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hayashidayuki · 15 days

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Cult of the Wombflayer Pt.2: Homecoming (Tentacle Preg)

The first tails of summer were beginning to rear their head. The lush greens of Caledonia were ever so slightly tinted gold, tiny pink butterflies fluttering their wings; Niall wiped the sweat off his forehead, setting the axe by his side.

A pile of splintered firewood lay before him, the satisfactory product of a few hours of arduous work, and most likely more than enough to store for when the leaves became auburn and wilted. Cracking his shoulders, the wolfman gazed up into the cloudless sky, the gentle blue slowly giving way to a kind, warm orange. He huffed, smiling softly, hoisting a bundle of kindling on his arms.

Tiny houses of stone and wood surrounded him. Trails of beige dirt snaked their way through the greenery, disappearing into the horizon, delineating bountiful gardens and modest businesses, mirthful villeins stumbling out of the local tavern in uneven droves. A few puddles of dark water yet remained from yesterday’s rainstorm, and a wrinkled up old dog squeezed those last minutes of sunlight, perched on the windowsill like a slumbering statue.

A year had passed since the incident of the entombed city; since a couple purloiners venturing into the remains of a sunken labyrinth had gone awry, a maelstrom of eldritch energy and monsters from beyond the void had put a quick end to their travelling days, at least for now. A year had passed since a nest of abyssal creatures, of slobbering tentacle and curious eyestalk, had made the womb of his beloved their home; as the little witch had somehow managed to wrangle the unknowable beasts into being cutesy pets and servants for her.

His bumped up, tattered armour found a comfortable resting place in the corner of their room; his broadsword and black fur cape replaced with the toolset of a househusband and a bright smile on his muzzle.

Pushing the heavy wooden door with his shoulder, he walked into Morrigan’s cozy home. “I’m done with the wood, dear!”

Standing in the middle of the cottage’s living room, shelves and cupboards lined with all manner of queer artefacts that she liked to collect, the petite sorcerer turned her head, giggling. “Yay!” She chirped, waddling clumsily over to her big teddy bear of a boyfriend, handing her wooden ladle to one of the tentacled creatures that hung out near her. Her raven black hair was tied back in a messy bun, a little lilac kerchief decorating her head.

Over the time they had spent together since their incursion into the depths, Morrigan had grown from a runty explorer to a homely housewife, adopting more and more of her mother’s costuming and behaviour. A white blouse did what it could to hug her enormous chest, bouncing and swaying from side to side with the slightest of movements; a couple of undone buttons for the sake of comfort revealed a long slit of cleavage. From below her bosom, a long plaid skirt fit snugly around her widened hips, the colossal swell of her pregnant stomach pushing it thinly front and sides, giving a reason as to the seams and stitches on the sides of the skirt.

Niall’s eyes travelled up and down his bethroted’s maternal body, particularly getting stuck on her massive gravid stomach, firm and tightly packed like a rock. The tiniest of blushes appeared on his cheeks, quickly averting his gaze.

Whereas once, her adorable tummy could once have been inhabited by drooling Shoggoths, a different kind of beast now stewed within her, kicking her sides to display its demand of whatever was sizzling in the oiled up pan before her.

Triplets. Three little children, conceived by the two of them, currently eight and a half months along. He couldn’t help but crack a nervous smile.

“Mmm-...?” He hummed, gently placing his hands on her shaking hips. “What’s that I’m smelling, dear? What’s for dinner?”

Morrigan’s eyes glittered, a hint of pride in her words as she happily rubbed her stomach. “I’m making stew! You know, how you like it!” She didn’t notice in her excitement, but her enormous gut was repeatedly bumping against Niall’s waist.

“C-Careful, careful…” He muttered, ever so worried, placing his hands on her pregnant belly, patting it gently. “That’s great, Morrigan! I can’t wait to try it.”

“Ehe~ You went for it straight away, eh?” She smirked, looking down at her partner’s large, furry hands as they caressed her nubile growth. As oblivious as she was to anything romance or sex related, she could still somewhat tell Niall had… Something about girls with big, swollen stomachs. “They are very happy to see you too, love.” She whispered, grabbing his hands and softly drawing circles with them on the sides of her tummy.

“U-Uh, sorry, I just…”

“Morrigan!” A third voice, a tad deeper and huskier than the other two, chimed in; a stout woman, with a thick mane of black curly hair, hastily checked the crackling fire under the pot, one hand carrying a large wicker basket chock full of dirty laundry. “I told you to be more careful with the stew!”

It was Mavis, Morrigan’s bearish mother, with a pouting expression on her face. She was a spitting image of the witch, bearing her same inklike curls, the same rosy cheeks, and the same curvaceous and buttery body. For a mother of two, she was incredibly young looking; her own bovine bosom as firm and round as her youngest daughter’s, if even slightly larger. She lifted a finger at the girl, pursing out her lips. “You know your sister doesn’t like her veal too tender…”

“O-Oh!” Morrigan stammered clumsily, turning towards her with a hand on her belly, as if trying to entice her grandmotherly kindness. “S-Sorry, mommy…”

“Sister?” Niall replied, a bit of confusion in his brow, before gazing back at an even more embarrassed Morrigan.

“Didn’t she tell you? Her sister Caitlinn is coming to visit. She’s a sorcerer in the big city.”

The big city; also known to civilised people as Dawnspire, the capital city of the region, and the residence of the king. A humongous, bustling burg, a boiling pot of cultures and knowledge always brimming with life and movement. Titanic ivory statues and towers erected into the sky; hecatoncheir monuments engraved with all sorts of images of stained glass, millenia-old universities of science and arcanism, noble houses siring the mightiest of knights and clerics.

Niall was a bit taken aback; his interest piqued. During his years as a paladin in training, he’d been told wonders about this glorious city of white and gold.

“Oh, no, she hadn’t told me.” He mumbled.

“Aye dear, this girl’s gonna forget her head one day.” She replied, chuckling, adjusting her hairdo. “Morrigan, could you please pay a bit more mind to the fire? I need to finish preparing your sister’s room…”

Her words were interrupted by the sound of carriage wheels outside.

“Or maybe not.”

While the enceinte witch waddled up to stir the soup and temper the flames, Niall glared through the window, watching the shape of the coach delineate against the dark of the summer night. It was massive, like a gilded, headless beast harboured by titian oil lamps; the horses in front were shambling skeletons, pieces of polished bone floating together as if held by black magic, and even the driver was the remains of a man, a thick cigar caught between its teeth.

As Mavis stumbled outside, bouncing excitedly in the same way her daughter sometimes did, two more cadavers popped from behind the vehicle; one of them wore a silly fake moustache and carried an embroidered handkerchief, and one, with a bull’s skull instead of a man’s and a particularly large body, prostrated itself on the ground. A few windows of the neighbouring houses were lighting up as well, observing the opulent scene.

The ornate door cracked open, held by the skeletal butler; and a tall, svelte woman carefully elevated herself from the tapestry seats.

She was thin and elegant, almost a head and a half taller than Mavis, with spotless pale skin and sharp, piercing crimson eyes. Her shoulder-length hair, formerly the family’s soot-like black, was greyed out by years of necromancy practice, with scarlet stripes that curled upwards, almost like daemonic horns; contrasting the gold and silver of her pendants. A rich, lushly coloured robe cascaded from her shoulders, black and white stolas falling behind her like a magnificent cloak, her arms and legs riddled with decorative bandages and fingerless gloves; her small, delicate breasts tightly hugged by a black corset.. From the moment she stood up, her chin pointing up to the sky, it was like the very air around her went cold.

