swollen womb

Touka’s death at the hands of Juuzou?

So someone in the comments of chapter 130 on Manga Stream pointed this out and I thought it was interesting enough to go into more detail and make a post about it.

So this person pointed to the poem that Ishida wrote for Suzuya’s birthday last year. You can find the translation here and the original here.

The poem talks about having to make a choice between killing a cat or a dog. It seems as though he’s forced into killing one of them since he says this.

Please die quickly, please die quickly…
(I looked away so that I wouldn’t see the face of suffering.)

Then this.

Ever since that day, that thin, huge cat (or dog)
(I held in my hands a strangely swollen stomach containing a rotting womb.)
died.

This line most likely implies that the animal he killed was pregnant (hence the reference to the animal’s stomach being “strangely swollen” and the “rotting womb” which might also reference the possibility of Touka’s womb absorbing her baby), and this could possibly foreshadow Touka’s (and her baby’s) death at the hands of Juuzou.

Also the fact that the animal is described as thin could reference the fact that there’s been a serious scarcity of food for ghouls underground, plus, with Touka trying to survive off human food, I can imagine she’s probably quite malnourished.

The “rotting womb” part of the poem also seems to link to the line in Touka’s poem where it says “her womb smelled like it was burnt”, plus, the first line of that poem seems to imply that her child may possibly die.

The children who were meant to be born, died.

If we want to make further links to Touka being the cat, in chapter 123 when Mutsuki is fighting Touka, he continuously calls her a cat over and over again.

All this seems to point to the implication that Suzuya may be forced to make a decision between killing Touka (the cat) and perhaps Kaneki (the dog). Since Suzuya has connections with Kaneki, it would make sense for him to choose to kill Touka since he doesn’t really have any sort of relationship with her.

It can also be noted that this illustration of Juuzou holding a knife with what seems to be blood spattered across his clothes was posted not too long after the illustration of Touka with blood on her belly.

Touka’s poem also includes a line which seems to reference the fact that her future has gone dark, and the path that she was advancing on, towards giving birth and having a family with Kaneki, is gone.

The path that I should’ve advanced in is gone and darkness pulled onto the horizon that lay right beneath it.

In chapter 130, Touka marked down the 28th of December as the date that I assume she is expecting the child. This date is also Ishida’s birthday. This leads me to Ishida’s own birthday illustration from last year; the one that seems to have everyone worried and puzzled.

Touka is dressed entirely in black and there appears to be some sort of cemetery in the background. Perhaps she is holding her baby, or rather, her lifeless baby, since the rest of the image seems to heavily reference death.

That’s a really depressing picture to draw for your own birthday, Ishida :/

This kind of scenario would make sense if we consider what’s been happening in recent chapters. Kichimura and Mutsuki are trying to lure Kaneki out with Yoriko’s death sentence so that they have a chance to kill him, and now that Touka found the letter informing Kaneki of Yoriko’s scheduled execution, it would make sense for her to want to do something about it. If Touka goes off to save Yoriko and Kaneki finds out, no doubt he’ll go after her, and this could lead the both of them to Furuta. If they get captured, it’s possible they could be put into a situation where one of them has to die, and perhaps Suzuya will be the one forced to kill one of them, most likely by Furuta since Suzuya has been one of the people who have shown to be obviously sceptical of Furuta.

However, it is also important to look at the ending of Juuzou’s poem.

(Would it have been better if I just killed them both?)
(Or perhaps, I…?)

Shortly after, the answer started overflowing. I choked.
Was going to die anyway.

Suzuya seems to contemplate on whether it would have been better for him to have killed them both, perhaps after the discovery that the woman he killed had been pregnant, leading to the realisation that she was obviously important to Kaneki. However, he then says that this question isn’t important for him to consider anymore because he is going to die anyway.

Suzuya’s death could come at the hands of a distressed and enraged Kaneki upon witnessing the murder of Touka and his unborn child, wanting to avenge their deaths.

Coming Home Sam x Reader

“DADDY!!! DADDY!!!” Your daughters voice screamed as Sam walked through the door. His exhausted look changed to one of pure happiness as he scooped her up and kissed her cheek “my princess!” He smiled as she hugged his neck tightly “I missed you daddy” she said softer as she hugged him. “I missed you too princess. We’re you good for mommy while I was gone?” Sam asked as he trudged slowly down the hallway. He ached all over but having Sarah in his arms made the pain more bearable.

