Mark Ashton, singer-songwriter of the band "Foxglove", schedules a new tour to revolve around his growing pregnancy.

I did another Mpreg story. I'm sorry. Please forgive. Wehhh.

This one, again, is based on an image by  white-ryce , specifically this one

This is part one of three. I hope you enjoy it! I really had a lot of fun writing it and it came out great


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After a momentary cut to black from a commercial break, a soft jazz tune plays out over the screen as the daytime talk show Emma returns. Emma Northwood, the young, attractive, and (most importantly) approachable rabbit host sits on an elongated couch in front of a tall backdrop bearing a stylized depiction of her own name.

“Our next guest bears no need for introduction, but you've never seen him like this before. He's a talented singer and songwriter, multiple Grammy-winning artist with his band Foxglove, and LGBT icon, but are we going to add mother to the list? Please welcome my good friend, Mark Ashton!” Emma enthusiastically claps first, leading to the studio audience to follow suit.

From stage right, under lights, strides out a tall, confident red fox in stylistically battered jeans and a designer t-shirt. He strode out confidently, effortless in front of the eyes watching him. Or, rather, watching slightly below him. He was in trim, healthy shape, but his lower stomach possessed an undeniable paunch to it that stretched against his shirt and drew the gazes of both the studio audience and the thousands of viewers at home.

Mark approached the couch and shook Emma's hand with a wide smile on his face, speaking drowned out by the continuing round of animated applause. Cat-calling cheers from both women and men sounded out from the crowd. Mark waved and pointed good-naturedly at a few of them, frowning exaggeratedly as he pointed to the wedding band on his finger. Sitting down, the fox crossed his hands in his lap and waited expectantly for the crowd to stop making so much noise.

“Great to see you again, Mark,” Emma said warmly, extending a hand to his shoulder and shaking it. “And it's great to finally get a peek at the special guest you brought along!” She continued, reaching down to pat Mark's stomach. He laughed, but uncomfortably shifted in his seat before clearing his throat.

“It's...uh, great to be back, Emma. Thanks a lot for having me.”
“Of course! Now, if I didn't make it abundantly clear, you're going to have a baby!” Emma squealed, the entire audience cheering and clapping along. Mark smiled politely and nodded, resting his hands over his small but undeniable bump.

“I am, I am. We don't know the gender yet, but we should soon and I'm due sometime in February. My husband, Jeremy, and I have been thinking about this for a while and...Well, we just decided this would be the best time.”

“That's terrific, Mark. We're so happy for the both of you. But, from what I understand, you still have touring plans with Foxglove. Tell us about that.”

“When Jeremy and I were talking about having a baby,” Mark said, visibly relaxing and sitting up enthusiastically, “a big issue was what I was going to do about the band? Would I take time off, would we have to stop touring and focus on the next album, or what? What would we do when I got pregnant? Obviously, Foxglove is almost like a child to me already and taking time off would have been a nightmare. But, of course, having a kit is a big deal too.”

“'Big deal' might be an understatement, Mark,” Emma added, eliciting a short chuckle from both herself and the audience. Mark smiled, but was obviously trying to hide his annoyance at being interrupted.
“Right...Ok, so, my idea was a project called 'Foxglove: The Nine Month Tour,' and it's all going to revolve around my pregnancy. I wanted to have the baby at home in Los Angeles, so the tour started out in New York City and we're going to go all the way across the country as I get bigger.”

“But aren't you worried about the condition you and the baby will be in to do something as strenuous as touring?”

“I spent a lot of time talking to my obstetrician, who's one of the few specialists in male pregnancies, and he says that with the right stress management, I should be able to perform right up until my due date. Yknow, assuming I could even get on stage at that point.” Mark smiled shyly as the audience laughed. “But it's still going to be a little different. I think the next two shows are going to be our last arena concerts for the tour. The rest of them are going to be pretty small, not too much stress. Sort of like 'Foxglove: Unplugged.' We're going to do a lot of material from that album.”

“Why tour this way, Mark? Most women...and I suppose even men now, prefer to stay at home and keep their pregnancies a private affair, while you're going to be doing the opposite, inviting people to follow along with you. Why?”

“That's a pretty complicated answer,” Mark said, scratching the back of his head. “'The show must go on,' for one thing. And I guess...as an artist, and definitely as a musician, I owe a lot of what I have now to my fans and my listeners. So in a way, I've become something more than just myself. I've become a public figure, in a way, and I feel like this is a personal journey in my life and it feels natural to share it with the people that got me where I am today.”

At a pause for breath, the audience broke into a respectful applause, causing Mark to smile and nod off-camera to the audience. As it died down, he cleared his throat while absentmindedly rubbing a hand over his hint of a belly.

“That's not too say it's an obligation,” Mark continued. “Jeremy writes his poetry under a pseudonym, that I won't be revealing, and rejects credit on our albums for the Foxglove songs he's written. But I think art is only as important as the people viewing it and it's important keep yourself grounded about the whole thing.”

“Well said,” Emma said, nodding. “Male pregnancy is a practice that's only been around for a couple years, now, but it's already gathered its fair share of controversy. As an LGBT icon, did you feel obligated to carry your baby to serve as representation?”

