I have been heavenly enjoying the idea of pregnancy in the circus, the posibilities are inmense, none performer or staff is safe
Their main acrobat ends pregnant, they just cant stop performing, hell even the ringmaster urges them to keep working, the acrobat might be reluctant or even confident in that they can do it
the lurges and thigh clothing making his pregnancy difficult
Used more as a display that a person, knowing their pregnancy attracs audience
Bonus if their are twins, bonus if nobody gaf about them, all is just performance and money
Harsh rehearsals despite the belly being so big
There is no doctor no midwife, nobody to check on the condition of the pregnant one or the babies, the ringmaster could hire someone but preffer not to, to not lost money
Helping around rising the tents or carrying heavy boxes around while pressing them at their womb, is fine, they need to work
Overdoing rehearsals or performances and feeling the first contractions, also knowing the babies werent due until next month
Or circus partners performers sabotaying the pregnant one to give birth early because they hate the attention they are getting
i need to be pregnant with objects or something that grow bigger rapidly as I'm trying to push them out... just compltely stuck from the inside
That combination of elements is making me think of some kind of synthetic organism designed specifically as a torture method; it grows/expands and tricks the body into thinking the subject is actually pregnant, complete with hormonal responses so that labour can be triggered. But then as the subject is having contractions, desperately pushing, the device reconfigures its form into a shape that absolutely will not pass through the pelvis, lodging there indefinitely as the desperately labouring subject pants and sweats and bears down with everything they've got, but completely fruitlessly 🥰
Heavy people pleaser sub completly unaware of being pregnant and doing whatever their dom asks them to, and the dom actively gaslighting them that yes sweetie you are not pregnant come drink with me
Or completely aware sub but still in pregnant denial, they know a baby or babies are inside them, is too obvious but for the sake of their sanity they prettend nothing is there, they still go to parties, drink, maybe corset themselves to stop looking pregnant and keep the ilusion
also mix the last one with a dom that also knows they are pregnant but will play along and pretend they arent expecting, inciting more of sub dangerous behavior towards their belly and babies
can it even be considered a proper pregnancy if you don't have deep, dark stretch marks that threaten to tear open with every preternaturally strong kick
Finally got around to writing a one-shot based on the scene from AVP2010 in my banner that I've been meaning to write for a while. It was meant to be a very short mood piece but it expanded a bit, and became way more exploratory than intended. Hope some of you enjoy it~
(I don't think this needs a CW as long as you're here for the themes of my blog, but I will say there isn't any bursting or gore of any kind except for an offhand reference)
(This is based on Rebellion's Aliens vs Predator but I've taken many liberties, primarily that Tequila and Rookie are part of the colony's regular Colonial Marine contingent, not the backup called in. The xeno outbreak was also much less severe and has been contained at this point, but there were still several Marine casualties. And, of course, a little license with the xeno lifecycle, for reasons that should be obvious xP)
****
“Ugh,” Tequila’s voice groans behind me, “remind me never to get impregnated by any species again.”
I make an arc with the muzzle of my shotgun, scanning the perimeter from all angles of advance among the prefab colony outbuildings. Once the paranoia that was beaten into me by two years of corps basic is sated, I thumb the safety on and turn to my superior officer; my CO, I really let myself comprehend for the first time since Major Van Zandt bought the farm.
And there she is, leaning against the stonework of one of the mysterious ruins that Freya’s Prospekt was built around.
Gunnery Sergeant Teresa “Tequila” Aquila. The tiny woman that had intimidated me since the moment I was assigned to her squad; an impression that I initially was shocked the other noobs assigned to Zulu Team didn’t seem to share, a fact demonstrated with devastating clarity when Private Moss tried his 20th-century-macho-alpha-douchebag bullshit on the sarge. The puffed up bravado, the arrogance, the belittling language. It had never worked for him in the past, so I don’t know why he thought it’d get him any more than a knee to the dick; which he got in addition to a broken wrist and three bruised ribs. Guess he’d never dated a bisexual Latina.
Christ, Moss. Never liked the guy but now he’s nothing more than a name on the KIA list. Part of me will miss that pomade-wearing asshole.
“Hey. Rook. You in there?”
I snap to attention instinctively; not quite full parade attention but probably a little stiffer than I need to, overcompensating for zoning out. “Yes, sir. Sorry, Sarge.”
