Call me Kavania :))))

she/her/hers ~ 19 y/o ~ minors dni Kinkster, college athlete, gamer

[kavania]

Intro post!! ✨️✨️✨️

This is a Kink Blog and here are some things I'm into/not into!

💚=yes / 💛=sometimes / ❤️=definitely no

💚mpreg, trans mpreg, cis mpreg, eggpreg, labor/birth, hard labor, multiples, soft vore

💛omegaverse, incest, vomiting/nausea (only in the context of morning sickness), fpreg, trans fpreg

❤️scat, watersports, farting/burping, feet, hard vore

[hush-writes-preg]

[Commission] A Burden Carried Down the Dusty Trail

Main character: Transmasculine cowboy ("Ellis/Red") / Mentioned male lover ("Silas") Theme(s): Explicit birth, American Old West, birth denial, clothing birth, crowning, gender dysphoria, masturbation during birth, overdue pregnancy, unplanned pregnancy, unassisted birth, cowboys, horseback riding Length: 4,687 words A commission from an anonymous supporter. 💗 (Read on Ao3)

Summary: Ellis "Red" Calder never meant to get close to anyone, let alone a scruffy trapper who spent more time out on the trail than in any one spot, but even a man like him has needs. Trouble was, those kinds of needs often come with consequences, like a growing belly and increasingly baffled glances from the townsfolk. Red had kept to himself for as long as he could, but loneliness finally got the better of him, and now… Well, it seems he's made yet another poor decision, if the spasms in his gut mean what he thinks they do.

The saddle horn digs into the underside of his swollen belly, a relentless pressure point anchoring the immense, pendulous weight that has become his body. With every one of Sawbones’ steps, Ellis Calder feels the jarring impact of the hoofbeats travel straight up his spine to rattle his teeth. He grits them, willing the pitiful noises that keep trying to claw their way up the inside of his throat to remain tucked away. 

Keep breathin’, Red. Just keep breathin’. Town’s close, and there’ll be a message there, sure as sunrise. 

A new sensation blooms deep within him, a slow, insistent tightening that has nothing to do with the horse’s gait. It starts low in his back, like a band of iron cinched around his abdomen, squeezing the air from his lungs in a sharp, startled gasp. His pregnant stomach, already a hard, jutting shelf, seems to shrink inward, pressing the life within him down, down, down into the cradle of his spread thighs. He curls forward instinctively, the shaggy crimson hair that’s his namesake falling into his face while one hand splays across the taut, denim-cradled curve of his belly, feeling the impossible rock-hardness of it. 

“Sonovabitch.”  

Ellis might not know much about dropping babies, but he’s helped enough cows deliver their calves to realize that riding into town right now probably isn’t one of his better ideas. He should be back at the house, preparing to start his troubles. It’s not like he’s been able to do much else over the past few weeks, as big as his middle’s gotten. 

He’s been alone for so long, now, without a single word from Silas.  It’s not that surprising, being that Silas is a trapper, and his regular circuit takes him several months of hard travel to complete. But Silas had promised to check the wire office at Sheridan when he passed through, so he should have gotten Ellis’ ambiguous—but insistent—message.

NEED YOU HOME AT ONCE STOP CANNOT MANAGE ALONE STOP RED

If he’d followed his usual route, Silas should have seen the expensive telegram weeks ago. He should have replied.  But Ellis has been hiding out in his lover’s clay-chinked log cabin for ages now, ever since his growing belly started earning him strange looks; going into town isn’t a task he takes on lightly.

It’s just… Ellis needs to read those words right now more than anything, a promise of hope, even if they’re short and vague.

The contraction crests, a wave of such intense pressure that he sees spots dancing at the edges of his vision. Sawbones, ever attuned to the subtle shifts in his rider’s mood, flicks an ear back but maintains his pace. The rhythm of the horse’s steps is merciless now, each hoofbeat a hammer blow that seems to drive the baby’s head further into Ellis’ pelvis. The tension between his legs is building to an unbearable ache, a fierce, demanding presence that vies for space with the unyielding saddle.

Easy now, sweetheart. Please—you can’t come yet.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. He’d been living as a man for over half his life now, and men don’t end up in the family way. He’d worked so hard to keep the world at arm’s length, giving up dreams of love and family to prevent anyone from knowing his deepest, most vulnerable secret, but then he had to go and meet him. Had to find out what it meant to be loved, to be touched, to really matter to somebody for the first time in his adult life.

By the time Ellis realized that the scruffy, handsome trapper had left him with more than just a few months’ worth of fond memories, spring had come and Silas had already set out to run his trapline. “If all goes right, Little Red, I’ll have you back in my arms ‘fore the first hard snow,” Silas had told Ellis just before he'd left, with a spark in his dark eyes. “And once I get home and you finish up at Chimney Butte, we’ll light out together, just the two o’ us.”

Too bad winter is still over a month away, and Ellis is on the verge of dropping a child that neither expected him to carry. He'd had to quit his job once the pregnancy made it too dangerous to keep punching cattle, moving his meager belongings up to Silas’ cabin and settling in to wait. 

And, apparently, to give birth to this blasted child all by himself.  He’s not exactly sure when the babe took, but it feels like it’s been taking up space in his belly for far too long already. 

