ATTENTION:
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@plentiful-pushes
ATTENTION:
I am requesting asks for ideas for birth stories?
Banned: Gore, Scat, Child Death/Sacrifice, Mpreg, Children, Abusive/Child Abusive.
And hello i'm a rando who likes to write!
You're the last one in the club. Fair, it's a Monday evening, not a lot of people would ever go to the club anyway. But you've got a few days off and felt like letting loose. So: club.
And yes, maybe you overindulged. Maybe you got a tad drunk. But it's fine! Really.
At least, that's what you think until a few months later, you notice your belly growing way too large to be "just a bit bloated". You even convince yourself it's all nothing until the pains start.
You're at home when it gets really bad and suddenly, you've got liquid running down your thighs. It seems to be some sort of breaking point because now, you can’t deny that your body is trying to push something out of you. That there's something battering against your cervix before it gives was.
You scream when your hole starts burning a while later, just when you decided to walk to the bedroom. You scramble to get a hold on anything, managing to grab onto the cupboard in the hallway as another pain slams into you. Unwittingly, you start pushing, allowing your body to do what it was designed to do: push out life.
You scream when your hole parts and the slick head peaks out. You cannot believe what is happening - you didn't even have sex in the past year! Or well, you don't remember it even as your baby slowly emerges from between your legs.
Holding it in
The first contraction woke Mei at three in the morning, a deep, twisting cramp that wrapped around her lower back and made her gasp into the darkness. She lay still for a moment, her small hands pressed to the enormous curve of her belly, counting the seconds until the pain receded. When it did, she let out a shaky breath and reached for her husband, James, who was snoring softly beside her.
“James,” she whispered, her voice thin. “James, wake up.”
He came awake slowly, his forty-three-year-old body creaking as he shifted. He was a large man, broad-shouldered and solid, with the ruddy complexion of someone who worked the land. She was barely five feet tall, her frame delicate, her hips narrow, her body struggling to accommodate the life she carried. The disparity between them had always been a quiet joke between friends, but now, as the second contraction hit and she curled into a ball, it felt like a prophecy.
“It’s time,” she said, her teeth chattering even though the room was warm. “The baby is coming.”
James was on his feet in an instant, pulling on jeans, grabbing the hospital bag they had packed weeks ago. “How far apart?” he asked, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands.
“I don’t know. Five minutes? Maybe less.” Another contraction was already building, the waves coming faster than she had expected. She had read the books, taken the classes, but nothing had prepared her for the raw, physical force of it. Her body was no longer her own.
They lived forty-five minutes from the hospital, down winding country roads that twisted through farmland and forest. James helped her into the passenger seat of the truck, her belly brushing the dashboard, and she gripped the door handle as he backed out of the driveway. The first few miles were tolerable, the contractions still manageable, but by the time they hit the main road, the pain had intensified to a level that made her see stars.
And then, in the middle of a scream, she felt it: the overwhelming, undeniable urge to push.
“James,” she cried, her hand flying to her crotch, pressing against the seat of her shorts. “I need to push. The baby is coming.”
“No, no, no,” he said, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. “You have to hold it in, Mei. We’re almost there. Just hold it in.”
Hold it in. The instruction was absurd, impossible. Her body was already bearing down, the baby descending through her pelvis with a pressure that felt like she was being split open. She pushed against her own hand, trying to hold the baby back, but the force was primal, unstoppable. She felt the head press against her opening, felt herself stretch, and she screamed, a raw, desperate sound that filled the cab of the truck.
“I can’t,” she sobbed. “I can’t hold it.”
James drove faster, the truck bouncing over the rough road, and Mei clamped her legs together, her thighs shaking, her hand pressed hard against her perineum. She pushed the baby back up inside her, a conscious, agonizing effort that made her vision white out. Every bump in the road was a fresh wave of pain. Every contraction was a battle against her own body.
“Please,” she whimpered. “Please hurry.”
The hospital appeared like a mirage, a cluster of lights in the pre-dawn darkness. James pulled into the emergency entrance, tires squealing, and was out of the truck before it had fully stopped. A nurse appeared with a wheelchair, and Mei was lifted, carried, wheeled through corridors that blurred into a tunnel of fluorescent light. She was still holding herself, still pushing the baby back up with every ounce of strength she had left.
“She’s crowning,” she heard someone say. “Get her to L&D. Now.”
The delivery room was a whirlwind of activity. Mei was lifted onto the bed, her clothes stripped away, monitors attached. The obstetrician, a calm woman with silver hair named Dr. Chen, introduced herself, but Mei barely heard. She was lost in the pain, her body convulsing with each contraction, her hands gripping the bed rails.
“I need to push,” she gasped. “I’ve been holding it for so long.”
“Let’s see what’s happening,” Dr. Chen said, her voice soothing. She checked Mei’s cervix, her fingers gentle but firm. “You’re fully dilated. The baby is right there. But I want you to try a different position. Let’s get you on the birth stool. Gravity will help.”
Mei was helped off the bed, her legs barely holding her, and lowered onto a wooden birth stool that sat in the center of the room. The stool was low, with a curved cutout, and she sat with her feet planted on the floor, her knees wide, her hands gripping the edges. James knelt in front of her, his face pale, his eyes wet.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice cracking. “I’m so sorry. I did this to you. I made you pregnant with my big baby. I’m so sorry.”
Mei wanted to tell him it was fine, that she loved him, that she wanted this baby more than anything, but a contraction seized her and she could only scream. She pushed, her body bearing down with a force that lifted her off the stool, her face contorted, her throat raw.
“That’s it,” Dr. Chen said from behind her. “Push. Push hard.”
She pushed again, and again, and again. The baby’s head descended, stretching her, burning, and she felt the ring of fire, a searing circle that seemed to consume her entire pelvis. She pushed until her lungs burned, until her vision blurred, until she was reduced to a single, primal instinct: get this baby out.
But the head would not advance.
“The baby is large,” Dr. Chen said, her voice tight. “And your pelvis is narrow. We have a shoulder dystocia. The head is out, but the anterior shoulder is stuck behind your pubic bone. I need you to change positions. Let’s try squatting.”
Mei was lifted off the stool, her legs shaking, and lowered into a squatting position on the floor, her back against James, who sat behind her, his arms wrapped around her chest. The squat opened her pelvis, gave her precious centimeters, but the baby was still stuck. She pushed, screaming, her hands flat on the floor, her body drenched in sweat.
“I need to use forceps,” Dr. Chen said. “The baby needs to come out now. We’re going to do a small episiotomy to create more space. I need you to push with the next contraction.”
The scissors were cold, the cut sharp, but Mei barely felt it. The forceps, two curved blades of stainless steel, were inserted with practiced precision, and Dr. Chen applied traction, her movements controlled, her face focused. Mei pushed, and the baby’s shoulders began to move, the stuck anterior shoulder finally slipping free.
With a gush of fluid and blood, the baby was born.
A girl, red-faced and squalling, was lifted onto Mei’s chest. She was enormous, her shoulders broad, her head large, just like her father. Mei looked at her, at this tiny, perfect creature, and she began to cry, her body still trembling, her legs still shaking.
“She’s beautiful,” James whispered, his voice thick. “You did it. You did it.”
But Dr. Chen was not smiling. Her eyes were fixed on Mei’s belly, which was still large, still round. She pressed her hands against it, her expression shifting from relief to something far more urgent.
“Mei,” she said, her voice calm but sharp. “I need you to listen to me. There’s another baby. You’re having twins.”
