belly/preg fantasies

call me Leaf 30s nonbinary author (they/them) this blog is for semiliterate smut only, no minors

[singing-bowl]

thinking about how ursula k leguin said "what goes too long unchanged destroys itself. The forest is forever because it dies and dies and so lives" and how everyday i wake up slightly different and i can feel myself shed the skin of who i used to be slowly, slowly, until i look back and can scarcely recognise who i was... but also she is still a part of me, part of the leaf litter and the humus, supporting me as i send new roots down and new leaves stretching up to the sunlight

[gravidfantasies]

Ive been going through your blog, all the big bellies you reblog saying you need to be like them. I also saw one where you needed to be suckling on someone. What if you could just fulfill all of it?

You meet another woman out, she's so heavily pregnant that you find it hard not to stare. You want what she has so badly. But you're so safe. You would never let yourself get pregnant. She notices you staring and you two hit it off.

Later on when you two are alone she just implores you to suckle from her. When you do the taste is amazing. You crave more with everything you have. You don't dream of ever stopping.

Despite your cravings you feel yourself getting full. You place a hand to your stomach to find that it's rounded. Youre surprised and break away and look down to see your shirt is being lifted by a bump. You rub it and it's hard. A firmness that is hard to mistake. You caught her pregnancy. She presses her bump to your new one and commands you to keep going. To receive the fullness you crave.

I should be shocked to see my belly rounded out, I should be terrified and thinking of how to fix this problem. But feeling that firmness, knowing that she’s somehow put new life in me, I’m overjoyed. I eagerly take her breast in my mouth again, sealing my fate.

[anniesated]

Binding your swornsister's soul to your blade, that she may stay with you even after her death to revel in your joint battles, is all fine and good until it's been a decade since your last good fight—longer still since any real battle—and she's still in there, and you can hear her crying every night, longing for the grip of your palm and the guts of your enemies. And of course she won't let you be, even in your dreams, appearing there too. Whole and young as the day she died, while you've gotten older and timeworn. Gripping her pretty head by the hair and driving her skull through the chest of some faceless foe, the air is sparkling like diamonds. The blood's all over her and she's smiling at you, fucking blissed-out and naked, because of course she's naked, she's only doing this to fuck with you.

So you take her down off the mantel, and before the sun's really up, just blue-gray on the horizon— reflecting off her, the blade you've never had to clean or sharpen—you stumble from your home. And with your bare feet in the early spring dirt and your bare hand on the leather wrap of her grip, she talks to you again. Denies the dream. Won't admit she's doing it on purpose. Pretending like she isn't the one doing this to you. Playing coy.

Someone sees you, and you see him back. You know him. You always know them. You actually live here, in this shithole town where no one asks that many questions. He nods at you, the gesture of something small and dumb and dead. He hasn't seen your state, not yet. Half dressed and wild eyed with sleep deprivation. Naked sword in your practiced hand.

Haven't had a good fight in a decade. Still true, this guy isn't fighting you. Slip her into him, feel the POP of the skin and fat, the slick glide of the intestines, the clattering of bone and it's already over.

Wrench her up! Tear him open! She's happy. She's there with you.

"Good girl."

You say it into her pommel, which happens to be next to the guy's ear. If he was listening, he dies very confused, but it was just a little dirty talk.

They'll find him in the morning and say he got robbed. Or a scuffle gone wrong. One of his buddies, probably. Or some drifter from somewhere else. Always goes that way. The men who don't know their jobs are to clean up your messes will nod at you in the morning as you pass by on your walk to the docks. Just like he did.

She's back on your mantel for not quite a week before it all starts up again. Not dreams this time, but hauntings. Things thrown and dropped. Odd noises in the dark. Fucking brat.

Good's never good enough for her, is it? She always wants more. Fine. You can give her a little more. Start wearing her around. Show off your jewelry. Invite someone to really try you. And they do. They always do. Can't throw a rock in this world without hitting someone looking to prove anyone can best a swordswoman.

You're at the bar when the rock hits home. He's drunker than you are, face red with it, and his buddies are all behind him jeering while he prods at you. Like you need the provocation. You've been shivering with glee since you saw him stand up. Next time he touches you, you bite him. He's a bleeder, barely nipped at the skin and you're covered in the stuff.

"Jealous?" you ask her, tucked neatly in her scabbard. Now that the idea's struck you, the whole thing lays itself out so neatly in your mind. You throw a punch. She doesn't feel anything. You knock one of his teeth out. She's biting at the leather you've got her in. You break his arm and claw at his eyes and she stays exactly where you have her. She gets to play the cuckold and it's delicious to deny her.

