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.)

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.

master-sass-blast  asked:

Right. So. Might be mildly addicted to your 'Gods and Monsters' series. Definitely need an intervention, but I'll prolly ignore that anyway, so... anyway, can you do something with Zeus and Hera? I've always thought it was massively whack that the goddess of fidelity was with --according to Greek mythos--one of the biggest adulterers on Olympus. Definitely smelling a bit of an abusive relationship there, if you catch my drift... okay byeeeee

Hera, the young goddess of marriage and family, is only unfaithful to her husband once.

She seduces Zeus first, right as the war ends and they’re all pain and ash and thrumming with the excitement of victory. She smiles just so and touches his bloody chest, her hand pale against the dark copper of his skin and, and when he looks at her his eyes spark with the lightning he so easily commands. She is named his wife that very night, her body littered with bruises from his rough, eager hands, and she tells herself the bile at the back of her throat tastes like victory.

She is queen of the gods. This is what she wants.

They’ve all claimed their domains and gone their separate ways, Demeter to the earth, Hades to the underworld, and Hestia to Olympus where they plan to build their palace. But Poseidon still lingers. “Don’t you have an ocean to conquer?” she asks.

He looks at her, then behind her to where Zeus is busy sketching plans for Olympus. “You don’t have to do this,” he says softly, “you – you can come with me if you want. Or I’m sure Hades would take you.”

Hera has no time for Poseidon and his soft heart. “I will only belong to the best,” she says, tossing her head so her crown of curls fall over her shoulder. “You should go. You have work to do.”

“There are more important things than power,” he says uncomfortably, shifting from foot to foot.

“No,” she says, “there aren’t.”


Hera would not mind Zeus’s women so much if they were not constantly giving him children, something she has been unable to do.

She is an obedient wife. She does not turn her powers against him, and she’s tolerant of his mortals at first, but the longer she is empty of child the less patience she has. How can she be the goddess of family without one of her own?

Her spite gets in her way, and she hurls every kind of obstacle and curse she can at the woman her husband lies with. At first he is angry with her, and bruises litter her throat and wrists. Then, as her wrath and powers grow, he is afraid of her. He watches her warily, sneaking to the mortal realm when before he wouldn’t even try to hide it. He submits when she pins him to the bed and rides him hard, desperate for a child of his, desperate to fulfill the perfect image of wife and mother she’s built for herself.

No matter her magic, no matter how many times they lie together, Hera does not get with child.

She goes to Hestia, and her sister presses a hand to her stomach and purses her lips and says, “Must it be his child?”

Hera stares. She’s the goddess of marriage and family. She is not capable of infidelity. “I – I can’t.”

“Just once,” Hestia says, “the problem is not with you, nor with him, clearly. Only the combination of you both. Lie with any other man, and you will have your child.”

So Hera, just once, puts on a disguise and goes to the mortal realm. She finds a man with skin darker than Zeus’s, a rich warm brown that matches his soft eyes. She lies with him, and it hurts. He is kind and patient and kisses the edge of her jaw, her shoulders, her navel. But to be unfaithful grates against her very nature as a goddess, and every moment is agony. He finishes, his mouth whispering kind things against her own, and she leaves as soon as she can.

It works. She becomes round with child, and is happier than she’s been in a long time. She does not mind Zeus’s mortals, and he even becomes kinder while the baby grows inside of her. His hands become softer, and he spends less time away from Olympus.

The baby is born, and Zeus is furious.

The child is too dark to be his, and he tears it from Hera’s hands while she lies exhausted from the birth. “What do you care?” she cries, struggling to stand, “You have dozens of children. What does it matter if I have one?”

He holds the baby in one hand and grabs her jaw with the other, pulling her to her knees. “You are my wife,” he hisses, “the goddess of marriage and family. You will have my child, or no child at all.”

He throws the baby from Mount Olympus. Hera screams, pushing herself away from him and attempting to jump after it. Zeus catches her around the waist, and with a crackle of power and roar of rage, he sends a lightning bolt after the baby.

The child may have survived the fall, but not the lightning.

“NO!” Hera screeches, clawing at his arm as she struggles to escape his grasp. Normally she’s not this helpless against him, but delivering her baby has left her weaker than she’s ever been before.

He presses the flat of his hand against her swollen womb, adding pressure until she cries out in pain and tries to squirm away from him. “My child,” he repeats, voice low and terrible, “or no child at all.”

He lets her go, and she collapses, grasping out a hand over the edge of Olympus. But the blood between her thighs is still wet, and she can’t find the energy to stand. She wonders if she’ll have to crawl down the mountain to retrieve her baby’s corpse.

“Sister!” Soft hands grab her shoulder and gently roll her onto her back. Hestia’s face fills her vision, and Hera has never seen the older goddess of hearth and fire look so cold. “I’ll kill him,” she says, hands hovering over Hera like she’s not sure where to begin. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t think this would happen, I didn’t think he would – I didn’t think.”

Hera curls on her side until she can place her head in her sister’s lap. She’s not sobbing anymore, she’s never been one to fall into hysterics, but she can’t stop crying, a steady stream of tears dripping silently down her face. Hestia runs trembling hands through her hair. “Don’t,” she whispers, “I did this, this is my fault. I – I should have known better.”

Hestia’s hand cup her face, leaning over so she can look her in the eye. “This is not your fault.”

Her sister stands and picks her up in her arms. Hera tries to tell her to put her down, that Zeus will be angry if she leaves, that she did this to herself. But she falls unconscious before she can get any of it out.


Hera awakens someplace soft and warm. She opens her eyes, and she’s inside Hades’s palace. Her confusion lasts only until her memories come rushing back, and then she has to bite her lip until it bleeds to stop herself from crying out.

