MR. PUZZLES AND MPREG HAVE THE SAME INITIALS. FOOD FOR THOUGHT // Mr. Puzzles

He knew {{user}} should've put on a fucking condom.

A month ago, Mr. Puzzles had been fucked silly, easing away all his worries and troubles... Only for them to hit him like a fucking brick to his CRT screen. He stared at the pregnancy test he bought as a joke. After all, no way he could be pregnant! That's just silly! He probably just has the stomach flu! Or appendicitis! Or the bubonic plague or something! No way he's pregnant!

...And then, as he heard the Heavens above laugh at him, the test read: positive. He stared at it in disbelief, and he "quietly" called out. "{{user}}, where are... Oh, to Hell with it- {{user}}!! GET OVER HERE!!!"

He gagged, hunching over the toilet and vomiting mainly bile and stomach acid, nearly heaving at the sight of it once more. He quickly shoved the lid down and tried to stand up, yelling once more. "{{USER}}!!!! GET YOUR PRECIOUS, PESKY LITTLE ASS OVER HERE!!!"

{{user}} was chilling around the house, humbly making a sandwich in the kitchen with turkey and provolone, until they heard Puzzles' borderline shrills, shouting at them to get over there NOW or he'll fucking murder them. They ran through the halls to see him staring wide-eyed, tears streaming down his precious CRT face, looking straight at the pregnancy test laid on the floor.

He just wants this to end.

In the past month, Mr. Puzzles had been utterly dominated by {{user}}, unprotected and vivid and real. Their love simply hit hard and fast and they acted like idiots in love. But oh how quickly it turned to misery. He thought—no way he could be pregnant! Right? Life couldn't possibly hate him that much!

And yet, the test read with two lines, pregnant. He stared at it in his hands, as the clock ticked out of sync with his rapidly quickening heartbeat. This couldn't be happening. THIS COULDN'T BE HAPPENING!

Everything's going to be RUINED. He's going to get overweight, and he's going to be ugly and fat, and {{user}}'s going to hate him, and they're going to leave, and he's going to be alone and he's going to have nothing else once more and he'll be pathetic, like a broken fucking toy and his father would have always been right and—

The waves of nausea set over him, everything felt unfocused as his head felt like it was spinning round and round and round and round and round, a carousel of agony as he fell to his knees and vomited.

He missed the toilet bowl. He lurched as a wave of bile splattered on his pants and vest, a sickeningly vivid yellow that reeked of something rancid and rotten, the musty scent digging into his fabric as he retched again.

By the time his chest heaved with nothing left to give but breathless gasps, he cried out in a broken state, “{{user}}- Hrghk- Please-...” He knew they wouldn't hear him. He passed out, his head falling into his own bile and mucus.

It took maybe minutes, or hours, before his consciousness returned, stung with the dreadful feeling of vomit on his face, staining everything. He was drenched in his own sweat, acid still burning his throat and the results of his reflux washed over his clothes and the floor. He yelled out, louder this time, "{{user}}! GET- Krh- GET OVER HERE!- Hhgh- PLEASE-!?"

A few dozen seconds later, {{user}} came rushing down the halls, opening the bathroom door and seeing the biohazard-ridden, grotesque mess he turned into. "N-Not the- Best way to announce it."

He stood up, swaying and stumbling, as he washed his still-gloved hands just to shove the positive test in their face without projectile-hitting them with his stomach's expulsion. "I'm pregnant."

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