"I told you," I murmured into the nape of his neck, breathing in the scent of him. His skin was so warm, the faint salt of dried sweat on him from the restless night. "You woke up whining about your back. And your hips. And then you started grinding your ass into me like you were trying to start a fire." I nipped at his shoulder, grinning when he shivered. "So here we are. Fire starting."

Jake laughed, breathless, and then gasped when I slid a hand down between his legs, fingers tracing the slick heat already waiting for me. "Fuck, Tyler." His voice cracked, hips jerking forward, then back against my touch. "You're such a liar. I wasn't grinding. I was *asleep.*"

"Uh huh. Sure." I curled two fingers inside him, slow, savoring the way his body clenched around me, how his belly shifted as he rocked into the motion. His skin was stretched tight over the swell of his pregnancy, warm and flawless under my palms when I smoothed my free hand over the curve of it. "Then why are you this wet?"

He groaned, tilting his head back against my shoulder. "Because you- ah- you started touching me first, jerk."

I kissed the side of his neck, sucking a mark into the soft skin there. My fingers worked deeper inside him, pressing against the spot that made his breath hitch. "Bullshit," I murmured, feeling the way his body tensed around me. His thighs trembled, his belly rising and falling with quick breaths. "You were rocking against me like you needed it. Needed me."

"Fuck you," he gasped, but his hips rolled back against my hand, greedy. His chest heaved, the soft swell of his pecs damp with sweat. I dragged my thumb over one nipple, already peaked and sensitive, and he arched into my touch with a low moan.

I pulled my fingers free, ignoring his whine of protest, and wrapped my hand around his hip instead, guiding him onto his back. The bed groaned under his weight, his belly rising like a moon between us, flushed and tight. I ducked my head, licking a stripe up his vagina before plunging my tongue in, humming when his thighs tensed around my ears.

"You taste fucking perfect," I growled against him, pressing my palms to the sides of his belly as I worked him open with my tongue. His hips jerked, his hands fisting in the sheets. His moans were ragged, breathless things, and when I glanced up, his eyes were shut tight, mouth parted around panting gasps. I dragged my thumbs over his pecs, squeezing gently, and his whole body shuddered when I caught a bead of liquid between my fingers, rubbing it into his sensitive skin.

He whimpered when I pulled back, thighs trembling as I crawled up his body. His belly pressed warm against my chest as I settled over him, and he reached for me blindly, fingers digging into my shoulders. "Don't stop," he begged, voice raw. "Please, Tyler, I need..." The words dissolved into a moan when I ground my hips against his, the friction drawing a ragged cry from him. His back arched off the mattress, belly straining between us as I pinned his wrists beside his head.

I kissed him deep, swallowing his gasps, tasting the salt on his lips. His chest was flushed, pecs swollen and sensitive under my palms, and when I rolled a nipple between my fingers, he jerked against me with a broken sound. "Look at you," I murmured against his mouth, dragging my free hand down his trembling belly to where his vagina throbbed, slick and desperate. "So fucking gorgeous like this. All mine."

His hips bucked when I pressed a finger back inside him, his thighs shaking as I worked him open slow, torturously slow, watching the way his belly tightened with every breath. "Tyler," he gasped, fingers scrabbling at my back, blunt nails digging into my skin. "Please, " he begged, voice cracking, his whole body flushed and trembling beneath me. I curled my fingers just right, pressing deep, and his cry was ragged, his legs kicking out as his belly jerked between us. I could feel the tension in him, coiled tight, his muscles trembling with the effort of holding back.

I pulled my fingers free again, ignoring his whine of protest, and gripped his hips instead, rolling him onto his side. His belly settled heavily against the mattress, his back arching as I pressed against him from behind. My cock slid between his thighs, catching against the slick heat of his vagina, and he shuddered, pressing back into me with a broken moan. "Fuck," he gasped, hands clutching at the sheets. "Tyler, please, " his voice cracked, desperate.

I didn't give him what he wanted. Not yet. Instead, I rocked against him slow, teasing, dragging my cock along his wetness without pushing inside. His breath hitched, his belly tightening as he tried to arch into me, but I held him firm, pinning him in place with my weight. "Tell me what you need," I murmured against the back of his neck, biting down just hard enough to make him whimper. "Say it."

"Youre such a jerk," he panted, hips twitching helplessly. His belly pressed into the mattress, the curve of it shifting with every ragged breath. "You know what I, ah, fuck, " The words dissolved into a moan as I finally, finally pushed inside, just the tip, letting him feel the stretch before pulling back again.

His hands clawed at the sheets. "Tyler, I swear to god, " His voice was wrecked already, trembling with the effort of holding back, his whole body taut. I could feel the way his muscles fluttered around me, desperate, his belly tensing as I pressed in deeper this time, just enough to make him gasp.

I leaned over him, my chest pressed to his back, and dragged my palm down the heavy swell of his stomach, feeling the way it tightened under my touch. His skin was hot, stretched impossibly full, and when I squeezed gently, he moaned, his hips jerking. "Tell me," I murmured against his ear, my voice rough. "Tell me what you want, or I stop."

His breath hitched, his fingers twisting in the sheets. "Fuck me," he gasped, his voice wrecked. "Please, Tyler, just, ah, just fuck me, I can't, " The rest of his sentence dissolved into a shuddering cry as I finally, finally sheathed myself inside him in one smooth thrust. His body clenched around me instantly, hot and perfect, his belly pressing into the mattress as he arched back against me.

I groaned, gripping his hip tight, my other hand splayed over the curve of his stomach. His skin was stretched taut, warm under my palm, and I could feel the faint movements beneath, our baby shifting restlessly inside him as I rocked into him slow and deep. "That's it," I murmured, biting at his shoulder. "Take it. Take me."

Jake's breath came in ragged gasps, his fingers twisting the sheets as his body opened for me, his vagina clenching around my cock like he was trying to keep me inside. His belly was a heavy weight against the bed, his hips canting back to meet every thrust, and the sight of him, spread out beneath me, swollen and flushed and *mine*, made my chest ache. I dragged my hand up his stomach, over the tight swell, and cupped his pec, thumbing at his nipple just to hear him whimper.

"Look at you," I growled, my voice rough. His skin was damp with sweat, his back arching as I fucked into him deeper, slower, savoring the way his body yielded to me. His legs trembled, his thighs slick where they pressed against mine, and when I pinched his nipple lightly, he sobbed, his hips jerking. "So fucking perfect like this." His stomach tightened under my palm, and I could feel the fullness beneath. The thought sent a possessive thrill through me.

I shifted my grip, wrapping an arm around his waist, pulling him flush against me as I snapped my hips forward. Jake cried out, his hands scrambling for purchase on the sheets, his belly pressing into the mattress with each thrust. His chest heaved, his pecs swollen and sensitive, and when I dragged my fingers over them, he shuddered, a thin stream of milk beading at one nipple. I couldn’t resist. I ducked my head, licking a slow stripe over the dampness, and he gasped, his back bowing as his fingers twisted in my hair. "Tyler, " His voice broke, his thighs clenching around me.

I groaned against his skin, biting gently at the tender flesh as my hips rolled into him, deep and deliberate. The way he took me, hot and slick and *needy*, drove me wild. His stomach tensed beneath my palm, his breath coming in ragged pants, and when I pressed down slightly, feeling the weight of him, he moaned, his hips canting back to meet me harder. "Fuck, you’re so fucking gorgeous," I rasped, my voice thick. His body was a masterpiece, stretched tight with pregnancy, flushed and trembling under my touch, and I couldn’t get enough.

With a sharp tug, I rolled him onto his back, his heavy belly rising between us like a perfect curve, flushed and trembling. Jake gasped as his legs were pushed back, thighs spreading wide, his stomach bulging as I settled between them. His pecs heaved with each breath, his nipples peaked and damp, and when I ran my hands up his thighs, gripping tight, his whole body shuddered. "Tyler, " His voice cracked, his hands scrambling to grip his own knees, holding himself open for me. The sight punched the air from my lungs, his swollen belly, his slick vagina, his flushed chest, all laid out just for me, just *mine*.

I didn't hesitate. I pushed back into him in one smooth thrust, my stomach pressing against the taut swell of his pregnancy, our skin sliding together with every movement. Jake arched off the bed with a choked cry, his belly jutting between us, his legs trembling where they were hooked over my arms. The heat of him was overwhelming, his body clenching around me like he was trying to keep me inside, and when I dragged my hands down to grip his hips, his stomach tightened visibly, the muscles straining beneath the skin.

"God, look at you," I growled, my voice rough. His pecs were flushed, his nipples dark and swollen, and when I ducked my head to suck one into my mouth, he sobbed, his hands flying to my hair. The taste of him, salt and something richer, something uniquely *Jake*, made my hips jerk harder, driving deeper into him. His legs tightened around me, his belly shifting with every thrust, and when I pulled back to look at him, his face was wrecked, his lips parted around ragged gasps.

His stomach was a perfect curve between us, flushed and tight, and when I dragged my palm down the center of it, he shuddered, his muscles clenching around me. "Feel that?" I murmured, pressing just enough to feel the firmness beneath. "That's me. Right there." His breath hitched, his hips twitching helplessly, and when I rolled my hips slow, deep, he moaned, his back arching off the bed. His thighs trembled, his stomach tensing, and I could feel the way his body was tightening, coiling, his vagina gripping me like he never wanted to let go.

His hands scrabbled at my shoulders, blunt nails digging in, and when I leaned down to kiss him, his mouth was hot, desperate. His pecs brushed against my chest, swollen and sensitive, and when I ground against him just right, he broke the kiss with a ragged cry, his head tipping back. His stomach was taut beneath my fingers, the skin stretched impossibly full, and when I pressed my thumb against his nipple, he jerked, a thin trail of milk spilling over my hand. "Fuck," I groaned, dragging my wet fingers down his belly, smearing the dampness between us. "You’re so perfect like this."

Jake’s breath came in hitches, his thighs tightening around my hips as I fucked into him deeper, harder, the bed creaking beneath us. His stomach quivered with every thrust, his muscles straining, and when I wrapped a hand around the curve of it, he whimpered, his back arching. "Tyler, I, I can't." His voice cracked, his fingers clutching at my arms, and I could feel the way his body was winding tighter, clenching around me like a vice. "I’m close, fuck, I’m so close."

I growled, pressing my forehead to his, my hips snapping forward in a brutal rhythm. His stomach was a hot, heavy weight between us, his skin slick with sweat, and when I dragged my fingers down to where we were joined, circling his swollen clit, he *screamed*, his legs shaking. "Come for me," I rasped, biting at his jaw. "Let go." His body obeyed instantly, his back bowing off the bed as he came, his stomach tightening impossibly more, his pecs heaving. He was milking my cock, and I groaned, fucking him through it, dragging out every last shudder.

His stomach was still taut, his legs trembling where they wrapped around me, and when I thumbed at his nipple again, he whimpered, oversensitive. The taste of his sweat was sharp on my tongue as I kissed him, swallowing his moans, my hips never slowing. "One more," I murmured against his lips, my voice rough. "Give me one more." His eyes fluttered shut, his stomach rising with each gasping breath, and when I hooked his leg over my shoulder, angling deeper, he keened, his hands clutching at the sheets.

I smoothed my palm over the heavy swell of his belly, feeling the tension beneath, the way his muscles fluttered as he fought another orgasm. His skin was hot, stretched impossibly full, and when I pressed down slightly, rubbing slow circles, he shuddered, his hips jerking. "Tyler, " His voice cracked, his thighs tensing around me, and I could feel the way his body was tightening again, his vagina clenching around me in desperate pulses. "Fuck, I can't, " The words dissolved into a broken moan as I rocked into him harder, my hand never leaving his stomach, fingers tracing the curve of it like I could memorize him by touch alone.

Jake's breath hitched, his back arching as another wave crashed over him, his body seizing around me with a ragged cry. His stomach tightened visibly beneath my palm, his pecs heaving, and when I dragged my thumb over his nipple, a fresh bead of milk spilled over my fingers. He sobbed, oversensitive but still canting his hips into every thrust, his legs trembling where they hooked around my waist. "That's it," I growled, pressing my forehead to his, my hips never slowing. "Just like that." His belly was a perfect weight in my hand, warm and alive, and when I squeezed gently, he whimpered, his nails digging into my shoulders.

But then his hands went slack, his thighs dropping open as he sagged into the mattress, his breath coming in exhausted pants. "Tyler, I can't," he gasped, his voice raw. "Too much, I, " His stomach tensed again, his face twisting, and I pulled out instantly, gathering him against me as he shuddered. His belly pressed heavy between us, his skin slick with sweat, and when I smoothed my palm down the curve of it, he whined, oversensitive but still arching into my touch. "Shh," I murmured, kissing his temple. "Got you."

I shifted us onto our sides, spooning him from behind, my arm draped over his waist, my hand splayed across the swell of his stomach. Jake exhaled shakily, his body limp against mine, but his hips twitched restlessly, his legs shifting like he couldn't get comfortable. His belly was a solid weight against my forearm, the skin stretched impossibly tight, and when I rubbed slow circles over the taut curve, he groaned, pressing back into me. "Hurts," he mumbled, his voice thick with exhaustion. "Can't, fuck, can't get-"

Before he could finish, his body jerked, his stomach tightening abruptly beneath my palm. A sharp gasp tore from his throat, his hands flying to his belly, and then, wet heat spilled between his thighs, soaking the sheets beneath us. Jake went rigid, his breath hitching. "Tyler," he whispered, his voice trembling. "My water just broke."

The words hung in the air. I could feel the sudden tension in his body, the way his stomach clenched again, harder this time, his breath coming in short, sharp pants. My palm stayed pressed to his belly, grounding him, even as my own pulse kicked into overdrive. "Okay," I murmured against the nape of his neck, my voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through me. "It's okay. Youve got a ways to go."

Jake's fingers clutched at my arm, his nails biting in, but his hips rocked back against me instinctively, seeking comfort even as another contraction rippled through him. His stomach was a firm, unyielding weight beneath my hand, his skin flushed and when I pressed a kiss to his shoulder, his breath hitched, part fear, part determination. "Fuck," he rasped, his voice cracking. "It's happening."

"Shh," I murmured, smoothing my palm down the taut swell of his belly, feeling the muscles tighten again beneath my fingers. He groaned, his legs shifting restlessly, his thighs slick with sweat and the remnants of our earlier passion. "Just breathe. You've got time."

He whimpered, pressing his forehead into the pillow, but his body tensed again a minute later, his stomach hardening visibly. His breath came in short, sharp pants, his fingers twisting in the sheets. "Hurts," he gasped, his hips canting forward helplessly.

I curled around him tighter, my chest flush against his back, my hand never leaving the curve of his stomach. "I know," I whispered, pressing my lips to the damp nape of his neck. "You're doing so good."

The hours stretched, slow and relentless, Jake drifting between exhaustion and the sharp spikes of pain. His contractions came steady but spaced apart, giving him just enough time to catch his breath before the next one gripped him. His belly was a heavy, shifting weight between us, his skin stretched impossibly full, and when I rubbed slow circles over it, he sighed, his muscles easing slightly.

"Try to sleep," I murmured, my voice low against his ear.

He snorted weakly, his fingers flexing against mine. "Easy for you to say," he muttered, but his eyelids fluttered shut, his body limp between contractions.

When the next wave hit, he arched with a stifled cry, his stomach tightening beneath my palm. His breath came in ragged gasps, his thighs trembling, and I held him through it, murmuring nonsense against his skin until it passed.

Outside, the sky lightened, dawn creeping in around the edges of the curtains. Jake groaned, shifting against me, his belly pressing warm and solid into my hand. "Still fucking here," he mumbled, his voice thick with exhaustion.

I kissed his shoulder, my fingers tracing idle patterns over his skin. "You're doing perfect," I promised.

He exhaled shakily, his hips rocking forward slightly as another contraction built. His fingers found mine, squeezing tight. "Don't let go," he whispered.

His professor, refered to as just that, paused, turning with an amused tilt of his head. His sleeves were rolled up past his beefy forearms, ink smudged along the side of his hand from grading earlier. "You’ve had three weeks to ask about citations, Kento." His voice was warm, teasing. "But sure. What’s the crisis?"

Kento swallowed. Crisis wasn’t the word he’d use, but it wasn’t entirely wrong either. He’d been sitting in the back row for weeks, staring at the way the man's muscular shoulders moved under his button-ups when he wrote on the whiteboard, the way his laugh echoed slightly in the room during discussions. It wasn’t like Kento had planned for this, how he felt. He couldn't have. He'd only dated girls before, had even hooked up with a couple after parties last semester. But his professor was different.

