Tell me to push~

mayternity day 16: angel & demon

Luckily, the seed isn't fertile unless you've already had an encounter with a pollen producing individual, though the urge to plant and protect your seeds once they're birthed can be quite derailing.

Individuals of these species have an especially hard time in college, when the safety and routine of home is interchanged with a new life, new stressors, and a whole new environment to navigate through.

Early on, stress pregnancies would be kept more on the down low, as new students grow round in the comfort of their new dorms, with few friends and obligations to coax them out as their bellies betray how much the change has impacted them. Anyone with a basic knowledge on the species and culture, however, knows what that cute new freshman is going through.

they'd say things like "you're being such a good boy for me, you come kiss my tummy" or "misbehave again and no belly rubs for a week". constantly parading around the bump their submissive gave them, like it's the ultimate show of dominance. the bigger their belly gets, the more praise you recieve.

watching them huff and puff when their contractions start up, groaning as you desperately try to pleasure them to relieve the pain. still trying to keep up their dom persona in such a vulnerable position. pushing and pushing, commanding you around to help them in certain areas. once the baby (babies? 👀) is out you snuggle up to them, kissing their face and wiping the sweat from their brow. doms deserve aftercare too after all.

She’s enjoying this maybe a little too much

Birth ecstasy

She went into labor mid-haunting... how will she explain this?

Fun fact: the ghost blobs also feed on fear, and Nonom takes care of them for few days before they poof to ghost world 👻

Nonom profile 📝

She is Lorna's wall-phasing, people-stalking, troublesome buddy!

Send an emoji to tell the reblogger what you like or would like to do to them

👶- I want you to have my baby(ies)

🍼- I'd drink your milk

🚼- I've already picked out baby names (add here)

💝- Our child will be the product of our love

👄- I want you screaming as you're flooded with my cum

🪺- I want to make a life and family with you

👣- We would make cute children

🤱- You breasts should be swollen with milk for feeding

👯- I'd love to give you twins (or more)

🏃‍- Let me hunt and breed you for sport

🥚- You're getting stuffed with eggs

🖍️- I want to draw on your baby bump

🐖- We need you plumper for the (inevitable) baby

🐳- You should be bedridden with my child(ren)

🏭- You would be a perfect baby factory

🍯- Your womb is mine to use as I please

🪢- Tying you up so you can't get away from my virile seed

🐣- I can't wait to help/watch you give birth

The world was soft at the edges, a cocoon of warmth and steady breath. Miles was a solid wall of sleep behind her, his arm slung heavy and protective over her hip, his palm resting on the gentle swell of their 39-week baby bump. For Elara, sleep had been elusive, replaced by a low, humming awareness deep in her pelvis—not a pain, but a persistent, dense pressure, like a stone settling into silt.

She shifted, trying to find a position where the stone felt less present. As she moved, a sensation like a hot, internal wire tightening seized her, so sudden and intense it stole her breath. It wasn’t a gradual build; it was a switch flipped. The stone in her pelvis transformed into a bowling ball, and it was dropping.

“Oh,” she gasped, more surprise than pain.

Miles stirred, his voice thick with sleep. “Hmm? You okay, love?”

Before she could answer, another sensation ripped through her, a tectonic shift that made her cry out and curl forward. The pressure wasn’t just present; it was imperative. It was a physical command her body was screaming. Her waters released with a warm, startling gush, soaking the sheets between them.

“Elara?” Miles was fully awake now, scrambling back, his hands hovering over her, unsure where to land. “Is it—?”

“It’s happening,” she panted, the words squeezed out between clenched teeth. “Now. It’s happening right now.” This wasn’t the gentle early labor they’d practiced for. This was a freight train in the dark.

Panic, bright and electric, replaced the last remnants of sleep. She had to get up, had to move, had to do something about this overwhelming, descending force. She clawed her way to the edge of the bed, Miles leaping out to help her, his face pale in the dim nightlight. Another contraction, if it could be called that—it was more like a seizure of her entire lower body—buckled her knees. He caught her, holding her upright as she trembled and moaned.

“Breathe, darling, just breathe,” he urged, his own breath coming in short, panicked puffs. He was trying to be the calm one, the rock, but his eyes were wide with terror. He guided her towards the bathroom, thinking of the birth pool, the towels, the plan. But Elara couldn’t think. She could only feel.

The urge to push was not a wave; it was a dam breaking. It was an involuntary, all-consuming reflex that hollowed her out and took control. With a guttural groan, she stopped dead in the hallway, her legs splaying wide.

“I have to push! I HAVE TO PUSH!”

