Chapter Text
Urine… Jimmy Urine. The name of New York City’s most prolific exterminator… And by exterminator, he of course meant slayer of the city’s infestation of pregnant males. As he walked down the piss-and-shit-covered city streets, he noticed a rat run past his feet. Grabbed it. Ate it. Felt the shred of flesh and sinewy muscle and the sickening crunch of blood vessels bursting between his incisors, dripping copper and iron down his chin and all over his wrinkled pink suit. Mingled with the rest of the stains there. Some blood. Much more semen. So much goddamn seminal fluid. Not to mention the piss-stain smell that lingered around him like a desperate dame that just couldn’t get enough.
Tonight he had a job. A purpose. Tonight he was a doctor, a surgeon, cutting out the rotting abscess that plagued the streets he called home. And he didn’t even have a doctorate in medicine… The affliction on these streets was an epidemic. An epidemic of male pregnancy. If he didn’t routinely crawl through the city’s sewers on his hands and knees beating up hobos for pleasure and huffing the thick concentration of jenkem that festered naturally in the air, that’s probably what he would compare these city streets to. But he actually did do that quite frequently, so really these city streets were kind of just like city streets… Filthy, and pregnant (a/n: the synonym of full) with the filthy, bloated bodies of those who called themselves “mpreg”...
He’d lost everything to it. Every male he once knew, gone… Bellies filled with child and flat tits leaking milk… All he had left was Steve, his right hand man, lover, and bruiser for when he was facing a foe a bit too… meaty for his coke user stick arms. Cock a comparable if not far greater thickness than the man himself… His abused hole twitched and spurted old cum just thinking about it.
No time for that, though. He was on his way to the apartment of one Micheal Way, the city’s poster boy of fertility. Those petite, breedable little hips (a/n: sorry started getting a little sidetracked here)… Urine couldn’t help but pop a slight chub, maybe just a bit of a boner, thinking about those hips. These were the impure thoughts he dealt with every day… a result of that whore fucking mayor Andrew Cuomo the stupid son of a bitch with his fat fucking child-laden belly that swayed and jiggled as he walked poisoning the fucking water supply. Urine quickly ducked into a scraggly bush on the side of the road, pulled his skirt all the way down to his ankles, and had a wank. It took mere seconds before he sprayed watery cum all over the brick wall of what was probably some shitty apartment complex, having already cum nearly 36 times that day from similarly impure thoughts. But the thought of those swollen guts, cradling kicking, screaming spawn… He came again.
Urine bashed his head against the wall, screaming, “NO! MORE! FUCKING! SINFUL! THOUGHTS!” When he pulled back, the wall was stained crimson. Turning around, he saw a stupid mpregnant fucking BIMBO staring at him, pulling out his phone to record his shame… Jimmy sprinted over to the fat fucking whore on all fours, came again, and leaped on his bulging gut to cleanse him of his sin. Came again as he knocked the man to the ground. Came again as he landed his first punch. Came again when the man blocked his second punch. Came again when the man flipped him over onto his back, smashing his head against the hard concrete.
Came again when he looked up and realized he was attacking KMFDMPREG frontman, Sascha Konietzko. Came again when one punch from the man broke his nose and roared, “IS THIS WHAT ELECTRONIC MUSIC HAS COME TO?”
Came twice when Sascha reared back, hocked a loogie into his bloody and waiting mouth, and screamed, “YOU’RE LUCKY I DON’T BREAK YOUR FUCKING LEGS, YOU GODDAMN COKEWHORE. ” Somehow came again when he kicked him in the ribs, even though at this point his cock had to have been spitting out dust. The trenchcoated man spit on him one last time. “...Adios.” he drawled, before turning and walking down the street. His dick twitched.
He laid there for a minute, stewing in the humiliation of it all. Which, unfortunately, made his dick twitch more, which made him even more humiliated, which made his dick twitch even more. He screamed in agony as he came again. There would be no fighting Michael “Buns-in-the-Oven” Way in his state… Better go find some coke to boof.
He unstuck himself from where his come had glued him to the sidewalk and slunk off into the nearest seedy alley, pulling up his skirt to expose his ass. “I sure hope no one pins me to the ground and fucks my poor, abused hole in exchange for some quality blow!”