"You can go ahead and ask." The professor filled the lull Kento's nervousness had created. "And just call me Cole," the professor said, leaning back against the edge of his desk, arms folding across his chest. "'Professor' makes me feel too old." The movement made the fabric of his shirt strain slightly over his biceps which were thick and defined. The kind Kento had only seen on guys who spent serious time in the gym. Cole wasn't tall, more than a few inches shorter than Kento himself, but his compact build carried an undeniable presence. He raised an eyebrow, waiting.

Kento cleared his throat, suddenly hyperaware of how flimsy his excuse sounded now that he was standing here, alone with him. "Right. Uh. Citations." He flipped open his notebook pointlessly, scanning lines he’d already memorized. "I just- I wasn’t sure if we had to use APA or MLA for the midterm. Since you didn’t specify."

Cole’s lips twitched. He pushed off the desk, stepping closer. Not enough to crowd Kento, but enough that Kento could smell the faint, clean scent of his aftershave. "Kid, the syllabus has said APA since day one." His voice wasn’t mocking, just… amused. "You really stayed after class for that? Is something else on your mind?"

Kento’s face burned. He was taller, sure, but Cole’s sheer physicality made him feel small in a way that wasn’t unpleasant. His gaze flicked down, just for a second, to where Cole’s forearms flexed slightly as he adjusted his watch.

Kento's throat tightened as Cole's amused stare lingered. The air between them crackled with something unspoken, something Kento had been turning over in his head for weeks. He swallowed hard, fingers curling into his palms. "I didn't-" His voice cracked. He tried again. "I didn't stay for the citations."

Cole's eyebrow arched higher, but his smirk softened into something more curious. "No?"

"No." Kento exhaled sharply, shoulders squaring as he forced the words out. "I just... wanted to get you alone." The confession hung between them, raw and clumsy. Heat crawled up his neck, but he held Cole's gaze, refusing to look away even as his pulse hammered in his ears.

For a heartbeat, Cole said nothing. Then his lips twitched, a slow, knowing tilt that sent a fresh wave of embarrassment through Kento. "Ah." Cole shifted his weight, arms uncrossing as he leaned back slightly. "So it's a crush, then."

Kento's hands clenched at his sides, his jaw tightening at Cole's words. A crush. Like he was some wide-eyed freshman mooning over a TA. The condescension in that single syllable - "ah" -sent a sharp bolt of irritation through him. Who was this guy to put words in his mouth? To assume he's into that? Was he into that?

Kento wanted to respond but his lungs wouldn't let him. Instead, he found himself stepping forward before he could second guess himself. The space between them vanished in two long strides, his taller frame looming over Cole as he caged him against the desk. Cole's amused expression flickered into surprise, then something darker, hotter, before Kento crushed their mouths together.

The kiss was rough, unpolished, all teeth and desperation. Kento expected resistance, a hand shoving him back, but Cole groaned instead, fingers tangling in Kento's shirt to drag him closer. The heat of Cole's body, the solid bulk of him pressed flush against Kento's chest, sent a dizzying rush of triumph through him.

Then Cole was pushing him back, just enough to twist around, reaching past Kento's shoulder toward the door. The metallic click of the lock echoed in the quiet room. Kento barely had time to process the sound before Cole's hands were on him again, gripping his hips hard enough to bruise as he hauled Kento forward.

Cole’s breath hitched when Kento’s fingers dug into his hips, yanking him forward hard enough to make the desk shudder. His thighs spread instinctively, a low, ragged sound escaping his throat as Kento ground against him. The friction was electric, almost painful in its intensity, and Cole arched into it with a hunger that made Kento’s pulse spike.

Then Cole’s hand caught his wrist, stopping him. His grip was firm, but his voice was softer than Kento expected when he spoke. "Just hold on." Cole’s chest rose and fell unevenly, his lips swollen from their kiss. "Before we go further, you should know, my body’s not exactly... typical."

Kento frowned, heat prickling under his skin. "What the hell does that mean?"

Cole exhaled sharply, his thumb tracing slow circles over Kento’s pulse point. "It means," he said carefully, "you might be surprised when you get my pants off."

Kento’s gut twisted, but he shrugged, forcing his fingers to relax. "Whatever. Doesn’t matter." He didn’t care, he couldn’t care, not with the way Cole’s body was pressed against his, thick and solid and real. He just wanted to get this going.

Kento's fingers fumbled with the button of Cole's slacks, his breath coming in short, impatient bursts. Cole's warning echoed in his head but right now, the only thing that mattered was getting his hands on skin. The zipper gave way, and Kento shoved the fabric down past Cole's hips in one rough motion.

The sight hit him like a punch to the gut.

No cock. Just the damp fabric of Cole's boxers clinging to the unmistakable curve of his cunt. Kento's stomach lurched, his grip tightening reflexively on Cole's waist. Cole exhaled sharply, his thighs tensing under Kento's touch, but he didn't pull away.

Kento didn't give himself time to think. He dropped to his knees, yanking Cole's boxers down just enough to expose him, and buried his face between Cole's thighs before the shock could settle in. The taste was familiar, salt and musk, but the low, ragged groan Cole let out wasn't. It was deep, masculine, vibrating through Kento's skull as he licked into him, rough and impatient.

For a second, Kento could almost pretend this was just some girl from his dorm, some nameless hookup who'd let him push her against a wall after last call. But Cole's fingers twisted in his hair, tugging hard enough to sting, and the illusion shattered. The sounds Cole made, guttural, unfiltered, weren't feminine. They weren't the sounds somebody with a vagina would make.

The thought coiled hot and ugly in Kento’s gut: this is no woman but it is no man either. He dragged Cole forward by the hips, fingers digging into flesh hard enough to leave marks. Cole’s breath hitched, but he didn’t resist, letting Kento maneuver him until his chest pressed flat against the desk, scattering graded papers under his weight. Kento didn’t pause, didn’t think, just spat into his palm and shoved his cock into Cole without warning, the tight heat almost unbearable. Cole’s choked gasp sounded more like a growl, his shoulders tensing as his fingers clawed at the desk’s edge.

Kento fucked him like he wanted to erase something, each thrust sharp enough to make the desk legs screech against the linoleum. He hated how good it felt, how Cole’s body yielded to him, how the wet slide of him was perfect in a way that twisted Kento’s stomach. "Fuck," he gritted out, nails scraping down Cole’s back, leaving angry red trails. "You-" He didn’t finish the thought, just snapped his hips harder, chasing the friction that made his vision blur.

Cole arched into it, his breath coming in ragged bursts. "Yeah," he rasped, voice wrecked, deep and rough in a way that shouldn’t have matched the body beneath Kento. "Like that- fuck- just like that." The words punched the air from Kento’s lungs. It was wrong, all of it, the way Cole’s muscles flexed under his grip, the way he took Kento’s anger and gave back nothing but hungry encouragement.

Kento’s hips stuttered, the sharp, rhythmic slaps of skin against skin faltering as pressure built in his gut. His fingers bit into Cole’s hips hard enough to bruise, pulling him back onto his cock with a force that made the desk shudder beneath them. Cole’s breath hitched as Kento buried himself deep, his release spilling hot inside him.

For a suspended moment, Kento stayed like that, shuddering, his forehead pressed between Cole’s shoulder blades while his cock twitched inside him. The silence was thick, broken only by their labored breathing and the faint rustle of papers still scattered beneath Cole’s chest. Kento blinked, sweat dripping from his brow onto Cole’s skin, the reality of what he’d just done crashing down on him. He’d fucked his professor raw against his own desk, came in him without a second thought, and now he was still inside him, panting like an animal.

Cole shifted slightly, the movement sending a fresh wave of sensation through Kento’s oversensitive nerves. He gritted his teeth, pulling out with a wet sound that made his face burn. His cum glistened between Cole’s thighs, a stark, undeniable truth that twisted something sharp in Kento’s chest.

Cole didn’t move, still braced against the desk, his breath uneven. Kento expected what? Shame? Disgust? But Cole just turned his head slightly, catching Kento’s gaze with dark, heavy-lidded eyes. His lips were bitten red, his beard rough with stubble where Kento had gripped his jaw earlier. He looked wrecked, and Kento hated how much that thrilled him.

"Good?" Cole asked, voice roughened, like gravel. He smirked when Kento didn’t answer immediately, pushing himself upright with a slow, deliberate movement. Kento watched, pulse still hammering, as Cole tugged his pants back up with a casual ease, like this was just another Tuesday. The wet spot on his boxers didn’t seem to faze him.

The encounters became a pattern after that first time. Always furtive and rough, always in Cole’s classroom or office after hours, always without discussion. Kento would linger after class with some flimsy excuse about assignments or citations, and Cole would lock the door behind them with that same knowing smirk. It was easier not to think about what it meant, easier to lose himself in the heat of Cole’s body, the way he took whatever Kento gave him without complaint.

Months passed like that, the rhythm of their meetings settling into something almost routine. Until one evening, Kento noticed something different. Cole’s body wasn’t as sharply defined as it had been. His arms were still thick, but softer, his stomach no longer toned beneath Kento’s hands. When he gripped Cole’s hips to pull him closer, his fingers sank into flesh where they’d once met resistance.

Kento didn’t say anything. He wasn’t sure what to say. Instead, he found his hands drifting to Cole’s stomach as he fucked him, pressing his palms flat against the slight swell there. It wasn’t much, just enough to notice, but Kento couldn’t stop touching it, couldn’t stop wondering. Cole arched into him with a groan, his body responding eagerly even as Kento’s mind raced.

Later, when they were both spent and panting, Kento sat beside Cole on the cramped office couch, his fingers tracing idle circles over Cole’s stomach. Cole didn’t comment, just exhaled slowly, his eyes half lidded with satisfaction. The silence between them was heavy, but not uncomfortable. Kento wanted to ask, wanted to demand an explanation, but the words stuck in his throat.

It wasn’t until weeks later, when Cole’s stomach had grown undeniably rounder, his shirts straining slightly at the buttons, that Kento finally let himself acknowledge what was happening. He’d known, somewhere deep down, but admitting it felt like stepping off a cliff. Cole was pregnant. He didnt know what Cole got up to when he wasn't around but he knew there was a very real possibility that baby was his.

Kento’s fingers splayed across Cole’s stomach as he rocked into him, the swell pressing back against his palm with each thrust. The weight of it was impossible to ignore now- the firm curve of Cole’s belly, warm and alive under Kento’s touch. Cole’s hand slid over Kento’s, pressing down slightly, guiding him to feel the way his body moved with theirs. Neither of them spoke. The only sounds were the wet slap of skin, the creak of the office couch, and Cole’s low, ragged breaths.

The silence was a living thing between them, thick with everything they refused to say. Kento’s grip tightened, his fingertips digging into Cole’s flesh as if he could imprint himself there, claim some part of this that wasn’t just sweat and friction. Cole arched beneath him, his thighs trembling, his free hand fisting in the cushions. His stomach tensed under Kento’s palm, and for a fleeting, terrifying second, Kento imagined he felt something shift, like a kick, a pulse of life neither of them would acknowledge.

Afterward, Kento stayed buried inside him longer than usual, his forehead resting against Cole’s shoulder, his hand still cradling the curve of Cole’s belly. Cole didn’t push him away, just breathed slow and even, his fingers trailing absently through Kento’s hair. The room smelled like sex and cheap office air freshener, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead. Kento could feel Cole’s heartbeat where their skin touched, steady and strong.

Weeks bled into months. Cole’s stomach grew rounder, heavier, his shirts riding up to expose the taut skin beneath. Kento’s hands learned the new contours of him in the way his hips widened, the softness of his thighs, the way his chest filled out just enough to notice. Sometimes, when Cole thought Kento wasn’t looking, he’d cradle his own stomach, his expression unreadable. Kento pretended not to see.

Then came the day Cole didn’t show up to lecture. Kento sat through the entire hour, his knee bouncing under the desk, his notes untouched. When the room emptied, he lingered, staring at the locked office door across the hall. He told himself he wasn’t worried. Told himself he didn’t care. But his feet carried him there anyway, his knuckles rapping against the wood before he could stop himself.

No answer came from Cole’s office. Kento knocked again, harder this time, the sharp rap echoing down the empty hallway. Silence. His pulse kicked up, fingers twitching at his sides. Something nagged at him, a gnawing unease that coiled low in his gut. He didn't want to care but he did.

The door was unlocked when he tried it.

The sight that greeted him punched the air from his lungs. Cole was sprawled on the floor between his desk and the couch, one hand braced against his swollen stomach, the other gripping the edge of the desk for support. His face was pale, sweat beading along his hairline, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

Kento froze in the doorway, his brain scrambling to process. "What the fuck?" The words tumbled out before he could stop them.

Cole’s head jerked up, his eyes wide with something between pain and annoyance. "Door," he gritted out, his voice strained. "Close it."

Kento slammed the door shut behind him, the lock clicking into place with a finality that made his pulse spike. The scent of sweat, something metallic underneath, and the faint musk of Cole’s skin hit him. His professor was propped against the desk, his thighs spread wide, pants soaked through at the crotch. His t-shirt clung to the massive swell of his stomach, the outline of it taut and round under Kento’s stunned gaze.

"You-" Kento’s voice cracked. His hands hovered uselessly at his sides. "Are you-?"

"Labor," Cole ground out, his jaw tightening as another contraction visibly rippled through him. His knuckles whitened around the desk edge. "Obviously."

Kento’s brain short circuited. Labor. As in right now. As in here, in this cramped office. His mouth went dry. "Shouldn’t you be at a hospital?"

Cole barked a laugh that dissolved into a groan, his head tipping back against the desk. "Bit late for that." He panted, chest heaving. "My water broke. And the contraction just kept coming. Less than a minute apart now." His voice was ragged, strained. "Get over here."

Kento's body moved before his brain caught up, dropping to his knees beside Cole with a graceless thud. Cole's legs shook wildly, his breath hitching as another contraction seized him.

"Fuck," Cole gritted out, his fingers scrabbling at Kento's forearm. "Get these off me." His voice was raw, stripped of its usual controlled cadence. Kento's hands shook as he fumbled with the waistband of Cole's soaked pants, yanking them down and also lifting his shirt past the swollen curve of his belly. The sight stole the air from Kento's lungs. Cole's thighs were slick with fluid, his hole dilated and straining. His belly bigger than any pregnant woman Kento had ever seen, and hard as a rock.

Cole arched suddenly, a guttural noise tearing from his throat. "Hands," he demanded, thrusting a palm toward Kento. "Now." Kento barely had time to interlace their fingers before Cole was crushing his bones together, his entire body bowing off the floor. The veins in his neck stood out like cables, tendons straining under sweating skin.

Kento watched, transfixed, as Cole's stomach visibly tightened, the skin pulling taut over the swell. A low, animal sound escaped Cole's clenched teeth, his free hand clawing at his own thigh. Kento could see it now, the crown of the baby's head stretching Cole obscenely wide, dark hair matted with fluids.

"Push," Kento heard himself say, his voice foreign to his own ears. Cole's laugh was a broken thing, his breath ragged. "No shit," he gasped, then bore down with a snarl that sounded more like a wounded predator than a man. Kento's free hand moved without thought, pressing against Cole's lower back where the muscles seized violently.

Cole's next scream was raw, from his gut, his body arching off the floor as Kento's fingers dug into his hip. The baby's head emerged slick and dark, tiny face squashed against Cole's trembling thigh. Kento's stomach flipped when he saw the baby's face. There was no mistaking those features, the unmistakable slant of the eyes, the same as his own. His throat locked.

"Again," Cole panted, nails biting into Kento's wrist. "Now- fucking-" His words dissolved into a groan as his body clenched, shoulders pressing hard into the desk behind him. The baby's shoulders slid free in a rush of fluid, the tiny body landing heavy in Kento's waiting hands before he could think.

The silence that followed was deafening. Then the infant's first wail split the air, high and furious. Cole collapsed backward, chest heaving, his arms limp at his sides. Kento stared at the squirming, red faced thing in his hands. This child was his. Undeniably his. That's all he could think.

Cole reached for the baby with shaking fingers. "Give," he rasped, voice wrecked. Kento transferred the squalling infant automatically, watching as Cole cradled it against his bare chest with a tenderness that made Kento's ribs ache. Cole's thumb brushed over the baby's cheek, smearing blood and vernix, his expression unreadable.

Kento's jeans were soaked, his knees numb from the floor. He should say something. Do something. But all he could focus on was the way Cole's shoulders curved around the baby, the protective hunch of his body, like he was already bracing for Kento to rip the child away.