“I tried to be, she’s gotten madder” Sarah sighed looking down. Sam kissed her head “I know sweetie. She’s been angry with daddy too” he said quietly. “Is it cause she got big?” Sarah asked as Sam smiled “that’s got something to do with it” he chuckled and pushed the bedroom door open. You were covered up on the bed sound asleep. “You been sleeping in here princess?” Sam whispered as she nodded “the whole week you were gone!” She giggled quietly.

Sam chuckled and took her to her room and laid her in bed “well why don’t you go back to sleep and let daddy go rest with mommy for a while” he whispered as she curled up in bed “okay daddy. I love you,” she grinned. “I love you too my princess,” he smiled and covered her up before leaving the room. When Sam returned to your room you’d rolled over and now faced his side of the bed. Sam stripped down carefully, knowing he’d be as stiff as a board in the morning. But sliding into bed next to you, your swollen womb with his sleeping son inside pressed into his stomach as he moved closer made everything better. His hot skin against yours caused you to wake up and look up into his eyes “Sam,” you whispered grinning “hey baby, how’s our little man?” He whispered pressing a hand to your belly. “I’m sure he’ll actually let me sleep now that you’re finally back home,” you grinned holding his hand as he kissed you deeply. “I love you so much,” he whispered. “I love you too Sam” you whispered smiling as your eyes closed as he pressed his lips to yours.

Originally posted by rickdixonandthefandomlifeposts

i want to be so thoroughly bred by you that i’m pregnant with three of your babies at once. so pregnant that you can feel them when you put your hand on my belly. even gently pressing down would make me moan, and you’d feel three distinct shapes inside me. your children.

it would be an incredible burden for a body as small as mine. my stomach would swell out nearly five times its size, my skin stretched so thin it was nearly translucent. your babies inside me would be so heavy i could hardly move or stand, much less walk. i would be completely at your mercy.

and i wouldn’t be able to lift myself off your cock if i wanted to. every day you’d put me in your lap and bounce me on your cock while i whimpered as you reminded me that you still controlled and commanded my cunt. and filled every last bit of my swollen womb with your cum. and as you rubbed my belly you’d tell me that as soon as i’ve had our children, you would breed me again.

and i’d want to say no. some deep part of me would desperately want to resist .. and would be completely unable to. i’d immediately say yes, squirming in place with your big cock inside of me. yes, please, make me pregnant again.

Imagine you work in a doll shop... (Part I)