Until one of his dumbshit friends grabs her right from under your nose. Too busy chewing your food? He's a scrawny kid but he's got a good few scars to show for himself, and he's holding her not without any skill.

And-

This is so much better. God she's so fucking hot like that. You can take care of him easily enough, but halfway through dodging and weaving around his swings, you realize what's happening. She's fucking helping him. You're fighting her.

Its good, it's so good. Like having the bitch back from the dead, she can turn even this pimplefaced idiot into her avatar. You shoot the cartilage of his nose up into his skull and he falls into a heap. Didn't even know that could really happen, but it does and you can feel her squirming when you do it.

She got you, once. A little line of pink flesh is poking out from under your eye. It's going to scar nasty. You'll have to get her back for it. Soon enough, you do. Same routine, new bar. Pick a fight with the biggest group of men you see, wait for one of them to take her and then make sure you're the only two people left standing.

She plays dirty. Knows all your tics. It's heaven. She's alive every time you fight her. You're young as long as she's facing you down.

Until you're not. Someone gets you with a chair to the shoulders. Shouldn't faze you, and it's not like he didn't get what he had coming, but… but it takes you months to recover enough to go back out. Then someone hits it again, a year later. Same spot. With a metal pipe. Reopens all the old wounds, and doubles the old pain. She has to intervene, and the guy holding her slips suddenly, impaling himself and his pipe wielding friend in the fall.

You both reach the same conclusion on the limping walk home. This can't go on any longer. You're not keeping up with her. She visits you in your dreams again, this time to soothe you. It breaks something deep in your guts, this kindness from her. Feels to final. Shatters itself and tears you open. The fear you hadn't felt since you were a teenager. Death. Looming over you. Can't bear to lose this. Lose your nights together.

She's got an idea. Just have to find the right instrument.

"And you'll inset the hilt with this." You hand the blacksmith a jewel. "Doesn't even have to be visible, just has to be in there."

"Looks all scratched up," he squints at the near imperceptible script you've carved into the surface of the jewel. That's half the work done, there. The easy half, she reminds you from your hip. You tell her that she had you to do the hard part for her, the little princess.

"Just do it. I'm sure paying you more than enough. Then once it's ready, I want you to wrap it in this," you hand him the cloth. It's stained deep brown with your dried blood. The blacksmith's face pales. "And burn it. while it's still over the blade."

He looks at the money you're paying him, in advance, and then back to you. Wonder if he knows what you're planning?

Two weeks and three days later, it's ready. You watch him burn the wrap. Has his assistant do it. No one talks. There's nothing left to say. You pull the sword out of the ashes—still hot, it burns the skin off your hand, not that that matters anymore—and give the blacksmith a tip. It's more than what you paid in the first place.

"Well then." You were never good with words. "Got a will in my pocket."

Awkward angle, but it'll work.

Trachea to Tits to Navel to Crotch. It's a wonderful sword. Practically cut yourself in two with one swing. Then you're dying. Real fast, the world's spinning around you. Around and around. She's there with you, arm in arm, you're both young again and everything's so beautiful.

Now you've a metal body, rigid and sharp and drinking up the last of your own blood. The swap is instant. You're like her now. And she's there with you. You laugh, but only she hears you. The blacksmith's screaming.

They find your will right where you said it'd be. Pretty simple stuff, you think.

"Give one of my swords to the strongest person left in town. Give the other to the second strongest." Everyone's hesitant, but you're the real deal, a legend by this point, so they do it. Now all that's left is a little nudging from her and you, and soon you'll get to fight again.

The first time your steel meets hers it's better than any kiss. Hotter than any sex you'd ever had, and more intense than any previous fight. Neither of you has to hold back anymore. It doesn't matter if you kill the other, because that wasn't really you at all. Someone else will come along and pick you up and then you'll start again. Across back alleys, dueling halls, and battlefields, you fight her over and over. There are near misses where you kill a thousand men in search of the one wielding her, too much chaos to find each other. You laugh about it between swings when next you meet. There might be decades where you can't make it happen, years sitting in a chest or armory, but you both know that it's only a matter of time. The mountain of corpses you leave behind will grow higher and higher, until it eclipses the sun. Even then you'll still fight her in the dark. 'Til no hand is left to hold you. On a dead world, you'd spark and scrape against each other long into the eternal night.

[obliviasart]

Absolutely fucking primo, thank you OP

[greenlotusleaf]

I should probably let you know that I’ve been using your short story of “What if you had the power to make me fatter at will?” Post from the end of 2021 to get off like almost a dozen times now and I’m going to use it again.

I love it and your writing so much. I just love all the detail you go into and that I think your pacing is beutiful. Not too long, not too short just perfect.