“Hestia brought you here. She’s returned to Olympus to cover for you both. Do not worry – Zeus doesn’t know where you are.” She turns her head, and sees the goddess of magic at her side. Hecate smiles, “I have mended you, do not worry. All is well.”

All is not well. That statement is so far from true, and her instant urge is to crush Hecate to dust for the audacity. Before she can make up her mind one way or the other, there’s a soft knock on the door. It opens to reveal her elder brother. “I have something that belongs to you,” he says, and Here focuses on the bundle in the crook of his elbow.

Her baby’s corpse. She’s relieved someone thought to get it. Her heart feels like lead, and all the control she’d had over her emotions is gone instantly. She hopes they’ll leave her alone to hold the body of her child and weep.

Hades gingerly sits on the edge of the bed, and Hecate rises to help Hera prop herself up so she’s at least sitting. “He’s a strong little thing,” Hades says, and Hera doesn’t understand.

Then a warm, wriggling baby is placed in her arms. He’s got great big eyes and his mouth splits into a toothless grin when he sees her. “He’s alive,” she says numbly.

“Not without sacrifice,” Hecate says softly, and reaches over to undo the blanket he’s swaddled in.

Her son has no legs below his knees.

“Zeus’s lightning bolt didn’t kill him, but we cannot return what was lost,” Hades says, pained. “When he’s older, maybe we can do something, give him something in place of legs. But for now, there’s nothing I can do.”

The king of the underworld is the most powerful god after her husband. Hera knows that, even if Zeus doesn’t. If Hades can’t do anything about her son’s legs, then no can. But he’s alive, Zeus didn’t manage to kill him, and Hera finds herself so grateful that she’s holding a smiling, living child that she can’t be anything but relieved. Her son is alive, and happy. He doesn’t need legs.

“I can’t bring him back to Olympus,” she looks up at them, “Can you find someone to raise him? Someone you trust?”

She doesn’t trust anyone, so it can’t be her choosing.

“You’re going back to him?” Hecate demands, “Hestia said – but I thought for sure – you don’t have to! Don’t go back to him!”

“I must,” she holds her son to her chest, and he reaches out with chubby hands to tug at her hair. “I am the goddess of marriage, and he is my husband.”

Hecate stares, aghast. “Don’t – don’t, Hera. Please. Stay here. Hades will protect you.”

She looks up at her brother, and he raises an eyebrow. He would protect her, he would put himself in between her and Zeus’s wrath if she asked him to. But she won’t, and she thinks he knows it. She says, “I am Hera of the Heights, of Argos, of the Mound. I am the cow eyed, white armed goddess of marriage and of family. I am Hera, queen of the gods.” She looks down at her son, and her heart clenches, because for now a title that cannot be afforded to her is that of mother. “I will not abandon my dominion, nor my husband. I will return to Mount Olympus.”

“But you don’t love him,” Hecate says helplessly.

Hera stares, baffled that anyone could think her marriage had anything to do with love. “Of course not. But this isn’t about love. It’s about power.”

The goddess of magic swallows, then says, “I will raise him.”

Even Hades is surprised by that. “Hecate?”

“I will raise him,” she repeats, “He will stay with me, safe in the underworld where Zeus cannot find him, until he’s old enough and strong enough to protect himself.”

“Thank you,” Hera says, and lowers her head enough to kiss the top of her son’s head. “Tell him that I’m the one that threw him from Olympus.” When she looks up, Hades is resigned while Hecate looks on in horror. “Tell him, tell everyone. I gave birth to a hideous son, and I threw him from Olympus. His legs were crushed in the fall. I did this. Zeus tried to stop me, but could not.”

“Why?” Hecate asks.

Hera smiles down at her son, her heart full with a helpless sort of love. “So that when he ventures from the safety of the underworld, Zeus will have no reason to hurt him. So that when he comes to Olympus, Zeus will be unable to hurt him without explaining he was the one that tried to kill him in the first place.” She runs the back of her finger down his cheek, and he grabs it, his little fist holding onto her. “Blame me, and he will be safe.”

Hecate looks like she wants to argue. Hades puts a hand on her shoulder and asks Hera, “What’s his name?”

Her son smiles, and tugs at her hand, the beginnings of a giggle gurgling in his throat.

“His name is Hephaestus.”


When she returns, she no longer has any patience for Zeus’s mortals. When before she had only inconvenienced them, now she’s not playing any games. Those that do not die end up wishing they had, and she’s especially vindictive to any mortal carrying her husband’s child.

She sits on her throne, waiting, a smirk curled around the corner of her lips.

Zeus barges in and charges towards her. He’s so angry smoke is rising off his skin. “You,” he hisses, “this is your doing.”

“Whatever do you mean?” she asks, unflinching when he slams his hands on either side of her head, crushing the back of her throne with the force of it.

“She and the children are dead,” he snarls, “my children are dead! I know this is your doing, it reeks of your handiwork.”

Hera slides forward to the edge of her throne, their faces nearly touching, and spreads her legs. He flexes his hands, because even at his most furious he still wants her. She is his wife and his queen. She banishes her clothing so she’s spread out before him, hair piled high and jewelry glinting around her neck. “What are you going to do about it?”

He kisses her hard enough to bruise, and Hera crosses her legs around his back, urging him closer. “Why are you doing this?” he hisses, mouthing at her neck, because he hates her even as he loves her, hates her because he loves her, and loves her because he hates her.

She waits until he’s inside her to lick the shell of his ear and whisper, “My child, or no child at all, husband.”

When he breaks her skin with his teeth, she only laughs.

They do this to each other. Maybe they are meant to be together.

gods and monsters series part xv

read more from the gods and monsters series here

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.

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!            

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.

Once more, With feeling

“This is…humiliating,” Philip murmured as gingerly sat up, letting his legs fall back from where they’d been spread wide, awkwardly manoeuvring his heavily pregnant body into a standing position where he could feel the bulb of the inflatable butt plug hang down and hit the back of his thighs like a weird rubber tail.