Ever since you were young, you had always dreamed of having a large family- being constantly swollen and round with children, feeling them kick and tumble around inside you. There was only one problem: you were downright terrified of the pain that came with giving birth. Just the idea of feeling yourself be stretched so much was absolutely unbearable, to the point where you always made certain that your birth control prescription was met and your husband wore a condom every time the two of you had sex. However, as time went on, it was becoming gradually more apparent that your husband was getting frustrated with your unwillingness. He sat you down and had a long talk with you about epidurals and other painless birth options, but you wouldn’t hear any of it. There was always the off chance that it would hurt regardless, and that was something you just couldn’t risk. That same night, you both slept in different rooms. The next morning, while getting ready for work, you decided to check on your husband, who was still sound asleep on the couch. Even in his sleep, it was obvious that he was unhappy- his brow holding a slight furrow, his lips tightly pursed. At the sight, you felt a sudden pang of guilt. After all, it wasn’t his fault that you were so afraid of giving birth. And you knew how badly he wanted children. Later that morning, you quietly stepped into the shop, your hands trembling ever so slightly as you eased the door shut behind you. The sight you were met with was a comfortingly familiar one; dozens of painted faces perched above plastic bodies clothed in perfectly pleated, tightly laced dresses, bright, sparkling eyes framed by delicately curled hair in a variety of shades. There was no question that these were some of the most lifelike and realistic dolls made in the area, each roughly the same size as a toddler and weighing almost as much. You knew from firsthand experience just how heavy they were, given how many times you’d had to load them into boxes to be shipped, or had to stock the countless shelves with them. Moving past the dolls, you found your boss in the workroom, busy threading hair into the scalp of an unfinished doll. Mumbling a halfhearted greeting, you stepped past him to the sewing table, where you got to work hemming the dress that the semi-hairless doll was to wear. The longer you sewed, the more you let your mind wander, and the worse you felt about the fight you’d had with your significant other. The guilt must have eventually started to show on your face, as soon, your boss piped up, quietly mentioning that you had never been very good at hiding your feelings. With that, you broke down completely, clutching your face in your hands as you tearfully explained your predicament. More than anything, you wanted to get past your phobia of pregnancy, and give your husband the family that the two of you had wanted for so long. Your boss just sat there, listening, until finally, as you took a moment to blow your nose with a tissue, he spoke. “I would like to help you with that.” Those were words that simultaneously made you afraid and exhilarated. On one hand, you had no idea how he planned to help you. On the other, you were becoming so desperate that you were willing to try just about anything. Reluctantly, you nodded, relenting to his request. With a large, friendly smile, he stood, motioning for you to come over to the workbench he was using. Curiosity slowly began to seep into you as you yourself rose, joining him next to the table cluttered with tools. Quickly, your boss began clearing a large area of the wooden surface, leaving it all too available for whatever was going to happen next. “Sir? What’re you-” Before you could so much as finish your sentence, he shoved you down, trying to force you to lay flat on the workbench. Though he was an older man, you happened to be on the small side, meaning you no match for him. Still, you struggled and fought, trying to kick at him as he bound your wrists to the legs of the table, your arms tightly secured by two brightly colored strips of cloth. As you tried to tug your hands free, he took the opportunity to yank off the jeans you were wearing, quickly followed by your flimsy panties. As the cold air brushed against your nethers, it hit you: he was going to rape you. Tears filled your eyes for the second time that day as you stopped your struggling, going limp against the wood. Parting your lips, you let out a hoarse whisper. “Please don’t do this…” “I won’t harm you, dear. Though, I can’t promise that this isn’t going to hurt.” He almost sounded apologetic as he tied your ankles to the other two legs of the table, forcing your own legs to remain spread wide, bent upwards at the knees. What was he going to do to you? Your heart was pounding so loudly in your ears that you almost didn’t catch his murmured words of reassurance as something soft began caressing your folds. With a shudder, you realized that he was teasing your sex with his fingers. A soft gasp managed to escape you as he slipped one finger inside you, followed by another, and then another. It was uncomfortable at first, but your body quickly adjusted, your opening growing wet to accommodate the intrusion. As he pressed into your clit with his thumb, you let out your first moan, your chest beginning to heave as your breaths turned shallow and strained. You almost wanted to whine as he pulled back, wiping off his fingers with a cloth. You tried to lift your head to see what he was doing, but you couldn’t see past the workbench as your boss hunched over, pulling something out from a box underneath. However, as he stood back up, you could feel the color drain from your cheeks, your hands curling into shaking fists. In his hands was another doll, this one without a painted face, hair, or clothes. Cradled gently in his arms, it almost looked like a newborn infant, the kind you so desperately craved. With a sudden rush you felt the guilt flood back into you, that all-too-familiar feeling that had eaten away at your marriage. Consumed with emotion, you barely noticed as your boss stepped back over, lowering the doll towards your open legs. Without warning, you felt a sudden pain blossom in your sex, a sharp pinching sensation that wrenched a shriek from you. Your head snapped back up, frantically trying to catch a glimpse of the source of the unwelcome feeling. The sight that met your eyes was something that you had definitely not expected to see. Pushed brutally hard against your vulva was the head of the unfinished doll, your boss’s hands trying to force it in deeper- force it into your body. Before you could stop yourself, a string of panicked words tumbled out of your mouth, gradually increasing in pitch until they bordered on nothing more than a shriek. “NO! DON’T! PLEASE, OH GOD, IT’S NOT GOING TO FIT!” You desperately yanked and pulled at the bindings on your wrists, praying that somehow you could get free and put an end to this madness. Still, he persisted, continuing to press on the doll, putting his entire weight behind the single continuous shove. The stinging pain twisted itself into a deep, unbearable ache as the doll reached your pelvis, the plastic meeting a hole that was far too small for it to pass through. You could feel the entire weight of the object, ridiculously heavy and bulky as it somehow managed to slide deeper and deeper, working its way into your canal against all odds. Despite your pleas, he still continued to put that intolerable pressure on your body, determined to slide the doll into you. You had been lying there for what must have been an hour before you finally felt the doll reach its last obstacle: your cervix. The ache that you thought couldn’t get any worse tripled as hard plastic met the unweilding muscle, stubbornly trying to force it open. Your only relief was the series of screams that tore out of your throat, one after another until you were too hoarse to continue. Fresh tears trickled down across your face as the doll suddenly thrust deeper inside of you, into what could only be your womb. As you looked down, you could see the bulge in your lower stomach, signifying that the head had entered the deepest part of you at last. “Hush, dear. It’s almost over. The head was the difficult part.” His words did little to soothe you, and you clenched your teeth, letting out a hissing, forced breath as the rest of the doll was pushed into your abused uterus. You watched with disbelief as your belly grew before your eyes, plumping out into a round, pregnant sphere that rested heavily on your tiny frame. Though there wasn’t nearly as much pain as there was during the insertion, you still felt sore, and you were so incredibly full that you were sure you were about to burst. The doll took up every last inch of space in your swollen womb, stuffing you so large that you looked to be pregnant with at least twins. You groaned in relief as you felt your boss cut through the ties on your wrists. Freed at last, your hands flew to your massive tummy, experimentally poking and prodding at it. The bulge was utterly rock-hard, no doubt due to the doll within. Wincing, you tenderly rubbed the taut flesh. There was no possible way that your situation could get any worse. That was when he spoke, his own fingertips lightly brushing the surface of your belly. “You did so well, dear. I’ll let you rest for a bit, and then we can continue.” ———————————————————————————————