She snapped her fingers, impeccably manicured, and the skeletons reacted in unison; the driver put out its cigar on the pelvis of one of the horses, the butler held her hand gracefully, and the bull-headed one made itself small while the sorcerer used its back as a stepping stone.

“About time.” She spoke with a razor sharp tone, even with a hint of a chuckle. “You people really ought to take better care of-”

Her snide remark didn’t have time to fully formulate, before Mavis suddenly threw her arms up in the air with a serious expression. “Haud yer wheesht and give your mom a hug.”

“M-Mom, I- uh…” Suddenly, the ostentatious princess was gone, and a timid teenager was in her place. “N-Not here…”

“Oh, so I pushed for 35 hours non stop to bring you into this world, and this is the thanks I get?” Tenaciously, the woman didn’t dare lower her arms a bit, piercing her bairn’s soul with a steel gaze. “If you don’t give your mom a hug right now I swear to Stormlord-”

They shared a shy, gentle hug, and Mavis was suddenly back to her usual sunny demeanour, clasping her hands together in delight that Caitlinn was back home. Morrigan waddled out of the house as well, clumsily undoing the knot of her apron. “H-Here, wait, I wanna say hi too!”

She placed her hand on her lower back, balancing out the weight of her enormous gut, prompting a hearty laugh out of her sister. “Gosh, sis, you look like you’re carrying a dragon in there!” As soon as the girls were together, they shared another big, warm hug, Caitlinn ever so gently patting her little sister’s head, and Morrigan looking like she’d wag her tail if she had one. Her pregnant stomach hung heavy from her torso, gurgling loudly in response to all the commotion outside. “You’re even fatter than usual.” Caitlinn remarked sharply, an acerbic grin plastered all over her face.

“Ehehe~ I’m so happy to see you again, too! Come in, come in!” Morrigan chirped cheerfully, seemingly having not processed her playful jab, dragging the taller woman from her hand to the inside of the home. “You’ve gotta meet Niall!”

…

“Mhm… A bit too tender for my taste, sis.”

A bit irked by her mother’s ‘told you’ look, Morrigan smiled softly as she finished up serving the last plate of steaming, savoury stew, waddling around the living room placing jars and chunks of bread all over the table. “Well, my bad. It’s my first time making something like this.”

“Dear, you sure you don’t want me to help…?” Niall craned his head back, looking at his heavily parturient girlfriend run back and forth, his cheeks a tad pink as he could not avoid noticing her shaking breasts and swaying behind as she opened up cabinets and produced different utensils from them. Her blouse’s right side had a little hole along the seams, a tiny window of rosy skin revealed by an overexerted piece of clothing.

She shook her head, her enormous stomach rubbing a bit against the back of his head. He could feel the taut skin, the ocean of fluid sloshing within; he grit his teeth, flustered red. “Nah, nonsense! I was just about to be done!”

As the woman trudged along, humming to herself, finishing up her overdue tasks while her family sat at the table, a tiny squadron of Shoggoth revealed themselves from the cracks on the walls, following her along. Pink squishy tentacles grabbed pot and pan, dragging chunks of wood into the crackling cinders of the fireplace, whining and whistling as they passed towels and tablecloths from one to another.

As she moved, Morrigan twirled her finger in the air, drawing tiny circles and shapes, seemingly controlling the creatures’ actions with her motion and her voice. At a certain point, it was the tiny cephalopods doing most of the work, with their master mostly sitting back and caressing her midsection.

“That’s… Interesting. And what do you say these things are called again?” Caitlinn leaned over the table, taking little bites out of a piece of rye bread.

“Shoggoths! Although they don’t usually respond to that…” With the help of her partner, Morrigan slowly lowered herself onto the last empty chair, placing her hands on her stomach. The immaculate sphere of skin gurgled and sloshed as she moved, the tiniest hint of unborn movement noticeable just below her chest; unburdened by embarrassment, the girl carefully unbuttoned her blouse from the bottom, the roseate mound getting some room to breathe; and even the arcane lilac of her brand glowing out under her outie belly button. Niall looked to the other side, his ashen fur failing to conceal his burning face.

“And you gave birth to them…? Fascinating.” Caitlinn replied, a hint of boredom in her voice. “Speaking of which…” Her grinning eyes careened down to her overladen gut, pushing against the polished wood of the table, rippling with movement as she swallowed spoonful after spoonful of her mouth-watering stew. “How’s the love life, sis?”

“It’s going well!” She replied with an ear to ear smile, her stomach resounding like a tightly-pulled drum as she patted it proudly. “How’s yours?”

Caitlinn’s sardonic smile fell down, turning to a playfully upset expression. However, Niall couldn’t help but notice a tint of judgement in her eyes, especially towards him.

Although the joy of a reunited family was inebriating, all of them were rather exhausted; especially the newcomer after her overextended trip. The supper was rather quickly dealt with, with Morrigan and Niall staying behind to wash the dishes and put everything in its place as the other two retired to get some shut-eye.

As the mantle of dark began to draw over the village, every window slowly losing its warm glow, the streets of the village fell deathly silent, with only the whistling of the wind to accompany the lonely couple. Niall groaned, his furry hands sopping wet as he placed a washed plate in the cupboard. By his side, Morrigan let out a breath, one hand cradling her tumescent stomach and the other on her tired back.

“What’s with the… Skeleton thing?” He muttered, his lupine eyes shifting ever so slightly. He could feel the void gaze of the undead horse peering curiously at him through the window; either judging his deepest sins or trying to beg for a sugar cube. It reminded him of Caitlinn’s occasional glares, the glares of a noblewoman distrustful of a starving hound.

“Well… S-She’s a necromancer, and she’s always liked being the center of attention… Even back when we were kids.” The girl complained, her curly hair sticking to her sweat-laden forehead. Her breathing was rather heavy; carrying such an immense weight around in her tiny body was delightful and exciting, but also incredibly tiring. “G-Gosh… Y-You mind if I sit for a minute, dear…?” She complained, rubbing the maternal swell.

“O-Of course, I’ll take care of what’s left. Are you doing well…?” The wolfman, after wiping his hands dry, gently laid them upon her taxed shoulders, caressing her.

The moment his hands began massaging her shoulders, a tiny mewl escaped from her lips; she promptly covered her mouth, blushing red. The pups inside her, almost as if amused by their mom’s reaction, began kicking up a storm, the taut shape of her parturient gut shifting and warping noticeably. “S-Sorry, I’m just… A bit, y’know…” Her voice almost a whisper, she bit her bottom lip. “A-A bit pent up…”

“P-Pent up? Like…” Blushing softly, he performed an obscene gesture with his hands, to which she nodded timidly. “I-I don’t know… W-With your mom and your sister here…”

“I-I know.” Her gaze, an unearthly lilac since the day they retrieved the Scepter, slowly trailed down to her massive gravid midriff, quaking with impatient foetal movement. “I-It’s just- your pups are… Really big, and…” She stopped for an instant to catch her breath, the imprints of tiny feet and tiny paws visible travelling lazily across her insides before quickly disappearing into the depths of her womb again. “A-And they’re always moving, and I’m always feeling them, and…”

“W-We could maybe…” He muttered in response, his hands ever so slowly spidering their way down from her shoulders to her chest, his thumbs caressing the tender and sensitive skin. Tiny barbs of electricity ran through Morrigan’s entire body; her meaty thighs rubbed together uncomfortably. “We could maybe go to the shed… I-I’ve emptied it already…”

Her puffy nipples already visible through the white fabric of her blouse, tiny blotches of sweet milk darkening up its tone, Morrigan shivered, craning her head back. Tiny, expectant eyes were observing her from the darkness, the few Shoggoths that hadn’t disappeared into the sewers or the holes in the wood attempting to process those strange feelings she was broadcasting to them.

