Up & Down - Epilogue (Patreon)

The morning began at 5:57 AM on September 6, and the exact time lodged itself in my brain the moment my eyes opened. The digital clock on the nightstand glowed softly, and before I could even let the nerves organize themselves into something manageable—before I could process the date and what it meant—I heard a dull thud in the hallway. Then another. Then a rapid-fire symphony of tiny feet that sounded more like a stampede than children.

I groaned quietly into the pillow, not in frustration, but in awareness of the beautiful chaos waiting for me. It was a big day, the first day of school for our ten boys. They were five years old now—Henry and Harry had already been five since April 1, and the octuplets since June 1—and their excitement about finally going to school was intoxicating in the best way and overwhelming in the worst. It buzzed through the house like electricity.

I heard a door bang open in the distance. I heard delighted laughter and giggling. But then a voice yelled, “STOP TOUCHING MY BACKPACK!” And then, louder than the rest, unmistakably indignant, came, “WE’RE THE OLDEST; LISTEN TO US!”

That one made me chuckle in bed. Henry and Harry, of course.

The twins stepped into authority like two tiny generals the moment there was something important happening, and the fact that they were two months older than the octuplets was, in their minds, more than enough to justify it. They always did this—trying to enforce order while simultaneously doing everything wrong themselves—but I quietly loved it. They reminded me of myself: sharper around the edges, a little bossy, and overly protective even when they didn’t realize it. Harry and Henry were miniature versions of me in that way.

The octuplets—Asher, Ben, Caleb, David, Evan, Finn, George, and Ian—were all Spencer. Every bit of his stubbornness, his sweetness, and his easy charm. They had his captivating pull even when they were small, something that made you look twice.

Our ten boys blended their dads’ personalities in different proportions, but the pattern was always there, and it showed in how they moved through the house and how they talked to each other. Henry and Harry tried to lead; the octuplets tested every boundary, then smiled like they’d done you a favor. They made me feel proud every single day.

I wanted to take a few more minutes in bed that morning, but I heard the unmistakable scuff of someone dragging a shoe across the floor, and I didn’t even have to see it to know that at least one of them had them on the wrong feet again. I closed my eyes for one long second, not to avoid the chaos, but to enjoy it. I loved it because everything—the sounds, the mess, the noise, the unstoppable storm—was ours.

I pushed myself up and carefully slipped out of bed without waking Spencer up. The second my feet hit the floor, I heard a crash from downstairs. It wasn’t the delicate clatter of a dropped spoon but the more ominous sound of something that probably shouldn’t have fallen.

“Here we go again,” I whispered, smiling and shaking my head in delight.

I pulled on sweatpants and a sweatshirt, moving on autopilot, and carefully exited the room. It was too early to bring Spencer into the chaos—he was already doing so much, and I already knew how to handle the stampede on my own.

“Nothing broke, right?” I called out as I headed toward the kitchen.

Ten voices answered at once, overlapping in a way that was almost musical in its disorder. A few shouted, “No!” too quickly, which was always suspicious. George said, “It was already like that,” which somehow was worse. Caleb declared proudly, “I saved it!” and I didn’t know what that meant, but I took a deep breath and kept going.

When I reached the kitchen, everything looked too fine—as if nothing had happened.

The boys saw me and immediately broke formation, racing toward me with wild grins, wrapping their arms around my legs, my waist, my knees—wherever they could reach.

“Dad! Dad! Dad!” they called, and my heart melted. I couldn’t resist such cuteness.

I hugged them back, one by one, ruffling hair and gently kissing their foreheads. “Good morning,” I softly said, as if a low tone could calm a hurricane. “Are you excited about school?”

The answer was a resounding yes, shouted at maximum volume.

“Let’s make you all a good breakfast, meant for big boys on a big day,” I said, smiling.

I took a second to wipe the sleep from my eyes and really look around at what we’d built in five years. The house was big—properly big. We had bought it about a year ago, and it was the kind of place I used to think only existed in movies: wide hallways, high ceilings, rooms that could actually hold ten kids without feeling like walking into an overcrowded elevator. The counters stretched long enough to prep multiple breakfasts at once. The kitchen seemed designed for feeding a sports team. There was a pantry that looked like a small grocery store. There were handprints on the glass doors because someone always touched everything.

