Jul 9, 2024
The girls were born in the lab right?
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The girls were born in the lab right?
KJ Apa
You can reblog my work but don't steal my work and post it on here or other sites without my permission or credit
You can reblog my work but don't steal my work and post it on here or other sites without my permission or credit
You can reblog my work but don't steal my work and post it on here or other sites without my permission or credit
Faðrberar by the fire: Bloody Stretch ⚔️🩸
Full, uncensored versions of these photos available on my Discord 📩
This installment dives into the raw, visceral heart of faðrberar life – the moment of birth itself, framed through the story of two warriors bound by duty and blood. Drawing from fragmented saga accounts, runic inscriptions on birthing stones, and the grim archaeology of Viking-age longhouses (9th–11th centuries CE), we glimpse how male pregnancy culminated in trials of endurance that tested not just the body, but the spirit of the North. Here, birth was no quiet affair hidden in shadows; it was a communal rite, loud with cries and oaths, where pain forged unbreakable bonds between father-bearers, their impregnators, and the kin they sustained.
Meet Sǫlvi Benþvari, a seasoned raider from a fjord-side settlement in what is now Norway, and Vébjǫrn Níðstál, a young warrior newly initiated into the brotherhood. Nine months ago, in the dim glow of the elders' council fire – a gathering of grizzled chieftains invoking Odin and Freyr for the clan's prosperity – they were selected for reproduction. In all-male warbands or isolated outposts, such pairings were pragmatic necessities: Sǫlvi, with his proven strength and lineage traced to the gods, as the impregnator; Vébjǫrn, marked by runes as fertile and resilient, as the faðrberar destined to carry. Their union was swift, sealed in a ritual hut amid chants and offerings of mead and blood. For Vébjǫrn, it was his first time – a sharp, insistent pressure as Sǫlvi entered him, stretching tissues unaccustomed to such invasion. The pain was mild but insistent, like the bite of a fresh blade wound, yet Vébjǫrn bore it with gritted teeth. He would not fail his tribe, nor this stranger-turned-partner whose eyes held the weight of expectation. As seed took root, Vébjǫrn felt the first stirrings of life, a vow fulfilled in the name of continuity.
Now, nine months on, that initial discomfort pales against the agony unfolding in the smoke-filled longhouse. Vébjǫrn lies sprawled on the blood-slicked birthing stone – a flat granite slab etched with protective runes, unearthed in sites like those at Birka and Kaupang – his body convulsing as their son forces his way into the world. The pain is indescribable: a searing, ripping fire that radiates from his core, where the birth canal, dilated to its limits through months of hormonal shifts and ritual preparations, now yields to something far larger and unyielding. Centimeter by centimeter, the infant's massive head crowns, pushing through Vébjǫrn's perineum with brutal insistence. This is no ordinary newborn; archaeological echoes and saga hints speak of faðrberar offspring often born macrosomic, their heads swollen from the rigors of male gestation. The boy's skull measures a formidable 39 centimeters in circumference – well above the 97th percentile for Viking-era infants, its soft, pliable bones (molded by fontanelles that allow compression during passage) coated in a slick vernix caseosa, mingled with amniotic fluid and streaks of maternal blood. The crown emerges first, a bulging dome of pale skin stretched taut, veins pulsing visibly beneath, as the occiput rotates to navigate the narrow pelvic outlet. Vébjǫrn screams, his face contorted in a rictus of torment, sweat and tears mingling on his bearded cheeks.
Sǫlvi kneels at his side, gripping Vébjǫrn's thigh with iron hands, steadying him through the contractions that come like thunderclaps from Thor's hammer. The air reeks of iron – blood pooling from minor tears in the perineal tissue, a common peril in these births where the male anatomy, lacking the elasticity of female counterparts, demands greater resilience. Vébjǫrn shifts desperately, trying positions etched in oral lore: on his back, then side, then all fours – but each movement sends waves of ripping sensation, as if his body might split asunder. The head advances agonizingly: 5 centimeters exposed now, the brow furrowing into view, eyes squeezed shut in the dim light. One more push, and the shoulders will follow, but these final minutes stretch eternal, a test of Vébjǫrn's warrior soul. Around them, the brotherhood murmurs invocations, ready with heated blades and herbal poultices for the afterbirth.
This bloody stretch is the pinnacle of faðrberar honor: not a diminishment, but a triumph where vulnerability births strength. In the fragments we have – from grave goods including bloodied amulets and saga verses praising "the bearer who roared like a bear in cubbing" – we see how such births reinforced the clan's might. Vébjǫrn's trial echoes questions of consent, pain, and legacy: how far would one go for the horde?
MPREG in the style of Maxfield Parrish
I want to redo some of these but overall I think they turned out pretty good
THE DISTANCE BETWEEN THEN AND NOW
[This is a new version of my original]
Breathing felt difficult these days.