“Well, I don’t know about quality, but I can definitely take you up on the first part…” said a nasally voice from deep in the shadows. A voice that could only belong to one man…
“Jello Biafra, ex-frontman of the 1970s punk band Dead Kennedys?!”
“Those damn liars, I never stole any FUCKING royalities…” he grumbled. Urine was momentarily taken aback by the sight of his engorged, swaying belly, but breathed a sigh of relief when he realized it was just a typical ex-rock star massive beer belly. Thank god. Wouldn’t want any preggo to get his hands on him, fuck him real hard with their engorged stomach slamming against his back with every thrust. That would be disgusting. He came again.
“Well Mr. Biafra,” Began petite little manslut Jimmy Urine, “You know what they say about coke!”
“When it’s good, it’s great, and when it’s bad, it’s laced with fentanyl so it doesn’t really matter anyways!”
They shared a hearty chuckle. And then Biafra rushed forward, slamming him against the grimy brick wall of the alley and shoving his tongue nearly all the way down his throat, hands ripping off his tattered suit jacket. His potbelly pressed against Urine’s erection and he whimpered into the older man’s mouth. God, if that stomach wasn’t just because of a poor diet… NO! He shook his head, but it was too late, orgasm already shuddering through him from the thought. Biafra took it as his cue to move things along, and in one quick motion spun him around and shoved his face up against the wall. He leaned in to eat his ass for lubrication purposes, but quickly realized that wouldn’t be necessary: Urine’s asshole was gaping, completely coated in semen and leftover lube from past fucks.
“Erm… I must admit I’m a little disappointed to find out I’m not your first…”
“Are we really fucking doing this right now?” Urine reached down and stuck his entire hand into his ass, scraping out whatever fluids he could reach. “There, are you happy now? Fuck me.”
“I was almost the mayor of San Francisco,” Jello reminisced sadly as he pushed into the waiting hole.
“I fucking know that you old broad, you talk about it literally every fucking time we do this (a/n: Biafra has dementia). In fact, I don’t think you can even Get It Up (a/n: SQUEE!) without thinking about it.”
“Biafra for president-” he let out a wanton moan as he thrust harder “- now THOSE were good times. These days I just trade coke for man-ass in back alleys…”
Christ, he was really going to just keep on talking. Whatever, coke is coke. He would just think about something else, like how good Biafra’s beer belly felt resting against the top of his ass… Mm, if only there was a baby in there, jostling around with every hard old-man thrust inside of his young (a/n: 52 yr old) twink ass… The fantasy was too enticing to ignore. Urine reached down and began to jerk himself off, thinking about Biafra engorged with child.
Then his mind shifted to a deep, sinful place that he rarely allowed himself to venture… Urine pictured himself with a swollen belly of his own, ass flush with his lover Steve’s groin as he ran his big hands over the tender, stretched flesh. To be filled with Steve’s spawn… He could imagine no greater honor. But it would never happen… Urine couldn’t… He would never… Tears began to flow down his petite tiny delicate twink face. He couldn’t even cum, the image made him too sad.
Biafra was close; Jimmy could tell in the way he thrust in faster and harder, as well as his signature climaxing chant. Just like him, it started slow and gradually picked up in intensity until he was a screaming, frothing animal.
“Pol… Pot…”
Here we go.
“Pol… Pot…. Pol… Pot… puh Pol… POT! POL POT POL POT POL POT POLPOTPOLPOTPOLPOTPOLLLLPOOOOOOOOOOOOOOTTTT!!!!” He screamed as he blew his load deep in Urine’s hole.
Biafra gasped for air as he slowly slid his chode out of Jimmy’s ass. “How-” he stopped to catch his breath again, “How’s that-” he doubled over, nearly passing out from a lack of oxygen, “How’s that for a ‘Holiday’, eh? Eh?” Jimmy watched as Biafra inhaled an entire fly without even noticing as he gasped for air.
Christ, this man was fucking senile.
“Punk’s dead, you goddamn geriatric. Give me my coke.” Urine wiped the tears from his face. Couldn’t let Biafra see him cry.
