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#pregnancy
makethemmilky · 2 days
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birthfanatic · 1 day
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wannafillyou · 2 days
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I wonder why she got knocked up…surely it’s not what was once a nice slim and tight body, now equipped with a perfectly round and heavy belly.
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monkasss · 2 days
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#76.3
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katieo1022 · 2 days
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morphimus · 3 days
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mediumgayitalian · 3 days
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———
For some reason the lack of a little jingling bell throws her off.
It’s a quintessential diner thing, she supposes. A little bell above the door. There’s the weird decor and the pressed cotton uniforms and the yelling chef and the little bell. It was in both Back to the Future one and two. That’s how she knows she’s right.
But when she pushes open the door with windows so caked with grime she can hardly see through them, there is no little jingle. And when she looks up at the door frame, eyebrows furrowed, it seems sad and lonely. She’s never been so aware of the lack of a sound, the absence of a noise. It makes the rest of the silence of the diner seem eerie, wrong. Dead.
She takes a hesitant step forward, door swinging shut behind her. She realizes as she approaches the ordering counter that her hand rests palm cupped on her belly, and removes it immediately.
“Hello?”
There are a couple groups of people in the back, talking quietly over their food. It doesn’t make the diner seem any less abandoned, somehow. If anything it feels like a TV playing on mute in a hospital. Saturated static.
“Seat yourself, girl. You ain’t never been to a diner before?”
The woman that speaks is tall and plump and harsh-looking. A very strange mixing of features. They’re at odd with the diner-specific yellow uniform she wears, collar pressed but skirt wrinkled. Apron dusted with flour and streaked with machine oil. Face pinched, eyes hard, black hair resting in dainty ringlets along her shoulders. Her name tag only reads the name of the business.
“A couple,” Naomi defends. “One even had a hostess.”
The woman — who must be a manager — raises an eyebrow.
“You see a hostess’ station?”
“No.”
“Then why haven’t you sat yourself?”
“‘Cause I’m not here to eat.”
“Well, then, get the hell out of my restaurant.”
Naomi holds her gaze, tilting up her chin. She will not be swayed by orneriness. “I need a job.”
The manager eyes her critically. Naomi’s hands twitch, and the top of her head feels suddenly itchy. Summer before highschool she’d wrote her first resume — Mama’d drawn her a bath and sat behind her and spent two hours slowly untangling the ratty mess of curls on her head with nothing but a bottle of cheap jasmine conditioner and her own two fingers, telling her about lasting first impressions.
“Go home, kid.”
“I’m not a fu —” She stumbles over her words at the last second, catching herself before that eyebrow can climb any higher. It does, and the other eyebrow begins to climb with it, but she rights herself and powers on. “I can vote,” she says finally. “I can throw on a uniform and get blown up across seas. I can — I can adopt a child, if I so choose. Right now.”
The eyebrows reach critical height, brushing the end of her carefully teased hairline. Naomi watches them and their inspiring journey with intensity, instead of noticing how the manager’s eyes drop down to her stomach, linger, and then return to her face.
“You gonna adopt it right outta your womb, or what?”
Naomi snaps her mouth shut.
“Well,” she says, and nothing else.
The manager sighs. “This ain’t a charity.”
Naomi barely manages to bite the snark back from her voice before she speaks.“I’m not asking for charity. I’m asking for work.”
Eyes shifting to the tables in the back, the manager leans over the counter, long fingers wrapping around the handle of a coffee pot so old the handle has worn right down to plain metal, and walks over to a beckoning customer. She fills a man’s mug with her lips pressed thin, offering a napkin to a child in a high chair.
“And why would I hire some pregnant kid?”
The customer pushes over a stack of plates without moving his eyes from the newspaper in front of him. There’s a woman on the other side of the table, holding a spoon out to the little kid, eyes desperate and tight smile slipping when the kid’s pudgy fist hits and sends the scoop of scrambled eggs flying. The man brings the coffee to his lips and waves the manager away.
“It’s illegal for an employer to discriminate against a pregnant person,” Naomi says finally. That had been drilled into her head by her Mama, too. That and how to keep her finances separate. She’ll have real trouble with that, what with the zero dollars she’ll have by the end of the week.
“Good thing I’m not your employer, then.” The manager sets the plates by a soapy sink, putting the coffee pot back on the hot plate. “Get lost.”
I am lost, Naomi almost says, almost slamming a hand in the counter to catch herself from her suddenly weak knees. She watches the manager watch her, tight little frown furling the corner of her mouth, through the blur of her eyes, swallowing hard around the lump in her throat.
“Please,” she says, too quiet, then tries again: “Please.”