You lay sprawled across the bed, the late afternoon sunlight spilling through the curtains and warming your skin. Your pregnancy had reached the point where even resting required effort. Every position seemed uncomfortable after a few minutes, and the constant weight of your stomach was a reminder that your child would be arriving soon. The apartment was quiet except for the distant sound of running water. A moment later, Robin emerged from the bathroom, droplets still clinging to his skin. A towel hung loosely around his waist as he crossed the room and reached for a pack of cigarettes on the nightstand. For a moment, you simply watched him.
Months earlier, the two of you had met at your graduation celebration. The memories were fragmented—a blur of loud music, alcohol, and poor decisions. You remembered dancing. You remembered laughing. You remembered waking up the next morning with only scattered recollections of the night before. What neither of you had expected was the child that followed.
Since then, countless messages had bridged the distance between you. Long conversations stretched into late nights. What had begun as uncertainty had slowly become affection.
Now, for the first time since that night, you were together again. Robin pulled on a pair of shorts and glanced over his shoulder. His blue eyes met yours. Those eyes always seemed impossibly calm. A faint smile crossed his face.
“You’re staring.”
You laughed softly.
“Can you blame me?”
His grin widened. Robin crossed the room and pulled the curtains open completely. Sunlight flooded the apartment, transforming the space into a sea of warm gold. Beyond the balcony doors, the city stretched beneath a cloudless sky. The light found your stomach immediately. Instinctively, your hand drifted across its rounded curve. The baby shifted beneath your palm. Robin noticed. His expression softened. No matter how many times it happened, he never seemed to tire of seeing it. Slowly, he approached the bed and sat beside you.
“You know,” he said quietly, resting a hand on your abdomen, “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this.”
His fingers traced gentle circles against the fabric of your shirt.
“Used to what?”
The smile he gave you was almost shy.
“The fact that there’s actually a little person in there.”
The baby kicked. Both of you froze. Robin’s eyes widened. Then he laughed. A genuine, unguarded laugh.
“There.”
He pressed his hand more firmly against your stomach.
“There it is again.”
Watching him like this stirred something deep inside you. The confidence he carried every day vanished whenever he thought about the baby. In its place was wonder. Pride. Excitement. Love. The silence felt comfortable. Robin eventually leaned down and pressed a kiss against your forehead.
Then another.
Then one against your stomach. The gesture made your chest tighten.
“You really love this kid already, don’t you?”
He looked up immediately.
“Of course I do.”
The answer came without hesitation. His hand remained on your stomach.
“And I love you.”
The words caught you off guard. Not because they were unexpected. Because they sounded completely sincere. Robin wasn’t the type to say things he didn’t mean. You reached for his hand and squeezed it. Outside, traffic moved through the city streets below. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked. Life continued as normal. Inside the apartment, however, everything felt suspended in time.
Eventually Robin stood.
“I should go get groceries before the store closes.”
You groaned dramatically.
“You’re abandoning me?”
“I’m abandoning you for vegetables.”
“Worse.”
He laughed and grabbed his jeans from the chair. After getting dressed, he leaned over the bed one final time and kissed your forehead.
“I’ll be back soon.”
You watched him move toward the front door. Just before leaving, he turned around.
„I love you.“
Then he was gone. The apartment fell silent once more. With a sigh, you pushed yourself upright. Even simple movements required determination now. Your lower back ached. Your stomach felt impossibly heavy. As you shuffled toward the bathroom, another tightening sensation spread across your abdomen.
You stopped in the doorway.
Braxton Hicks.
Again.
They had become increasingly frequent over the last few weeks. You rested both hands against the counter and waited patiently for the discomfort to pass. Eventually the tension eased. Still, something about this one had felt stronger. Different. You shook the thought away. You had worried about premature labor so many times that it hardly seemed worth panicking anymore. After washing your hands, you wandered into the living room and settled onto the couch. The television flickered to life. Within minutes, exhaustion pulled you under. When you finally woke, warm hands were moving gently across your stomach. Your eyes snapped open.
Robin sat beside you.
Several grocery bags rested near the kitchen counter.
“You were sleeping so deeply I didn’t want to wake you,” he said.
You blinked toward the clock. Two hours had passed.
“Two hours?” you murmured.
Robin chuckled.
“You looked like you needed it.”
The baby shifted beneath his hand. Immediately his attention dropped to your stomach. The smile that followed was impossible to miss. For a moment, the worries, discomfort, and uncertainty surrounding the future seemed very far away.
There was only Robin.
There was only the baby.
And there was the quiet certainty that, somehow, the three of you would figure everything out together.
PATERNITY WARD WEEKLY BULLETIN
This week’s activity report from Paternity Compound 145 highlights a continued shift from group-based programming to individualized physical relief, reflecting declining surrogate interest in structured recreation.
Despite concentrated efforts by staff, most surrogates reportedly prefer private gratification routines. As such, the DRC plans to phase out morale programming in favor of stimulation-based care.