mpregstory

In order to provide a little overview, I am creating a list in which I link my previously published oneshots including the Halloween special. Keep in mind that I will continue revisiting those and eventually update them.

mpregstory originals

mpregstory commissions

The contractions never really stopped anymore.

For two weeks, they had come in relentless waves—hard, deep, crushing. Every morning I woke up convinced it would be the day. Every night I went to sleep still pregnant.

Forty-two weeks.

The doctors kept repeating the same thing. Everything was normal. The baby was healthy. Wait a little longer.

I was done waiting.

The child inside me was enormous. Every movement felt heavier than the last. Every contraction seemed strong enough to split me apart, yet somehow nothing happened. No broken water. No labor. No end.

Just pressure.

Constant pressure.

The new apartment looked like a disaster zone.

Cardboard boxes towered against freshly painted walls. Half-built furniture stood abandoned in corners. Voices echoed through the rooms as friends carried the last pieces of our old life inside.

I stood in the middle of it all, one hand pressed against the underside of my stomach.

Another contraction hit.

Hard.

The world narrowed.

A sharp groan escaped my throat.

Behind me, I felt warm hands slide around my waist.

My boyfriend.

He kissed the back of my neck and carefully lifted some of the weight from my belly.

For a moment, relief flooded through me.

In the mirror leaning against the wall, I caught our reflection.

Sunlight poured through the unfinished living room windows, turning my red hair into molten gold.

We looked almost peaceful.

Almost.

“Jesus,” I muttered through clenched teeth. “That one was brutal.”

“I know.”

His voice was calm.

Too calm.

The kind of calm people use when they’re trying not to panic.

His hands remained on my stomach.

The baby shifted.

A violent roll beneath stretched skin.

Neither of us spoke.

We both felt it.

The weight.

The size.

The impossible pressure building day after day.

“I don’t think I can do this much longer,” I whispered.

The words came out smaller than I intended.

For the first time, fear crept into his expression.

Not fear of labor.

Fear of the waiting.

Fear of the unknown.

Because every day that passed felt wrong.

Every contraction that faded felt wrong.

Every night we went to bed without a baby felt wrong.

Outside, someone laughed while carrying another box down the hallway.

Inside, the apartment suddenly felt suffocating.

Too small.

Too hot.

Too quiet.

Another contraction seized my abdomen without warning.

This one stole my breath completely.

I doubled over.

My boyfriend caught me before I could fall.

The pain wrapped around my body like a tightening wire.

Something was changing.

I could feel it.

Not labor.

Not yet.

Something darker.

Something inevitable.

The baby pressed downward with terrifying force.

And for the first time in weeks, a cold thought slipped into my mind:

What if he wasn’t waiting anymore?

[This is a new version of my original; 2022 Halloween Special]

The year is 1873.

The circus has spread like a sickness across the continent—bright tents stitched together from canvas and lies, dragging crowds into nights they would later swear they could not fully remember. This year, P.T. Barnum’s traveling exhibition promises something unprecedented. Something that has already sold out every ticket, every standing room, every breath of anticipation. A boy who cannot exist.

Jacob.

The Pregnant Boy.

They say Barnum found him wandering between towns—thin, exhausted, a child who had spent too many years surviving the world without ever belonging to it. And when his condition became impossible to ignore, Barnum did not see suffering. He saw a headline. A miracle. A spectacle.

A warning dressed as entertainment.

He offered Jacob shelter, food, a bed that did not move with the wind. Protection, he called it. A future. All in exchange for one thing: Let them look at you. Let them believe. Let them come.

And so Jacob became the center of the show built for Halloween 1873—the night Barnum promised would end with something no audience would ever forget. The night of a human impossibility brought to completion.

“Jack… Jack.”

The voice cuts through the fog of sleep like a blade. Jacob stirs in the dim light of the caravan, his body heavy, aching, as if the air itself has turned thick around him. Spencer sits beside the bed, already dressed, watching him with a quiet intensity that has grown sharper in recent weeks—like a man counting down to something he cannot stop.