Hey, guys! You can call me Absinthe. Long-time lurker of the blog, finally decided to actually post something myself. Hope you enjoyed, and there should be a part 2 coming soon!            

I need to be forcibly impregnated. I know I’ll resist. I’ve spent my entire life in denial of my role as a fertile breeding female and would never be able to make the decision on my own. I need to be utterly dominated. I need to be stripped and forced down by someone or something that knows what’s best for me, and that what’s best for me is to accept my place and my role and to be bred and bear their children. I need to be held captive until there’s no chance of escape, until there’s no denying my massive swollen womb and the kicks of our baby moving inside me. Until I have no alternative but to submit to them completely as they use my pregnant body for their own pleasure until I am ready to be bred again.

anonymous asked:

Simon's prepared speech: this award goes out to Freddie son, the fruit of Louis' heterosexual chavy lad loins, and to Liam junior who is still living in Cheryl tweedy Cole Versaces swollen womb, and to Harry's many woman girlfriends like Jlo and Drew Barrymore, and to Teflon Niall.

😬😬😬😬😬😬

Imagine you’re a girl, at the edge of town.....

Imagine you’re a girl, at the edge of town.  At night the woods are dark and full of fearful things, but you must go to make your deliveries, to receive and take away from the homesteads and the farther neighbors.  A girl alone shouldn’t do such things, most villagers say, but somehow, you are left alone to do it, all the same.  And so you take your red cloak around your shoulders, dark hair tumbling out from under the hood, and grip your basket tight as you walk out under the moonlight.

The woods are full of long stretches of silence, the night peepers and singing insects having long since gone to bed themselves.  Whispers of wind bring snatches of voices past your ear, and you struggle not to listen, to pay no mind to the soft wailing of wolves far distant.

You try.

You fail.

Do not listen, your mother told you, once.  Not to the wailing of wolves, nor the hooting of owls- and never chase a light down into the swamp, nor eat fairy food.  Lest you fall.

You’ve run, helter-skelter, chased like a deer from along the path and into the deep woods.  And now the howls are all around you, though the only eyes you see are right in front of you, where you’ve fallen to your hands and knees.  You look up, and up, and up.

He’s tall, a head taller than the largest man in the village- and you try not to look, but his head silhouetted against the moon is a wolf’s.

Your fingers dig into the dirt, the holy symbol your mother made to keep you safe bouncing against your breast.  You grit your teeth against how good it feels, the cool fall air rushing past your skin, nipples tight and dragging in the dirt as you muffle your cries.  You try not to look, you try, but the hands that grip your hips are so strong, the thick cock filling you past what you can bear- the chase that heated you so still racing in your blood.  The wild things have caught you, and claimed you, and they seem to sing in triumph as they leave you with dirty knees and damp thighs, breathless from release.