“Then you must be into it, mon chou?” Georges teased lightly, from where he was wiping lube off his hands.

Philip gave a little scoff, rolling his dark eyes, but he couldn’t deny that the pressure of the long, deep plug worked well up into him by his boyfriend’s nimble fingers, sitting right on his prostate was dilating his pupils and making his cock jump to attention. It had been a long time since his tight, sweet ass had gotten any attention, his vast baby bump making Georges soft and hesitant to plow his huge dick into Philip’s hole and make him squeal like they usually did. It had all been gentle, lusty blowjobs and careful fingers jerking him off sensually and tongues on his puckered anus to soothe his wild hormones, his two lovers being so careful not to cause him any hurt or bring him into early labour. And of course it had been lovely, Pip had been spoilt rotten with at least one orgasm a night, but the plug making itself known inside him, even in its deflated state, was glorious and reminded him how much he’s missed bottoming.

Though this wasn’t just for pleasure, there was a purpose to this.

Theo purred lustily, eyeing her expecting boyfriend, utterly naked given that none of his clothes would now fit over his belly, cheeks flushed and eyes bright with the toy inside him. She kissed his freckled cheek lovingly, stroking the mottled skin of his enormous stomach.

“We’re doing this for you, sweet boy,” she murmured lovingly, “To help you through this. To hopefully save you some pain?”

“Did the doctor recommend this?” Philip wondered, biting his lower lip, not appreciating the reminder of the pain and agony that faced him as soon as the egg inside his swollen womb decided it wanted to make an appearance. It would be any day now.

“Well, she did recommend we try and stretch you out, prep you every evening to help make your tissues more relaxed, my love,” Theo nodded, one hand coming up and stroking Philip’s tight, deep brown curls. They’d grown so lustrous and soft during the long months of his pregnancy, “But we were thinking given the…immediacy of our situation that we might try a little more intense regime?”

Philip couldn’t help but pale, his lips forming a hard, worried line. Their situation being that the egg inside him, despite only housing one newborn this time, was simply enormous, unusually so, and overdue by three days now, leaving Philip to waddle around miserably and uncomfortably, wondering how the hell he was going to push this thing out through his comparatively tiny hole. It was going to hurt like hell, he knew that much, he was in for a tough delivery…

As if they could sense their lover’s anxiety, Georges and Theo immediately moved to hold him reassuringly, Theo resting her head against his chest and winding her soft arms around him and Georges so strong and sure behind him, rubbing his aching shoulders.

Philip closed his eyes, tears threatening him, overcome with how much he adored his lovers, how happy he was to be bearing their children again.

“So the plan is, what?” he mumbled quickly, wiping at his eyes. He’d been doing enough crying this pregnancy to drown them all.

“Well,” Georges toyed with his boyfriend’s hair as he explained, “The plug inflates whenever the bulb is squeezed, yes? So we slowly build it up and up over a long time so your beautiful body has time to adjust and stretch and we will remove it when labour begins, leaving you with a lovely gape ready to give birth.”

Philip blanched, his voice squeaky with fright, “You’re not gonna inflate it as big as the egg right?”

“Oh no, no, we wouldn’t do that to you,” Theo insisted hurriedly, stroking his belly, “You’d hurt yourself. Just enough to make it easier when your time comes.”

She didn’t think it pertinent or helpful to mention that the plug actually wouldn’t inflate as big as the egg would be without bursting.

Philip sighed, wriggling his ass a little, experimentally, “Well. I’ll try anything if it makes birthing the little guy any easier…”

“That’s our boy!” Georges smiled proudly, kissing the top of his head.

“It’ll help, we promise,” Theo beamed, squeezing his hand, “We’re with you every step of the way on this, Pip.”

“I know,” he gave them both a smile.


Philip had to admit, he was liking this plan.

Theo and Georges had wrung a little entertainment out of their situation, giving the bulb a little squeeze whenever Pip made one of his sarky comments or little grumbles or pouts, like they were back to the days before he got pregnant again and they were playing some kinky game. Pip was loving it, every time the plug inside him swelled another little increment, small but very, very noticeable, he gave a little shriek and squeal, the hairs standing on end, his heart pounding, his cock giving a little spurt of precum from where it hang under the globe of his bump. Before long, after just three squeezes over the course of a half hour his toes were curling and he was panting, riding the edge of an orgasm. One more from Georges after Pip playfully stole a raspberry from the pie he was baking and the young, pregnant Latino was cumming, gripping the edge of the kitchen counter as waves of pleasure crashed over him. Georges merely smiled at the sight of his naked boyfriend with cum splattering his inner thighs and went right on baking.

Three more orgasms and two hours later and Philip felt like he had a bowling ball lodged between his asscheeks as the plug reached maximum size. There was a slow, gentle burn in the ring of muscle but it was a bearable, almost pleasurable tingle like the sensation of having Georges’ tree trunk of a cock or one of Theo’s favourite strap ons buried in him. He knew in the back of his mind that birthing the egg would be very different but he chose to forget that for now, focusing on this pleasing game.

“We’re going to send him into labour,” Georges observed from where he sat reading on the sofa, Theo in his lap.

“Good,” his girlfriend nodded, “It’s been too long, they need to come out. Two birds, one stone.”

Georges gave a little chuckle, having to accept the logic of that but then Pip came waddling in.

“And it’s worked,” he breathed shakily, looking pale and scared, “Just passed the mucus plug. Labour’s coming.”

“Oh honey!” Theo gasped, jumping up to help him sit down so the plug wouldn’t jostle.

“My wonderful boy…” Georges murmured in awe.

Pip just looked terrified, rocking a little where he sat, “This is happening. This is really happening. I’m having a baby. Again.”

“And you’ll do every bit as amazingly as you did last time,” Theo assured him, rubbing his shoulder.