“You were out cold,” Spencer says softly. “I brought you food.”

Jacob slowly opens his eyes, one hand instinctively resting on the enormous weight of his abdomen. Time feels wrong again—stretched, warped, like the world is holding its breath along with him.

“What time is it?” he murmurs.

“Too late for you to be this exhausted,” Spencer replies, trying for humor. It doesn’t fully land.

Jacob takes the plate, but barely touches it. Spencer sits on the edge of the bed, watching in silence for a moment too long.

“It’s getting… big,” he says at last, quieter now.

Jacob doesn’t answer. He already knows. Something inside him has changed. Not just his body—something deeper. A sense that the end is approaching, that whatever has been growing within him is no longer content to remain hidden.

Spencer reaches out, hesitates, then rests a hand carefully against Jacob’s stomach. The contact lingers too long.

Not wrong.

Just… inevitable.

Jacob exhales shakily. And neither of them pulls away.

That night, the circus grounds feel different.

The wind moves through the empty cages like something searching for a way out. Lanterns flicker. The tents creak. Somewhere beyond the hills, the forest is too quiet. Jacob walks until the noise of the circus fades behind him. Spencer follows, carrying a blanket, as if trying to outpace a future neither of them wants to name. They settle beneath the open sky. Above them, the stars look distant and indifferent.

Spencer breaks the silence first.

“There are things I’ve been thinking,” he says slowly. “Things I didn’t let myself think before.”

Jacob turns his head slightly. “Like what?”

Spencer exhales, like he’s stepping off a ledge.

“I think I’ve fallen in love.”

The words hang between them—fragile, dangerous.

Jacob’s breath catches. For a moment, the world feels colder.

Love is not something he has ever been allowed to believe in. Not safely. Not fully. And yet it sits there now, spoken into the night like a truth that refuses to be undone.

“Who?” Jacob asks, quieter than he intends. “Who is it?”

Spencer looks at him for a long time.

And then, finally:

“I think it’s the boy lying right next to me.”

The silence that follows is not empty. It is transforming.

Something inside Jacob breaks open—not with fear, but with recognition. As if he has been waiting for these words without knowing it.

He turns toward Spencer. And in the space between heartbeat and consequence, he leans in. The kiss is not gentle. It is certain.

When they part, Jacob whispers, almost disbelieving, “I feel it too.”

For a moment, there is no circus. No Barnum. No audience waiting in the dark.

Only breath.

Only warmth.

Only the illusion that they might survive this.

A sudden contraction rips through Jacob like a warning bell. He doubles over, gripping Spencer’s arm.

Spencer’s expression changes instantly—everything soft collapses into urgency.

“We need to—”

A voice interrupts.

Barnum.

The ground seems to tighten around them as he approaches, smiling like a man arriving at the center of his own creation.

“Perfect timing,” Barnum says. “Showtime is beginning.”

Before either of them can move, the world is already shifting—hands, ropes, decisions made without consent. The tent is calling. The crowd is gathering. The spectacle is inevitable. And Jacob is carried back into the light.

The tent is alive.

Thousands of eyes.

A single, hungry silence.

Barnum steps forward, spreading his arms like a priest.

“Ladies and gentlemen… tonight you will witness a miracle.”

The curtain opens.

Jacob is there.

And the world looks at him like he is not a person, but a question they’ve been waiting to see answered. Pain comes in waves now—stronger, closer, impossible to ignore. The air feels too loud. The lights feel too sharp. Every sound becomes teeth. Spencer is somewhere at the edge of the stage, watching, frozen between horror and helplessness. Barnum leans in, speaking to the crowd as if narrating destiny itself. And then everything begins to collapse into motion.

Not performance.

Not spectacle.

Something far more primal.

A breaking point.

When Spencer finally moves, it is sudden—violent, desperate. He pushes through the chaos, through Barnum, through the illusion of control that has been built around them. He reaches Jacob. And in that moment, the world stops being a show. It becomes escape.