And still, on a morning like this, it somehow felt too small, because ten five-year-old boys took up more space than you would ever imagine. Henry and Harry were at the center of it all, wearing their seniority like armor. One of them had his backpack on upside down and was lecturing the others about simple chores. The other was pointing sternly while trying—and failing—to tie his shoelaces, pulling so hard the knot became a strange tangle.

“Dad told me how to do it!” Henry insisted, puffing up his little chest.

“You don’t even have your shoes right,” Ben shot back, laughing—pure Spencer energy, confident and unbothered.

I bit back a laugh and started breakfast before the whole room detonated again. I put pancakes on the griddle and cracked eggs with one hand while wiping syrup off a little chin with the other. I poured milk, turned my back for half a second, and heard a sharp gasp followed by the splash of spilled juice.

“IT WAS AN ACCIDENT!” Asher shouted, already defensive.

“HE DID IT ON PURPOSE!” Finn yelled right back, accusing with dramatic conviction.

Chairs scraped, and two boys started wrestling over a cereal box like it was a treasure. It was more like an awkward dance than a real fight, but I didn’t want it to escalate.

“No wrestling with the cereal,” I said, stepping between them, gently guiding them back into their seats. “Sit down. We are not starting school with a bruised eye.”

“HE STARTED IT!” Evan shouted.

“DID NOT!” David replied quickly.

“Enough! Calm down, everybody!” I said, and the boys froze. Then, I pointed toward the wall without even looking. “Who put peanut butter on the wall—why is that even a question?”

There was a long, guilty silence, and then giggles. I laughed and broke the tension with a soft kiss to each of their foreheads.

After five years, I knew how to handle all their energy. I moved through it like I’d learned to dance in a crowd. I flipped pancakes easily as if I worked in a diner. I slid plates across the counter, caught a cup before it tipped, wiped sticky hands, fixed an oddly positioned collar, adjusted a backpack strap, and checked lunchboxes.

I counted out loud without meaning to. “One, two, three…” all the way to ten. The habit had become a part of me at this point; one of many. Even my vocabulary had a pattern now, according to their personalities, demands, and actions.

“Eat.”

“Chew.”

“Slow down.”

“We’re not sprinting on the first day.”

“Yes, you look handsome.”

“No, you cannot bring a toy dinosaur to class.”

“Put your tongue away and sit like a human.”

Through it all, I couldn’t stop smiling. The boys brought chaos in all possible ways, but they were so cute that it was ridiculous.

They were handsome in a way that made my chest ache: bright eyes, thick hair, and devastatingly charming smiles. They were pretty tall for their age, but considering Spencer’s size, it wasn’t surprising. Our boys were perfect blends of us. I could see Spencer in their brows, their jawlines, and their smiles. I could see myself in their eyes—even in Henry and Harry, in how all ten of them tilted their heads when they were curious, in the softness of their cheeks. They were all made of us, seamlessly stitched together in almost identical disarming beauty.

And then, right as I slid another plate of pancakes onto the table, it hit me. Spencer was still in bed. I looked around instinctively, as if he might be hiding behind the fridge or crouched under the table, which was ridiculous. Spencer was Spencer—bigger than the fridge and the table put together. I couldn’t help but laugh at myself.

Spencer would never miss moments like this, but there was a reason he wasn’t here yet.

The boys were arguing about who got the puffiest pancake. I watched them for one heartbeat, softening, then gently clamped a hand on the chaos.

“Boys,” I told them firmly. “I’ll be right back. If I hear a fight, I won’t be taking you for ice cream after school. Nobody moves from this table until I come back, okay?”

Ten heads nodded and focused on their food as I headed back down the hallway and entered the master bedroom again. I couldn’t help but grin as the sight of Spencer in bed made my heart pound in my chest. It didn’t matter that I saw him every day; he was breathtaking.

Spencer was nine months pregnant—two days overdue. Ten massive babies moved inside his belly, each already weighing a little over thirteen pounds, according to our doctor. He weighed 652 pounds now, and it showed in every inch of him.

Over the years, his muscles had only grown to ridiculous proportions, beyond anything I had seen on a human. He got pregnant the second time, weighing 407 pounds—already immense, already a 6’7” wall of muscle softened just enough to make every bulge look even fuller. And now the pregnancy had turned him into a world all by himself.