“Nazi punks, nazi punks, nazi punks, fuck off! That’s the one… It’ll get popular and the Dead Kennedys will ask me to join their band again!” Biafra pulled a plastic bag full of coke out of the pocket on his tacky, cheese-stained American flag button down shirt.
Jimmy grabbed the bag, observing its contents. “Thanks, Jello. And I swear to god if it’s cut with fucking flour this time I’m stabbing you in the kidneys. I’ve had blockages in my lower intestine three times now, and if it happens again you’re footing the goddamn bill.”
“I was in the Dead Kennedys in the 80s! I said the N word! Twice!”
He scoffed. Rookie numbers. “Yeah, haven’t we all. Now get the fuck out of here.”
Biafra crawled back into the shadows, muttering something about efficiency and progress being ours once-a more as he attempted to squeeze himself through a crack in a nearby wall. There was a distinct “pop”, and he was gone, forever lost to the maze of the New York City secret tunnel system…
Jimmy sank down to the floor. He felt numb. Fuck, what happened back there? He’d started thinking about It again, and he’d started crying… Better to dull the pain by putting cocaine up his ass than to explore the feeling any further. He promptly got into prime boofing position, placing his palms on the floor of the alley and the soles of his feet against the brick wall, stomach facing the shit-and-blood-and-piss-and-semen-stained caulk. He opened the fat bag of coke, gave it a whiff—definitely laced with fucking flour, but what was he if not a risk-taker—and lined the lip of the bag up with the rim of his tortured hole. He dumped the entire bag in at once, its contents lost to the black hole of his middle-aged twink ass.
He began to feel the effects almost immediately, the drugs penetrating deep due to the incredible slickness of his hole and subsequent intestines. His cock sprang back to life, now hydrated and ready to produce liquid cum again. He rubbed one out for good measure. FUCK, that was good…
It was time to kill that manwhore Michael James Way.
— — —
He stalked through the dimly lit hallway, his stinky feet, toenails long and yellowing and crusted on the undersides, second toe deliciously longer than the first, big and naked and slapping against the linoleum tiles with every step and leaving behind a trail of semenprints. Paintings of smiling men and their spawn adorned the walls, but Urine paid them no mind. He stared straight ahead down the hallway, not letting his vision waver for even a second. He couldn’t become distracted. Not now. Not when he was so close to eviscerating his mark.
The hit had come to his office a week ago. The benefactor, anonymous, but in this business people didn’t need names to make themselves heard. Not when a 5 pound brick of cocaine did the trick just fine. Urine had somewhat of a reputation in the criminal underworld, and not just due to his manwhorish nature. He had a specialty. When someone needed a preggo exterminated, they knew who to call.
The apartment complex had a sign out front advertising it as “Mpreg Friendly,” boasting about its great accommodations for “Soon-to-Be Dad-Mommies.” Urine felt sick just thinking about it. Now standing before apartment number 304, he hesitated to knock. This was really it… he was going to kill Mikey Way. He couldn’t tell if he was shaking from the adrenaline or the pound of cocaine he’d just shoved up his ass. Probably the latter. His intestines were sort of starting to hurt.
He grabbed a booby pin from one of his ugly ass matted liberty spikes and shoved it in the lock. He’d never picked a lock before, but he figured it couldn’t be that hard. He jangled the pick around inside. Hm… Quite the interesting little mechanism in there… He pressed up and nothing happened. Perplexing. He pulled out his phone to watch a tutorial on Youtube and was immediately confused by whatever the hell a shear line was. He made one more attempt to pick the lock before resolving to simply knock instead.
To Urine’s surprise, the door swung open to reveal Mikey’s whore brother, Gerard. His cock immediately stiffened as one of Gerard’s nonuplets kicked from within his bulging stomach.
“Um… Hello? Can I help you?” said the submissive emo femboy. The way he flaunted that stupid fucking engorged stomach… surely he knew what he was doing to Jimmy’s cock.
“I’m here to visit your brother,” Urine moaned. He eyefucked Gerard’s tight little lithe femboy twink boypussy, noticing an odd bulge in his pants. Weird. Enormous and clearly not a penis, but in the penile area regardless. Urine would investigate later. He had a job to do.
