Local freaky writer now I guess. Birth, monsters, and eggs, mostly, but it varies… Queer/Trans/NB. 24+. He/They [ Minors DNI / Ageless Bio is a BLOCK ]
I made this blog years back to experiment with my NSFW interests and at this point it’s become my birth fetish corner. I’ve been a lurker for years, and I’ve recently started sharing my own writings!
Asks are open and encouraged! DMs are also open. Not open to RPs atm, if ever, however.
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Some disclaimers~
🎶 This blog is NSFW, AND NOT MEANT FOR MINORS. AGELESS BIO IS A BLOCK.
🎶 This blog focuses on Birth, Monsters, and usually Dark or Painful scenarios. All my writings will be TW’ed to the best of my ability, but please keep this in mind.
🎶 I also write from a queer lense, being queer myself. Specifically Trans/Non-Binary (AFAB), AroaceSpec, etc. I do not care for gender in this kink. Anything goes.
🎶 All of this is FANTASY and anything dark, dub/non-con, etc, I do NOT condone in real life. Any play between partners IRL, like dub/non-con or more vainilla kinks, must be done safely and consensually ALWAYS.
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Anyhow! To the main act~
WILL DO/FAVS
Birth/Labor Kink
Monster Fucking - Birth/Labor
Oviposition/Egg Laying
Breeding/Impregnation
Birth Denial
Long/Painful/Difficult Labor, Malposition, Stuck Baby, Big Baby, Multiples , Most Anything That Complicates Birth
Dark Scenarios
Medical Scenarios/Experimentation. That sort of deal
Cryptic Pregnancy/Sex During Labor (sex is not a fav or must but, sometimes)
Size Difference
Cuminflation/Creampies
Sub/Dom Dynamics/Bondage/Rough Sex
WILL DO BUT I CAN BE PICKY
Dark Scenarios. Straight up Torture or such… Execution matters a lot
Dubcon/CNC
Forced Birth/Impregnation
Hyperpreg. I do lean into it a good amount, but very unrealistic preg sizes I usually don’t lean towards. Varies
Public Birth. Not my thing, but some pieces I find do hit or intrigue me
Cattle/Broodmare/Baby Factory. Same as above
Puppyplay/Kitty/Etc. Same as above
WON’T DO
Rape/SA
DEATH/Gore/Deadly Harm to the Birthing Person or Child. With dark fantasy scenarios you push limits especially fantasy. But death? Never.
Bursting
Incest/Minors/Zoo/Necro. All that shit (Vampires, Ghosts, whatever, are fine, you know what I mean)
Scat, Piss, etc
Detransition/Misgendering/Raceplay
Ageplay
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Some additional info~
Not everything I reblog will be stuff that completely aligns with my preferences; but it intrigued me or I wanted to remember it for whatever reason. Usually writing inspo. I’m AroaceSpec like I said and for me, that includes looking at this type of content more like. Cool concept! Sometimes.
No shade to anybody! Enjoy what you like, some things are just personally not my thing you know?
She props me up against her warm back and curls her neck around to see me. She tents one wing over me to block the worst of the draft chilling the tower room.
“Push, my dear,” she says.
“It hurts,” I whimper. “I can’t do this.”
“You will. You must.”
I’ve sure you’ve heard the story before. The prince trapped in the tower guarded by the dragon who knocks him up.
Or maybe that’s just my story.
A contraction begins to build deep in my belly.
“Oh,” I moan, then harder, “Ohhh. Ohhhhhhh.” I’m already naked, my pussy leaking. I didn’t want to give birth in bed—she can’t fit on the bed, she can’t hold me while I’m in pain. So I’m birthing our dragonet onto the bare floor where it was conceived.
“Push,” she says again.
“I can’t,” I pant. “It’s going to hurt.”
“It already hurts.” And she gently pries my thighs apart with her talons. My hips seem to loosen naturally, my pussy seems to open to match my dilated cervix.
“I see the sac,” she says. “It’s right at your entrance. Do you want me to break it?”