“It might still be a while before labour kicks in, mon chou,” Georges added, helpfully, though he couldn’t hide his urgency as he jumped up and started gathering all the things they’d set aside weeks ago for this moment, bringing them into the spare bedroom where Pip would hopefully deliver their baby safe in its egg.

“Still got time,” Pip repeated a little frantically, leaning into Theo’s comforting touch, “It’ll be a while. Still got time…”


As it happened, Philip had about twenty minutes before he gave a sudden scream in the middle of pacing slowly across the living room, his back arching, his knees buckling so quick that Georges only just caught him in a deep squat.

“Pip!” he gasped in horror, “Pip, my beloved, what’s wrong?”

Pip couldn’t speak for a long time, his teeth gritted, his face screwed up. Eventually he managed to choke out, “Get…this…fucking plug…out…of me…”

Theo scrambled to do just that, letting the air out before sliding the toy as carefully as she could out of Philip’s now loosened asshole. Neither of them were really surprised when what looked like gallons of musky amniotic fluid burst from his anus along with it, soaking the carpet with a low, pained moan from Philip as his limbs trembled.

Georges’ eyes met Theo’s and they shared a worried look as their labouring boyfriend whimpered and panted.

It was time.

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. 

Of Mothers, and Homes

This One shot takes place in some time at Winterfell where Dany is giving birth to their child with Jon. In her delirium, she sees her mother Rhaella, and tries to find some reason of her place, her home, her life. 

It is very emotional, and I enjoyed writing it, very different than the others. I hope you like it!!


Clinging to the sheets of the bed, she felt a strong force pushing out of her, out of her very own body, it felt strange, painful yet powerful. Feeling her warm sweat drops run through her forehead to her cheeks, she looked outside of the window, snow had fallen to the sides, made her fill with sadness. Her breath was quickening, dizzy with the heat, she found herself gasping for air. There was noise around her, whispers almost, someone had held her shoulder, looking up, red. red. it’s fire. she murmured. A distant memory perhaps of life, of home. 

Everything was blurry to her as she moved her hands up to rub her face, someone was pushing her knees apart, she didn’t know, had a soft voice, a man? telling her something perhaps. Her hands, they were red, blood? my child? warm, too warm. There was a pound at the door, someone was shouting from outside, all she could hear was someone’s shouting at the door. Jon? another pain rushed through her as she heard herself scream. JON! loudly, but it wasn’t loud, it didn’t feel loud, the blurriness was turning into grayness, and finally all black…

She felt peace suddenly, home almost, a nice breeze ran through her face,  feeling someone’s soft skin, her sweat was gone, the pain was gone, the voices..oh the voices..the woman with the red hair..the man’s voice..the shouting..Jon! she opened her eyes, almost floating, it was quiet, found herself in a warm summer house, felt the cool of the stone under her bare feet, the wind was touching her face and hair, looked at her hands, they were clean, her womb was swollen with her child, she felt it move holding herself..the room had large windows, outside lemon trees glowing under the sun. She walked looking for anyone. where is the snow? the winter? A spring..A dream of spring almost..

As she walked down the stairs, the red door appeared to her, she smiled..rays of sunshine were penetrating through all the windows, the room was brighter than she remembered. She heard a voice, a woman’s voice, turned around. There was a woman, she had a silky hair like hers, tall, beautiful, almost mesmerized by her. She was wearing a crown, a Targaryen crown “Daenerys…my child” she said.. Dany took a step closer, feeling tears through her eyes, reached her arm, longing for her..”mother!” gasped through her mouth, “be strong, my child, have courage, have faith” the woman said. Dany approached her even more, a pain in her chest made her eyes burry from tears, wanting to be with her mother, a lifetime of being alone, a home that she never had. She walked to her but felt the woman go further away from her. 

“mother, don’t leave me!” through her tears, she gasped walking faster now. “My little Daenerys, it will be over soon, you will have your child soon, be a rightful mother, you will take her soon in your arms..” she said.. “mother, I cannot..hold me mother for I am fearful” Dany was almost chasing a ghost, feeling lonely, motherless. “be true to your child, always be there, never leave, never let go of her small hand, I love you my sweet Daenerys” the woman continued through her bright face reaching her hand for Dany’s.. Dany felt her tears increase as she longed for her mother. “I love you mother, I love you..” she almost screamed as the woman left her, Dany fell her palms touch the stone wall where her mother had been, crying, crying for her childhood, for the warmth that she had longed for, “mother” she gasped again..

As she gathered her breaths, she heard giggling, the red door was open, two people were laughing in the gardens. walking outside, she felt the wetness of the newly watered garden grass below her feet, the warmth of the sun, her eyes were half closed from the intensity. 

There were children playing, boys and girl, hand in hand, chasing each other under the lemon trees. Dany smiled through her tears, walked to them, but she was never able to catch them..My children..she felt..They were angelic, wearing white, they had black and silver hairs, floating in the wind..Her tears were back, she touched her belly feeling a shock of pain through her, crossing her eyebrows, she heard a scream from the tower of the house. she turned around, looked up, it was a woman’s scream, she is in pain..

As she walked back to the tower for the woman, she heard “mother! come back for us” it was the children in between their giggling..Almost in a dreamy mind, she turned to them with a smile, love..their voices were mixed with the screeching of her dragons feeling their moves through the wind up in the air, she looked up, their shadows were dancing upon them..it made her fill with joy..”mother!” they had said again, she ran to them now, but the woman let out a loud scream, again, Dany turned around confused of what to do, but as she turned to her children, they were gone..Her face fell, sadness, no, no pain, agony, “where are you, children?” hearing their giggles from the house, in hurry, she fastened her pace, the woman screamed.

She ran upstairs through the stone floors, the woman was in the room at the end of the corridor, crying almost. 