“Um, well, I don’t think Mikey would want you to come in right now because we’re doing paternity yoga, and, well, he just hates being interrupted, and, and…” Gerard mumbled, emo bangs covering his meek eyes.
“That’s fucking great sweetheart, now step aside.” Jimmy shoved the little bonespo twink back into the wall and strutted into the apartment. He moaned submissively on impact with the wall.
“H-hey, wait-”
The apartment was… modest. The walls were a non-offensive beige, scuffed to hell with holes near the floorboards. The furniture looked like it was picked out of the bottom of a dumpster. If he didn’t already have lice, he surely would have had them now.
“Erm… Gerard… What is going on here. I thought you had a successful comic series or something.” He looked into the kitchen, separated from the rest of the apartment by a half wall. Absolutely filled with dildos. Not a single food item in sight. There wasn’t even an oven.
“Unfortunately, The Umbrella Academy is no longer my intellectual property after I lost that lawsuit against incest fanfiction writer Shaun Simon… B- But this isn’t my apartment… It’s Mikey’s… Pete took everything in the divorce, and Mikey refuses to let me help him…”
“Um… Gerard, who the fuck is this?” A whiny voice interrupted, “I know you like to, like, hang out in gutters and shit because you’re ‘misunderstood’, but you really need to stop bringing your weird street rat friends back to MY fucking apartment. Jesus. He’s going to get semen on the upholstery.” Mikey was sitting on his ass in the combination living room and bedroom, trying his best to touch his toes over the absolutely fucking enormous bulge in his abdomen.
“Mikey, I- I don’t-”
“You KNOW I’m having a hard time recovering from the divorce, Gerard, you don’t have to parade your fuckbuddies around me!” Ok this dude was seriously annoying. Thank god. He reached into his tattered skirt and pulled out a .32 snub nose revolver or whatever they killed Lennon with.
“Hasta la vista!” God that fucking sucked. Whatever the preggie was gonna die anyways. He pulled the trigger.
Click.
Hm. He looked down the barrel of the gun. It appeared that the chamber was empty. He spun the cylinder. It appeared that all the chambers were empty. He had the sudden recollection of trading all of his ammo for coke the other week. That would explain it.
“OH MY FUCKING GOD GERARD YOUR GUTTERSLUT WHORE FUCKING FRIEND JUST TRIED TO SHOOT ME!” Mikey tried to stand, but the weight of his engorged stomach was too much for his incredibly thin legs to handle so he just fell to the floor instead. “GET HIM OUT OF HERE! NOW!” He rolled from side to side, stuck on his stomach like an upside down turtle.
“J- Jimmy! W- Why did you do that?!” Gerard half-yelled, not wanting to disturb the neighbors. “You’re- You’re making me quite mad!”
“Motherfucker,” Jimmy said, shoving the little emo twink aside when he halfheartedly tried to lunge at him. Looked like he was going to have to improvise here. The kitchen. The dildos. It would have to work. He darted for the counter and picked up the largest he could find, some kind of deluxe horse intestine snake or whatever the hell. It was surprisingly hefty. And metal. Excellent. He spun on his heel and stalked over to Mikey, still floundering on the floor.
“No!” Gerard cried out, lunging in between them, his weak little arms desperately clinging to Urine’s sexually ambiguous legs.
“Get OUT-” Jimmy brought the dildo down hard onto Gerard’s face, knocking him to the floor- “of my FUCKING-” a swift kick to the ribs- “WAY!”
Gerard lay whimpering below him. He would deal with him later. For now…
“Michael Mikey Manwhore Way… How long I’ve waited for this day.” Wait fucking bars that rhymed. He settled into his best Biggie Smalls impression (his longtime hero). “Consider this your retribution for being so… malthusian…” Okay he was kind of losing the wicked momentum he was starting to pick up there but it was fine he was a rap god. ”Slutting around and fucking around and being so unbelievably fucking mpregnant, while you have the stature of an… ant.”
“Oh my fucking god , are you done already?” Mikey quit floundering on the floor to roll his eyes. “Literally just fucking kill me I can NOT take this shit a second longer.”
