Chapter Text
Mpreg time baby
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It was a simple mistake, in retrospect—a foolish, stupid mistake. He was ashamed of allowing himself to be so careless, so reckless as to jeopardize the quiet tranquility and peace that he valued so much. But, then again, could he have really blamed himself? He had no way of knowing that this, of all things, would happen—this was a life-changing, peace-threatening event, one he could never undo.
He was pregnant . Somehow.
He’d been weak and pathetic enough to let another living soul into his life—a man by the name of Diavolo—-though that was very unlikely to be his actual name, Kira mused. That was fine; he didn’t need to know. Both of them were secretive, and they both valued privacy and peace more than anything; perhaps that’s why they'd been so readily willing to trust each other with their secrets.
It was spur of the moment—-they were both drunk, inebriated; it was a fleeting moment of passion, of hunger, of weakness. They both let their guard down; one thing led to another, and before he knew it he was on top of Diavolo, and then Diavolo was on top of him, both of them ravenous, both of them secretly, painfully alone. They hardly spoke of it the day after. it was a tacit agreement: don’t speak of it, and it never even happened.
Dinners after that were quieter, more awkward—they both skated around small talk, pathetic subjects, avoiding the elephant in the room. A few weeks later, diavolo fled early in the morning, leaving only a vague note of goodbye on the counter. Kira woke up to a cold, empty bed—that was strange. When he saw the note in the kitchen, his chest clenched. He picked up the note, read it several times—he spent a good five minutes just standing there, staring at it. He had no clue how long he’d been standing there before Queen manifested, coaxing him back towards his room to get dressed. It’s not like it mattered—Diavolo was nothing more than an acquaintance: a diversion— something to pass the time, to keep him occupied. He could get along just fine, the same as he did before: that's how he'd always lived before. Surely he’d have no problem living alone now; he lived his whole adult life alone.
So what was this strange pain in his chest?
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He went about business as usual for a while after that—-going to work, killing covertly, sneaking back to the comfort of his home, as inconspicuous as ever. For a while, he convinced himself that everything was normal—that he wasn’t lonely, that he wasn’t hurting, that there wasn’t a big, aching hole in his chest left by Diavolo’s departure.
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However, it only got worse from there on out. As months passed, his health fell into decay. His body grew heavy, weighed down with constant fatigue. His bladder was constantly full, even after he’d just used the bathroom. His guts ached in a dull but persistent way, a nearly constant bother that wore him down. He grew terribly nauseous, throwing up almost every day and hardly able to stomach most of his usual meals. These symptoms worried him, of course, but he passed them off as simply stress—surely they would go away soon, he thought.
However, one morning he was confused when his pants refused to button up.
He’d tried several times, but the waistband wouldn’t budge. Frustrated, he glanced down and examined his abdomen. It was…definitely larger than the last time he looked. It was noticeably swollen. There weren’t any rolls or creases on it—just a round, smooth lump of skin.
Huh…that’s odd…
He passed it off as just that—bloating, or weight gain. Perhaps he needed to adjust his diet, start eating healthier.
He remained persistent in his ignorance, in his cluelessness. There wasn't anything wrong with him, he convinced himself. And he believed it.
That was, until one day, he felt something inside him move.
It was a normal day, like any other—he'd gone to work, then the gym, then came home. His newest girlfriend was starting to wear down and smell rank, so he’d been on the lookout for a new potential candidate. He needed to act quickly—his urges were growing stronger, and he feared what he might do if he didnt act soon enough, if he didn’t have something to satisfy him for now. Sometimes he’d be in public when an onslaught of visions would strike—hateful, violent urges, thoughts of massacring thousands, anyone within his line of sight—-especially people who got on his nerves. The anger, the rage, it was building—-it was becoming a problem.
Besides the anger, his emotions had become strangely tumultuous ever since Diavolo left: even the smallest bothers were enough to leave him in a tailspin, and he’d get the strong urge to cry sometimes, usually for no particular reason at all. Usually it was from sadness—other times anger. Either way, it was bothersome: a nuisance that threatened his sense of well-being. He couldn’t stand to have that, especially now.
He’d arrived home, feeling irritated, exhausted, malaised. He stumbled into the kitchen, started making himself miso soup. That’s when he felt it—-a subtle, mild shifting sensation, coming from inside his belly. He was disconcerted, momentarily—but then he resumed his task; he figured he was just sleep deprived and starting to imagine things. However, then it happened again—stronger this time, more forceful. Something was moving.
Abruptly, he stopped stirring. His heart caught in his throat, and he couldn’t breathe. What the fuck was that…?
Slowly, cautiously, he brought his hands to his stomach; he rested them beside his belly button, where he’d felt the movement. There was nothing—only stillness. His breath quickened.
