1.
Cody had stopped questioning the monotony of his days in this placement weeks ago. Every morning was the same: bland, nutrient-rich breakfast; the same calculated exercise regimen; the steady hum of the home's climate control. It wasn’t sterile, exactly, but lifeless all the same. And none of it his.
The worn furniture was there before he arrived and would stay long after he was gone. Books were neatly stacked. Photos of a family that no longer existed. They were all Brian’s—reminders of a dead world, orderly and preserved.
Cody merely existed in the house where he was passing through. Just meat in the machine—a prime breeding stud.
That’s what they called him, anyway. The truth was he was just waiting for his body to do its job.
He found himself tidying the place, wiping counters that were already clean, straightening Brian’s books—a pointless attempt to burn restless energy. His peak physique and boyish good looks were his only leverage in a fucked-up game, where boys like him had a strange, new value.
Most waking hours were spent working out, training his body to stay in peak breeding condition, hoping to catch Brian’s detached gaze.
Sometimes he wondered if Brian was watching at all, even only clinically assessing his form, his age, his shelf life. At nineteen, his time as a vessel was already limited.
He knew Brian valued discipline and strength, even if he never said it. So Cody counted reps, sweat slicking his skin, always careful not to cross from jock to too hard. A certain youthful softness was required. Arousing Brian, getting knocked up the “natural” way—that was his bleak purpose.
Then there was Brian himself. Forty-seven. Once considered a renaissance man—a college athlete of some renown who’d commanded the field, later a famous geneticist—now a glorified sperm sorter tasked with the impossible: saving what was left of the species. A useful puppet for the suits, propping up their dying grip. He moved through his days like a man walking to his own gallows.
To Cody, excluded from Brian’s meetings with the men in power and his laboratory, Brian was just a brooding but undeniably handsome man. Still built like an athlete, his fitness another weary obligation. He punished his body with forced reps, sweat streaking from short, efficient hair to blue eyes, dripping from a jaw softened only slightly by age.
Cody knew Brian was haunted by loss. His wife Sarah, a hotshot scientist, was one of the first to drop in the final plague. Brian never spoke of her—not to disposable fucktoys like Cody anyway. But Cody thought he saw bitter resentment in Brian’s eyes toward those whose families hadn’t been wiped out. A simmering rage at a world that had taken his woman and left him to this empty charade, where his mandated rut was one more degradation.
It was the “mourning sickness,” Cody had heard whispered during training—silent, gut-wrenching grief in the old bastards, the ones who’d lost their wives, mothers, daughters—and with them the last scraps of warmth in this frozen world. Cody figured that was why Brian clung to his rigid routine. It was the only thing he had left—the cold comfort of duty.
Sometimes something in Brian’s haunted look reminded Cody of his father—the man who’d practically pimped him out to the program. Both saw Cody as a necessary utility. His father eyed his good-looking, athletic son not as a boy, but as a vessel for family continuity.
Brian passed through the kitchen and paused. The ritual was still stiff and awkward. “Cody. My quarters—if you’re ready.” No eye contact, just a blunt order. Sex reduced to a goddamn chore. A necessary violation in the name of repopulation, a cold transaction.
“Yeah, sure,” Cody said, trying to sound indifferent, not wanting Brian to see eagerness or the disgust churning in him.
In Brian’s stark room, Cody stripped off his workout gear. The thin fabric hissed against his skin; the recycled air was clammy against his torso, nipples stiffening. The first time was tense, a series of awkward insertions and matings, but by now, Cody understood the routine.
Brian’s bed was a wide, sterile slab. Cody had been laid out countless times—face down on crisp sheets, head resting on crossed forearms. His muscles tensed, reflexively.
Brian loomed over him, the weight of duty pressing down. No preamble, no soft words before the first brutal thrust. Cody was expected to have prepared—cleansed and lubricated—for the moment when the thick, slick cock shoved inside him.
Brian gave him a moment—not nearly long enough, but the minimum advised duration. How could the cold bastard know what it felt like on the receiving end? His hips slammed against Cody’s rear—a choked grunt tearing from the boy’s throat, body locking up. Brian’s cock drove in deeper, tearing him open and filling the gap he left.
Sometimes Cody didn’t fully prepare, relishing the jolt in the otherwise numbing routine of his days, a crude reminder that Brian was still just an animal beneath the icy veneer, and Cody, just a prime piece of breeding stock, chosen for his appeal as well as his high sperm retention.
