You should do a story where the reader is giving Jason the silent treatment and he’s being pathetic
beg on your knees
IN WHICH... you've decided that you and your boyfriend aren't on speaking terms...he's not handling it well.
warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, f!reader, established relationship, jason groveling ofc, suggestive!!, MOMMY/MAMA KINK JASON ARISE, jason cries
wc: 916
"Please, baby, talk to me," Jason pleads from beside you on your bed. He's been laying there, begging profusely for easily 20 minutes. It's a miracle you haven't given in.
See, yesterday you'd taken the day off work to surprise Jason with a day together. But instead he decided to go out with Roy all day. You know it's not fair of you to blame him—he didn't know that you weren't working and hadn't found out until he and Roy were already on their way to New York. But in any case, you're still upset, and you don't want to talk to him.
You only turn slightly away from him, continuing to read the book in your lap.
"C'mon, ma," he sighs, laying down atop you and nudging his head against the book. "This thing can't possibly be more important than me."
He sighs, continuing to try to knock the paperback out of your hand. He stares up at you, and even in your peripheral you can see the pure love that swims within them. His pupils are blown wide with adoration, nearly swallowing the blue irises whole.
"So pretty, even when you're mad at me," he whispers, a rough hand coming up to fiddle with the leg of your shorts. "Let me hear your voice, please, doll..."
You humph, eyes focused firmly on your book. You refuse to look at him, interact with him...
"I'm just gonna keep sitting here until you talk to me."
Silence.
"Baby?"
More silence.
He grumbles. "Okay. Fine." You're a little surprised when you feel his weight lift from your lap and you finally spare him a glance as he stands up and round to the other side of the bed.
You tilt your head curiously, eyes widening as you see your big, brooding, 6'0" boyfriend sink to one knee and then the other. He looks up at you through his thick lashes, looking absolutely devastated.
His big hands come up, feeling up and down your thighs and hips as he keeps his eyes locked to yours. Your book is long since forgotten, shut without a bookmark on the other side of the bed. You swing your legs over the edge of it, sitting facing Jason.
"I can't go any longer without hearing your voice, mama," he sighs in distress. His forehead falls forward to rest against your plush thighs. "Please. I need you. I need your touch and your love and...you."
He stares up at you with big, sad eyes. Your heart aches despite yourself—he looks much like a fluffy, lonely puppy pleading for his owner's attention.
He all but whimpers when your fingers reach to brush through his dark hair. "Oh, baby," he whines, nuzzling his nose into your leg. His hands drag up to your waist, arms encircling you. "More, please..."
Your hands continue their ministrations, but you still do not speak to him. He hasn't earned it quite yet. That is, until you hear...sniffles?
"Jay?"
"Oh–" he whimpers, burrowing closer to you. Yep, you definitely feel wetness begin to soak into your shorts, and he's definitely sniffling. "Yes, ma? What is it? I'm sorry."
"Are you crying?" you ask him softly.
He sighs deeply. "Doesn't matter. I finally get to hear my baby's voice."
You frown. You thought before that he was just being dramatic, trying to annoy you with his whining and constant bargaining for your attention. But now, seeing the man cry in your lap like a baby... "You were really upset?"
He looks up at you with wet lashes and pouty lips. "Of course I was, doll. My sweetest, most beautiful girl wasn't talking to me and I can't do with that. I need you."
Despite yourself, you let out a little snort. "Jesus, you're pathetic."
He mewls. "Baby– please," he sits back on his knees. He's...really begging. On his knees. On your bedroom floor. "Forgive me, forgive me, please," he pleads.
"I don't know..." you decide to tease him a bit. "Should I?"
More tears fall from his big eyes. "Yes! Please, please, please—I'll do anything, my love. You're my everything and I didn't mean to ruin your day off," he locks his hands together, holding up praying hands. "I'll plan the most perfect day and I'll let you fuck me to sleep, baby, please. Just...love on me again, I beg."
You smirk. "I never thought I'd see the Jason Todd on his knees."
"Only for you, my angel," he sniffles, eyes never leaving yours. "I'm only pathetic for you, nobody else. Nothing else."
Alas, you let up. "Oh, my boy, c'mere," you open your arms. "Come to mommy."
"Oh, thank god–" he lets out the biggest sigh of relief and rises from his knees, crawling atop you in the bed as you lay down.
"Thank you," he whispers, tucking his head into your neck and kissing the skin there. "Thank you, thank you, thank you, mama."
Your hand cards through his hair, the other arm wrapping around his broad waist. "Shhh...no more crying, Jay."
"I can't help it. I lost you."
"For like 36 hours," you giggle.
"36 hours too long," he scowls up at you, but it's weightless with his soft-as-silk eyes. "I'm sorry for upsetting you," he murmurs again, hands feeling you up and down—it'd been too long since he was this close.
"I know, love, I forgive you," you reply. "Let me hold you, yeah?"
"Yes, babygirl, hold me, please," he sighs. "Fuck, I missed you..."
"My pathetic boy," you whisper, kissing his forehead softly and then his soft lips. "I love you."
"I love you more. Don't ignore me like that again. Please?"
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A farmer is struggling to get the last of his crops harvested before a cold front. He’s managed this small farm by himself for years, but as he’s gotten a little older, he’s struggled to keep up with the demands of the job. This year especially, the work has really been taking it out of him.
He feels like he never quite recovered from the flu he had back in the spring, exhausted and slow all the time, and he’s developed a lingering pain in his hips and back. He suspects some of it is due to the weight he’s gained, his once-pudgy tummy now an unsightly ball gut that juts off his frame, so massive it tugs on his spine. He mentioned it to his neighbor the other day, a woman doctor who rumor has it was once a nun, and she had almost smiled for a moment before telling him he should drink less beer. When he told her he stopped 6 months ago when his belly first started ballooning, her mouth tightened with concern. Her eyes dropped to the peaked point of his navel stretching his shirt, and she told him he should come to her clinic as soon as he’s able, as he could have a serious illness. But he’d waved her off and weaseled out of the discussion— he’d avoided revealing his secret to anyone for twenty-one years and he wasn’t about to break the streak just because some nice doctor asked.
Anyway. The point is, he doesn’t know what’s wrong.
Today, the pain is bad. His back, especially, keeps seizing up, his groans echoing in the empty field. It’s so severe that he’s tempted to abandon the rest of his harvest, but he can’t justify the financial hit he would take. He’s a man, he’ll press through.
Every time he has to squat down, the pain in his pelvis deepens, the pressure becoming more unbearable by the minute. He remembers a relative speaking of kidney stones and hopes he hasn’t caught them. That’s the last thing he needs.
He’s on his hands and knees bundling up rows of produce when he starts to feel like an elephant is stomping his lower spine down into his pelvis. His jaw drops, and a long, plaintive groan tumbles out of him. Instinctively he rocks on his hands and knees, feeling his big fat gut tug on his lumbar region as he arches and twists his back, desperately trying to find relief. When his muscles finally unclench, he wants to just collapse where he is, but he has to keep going. The doctor will be there tomorrow, but these crops sure won’t. There’s still so much more to go…
Though he owns no animals, a lowing like livestock echoes across his property. He hears the noises as if they come from somewhere far away, and not his own heaving chest. Maybe he should be ashamed, or frightened, but it makes a certain kind of sense that he should sound like a beast of burden as he labors on his hands and knees in the field.
Then comes the burn. He drops the handful of produce he was holding, hand instinctively flying to his crotch, where the fire grows angrier by the moment. It must be a kidney stone. What else could—?
He goes completely still. His crotch is hot, hot as the inside of a body, and slowly, slowly swelling under his fingers. Swallowing thickly, he withdraws his hand and slips off one strap of his overalls. Then he wriggles his hand into the waistband. It can’t be…
But there it is. He feels it, plain and solid as the nose on his face, just beneath his cunt lips. They still stretch stubbornly over it, holding it inside of him. But he can feel it on its way. Soon, his body will part. It will part, and—
He flattens his hand against the bulge and shoves. He cries out, but for all the pain, it barely budges. But he can’t let it come out. Trembling, he spreads his legs and twists the palm of his hand, and finally, he feels something give. He pants and squirms from the indescribable discomfort as his aching insides spasm, fighting him as he denies the course of nature. But finally he forces it far enough back that his crotch feels flat beneath his hand.
He tries not to think about it.