“You were staring,” she says, raising an eyebrow and putting a hand on her hip. “Your mama slack on teaching you manners?”
I had been staring, I suddenly realize. And it hadn’t been at her face, or her boots, hell it would’ve probably been less embarrassing if I’d been caught staring at my CO’s boobs.
No, I’d been staring at her midsection. That curve to her stomach that as recently as yesterday had been so subtle it was almost undetectable has now pushed outward enough to untuck her undershirt, showing a sliver of bare skin.
“Sorry, Sarge. Won’t happen again.”
She sighs, propping up her M41A/2 against the wall and sliding down it into a sitting position, then waving me over. I hesitate for half a second, but I join her in sitting, my shotgun resting across my knees.
“You can quit it with the Sarge bullshit, Rook. I’m a sergeant, not the godamn brigadier general.”
An awkward silence as my eyes are locked on the receiver of my shotgun, afraid anywhere else I look will only add to my embarrassment.
“You’re the only grunt in Zulu that doesn’t call me Tequila,” she sounds contemplative, like she’s trying to work out a tough riddle. Like this is something she’s thought about a lot. “You ever gonna tell me why that is?”
I look up at her, meeting her eyes. Pointedly avoiding her stomach, though I can see in my peripheral vision that in this position the hem of her shirt has ridden up even more.
“Doesn’t seem right,” I answer, relieved and even surprised that it didn’t come out as a stutter. “Disrespectful.”
She barks out a laugh, catching me off guard. “Rookie, I thought you knew me better than that. At least to know that anyone who disrespects me never does it twice. Or if they do, they do so with a decreasing number of teeth in their face.”
I nod, not really sure what else I can say.
“They call me Tequila because that’s what I’m called, and they know that. I already know I’m their sergeant, they don’t need to remind me. As long as they pull the trigger when I say, eat dirt when I say, watch my six when I’m point for the squad, they’re showing me all the respect I need, and you’ve never done any less than that. So loosen the fuck up, Rookie. We’re Colonial Marines, not glass-ego dandies in some Three World token navy.”
She’s right. I know she’s right. I’ve always known she’s right, because this shit isn’t exclusive to her.
“You trust me, Rookie?”
“Of course, Sar… Tequila.”
She smiles, very slightly, mostly with her eyes. “Good. Because this ain’t a matter of respect. It’s about trust. Out here, the chain of command isn’t about titles or deference or proper language. Serving on the frontier, all of that stuff don’t really serve a purpose. And despite what they told you in basic about fraternization and familiarity? Forget it. Maintaining a “professional detachment” gets you mauled, melted, or dismembered out here.”
I suddenly feel my lips loosening. This happens sometimes and I don’t even understand it; the introversion just evaporates, and you suddenly want to spill everything. It’s like being four beers in at five in the evening, only you’ve got even less control.
“Closeness… It’s always been a problem for me,” I begin, starting out with a sentence I’m pretty sure I’ve never said out loud to another human being. “I… I don’t really read people too well, right? Like… I can tell when someone’s sad or pissed or even when they’re out to fuck you over. But what someone thinks of me, how they react to what I’m doing? I look right in their eyes…”
I look back up, trying to ignore how my eyes had drifted back down to her midriff. “A-and… there’s nothing there. Whatever they straight up tell me, I’m gonna take it at face value. And the problem is… what most everybody says is way deeper, sometimes even the opposite. So usually I just… don’t try to get close enough that that matters. The corps policy of fraternization, it’s… I’ve been using it as an excuse to not do exactly what you’re saying.”
“Well, you picked probably the one regulation that nobody is gonna report you for to hide under."
I sigh, hitting the release on my shotgun and performing an entirely unnecessary brass check. Two ten gauge magnum buckshot shells chambered, exactly as I already knew they were.
“Look… Marcus --”
“Jack.”
“What?”
I re-close the chamber of my shotgun, blinking. I’ve replied to her without even thinking.
“What?”
“Isn’t your name Marcus?”
It is. Marcus Aurelius Castillo. Private Marcus Aurelius Castillo.
“Yeah… Um. It’s what my twin calls me.”
Tequila chuckles, smirking. “Damn, there’s another of you out there somewhere? Can’t really picture that.”