“For one thing, I've never thought of myself as an 'icon' for LGBTs. I'm just a guy that happens to be famous that also happens to be gay. And anyone who thinks there aren't enough gays in the music business already needs to take a better look. I'm carrying our baby because I want to and I can. If this tour ends up as some rallying cry for pregnant fathers everywhere, then great, but I'm only doing it for our fans. I want them to help me celebrate the new life Jeremy and I have made together. And if anyone has a problem with that, well...” Mark shrugged, “They're probably not Foxglove fans.”

“It's good to see you're so devoted to your followers, Mark.” Emma said. “I know they'll appreciate you coming out to play in your condition. Now, from what I heard, you've already had some morning sickness coming around?”

Mark put a hand to his face and shook his head, embarrassed, but still smiling.
“Oh my God...”

“I think we've got a little clip that's been floating around the internet,” Emma said, coyly. As the studio lights dimmed, a screen on the wall behind the couches illuminated to show the grainy, cell-phone quality video taken of a usual Foxglove concert, by an excited fan who had gotten close enough to the stage to see Mark himself singing. While the song itself was too garbled by the poor microphone, Mark's voice could be distinctly heard over the grinding noise of his band. Even with the poor footage, he was visibly trim and fit, even lacking the slight belly that began to show on his furry stomach. While the song continued as normal in the video, Mark briefly pulled the microphone away mid-lyric to look away, only to jump back in a moment later and pick up where he left off. Then, suddenly, near the side edge of the stage, Mark pulled his head away and vomited on the stage, to the gasps of both the studio and concert audiences.

“It looks like it snuck up on you,” Emma said as the lights brightened.
“It did, it did,” Mark said, still laughing. “That was our second show on the tour and the day after I officially discovered I was pregnant. People told me that would happens sometimes but...” He shrugged. “I guess that wasn't great timing.”

“No, I don't think it was,” Emma laughed. “Unfortunately, we're out of time for today. Thank you so much for coming in, Mark.”
“Always a pleasure, Emma,” he responded, reaching over to shake her hand. As she did, she leaned past him and gave his developing belly one last enthusiastic rub.

“And I can't wait to see this little cutie after they're born!”
“Neither can I,” Mark agreed, but looking visibly uncomfortable as he edged away from her hand.

“We'll be back to talk with Kaitlyn Little, the amazing survivor of a skydiving accident that cost her her tail, and almost her life. Stay tuned.”
A similar jazz tune begins to play as the camera panned away and another overlay of the show's logo appeared on screen to remain motionless until a fade to black.

*************************************************************
Clint tapped the video player on the screen of his tablet, unwilling to watch even a second of that insipid show beyond the only segment he cared about.

“Hey, Mark!” He called out to his band mate. “This interview makes you look like a complete chode!”
“That's what Emma does,” Mark said, walking through the narrow corridor of the tour bus while trying to pull the button of his pants together. They were the same jeans from the interview, but his middle had grown too much since then to put them on. He held his shirt up under his chin while he struggled to bring the two halves together over the white, fuzzy dome of his growing bump.

“She...She wants everything interesting you have to say crushed down into a palatable little daytime snack for all the conservative stay-at-home moms she caters to. Everybody looks like a chode.” He abandoned the futility of trying to button his pants and let his shirt fall back over his belly, letting a hand linger against it. “'LGBT icon,'” He mocked as he sat down on a couch facing Clint. “Why was I getting my ass kicked for liking guys a few years ago, but now I'm some kind of hero for it?”

“You eat anything?” Clint asked, noticing Mark's sour mood.
“Not since every twenty minutes,” he scoffed.

Without another word, Clint slid down the couch toward a cabinet and produced a bag of sour cream and onion potato chips. After tossing them to Mark, he opened the door of the built in mini-fridge that was packed full of various sauces and spreads.

“Any cravings?” Clint asked.
“No, I'm good with this,” Mark said. He pulled open the bag of chips and stuck his muzzle inside to get a good smell. “Okay, wait,” he said, one hand stroking the curve of his stomach. “Yes. Siracha.”

“You got it,” Clint responded, tossing him the cold, half-empty bottle. Mark turned it upside down, nearly emptied it into the huge bag of chips, then folded the lip and shook it to make sure the flavor spread evenly.

“I'm such a fatass...” Mark said behind a mouthful of chips.
“So?” Clint shrugged, kicking his skinny legs up on the couch. “Nobody cares when you're pregnant.” Clint, a tall and thin coyote, was Foxglove's bassist, an old friend, and the designated 'wrangler' when Mark's mood swings kicked up. Clint was the only member of the band with pregnancy experience after his girlfriend had given birth to his son last year.

“I care,” Mark mumbled.
“Do you care enough to not want to feed the kit?” Clint said, raising an eyebrow.
“...No.”
“Good, then don't feel bad about eating when you need to.”

Mark sighed, setting the bag aside as he tried to button his jeans back together again. After a frustrated couple of seconds, he gave up again and just slumped into a defeated ragdoll on the couch.

“I wanna play 'Moonrise' tomorrow night,” he said. “Really heavy. I want an excuse to scream.”
“We can if you want to, but are you up for it?” Clint asked. “You've been getting worn out mid-show lately. What happened to this being an 'unplugged' tour?”

“Then I can take a nap back-stage and you assholes can keep going without me.” Mark rolled up the bag of chips and threw them at Clint. With quick reflexes, Clint grabbed a pillow and batted it out of the air, sending hot-sauce covered chips scattering to the floor.

“Oh shit,” Clint swore.
“That's your problem, bud,” Mark said, leaning back and patting his belly. “No bending over for me.”

