Week 2: Back in the lab, analyzing samples, her belly's "kicks" ramp up to gentle rolls and nudges—those cute contractions every mom cherishes, like the baby's saying hi. "Oh, feel that? You're saying good morning, aren't you?" she giggles to herself, pausing work to cradle her swell, massaging deeply with both hands, eyes sparkling with that pure, nurturing glow. Fucked-up contrast hits hard, bestie: Inside, the larvae have ballooned, their bodies now veined and pulsating, stingers injecting digestive enzymes that liquefy the fetus from within. They target the limbs first—gnawing through muscle with acid-laced bites, bones softening to jelly as enzymes dissolve calcium, arms and legs curling inward in futile agony, snapping with wet pops that vibrate as "playful jabs." The fetus's skin blisters and splits, larvae wriggling through the rents to feast on exposed meat, tearing stringy tendons in bloody shreds, guts spilling out in looping coils that they slurp like noodles. Silent screams echo in the fluid—fetal mouth gaping in horror, but no sound escapes—as the larvae hollow the abdomen, venom keeping it alive for the torment, heart fluttering weakly amid the gore soup. She interprets every heave as affection, cooing, "Such a feisty little explorer... Mommy's here, rubbing all the love in," her massages unknowingly pressing the larvae deeper, accelerating the rip-and-dissolve.

Week 3: The timeline drags into exquisite brutality—she's nesting now, shopping for baby clothes, feeling those "adorable" contractions more frequently, like rhythmic hugs from within. "You're dancing for me today, aren't you, sweetie? Let's feel those moves," she murmurs lovingly, lounging on the couch with hands gliding over her belly in soothing strokes, heart bursting with maternal joy. But the womb? A visceral slaughter pit: Larvae, now fat and armored like mini-wasps, swarm the torso in a feeding orgy, mandibles crunching through ribs like brittle candy, splintering bone shards that embed in softening lungs. They sting the heart repeatedly, venom prolonging the beat while enzymes melt valves into goo, blood pumping out in erratic spurts that paint the uterine walls in arterial sprays. The brain's last—larvae tunneling up the spine, drilling into the skull with barbed precision, gray matter erupting in pulpy bursts as they devour neurons, the fetus's final thoughts fragmenting in electric agony. Organs liquefy fully, a sloshing stew of dissolved innards nourishing the brood, contractions squeezing the mess into absorption—each one a "cute kick" that makes her beam. "Yes, keep wiggling, my love... you're so cozy and safe with Mommy," she coos, massaging away, oblivious to the hell her touch oversees.
By Week 4, the fetus is obliterated—reduced to nutrient sludge, fully fueling the snail-wasp hybrids into pupae, her belly swelling with their growth. She never suspects, that motherly affection twisting the gore into "normal" bliss, addiction subtly drawing her back to the woods for more.