But the next time his belly squeezes tight, he feels it heavy and low inside him, searing him as it tries to escape. This time, he wrestles his arm around his tensed-hard belly and shoves his hand inside of his pussy. He finds it close, already about to come out again, and steels himself before pushing it up even further. He roars with pain, and his shoulder strains, and his lower back feels like it’s breaking. But it buys him a little more time.
He goes on like that for ages, stopping every few minutes to force this unwanted complication back inside, to fight the truth he is not ready to consider. It’s taking him forever to finish the harvest, but it would take even longer if he stopped to— no. Don’t think about that. Just push it back in and keep going.
Darkness has long-fallen and the chill has arrived on a biting wind by the time he finishes. Dragging the crates to storage is especially bad, the distraction between his legs burning him every time he bends over. But with a few solid shoves that make his whole body jerk, he crams it away. The sudden torrent of water down the thighs of his overalls, however, he can’t do much about.
Snowflakes catch on his sleeves as he rushes back to the house. His gait is wide and lilting, his crotch in so much pain that it leaves him panting, oxygen thin, head spinning. He makes it inside and tears off his clothes in a frenzy, the coat and shirt and the tight vest he wears beneath leaving a trail from the front door to the steady fire. He stands in front of it, trembling, and looks down at himself.
His chest has grown since he last let himself really look, areola now puffy and dark. His nipples are eager as cow teats and thick as his thumb, jutting from heavy, swollen breasts that sag to either side of his great bulging belly. He thinks of his poked-out navel, and the pressure in his hips, and the grumblings in his gut so strong that they frightened him, that he pretended they weren’t what he knew they were.
Now, he gazes down at himself, heavy with child, and starts to wheeze for breath.
When the next contraction comes, he sees his pregnant belly lift and tighten into an odd shape, though the sight falls away as his eyes clench shut in pain when it— when the child makes his cunt bulge again. In his panic, he cups it and forces it back in once more. Agony lances through what must be the entrance to his womb as the child lurches back in. He gags and tastes bile, eyesight blurring with tears.
But he’s bought a few minutes. He scrambles over to his phone and asks the operator for the doctor’s office. It’s closed, she tells him. He swallows thickly, then asks for her home instead.
“Oh, I guess you don’t want to walk over there in this storm,” the operator muses.
Though it’s more to do with the head splitting his pelvis apart, he agrees.
Finally, the line connects.
“Hel-“
“Doctor, doctor, help me, it’s comin’ outta me!”
“What? Who is this?”
He palms the sweat from his forehead and tries to get ahold of himself, though his voice shakes. “It’s farmer Bryce. You ‘member me, right?”
“Of course. What’s going on?”
“My belly. I know what’s wrong with it.” He gasps a hysterical, sobbing laugh, then groans as the squeeze of his abdominal muscles pushes the head further down. “Ohhhh Lord. Doctor, I—“ The worlds make him feel sick, but he spits them out anyway. “I’m havin’ a baby!”
For a moment, nothing but static. His racing heart somehow goes even faster, his head growing light. “Doctor, I— I wadn’t always a farmer, y’know. When I was young, I was a seamstress, but I— I changed my name and came here, n’that’s why I never let you gimme a physical, see, ‘cause…”
“…Because I would find out.”
He nods. “Please- p-please don’t tell anyone—“
“Don’t worry about that. Just tell me what’s happening. How much of the baby is still inside of you?”
“A-all of it. Keeps tryin’ to come out, but I- I been pushin’ it back in.”
“You—?! Good god. Do not do that again, you could severely injure yourself or the child.”
He swallows thickly. “S-sorry, ma’am.”
“Don’t— I just need you to be safe. How close is the head to coming out?”
“Feels real close.”
“Can you put your fingers in your vagina and tell me if you feel the head?”
“My…?”
“Your- uh— pussy.”
“Oh.”
He leans against a chair and stretches his hand down, following the now-familiar motions of feeling inside his private place. His fingertips find something slick and slimy.
“Yeah, real close. I think it’s— augh!” He doubles over, the labor pain crushing him without mercy, revenge for denying nature all of this time. “Ohh, it hurts! I don’t wanna push it out, I don’t wanna push it out!”
“That’s fine, you can’t push just yet. You need to boil some water, to sanitize some tools. You’ll need rags, your sharpest knife, and scissors.”
He groans. “Wh-what’s the knife for?”
“Just in case I need to make a small incision to help you get the baby out. I’m on my way over.”
“No!” He jerks upright, legs trembling under him, cunt beginning to burn again. “No, please stay on with me, it’s almost out, and- and I can’t- I don’t want you to see. Please.”
“What!?”
“Please, no one’s ever…” he swallows thickly, voice sounding as tight and heavy as his belly. “I don’t want anyone to see.”
“Pardon my frankness, Mr. Bryce, but at least one person must have seen, for you to be delivering a child.”
Though the contraction is finally passing, his weak laugh still makes everything hurt, especially his burning pussy. “N-no, I- I don’t let ‘em see.” He starts to hobble around his kitchen, wincing as he gets out a pot and begins to follow her instructions. “I always make sure to get ‘em plenty drunk, and when I put the lights out, they never notice. It’s just- this last one, I— I was a little drunk, too, and in the morning I did wonder… That is, he was s’posed to go in the, uh, well, he was s’posed to put his pecker someplace that can’t make a baby, but he must’ve… Damn it.” He heaves the pot onto the range and takes out the matches. “I don’t even know his name.” He lights the stove, then blows out the match. “You help a lot of harlots, Doctor?”
“Actually, yes, I have helped many women in that line of work. You wouldn’t have to defend your choices to me if you were one of them, and you don’t have to, now. I’m helping you either way. I’m coming over.”
“Wait! Doctor, please, it’s private, I don’t want…” He swallows back the urge to sob and rubs the heel of his hand against his forehead. “Please. Just, tell me what to do?”
She groans, then sighs heavily. “Fine. I’m only agreeing to this because you’ll probably deliver before I make it there through this storm, anyway.”
His heart races. “I’m that close?”
“Probably so. In fact, you should be having ano—“
“Ohhh Lord!” Instinctively, his knees bend and he drops into a heavy crouch right where he stands, sucking air through his teeth as his cunt burns. “God Almighty, the head’s comin’ out!”
“How much of the head? Feel for me.”
He snakes a shaking hand down and chokes out a humorless, incredulous laugh. “Barely any. Just- hah- a sliver. Oh, Lord, it hurts! Why does it hurt so bad already?”
“I know, it hurts a lot. Walking around will help, and it’ll open up your pelvis.”
“Haaaaagh…” He drags himself up to his feet. “Hoooh my lorrrrd,” he groans, clutching helplessly at his bulging pussy. The head feels so big and heavy, like a millstone- he doesn’t understand how it doesn’t just fall right out. He continues to moan as he starts his bow-legged pacing around the room.
“M’walking,” he grunts.
“Good. Keep walking. You’ll probably have the next contraction in about three minutes.”
His stomach twists. “How do you know?”
“I’ve delivered a lot of babies. Now, it’s probably going to take a few more contractions, but when your va- your, uh, pussy makes a big round shape around the head, I’ll tell you how much to push.”
He pants. “Feels like- I need to push now.”
“Not yet. You’ll wear yourself out if you push between contractions. But you can push with every contraction until you start to crown. You’ll want to slow down then, so that you don’t tear. Once the head is out, the baby will—“
“Wait, wait, don’t-“ He shakes his head. “S’too many steps. I’m all discombobulated right now, I won’t ‘member. One thing at a time? Please?”
“Uh- sure. We can do that. Focus on pacing. When the next contraction comes, try leaning on something or getting on your hands and knees.”
“Okay.”
About ten seconds of silence pass before he feels like he’s going to scream. “Uh- so- you helped a lot of babies be born?”
“Yes. Previously, I mostly worked as a midwife. In fact-“ She chuckles softly. “When you asked me the other day about your distended abdomen—your belly being so big, that is—my first thought was that you looked pregnant. I thought I must be letting my history get the better of me, and had to have a laugh at myself.”
The idea that he’s been walking around pregnant hits him upside the head, making him feel very strange. How many people looked at his belly and guessed the truth he’d been avoiding? He clutches at it, the fine hair that covers much of his body, and the bright stretch marks where his sides have swollen these last months.
Under his hand, he feels it begin to tighten. “Ohh, it’s happenin’ again…!”
“Two and a half minutes apart, now. You’re doing great, Mr. Bryce.”