His shoulders were enormous, broad enough to make the mattress beneath look small. His arms were impossibly thick, and his massive forearms could hold several of our boys at a time. His chest was gigantic—tits pushed outward by muscle and an endless supply of milk his body produced in excess. His nipples were dark, engorged, and hypersensitive, reactive enough that even the shift of bedsheets could make him gasp sharply. His hips widened immensely, his thighs were like pillars, and his ass—my favorite part—was titanic and perfectly round.

The pregnancy had inflated his body in all directions so dramatically that even his balls, always heavy and overfilled with cum, seemed to have more bulk now, resting between his thighs like a pair of ripe grapefruits that demanded attention.

Still, the belly was the main show.

It rose high, round, impossibly taut, and glossy. Faint veins spread beneath the surface where the tension pulled. The curve pushed in all directions so dramatically that it seemed to distort the space around it. Spencer’s bellybutton had fully popped out, sensitive and prominent, like the crowning point of a vast hill that never stopped expanding.

The overpacked dome moved on its own, with slow shifts, sudden rolls, and kicks crossing from one side to the other when the babies pressed and turned. There were moments I could see the outline of a foot, a hand, or a knee, a firm little ridge sliding under the surface before vanishing again. Everything about him was hypnotizing, and it made my huge cock stir.

Standing there in the doorway, I smirked at the impossibility of it, the scale, and how Spencer’s body looked both invincible and on the verge of splitting open. He was immense in a way that was terrifying but ridiculously beautiful at the same time.

Spencer groaned softly when he saw me. “Owen,” he said breathlessly and visibly strained. “I’m stuck.”

I crossed the room immediately and sat on the edge of the bed. Leaning in, I softly kissed Spencer’s shoulders, then moved along his neck and his jaw until I met his lips.

“Good morning,” I whispered into his mouth.

He panted and tried to shift, but his body immediately protested the motion. The belly was too heavy, even for his enormous strength. Gravity pulled him down into the mattress, and when he tried to roll, his muscles tightened hard, making his arms and shoulders bulge as he strained. The effort made his breathing short and uneven.

“Morning,” he said, breathlessly. “I swear I’m going to burst if they don’t come out soon.”

I smiled and slid my arms behind his back, holding him carefully. My grip lowered, using one arm to support the underside of his belly, lifting just enough to ease the strain. The moment the weight changed, he gasped sharply, in a strange mix between relief and discomfort.

“Careful,” he said, then let out a long breath. “The babies are huge.”

“They’re always huge,” I said softly, kissing him again. “Just like you.”

He snorted but couldn’t help but smile. “This is your fault,” he said, rubbing slow circles on his belly as if trying to calm himself and the pressure inside.

“My fault?” I repeated, lifting a brow.

“You said another pregnancy wouldn’t hurt,” he replied firmly and with a hint of playfulness. “Two or three more kids, you said. Two or three. Not ten.”

“Oh, you agreed to try again,” I said, leaning closer.

His mouth twitched. “I was tricked.”

“By my charm?” I said, brushing my lips against his cheek.

“By my hormones,” he added, then sighed heavily. “I’m too fertile for my own good.”

I laughed and kissed him again, and this time he melted into it. The tension eased from his shoulders for a moment. I helped him sit up, steadying his back and guiding his shoulder. His face flushed from the effort as he clutched my wrist like a lifeline. When he was finally upright, he looked down at himself and laughed weakly, shaking his head.

“I can’t believe I’m this big on the boys’ first day of school,” Spencer said.

“But you’re not missing it,” I said kindly. “You’d never forgive yourself.”

“No, I’m not missing it,” he whispered as his mouth curled into a soft, loving smile. Then he exhaled slowly, “Help me get dressed, please. If I try to move too much, I’m gonna explode.”

I wanted to laugh because Spencer often tended to exaggerate, but at this point, he really looked ready to burst. And getting him dressed required careful management. At home, he usually stayed in underwear or loose shorts—the only things that didn’t irritate his skin or feel like they were cutting into him. But he wanted to look like a dad on our boys’ first day of school.

We’d had custom clothes made for him: enormous sweatpants with reinforced seams and stretch panels and a giant shirt tailored for his massive shoulders and chest, with extra fabric to cover his belly as much as possible.