Am I hallucinating? Am I losing my mind…? I felt something move just now—that was definitely movement.
“Killer Queen,” he summoned, growing anxious. This could be a stand user—he had to be on his guard. The cat softly materialized, floating around intently. Kira turned slowly around the room, interrogating his immediate surroundings with an eye of suspicion. Could that coffee table be a stand? The couch? The miso soup he was making? Everything was a suspect—a potential aggressor.
He examined the space thoroughly with his stand, heart pounding; he was careful to be quiet so he could listen closely, detect any movement. Queen was floating about the room as well, scanning silently—its ears were highly sensitive, more than Kira’s were. He’d brought out Sheer Heart Attack, which was circling around the turned-on stove, not moving elsewhere. So the user wasn’t nearby, that much he knew…but their stand could still be.
Abruptly, he felt that same movement—like something squirming inside, a sort of wriggling in his guts. Startled, he stumbled backwards, tripping and falling on the floor; he landed hard on his side with a whimper of pain. Killer Queen rushed over to him, crouching down and examining him with worried eyes. “Kira? What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”
“I…” He was speechless. His breath hitched, tears pooling in his eyes—he never cried, ever. At least, not until recently—now he was a mess. What the hell was wrong with him?
“Queen…somethings wrong…very wrong…”
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It was painful, so very painful. It was so bad he wanted to die. Still, going to the hospital was not an option—-considering what he planned to do next.
This child was a burden and a liability, a disruption in his carefully crafted lifestyle—-he couldn’t have that. Kids were expensive and time-consuming, which would interfere with his job and his private hobbies. Furthermore, It would serve as a link to his and diavolo’s identity, should push come to shove, and he refused to put either of them in that vulnerable position. There was no question about it—-the child had to go. He’d use killer queen; it'd be a quick and clean kill, with no evidence, business as usual.
However, he had to get the kid out of him first.
And that was a whole nother story.
He’d done some geographic research beforehand, searching for deserted and run-down buildings in the area. He’d found an abandoned church, several miles from his condo, and decided that would be the place. Sure, it wasn't ideal to give birth in a rundown chapel, but hygiene and comfort were the least of his concerns; privacy was key.
He packed some amenities in a duffel bag: two pillows, a blanket, a towel, energy bars and water. He was dreading this unfortunate occasion with every muscle in his body. And yet, in a way, he was almost somewhat relieved—after this was all finally over, things could finally go back to normal. He could resume his quiet, peaceful life, finally, as if nothing had ever happened; a small mistake was all this would be, he thought. The past would be behind him.
Or so he thought.
Luckily, he’d been able to stall his labor at least until nightfall, despite his contractions starting at about midday. They were mild enough, but he knew they weren’t just his usual aches—they were persistent, consistent, falling into a rhythm. While they weren’t severe yet, they were still noticeably sharper and more spastic than his usual belly pains. Sure, he’d get cramps often, but they didn’t feel so… deliberate. Intentional, perhaps; like his body was trying to have cramps. Usually they felt random. This was not random.
The contractions had gotten noticeably more intense by the time he made his way to his destination, though they weren’t exactly that painful per se—they were on the border between mild pain and strong discomfort, a muscle pulling taught before releasing again. Still, they filled him with a suffocating sense of dread—this was inevitable. It was coming soon, and it would be very painful for him.
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REAL SHIT STARTS HERE BABY
It was cold and rainy that day—of course it was. It had to be rainy. Perhaps it was fitting to the occasion, he thought bitterly to himself; awful weather for an awful event. He’d been in denial for maybe a day or so, assuming the stomach cramps were just the usual Braxton hicks he was recently prone to. However, they were far too frequent by comparison, and they seemed to be getting gradually stronger and more painful. Finally, it got to the point where he realized that he had to concede that this was happening, if he wanted to maintain his plan of privacy—his house was too close in proximity to the rest of his neighborhood. Surely someone would hear him screaming out in pain and come rushing to his aid, either that or they’d call the cops. He absolutely could not have that; his house full of evidence, of hands and nail clippings and other things. Even more importantly, he did not intend to keep this child after birth; once it was out, he’d rid himself of the thing using Killer Queen. And so he couldn’t have any witnesses, any— it would only create a mess of his plan.
And so, reluctantly, he packed up his bag with a few necessities, grabbed an umbrella and a raincoat, and an extra poncho to wear over it, to disguise his grotesquely swollen frame. There was a pit of dread in his stomach, and he feared he might vomit. His hand trembled as he grabbed the doorknob, twisting it slowly, apprehensively, reluctant to leave the safety of his house. For some reason, he felt like if he stayed, it meant that he could deny it—that it wasn’t happening, that he wasn’t going into labor. If he stepped outside, however, he’d be forced to face the inevitable instead—to face the truth, instead of avoiding it. This didn’t make much sense, of course, but some part of him was convinced that somehow he could stall, or even avoid it all together if he just stayed in his house. However, he knew this not to be true, in his logical mind; and so, with heaviness in his heart, he stepped outside, into the pouring rain.