He doesn’t feel like he’s doing great, but the doctor keeps on telling him so as he paces through the last of the contractions. By her timing, it only takes twenty minutes, but it feels like years as the head of his child slowly, slowly spreads his cunt wider.
A particularly intense contraction comes, and his pussy somehow hurts even worse. He collapses against the back of the couch, a shout scraping his throat, nearly a scream. His chest jumps with panting, breasts hanging heavy beneath him. “S’comin’ out! S’too big! Aaaaah- ah, lord, it hurts!”
“Okay, you’re probably about to crown. You need to stop pushing for a moment, okay? But get ready for the baby to come, it won’t be long, now.”
His head spins as he hobbles to where he’s laid out the sterilized tools next to folded blankets and lumbers down onto his hands and knees. Long and deep, he groans at the feeling of his backside bulging out between his legs.
“Can I push it out?!”
“Not yet. Next one, okay? Just a minute or two. Press your fingers around the edges, especially right behind, and it’ll help.”
He can barely hear her over his own wheezing and moaning, but he follows the doctor’s instructions, leaning the arm with the phone against a chair and stretching his other arm back to press his fingers to the screaming skin between his two holes. The fear that he might rip right down between them fades as he feels the pressure ease.
When his belly pulls tight, he’s ready. “Here it is, it’s comin’. I’m- mnnn—“
“Okay, give me a push, just a little one.”
It’s hard not to bear down with all his might. He’s never felt so urgent, not even in the fields, scrambling to save his livelihood from the storm.
He spreads his shaking fingers around the stinging flesh and sobs a shout as he feels the extent of his transformation, his cunt stretched farther than he ever guessed it could, a perfect dome hanging heavy between his legs. At the center, it opens in a broad circle around the head.
“Ohhh lord, it’s there. It’s right there, it’s comin’ outta my pussy, I need it out!”
“Not yet, okay? You don’t want to tear. Just a few more minutes.”
“Noooo,” he groans, shaking his head. “I can’t…”
“You can. You’re doing great.”
“M’not… Get it outta meeeee…” He lays his forehead on the chair. His hips try to rock, but even the slightest movement eases the head forward, spikes of pain making him freeze with a whimper. Delicately as he can, he ends up circling his hips, unable to stop picturing how far his cunt sticks out from his body, barely clinging to the head of the child.
His belly leaps, and everything tightens again. “It’s comin’! I need to push, lemme push!”
“Okay, keep that pressure on it, and push! Push it out!”
“I’m pushin’, I’m pushinnnn!”
His whole purpose narrows to that single point, body tapping into something ancient, opening for the fruit of his womb, just as bodies have for generations before him. It’s primal, desperate, making him feel like an animal trying to wrench itself free from the excruciating torment of stretching open, yes, but— something else. There’s a longing to push this babe into the world. To pull it from his body and see with his own eyes the creature he could barely think of an hour ago. To find out what grew within him, what his body has always been capable of, no matter how he dressed it.
The deep hum of effort in his throat rises and rises, a shout, then a roar, then—
“AAAUGH!”
He screams like he hasn’t since he was a babe, himself. But by the time he’s catching his breath, the excruciation has reduced to a quiet throb. Beneath his hand, he feels a strange, slimy texture, and soft papery flesh, and the undeniable curve of a little cheek.
Tears drip from his chin as he gasps for breath. “Oh. Oh lord. Oh, good god.”
“Is it out?”
“S’out. The head. It came outta me. A- a baby’s comin’ outta me.”
“Incredible. Quickly now, feel around the neck for the cord. You can’t push anymore until you’re sure the cord isn’t around the neck.”
He winces as he prods at the tender edge of his hole, still stretched, but nothing like it was at the crown. “N-no, I don’t think there’s a cord.”
“Okay. Amazing. You’re almost there.” Genuine joy shines through the crackling phone line. “Push just a little, and that’ll help the baby turn, so the shoulders can get through.”
“Okay.” He feels a little dubious about the idea of pushing out shoulders, but rests both arms on the chair in front of him and pushes until he feels the babe begin to turn inside him. “Ohhh. Mmmmmmmm. S’working.”
Static crowds out her voice. “You’re doing so well, y… trong. Bear down with the next con…n. You mi…”
His heart jumps into his throat. “Doctor?!”
“…storm’s getting… isten, you can p…cond shoulder out af…r you push out the first one, okay?”
“What?”
“Y… an pull out seco… oulder after you… one!”
“Doc, I can’t— hoooooh lord.” What must be the baby’s shoulder digs at his poor stinging taint. He grits his teeth and pushes, pushes— then yelps as it pops free. He reaches back to feel, finding one shoulder out. The doctor’s words suddenly click, and he shifts back onto his heels, dropping the phone to reach for the squirming purple shape between his legs with both hands. A tug, a final yelp of pain, and he pulls the infant out of his body.
He wilts where he kneels, legs trembling, wincing at the sensation of blood and water pouring from him, feeling the cord stretch over his belly. The babe makes odd, jerky movements against him, unused to stretching its limbs so far. He fumbles for the warm sterile rag and uses it to rub vigorously at the child, removing gunk and encouraging its blood to flow, until finally, a small, warbling cry bursts out.
His hands start to shake. It’s alive. A living thing just came out of him. He pushed it out, and here it is, his responsibility now. An ugly little thing, somehow already so precious to him that his ribs feel too small to contain his heart.
With shaky breaths, he reaches for the phone, hanging by its cord around a slat of the chair. It’s still connected, though he hears only a few stray syllables of voice between bouts of static.
“Doctor, I dunno if you can hear me, but— it came out. I- I had the baby. I guess you can hear the cryin’. But we’re both okay. He’s healthy. M-mighty strong lungs. Hah. Thank you. Thank you so much.”
“…lad you’re s… good jo… e afterb… kay?”
“Uh… can you repeat—?”
Suddenly the static rises, and the line goes dead. The rising howl of wind outside leaves little question as to the culprit. He stares at the cold, dark world outside the small window, then back at the wrinkly little creature in his arms.
“Hello,” he breathes. “Sorry, everything’s a mess, buddy, I didn’t know…” He swallows thickly, trying not to think about how little idea he has of what to do.
But it isn’t so hard. When the babe’s little mouth begins to root across his skin, it only makes sense to bring it to his tingling nipple. He ties and cuts the cord while the babe drinks, and replaces the cooling rag with a warm blanket.
Though he has a vague idea that the afterbirth is supposed to come, he waits on the birthing mat for a long while, and nothing happens. He tries tugging at the end of the cord still coming out of him, and winces as it does nothing but strain his poor cunt. He does begin to have contractions again, and feels it shifting lower in his hips, far heavier than he would have guessed, but it’s certainly taking its sweet time. He winces and rubs at the still-bloated curve of his belly. He supposes it’ll come when it comes, and gets up.
He removes a drawer from his dresser and makes a tiny bed of it, and does his best to firmly swaddle the babe before resting it inside. Though he did not know it existed a mere few hours ago, he can’t stop looking at it, now, constantly checking to be sure it’s okay as he showers away the filth of childbirth. When he’s done, he squats over the drain and bears down, hoping to be rid of the afterbirth. Nothing comes out, but a contraction does grip him, so he figures it can’t be long.
Though he’s exhausted, he’s far too excitable to sleep, and he doesn’t want the afterbirth coming in his bed, anyway, so he stays up. He nurses the new babe, and groans softly as the contractions mount, leaving his muscles feeling limp and shaky.
Two hours after he pushed out the babe, he feels the need to push again. The oppressive weight inside of him makes him groan, squatting and rocking his hips at his bedside. He never knew the afterbirth was such an unpleasant ordeal. It hurts as badly as giving birth!
On a particularly hard push, he feels a release of pressure, and water gushes between his legs as the weight suddenly plunges low enough to sting his cunt. He gasps and moans like he’s touched a hot stove, instinctively shaking his head. God. God, it’s just like…
His eyes fly open. A sense of deja vu washes over him as he thinks no way, and reaches between his legs. He dips his fingers into his tender hole—
And there it is. The curve of a skull.
A twin.
“Good lord,” he whispers. “Lord, lord, this can’t be, it, it…”
A contraction wrings him out, the second baby beginning to strain his cunt lips. He shakes his head, desperate not to go through this again, but there’s nothing he can do. He tries to breathe, to stay steady, as his body births the second unexpected bastard of the day.