The words did not compute. Mei stared at Dr. Chen, her mind blank, her body still convulsing with the aftershocks of the first delivery. Twins. No one had seen a second heartbeat. No one had known. But there it was, unmistakable on the portable ultrasound that a nurse was already wheeling over, a second sac, a second baby, still high in her uterus.
“You have to deliver again,” Dr. Chen said. “Right now. The second baby is in distress. I need you to push.”
Mei’s body was already spent. She had pushed for two hours. She had torn, been cut, delivered a ten-pound baby. She had nothing left. But the baby needed her. She could feel the pressure building again, the second twin descending, and she screamed, a raw, desperate sound, and pushed.
The second baby was smaller, but the position was wrong. The head was transverse, the body twisted, and the contractions were weaker now, Mei’s uterus exhausted from the first delivery. Dr. Chen reached in, her fingers finding the baby’s feet, and she worked quickly, turning the baby, guiding it down.
“Push,” she commanded. “Push, Mei.”
Mei pushed, her body convulsing, her vision going dark at the edges. She felt the baby descend, felt the tearing of her already damaged tissues, the forceps marks from the first delivery ripping wider. She screamed until her voice broke, until she was making sounds that were not words, not human.
The second baby was born with a final, shuddering push, a boy, smaller than his sister but still large, his face purple, his cord wrapped around his neck. Dr. Chen unwrapped it quickly, and the baby let out a thin, reedy cry, a sound that made Mei sob with relief.
She held both babies now, one in each arm, her body wrecked, her legs shaking uncontrollably. She was covered in blood, her perineum torn and bleeding, her episiotomy gaping, her thighs slick with fluid. She looked at James, who was crying openly, his face buried in her hair.
“I’m sorry,” he kept saying. “I’m so sorry.”
But Mei was not listening. She was watching her children, her son and daughter, her twins, and she was counting fingers and toes, marveling at the miracle of them.
“The placentas,” Dr. Chen said. “We need to deliver the placentas.”
The contractions began again, weaker now, but still painful. Mei pushed, and the first placenta slid free, a dark, glistening mass that the nurse caught in a basin. The second placenta followed, larger, more stubborn, requiring Dr. Chen to reach inside, her hand cupping the organ, pulling it free with a wet, sucking sound. The pain was a distant thing now, overshadowed by the weight of her children on her chest.
When it was over, when the placentas were delivered and the bleeding was controlled and the stitches were placed, Mei lay in the hospital bed, her twins tucked against her, her husband beside her. She was shaking, her body still trembling with the aftershocks of the birth, her face pale, her lips cracked. She looked at James, at his tear-streaked face, and she managed a small, exhausted smile.
“They’re perfect,” she whispered.
He kissed her forehead, his lips trembling. “You’re perfect. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry for what I put you through.”
She shook her head, the movement barely perceptible. “They were worth it. Every second.”
Outside, the sun was rising, the first light of dawn painting the hospital room gold. Mei closed her eyes, her babies warm against her chest, her husband’s hand in hers. She had held the baby in during the drive. She had pushed the baby up inside. She had endured a shoulder dystocia, forceps, tearing, a surprise twin birth, and the brutal delivery of two placentas. She had survived.
And in her arms, her children slept, their faces peaceful, their small bodies rising and falling with each breath. They were hers. They were worth everything.
Warriors Pose
Raven had never been afraid of much. At thirty-four, she had survived a decade of underground fighting, a bar fight that left her with a scar splitting her left eyebrow, and the collective judgment of a world that had never known what to do with a six-foot-three, tattooed, pierced butch woman who took up space like she owned it. She had walked into punk houses filled with skinheads, had her ribs broken by a woman twice her size in a Muay Thai ring, had stared down her own reflection after shaving her head and liked what she saw. But walking into Sacred Bloom Prenatal Yoga for the first time had taken more courage than all of it.
Her wife, Lena, had been asking for weeks. “Just try it,” Lena had said, her small hands resting on the growing curve of Raven’s belly. “You need to be around other pregnant people. You’re going to be a mom, babe. You can’t just hole up in the garage with your punching bag and your death metal.”
So Raven went. She went in her baggiest gym shorts, a faded gray hoodie with the sleeves cut off, and a black tank top that had a hole under one arm. Her arms were sleeves of blackwork—thorns, skulls, a dagger wrapped in roses, the names of bands that had broken up before most of the women in this class were born. Her ears were stacked with silver rings, a small hoop in her nostril, a curved barbell through her eyebrow. Her armpits were dark with thick hair she had never once considered shaving. She was a collection of sharp angles and ink, and she felt like a monster in a room full of fairies.
The other women were soft. They wore matching pastel leggings and draped cardigans, their hair in loose braids, their voices gentle. They moved through the poses like water, while Raven’s body felt like a bag of hammers. She grunted through cat-cow, swore under her breath during warrior II, and shot death glares at anyone who looked at her too long. The instructor, a wisp of a woman named Sage, smiled at her every week with such genuine warmth that Raven wanted to crawl out of her own skin. “Welcome, mama,” Sage would say, and Raven would nod once, jaw tight, and take her place at the back of the room where she could lean against the wall and pretend she was somewhere else.
She was thirty-four weeks pregnant, thirty-four years old, and she had spent her entire life being told she was too much. Too loud, too big, too angry, too queer. Now she was about to become a mother, and she was supposed to become soft, to become gentle, to fit into this world of lullabies and baby showers and women who probably flinched when she walked into a room. She didn’t know how.
The class had been going for nearly an hour when Raven first noticed that something was wrong. Or rather, something was different. The studio was warm—it was always warm, some bullshit about “maintaining the uterine environment”—but today the heat felt suffocating, a physical weight pressing down on her chest. She was sweating, her tank top darkening under the arms, her forehead slick, her hands leaving damp prints on her mat. Her breath was coming in ragged gasps, far harder than it should have been during a gentle prenatal flow, and there was a low, grinding ache in her lower back that she had been trying to ignore for the last hour.
“Fucking air conditioning,” she muttered, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. The woman next to her, a tiny brunette with a belly like a basketball, shot her a concerned look. Raven forced what she hoped was a reassuring smile, though it probably looked more like a grimace.
They moved into a supported child’s pose, and Raven folded herself over her knees, her enormous belly pressing into her thighs. The ache in her back deepened, and she felt a wave of nausea roll through her, hot and sudden. She swallowed hard, breathing through her nose, telling herself it was just the heat, just the pressure of the baby, just her body being a traitorous piece of shit as usual.
Then the wave crested, and she felt it: a sharp, internal pop, followed by a gush of warm fluid that flooded her shorts and soaked the mat beneath her.
For a moment, she didn’t move. She knelt there, frozen, her brain refusing to process what had just happened. Then the woman next to her gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.
“Oh my God. Her water broke.”
The room erupted. Women were on their feet, hands reaching, voices rising. Sage was there in an instant, her calm facade cracking just enough to show a flash of urgency beneath. “Raven, honey, look at me. Your water has broken. How far along are you?”
“Thirty-four weeks,” Raven managed, her voice strangled. “I’m not supposed to… it’s too early…”
“Babies come when they’re ready,” Sage said, her hand on Raven’s shoulder. “Right now, I need you to breathe. Just breathe. We’re going to take care of you.”
Raven tried to breathe, but another contraction was already building, this one far stronger than the aches she had been dismissing all morning. It wrapped around her lower back and squeezed, a vise of pressure that made her cry out, her hands slamming down on the mat. She was shaking, her entire body trembling with the force of it, and she could feel the eyes of every woman in the room on her.
“Someone call Lena,” Sage said, her voice sharp now. “And call 911. The rest of you, we need to make her comfortable. We’re not moving her until the paramedics arrive.”