She opened the door, In the bed in front of her a woman with a black hair was lying in the bed, in blood, looking at her, crying, a white wolf was sleeping on the bed next to her..Ghost? Dany looked with confusion, the room smelled of snow, of wood, of musk and the North, Jon? Where are you? she looked around, but the woman let out another cry, the room was empty, the woman’s belly was swollen. “come here, child” she heard her say. 

Dany sat next to her on the bed. The woman held her hand. “Take care of my child, look after him” she said. Dany felt her warm, and confusion, she reminded her of the man she loved, of Jon. The woman squeezed her hands strongly. “He is my child, my blood, by flesh, don’t let him stay in darkness, make him happy” the woman had a wolf in her. “I couldn’t give him the life he deserved, protect him Daenerys, promise me” she had said as Dany realized, the wolf, “Lyanna!” she heard herself say..”Be a mother to his children, something I couldn’t give to him, I heard him in his every cry, every whimper, love him, Daenerys” she said in tears, Dany held her hands strongly nodding to her. “Home, you are his home, his life, his love..” the woman continued..”love his children as much as you love him, he’s my baby, my child, my little Aegon” the woman said giving Dany a lonely blue ice rose, the ones that grew in Winterfell, the woman then fell to sleep as she let out a long sigh..Dany felt cold in her hands..the tears were flowing..

Holding the blue flower, she got up feeling herself shiver, she walked thinking of the children, but everything was getting colder, running out of the room, deliriously walked around, she saw snow falling outside, her breath was cooler, there was blood on her hands, on the blue flower, a fear took her, Jon, where are you?I need you she was scared, alone..she sat underneath a wall, holding her belly for her babies..sobbing..”mother! mother!” ..”mother, I’m scared, don’t leave me, my children”..immersed in her tears…”Daenerys, come home, come back to me” she heard Jon’s voice and a howling of a wolf outside. Holding herself, immersed in her tears, her eyes closed..feeling the blue flower falling from her fingers. 

Someone was shouting her name loudly ‘‘Daenerys! Your grace!”, the sweat and warmth rushed through her again, as the voices were back, she opened her eyes, her hands were bloody, the red haired woman was holding her, she is young..the man..he was approaching to her holding a baby in his arms..someone was rubbing her sweat..oh, it feels nice.. she sighed, the pain was gone..”It’s a girl, your grace!” the man with the tender voice was coming closer to her, as the woman with red hair washed her face, the coolness made her smile and relax. 

The man was here holding her baby girl, she felt herself seated, holding the baby, the warmth, the black hair wrapped in her white cloth, small eyes, mouths and chin. Her tears were back, the voices in the room were saying things to her, but none of that had mattered.. A drop of her tear fell onto the baby’s cheek, her thumb rubbed it off of her.. “My child” she said, “I love you, my child” she sobbed repeating it. Longing for her mother, she felt an intense joy in her, an urge to be the mother she never could feel, this child was not going to be lonely, this child was going to be happy, not defiled, not raped, not sold, this child was going to live with honor, with dignity, with two parents who were going to love her. Love, that is it. This was love. 

There was a strong pounding of a door, she heard his voice in between the voices, his curls, the smell of the musk, wood, snow and the North were back..All her pain was gone as he sat next to her like a dream, maybe she was still dreaming..She smiled for him, his grey eyes were wider than she remembered, he had joy in him, his heart was beating fast, she knew that as she gave him their child..She saw him hold her in joy with his tired and rough arms and fingers, life had tired him, murmuring things to her, and oh his lips on my forehead..he had kissed her.

“I love you Dany” he had said with his Northern accent, the man who gave me a child. It was love, this is love, this is all I ever wanted. She found herself reaching for him, kissing his lips, his face..He was home, they were home. Their mothers were gone, but he and I are going to be home for this little girl. She had promised to Lyanna, “I am your home” she said to him. “We will never leave you” she said as she kissed the side of his eye, his smile made her chest swell with love, with safety, with strength and faith. Her arms reached around him, wrapping each other with their baby. 

“I love you Jon’’ she had finally said it to the man, earning another warm kiss from him, tears came through her eyes as she had made him happy, all your life, in your darkness, in your pain, and death, I gave you life. A calamity took over her she fell herself fall on the pillow, a sleep took her, his lips were on her skin again “rest well, my love” he had said.. “I’m home” she murmured as the snow on the window narrowed in her gaze, making her float to the dreams…

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 thief Part II

Part 1

You got out of bed and pulled your dress back on. Even with the thick material of your dress, you were sure that the curve of your stomach was still noticeable with but a glance. You would have to leave the ruin without the elf or the stone guardian noticing. You worried more about the guardian, considering that it could still see you as a thief rather than someone that had paid for their crimes.

You opened the door and moved into the hallway, making sure that you were as quiet as possible. You had neglected to put your shoes on so you could move soundlessly, your shoes stuffed into your bag to be worn once you escaped. The sound of a quill moving across paper became louder as you neared the library. You cautiously leaned around the door frame just enough that you could see inside. The quill was still moving, so you hoped that he was too busy to notice you leave. But there was no one holding the quill. It flitted around the desk on its own, clearly enchanted by some sort of spell and-

“You’re free to come inside,” A familiar voice called.

You cursed under your breath. You had been so distracted by the quill that you hadn’t noticed the elf standing behind one of the bookshelves. You hesitated, unsure if you should refuse and hurry away. But he stopped what he was doing and looked at you through the bookshelves. Your pause had made him concerned, if not suspicious.

You stepped into the library, moving to the other side of the shelf. Keeping something between you and the elf would decrease his chances of noticing your condition. You looked over the various tomes, not recognizing half of the languages. Of the ones in the common tongue, there were still words you weren’t familiar with.

Your gaze met his, “I made my choice yesterday and returned the one thing that I would have stolen from you. I’m free to go, as we agreed last night.”