I shake my head, “Not identical, we’re fraternal. They’re pretty different from me, both personality and looks. They’re in the corps too, though.”
Tequila’s brow furrows in thought. “Castillo… Not ringing any bells.”
“Lieutenant Corporal Trinidad Castillo.”
Teresa thinks for another moment. “Oh… Endeavor?”
I nod. “Yeah… Pride of the United Systems, elite bug stompers. They joined up four years before I did.”
I do not tell her that in those four years I was running with a smuggling operation out of Grendel. She doesn’t need to know that, not yet at least.
“Trin has always been… the more ambitious of the two of us.”
“Why Jack though? Not seeing it in Marcus or Aurelius…”
“Goes way back to when we were kids. Y’know Jack and Jill? Jack’s the one that falls down, right? And I was the one always doin’ stupid shit and getting hurt. And for some reason Jill never really fit Trin, even before they decided they weren’t a girl. So I was just Jack, never really was Marcus.”
Tequila nods. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Rook, but that’s adorable.”
My gut does a flip in direct response to my cheeks and ears heating up.
“Gonna be honest, I don’t know what the ‘wrong way’ is in this case.”
“Hm. Well I’ll answer with a question; do you feel belittled or embarrassed about me calling you ‘Rookie’?”
“No,” I reply simply, not even needing to consider the question.”
She leans her head against the wall. “Then I don’t think you took it the wrong way,” she says with a smug grin, though I can’t even begin to guess why.
There’s another moment of silence between us, when there’s a sudden pop in my earpiece as a signal cuts in.
“Sergeant? Private? You’ve stopped moving, is everything alright?”
It’s Katya’s voice; the synthetic had been bizarrely invested in Tequila ever since she’d been brought back from the bug hive, maintaining contact as constantly as she could, performing physicals every day. I’d almost forgotten that’s where we were headed.
“Affirmative, Katya,” I reply, pressing a finger to my earpiece. “Just taking a breather.”
“Is Sergeant Aquila alright? Is this related to her symptoms?”
“I’m alright Katya, fuck. Just needed to stop for a second to catch my breath.”
“Your fatigue is increasing then? I will add that to your chart. Is anything else new? New sensations, increased fetal movement, sensitivity to smells or tastes --”
“I said I’m fine, Katya. If I had anything to report I’d fuckin’ report it, okay?”
“Of course, Sergeant. But please remain objective, I am not intentionally inconveniencing you. I am merely assuring my data is as complete as possible. As such I must also remind you to return to my lab as soon as possible, it is important for my analysis.”
“Yes, thank you, I remember. Thank you Doctor Science, I’ll heave my ass off the ground and hasten to your chambers.”
She clicks off her headset, cutting off what Katya says next, which I don’t really catch because Tequila speaks up at the same time, something about it being hot; kinda impertinent, we both know BG-386 is almost completely tropical. I take off my own headset, sticking it in a pouch on my tac vest.
“Didn’t catch that, Sarge.”
“I said, sometimes it seems like that droid has the hots for me more than you do.”
Fuck. Shit. Now I’m blushing so much she would notice through a compression suit. That smug grin comes back.
“Ah, so you are aware of it. Thought you might’ve been in denial, but you know right at the front of your brain that you’re into me.”
“Is it really that obvious?”
She shrugs. “Maybe not to everyone, but you ain’t exactly a puzzle or an enigma, let alone the latter wrapped in the former. I hadn’t put every piece of the jigsaw together, but I know what the picture on the box looks like."
“You’re mixing a lotta metaphors --”
“Like I give a shit, and I know you don’t either. You’re just deflecting again.”
“You’re… very direct.”
“And you’re not. But with what you told me today, more of it makes sense. You never said anything about how you feel because you’ve got this notion that being attracted to someone is disrespecting them, because the extreme of that end is objectification and sleazing on someone.”
Godammit, it’s like I’ve got ticker tape scrolling across my forehead. Like she can see my thoughts written right on my brain through my eyes.
“And you use social moré’s and rigid regulations as a cover so you don’t have to actually acknowledge that that’s what you’re doing. I don’t think it’s going out on a limb to guess you haven’t dated much?”
I’m shocked to realize I didn’t expect her to be this much more emotionally mature than me. Suddenly, that grin of hers reminds me of Trin.