“No,” Raven gasped, her head snapping up. “No, I don’t… I can’t have this baby here. I need to go to the hospital.”
“The paramedics are on their way,” Sage said. “But this baby isn’t waiting. I can see the contraction pattern. You’re in active labor. We need to get you ready.”
Another contraction hit, and Raven forgot about the hospital, forgot about Lena, forgot about everything except the raw, primal force tearing through her body. She screamed, a sound that tore from her throat without her permission, and her arms gave out, sending her collapsing onto her side on the soaked mat.
“We need to get her out of these wet clothes,” Sage said, her hands already reaching for the hem of Raven’s tank top. “She’s going to get cold, and she needs to be comfortable.”
“No,” Raven said again, but the word came out weak, desperate. She clutched at her tank top, her fingers wrapping around the fabric, but Sage was gentle and insistent, and the other women were gathering around, their hands warm, their voices soft.
“It’s okay, mama. Let us help you. You’re safe here.”
Raven felt the shirt being lifted, felt the cool air of the studio on her skin, and she wanted to cry. She was exposed, her large chest spilling free, her torpedo belly jutting out, the dark hair under her arms on full display. She tried to cover herself, but her arms were shaking too hard, and then the women were pulling at her shorts, tugging them down her thighs, and she was naked from the waist down, her thick pubic hair visible to everyone, and the shame was a hot, suffocating blanket.
“I’m sorry,” she sobbed, tears cutting through the sweat on her face. “I’m sorry, I’m not… I don’t…”
“Shh,” a woman said, her voice a low murmur. She was older, with silver hair and kind eyes, and she was kneeling beside Raven, a hand on her arm. “You have nothing to apologize for. You’re having a baby. Your baby is coming, and we are here to help you. Let us help you.”
Another contraction seized her, and Raven curled onto her side, her knees drawing up instinctively, her body assuming the side-lying position that felt most natural in that moment. The women moved with her, placing pillows from the prop wall under her head, between her knees, behind her back. Someone draped a light blanket over her chest, covering her breasts but leaving her belly and hips exposed. Someone else was holding her hand, a small, soft hand with perfectly manicured nails, and Raven clung to it like a lifeline.
“The paramedics are seven minutes out,” someone called.
“She’s not going to make it seven minutes,” Sage said, her voice low but urgent. She was positioned behind Raven now, her hands resting on Raven’s hip, feeling the contraction. “This baby is coming. I can see the head. I need you to listen to me, Raven. I need you to breathe with me. Can you do that?”
Raven nodded, her jaw clenched, her teeth grinding. She was shaking uncontrollably, her body slick with sweat, her hair plastered to her face. The next contraction built, and she felt the urge to push, an overwhelming, undeniable pressure that made her want to bear down with everything she had.
“Don’t push,” Sage said, her voice firm. “Not yet. Your body needs to open slowly. If you push too hard, too fast, you’ll tear. I need you to pant. Can you pant for me, Raven? Just little breaths. Like a dog.”
Raven tried. She opened her mouth and panted, short, sharp breaths that did nothing to relieve the pressure. The burning began, a searing ring of fire that made her sob, her hand crushing the fingers of the woman holding it.
“The head is coming,” Sage said. “It’s right there. I can see hair. But there’s something else. I think the baby’s hand is up by its face. That’s going to make this harder. You’re going to feel more stretching. I need you to stay calm. We’re going to do this together.”
A nuchal hand. Of course. Of course her baby, her stubborn, impossible baby, would come into the world with its hand up by its head, making an already brutal process even harder. Raven wanted to laugh, or scream, or both. Instead, she panted, her body trembling, her vision blurring with tears of pain and shame and something else she couldn’t name.
The contraction peaked, and she felt the baby’s head stretch her impossibly wide, the nuchal hand adding extra circumference, extra pressure, extra agony. She let out a high, keening whine, a sound she had never heard herself make before, and she felt her body begin to tear, a sharp, burning rip that made her gasp.
“That’s it,” Sage said. “You’re doing it. The head is almost through. Just a little more. Pant, Raven. Pant.”
She panted. The burning was a constant now, a ring of fire that seemed to consume her entire pelvis. She could feel the baby’s head, could feel the small hand pressed against her perineum, and she wanted to push, wanted to scream, wanted to die. But the women around her were holding her, their hands on her back, her shoulders, her legs, their voices a chorus of encouragement.
“You’re so strong.”
“Look at you. Look at what your body can do.”
“She’s almost here. She’s almost here.”
The contraction released, and Raven collapsed, her chest heaving, her body shaking. For a moment, there was peace, a blessed absence of pressure, and she gasped in air like a drowning woman.
“The head is crowning,” Sage said. “I need you to push on the next one. Just a small push. Just enough to get the head out. Can you do that?”
Raven nodded, her face wet with tears and sweat. She was naked, exposed, her hairy armpits and pubic bush on display, her large chest heaving, her torpedo belly contracting with each wave. She was a spectacle, a monster, everything she had always feared she was. But the women around her were not looking at her with disgust. They were looking at her with awe.
The next contraction built, and Raven pushed, a short, controlled push that sent fire through her pelvis. She felt the head emerge, felt the nuchal hand slip free alongside it, and then the pressure was gone, replaced by a sudden, shocking emptiness.
“The head is out,” Sage said, her voice bright with relief. “One more push, Raven. One more push for the shoulders.”
Raven pushed, a final, shuddering effort, and she felt the rest of the baby slide free, a warm, fluid rush that left her gasping. There was a moment of silence, and then a cry, thin and furious, a sound that cut through the haze of pain and shame and made everything else fall away.
Sage lifted the baby, a boy, red-faced and squalling, and placed him on Raven’s chest. He was enormous, his head big and round, his dark hair wet, his tiny fists waving. Raven looked at him, at this small, furious creature, and she began to cry in earnest.
“He’s perfect,” Sage said, her hand on Raven’s shoulder. “You did it. You did it, Raven.”
The women gathered around, their hands reaching out to touch the baby, to touch Raven, their voices a soft murmur of praise and wonder. The older woman with the silver hair was crying, her hand still holding Raven’s. The tiny brunette was grinning, her face wet with tears. Even the woman who had been on the phone with the paramedics was there, her phone forgotten, her eyes bright.
“He’s so beautiful.”
“Look at that head of hair.”
“You were amazing. Absolutely amazing.”
Raven looked down at her son, at the tiny face, the wrinkled forehead, the small mouth working silently. She looked at her own arms, the tattoos, the dark hair under her arms, the broad shoulders and strong hands. She had never felt more like a monster in her life, and yet, for the first time, surrounded by these women who had seen her naked and vulnerable and had not looked away, she felt something she had never felt before.
She belonged.
The paramedics arrived a few minutes later, their stretcher bumping through the door, but Raven waved them off. She was not going anywhere. She was right where she needed to be, her son warm against her chest, the women of Sacred Bloom gathered around her, their hands on her, their voices a lullaby of praise.
Lena burst through the door a moment after the paramedics, her face wild with fear, and stopped short at the sight of her wife, naked and sweating, holding a newborn in the middle of a circle of women. Her face crumpled, and she was across the room in an instant, her arms around Raven, her lips on her forehead.
“You did it,” Lena whispered. “You fucking did it.”
Raven laughed, a broken, tear-soaked sound, and leaned into her wife. “I did it,” she said. “I did it.”