“You’d best turn yourself ’round an’ get back here, Silas Becker,” Ellis grinds out once his body gives him a chance to breathe again. “I ain't about to raise this young’un of yours all on my lonesome.”

Ellis wants to slow the horse, to rise up in the stirrups for a moment’s relief from the pressure in his pelvis, but a deeper, more insistent voice urges him to keep going. He could be running out of time, if the trickling dampness between his thighs means what he thinks it might. He's got to make it to the wire office and home again before this baby comes; otherwise, he'll be in a heap of trouble. 

Another contraction begins its slow ascent a few minutes later. This one is sharper, more focused, a vise grip that centers deep in his core and radiates outwards until his entire world has narrowed to the crushing, rhythmic pain. Ellis moans into the open air, the sound swallowed by the vast, empty prairie. His knuckles are white where he grips the saddle horn and reins, his body bowing under the force. He can feel it, a distinct, sliding sensation low in his birth canal, a round, heavy pressure descending with terrifying inevitability. 

Oh god. Little one… dammit, hold on.

The town has to be getting close. Ellis squints through pain-watering eyes, searching the shimmering horizon for any sign of civilization. But there's nothing out here but grassland, sky, and eventually, the Little Missouri River. 

“Whoa, ‘Bones,” he grunts once they finally reach the riverbank, his voice as ragged as a stranger’s. “Easy now.” The grulla gelding slows with impatience when Ellis hauls back on the reins, then stops, snorting and tossing his dark mane with displeasure. 

Dismounting is a clumsy, humiliating ordeal, but Ellis is not about to risk injuring his horse riding over the slippery rocks—not even in this state. He swings his leg over the horse’s back, his stomach a monstrous obstacle, and slides down, his boots hitting the hard-packed earth with a jarring thud that reverberates through his swollen body.

The relief from the saddle’s intrusion is immediate and profound, but ultimately short-lived. The moment he’s upright, the full, unsupported weight of his pregnant belly drags him down, a visceral, pulling heaviness that makes his knees buckle. Ellis stumbles, barely managing to catch himself on the saddle skirt, his breath coming in ragged pants.

God, he’s never felt so heavy. 

The child inside him surges downward with the shift in position, a palpable, alarming drop that makes Ellis cry out in alarm. He locks his legs together, a futile attempt at dignity and control, but the bulk between his thighs demands space that he can't afford to give it.

He's practically a prisoner to the motion, to the pain, to the sheer, overwhelming mass of the unexpected child he carries, isn’t he?

Neither he nor Sawbones is a stranger to a simple crossing like this one, but Ellis hasn't forded anything deeper than a shallow creek in ages. “Easy now, boy,” Ellis mutters, waddling gingerly over the slick, mossy stones that lie just beneath the water’s surface as he guides the horse forward. The cold current rises to slap at his knees, sending an uncomfortable shiver up Ellis’ spine, and Sawbones manages to catch a loose rock with his back hoof and stumble, but otherwise the pair makes it to the other side without incident. 

By the time they reach the far bank, Ellis is soaked and shivering, but he can see the distant spire of St. Mary’s poking up over the horizon. He lets out a deep sigh of relief at the sight.

Eager to move forward, he grabs the saddle’s pommel and cantle, anxious to haul himself back up. Unfortunately, there’s no fence here to help him mount. His arms are little more than trembling noodles, his center of gravity a treacherous joke, and his middle a distended, unwieldy mass. 

The horse sidesteps, uneasy. 

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath, and tries again with the same result.

He’s no fool; there’s no way in hell he’s going to make it back up on his horse like this. Unwanted tears well up in Ellis’ grey-green eyes before he angrily dashes them away. 

Looks like he’s got no choice but to walk, now.

Clinging desperately to Sawbones’ reins, Ellis resumes his awkward waddle, adopting a wide, humiliating gait that sends fresh jolts of pain through him with every step. He can’t be more than a mile or so out of town now. He’ll make it, one way or another.

The town of Medora gradually materializes like a smudge on the horizon, a distant promise of salvation that seems to mock Ellis’ agonizingly slow progress. Every step forward is a chore, and each contraction now brings with it a new, even more terrifying urge. 

His body, instinctively following a primal script he never wanted to learn, has begun demanding that Ellis bear down. 

He fights the instinct every time it hits, halting in his tracks to clench every muscle he can still command, tears of frustration and fear mixing with the sweat on his tanned, freckled cheeks. 

Don’t push. Don’t you dare push.

Ellis staggers forward, one arm cradling the massive belly he's been trying to hide under the voluminous bulk of a trail-worn poncho, and prays that the child in his womb will remain where it is for a few more hours. If he can just make it to the wire office and then head right home, that’ll be enough. It has to be. He’s not fond of the idea of popping out a babe on the range, but there’s no way in hell he’ll do it in town.

The dusty main street is a gauntlet filled with half-remembered faces and curious glances. Ellis keeps his head down, the wide brim of his hat shielding his flushed face, every fiber of his being focusing on putting one boot shakily in front of the other. This isn't a place where he's spent a lot of time, outside of a handful of supply runs back when his belly wasn't so confoundedly large. He's got no family here, no friends, no one he trusts enough to share his secrets. To them, he probably looks like just another wounded cowpoke coming in off the trail, or a drunkard dragging his ass back to the nearest saloon. 