The manager disappears behind a short half-wall, following the sound of an oven dinging. Naomi gasps silently, bowing over the counter, breathing heavily. She curls her hands into fists and presses them, hard, one to her chest and one right under her ribs. Ka-thump, ka-thump, kickkickkick. Kickkick ka-thump, ka-thump, ka-kickthump.
There’s an echoing clatter as a hot tray slams on a stove top. Scrambling upright, Naomi lifts the little door on the counter, scanning the space. The register is ancient and yellowed, buttons so worn with use the labels have worn away. There’s a thread-thin mat at the base of it. The counters are clean but scratched, walls stained but dust-free. The coffeemaker gurgles pathetically. An apron hangs from a hook nailed to the wall by the kitchen window.
As quietly as she can, Naomi slips it over her head. It’s tight around the waist, so she folds it once and ties it around her ribs, instead, letting the straps dangle loosely at the butt of her jeans. She ties her hair quickly behind her head and steps up to the creaky sink, silently moving the pile of dishes to the empty counter. When the clatter in the kitchen starts up again, she turns the water on as quick as she can — hack gurgle rush — and squeezes the mostly empty soap bottle as hard as she can to make up a lather.
“Hell are you doing?” says the manager gruffly, two pies balancing on her oven mitt hands.
Naomi shrugs.
“You deaf, or stupid?”
She thinks if laughter like a lyre and sun golden hair, plucking at her out-of-tune guitar string and asking a similar question. The ghost of a smile pulls across her face.
“Not deaf. And that’s rude.”
A pie plate crinkles under the press of a knife, and the scent of candy cherry mixes with slightly-burnt coffee. Makes her think of Grammy’s house, the smell of the jams she spent sixty years making soaked permanently in the wooden foundations. The manager finishes plating the pie slices and sliding them under the display glass around the same time Naomi suds up the last dirty mug. She watches her red-painted finger tap, tap, tap on her bicep out of the corner of her eye as she rinses it off.
Unplugging the sink, dirty water gurgling as it drains, she points a hesitant elbow at the dishtowel tucked into the managers pocket. She grabs it, threading it around her fingers, twisting the worn pink tail.
“Freezer broke two days ago.” She picks at a loose thread ‘til it pulls clean from the rest of the fabric, balling it up and sliding it into her pocket. She tugs on the fabric one last time, then tosses it, bundled, into Naomi’s waiting hands. “Tables in the back better have their bill by the time I get back from fixin’ it.”
Naomi hunches over the sopping dishes to hide her smile, listening to the scritch scritch click of the manager’s shoes as she stomps away.
———
Di doesn’t believe in paycheques.
“Great way to get ripped off,” she likes to grumble, slapping a stack of 20s bundled in a stapled piece of notebook paper into Naomi’s hands every Friday. She doesn’t think much of taxes, either, or lawyers, or racecar drivers. Naomi doesn’t quite understand that last one, but she knows better than to ask. As far as she’s concerned she’s still on probation, and probably will be if she works at the diner for another four months. Or the rest of her life.
On one hand, Naomi doesn’t have a bank account, so a cheque would be useless to her anyway. The cash she can use immediately and whenever she needs it. On the other hand, which is currently occupied with sewing back closed the hole she gouged in her backseat for the seventeenth week in a row, she has nowhere exactly to put that money, so it stresses her out.
Maybe she should look into an apartment.
Of course there are no apartment buildings in Sheffield. But she’s pretty sure Iraan is a big enough town to have a couple, as squat as they may be, and it’s only a twenty minute drive. There’s more to do there, too, so maybe she’d actually have a reason to take a day off every week. It’s not like she can buy a damn house with the less-than 3000 dollars she has saved up.
Waddling out of her car, she ducks into the diner. You’d think she’d be used to the lack of bell, now, but she finds that she still anticipates it; finds that her brain still quietly signals to her ears to prep for it. It always sets her off, a little.
“You’re late,” says Di critically, uniform hanging over her arm, foot tap tap-ing on the linoleum floor.
“I don’t have a starting time,” Naomi says lightly. “On account that I am not your employee.“
Di huffs, rolling her eyes. Naomi rolls them right back, snatching the uniform from her arms on the way to the bathroom. She has to wear Di’s, now, because she doesn’t fit into her old one. Di is much taller and broader than her and the stupid thing hangs down to her mid-calf, awkwardly drowning her shoulders, but it’s the only thing wide enough to cover her belly and Di refuses to let Naomi just wear her regular clothes.