“No!” I cry. “Well…no. Yes? Will that make it easier?”
“No,” she says simply, and runs a talon tenderly over my distended belly. “This will be very hard, my dear. My dragonet is larger than your body is prepared for. You need to begin pushing slowly so you do not tire too quickly. Push for me? A small push?”
I look into her slitted golden eyes, and my breath hitches as I’m overcome by my love for her—and my fear. I reach my hands up to my belly and clutch her talon. She nods to me, and I bear down, my eyes on her.
Something begins to slide out of me—the sac, filled with birthing fluids.
“Good boy,” she murmurs. “Another.”
I push again and feel a stretch inside me. “Ohhhh.”
“The snout is entering your birth canal,” she says. “Breathe. Let yourself stretch.”
I inhale slowly through my nose and exhale with pained groans for two contractions, and on the third I feel ready. I push.
“Ow,” I gasp. “Ow…ow…ahhh.” I ease off. “I don’t know if I can do it.”
“Breathe, breathe,” she tells me.
I inhale and moan on my exhales until the next contraction. Then I grasp my knees, pull back, bow my head, and push. Pain washes through me, a dreadful, agonizing stretch that fills my whole body cavity, with an origin point deep in my hips. Tears begin to extrude through my tightly closed eyelids, but I’m utterly silent. The pain has taken my voice. I push to the count of ten, exhale, inhale, and push again. Six, seven, eight, nine…
The contraction ebbs away and I sag against her scaly side, weeping.
“It hurts so bad,” I sob, still holding a deathgrip on her talon.
“Breathe,” she says. “Reach down. You’re starting to bulge.”
I open my watery eyes and slide one hand under my belly to touch my laboring cunt. My tdick is hard and sensitive as my thumb bumps it, and I gasp. I didn’t think I could possibly be erect right now. Beneath my swollen shaft I feel my labia beginning to round out.
“That’s the head?” I ask.
“It’s the snout,” she tells me.
“Can you see it?”
“Not yet. You’re not opening up yet.”
“I think I need to push…”
“Push, my dear. Push a little and you can rest between contractions.”
I keep my hand cupped lightly over my bulge, with the knuckle of my thumb resting just beneath my tdick. My eyes stay open this time as I bear down. I wish I could see myself…
“Get the mirror,” I gasp.
She makes a quizzical noise at the back of her throat.
“The mirror,” I grit out between clenched teeth. “I need to see. The mirror!”
She gives another little rumble of confusion and reaches her tail out for the standing mirror in the far corner of the room. She picks it up delicately and lifts it towards me, and hums a bit as she finally seems to understand what I’m asking her. She sets the mirror straight across from me and tips it on its axis until my entire body is reflected back at me, as well as part of the floor where a dark, wet sac of fluids is draped beyond my bulging cunt. The sac is barely holding my pussy open—an inch or so, no more. The snout hasn’t begun crowning yet, even though I’m actively pushing.
I’m taken by my reflection. Though it doesn’t disappear, the pain recedes, replaced by a deep curiosity. I’ve already sired an heir, though I haven’t seen her in the thirteen years since her birth. Nor her brothers, born three years and seven years after her. I suppose the kingdom felt that three royal children was enough of a safety net for the crown’s succession because the crown prince, technically my husband, hasn’t been to the tower to see me in the seven years since our youngest son’s birth. But they were half-elven, half-human babies, a very common lineage with a similar average birth weight of six or seven pounds—and my babies were average.
This dragonet is not average.
Nor is it half-elven. Dragons are fully dragon regardless of who gives birth to them. We’d been lovers almost the whole time I’d been in the tower and she assigned to guard it, but I carefully took the draughts every morning after her. Not after nights with my husband, of course—I was well aware of my duties to his kingdom.
Two years ago, aching to be filled but knowing the crown prince would not visit me anymore, I stopped taking the draughts. She was hesitant at first, worried the size of any pregnancy by her would test my body, but I knew what I wanted.