Clint rolled his eyes, but said nothing as he stood up and shakily walked over the bus's moving floor to fish out a roll of trashbags from above the small sink. Tearing one off, he dropped to his hands and knees to pick up the fallen chips. Mark spun in his seat and laid out longways on the couch, his hand still tracing the line from his pelvis up the curve of his bump. He gazed thoughtfully through the small sunroof, watching the clouds above from the bus's tinted glass.

“...So, how does it feel?” Clint asked while he swept more crumbs into the bag.
“It's...” Mark began, before he sighed, thinking how best to describe the sensation. “It's...is it weird that I'm kind of...enjoying it?” He rested his hands atop his stomach and listened to his own heartbeat. “I like seeing changes in me, watching myself grow and get bigger because...well, it's the baby getting bigger, yknow? Like, even if it sucks for me sometimes, I still know that it's all going well.” He groaned and let an arm fall over his face. “Ugh. Sorry, I'm rambling. I'm just so tired...”

“Caroline basically slept through the first few months,” Clint said, standing up and knotting the trashbag closed.
“But Caroline was at home, with you,” Mark complained. “But I'm on tour, man! I'm on tour for this baby! The least I can do is be awake for it.”

“Says who?” asked a raspy, female smoker's voice from one of the wall-cots that served as temporary beds. With a stumbling sound and coughing, Rikki the leopard padded into the bus' sitting area, wearing nothing but her jeans from last night and a white tank top. She was Foxglove's hard-fighting, hard-playing, hard-drinking drummer, the band's only female and only feline. She was short, with thin, muscular arms, a collection of studs running up the sides of her ears, and the fur of her head shaved and styled into a mohawk.

“Says me, kitty cat,” Mark said, grabbing and tugging playfully on her tail as she plodded by. She responded in kind by leaning over and thumping him on the tip of his nose, hard, with the blunt edge of a claw nail. “Gah, fuck!”

“Move it, baby-daddy,” Rikki said, pushing in Mark's legs to make room for herself on the couch. Before he could turn and sit up, she stuck her hand between his knees and started scratching his bared, white belly. Mark squirmed at the sensation, but eventually relaxed under her scratching nails.

“I coulda sworn that I'd be the first one of this band to get knocked up,”she said, blinking shaking her head, still trying to wake up from her nap.

“You and every roadie on the East coast,” Clint said, dryly. Rikki instead simply rolled her eyes.
“Once fingers and tongues can get people pregnant, we'll all be in trouble.”

“You're about as motherly as a cactus,” Mark mumbled underneath his arm, “but God, you've got magic fingers.” He let his legs relax around Rikki as she continued to massage his store middle absentmindedly, every so often groaning in relief. The press, producers, managers, and agents were all usually intimidated by Rikki. But while it was true that she came on strong, Clint and Mark knew what they all didn't: don't give Rikki any bullshit and she won't give you any back.

“Speaking of that, where's the real Daddy?” she asked, looking around as if Jeremy had somehow boarded the tour bus within the last ten seconds of the conversation.

“He had more publishing stuff to do in New York. Plus some medical stuff of mine and the baby's.”
“'Medical stuff?'” Clint snarked.

“I ain't be awll that smart, Clint,” Mark said in an exaggerated drawl. “Alls I know is how ta' sing reel gud.” He sighed again as Rikki migrated her hand up beyond his soon-to-be-outie belly button to rub the sore spot below his sternum. “He's flying down to meet us sometime before the Orlando show.”

“I can't even imagine what your kid is gonna look like,” Rikki said, shaking her head. Mark paused before taking his arm off his face and frowning.

“What's that supposed to mean?”
“You look like a regular fox guy, but Jeremy is...kinda funny looking, so...”
“He is not 'funny looking,'” Mark said defensively, sitting up out of reach of Rikki's fingers. “He's a fennec and he's fucking adorable. Where do you get off saying that my kid is gonna be weird looking because you don't like the look of their dad?”
“I didn't say anything about your kid!” Rikki said, voice approaching 'yelling' territory. “I just think Jeremy...you guys look different, I was just thinking out loud!”
“Then you don't 'think out loud' about my god damn husband, Rikki!”
“I wasn't fucking saying anything! I like Jeremy!”

“Hold it!” Clint stepped in and put a bracing hand on their shoulders, leaning in between them. “Hold it, hold it, hold it.” He turned to Rikki. “That was a shitty thing to say about somebody else's partner. Even if you didn't mean it that way. Apologize.” He turned to Mark. “You're a steaming bucket of raging hormones right now and Rikki just put her foot in her mouth. Let it go.”

He let go of the two of them and backed away, folding his arms while tapping his bare paw on floor impatiently. The Mark and Rikki fumed for a moment in silence before the fire ultimately burned out. Rikki kicked a leg up onto the couch and shrugged.

“Sorry,” she said.
“Me too,” Mark responded, nodding. “Clint's right. I feel like I'm going crazy these days. I'm crying one minute, then I'm laughing the next, then I want to throw up, then I don't, and I have no idea...” He sighed, losing the words. “Sorry. I flew off the handle. I couldn't help it.”

“Well, it was a stupid thing to say,” Rikki said. She reached over and tugged Mark's shirt down over his bump. “Your kid's gonna look cool.”
“It's okay,” Mark said. He held up a fist. “Are we cool?”
Rikki bumped it with her own.
“Yeah, we're cool.”
“Alright, good,” Clint added. “Mark can't afford any more fistfights this time.”