Uninterested as the couple swiftly abandoned their cleaning duties, disappearing out of the house’s back door, the creatures began rummaging around the house, slithering around, thin trails of silver mucus covering walls and floor tiles like a pheromonal spiderweb.

They were trying to find a place to sleep.

…

“Ah… It’s just like I left it.”

Caitlinn stretched out her arms, letting herself fall down on the big, empty bed. The skeletons around her kindly tended to her comfort; a couple of them held her clothes over their bodies like glorified coat hangers, and the one with a bull’s head obediently massaged her dainty feet.

She was completely naked except for her underwear, the lithe curves of her sylphlike body barely delineated by the flickering candleflame, letting the ochre cotton of the bed engulf her completely. She had failed to inherit her mother’s plump figure, her massive breasts or her whopping hips, instead being granted a body as thin as a stick and as gracile as a swan. Not that she disliked her body, but watching how… Immense her sister had grown, it kind of made the tiny perky mounds on her chest feel a bit pathetic.

She gazed around the room, around its carefully decorated walls; the swarthy wood lined with copper and iron, the scent of carrots and onion always floating in the air, a chorus of crickets and a billowing wind replacing the ever-so-present skittering and merrymaking of the big city. Even some of her old rag dolls, including the ones Morrigan had - to put it kindly - experimented on, were lining the shelves, gifting her comforting smiles, even if a few of their arms were sewn to their adjacent kin.

Even as she always bickered with her sister, and as much as her constant yammering and childish curiosity could get on her nerves, it filled her with pride to see her come so far.

While Caitlinn had always been the one to concern herself with boys, an eternal kleptoparasite of her mom’s makeup kit, Morrigan had never once in her life shown interest in the opposite gender; not even in that burly wolf guy whose children now gestated inside her. And even so, it was the morbose bookworm who had found love first.

She nuzzled up to the pillow, a tiny hint of a smile in her lips. She had a thought, an indecorous thought, unthinkable by the stuck-ups that governed over her in the College of Mages. Carefully, she rummaged under the covers, waving her legs around as she slid her white lacy panties off, throwing them on the head of one of the attire-bearing revenants. I’m in a village, dammit, I can do what I want, she thought.

One of the skeletons gently pulled the fuzzy covers over her nascent frame, while another one kissed her forehead. Well, as best as a skeleton can kiss, but you get me.

However, as the candlelight was promptly snuffed out, a hundred budding eyes still glared at her through the dense penumbra. A few tentacles curled over the closets and the shelves, chitinous mouths chittering quietly. The first chills of the night were beginning to peer through the wood and the straw, and, while she was lucky enough to have cocooned herself in pleasant wool, others didn’t share her fate.

Their duties finished for the day, the skeletons lowered their heads, the reddish lights inside their skulls fading out as their master headed off to sleep.

…

That morning, all of Caledonia woke up to a bloodcurdling shriek.

“W-What is this?!” Caitlinn huffed, her voice exerted, protracted over the bed, as her stomach loudly churned in front of her. Her abdomen, thin and svelte barely the night before, was now swollen and rounded, stretched like an overinflated balloon, with reddish stretch marks lining her underside. Her hips had been lodged outwards horizontally, and her breasts had, somehow, gone up a cup size or two, shaking vigorously with her nervous breath.

A splatter of viscous, cold fluid covered her crotch, a glimmering trail of that very same secretion crawling down her bed and up the walls. A sickeningly sweet scent clouded her mind. “O-Okay, okay… L-Let’s- uh, relax… Um…”

Her belly suddenly lurched forwards, the glissading outlines of a dozen tentacles pushing against her taut skin. A pang of hunger struck her as the eldritch thing within her sloshed and gurgled.

As Morrigan and Niall hastily walked into the living room, still fastening up their clothes after hearing the commotion, the eldest’s door was suddenly slammed open; the new immense, red-faced visage of Caitlinn immediately visible to the half-disrobed couple.

“M-MORRIGAN!” She barked, with the teary eyes and cracking voice of a teenager that had found a pimple on her nose. “Y-You explain what’s happening to me! I-I’m sure you’ve got something to do with it!”

Both Morrigan’s and Niall’s faces became colourless in an instant, as they beheld the tendrils of the beasties squirm and writhe within her womb like a nest of snakes. Her belly was a fraction of the size Morrigan’s had managed to be, but in her lithe and silky frame, any kind of paunch would look gargantuan.

“E-Ehe~... Um…” The girl stammered gawkily, her finger placed over her plushy lips. “I-I guess someone forgot to check if all of the Shoggoth were put to bed…”

“D-Don’t you ‘ehe’ me, you bampot!” She yelled, a bit of her hick accent slipping through the cracks of her princess facade. ��G-Get your stupid fucking monsters out of me right this instant!”

“L-Look, yelling isn’t gonna get anything done…” Morrigan lifted her hands in front of her, waddling up to her sister with an uneasy look on her face. “Y-You should calm down, they-”

Hearing its mommy’s kind and gentle voice, one of the Shoggoth spread out its tentacles, Caitlinn’s stomach tightening and contracting ever so slightly as a scouting tendril emerged from her slit, gazing around with the big golden eye on its tip. Caitlinn grimaced strongly, taking a step back in disgust.

“E-Ew, ew, ew, ew, ew, ew, eeeeewww!”

“D-Don’t you be mean to it! It’s more scared of you than you are of it!”

“I-It’s a fucking interdimensional eldritch beast, and it’s defiling my body! I can react however the hell I want!” She threw her hands to her head in despair. “M-My body! M-My prince-seducing, award-winning body! It’s ruined!”

Before the girls began throwing potshots at each other, Niall stepped in, firmly placing his hands on each of their shoulders. “L-Look, both of you relax! We can’t be shouting at each other until one of you goes red in the face!”

“SHUT UP!” Both of the siblings shrieked in unison.

The indomitable swordsman reduced to a whimpering puppy, he nodded his head, staying back with a docile look on his eyes. As both the expectant mothers glared at each other indignantly, both their stomachs vacillated and shifted, one with tiny kicks and knees, the other with knotted tongue-like limbs.

A few moments passed, of heavy breathing and pleadful stares.

“H-He’s right.” Morrigan broke the uncomfortable silence, wiping a thick strand of messy hair away from her face. Her breasts sloshed and jiggled as her breathing stabilised, her childish rivalry less important than her sisterly love. “L-Look, you go rest on the couch, okay? I’ll go get the Scepter and my book.”

Swallowing her pride, Caitlinn replied with a tiny nod. The idea of her kinsperson performing witchery on her didn’t especially comfort her, but it was the best option she had right now.

“N-Niall, dear, could you help her get comfortable…?” She turned to her partner, pursing her lips. “A-And sorry for yelling at you.”

The former knight nodded profusely, dusting off his dirty jacket and reaching towards the enceinte Caitlinn. “Of course, I’ll take care of it. A-And don’t worry, okay?” They shared a tiny kiss before Morrigan waddled out of the room, disappearing into their room, flooded with grimoires and tomes.

Meanwhile, Niall gently guided the sorcerer to the couch, helping her heave herself down. Caitlinn huffed, swallowing nervously, scowling at the sight of the storm of appendages that roiled about inside her abdomen. “Here… B-Be careful.”

Though a snarky retort or two peered their virulent flavour up her throat, she decided to stay silent, closing her eyes. She could feel every inch of her torso crawl with slobber and tendril, shaking vigorously as they likely thought the agitation was part of a silly game or something like that. The feeling was utterly revolting… And yet strangely captivating, sending tiny pleasurable shivers up and down her entire body, still left mostly naked for the eyes to see.

