
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/768763.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Homestuck
  Relationship:
      John_Egbert/Roxy_Lalonde
  Character:
      John_Egbert, Roxy_Lalonde
  Additional Tags:
      PWP, Furniture_Sex, Pregnant_Sex, Pregnancy_Kink, it's_called
      maiesiophilia, mild_transformation_kink, also_hilariously_heavy_use_of
      figurative_language
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-04-21 Words: 2908
****** the fruits of the garden ******
by blueraspberrybubblegum
Summary
     Your name is John Egbert and your girlfriend is turning into a whale,
     all clumsy and slow and kind of exploding out of her clothes, and the
          best part is, you think you like it. (Alternatively titled
                               “Motherf**ker.”)
Notes
     The Homestuck pregnancy kink tag was so empty! WELL NO MORE
     Edit: Pulling this story out of the LILIH tag because it's not LILIH
     canon. It was a fun experiment, though!
See the end of the work for more notes
Your name is John Egbert and your girlfriend is turning into a whale, all
clumsy and slow and kind of exploding out of her clothes, and the best part is,
you think you like it.
You’ve barely seen her in the last month – she’s been ill and bedridden, and
Jane’s kept you away, so all you’ve gotten are glimpses from the doorway when
you brought her dinner by or stuck your head in to check up. Mostly she’s been
sleeping, just a messy blonde mop and two stick-thin elbows poking out of a
pile of blankets. Not much to see.
Now, watching from the doorway as she works herself to the edge of the bed so
she can tumble off the side, you can finally appreciate what you’ve been
missing. She’s so heavy her legs tremble to support her weight, and she walks
herself along the wall using the furniture to keep her balance. One hand on the
dresser, one resting protectively on her belly. Her face, wan from sickness,
pale from seclusion, is glowing with a sheen of perspiration and two pink
splashes that bring to mind the skin of a ripe peach.
Roxy stops picking her way across the floor towards you when she realizes
you’re watching her. She leans on the dresser, her face breaking into the
warmest smile she can muster; her lips are trembling with the effort, but the
crinkles at the corners of her eyes speak to its sincerity. Your own
expression, wide-eyed and grinning and dumbstruck, is just like the time your
dad took you to New York City at Christmastime and you couldn’t stop gaping at
the lights in Central Park and the skaters all bundled up and etching patterns
into the ice at Rockefeller Center and the giant red ribbon wrapped around Sacs
Fifth Avenue. You’re drinking her in and she’s basking in it. She loves the way
you look at her, which is lucky for you, because damn you love to look.
“Hey, Roxy.”
“Hey, baby.” Her nightgown, a thin pink thing, is hiked up around the root of
her swollen abdomen, spilling off it in rustling folds. The back half hits her
knees but the front only falls to mid-thigh. Her feet are planted a little wide
to help her keep from wobbling.
You wish you didn’t melt into an inarticulate lump when you’re turned on. As
far as words go, you’ve already exhausted yourself, so you just wait there,
hoping Roxy will give you some direction. You’re not sure how she’ll react if
you come on to her – considering, you know, her condition –it’s safer to gauge
her receptiveness first.
“Come here, you big lunk, and help me get out of this thing. I think I want to
go for a walk after all.” Your stomach does a flip and settles itself wrong way
up, but you cross over to her to help her fiddle with the tiny buttons. Her
fingers are too cold, fumbling ineffectually at the neck of the nightie, so you
get down to her breastbone before she pops the first one open. Visible through
her translucent skin, the tops of her breasts are laced with blue veins; it
seems like they droop just a little lower than they used to. Another button
gives way, and you catch a glimpse of the smooth curve of a dark nipple. Your
breath catches.
“Why’d you stop?”
Stupidly, you answer, “You’re, uh, not wearing a bra.” Like, oh by the way,
that water falling from the sky means it’s raining. She laughs and reaches
under your motionless hands to unfasten the next pearly button.
“You’ve seen my boobs before, doofus,” she murmurs affectionately.
Heh. Boobs. Boooobs. You stifle a giggle, but not before it reaches your nose
with a snerk.
Your hands work more quickly, laying her open to the bottom of her ribcage. Her
skin lies over the slats of her ribs like a tent over its frame, too prominent,
belying the gravity of her breasts. She finally gets the middle undone, and the
nightgown falls open, slipping off her shoulders. You pull her close, burying
your face in her hair. Her conditioner smells sweet and fruity.
“John?”
“I love you, baby,” you tell the crown of her head. It tilts back.
“Honey, I missed you so much, you have no idea. There’s always someone sitting
in here with me, but it’s never you. I thought you thought I was gross and fat
and didn’t want anything to do with me.”
“Roxy,” you tell her, forehead to forehead, “that’s the farthest thing from the
truth.”
“But look at me! I’m enormous!” You spread your hands against the sides of her
stomach, like you’d hold a basketball. Her belly isn’t soft or flabby. It feels
almost firm under your fingers, like a balloon, stretched over the pressure
inside, only instead of air it’s filled with flesh. And then – thinking about
balloons – you imagine it growing in time-lapse motion, expanding perceptibly
as you hold her, nudging into your groin. You see yourself having to stretch to
wrap your arms around her, her burgeoning mass tugging at the muscles tying
your shoulder blades to your back and the ligaments in your elbows….