Within the lull in conversation, the bathroom door suddenly latched open from the inside. The three glanced at each other in confusion.
“Has he been in there the whole time?” Mark asked Clint.
“I have no idea.” Clint shook his head and sighed.

Out of the small bathroom came a well-dressed, but scruffy hyena named Renard, Foxglove's lead guitarist. Originally from Senegal, Renard only barely spoke English as a second language and still had trouble understanding much of the more complicated anachronisms of American life and culture. However, he was always very friendly, helpful, and cheerful with a white, toothy grin on his patchy face. He had been around long enough to become a good friend to the rest of the band, even if they couldn't understand each other most of the time. He was also the most fantastically talented guitar player any of them had ever seen.

“Why is there so much of shouting?” Renard said, re-buttoning his pants. “Did we have ehhh crash the bus?” He smiled at his own joke.
“I said something stupid again,” Rikki said, while picking her teeth with a finger. “But we're cool, now. No problem.”

“You should not fight so much, Rikki,” Renard teased. “It is very unladylike.” Rikki flipped him off. Renard laughed.
“Hey, you wanna play 'Moonrise' tomorrow night?” Mark asked, spinning in his seat to set his paws on the floor.
“That is the...ehhh, the song with the...” Renard held his hands into an air guitar and hummed the melody of the guitar solo the song was known for.

“Exactly. The loud one.”
“Hey, I'll see you guys later,” Rikki said, before pushing herself off the couch with Mark's shoulder. She padded up the aisle of the bus to sit in the passenger seat up front. She and the bus driver, an old basset hound named Joe, shared an odd friendship, likely stemming from their shared friendship with marijuana.

“Tell me, Mark,” Renard said. “How will you be playing the guitar when...” He held his hands far out in front of his stomach as he made an explosion sound effect. “When you cannot hold the guitar?”
“You're just gonna have to play the rhythm parts too,” Mark joked. “We'll get you one of those two-neck guitars and you can just tap out the notes.” He held his arms up and mimed the motion over an imaginary set of guitars. “You'll have to play both sets on every single song by yourself, okay?” Renard smiled and nodded, mimicking the gesture.

“Okay! Okay, man! I will do it!” He said, with complete sincerity. Mark and Clint stole a glance to each other.
“No, Renard,” Mark explained. “That was a joke. We'll get another guitarist if I get too big.”
“Ah, yes! Okay, man,” Renard nodded, still wearing a toothy smile. “But I can do it!” He added, wagging a finger.
“I don't think...That's okay. We'll work something out.”

“Okay! But if you need me to do it, I will play the both guitars!” Renard said. Before Mark or Clint could respond, Renard jumped, pulling his buzzing phone from his pocket. Thumbing the touch screen, he walked off to the back room of the tour bus, speaking in almost incomprehensible French.

“Well,” Clint said, shrugging. “Looks like Foxglove is up and moving, now.”
“Yeah, at,” Mark checked the time on his phone, “Two in the afternoon.”
“Hey,” Clint said, exaggeratedly shrugging with a smirk, “we're still sober.”
“If that's not an accomplishment, then I don't know what-” Mark froze mid-sentence. He stared off into the distance, his mouth hanging slightly open, while one hand shot down to feel his growing belly. With another pause, Clint looking on with a raised eyebrow, Mark gasped excitedly and leapt to his feet.

“Oh my God, oh my god, oh my god, ohhhhhhhhhhh,” he yelled, boucning up again down with his bushy tail flying wildly in all directions behind him. “I felt it, I felt it move! I felt the baby!”

“What?!” Rikki shouted from the front seat, poking her head out. “You're fucking kidding me!”
“I just felt it! It was- It was like- Oh my god,” Mark continued to hop from one foot to the other in excitement, both hands wrapped around his middle.

“Oh shit,” Rikki said, putting out her cigarette in the ashtray before hopping over the seat. Approaching Mark, she investigatively poked and prodded his bump, running her fingers over it while frowning. “I don't feel anything”

“It was right here,” he said, moving her hands down to his belly's underside. “It felt like...like a bubble popping or like popcorn or something. Like a little tiny tap, but from the inside.”
“Was it a kick?” Rikki asked, sliding her hands down to where Mark indicated. She gasped, her eyes flying wide open, as the two of them both felt another small flutter deep inside of him. “Oh fuck! Was that it!?” She dropped to one knee and pressed her big ear against his stomach.

“Clint!” Mark motioned to the sitting coyote. “C'mere, come see if it happens again!”
“...Nah,” Clint said, crossing his legs uncomfortably. “I'm...I'm okay.”
Mark pulled away from Rikki and dropped back onto the couch, making excited little noises as he held his melon-sized belly in both hands and kicked his feet in the air.

“It's happening, this is happening,” he repeated to himself. He gasped, jumping to his feet and jogging into the back of the bus, only to return with a dog-eared and well-read baby book. Clearing his throat, he flipped to a page in the middle as he sat cross-legged on the couch.

“Okay, so. Eighteen weeks,” he began. “Hmmm....baby is the size of a bell pepper now...appetite will increase. Yeah, no shit. Uhhhhmmmmm...I should sleep on my side from now on so nerves don't get pinched and it's about time for another ultrasound...” He flipped through the pages, impatiently frowning. “This is boring...Oh! The baby's ears begin to develop and...” Mark paused, setting the book down in his lap before staring off into space. “...Baby can hear music...”