This is what I wanted. A new contraction begins to pull at me and I push, eyes locked on my bulging cunt in the mirror. I grunt through it, one hand cupping myself, one hand gripping her talon.
The sac bursts, sluicing fluids across my lower thighs and the floor. My pussy stays open that one inch. A rictus spreads across my face, showing my teeth—the snout of our dragonet is peeking through my hair. I’m almost sure it has green scales like its mother. I feel a purr coming from her side where my bare back is pressed.
“I see it,” we both say in breathy voices, and then giggle.
“I’m giving birth for you.” I look up at her, and I know I’m sweaty and my eyes are bloodshot in the corners, but she looks back at me with such affection.
“Yes,” she whispers.
“Your baby is coming out of me.”
She nuzzles my cheek with her snout. “Yes.”
“I…I need to push.”
She lays her enormous chin feather-light on top of my head and looks into the mirror, into my eyes. “Push. Push out my baby.”
I inhale deeply and lean over my belly, pressing her talon down on it. She seems to understand and rests a second talon on my belly, and pushes down.
Fluids leak out of me from the new pressure. My lips unseal into a teardrop shape. I was right—green scales. I can’t take my eyes off it. The teardrop widens, and widens, and—
“Oh gods,” I whine. “It’s burning.”
“Take your time, my dear,” she murmurs. “This isn’t like the crown on your other babies—the snout will get steadily wider before you reach the main part of the head.”
I keep pushing, but no more of the snout becomes visible. The contraction fades and I begin to pant steadily, keeping a gentle push in place so that the snout doesn’t recede back into me and ruin my progress. The snout hasn’t broken loose from my labia yet—the full roundness of it is still hidden. I wish I’d thought to watch my other three births in the mirror—but I’d just screamed and thrashed in bed while an unhelpful midwife attended me. I don’t know how wide my crowns got on my first three babies, so I can’t compare anything to the crown I’m witnessing now.
A contraction comes upon me. I push, the stretch growing unbearable for a moment, then fading slightly, so I keep pushing.
These gentle pushes with panting breaks between continue for maybe an hour, until finally my pussy stretches completely around the snout and the tip is fully visible. I bark out a startled laugh.
“It’s coming!”
I give a bigger push than I have yet and the snout begins emerging inch by inch. Then my progress is halted.
“Ohhh,” I groan. “I think the real crown begins now.”
She nudges my cheek encouragingly and I bear down. Pressure and pain erupt between my legs as my overtaxed pussy slowly, slowly widens around the skull of her dragonet.
“Ohhh…ohhhhhhhhh…ahh! Ah! Oh my gods!” I throw my head back and scream at the ceiling, burning through my vocal cords.
“Stop! You’re pushing too hard!” she cries, jostling me with her talons.
The moment broken, I collapse back against her side and look back in the mirror. My pussy burns; it’s stretched tight against the huge, scaly head, and my tdick stands to attention at the top of the impossible bulge.
“Breathe!” she commands me.
I pant harshly, staring at myself, and reach beneath my belly to fumble with my tdick. It’s so overstimulated that it almost hurts, but it hurts far less than my pussy, so I circle my thumb across the head. A tantalizing feeling spreads through me.
“Good boy,” she rumbles in my ear. “Take your mind off it. Let yourself stretch.”
A new contraction looms and I stop stroking my tdick, but I don’t let go. I push gently on the crown, pant for a few seconds, push, pant. The contraction fades and I start stroking my shaft again.
“It feels…it feels…” I had no way to describe it. “…I wish I did this during my other births.”
“Good boy,” she murmurs. “Good boy. Keep going.”
I pause on the next contraction and push. The face of our dragnet is beginning to come into focus.
“I-I’m about to crown,” I say. “I’m about to crown out your baby.”
The contraction fades and I start stroking again, my fingers playing over my engorged tdick. When the new contraction comes, I don’t stop. I push and stroke, and a hot feeling, beyond the burning pain, begins to build between my legs.