Brian reared back and slammed forward again, stealing Cody’s breath. His pelvis ground against Cody’s tailbone, shockwaves pulsing through him as wet, suctioning slurps filled the air.
No matter how rote, the fullness of Brian's cock penetrated Cody’s easy facade. He bit down hard on his lip, his own neglected cock twitching, leaking pre-cum onto cheap sheets—a superfluous luxury—counting the squeak of bed springs marking time until Brian’s release.
He hammered away, no doubt counting strokes like a machine calibrating seed dispersal. Cody felt him stiffen, a guttural gasp rising from his throat, and then the hot flood of semen pumping in. He thought he could feel the heavy load, flooding him—finally knocking him up.
Cody didn’t know the science, but he was aware of how Brian’s ejaculate in his body filled him with an intense warmth, even as Brian wrenched away, catching his breath. The absence of his weight and the rasp of chest hair on Cody’s back left the boy hollowed out, only Brian’s soapy scent clinging to his skin.
“Timer’s set,” Brian said flatly, already detached. As if the last few minutes hadn’t happened. “Half an hour. If you would.”
“Of course,” Cody whispered, eyes on the downy brown hair on his own forearms, wishing there had been something more.
“Genetic sequencing reports for tomorrow’s review. Log your morning biometrics. When you can, please.”
Brian’s hand brushed Cody’s back as he stalked away, fleeting, impersonal touch. It was suggested they plug the semen in, but Cody showed such exceptional semen retention that they decided it was unnecessary—for all the good it did him.
“Yes, sir. Of course.”
Cody lay there the full time, restless muscles twitching, his own cock still hard, pressed against Brian’s sheets.
He reached under, fingers probing the stretched ring of muscle, feeling the evidence of Brian’s intrusion. He imagined the scientist’s seed rushing inside, fighting for a hold. Every sperm for itself. Even in their cold, fucked-up world, the fierce competition of life persisted deep in him, and it made his cock jump.
He withdrew his fingers, hoping for a trace of Brian’s cum. It was a waste to use it for his own pleasure instead of conception—a crime—but just the trace taste of it was so powerful. He hated how much it aroused him.
He worked his own cock with fevered strokes. His ass was raised, missing its breeder, humping the empty air in desperation. With his fingers in his mouth, sucking for any of Brian, it took him only a few minutes to spill his own seed on the bed.
When the timer buzzed, he dragged himself back to his room, waiting—to be knocked up, or to move on.
2.
Later, alone in his narrow cot, Cody stared at the cracked screen of his archaic phone. He thought of his old man, the last thread to his former life, but that connection was frayed—stretched thin by Cody’s conscription into HEAT II.
His dad was a broken man himself. Back in the before times he’d watched every one of Cody’s games, shouting his name from the bleachers.
But later, after he enrolled Cody in the program, he could barely meet the boy’s eyes. The boy wasn’t a son so much as a path for the family’s genes to limp on in this shithole world. Cody had even heard his father tell relatives, trying to muster some grim pride, that Cody was “top stock,” a valuable breeder.
What he didn’t say, but knew: Cody was now a glorified incubator for strange men to fuck and seed in.
Cody’s mind scraped against the grim history everyone knew but pretended to have moved past. The year 2059: Man’s War on Women, Finally Won. Humanity lost. A victory so rotten it took the species to the brink of extinction.
Chemical saturation, the ever-worsening pandemics, the return of diseases long thought conquered. The deep rift between haves and have-nots growing wider every day. Amid these pressures, women’s bodies simply, collectively, gave out. First, their desire died—a silent rebellion against. Then actual fertility plummeted to near zero.
The first HEAT program had been a desperate fix, enough to keep the species limping along with chemically forced desire and manufactured fertility. Maybe that was the insult that ushered in the final plague: silent, swift, scything through the last women.
The species was in freefall. Only boys and men remained, the Y chromosome somehow conferring immunity—a blessing that felt like a curse.
That’s how HEAT II—Humanity’s Evolutionary Adaptation & Transmission—came to be. A last-ditch gamble: shoving babies where they didn’t belong, because there was nowhere else left.
The process was a meat grinder. Pregnancy demanded youth—eighteen to twenty-one was the sweet spot, young enough to be pliant and fertile, but developed enough to withstand the rigors of a manufactured pregnancy and the harrowing labor and surgery that took the place of birthing.