You throw on your cloak again and hurry home, your path unmolested by man nor beast.  With the wolf-king’s scent on you- who would dare?

The harvest moon brings festival, and you dance with ribbons as if nothing had happened, as if you were still a good church-going girl who shunned the woods, who listened to her mother and grandmother’s stories.  You lie, and when the sickness grips you in the morning, you hope it is merely bad festival buns.

The next moon comes, and the next, and your blood does not.

You confess your encounter, as much as you dare, to the village priest, and he gathers the eldest of the village to consult with.  Your face burns with humiliation, but a chill settles in the pit of your poor, bloated stomach- you know the stories, some folks have been burnt for less.  Never here, no- but everywhere, one hears the tale of someone who knew someone who ran afoul of when the witch-finders came to town, some few villages over.

“I- cannot name the father.  I did not know him.  Only that I met him in the deep wood, and I feel afraid- and I think it is more than the sin of being out of wedlock that chills me.”

They make you strip down naked, kneeling down in the center of the small church.  The doors are locked and barred shut, and the lights burn low as the old man and the old women confer.  This is not something they want the rest of the village to know about.

They pierce you with a silver ring, to ward off the evil, and the priest prays holy words over your swollen womb.  The babes leap inside you as you kneel, praying fervently and hoping, so desperately hoping, that you are heard.  That the fire in your loins is only the rawness of the new ring, and not some new vileness having made you foul and wrong, to lust so after pain and desire.

The priest seems satisfied.  The village women leave you to dress, nodding to each other- though there are still whispers between their bent heads, having seen the frightful shapes of the things that pressed against your belly.

You throw your shirt on, buttoning with fumbling fingers over your swollen breasts, and hide under your red cloak the whole way home.

Winter is hard that year- and still you must make your rounds, ferrying herbs here and there, retrieving coin where it is set, eggs and milk, and leaving the packages of medicinal plants and scented soap in their place.  No one will say a word to you- they barely acknowledge your blushing cheeks and hastily hidden plumpness, your cloak clutched tightly around your growing form.  ‘Tis only warm wool and winter’s fat, you would say, if they bothered to ask.  A harvest-festival bastard, you would confess tearfully, if they pressed.  But no one ever does.

You hear the wolves outside, sometimes, and shudder.  You throw an extra piece of wood on the fire, though you can ill-afford it, and make sure the doors and windows are shut up tight.

Still, when there is meat left at your door, steaming and red- you cannot refuse it.  It cooks up just as well as the butcher’s sausage, though sometimes, you dread the sizzle and sniff desperately, unable to wait any longer-

-the crunch of small bones, the littlest of meat in the lean cold times, and your mouth drips red with hot, gushing life-

Jack Sprat could eat no fat, his wife could eat no lean, they say.  You eat both, and hunger still as your belly rounds and rounds and will not stay flat beneath your hand.  Bread you can comfort it with, sturdy vegetables and apples saved in the cold cellar down below- but you cannot deny your cravings, when your mysterious caretakers deliver death unto your doorstep, raw and unbled.

You can recognize it, mostly- and that is perhaps the only reason you do not scream.

A man was killed, the other day- you hear, and step out upon the path with your basket in hand, shivering.  The winter draws long, and the wolves are hungry- you do not know what keeps you safe, as you walk along the wooded paths, but you know it is valuable and that you must make your deliveries, sweet lotions, liniments and herbs, and that when people know they are getting a service, they make very little noise about the righteousness of the person from whence it came.

Spring comes.  Then summer.  Your womb swells, filling up and up and up- the midwife in the village will not see you, turns away when you pass her by in the street at the market- but you know you are as big as a woman with two and three yet unborn.  A litter, you think quietly, as you pass by dogs that growl at you, and children who run away from the hand that once gave them candy, mints and honey-drops to chase away colds.  You are shunned, with your red cloak and your big belly full of harvest-bastard- except they know.  They all know, for you are that strange woman who lives on the edge of town, with no family and no man and no true guidance to keep you whole and human.

You run your hand over the fullness that bulges out under your skirt, huffing and puffing as you walk, and hope that the miller will still have flour for you, if you hurry.