The post office with its telegraph station is at the end of the street, tucked beside the general store. He’s almost there.

Then a contraction seizes Ellis mid-step, freezing him in place. His body ignores his commands, the muscles pushing with a powerful, involuntary flex that makes him groan and crush his thighs together. The rough fabric of his trousers strains against the incredible pressure, like a dam trying to hold back a massive flood. He can practically feel the distinct shape of the head, right there, held captive by denim and his own terror. As the pain ebbs, the tension recedes slightly, the moment of crisis passing and leaving him shaking and breathless.

“You alright there, son?” a voice calls from a nearby porch. Ellis doesn’t look up or even speak, just gives a curt, jerky wave of dismissal and forces his legs to ferry him forward again. He’s too winded to speak, and he doesn’t want anyone to realize just how defenseless he is right now.

But he doesn’t get far. The next contraction hits only moments later, dropping Ellis to his knees in the dust (too close, Jesus Christ, they’re too close together now) while a low, guttural sound tears from his throat. The reins drop from his spasming fingers. God, he doesn’t know if he can even get back off the ground. How the hell is he supposed to hide that he’s in labor?

A shadow falls over him, and Ellis shrinks back from it in dread. “Mercy sakes. You ain’t drunk, you’re… well, never mind, let’s get you inside ‘fore you bring half the street runnin’ to gawk.”

“No,” Ellis grits out, too mortified to even look up at the speaker.  “Gotta—gotta get to the wire office. I’m fine.”

There’s a snort and the sound of spittle hitting the sun-baked road. “No, you ain’t. C’mon.”

An iron grip closes around his upper arm, hauling him up with surprising strength. An older man, his face a roadmap of wrinkles and his waist wrapped in a mostly-clean apron, guides Ellis and his horse firmly around the side of a nearby building—the boarding house. Ellis is too far gone to resist, his world a haze of pain and the terrifying, rhythmic need to push.

The man half-drags him down the alleyway and through a doorway at the rear of the building, into what looks like a small storage room. The air smells of stale beer and dried herbs, and there’s a narrow bed tucked at the back of the room, where he none-too-gently deposits Ellis. “I’ll fetch the doc,” his rescuer says, his eyes lingering for a fraction too long on the impossible curve of Ellis’ stomach and the way the cowboy’s hand instinctively cradles it beneath his poncho. There’s a dawning, uneasy sort of understanding in that look, and it fills Ellis’ insides with dread.

“No,” Ellis gasps, the word a desperate plea as he clutches at the coarse wool blanket that covers the straw mattress. “No doc. Just… leave me be for a spell. That’s all I need, I swear.  Then I’ll git.”

He knows now that he’s not going to make it to the wire office. He’s not even going to make it back out of town before his body forces him to give in to its insistent demands. He’s stuck here, at the mercy of whatever kindness and confidence he can muster from this stranger. Both he and his little one.

The man studies him for a moment, his gaze tracing the line of Ellis’ jaw, the tousled hair plastered to his sweaty forehead, the raw fear in his grey-green eyes. His jaw works for a moment like he’s chewing on his words, then he slowly nods, a complex blend of understanding and pity in his expression. “Alright, son. I’ll hitch yer horse right outside and give you yer privacy. You… you just holler if you change yer mind.” 

He backs out of the room, pausing at the doorframe to fix Ellis with one last look. “You was makin’ for the post office, wasn’t ya? What’s yer name, boy?”

“Yeah… I… I was,” Ellis whispers, not seeing much of a point in lying. The man already knows too much about him. “Name’s Ellis.  Ellis Calder.”

The man nods again before closing the door behind himself with a soft, final click.

Finally alone, Ellis slumps back against the tick mattress, the old wooden frame creaking beneath his weight as he stares at his huge, heaving stomach. For a single, blessed moment, all he focuses on is his own ragged breathing and the frantic hammering of his heart.

But the baby’s not about to give him peace for long. Another contraction rises from the depths, a tidal wave of pure force that obliterates Ellis’ thoughts.

Ellis doubles over on the narrow bed, a hoarse groan ripping from his beleaguered throat. His body arches, bowing backward as the muscles seize and crush his swollen middle into a rock-hard dome. He can feel the baby’s head grinding downward, a relentless, bony pressure that demands space he doesn’t have to give. The rough denim of his trousers has become a prison, Silas’ pricey gift now stretched taut and wet against his skin, holding everything in.

He has to get them off.

Peeling the damp, oversized poncho over his head, Ellis tosses it aside. Then he’s shoving his braces over his shoulders, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, and each one he frees feels like a tiny victory. 

His hands drop to the buttons of his denim trousers next. The button fly is strained taut, the fabric digging a deep, angry line into the swollen flesh of his lower belly. It’s like his stomach has become a creature in its own right, colossal and overbearing, rising and falling in his lap, doggedly taking up every inch of space it possibly can. Each metal button is a battle fought with trembling, sweat-slicked fingers. He works blindly, his gaze fixed on the far wall as he plucks at them, trying not to think about what will come next. 