Even with pregnancy and delivery figured out, it was conception that proved the most elusive step in the process.
Early attempts at artificial insemination went tits up. Petri dishes and syringes couldn’t get embryos to stick—wasting precious chances in a war for a second chance. Nature, it seemed, demanded a sweaty tribute, a brutal return to basics. The messy, human fuck was the vital ingredient life refused to do without.
The obvious first candidates were disastrous failures: “femboys,” with their delicate frames, were biologically unviable. Their very femininity rendered them useless for the harsh process and brutal pregnancies required a certain athleticism and endurance.
In this broken world, you needed to be a bit of a bruiser to get knocked up.
They’d thought selecting the right vessels was science, but it was really more an art. They had to factor in something raw and primal that couldn’t be run through an algorithm. Stripped of the heterosexual pretenses of the old world, reducing men to their most basic carnal function, it finally had to be acknowledged: some men’s bodies sparked a lust in others.
The ideal was a young jock—naturally athletic, bodies built for endurance—but boyish-faced, on the cusp of manhood, with a little brother vibe that triggered both the raw urge to dominate as well as the impulse to show some affection.
Young studs like Cody were scouted and prepped like prize cattle—the most prized sexual conquests for reproduction. Semen catchers, honed by evolution and twisted by science to carry the next generation. Microsurgeries jammed artificial mesh inside, leaving exteriors untouched, supple to the eye. But under the desirable flesh: boy-wombs, stitched-together bio-engineered tissue, and simulated eggs stuffed with genetic material that barely worked.
Cody would have done it without coercion, without his father’s prodding. He wanted to survive. But he wanted to matter, for his life to have meaning.
It was a bitter joke that his boyish, masculine traits were now fiercely wanted, not for athletic prowess but as ass and tits and good looks—and of course the plumbing in his ass, assigned to be plugged until knocked up—if he could pull it off.
He ran a hand over his midsection, aware of the low, constant ache, the spiderwebbed mesh beneath taut lower abs, the feeling of his own body violated and repurposed. That was the gritty truth of his existence. That and the drive to inspire lust in men like Brian, the geneticists, power brokers—the few whose genes mattered.
Three months was the limit. If his body didn’t take, he’d be cycled out, deemed a bust and shuffled from Brian to another breeder.
He was scraping the end of his third placement, still coming up empty. The first two breeders had been less detached, reveling in their privilege, dumping loads mercilessly, even off Cody’s monthly cycle, when nothing could come of it but their own satisfaction.
Survival, he reminded himself.
Brian’s cool was more chilling. To him, Cody knew he was just another burden, a duty. But understanding didn’t stop the gnawing emptiness. Every time Brian’s cold eyes slid past the table, lost in research, Cody felt like he’d lost something.
It was pathetic. He’d never had Brian, not really.
3.
On a Wednesday morning near the end of his third month, Cody sat at the cold kitchen table, poking at a piece of plain toast. His muscles screamed for protein after his workout, but the smell of synthetic eggs made his stomach heave. The lukewarm coffee Brian had poured wafted across the table, over his open textbook, sending a fresh wave of nausea through him.
Mid-swallow, a raw, animalistic sound rose up in him. He clapped a hand over his mouth and bolted for the sink, retching. Sweat slicked his skin as Brian, startled, actually moved with some urgency, rushing to his side.
“Are you… alright?”
“’M’fine,” Cody choked out, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and splashing recycled water on his face. He spat the vile taste into the stained sink, the indignity of being this wrecked—in front of unflappable Brian—more bitter than the taste.
“Are you ill?” Brian asked, clinical detachment flickering.
Cody braced himself. “It’s… morning sickness.”
He finally met Brian’s cold gaze, searching for something.
The news slammed into Brian. He stepped—nearly stumbled—back, disbelief twisting his features. He turned away for a split second before his broad shoulders stiffened again. His hand rose to his mouth.
“That’s… impossible. The weekly scans would have…”
“It’s early, alright?” Cody snapped, voice tight. “I… skipped the damn scans. Didn’t want to get hopes up for nothing. It doesn’t always take, especially this early.” Brian knew that as well as anyone. “But the morning sickness…” A weak, involuntary smile flickered across Cody’s lips. “They say it’s a good sign.”