“S-Sorry…”

Niall looked at her, as he was off in the kitchen quickly fixing a sandwich for her. “Hm? Come again?”

“I-I’m sorry. I was… Very rude to you yesterday…” She mumbled timidly, looking down at the laden trencher as he placed it on the table. Two thick slices of spongy rye bread, enveloping a thin layer of smoked lamb, with homemade butter and goat’s cheese. Her stomach gurgled, even louder than usual.

He smiled softly, wiping his hands. “No worries. I know I’m not really the… You know, ideal brother-in-law. I’m a peasant, and a beastfolk one at that. I’m not surprised you were a bit impolite.”

She stared for a few seconds at the serving, before suddenly snatching it with grubby hands, and chowing down on it like a starveling hellhound. Every bite felt immensely filling and wonderful as it went down her throat and into her overcrowded belly, flickers of sudden movement pushing against her sides with every hungry swallow. She placed her hand on the lateral of her stomach, feeling it expand and contract as the inhabitants inside celebrated the feeding.

“H-How did you know I was hungry…?” She blurted out between bites.

Niall chuckled softly, folding his arms with a big smirk on his lupine face. “I’ve seen far too many of these incidents to count. One learns a few tricks.” From the marble counter, he picked a large jar of mushy goat’s cheese, with a small paper label on it reading ‘Morrigan’s Cravings’.

Leaning back on the couch, sinking into its round backside as best as she could, Caitlinn laughed heartily. “O-Okay, that’s a good one. I like that.”

A few moments passed. The rumbling in her stomach did not falter a moment; Niall sat by her side, his cheeks a vibrant red.

“Y-You were a paladin, right…?” Caitlinn gazed at him, her hands instinctively on her abdomen. Although she wouldn’t admit it in a million years, she was actually beginning to enjoy the feeling of these creatures writhing around inside her body. “What Order did you belong to…?”

“I…” After a second of pondering, Niall lowered his head, twiddling his thumbs quietly. “Well… I um… I never really had the chance to join any. I tried to join the Order of the Gilded Truth, but I embarrassed myself at the trials. I tried with the Order of the Lady of Roses as well, but they would only get warriors from rich families… I tried to join the Order of the Penitent Ones… And the story goes on.”

Caitlinn gave him a modest, gentle smile, tucking a strand of scarlet hair behind her jewelled ear. “Well… I-I don’t wanna make promises, but… I’m buddy-buddies with the chapter master of the Order of the Silver Moon… Big dude, dark skin, white hair. Ansovald, he’s called. Wields a big ass axe. Not sure if you’ve heard of him.”

Niall’s wolven ears perked up upon hearing the knight’s name. Ansovald was a templar of legend, a royal champion of ironclad will and unyielding passion; the type of man-at-arms whose achievements and quests fill out entire storybooks, uncountable ballads and poems were confectioned in his honour. And Caitlinn spoke of him like he was someone to share a beer and a game of cards with.

“A-Ansovald? L-Like, THE Immortal Ansovald?”

Caitlinn nodded, giggling mirthfully. “I’ll make sure to write you a recommendation letter, or something like that.”

All of a sudden, Morrigan barged into the room again, slamming the door open. Her blouse was, somehow, tattered and ripped, having become more of a sarashi underwear than an actual shirt, and tiny splotches of milk and Shoggoth secretion dotted the white of its fabric, uncomfortably hugging her wobbling breasts. In one hand, she clasped a haphazard tome of spells, stitched together from pages and pages of dozens of grimoires, a far cry from the court sorcerers’ immaculate lorem ipsums; in the other, the rose copper Sceptre of the Wombflayer, a strange eldritch artefact recovered from the depths of an antediluvian city ruined by men trying to play gods. A wonderful combination.

“I-I’m here! S-Sorry for the wait, it was- um, trapped under a bunch of old shit.”

As if repentinely unburdened by her unmeasurable pregnancy, Caitlinn jumped up, her face red as a beet as she scolded her sister. “G-Good! Now, let’s get this over with; get these fuckin’ things out of me!”

…

The parturient woman laid over the sofa, grousing heavily; her growing chest ascending and descending with her uneven breathing. Her gravid abdomen, the size of an overinflated beach ball, contracted and shifted with snakelike movement, as the rubbery shapes of her tenants pushed up and down against her stretched skin. Her legs were spread apart, a thin string of mucus dripping off her bare pussy, feet perched on the table before her. A skeleton with a faux moustache gently massaged her horribly tense shoulders, while another with a bull’s head fanned her carefully. A third was off into the corner of the room, dressed in the embroidered shawl of a midwife, attending a fire warming up a bucket of springwater.

With Niall by her side, Morrigan kneeled in front of her sister’s pulsating mound, her own enormous belly slumping on the floor. Placing her navy blue witch hat over her head, its hem decorated with an anglerfish’s toothed jawbone, she cracked open the makeshift spellbook, its yellow and grey pages crinkling as she quickly flipped through them, scouting through all manner of assorted bewitchments in search of whatever enchantment woke up the Sceptre’s ancient powers.

Caitlinn grit her teeth, tightening her grip on Niall’s burly hand as her entire insides were reorganised at once, a vortex of hungry tentacles and thick fluid shifting her midriff up and down and all around. “C-Can you find the fucking spell already? I-I feel like I’m gonna burst open…”

“O-Okay, okay, gimme a moment…” The warlock continued to read through every page, every tatter of paper and ink stitched into a parody of a grimoire, every useless spell she had jotted down out of sheer curiosity. A warm shiver ran through her entire body, her lower stomach its epicentre, as the brand placed over her womb by the Cult began to emit a torrid glow; the kicking of her own children within her stomach began to quicken.

Transmogrification, animating toy soldiers, making wine into water, summoning an army of earthworms, an invisibility spell with a 10’’ radius… Here! The Chant of the Wombflayer, she pointed at the words, etched in messy purple ink with an even messier handwriting.

She lifted up the sceptre; its caduceus of rose gold tentacles unwrapping off its rod like if made out of liquid, forming the uneven shape of a heart over its gilded pommel. Out of the corner of her eye, the silhouette of a void heart beginning to emerge on its pupil, gangly and cloaked shadows jittered, staring at her with eyeless glares and smirking teeth.

The sole presence of the staff invigorated the starborn, its hexen magic driving them to violently slam against the walls of their prison of flesh, trying to run towards it; Caitlinn yowled, as her entire stomach suddenly launched itself forwards, sloshing loudly. As if she weren’t strained enough already.

Her locks of inklike hair beginning to float unearthily, Morrigan breathed out, her own body quickly overstimulated by the heretical powers of the sceptre. Every inch of her softened body was shaking uncontrollably, her breasts leaking rivers of milk as her womb quivered and quaked.

In her mind, she hoped a silent prayer; that her children would come out of this unscathed. It was when Niall’s comforting hand placed itself on her back that she mustered up the courage to speak through the maelstrom of ancient force.

“C-Caitlinn… Y-You trust me, right?” She muttered, breathlessly.

“W-What other choice do I have…?” Her sister replied with a chuckle, fingers digging into the horribly taut skin of her stomach. A few seconds of prideful silence, before sincere words were spoken through gritted teeth. “Y-You’re my little sis. Of course I do… N-Now do the fuckin’ thing.”

Morrigan nodded, her eyes trailing down to the poem written on the pages of her tome. “... T-This is gonna hurt.”