Finally, the last button gives way. He shoves at the rough material, but the wet fabric sticks to his skin like it’s been glued there.  “C’mon,” he whimpers, tugging and twisting like he can peel it away through sheer force of will.  

Another contraction hits, its deep, internal cinching freezing the air in his lungs and bending his spine. He feels something solid shift between his thighs, pushing against the soaked cotton of his drawers and the unyielding tension of his trousers. Ellis releases a sob, clutching at the oversized dome of his belly, and silently curses Silas for putting him in this situation.

It passes, and Ellis returns to scrabbling at his clothing. Finally, he manages to shove the fabric down his hips, over his thighs, despite the way the damp denim clings to his body. He kicks them off, along with his drawers, leaving them both in a tangled heap on the floorboards.

The moment the constricting denim is past his hips, the full, shocking weight of his belly drops. Ellis sprawls on the edge of the narrow bed, his legs splayed wide to accommodate the massive, quivering dome of his pregnant stomach. It dominates the space, a pale, taut mountain veined with blue and stretched so thin he can see the shape of a tiny foot pressing insistently against the skin just below his ribs. The sheer, obscene size of it steals his breath. He’d been lean before, all whipcord muscle and sharp angles. Now, he is nothing but this.

Ellis is certain, with a sudden clarity that borders on delirium, that the baby could simply fall out now that the constricting trousers are gone. The pressure is just that immense, that urgent.

His body bears down without his permission, a deep, involuntary heave that forces a choked cry from his lips. He feels the head, a solid, crowning mass, force him open further than he’s ever opened before. For a terrifying second, he’s certain the child is going to tear him in half. It’s like the pressure is a living thing, a second heart beating between his legs, demanding some sort of release. But as the contraction fades, the moment passes. The immense pressure recedes yet again, the head sliding back up inside just enough to leave him gasping, sore and desperate. 

“No, c’mon on, sweetheart… don’t be shy now,” Ellis whines, squirming restlessly over the blanket as a sense of helplessness rises. “Either in or out, you can’t just sit there.”

Another contraction. His body seizes, writhing off the thin mattress, while a rasping groan fills the air around him. Instinct takes over, and he bears down, his entire being focused on the overwhelming need to push.

The muscles of his abdomen tighten into a rigid board, crushing inward, forcing the child down. He can feel it, a distinct, terrifying slide deep inside, the heavy, round weight of the baby’s head descending again. He pushes until his vision tunnels, until the veins in his neck feel like they’re on the verge of bursting.

And then… nothing. The contraction ebbs, and with it, all its progress. 

Ellis feels the head slide back up into his birth canal, a retreat that is somehow more devastating than the pain itself. A mournful cry falls from his lips. “No, please.”

He tries again with the next wave, then again, and yet again, his teeth grinding, his hands gripping his own thighs hard enough to bruise. He pushes with everything he has, a raw, animalistic effort that leaves him panting and dizzy. Each time, there’s that agonizing slide forward, a stretching, burning pressure that promises an end to his agony, but his strength gives out before the baby slides free. He’s hit with fatigue, the push falters, and once more, the child retreats.

A howl of pure frustration wrenches itself free. He’s so damned tired. His arm muscles feel like water, his legs shaking uncontrollably. Ellis is trapped in a cycle of hope and defeat, each round leaving him weaker, more terrified. He needs leverage. He needs Silas.

“Damn you, Silas,” he snarls, heedless of the tears falling down his cheeks while he curls a calloused palm over the enormous bulge of his belly. “Damn you for leavin’ me in this mess, you lousy, mangy cur!”

The next contraction arrives, and Ellis rides it, pushing into the pain, into the burning stretch. Sliding a hand beneath the curve of his abdomen, he can feel where the head bulges from his opening, stretching the pliant lips of his sex wider than he thought possible, a ring of burning tissue encircling the crown. He’s so close. He can feel the baby’s hair, a surprising softness amidst the agonizing strain. But once again, as the contraction ebbs, the progress is stolen from him. The head slips back, and the fire cools to a throbbing, unbearable ache.

Despair washes over him. He’s failing. His body is drained, struggling to finish what it started. Ellis has seen heifers spend too long in labor, watched their vigor fade until they’ve got nothing left to give, and he knows how dangerous that is. He knows he can’t afford to stop now.

His thoughts whirling, Ellis doesn’t realize his touch is slipping until a finger accidentally grazes his clit, and he gasps.

He suddenly remembers the way Silas would touch him, the way those rough, clever fingers could unravel the tightest knot of tension in Ellis’ back, his neck… and lower. A wild, insane thought sparks in his exhaustion-fogged mind. It’s a memory of pleasure so intense it blurred the edges of pain, a release so complete it left him boneless and spent.

Maybe… Maybe if he just…

His hand seems to move on its own. His belly is so big that Ellis has to contort his arm to make the contact he wants, his shoulder hollering in protest. It’s a miracle he can even reach. His fingers fumble sightlessly through the coarse thatch of hair between his legs, finding the swollen, hypersensitive nub of his clit. 