He thanks the lord for the doctor’s help, remembering her words when the crowning comes. This time he screams through it, screams until his voice gives out, his already-battered cunt forced to endure the stretch of another head so soon after the first. He survives the slow emergence, resisting his desperate need to push, and then finally, it’s time.
He bears down with all his might. But this time, the head doesn’t come. The contraction leaves him, and he hangs his head, wheezing. That’s okay. He’ll get it on the next one.
“C’mon, baby,” he mumbles, “I know it’s cold out here, but it’s not so bad. There’s blankets, daddy’s milk… c’mon…”
But he can’t push it out on the next contraction, either. “What- what, no—“ he pants, shaking his head as the contraction fades, the babe moved no further. “No, no, c’mon! Get out! Get outta me!”
But it doesn’t come. He pushes until his legs tremble under him, fingers cramping from gripping the sheets. Unsure how much longer he can keep himself upright, he shakily shifts back, minding the globe of stretched tissue and heavy head bulging between his legs, and lays down.
Pushing from this position is significantly harder, the child’s weight like an anvil on his lower spine, but he’s too weak to change positions again. He closes his eyes against the dripping sweat and gives everything he has, then more, until his whole body trembles. Pitifully he shakes his head and thrusts his hips, trying to force it out. He pushes, and pushes, and pushes, and he burns, and burns, and—
“Fuck!”
The head bursts out in a gush of fluids. He lies there panting. He can’t quite bring himself to feel the wonder he felt the first time. It’s just another person emerging from his pussy. At least it’s almost over.
He pushes on the shoulders, readying his hands to catch the child. The head eases forward, further, further, rising as the swell of the shoulder stretches him. But he has to stop for breath, and the babe sinks back in, chin smushed flat to his body, shoulders dragged back in. He groans in frustration and pain. Okay, okay, one more. Just one more.
But the shoulders don’t come on the next one. Or the next. In fact, he pushes again and again for the next several contractions, and nothing happens. Panic gives him his second wind, and he drags himself back to squatting beside the bed. He pushes that way, but nothing changes.
He tries on his knees, on his side, standing, even walking. But the head only ever bobs between his legs, no more of the babe to be seen.
Oh no.
“It’s stuck,” he gasps, feeling it bob between his thighs as he pants for air. “It’s stuck!”
He wants to pull on it, but what if he hurts it? Wants to stretch his pussy, but even when he tries, he can’t get his fingers in there. God, he needs a doctor, he needs—
The bottom drops out of his stomach. He realizes what he has to do.
He chooses thick, loose clothes. Heavy boots. Hisses through his teeth as he pulls on his long johns, dizzied by the shape poking between his thighs. Even after he adds his trousers and overalls, it’s still an absurd stretch between his legs, straining the fabric. It’s hard to think about anything other than the weight of it, an ongoing emergency that shifts with each gasp for air and slides just the barest bit out with each contraction before coming back in, so reluctant to leave him.
He bundles up his firstborn as tightly as he can, and binds them to his chest, hoping he struck the right balance between protecting them from the storm and leaving them room to breathe.
And he sets off into the storm.
He doesn’t walk so much as rock methodically from one foot to the next, feeling with every step how the body burdening him spreads his cervix and fills his pussy and hangs from cunt.
It’s a long journey, especially when contractions slow him every few minutes. He knows it does no good to push, but he can’t help himself, stopping to lean against trees or fence posts and roaring through his teeth as he bares down, trying to budge the child. But he never feels more than the head inching forward and sinking back. He grits his teeth and swallows back bitter tears, trying to hush the voices that ask how he can think himself a man when his body gapes around a child.
Finally, in the distance, he glimpses light through the storm. He drags himself a few paces forward to be sure his eyes aren’t playing tricks on him, and then screams with what’s left of his voice for help. He sounds garish, throat stripped by hours of labor.
Beneath the whistle of the storm, he hears a door slam. Then— yes, thank god, footsteps.
“Who’s there?” a voice calls, feminine, but harsher and accented differently than the doctor’s. He doesn’t even have any energy left for fear when the barrel of a shotgun precedes her in entering his lantern light.
“Please,” he croaks, knees shaking. “Need- th’doctor. My baby…”
She lowers the gun immediately, eyes wide. “It was—? Okay, right, come on.” She bounds over and wraps a broad arm around him. He whimpers and must reach down to grip the head of his half-born child as he stumbles forward, but he manages to keep her pace.
The woman leads him to the stoop of a humble house and opens the door, and there inside, with warm lamplight glowing through her curls, the good doctor waits for him. For a moment, her gently clasped hands and the shawl pouring over her arms make her look like she belongs in one of those windows in those fancy churches in town.
“Doc,” he whispers.
Then she rushes towards him, looking rumpled and half-dressed, like she woke only moments ago. “Farmer Bryce!?”
“His baby,” the other woman says, closing the door behind them. His ears ring with the sudden absence of the storm.
The doctor scoops his firstborn from the little sling, eyes sharp and intent as she looks the child over. “What’s happened? Did—?”
“Not that one.” Finally he lets his trembling knees win, and stumbles back against the door. He unclasps his overalls and grabs a handful of fabric around his waist, clumsily pulling it all down to reveal the head jutting from his swollen-red pussy.
“Jesus christ!” says the broad woman.
The doctor’s eyes go wide, but she wastes no time being startled, handing the swaddled babe off to her companion. “Bring clean linens, boiling water, and my instruments. I’ll call if I need a hand.”
“Right,” she the other womanfaintly, and tears her eyes away from the spectacle before vanishing into some direction that he doesn’t bother to look at, because he’s having another contraction.
“God…” He sounds like a dead man. Unable to deny instinct, he gives a feeble push, and his own head falls back against the door with a whimper as the child’s head bobs between his thighs. “S’stuck,” he murmurs. “Came out… b’fore midnight, and I been pushin’ since then. Hasn’t budged…”
The doctor comes close, looking very, very serious. A cold pit opens in his chest.
“You need to do exactly as I say.”
“O-okay.”
She bends and finishes pulling off his bottoms, leaving his bare legs trembling below the layers of shirts and coat up top. “Get on your back.”
She helps him fumble his way to the floor, tucking one of her hands under the baby’s head so he doesn’t have to worry about hurting them as he situates himself. Just as he’s almost flat, the other woman returns with one arm stacked full of supplies.
“Thanks, love,” the doc says, and takes the sheet first, spreading it under his hips. She tells him, “Now pull your legs back as far as you can,” and it says a lot about how dire the situation is that it only occurs to him to be humiliated now, as if everyone in the room hasn’t already seen that he’s a man with a baby hanging out of his pussy.
Still, the good doctor must catch the look on his face as he starts to pull his thighs back, because she grabs the rest of her supplies and hurries the other woman out of the room. She surveys his best efforts to follow her directions, then leans forward and pushes his knees even further back, wrenching a groan out of him as his heavy pussy is tilted up and his thighs press against the still-swollen sides of his belly.
“There we go,” she says. “We’re gonna wait for a contraction, then I’m gonna push on your belly to help you get the baby out. I believe one of their shoulders is stuck on your pubic bone.”
He nods, trying not to let his heavy eyes shut. “Will it hurt?”
“…Yes, but no more than what you’ve already experienced.”
One of his cheeks twitches as he tries to smile at that. Then his face falls.
“Ohhh, here it comes—“
“Push!”
“Hnnnnnnngh!”
He digs his fingers into the backs of his thighs, jams his chin to his chest, and pushes as hard as he can. The world goes quiet and his head feels light. Every muscle trembles. Then there’s a completely new type of pain. His clenched eyes flutter open just long to see the doc shoving both hands hard into his lower belly, denting the round surface, and he wails at the sensation of his cramping womb stretching around the child as she manipulates it inside him. Like a kick to the pelvis, or a dozen, and still he must push.
But suddenly the doc cries, “There!” and something lurches against his spine, then pressure jabs at his cunt. He breaks the push with a yelp of surprise, but the shoulder still comes barreling out of him. He screams at the stretch, head falling back, panting.
“Oh… good god…”
“Good! Good, now I’m gonna pull the baby out, okay?”
He barely has time to cringe before the second shoulder stretches him, and finally the oppressive weight inside him slips out. He feels absolutely empty, like a load-bearing piece has been removed and his skeleton will simply crumble. All he can do is lie there.
After a little bit of rustling and the sound of skin patting skin, the baby’s cries pierce the air.