(“You’re indecent,” she always says, sneering at her jean shorts, but Naomi has learned to translate you’re indecent but also you can’t have bare legs around hot oil, which she’s come to appreciate. Sure, Di makes her clean the bathroom whether or not she needs to crawl around in her knees to stay balanced, but she doesn’t want her burned to death, at least. That’s something.)
“And your hair’s unwashed,” she adds, as if Naomi had not walked away. She reaches up and adjusts Naomi’s collar, like that is going to do anything to change the fact that she looks like she’s wearing a collapsed tent. “You’re going to drive customers away.”
Naomi doesn’t say, you open before the community centre does, so I can’t shower in the mornings. She does not say, I spent last night trying to change the oil on my car when I couldn’t lie down to reach it. She doesn’t say, I’m too scared to sleep in the community centre parking lot, because my windows aren’t tinted and I don’t know what’ll wake me up.
She says, “The only thing scaring customers away is your busted attitude,” and scurries into the kitchen before Di can order her to clean the friers.
———
Naomi’s favourite part of the diner is the radio.
She can’t believe that Di allows it, what with her general distaste for joy in all of its forms. But it’s balanced on the window sill watching over the oven, antenna extended out the torn screen, dials permanently stuck on an old forgotten country channel. Naomi likes to hum along as she works, frying potatoes or kneading dough, twirling around the kitchen with a mop or a broom. It’s nice even when she’s cramping, even when her feet are sore — she likes hollering along to Dolly Parton when she knows Di is listening, want to move ahead, but the boss won’t seem to let me, likes the way her little parasite goes absolutely buck wild whenever Willie Nelson comes on. She can hear it even when she’s in the dining area, plates balanced all up her arms (and on her belly, too, which is one of the many things she has discovered it’s useful for), humming along to scratching dorks and scritching napkins, working 9 to 5, what a way to make a livin’.
She amuses herself often by making up lives for the various patrons. They’re close enough to the main highway that they get all sorts driftin’ in, from families with bratty kids who upend their food on the floor for Naomi to clean to men in starched suits who never leave a tip. The regulars she’s gotten to know, like the older, stocky, short-haired woman called Bella who smiles softly at her and leaves more than double her bill every breakfast. Or the two young men, college seniors, she thinks, who come in every Saturday afternoon and laugh loudly and talk about strange subjects and rope her into their conversations when there’s no one around and she’s bored.
Other patrons, though, strangers, she speculates. Like there’s a man in the farthest back corner, now, hunched over in the peeling green vinyl seats, scrawling frantically in a tiny notebook. She imagines he’s a private investigator, chasing a lead, about to discover that the woman on a date on the other end of the diner is cheating on her husband of fifteen years.
“Naomi, if you don’t get your ass back to work.”
She throws her hands up. “There’s nothing to do!”
Di observes the half-empty diner, noting the clean tables, neat counters, sparkling kitchen. Each customer sitting satisfied in their table, coffee mugs full, plates still hefty with food.
“Clean the grout.”
Scowling, Naomi stomps to the kitchen, wrenching open the cupboard under the counter and yanking out the Mr. Clean and scrub brush. It’s an ordeal and a half to get on the floor, wincing at the extra weight on her knees, sitting back on her heels with every spray and keeping one hand on her belly while the other scrubs. I Got Stripes by Johnny Cash starts playing through the radio, and she grits out the lyrics with every drag of the brush through the tiles.
“— and then chains, them chains, they’re ‘bout to drag me down —”
A pair of worn black boots come stomping into her line of vision. Naomi finishes scrubbing at a stubborn smear of grease, relishing in how it submits under her power, then rests her weight on her tired hands and tilts her chin up to glare up at her boss.
“I got stripes, stripes around my shoulders,” she sings defiantly, “chains, chains around my feet —”
“I should whip you, you damn drama queen,” Di says darkly, glaring right back. “Had three separate customers come on up to me askin’ me if I’m mistreatin’ ‘that poor young pregnant girl’.”
Naomi smiles triumphantly.
Di scowls, rolling her eyes hard enough to visibly strain her face, and drops some kind of foam pads at her feet. She stomps off without another word, scowling at the radio.
Poking at the pads, Naomi discovers they’re meant to be strapped to her knees. She slips them on, immediately noticing the relief.
For the rest of her shift, she’s an angel.
Di even almost smiles at her.
———
“Naomi, go home.”
“What happened to kid?” Naomi pants, knuckles going white against the counter. She breathes slowly and carefully through her mouth — in, two, three, four, out, two, three, four, in, two — and grits her teeth, staring determinately at the sticky tabletop until the dizziness fades. “I didn’t even know you knew my name.”
“I don’t.” A roughened hand rests on the small of her back, loosening the too-tight apron straps. “You’re sick, kid.”