He’s out of breath, his heart hammering against his ribs, but he doesn’t stop. Ellis rubs frantic, clumsy circles around his clit, chasing the ghost of a feeling, a memory of pleasure in a sea of pain. But it’s not working. He’s too tired, too scared, the sensations all wrong. Tears of frustration leak from the corners of his eyes. He presses harder, his touch almost punishing, willing his body to remember, to respond.

Ellis can feel the next contraction starting to build, a deep, rolling quake that springs from his womb. Something about this one feels different—like it’s somehow deeper, more final. It’s a big one. Panic seizes him. He grinds the heel of his hand against himself in a frantic, last-ditch effort, imagining that it’s Silas touching him so intimately, as he has so many times before. Please. Please.

The contraction peaks with a surge of pure, unadulterated force that demands he push. At the exact same moment, a spark ignites under Ellis’ frantic touch. A jolt of raw, shocking pleasure arcs through him, a brilliant counterpoint to the blinding pain. 

And it’s just enough. His body seizes, back bowing clear off the bed, a raw, unfiltered cry filling the room as his hips buck to meet his own hand.

The orgasm rips through Ellis, a convulsive wave of release that unlocks every anxiety-clenched muscle. It gives that last, brutal push exactly what it needs. The burning stretch becomes a scorching, yielding burn as the baby’s head finally, finally, slips past the taut lips that surround his opening and out into the world.

The relief is so immense it’s practically a pain in itself. Ellis collapses back onto the bed, gasping, blubbering, his chest heaving with every shuddering breath. He can feel the child’s head, wet and solid, resting heavily between his thighs. He did it. The head is out. 

The rest of Ellis’ labor goes by in a sticky, messy, aching blur, until something lurches within him and he yelps, barely managing to catch the baby as the rest of it finally, finally slithers free. 

For a long moment, Ellis doesn’t move, trembling from the remnants of exhaustion, pain, and adrenaline. He can’t see anything over his still-swollen belly, though it feels strangely hollow and sore, but he does hear something: a tiny, mewling wail, fragile yet strong. 

He’s hit with a flare of alarm followed by the soothing balm of relief, just before his heart clenches with a strange, overwhelming surge of something both fierce and tender all at once. Ellis curls carefully forward, hauling the small, wet body and its slippery cord from between his legs to rest against his chest.

“Gosh,” he whispers, his voice hoarse, almost inaudible, as he drinks in the extraordinary sight. “You… god, I ain’t seen too many young’uns this close, but you… you’re somethin’.”

Tears run freely now, streaking down through the dirt on his freckled cheeks. His arms ache, his muscles scream in protest, and every nerve in his body feels like it’s been scraped raw—but he did it. They’re both okay. A shaky, crooked grin creeps across his face as Ellis sniffs and strokes the drying wisps starting to curl atop the baby’s head. 

Her hair is black, just like Silas’.  

A soft knock breaks the hush some time later. Ellis startles, cradling the tiny, squirming child protectively against his chest, now wrapped in the worn fabric of his shirt. The door creaks open, and the man from before steps inside, his arms laden with fresh linen scraps, a bucket of water, and a small envelope.

“Thought you might need these,” he mutters, setting the bucket down with a gentle clunk and draping the cloths nearby. His eyes flick to the child, then back to Ellis, but he doesn’t say anything more, withdrawing to return Ellis to the privacy he’d requested.

Ellis takes an unsteady breath and cuddles the baby closer. With trembling hands, he unfolds the telegram. The words blur through his exhaustion, but the message dated from just a month prior is clear: 

GOT YOUR WIRE STOP   LEAVING IMMEDIATELY STOP   SILAS

Relief crashes over Ellis in a hot, shaky wave. Silas got his message. He’s on his way home.

He buries his face against the baby’s damp hair, laughing and crying all at once. Everything he’d endured today—the pain, the fear, the hours of labor—is still fresh in his memory, but now it’s tempered by hope. The man he adores is coming back for him, and soon, Silas will be able to see just how much their love has blossomed in his absence.

It won’t be just the two of them anymore, Ellis realizes with a touch of weary wonder. Silas had given Ellis more patience, understanding, and love than anyone ever had, and now… now he’d given him a family, too.

Tip Jar ✨ Patreon ✨ My Pregnancy Writing ✨ Commissions

AO3

[superspecialcherrysurprise-blog]

belly kink? yes.

aesthetic appreciation for fat bodies? yes.

loving and respecting fat people? yes.

all three. if you check that first box imo you better check the next two. 

[grac3yn]

so we gonna talk about the skeleton in the room or nah

[kavania]

my dad and brother are the biggest marvel fans. I happen to casually enjoy Ryan Gosling's movies.

When he was announced as Ghost Rider I was making dinner while dogsitting at a friend's house, and nowhere near my phone.

My brother called me thirteen consecutive times before I picked up on the fourteenth call.

[kavania]

And what if I want to force Simon Iron Lung into whumpy situations so what--

What if before being sent down in the sub he was raped (maybe a lot...) by his captors. Maybe he's never really had a period due to malnutrition. Maybe he knows he's pregnant getting into the sub and part of the reason he agrees to do it is because he NEEDS to get out of the prison to give his kid the life they deserve.