She looked around the room, at the women who had stripped her clothes, who had held her hands, who had watched her scream and push and tear, who had seen every inch of her hairy, tattooed, imperfect body and had not flinched. They were smiling at her, these soft, gentle women in their pastel leggings, and for the first time, Raven did not feel like an intruder.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice hoarse. “I’m sorry for… for being such a…”
“Don’t,” Sage said, cutting her off. “You have nothing to be sorry for. You brought a life into this world. You did it with strength and courage. You are a warrior, Raven. And you are one of us now.”
Raven closed her eyes, her son’s weight on her chest, her wife’s arms around her, the women’s voices a warm, steady hum. She was still shaking, still raw, still bleeding and torn and exhausted. But the shame was gone, burned away by the fire of her labor, replaced by something that felt almost like peace.
She opened her eyes and looked at her son, at the tiny face, the dark hair, the small hand that had made her entrance so much harder. “Welcome,” she whispered. “Welcome to the world, little warrior.”
And for the first time, she said the words without irony: “Welcome, mama.”
The women laughed, soft and warm, and the circle closed around them, holding them all in a moment that none of them would ever forget.
Pushed to the limit
The air in the private birthing suite was a carefully controlled climate of sterile efficiency and quiet, mounting tension. The soft beeping of the fetal monitor was the only rhythmic counterpoint to the strained, panting breaths that filled the room. Eve Smith, her face flushed and slick with sweat, her auburn hair plastered to her temples, lay in the center of the large bed, which had been transformed into a surgical altar. Her legs were raised high, feet secured in cold, unforgiving stirrups, forcing her into the lithotomy position that left her completely exposed, completely vulnerable beneath the bright, shadowless surgical lights. Her swollen belly rose like a mountain between her parted thighs.
At the foot of the bed, scrubbed in and gowned in sterile blue, stood her husband, Dr. Oscar Smith. At twenty-five, he was a rising star in obstetrics, his hands steady and confident. But today, those hands were tasked with delivering not just any patient, but his wife, his Eve. His face, usually a mask of professional calm, was a tight canvas of focus and barely concealed emotion. A nurse hovered nearby, ready to assist, but in this room, Oscar was the undisputed authority.
“Okay, my love,” Oscar said, his voice a low, soothing baritone that cut through the chaos of Eve’s perception. He glanced from the monitor to the source of the next contraction building on the screen. “Here it comes. A big one. I need you to take a deep breath for me, and when I say ‘push,’ I want you to bear down with everything you have. Right into your bottom. Can you do that for me, Eve?”
Eve, just twenty years old, looked at him with wide, tear-filled eyes. He was her husband, her protector, and now, her guide through this tempest. The trust in her gaze was absolute. She nodded, a jerky, desperate motion. “Yes, Oscar,” she whimpered, her voice already hoarse from hours of labor.
The contraction swelled, a tidal wave of pressure that stole her breath. “Now, Eve! Push!” Oscar commanded, his hand pressing firmly on the perineum, feeling the baby’s head begin its descent.
Eve obeyed instantly. She grabbed the handles of the stirrups, her knuckles white, and bore down with a primal, guttural scream. It was a sound torn from the very depths of her soul. Her body convulsed with the effort, her face turning a deep, mottled crimson. She pushed until her vision swam with stars, then collapsed back against the sweat-soaked pillow with a choked sob.
“Good girl, that’s my good girl,” Oscar praised, his voice a gentle balm against the rawness of the moment. But his eyes, fixed on the progress between her legs, held a flicker of clinical concern. “That was perfect. Rest now. Let your body recover. You’re doing so well.”
This became their rhythm. The relentless surge of the contraction, Oscar’s calm command to push, and Eve’s obedient, agonizing response. She pushed until she thought her heart would burst, her screams dissolving into desperate whimpers of “It hurts, Oscar, it hurts so much,” to which he would only reply, “I know, my love. I know. But you’re almost there. Push again for me.”
After two hours of this, the room’s atmosphere had shifted. The initial hope had curdled into a grim, focused struggle. Oscar’s brow was now beaded with sweat that the circulating nurse dabbed away. He had performed an episiotomy, a precise cut he’d made with a grim set to his jaw, hoping to create more space. It hadn’t been enough. The problem was becoming brutally apparent: Eve’s pelvic outlet was too small. The baby’s head, now visible, was a dark, distended circle of scalp, but it was stuck. Impossibly, cruelly stuck.
“Okay, Eve,” Oscar said, his voice losing its soothing lilt and taking on a sharper, more authoritative edge. “The baby is right here. I can see the head. But we need to do this slowly. The widest part is at your opening. It’s going to stretch you more than anything you’ve ever felt. I need you to push, but not hard. Just small, controlled pushes. Can you do that? I need you to listen to me very carefully.”
Eve could barely nod, her body trembling with exhaustion and the relentless, building pressure that felt like a molten fist trying to force its way out of her. The infamous ring of fire had begun. It was no longer a sensation of pressure, but of being torn apart from the inside out by white-hot iron.
“Push,” Oscar said.
She pushed, a short, sharp cry escaping her lips as the burning intensified to an unbearable degree. The head emerged another centimeter, stretching the skin of her perineum to a translucent, terrifying thinness.
“Stop,” Oscar commanded, his voice sharp. “Good. Now hold it.”
Eve sobbed, trying to obey, but her body was beyond her control. It was screaming to expel this foreign object. The burning was a constant, searing shriek of nerve endings. “I can’t… Oscar, I can’t… it’s burning!”
“I know it’s burning, sweetheart, it’s the ring of fire. It means your baby is almost here,” he said, his eyes locked on the progress, his fingers gently trying to stretch the rigid perineum that refused to yield. “But you have to listen to me. You have to push only when I say. If you push too hard, you’re going to tear. Hold on.”
This was the new hell. For the next hour. Then another. The clock on the wall seemed to mock them, its hands moving with agonizing slowness as Eve remained locked in this limbo. A small circle of the baby’s head would emerge during a carefully controlled push, only to slip back slightly when she was forced to stop. Each tiny advance was a fresh wave of searing agony, causing Eve to let out high-pitched, animalistic whimpers. She was beyond words now, beyond thought. Her entire world had shrunk to the burning circle between her legs and the sound of her husband’s voice.
“Push… that’s it, just a little… stop. Good girl, Eve. Good girl. Hold it.”
She obeyed, her body trembling violently, tears streaming from her closed eyes to merge with the sweat on her temples. She was his instrument, his patient, his wife, and she trusted him to see her through this. But the primal part of her brain was screaming that this was impossible, that her body was splitting in two.
Oscar looked up at the nurse, his face pale. He had seen this many times, but never like this. Never when the woman in agony was his own. He knew the perineum was failing. He could see the tiny, superficial tears beginning to form at the edges of the stretched opening, weeping small beads of blood. A more catastrophic tear was imminent. He had to get the head delivered before a fourth-degree laceration tore Eve’s anatomy apart.
“Eve,” he said, his voice dropping to a softer, more intimate tone, though it was laced with steel. “Listen to me. You are being so brave. So good. But the baby is stuck. You’ve torn a little. It’s okay, I’m going to fix it, but I need you to push now. I need one final, massive push. This is going to be the hardest one. I need you to give me everything you have left. Do you understand?”
At the words “you’ve torn,” Eve’s eyes flew open, wide with a fresh wave of fear and pain. A sob of pure despair wracked her exhausted frame. But she looked at him—her Oscar, her doctor, her husband—and the trust was still there, buried beneath the agony. She gave a trembling, broken nod.
“Now, Eve! Now! Push with everything you have!”
Eve screamed. It wasn’t a cry or a yell; it was a sustained, high-pitched wail of absolute surrender. She gripped the stirrups as if they were the only things tethering her to the earth and pushed. Her body arched off the bed, every muscle locked in a supreme, desperate effort. The pressure was apocalyptic, the ring of fire becoming a supernova of pain.