In whispers, she followed along the lines; mouthed silence for every word and every noiseless sound in a black tongue long forgotten. A hex; the darkest of all spells, meant to exert total and utter command over the relic. A claim to embody the loathed Wombflayer, and requisite its forces.

As she pulled back the staff, the floodgates opened.

A sudden surge of arcane wind burst forth from Caitlinn’s body; scattering plates and glasses all over the room, her abdomen conquered by an ungodly lilac glow as the blackened shapes of her inhabitants became visible against her uterine walls, shaking and slithering, coiling around each other in a colonial uroboros; they were clearly becoming agitated, straining the girl’s overrun womb even more with each passing second.

“A-Ah~! A-Aah- ah- aah!” She yelled, her voice cracking and drowning amidst the noise, craning her head back; one of her skeletal servants holding her to its ribcage, wiping the plentiful sweat off her forehead. In her yowls, there was a sweltering mixture of pleasure and pain; her body was being opened up from the inside, and yet she could not help but shiver and groan in incomprehensible orgasmic joy.

“Now…” Morrigan spoke with an uneasy, yet decided tone. “Listen to your Queen, Shoggoth! Exit your host, at once, and return whence thou cams’t, for that is thy place and forever shall be!”

A mangle of tentacles suddenly tore its way out of Caitlinn’s throbbing pussy, madly flailing around, searching for the nightingale of the sceptre as the vessel broke into a shrill howl of pruriency, overwhelmed aphrodisia begging for more with her entire flesh. Slobber and black milk splattered all over Morrigan’s body, staining her face, chest and stomach, protected defiantly by her arm.

“I shall asketh thee, once and not once more! Be banished, Shoggoth! BE BANISHED!”

A blinding flash of lilac light suddenly engulfed the room; the street; the entire village. The silhouettes of the ritualmakers disappearing into the unfathomable void of the Wombflayer’s domain.

A few instants passed; surrounded by nothing but a starry abyss.

Then, as if dragged through the very fabric of reality; everything was back to normal, save for the massive mess of chairs and paraphernalia scrambled in the tornado.

Morrigan slowly opened her eyes, clenched close to the point of discomfort. The sceptre was still in her hand, again in its dormant state; Niall’s loving arms wrapped tightly around her as if trying to shield her.

Her free hand quickly crawled down her body, patting herself down. A stagnant breath left her lips as she found her gravid stomach sticking out of her body, as always. It didn’t feel any heavier, any more active, any different.

In front of her, her skeletal servants having joined the rest of the rubble around them, her sister lay on the sofa, in an almost catatonic state with her eyes blank and a string of drool dribbling off her lips. Her belly had returned to its former state; though with a generous bit of extra paunch and some leftover stretch marks. Splatters of black and lilac fluid covered most of her lower train.

“W-We… W-We did it…” She mumbled silently, looking down at the stave in her hand with a gaze of disbelief.

Niall clambered down to the ground, letting go and falling on his back, breathing in and out loudly. “N-No… Y-You did it, dear. You did it…”

Her maturity trumped by her childish narcissism, Morrigan placed her hands on her hips, raising her chin and humming happily. “You see that, Caitlinn? Turns out you’re not the only sorcerer in the famil-”

“My… This feels so nostalgic…”

Recognising that voice, the couple suddenly turned back to the other side of the room; a rounded shape walking out of the small bedroom into the rubble and disaster.

Mavis, still attired in her cozy sleeping camisole, was suddenly carrying around an immense gravid stomach, rubbing it ever so gently with the kindness of a first time mother spoiling her son before he’s even born. The outline of tentacles was clearly visible within her.

“M-Mom?!”

“Oh, hi, dear… Good morning…” She mumbled in a sleepy voice, before noticing a toppled and shattered cupboard crumble by her side. “Ay, what happened…?”

Morrigan threw her hat to the floor, her hands on her forehead with an exasperated look. However, the sensation only grew as Niall pointed towards the window.

“Um… Morrigan. I-I think you should see this…”

The little witch waddled up to the window, getting on her tippy toes to comfortably see outside. Her eyes went wide as plates as she saw the catastrophic incident.

Women of all ages and shapes were walking out of their houses, suddenly burdened by immense enceinte midsections ridden with eldritch tentacles. Housewives with way too many kids rubbed their temples as their children ran around them in a big circle; courtesans and clerics equally bewildered at the occurrence; and even a large muscular knight had found her armour burst open from inside as her stomach suddenly grew.

Morrigan fell against the wall on her back, sliding down to the ground with the sceptre firmly held in her hands.

“I-I uh. I think I fucked up.”

…

Steel-toed boots left a mark on the damp mud of the crossroads. The witchhunter adjusted his white hood over his helmed head, observing a flask of anomalous fluid one of the witnesses had granted his order. A strange, glimmering secretion, silvered and black, sometimes soft as water and sometimes as thick as lard.

He was stumped. Over his many years of inquisition work, it was the first time he had stumbled upon something like this; and it didn’t have the telltale burned wood scent of the hell-touched, or the rotting stench of the corrupted.

He persevered, walking over the titanic hills of Caledonia; uneven highlands of jagged rock and luscious greenery, tinted by the first golden splatters of summer. Dense forests, laden with vibrant fruit and flower; immense lakes of crystalline waters lined with homely fishing hamlets; and an unending list of minuscule towns and villages with two-digit populations, most of them without a name, where having both a butchery and a bakery was considered a feat.

In this idyllic paradise, in this tiny little corner hiding away from the civilised world, he found no trail of this mysterious eldritch threat some witnesses had mentioned.

Stopping by a meadow of pink and yellow flowers, he rested his tired bones on a flattened rock, dislodging his sallet and placing it beside him. Producing a little pencil from one of his many pouches, he began writing down a report.

He spent a few minutes jotting everything down; the wonderful sights he had partaken to, the lovely people he had spoken to, the beautiful and fascinating cultures he beheld and observed; of course, in the overly formal language the bureaucrats at the Inquisition adored with effusiveness.

Then, all of a sudden, just as he was about to sign the paper; a flash of black and lilac conquered the sky for an instant. He shot up, his every muscle electric for an instant, his hand reaching for the silver sword that hung off his hilt.

A barrage of dark magic, completely out of control; his trained sight followed the shrinking vortex with uncanny speed.

The hex disappeared into a dinky little shack, in the middle of a tiny village in the distance, bordering the horizon. The air was cold, and heavy like lead. An unnerving smile crawled up on his lips as he ripped the paper, and threw it to his side.

Slowly, as he began picking up his bearings as to continue his trip, he extracted a bulky artefact from the holster at his belt. A large hunk of dark iron, a sophisticated invention of the royal military, with a long cannon connecting to a revolving cylinder of chambers. Upon cocking its hammer and pressing a little lever on its bottom, the artefact fired a lethal round of lead in the direction it was pointed; a surefire end for anything unfortunate enough to get in front of it.

With slow, fiendish enjoyment, he took his time to load every single chamber with a silver bullet.

Before putting on his helmet again and lowering the gridded visor, he wrote a correction on the next page of his notebook.

I’ve found the source of the power of the Cult.

I am on my way to eradicate it.

Maybe that way you’ll listen to me.

Reinhard A. Castellanos, Inquisitor of the Church.

#bellyexpansion #bellyinflation #pregnancy #pregnantbelly #tentacle #tentaclemonster #pregnantexpansion #pregnantfetish #monsterpregnancy #tentaclepregnancy #fantasypregnancy #huge pregnant belly #pregnancykink #belly expansion #preggophilia

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hayashidayuki · 15 days

Text

Cult of the Wombflayer (Tentacle Preg/Expansion)

With a twelfth fall of the pick and a haggard huff, the wall of stone crumbled down, opening a gaping wound into the jagged rock of the cave. A dim lilac light washed through the cracks, flooding the uneven tunnels at least a dozen metres back, piercing through the swelling clouds of dust and debris thrown up by the opening. The loud rumbling of stone upon stone rapidly disappeared into the darkness; returning to the eerily still silence.