His chest heaves, and tears spill over his cheeks. “Everything okay?” he croaks.
“Yeah. Well- he likely has a shoulder injury, but nothing serious. You did it, Mr. Bryce.”
He rolls his head back and forth on the floor, as close to shaking it as he can bother with right now. “Think… think we’re on a first name basis, doc.”
She huffs a deep, crackling laugh. “Right. Penelope. And you’re… Benjamin, right?”
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Mandy sat at her desk, her laptop screen glowing with the faces of her colleagues, their voices droning through her earbuds about quarterly projections. At 36 weeks pregnant, her belly was a taut, heavy orb beneath her loose blouse, pressing against the edge of the desk. She shifted in her chair, trying to ease the ache in her lower back, when a sharp, twisting sensation gripped her abdomen. Her breath caught, but she forced a neutral smile, nodding at the project manager’s question about budget forecasts. Just a Braxton Hicks, she told herself, though the pain had a different edge—raw, insistent, like a fist squeezing her insides.
She glanced at the clock. Thirty minutes left in the meeting. Another contraction rolled through, stronger this time, and she gripped the armrests, her knuckles whitening. On screen, her coworker Sarah was presenting slides, oblivious to Mandy’s tightening jaw. A warm trickle seeped between her thighs, soaking her leggings. Her eyes widened. My water? No, not now. She adjusted her position, hoping to stem the flow, but the liquid kept coming, a steady drip that pooled in her chair. She clenched her pelvic muscles, willing her body to hold off, but the pressure was building, relentless, like a dam about to burst.
Mandy muted her mic, her breath shallow as she typed a vague response in the chat: Great points, Sarah. I’ll follow up on that. Her fingers trembled. The baby was shifting, a heavy, grinding sensation low in her pelvis, as if it were burrowing downward. She could feel it, the head pressing against her cervix, stretching her from within. Another contraction hit, this one stealing her breath entirely. She bit her lip hard, tasting blood, to keep from gasping aloud. Her camera was still on, her face a mask of strained composure. She couldn’t let them see. Not her boss, not her team, not when she’d worked so hard to prove she could handle this pregnancy and her job without missing a beat.
The meeting dragged on. Fifteen minutes left. The trickle had become a gush, her leggings now sodden, the chair slick beneath her. She shifted again, trying to discreetly wipe her thighs, but the movement only intensified the pressure. The baby was descending fast, too fast, a burning weight that felt like it was tearing her apart. Her body screamed to push, a primal urge she fought with every ounce of willpower. Not yet, she thought, her mind racing. Just hold on. She typed another comment, her fingers clumsy, misspelling words. Looks good, team. I’ll review the docs later. No one noticed. No one could see the sweat beading on her forehead, the way her jaw clenched as another contraction ripped through her.
Ten minutes. The pain was unbearable now, a white-hot vise clamping her pelvis. She could feel the baby’s head crowning, the skin of her vagina stretching to its limit, a searing, splitting sensation that made her want to scream. She dug her nails into her palms, forcing herself to stay silent, to keep her face still. Her coworker Mark was rambling about KPIs, and she nodded mechanically, her vision blurring. The fluid kept coming, a warm, sticky mess that soaked her clothes and dripped onto the floor. She was losing control, her body betraying her with every second. The baby was coming, whether she wanted it to or not.
Five minutes. She couldn’t hold back anymore. The urge to push was overwhelming, her body taking over, muscles contracting with a force she couldn’t stop. She felt the baby’s head fully engaged, pressing against her vaginal opening, the skin bulging, burning, as it stretched impossibly wide. She clamped her thighs together, a futile attempt to slow things down, but it only made the pain worse. Her panties were still on, tangled around her hips, and she realized with a jolt of panic that she hadn’t prepared for this. No towels, no medical kit, no one to help. Just her, alone in her home office, with a baby forcing its way out.
The meeting ended. Mandy’s hand shot to the “Leave” button, her camera shutting off just as a guttural moan escaped her lips. She stumbled from the chair, her legs shaking, and collapsed onto the floor, yanking at her leggings and panties. They were soaked, clinging to her skin, and she struggled to pull them down, her fingers slippery with amniotic fluid and blood. Another contraction hit, and her body pushed without her consent, a primal, unstoppable force. She screamed, the sound raw and desperate, as the baby’s head emerged in a single, agonizing surge. The pain was blinding, her vagina tearing as the head stretched her beyond what she thought possible.
With one final, involuntary push, the baby slid out, a wet, wriggling mass that landed in the tangle of her panties. Mandy gasped, her hands shaking as she reached down, fumbling through the fabric to grasp the slippery newborn. The cord was still attached, pulsing, and the baby let out a weak cry, its tiny chest heaving. She pulled it free, the panties catching on the cord for a moment before she tugged them away. She cradled the baby to her chest, her breath hitching as she looked at the tiny, slick body, covered in vernix and blood. It was a girl, her eyes squinting against the light, her cries growing stronger.
Mandy’s heart pounded as she sat there, half-naked on the floor, the reality of what had just happened crashing over her. She’d been reckless, stupid even, to think she could ignore the signs, to prioritize a damn meeting over her body’s warnings. She hadn’t called her midwife, hadn’t driven to the hospital, hadn’t even told anyone she was in labor. What was I thinking? she thought, tears streaming down her face as she clutched her daughter. The pain was still there, a throbbing ache between her legs, and she knew she needed help—the placenta was still inside, and she was bleeding heavily, the floor beneath her a mess of fluid and blood.
She reached for her phone, her hands shaking as she dialed 911. “I just gave birth,” she said, her voice hoarse. “I’m at home. I need help.” The operator’s calm voice guided her, telling her to wrap the baby in something warm, to stay put until the paramedics arrived. Mandy grabbed a throw blanket from the couch, wrapping her daughter tightly, her own body shivering from shock and blood loss. She looked down at the tiny face, the perfect little nose, and felt a mix of awe and terror. She’d done this alone, against all reason, and somehow, they were both still here.
As she waited for the ambulance, Mandy’s mind replayed her choices. She’d always prided herself on control, on managing everything—her career, her pregnancy, her life—without asking for help. But this, this had been beyond her control. The baby’s birth had been a force of nature, unstoppable, and she’d been unprepared, caught in her own stubbornness. She kissed her daughter’s forehead, whispering, “I’m sorry, little one. I’ll do better.” The wail of sirens grew closer, and Mandy held her baby tighter, vowing to never let pride override instinct again.
The paramedics burst through the door minutes later, their voices calm but urgent as they assessed her and the baby. They cut the cord, checked the newborn’s vitals, and helped Mandy onto a stretcher as she began to feel faint, the blood loss taking its toll. As they wheeled her out, she glanced back at her desk, the laptop still open, the meeting notes untouched. It seemed so trivial now, a world away from the life-altering moment she’d just survived. Her daughter’s tiny hand gripped her finger, and Mandy smiled weakly, knowing that this reckless, terrifying birth had changed her forever.
I think I’m literally never gonna be sick of this masterpiece. I think watching it on a loop for eight hours could fix me. Dancing’s what clears my soul. Dancing’s what makes me whole.
I just love that this very video is an accumulation of thousands of years worth of art made by people who have never met each other. The concept of this video was so completely unfathomable to every single artist who made the sculptures and yet they’ve all put something toward the creation of it.
Ashley was finishing up report at the start of her shift with Amy.
"That's about it, just one more in room 37. He'll be a fun one.", Amy slid the chart across the table with a smirk.
Ashley scowled before looking through the notes.
"Are you serious? Another one?", Ashley sighed.
Amy got up and gathered her backpack with a laugh, "Yep, too many of these guys can't handle it. Good luck!", she waved, walking out.
Ashley tossed her head back in exasperation, then collected herself.
"Might as well get this out of the way.", she mumbled.
Making her way down the hall, she stopped at room 37. She took a deep breath and knocked softly.
"I'm your new nurse for the evening, may I come in?", She said.
"Okay.", came a gasping response.
She slowly opened the door and immediately saw what Amy had meant.
She saw whim leaning his head against the wall panting, covered in sweat, and completely nude. Holding his swollen belly and clearly not caring about modestly at this point.
She was a bit stunned and took a moment to process.
"Sir, I saw from your notes that you've been in labor all day. Have you been feeling any pressure?" She slowly walked around him.
He shook his head quickly, "No... I can't do this... Not yet.", He gasped.