The baby's cries bounced off the office walls, shrill and insistent. Kento watched, frozen, as Cole shifted with a wince, trying to sit up straighter against the desk. His thighs were still spread wide, trembling with exhaustion, the afterbirth glistening between them. Kento's stomach twisted. He should... fuck, he didn't know what he should do.

"Towel," Cole muttered, not looking up. His voice was hoarse, rough from screaming. "Desk drawer."

Kento moved mechanically, yanking the drawer open too hard. A stack of graded papers spilled onto the floor. He ignored them, grabbing the folded gym towel from the back. It smelled faintly of detergent and Cole's aftershave. When he turned back, Cole had the baby cradled in one arm, his other hand pressing absently at his own stomach. Kento thrust the towel toward him, careful not to touch the baby.

Cole took it without comment, draping it over the infant's tiny body. His fingers lingered for a second, tracing the curve of the baby's ear. An ear that, Kento noticed with a jolt, had the same slight fold at the top as his own.

Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Kento's palms itched. He wiped them on his jeans, leaving streaks of sweat and blood.

The baby's cries softened to hiccuping whimpers against Cole's chest, tiny fingers curling into fists against the towel draped over him. Kento swallowed hard, his throat dry as sandpaper. His gaze flicked between Cole's exhausted face and the squirming bundle in his arms.

"It's a..." Kento's voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "Boy or girl?"

"I'm going to pop you today," I murmur, running my hand over the curve of his swollen belly. The skin is stretched taut, warm under my palm, the faint throb of a pulse beneath it. His breath hitches when my fingers dip lower, tracing the stretch marks that fan out like cracks in porcelain. He doesn’t pull away. He can’t.

His thighs part instinctively when I press between them, the slick heat there betraying him. The scent of him is thick, musky, ripe with pregnancy and arousal. I drag my knuckles through the wetness, watching his stomach jump as he shudders. "Still getting off on this, huh?" My thumb circles his clit, slow and teasing. "Even now."

He whines, high and desperate, hips twitching up into my touch, pushing his back against the bed. His chest has become tits, and they are heavy, leaking, and I squeeze one just to hear him gasp. The dark pink of his nipples is almost purple, sensitive from pregnancy hormones. I pinch hard enough to make him cry out, but his groin jerks forward and a dark flush spreads down his chest. His body responds so clearly to me.

I spread his legs wider, kneeling between them. He obeys with ease. The head of my cock nudges against his soaked hole, and he tenses at entry, not to resist, just the instinctive clench of a body too used to taking me. I push in slow, savoring the way his cunt grips me, hot and greedy. His belly bumps against mine as I bottom out, and he lets out a broken moan. "Fuck," he breathes, voice wrecked. "Fuck, fuck..."

I drag out almost all the way before slamming back in, making him arch off the bed. His swollen stomach bounces with the force of it, his tits slapping down on the mound, nipples hard and beading. The wet sound of our fucking fills the room, mingling with his choked gasps. He’s squeezing around me like he’s trying to milk me dry, the back of his thighs trembling against my hips.

Leaning over him, I press my palm flat against the underside of his belly, pushing up slightly, just enough to make him whimper. "Think this’ll break your water?" I grind deep, twisting my hips to rub against that spot inside him that makes his toes curl. His whole body jerks, a ragged cry tearing from his throat as he cums, cunt pulsing around me. "Fuck, you’re real close," I growl. "Aren’t you? Close to cumming. Close to popping."

I don’t let up, driving into him harder, the bed creaking under us. His hands scramble at the sheets, his back bowing as another orgasm rips through him. The slick gush between his thighs wasn't just arousal now, his hole keeps clenching rhythmically, his breath coming in shallow pants. "Please," he sobs, voice wrecked. "Please, I can’t..." But I don’t stop. Not until I’m buried inside him, spilling deep as his stomach tightens under my hand.

His belly quivers, and I watch his face twist in confusion before realization hits. His water was leaking and now breaks in a warm rush between us, soaking the sheets. He whines, thighs trembling, his hole still fluttering around my cock. "There it is," I murmur, dragging my fingers through the mess. "That's a good boy. There is it." He looks wrecked, tears streaking his cheeks, his beat red, swollen gut heaving with every breath. "You’re gonna push for me soon, aren’t you?"

I pull out just to watch his cunt twitch, gaping and slick. He whimpers when I shove two fingers back inside, curling them deep. "Fuck, you’re not so tight anymore," I groan. "Your body is getting ready." His hips jerk, oversensitive but still hungry. I scissor my fingers, stretching him wider, feeling the way his body fights to clench down. "You wanna cum again? Before the real work starts?"

His answer is a broken moan, his thighs shaking as I rub his clit with my thumb. He wouldn't say no even if he could. He’s so close. I can feel it in the way his breath stutters, the way his cunt grips my fingers like it’s begging for more. I lean down to bite his nipple, hard, and he screams as he cums from that alone, his stomach tightening in a way that’s not just pleasure anymore. "Good," I whisper against his skin. "That's my good boy. Let's get this baby out of you."

I flip him onto his hands and knees, a task much harder now than it was 10 months ago, despite his full submission. His swollen belly hangs heavy beneath him, resting on the bed. He gasps when I shove between his cheeks, his pussy still throbbing from his last orgasm. The angle’s deeper like this, and I can feel the way his body tenses around me with every contraction. "Push," I order, slamming into him harder, my hands gripping his hips. "Fucking push." He sobs, but his body obeys, his cunt clenching rhythmically as he bears down.

The head of my cock pushes through his ass cheeks and I know he is hurting from his other opening. His whimpers are raw, his fingers clawing at the sheets. But both his holes are still slick, still hungry, and when I reach around to stroke his t-dick, he breaks, another orgasm ripping through him. "That’s it, bitch," I growl, feeling his body squeeze me impossibly tighter. "Take it. Take all of it."

His scream is ragged when the next contraction hits, his stomach visibly tightening as his cunt convulses and bulges slowly. I can feel the shift inside him from below, the pressure building, and I don’t pull out from his ass, not even when he sobs my name, not even when his body locks up, his back arching as the first real push tears through him. "Fuck," I grit out, thrusting deeper, my fingers digging into his flesh. "Let me feel you work."

His thighs are slick with sweat and amniotic fluid, his hole clenching in waves as the baby crowns. The stretch is obscene, his body opening impossibly wider around the child forcing its way out. His t-dick twitches untouched, I flick at it and give his belly a pat, producing a wet echo. His breath is coming in short, panicked gasps. "You’re doing so good," I lie, not really knowing. My voice is rough, my hips are still moving, fucking him through it. "Just take it."

The moment the baby slides free, his body squeezes down hard, greedy, even now, milking my cock as I groan and spill inside him again. He collapses onto his elbows, trembling. The newborn wails between his legs, and he attempts to move down to see his baby, but I don’t let him and I don't pull out, not yet. I stroke his t-dick from behind instead, slow and teasing, watching his spent body jerk. "Baby is fine. You're going to give me one more. One more," I murmur, pressing my lips to the sweat damp curve of his spine. "Just one more. For daddy. Then you can admire my work."

Now he has to go month after month expanding with a large baby making the clothes he wore ridiculous having weird cravings nauseas all the time. He even grows massive tits! ( if you like to add that detail ) he goes through nine months of hell as his hairy belly gets to full term he even gives birth at school.

The dorm bathroom smelled like mildew and cheap body spray. Hayden leaned into the mirror, fingers pressing into the sharp angles of his jaw, tracing the shadow of stubble he'd worked so hard to cultivate. His reflection glared back, all sharp edges and restless energy.

His phone buzzed against the sink, another message from some nervous kid begging him to lay off. Hayden smirked, thumbs tapping out a reply before tossing it into his open duffel. Let them squirm. The world had spent years making him feel small. Now it was his turn. He had proudly become all he had feared when he was once a nervous kid himself.

The common room was already packed when he strode in. A girl in a crop top watched him over the rim of her energy drink, lips quirking. Hayden met her stare, slow and deliberate, until she looked away first. His pulse kicked up. This was power. And he was fucking starving for it.

"I hear that you bite," she said later, pressed against the lockers where he'd cornered her after following her out of commons. Hayden grinned, all teeth, and leaned in close enough to smell her vanilla perfume. "Only if you ask nice," he murmured, fingers skating up her thigh. "Come with me back to my dorm. I want to make you feel good." She exhaled sharply through her nose: challenge accepted.

His dorm smelled like any 19 year olds would, paired with his sheets rumpled from late nights. Hayden pushed her onto the bed with more confidence than he felt, working her skirt down her hips with practiced indifference. The fabric pooled around her ankles, and there it was. Thick, flushed, already leaking against her stomach. Hayden froze. His mouth went dry, then extremely wet. She was big. Real big.

She arched an eyebrow, stroking herself lazily. "Problem?" The question was a dare. Hayden's brain short circuited. He'd spent years perfecting this persona, this body, this fucking lie. And now here she was, a mirror. A threat. He felt himself grow warm in his boxers. Fuck. Fuck. He dropped to his knees.

Her fingers tangled in his bleached buzzcut, guiding his mouth onto her. The taste was salt and musk and something electric. Hayden gagged, then groaned, letting her thrust deeper. When she pulled back, her thumb smeared precome across his lips. "Your turn," she purred. His boxers hit the floor before he'd registered moving.

The cold air hit his opening first, that slick, exposed vulnerability he'd tried to forget. Her laugh was low, triumphant. "Knew it." Then her tongue was on him, flattening against his clit with cruel precision. Hayden's hips jerked. He bit his own wrist to muffle the noise, but it was useless. She sucked him into her mouth like she was starving, and he came embarrassingly fast, shaking.

Before he could recover, she flipped him onto his stomach. The condom wrapper crinkled, then got tossed aside. Her fingers were spreading him open in a split second. The first thrust punched the air from his lungs. No lube. Didn't need it. No mercy. Didn't want it. She set a brutal pace, long nails digging into his hips as his own wetness made obscene sounds. His vision whited out. Somewhere, distantly, he registered this was going to ruin him.

He was pinned to the sheets, the burn of his skin grounding him as she fucked into him deeper. "Still so fucking wet," she growled, pulling his hair to arch his back. Hayden choked on a moan, his hole clenching around her cock like it was trying to keep her inside. He didn’t want her to stop. She reached around to thumb his swollen clit, sending sparks up his spine. He just pushed back harder.

When she came, it was with a snarl, hips stuttering as she buried herself to the hilt. Hayden felt the hot spill inside him, the wet heat seeping where it shouldn’t. His stomach twisted: part disgust, part thrill, part brutal realization that the condom never made it on. She collapsed onto his back, breath ragged against his shoulder. "Whoops," she murmured. Hayden’s laugh came out broken and incomplete. Fuck.

Morning light found Hayden alone in his sweaty sheets. He stared at the ceiling, her cum still leaking between his thighs. His phone buzzed. Another pleading message. This time, he didn’t smirk. His hand drifted to his stomach. Something cold settled in his gut. Wrong. All wrong.

By midterms, his abs had softened into a suspicious curve. The girl, Lena, pretended not to recognize him in the halls, her laughter ringing bright as she whispered to her friends. Hayden puked in the library bathroom, acidic bile burning his throat while other students snickered outside the stall. His reflection showed hollow cheeks, wild eyes. The scale didn’t lie. Neither did the two pink lines hidden under his mattress.

The first kicks came during Intro to Psych, sharp jabs beneath his ribs that stole his breath. He gripped the desk until his knuckles whitened, sweat beading on his upper lip. This couldn't be real. Across the aisle, Lena twirled her hair around one finger, smirking at her phone. His stomach lurched, not from nausea this time, but rage.

His hoodie barely zipped by December. The dorm reeked of stale takeout and unwashed laundry. Hayden traced the stretch marks spiderwebbing his hips in the cracked mirror, fingers trembling. Fuck. Fuck. His chest ached, nipples dark and sensitive against the fabric of his shirt. He jammed his fists into his eyes until stars burst behind his lids. No tears. Never again.

The cafeteria lines parted like he was contagious. Whispers followed him: *slut, liar, psycho*. But the worst was the silence from professors who pretended not to notice his swollen ankles or the way he gripped his belly during class. Lena’s friends staged loud conversations about false accusations near his usual table. Her perfume, vanilla and betrayal, lingered in the stairwell where she’d cornered him last week. "You’re delusional," she’d hissed, knee between his thighs like a threat. His body remembered even if she pretended she didn't.

March brought bloodshot dawns spent rocking on the dorm toilet, thighs sticky with sweat. His shirt strained against the swell of lactation, damp patches blooming. The baby moved constantly now with no room to do so, a relentless reminder. Hayden fantasized about shoving Lena into oncoming traffic every time she strutted past in her cheerleading uniform, her laugh like shattered glass. But his hands just kept cradling the life inside him, traitorously gentle.

The hallway tiles were freezing when his water broke. Clutching the lockers, Hayden doubled over as pain ripped through him like a grenade. Someone screamed. Footsteps pounded. Through the haze, he saw Lena’s face, pale, horrified, *guilty*, before the next contraction dropped him to his knees. Water trickled out and his pants were off before he knew it. The baby crowned as the crowd recoiled. Nobody caught him when he fell forward. The last thing he heard before blacking out was his own broken sob, and the wet, gasping cry of something new.

They left him there for seventeen minutes before campus security dragged a stretcher through the gawking crowd. Blood streaked the linoleum where he’d pushed, his uniform shirt rucked up to expose the shuddering mess of his postpartum belly. The paramedic’s gloves snapped too loud when she peeled his soaked boxers away. "Jesus Christ," she muttered. Hayden stared at the ceiling tiles, counting the water stains.

His name was trending by midnight. Hayden knew because the nurse left her phone unlocked when she went to catheterize him. The screen flashed with grainy footage of his own naked, convulsing body. IV lines tugged as he rolled onto his side, pressing his face into the stink of hospital antiseptic. His chest throbbed, milk soaking through the gown. Machines beeped in time with the pulse in his ruined cunt. His body ached when he dare laugh.

Across the room, Jamie, eight months along and perpetually annoyed about it, snorted into his glass. "Tell me about it. This girl been using my bladder as a trampoline since 4 AM." He stretched his legs out, the hem of his oversized shirt riding up to expose the dark trail of hair leading down to his waistband. The fabric strained over the taut curve of him, and he didn't bother pulling it back down.

Dylan, the quietest of the three, just smirked from his spot on the floor, back propped against the couch. His fingers traced idle circles over his own swollen stomach, the motion slow and proprietary. When he spoke, his voice was a lazy drawl. "Least yours don't elbow you in the ribs when you're trying to eat." As if on cue, the baby offered a kick hard enough that the fabric of his tank top twitched.

Leo groaned, arching his back to relieve the pressure. "Christ, I need to get laid." His palm slid lower, pressing against the heat between his thighs, and Jamie watched with darkening eyes, taking a slow sip of his drink. "You say that like it's a problem," Jamie muttered, setting the glass down with deliberate care. "Jase and Eli are gonna be home soon."

Dylan shifted, rolling onto his knees with a grunt, his belly hanging heavy between his arms. He crawled toward Leo, eyes flickering with hunger, and licked his lips. "We could start without them." The suggestion hung thick in the air, and Leo didn't hesitate. He grabbed Dylan by the hair and dragged him closer, their swollen stomachs pressing together in a slow, heated grind.

Jamie's glass hit the coffee table harder than necessary as he stood, his breath already uneven. He straddled Leo's lap, fingers digging into the softness of his belly before sliding down to palm him through his sweats. Leo groaned, head tipping back, and Jamie leaned in to bite his throat. "Fuck, you two..." Dylan cut him off with a rough kiss, his hand slipping between Jamie's thighs, pressing hard against the damp fabric of his boxers.

Leo's hands were everywhere, from gripping Jamie's hips, to sliding under Dylan's shirt to pinch his nipples, dragging nails down skin. The weight of their bellies pressed together made everything hotter, tighter, the friction sending shocks of pleasure through them. Dylan rocked against Leo's thigh, gasping when Jamie's teeth caught his lower lip. "God, yeah...just like that."

Jamie groaned, licking a wet stripe up Leo's thigh, sucking bruises into the soft skin where his leg met his hip. His fingers spread Leo wider, thumbs pressing against his clit in slow circles, making Leo's hips jerk. Beneath him, Dylan whimpered, tongue teasing Jamie's swollen mound through his shorts, fingers digging into Jamie's thighs as Jamie bucked forward.

Leo's breath hitched as Jamie's tongue dipped inside him, lapping at him in slow, deliberate strokes. The angle was awkward with their bellies pressed together, but Jamie made it work, curling his tongue just right, dragging ragged moans from Leo's throat. Dylan's fingers hooked into Jamie's waistband, tugging it down just enough to get his mouth on him properly, lips closing around Jamie's clit in a sharp suck that made Jamie curse and grind harder against his face.