Niall’s chest shrunk beneath his silver plate as he breathed out, his bulky arms limp with the dented pick in his hand. Droplets of sweat clung to his ashen fur like morning dew.

As its earthly skin was carved, the cave revealed its secrets.

Through the thin cloud of dirt, architectural shapes began to slowly take shape. A massive expanse emerged from the hole; the megalithic ruins of an ancient sanctum drawing the sketch of a bygone age.

Towering obelisks and ziggurats painted an underground horizon tinted in lilac, complex belfries and tendriled gargoyles of rusted copper carved unto every sharp edge and every winding stairway; gigantic parallel bridges connected grew between them like connective tissue. The ground, paved in complex patterns of dulled and blackened metals, was littered with the emaciated remains of its former inhabitants.

Above the cracked earth, an imposing statue, a man clad in layered tunics carrying an amphora bursting with tentacles, soared above the sacrarium, watching over the remnants of its home with its formerly gilded gaze.

An ocean of murky, sludgy violet water bellowed in the depths; a pool of unending stagnation emanating the same lilac mist that entrenched the entire cavern.

Setting his tool to the ground, Niall’s eyes slowly travelled through the dilapidated city, same as the frozen sentinel’s once did. He cracked his neck, groaning.

“J-Jeez… And all this, below the town?”

“This town’s roots trace back to an ancient chthonian cult.” A voice behind him chirped; with a hint of excessive confidence and a cocked hip.

“The Cult of the Wombflayer.”

Trudging clumsily over the heaps of stone, his beloved Morrigan waddled into view by his right side, swaying her child-bearing hips from side to side as she did. The tiny witch barely stood up to his chest , though that was more attesting to the wolven paladin’s great height. The thinning mist betrayed her curvaceous shape; her milky white skin contrasting with her delicate locks of black and dark blue, her maternal bosom wobbling and sloshing within her skimpy bra with every heavy step she took, puffy nipples poking through its fabric, her creamy thighs rubbing against each other over the tiniest of feet.

The gentle embrace of the fishnets over her limbs did little to conceal them, stretching over her enormous ass and snugly hugging her overgrown waist; doughy love handles spilled over the hem. Dark leather belts hung over her miniskirt, potions and scrolls and old silvered books clasped onto them.

But before she walked into the room; her massive pregnant belly did so before her.

A titanic sphere of marble-like flesh, pulled as thin as it could, stretched out a good three feet from her torso, larger than any normal expecting mother’s abdomen. It was enormously heavy, judging by her already taxed breathing and her curved spine, and its perfectly round shape was constantly warping left and right, as serpentine shapes slithered within, unborn tendrils coiling in spiral shapes just barely beneath her skin.

Niall’s cheeks tinted pink as he saw her trudge by; her gracile hands rubbing circles into the sore sides of her womb and wedging her stockings out of her buttcrack respectively.

Obviously, whatever floundered inside Morrigan’s innards was far from human.

With the tiniest of flinches in her overconfident step, a pinkish, slobbering tentacle wriggled its way out of her crotch, snaking down her meaty leg, and scouting the area around her for any possible threats.

After an embarrassing accident she still couldn’t bring herself to fully explain to her mother, four Shoggoth whelps had made their home within the witch’s uterus. This species, a skittish cephalopod of possibly arcane origins, was still a mystery to much of the sorcerous sciences.

Morrigan glared down at the surveying tendril, stifling a soft chuckle, and gently running her hands down its pulsating meat like one would a friendly puppy.

“Legend has it, they worshipped the Shoggoth.” Her words dripped with a childish pride, her still mucky hand being placed again on top of her womb. “... And I’ve read in some books that they even tried, y’know - summoning them into this realm.” She did a fluttering gesture with her fingers, accidentally hurling a droplet of slime onto Niall’s face. “For good luck, or something.”

The paladin was unimpressed, adjusting his posture and wiping the sludge off his cheek. “Of course they did. People back then worshipped all kinds of funky things.”

His eyes trailed down to her inflated belly, swollen up to the size of a cart wheel, raising his thick eyebrows as he felt his face grow warm. As much as he tried to play the aloof character, he had watched Morrigan grow along with him… And he couldn’t keep his gaze from glueing to where she had grown the most. His auburn glare bobbed up and down along with her tumescent chest, following the frantic glissading of her uterine inhabitants, observing how her luscious glutes squished against each other.

Her chubby cheeks, her glowing smile, fluttering eyelashes betraying an innocent gaze as deep and as blue as the sea itself; her sweet voice with her sweet accent, her sweet hands and sweet fingers and sweet fingernails that grazed his fluffy chest in his dreams.

Oh, he was so in love. So in love in fact, he hadn’t realised he had been intently glaring at his partner for a couple minutes now.

“Niaaaaall? Are you there?” Morrigan waved her hand in front of him, seemingly completely oblivious to his lascivious thoughts.

“Y-Yeah, sorry!” He quickly composed himself, the clatter of his bulky armour echoing through the rocky entrails of the underground city. His face was as red as a tomato, and his nervous smile showcased every sharp tooth of his lupine jaw. “I-I was just, uhm, s-studying my surroundings, yeah…”

“You weren’t listening to me!” She pouted, hands on her hips. “I was telling you about the culinary customs of the people of this ancient civilisation, and how the way a particular seafood dish was prepared indicated a deep reverence for their eldritch tentacled gods! Ugh, you’re missing out on so much fascinating knowledge!”

Lowering his pointy ears, Niall was about to say something; when the witch grasped his hand and, as fast as such a heavily pregnant woman could waddle, dragged him over to the main point of interest; the buried city. “Now, c’mon! I can’t spend all day explaining stuff twice, dummy!”

…

A good half hour passed before they could finally map out the labyrinthine anatomy of the ruins; of Morrigan idly yapping about the thousands of books she’d swallowed, and Niall in front of her, sketching lines and landmarks into a wrinkled paper, with the goofiest smile on his face at the enthusiasm of his partner. The swarthy tunnels melted into each other, coiling like snakes around broken down idols and asymmetrical altars, the cracked earth bleeding lavender as it suddenly gave way in dead ends to the tainted ocean below. The warm light from the knight’s oil lamp flickered dimly, momentarily revealing the mosaics and effigies that adorned the walls that surrounded them. Images of maritime beasts jumped at them, thrashing waves composed of minuscule marble tiles, depicting great heroes with tentacled masks standing off against these terrifying fiends; the type of piece one of the town nobles would purchase for obscene amounts of gold and copper just to hang it in his kitchen.

Niall hummed to himself, pretending to ignore the maimed, half-devoured carcass of a villager he had just stepped over. The careless woman waddled behind her, rambling about this and that with her hands patting her grumbly stomach.

“And, Morrigan -” He asked out of curiosity, turning back at her for a moment. “What are we exactly looking for here? A-Another one of those squiddy things?” With a dash of hesitance in his voice, he gestured at her gravid belly, her outie belly button bulging out a couple inches more as a particularly large tentacle crept underneath.

Before replying, the witch’s lips were parted by a silent groan, a tiny strain on her face as her entire gut lurched forwards; a loud roar emerged from her insides, her bovine udders wobbling indecorously, the wet squelch of her four tenants suddenly wanting to reorganise themselves at once. She had to bite her lip to contain a breathy moan.