“I would advise against leaving,” He replied, “Especially if you’ll continue traveling on your own.”

“That is not what we agreed-“

“The situation has changed,” His corners of his lips pulled upwards, as if he was trying not to smile. He tilted his head to one side, “Have you not noticed?”

You opened your mouth, but couldn’t bring yourself to say anything.

The elf stepped out from behind the bookshelf, moving to your side, “Ah, you had hoped that I wouldn’t notice.”

You glared at him, taking a step back. There was no way that you would get yourself into another predicament, “What happened?”

“The potion you threw at me was intended to be used on a certain woman my king has found interest in. It is an aphrodisiac first and foremost, but it also has an influence on fertility and-“

“Reverse it,” You didn’t have the patience to listen to his explanation. You just wanted to leave and never go near magic again.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” You crossed your arms, “It was your potion that caused this, so you must a potion to reverse it.”

Amusement flickered across his expression as he stepped toward you, “If I recall correctly, the only reason you were exposed to that potion was because you threw it.”

You glared at him, knowing that he was just toying with you, “I-“

“And you threw it at me because you were trying to escape, little thief,” His voice shifted to a lower, softer tone, “Forgive me, it’s ingrained in elven culture that one should not go against nature. I can’t reverse this process.”

“You’re a hypocrite,” You were growing weak at the knees, but you certainly weren’t going to let him know. You wondered if the potion was still in your system. Maybe a pregnancy resulting from an aphrodisiac was different. You pressed your thighs together, focusing on how angry you were at the elf before you instead of the ache between your legs, “You went against nature when you created the potion.”

But he merely smiled and laughed, “That is a fair point, but it does not change my answer.”

You stared at him, incredulous. How were you supposed to get to another mage in order to reverse the process when you could barely walk? How would you steal when you were bogged down by the extra weight? You already had so little options.

“I have a suggestion, if you’re willing to hear it,” The elf continued. He watched you as if he had never seen anyone like you before. You weren’t sure how much contact he had with humans or women or those who were pregnant, but you couldn’t mistake his curiosity. The look he was giving you was only making your body heat up more.

“Fine,” You looked away from him, “I’ll listen.”

“I have a guest room that you can use. You can stay and eat in exchange for helping me with some of my work. If you need something, I can get it for you or we can travel together. Traveling alone in your condition is rather dangerous, especially given the unpredictability of the magic at work.”

“How long will I be stuck like…this?” You gestured to your swollen stomach, not quite ready to touch it.

The elf paused. Even he didn’t know, “I’m not sure. The magic might impact the gestation. If it progresses naturally from this point, it could take anywhere from four months to a year.”

“A year?!” You shrieked, “I can’t stay like this for a year!”

“Elves are different than humans. The overall process takes two years, but you seem to be halfway through, so-“

You stopped listening to him, turning away. But you didn’t have much of a choice. If the magic became unstable, then there was the chance that your condition could progress rapidly. You would be fine one moment, then swelling and giving birth the next. You couldn’t try to live your normal life if you were always at risk for causing such a scene.

The elf had finished speaking, but was still staring at you. He didn’t say anything for a moment, as if he was debating if he should say anything. He bowed slightly, “You are more than welcome to make yourself comfortable in the guest room and-“

“Why did you call me ‘cerbin’?” You interrupted, not caring in the slightest that you were rude. He didn’t deserve an apology for what you had done or any appreciation for offering his home to you. Not in your mind, anyway. He was still free to live as he pleased, while you were going to be stuck in his house. The least you could do was put him on the spot.

“Oh,” He grinned a bit at that, “It’s a word in my language. It’s not important.”

“That’s not what I asked,” You followed him as he walked back to his desk and sat down, grabbing the quill. It stopped moving just as he touched it, allowing him to write his own notes.

The elf looked up at you, completely resistant to your attempts at making him uncomfortable. He was still enjoying himself, “It means ‘raven’. I thought it was quite fitting, considering you both have a penchant for stealing shiny objects.”

You took a moment, resisting the urge to smack the grin off of his face. Getting kicked out of the only shelter you had wouldn’t do you any good. You focused on the wall rather than the elf, knowing that he was still quite proud of his name for you, “What about your name?”


“That’s not your real name, is it?”

He laughed, “No, but it is the alias that I use quite frequently. This way, we are both maintain some sort of anonymity.”

“Fine,” You rubbed your neck, knowing it was better than arguing, “I’m going to the guest room,” You left, turning down the hall and finding the proper door.

The spare room was simple, but it was better than sleeping outside or on the floor. You sat down on the bed, the curve of your stomach resting on your thighs. The dull ache between your legs persisted. Ignoring it wasn’t fixing anything.

Your hands wandered, brushing over your stomach. You quickly withdrew your hands as if you had touched an open flame. The idea of a child growing inside of you was still an idea that you weren’t entirely accepting of. You pulled the hem of your skirt up, your palms smoothing over your thighs. You closed your eyes, the familiar hum of lust coursing up your spine. The potion must have had some sort of lasting effect. Or maybe pregnancy just made you eager for stimulation.

Your touch slipped beneath your smallclothes. You gasped at the contact. You froze, glancing to the door. You hoped that the elf hadn’t heard you. But you didn’t hear any movement. Your hands quivered as you sprawled across the bed. You covered your mouth with your free hand. You couldn’t stop the sounds that were bubbling up from your chest. You could only stifle them. The weight of your swollen womb made the aching worse, your cheeks heating up with shame and aimless lust. Your fingers delved deeper, stroking harder and slower. You kept your eyes closed, surrendering yourself to the feeling.

After several minutes, it became apparent that your plan wasn’t working. You felt as if you were on the edge of bliss, but nothing you did managed to cross that line. You whimpered, uncovering your mouth to try using both hands. You groaned out of pleasure and discomfort. Your muscles were beginning to grow tired. You shakily withdrew your hands, panting heavily. You stared at the ceiling, feeling even more aggravated than before.