“I-if I’d known you were gonna psychoanalyze me I probably wouldn’t have told you so much --”
“Bullshit,” she says with a dismissive wave. “You’re overly introspective about how you behave, you already considered this as a response, which is one of the reasons you never said anything.”
I hang my head like a scolded child. “I gotta apologize… I didn’t credit you being so… insightful.”
She chuckles. “What, you think I made NCO by kneeing recruits in the balls?”
Telling my reluctance to eat shit and die, I let myself smile. “Well you gotta admit, Sarge, you are pretty good at that.”
“Hey,” she leans, punching my shoulder lightly, rattling my M3-02’s pauldron quietly, “There he is. Knew you had more expressions than a Working Joe.”
I laugh, maybe a little too loud, but I’m around the bend now. If I’m crashing, I might as well burn too.
“So… it’s not something you’re… against?”
She blinks; it seems I’ve caught her off guard this time. “That’s a fucked up way of asking if I’m into you too, Rook.”
Ah. Not off guard. I’m just being an awkward dumbass again.
“I-I… yeah I know… I’m… fuck,” I purse my lips, looking back at my weapon; one of the vent holes in the barrel shroud is slightly off pattern, and part of my mind spirals off into speculating whether those things are hand-drilled, and how inefficient that would be. It gives me a moment to stop my words from getting knotted up on the way out of the inconvenient pit I use as a mouth. “I… didn’t mean it just that way. I’m asking if you’re okay with it fundamentally. The imbalanced power dynamic…”
She shakes her head, sighing. “There you go again, letting protocol and regulation stand in for what you intuitively know. Ask yourself this; where do you think the imbalance would come in? Do you think I’d leverage my rank in a relationship?”
“No! No of course not, I --”
“Ah, so it’s that you’d use a relationship with an officer for special treatment. Didn’t peg you as that kinda guy, but I guess you never know --”
“Fuck off! I’d never, nothing is that important --” I cut myself off. It just came out. Fuck, I’m really wound up; I never snap like that, especially at an officer; let alone one I respect as much as her.
“I… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say that --”
“You did, and I get it. Because that’s the response I was fishing for, because Rook; I know you way better than you realize.”
I sigh again. Soon it might be the only way I breathe. “I’m… starting to comprehend that.”
“In any case, that’s a long way of telling you I’m not against it on principle. I believe stuff like that can only be judged on a case by case basis. For example, you. I’m certainly not against the idea of us together in that I can’t see any problems with it. Do I want a relationship with you?” she shrugs. “Maybe. We’ll see now that it’s all out in the open. For the record, I am attracted to you.”
Again, I’m surprised by my own response; namely that my ears aren’t blazing even hotter.
“But I can tell that anything we do would go further than fucking because I’m horny. You’re not the type.”
I’ve adjusted pretty fast to her telling me what I am and what I’m not; it helps that she never seems to be off the mark, so it’s kind of freeing. I’m less in my head when someone else is in there.
“I… I really appreciate your directness,” is the best I can manage out of the tumult of words swirling in my brain.
“I know you do,” she says, almost gently, “I’ve been telling you I --”
She suddenly grits her teeth, inhaling sharply as she doubles over, a hand on her stomach. My shotgun clatters loudly on the stone pavers as I kneel next to her, a hand on her shoulder.
“You okay? What’s wrong?”
Pursing her lips, she waves the hand not on her stomach dismissively. “It’s nothing, I’m fine. I’m fine Rook, Jesus!”
She puts that same hand over mine, squeezing my fingers; it’s a “calm down” squeeze, not a “I’m in pain” squeeze, and my muscles seem to release an impossible amount of tension. I settle next to her, and she hasn’t released my hand. Thank God for gloves, she’s not clutching a sweaty claw.
“You sure?”
“Really, Rook. Totally fine. This fucker just…” She looks down, drawing the hand on her stomach upward to pull her shirt upward, enough to show that her bra is a decidedly non-regulation colour. “It goes hours completely still, almost enough to forget it’s even there, then it’ll suddenly decide to kick me in the ribs or run its tail against my spleen. Surprises me.”
The idiotically pedantic part of my brain immediately questions the physically possibility of the xeno being able to touch her spleen based on what I know about how they gestate. I don’t even need to tell it to shut up, because my mind is much more occupied by unfolding events; Tequila has taken my hand off her shoulder and placed it firmly against the swell of her belly.
