I just want to thank all of you guys for liking this crappy little fic… It makes me smile that so many of you like it… haha… Also want to apologiz for not posting this sooner... had a busy week and weekend... and have a sore back now thanks to my first tattoo I decided to get on my spine because I'm an idiot... advice: the outline hurts more than the coloring/filling...

Warnings: sexual situations that are pretty non-con, mpreg/birth/c-section, and just overall crappiness of this chapter

Poem is Never Try to Trick Me With A Kiss by Sylvia Plath

Pregnancy was a fickle thing. One moment, the violinist was craving the oddest combination of foods like heavily-spiced steak cooked medium-rare with honey, and the next moment he was disgusted with any food presented to him. One time he gagged at the sight of a carrot that was in a kitchenette by his room. He also experienced morning sickness more often than he cared for and found himself at the toilet at the same time every morning; he was grateful that Pookas were pretty technologically advanced and had running water and such. His emotions fluctuated greatly, too. He'd go from angry at the world for any and every thing he'd see to suicidal and a depressed mess of a man at the drop of a hat.

But the worst thing about being pregnant was just how sensitive he was…

It didn't matter that he was carrying now; Aster would find time to be intimate with him any chance he could get. Kozmotis never enjoyed the caresses or the groping. And Heaven knows he absolutely despised intercourse. Every caress he'd felt before was like getting smeared with something dirty like grease or coal. Every rake of claws was like feeling spiders crawl about him looking for a place to nest or bite. Intercourse was worst of all; Kozmotis always felt like he was being torn in half like delicate silk in a tiger's unforgiving claws. Pregnancy made his hormones chaotic, which made his nerve endings a lot more susceptible to every single touch. Aster realized this and abused this power as much as he could; like it was the only thing he was made to do.

"Tell me, Love…" Aster whispered huskily as he slowly unbuttoned the man's white shirt. His mouth curled into a smirk when Pitchiner let out a shaky breath. "Do you want to share a bed with me? Do you wish to live with me in my home instead of the separate quarters?" the humans the Pookas kidnapped were hardly ever allowed to live so close to their masters. Most never even knew what lay beyond the wooden double-doors that were carved with intricate designs that seemed like a cross between Celtic and Arabian. Kozmotis wanted to deny him, wanted to scream at him defiantly until his throat bled like a river from the book of Exodus. All he could do was whimper in a mix of fear and pleasure as a claw slowly traced his chest and left a streak of red in his wake. Before he would grunt in pain or hiss from the burning sting of Aster's scratches. His hormones had trained his nerve endings to crave pain like a dog conditioned to drool at the sound of a bell. Kozmotis refused to answer yes, refused to give the Pooka straddling him the pleasure of having him even more than he did now. His throat constricted, making the moan sound more like a whimper when he felt the other's warm tongue lap at the blood slowly oozing from the cut across his front.

"You'll be all mine…" he heard the other purr close to his ear, feeling the warm breath on the side of his neck like warm caress of a heater on a cold winter day. Kozmotis yearned to claw the rabbit's eyes out, feel the blood on his fingers as he ripped them out of his sockets and squash them under his boots like rotten grapes. His hands were at his sides, grabbing a fistful of the bed sheets when Aster bit his neck hard enough to make him arch his back. Kozmotis felt his pants being unbuckled, and he yearned to slap his paws away, to kick him off and run away like the last twenty times he tried to escape this hell-hole he'd been dragged into. A mewl escaped his lips as the rough material of his jeans scraped against his thighs like rose stems.

"All you have to say is yes, mate…" Aster purred, raking his paws over his milky-pale thighs. He wanted to say no; he wanted to fight him off, stab him with a knife and rip out his guts like he did to Sierra. Pitchiner didn't want to feel his nerves feel like they were being lit on fire as the Pooka trailed kisses along his inner thigh, or the warmth pooling in this stomach when his paws gripped onto his hips like the metal clamps used for construction.

"Will you be mine?" Aster asked sweetly as he pulled off his boxers. Kozmotis whimpered, pressing his head back against his pillow.

Say no; For the love of God, say no!

"Yes…"

Never try to trick me with a kiss
Pretending that the birds are here to stay;
The dying man will scoff and scorn at this.

A stone can masquerade where no heart is
And virgins rise where lustful Venus lay:
Never try to trick me with a kiss.

The number three was a very sacred number to the Pookas. It had something to do with their myths or religions, but Pitchiner could really care less… He only knew what to do and what not to do so he'd be safe. Feeling a dull ache on his shoulder, Kozmotis rubbed the tribal markings he was forced to take. Aster had told him that humans had to be branded with certain symbols to show where they ranked in their society. Since he was living with the Pooka now, the violinist had gotten what looked like some type of flower on his shoulder; it looked similar to the markings Aster himself had on his arms. It had three arches that represented petals, which made him start to think; if the number three was such a sacred number, how could Aster have markings with three as a pattern? How important was he in this civilization? He was cut from his musings when he felt a small kick from his stomach. Instinctively, Kozmotis places a hand over his stomach, which had grown rather large the past few months.

His pregnancy gave him a mix of emotions; the most prominent of which was fear. He had heard from Aster one time he tried escaping when he was carrying that, if a caesarian section was not performed on time, the offspring would claw themselves out and leave the human to die. In some cases, the offspring would even feast on the corpse. It made him stop trying to escape after hearing that. So now here he was, sitting on the bed he was forced to share with Aster as he waited for him to come back with their medic. Kozmotis was almost at the end of his pregnancy, and, as was custom with every pregnancy nearing its end, a medic or healer was supposed to be nearby in case of an emergency or if the birthing commenced early.