As she moved closer, she glanced toward his crotch and saw exactly what she expected to. His penis was stiff and throbbing, a few drops of pre-cum visible.
"Sir... I think you may be close to delivering. Maybe we should get you on the bed.", She said gently.
He shot her a panicked look, "I can't... I'm not ready!"
She bit her lower lip and barely stopped a laugh.
"Sir, you went to birthing class.", She nodded towards his penis, "That means the head is pushing on your prostate. Once it moves down a little more, you're going to cum and then you'll have to push. That's just the way it works."
He panted more loudly, glancing down, willing himself to hold off longer. "I just can't do this...", He trailed off.
This time she couldn't stop a laugh.
She walked over to the supply cabinet and took some gloves and a condom from the drawer before closing the door to the room.
"You don't really have a choice.", she said sternly, walking over to him while putting her gloves on.
He watched her in disbelief
In one smooth movement, she leaned down, slipping the condom onto his penis before grabbing it firmly.
"Quite frankly, I have other patients and no time for this.", She began quickly stroking him.
"Stop! No, I can't!", He gasped before grunting loudly.
She watched him fill the condom before immediately dropping into a squat, holding his tightening stomach.
"Oh no, let's get you up.", She took his arm and helped him across the room onto the bed where he started to bare down, face reddening.
She quickly opened the door to the hallway and called out, "I need some help in 37! He's pushing!"
Emily lay back in the chair, eyes following him as he paced around their bedroom. He was covered in sweat, wearing only a white T-shirt that barely covered his swollen belly.
As he paced toward her, she glanced at his stiff throbbing cock and absentmindedly reached down, sliding her lace thong to the side she began to circle her clit with 2 fingers.
"You know it's almost time.", She whispered with a smirk.
He scowled at her, panting hard. "Not yet... I can't do this!", He whined.
She let out a breathy laugh, "Oh, come now. You know what they said in birthing class." She nodded at his cock, "That means the head is almost ready to start Crowning." She began rubbing herself faster, breath quickening.
He shook his head panting harder and leaned on the bed.
She bit her lip, eyes fixed on his hard cock.
He looked down toward it as well, looking panicked. "No... Not yet...", he was nearly hyperventilating.
She rubbed herself faster, plunging 2 fingers into her hole as she felt her own orgasm building. "Do it...", she whispered.
He shot her a glance before looking back down, trembling. He let out a gasp as he squirted cum all over the bed, immediately dropping into a squat with a deep grunt.
"Fuck yes...", She gasped, body tensing with her own orgasm.
"I guess it's time you pushed out baby out", she said playfully. Walking over to him and reaching down to slap his soon to be stretching ass.
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mutual birth with a domme who finds herself in labor at the same time as her sub and struggles to try to hide her contractions and then hide the fact that she's pushing while she guides her sub through their own birth— she's tied the wrists of her sub to the bedframe, leaving them flat on their back and curved over their belly while they push to give her the best possible view of what's happening between their legs; she kneels on the bed in front of them and keeps her thighs squeezed tightly together, sweat beading on her brow as she guides her sub through their pushing ("you're doing so well for me, pet" and "spread those legs just a little bit wider for me" and "im going to need you to push harder than that" and "there you go, thaaaaaats it" and "you look so perfect like this, that sweet little pussy bulging wide open for me, you're going to be crowning soon- can you feel that?") all the while fighting off the very same instincts— the head of her own baby is grinding down through her birth canal and past the tight ring of her cervix and just as her sub begins to show their first signs of crowning, the urge to push becomes too strong to ignore and she can't fight it anymore.
she falls back onto the bed and grabs hold of her thighs, pulling her legs back towards her chest as she frantically bears down, eager to get her birth over with as quickly as possible so that she can get back to the experience of watching her sub. "just... need to get it out." she grits her teeth and shoves, the naked swell of her belly pulled so low and taut that it blocks the sight of her bulging cunt.
"y-you've been pushing?" they cry, twisting against their restraints so that they can get a clearer view of her without the obstruction of their belly in the way. "don't- hnnnnngah-ah- don't rush it like that! you'll tear."
she shakes her head, rising up on her heels and bringing one hand down to cup her gaping vagina. her perineum bulges into her palm as she inhales and pushes again, and she grunts as she feels the lips of her pussy slowly start to part. "just let me do it. its- fuck, its coming anyway. cant stop it."
her sub stares at her with wide eyes, caught off guard by seeing her so uninhibited. so animalistic. she looks both frantic and determined, bearing down with gravity as the unrelenting urge to deliver the baby consumes her. "crowning," she announces through gritted teeth, skin flushed and dripping with sweat. "just... just breathe for me, 'kay? i'm almost- hoooo, almost d-doneeee."
they do take in a deep breath, momentarily distracted from the stinging pain between their own legs as they watch the sight happening between hers.
"one more," she mumbles to herself, head slipping just past a full crown. her hand trembles around it as she provides as much support as she can, body powered by pure adrenaline. "just one more- p-pushhhh."
the slide of the head's emergence is slow, and she feels every bit of the burn as the lips of her cunt stretch around the head. "get... out," she roars, throwing her head back as her hips jut forward—the head pops free in a burst of fluid, dangling between her thighs just for a moment before a final push sends it sliding onto the fluid soaked sheets beneath her.
"okay," she mutters, giving her wailing infant- a daughter, much larger in size than the rapid nature of her birth would have suggested- a quick once over. "okay, okay. I did it."
her attention immediately shifts back to her sub, currently panting their way through a contraction as the head of their own baby begins to peek through their furled slit. "now," she says, still somewhat breathless. "where were we, pet?"
Birth Denial Ask:
🫃🍼1️⃣🏠🩲🫴🏳️🧍/🦵⌛🎚️ 💦
Hope this wasn't too much
(Birth Denial Request Game)
This definitely does make me think of a guy with a massive birth denial fetish engineering his birth so he can live out his fantasies… maybe he’s lied to his friends about wanting a home birth with only the midwife there, but actually it’s just him, 42 weeks pregnant with a baby so big that any doctor would have induced him a month ago.
When he goes into active labor he puts on several layers of tight clothes, and it works like a dream. He’s able to push the head right to his entrance, but no further. It’s agony, the massive head making his cunt burn, the pressure making him fidgety and listless, clinging to furniture and hitting walls to help him bear the intensity. He loves every minute.
The best part is the huge weight feeling like it’s falling out of him, yet still kept inside, pulling his hips towards the floor. He paces the house bow-legged, and keeps squatting instinctively, crying out as he feels his cunt spread just a little, the head straining his perineum. With all the layers on, the head can barely move even in a deep squat with what feels like all the gravity in the world trying to drag it out of him.
He reaches between his legs and feels how his body is struggling and bulging, then draws his fingers forward and hisses through his teeth as he finds his tdick. He rocks his hips back and forth and touches himself to the intensity and pain for a long time, until finally he cums with a scream and feels a desperate pressure-pain spike through his whole undercarriage as his abused pussy tries to squeeze with his orgasm.
Finally he decides it’s time to take off a layer of clothing. The moment he peels the leather pants down, he feels the head sag lower inside of him, his cunt stretching and the burn making him groan. The contractions are unbearable, and he’s exhausted from pushing already, but he keeps going, leaning against the wall and reaching down to feel the ever so slight bobbing of his crotch as he’s able to get the head a little further.
He drags this on for ages. Once he’s completely exhausted himself, he lays down in bed for the night with his legs spread around the struggling head and rests fitfully through contractions. The pain is like nothing he imagined, and he isn’t even turned on anymore, but he still wants it, needs it, addicted to the feeling of the massive presence pushing his body apart.
By the time he stands up in the morning, he feels like his hips aren’t even connected anymore and like the baby must be hanging out of him, but shedding a layer and feeling reveals that only a teardrop of the head is showing, his pussy still clinging jealously to the rest. He keeps pacing his house, making almost constant noise now, whimpers and groans that sometimes drop into silence as he pushes.
He ends up setting up his phone to record, getting out his favorite vibe, and taking a long video of himself leaning on the kitchen table, pleasuring his cock while the massive head spreads him. The overhead light catches his crotch beautifully, the shadows perfectly detailing every time the head inches a little further out with his pushing, before being pressed back in by his spandex shorts.
When he cums, his yelp of pleasure rises to a scream as the orgasm pushes the baby further. The camera records his perineum bulging several full inches away from his body as the head threatens to crown.