My favorite stories are those of magical transformations of making a once thin and “boyish” person into a ball of soft jiggly fat. Chiefs kiss to their obliviousness too! Gosh I love a girl with a fat ass and a soft squishy belly.

Hope you are doing well.

* 🤠 (she/they/he, 23)

Hello and thank you for the kind note.

I am glad you're a fan of my work, and that you're finding things to enjoy in the archive. Reading this brought a smile to my face.

I am indeed doing well. The world is scary and difficult right now, but it is full of good things, too. Therapy and transition are life-changing. I've mostly disappeared from here but I'm making progress and I hope no one worries about me.

Take care, all right?

[nikolaijanak]

[crafterfive]

My partner made this comic, and it is beautiful and amazing, and you’re all missing out by not seeing the original on paper because it’s even prettier there!

[tpwrtrmnky]

Trans day of every tabloid shuts the fuck up about us forever. Trans day of let us have our healthcare and leave us the fuck alone. Trans day of tearing down the panopticon. Trans day of let us control the narrative instead of deferring to some cis sexologist's hallucination.

[darkcomedies]

evoking bertholt brecht’s “the way people cast a play!” quote as a spell against prescriptive, stereotypical, fatalistic typecasting

[darkcomedies]

idk what to tell you except go look at the fishwives

[greenlotusleaf]

i think this brecht guy may have been cooking

[tpwrtrmnky]

"Just fucking transition already" in all its forms is necessary counterculture to the endless fucking eggslop that litters the trans internet. "When you wish you were a—" No. You are one. Transition about it. Quit romanticising the closet.

[greenlotusleaf]

what if you started off by fucking me pregnant, making sure I was good and knocked up, before the second phase of your plan?

I could be so shocked by news of my condition, and the stark reality of my growing body, that you could take more control, saying you're concerned about the health of my pregnancy as an excuse to overfeed me. You could praise me for how well I'm eating for two, distracting me from the fact that I'm blowing up so much faster than I should be, helped along by the dodgy "prenatal vitamins" you've so helpfully procured for me.

Maybe sometimes the panic would break through and I'd get concerned-- how come I'm as big as a full-term mom about to pop, here at the end of my first trimester? how come my bump isn't cute and taut and firm, but buried under all this squishy new fat that's appearing more every day? how come I'm practically ringed with these angry red stretch marks, not just on my bloated belly, but on my fat thighs, my widening hips, my new, vast ass, my achingly heavy tits.... but then you'd just fuck the doubts away, making me feel so good I almost don't notice the lust thickening your voice when you talk about getting me "even more pregnant" as you thrust away inside me....

in the afterglow, still shaken, I'd let you wrap me in an oversized housecoat, let you get me a little snack before dinner, let you bring me my mysterious supplements, let you knead my swelling boobs while we watch TV. you're always stimulating them lately... is it normal for them to feel so full, this early on? Damn, it's hard to get comfortable on the couch with you lately, with how big I'm already getting....

....are you sure you still find me attractive, like this?

[greenlotusleaf]

if you're hot and trans I miiiight let you make a real cow out of me,

[down-badeline]

if you're a mad scientist girl archetype and you aren't doing experiments on other girls to make their boobs swell up debilitatingly huge and milky so you can personally get off to watching them struggle to milk themselves while they're too focused on how hard they're cumming then i'm revoking your lack of a medical license. failed potential

[greenlotusleaf]

it's so good when someone's pregnant and they start saying stuff like "I'm blowing up," "I'm ballooning," "I'm getting all plumped up," yes babe keep going

[lilyblisslys]

eating pussy should have an ascension system, a la slay the spire

[greenlotusleaf]

imagine three girlfriends, making out. now imagine two of them, each trying to convince the other to knock up the third. one's rubbing her belly like "imagine how big this could get" and the other's kneading her tits like "you could make these all swollen and full of milk" while the whole time she's squirming and blushing like "nooooo, I'll get soooo fat haha"

did you know: you can imagine them any time you want!

[cosmonautroger]

Wendy Carlos

[pocket-deer-belly]

Oppositional sexism is a very useful term actually. Like, so much is better explained by the idea of “there’s a societal belief that men and women should remain opposites and should have no overlapping traits” than “this is homophobia/transphobia”. Why does society hate displays of femininity in men and masculinity in women? It’s oppositional sexism. They hate that you’re proof that masculinity and femininity aren’t inherently opposites. Thank you julia serano for another banger

[greenlotusleaf]

I'm reading Whipping Girl right now and it hits hard, Ms. Serano is not playing around

[greenlotusleaf]

So, I thought my writing inspiration was back, but as it turns out, not really. Thank you to the folks who have reached out. I'm doing fine (or even great?); my free time and creative energy have just carried me in different directions. I'll still be lurking now and then, if you want to say hello.