“It’s coming,” I moan, then louder, “It’s coming. It’s coming! It’s gonna come out! Oh my gods—OH MY GODS! I’M GONNA CUM!”
I buck my hips as the orgasm shoots through me, and a dragon’s head crowns out of me in a spurt of fluids. I’m still pushing as I ride the orgasmic aftershocks, and on each pulse the long neck of our dragonet is slowly birthed out of my ruined pussy. My legs shake as I lower my hips back to the floor.
“Oh my gods,” I pant. “It’s really coming out of me. It’s almost here.” I lay back against her side and stare at our baby, half out of me. It begins to move its ears, then it snorts and begins breathing, its body still inside me. I grip her talons in both hands and we stare at the reflection of our dragonet, breathing rhythmically on the floor between my legs.
It shifts, rotating. It’s time to birth out the shoulders.
“Push, my dear,” she whispers.
I don’t take my eyes off my pussy as it bulges again, burning slightly. The first shoulder comes out. I pant, pant. Push again. Second shoulder. The rest of the body comes tumbling out. Our dragonet rolls over, and its tail unspools in my womb and begins to slither out of me. I lay my hand on my belly as the tip off the tail slides past my cervix, down my birth canal, and out my cunt.
“It’s out,” I whisper. “I birthed your baby. It came out!” I grab her face between both my hands and kiss her soundly. “It came out!”
“I knew you would do it,” she says, delight in her eyes and voice.
We look down at our dragonet. Exhaustion washes over me, and I know I’ll be tired for a while yet. But as soon as I’ve regained my strength, I’m going to ask her for another.
Thinking of a farming community that is thriving through a famine because the goddess of nature has blessed them to become pregnant with produce and give birth to their harvest.
All of the farmers become swollen with one kind of fruit or vegetable over the course of the season, some of them local and some from faraway lands. During the harvest, most will give birth to a humbly sized crop. But the extremely devout farmers push out so much that at feasts, they will recline on a table with their legs open for the townspeople to take fresh offerings straight from their holes, which drip with the delicious juices of whatever produce they carry.
No one ever risks going thirsty, either, as every pregnancy causes the chest to swell with water so pure that it doesn’t even need to be boiled before consumption. Many in the town are employed ‘milking’ the farmers to create a reservoir for all to use. The most faithful produce so much water that their tits sag heavily around their fertile bellies, full enough that each breast can be heard sloshing as they walk. They keep cups hanging on their belts so that they can send any thirsty passer-by on their way with a drink—that is, if they don’t have time to suckle straight from their teats.
And of course the pregnancies can manifest many interesting ways…
A farmer carrying grapes will feel like their womb is full of soft eggs, and if you gently push their belly around, you can feel all the bunches shifting. When they give birth, it comes as one long vine that they can’t push very hard if they want large bunches, so they often just labor passively for days and days as the vine coming out of them grows longer and longer.
Root vegetables with leafy tops start to poke out of the farmers’ holes when they’re ready, and in addition to pushing, they need the help of a second party to grip the stems and help pull them out of their womb.
Those growing butternut squashes end up with oblong bellies, and never know whether each squash will come out head-first—leaving them to struggle on the round base—of if they’ll crown around the base and the whole vegetable will shoot out of them.
Someone carrying oranges or apples might have a bumpy belly that tumbles around with their movements, needing often to be adjusted for their comfort, and ending up in lopsided shapes if they’re unattended.
While large bunches of bananas are preferred, some—the less experienced farmers, especially—cannot stretch far enough to admit very many at once, so a farmhand is required to carefully insert a tool deep inside them and break a few off the stem. A farmer who’s used to having their bananas broken into single deliveries must take care not to be caught alone when it’s time to push, because they’ll have no idea what to do when a bunch of 10 or more starts spreading them.