Oscar watched, his own breath held, as the head began to move. The perineum stretched to a point that defied anatomy, the small tears widening into a single, jagged rent that sent a gush of blood over his gloved hands. He didn’t flinch. “That’s it! Keep going! Don’t stop! She’s almost out!”
With a final, earth-shattering push from Eve and a steady, guided delivery from Oscar, the head was born. The relief was instantaneous for Eve, the burning replaced by a sudden, blessed emptiness. But there was no time to rest. With the next contraction, a smaller, easier push delivered first one shoulder, then the other, and then, with a warm, fluid gush, the rest of the baby slithered into Oscar’s waiting hands.
For a moment, the world stopped.
The baby, a girl, let out a lusty, indignant cry. The sound was the most beautiful thing Eve had ever heard. Oscar’s face, for the first time in hours, broke into a radiant smile, his eyes glistening. With practiced hands, he clamped and cut the cord, then lifted the squalling, vernix-covered infant.
He didn’t hand her to the waiting nurse. Instead, he leaned over his wife’s exhausted, trembling body and gently, reverently, placed their daughter across her bare chest. The baby’s cries immediately began to quiet as she felt the warmth of her mother’s skin.
Eve’s arms, which had been too weak to move, instinctively cradled the tiny, perfect being. Her sobs of pain transformed into silent, overwhelming tears of joy. She looked from her daughter to her husband, her face a wreck of exhaustion, sweat, and pure, unadulterated love.
Oscar leaned down, his blue surgical gown brushing against her. He gently kissed her damp forehead, then her lips, tasting the salt of her sweat and tears. He pulled back just enough to look into her eyes, his own still bright with emotion and the fading adrenaline of the delivery.
“You did it,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. He stroked her hair back from her face, a gesture of profound tenderness. “You were so brave. So strong.”
He looked at the baby, then back at Eve, his expression one of deep, possessive pride. “You gave me a daughter. You were such a good girl, Eve. The most perfect, obedient, wonderful wife.” He kissed her forehead again, a seal of approval. “Thank you. Thank you for being so good for me.”
Eve, too exhausted to do anything but feel, let out a soft, shuddering sigh, her body still trembling from the trauma, but her heart full. She had endured the brutal trial by fire, trusting her husband implicitly, and he had brought her and their child through. As the nurses moved in to tend to her tears, to the baby, to the aftermath, Oscar remained at her side, his hand on hers, his gaze a constant, reassuring presence, the memory of her screams and her obedience already weaving itself into the foundational story of their family.
Imagine labouring in the tub, submerged in nice, warm, comforting water, mellow contractions rippling through your gravid womb. You can feel your body slowly guiding the baby downwards, feel your hips gradually filling with the bulging mass of it- the forebag of the unbroken sac distending into your birth canal.
You savour the sensation of the next contraction as it wreathes your pregnant belly in pressure and pain, the most beautiful force of nature operating within you to bring forth the burgeoning new life growing nurtured inside you these many long months.
Suddenly, lost in the intensity of this particular contraction, you feel the bursting of the waters between your legs, and you can't help but it moan at the release of pressure.
Hands on your belly, you can feel it shrink beneath your fingers in slow motion. Over your emptying belly you watch as the blood and water of your womb spill out between your legs, floating like winged tendrils to dissipate into the water around you, until your own skin is submersed in the same amniotic fluid as your baby.
The tranquil release of pressure does not last a moment before the baby's head lurches forward into your pelvis to fill the space. You gasp as the head emerges from your cervix and lodges itself in your birth canal. There's a whole new flavour of sensation, a stretching, burning fullness the likes of which you could never have imagined. The sounds coming from your voice are animal and uncontrollable as you fight to process the intensity.
The baby's coming. You can feel it fighting to be born, headfirst and big.
The waters around you flow and splash again at your body as your hips roll and convulse against the pressure. Right on queue you feel the urge to push.
You spread your legs in the bloody water and let out a big PUSH. In one way it's a relief, but once you begin, you can't stop. The pressure is enormous. Gripped in the throes of childbirth you squirm and push, the head beginning to stretch you wider and wider and wider with each second.
It's beautiful, it's otherworldly, this sensation of giving birth. It's coming so fast, though- you can feel the ring of fire so intensely you desperately wish you could stop pushing, but the birth is unrelenting. Before you know it, the head has popped free, followed by the shoulders, and the rest of the body slides out with a gush.
You reach into the bloody fog in the water between your legs and retrieve the newborn, its limbs splaying reflexively, and lift it finally into your arms for the first time.
Good pieces!
I lay him down on his side in the nest of towels while he wails, laboring hard on his first litter. My own litter is straining to be born, and I’m sure I’m about to start pushing.
“Lift your leg, baby,” I tell him.
He just moans.
“You need to start pushing,” I say.
“I can’t,” he whimpers. “I don’t know if I can whelp. I can’t, I can’t…oh…oh! Oh god!” He curls around his taut belly and whines as his body forces him to push.
I sit down at his ass and lift his leg myself, and prop the crook of his knee across my own knee. I pull his tucked tail from between his slick thighs and reveal his throbbing cunt. Then I spread my other knee wide to open my pelvis. I’m ready. He’s ready.
His body heaves on its first-ever pup. “Ow, ow, owwww, it hurts! Is it coming out?”
Of course it isn’t. I rub his hip. “Not yet, baby. You’re going to have to work harder than that. Push.”
His tail stands to attention as he puts in the work of a long, hard push, his eyes squeezed closed.
“Good boy,” I say. “That’s a good boy. You’re a natural.”
His contraction must end, because he stops pushing and starts panting. “Are, are you pushing?” he asks.
“Not yet.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Every time.”
“I think I need to push…I, I need to push! Oh! Ohhhhh!”
His pussy begins to bulge, but his slit is still closed. When he lets up the pressure, the bulge recedes. He cranes his neck to try to see between his legs.
“It’s stuck! It’s not coming out!”
“It’s coming,” I say. “You’re making prog—“ I gasp as my first pup begins to squeeze through my cervix. “Oh!”
“Are you whelping?” he asks.
It hurts too badly for me to answer, other than to tuck in my chin and push.
“You’re pushing! You’re—ohhhh.” And he lays back down as a contraction takes over his body and he has to push. His cunt bulges out, and when he lets up, it only recedes partway.
With my first full push, my pup fills my birth canal and my pussy bulges.
“Can I watch you whelp?” he asks, his eyes large and curious.
I nod and shift onto my hands and knees in the blanket nest, my cunt facing him. In the new position I have to lift my tail high as the next contraction barrels through me. I moan and push. The burn begins.
“Oh, oh! Ohhhhhh!” I moan.
I can hear the eagerness in his voice. “You’re crowning! Oh my god, you’re crowning!”
The stretch continues—wider, wider. I stop pushing but keep a steady pressure on the pup while I pant. He whimpers, and I look over my shoulder to see him propped up on his elbows, his back against the edge of the towel nest, his knees spread wide and his eyes squeezed shut while he pushes. His slit begins to open.
“Good boy,” I gasp between pants. “Open your eyes, baby. I’m about to whelp.”
He opens his glassy eyes, agony written all over his face. I feel the head sliding out. I dip my hips low and give a heave and whelp my first pup onto the towels between his feet.
“You whelped,” he whispers. “I don’t know if I can do this…”
I turn around, my body quivering with effort, and hold out my hand. He grips it with a strength I did not know he possessed, and pushes.