The silver ring has done its work- the evil stays within you, and every full moon, you moan as the babes- the pups, you think of them- roll and thrash within you.  The howls echoing in the woods seem to draw them, yearning, against the skin of your belly- you press your hands there, and there, and feel hands, snouts, paws, pressing outward.  You are long past when you should have birthed, you know, and though the ache rolls through you three nights of every month, hips and back screaming- your waters never break.

Some nights- many nights-

every night

-you reach between your thighs, touch where the silver ring burns, and whimper as your rock against it.  It holds the evil at bay- but it does nothing to make yougood again, holy and pure, and you know you are lost as your passage clenches emptily, begging to be touched.

The wolves and wild things have made you theirs, and no matter how you try to hide it, no matter how hard you clutch at your red cloak, everyone can see the swollen curve, the mound of your belly, and knows your sin.

You worry, always, that this will be the night the villagers come for you, with pitchforks and fire- but they never do.  They seem content to have washed you from their minds, that poor strange girl at the edge of the forest, far from their quaint little town- no one has visited you in months, none even come close enough by to see in weeks, and you know they have put you out of their minds as lost.  You could have died in childbirth, been eaten by beasts, burned down with the cottage- and they would have nodded to each other, mouths tight. Shame, shame, they’d say, it’s a shame.  Sad, but what can you do- it’s better this way.

And so you are alone, in the woods, with no one to come for you.  No one to care.  The forest has reclaimed this land, so far as the people of the village are concerned, and you with it.

Thirteen moons.  A full year since you last ran in the woods, breath fogging as you panted, light and fearful as a deer.   You cannot sleep.  You can barely walk.  Your hips ache and creak, and when the bits of meat show up, you cannot refuse them, red gushing down your chin as you devour so hungrily, tears dripping from your eyes as you bolt it raw.

You hear the wolves howling.

You rise from your bed, slow and ponderous, panting as you do- your womb is a great, distended thing, your belly is huge, and you think if the world was right, you would sprout extra teats along the protruding ridge of it.  Swollen nipples dangle from aching breasts as you rise from all fours, swaying and threatening to drip milk like an untended cow’s as you stand on soft, human feet.  Nothing you once wore will fit any longer, and you have not been able to trade cloth nor face the thought of wearing it for months- your bed is a nest of blankets and sheets, everything you own, safe and smelling like yourself and just the faintest hint of the herbs you would store them with, a whiff of the life you’ve left behind.

You throw your red cloak over your shoulders once more- they seemed to like it, or that’s what stories would have you believe, attracted to the red mark of the sinner- and step out the door. The cold air hits, and your nipples stiffen, painfully tight on your milk-swollen breasts as they tilt into the wind.  The trees are orange and black-barked in the night, and the branches sway and creak like your aching hips do as you waddle stiffly down the path, your enormous, moon-like belly leading the way.

The urge to run, to leap, on all fours hits you- and you laugh, because it is as ridiculous as expecting you to dance about the village square, as graceful as a maiden, in the vastly distended state you are in.  No- you will bring the wolf-king his children at your own, stolid pace, chafing fretfully at your arms and starting to shiver as the cool fall night caresses your bare skin.

The howls come closer, and you think you see eyes in the shadows, watching you- escorting you.  A cow, fat with calf, would have been pulled down and torn to pieces by now- a villager, great with wholesome and human child, the same.  You, swollen and ponderous as you are- you hold something sacred to them, and for that alone, they will stay.

You come to a clearing, and the moon shines down- and the pups leap again inside of your belly, clutched and protruding from your cradling arms.  The wolf-shapes circle, coming no closer, and the silver ring tingles and itches and burnsat the apex of your thighs as the cramps come heavy through you again.  You want their help, you cry out, unafraid that they might hear you- but they will come no closer.  Not while that sacred ring keeps their pups sealed up in your belly, keeps their sensitive noses and paws well away.  You get down on your knees, settle into the grass with your thighs spread, and howl.

The wolf-king himself lurks past the edge of the clearing, and you can hear himgrowl as you pant and beg.  I will be torn to pieces, you think, either by them or by the long-delayed birth, and trembling, you reach down past the enormity of your belly.  The ring is there- you grip it tightly, clenching your teeth as you try awkwardly to bend the silver without tearing your tenderest flesh.