Outside, the air is cold enough to burn. Spencer runs until his lungs fail him, Jacob in his arms, the circus shrinking behind them like a dying fire. They find shelter in the dark—somewhere the world cannot see, cannot judge, cannot turn into entertainment. And there, beneath trembling breath and shattered silence, life forces its way forward. Not gently.

Not cleanly.

But undeniably.

Spencer stays.

Jacob holds on.

And the night refuses to end.

———

Years later, the circus is just a rumor people tell each other to sound braver in the dark.

There is a house far from the roads, where two men learned how to exist outside of watching eyes. Where laughter slowly replaced fear. Where survival became something softer.

And where, sometimes, at night—

[This is a new version of my original]

Breathing felt difficult these days.

You lay sprawled across the bed, the late afternoon sunlight spilling through the curtains and warming your skin. Your pregnancy had reached the point where even resting required effort. Every position seemed uncomfortable after a few minutes, and the constant weight of your stomach was a reminder that your child would be arriving soon. The apartment was quiet except for the distant sound of running water. A moment later, Robin emerged from the bathroom, droplets still clinging to his skin. A towel hung loosely around his waist as he crossed the room and reached for a pack of cigarettes on the nightstand. For a moment, you simply watched him.

Months earlier, the two of you had met at your graduation celebration. The memories were fragmented—a blur of loud music, alcohol, and poor decisions. You remembered dancing. You remembered laughing. You remembered waking up the next morning with only scattered recollections of the night before. What neither of you had expected was the child that followed.

Since then, countless messages had bridged the distance between you. Long conversations stretched into late nights. What had begun as uncertainty had slowly become affection.

Now, for the first time since that night, you were together again. Robin pulled on a pair of shorts and glanced over his shoulder. His blue eyes met yours. Those eyes always seemed impossibly calm. A faint smile crossed his face.

“You’re staring.”

You laughed softly.

“Can you blame me?”

His grin widened. Robin crossed the room and pulled the curtains open completely. Sunlight flooded the apartment, transforming the space into a sea of warm gold. Beyond the balcony doors, the city stretched beneath a cloudless sky. The light found your stomach immediately. Instinctively, your hand drifted across its rounded curve. The baby shifted beneath your palm. Robin noticed. His expression softened. No matter how many times it happened, he never seemed to tire of seeing it. Slowly, he approached the bed and sat beside you.

“You know,” he said quietly, resting a hand on your abdomen, “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this.”

His fingers traced gentle circles against the fabric of your shirt.

“Used to what?”

The smile he gave you was almost shy.

“The fact that there’s actually a little person in there.”

The baby kicked. Both of you froze. Robin’s eyes widened. Then he laughed. A genuine, unguarded laugh.

“There.”

He pressed his hand more firmly against your stomach.

“There it is again.”

Watching him like this stirred something deep inside you. The confidence he carried every day vanished whenever he thought about the baby. In its place was wonder. Pride. Excitement. Love. The silence felt comfortable. Robin eventually leaned down and pressed a kiss against your forehead.

Then another.

Then one against your stomach. The gesture made your chest tighten.

“You really love this kid already, don’t you?”

He looked up immediately.

“Of course I do.”

The answer came without hesitation. His hand remained on your stomach.

“And I love you.”

The words caught you off guard. Not because they were unexpected. Because they sounded completely sincere. Robin wasn’t the type to say things he didn’t mean. You reached for his hand and squeezed it. Outside, traffic moved through the city streets below. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked. Life continued as normal. Inside the apartment, however, everything felt suspended in time.

Eventually Robin stood.

“I should go get groceries before the store closes.”

You groaned dramatically.

“You’re abandoning me?”

“I’m abandoning you for vegetables.”

“Worse.”

He laughed and grabbed his jeans from the chair. After getting dressed, he leaned over the bed one final time and kissed your forehead.

“I’ll be back soon.”