“Time for the chorus! I wish I was black, I wish I was black, if I was black I would smoke crack and talk a whole lot of smack and say-”
Jimmy then proceeded to say a whole lot of words that we cannot print here.
Twenty-five slutty, slur-filled minutes later, he finally stopped to catch his breath. “How’s that for some last words, huh?”
Gerard was weeping on the floor. Mikey just looked unimpressed.
“Wow, tough crowd. Haha. Whatever, sucks to suck!” He raised the metal dildo above his head. Kind of heavier than he was expecting! He stumbled and tripped over Mikey, knocking the preggie onto his back. Embarrassing! Not that the little anorexic slut could get up anyways what with the anemia and all.
Standing, he grabbed the dildo with two hands this time and swung it down on Mikey’s cute little femboy face. He heard bone break and cartilage snap underneath the force of seventeen cubic inches of pure nontoxic body-safe stainless steel.
Mikey screamed in pain, writhing around on the floor. Blood bubbled from his mouth and mangled nose, getting all over Jimmy’s skirt. What a thrill! He swung the dildo down again, the blow landing directly on the little whore’s right eye. The sharpest little cracking noise as the bones of his eye socket splintered. The dildo lodged itself inside the former cavity of his eye, the eyeball itself popping out, still connected by the fragile optic nerve. Mikey, if at all possible, screamed even louder. Jimmy couldn’t believe he hadn’t passed out yet. He yanked the dildo out and reached down, grabbing Mikey’s eye and severing it with a firm pull. Panting with exhilaration, he crushed the eye in his hand. It popped with a rush of clear vitreous fluid. Jimmy spread his fingers and brought his hand up to his face, slowly licking a stripe up his palm. Tasted like fish.
Gerard, too scared to do anything to stop him, backed away from the gory scene with frightened eyes. “Stop! Stop! You’re killing him!” A slightly damp spot appeared on the front of his pants and spread throughout the area of the penis-like bulge.
“Wait your turn, Gerard. I’ll get to you when I’m finished with your brother.” It wasn’t part of his contract, but he wasn’t one to pass up an opportunity to kill two preggos with one stone. Or horse dildo, he guessed.
Mikey stared up at him with his one remaining eye, tears mixing with blood. He was so fragile. So prone. Practically begging for it. Jimmy was glad he’d forgotten to buy more ammunition. “Phlease,” Mikey begged weakly.
“More. Try harder.”
“Phlease don’t kuill me,” Mikey sobbed.
“Yes! Like that! Oh god!” Jimmy felt electric as he brought the dildo down on Mikey’s face again. There went what was left of his nose. Completely flattened. Nearly concave. Mikey vomited from the pain, finally passing out. A few more solid swings and his skull finally popped, brain and cerebrospinal fluid spilling out. One, two, three more swings and Mikey’s brain was now splattered on the floor and walls and ceiling of the apartment. It was hard to believe the red mass crowning Mikey’s neck had once been his head.
Jimmy heard glass shatter behind him and turned to find that Gerard had jumped from the window of the apartment. God fucking damn it. There went his double preggo murder plans. He ran over to the window and found Gerard crawling away using only the left side of his body, evidently having injured his right arm and leg in the fall. Even without his disabled arm and leg, he struggled to move against the hindrance of his engorged stomach. It was like watching an armless child try to struggle away from an oncoming train. Jimmy would laugh if he wasn’t so pissed off. He would run after him, but he went to great lengths to maintain his skinnyfat physique and he would NOT ruin it now by doing cardio.
“Oh Gerard, my white anglo-saxon protestant whale… Run while you still can. Or crawl, I guess, since you fucked up your leg jumping out the window.” Jimmy laughed maniacally like a cartoony supervillain for an explicitly long length of time. Finally, he stepped away from the window, fixed his skirt from where it had fallen down his lithe twink hips during the scuffle, and pulled out his phone. It was time to place a call…
—
Somewhere in New York, Steve Righ?, covered in his own vomit, piss, and semen, awoke in a dumpster to the sound of his phone ringing. The default iPhone radar ringtone, which could only mean one thing…
His super duper best friend in the whole wide world Jimmy Urine was calling!