Dylan's own hips rocked uselessly against the air, desperate for friction, his hole aching beneath his clothes. He whined, muffled against Jamie's skin, wishing Eli or Jace were here to fuck him properly, to press him into the floor and take him apart while he drowned in Jamie's taste.

Leo reached down, tangling his fingers in Jamie's hair, guiding his mouth where he needed it most. "Fuck, right there, don't stop." His other hand gripped the sheets, knuckles white, toes curling as Jamie's tongue worked him closer to the edge. Dylan moaned, breath hot against Jamie's opening, lips slick and messy as he drove Jamie wild between them.

Jamie shuddered, thighs trembling against Dylan's shoulders, his own tongue buried deep in Leo's cunt. The angle was awkward. Dylan's belly pressing into the floor, Jamie's knees aching against the hardwood, Leo's hips canting up, but the friction was filthy and perfect, each of them lost in the wet heat of the other. Jamie's fingers dug into Leo's thighs, holding him open as he licked into him harder, desperate to taste him coming apart.

Dylan whined, his own hips rocking against nothing, his boxers soaked through. He dragged his tongue up Jamie's slit, swirling over his clit just to feel Jamie buck against his face, to hear him gasp against Leo's skin. He wished he could reach down and touch himself, but his belly was too much in the way, and the frustration only made him hungrier, more desperate. "Fuck, Eli better hurry up," he panted against Jamie's thigh, biting the soft skin there.

Jamie groaned, pulling back just enough to gasp, "You think they'll fuck us stupid when they get here?" before diving back in, sucking Leo's clit between his lips. Leo arched, crying out, his thighs clamping around Jamie's head as pleasure ripped through him. Dylan just whimpered in agreement, wishing for thick fingers or a cock inside him, anything to ease the ache between his legs.

The front door slammed open, and Eli's voice cut through the haze: "Jesus fucking Christ", before he dropped his keys with a clatter. Jace was already shoving past him, kicking off his boots, his eyes locked on the mess of bodies on the floor. Dylan twisted, looking over his shoulder with a desperate grin. "Took you long enough," he panted, spreading his thighs wider like an invitation. "I need you, daddy."

Eli didn't waste time. He hauled Dylan up by the hips, yanking his shorts down in one rough motion, and spat onto his fingers before pushing two inside without warning. Dylan sobbed, his belly brushing the floor as Eli fucked him open, his other hand gripping the side of Dylan's stomach possessively. "Let's warm you up, Dyl," Eli growled, biting Dylan's shoulder. "There we go, sweetheart. There we go."

Jace, meanwhile, dropped to his knees behind Jamie, palming his ass hard before sinking his teeth into the meat of it. Jamie yelped, but the sound dissolved into a moan when Jace's hand slid between his legs, fingers slicking through the mess Dylan had left behind. "Head down. Ass up", Jace murmured, pressing the head of his cock against Jamie's entrance, already pushing in before he could answer.

Leo watched them all through half-lidded eyes, still spread open beneath Jamie's abandoned mouth, Eli's belt clinking as he worked Dylan open with thick fingers. The air smelled like sweat and sex, the wet sounds of skin on skin mixing with the ragged breaths and bitten-off curses. Dylan was practically drooling onto the floor, his hips jerking back onto Eli's fingers.

Eli curled his fingers, dragging a broken wail from Dylan's throat, and Leo shuddered at the sound, his own neglected clit throbbing. "Touch me," he demanded, grabbing Jace's wrist when he reached for Jamie's hips. Jace smirked, obliging, his thumb circling Leo's clit in rough, uneven strokes that had him gasping.

Jamie groaned, pressing back onto Jace's cock, his belly heavy between his thighs as Jace fucked into him slow and deep. "Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me," he panted as a chant, his hands scrabbling at the floor for purchase. Eli added a third finger, and Dylan sobbed, his thighs shaking, his whole body tightening like a bowstring. "I'm close," he whimpered, and Eli just laughed darkly, twisting his wrist. "Not yet, baby."

Leo arched, Jace's thumb relentless on his clit, his whole body coiled tight. He came with a cry, his thighs clamping around Jace's wrist as pleasure ripped through him. Jamie clenched around Jace's cock at the sound, tipping him over the edge, and Jace swore, burying himself to the hilt as he came inside him. Eli watched them all fall apart with hungry eyes before dragging Dylan back onto his cock in one rough thrust.

Dylan screamed, his body arching off the floor, his belly jutting out between them as Eli fucked into him hard and fast. "Come on, sweetheart," Eli growled, gripping Dylan's hip hard enough to bruise. "That's a good boy." Dylan sobbed, his thighs trembling, his whole body tightening before he came, his hole fluttering around Eli's cock. Eli groaned, burying himself deep as he spilled inside him, his forehead dropping to Dylan's shoulder.

The room was thick with the smell of sweat and sex, their breaths ragged, their bodies still trembling. Jamie rolled onto his back with a groan, his belly rising and falling with each heaving breath. Leo stretched lazily, his fingers trailing over his own swollen stomach, and smirked when Dylan whined at Eli's oversensitive touch. "Who wants more?" Leo asked, and Jamie groaned, throwing an arm over his face, but his hips shifted, already eager.

Eli grinned and hauled Leo up by the hips, flipping him onto his knees while Jace knelt in front of him. Leo wasted no time, wrapping his lips around Jace’s cock, sucking hard as Eli pushed into him from behind. The stretch made him moan around Jace’s length, his belly swaying between his arms, the weight of it pressing into the mattress. Eli’s hands gripped Leo’s hips tight, his thrusts deep and slow, each one driving Leo’s mouth further onto Jace’s cock.

Beside them, Dylan and Jamie tangled together, legs intertwined, their hands roaming over each other’s swollen stomachs. Dylan pinched Jamie’s nipple hard enough to make him gasp, then licked a stripe over the tender bud before sucking until the first sweet drops of milk spilled onto his tongue. Jamie arched into it, his fingers twisting in Dylan’s hair, his other hand squeezing Dylan’s leaking chest in return. They kissed messily, milk smearing between their lips as they rocked against each other, their bellies pressing together with every shift of their hips.

Leo choked around Jace’s cock when Eli hit that spot inside him, his thighs trembling as pleasure coiled tighter. Jace groaned, thrusting shallowly into his mouth, his fingers tightening in Leo’s hair. "That’s it, take it," Jace growled, and Leo whimpered, his hole clenching around Eli as the heat built low in his stomach. Dylan sucked Jamie’s collarbone as he milked him harder, their moans muffled against each other’s skin.

Dylan’s teeth scraped over Jamie's nipple, his hips jerking as the first warm drops spilled onto Dylan’s tongue. Jamie gasped, his fingers twisting in Dylan’s curls, holding him close as he lapped greedily at the supply. Dylan moaned against his skin, one hand kneading Jamie’s swollen belly while the other pinched his own leaking nipple.

Eli’s pace turned ruthless, his hips slamming into Leo hard enough to make his belly bounce, putting a delicious strain on his back, but all Leo was paying attention to was the obscene slap of skin echoing off the walls. Leo gagged around Jace’s cock, tears streaking his cheeks as he struggled to breathe, his own release building fast. Meanwhile Dylan nipped at Jamie’s lip before dragging him into another sloppy kiss, their tongues tangling as Jamie’s hands roamed over Dylan’s stomach, feeling the kicks beneath his palm.

Jace pulled Leo off his cock with a wet pop, driving him over the edge. Leo came with a broken cry, his body seizing as Eli fucked him through it, his release spilling hot inside the pregnant man. Dylan and Jamie wriggled against each other, their bellies pressed tight, milk droplets between their chests as they moaned into each other’s mouths. The room was a symphony of gasps and growls, sticky skin and tangled limbs, hunger never quite sated.

Jamie flipped Dylan onto his back, his swollen stomach rising high between them. He licked a stripe from Dylan’s collarbone to his navel, teeth scraping the stretched skin before sucking bruises along the underside of his belly. Dylan arched into it, thighs falling open as Jamie’s fingers dipped between them, finding him slick and desperate. “Fuck me properly,” Dylan demanded, his hips jerking up, his swollen stomach shifting with every ragged breath. “No more teasing.”

Eli yanked Leo back by the hair, forcing his spine into a deep arch. “You’re not done,” he growled, pressing Leo’s face into Jace’s lap again while his fingers dug into the soft flesh of Leo’s hips. Jace smirked down at Leo’s teary eyes, guiding his cock back between Leo’s swollen lips with a rough thumb to his chin. “Keep sucking,” Jace ordered, his voice thick with amusement, “until we say you can stop.”

Jamie obliged Dylan’s plea, sinking two fingers into him without warning, curling them just right as Dylan’s thighs clamped. Dylan’s belly tightened, his breath coming in sharp gasps, his hole clenching around Jamie’s thrusts. Jamie leaned down to lick Dylan’s clit in slow, deliberate strokes, his free hand squeezing Dylan’s swollen stomach possessively. “Cum for me,” Jamie murmured against him, “and then Eli will fuck you next.” Dylan’s answering sob was muffled by his own forearm, his hips stuttering as pleasure coiled tight.

Eli’s grip on Leo’s hair tightened, forcing him deeper onto Jace’s cock while Eli’s own thrusts grew erratic, hips snapping forward with brutal precision. Leo’s throat worked around Jace’s length, his belly bouncing with each rough impact, his thighs slick with sweat and arousal. Jace groaned, his fingers tightening in Leo’s curls, his hips jerking as he spilled hot down Leo’s throat. Eli followed seconds later, emptying himself inside Leo with a guttural growl, his teeth sinking into Leo’s shoulder.

Jamie pulled back just enough to watch Dylan unravel beneath him, his fingers relentless as Dylan’s body bowed off the floor. Dylan came with a ragged cry, his belly jutting forward as he clenched around Jamie’s hand, his release dripping messily onto the sheets. Jamie didn’t let up, twisting his wrist to drag the orgasm out until Dylan whimpered, oversensitive and trembling. “Eli,” Jamie managed to choke out, smirking slightly as Eli turned, still catching his breath. “Somebody needs you."

Eli didn’t hesitate. He hauled Dylan up by the hips with ease, positioning him onto his knees, his swollen stomach visible from behind. Eli nudged Dylan's legs further apart and gave his pussy a slap before rubbing his cock against it teasingly. He then drove fully into Dylan in one brutal thrust, drawing a choked groan from Dylan’s lips. Dylan’s hands scrambled at the sheets and pawed behind him for one of Eli's hands, which he then guided to the side of his belly. The front of his belly began brushing the mattress with every snap of Eli’s hips. “That’s it,” Eli snarled, “take it all, sweetheart.” Dylan sobbed, his thighs shaking, his body taut as Eli fucked him toward another climax.

Jace, meanwhile, shoved Jamie down onto his back, his hands gripping Jamie’s thick thighs as he positioned himself between them. Jamie gasped as Jace entered him slowly, his belly bouncing slightly with the impact. Jace leaned to his left, catching Eli’s mouth in a filthy kiss over their partners’ bodies, their tongues tangling as they rocked into Jamie and Dylan in sync. The wet sound of their mouths mingled with the slick slap of skin, their shared groan vibrating between them. Jamie whimpered beneath them, watching the display through hazy eyes, his own hand slipping between his thighs to rub tight circles over his clit.

Jamie’s fingers worked frantically, his hips jerking up into his own touch as Jace fucked him deep, his belly shifting with every thrust. The sight of Eli and Jace kissing hungrily above him, their cocks buried in him and Dylan, sent heat pooling low in his gut. He could feel Jace’s cock rubbing just right inside him, could hear Dylan’s broken moans as Eli drove into him ruthlessly. Jamie’s breath hitched, his thighs trembling, his fingers moving faster as pleasure built. He felt himself tightening around Jace. “Daddy, I'm going to...” he choked out, his toes curling into the sheets.

Eli broke the kiss with Jace just long enough to smirk down at Jamie. “Then cum, you needy whore,” he ordered, his voice rough. The command tipped Jamie over the edge, his back arching as he came with a ragged cry. Jace groaned, his hips stuttering as Jamie’s tight heat milked him, and Eli didn’t let up on Dylan, fucking him through his own climax with a possessive growl.

Across the room, Leo watched them all with hooded eyes, his fingers working slow circles over his clit while his other hand kneaded the taut curve of his belly. The weight of it pressed heavy against his thighs, the skin stretched tight enough that he could feel the flutter of movement beneath his palm and atop his legs. He bit his lip, rocking his hips into his own touch, imagining Eli’s thick fingers replacing his own, rough and demanding, just how he liked it.

Dylan’s broken sobs filled the room as Eli fucked him through his orgasm. Leo’s breath hitched, his fingers moving faster, his own release impending. He imagined Jace's hands on him instead and the fantasy alone had him gasping, his thighs quaking.

Jace pulled out of Jamie with a wet sound, turning his attention to Leo with a dark grin. “Looks like someone needs attention,” he murmured, crawling toward him. Leo didn’t protest when Jace replaced his fingers with his mouth, his tongue licking a hot stripe up Leo’s slit. Leo’s head fell back with a moan, his belly reshaping as pleasure ripped through him, his fingers digging into Jace’s hair. He managed to choke out a plea, his hips jerking as Jace sucked his clit between his lips.

Eli pulled Dylan up against his chest, pressing their bodies together as he rutted into him. Dylan arched, his belly jutting out as Eli’s thrusts turned erratic, his breath hot against Dylan’s neck. “Gonna fill you up,” Eli growled, biting down on Dylan’s shoulder as he spilled inside him, his hips grinding deep. Dylan whimpered, his stomach tightening as Eli pumped into him.

Jamie rolled onto his side, watching Jace lick Leo into incoherence with lazy amusement. His fingers trailed over his own swollen belly, pinching a nipple until it leaked onto his skin. He caught Eli’s eye across the room and smirked, spreading his thighs slightly, an unspoken challenge. Eli’s answering grin was predatory as he pulled out of Dylan, his cock still slick and hard.

Dylan whined at the loss, collapsing onto his stomach, his belly pressing low. His fingers dug into the sheets as Eli moved toward Jamie, his hand wrapping around Jamie’s throat in one rough motion. Jamie gasped, his hips jerking up instinctively as Eli pushed into him without preamble, the stretch making his toes curl. Jamie panted, his hands scrambling for purchase on Eli’s forearms.

Leo writhed beneath Jace’s tongue, his thighs trembling as Jace sucked his clit hard, his fingers plunging into him without mercy. The slick sounds filled the room, mingling with Jamie’s sharp cries and Eli’s low growls. Leo rode, his belly bouncing with the force of Jace’s fingers inside him, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Fuck, please, I’m close,” he choked out.

Jamie wrapped his legs around Eli’s waist as Eli pounded into him, their skin slapping together obscenely. Jamie’s hands clawed at Eli’s back, his breath hitching with every thrust, his belly pressing tight against Eli’s stomach. “Harder,” Jamie demanded, his voice rough, his nails digging in. Eli obliged, slamming into him with brutal force.

Jace pulled back from Leo’s dripping cunt just long enough to smirk up at him, his fingers still working deep inside him. “You gonna cum for me, baby?” he asked, his voice thick with amusement. Leo could only nod, his thighs shaking. Jace leaned back in, sucking his clit between his lips, and Leo screamed as he came, his release spilling hot over Jace’s tongue.

Eli fucked Jamie through his climax, his hips snapping forward. Jamie sobbed, his fingers twisting in the sheets as Eli filled him, his own release dripping messily between them. Eli groaned, burying himself deep as he spilled inside Jamie, holding himself there as he emptied himself entirely.

Jace pulled back from Leo with a satisfied smirk, licking his lips clean before crawling up Leo’s body. He kissed Leo roughly, pressing him into the mattress as Leo whimpered against his mouth. Eli finally pulled out of Jamie with a wet sound, collapsing beside him as they both panted.

Dylan rolled onto his side with a groan, his belly shifting as he reached for Eli’s wrist, guiding his hand down to his own swollen stomach. Eli chuckled, rubbing slow circles over the stretched skin, pressing lightly where a kick landed. “Fuck, that was good,” Jamie muttered, stretching his legs out with a wince.

Leo arched an eyebrow, still breathless beneath Jace’s weight. “Good? That was fucking obscene,” he huffed, but the lazy grin on his face betrayed him. Dylan snorted, wincing as Eli’s fingers dipped lower, teasing his oversensitive clit.

Jamie stretched with a groan, his belly rising with the movement. “I blame Eli’s inability to keep his hands to himself,” he muttered, though the smirk playing at his lips suggested he wasn’t complaining. Eli chuckled darkly, rolling onto his side to drag Jamie closer, his palm settling possessively over Jamie’s swollen stomach. “You love it.”