His pussy bulges fully out and his slit opens. He lays his head back against the nest and howls. His firstborn pup begins to crown, his first crowning of many—both tonight and over the course of his budding life as a breeding wolf. His belly strains and his legs begin to shake.
I squeeze his hand. “Push, baby. I know it hurts, I know, he put some big pups in you.”
The pup parts his lips wider and wider until his pussy is stretched tight in a perfect O. It stays that way for a moment…several moments…his howls of pain continue. Then suddenly the head pops free and he curls over his belly. His howl fades to rough panting.
I squeeze his hand. “Good boy, the head is out.”
“It hurts,” he whimpers. “I don’t know if I can do it.”
“One more push,” I say. “You’re about to whelp.”
“My first pup…” he says. “Help me?”
I shake my head. “You should whelp your first pup on your own.”
He changes tactics. “Hold me?”
I move to sit down beside him, but halfway there I feel an urge and I pause to push. “Ow…ow, ow, ow!”
“You’re pushing?” he says. “Push! Push!”
“Oh baby,” I moan, to him and to the pup pulling me apart. “It hurts, it hurts!”
His eyes are fixed under my belly, between my legs. “It’s coming out—it’s coming! Push!”
“Ohhhhhhhhh,” I groan. “I’m crowning! Fuck!” The head bursts out of me and I exhale. “Fuck…”
I maneuver carefully, mindful of the head of my pup dangling from my hole, and sit down beside him in the nest. I put my arm around his shoulder. He leans into me and holds my other hand.
“I think I have to push,” he says. His voice is tight with anxiety.
“Don’t fight it,” I say. “Let’s whelp together.”
He nods, his eyes fixed on the top of his belly.
“Ready? Push.”
Both our bellies heave as we bear down, arms twined together. Three seconds of strained moans…five…ten. He gasps.
“It’s coming—I feel it! I’m whelping! Oh god, I’m—I’m—AUGH.”
I hear his pup squelch out of him, followed by a rush of fluids. At the same moment my own pup drops out of me into the waiting towels. He clings to me, quivering.
“Oh my god. I whelped. I whelped! It came out!”
He sits up to look at his firstborn pup, but a moment later he’s back in my arms, pushing on his second. I’m pushing too; our laboring moans mingle together.
A few hours later our alpha finds us asleep in the nest, curled up around a double litter of pups. It’s hard to say whose is whose—but no matter. They’re half-siblings anyway.
imagine having to tell your monogamous partner that you knocked up someone else while they were away on a business trip
The neighbor was resting between contractions. Her husband had left her over this unwanted affair baby, and now was the moment your wife would decide whether she was going to do the same.
You were in the house, and the beautiful woman you'd been cheating with for months now was completely naked, belly huge with your bastard child, legs spread wide. She wasn't bulging. Yet. But she was drenched with sweat, exhausted, scared and lashing out at you for doing this to her.
You were naked too. Rock hard, aching, loving every moment of her labor. This baby had ruined her life completely, she'd lost her husband, her job, her own family thought she was a slut and she had no clue how she was going to keep the house. Thinking about how your own life was about to be brutally rocked as she struggled to sob out the oopsie neither of you wanted was only turning you on more.
"Yea." You said to your wife over the phone, starting to shamelessly touch yourself. "Mine. During that trip... You know the one. It was a whole month long, you said it was the best trip you'd been on in years? We slept together. A lot. She thought you'd said I'd gotten a vasectomy, so she assumed it was safe. But now my baby is coming out of her, is probably in her birth canal now."
You leaned forward, and she moaned as you pushed a finger inside her. Only two knuckles in, you felt slimy, wet hair, a firm mass. "Oh yea. It's comin', I feel it. She started pushing a little bit ago, she's doing sooo good even though it hurts so bad."
Your wife was stunned. "She's... Really giving birth? Right now?" A surge of guilty pleasure takes you as you say "Yep. To my affair baby. She hates that this is happening, she was fucking me because she was scared her husband would put another in her. But now here she is... Oh, oh god, hon, she's PUSHING... Fuck..."
The poor thing just lifted her legs, is letting out a guttural grunt of effort as her face scrunches beautifully. "She's pushing as we speak?" Your wife asks. "Yes." You manage, breathlessly. "It hurts so bad, honey... She didn't want another baby and I made her grow one behind your and her husband's back... Our secret, horrible little brat, and she's pushing it OUT..."
You take a picture, send it to your wife. She reacts with a... Sound. Almost a moan? "Fuck, she IS pushing... She's huge with your affair bastard... You son of a bitch... I'm never going to forgive you... You really cheated on me... Mngh..."
"What are you doing, hon?" You ask, even as you rub your baby momma's back. Your wife breathlessly answers "Running numbers on if we can afford to keep your slutty fucking mistress in her house... And rubbing my pregnant pussy."
You're stunned. "But... You made me use a condom..." You pant, as the poor woman who's life you ruined falls back, whimpering, holding your free hand for comfort. Your wife let out... A whimper?
"Mmmhm. I thought my boss was serious enough about his marriage to trust his condoms. Turns out he puts holes in them. So now I'm growing his affair baby. I wasn't sure how to tell you. Now..." A moan through the phone. "Tell me how your little slut looks as she births your little punishment, after work. Maybe I'll let you fuck my cheater pussy as you do. If you're lucky I won't leave you for this. Bastard."
You take another picture of your Mistress' crotch. "God, she's BULGING..." Your wife moans. "Keep the phone on speaker, help her deliver. Let me hear every moment." You cum hard, some of it almost landing on the laboring woman's straining slit.
Your life has absolutely changed forever...
A Story for the Classroom
The classroom smelled of dry-erase markers and crayons, a comforting, mundane scent that felt like a different planet. Katherine stood at the front, her hands resting on the slight softness that still clung to her belly, a phantom weight. The twenty-three faces of her third-graders looked up at her, a mix of shy smiles and outright grins.
“We’re so glad you’re back, Ms. Evans!” chirped a girl named Lily, voicing the sentiment of the class.
A chorus of agreement followed, then the inevitable question, launched from the back row by Leo, who had never possessed a filter. “Did it hurt? Having the baby?”
A ripple of giggles went through the room. Katherine smiled, a picture of serenity in her floral-print dress. “It was hard work,” she said, her voice light and warm. “But so, so worth it.”
“What’s his name?” “Can we see a picture?” “Was he a good baby?”
She pulled up a photo on her phone, showing them the placid, sleeping face of her son, Henry, bundled in a blue knit blanket. “His name is Henry. And he’s the best baby.”
She told them a simple story. A story of waiting, of going to the hospital, of a doctor who helped her, and then, after some time, a beautiful baby boy. She used words like “strong” and “healthy.” She saw their innocent faces, their belief in the simple, orderly nature of the world, and she tucked the real story away, deep in a vault within her mind. They didn’t need to know. They couldn’t know.
What she didn’t tell them was that the “hard work” had felt like being split open from the inside.
It had started on a Tuesday, three weeks before her due date. A low, persistent ache in her lower back that she’d mistaken for a muscle strain from grading papers hunched over her desk. By midnight, the truth had arrived with a brutal, oceanic force. These were not the gentle, building waves she’d read about in her pregnancy books. These were jackhammers to her spine, radiating through her hips like someone was trying to snap her pelvis in two.
When she and her husband, Mark, arrived at the hospital, she was already soaked through her clothes, her knuckles white where she gripped the car door handle. The triage nurse, a woman with a kind but businesslike demeanor, had checked her. Four centimeters. But Katherine could see the flicker of something—concern?—in the nurse’s eyes as she palpated her belly and watched the monitor.