I reached for his underwear first. I gathered the fabric carefully and guided it up his legs, giving him time to brace as it brushed his sensitive balls. His hands gripped the mattress as I adjusted the heavy orbs in the correct position.

“Ugh! They’re so sensitive. And everything’s sore,” he said, almost laughing.

When the waistband settled comfortably, I moved on to the sweatpants. I worked them up inch by inch over Spencer’s hips, and he hissed softly, shifting his legs as he tried to help even though there was only so much he could do. The fabric stretched tightly over his thighs and clung stubbornly over his immense butt, and I had to stop more than once to smooth it down, adjust the seams, and make sure nothing pinched or pulled.

The shirt came next, and even though it seemed to be as big as a circus tent, the hem rode up slightly, even with his soft breathing.

“This thing’s useless,” Spence said.

“It’s trying,” I said, smoothing it down and kissing his belly.

“It’s losing the battle,” he responded, chuckling and rubbing his gut.

Eventually, we made it downstairs. Spencer waddled heavily and clumsily because his body was too massive for normal movement. Every step had to account for balance, weight, and breath.

The moment the boys saw him, they roared and came running as a pack, wrapping around his legs and hips.

“DADDY!” They shouted.

“Ow—careful,” he groaned, laughing despite himself. “Don’t knock me over. If I go down, you’ll need a crane to get me back up.”

They laughed like that was the funniest thing they’d ever heard.

Only a few minutes later, we all managed to get into the family van. It was practically a landmark now—huge, with multiple rows, perfect for our life, at least until the ten coming babies arrived and we’d need something closer to a school bus. Spencer had to turn sideways, moving carefully as I guided his hips and steadied his back. Fitting that much mass into a car was complicated, no matter how big the car was.

When we arrived at the school, other parents stared at Spencer’s size, at the crowd of ten almost identical boys, at how I moved around everything like a handler of impossible logistics. No one asked questions—not even about Spencer’s belly. Nobody suspected he was pregnant because it was supposed to be impossible. They saw a huge man, maybe a medical mystery or an extreme bulking gone too far, and they stared before looking away.

The boys moved in the cute stampede we had grown used to handling, with their backpacks bouncing as they ran toward the building. They stopped only long enough to hug us again, pressing their little bodies into us and making our hearts melt.

Ian reached up and caressed Spencer’s belly. “Bye, babies,” he whispered, and Spencer’s eyes flooded instantly.

My throat tightened as they kept walking. “See you later,” I said when I saw the doors closing behind them.

For the first time in years, we were alone.

When we got home, the quiet felt almost wrong. I helped Spencer back into bed. He was exhausted, the morning having taken too much out of him. He lay back with a groan, belly shifting heavily, and I curled around him.

He closed his eyes, breathing slowly as my hand moved over his immense abdomen.

“Soon,” I whispered, kissing his belly, “this house is going to be full of crying again.”

He laughed weakly. “No kidding. Ten babies, and ten boys. It sounds insane already.”

I rubbed slow circles over the taut skin and felt a sudden kick under my hand. I smiled and pressed my cheek there. “I wouldn’t change anything,” I said. “Not a single thing. I love everything we’ve gone through, and I’d do it all over again with you.”

“We already are doing it all over again,” he said, smiling and caressing his belly.

There was a long pause. Then, because I couldn’t help myself, I whispered something playful in Spencer’s ear. “You know, we could probably handle one more.”

He let out a long, dramatic groan. “Owen!”

I laughed and kissed his belly again. “What? I’m just saying.”

He pointed weakly at his middle. “I am way too fertile. Next time it won’t be one. It’ll be a dozen. Can you imagine how big I’d get if that happens?”

My smile widened as I kissed right where a baby shifted. “Sounds like a challenge.”

He snorted, breathless. “Sounds like you lost your mind.”

I kissed his lips, and he kissed me back. Even with the strain, even with the weight, even with the babies pressing and kicking in his womb, he smiled softly.

“I wouldn’t change a thing either. And would do it all over again in a heartbeat,” Spencer said, and our kiss turned more passionate.

I knew he was right. Twenty kids were more than enough—but through every up and down, the only thing that ever mattered was that we were doing it together.

THE END

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