“Would you like some help?”

You immediately turned your head to the door. It was open and the elf was standing in the doorway. You froze, unable to sit up and pull your skirt down despite wanting to do so. You managed to glare at him, “You could have knocked on the door before opening it.”

“I did,” He leaned against the door frame and crossed his arms, “But you were clearly very distracted. I could hear you gasping from the study.”

“How long have you been standing there?” You refused to show any sort of embarrassment. He already looked far too amused for your liking.

The elf moved into the room. Every movement was calculated. His gaze pinned you to the bed. You briefly wondered if he had used some sort of spell on you. But it was just him, staring at you like you were some marvel he had never witnessed before. He sat down next to you, lying back and propping himself up on one elbow. He turned to you, his mouth inches from yours. He smiled, “Far too long.”

You snapped out of your reverie, rolling your eyes, “You can leave,” You reached to pull your skirt back down, but the elf grabbed your elbow. You turned to him, “Shouldn’t you be getting back to your work?”

“You’re not going to consider it?” He asked, the corners of his lips curling upwards, “You looked as if you were in pain before.”

You resisted the urge to smack him, “I’m fine, I was just-!” Your words were cut short with another gasp as his hand wandered between your thighs. He had only ever so slightly brushed against your legs, and yet your fervor was renewed. You covered your mouth and looked away from him, forcing yourself to stay quiet.

“You were saying?” He removed his hand, clearly satisfied with your reaction. When you didn’t say anything in response, he continued, “Let me help you, cerbin.”

You squirmed, finally looking at him. He seemed caught off guard by your expression, his eyes widening. You exhaled shakily, “Please…”

He kissed you, a hand on your waist tugging your side flush against his chest. You caressed his jaw, only to grab the fabric of his robes as his touch returned to your thigh. His lithe fingers entered you, easily finding the spots he had discovered the night before. You withdrew from the kiss, gasping and panting heavily. You shut your eyes, only aware of his hand between your legs and your hand gripping his clothes so tightly that your nails dug into the fabric. Your legs quivered, toes curling as he stroked and prodded you closer and closer to the edge.

Finally, you found release. You turned your head away from the elf, your face flushed as your walls twitched against his fingers. You tried to keep quiet, but small whimpers left your mouth. Your body betrayed you completely, your legs still shaking. His lips pressed against your neck and jaw, gently coaxing you down from bliss. You sighed, letting go of him and opening your eyes. You kept your focus on the ceiling as his fingers left your body. You felt unbearably empty, but at least the ache was gone.

The elf kissed the corner of your mouth. Your instinct was to shy away from him, but you were far too tired. Even if you had the energy, you weren’t sure if you would have pushed him away. There was something about him that enticed you. You couldn’t name what it was, but you knew that there was a feeling that, deep down, you couldn’t fight. Not lust. No, it wasn’t something physical.

“Do you feel better?” He lingered beside you, watching.

You nodded, glancing to him, “Thank you.”

“Good,” He stood up fluidly, fixing his robes, “If you require anything else, don’t hesitate to ask. I should get back to work. You’re welcome to eat anything you like, with the exception of alcohol,” With that, he left the room.

You sighed when the door closed, pulling your dress back down. You paused, a hand lingering on the swell of your belly. Your dress felt a bit tighter. You pushed those thoughts from your mind as you got up from the bed. Getting something to eat sounded like a good idea. Besides, the potion’s effects had worn off.

At least, that’s what you hoped.

Author’s Note: Hello! Keira Metz here! Sorry about the wait, I hope you enjoy this second part of my new series. If you want a part three, feel free to request it in the chatbox!

Imagine your teacher getting you pregnant.

You always had a thing for your English lit teacher, and who would’ve guessed he had one for you too. You forgot your book one day and he called you to his class room for a ‘little talk’. You hitched up your skirt, undid some extra button on your shirt and made sure to flash your lacy panties when you sat down. He looked slightly uncomfortable, and soon you could see by - his cock was pitching a tent in his pants.

“I’m going to show you what happens to naughty students…” He picked you up and placed you across hi desk, shopping papers to the side in his haste to enter you. Yanking away your skirt and panties, he lubed up his fingers and began to stretch you out, touching your chest and ass as he did so. When you were moaning loudly, calling out for his cock to fill you, he entered you. Swiftly he began to fuck you, taking his time as he pounded you, calling out about how you would have his babies. You were shocked, but hey, you were fucking you hot English teacher, so no complaints.

When he finished, he came hard and fast, his thrusts slowing as you felt yourself filled up with streams of hot cum. He flipped you onto your bag and plugged up your hole with a large, bulbous plug he pulled from his jacket.

“This’ll keep it inside you… You’ll be far more likely to get knocked up like this.”

He gently massaged your breasts as you came down from the orgasmic high. When his big hand stroked across your stomach, you knew you were in trouble.


Three months later and you’d been gaining weight, missing your periods me vomiting each morning. You went to his classroom, panting slightly as you adjusted to the new swell of your stomach. Pulling up your shirt, you watched his eyes widen as he saw your belly. Instantly he was at your side, rubbing it and cooing to his offspring. Then he picked you up, spread you across the desk and fucked you. Hard.

Another three months passed and the whole school knew of your pregnancy. The cheerleaders gave you dirty looks and people whispered “Slut” as you waddled down the corridors. Your breasts were hugely swollen, straining your shirt so much that at lunch one day, you sat down and they burst right out of you top. Your classmates couldn’t stop staring at your heaving tits, and you couldn’t get up without a struggle due to your huge belly.

A recent doctors visit had shown at you were carrying multiples - quadruplets, to be exact. You were massive, your belly unable to fit into any school uniform, so you waddled down the halls with it poking out of your waistband. You always kept a protective hand on it, rubbing it gently, to alleviate the subtle, painful stretch.