“Baby’s a little… comfy,” the nurse said, a phrase that Katherine would later understand was a grotesque understatement.
She was admitted, changed into a hospital gown that felt like paper, and strapped to a fetal monitor. The contractions came in a relentless, overlapping cascade. There was no peak and ebb. There was only a plateau of pure, unadulterated agony that would climb, then stay, then climb again. Her back felt like it was being crushed in a vice. Every few minutes, she would vomit, her body convulsing as another wave hit.
By the time she was at six centimeters, she was beyond words. She had envisioned a natural birth, maybe some nitrous oxide, moving through the pain. That fantasy was incinerated. She screamed for the epidural. The anesthesiologist, a calm man who seemed to be moving through molasses, had her sit on the edge of the bed, curved over her contracting belly, while she shook so violently Mark had to hold her shoulders to keep her from falling.
The epidural offered a blessed, merciful subtraction of sensation from her abdomen. But it did not touch the back labor. It was a separate entity, a malevolent presence that had taken up residence in her spine. She could feel the pressure of each contraction, the baby’s head grinding against her sacrum with the force of tectonic plates.
Hours passed. The night shift changed. Her room was a blur of blinking machines and hushed voices. A new doctor, a stern woman with a sharp haircut, came in to examine her. She had the obstetrician’s version of bad news written on her face.
“Katherine, you’re fully dilated,” Dr. Harrow said, snapping off her glove. “But the baby is posterior. Sunny-side up. He’s facing your belly instead of your back. That’s why the back labor has been so severe. His head is… well, it’s not in the ideal position to fit through your pelvis.”
She explained the options. They could try to have Katherine move into different positions—hands and knees, side-lying—to encourage him to turn. They could try a manual rotation. Or, they could proceed, but it would be a difficult push.
Katherine, delirious with pain and exhaustion, just wanted it to end. “Let’s just do it,” she rasped. “Let’s get him out.”
What followed was not the empowered, focused pushing she’d seen in birthing classes. It was a surrender.
The bed was dismantled. Stirrups were raised. Her legs, which had felt like her own just moments before, were now heavy, foreign objects strapped into lithotomy stirrups, splaying her open and vulnerable under the harsh, white surgical lights. A nurse placed a rolled towel behind her back, arching her spine, tilting her pelvis upward. She was completely exposed, pinned in place like a specimen. The position was clinical, efficient, designed for the doctor’s access, not for her comfort or the natural mechanics of birth.
“Okay, Katherine, on the next contraction, I need you to hold your breath and push,” Dr. Harrow instructed. “Push like you’re having the biggest bowel movement of your life.”
When the next wave of pressure, still accompanied by that screaming back pain, seized her, she tried. She bore down with everything she had, her face turning crimson, the veins in her neck standing out like cords. She felt a tearing, burning sensation at her perineum that was entirely new and horrifying.
“Good, good,” the doctor said, not looking up. “Again. Push again.”
She pushed through one contraction, then another. Then an hour passed. Then two.
The lithotomy position, she would later learn, had narrowed her pelvic outlet even further, working against her. Each push felt like trying to force a boulder through a keyhole. The baby’s posterior position meant his wider, un-flexed head was getting stuck against her pubic bone. Every contraction, Mark would hold one leg, a nurse the other, and she would scream—a raw, guttural sound she didn’t recognize as her own voice—and push until the world went white.
“I can’t,” she sobbed between contractions, her body shaking with exhaustion and adrenaline. “I can’t do it.”
“You are doing it,” Dr. Harrow said, her voice a steely anchor. “But we need to get him past this point. His heart rate is starting to show some stress. I’m going to have to do an episiotomy to give him more room.”
She didn’t ask. She told. Katherine felt the sting of the local anesthetic, then the terrifying, unfeeling snip of scissors. It was a sound she knew would haunt her. It didn’t matter. The pain of the back labor and the pressure in her pelvis was so immense that the cut was just a footnote in her agony.
The pushing intensified. The room shrank to the burning ring of fire between her legs and the red, screaming effort in her head. The doctor was leaning over her now, her face a mask of concentration. A nurse was pressing on Katherine’s upper belly, a fundal push, bearing down with her full weight with each contraction, adding an external pressure to the internal maelstrom.
“His head is right there,” Dr. Harrow said. “He’s crowning. But he’s stuck. I need one more. One more massive push. I’m going to try to guide him.”
Katherine gathered the last dregs of her strength. She felt like she was being torn asunder. With a scream that was pure, primal fury, she pushed with such force that her vision blackened at the edges. She felt a series of catastrophic, burning pops as her tissues stretched and tore beyond the episiotomy. She was vaguely aware of the doctor’s hands working, a swift, forceful rotation, a final, brutal effort to free the head from the impasse.
And then, with a sudden, gushing release, the head was born.
One more push, and the rest of him slid out in a rush of fluid and blood. The sound that followed was not the gentle cry she’d imagined, but a furious, indignant wail.
A baby. A furious, purple, screaming baby.
They placed him on her chest, a warm, slick, writhing weight. She was sobbing, her body still trembling with the aftershocks of the ordeal. Her legs, still strapped in the stirrups, were shaking uncontrollably. Mark was crying, kissing her forehead, saying her name over and over.
But it wasn’t over.
Dr. Harrow, her forearms glistening with blood, was working intently between her legs. The cord had been cut, Henry taken to the warmer by a nurse, and Katherine felt a strange, absent pressure as the doctor delivered the placenta. Then came the repair.
“You have a third-degree tear,” Dr. Harrow said, her voice now calm and clinical as she began to stitch. “We’ll get you all fixed up.”
Katherine barely felt the needles. Her body was in a state of shock, a hollow numbness that was a welcome reprieve from the fire. She turned her head, watching the nurses weigh and measure her son. He was 8 pounds, 3 ounces. His head, she would later see, was molded into a severe, cone-like shape from its hours of battering against her pelvis.
Later, in the hushed quiet of the postpartum room, with Henry finally sleeping in a clear plastic bassinet beside her, the reality of it settled into her bones. She couldn’t walk to the bathroom without a nurse. Her body felt like a battlefield, littered with the wreckage of the event. She looked at her son—his tiny, perfect fingers, his dark fringe of hair—and a complex wave of love and trauma washed over her. She had done the hardest thing she had ever done. She had survived something brutal.
Now, standing in her classroom, she looked at Leo’s curious face, at Lily’s sweet smile. They saw the calm, put-together teacher with the beautiful baby photo.
“Did you cry, Ms. Evans?” asked a quiet girl named Sarah.
Katherine’s smile was gentle, the practiced smile of someone who had rebuilt herself from the ground up. “A little,” she said. “Happy tears. When I saw him for the first time, they were the happiest tears.”
She let them coo over the photo a moment longer, then clapped her hands softly. “Alright, scholars, let’s get our math journals out. We have work to do.”
They scrambled back to their desks, their curiosity sated by her simple, pleasant story. They returned to their world of fractions and book reports, where pain was a scraped knee and babies arrived in a clean, quiet moment of joy.
Katherine turned to the whiteboard, picking up a marker. She took a deep breath, the phantom ache of her still-healing body a secret she bore with the quiet, fierce pride of a survivor. She would never tell them the truth. Some stories were too brutal for a room with sunshine and crayons. Some stories, you kept for yourself, a testament to the silent, violent strength it took to bring a new soul into the world. She began to write the day’s math problems on the board, her hand steady, her secret safe.
No one, not a single one. Is ever "nothing" or a "no body" no matter who or where or what you have done or become.
You can still be the best you, it's hard but to be the best you. Means to work for yourself. Work for the person you are and for the people you love because no matter what you deserve it. Even if you hurt.