But of course, he won't tell Ava (or anyone) because he can't risk them revoking this opportunity and locking him up again. Since the COI values life so highly (especially new life), if they found out while he was in prison, not only would they refuse to send him on the mission, they would take his child as soon as they were born.

So, no, hes not telling anyone.

He just has to hope this mission is as "safe" as they say it is, and that theyll keep their word.

He knows he can't go back to Eden (they're a death cult and would make him get an abortion and, despite how he was raised, hes starting to see logic in the COI. Maybe he does want fo fight for a future for him and his kid).

When he finds out they're sending him back down again, that's when he finally says he's pregnant and begs Ava to let him out, even going so far as to show her his clearly pregnant belly through the porthole. But he's sent back down anyway.

And now he's full of guilt. Not only will he die, his baby will too. Maybe Eden was right, maybe there's no point in fighting the inevitable.

Rest of the movie continues as normal -- but the sub imploded and he mutates to survive it. The baby is safe inside of him.

Either he and his baby live happily as eel-people in the blood ocean, or you can take the BloodyMary route and (via method of your choice) Simon is on the Hail Mary.

Maybe even more angst with needing to feed three people instead of one. Even if Simon's baby isn't consuming as much as a fully independent person, the two of them are a massive drain on the Mary's resources. In the book, Grace has the food to finish the 4-year journey for Erid (and survive a few months after that) but now they have to figure out how to get Grace, Simon, and a baby to survive the trip to Erid.

Or you could do a version where Grace has been happily and healthily living his life on Erid by the time Simon shows up so that's not an issue... personally I'm partial to the idea that the blood ocean mutations are science-d on by the Eridians to extend Grace's lifespan to be more similar to an Eridian's (Simon and Baby's lifespans were already extended due to mutations).

Anyway maybe Grace and Simon decide to have more kids. Who knows.

[wereknightpreg]

Never not thinking about magic impregnation. The kind that always works. Doesn't matter if you had a womb to begin with, you'll end up with one that's visibly swollen but has a lot more room to grow.

[wereknightpreg]

Makes me wish I was some camp gay cartoon villain who just went around knocking up big, hairy men who squirm and pant in fear and confused arousal while their belly swells under my hand. The paper-thin narrative excuse is that I'm breeding an army of demons to do my bidding or whatever, but it's pretty obvious I just have a kink.

[wereknightpreg]

Hero who was supposed to defeat me just sitting around twiddling his thumbs because I just knocked up the strong, stoic knight who's my second in command and now I'm too distracted to do evil.

[wereknightpreg]

The knight's like "your evilness shouldn't we be taking over the throne" or something but he's desperately bucking his hips and panting and sweating and to reward him for his diligence I let him hump my leg like a dog (my hands are busy on his belly) (this experimental new breed of demon grows to full size in a month but I've decided to add another one halfway through)

[eiiegeia]

how long since last sleep, question?

[slutforpaladins]

my personal knight keeps saying they’re “going to put a bastard in me” when we’re having sex. pfft, as if my noble and virtuous womb would let such a thing happen.

[slutforpaladins]

by talos this can’t be happening

[dilfpregcentral]

Thinking of a farming community that is thriving through a famine because the goddess of nature has blessed them to become pregnant with produce and give birth to their harvest.

All of the farmers become swollen with one kind of fruit or vegetable over the course of the season, some of them local and some from faraway lands. During the harvest, most will give birth to a humbly sized crop. But the extremely devout farmers push out so much that at feasts, they will recline on a table with their legs open for the townspeople to take fresh offerings straight from their holes, which drip with the delicious juices of whatever produce they carry.

No one ever risks going thirsty, either, as every pregnancy causes the chest to swell with water so pure that it doesn’t even need to be boiled before consumption. Many in the town are employed ‘milking’ the farmers to create a reservoir for all to use. The most faithful produce so much water that their tits sag heavily around their fertile bellies, full enough that each breast can be heard sloshing as they walk. They keep cups hanging on their belts so that they can send any thirsty passer-by on their way with a drink—that is, if they don’t have time to suckle straight from their teats.

And of course the pregnancies can manifest many interesting ways…

A farmer carrying grapes will feel like their womb is full of soft eggs, and if you gently push their belly around, you can feel all the bunches shifting. When they give birth, it comes as one long vine that they can’t push very hard if they want large bunches, so they often just labor passively for days and days as the vine coming out of them grows longer and longer.

Root vegetables with leafy tops start to poke out of the farmers’ holes when they’re ready, and in addition to pushing, they need the help of a second party to grip the stems and help pull them out of their womb.

Those growing butternut squashes end up with oblong bellies, and never know whether each squash will come out head-first—leaving them to struggle on the round base—of if they’ll crown around the base and the whole vegetable will shoot out of them.

Someone carrying oranges or apples might have a bumpy belly that tumbles around with their movements, needing often to be adjusted for their comfort, and ending up in lopsided shapes if they’re unattended.

While large bunches of bananas are preferred, some—the less experienced farmers, especially—cannot stretch far enough to admit very many at once, so a farmhand is required to carefully insert a tool deep inside them and break a few off the stem. A farmer who’s used to having their bananas broken into single deliveries must take care not to be caught alone when it’s time to push, because they’ll have no idea what to do when a bunch of 10 or more starts spreading them.