Legs trembling ever so slightly, she adjusted her blumarine jacket over her generous bust. “W-We’re looking for a certain artefact, a magic tool used by the Cult… A sceptre.”

“A sceptre? Like… A staff? A big rod?” As a knight of shining blade, Niall wasn’t much knowledgeable of arcane catalyzers and thingamabobs. He knew of the sword, the shield, the bravado and the bonkin’ stick.

“W-Well, ah…” She mumbled, the tentacles in her womb still quivering, pushing against her taut skin, sending cold shivers up and down her arched spine. “I-It’s called the Sceptre of the Wombflayer.”

“Wow. Creative.”

“I know, right?” She grinned, not getting the sarcasm at all. “Supposedly, the Cult’s leaders would use it to, in a way, call Shoggoths forth from their realm and into ours. At least, that’s what the scripture says.”

Morrigan quickly ran her fingers over the yellowed pages of one of her books, flicking between breathtaking full-colour xylographies and crude ink sketches she had drawn herself: tall, gangly, almost alien figures clad in burgundy and golden cloaks, lovingly caring for heavily parturient women, attending collective libations, and standing before maws of blotchy energy disgorging tendrils with open arms.

A symbol was constant; a small rod about the length of an arm, tipped with two twisted tentacles, often glowing with an ornery arc.

Niall frowned, squinting his eyes at the illustrations; such picturesque drawings seemed more fitting of a wicked fairytale than an actual chronicle of history.

He gazed up and down the witch’s frame; the enormous tangle of appendages within her distended belly still very clearly at unrest. They had smelled something; their feelers erupted from between Morrigan’s puffy lips, dripping their milky secretions everywhere as they sniffed around frantically.

“That sounds…” He couldn’t help but take a step back at the sight of the tentacles surging from her pussy. “... Strangely believable, actually.”

Morrigan, with a mouthed groan, slumped against his chest, clenching her stomach. The tendrils of her eldritch children were tightening, pushing even tighter against her taxed, veiny skin; even a very faint lilac glow was visible through her uterine wall. “S-Shit…”

“M-Morrigan!” Her partner instinctively wrapped his arms around her, letting her rest upon her body. Looking down, trying to look past the massive wobbling, glistening cleavage directly in the way, he saw her stomach twist and turn, gurgling loudly as the snaking shapes of the Shoggoths inside coiled upon each other, vigorously slithering through every inch of her entrails, even the vague outline of a fanged chitinous mouth momentarily making itself seen against the underside of her mound of a tummy.

“O-Okay, don’t worry… I’m here…” He whispered in her ear, running his hand down her lush raven hair. Then, taking care of only touching it with the softer part of his gauntlet, he put his hand to the side of her quivering gut, rubbing soothing circles into it.

The girl’s quickened breathing slowly died down, as did the thrashing in her womb, in the broad arms of the man who, unbeknownst to her, loved her most deeply.

A few minutes passed. At some point, the trickle of ice cold water was the only sound in the entire grotto as far as they knew.

“I-I’m… Sorry…” Morrigan broke the silence with but a string of voice, clenching her fist a little as it rested against his padded chest. “I-I should be able to… Control them.”

“D-Don’t say nonsense like that…” Niall stammered in response, unable to ignore the milky dough of her chest squash against his abdomen, but trying to keep his cool for her. “You can’t just do everything on your first try; you gotta, y’know…” He gave her bulging stomach a timid pat. “L-Learn. And all that.”

“But…” She held the silence for a few seconds, the gears turning in her small head.

“No.” He muttered sternly, pulling her a bit closer. His heart was beating madly; his hands quivering as they held her shoulders. “No buts.”

They were so close, his muzzle was practically touching her forehead. He swallowed. No. Not yet, he thought. Hide your feelings, just like you’ve hid them for twenty-five years.

“I-If they’re moving like that, it means the Sceptre must be close.”

He held her hand.

…

As the warmth of the lamp pierced through the ashen darkness of the ruins, the uneven, jagged outlines of a mountain of rubble were revealed; a spattering of dried violet blood painted the ground’s mosaics in violent patterns. Below the cracked rocks, a rotten hand still clung to the sacrificial knife it held before its demise; inelegantly ripped from its stiff fingers by a curious Morrigan.

Niall walked around as the pregnant witch distracted herself with the remains; observing in unsettled awe the overwhelming scene his light was slowly revealing.

A titanic gate-ring, ornate with horribly misshapen runes, emerged from the piles and piles of blemished rock; every inch of its engraved malignancy tainted with a flaking, sandy darkness, almost like a barely healed scab still oozing with infection. The paladin shivered. There was something about that ruinous altar, about what its queer architecture suggested, that injected ice into his bloodstream. Almost by instinct, his eyes darted back to the oblivious Morrigan, his gloved hand cautiously settling itself on the pommel of his longsword.

Something awful had happened here.

The witch’s tits wobbled again, almost freeing themselves from her sparse chestband, as her gravid stomach suddenly lurched forwards with a loud, wet gurgle. Exhaling a taxed groan, Morrigan took her hands to her belly, looking down at it with pouting lips; the cephalopods within her were all twisting and curling against the inside of her gut… In one specific direction:

The massive, definitely evil, definitely dangerous evil ring of evil sacrifices.

“Niall!” She chirped, clumsily waddling over the dismembered mummies that carpeted much of the ground, pointing at the mountain of rubble. “T-There’s something in there! The Shoggoths are telling me!”

As soon as she approached, the same dim violet glow began to emanate from the curve of her stomach; little beams of the eldritch light visible between the malformed sillars of the scene in front of them. The tentacles within her womb smacked against the meaty walls that surrounded them, almost as if trying to break out and sneak between the askew rocks. “A-Ah~! T-They’re kickin’~!” She moaned, a hint of her embarrassing countryside accent slipping through.

The wolven paladin began to dig, and the witch hobbled clumsily up to him, her breath slowly growing more and more laboured. Every inch of her skin felt warm, fuzzy. Wet. Oversensitive.

Niall threw a sillar aside; it tumbled down the cliff, disappearing into the liquid void below with an almost inaudible splash, and a blinding beam of arcane light consumed him entirely. A shaft of pinkish metal, unblemished in comparison to its surroundings, had been revealed under the rubble. Fine, eerily symmetrical engravings of tentacles and sharp teeth covered its length, a strange caduceus of feelers.

Almost as if compelled by dark forces, Morrigan suddenly snatched the staff from her partner’s hands, pulling it against her squishy chest. “I-It’s- It’s real! It’s real!” She breathed out heavily, eyes open wide; a tiny glimmer of bright rose had begun to emerge in her iris, cheeks reddish as she greedily wrapped her fingers around the rod’s handle. “T-The Sceptre, it’s-”

All of a sudden, the Sceptre activated.

Niall only had a second to step back before a tremendous wave of arcane energy blasted through the room, throwing him to the ground and against the stone stairway; an ungodly force roared and rippled through the cave, a simulacrum of an earthquake with a groaning Morrigan at its center.

The witch clasped tightly against the Sceptre, its metal tentacles acquiring life for but an instant, enough to coil into each other and form a heart-like shape. Each inch of her body wobbled and jiggled, naked breasts swinging free of her bra as they suddenly bulged a good foot outwards, rivers of sticky milk spurting from her swollen nipples. Her fishnets ripped open unevenly, allowing chunks of milky fat to surge through.

Her huge belly, already shifting and warping with the same frantic movement as before, emanated a vibrant, electrifying bloom; the shadows of her tentacular children projected through the walls of her womb, each individual tendril wriggling and shaking around like a nest of snakes.