Reblog if you don't use Generative AI to write fanfics/original fics or to create fanart/original art.
Reblog if you’d rather give yourself papercuts between each of your fingers and then rub hand sanitizer all over your hands than use generative AI to write or draw anything ever
I always forget there are maga people on tumblr, this doesn’t feel like a website you’d find them on, so to keep them away:
Reblog if your blog is a maga free zone because if it wasn’t clear enough fuck ice, fuck maga, fuck Trump, Fuck Rowling, and fuck all the other bigots I missed
Parasaurolophus in autumn🍂
I do pixel commissions!
Parasaurolophus baby!
I'd to blurt a small piece of wisdom, today.
For those who struggle with things:
Nothing lasts forever,
Neither good or bad.
It never lasts forever,
that doesn't mean it
doesn't mean anything.
It means something, IF
it doesn't last forever if
it did, It'd mean. . . . . . .
nothing, So hold your
self together.
The moment won't last
forever neither you, but
atleast you will last.
Even if just for awhile,
last just a little longer.
Writing About Birth
(from someone who’s been to more than a hundred of them)
1. labor is not nonstop pain from start to finish. It comes in waves. For most of active labor, your character will have a one minute long contraction followed by a 3-5 minute break
2. people very rarely scream their way through labor. labor sounds are typically what you might think of as ‘work’ sounds: moaning, groaning, grunting.
3. birth looks absolutely nothing like it does in tv and movies. nothing.
4. labor starts with water breaking in only about 10 percent of pregnancies. contractions usually come first, and most people’s water doesn’t break until they’re pushing.
5. there are three phases of labor. 1st stage: onset of labor until 10cm dilated, 2nd stage: pushing until baby’s born, 3rd stage: from the birth of the baby to the birth of the placenta.
6. for a first timer (or a ‘primigravida’), labor is on average about 12-16 hours long
7. labor typically starts with weak contractions 10-20 minutes apart from each other, that may not be in a regular pattern. they will grow closer together and stronger until they’re coming every three minutes or so, and then will stay about that time apart right up until the very end.
8. if your character is having an unmedicated birth then they will have a strong spontaneous urge to push. they will not need a room full of doctors and support people shouting ‘push’ at them
9. typically, people most prefer warm, dim, comfortable environments for their birth
10. people feel almost instantaneous relief after birth. although after a few minutes they will start to feel some milder cramping as the placenta is born.
11. before the forties and fifties, hospital births were pretty rare, and most births were attended by midwives or ‘yarb doctors’
12. your character will call their midwife or head to the hospital when they’re having minute long contractions that are regularly five minutes apart.
13. when given the option, most people prefer to labor on all fours, walking, forward leaning, or side lying.
14. people are perfectly capable of walking during labor. once or twice ive even seen a person walking with their baby’s head already hanging out of their bodies. they do not need to be carried everywhere.
15. light bleeding during active labor is not uncommon, nor is it a cause for concern (light = a couple of drops running down the legs)
16. if you want your character to have a true birth emergency, might i recommend a placental abruption or a cord prolapse?
17. tearing is not uncommon, but in the absence of “purple pushing”* it’s not as common as you may believe. there are four degrees of tears. First degree tears are typically left unsutured or given just one of two stitches to hold them together (think: biting the inside of your cheek really hard). Second degree tears almost always require suturing. If your character had an epidural, then this will be done in the immediate postpartum. If they have not, then the midwife or doctor will use a numbing medication, likely lidocaine, to numb the area first. a third or fourth degree tear is more complicated, and involves the rectum. in these cases, a doctor may choose to take your character to an OR for a surgical repair, or they may evaluate the situation and continue with a typical minor surgery repair.
18. people are perfectly capable of eating during labor, although mostly people don’t have huge appetites, and many hospitals have policies preventing this in the case of an emergent caesarian. if someone is having a particularly long labor and their energy is flagging, you might give them tea with honey, juice, or broth to give them a bit of a boost.
19. a simplified overview of the process of labor is that during the first stage, the cervix will dilate from completely closed to a hole 10cm in diameter. during the second stage, the contractions of the uterus put pressure on the baby, moving it down through the open cervix and into the birth canal. this typically happens pretty slowly (especially for a first timer) and it is not unusual for someone to push for an hour or two with their first baby. the third stage follows the birth of the baby, and usually consists of a bit of a break and then some very mild contractions as the placenta is separated from the uterine wall and then is pushed out.
20. ‘crowning’ is not when the head becomes visible, but rather when the widest diameter of the head emerges from the birth canal (just about at the level of the eyebrows)
21. typically a baby is born head first, with its face looking back towards your character’s spine. however, babies can be born feet first or butt first (breech), or have wonky things like a hand next to their head.
22. if you want to give your character an extra painful labor, make their baby ‘sunny side up’, which is when the baby is facing towards your character’s stomach, rather than their spine. this causes lots of back pain that persists even in between contractions.
23. most (although definitely not all) people find it relieves the pain to have someone push very hard on their sacrum during contractions, or to squeeze their hips. Water is also a massive pain reliever during births
24. if your character has an epidural, they will be bed bound, and will not feel much of anything from about the ribs down. this can make things very chill for them. lots of people take naps, watch tv or read, or hang out with their families while in active labor with an epidural
25. even though they might not feel the pain, someone with an epidural will still be working very hard while pushing (think: sweating, grunting, etc.) and will usually feel a lot of pressure as the baby’s born.
26) it is not uncommon for the baby’s cord to be wrapped around its neck. the doctor or midwife will feel around the baby’s neck after the baby’s head is born to see if there’s a cord there, and will quickly pull it over the head to relieve any pressure if there is a wrap.
27) newborn babies are covered in amniotic fluid, vaginal discharge, vernix (a thick natural moisturizer with a cheesy texture), and sometimes blood.
28) newborn babies are adorable, don’t get me wrong, but they also look like little aliens
Okay, there’s a lot of stuff i didn’t include on here, but this post is already getting out of hand. Feel free to reach out to me if you have any questions about birth, or if you’re looking for someone to beta your birth scene, i would be delighted to help!
*purple pushing is the practice of a care provider telling someone to push when they have no urge to. should not be practiced except in cases of a true emergency where the baby needs to be born right this minute, although it is still frequently practiced in many hospitals.
Just A self-reminder and a good tidbit of info for other writers out there!
The Weekend Birthing Trip at Crownington
426-8. Request: Imagine a city where birth is something that you do very casually. Woman are going on about their day with heads crowning or dangling out and visible under the skirt. Some woman stop randomly on the sidewalk and finish giving birth in public.
By: fappinreborn / fappintobirth
You are a single and heavily pregnant woman with a pregnancy and birth fetish who decided to take your maternity leave and went on a trip to Crownington to give birth there.
The small but bustling city have some of your typical tourist attractions spots, but the real treat, and the reason that the city has been on the growing rapidly, was the city’s laws, culture, and relationship with pregnancy and birth. Within the city, you are allowed and even encouraged to give birth anywhere you want. it’s even encouraged to do so via cash subsidies by the government if you give birth in Crownington, which also applies for any tourist visiting. While a minority of women still decided to give birth privately or in the hospital (usually due to medical issues), most women decided to do it out in the open. The prospect was too good to pass up, you visit there when you are 38 weeks pregnant and stayed there until you give birth
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Love this! Nostalgia!
I'm writing again, just cried my eyes out last night. . . I don't know why? But I am writing but with a more violent tone.
Is that okay?
Absolutely. Are you doing alright?
Kinda just balled out my eyes yesterday.
Dunno why but I did.