Leo tiredly moaned as Jace shifted above him, their bodies still pressed close together. His breath hitched when Jace’s fingers traced the underside of his belly, teasing the taut skin. “Us pregnant guys need a time out,” Leo mumbled, his voice hoarse, his thighs still trembling. “Before someone passes out or has a baby on the bed."

Danny huffed a laugh, rolling off him onto the mattress, his chest still heaving. At forty-nine, he knew better, but the guy had been relentless, his hands and mouth everywhere, murmuring filth about how good Danny looked stretched around him. The heat of the moment had won, like it always did. Now, sweat cooling on his skin, he absently rubbed his chest and nipples, the old scars marks rough under his fingertips.

The kid, *Jesse, fuck, he’d said his name was Jesse*, propped himself up on an elbow, gaze dropping to Danny’s belly, where the faintest swell curved beneath the dark hair. "You always get this soft after?" he asked, dragging a thumb over it, curious. Danny tensed. It wasn’t softness. He knew that. Had known since last week when the nausea hit him like a truck, the kind that didn’t care about testosterone or decades of living in this body.

Jesse didn’t wait for an answer. His mouth found Danny’s throat, biting just shy of pain, one hand sliding down between Danny’s thighs, fingers pressing in where he was still slick and loose. "Fuck, you’re still wet," he groaned, like it was a prize, and Danny arched into it because *Christ*, the kid’s fingers were clever, twisting just right. The heat was building again, stupidly fast, and Danny gripped the sheets, letting Jesse push his legs wider, the stretch burning deliciously.

He didn’t have time to think about the swell of his belly or the way Jesse’s thumb kept brushing over it, possessive and questioning. Jesse was inside him again, hips slamming hard enough to shake the bedframe, his breath hot against Danny’s ear. "You take it so good," Jesse muttered, teeth scraping Danny’s shoulder, and Danny could only gasp, his body tightening around him, the friction brutal and perfect. He came untouched, his stomach clenching, Jesse’s name ripped from his throat.

After, Jesse collapsed onto him, sticky and panting, his weight pressing Danny into the mattress. Danny’s fingers tangled in his hair, tugging just to hear him hiss. Jesse laughed against his skin, lazy and smug, his hand sliding down to rest on Danny’s belly again, fingers splayed like he was claiming it. "You’re gonna get bigger," he said, not a question, his voice rough with something Danny couldn’t place.

Danny shoved him off, rolling onto his side, suddenly too aware of the way his body felt: too warm, too full, the faint ache low in his gut that wasn’t just from being fucked raw. Jesse didn’t take the hint, curling around him, mouth pressing against the back of Danny’s neck. "You gonna keep it?" The words were casual, but his arm tightened around Danny’s waist, fingers digging into his hip like he already knew the answer.

The nausea surged back, bitter in Danny’s throat. He’d spent thirty years building this body, carving it into something that fit, and now it was betraying him in ways he’d never prepared for. Jesse’s hand slid lower, fingertips brushing the soft trail of hair below his navel, and Danny flinched. "Don’t," he growled, but Jesse just hummed, unbothered, his palm settling heavy and warm over the swell like he had fucking rights to it.

Danny could feel the kid’s cock stirring against his thigh, half-hard again already. Christ, the stamina of youth. Jesse nipped at his shoulder, voice slurred with sleep and satisfaction. "Bet you’d look fucking gorgeous round with me in you," he murmured, and the words punched the air from Danny’s lungs. His fingers twitched, halfway between shoving Jesse off and dragging him closer, but Jesse was already rolling him onto his back, lips tracing the old scars on his chest like he wanted to memorize them.

The morning light cut sharp through the blinds, striping Jesse’s back as he straddled Danny’s hips, grinding down slow, deliberate. Danny’s breath hitched, his body was sore, oversensitive, but the heat pooled low anyway, traitorous. Jesse’s thumb rubbed circles over his belly, the pressure just shy of too much. "You gonna let me watch?" he asked, voice thick. "Watch you get fat with it?" Danny’s hips jerked, pushing himself onto Jesse’s thigh, and fuck, he hated how easily the kid could unravel him.

Jesse didn’t wait for an answer, bending to lick a stripe up Danny’s chest, catching on a nipple, biting just enough to make Danny hiss. His fingers slid lower, pressing between Danny’s thighs, finding him still wet from last night, and Jesse groaned like he’d struck gold. "Christ, you’re still open," he muttered, pushing two fingers in without warning, twisting them just so. Danny arched off the bed, a punched-out noise escaping him, his hands fisting in the sheets. Jesse’s mouth was on his throat, teeth sharp, his free hand splayed possessively over Danny’s stomach.

"You gonna let me fuck you again?" Jesse murmured, fingers crooking inside him, relentless. "Let me fill you up more?" Danny’s breath came ragged, his thighs shaking. He should push him off, should fucking think, but Jesse’s thumb was rubbing circles over his clit now, rough and perfect, and Danny’s hips jerked helplessly. "Yeah," Jesse breathed, triumphant, pulling his fingers out only to replace them with his cock, sinking in slow, stretching Danny wide all over again. "Knew you’d take it."

Nine months later, Danny’s belly was a hard curve beneath his hands, the skin stretched taut and shiny. He couldn’t see his fucking feet anymore, couldn’t sleep without his hips screaming, and Jesse was worse than ever, hands always on him, mouth always hungry. "Look at you," Jesse muttered now, kneeling between Danny’s thighs, his thumbs pressing into the stretch marks fanning out from Danny’s navel. "Fuck, you’re so fucking pretty like this." Danny hissed as Jesse’s tongue laved over a nipple, already oversensitive, already leaking. "Bet you could come just from this," Jesse teased, biting down, and Danny’s back arched off the bed, a broken noise tearing from his throat.

The OB had warned him that his body wasn’t built for this, not really, not after decades on T, not at his age, but Danny hadn’t listened, had let Jesse fuck him raw every night like it wouldn’t cost him. Now his pelvis ached with every step, his ribs bruised from the inside out, and still Jesse wouldn’t stop touching him, wouldn’t stop fucking him, like he was obsessed. "You’re so fucking tight," Jesse groaned, pressing into him from behind, one hand splayed possessively over Danny’s belly, the other tugging at his clit. "Like you’re made for me." Danny choked on a moan, his body clenching around Jesse’s cock, the stretch familiar now, the ache sweet. He came like that, Jesse’s fingers working him, Jesse’s cock buried deep, his belly heavy between them.

The shower afterward was worse. Jesse pinned him against the tiles, water sluicing over them both, and sucked bruises into his throat while his fingers found Danny’s hole again, still loose, still wet. "Think you’ll miss this?" Jesse murmured, twisting his fingers, watching Danny’s belly jump with every thrust. "Miss me filling you up?" Danny shuddered, his knees buckling, saved only by Jesse’s grip on his hip. He couldn’t answer, couldn’t think past the heat coiling low in his gut, the way his body yielded so easily now, like it had been remade for this. Jesse didn’t need him to. He knew. He always knew.

Danny’s belly tightened suddenly, a sharp, alien pressure that stole his breath. He gripped the shower wall, hissing, and Jesse’s hands stilled, his gaze dropping to the swell between them. "Another one?" he asked, thumb rubbing circles over the crest of Danny’s belly where the skin stretched thin. Danny nodded, jaw clenched, riding out the contraction like he’d learned to: quiet, controlled, until it passed. Jesse’s fingers slid lower, pressing into the softness below his navel, and Danny flinched. "Don’t," he gritted out, but Jesse just grinned, unrepentant, his other hand slipping between Danny’s thighs. "You love it," he murmured, fingers finding Danny’s clit, rubbing slow, knowing. "Love how much I want you like this." Danny’s hips jerked, traitorous, his body betraying him even now.

The next contraction hit harder, wrenching a gasp from him, and Jesse’s fingers curled inside him, pressing up where he was swollen and sensitive. "Fuck, you’re so wet," Jesse groaned, his cock twitching against Danny’s thigh. "Think it’s time?" Danny didn’t answer, couldn’t, his vision whiting out as Jesse’s fingers twisted just right, the pleasure sharp and bright against the pain. Water sluiced over them both, steam thick in the air, and Jesse’s mouth found his throat, biting down as his fingers worked Danny open, relentless. "Gonna make you come first," he muttered, voice rough with want. "Gonna feel you clamp down on my fingers when it happens."

Danny’s belly tightened again, a deep, insistent pressure, and suddenly there was warmth gushing between his thighs, the water turning cloudy around them. Jesse laughed, low and delighted, his fingers never stopping. "That must feel good, getting all that out," he breathed, thumb circling Danny’s clit as the contractions rolled through him, closer now. Danny’s knees buckled, his body caught between pleasure and pain, and Jesse held him up, his other hand splayed over Danny’s belly, feeling it harden under his palm. "Fuck, you are really having my baby." Jesse growled, pressing his forehead to Danny’s shoulder as Danny came with a broken shout, his body seizing around Jesse’s fingers.

They barely made it to the bed before Danny collapsed onto his hands and knees, his belly hanging heavy between his thighs. Jesse kneeled behind him, hands gripping his hips, murmuring filthy praise into the nape of his neck. "You're doing good, geezer," he groaned, pressing kisses along Danny’s spine as another contraction ripped through him. Danny gasped, his fingers twisting in the sheets, and Jesse’s palm slid down to press between his thighs, feeling the stretch, the heat. "Spread," Jesse urged, his voice rough with arousal, his other hand kneading the swell of Danny’s belly. "Let me see."

Danny’s body obeyed before his mind could protest, his knees sliding wider, and Jesse let out a low, reverent curse. "Fuck, i see the head." The words punched the air from Danny’s lungs. He could feel it now, the burn, the impossible pressure, his body splitting open around the head of their baby. Jesse’s fingers traced the stretched rim, shaking with barely restrained hunger. "You're stretching so good," he muttered, thumb rubbing circles into Danny’s clit like he couldn’t help himself. "Think I could come just watching this."

Danny barely heard him over the roar of blood in his ears, his vision tunneling as he bore down, the contraction wringing a guttural groan from his throat. Jesse’s free hand slid up his own cock, stroking lazily, his hips twitching forward like he wanted to fuck the air. "Fuck, you’re gonna wreck yourself," Jesse breathed, thumb still working Danny’s clit, his other hand jerking faster now. "Gonna wreck yourself pushing out my kid." Danny’s next push tore a ragged scream from him, his body seizing, head out, shoulders coming, and Jesse’s rhythm stuttered, his breath hitching. "Fuck, yeah, just like that."

Jesse came with a snarl, his release painting Danny’s cheekbone, his temple, hot stripes of it catching in his lashes as Danny finally, finally pushed their baby free in a slick rush. The relief was instant, dizzying, his body collapsing forward onto his elbows as the newborn’s thin wail filled the room. Jesse was panting as much as Danny was, fingers still sticky where they’d been wrapped around himself, his other hand pressing a trembling palm to the now-empty swell of Danny’s belly. "Fuck," he rasped, voice wrecked.

Danny didn’t have the strength to wipe Jesse’s cum off his face, his arms shaking too badly to lift, his vision still blurred at the edges. The baby wriggled between his thighs, slippery and squalling, and Jesse finally snapped out of his daze, scrambling forward to scoop the newborn up with rough, reverent hands. "Fuck, you did it," he breathed, pressing the baby against Danny’s chest, his own fingers smearing streaks of Danny’s sweat and release between them. "Say hi to your baby, old guy." Danny’s breath hitched as Jesse’s thumb swiped through the mess on his cheekbone, then dragged it across his bottom lip.

Danny ignored him, focusing instead on the tiny, furious creature in his arms, its limbs flailing like it was still trying to fight its way free. He wiped its face with the corner of the sheet, his fingers trembling as he checked between its legs, *girl*, his brain supplied numbly, before wrapping her tight against his skin. Jesse hovered, his hands twitching like he wanted to touch but didn’t know where, his eyes darting between Danny’s exhausted face and the baby’s scrunched-up one. "She’s so small," he muttered, like it was a revelation, his fingers brushing her foot as if testing her reality. Danny watched his expression flicker between awe and panic, the realization settling heavy in his gut: Jesse had no fucking clue.

The kid’s youth was stark now, his cock still half-hard and bobbing, his hips shifting restlessly like he didn’t know what to do with his body now that the adrenaline was fading. "Does she need something? She-" Jesse started, then stopped, his brow furrowing as the baby’s cries sharpened. "Shouldn’t she stop? Like, now?" Danny exhaled through his nose, adjusting her against his chest, his fingers rubbing circles into her back like muscle memory. Jesse’s gaze flicked down to the motion, then back up to Danny’s face, something uneasy creeping into his expression. "You just... know how to do that?"

Danny didn’t answer. He didn’t have the energy to explain that thirty years ago, before T, before scars, he’d done this before. Jesse’s jaw tightened, his fingers curling into fists at his sides, and Danny watched the moment reality hit him: he was staring at a man who’d lived a life he couldn’t imagine, holding a baby he had no idea how to care for. The silence stretched, the baby’s cries fading into hiccuping whimpers.

Sam, his devoted boyfriend, stirred beside him, his muscular body unfolding like a predator awakening. With his broad shoulders and confident grin, Sam rolled over, his hand immediately finding the curve of Jesse's belly, tracing the stretched skin with reverent fingers. "Good morning, beautiful," Sam murmured, his voice a low, teasing rumble that sent shivers down Jesse's spine. He leaned in, his lips brushing against Jesse's neck, nipping gently as his other hand slid lower, cupping the warmth between Jesse's thighs. Jesse arched into the touch, the dual sensations of pregnancy-fueled sensitivity making every nerve ending sing. Sam's dominance was a balm to Jesse's needy soul, affirming the body he loved so fiercely, the one that carried their future and craved this raw connection.

As Sam's fingers delved deeper, exploring the wet folds with expert precision, Jesse gasped, his hands clutching at Sam's strong arms. The emotional weight of their bond amplified the physical pleasure, each stroke a testament to their unyielding affection. "Please, Sam," Jesse begged, his voice breathy and laced with playful submission, "I need you inside me now." Sam's eyes darkened with desire, his own arousal evident as his hard cock pressed against Jesse's hip, the heat between them building into an inferno of passion that promised to consume the morning in a haze of ecstasy.

Jesse's swollen belly pressed against the cool silk sheets of their king-sized bed, the dim bedroom illuminated only by the glow of lights filtering through the curtains. His athletic frame was a testament to his determination, broad shoulders tapering to powerful legs, all cradled by the roundness of his 39 week long pregnancy with twins. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple as he arched his back, one hand splayed over the taut skin of his stomach, feeling the twins' insistent kicks that only heightened the insistent throb between his legs. His short dark hair was tousled from restless shifting, and his breath came in shallow gasps, the air thick with the scent of lavender candles and his own mounting desire. God, he needed this. The raw hunger that pregnancy had unleashed, making every nerve ending sing with need. But it wasn't just physical; it was the affirmation, the way his body, once a battleground, now felt worshipped and alive.

"Look at you, baby," Sam murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down Jesse's spine, "so fucking needy, aren't you? That belly of yours is begging for attention." He knelt on the bed, his large hands gently but firmly tracing the curve of Jesse's pregnancy, fingers dipping lower to brush against the sensitive folds hidden beneath the hem of Jesse's boxers. Jesse gasped as Sam's touch ignited a fire, the heat of their skin connecting like a live wire. There was an emotional undercurrent, a silent promise in Sam's gaze that said, I'm here, I'll take care of you, no matter how wild this gets.

As Sam's fingers explored further, parting Jesse's slick pussy with expert precision, the room filled with the wet sounds of arousal and Jesse's needy whimpers. He loved this, the way Sam dominated without overpowering, turning Jesse's cravings into a dance of give and take. "Please, Sam," Jesse pleaded, his voice husky with emotion, hips bucking instinctively as waves of pleasure built, each touch a reminder of their unbreakable bond. Sam's other hand cupped Jesse's breast, teasing the hardened nipple through the thin fabric, his breath hot against Jesse's ear as he whispered praise. "You're incredible, so beautiful carrying our babies. Let me make you feel good." The intensity grew, their bodies syncing in a rhythm of passion that blurred the lines between lust and love, every sensation amplified by the weight of Jesse's pregnancy and the trust they shared.