“I’m fine.”
She tilts forward. Di barely manages to catch her, settling her slowly on the floor without so much as a comment about how heavy she is.
“The diner is empty, Naomi.” The same roughened hand moves up to the back of her neck, untangling the sweaty strands of hair that stick to her skin. Her voice is unusually soft. “You’re nine months pregnant, kiddo. You need to go home. You need to rest —”
“I need to work.”
With great effort, Naomi shoves her away, standing slowly to her feet. The world is still wobbly and bile climbs up her throat, but she pushes forward, hands half-extended beside her. She reaches back for the wet rag, swiping weakly at the table. An onslaught of nausea makes her pause, mouth clamped shut, breathing quick and deep through dry nostrils.
When she speaks again, Di’s voice is hard. “I’m not asking. Get out of my diner. Go home, or you won’t be allowed back. I won’t be accused of killing some dumbass kid who doesn’t know when to quit.”
“I can’t —” she gags, tears springing in her eyes, desperately trying to wrestle back some control of her body — “there’s nowhere, please, Di, let me —”
She slaps a hand to her mouth, heaving. She hasn’t even — she hasn’t eaten all day. The smell of anything makes her want to vomit. The idea of putting anything more in her body makes her want to peel off her skin. She feels — bloated and freakish and ugly; like an unsuspected astronaut on a sieged spaceship.
Like she’s about to burst.
“Oh, for the love of — Naomi, please tell me you are not nine months pregnant and sleeping in your fucking car.”
Naomi says nothing. She squeezes her eyes shut and tries not to think of Mama’s peony-scented perfume.
“Jesus Christ.”
Stomp, click, stomp stomp. Rattling chain, swishing cardboard. Flicking switch. Turning dial, fading music. Stomp, click, stomp stomp.
Two callused hands on her biceps, dragging her upright.
“C’mon, up you get. Where’re your keys?”
A hand digs around in her apron pocket.
“What, d’you fuckin’ run these over or somethin’? The hell’d you fuckin’ do to these things?”
No jingle on the door. A flipped sign.
“No, obviously you can’t — go get in the fuckin’ passenger seat, dumbass. God.”
Di mutters something about stupid kids and stupider adults, for putting up with them. Naomi smiles tiredly. Daddy used to say that all the time, flicking her on the forehead.
“Roll the window down. You need fresh air.”
The slight breeze coming in from the window is helpful, actually. It’s been a disgustingly hot summer, and Naomi has had to sleep with her windows down to avoid suffocating. She wakes up to mosquito bites in places she frankly did not know could be bitten.
“D’you think you’re going into labour?” Di asks quietly, over Dolly’s crooning. Bittersweet memories, that’s all I’m takin’ with me.
Naomi sighs, shaking her head. Already, the nausea has faded into the background. The sweat cools against her skin, and she stops feeling quite so much like she’s going to die.
“No. It’s only been eight months and a little less than two weeks.”
“…You remember the exact date?”
Well, hello, feverish flush. How I’ve missed you so. Will you do me a favour and cook me alive, while you’re here?
“It was a very memorable occasion,” Naomi mumbles, shrinking back into her seat.
“I see.”
Naomi’s never seen Di look quite so amused before. Her whole face softens, and her brown eyes look warm, for once. Naomi would attack her if she had the strength.
Di cruises slowly down Main St, conscientious of the kids ducking in and out of the shops, laughing with their friends. A tween girl looks over at an older boy and whips back over to her friends when he meets her eyes, the whole group of them descending into delighting shrieks. Naomi watches them with a smile and an ache in her chest. She wonders how Molly’s doing. How Esther’s holding up, how Leela is faring. Jen’s at school, now, all the way up in NYC. She hopes they’re well and tries not to hate them for not being here.
Sheffield’s small, and there’s not a street Naomi hasn’t driven down. She spends most of her free time in the community centre pool or the desert around the diner, sure, but she’s been around. When Di turns on Pine St and follows her all the way down, though, she frowns, looking over and asking a wordless question.
Di doesn’t answer. She’s driven them all the way to the other side of town in less than five minutes, pulling into a gravel parking lot and killing the engine.
“C’mon,” she grunts, climbing out of the tiny car and waiting, arms crossed, for Naomi to do the same.
“Sure, sure, let the pregnant woman crawl out of her own seat. Don’t lift a finger or anything.”
Di rolls her eyes.
As soon as Naomi has struggled her way out of the car, which takes her a good four minutes, Di stalks off. In her harried attempt to follow her, Naomi feels like a duck hopped up on an energy drink.
“What kinda money do you have?”
Naomi looks at her strangely. “Uh, what you pay me.”