It gives- you gasp in the sudden relief- and quick as thought, it is flung away into the trees, and they surge upon you.  For a moment you expect teeth and bright pain and at long last, a silence to the constant struggle in your bloated womb.  What you get is fur and noses and the warm bulk of bodies propping you up as you cry out, belly straining, your water breaking at last and running into the dirt below you.

Your heels dig into the ground, your arms looped around the necks of your new packmates, and their warm tongues sooth you as you moan and strain and cry, delivering at last.  The pink, squirming things that emerge from between your thighs are picked up in hands that are huge and rough and furred, and set against your breasts two at a time, whimpering and suckling from your vast supply of milk.

Your red cloak is beneath you, filled up with the warm, snuggling bodies of your litter. 

Tomate-no, that's mine!

Summary: Sakura would crave tomatoes throughout her pregnancy and Sasuke would struggle with her, trying to keep her from taking his (a headcanon by shonashee).

Warnings: May be OOC. And I tried not to swear. I really did, but

Comments: It was too cute to be left alone 

Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto.

“Sasuke-kun,” Sakura whispered, nudging her sleeping husband awake. 

“Sasuke-kun,” she repeated – a little louder this time when he didn’t budge. “Sasuke-kun, wake up.”

Said man stirred up and grumbled a lazy response to his wife. It was 3 am and Sasuke was sound asleep – as was every household in the village. What could she want now that couldn’t wait in the morning? How annoying.

“I’m hungry.” Sakura stated while rubbing her swollen womb.

So it’s that. Again. If he had his eyes open, he would’ve rolled them. Of course she was hungry. He absolutely had no idea what pregnancy did to women – he hasn’t even had the birds and the bees talk until after the war with Madara – but of all the things he expected, needing to wake up in ungodly hours to feed her was on the bottom of the list.

“Can’t it wait?” He mumbled sleepily, burying his face deeper into his pillow.

“No.” Sakura said firmly, and he swore he could feel her glaring for even asking.

“It’s three in the morning, Sakura.”

“Did I fucking stutter, Sasuke?”

Sighing heavily in defeat, the Uchiha patriarch rose and stood up, muttering his annoyance under his breath. He walked to a delighted Sakura to help her up. 

When they got to the kitchen, she immediately went (wobbled) to the direction of the basket of tomatoes by the table. Realizing what she was craving for, Sasuke took off with lightning speed to protect his precious fruits.

Before she could reach for one, he was already there in between her and the red tomato goodness.

“Sasuke, what the hell, get out of the way!”

“No. You ate your share yesterday. That’s enough." 

"But I want some more!”

“I’ll buy you some tomorrow. Eat something else.” He said stubbornly. 

“But I want them now." 

"Sakura,” he warned, but unfortunately, she didn’t care. What a pregnant woman wants, a pregnant woman gets.

She met his glare. “I. Want. Them. Sasuke.”

“But they’re mine.” If she wasn’t so hungry, she would have laughed. The Sasuke Uchiha was so close to whining. She feels so powerful. Ha!

“What’s yours is ours, remember?” She smiled sweetly, patting her stomach as she said ‘ours’. “Don’t you want your little boy to be as strong as his daddy?”

Unfazed, Sasuke answered, “What’s my tomatoes got to do with that?”

That’s it. She’s out of patience. She was getting her tomatoes, and even their marriage can’t get in the way of it. No more Mrs. Nice Uchiha.

“Sasuke fucking Uchiha, give me my tomatoes now or I swear to Kami, I’ll divorce you, take this child with me, remarry someone who’ll give me all the tomatoes I want, and leave you rotting with your tomatoes while trying to restore your clan with one of your mentally incompetent fangirls!”

There was a pregnant (heh) silence as the couple proceeded to have a glaring contest in which Sasuke’s eyes say 'You wouldn’t’, and Sakura’s say 'Don’t try me.’

Guess who won.

“Fine!” He growled as he took the basket from behind him and shoved it in her direction. “Have them all! Whatever.”

Squealing to herself, she took one of the plump red fruits and sunk her teeth into it, savoring the juicy taste of victory.

“I love you, Sasuke-kun! And I’m sure he’ll look like you if he loves tomatoes so much.” She sang convincingly trying to make up for taking his tomatoes while he sulked by the kitchen counter.