You watched him move toward the front door. Just before leaving, he turned around.

„I love you.“

Then he was gone. The apartment fell silent once more. With a sigh, you pushed yourself upright. Even simple movements required determination now. Your lower back ached. Your stomach felt impossibly heavy. As you shuffled toward the bathroom, another tightening sensation spread across your abdomen.

You stopped in the doorway.

Braxton Hicks.

Again.

They had become increasingly frequent over the last few weeks. You rested both hands against the counter and waited patiently for the discomfort to pass. Eventually the tension eased. Still, something about this one had felt stronger. Different. You shook the thought away. You had worried about premature labor so many times that it hardly seemed worth panicking anymore. After washing your hands, you wandered into the living room and settled onto the couch. The television flickered to life. Within minutes, exhaustion pulled you under. When you finally woke, warm hands were moving gently across your stomach. Your eyes snapped open.

Robin sat beside you.

Several grocery bags rested near the kitchen counter.

“You were sleeping so deeply I didn’t want to wake you,” he said.

You blinked toward the clock. Two hours had passed.

“Two hours?” you murmured.

Robin chuckled.

“You looked like you needed it.”

The baby shifted beneath his hand. Immediately his attention dropped to your stomach. The smile that followed was impossible to miss. For a moment, the worries, discomfort, and uncertainty surrounding the future seemed very far away.

There was only Robin.

There was only the baby.

[This is a new version of my original; The Quarry (Game) Fanfiction]

“Yeah, it’s a little dilated, but not actually open as far as I can tell. Sorry, I’ve never exactly spent much time looking at a cervix before.”

Jacob stepped back awkwardly and rubbed the back of his neck. Nick quickly pulled his underwear back into place, trying not to laugh at the situation. Truthfully, Jacob had been carrying feelings for Nick for years. He’d never said a word about them. By the time he’d worked up the courage, Nick had already been in a serious relationship, and Jacob had convinced himself there was no point. Then came the pregnancy. It wasn’t that Jacob resented the baby. Far from it. What hurt was the jealousy. He’d always dreamed of having children one day, and seeing Nick carrying a child—seeing the life growing inside him—stirred emotions he couldn’t quite explain. Now Nick’s relationship had fallen apart, and Jacob found himself doing the only thing he knew how to do: being there for him.

“Man, this really sucks,” Nick said, tugging unsuccessfully at his T-shirt as it rode up over his stomach. “The doctor said I started dilating a couple of weeks ago, but everything settled down after that. Now the Braxton Hicks are back, and apparently my cervix is changing again. I just want this little guy to stay put for two more weeks.”

He rested a hand on his belly and smiled.

“Of course, he’s already trying to cause trouble. Just slipped lower into my pelvis this morning.”

Jacob chuckled.

“Sounds about right.”

Nick met his eyes. “Seriously though, thanks for helping me check. It would’ve been way more awkward asking someone else.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Jacob glanced out the upstairs window. Outside, autumn had painted the neighborhood gold. Leaves drifted from the trees, gathering across the sidewalks below.

“Your parents are still away, right?”

Nick nodded. “Yeah. They’ll be back in four days.”

Jacob looked back at him thoughtfully.

“Then maybe I should stay here for a while.”

Nick blinked.

“What?”

“Just until they get back. You’re close enough that anything could happen. I’d rather not have you dealing with it alone.”

A warm smile spread across Nick’s face.

“I’d like that.”

A little later, they settled downstairs. Nick immediately claimed the couch and grabbed a controller while Jacob disappeared into the kitchen.

“You sure you want to lose?” Nick called.

Jacob returned carrying a drink and rolled his eyes.

“With that competitive streak? Not a chance.”

Several races later, Jacob regretted every confident word.

Nick beat him repeatedly.

“This is embarrassing,” Jacob groaned.

“Skill issue,” Nick replied proudly.

They started one final race. Everything seemed normal until the last lap. Just before crossing the finish line, Nick suddenly stiffened. His controller slipped slightly in his hands. Jacob sailed past him and won for the first time all evening before realizing something was wrong.