“Guess we'll find out if he's a Foxglove fan or not,” Rikki said, reaching over to pat out a drumbeat on Mark's belly.
“Yeah...” he responded, only halfway listening. “Baby can hear music...”

With Mark lost in thought, Rikki gave his stomach one last affectionate scratch before returning to her seat at the front of the bus.
“Don't tell her I said it,” Clint said, muttering just loud enough for Mark to hear, “but I think she's jealous.” Mark simply nodded, his eyes fixed downward to the belly that was just beginning to fill out his shirt.

“...He missed it,” Mark mumbled. “Jeremy. He...” he sighed. “I wish he was here.” Mark sniffed, unexpected tears in his eyes.
“No, c'mon,” Clint said, putting down his phone and crossing over to sit beside Mark. “There are still a million firsts for him to be here for, okay? In two months, you'll be begging your kid to stop moving.” Clint clapped a friendly hand on his bandmate's back. “He'll be here before you know it. Just be patient, okay man?”

“Okay...” Mark said, wiping his eyes. “I'm such a weepy little baby.”
“You were like that before the hormones, bud,” Clint teased, mussing up his head fur before crossing back to his seat. Mark sighed, taking out his phone to soothe an overwhelming desire to text Jeremy.

He's got catching up to do, he thought.

*************************************************************
The thudding roar of the speakers was deafening as Mark left his dressing room. It was the last big arena show of the tour, so half of Florida had turned out to see the act. The opening band, Fits of Rage, was just finishing up their set with their currently popular single from their debut album. Mark hadn't heard much of them beyond that single, but thought they had promise, if nothing else.

Their tour had been integrated with Foxglove's by the record producers, which struck everyone involved as a particularly blatant publicity tactic. The Nine Month Tour was obviously meant to be an intimate and small project and Mark had to fight tooth and nail to convince the producers to let Foxglove continue on by themselves after the Tulsa show. Fits of Rage was too hard and heavy to fit with Foxglove, anyway.

Mark polished off his water bottle, fully aware that he'd probably need to leave the stage to take a surprise pregnancy pee-break during the show. At least he'd be able to just unzip in a port-o-john somewhere, unlike women in the same condition.

Rikki walked up next to him, her normally bare paws covered in a pair of tall, studded boots, weighted so she could hit the kick drums harder. Her mohawk fur was tipped with red and the spots under her eyes were darkened with makeup. She had ace bandages wrapped around the palms of her hands while she spun and fiddled with her sticks between her fingers.

“I'm not into it!” Mark shouted, gesturing to the band on stage. “I wish we could have been with Holy Motor again! They sounded great and the guitarist, Harlan, is a friend of mine! We went to the same high school!”

Rikki nodded silently, bobbing her head to the music. She stood on her toes and pulled Mark's head down to speak more clearly into his big ears.

“I fucked the guitarist!” She shouted, gesturing to Fits of Rage. Mark blinked, craning his neck to get a look at the lead guitarist, a tall panther with dreadlocks shredding through the breakdown.

“Cool!” Mark said, nodding. “He's hot!”
“He gave me some uppers, but I don't know what I'm gonna do with them!” Rikki added. “I'm trying to stay off stimulants, yknow?”
“Talk to Renard! He loves that shit!”
“That guy would stick a gun up his nose if you told him bullets got you high!” Rikki said.

Clint walked silently up from behind and waited on Mark's opposite side, stuffing a handful of picks in his pocket. He thumbed the side of his muzzle while he uncomfortably shook himself.

“I keep telling these venues I don't like fur makeup!” he complained. “I feel like I just bathed in chalk dust!”
“It's not their fault you look like shit under stage lights!” Rikki added. As guitar solo hit, she threw up metal horns and bobbed her head to the music.
“I'm the bassist! Who's looking at me, anyway!?”

Mark, who stood a solid foot taller than his bandmates, pulled Clint into a one-arm embrace and light headlock before kissing him on the top of the head. Clint made a noise and struggled to pull away.

“I Love you, Clint!” Mark said, kissing him again. “No homo!”
“Jesus Christ,” Clint groaned, falling limp against Mark.
“After the show, I want you to make a real woman outta me!” he joked, jostling the coyote under his arm. Clint managed to break away and hop a couple feet out of arm's reach.

“What are you, twelve? Aren't you a father now?” Clint said, shaking his head while smoothing his fur back across his head.

“Not yet!” Mark said, jostling his belly. It continued to steadily grow over the weeks, adding a soft layer of fat to his body he wasn't accustomed to. He felt much like he did before, only a bit tighter around his stomach. It amazed and intimidated Mark that he still had so much growing to do, as he already felt stretched to his limit. Still, he was always in his best mood before a show and playing let him forget his aches and pains. That, and Jeremy had landed in Orlando that morning and Mark was anxious to see him after the show. So despite all the pregnancy irritations, he was walking on sunshine.

“Five minutes!” A stage director called out with a megaphone. Even with it, he was nearly impossible to hear. Fits of Rage was starting their big finale, energetically jumping up and down and running around the stage. As the drummer slammed his sticks on the cymbals one last time, Mark's kit jumped at the sound, making an almost indiscernible flutter inside of him. He was getting better at recognizing what feelings were the movements of the baby and what weren't. Usually, any sensation timed with some kind of sound. He rubbed his belly affectionately. They had good hearing already.

“You still gonna wear that?” asked Clint, one finger clearing out his ear, the other pointing to the band shirt that was starting to ride up Mark's stomach, revealing the white fur underneath.