“Yes, obviously, I meant savings.”
“What you pay me,” Naomi repeats.
Di purses her lips. “Well.”
She does not finish her thought. Instead, she strides down the gravel driveway, heedless of Naomi’s struggle behind her, until she approaches a squat looking building with ‘OFFICE’ printed on the little window.
“She needs a room,” she says to the clerk sitting behind it, gesturing at Naomi.
Naomi looks at her in alarm.
“Di, I can’t —”
“Fifty a night,” responds the man quickly.
“Try again.”
Di’s response is swift and immediate, ignoring Naomi’s tugging hand. She pulls away, resting her hands on her lower back, swivelling her head between Di and the man.
“Rate’s a rate, Di.”
She’s not surprised this man knows Di — everyone knows Di. But the slant to his eyebrows is unfamiliar, the hands clasped easily behind his head. He relaxes back into a leather office chair, heeled boot hiked up to rest in his knee, whistling absentmindedly in the face of Di’s glare.
“Two hundred a week.”
“Not a chance.”
“I’m not asking, Jed.”
The man — Jed — finally starts to look irate, meeting Di’s jaw-set stare with one of his own.
“I’m sorry, I musta missed something. Did you up and buy this place?”
Di doesn’t answer him right away. She never slouches, always standing at her full height, and she’s mighty tall for a woman. For anyone, really. She has a way of planting herself right in front of the sun, no matter where she is. Jed stares up at her, squinting, cast in Di’s shadow everywhere but where he needs to be sheltered.
“You gotta laundry list of shit you done owed me your whole life, Jed.”
Jed just his chin out.
“I don’t owe her shit.”
Blunt fingers wrap around her elbow. “She’s mine.”
“Ain’t how this works, Di.”
“Says who? You?”
For all her intensity, Naomi doesn’t think Di’ll actually fight anyone. If she would, Naomi would’ve gotten her ass kicked months ago.
(She’s mine. Kiddo. You need rest. Roll down the window.)
(…Well.)
Regardless, a flash of fear flits across Jed’s face. He cuts his gaze from Naomi to Di and then back again, pupils shrinking, and then invariably comes to a decision.
“Two fifty,” he snaps, scowling. “Not a penny less, Di.”
Di nods once. “Fine.”
She tightens the hold on Naomi’s elbow, dragging her away from the window. There’s an echoing bang, bang, bang, interspersed with muffled curses, before Jed stumbles out of a door on the side of the scaffolding. He stomps away without looking back, and Di tugs her along to follow.
“Laundry is your own problem. Clean your own shit. If you miss a payment, I’m kicking you out. Clear?”
Naomi stares. Jed standing in front of another low, old building, but this one is much longer, a door posited every dozen or so feet. A plastic chair sits in front of every door, and every door is numbered.
A motel, Naomi realises.
“Clear, kid?”
“Crystal,” Naomi manages, throat dry. Jed practically throws the key at her head, stomping back to the office. Numbly, Naomi slides it in the lock, pushing open the door.
The room isn’t big. There’s a double bed in the middle, a window in the far side and a dresser under it. A TV rests in a dugout shelf in the wall, and there’re two small doors next to it; a closet and a bathroom, Naomi assumes. Smaller than her bedroom back home.
Much, much bigger than her car.
“You’re gonna have to work another ten hours a week to afford this place,” Di says critically. When Naomi looks back at her, she’s lingering at the doorway, staring resolutely at Naomi’s face. Not a spare glance for the room itself.
Naomi does the math fast in her head.
“Twenty hours.”
Di scowls. “Don’t insult me, kid. Ten more hours a week; make sure you’re early tomorrow. I don’t give a shit if you’re sick again, either.”
Naomi swallows. She smooths a hand over the quilt tucked neatly over the bed — it’s soft, if not warm. The pillow is plump.
God, she’s missed pillows.
“Thank you, Di,” she says quietly.
Di makes a small twitching motion with her head that may, in some lighting, be considered a nod, then stalks off. Naomi sinks into the mattress; surprised at how much her feet aches now that she’s off of them.
She swings them up, kicking off her boots, to rest on top of the blanket. She leans against the rickety headboard. She rests her hand on her swollen stomach and slowly, silently, begins to cry.
“You and me and sheer fuckin’ will, kid,” she mumbles, face crumpling. The constant ache in the small of her back lifts, slightly. She stretches her toes as far as they’ll go and cries harder. “We’re gettin’ there. We’re gettin’ there. We’re gettin’ there.”
