They've been stuck at the point of almost crowning for about two hours now— the absolutely massive head sits wedged and unmoving in their birth canal, bulging out their perineum and the structure of their cunt with its obscene size. The lips of their labia are an angry shade of red, gaping and dribbling fluid down their thighs each time they attempt to push.

But as soon as their tissues begin to stretch around the width of the skull barreling down through their cervix, they lose control of the push, and the game of 'out-in-out-back in again' they're waging with the crown starts all over again.

"Oooooh, its coming," they grunt. They shove up onto their elbows, pressing their chin to their chest as they grit their teeth and bear down. "Aghhhhhh!" Their cunt continues to bulge as they push with all of their strength. "Hnnnng, it hurts! My pussy burns!"

"Come on!" you command harshly, peering between their legs. Their furled slit has opened just slightly, giving you a small, brief glimpse of a few wisps of wet, dark hair. "Don't give up. Keep pushing!"

They wail and thrash their head from side to side, thighs snapping closed as the head slips back up into their tortured canal. "I cant!" they sob, legs shaking with effort as they attempt to hold the baby inside of them. "It hurts so b-bad. It-mmmmmph, it burns!"

"I know it hurts," you assure them, running your hand over their flank as you lean in to press a kiss to their sweaty forehead. "But you're only making it harder on yourself, baby. You need to push." You reach down between their legs, gently shushing their cries of protests as you make space. Their lower belly spasms as the head surges forward once more, earning a frantic, shrill scream in response. "Save your energy," you tell them firmly. "Use all of that to get this baby out."

They scream again, a deep shrill roar that rises from their chest as they throw their head back. "Let me go!' they yell, overwhelmed as the head begins to push their labia into a yawning teardrop, clit pulsing above the emerging skull. "Fuck, its burning! I'm ripping! I'm gonna tear ap-pa-rrrrrt! Hrrrrrrg!"

They continue to thrash and scream as they strain, working equally as hard to shove the baby out of their battered hole as they are to try to keep it inside. "ohmygodmakeitstopppppp!"

"It needs to come out, baby!" You watch the head peak-a-boo, groaning in frustration as your partner once again wrenchs free and snaps their legs closes.

"Hurts," they whine, panting for breath as they fall back against the pillows. "I can't take the pain. I didnt... didn't think it would be like this. I—ohhhh, nooooo." Their breath catches, belly going taut as it squeezes down around their contracting womb. "Mmmm, its coming. Ooooh, fuck. Oooooh." Their feet scrabble at the damp sheets as instinct overwhelms them and they push, cunt bulging wide until it pushes their thighs apart. "Its in my pussy! Ooh, my poor pussy!"

Taking advantage of their distraction, you lean over them and take them into your arms, pulling them into a kneeling position. Between their legs, the head surges from just barely visible to fully crowning with the help of gravity, and they scream and sob hysterically. "Holyfuck, my cuntttt. Oh, my cunt. It burns! Its gonna tear me!" They continue to babble as you reach down to cup the emerging head, pressing your thumb against their clit.

"Push!" you bellow over them, shoving your knee in-between theirs to hold them open as they howl and screech, leaking blood and fluid as the large, extremely overdue head painstakingly inches its way out. "Here it comes! Get it out, baby!"

"Nnnnnuggghhhh!"

"It's past the crown!" The posterior head has finally begun to show itself. You continue to provide counter pressure to your partner's clit as they bear down, veins popping and skin turning bright red as they shriek about feeling their pussy tear. "Go, go, GO! Keeping fucking pushing!"

"MmmmmphGOD!" The stretched ring of their vagaina has gone shock white, bloodless and gaping around the overdue infant. Its brows. Its nose. Its chin. "Coming outtttnnnngh-holy fuckkkkk! I'm gonna split in half!"

"PUSH!"

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“Don’t push yet—pant for me, pant—”

He tried. He really did. But the sound that came out of him was too wrecked, too deep and rough to pass for breathing anymore. It dragged up out of his chest as a low, helpless growl while his whole body locked around the pressure.

“Ghh—nnnh— no, no, no, it’s right there—”

Sweat ran down his neck and soaked the sheets under his back. His thighs were shaking so badly they barely stayed open between contractions, and every few seconds another broken sound left him—half moan, half animal noise, the kind a body makes when it has gone past pride and language and is running on pain alone.

His son felt huge.

Not just heavy. Not just low. Huge. Wedged so deep that every contraction slammed into the same unbearable sensation: a solid, stuffed, obstructed fullness low in his body, the awful certainty that something far too big was pressing down inside him and refusing to move. It made him feel blocked, stretched, desperate to bear down, like his body was trying with everything it had to expel one massive, impossible weight.

Dr. Alvarez snapped on a fresh glove. “I’m checking you again.”

He made a thin, wrecked sound and shook his head. “No, wait—ahh—God, it’s so much pressure—”

“I know. Hold still.”