With a growl that vibrated through the air like a storm gathering, Sam pressed his weight against Jesse, pinning him firmly to the bed with one strong hand on his shoulder. The praise still lingered on his lips, but now it fueled a fiercer hunger, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of Jesse's breast as he tore away the thin fabric in a swift, unyielding motion. Jesse's breath hitched, a mix of surprise and thrill coursing through him, his body arching instinctively under the pressure, Sam's dominance crashing over him like a wave, rough and relentless. The room seemed to pulse with their shared heat, the scent of sweat and arousal thickening the air, as Sam's free hand gripped Jesse's thigh, yanking it wide to expose the slick, throbbing core that begged for invasion. "You're mine to take," Sam rasped, his voice edged with a raw edge that sent a shiver of both fear and ecstasy down Jesse's spine, his pregnant belly heaving with each ragged breath as the twins' movements mirrored the chaos building inside him.

Sam's cock, hard and demanding, slid against Jesse's entrance without preamble, the head pressing in with a brutal force that stretched and filled him in one powerful thrust. Jesse cried out, a guttural sound torn from his throat, pain lacing the overwhelming pleasure as Sam's hips drove forward again and again, each movement a punishing rhythm that claimed every inch of him. The bed creaked beneath them, the sheets twisting around their bodies like restraints, and Jesse's hands clawed at Sam's back, nails leaving red trails that only spurred him on. Sensations blurred: the burn of being stretched, the deep ache that radiated from his core, amplified by the weight of his swollen belly pressing into Sam's abdomen, but it was the emotional tether that made it bearable, transformative. In Sam's eyes, fierce with possession and adoration, Jesse saw the reflection of his own desires, the way their bond turned this ferocity into an act of ultimate affirmation, his pussy clenching around Sam's length as if to pull him deeper, surrendering to the storm.

As Sam's pace quickened, his thrusts growing more erratic and forceful, Jesse's world narrowed to the raw connection between them. The slap of skin against skin, the metallic tang of sweat on his tongue, the undeniable evidence of his fertility. Whimpers escaped Jesse's lips, morphing into pleas that mixed submission with unbridled need, his heart pounding in sync with the brutal tempo, every impact a reminder that this was their truth, their passion etched in the lines of pleasure and pain. Sam's hand slid to Jesse's neck, not choking but holding firm, a possessive grip that grounded them both in the intensity, whispering fragmented praises like "Take it all," as the line between ecstasy and overwhelm blurred into something profound, binding them even closer in the heat of the moment.

Sam's grip on Jesse's neck tightened just enough to make his pulse race, a possessive hold that anchored them in the whirlwind of their passion, his hips slamming forward with unrelenting force as the line between ecstasy and overwhelm blurred into something profound, binding them even closer in the heat of the moment. "Take it, you greedy little whore," Sam growled, his voice rough and commanding, each word punctuated by a deep, punishing thrust that drove him deeper into Jesse's slick, clenching pussy, the wet slap of their bodies echoing through the dim room. Jesse's swollen belly heaved with every impact, pressing hard against Sam's abdomen, the twins' movements inside him adding a frantic rhythm to the onslaught; Sam's eyes locked onto the taut, stretched skin, a feral grin spreading across his face as he leaned in closer, his breath hot and ragged against Jesse's ear. "Look at you, so fucking huge, about to burst with my babies...god, you're stuffed full, aren't you? My pregnant whore, taking every inch like you were made for it."

Jesse's cries filled the air, a mix of desperate moans and breathless pleas, his hands scrambling for purchase on Sam's back as the brutal pace left him trembling. Sam's free hand roamed downward, fingers digging into the soft flesh just above Jesse's entrance, squeezing possessively as if to emphasize the fullness within, his words spilling out in a torrent of dominance that only fueled Jesse's surrender. "You're so full of my babies, Jesse, stretched to the brim and still begging for more. Take it all, you filthy, pregnant slut, feel how deep I go," Sam taunted, his thrusts growing faster, harder, the head of his cock hitting that sweet, aching spot inside that made stars burst behind Jesse's eyes. The emotional intensity wrapped around them like a vise, Sam's degradation laced with an undercurrent of fierce adoration, reminding Jesse that this raw claim was born from love, each harsh word and unyielding movement a testament to their unbreakable bond, heightening the pleasure until it bordered on exquisite pain.

As the bed frame groaned under their weight, Jesse's world narrowed to the overwhelming sensations, the heat of Sam's cock stretching him wide, the heavy press of his own belly amplifying every jolt, the salty taste of tears and sweat on his lips, yet it was Sam's voice, dark and commanding, that pushed him toward the edge, weaving their desires into a tapestry of trust and unfiltered need. "That's it, you bursting whore, show me how much you can take," Sam rasped, his rhythm faltering slightly as his own release built, the connection between them electric and profound, a storm of passion that left no room for anything but the pure, consuming fire of their shared ecstasy.

Sam's rhythm faltered further, his breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps as he hovered on the brink, the electric storm of their shared ecstasy threatening to shatter them both. With a sudden, commanding pull, he withdrew just enough to flip Jesse onto his hands and knees, the movement fluid and instinctive, driven by the raw hunger in his eyes. Jesse complied eagerly, his body trembling as he positioned himself, forearms pressing into the rumpled sheets while his knees dug in for leverage, arching his back to present himself higher. His enormous belly hung low, fully resting against the cool fabric below, the weight of it brushing the surface with every shaky breath, a constant reminder of how perilously close he was to labor, the twins shifting inside him like a storm of their own, sending ripples of pressure through his taut skin that made his whole frame quiver.

As Sam plunged back in from behind, his cock driving deep into Jesse's slick, welcoming pussy with renewed force, Jesse's nipples began to leak, beads of milk pearling at the tips and dampening the sheets beneath him. The sensation was overwhelming, a hot, tingling rush that spread from his chest downward, mingling with the intense stretch and thrust of Sam's invasion, heightening every nerve. "Fuck, yes," Jesse moaned, his voice muffled against the bed, the lactation a vivid sign of his body's readiness, his pregnancy so advanced that the slightest provocation could tip him over the edge into labor. Sam groaned in response, his hands gripping Jesse's hips tighter, pulling him back onto his length with brutal precision, the sight of Jesse's massive belly pressed fully against the bed driving him wild. It was intoxicating, the way Jesse's form embodied their creation, so ripe and vulnerable, turning Sam's desire into a blazing inferno. He thrust harder, faster, his fingers tracing the curve of Jesse's belly possessively, feeling the life within even as he claimed the body that carried it.

The emotional undercurrent surged between them, a profound mix of dominance and devotion that made each movement feel sacred, their connection deepening with every shared breath.

Jesse reveled in the danger, his body a taut bowstring pulled to its limit, every thrust from Sam sending shockwaves through his core that blurred the line between ecstasy and the first whispers of labor. Sam's cock slammed deeper, the head brushing against that swollen, sensitive spot inside Jesse's pussy that made his vision spot with stars, his walls clenching rhythmically around the invasion, milking the length with greedy desperation. The weight of his belly pressed heavily into the sheets, the skin stretched so tight it felt like it might split, and with each powerful drive, Jesse could feel the twins stirring more urgently, their movements syncing with the rhythmic battering, heightening the exquisite pressure that coiled low in his abdomen. Beads of sweat dripped from Sam's brow onto Jesse's back, the salty tang mingling with the musky scent of their arousal, as Sam's hands roamed possessively over the curve of Jesse's hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh just beneath the swell, whispering filthy encouragements that wrapped around Jesse's heart like a vice. "That's my good whore, so full and ready to pop. Just a little more, take it all for me," Sam growled, his voice laced with that commanding edge that made Jesse's t-dick throb, untouched and aching for release, the dual sensations of fullness and friction pushing him perilously close to the brink.

As Sam's pace quickened, the room filled with the obscene symphony of their bodies, wet slaps, Jesse's ragged moans, the creak of the bed frame protesting under their weight, each sound amplifying the raw vulnerability of Jesse's state. His breasts, heavy and tender, grazed the sheets with every jolt, milk leaking in steady streams now, a warm, slick reminder of his body's imminent transformation, and it only fueled his hunger, making him arch back further, begging for more of that dominating force. Emotionally, it was a whirlwind; Sam's dominance wasn't just physical dominance, it was an affirmation of Jesse's strength, his beauty in this vulnerable state, their shared gaze in the dim light speaking volumes of trust and unwavering love. Jesse's mind raced with the thrill of it all, the way being pushed to this edge made him feel alive, desired, his identity as a breeding whore not a degradation but a celebration, every punishing thrust from Sam etching that truth deeper into his soul.

The intensity built like a gathering storm, Sam's breaths coming in hot, labored bursts against Jesse's neck, his hands now sliding around to cradle the underside of Jesse's belly, supporting its weight even as he drove forward relentlessly, the dual pressure from without and within threatening to unravel Jesse completely. He loved this, craved it, the way the edge of labor loomed, a tantalizing promise that made every sensation sharper, more profound, their bond tightening with each shared wave of pleasure, leaving them both teetering on the cusp of something transformative.

As the storm of their passion crested, Sam's hands tightened around Jesse's belly, cradling its immense weight with a mix of reverence and raw hunger, his hips driving forward in a relentless rhythm that sent shockwaves rippling through Jesse's core. Each thrust pushed deeper, the thick length of Sam's cock stretching Jesse's pussy to its absolute limit, the slick heat of their connection amplifying every sensation until Jesse's world narrowed to the exquisite agony of being so utterly claimed. His body trembled, feverish, the twins' urgent kicks mirroring the frantic tempo, building a pressure that coiled tighter with every slap of skin against skin, every gasped breath that filled the air with the heady scent of their arousal. His walls clenching greedily around Sam's invasion as if to draw him in forever, their shared gaze locking in that profound, wordless affirmation of love and dominance that made the moment feel both eternal and dangerously fragile.

Sam leaned in closer, his breath hot and uneven against Jesse's neck, whispering praises that blurred into commands, "You're going to break for me, aren't you, my perfect, full-bellied slut," as his fingers pressed firmly into the underside of Jesse's belly, the possessive grip igniting a cascade of sensations that pushed them both toward the edge. With one final, powerful thrust, Sam's cock hit that swollen, tender spot deep inside, the force of it sending a jolt through Jesse's entire frame; suddenly, a warm gush erupted between them, Jesse's water breaking in a rush of fluid that soaked the sheets beneath, the release immediate and overwhelming, mixing with the slickness of their coupling in a flood of amniotic warmth. Jesse cried out, a raw, primal sound that echoed through the room, his body convulsing in a blend of ecstasy and instinctual alarm, the first twinges of labor seizing him like a tidal wave, yet wrapped in the safety of Sam's unyielding hold, his dominance transforming this pivotal moment into an act of profound intimacy, their bond deepening as Jesse surrendered to the vulnerability, his pussy still clenching around Sam's length in the aftershocks, pulling them both into the uncharted territory of their shared future.

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.

They froze.

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.

Dylan found him like that, barefoot, scowling and massively pregnant. Dylan’s own belly pressed against Darien’s lower back as he wrapped his arms around him from behind, fingers splaying over the taut skin just above Darien’s waistband. “You were supposed to wake me up,” Dylan murmured into his shoulder, kissing the damp skin there.

Darien leaned back into Dylan's chest with a sigh, letting the spatula clatter against the edge of the pan. "You were sleeping like a fucking log," he muttered, but there was no real irritation in it, just the usual whiny undercurrent Dylan had come to expect. "And I was hungry." His hips shifted slightly, pressing his ass back against Dylan's groin out of habit more than intention, but Dylan's belly got a bit in the way.

"You're always hungry," Dylan pointed out, dragging his hands lower, thumbs hooking into the waistband of Darien's sweats. The fabric slid down another inch, exposing the faint stretch marks darkening Darien's hips. Dylan traced one lazily, grinning at the full-body shiver it earned him. "And you're distracting me from breakfast."

"Good." Darien turned in Dylan's arms, pressing their bellies together with a soft laugh. The contact sent a jolt through both of them, still new enough to be electric, even after months of this. He hooked his fingers into Dylan's waistband, pulling him closer. "Fuck breakfast." His voice dropped, throaty and insistent. "Fuck *me*."

Dylan groaned, already feeling up Darien's thigh. "You're insatiable." He caught Darien's mouth in a messy kiss, swallowing the needy little noise that escaped him. The burning toast was forgotten, the pan left to cool on the stove as Dylan backed Darien up against the counter. Darien pushed into it, hips moving forward, his packer straining against the confines of his pants.

"Tell me what you want," Dylan murmured against his jaw.

"Fuck me," Darien whined, grinding back against Dylan's hips, his hands scrabbling at the counter's edge. He trembled, as did his thighs, already slick. Dylan could smell it, the sharp, familiar musk of the pregnant man. "Please daddy, *fuck* me." He rocked his hips in a slow, filthy circle, the head of his packer catching on Dylan's thigh. "Need you inside me."

Dylan exhaled sharply through his nose, biting back a groan. He grabbed Darien's wrist, tugging him away from the counter. "Bed," he ordered, voice rough. "Now." Darien went willingly, stumbling a little as Dylan maneuvered him toward the mattress, his breath coming in shallow pants. The sheets were still rumpled from last night, warm from the morning sun through the blinds. Dylan guided him to the edge, hands on his hips as he bent Darien over, the swell of their stomachs making the angle awkward but not impossible.

Darien braced himself on his elbows, arching his back with a soft, impatient noise. "Daddy, I need it."

"I know," Dylan muttered, adjusting his stance. He kicked one foot up onto the mattress, knee bent, shifting his weight to compensate for the way his own belly rested on the small of Darien's back. His packer was already slick from his own arousal but lining up still took a frustrating second of fumbling. Darien whined again, high and needy, and Dylan gritted his teeth, finally sinking into him with a grunt.

Dylan had to pause and exhale as he adjusted. Darien clenched around him. "Fuck," Dylan gasped, pressing his hands onto Darien's raised ass. "Christ, you're tight."

Darien let out a shuddering moan, his fingers twisting in the sheets as Dylan bottomed out inside him. "Move," he demanded, voice cracking, hips already pushing back in small, desperate circles. "Daddy, *please*." The plea dissolved into a groan as Dylan pulled almost all the way out before slamming back in, the slap of skin against skin loud in the humid stillness of the bedroom.

Dylan gripped Darien's hips tighter, his thumbs pressing into the dimples just above his ass. The angle was awkward with their bellies, but the friction was electric. Darien's body clenched around him like a vice, hot and slick and perfect. Dylan fucked into him with rough, shallow thrusts, each one punctuated by Darien's whimpers. "That's it," Dylan growled, losing his own breath. "Take it, baby. Fuck, you feel *so* good."

Darien sobbed something unintelligible. He reached back blindly, fingers scrabbling at Dylan's thigh. "Touch me," he begged, voice wrecked. "Daddy, *touch* me." Dylan didn't make him wait, wrapping a hand around to rub the side of his belly. Darien jerked like he'd been electrocuted, his whole body tightening around Dylan. "Oh *fuck*."

The bed creaked under them, the frame protesting as Dylan picked up the pace, fucking into Darien with single minded intensity. Sweat dripped down his temples, the pressure building low in his gut. Darien was a mess beneath him, gasping and writhing, his arms shaking with the effort of holding himself up. Dylan could feel him starting to unravel, his moans turning ragged, his rhythm faltering.

"Gonna come," Darien whimpered, the words slurred, his hips stuttering. "Daddy, I'm gonna...*fuck*..." His back tensed sharply as he came, his whole body clamping down on Dylan in pulsing waves. Dylan groaned, burying himself deep as Darien shuddered through it, his own climax crashing over him a second later, white-hot and dizzying.

Darien's breathing hadn't even steadied yet when he pushed himself up on shaking arms, turning with determined clumsiness to face Dylan. His stomach, rounded tight with Dylan's twins, brushed against Dylan's slightly less swollen belly as he straddled him, making them both gasp at the strange, warm pressure. "My turn," Darien panted, damp hair sticking to his forehead. His fingers trembled where they gripped Dylan's shoulders, but his mouth was set in that stubborn line Dylan knew meant he wouldn't be talked out of anything.

"You're exhausted," Dylan pointed out, running his hands up Darien's thighs, feeling the muscle twitch under his palms. The angle was all wrong. Darien's belly forced him to sit too far forward, his packer barely brushing Dylan's stomach instead of where they both wanted it. Dylan could see the frustrated pinch between his brows as he tried to adjust, his hips canting awkwardly. "Baby, we can just..."

"No," Darien cut in, breathless but firm. He braced one hand against the headboard for leverage, the other fumbling between them to guide his packer. The motion made his stomach press harder against Dylan's, the twins shifting visibly under his skin. Dylan couldn't help the startled groan that escaped him at the sensation, hot and overwhelming and *theirs*, and Darien grinned, triumphant despite how wrecked he looked. "Told you. My turn."