Feeling something wet between his legs, he looked down to find a dark area around the crotch of his pants. As he began to stand up to change, a sharp pain echoed through his stomach. He screamed, falling back onto the bed as he curled up into a ball. He didn't know how long he stayed like that until the medic came in and laid him onto his back. Kozmotis was in a world of pain, feeling as if a hundred hot knives were slicing into every muscle in his abdominals. His ears felt as if they were disconnected from his body; everything sounded muffled from the blood pumping through his head. He cried out as another contraction hit. His world consisted only of pain and the ceiling; he didn't know or remember he was on the bed, or that he was forced to drink some strange liquid that tasted like a mix of lavender and copper. A few minutes later, his nerves began to shut down, as if someone started to hit the switches off a power box. His breathing slowed down, and his limbs felt like lead. Kozmotis barely recognized Aster as the grey Pooka held him down by his shoulders.

Kozmotis felt something cold and metallic against the base of his stomach, and he screamed when it pressed itself deeper against his skin and slid across. It was a knife, he realized, when he felt something warm begin to drip down along his thighs and his groin. The grip on his shoulders tightened, even though the drink he was given earlier made it almost impossible for him to move. He felt the other Pooka's paws slide into his stomach and shivered as fur brushed against his organs; he felt a new sense of violation. Kozmotis felt his eyelids grow heavy, his sight started to get fuzzy like a television with horrible signal. The man started to drift down into the black abyss of unconsciousness, remembering only one thing before he blacked out.

"Three! He's given birth to three!"

Our noble doctor claims the pain is his,
While stricken patients let him have his say;
The dying man will scoff and scorn at this.

Each virile bachelor dreads paralysis,
The old maid in the gable cries all day:
Never try to trick me with a kiss.

Pooka children were never to spend time with the humans that birthed them; in the hierarchy of the Pooka-kind, humans were nothing more than slaves or pets, depending on which Pooka the human was stuck with. Most humans were used to produce offspring until either they died or they stopped producing altogether. The latter went on to become housekeepers and the like. A human producing more than one child and surviving was unheard of. Most of the time, either the human died during labor from blood loss, or some or all of the offspring were stillborn. Kozmotis Pitchiner gave birth to three Pookas, which was considered an extremely lucky thing, and survived, another sign that he was indeed a special human. At the moment, Kozmotis was in the bed, which was fitted with new, clean linen, as the medic, who he learned was named Ratchet, was replacing his bandages with clean ones after inspecting the stitches he had made. He was a Pooka that was a good three inches shorter than Aster, with white fur that had splotches of auburn. The babies were all cuddled around him, using the man's body heat as a source of warmth.

"Your wound is healing well…" Ratchet stated, voice smooth and wise from age, "As long as you don't perform any strenuous activity for a couple more weeks…" The man nodded silently, subconsciously running a hand over one of the babies. The medic cleared his throat.

"Aster and some midwives (female Pookas in charge of taking care of offspring) will be here in a few minutes… I suggest you don't get attached to them…" Kozmotis was tempted to roll his eyes, but controlled himself. He knew he wasn't supposed to become attached, as well as several other things human slaves weren't supposed to do. He glanced down at the babies, wondering why none of them were grey like Aster. One was brown, another was black, and the third one, the smallest of them, was white with black at the tip of the ears. He found it odd, but remembered something from his high school biology class about different alleles species had that determined hair or fur color and dismissed the thought away.

It wasn't long before Aster came back from God-knows-where with three midwives, one for each pup. Ratchet stepped to the side, pausing his medical exam for them. The brown and the black one didn't so much as twitch when they were picked up, but when the midwife, a blonde Pooka, grabbed the white pup, he woke up with a start and began to struggle. Not knowing what else to do, she placed him back down, and everyone watched in shock as the white Pooka hopped back over to Pitchiner and snuggled into his side. The blonde Pooka looked over to Aster, cerulean eyes filled with confusion and worry as she silently asked him what to do. He motioned her to try again, but the white pup screamed and cried until it was put back down again. Kozmotis sighed, looking as innocent as he possibly could as the white Pooka laid on his stomach and curled up before falling asleep. He looked up at Aster and arched a brow.

"I'm as confused as you are…" A scoff was heard from the corner of the room, and Kozmotis couldn't help but worry at the smirk on Ratchet's face.

"It seems the Holy Child has chosen his mother. You all know that we cannot deny his request…" The third child from a three-Pooka litter was considered sacred, and was said to bring good luck to the one they cherished most. Something swelled inside Kozmotis' chest. It wasn't pride from being picked by a 'holy child' and it wasn't satisfaction from the disbelief in Aster's face when Kozmotis realized he took something precious from him. It was that same feeling he got when he held Seraphina in his arms all those years ago at the hospital. He felt love for the white Pooka.

"Well, it's only appropriate the 'mother' names his child…" Ratchet drawled, crossing his arms to distract from the warm smile growing on his face. "What do you want to name him?" Kozmotis bit his lip and looked down at the pup on his stomach, ignoring the scornful looks of the midwives and the confused look from Aster. As he ran his fingers over the soft, snow-white fur, he remembered the little brother he once had when he was a child that had died of pneumonia.

"His name is Jack…"

The suave eternal serpents promise bliss
To mortal children longing to be gay;
The dying man will scoff and scorn at this.

Sooner or later something goes amiss;
The singing birds pack up and fly away;
So never try to trick me with a kiss:
The dying man will scoff and scorn at this.

Thoughts? Critiques?