Her gloved hand pressed in with brisk, practiced precision, clinical and unhesitating. Two fingers first, then deeper as she assessed through the swollen, taut tissue. He jerked under her touch with a hoarse cry, one hand flying to the rail, the other grabbing at the sheet beside his hip.

“Nnnh—fuck— oh God—”

“Easy,” the nurse said, bracing a hand against his shoulder. “Let her check.”

But there was nothing easy left in him. The pressure of the exam on top of the pressure already inside him made his whole body go rigid. He could feel the glove, the firm inward sweep of her fingers, the way she measured and palpated with calm, exact efficiency while he trembled and panted through clenched teeth.

“Complete,” Dr. Alvarez said immediately. “Fully dilated.”

He swallowed hard, chest hitching.

She assessed deeper, fingertips finding what they needed to find, and her voice sharpened. “And I can feel the head. He’s low. Very low.”

For one second, relief hit his face so hard it almost looked like shock.

“Then why—” His voice cracked into a groan. “Why does it still feel like he’s just plugging me up?”

No one laughed. The room was too tense for that, and too honest. Because that was exactly what this had become: complete dilation, a low presenting head, strong contractions, all the anatomy ready for delivery—and still not enough descent. Still not enough movement with each push.

Dr. Alvarez withdrew her hand, peeled the glove off, and looked straight at him. “He’s lower than before, but not moving through the way I want.”

Another contraction built so fast he barely had time to suck in air before it seized him. He folded forward with a guttural groan, every muscle in his abdomen locking down around the pressure.

“Ghhhnn—ah—ahh— God—”

“That’s it,” the nurse said. “Don’t waste it. Push low.”

“It feels so full,” he choked out. “Jesus— it feels like I have to bear down so bad—”

“Then bear down.”

The contraction hit its peak. He curled around it with a raw cry, voice dropping into a deep, involuntary growl as he pushed. The bed creaked. His fingers slipped on the rail and tightened again. His whole body strained around that same enormous fullness low inside him, the awful sensation of something too large stretching him open and still not coming through.

“Nnngh—ahh—ah—!”

“Good,” Dr. Alvarez said, moving back into position. “Again. Put it down where the pressure is.”

He did, choking on the effort, face wet, lips pulled back, every breath breaking apart into rough sounds that barely resembled words.

“He’s so big— God, he’s so big—”

“I know.”

“It feels like—” He gasped, then growled low in his throat as the pressure surged even harder. “It feels like my whole body’s trying to force out the biggest thing it’s ever had in it and it won’t move—”

“Again,” Dr. Alvarez said.

He bore down with a cry that cracked at the edges. “Hhhrrnngh—!”

During the push, she checked him again, gloved fingers pressing in and feeling the presenting head against the stretched tissue. He bucked under the contact with a broken moan, too overwhelmed now to do anything but pant and obey.

“I still feel him,” she said, focused, intent. “Head is there. Low. But not enough descent.”

That was the cruelty of it. So close it could be felt clearly on exam. So close that every nerve in his body was screaming to push. And still not close enough to end it.

The contraction finally broke. He sagged back, chest heaving, sweat shining over his skin, his whole face twisted with pain and exhausted disbelief.

“Did he move?”

“A little.”

His eyes squeezed shut. “That’s not enough.”

“No,” Dr. Alvarez said quietly. “Not yet.”

He let out a miserable sound and turned his face into the pillow for half a second before the pressure low in his body forced another groan out of him.

“It feels like he’s filling me all the way up down there,” he rasped. “Like there’s no room left, just pressure. So much pressure.” He swallowed hard, breath shuddering. “It feels like I’m going to split open.”

The nurse wiped sweat from his forehead. “Stay with us.”

Dr. Alvarez stripped off the glove and reached for another. When she spoke again, her tone was even, but there was steel in it now.

“Listen to me carefully. Your son is still tolerating labor. The tracing is reassuring enough that I can give this a little more time. But this is a large baby, and if I keep feeling head without meaningful descent, or if your vitals worsen, or if his heart rate starts showing distress on the monitor, we stop and go to emergency C-section. I will not let this become unsafe.”

He nodded too quickly, almost frantic, breaths coming in short, ragged pulls.

“So I need him out now,” he said, voice hoarse.

“I need progress now,” she corrected. “If he gives me that, we keep going. If he doesn’t, I make the call.”

Another contraction was already gathering. His whole expression changed before the pain even fully hit—eyes widening, mouth opening, the first low groan already starting in his chest.

“Oh no— no, no— ahh—”

“Come on,” the nurse said. “This one counts.”

He shook his head helplessly. “It’s too much—”

“I know,” Dr. Alvarez said, already gloved again, one hand ready to assess, the other braced steady at his thigh. “But when it peaks, you push.”