“M-Morrigan! W-What’s happening?!” The paladin yelled, still prone, shielding himself from the flying dust and dirt. Most of their supplies were flung into the darkness by the pulsating force emerging from the woman; rations, bottles, tools, and even his trusty longsword disappeared amidst the pink chaos.

“T-The ritual…” She muttered, though the gurgling of her stomach was loud enough she was barely audible to her partner. “I-It’s… I-It’s already started…!”

Her womb suddenly lurched forward, yet again; stretching out almost a metre as another mass of squelching tentacles abruptly emerged inside of her, a yell of pleasure burst from deep within her throat with the violent thrashing of her innards growing ever larger. The deformed runes of the sacrificial ring began to rapidly crackle with the same magic energy as her, tendrils of hexen electricity flailing madly.

“A-Ah- Ah- T-There’s more~! T-There’s more g-growing in meeeEEEEEE~~!!!” Her voice broke, shooting up at least two octaves as her belly ballooned out even further, an ocean of saltwater and chthonian life shimmering just below her skin. As she kneeled on the ground, her absolutely enormous stomach slumped against the dirty rock, so absurdly large that two Nialls could have gotten curled up inside, and then some.

A gush of black milk erupted from her pussy; she craned her head back, screaming in joy as a tentacle the girth of the knight’s muscular arms dislodged her birth canal from its place, spreading her legs and letting her womanhood be stretched beyond its earthly limits; tendrils upon tendrils upon tendrils made their way out of her womb, impossibly large creatures digging their feelers into the cracks of the ground.

And yet her belly only seemed to get bigger and bigger with each throe and each heaving breath. A turgid, liquid warmth overflowed from her every pore, her frame completely devoured by the growth of her crowded womb; entire Shoggoth whelps discharged from her cervix at that point, biting her lip until it bled with every chitinous head that forced itself out between her labia.

Niall, still in utter disbelief, dragged himself over the mosaics and over the rubble, helplessly watching as his dear childhood friend was consumed by the very magic that once destroyed this city.

His vision was fading. He hadn’t even realised amidst the commotion, but he had been hit in the head pretty bad. A thick string of blood trickled down his forehead, and his blade was out of his grasp.

The cavern shook; the earth itself giving way as the orgasmic birthgiver’s screams split the underground sky in half. The ziggurats, the obelisks, the belfries and bridges and towers and bastilles… It all was crumbling down; as Morrigan only grew larger and heavier with starborn child, and the creatures her womb spawned began to overrun what remained of the city.

He planted his remaining fist on the ground, and attempted to push himself up, to no avail.

There was no hope. No hope at all for the paladin and the witch.

…

From the corner of his eye. Niall’s gaze darted, as exhausted as it was frantic.

A cloaked figure had emerged from seemingly nowhere; a black sludge still clung to its burgundy wraps. A tentacled mask concealed its face, an eyeless mask unlike the ones attiring the corpses littered around the necropolis. Unsettlingly tall, unnaturally slender.

It was approaching Morrigan.

A gnarled blade emerged from beneath the cloak, held by an emaciated arm ridden with scabs and barnacles. Its pommel bore the symbol of the Cult of the Wombflayer.

“NO! NO YOU FUCKING WON’T!!”

As if overtaken by an otherworldly strength, the paladin suddenly leaped in the air; the cultist’s head twisted at a wrong angle, shooting him an eyeless glare that lasted less than a second.

An instant passed; the cultist jerked its vessel. A scream. A moan. A wound being gored into reality. A punch.

Black.

…

The paladin slowly opened his eyes, a blinding brightness scalding his auburn retina. Shuffling himself in place, patting his surroundings; his ornate armour was reduced to haphazardly reunited chunks of dented metal, kept together by sheer force of will and a little bit of bandage and string. There was grass beneath his body, green and fresh.

Where his exhausted gaze expected to find an illusion, the ceiling of half-molten rock cascading upon his broken body, it found a sky. The sky of a late spring, of a newborn morning; as deliciously blue and beautifully clouded as he had always remembered, with the tail of an orange sunrise still clinging on for dear life upon the horizon.

A round shape, however, rudely eclipsed this wonderful sight. A jiggling, spherical shape, hovering above his head, taunting him with its dark, swollen areola. He blurted out a gruff hum, lifting his arm towards what was hanging in front of him.

The moment he grasped it, his gloved fingers sinking into the milky flesh, a yelp broke the blissful silence of the elysium.

He shot up, what remained of his armour clattering clumsily, and even half of a shoulderplate remaining on the ground.

In front of him, a befuddled Morrigan kneeled on the grass. Her messy locks of dark blue hair fell all over her face, clinging to her forehead and her cheeks; her cherubic cheeks pinkish with a timid blush. Barely inches of fabric remained from her original outfit, with most if not the entirety of her naked body shamelessly showcased, right there in front of the man of her dreams.

Her entire body, her curvaceous shapes of rosy porcelain, had grown portly and stout, even moreso than before. Her love handles were more pronounced, her thighs were so massive they were each almost as wide as her beloved’s torso, her lap spilling over to the sides as she sat. Even her face had accumulated a tiny bit of avoirdupois, with her lips looking a bit thicker and her jaw a little rounder. There wasn’t a single straight line in the fullness of her frame.

Her mammothian chest hung low and heavily without a bra; each of her engorged tits the size of a normal full term pregnant belly. Droplets of milk stuck to her puffy nipples. And her right tit was being oh-so-rudely squished by Niall’s hand.

“N-Niall! I-I- Y-You can’t do that to a lady!” She complained with a whiny tone, reflectively covering her naked chest with her forearm.

By pure male instinct, the wolfman’s gaze quickly travelled down; only to be stopped by the colossal expanse of her gravid stomach.

A monumental dome of pale, pinkish skin, taut as leather and soft as velvet, so large and round that the witch could barely get up on her own two dainty feet; it stuck out almost six feet in front of her, and her flabby arms could barely reach the half of its thinly-pulled size. A planetoid of fertile flesh sloshing with saltwater and tentacled babies from beyond the starts, crossed by a dark linea nigra emerging from her protruding navel like a river cascading down a mountain atop a hill.

Of course, its perfectly spherical shape was ever-changing, with constant fluttering movement from her cephalopodic inhabitants bulging against the uterine wall, gurgling and sloshing and wallowing and hungrily growling.

“I-I’m sorry!” He jumped back, lifting his arms up in capitulation, trying his best not to make his obvious gazing even more obvious.

Upon the tight skin of the girl’s womb, a glowing brand was drawn. A heart, composed by two coiling tentacles, surrounded by a circle of misshapen sigils.

The Sceptre of the Wombflayer, its tendrils again untwisted and its metal devoid of its ancient vigour, lay by her side… As did the mysterious cultist’s shiv.

Gingerly, with a tad of fear in her trembling fingertips, Morrigan wrapped her hands around the Sceptre. The tiniest of electrical currents ran down her body, trickling the inside of her belly, and prompting her innumerable tenants to expand out further a couple millimetres. The irises of her eyes, instead of glittering with a beautiful blue lavender, had changed into a bright pink, the same colour as the brand on her gut.

“N-Niall…” She mumbled. “W-What happened…?”

The knight sighed, cracking his neck and hoisting himself up as best as he could. He could recognise this particular numbness in his joints: a sudden, rushed, and possibly botched teleportation spell. They were lucky they had exited the cave with all their limbs intact.

“I-I’ll explain on the way.” He gave her a soft, comforting smile, giving her a gentle pat on the cheek. “F-For now, let’s- um. Let’s get you some clothes.”

He picked up the shiv; an ancient ceremonial knife. Black, heart-shaped spots had appeared on its edge.

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