But as you sat in the cafeteria, breasts entirely exposed, you felt a familiar hand in your tits and another rubbing your giant swollen belly. It was your teacher, and he began to tease your nipples so they squirted milk. Then he beckoned students over and let the hornier ones suck at your sweet tits, drinking their fill as you moaned.


You knew you were huge, far bigger than most pregnant women. You had gained weight all over, practically swelling up and your belly was so big you could barely waddle through the school. You struggled out of bed each morning and once you were at school, had to sit on a reinforced chair after your first one broke due to your weight. Huge swollen breasts made your walk even slower, but your teacher was often by your side, rubbing your belly as you moaned and other students glared.


In your English lessons, people were quick to catch on to the father of your children. When your teacher passed you during a test, he pretended to drop his pencil, crawling under the desk and spreading your legs. His tongue worked at your pussy, leaving you squirting and mowing whilst you rubbed you swollen belly as it pinned you down. You really should be in bed rest, but being around the man who knocked you up made you too horny to pass it up. As you came with a shuddering orgasm, you realised the whole class was watching you.


You went into labour during another exam. You felt your water break and your contractions had already begun. You moaned in pain as your children began to prepare to leave your hugely swollen womb. The teachers told you you had to finish your test. So you massaged your stomach and tried desperately to concentrate on your work. The test was an hour and a half, and you quickly felt the contractions shorten, and a baby making its way down your birth canal. All of the students were staring as you moaned, screamed and pushed, until your first child was born, and you brought it up to nurse at your breast.

After three more painful yet freeing births, you were finally rushed to hospital to be checked over, your family with you.


It wa ps almost a year after the birth of your children, and you had gained weight all over, your double chin and chipmunk cheeks partnering with you pr still swollen belly and thunder thighs, your heaving breasts and huge ass. You still waddled as though you were pregnant .

You had dropped out of school quickly, realising that your true calling was in fact motherhood. Caring for your children, pleasuring their father, cooking dinner like a sweet little housewife - you had found your purpose. Occasionally you would wait outside the school gates, to meet your partner or friends. Students who had known you prior to your pregnancy stared at you, and you could see why.

You carried two babies in your arms and another two in a pushchair in front of you. Your body was swollen and you waddled when you walked, yet you looked serenely happy as you waited for your children’s father.

And if you were knocked up again in a few weeks, then it was all part of nature.

Submitted by @biggerbellies

Credited by request

Imagine you're a young woman DYING to get pregnant with your husband...

Imagine you’re a young woman DYING to get pregnant with your husband so you check out a fertility clinic, which offers you a new (not yet perfected) drug. 

Despite the warnings provided by both the clinic workers and the box, you take the full amount of the drug as soon as you get home. 

Little did you know, a side affect of this drug is that those who take it are predisposed to having multiples and that the babies will be VERY large. 

By the end of the first trimester, you already appear as though you’ve swallowed a beach ball! By month four, you look ready to pop. “How can I carry possibly carry these babies to term?!,” you wonder, looking down at your ever-swelling belly filled with the lives you’ve created. 

By month five, your nine-month sized maternity clothes are incredibly tight around your swollen womb, and you fear it will cut off circulation to your beautiful babies. 

When you reach/pass your due date (at 41 weeks), you’ve reduced to wearing oversize muumuus that still stretch greatly to cover your belly. The doctors suggest inducing labor, but you insist: “My babies will come out of their mommy when they’re ready,” your hands massaging your oh-so-swollen tummy with love. 

You waddle out of the doctor’s office, using your hands to hold up your massive stomach. Just as you get yourself seated in your car, you feel a sharp pain. 

“Ow!” You exclaim, “baby don’t kick mommy so hard!” Then another pain comes, causing a ripple to flow through your tummy and fill you with fear. You feel a trickle of liquid pouring down your leg as you realize your water broke. 

You hoist yourself out of your car, using your hands to support your belly. You can already feel the head of the first baby pressing against your vagina, its large head causing searing pains to radiate through your legs and for you to lose your balance. 

Fortunately, someone catches you. 

“HELP! This woman is going into labor!” You hear a voice yell, but you cannot place who it is and the radiating pain from your first massive baby crowning is causing you to fade in and out. 

Doctors run up with a wheelchair and you have a foggy thought you’re going to give birth in your OB-GYN’s parking lot. You feel cold hands on your tummy, your babies obviously feel them too because they try to move away from them in the only direction they can — down. 

You let out a loud grown, struggling to point to your crowning firstborn over your heaving stomach. The doctor’s look at each other: “We don’t have the facilities to deliver this many babies here,” you hear them say as you pass out.

You wake up in an upright bed, sweat pooling down your face as someone grips your hand tight and yells “PUSH!”. You clench the hand and push as hard as you can, letting out a wail. You repeat this procedure until someone sighs and says “One down, three to go!" 

After eighteen hours of heaving and heaving, the doctor splashes water on your face and gravely says, "Ma'am, we need you alert for this one. She’s the biggest baby of all of them.” You groan loudly, your hips buckling with a contraction. 

You wail, gripping the nurse’s hand tight. “PUSH!” You do. You feel a tear in your labia, but the doctor insists you continue to push. You keep pushing until you feel something go in your hips and you realize that the baby shattered your pelvis! 

“ONE LAST PUSH!” You let out a loud cry, the pain of three babies ripping through your vagina setting in.

 You let out one large, final push with the loudest cry you’ve ever made, and suddenly you feel relief. You mumble, “Healthy?” The doctor says, “Four healthy babies weighing 9, 10, 12, and 14 pounds!" 

A relieved sigh slips out of your mouth. When your husband finally arrives and the two of you make eye contact, the thought is clear: "We so can’t wait to get pregnant again!" 

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." 


“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.”


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

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