Those who grow watermelons and pumpkins can often be seen in the goddesses’ temple, nervously rubbing the discolored, paper thin skin of their bellies as their body struggles to contain their bounty. With enough prayer and meditation, they can achieve a trance state for the birth, where the goddess will only allow them to feel as much as they want. For some, this is only a fraction of the pressure, which is still enough to make their groans echo in the temple. For others, this is the full impact of the birth, their bodies tortured as they’re pushed past the edge of human ability, their hearts in rapture at the chance to show their goddess how much they are willing to do for her.
It’s always important to be sure the harvests are ripe, too, of course. A farmer must pay close attention to the first of their delivery, and if it’s still green, they must stop pushing immediately and force what they can back inside. It’s quite common, especially for less experienced farmers, to need to postpone their birth by a few days or even weeks. Several farmers in this tender state can usually be found at the temple, moaning and groaning in misery as they clutch their contracting bellies and pray to the goddess for relief. Every day, the faithful visit them to comfort and soothe them, massaging them, holding them, even pleasuring them or inserting blessed artifacts into their holes to keep them plugged, so that they can at least answer the urge to push.
When the day finally comes to empty their aching bellies of the ripe harvest, it is not uncommon for the farmers to feel so pent up that each thing they push out makes them moan and jerk, slowly pushed towards the edge of pleasure. Often, the faithful attending to them will take the last fruit and fuck the farmer with it, until finally rewarding them with an almost unbearable orgasm, and then a sleep so peaceful and deep that they don’t even notice being carried home and put to bed. They are then allowed to rest for several days, first to recover… and then to germinate the next clump of seeds that has appeared in their belly.
The sharp-minded traveler might realize, once they ask around, that no one seems to carry a harvest of grain, and yet the people have ample bread. They might have a glass of the incredible wine, but search the town and find no barrels it could have come from.
Down below the temple, these questions are answered.
Criminals and heretics—sinners—are held prisoner. All of them are gagged, their muffled cries a disturbing choir in the darkness. Shackled high on the wall with their knees bound up by their chests are those without wombs, who grow so much wheat in their guts that their bellies are round and dense with the crop, heavy between their restrained thighs. They wince and squirm at the strange sensation of the stalks inside of them, but a bit of tickling is nothing compared to the threshing.
The faithful bring long tools and force them into the sinners’ holes, and thresh the wheat inside them with no care for how the sinner feels. The sinners scream until they injure their throats, then keep thrashing in their bonds as the tools torture their insides. They find no purpose or meaning in this suffering, only sobbing and shaking their heads as more tools are produced to gather the wheat, chaff, and other debris from inside them. Every little bit must be gathered, so they endure hours of cruel tools tirelessly searching their guts, sometimes going so deep that the tips tent their deflated bellies. They think no agony could be worse, but they will miss the tools if they ever try to push out the wheat on their own…
Those with wombs require no restraint. They could never get far with their bellies like this. Each one grows enormous yields of grapes, but when it comes time to birth them, they’re plugged up. Then, their contractions come, and in the course of the cramping and their desperate pushing, the grapes are crushed inside of them. Of course, a member of the faithful visits them to make sure every grape is squished, roughly pressing and squeezing their belly until it’s clear no grapes are left intact.
Then comes the fermenting.
Wombs that were once shaped by the weight of the plant matter within begin to grow in every direction, stretching and stretching as carbon dioxide fills them. Their bellies end up ballooning out, unbearably taut, their abdomens and pelvises and hips all screaming with constant pressure that only grows worse and worse. They shriek into the gags that they’re going to burst, but the faithful just chuckle as they walk by.
The joke, of course, is the evidence that they’ll never burst, even if the wine ferments in their bellies for years to come. The proof of this lies further into the chamber, where the worst of the criminals and the most blasphemous heretics groan constantly, their wombs so tight with gas that a pin’s head probably could pop them. Their spines are bowed, their lungs crushed and hearts slowed, rib cages and pelvises both forced back to make room for the fullness of their bellies. With every tortured breath, the audible sound of sloshing echoes within, wine beyond value growing rich inside them.