———
next
naomi art
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Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader
Tags: dark!Bucky, mafia/mob au, dubcon/noncon, a/b/o, threats and coercion, non-con, forced pregnancy, forced domestic "bliss", mating, yandere, kid fic
Summary: You thought you'd left behind the alpha who turned out to be more dangerous than you'd ever imagined. But one day he walks back into your life and reminds you that, come hell or high water, you're all going to be one happy. little. family.
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Masterlist
Daddy's Home (Series teaser)
Episode 1: A Clever, Tricky Little Kitty Cat: Just like Her Mommy
Episode 2: Taking Back What's Mine
Episode 3: The Lap of Luxury
Episode 4: Motherhood Suits You
Episode 5: Should've Done this Years Ago
Epilogue: A Storybook Romance Once Again
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@cjand10, @violetwinterwidow01, @ppbhquinn, @myfavbuckyfics, @liannafae, @sadsackssss
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cvastik · 2 days
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Here's me in this delightful cottagecore dress at various weeks of gestation.
I hope you're having a wonderful week 🫶🏻 all two thousand of you 🤗🫶🏻
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brdingbee · 1 day
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*I've been wandering for... Days? Hours? I'm not sure anymore, since being taken my perception of time has been warped. Despite the weight hanging from my front, I try my best to push on through the uneven terrain, through the extraterrestrial landscape, hoping to find a way out.*
*My suit is tight and has been increasingly more uncomfortable as the incubation period went on, but it was the one I'd been taken in and despite it no longer really fitting, I couldn't be without it*
The base has to be somewhere around here... I swear...
*on earth, I probably would've been asked if I was carrying twins, but I knew - I'd been told - there was only one inside me, just exceptionally bigger and heavier than a normal human offspring*
- brdingbnny 🩷
*spotting a figure in the distance I begin to move towards you. I'd volunteered to search for those who had disappeared, despite the potential risk to myself.*
Is that... @brdingbnny?...
*my pace increases, wiping the sand from my suits visor. It was really you but you looked... injured maybe, with the way you waddled? No... Not injured, your suit couldn't be in proper working order, the material looking impossibly strained against some mass within it.*
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bellyloverland · 2 days
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makethemmilky · 3 days
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99liv3s · 2 days
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A Birthing Show
(Wrote in collaboration with @ashmallow)
The two girls waddled onto the small stage, applauded by the 10 members of the audience: 7 men and 3 women. These 10 had paid a considerable amount of money for exclusive access to what the girls were offering: the chance to witness and control both their labors. Monica was a short, pale, black haired girl with brown eyes, thin except for her noticable pregnant belly, her hair in a low ponytail that hung over her right shoulder. She was wearing a gray maternity gown that seemed to enhance her pregnancy features. The other girl, Ash, had shoulder length brown hair, a bit darker skin, and her eyes were brown as well. She was a bit taller than Monica, but not by much, and though she was a bit less skinny than Monica, Ash's bump looked considerably bigger. Ash was wearing a small shirt and a skirt, which protruded outward over her large belly.
The girls took their place in front of the waiting audience, showing off their protruding bellies, as the ten audience members settled in their seats. "Welcome," Monica said to them, smiling. "In a few moments, the pills the two of us ingested will put us into labor, and the show can begin!" "As the ad stated, you will all be here to witness us labor and give birth simultaneously, and as an added bonus," she pointed toward two tablets lying on a table in front of the audience, "Those pads there will control how our labors play out, giving all of you complete control of this experience!" "My name is Monica, and my fellow partner in birth is named Ash!" "We hope you all enjoy the experience, and thank you in advance for your generous payments!" On the stage were two chairs, which the girls both sat in, as well as two beds. The two of them rubbed their bellies absentmindedly as they smiled at the crowd. “I’m so nervous” Ash whispered to Monica, looking down at her big 34 week belly, wondering what the audience would do. "Me too." Monica whispered back, smiling at Ash as they waited for labor to begin, while the audience chatting with each other. One woman spoke up: "So, how does this even work?? How can we actually control your labors?" Monica smiled at her, rubbing her belly slightly. "The pills we took contain little microscopic machines that will settle into our lower bodies," Monica answered. "They're connected to the pads, and can do all kinds of stuff once they jumpstart labor!" The woman, beaming, nodded and thanked Monica for her answer. A minute later, Ash felt a twinge in her lower abdomin, and a sharp intake of breath indicated that Monica was feeling the same thing.