“Oh godddddd it’s about to come ouuuuut! It’s gonna crown, I’m stuck almost crowning,” he groans for the video.
He ends up taking his phone with him as he paces the house, rambling to the camera about how heavy it is, how much it hurts, how full he feels. “It’s so much inside me-“ he pants, cut off with a cringe as he pushes. “Hhhhhhh…! Fuuuuck!”
He drops the phone on the ground, and it watches him squat on top of it, filming his massive overdue baby crowning into his pants. He screams, fingers fluttering down between his legs as he desperately wants to touch, but fears to.
“It huuuurts!” He screams. “My pussy! Fuuuck, it hurts my pussy!” One of his hands fumbles away, only to return with the vibe from his pocket. The head spasms in his cunt and a long, agonized scream strains the phone’s recording capabilities as he presses the vibe to the tiny bulge of his swollen tdick.
“It’s too much!” he wails. “Too much on my cock, fuuuuck! No no no!” His hips lurch and tremble. Then suddenly his frenzied noise peaks with a truly startled screech as the crown lurches forward. The head should pop all the way out, but the clothes prevent it, keeping it easing dramatically in and out with the spasming of his pussy as he cums.
“Oh my god, oh my god…” He starts to bounce a bit where he crouches, whimpering as the head keeps up its ebb and flow, in and out. “Fffffffuck, I don’t want it to end,” he groans. “S’what I’m made for, made to push out babies, need my cunt full…” A few more delirious sounds. “Hmmmhhgh… M’so open right now, my pussy’s as big as my fuckin’ womb, not even a pussy anymore, huh, it’s- just a birth canal, I’m just a birthing bitch— AUGH!!”
The idle rocking of his hips and his own words wash over him, and the head almost bursts out as he cums, but he reaches down and holds it where it is, sticking so far out of him that it fills his whole hand. “Fuuuuck! My pussy, my pussy!” He whines like a dog. “Fuck, not yet, not yet… need it, need more…”
Audio distortion and strange shadows mark the video for a moment as he fumbles to pick up the phone. A moment later it lands back where it was in the kitchen, and he limps into frame with his hand desperately between his legs. “Fuuuuuck, I’m pushing, it hurts so bad, I’m pushing!!”
His face drips sweat, veins standing out on his forehead. The camera catches his heaving belly, contracted right up under his chest as his exhausted body desperately fights him to get the baby out. His shoulder trembles as he strains to keep it exactly where it is, even as he pushes against it.
“Oh goddddd…” He tips his head back, chest jumping, eyes clenched shut, “I need it, I need to push it out, fuck, fuck, I have to—!”
His eyes squeeze tight and his voice goes silent, all his effort diverted to pushing. He falls forward on the table, the head already straining the fabric of his bottoms. After a moment, it lurches even further out, at an odd angle as he births one of the shoulders.
“Augh!” His back heaves, head hanging as his body sags with relief. He squirms a little oddly for a moment, his spine arching and making the shape of the half-born baby strain his pants. “Hmmmmm fuuuck, fuck,” he moans, shuddering as he cums, “it’s coming out, I’m pushing it out, fuck, it hurts, I’m pushing it out of me!!!”
With a final shudder, he thrusts his hips back, and the crotch of his pants sag with the weight of what looks like a toddler. He clumsily reaches down to catch them, and waddles awkwardly towards the camera while he struggles to get them out. The video ends there.
He keeps most of it for himself, though he does clip the very end and remove the sound from it so that he can post it to social media: “Man Delivers Sixteen Pound Baby In Unassisted Home Birth”
While he’s healing up, he peruses the comments looking for his next breeder. And when he’s found the one, he’ll send the video and ask if they’d like to join him this time.
He sank back against the couch cushions, letting out a long hiss as the heavy weight of his belly pressed into him. The swollen belly rose so far out he could barely see his knees. With every tiny movement of the quadruplets inside, the skin trembled, rolling like restless waves.
“Uhhhn—damn… they’re moving again,” he groaned, head tilting back. A sharp kick jabbed from the left side, making the belly tilt and ripple sharply. Another push came from the opposite side, the whole mound twisting in two directions at once. His shirt strained over the shifting bulk.
When he leaned forward slightly to reach for his water bottle, the belly rolled downward, spilling heavier over his thighs. “Gods… I can’t keep up with them. They don’t stop—ahhhhn—” His hand gripped the edge of the couch, but the belly slid forward under its own weight, bulging and stretching in places, sagging low across his lap.
Lying back flat on the cushions, the weight dragged evenly, making his back arch painfully. The skin stretched taut and shiny across a rising curve at the top as one baby shoved upward, then suddenly dipped as another shifted lower, making the belly wobble and ripple. “Look at this… it used to sit so high… now—hhhhnnn—lower and lower…” His breath hitched, chest rising and falling as his pregnant belly rolled like a slow, living tide.
When he turned onto his side, the belly followed him, sliding outward and sagging down against the couch. The quadruplets wriggled and kicked, pushing out in multiple spots. His groan broke out again as one foot jutted sharply to the right, making the whole belly tilt, then settle heavier against his hip. “Ahhh—stop—stop moving so much—hnnnnhhh—hurts when you all push at once…”
Sitting upright was no easier. The top of the belly pressed high against his chest, while the lower curve sagged down between his thighs. The skin shifted as the babies turned inside, rolling the belly from side to side. “They used to be high and round… firm right here,” he muttered, one hand brushing lightly along the taut skin. “But now… it’s dropping… so heavy down low. Uhhhhn…”
Even standing was a challenge. The belly hung forward, a full, low curve that swung slightly with every step. A sudden kick from inside made it lurch sideways, throwing him off balance. “Every time I think you’ve settled… hhhhnnn—one of you twists again,” he groaned, hands supporting the heavy belly. It shifted again, bulging outward then slumping low, quivering with each movement.
He hissed through clenched teeth, one hand holding the top while the other tried to support the underside. “Never still. Never, ever still…” The babies rolled, rolled, and rolled again, each motion sending ripples across the skin. His pregnant belly wobbled and tilted, first high, then heavy and low, swaying side to side, stretching wider across his lap.
Lying back once more, exhausted, he felt the top curve rise as one baby pushed upward, then a sudden downward dip as another slid low, making him gasp sharply. “Ahhhhn—please… just a minute…” His belly answered with another wave of movement, rolling, twisting, sagging with the restless weight of four little lives inside.
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👀👀 may I request some angst x reader fic where it’s about how John’s bday falls on Mother’s Day this year 👀👀
Snksnw this is such good angst material
Im sorry this took so long im finally kicking the writers blocks ass so i finally got around to writing it. Hope you like it! Such delicious angst
John Constantine x gn!reader, angst!, im rereading hellblazer so my ass is trying too hard to be Delano now so bear with me, reader uses petnames because i felt like it, established relationship, many random headcanons about his birthday and childhood, also im not from the UK obviously so... Bunch of made up things here in sense with mother's day so roll with it
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His mind is empty yet full, numerous thoughts and nightmares running around that bloody nogging of his as he watches a little boy and his mum go about. Smiles on their faces, seemingly fun.
The little snothead has given her some drawing. As the English go, they're now im the pub, invading Johns personal space for wallowing in pity and self hatred. How dare they?
He sinks deeper into his booth, the cigarette burning evenly in his hold. Spark by spark. The ash drips into the ashtray, feeling unused and lost.
It is quite ironic innit? The universe decides to pull one last funny card it can. Not only is his birthday a bloody nightmare by itself but it also falls on the wretched day, mother's day.
Objectively it's a nice holiday. Celebrating the labor of women who have to bear their children and also handle their husband's on top of it. Not that every mother is a capable woman but those that are get a little drawing and flowers. Its nice, its lovely, its bloody fantastic.
Wasn't like that for him. No.
He'd have to listen to Cheryl crying. And when she wasn't she was praying for their pop to be out so she wouldn't have to get beetwen him and little old Johnny.
Because its Johnnys fault, its his fault that his mother dropped dead-
"You old geezer! Look at you, sitting all by yourself mister huh? Happy birthday sweetheart.".
He flinches at the sudden voice.
"Srewth luv- yer gonna give me a bloody heart attack like that! The hell ya doin sneakin up on a man in his years?"
You just smile like a Cheshire cat, that same stupid grin you make whenever you catch him by surprise. There's a stupid amount of euphoria that passes through your veins at that look.