“He better.”

Day 05: Keepsake

Title: Little Memento

Summary: Their son looked nothing like her. It was all his.

Rating: T

Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto.

Comments: I feast on the tears of unfortunate souls.

She wasn’t supposed to be here. She wasn’t even supposed to have the guts to show her face to the hokage. Everything had been decided, and she wasn’t supposed to come up here and tell her what has been done. Who was she to contradict the hierarchy?

But it was best she told before someone tells on her. She can’t hide a swollen womb. And to be perfectly honest, she doesn’t want to either.

-

“Oka-san!” A boy of age five came running down a flight of stairs to meet with his mother on the kitchen. “Oka-san!” The little boy exclaimed once more, causing a giggle from his mother.

“What is it, Daicchan?” she responded fondly.

“Look, look! I wrote my whole name! I did it. Just as sensei asked us to!”

“Is that so? May I see?”

“Mh-hm!” Daiki nodded enthusiastically.

-

With a stern look and a rigid posture, Tsunade sighed. “I hope you know that I cannot fully support you on this one.”

“I do.” Came the response of the younger woman. A moment of silence passed, and Sakura knew everything was being weighed. 

“Reconsider,” it was a command. “You of all people should know the consequences. And it does not concern the village alone. It will affect you greatly, Sakura. You’re smarter than this.You can’t possibly –”

“I can.” Her voice was small, but it was strong. “I can do it, Tsunade-sama.”

-

“Thats wonderful, Daicchan! Kaa-san is so proud of you.” Sakura smiled brightly at her son. 

“Ne? Really, kaa-san? Will you make my favorite tonight, then? Please, please, please!”

Sakura tilted her head in thought before responding. “Hm, but we’re out of tomatoes. You ate them all up yesterday, remember?” She stated as she went back to cooking.

Puffing his cheeks at being denied his reward, he pulled at her skirt again and again. Sakura sighed playfully. She could feel a temper tantrum that was soon erupting.

Well, his parents don’t exactly have a good temper either.

“Daicchan –”

“Tomorrow, kaa-san." 

"Eh?”

“Tomorrow. We will buy tomatoes tomorrow. Promise?”

Blinking in awe, Sakura crouched down to Daiki’s level. She lifted her hand to feel his temperature. But it was normal. The little boy snickered.

“Kaa-san, what’re you doing?" 

"You’re surprisingly a good boy today.” Sakura joked, and Daiki crossed his arms and puffed his chest.

“Because Tou-san told me to be a good boy.”

Sakura’s eyes widened, her heart skipping a few beats. “W-When did he say that?" 

"Last night! Before he tucked me in bed.” The little boy beamed, oblivious to the tears threatening to fall from his mother’s eyes.

Before she could stop herself, Sakura took the little boy in her arms to hide her silent sobs. 

“Kaa-san,” Daiki whispered, almost tearing up as well. “It’s okay. Tou-san doesn’t want to see you crying.”

“H-He said that, huh?”

“Mm-hm. He also told me to always make sure you never cry. Please don’t cry, Kaa-san.”

“You’re right." Sakura released Daiki from her hold and wiped the traitorous tears that managed to escape from her eyes. She reassured him with a smile.

"Kaa-san, it’s okay if we don’t have tomatoes now.”

“So, what reward do you want instead? And I’m sure he’s proud of you, too.”

“I want to see him.”

Sakura tried to regain her breathing. She patted his head, and nodded before dragging him to sit on the living room. “Wait here.”

A few minutes later, Sakura emerged from a small room, holding a rectangular velvet box. As soon as he saw it, Daiki jumped up from his seat and rushed to his his mother. 

She opened the box, revealing a bejeweled Uchiha Clan symbol. She turned it around, and the mirror attached to it reflected her son’s features – features that, no doubt, belonged to Uchiha Sasuke.

-

Tsunade heaved a defeated sigh. “The Uchiha were an esteemed clan. But they were also a threat. It may not be good news to you, but Uchiha Sasuke’s death brought great relief to our villagers, and neighboring countries. It will not be good if they find out that you’ve given hope for its revival.”

“Tsunade-sama,”

She looked up at the bowed down image of her most renowned apprentice.

“Please. He’s all I have to remember him by.”