“I guess,” Mark shrugged. “I like this shirt. Plus, the fans things the little belly peeks are cute. The girl ones, anyway.”
From some nebulous part of the backstage emerged Renard, still looking like he'd just gotten out of bed. It didn't matter, the look worked for him. He tapped Rikki on the shoulder, holding up a small bottle of white pills.

“Hello Rikki. I found these in the bathroom and I wanted to know if that I can have a few?” He asked. Rikki made a clicking noise through her teeth.

“I don't know, Renard. I was really wanting those later...”
“Just only one or two?”
“Hmm...Okay, how about this? You can have the whole bottle for fifty bucks. Deal?”
“Yes! Okay, it is a deal!” Renard said, grinning and slapping hands with Rikki. As he ran off to either put the drugs away or get the money, she glanced over to Mark and Clint.

“What?” she asked, confrontationally.
“Not a thing,” they both said.

“Mr. Ashton!” called out a high-pitched voice. The band all turned to find a production assistant jogging up to them. “I don't want to bother you, but...uh, there's a...there's a man here who says he's your husband?”
“What?” Mark asked, puzzled. “Jeremy?”
“I-I think that's what he said, Mr. Ashton.”
“What's the hell is he doing here?” He asked himself, striding off toward the back entrance to the stage.

“We're on in like two minutes, man!” Rikki called out behind him.
“Give me a sec!” Mark yelled back. Jeremy had a panic and anxiety disorder that was usually triggered by crowds and loud noises. This kept him away from all but Foxglove's smaller shows. Nearing the backstage door, he saw a group of people being kept at bay by the security guards, each one of them trying to get a look inside. To the side of the crowd, standing quietly with a folder in his hand, was a small, delicate, light-furred fennec fox staring uncomfortably at his shoes.

“Hey!” Mark yelled, motioning to the nearest security guard. “That guy, the little one. He's with me, bring him in.” The guard nodded, messaging on a radio on his collar to bring in Jeremy. Walking up the stairs with the guard, he looked as brittle as glass, but relaxed as he saw Mark waiting for him.

“Mark!” He shouted, breaking away and running to him. They collided into an embrace, Jeremy burying his face into Mark's chest as Mark himself nuzzled into the fur atop his husband's head, smelling the familiar scent he'd missed for so many months. Between them, Mark's belly prevented an awkward obstacle to hug around, but they made do with the space they had.

“I missed you,” Jeremy mumbled into Mark's shirt.
“Me too,” he said, rubbing one hand against his belly. “We both did.” Pulling apart, Mark kissed Jeremy on the head, who giggled. “What were you doing waiting outside? Where's your pass?”

“I-I left it in the hotel. I just- I wanted to get here fast and I-I f-forgot it.” Jeremy bit his lip and swallowed.
“Are you alright?” Mark asked, bending down. Jeremy was at least a foot and a half shorter than him. “You didn't have to come, sweetie. I was coming straight to you after the show was over, anyway.”

“I know, but I had-I got an email of the-”
“One minute, people!” Shouted another stage director, causing Jeremy to jump and make a squeaking noise.
“Jeremy...baby, I'm sorry, but it needs to wait. I've gotta get on stage.” Mark rubbed a hand against Jeremy's cheek, scratching behind one of his enormous ears.

“N-no, wait. I-It's- You-”
“Mark, you comin'!?” Clint yelled
“One second!” Mark yelled before turning back. “You can stay in the bus, okay? It's gonna get pretty loud tonight.” He kissed Jeremy on the forehead one more time. “I'll see you later tonight.”

Mark turned and strode back toward the stage, taking deep breaths in order to get his 'stage presence' ready to go. But before he made it ten feet, he was jerked back by a tight grip on his tail holding him in place. He whipped his head around to find it was Jeremy pulling him back.

“I'm on stage in thirty seconds! What the hell is going on!?” The crowd outside was beginning to chant the band's name while stagehands and roadies were stealing awkward glances to him. Jeremy, his face determined, crossed the distance between them and dropped the paper folder so he could hold onto both side's of Mark's head in order to keep his attention.

“It's a girl!”

Mark blinked. The sounds around him faded into a dull murmur. His mouth dropped open into silence. Jeremy stared up at his husband, the expectant father of his daughter, and smiled, tears welling up in his eyes. He laid a hand against Mark's belly, under the shirt, running his fingers through his fur and even feeling the little girl twitch under his palm.

“It's a girl...” he repeated. Mark laid a hand on top of Jeremy's, both of them feeling the tiny little life the two of them had made. The little piece of their love Mark carried inside of him had become real, physical.

The two kissed passionately, deeply, without either of them letting go of Mark's bulging middle. The crowd, the stage, the workers, even the rest of the band faded away into background noise. All that existed in the world beyond Mark was Jeremy was the little kit nestled comfortably in his womb.

As they pulled away, the sound of the show came rushing in. Rikki was already on stage, playing the opening drum set with Clint coming in right behind her with a bass riff. Jeremy nodded, smiling.

“I'll...I'll be in the bus.”
“Yeah....Yeah, okay. Okay, sweetie,” Mark said, laughing. “...A girl.”
“Yeah...” Jeremy nodded. With a peck on the cheek, he strode off to talk to the security guards about getting him to the tour bus.