Those who grow watermelons and pumpkins can often be seen in the goddesses’ temple, nervously rubbing the discolored, paper thin skin of their bellies as their body struggles to contain their bounty. With enough prayer and meditation, they can achieve a trance state for the birth, where the goddess will only allow them to feel as much as they want. For some, this is only a fraction of the pressure, which is still enough to make their groans echo in the temple. For others, this is the full impact of the birth, their bodies tortured as they’re pushed past the edge of human ability, their hearts in rapture at the chance to show their goddess how much they are willing to do for her.

It’s always important to be sure the harvests are ripe, too, of course. A farmer must pay close attention to the first of their delivery, and if it’s still green, they must stop pushing immediately and force what they can back inside. It’s quite common, especially for less experienced farmers, to need to postpone their birth by a few days or even weeks. Several farmers in this tender state can usually be found at the temple, moaning and groaning in misery as they clutch their contracting bellies and pray to the goddess for relief. Every day, the faithful visit them to comfort and soothe them, massaging them, holding them, even pleasuring them or inserting blessed artifacts into their holes to keep them plugged, so that they can at least answer the urge to push.

When the day finally comes to empty their aching bellies of the ripe harvest, it is not uncommon for the farmers to feel so pent up that each thing they push out makes them moan and jerk, slowly pushed towards the edge of pleasure. Often, the faithful attending to them will take the last fruit and fuck the farmer with it, until finally rewarding them with an almost unbearable orgasm, and then a sleep so peaceful and deep that they don’t even notice being carried home and put to bed. They are then allowed to rest for several days, first to recover… and then to germinate the next clump of seeds that has appeared in their belly.

[dilfpregcentral]

Of course, not all is as pleasant as it seems.

The sharp-minded traveler might realize, once they ask around, that no one seems to carry a harvest of grain, and yet the people have ample bread. They might have a glass of the incredible wine, but search the town and find no barrels it could have come from.

Down below the temple, these questions are answered.

Criminals and heretics—sinners—are held prisoner. All of them are gagged, their muffled cries a disturbing choir in the darkness. Shackled high on the wall with their knees bound up by their chests are those without wombs, who grow so much wheat in their guts that their bellies are round and dense with the crop, heavy between their restrained thighs. They wince and squirm at the strange sensation of the stalks inside of them, but a bit of tickling is nothing compared to the threshing.

The faithful bring long tools and force them into the sinners’ holes, and thresh the wheat inside them with no care for how the sinner feels. The sinners scream until they injure their throats, then keep thrashing in their bonds as the tools torture their insides. They find no purpose or meaning in this suffering, only sobbing and shaking their heads as more tools are produced to gather the wheat, chaff, and other debris from inside them. Every little bit must be gathered, so they endure hours of cruel tools tirelessly searching their guts, sometimes going so deep that the tips tent their deflated bellies. They think no agony could be worse, but they will miss the tools if they ever try to push out the wheat on their own…

Those with wombs require no restraint. They could never get far with their bellies like this. Each one grows enormous yields of grapes, but when it comes time to birth them, they’re plugged up. Then, their contractions come, and in the course of the cramping and their desperate pushing, the grapes are crushed inside of them. Of course, a member of the faithful visits them to make sure every grape is squished, roughly pressing and squeezing their belly until it’s clear no grapes are left intact.

Then comes the fermenting.

Wombs that were once shaped by the weight of the plant matter within begin to grow in every direction, stretching and stretching as carbon dioxide fills them. Their bellies end up ballooning out, unbearably taut, their abdomens and pelvises and hips all screaming with constant pressure that only grows worse and worse. They shriek into the gags that they’re going to burst, but the faithful just chuckle as they walk by.

The joke, of course, is the evidence that they’ll never burst, even if the wine ferments in their bellies for years to come. The proof of this lies further into the chamber, where the worst of the criminals and the most blasphemous heretics groan constantly, their wombs so tight with gas that a pin’s head probably could pop them. Their spines are bowed, their lungs crushed and hearts slowed, rib cages and pelvises both forced back to make room for the fullness of their bellies. With every tortured breath, the audible sound of sloshing echoes within, wine beyond value growing rich inside them.

Even if they could walk, they’re in no state to escape. Years of wine on their membranes has left them completely saturated, every waking moment now spent effectively blackout drunk. Alcohol poisoning should have killed them a long time ago if the misuse of their organs didn’t, but the goddess’s blessing is for the survival of the people; though it may strain the body, it may not kill it. She meant this as a mercy.

For those whose wombs are reduced to wine barrels, death would be the mercy.

But they are hardly aware of their own situation anymore. One chosen from the group—a criminal, who can’t recall their crime or their name—doesn’t even notice when the faithful inserts a tool thin tool, and then the neck of a wine bottle into their pussy. A deft action with the tool, and the seal that’s kept their cervix plugged for years is removed. Air hisses quietly out, a sound not nearly dramatic enough for the sudden change in pressure inside their body. They have a moment of lucidity as the feeling of falling accompanies their wilting spine. Still, they aren’t even conscious enough to feel the relief.

