, his free hand fisting in Mike's hair.
Mike laughed against his mouth, breathless. "Guess we don't have to figure out how to tell mom now," he murmured, thumb brushing their son's wrinkled forehead.