You sit down in the booth next to him, gently cradling his jaw to peck his lips before sliding the small box onto the table. It has a bow.
"I hope you didn't think you can hide from me John. I know you're under the impression you can slip out of your own party unnoticed but im more perceptive than you give me credit for.".
Oh yeah, the party.
His good darling lover and Chas figured itd be a great idea to throw him a party. It wasn't anything special, few of the mates hes got left and a couple more people he couldn't really understand. It was great, fun, alcohol and cigarettes that burn more than his current ones do, but he needed air.
A lot of air. Preferably nicotine flavored.
"Took ya a bit to be fair." he mutters, his fingers tapping against the pint of beer Infront of him. He can feel the alcohol storming his bloodstream, warming his body but not whatever fucked up version of a soul he has.
"Mh dont joke with me.".
You lean back in the booth, your head tilting back as you observe the surroundings. He can see it, the hint of danger inside your eyes. You never fully relax, not even in your sleep. It intrigues him quite a lot.
The two of you sit silently but as the silence continues and no words escape your lips he grows anxious. Why are you not talking, why aren't you making quips, you should be trying to drag him back up to the party or to go for a walk. Not whatever this is.
His throat tightens and there's a need to say something. Anything. Just to distract you from what the issue clearly is.
One that he doesn't even want to admit to himself.
"Quite a gathering they're having over there." you suddenly comment, staring at the little boy and his mum. His brows furrow and his jaw clenches, trying to keep it down.
"Yeah. Funny lot.".
Somehow he couldn't escape it. As if mother's day is the biggest holiday in England. So many kids with their mums, flyers, sales, everything to make it profitable because of course it has to be.
Cards. Small little parades.
Its...
"Johnny, come on...." you turn to look at him properly, eye to eye.
He sighs, the sigh becoming a forced chuckle "Yer not exactly the comfortin type luv. You dont have to try.".
"I know but-".
"Leave it.".
You dont stop staring at him with your mouth open, still trying to find something to say. It begins to make his blood boil. His warm, alcohol fueled, inside churn and he begins to tense.
He needs air. More air.
Just when it seems you've found something to say he gets up, swiping his pack with a easy hand and throwing his coat on as if it doesn't matter. He leaves the table without a word, not even placing a few bills to cover his tab, knowing you'll do it anyways and that itll take you a bit of time, slowing you from following his trail.
The cold wind hits him straight in the face, contrasting to the urges inside of him that grow. It doesn't calm him, no, only makes him furthering frustrated.
So on, he begins to walk down the street, moving without a direct cause or purpose. Searching for something he can't actually find.
Birthday, his birthday. Its not really something to celebrate. For the first few years of his life they didnt. For Cheryl its a painful memory while his old man did anything to forget about it. They figured it wasn't important. At the end, it isnt. Like he would be able to remember his third or fourth birthday.
It was only until his fifth that Cheryl got the idea to actually do something interesting for his day. Despite it all she is a pretty good older sister. Everything was complicated but she got trough. Even if he was a little shit at times.
Another brash sale hits his eye.
How stupid. Grown man of forty nine getting pissed about things like this. He should have grown out of it. Sappy stories for stupid sad boys.
Then again you can't really grow out of not having a mum, can you?
It usually doesn't hit like this. Hes able to look the other way whenever those kind of dangerous thoughts pop up.
But as it was said before, the universe is playing a cruel joke on him today.
As he turns another corner he hears the footsteps running after him. He wants to get away, he needs to. Maybe he doesn't want you seeing like him this or maybe its just that awful need to push it out and let the anger linger. Misery is a good friend afterall, never leaves you.
You dont call out to him. Instead you slow down your pace, following him at a distance. After a few more minutes it becomes irritating.
He turns around, a scowl on his features "What?".
You stop, the nervousness clear. Your hands are clenched and its obvious that its taking you a hell of a lot effort to stand there.
"Sweetheart, what can I do?" you're not only asking, youre pleading. The desperation reeks off of you.
He grits his jaw, gripping the pack of cigarettes in his pocket tightly "Sorry luv but ya can't help. Best leave me alone.".
"I dont think you want to be alone."
His blood boils. Whatever misery or tragedy in his mind is turning into something darker. Sometimes he cant or doesn't want to control.
John scoffs "What do you expect me to do? Cry on yer shoulder?" he shakes his head. He feels a mocking smile crawl upon his features "Dont try. Only thing you can do is piss off with that expected sympathy.".
Your head tilts, a pained expression flashing across "Sweetheart-"
"You want me to tell you how much it hurts?! How bloody annoyin it is to pass by and see those little buggers singing to their mums? I know what yer thinkin-" he yells suddenly, his voice loud and tight "Aw poor little Johnny hasn't got a mummy, he must be so sad to celebrate his birthday without his mummy, piss off!" he grits his jaw, moving his arms around "Piss off alright! Piss off! Im sick of this bullshit! Im not messed up cause I havent got a mum, im not-" he bites his tongue "Women look at me and want to fix me. Men think i try too hard. Its fuckin-".
He grips his hair, taking in a few breaths.
Nothing is right.
Nothing is fine.
"Its not my fault. Its not my fault. It isnt. It isnt. It isnt, its not-" his shoulders shake as he stares at the pavement, his voice slowly growing quieter "Its not my fault. Its not. No, no, its not. Its not. I couldn't know, i couldn't, its, its not my fault, its not its not-"
He feels it. The thing inside of him bubbling up, burning his stomach and his throat before exiting it as a pained sob, the water from his eyes flowing.
It's pathetic. He knows how pathetic it is. He isnt supposed to cry like this, especially Infront of someone, right on the street. Hurts his man pride... Or whatever the fuck that means.
He feels two hands on his shoulders, gently steadying him. Unconsciously he leans into the touch, allowing you to take him.
"Its not my fault, how can it be my fault? I was only born, i didnt..." he shudders. Nontheless he pushes his head against your shoulder, burrying his nose in the nape of your neck "Its not my fault please. It isnt.".
"It isnt sweetheart. It cant be. Its not your fault." you whisper softly. There's no attempt at calming him or ushering him to suck it up. There's no pressure. You're letting him feel it out. Even if you're out on the middle of a busy street. Still, its London. A big city. People ignore.
His fingers curl against your back, fisting the fabric that covers it.
It cracks and cracks and breaks further.
He cant deny it. He really cant.
"I needed my mum. I really did." he whispers, his voice breaking "But I killed her.".
You swallow, shaking your head as you continue to stroke his hair "No, no, its not your fault. You didnt kill her John. You didnt.".
"No, no, I killed her. I killed her. But I need her- I need her, I... I need her so badly, i-" he gasps "I dont know why- I don't know. I dont- i just know i need her, I know I..." he grips you tighter "Fucking hell...".
"Its okay John. It isnt your fault.".
So on. He continues to cry till he cant anymore
Once the tears run out you two stand in a embrace. He breathes, he feels empty, he feels worthless. He cant be whole.
At the end you two end up in bed together. He smokes, staring at the ceiling as you gently hold him. Nothing else happened. No sex.
Its hard. Its terrible.
Many times hes thought about how different itd be if he had his mum. How shed sit there in the kitchen, waiting for him, smiling, ready to make everything right. He never knew her, didnt know many stories either. He cant help but imagine her as a good person. Someone in this family has to be. Someone.
"Closest I had was my aunt." he mutters "Though that was never... The same.".
"I know.".
"Cheryl tried. She did.".
You nod.
"Is it stupid?" he mutters, glancing at you in the dark "I didnt lose anything. Not really. I never knew her. There isn't anything to mourn.".
You shift, frowning.
"... Every boy needs his mum John. That's nothing to be ashamed of.".
He lets out a weak chuckle. A boy? Makes him sound like a child.
“Oh Batman is abusive in comics” “how many times does a character need to be mischaracterized before it’s just their character”
I DON’T CAAAAARE
Batman being abusive to his kids is so fundamentally wrong and makes him a one dimensional character and I personally hate it.
“Oh the dark gritty character is dark and gritty and mean” hey how about the dark gritty character is dark and gritty because he has to be. He’s such a bleeding heart that he can’t let his enemies (and sometimes allies) know how much he loves and cares. He loves so much. He loves his city, he loves his kids. He’s full of so much love yet he can’t express it because he’s never been taught how. And maybe he’s harsh but it’s because he couldn’t imagine what he would do if he lost another kid.
Batman is a hero, not a villain and it’s a disservice to make him behave like one.