“Oh oh oh! I can feel contractions starting!” Ash gasped out, panting, though they were not very strong because it was still the early stage of labor. However, Ash could tell her cervix was trying to open, and she felt a lot of pressure building up on her lower back, radiating out towards her crotch and legs. "Oooh, I can too!" Monica panted out softly, clutching her belly as she felt the pressure start to build in her pelvis. The small crowd watched with smiles of wonder and entertainment on their faces. "Can you two touch each other's bellies?" Asked one guy in the back. In response, Monica and Ash started rubbing each other's bellies all over and bumping them gently together, giggling a bit. Then, they could all see Ash's belly visibly squeezing and relaxing. “Ahh… ahh… the contractions are getting harder!” she cried. Monica grimaced as she felt a contraction hit her as well. "Ooohh," she moaned out, as several people of the audience leaned forward, two in front grabbing the pads. "Yeah, mine are too!" “I think they’re making the baby more active!” Ash whispered as she felt her belly twist and turn with movements, as if the baby was turning upside down over and over, spinning inside her. Monica looked over at the watchers, seeing them tapping commands into both pads, and then a sudden surge of pressure hit her pelvis. "Uugghh!!" She cried out, clutching her bump, as Ash moaned from the pain of the active baby. "Uugh, let's... sway together," Monica suggested.
Ash held the sides of Monica's hips while Monica held Ash's, and they slowly swayed together to ease through the pain. Seeing the girls trying to relax, the audience was not satisfied. Suddenly, Ash's 2 cm dilated cervix became 5 cm dilated. “Ahhhhh I can feel the head trying to go through!!!” Ash moaned out. "B..breathe Ash... breathe through... aaggghhh!!" Monica began, but cried out as her pressure worsened, and she involuntarily spread her legs. "N..no... we mustn't push...yet... oooohh..." she groaned, clutching her belly as she felt herself opening quickly as well. The audience smiled at the girls' discomfort, and tapped more commands, causing both girls' water to break all over the stage. Panting, the two of them slowly scrambled to the nearby beds, and lowered themselves onto them. “Ahhhhh I can feel the head going into my birth canal!” Ash screamed out, holding her big belly in pain. “Ahhh… ahhh…” Her belly was contracting intensely, but one of the audience pressed a button, and her contractions grew even harder. “Ughhhhhhhh…” Lying on the other bed, Monica spread her legs and moaned loudly, squirming in pain. "Oooohh god, this hurts!!" She moaned. "The... p... pressure..." "Ash, it hurts!!" The two girls looked into each other's eyes, both locked in the pain of their labors and their moaning.
“I want you girls to strip naked.” An audience member said after they reached a calm point between contractions. The girls nodded, then they both stood up and reluctantly took off their clothes, revealing their big contracting bellies and swollen breasts, as well as their dilating vaginas. Ash's tits were milky, and as another contraction took her, more milk squirted from them. Still moaning and mewling, both girls laid back onto the beds completely naked. They knew it would have come to this sooner or later. As audience members played around with the tablets, Monica let out a loud, drawn out moan, clutching her belly as a huge amount of pressure hit her pelvis. Meanwhile, Ash felt her dilation increase rapidly, and the pressure on her hips increased as the baby's head painfully pressed against her cervix, which barely opened. Becoming quite aroused by Ash's milk squirts, the audience made her boobs start lactating more. Streams of milk ran down her breasts and onto the bed as she moaned loudly in pain from the dilation and contractions. "Can... we come and help suck that up?" A woman in the audience asked. Ash nodded, and half the watchers scrambled onto the stage, trying to drink up Ash's milk.
"Aaaahhh, it hurts so bad!!!" "OW OW OW AAHH I CAN'T AAAGHH!!" Monica yelled out, clutching her belly as she felt the pressure and pain ram her cervix hard. After a few high loud moans, she screamed out, "OOH, I GOTTA PUSH!" Ash felt her cervix dilate rapidly as well, and the heaviness of the head started to fill her vagina. The audience murmured in satisfaction to the girls' suffering. “Ahhhh I can feel the hair!” Ash screamed out, reaching down and feeling a sliver of the baby’s head trying to stretch her lips wide. “The pressure!!" "Ahhhhh… it burns… ahhhhhhh!” The burning was agony, but someone tapped a control, and Ash felt the head slip back in. Meanwhile, Monica thrashed around on her bed, moaning and crying, the pressure feeling like it would tear her apart. "IT'S GETTING WORSE!! AAAAHHH!" She screamed, her legs spread and trembling in pain. Monica involuntarily pushed, and she felt her pussy bulge outward. "OH GOD OH GOD AAAAHHH!" As the audience watched, they started to see just how big the head of Monica's baby seemed to be. With more loud howls of pain, Monica seemed to stretch more and more with each push. Ash cried out again as she once again felt her baby's head start to crown, but the audience kept making the head go back in every time she relaxed, prolonging her suffering. "OWW PLEASE LET IT OUT!" Ash begged, as the burning hit her over and over.