“Nick?”

Nick’s breathing had changed. Jacob immediately set his controller aside and moved closer.

“Hey. You okay?”

Nick closed his eyes and pressed a hand against his stomach.

“Just… a contraction.”

His voice came out strained.

“This one’s stronger than usual.”

[This is a new version of my original.]

Oliver and Julian had spent the past week enjoying a peaceful seaside vacation, a welcome break from the constant noise and pressure of city life. With their baby’s due date only a couple of weeks away, they had decided that a quiet getaway would be the perfect opportunity to relax before their lives changed forever. They rented a cozy cottage perched on a bluff overlooking the ocean. Their days were filled with lazy walks along the shore, afternoons spent basking in the warm sun, and evenings listening to the rhythmic crash of waves against the beach below. One afternoon, the couple sat together on the cottage porch. Julian was absorbed in a novel while Oliver rested comfortably in a wicker chair, enjoying the salty breeze. Suddenly, Oliver’s expression tightened. He drew in a sharp breath and instinctively placed a hand on his stomach.

Julian immediately looked up from his book.

“Hey,” he said, setting it aside. “Are you alright?”

Oliver exhaled slowly, trying to remain calm.

“I think I’m having Braxton Hicks contractions again.”

Concern flickered across Julian’s face as he moved closer.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “It can’t be real labor, right? We still have two weeks to go.”

“I know,” Oliver replied, nodding. “I’m pretty sure they’re Braxton Hicks. It’s just… these feel stronger than the others.”

Julian gently rubbed his back.

“Okay. Just breathe. Remember what the doctor said. They’re usually harmless. Your body’s just preparing itself.”

Oliver closed his eyes and focused on steady breaths.

“I know,” he murmured. “But it’s hard not to worry. What if the baby decides to come early?”

Julian tried to sound more confident than he felt.

“Hey, don’t do that to yourself. The doctor said this is completely normal as the due date gets closer. It doesn’t mean labor is starting.”

Slowly, the tension eased from Oliver’s face as the contraction passed.

“I guess you’re right,” he admitted. “It’s just difficult to tell the difference sometimes. I don’t want to take any chances.”

Julian leaned forward and kissed his forehead.

“I know. And it’s okay to be nervous. But we’ll take things one step at a time. If they become regular or more intense, we’ll call the doctor. Until then, let’s just focus on relaxing.”

Oliver leaned into him, comforted by the warmth of his embrace.

“You always know how to calm me down.”

A smile tugged at Julian’s lips.

“That’s part of the job.”

Oliver laughed softly.

“I just don’t want anything to go wrong.”

“Nothing is going to go wrong,” Julian said firmly. “We’ve come this far. Soon we’ll be meeting our baby, and we’re ready for whatever happens.”

Oliver nodded, feeling some of his anxiety melt away.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “We are ready.”

“Exactly,” Julian replied, squeezing his hand. “Now, how about some tea and a movie? Something lighthearted.”

“That sounds perfect.”

I’ve been thinking about this for a long time, and it’s honestly not easy to say. But I’ve decided to step away from the fandom and remove myself from the mpreg community.

Over time, the space has changed in ways that no longer feel right to me. The growing flood of AI-generated content has made it increasingly difficult to connect with what originally made this community special — real people, real creativity, and genuine passion. I find myself feeling out of place, like I’m expected to keep up with something that isn’t even human anymore.

It’s also disheartening to see how easily the bare minimum of AI-generated content is accepted and even celebrated, while the effort and care that once defined this space seem to matter less and less. I don’t feel comfortable creating in an environment where that’s the norm.

I’m sad that it’s come to this. This fandom meant a lot to me, and there was a time when it felt alive and inspiring. But with the direction things have taken, I no longer feel a reason to continue creating or participating.

Thank you to those of you who shared genuine moments, creativity, and support along the way — that’s what I’ll remember.

Take care.