“Cody,” Brian murmured, his voice lower, rougher than Cody had ever heard. A tremor of… hope? Or doubt? Something human creeping in? “How can you be sure without—?”
“We can do your scans. But I know, alright? I can feel it. My body’s fucked up.” It was true. His pecs ached under unfamiliar weight, his energy gone before workouts ended, leaving him trembling. And the godawful sickness.
Brian’s sharp mind raced, calculating biological odds, while his powerful frame, usually so rigid, seemed to go lax. “This… this changes everything, doesn’t it?”
His hand hovered over Cody’s flat stomach, then settled with surprising gentleness—the first time Brian had touched him without the cold slick of lube, with intent other than simply breeding. Cody let his own hand hover near Brian’s, afraid to spook him.
“Guess so. Brian.” Not Dr. Reed.
A real, unguarded smile broke across Brian’s face, lighting his tired eyes. It caught Cody off guard when the scientist ran his meaty palm over the tight curve of Cody’s abs, fingers tracing hard lines.
His child was in there. A tangible piece of a future he hadn’t dared hope for in this desolate world, something real within theoretical science.
“Not showing yet, though,” Cody laughed. His first laugh since placement.
“No—of course not,” Brian grinned, a brief flash of teeth.
Acting on some primal instinct, Brian raised a hand, cupped Cody’s jaw, thumb rough against skin, and pulled him close. Their lips met—not the cold, functional press of assigned ruts, not urgent with lust either. Just a quiet meeting of flesh to flesh. DNA recognizing DNA.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” Brian mumbled, pulling away abruptly, wiping his mouth. “Lost my head for a second.”
“Don’t be,” Cody replied softly, warmth blooming. “It felt… good. Wouldn’t mind more.”
Brian’s gaze held a depth Cody hadn’t seen. His jaw loosened for the first time in Cody’s stay, his eyes flickering with something softer before he blinked it away.
4.
The scans confirmed what Cody already knew in his bones—Brian’s seed had taken root. His boy-womb caught life, as they said. Their fucked-up genes tangled together. There was no turning back now.
HEAT II’s next brutal phase kicked in. Cody’s diet shifted to nutrient-rich sludge and chalky supplements, invasive scans and poking exams.
Brian stopped hovering at the edges. Now he was everywhere—at Cody’s appointments, at his side, always watching. He tried to keep professional distance, but the cracks were widening. Sometimes his hand would rest on the small of Cody’s back during exams, steadying him.
He spoke with Cody more, checking in with something new beneath the clinical veneer—as if he actually gave a damn about the morning sickness wracking Cody’s body. There was a tenderness in his voice that hadn’t been there before.
One evening, Cody found Brian hunched over his glowing screen, lost in cryptic work. Brow furrowed, jaw tense. Feeling something he couldn’t name, Cody brought hot tea and a coaster. He’d noticed Brian liked his tea, a small comfort in a dying world.
He set the cup near Brian’s restless hand. Brian looked up, surprised, his sharp gaze snagging on Cody’s. A flicker of softness.
“Thanks,” Brian said, low and rough. Not clipped. Not an order. Just thanks.
A small thing, but it sent warmth through Cody’s gut. He was maybe something more than a walking womb now. Maybe a man—an ally if not a full partner, in their degraded existence.
He lingered, watching Brian’s fingers fly across keyboards, endless data scrolling—numbers and graphs that meant nothing to Cody, only patterns on a display.
“That… heavy shit?” Cody asked, nodding at the shifting lines.
Brian paused. Then, to Cody’s shock, leaned back, chest expanding slowly. “It is,” he admitted, breaking his stoic mask. “Retro-viral markers in early-stage male uterine development. Trying to find the goddamn key for better implantation rates.”
Jabbing a finger at data clusters, he added, “We’re seeing a statistical anomaly—something unique in successful pairings.” His icy eyes flicked to Cody’s belly. Scientific fascination with a successful experiment, maybe. A breeding win in a world starved for them. Or maybe something more.
“So… looking for a pattern,” Cody said, eyes on shifting helixes.
“Exactly. A genetic holy grail that means fewer wasted… vessels.” Brian smiled faintly, almost shy. “Frustrating as hell. The body still works better than any lab. Like it refuses to be…”
“Rational,” Cody finished.
“Yes,” Brian said, genuine surprise coloring his voice.