The pressure rolled through him, huge and relentless, and he answered it with another deep, wrecked growl, body tightening around the unbearable urge to empty, to force, to get this giant child down and out before his strength gave out first.

“Ghhh—nnnnh—!”

“That’s it. Down.”

He pushed, shaking, face drenched, voice torn raw by effort.

“Please— God— please let him come down this time—”

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?"

He just get pregnant by the abyssal parasite. See what's happen next in Treasures of the Deep Ocean

And also older pregnant men who were simply too busy for kids and thought they'd missed their chance but whoops, here they are, knocked up, late to the game and scared out of their mind and having a difficult time adjusting to the changes their body is going through. Utterly embarrassed by the whole thing.

Apollo often chose his lovers from among mortal guys.

Baby A was posterior, her head was stuck at a full crown for over an hour. I can't even describe the agony of experiencing that without an epidural! She ended up being 13lb 6oz (6kg).

Baby B was breech so I had to do a lot of position changes to get her out but I managed it together with my midwife and partner (who arrived a bit after I started pushing) and got her out safely. She was 12lb 9oz (5,7kg).

After the placenta was out I thought I was done but there was actually a 3rd baby!! I was extremely exhausted by that point so I gave birth on my back. The doctor had to help me with vacuum extraction towards the end but everything went relatively smoothly after that. Surprise Baby C was 12lb 11oz (5,8kg).

We are still at the hospital but everything looks good.

Here is a video from when I pushed with Baby C:

His hands rested on the curve of his belly, the heavy weight of it pressing into his lower back, a constant reminder of the life growing inside him. He had been sitting there, in the cool moonlight, savoring the quiet peace that came with being so far along in a pregnancy—until he felt it.

A sharp, sudden sensation, like a deep, heavy shift, that drew his attention. His breath caught as a wave of discomfort radiated through his abdomen. His belly, once high and rounded, seemed to lower in that moment, a subtle but undeniable feeling of descent. The baby had dropped.

His eyes widened, and he instinctively placed his hands on the lower part of his belly, feeling the shift, the pressure as the baby moved lower. His stomach tightened, a rush of discomfort filling him as the weight shifted downwards. It was a strange, almost painful sensation. A deep, pulling heaviness in his pelvis as if the baby were suddenly closer to his hips.

"Oh God..." His voice was low and shaky, the words feeling strained, a mix of awe and discomfort. He could feel the baby moving, pressing downward, stretching his body in ways that weren’t as comfortable anymore. The pressure was almost too much, making his back ache, his hips feel like they were being pulled apart. It was as if the very act of the baby shifting had turned his entire body into a tight, sensitive knot.

"Ohh, you're getting deeper..." His voice was shaky, a soft, breathless laugh escaping his lips despite the discomfort. He shifted his weight slightly, trying to find some relief, but it was impossible. The pressure in his pelvis was overwhelming, as though the baby had settled in a way that left him feeling like he couldn’t catch his breath. It wasn’t painful in the way of sharp, acute pain, but it was uncomfortable in a deep, aching, almost suffocating way.

He ran his hands over the swollen curve of his belly, trying to soothe the tightness, but every time the baby moved, it only intensified the sensation. He could feel the baby pressing against his lower abdomen, the heaviness of it too much at times, making him gasp softly.

"You’re so big..." he murmured softly to the baby, his voice a mixture of awe and a little strain. "You’re so low...I can feel you."

Another shift. Another deep pressure. He winced, his hands gripping the sides of his belly as he leaned forward slightly, trying to alleviate some of the discomfort. The baby's movements, now feeling heavier, seemed to cause a sharp tug within him, pulling on his muscles, on his very core. It was almost like the weight of the child inside was too much, too overwhelming, like a gravitational pull he couldn’t escape.

His breath was quickening, the discomfort making it hard to focus. The low ache in his hips grew with each passing second, and as the baby moved again, it sent a jolt of sharp pressure down through his pelvis, his whole body trembling with the intensity of it.

Despite the discomfort, he couldn't help but feel aroused by the movements. The heaviness, the constant reminder of how hugely pregnant he truly was with his lover's baby—it was intimate, even if it wasn’t always pleasant. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could bear the pressure, but still, he loved it. He loved how full it made him feel, how complete his body had become.

"Oh wow. Oh wow. You’re so close. It's time. Oh god, you're coming now" he murmured, chaotically running his fingers over his big tight belly again, feeling the weight of the baby pushing down. "Oooo, you're almost there. Ooohhh, You have to get lower."

Mateo having hard time at delivery room

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Any chance you'd make a male reader for the endangered alien species... ?

One male reader coming up

Endangered Alien Species Breeding Program 2

This continues Endangered Alien Species Breeding Program, but you can read it on its own.

Warnings: Tentacle smut, mpreg, ap, mp, oviposition, breeding, NSFW

Content: Consent <3, care, scifi, consentacles

gn!tentacle monster x m!reader