That sure got weird fast. “You’re really not that big,” you reassure her.
“Liar!”
“Read my lips,” you say, and lay them on hers. She sucks her lips in to moisten
them, tilting her head back. Her tummy is trapped between you. You nearly
forgot how nice it was just to kiss her, without the expectation of sex,
letting your mouths mold against each other. The lazy way she opens up and
flicks her tongue against yours reminds you of when you were still living on
the meteor and you were stupid crazy for each other and it was weird because
you were having marathon makeout sessions with Rose’s mom. Now she’s going to
be a mom for real, and, strangely, she’s hotter than ever. You turn your head
to get at her sideways and she follows, responding to your momentum. She’d make
a great dance partner, you think: she follows your lead on instinct like she
knows what you’re going to do before you know it yourself. You would love to
learn how to dance with Roxy, if she’d give you the chance.
Exposed, her nipples tighten and pebble against the chill air, and one pert tip
brushes your arm. She lets out a quiet gasp that’s more than a little
encouraging so you figure she won’t mind if you touch it.
“Gently, gently, don’t squeeze,” she says. You rest her breast in the crook
between your thumb and forefinger, lifting the heft of it to touch the point to
the tip of your tongue. You nibble at it using just your lips, and the only
thing stopping you from sucking in earnest is the way she draws in her breath
that tells you just how sore they are. Today, in this room, you’ve caught her
mid-transformation. Her body is rearranging itself around the seed in her
center, the seed you planted inside her, and it’s not a benign process. You
don’t wish pain upon her – you’re not a sadist, for crying out loud – but you
relish the fact that her body aches because it’s evidence of her metamorphosis.
She’s growing, changing, and you don’t know what form she’ll take on the other
side. She could be anything, a tiger, an alien, a tree. She could be a goddess.
She could eat you up and add you to the thing in her belly, and you would rest
there, getting strong, until she pushed you back out into the world, a monster
like herself.
Crap. Crap. Your arousal couldn’t be more obvious, seeing as it’s pressed
firmly against her stomach. You’ve been mouthing desperately at her nipple like
you think it’s going to let down milk, and she’s yanking at your hair, trying
to get you to touch her more softly.
“Sorry, Roxy, I –“
She cuts you off, biting at your mouth like a wild animal, scraping her teeth
along your tongue. She’s steering you with her fist and grinding her belly
against the bulge in your pants, grappling with the last button that’s keeping
her nightgown from slipping off her belly. You were joking around when you
asked Jane whether the pregnancy hormones made girls horny, but this doesn’t
feel like a joke. You take over messing with the button because she’s not
getting anywhere, and it comes free just as she reaches out to palm you through
your clothes. You make a happy noise against her mouth.
She unlatches herself, heaving, her fingers still knotted in your hair, her
lips an oh-so-kissable cherry red.
“Not gross, huh?”
“Roxy, your body is perfect,” you pick her up, settling her on your throbbing
member, “– amazing – wonderful –“
She wraps her legs around you, and you reach under the curve of her buttock to
find her labia. Your fingers come back sopping wet. “– And all I want to know
is if sex will hurt the baby.”
“Hurt the baby? Are you kidding me? The wiggler’ll probably enjoy it as much as
I will,” she laughs.
The bed’s a bit too tall but the dresser’s about right. She clears it with a
sweep of an arm, releasing her leglock so you can grab some pillows to prop her
up. When you come back, she helps you strip. It doesn’t actually get your
clothes off any faster, but you appreciate the intent. Her spread legs reveal a
glistening, engorged pink flower.
She says, “I want you in me, John,” and lets her fingertips skip along your
length, base to tip, smearing your pre-cum with the ball of her thumb.
“Not yet, baby, be patient,” you tell her, putting yourself at eye level with
her ripe vulva. You spread her lips with two fingers, marveling at the color of
her cherry, a round red nub in a sea of pink. You lick your thumb and when you
roll it across her, she moans your name. Her cheeks heat to hot pink as you
stroke her, listening for the way her breath hitches that tells you you’re
doing it right.
Your mouth is next, kissing her as though she could kiss back down here,
thrusting your tongue inside as she digs her heels into your shoulder blades.
Her hands are back on your head, but this time instead of pulling they’re
pushing, pressing your face into her cleft. She trembles when you flick across
her clit, tightens her scarred thighs around your neck when you suck it, hard,
as hard as you wanted to suck her swollen breasts. You spread your fingers as
wide as you can and fuck her with your tongue, wishing it were thicker, longer,
wanting to explore her fertile depths, to taste her from the inside. Before you
know it, she’s coming, spasming powerfully around you, your name on her lips
sounding like a sob.