Even if they could walk, they’re in no state to escape. Years of wine on their membranes has left them completely saturated, every waking moment now spent effectively blackout drunk. Alcohol poisoning should have killed them a long time ago if the misuse of their organs didn’t, but the goddess’s blessing is for the survival of the people; though it may strain the body, it may not kill it. She meant this as a mercy.
For those whose wombs are reduced to wine barrels, death would be the mercy.
But they are hardly aware of their own situation anymore. One chosen from the group—a criminal, who can’t recall their crime or their name—doesn’t even notice when the faithful inserts a tool thin tool, and then the neck of a wine bottle into their pussy. A deft action with the tool, and the seal that’s kept their cervix plugged for years is removed. Air hisses quietly out, a sound not nearly dramatic enough for the sudden change in pressure inside their body. They have a moment of lucidity as the feeling of falling accompanies their wilting spine. Still, they aren’t even conscious enough to feel the relief.
Wine glugs into the bottle until it fills, then another, then another, deft hands switching them out, though precious drops still splatter on the floor. All told, it takes less than a minute to drain their womb, but in a lifetime, their belly would never return to its original shape. It remains massive and strangely round, but drooping now, like their whole frame does without the gas to hold it up. They look like a broken scarecrow, and it almost makes the faithful sad as they seal the wine bottles.
The criminal, for a fleeting moment of consciousness, misses being full.
But they don’t have to worry. The goddess will make another bounty in their belly in no time.
Monster species that tends to stick together in varying sized hordes. They can be any number, even the rare solo monster. The upper limit to how many group up at once isn’t known.
When you’re caught by one of these monsters, it will immediately take you back to its horde where it fucks you, while the rest of them watch with throbbing cocks in anticipation. Once the monster pumps its load inside you and pulls out, the next one will immediately shove its own cock inside. Everything about your ordeal depends on the size of the horde. Each extra number makes it take longer, each load swells you fuller and fuller with their cum. Even if you pass out from exhaustion, they’ll keep going, with their only goal to fill you some more.
Eventually, when they’ve all finished inside you once, you’ll finally be left to rest, unbelievably stuffed. And of course, all that cum gets you pregnant. Soon enough your belly will swell again, this time with squirming monster babies, and you realize something. You aren’t just carrying one litter. You’re carrying at least one baby from each and every monster that fucked you. The size of the horde affects the pregnancy too. Some people barely grow at all, with only a handful of babies, and only need to take a minute or two to birth them. Others might be stretched huge, helpless as their pregnancies grow bigger than their bodies, preparing for a birth that might last a whole day.
Once the monsters are born, they’ll become a brand new horde, nearly matching the size of its parent horde. Except… Not quite. Twins and even triplets aren’t that rare with these monsters. And the more babies, the more likely that will happen. This is how the bigger hordes form. The bigger the horde, the more likely they’ll catch a human to carry their babies, and the bigger the pregnancy will be
I want a pregnant belly that's so lively it's obscene.
Like, even through a thick hoodie everyone can see the babies squirming under the tight stretched skin. Or when the fabric of my shirt rides up, it's flushed and pulsing from all the movement inside.
Or people fucking staring at me wherever I go, trying to count how many pups I got stuffed up with - and succeeding because they’re so visible, so active.
been thinking a lot about werewolves lately, getting knocked up by a guy you had no clue was a werewolf. he's overprotective of you ever since you showed him the positive test. sitting with you through morning nausea and fucking you (doggy style, obviously) whenever you ask. maybe the knot should've been a giveaway..
you grow fast, an ultrasound confirms he put a litter in you. 5 pups seems like a lot, but he just shrugs and says he'll try harder next time. even though your second trimester already has you panting getting from the couch to the bed.
full moons are unbearable. your belly is already big on account of the quintuplets, but it grows. maybe you're trapped on the couch, pups thrashing inside your womb. all you can do to try and soothe them is rubbing circles on your taught skin.
at least your boyfriend helps with the cravings. he doesn't look at you weird when you ask for deer or lamb. he's picked up on when you ask for "rare" you really mean "raw".
you've started feeling braxton hicks contractions lately, you've been getting all of your bags ready to have these pups at a real hospital, but when the next full moon rises and your water breaks, you practically have to drag yourself to the bathtub in time.