He decided not to bring his car for this, which he wasn’t sure was a prudent decision in retrospect—about fifteen steps outside and his feet were already throbbing, not to mention the persistent aching in his back. However, he figured that his car could be used as evidence against him, if something were to go wrong—if someone were to walk into the church out of curiosity and find him laboring, or even worse, catch him in the act of infanticide. He’d have to kill them, and that’d be a whole mess, and of course if anyone witnessed two people walking into the church and only him walking out, he’d be an obvious suspect; add his car into the mix, and the police would surely have no trouble identifying him based on witness information. And so, there he was, limping slowly, practically waddling in the pouring rain, his hair soaked and his body shivering. Each step he took had him regretting his decision, and he became paranoid as well—what about the people seeing him, limping in the rain, poncho drawn suspiciously low over his face and all. However, most people he passed on the street seemed to pay him little mind, save for a few worried glances, which were brief before the person would quickly look away, not wanting to be confrontational. That was good; confrontation was the last thing he needed right now. Thank god that they didn’t seem to be perturbed enough by his comically large poncho to ask him about it.
After an endless journey through the pouring, spattering rain, he finally came upon a secluded street corner, where he had found a perfect location months prior—a run-down chapel, dilapidated and dusty, probably festering with spiders and mold. This part of town was shady, and so he was very attentive to his surroundings as he walked, being sure to look around frequently and make sure no one was following him, ready to pounce. However, there was hardly anyone out at the moment. Most of them were inside, seeking shelter from the relentless downpour, as he would be doing right now, if it weren’t for his circumstance—his terribly unfortunate circumstance.
After some agonized searching, he found it: an old, crumbling church, with a “Do Not enter” sign chained over a black, rusty fence. Not bothering to look around, he mindlessly yanked at the gate door, which was expectedly locked—he’d been so tired and out of it he hadn’t even thought of that.
Shit. How do I get in?
Anxiously, he looked around, scanning the area for bystanders or witnesses.
I could just use Killer Queen, I guess…
Taking one last cursory glance around himself, he quietly prayed there were no stand users hiding nearby as he manifested his stand. Killer Queen picked up a small rock and threw it at the fence, busting a decent sized opening in the metal with a small popping noise like a firecracker. He trudged onto the premise and cautiously opened the door, convinced that it would break off its hinges if he pulled too hard. Surprisingly enough, the door stayed intact, although it was obnoxiously creaky when it opened and closed.
He practically collapsed on the floor, using killer queen to catch him and soften his fall. The floor was filthy, sure, and the place reeked of dust and age and infestation, but he didn’t care enough at that moment—his body was exhausted. There was a sort of painful fullness in his hips, one that made even sitting or lying down uncomfortable; there was just so much pressure. His belly was heavy, tight, and stuffed full to the brim; he wanted nothing more than to have the goddamn thing out of his body.
Killer Queen set him down gently on his back, taking the small bag and unpacking
Balls
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Suddenly, another tight, squeezing pain seized his body and he collapsed, falling onto his knees. Queen rubbed his back as he curled into himself, letting out a strained moan as the cramp reached its peak. After what seemed like forever, it waned, leaving him gasping for air. This was exhausting.
He let out a pained, ugly sob, his face streaked pathetically with tears.
“Queen…I can’t do this…” he moaned, his voice strained.
“Yes you can, Kira, stay calm.”
“I can’t stay calm! I’m fucking bleeding ! It hurts ! I’m gonna die…I don’t wanna die…” He was full-on blubbering at this point, rambling fearfully as his stand rubbed his back, staring back at him with those gentle feline eyes.
“You’re not gonna die, Kira, I promise. People do this everyday, and you’re one of them—”
“But I can’t! I fucking can’t!” Before Queen could respond, he let out another guttural, agonized scream, plunging into another contraction. It was unbearable—his whole back cramped up tight and his body shook, straining furiously as he heaved, pushing as best as he could. In the middle of pushing, he vaguely felt something small and warm slip out of him, though it brought absolutely no relief to his pain. Finally, the contraction ended, leaving him gasping for air, his lungs burning.
“Queen…” he groaned.
“Mrrp?”
“Something…fell…out…” he said, panting between words.
Killer Queen looked behind him, checking to see.
“Oh, don’t worry, Kira—it’s just excrement.”
“Huh?”
“You pooped.”
He glared at his stand, his face red and furious from pain.
“Are you fucking me…?”
Killer Queen just shook its head.
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