“It was right here, sharp, guessing a foot…”
What. What the fuck am I feeling right now.
“Probably gonna do it again…”
A memory pops up unbidden into my head like one of those annoying adverts on the Company intranet. I’m ten, maybe twelve. I’m in my aunt Rosa’s house, she and my mom are talking about something I can’t remember. Trin is there between them, both of their hands pressed to Aunt Rosa’s swollen midsection, flattening the cloth of her sundress to accentuate the extreme curve. She was pregnant with twins, her second set; twins ran in the family on my mom’s side it seemed, which mamacita always joked is why she only ever had me and Trinidad. I have ten cousins by way of Aunt Rosa, probably have more if she hadn’t gotten ovarian cancer ten years ago.
All of which to say, it was nothing to her when her nibling thoroughly explored her pregnant belly, but to me it apparently was enough to stick around for a long, long time.
I make a mental note to maybe bring it up next time I can afford a real-time call with Trin.
“There! There, feel that?”
She has moved my hand slightly toward her navel. I catch what I think is the last bit of the movement, but I absolutely feel it.
“Yeah… yeah, I did…”
She presses my fingers in more firmly, and I detect an odd slithering, fluttering sensation.
“Still going too, fuck. You’d think I skipped breakfast with how much this dipshit is complaining,” She looks up at me, and her expression immediately changes. “Woah, Rook… you okay? You’re lookin’ pretty spooked; don’t worry, I’m not gonna pop right here and now. I mean, I can’t promise that but I’m pretty sure it’d feel different.”
I make a conscious effort to relax, realizing my eyes were very wide. I’m glad she misinterpreted the expression as fear, because I don’t even know what it really was.
“Oh… good…”
Another moment of silence, during which I hear Katya’s muffled voice coming from my headset.
I don’t put it back on, because I don’t care what she’s saying. Because I don’t want to get moving toward her lab again. Because my hand is still on Tequila’s belly.
We sit in a surprisingly comfortable silence for a while longer, my sergeant wordlessly moving my hand to where she feels the movement strongest. My fingers spread out, the feeling of the curve against my palm an oddly satisfying sensation, like the first time I’d gotten a good shot off with an M41 rifle.
What seems like both a long time and not nearly enough, she releases my hand; I let it linger for only a moment before removing it, turning directly to grip my shotgun.
She pulls her shirt back down to her waistband (though it immediately springs back up to her navel, which I’m less surprised now to realize I’m happy about), then begins to stand. She doesn’t refuse when I help her by looping an arm under hers.
She hefts her M41A/2, giving it a once-over and looping the carry strap over her shoulder. Her toned biceps are sharply highlighted by the weight of the rifle, which looks massive against her tiny frame.
“You’ve got it bad, Jack,” I can suddenly hear Trin’s voice in my head. Playfully cocky in that way they only spoke to me, peering over a pair of smoked aviators, shaking their head slowly. “You’ve got it bad.”
“Nah,” I would have replied had they really been here, “I’ve got it great,” a quip that I know would have gotten a groan out of them.
As Tequila once again takes point, I fall in behind; the xeno outbreak at the Prospekt had been contained officially, but the colony is still on Orange Alert: Personnel to treat perimeter as unsecured combat zone until further notice.
Combat doctrine for two-marine fireteams had me watching her six pretty much unceasingly, but that wasn’t enough to keep my eyes from lingering on Tequila’s ass. Something I’ve told myself would make her snap my neck like an overcooked churro.
My sergeant looks over her shoulder, noticing the direction of my gaze. She smirks.
“Eyes up, Rookie. No time to admire the view.”
I expect her to immediately resume parade formation, but instead she shoulders her rifle, turning toward me almost fully in profile, running a hand over her belly from top to bottom until she’s cradling the lower curve. She looks like a picture in some kind of Colonial Marine pinup calendar. Is that even a thing?
She pulls the hem of her shirt down again, and actually winks before turning back to resume formation. As I do likewise my head buzzes. She knows. I didn’t even know about it and she knows. I don’t even know what “it” is and she’s fucking teasing me with “it”.
I don’t know what this means, but fuck. I really hope Tequila wants to help me figure it out.