You emerge from between her legs feeling like a champion, your chin slick with
her girl juices. The swell of her tummy calls you. You rest your head on it,
listening to the muffled sounds inside, while she reclines on her pillows
reeling from the potency of her orgasm. When you close your eyes, you can
imagine the organic machine inside her roiling and churning as it fabricates a
second self, a homunculus shaped like you. How does it get a soul, you wonder.
Do they just float by until they find an empty vessel to latch onto, invading
and pervading the blank mind of the fetus, boring holes for thoughts to flow
through? Will she add it herself at the end, the finishing touch on her magnum
opus? Maybe the soul is there from the beginning, the grain of sand around
which a child is built, growing like a pearl in its mother’s folds. Maybe your
seed is the grain of sand. Maybe your seed is the soul. You find yourself
panting, working back up to full arousal with the realization that you are
responsible for setting Roxy’s transfiguration into motion. It was you, you who
turned the key, you who opened this marvelous vault, and no matter what you
find inside you know it was you who put it there.
“Fuck, Rox, I…” You trace potential endings to that sentence across her belly
with the tip of your nose, not sure how to pick just one. She seems to get it,
though, and wraps her hand around you, working the base of your dick with a
tight ring of fingers. You push your own into her mouth, letting her moisten
them fully before moving them to her cleft. Inserting your fingers to the hilt,
you wish you could reach farther, follow the winding path inside to her womb.
If she could take your forearm to the elbow it still wouldn’t be enough. If
only you could crawl up inside her and greet your child face to face. You want
to see it, to know it. You want to recognize yourself in its eyes.
She licks the drying fluid from your lips, mouthing at you with eyes half
closed. From the way she’s clenched around your fingers – from the needy sounds
in her throat – you think she’s ready.
“Baby, baby, tell me what you want,” she cries out softly, jerking you as fast
as she can.
This time you know what to say. “I want to worship you,” you whisper into her
ear, pressing yourself to her entrance and pushing through. She hooks her
ankles together behind your neck, leaning back on the cushions, and clings to
the edge of the dresser for leverage to impale herself on you with a whimper.
You take your pleasure in riding her slowly. She’s laid out in front of you, a
wonderland of femininity to lay claim to. Her abdomen seems like a ripening
fruit grown sweet and soft and heavy; her breasts, with their dark hard
nipples, jiggle when you bury yourself in her. You feel as though, when you
plunge in to your fullest extent, you can touch her secrets.
In this position, it’s easy to watch your cock sliding into her. Her moisture
makes a tideline around its base. You’re a big guy, alright, but fucking her in
this state, with her hormones riding sidecar, she feels loose and cushy. In
your mind, you work out how thick you’d have to be for her to feel tight around
you again, imagining your dick growing huge and tumescent, and then it’s not
pushing in, it’s pushing out. She’s stretched wider than you thought possible
and screaming with the force of it, and somehow your brain turned sex into
childbirth and showed you a vision of Roxy in orgasm around your baby’s
crowning head, which is horrifying and hot as hell, and in the real world you
are slamming into her a lot harder than you meant to.
Her breasts are bouncing uncontrollably, but instead of trying to confine them
she’s spread one hand over the top of her belly, pushing it inexorably down,
towards you and your thrashing member, her mouth parted in a rapturous round
letter. Her body is the world in April, wet and turgid and exploding with life.
Her mouth, her areolae, her crimson-colored cunt are the blooming spring buds
adorning her bare branches, and her gravid center is the forbidden fruit. You
burn to suckle its juices and taste your immortality. She’s the jar you could
pour yourself into for the rest of your life, wasting away to watch her blossom
and flourish, knowing that she would cherish the best part of you and wrap it
around her heart and spin it out to weave cloth-of-gold baby cum angels with
eyes as blue as the sky.
Your orgasm, when it hits, is the spring floods coming down off of the
Cascades. It erupts in a roaring rush, jet after jet of cum pumping into her
until the flow diminishes to a pulsing trickle. You milk it as long as you can,
wishing you could make it last, fill Roxy to bursting with your seed until it
spills out around you, craving for each drop take root in her fertile garden
and transform her anew.
It’s almost twenty minutes before she says, from a boneless slump on her throne
of pillows, “I don’t think a walk is going to happen today.” You giggle
helplessly, your cheek resting on the mound of her womb, and ask yourself what
she would think about having a boatload of kids.
A couple dozen sounds about right. She’d be pregnant for years.
You cart her over to the bed and cuddle there, naked, your arms snaked around
her waist to cradle the life within, hoping that her bout with sickness and
depression is finally over and you can treat yourselves to more babymoon sex
before the offer expires. Flirty sassy Roxy is hot but mom-to-be Roxy is off
the chart, somewhere to the right of the surface of the sun. Just the thought
of rubbing her wetness between your fingers is enough to make you stiffen
again, sandwiched between her thighs with the head of your dick lying against
her perineum.
She draws your fingertips across her weeping slit, and you think to yourself
that you’re going to have a mighty fine next two months.
End Notes
     tumblr woo! - blueraspberrybubblegum
     If you came here from Lift It Like It's Heavy: Back_to_Chapter_11 |
     Onward_to_Chapter_12
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