Fascinated with monster preg where just the snout of some lupine monster is crowning and the rest is stuck. Kicking their legs and screaming and writhing trying to make any further headway
I keep imagining like, maybe some magic tattoo on their belly or something? That's staving off birth. It starts to glow whenever the magic starts to "run out," and intense labor pains start happening before it can be recast.
I also keep thinking of a bunch of priests touching and praying over a naked and huge writhing belly as the person screams beneath them, recasting some sort of seal.
Getting kidnapped by the death cult and they're all so much sweeter and gentler than any of the priests you were stuck with.
Holding you close, kissing you all over, tenderly stroking your perpetually sore belly and whispering into your ear, "Aren't you tired of being swollen like this? Kept huge and helpless, secreted away to be poked and prodded at for the rest of your days? Our savior well past due to be born, fighting and kicking from inside you, trapped in a womb that is too small to contain it? Don't the both of you deserve to be free now?"
Sobbing because yes, it's been too long, you're too big, you're barely able to breathe or move due to the sheer weight you've been burdened with; every part of you has been sore for so long you barely remember what it's like to be anything else.
Can't decide if I prefer that it was an act of vow-breaking lust that left him in this gravid state or if he was defeated and forced, but either way he's forced to carry around this symbol of his shame on display for everyone to see, his entire life revolving around the thing that writhes in his belly.
For years he and his fellows have prayed and tried to destroy or banish the vile abomination that sat heavy in his womb, but all attempts have thus far failed. No weapon seems able to destroy it or the knight carrying it; all they can do is stave off its birth, leaving him trapped in his swollen and sorry state.
It still moves roughly within him even when the seal is at full power; as the seal weakens, the monster struggles more and more violently, as if trying to punch its way out. He swears it's getting stronger, his belly imperceptibly still growing as months stretch on to years overdue. Maybe it will burst out of him one day.
We simply DO NOT have enough accidental twin pregnant boy belly who is giving birth
I looove the surprise extra baby trope omg <3 I especially like it when it’s in unknown number of extra babies, like someone with a huge belly not knowing exactly how many he’s carrying. When he gives birth he doesn’t know what to expect, first it’s twins, then triplets, then quads, and still his tummy is hugely swollen. It feels like his labor is endless as he just keeps pushing them out, desperately hoping this will be the last one, but five babies later he still has a full term tummy…
Sorry for not posting a lot gang, had some medical stuff come up and I hadn’t had added enough stuff to my queue rip-
But I may get on the grind soon again, still recovering. But I tend to hyperfocus a lot so. May end up posting something I already had written up somewhere- we’ll see
BUT-
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If anyone’s got any birth prompts or such my asks are open tho, I am open to bouncing off folk’s ideas rn.
I mainly write from the carrier POV, but, go crazy lol
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(NOT respuests per say, I can’t guarantee a ficlet or story for every prompt)
dragons are apex predators, but they are very violent toward one another. adult males have a tendency to try to kill newborn dragons that aren't their own in order to spread their own genes instead of those of rival males. as a result, dragons are born with large horns and wings in order to allow them to defend themselves as early as possible. they have also evolved to give live birth, because being powerless in an egg is too dangerous for baby dragons. but the horns and wings sure don't make that process easy for the mother dragon.
it's incredibly common for the baby to get stuck on its horns and/or wings during the birth process. in most dragon cultures, it's customary for the father to be present during the birth in order to help dislodge the baby during these cases. however, it's taboo for anyone other than the father to help. as a result, single mothers are often left to struggle to birth unassisted. even if the father does help, it can take quite a long time for the mother's birth canal to stretch adequately to allow the wider parts through. it's not uncommon for days to pass while the mother slowly stretches centimeter by centimeter to finally allow the baby out.
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