“No, no, no, wait, love, just wait, the midwife—“

But her body was not listening. It was expelling. She needed anchor, stability, comfort. Her wild eyes landed on the plush armchair in the corner of their bedroom. Not the sterile bathroom, not the floor. Something soft. Something that held him. She stumbled towards it, pulling Miles with her.

“Sit,” she commanded, her voice a raw scrape.

“What? Elara—“

“SIT!”

He fell into the armchair, bewildered. Before he could speak again, she was turning, lowering herself, and climbing awkwardly, desperately into his lap. She settled back against his chest, her knees flung wide over the arms of the chair, her body splayed open in the most vulnerable possible way. He instinctively wrapped his arms around her, one hand splaying over her pounding heart, the other stroking her damp hair, murmuring nonsense words of love and fear into her ear. He was trying to offer a gentle touch, a whisper of affection in the storm.

He had no idea he was assuming the role of birthing chair.

The next contraction gathered her up completely. There was no panting through it, no guided pushing. It was a primal, grunting heave that used every fiber of her being. She bore down into Miles’s lap, her scream muffled against his shoulder. He held her tighter, feeling her body become a piston of unimaginable force.

“I can feel it! I can feel the head!” she shrieked, the sensation of burning, stretching flesh terrifying and real. There was no ring of fire; it was an inferno.

“What do I do? Oh God, what do I do?” Miles chanted, his hands now fluttering uselessly around her, afraid to touch, afraid not to.

Another monumental, grunting push. Elara’s body arched, a strangled roar tearing from her throat. The pressure hit its zenith and then, with a slick, tearing, miraculous rush, it vanished. The agonizing fullness was gone.

A wet, warm, solid weight slid onto the fabric of Miles’s pajama pants, between Elara’s thighs.

Silence. A heartbeat of pure, stunned silence.

Then, a thin, indignant wail.

Elara went limp, her head lolling back against Miles’s shoulder, her body wracked with tremors of shock and relief. Miles looked down, his mind refusing to process the scene. There, nestled in his lap, was a tiny, purple-tinged, vernix-smeared human being, its umbilical cord snaking back into the shadowed space beneath Elara. Its cries grew stronger, fists waving.

He had a lap full of baby.

His hands, which a moment before had been offering gentle comfort, now hovered over this new, shocking reality. He was afraid to move, afraid to breathe. “Elara,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Love. Look.”

She forced her head up, her eyes swimming with tears of exhaustion and awe. She reached down with shaking hands, her fingers brushing the baby’s heaving back. “Oh,” she sobbed, a laugh tangled in the cry. “Oh, hello.”

They were frozen there, a tableau of shock and nascent joy, when the front door burst open and the midwife, Diane, rushed in, her bag in hand. She took in the scene in one swift, professional glance: the soaked hallway, the couple entangled in the armchair, the newborn already wailing on the father’s lap.

“Well,” Diane said, her voice warm and calm as she knelt beside them, pulling gloves on with a snap. “I see someone decided not to wait for the welcome committee. Dad, support the baby’s head. Mum, you’ve done magnificently. Let’s get you both comfortable. The hard part’s over.”

As if on cue, a final, milder contraction rippled through Elara. She gave a weak grunt, and with Diane’s gentle guidance, the slick, dark mass of the placenta slid out onto a towel Diane had swiftly placed.

Only then, as Diane deftly clamped and cut the cord, wrapping the baby in a clean blanket and placing her on Elara’s now-emptied chest, did the reality sink in. Less than an hour from first sensation to last. No time for timing contractions, for lighting candles, for filling the pool. Just panic, a desperate need for comfort, and a single, world-altering climb into a lap.

A classic hero versus villain narrative, a tale as old as time, where they go after one another for a long while in their careers. It's the norm. They think little of it. Or so they tell themselves...

The villain captures the hero, lording over their victory. The hero is grumpy but not without hope for escape. They end up chatting and getting to know each other more, humanizing each side. Eventually, they fuck, and it's good in the moment.

The villain, however, is mortified, so they let the hero go and tell them not to come back. The hero is hurt, but knows they'll cross paths sooner rather than later. They'll talk then.

Months pass, and the villain is MIA. Nobody's heard from them. The hero is praised for defeating the villain, but they know that's not true. They continue doing their part by saving people and being their hero self, albeit much more sad than they were before.

Eventually, they do cross paths with the villain, only they look more scared than angry. The reason is abundantly clear, because their belly is swollen to the brim and looking ready to pop. The hero is shocked and the villain is about to say they don't have to stick around, just wanting to clear the air.

They end up getting married as the hero proposes then and there. They have, like, a dozen kids and retire from their respective works.