On stage, Clint and Rikki were setting up the opening beat, shortly before Renard came out with his shining, custom-made Gibson and began to play the opening riff to the single from their first album, 'City of Gold.' A chorus of cheers and applause followed him as he came out playing, but it didn't reach a cacophonous, fever-pitch until Mark himself strode out onstage.

Before the opening verse of the song, the band usually kept a holding pattern of the first few riffs to give Mark some time to get the crowd riled up with a few 'Are you feeling good tonight!'s or 'Are you ready!?'s. But Mark walked out onstage staring at the ground, striding calmly and quietly to the applause that greeted him. Bringing up the microphone to his mouth, he paused, saying nothing. He let his arm fall to his side, staring out at the crowd long enough for them to stop cheering. The band and the fans all glanced to each other confusedly until Mark wiped the tear from his eye and brought the mic up to his mouth again.

“It's a girl...” He said over the enormous concert speakers. He cradled his belly in one hand while taking a deep breath to scream “IT'S A GIRL!”

The crowd of thousands exploded into cheers, a huge number of them from female voices. Mark raised his hands in the air and joined in the cheers. This everything he wanted the Nine Month Tour to be: a collective celebration for the creation of life.

“I'm having...I'm having a motherfucking little girl!” Mark screamed again, laughing into the microphone. He turned to Renard and made a cutting motion to his throat. “No, no, not 'City of Gold.' We're playing 'Lady Luck.' Because I'm feeling pretty god-damn lucky tonight!” The crowd cheered again, none but Mark knowing that 'Lady Luck' was one of the few songs written by Jeremy.

“One...two...One, Two, Three, Four!”
They played, with Mark singing like he never had before.

*************************************************************
Nearly three hours later, Jeremy and Mark both lay on the hotel bed in each others' arms, Mark's shirt pulled up over his belly for easy access. Jeremy's muzzle rested on his husband's shoulder, his eyes closed but far too excited to sleep. Mark, meanwhile, was fighting the urge to pass out, his heart still racing from the show they put on.

“I could hear from the bus,” Jeremy said. “You sounded so good.”
“Mmmf....Thank you...” Mark mumbled sleepily, pulling Jeremy in closer. The kit shifted softly inside him, with Jeremy close enough to feel it. He giggled and slid a hand down between them, cupping Mark's belly in his palm.

“And you look so good, too,” he said. “I've been watching tour videos on YouTube, trying to see how big you were.” Jeremy scratched Mark's underbelly, who groaned happily and flicked his tail in response.

“I'm barely even halfway,” Mark said, opening one eye. “Soon, we won't even be able to get this close without her getting in the way.” He lowered his hand to pat his stomach alongside Jeremy. “A girl...It all feels so real now.”
“Have you thought of any names?”
“I can barely remember my name right now,” Mark mumbled. “I used to get pumped up from shows, but now I'm just...so tired...”

“Your body's expending a lot of energy right now,” Jeremy explained. “You're carrying an extra body, after all.”
“I have to sleep on my side, now. It sucks. I always slept better on my stomach.”
“I know you do,” Jeremy said, pulling in closer as he wrapped his legs around Mark. “...You played my song tonight.”
“I did,” Mark said. “It's my favorite.” He rolled over onto his back, letting Jeremy pull up against him, while he protectively massaged his protruding belly. “I guess I felt...really lucky.”

“I wrote it about you, yknow.”
“I know.”
They kissed, deeply, with all the intimacy and love of two soul-mates. Their kiss became more passionate, harder, punctuated by soft moans from either of them and even a few lip-bites. Jeremy's hand traveled over his husband's swollen middle, then migrated down between his legs.

“How tired did you say you were?” Jeremy asked, a twinkle in his eye.
“Mmmm...” Mark groaned. “Pretty...a little too tired...”
“Good.”
Jeremy, full of all the energy Mark lacked, hopped up and crawled to the bottom of the bed, right next to his sore legs and feet. Mark's pants were still unbuttoned to allow room for his belly. The effort it took to pull the jeans on was far, far harder than taking them off, it seemed, as Jeremy was able to pull his mate's pants down around his knees with a single tug. Despite his protests of exhaustion, Mark's boxers were steadily tented around his erection. Hungrily, Jeremy tore them off even faster.

Mark lifted his head to look down, finding he couldn’t' see much of anything past his domed stomach other than Jeremy's huge ears.
“I can't even see down there anymore,” he grumbled, flopping his head down on the pillow in frustration.
“Who says you need to see anything?” Jeremy smirked. Opening his mouth, Jeremy went down on Mark, an act as familiar to him as breathing. sending shivers of pleasure through his lover's body. But as he slowly descended, Jeremy felt his forehead meet the unexpected resistance of Mark's pregnant bump.

“Oops,” he giggled, after pulling back up and turning to the side for a better angle. Once situated, Jeremy to work him like a trained professional. He was intimately familiar with every curve, every vein, and every nerve of his husband's member and knew exactly how to draw an orgasm out of him like an exorcist.

Unexpectedly, the kit in Mark's belly began to stir and move frantically in response to his increased heart rate. He barely even noticed the sensation before the swimming warmth of orgasm overtook his brain and he was in too much pleasure to care. He gritted his teeth and arched his back as he came like an explosion.

Mark fell to the bed, his head and body still buzzing in the aftershock. Jeremy flopped over his lover's lap, licking his lips and laughing softly.
“Did you need that?” Jeremy asked. Mark didn't answer, only quietly grunted in the back of his throat before searching out for Jeremy's hand to hold. They both panted in the quiet until their breathing slowly returned to normal.