Their budding conversation stretched on in their normally silent world. Cody asked questions, threw out half-baked theories. Brian actually listened, sometimes nodding, sometimes elaborating. The flicker of connection was new, unexpected—and a surprisingly potent spark.
Brian let a heavy knuckle trace Cody’s forearm, the soft boyish hair on his firm tan skin.
“Cody—would you… Shit, never mind.” He faltered, searching for words, his strong body vibrating with tension that wasn’t just duty anymore. The strict protocols that had governed his life cracked, revealing an unscripted yearning that defied science and decorum.
“Yes,” Cody said simply.
He walked to Brian’s spartan room, pulling his shirt over his head, revealing the supple muscle in his back, the taper from his shoulders to slim hips. Lab-issued shorts slid down, exposing the firm curves of his ass. Brian’s breath hitched, his powerful thighs, made for breeding, flexed as he rose to follow.
They resumed their old position—Cody face down on cold sheets. But Brian’s touch was hesitant. The thick, slicked cock hovering at his entrance, nudging gently. His body visibly coiled with almost painful impulses.
“You okay with this?” Brian whispered, swallowing back the animal need to get in the boy. He was asking. Actually asking.
“Just fuck me, Brian,” Cody whispered, and then a gasp as Brian finally pushed in.
Brian’s hands roamed Cody’s athletic frame, exploring every firm line and curve—not examining a vessel, discovering a body. He reached between Cody and the bed to trace hard ridges of abs, dipped lower, thumb brushing a barely-there belly swell.
“Christ, Cody—you’re… What a blind fool I’ve been.” Brian’s voice was suddenly thick with feeling, his breath hot against Cody’s ear.
Cody imagined he could hear regret for the past cold distance, for human connection sacrificed in a world where warmth was weakness.
Brian drove in with newfound heat, for something beyond procreation. His lips found the sensitive nape of Cody’s neck, nipping fine hairs. Strong hands cupped defined pecs, digging in as thrusts came in brutal waves, slamming deep.
“Oh God,” he groaned, the newfound arousal causing his seed to erupt in a hot spasm. It was a rich indulgence, there being no need now. Maybe because of that he lingered, diminishing thrusts delivering the last surges of his hot load deep inside. Not duty, but pure, luxurious lust.
He slid out and instead of issuing cool instructions, ran a rough hand over sweat-slicked back, feeling every contour, kissing the warm flesh. “Shit, Cody. I’m sorry. That was… rough. It’s been so goddamn long since… since anything felt real.” Words heavy with genuine regret. “I don’t even know… how to do this anymore. How to… be human.”
Cody rolled onto his back, pulling Brian’s face close. “Could you just… just kiss me, Brian?”
Brian did. Lips meeting, tongues tangling as hands caressed Cody’s abused body. The boy stroked his own cock—for the first time in Brian’s presence. He spasmed, thick ropes of hot cum streaking his belly and Brian’s forearm. Brian’s grip tightened on the swelling pecs, thumbs brushing sensitive nipples as ducts beneath filled with milk.
They weren’t clinical specimens anymore. Their status as breeder and vessel extended beyond protocols. The raw natural drive to procreate had opened a new path for them—an unexpected, primal coupling.
5.
Weeks bled into a blurry routine as Cody’s body slowly transformed.
This was a masculine pregnancy, nothing sentimental or soft. The fetus was a hard, low-slung weight, folded deep inside muscles built for fathering, twisted to serve this bizarre purpose.
It made Cody queasy, the way his own body was changing—pecs swelling painfully, belly rounding out—preparing for a function never intended for male flesh. He’d catch sight of himself in the mirror and almost laugh at the brutal adaptability of his species.
Brian watched with a possessive, relentless fascination. His gaze clung to the growing curves of Cody’s body—not cold analysis anymore, but a visceral yearning for the life growing inside, for the man carrying it. Paternal instinct in its most raw form.
He wanted to fuck Cody constantly now—a sometimes frantic need. He took him, seized by lust, not just in their bed but in surprising, inopportune moments—in the garden, the shower, bent over the kitchen sink. The clinical mask had come off, revealing a deep desire that bordered on obsession.
The more Brian fucked him, the more Cody wanted it. His body was hungry for it—opening to Brian, wanting him deep inside. And it was more than the fucking. Sometimes, late at night, he’d catch himself watching Brian watching him with a protective caring in his eyes, vaguely seeing something like the man he had once wanted his dad to be.