It took three attempts before Darien could properly line himself up, his movements uncoordinated with fatigue and the sheer impracticality of their bodies. Dylan watched, transfixed, as Darien bit his lip in concentration, the tip of his packer catching against Dylan's entrance before slipping. A whine built in Darien's throat, high and frustrated, but then the blunt pressure as he finally pushed inside, both of them crying out at the stretch.

"*Fuck*," Darien gasped, hips moving as he tried to find leverage. He couldn't thrust properly like this, couldn't get the angle right with his stomach in the way, but the slow, grinding roll of his hips was enough to make Dylan's toes curl. Darien's legs shook with the effort of holding himself up, sweat beading along his collarbones as he struggled to move. "Daddy, I..." He cut off with a groan, his grip on the headboard slipping slightly.

"Switch," Dylan gasped, hands tightening on Darien's trembling thighs. "Lay me down and I'll hold my legs back for you." Darien whined in protest, hips stuttering weakly where he'd barely managed to keep Dylan impaled, but Dylan was already shifting beneath him, rolling them carefully until he was flat on his back. The mattress groaned under their combined weight as Dylan hooked his hands behind his own knees, pulling them up and apart with a grunt. His belly rose between them, taut and round, sweat gleaming in the dip of his navel. "C'mon, baby. Try now."

Darien's lips parted on a shaky exhale, his fingers flexing where they'd braced against Dylan's chest. The new angle was better but still awkward. His own stomach pressed against Dylan's when he leaned forward, their skin sticking together damply. He fumbled between them, the head of his packer hitting Dylan's thigh before sliding messily over his entrance. "Fuck," Darien hissed, frustration sharp in his voice. His hips jerked uselessly, the motion doing nothing but making them both groan. "I can't get it."

"Here." Dylan reached down, fingers curling around the base of Darien's cock to guide him. The slick, heated press of him was almost too much, Darien whimpered as Dylan dragged him forward, the blunt pressure of his cockhead finally going where they both wanted it. "There you go," Dylan murmured, voice rough with want. "Just like that, baby."

Darien sank into him with a moan, his whole body trembling. The stretch was exquisite. Dylan arched beneath him, heels digging into the mattress as Darien's weight settled fully against him. Their stomachs pressed together, hot and rounded, the twins kicking visibly under Darien's skin when Dylan dragged a reverent hand up the curve of it. "Look at you," Dylan breathed, thumb brushing over a stretch mark just below Darien's navel. "So fucking perfect. My good boy."

Darien made a broken noise, hips twitching forward instinctively before he caught himself. He couldn't thrust like this. He couldn't do more than rock shallowly into Dylan, his movements hampered by the swell of their bodies but the slow grind of his hips was enough to drag ragged gasps from both of them. Sweat dripped from Darien's forehead onto Dylan's chest, his breaths coming in uneven pants as he struggled to move. Dylan watched, enthralled, as Darien's face twisted with pleasure and frustration in equal measure, his fingers kneading restlessly at Dylan's belly.

"You're doing so good," Dylan murmured, letting his own hands roam over Darien's stomach, tracing the tight, stretched skin. The twins shifted under his palm, a flutter of movement that made Darien shudder and press closer. "Fuck, you're *huge*. All knocked up and still fucking me like this." He punctuated the words with a sharp grind upward, forcing Darien deeper, and was rewarded with a high whine.

Darien's rhythm faltered, his thrusts growing even more uncoordinated as pleasure coiled tight in his gut. "Daddy, oh my god daddy..." His voice cracked, hands scrabbling at Dylan's chest, milk beading at his nipples. The angle was all wrong for anything fast, but the slow, filthy drag of his cock inside Dylan was wringing helpless noises from both of them. Dylan could feel him starting to lose control, the telltale unevenness in his breath, the way he was inconsistent in his pace, worsening with every shallow push forward.

"Gonna come?" Dylan rasped, dragging his nails lightly down Darien's sides. The reaction was immediate and Darien jerked like he'd been burned, a sob catching in his throat as his hips stuttered wildly. "Yeah, that's it. Let me feel it." He clenched around Darien deliberately, grinning at the way Darien's eyes rolled back, his mouth falling open in a silent cry.

Darien's entire body locked up as he came with a strangled shout. His hips jerked erratically, the motion sending shockwaves through both of them. Dylan could feel the wet heat of it seeping out of him even through the silicone. "Oh god, *fuck*." Darien gasped, his fingers digging into Dylan's ribs as his orgasm ripped through him, leaving his mouth wide open. The twins repositioned beneath his skin, responding to the adrenaline coursing through him, and Dylan groaned at the sensation of their movement pressed flush against his own swollen abdomen.

"Jesus *Christ*," Dylan muttered, dragging a hand up Darien's back to cup the nape of his neck. Darien was still shuddering through the aftershocks, his packer inside Dylan, his breaths coming in ragged, wet pants against Dylan's collarbone. "You okay, baby?"

Darien made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob, his forehead dropping heavily against Dylan's sternum. "Mmh. *Yeah*." His voice was wrecked, slurred with exhaustion and pleasure. "Fuck. Your turn."

Dylan snorted, shifting carefully beneath him. "Baby, you can barely *move*."

Darien lifted his head just enough to glare, his cheeks flushed dark, his lower lip bitten red. "Don't care." His hips rolled weakly, the motion barely more than a twitch, but it was enough to make Dylan hiss through his teeth. "Wanna *hnn*...wanna feel you again." His fingers trailed clumsily down Dylan's stomach, brushing over the swollen curve of it before wrapping around the base of his packer. The touch was uncoordinated and Darien's hands were still shaking but the intent was clear.

Dylan groaned, his head thumping back against the pillows. "You're gonna kill me."

Darien grinned, triumphant even as his eyelids drooped with exhaustion. He managed a sloppy stroke, his thumb on the head of Dylan's packer, smearing his own juices across the silicone. "Daddy," he murmured, his voice hoarse but teasing.

The combination of Darien's wrecked voice, the warm weight of him still seated inside Dylan, and the rough drag of his fingers was *too much*. Dylan's hips bucked up instinctively as pleasure coiled tight in his gut. "Fuck...*fuck*..." He grabbed blindly for Darien's wrist, his fingers tightening around it as he guided Darien's movements, setting a punishing pace. The slide of Darien's cock inside him was almost overstimulating now, but Dylan couldn't stop, couldn't slow down, not when Darien was looking at him like *that*, smug and *his*.

Darien's breath hitched when Dylan's rhythm faltered, his thighs tensing as pleasure crested. "Yeah," he whispered, his free hand splaying possessively over Dylan's stomach. "That's it. *Come* for me, daddy."

Dylan came with a bit of a shout, his back moving off the mattress as his orgasm ripped through him. His vision whited out for a second, Darien's name spilled from his lips in a broken litany, his fingers tight around Darien's wrist.

When he finally came back to himself, Darien was collapsed half on top of him, his breathing slow and even. Dylan blinked blearily down at him, his own limbs heavy with exhaustion. "You *alive*?" he muttered, dragging a hand up Darien's spine.

Darien hummed drowsily, nuzzling against Dylan's collarbone. "Mm. *Yeah*." His voice was thick with sleep, his body limp and pliant where it sprawled across Dylan's. "Gonna... nap now."

I don't really enjoy dipping into the fantastical. That being said, unrealistic but technically possible is great for me.

Hunter stretched his arms above his head, rolling his stiff shoulders as the lecture hall emptied. His binder felt tighter than usual today, but he chalked it up to the stale air conditioning, or maybe the guy two seats over who kept glancing at him. Again.

"Need a pencil?" The guy slid one across the desk without waiting for an answer. His knuckles were rough, like he worked construction between classes, and the tattoo peeking out from his sleeve looked homemade.

Hunter picked it up, rolling it between his fingers. "Thanks." He didn't. His backpack was full of half-chewed pencils from the library.

The pencil guy, Hunter refused to give him a name even in his own head, started showing up two seats to his left every Tuesday and Thursday. He’d nod when Hunter walked in, sometimes slide over a granola bar or a stick of gum like they were sharing some unspoken trade agreement. Never spoke much, though. Just the occasional comment about the professor’s monotone voice or how the overhead projector was one flicker away from giving everyone a seizure.

Hunter caught himself staring once, mid-lecture, at the way the guy’s forearm flexed when he scribbled notes. There was something deliberate about the way he moved, like he’d practiced how to make even the smallest actions look effortless. His nails were always clean but uneven, as if he bit them when no one was watching. The tattoo, now that Hunter could see it better, was a crude dagger with a snake coiled around it, the ink blurred at the edges, the kind you’d get in a basement with a needle and a bottle of vodka.

"You ever gonna tell me your name?" Hunter asked one day, crumpling the wrapper of the third granola bar he’d been handed that month.

The guy smirked, tapping the end of his pencil against his bottom lip. "Why? You planning on writing me a letter?" His voice had that low, gravelly tone that made Hunter's stomach do a slow flip. It was flirtation, a fact, like the way he always wore the same battered leather jacket even when the classroom was sweltering. Hunter kind of liked it.

Hunter shrugged, pretending to focus on his notes. "Just wondering if I should start calling you Granola Guy in my head or if you’ve got something better."

A quiet laugh, more air than sound. "Granola Guy’s fine." He stretched his arms behind his head, the hem of his shirt riding up just enough to reveal a strip of skin above his jeans. Hunter caught himself staring again. The guy noticed, of course. Hunter could tell by the way his smirk widened, but he didn’t say anything, just went back to his notes like they hadn’t been talking at all.

The overhead lights buzzed like angry wasps as the last few students shuffled out of the lecture hall. Granola Guy, still nameless, still smirking, tapped his pencil against the edge of Hunter's desk. "You live on campus, right?" The question was casual, but his eyes weren't. They tracked the way Hunter's throat moved when he swallowed.

Hunter nodded before he could think better of it. "Yeah. East dorm."

"Cool." The guy stood, slinging his backpack over one shoulder with that practiced ease. "Let’s go." Not a request. Not even really an invitation. Just a statement, like he’d already decided how this would play out and Hunter was just catching up.

Hunter’s dorm room was small, cluttered with half-finished art projects and textbooks stacked haphazardly on the floor. Granola Guy barely glanced at any of it. He shut the door behind them with a quiet click, then turned the lock. Hunter’s pulse jumped.

"You’re wound tight," the guy murmured, stepping into Hunter’s space. His hands settled on Hunter’s hips, thumbs pressing into the dip of bone above his jeans. "Relax." His breath was warm against Hunter’s neck, and for a second, Hunter almost did relax. Then the guy’s teeth grazed his earlobe, sharp enough to make him gasp, and the hands on his hips tightened.

Hunter expected kissing maybe, something slow, something that would give him time to catch up. Instead, Granola Guy yanked Hunter’s shirt over his head, fingers scraping against his ribs. The binder came next, peeled off with rough efficiency. Hunter barely had time to register the cold air on his skin before the guy was pushing him backward onto the bed, knees hitting the mattress hard enough to bruise.

"Wait," Hunter’s voice cracked. The guy was already unbuckling his belt, shoving his own jeans down just enough to free his cock. It was thick, flushed dark at the tip, and Hunter’s stomach lurched when he realized how fast this was moving. "Condom," he blurted, scrambling to sit up. "You need to..."

Granola Guy grabbed Hunter’s wrist, pinning it to the bed beside his head. "I’m clean." He said it like it was a fact, like Hunter was stupid for doubting him. His other hand tugged at Hunter’s waistband, shoving fabric down to his thighs in one rough pull. Hunter’s underwear followed, and then there was nothing between them but the slick between his legs.

Hunter’s breath came in short, panicked bursts. The guy’s cock nudged against his hole, blunt and unrelenting. "I said condom..."

"I heard you." Granola Guy leaned down, his mouth hovering just above Hunter’s. "But I don’t like them." And then he was pushing in, slow at first, just enough to make Hunter whine, then all at once, burying himself to his base. Hunter arched off the bed, a strangled noise tearing from his throat. It hurt. Not in the way Hunter had imagined it might, this was sharper, meaner, like the guy was carving out space inside him whether he wanted it or not.

"Fuck," Granola Guy groaned, hips snapping forward. "Knew you’d be tight." He didn’t wait for Hunter to adjust, didn’t even seem to notice the way his fingers clawed at the sheets. Just set a brutal pace, each thrust driving the air from Hunter’s lungs.

Hunter squeezed his eyes shut. The guy’s grip on his wrist was going to leave bruises.

Hunter gasped as the guy bottomed out inside him again, the sharp sting of it making his toes curl. He could feel every inch, the stretch unbearable, but just as he opened his mouth to protest, the guy shifted his angle slightly, and then it wasn’t just pain. A sound escaped Hunter’s throat as pleasure sparked low in his gut, unexpected and unwelcome. The guy chuckled, breath hot against Hunter’s neck. "There you go," he murmured, like he’d been waiting for it.

The pace didn’t slow, but the pain blurred into something else, a strange mix of too much and not enough. Hunter’s body moved without permission, his legs tightening around the guy’s waist. He hated how good it felt, hated how easily his body betrayed him. The guy’s fingers dug into him and Hunter could already picture the bruises blooming later, dark fingerprints against his skin, proof of this.

"Look at you," the guy rasped, his voice rough like he’d been gargling gravel. His thrusts turned uneven, erratic. "Fuck, you’re gonna make me..." He didn’t finish the sentence. His hips stuttered, and Hunter felt it. The sudden, searing heat flooding inside him. The realization hit a second too late.

Hunter’s stomach dropped. His voice cracked. "And you said you were clean?"

The guy pulled out with a wet sound, slapping against Hunter's hole a few times before tucking himself back into his jeans like nothing had happened. His smirk was back, lazy and self-satisfied. "I am." He wiped his hand on the sheets, then reached for his jacket. "Just don’t like condoms."

The guy shrugged, zipping his jeans. He grabbed his backpack, slinging it over one shoulder like they’d just finished a study session. "See you in class."

Hunter’s hands shook as he yanked his underwear back up, the mess between his thighs making his skin crawl. He wanted to scream, to throw something, but the guy was already at the door, turning the lock with a casual flick of his wrist.

Then he paused, glancing back over his shoulder. "Oh, and Hunter?" That smirk again, like he knew something Hunter didn’t. "Drink more water. Be sure to keep yourself hydrated, man." The door clicked shut behind him.

Hunter didn’t move for a long time. The room smelled like sex and sweat, the sheets tangled and damp beneath him. He should shower. He should act. He didn’t know what he should do. His phone buzzed on the nightstand, a text from his roommate asking if he wanted to grab dinner. Hunter ignored it.

Three weeks later, Hunter sat in the same lecture hall, his notebook open but untouched. Granola Guy hadn’t shown up since that afternoon, and Hunter told himself he was relieved. But then he’d catch a glimpse of him in the cafeteria, or leaning against a bike rack outside the library, always just watching. Never approaching.

Hunter’s stomach twisted every time. He told himself it was anger. Then the nausea started.

Initially, he blamed the dining hall food. Then the stress of midterms. But when he woke up one morning and vomited into his trash can before his alarm even went off, he knew.

The pregnancy test sat on the edge of his sink, two pink lines glaring up at him. Hunter stared at his reflection in the mirror. He was pale, hollow-eyed, his hand pressed to his flat stomach.

Granola Guy’s voice echoed in his head. Stay hydrated. Why would he say that?

Hunter’s knees gave out. He sank to the bathroom floor, the tiles cold against his bare calves, and for the first time in years, he bawled.

Hunter scrubbed his face with shaking hands, the bathroom tiles digging into his kneecaps as he tried to steady his breathing. The pregnancy test was still there, mocking him from the sink ledge. He grabbed it, shoved it into the empty tampon box under the sink, like hiding it would undo the result. His phone buzzed again. It was his roommate, probably. He should text back. He should do a lot of things. Instead, he pressed his forehead to the mirror, the glass cooling his flushed skin.

The nausea came back in waves. Hunter heaved into the toilet, his stomach empty but his body insistent. When he finally stood, his legs wobbled like a fawn’s. He splashed water on his face, avoiding his own eyes in the mirror. The dorm room outside the bathroom felt too loud, too bright, even though it was empty. His laptop was open on his bed, an unfinished essay blinking on the screen. He shut it with a snap.

Three days passed in a blur of skipped classes and crackers eaten in bed. Hunter only left to use the bathroom or when his roommate dragged him to the dining hall, where he pushed food around his plate until he gave up. On the fourth day, he found himself standing outside the campus health center, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets. The door swung open as a group of laughing girls exited, their arms full of condoms and pamphlets. Hunter ducked his head and stepped inside before he could change his mind.