Wine glugs into the bottle until it fills, then another, then another, deft hands switching them out, though precious drops still splatter on the floor. All told, it takes less than a minute to drain their womb, but in a lifetime, their belly would never return to its original shape. It remains massive and strangely round, but drooping now, like their whole frame does without the gas to hold it up. They look like a broken scarecrow, and it almost makes the faithful sad as they seal the wine bottles.

The criminal, for a fleeting moment of consciousness, misses being full.

But they don’t have to worry. The goddess will make another bounty in their belly in no time.

[kavania]

I love being a pervert 🥰 i love being a lil freak 🥰 i love finding niche things sexy 🥰 I love getting off to porn 🥰 i love masturbating to cool people' art 🥰 i love being a pervert with all the people in my electronic device 🥰

[wereknightpreg]

Adventurer who's gotten out of a few potentially lethal scrapes by promising the entity about to kill/curse/eat them their firstborn. They're not one to read the fine print, though, and a lot of evil creatures out there are quite impatient. That's how they find themself adventuring with a dragon egg, devilspawn, and some kind of fey in their belly. As if being heavily pregnant wasn't enough, they have to deal with all the weird side effects that three different types of magic in one mortal body bring about. But the worst of all is that they've been carrying these constantly thrashing creatures for well over nine months, their belly has stopped growing, they've had the occasional practice constraction, and yet there's no end in sight. Soon, they will realise that they're in deeper shit than previously imagined: only one out of three can be born first, and so their spawn's claimants have reached a stalemate. Until they arrive at a solution, the unlucky adventurer is forever stuck on the last day of pregnancy, gravid belly writhing and squirming with monsters eager to be born.

[teataglia]

him being rougher than usual after a long day, but you remain gentle in response. his hips crash into yours, but you just cradle his face and brush the hair out of his eyes. he bites your shoulder and you kiss his forehead. he pins your hands and your legs hug his waist.

[willowpossyum]

the w0lv3r1n3 and his cubs coming back from a beach day :))

[boytumms]

Ngl that sub//nautica 2 post just made me think about some crew member tasked carrying alien life in his womb for “science” so he know has to waddle around with a giant alien squirming around inside of him. His back constantly aches, the aliens squirming makes it hard for him to stand up straight and his belly blocks him from getting on his diving suit so he can’t even do basic work, but on the bright side he could get a lot of attention from other crew members

It would be even worse for him if he didn't have any other crew mates there with him to help in any way. He gets attacked by the alien wildlife and stuffed full of cum, eggs, babies, or even all three at the same time. After struggling to swim back to his base, he has to drag his aching body to the medbay, patch his own wounds, and do an ultrasound on his own swollen belly to see what he's been impregnated with. With no one else around, he still has to survive and manage all his tasks, which quickly get harder and harder as his tummy rapidly swells with foreign life.

When his belly becomes so big he can't fit into the cockpit of his subs, let alone his tight dive suit, he becomes trapped inside the tiny confines of his base. His heavy belly drags him down, making it hard to even walk, and eventually it swells so large he becomes bed bound. If he's smart enough he'll have the foresight stay in the medbay before he becomes immobile, but even if he managed that, with no other crew mates to help him, he will have to go through a long and painful labor all by himself. He has no idea what to expect with several different alien creatures all writhing, thrashing, and fighting inside his over encumbered belly, but if anything goes wrong, there will be no one to save him.

The babies could get stuck, the eggs could have grown too big to fit through his narrow hips, with how alien his pregnancy is, so many complications are bound to happen as he labors, but he'll have to struggle through them and hope he will be able to survive on his own

[hush-writes-preg]

Yesterday the phrase “my bastard wriggling in your gut” popped into my head as one of the hottest things I’ve ever read and I had to go on a journey of searching key words through several blogs I love to find who gave that to me. So thank you, it was you, I might have to go write a whole bunch of shit myself so I can think it about more and more and more. Because fuck

Aww yeeeeeah, I don't know why that phrase is so arousing, but it is.

If you end up writing a whole bunch of shit involving the expression, please feel free to share! Because gods know we need more of it floating around.

[crookedsuits]

oh god. this infected me too. i might have to do some writing as well.

[wizardpregnant]

absolutely adore your mpreg! especially the dispatch and PHM ones. thoughts on doing iron lung mpreg, specifically within the submarine?

either way they're amazing!

omg mean to himmmm 😈😈i love it 😈😈😈

[shockspectrum]

to add on to the space birth thing: there's a game i've played called Tin Can which is about having to maintain an old outdated escape pod as you await rescue for somethjng like 10-30min. anyway, months after the last time i played this game, it suddenly popped in my head that this would be amazing for a labor/birth kink scenario. desperately referencing the maintenance manual between contractions, turning off gravity to conserve power (and delay the birth until rescue arrives), trying to control your breathing to conserve oxygen, lunging for the fire extinguisher when something catches fire causing the baby to lurch painfully inside... i feel like there's a lot you can do with the idea and i'm kinda surprised that apparently nobody has thought of it before. it's basically "trapped in a car" turned up to 11

that IS an amazing scenario. i really like the zero gravity element of space births... plus being trapped with no way of seeking medical attention even if you want to <3