As Cody’s body shifted, so, it seemed, had Brian’s tired heart. He arched into Cody’s strength, his uncanny knack for reading moods in their isolating existence. The creature comforts of his body. Even his sharp, untrained mind, his intuitions and leaps in logic were a constant surprise that made Brian’s own mind feel more lively, more engaged.
Their conversations stretched into early hours, filled with unexpected ease. Brian dragged up scraps from his past—a glimpse of a life before plague and endless loss. Flashes of humanity he’d buried under grief and duty resurfaced, and he began to let go.
Pulling a few strings, Brian secured an ultrasound device—an antique. Not one of those bioscans that reported everything back to HEAT, but something off the grid—something just for them.
“It looks like it’s a hundred years old,” Cody said, eyeing the bulky machine.
“It’ll work,” Brian replied, resting a steady hand on his rounding belly—and then a startled look up.
Their eyes met—equal parts stunned disbelief and fragile wonder.
“Did you feel that?” Cody whispered. “He’s kicking the shit out of me tonight.”
Brian chuckled, a rare, low sound. “He’s… strong.”
How could he not be? He was the genetic heir to two resilient fathers with the fortitude to drag humanity, kicking and screaming, into its next grim chapter. Brian had survived devastating loss and persevered. And Cody—Cody’s body was augmented, but he’d survived in ways few could. Whatever he was, he’d earned.
Brian rubbed cold gel onto the smooth ultrasound wand, the slick chill sending a shiver through Cody’s skin as he spread his legs on their bed. The gel felt strange against taut skin as Brian pressed the wand gently, shifting it over the curve of Cody’s swollen belly.
The screen flickered, then sharpened—a tiny, coiled shape pulsed faintly with a slow, steady rhythm. A minuscule flicker of life, fragile but fierce, nestled deep inside.
Brian’s eyes narrowed, mixing scientific fascination with something softer, almost hopeful. “There,” he murmured, voice low. “That’s our kid.”
A charged silence stretched between them before Brian’s gaze flicked downward, darkening with sudden hunger. His hand slid from Cody’s belly, taking the clear gel with it, fingers trailing lower, wetting Cody at his entrance.
Dropping his pants, the rough heat of Brian’s cock pressed against Cody, slicked with gel, aligning himself. He fought the urge to plunge in hard, instead nudging the thick head against the tight ring of muscle, stretching it, then entering inch by inch.
“Let me see,” Cody gasped, breath hitching.
Brian kept the wand moving, tracing the curves and shadows—the flicker of a tiny heartbeat, the gentle kicks that rattled Cody’s insides. Science and hope, tangled together in the glow of the screen.
“Oh fuck,” he groaned, eyes locked on the image—his cock deep in the miracle of Cody—the very act that had brought them here.
Brian’s lips found Cody’s neck, teeth grazing softly, a low growl rumbling in his throat. “You’re gorgeous,” he groaned, voice thick as he pumped into Cody, his pace picking up. “More than I let myself see.”
He kissed Cody’s neck and chest, burying his face between the firm pecs. Cody gently stroked Brian’s hair as his lips latched onto a sensitive nipple, sucking and triggering a harder fuck, back arcing like an animal.
The taste of Cody and the tight squeeze of Cody’s compressed insides pushed Brian over the edge. He shuddered, thrusting a hot load deep into his mate, choked sounds escaping as his kisses thanked the brutal intimacy they’d found.
Like so much of his body, Cody’s prostate was hypersensitive. Brian’s hard strokes fucking his own load out of him—arcing and sprayed across the swollen belly. Brian looked down in stunned awe at the messy beauty, his thrusts renewed to push it all out of his boy.
When the shaking stopped, Brian slid his still heavy cock out, red-faced and sweaty. He cleaned Cody up quickly and efficiently, leaving the boy weak and spent—but craving more.
The morning sickness that had marked their true union also marked the end of Brian’s mourning. The silent, suffocating grief that had encased him since Sarah’s death began to loosen, unraveling day by day, until finally this moment.
What Brian clung to now wasn’t as lofty as survival of the species, but their improbable family and son they made—the stubborn spark nestled deep inside Cody’s straining boy-womb, a defiant heartbeat, pounding out a future against the dying world.
END
Author's note: If you enjoyed this story, you might be interested in my five part story, The Rut, for a more light hearted and lusty take on male pregnancy.
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