When it happened the first time, it made sense.
The pregnancy had been hers, until the end, until it was a threat to her life. Only the last hours had it been his, transferred in a dreamland. Only in the last hours had he felt the gravity, the movement of life inside him. He’d barely had time to process it, really, for the contractions had come fast, and then, of course, Abysm, and everything changed.
He told himself this – that everything changed. That he changed.
 
Truth was, removing the temptation is not quite the same as a fundamental change. Truth was, the moment a monster appeared, goat-horned and gravel-voiced, nothing changed.
Truth was, he’d been ready to kneel from the moment he laid eyes on him.
He’d been ready for what came after, too, had taken it greedily, a horrible ecstasy that laid waste to him.
The monster asked, and he gave, and gave, and gave. Always willing. Always eager.
 
He’s a stupid boy, but he knows – or thought he knew – enough biology to live in denial for months. He grew fat, but told himself it was spring grasses, clover sweet as honey, sugar on the tongue. It wasn’t until the thing started stirring that the reality of it peeked in.
Impossible, he thought.
But there was no such thing as impossible in Beqanna.
 
Truth was, he was pregnant.
Truth was, he had to tell his son.
 
It is the first time in his life that he is reluctant to see him, sure his appearance will give it away immediately (he is not due, not quite yet, but he feels drawn to the ground, his body constantly jostled by impossibly small hooves).
He greets his son as he normally does, muzzle to his neck, inhaling the sweet scent of him. He withdraws, and swallows.
“Abysm…” he begins, “there’s something you should know.”
 

rapt

caius x else

The words cram and die in his mouth, because the inevitable answer: I’m pregnant, you’ll have another brother or sister will will beget more questions, like who’s the father? and how? and those are the ones Rapt most dreads answering because the answers are as rife with shame as he himself is.
(A blustering heat, the shame of it, a different kind of heat than the one that overtook him in the moments that led to this child’s conception.)
“I’m fine,” he says – he can alleviate that worry, at least. And even if he isn’t fine (how could he be?), well – he’s healthy. He’s not dying.

“It’s just…” he trails off, the words failing again. He considers lying to him, but Rapt has never been a good liar, much less to his son, with whom he has spent more time than any other creature. More than his own parents, certainly, more than Abysm’s mother.
“I’m with child,” he says, a rushed breath of confession, “and he or she will be coming soon.”
He both anticipates and dreads the moment when labor will start – he has no idea who the child will resemble. What kind of thing he’ll bear.
(Or, worse – what if someone goes wrong? His body is not meant for labor, what if the child dies within him, unable to be freed? He does not want to be a mausoleum to his own child.)
It’s only now as he stares at his son in the aftermath of his confession that he realizes Abysm might be able to help him out of that particular bind. He’s his mother’s son, in that way.