Leaning up, Jeremy turned to his side and lay one of his giant satellite ears over Mark's active belly.
“I don't think she liked that,” he laughed.
“Then she's...she'll have to just deal with it for a few more months...” Mark breathed. “Because...fuuuuuuuck...”

“Heehee, now I know why you keep me around.”
“You're also, like, the father of my child?”
“That too, I guess,” Jeremy said, getting on his hands and knees to listen more carefully to Mark's gurgling stomach. “You think I can hear her heartbeat?”
“Not yet. She's not big enough.” Mark squirmed uncomfortably. “Even if she feels big enough.”
“Well,” Jeremy said, sitting up and wagging both of the fennec ears that dominated his head. “If anyone could hear it, it's me.”
“I bet you'd pick up radio stations if you ever got piercings,” Mark joked, warmly watching Jeremy listen and poke and prod the fluttering butterfly inside of him.

“Hmph,” Jeremy grumbled. “All I hear is your big, stupid heartbeat.”
“Sorry, I'll turn that down next time.”
Jeremy lay his head on the mattress to get a good look at Mark's belly, petting it slowly and smoothing down his hair.
“That's kind of all she is right now, huh?” He said. “Just a heartbeat.”
“Yeah...” Mark said, looking away in thought. “...Just a heartbeat. Just a...”

He fell silent while Jeremy petted and caressed his daughter through his husband, softly planting affectionate kisses on the furry swell.
“Mark?” Jeremy said, after a while of quiet.
“Huh?” Mark said, jumping. “Oh...Sorry, I was thinking.”
“Mark...you know I could have carried her, right?”
“What?”
“I'm just saying.... You didn't have to do this.”
“I wanted to, Jeremy.”
“But you don't even like to bottom half the time.”
“Yeah...Once was enough.” Mark chuckled patting his bump.
“But...but you tour all the time and you've got fans and you're in the public eye and you're on TV and award shows and you're famous. I could have gotten away with staying at home.”

“Yeah,” Mark shrugged. “But...I wanted to. I wanted to have a baby.” He swallowed, flicking his tail and blushing. He had nothing to hide from his husband, but embarrassing was still embarrassing. “Jeremy, I wanted to be pregnant. This is kind of a dream come true for me.”

“Really?” Jeremy asked, lifting his head.
“As a kid, I used to pretend I'd be pregnant or having a baby. Around the same time my sister was born. I didn't even remember that until recently. I had some weird gender stuff, too, before I realized I was gay. But even after that, I didn't feel 'right.' Once male gestation procedures were available, I realized that...well, that this is everything I wanted.” Mark rested one hand on his stomach and one hand around Jeremy's head to scratch behind his ear. “Jeremy, no matter how much I complain or bitch, this is the most satisfied I've felt my whole life.”

“...Wow.” Jeremy said, pulling himself up the covers to cuddle up next to Mark. “I had no idea you felt that way.”
“I do. Honestly?” He turned on his side and gave Jeremy a peck on the nose. “Bring on the belly. I'm ready for it.”
The two cuddled in silence, but not for long. Mark and Jeremy's big ears both twitched as the sound of rambunctious shouting, cheering, and the distinctive clink of bottles floated up from the floor beneath them.

“Sounds like they had fun,” Jeremy mumbled.
“Yeah...Hang on,” Mark said, gently pushing Jeremy off of him. “I'll be right back.
Downstairs, Clint, Rikki, and Renard were busy entertaining a couple of Foxglove fan's they'd met after the show. Renard had seduced a young mare who was completely entranced by his French and who's hand never left his thigh. Rikki was having a good time with a doe and her buck boyfriend, who she had both invited after a long conversation on the benefits of an open relationship. Clint, with a girlfriend and soon to be fiancee back home, entertained himself by keeping everyone as drunk as they could possibly manage.

A hard rap on the door jolted them to their senses. Clint, the closest, stumbled to his paws as pulled it open, finding Mark standing behind it, looking sour-faced, with a backpack slung over his shoulder. He pushed his way in, standing in the middle of the room and eyeing the scene like a surveillance camera. The guests were somewhere between shocked and too starstruck to say anything, but the band members themselves glanced between each other, unused to seeing Mark so dour. Even with his belly poking from the bottom of his shirt, he still looked almost menacing.

“You guys know it's almost 2 in the morning, right?” He said. “That Jeremy and I are upstairs? That I, especially, can't even have a drop of alcohol and that we have to get up tomorrow morning?!”

The room was silent, the tension thick enough to see.
Mark sighed, taking off the backpack and unzipping it.
“If you guys can't respect that, then the least you could do...”
He pulled out an enormous handle of Jameson Whiskey and slammed it down on the hotel desk.

“...is drink for me.”

“Oh, fuck you!” Rikki laughed, pelting him with an empty beer bottle. The room erupted into cheers and laughter as the tension fell away. Mark hung around for a little while, officiating a drinking contest, telling drunk stories of past tours and parties, letting the doe and mare feel the kickings of his daughter (while insisting over and over that he was, in fact, gay), and eyeing up the handsome buck Rikki had brought with her (for fantasy's sake, of course).

Finally, Mark insisted that he needed his sleep, forcing himself to leave. While the rest of Foxglove partied into eventual unconsciousness, Mark slept soundly in the arms of his beloved husband and father of the baby girl in his tummy.