By now, those audience members that were trying to suck up Ash's milk had had their fill, and settled back into their seats to enjoy the show. Both girls' vaginas were on full display as they shouted and yelped in pain. Ash's baby had peeked out and gone back in another four times. Meanwhile, Monica was clearly struggling, a huge head still lodged in her opening. Ash suddenly screamed as the already overwhelming pressure hit her even harder, and her baby's head immediately shot out. As it hung out of her vagina, Ash moaned loudly, as it seemed her body had had enough of the baby playing peekaboo. The audience murmured in amazement, but at this point, the girls were in so much pain and agony of labor, they no longer cared what was happening around them. "Monica push!" Ash said over Monica's cries. "OOOOHH I'M TRYING..." Monica wailed out, and indeed, she had been pushing, but the head seemed to be stuck. With loud grunts and groans of effort, Monica tried to bear down again, but there was still no movement. "Maybe... change... positiaaaahhh" Ash began, but was distracted by her own baby's emergence. Ash pushed, and with a gush of fluid, her baby was fully born. The audience applauded and cheered as Ash reached for her newborn. It was a girl!
With some difficulty, Monica repositioned herself on the bed, finally getting onto her hands and knees, with her belly sitting on the soft bedsheets, which tickled her popped out navel. Her vagina now hanging in the air, everyone could now see just how big the baby's head was, but the change in position seemed to do the trick. Monica let out another wail as she pushed and the head eased out slowly. Ash watched along with the audience, as she waited for the contractions that would deliver her placenta. The audience tapped some commands that increased the intensity of Monica's contractions and she shrieked as her belly visibly pulsed. With a squishy pop, the head finally ejected from Monica's pussy and hung out of her in the air. "You did it Monica!" Ash cheered, as the audience murmured. She felt contractions and prepared to push out her placenta. However, as she listened to Monica pant, she started to feel pressure again. Monica, still on her hands and knees, looked over at Ash, who was grimacing in pain. "That was... rough... hey are you ok??" Monica asked. Ash shook her head, her eyes closed. "Placenta hurts that much?" Ash moaned softly, as the audience's murmured increased; They had definitely figured out that things were not going according to plan.
A few minutes later, the pressure increased, and Ash cried out, "OH GOD IT'S ANOTHER BABY!" Members of the audience gasped, as Monica began to wail again, her big baby deciding it was ready to finish coming out. Monica yelled and moaned as she pushed. Ash breathed heavily, feeling the strong contraction that would push the twin out of her. Ash bore down, already feeling the head hit her already sore vagina. The audience watched intently, so engrossed in the show before them, they seemed to had forgotten the pads. Monica's loud screams echoed throughout the room as the huge baby finally slid out of her and gently onto the bed. It was a big baby boy. Ash smiled, still panting, as she saw Monica finish giving birth, slumping onto the bed in exhaustion. Then, she felt the familiar burning, and screamed out as she felt her second baby crown. "OW OW AH AH AH AHHHH!!" With one more very painful push, the entire baby fell onto the bed beside her sister, and the twins cried loudly.
As the two girls panted exhaustedly, the 10 watchers got to their feet, clapping and cheering. Monica, who had turned back over and was lying on her back, holding her newborn in her arms, smiled softly. Ash continued to lay on the bed, her eyes closed as her twins, their cords still attached, both hanging out of Ash, squirmed and cried. "You both did amazing," one watcher said. "Yes, it was incredible!!" Another said. Clearly satisfied, the watchers filed out, chatting to each other about what they had witnessed, leaving the two girls alone on stage in the beds with their babies. Ash had scooped up her daughters and was now breastfeeding them. She smiled over at Monica, who was rocking her newborn to sleep. "Well, that was fun!" Ash said, holding her daughters on her breasts. "And we made lots of money too!" Monica smiled back at her, nodding. As much as it had hurt, she had to admit to herself that she also enjoyed the experience. "You know what, let's do it again soon!" She proposed. Ash giggled and nodded.
End
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wannafillyou · 3 days
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Soon your milk will arrive, and your hands certainly won’t be enough to cover your increasingly engorged tits, much less your belly that has since doubled in size.
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monkasss · 3 days
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#76.2
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misogyny4girls · 12 hours
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While good Men will always be misogynists, the maintaining of sexist ideas is greatly helped by the proper, misogynistic women who happily use their wombs to propagate sexism.
And as feminism crumbles and dies off like it should, why not be one of those good women? Fill your belly with countless sons who you'll raise to see women as bellies to fill and property to own, you being the prime example of it.
Your future is one of breeding and birthing, so why not embrace it?
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