The nurse at the front desk didn’t look up from her computer. "Name and student ID?" Hunter opened his mouth, then hesitated. His voice came out hoarse. "Do you, uh. Do you have to report this? Like, to the school?" The nurse’s fingers paused over the keyboard. Her eyes flicked to his face, then away. "Only if you’re under eighteen or in immediate danger," she said, softer now. Hunter swallowed. "Hunter Walsh. ID’s 440293."

The doctor was clinical, kind in a detached way. She asked about dates, symptoms, protection. Hunter lied through his teeth. "Condom broke," he muttered, staring at the stirrups. The ultrasound gel was cold on his stomach, the wand pressing just below his navel. The screen showed a grainy, peanut-shaped blur. "About eight weeks," the doctor said. Hunter closed his eyes.

He walked back to his dorm in a daze, the printout of resources crumpled in his fist. The clinic had given him options, pamphlets, a referral to an off-campus provider. He’d shoved it all in his backpack like contraband. Rounding the corner of the humanities building, he froze. Granola Guy leaned against the bike rack, cigarette dangling from his lips. Their eyes met. The guy exhaled smoke, slow, deliberate. Then he grinned.

Hunter’s stomach lurched. He veered sharply toward the dorm, his pulse hammering in his ears. Behind him, a laugh that was low and knowing. A voice called out, just loud enough to carry: "Thirsty, Hunter?"

Hunter's fingers clenched around the straps of his backpack until his knuckles turned white. He didn't look back, didn't give Granola Guy the satisfaction of seeing his face twist with rage. The dorm stairs blurred under his feet as he took them two at a time, his breath coming in ragged bursts. Inside, he slammed the door so hard the framed poster of the solar system above his bed rattled. His roommate wasn't home. He had to appreciate the small mercies.

He paced the length of the room three times before sinking onto his bed, the springs creaking under his weight. The ultrasound photo peeked out from his unzipped backpack, the edges crumpled where he'd gripped it too tightly. Hunter snatched it up, intending to tear it to shreds, but hesitated. His thumb brushed over the grainy image. Eight weeks. Two months of Granola Guy slipping God-knows-what into his water bottle while he took notes on Renaissance poetry. The thought made bile rise in his throat.

His phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: *People are going to notice you missing classes.* Hunter's blood ran cold. He hadn't given Granola Guy his number. Another buzz: *You look good when you're scared.* The screen blurred as Hunter's vision tunneled. He blocked the number with shaking fingers, then immediately unblocked it. Evidence. He needed evidence. He took a screenshot, hands trembling so badly he had to try three times before it registered.

That night, Hunter lay awake staring at the ceiling, the digital clock on his desk ticking past 3 AM. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Granola Guy's smirk, the way his eyes had tracked the slight bloat of Hunter's stomach beneath his hoodie. A cramp twisted low in his abdomen, sharp enough to make him wince. He curled onto his side, pressing his palms against the ache. The first time it happened, he'd panicked, convinced he was miscarrying. Now he just waited it out, teeth gritted, until the pain faded to a dull throb.

Morning light filtered through the blinds, painting stripes across Hunter's rumpled sheets. He'd finally dozed off around dawn, but his phone alarm shattered what little peace he'd found. Three new messages from the unknown number. He didn't open them. Instead, he pulled up the campus security website, cursor hovering over the anonymous tip form. His finger hovered over the trackpad. What would he even say? *A guy got me pregnant and it's kinda my fault for not making sure he actually put on a condom?* The security office was two buildings over. He could walk there right now.

Hunter stood so fast his desk chair rolled into the wall. He yanked open his closet, searching for the baggiest sweatshirt he owned. As he shrugged it on, his reflection in the mirror caught his eye. The sweatshirt drowned him, but the angle of morning light caught the subtle curve of his lower belly. He grabbed a scarf and wound it tight around his waist, knotting it twice.

The knock at the door made him jump. His roommate's voice called through the wood, "You alive in there? You missed Lit." Hunter unlocked the door, forcing his face into something neutral. His roommate, Jess, frowned at him, his nose ring glinting in the sunlight. "You look like shit," he said, blunt as always.

"Midterm stress," Hunter lied, rubbing his eyes for effect. Jess didn't look convinced, but he held out a paper coffee cup. "Here. You owe me four bucks." The warmth seeped into his palms as he took it. He pretended not to notice Jess's eyes flicking to his waist, the way the scarf bunched oddly over his hips.

As Jess turned to leave, Hunter blurted, "What would you do if someone was..." He bit his lip, rewording. "If you found out someone had been, like, drugging you?"

Jess's eyebrows shot up. "What the fuck, Hunter. Who drugged you?"

"Hypothetical."

He studied him for a long moment, then pulled out his phone. "Hypothetically, I'd go to the fucking police." He tapped his screen a few times before shoving it at him. A local detective's contact info glared up at him. "Or at least campus security. They have to investigate that shit."

Hunter stared at the number. The ultrasound photo burned a hole in his pocket. Granola Guy's texts sat heavy in his inbox. Somewhere on campus, that bastard was probably smirking right now, waiting to see how long Hunter would flail before drowning.

Jess was still watching him. Hunter shoved the phone back at him. "Thanks," he muttered. "Just a stupid thought." He took a gulp of coffee, then froze, the liquid burning his tongue. *Drink more water.* He set the cup down too hard, scalding liquid sloshing over the rim.

By week twelve, Hunter could no longer ignore his stomach under hoodies. His binder sat unused in his bottom drawer because the pressure had become too much. He took to wearing loose button-ups stolen from his dad’s last care package, the fabric straining over his hips. Every morning, he traced the new stretch marks forming just below his navel, angry red lines that seemed to mock him.

The texts from the unknown number came less frequently now, but they still made Hunter’s hands shake whenever his phone buzzed. *You’re showing.* Then, days later: *I can see it when you walk.* Hunter stopped checking his messages altogether.

His professors started noticing. Dr. Lenz, the Renaissance poetry lecturer, pulled him aside after class one Tuesday. "Hunter," she said, adjusting her glasses. "You’ve missed three quizzes." The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Hunter could feel Granola Guy’s absence in the empty seat two rows over, like a ghost limb. "I’ll make them up," he lied. Dr. Lenz’s gaze flicked to his stomach, then away. "See that you do."

The campus health center called twice to confirm his next prenatal appointment. Hunter deleted the voicemails. He stopped answering his dorm phone entirely after the third time a deep, familiar voice asked if he’d been staying hydrated.

Jess found him puking in their shared bathroom one October morning, his forehead pressed against the cool porcelain. He didn’t say anything, just handed him a wet washcloth and sat cross legged on the tile beside him. After a long silence, he said, "You know you can’t ignore this forever, right?" Hunter wiped his mouth. The ultrasound photo was still tucked in his wallet, edges frayed from how often he’d taken it out to stare at it in secret.

"I’m handling it," he said.

Jess snorted. "Yeah. Real healthy."

That night, Hunter lay awake, one hand resting on the hard curve of his stomach. A sharp kick startled him, the first unmistakable movement. His breath caught. For one traitorous moment, his throat tightened with something that wasn’t dread. Then his phone lit up with a new message: *Can’t wait to see how you look at twenty weeks.*

Hunter threw his phone across the room. It hit the wall with a satisfying crack.

By Thanksgiving break, he’d stopped going to classes altogether. The walk across campus had become exhausting, his back aching from the weight. His dad’s old shirts no longer buttoned over his stomach. He took to wearing Jess’s oversized sweaters, the fabric stretching tight over his belly.

Jess cornered him one evening, his arms crossed. "You’re not fooling anyone," he said, nodding at his stomach. "You need to figure your shit out."

Hunter looked away. Outside the window, snow drifted lazily to the ground. Somewhere out there, Granola Guy was probably watching the same snowfall, that same smirk on his face.

"I know," Hunter said. But he didn’t move. Didn’t call the detective whose number Jess had forced into his contacts. Didn’t schedule the termination the clinic had offered.

Instead, he cupped the swell of his stomach with both hands and wondered how much bigger he’d get before it was over.

The Christmas lights strung across the dorm hallway blinked in erratic patterns, casting red and green shadows over Hunter’s swollen stomach as he waddled past. His lungs pressed against his ribs now when he breathed too deep, and his hips ached constantly, like they were being pried apart with crowbars. He’d started counting his steps between rests. Twenty to the bathroom, forty to the vending machine, eighty if he dared to venture outside. Today, he’d made it to the mailroom. The package from his father sat heavy in his hands, unopened. Probably another sweater two sizes too small.

Back in his room, Hunter dropped onto his bed with a grunt, the mattress sagging under his new weight. The baby shifted, just below his ribs, making him gasp. He pressed his palm there, feeling the ripple under his skin. *Stop it*, he thought, and immediately hated himself. The movement slowed, as if the thing inside him had heard. Hunter exhaled through his nose. The ultrasound in his wallet said it was a girl. He hadn’t told anyone, not even Jess.

His phone buzzed. The unknown number again. *Merry Christmas. You’re glowing.* Hunter’s fingers hovered over the screen. He could picture Granola Guy leaning against some snow dusted bike rack right now, watching Hunter’s darkened window from across the quad. The thought should’ve made him nauseous. Instead, he found himself staring at his reflection in the black screen. His cheeks rounder, lips chapped, dark circles under his eyes. He *did* look different. He looked truly pregnant.

By New Year’s, Hunter had developed a routine. Wake up at noon when the dorm was empty, shuffle to the communal kitchen to microwave frozen pancakes, then back to bed to stare at the ceiling until his bladder forced him up again. Jess had gone home for the holidays, leaving him alone with the creaking pipes and the relentless kicking. Sometimes, he talked to it. But not in the sweet, expectant-mother way the parenting forums described, but in clipped, half-formed sentences. *You’re crushing my spleen. Knock it off.*

The spring semester started without him. Emails from the registrar piled up in his inbox, subject lines growing increasingly urgent: *ACADEMIC PROBATION*, *MEDICAL LEAVE REQUEST REQUIRED*, *FINAL NOTICE*. Hunter marked them all as read and didn’t reply. His stomach had grown too big to hide now, the skin stretched taut and shiny. He’d stopped wearing pants altogether, opting for Jess’s ratty bathrobe tied loosely under his bump. The stretch marks had multiplied, angry red streaks branching out like lightning across his hips.

One February morning, Hunter woke to a seizing pain low in his back. He rolled onto his side, gripping the headboard as his muscles contracted in waves. False labor, probably. The clinic had warned him about this. He counted the seconds between cramps, nails digging into the cheap plywood. When it passed, he reached for his phone then froze. A shadow moved outside his window. Broad shoulders, the familiar slope of a leather jacket. Hunter held his breath. The shadow lingered for one long minute, then melted into the predawn gray.

The baby kicked again, harder this time. Hunter pressed his thumb into the spot, as if he could push it back. "We’re not doing this," he muttered. But his hands shook as he pulled up the detective’s contact. The cursor blinked in the empty message field. Outside, snow began to fall. Somewhere out there, Granola Guy was watching. Waiting. Hunter deleted the draft and turned off his phone.

Hunter's breath came in short, ragged gasps as a contraction seized him, his fingers twisting in the damp sheets beneath him. The dorm room smelled of sweat and something metallic, the air thick with the scent of his own body betraying him. He'd stripped naked hours ago, the fabric of his clothes unbearable against his overheated skin. Now he lay on his hands and knees, the weight of his belly resting on the mattress beneath him, the hard curve of it a grotesque parody of the athlete he used to be. A trail of milk dripped from his swollen nipples, pooling on the sheets. His body was preparing to deliver a child he'd never wanted.

The pain crested, and Hunter bit down on his own forearm to stifle a cry, teeth breaking skin. Blood mixed with sweat on his tongue. He should call someone. Jess. The health center. An ambulance. But the thought of strangers seeing him like this, of being exposed under fluorescent lights with his legs spread, made his stomach lurch worse than any contraction. He could do this alone. He had to.

Then the doorknob jiggled.

Hunter froze, his breath hitching. The lock clicked, once, twice, the sound deliberate, practiced. He didn't bother reaching for a blanket. Didn't even turn his head. He knew. A sob broke free from his throat, quiet and broken, as the door swung open.

Cold air rushed in, carrying the scent of snow and cigarette smoke. Leather creaked as Granola Guy stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him. Hunter didn't look up, but he could feel the weight of that gaze raking over his bare back, staring at the way his belly hung heavy between his legs.

"Well, look at you." The voice was just as Hunter remembered. It was low, rough, smirking without needing to see his face. Boots scuffed against the floor as Granola Guy circled the bed, coming to stand in front of him. Hunter kept his eyes down, trained on the man's scuffed work boots, the frayed hem of his jeans. A hand reached out, calloused fingers brushing Hunter's damp forehead, pushing his hair back. The touch was almost gentle.

Another contraction ripped through him, and his spine arched involuntarily. Granola Guy crouched in front of him, close enough that Hunter could see the chipped black polish on his nails, the fresh scrape across his knuckles. "You're close," he murmured, shockingly certain of that statement. His palm settled on the curve of Hunter's belly, pressing down just as the next contraction hit. Hunter whimpered, his thighs shaking.

"Stop," he choked out, but his body wasn't listening. It was pushing, muscles clenching with a mind of their own. Granola Guy's hand slid lower, between Hunter's legs, fingers probing. Hunter flinched, but there was nowhere to go, no way to escape the intimacy of those rough fingers checking his progress. "Crowning," Granola Guy announced, his breath hot against Hunter's ear. "You gonna push, or do I have to make you?"

Hunter’s scream tore through the room as Granola Guy’s fingers pressed inside him, the sudden rush of fluid hot between his thighs. The pain was blinding, white static behind his eyelids, but worse was the roughness in those hands, the way they moved like they owned every inch of him. "There we go," Granola Guy murmured, withdrawing his fingers slick with amniotic fluid. He wiped them on Hunter’s bare thigh, leaving a wet streak. "Now we don’t have to wait anymore."

The contractions came faster after that, each one a vise around Hunter’s spine. He braced himself against the mattress, his arms shaking, but Granola Guy grabbed his hips and yanked him forward. "On your back," he ordered. When Hunter didn’t move fast enough, those rough hands flipped him effortlessly, his swollen belly heaving with the motion. Hunter barely had time to process the indignity before the next contraction hit, his body seizing with the urge to push. He gritted his teeth, fighting it, but Granola Guy leaned over him, his breath stale with tobacco. "Do it," he growled. "Or I’ll fucking make you."

Hunter pushed.

The pain was worse than anything he’d imagined. It was a splitting, burning stretch that made his vision go black at the edges. He could feel Granola Guy’s fingers there again, spreading him wider, the sting of tearing flesh sharp between his legs. "Good," Granola Guy muttered, his voice oddly distant. "Almost there." Hunter barely heard him over the roar of blood in his ears. One more push, a scream ripping from his throat, and then release. A wet, slippery weight slid free, followed by a thin, reedy cry.

Granola Guy caught the baby effortlessly, his hands cradling the tiny body with a possessiveness that made Hunter’s stomach turn. He didn’t offer the child to Hunter. Didn’t even look at him. Just wiped the blood and vernix from her skin with the edge of his shirt, his touch eerily gentle. Hunter lay there, panting, his legs still spread. He wanted to reach for her. He didn’t.

Granola Guy pulled a folded note from his back pocket and dropped it onto Hunter’s stomach, the paper sticking to his sweat-slick skin. Then he turned, the baby tucked securely against his chest, and walked out without a word. The door clicked shut behind him.

Hunter stared at the ceiling, his chest heaving. The note slid slightly with each breath, but he waited, five seconds, ten, before peeling it off. The handwriting was neat, almost clinical:

*Pump every three hours. Leave bottles in the blue locker outside the gym. The combination is 12-24-36.*

*P.S. Knew you’d be perfect for this. Let’s do it again soon.*

Hunter’s hands shook so badly the paper rattled. Down the hall, someone’s stereo played a pop song faintly through the walls, the bass thumping like a second heartbeat. Outside, the wind howled, rattling the windowpane. Somewhere out there, Granola Guy was buckling his daughter into a car seat, adjusting the straps with those same deft hands that had forced her into existence.

Hunter rolled onto his side and vomited onto the floor.

When the afterbirth came, he barely noticed. The cramps were dull compared to what had come before, the mess between his thighs insignificant. He lay there for a long time, his empty stomach aching, the note crumpled in his fist. Eventually, he forced himself up, wincing as his torn flesh pulled. The bathroom seemed miles away.

Under the fluorescent lights, his reflection was ghastly and pale and hollow, his stomach still rounded but softer now, deflated. He turned on the shower and stepped in without waiting for the water to warm. The spray stung his fresh wounds, but he didn’t adjust the temperature. Just stood there, letting it turn his skin red, until the water ran cold.

This is my interpretation.