mpreginaldwrites

[mpreginaldwrites]

Here's the full first chapter of T(He)y Can Fly Book 1 as a thank-you for the support thus far = ) Chapter 1 Class is almost over, and I'm excited. So excited I'm tapping my shoes against the concrete, feeling my toes slip ever so slightly off of my sandals and onto the cold floor. It's embarrassing to admit, but it's like this every Thursday. I'm excited. I'm pumped. Once this professor finishes going over all of the assignments due next week, there's nothing standing between me and slipping these sandals off. In their place, I'll put on the most uncomfortable shoes anyone has ever worn, and I'll roll a button-up over my pecs and past my biceps, and I'll put on the tacky little uniform bow tie, and I'll go to the best place on this entire fucking campus, not that it has significant competition. This classroom sure as fuck isn't competition for it, anyhow. It's bland and its cold, and I really wish I could find myself giving a shit about Anthropology, but the professor is old and weird, and his beard reaches halfway down his chest, and the topics bore me. It's an easy A, though, and I'll take that. My GPA could use the bump--outside of the classes for my major, I'm kind of ass when it comes to school. When I was younger, that was a way to tell my parents to fuck off. Now, it's just a way to cope with how much homework this damn university offers. That, and the amount of threats we face on a weekly basis, which happen with about the same frequency as a miserable little toddler throwing a temper tantrum over not getting the toy they want after a day of shopping. It's my senior year now, but when I was a sophomore I was close with a couple of seniors. They told me the campus had been a lot safer before my year. Some of them even suggested it was my fault that this campus had gone to such shit. That's obviously bullshit, but it was kind of cute at the time to think that there could be something about me that's so significant that I keep drawing aliens or evil despots or creepy doctors here to threaten to destroy this campus and everything on it as revenge or for the imaginary gold buried beneath the student center or whatever. It stopped being cute when it started being at least kind of true. That was after all those guys had graduated, though. And, for the record, it's not me. It's him. It's Captain Icon. The rumor is that he goes here, and if I'm half as smart as I pretend to be in my major classes, he definitely does. Like, definitely. And he also definitely has the hots for me. And maybe... Maybe I have the hots for him. I find myself doodling his visage across the top of my neglected notebook--the cape, the jawline, the curls, the tights... He could make a guy get himself in trouble on purpose just for a rescue. It's so easy to let myself sink into the fantasy of him saving me again, though I would kind of prefer it if we could stick to the relieved kissing and have me dangling precariously a little less. I'm drawn from my doodling when the professor dismisses us--I took enough notes to know what's due next week, and it all looks searchable. Especially when you have skills like mine. I pack everything into my backpack--my water bottle, my notebook, and my fantasies of having those thick arms wrapped around my waist again, and I start to head towards my favorite place. The sun shines above, and it warms my bones just as that smile crosses my lips. I can't really help it. I'm a library nerd. It's not what anyone would really expect of me, true enough. Especially not anyone who knew me in high school. Luckily, nobody here knows me from high school. Nobody but May, and they're the one who helped me come out, and I'm hardly worried about them judging me. Back then I was a musclehead who no one expected to amount to much. A closeted musclehead who no one expected to amount to much. Who goes to college for wrestling? Well, I didn't. I went to college for library science. And the second the smell of old paper and ink hits my nose, relief sinks into my bones. 1/3

It's almost erotic, how full of life this place makes me. It makes me feel even more electric than being dangled off the roof of a building while a villain monologues to Captain Icon about how the world will soon be theirs. I think that's why he and I would never work. I'm not for that busy life. Not like he is, any way. Or, like he must be, I guess.  I wave hello to Beth, today's front desk worker, and I step inside without showing my ID. Any other student entering has to show theirs--and I'm pretty sure I get a couple of dirty looks as I just slide right in--but I intern here. That, and I spent so many of my days plundering the magnificent depths of this place that they all knew me by name before I got the internship. In fact, they knew me by name before half the campus did. Fucking campus newspaper. Don't even get me started on them. I stuff my feet into my socks and then into my pointy, cramped little dress shoes, then I roll the rest of my uniform on. North Grey University button down, matching bow tie, and my little magnetic name tag, cold metal brushing the tip of my nipple. I shiver and step outside, ready to get back to the best part of my week. I wish I had more days here. I used to spend a lot more time here before the whole "superhero's beau" thing happened. People tend to not want you around when your presence causes tens of thousands in property damages at least twice a month. The University set up some deal with the Villain's Association, though--they promised to avoid the library during the hours that I'm working my internship (Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays from 2PM-8PM, including during school breaks), so long as they have full right to kidnap me (with minimal property damage) to get back at Captain Icon on any other given day or time of the week. I wasn't there for the litigation on that one, but I wouldn't have really been able to afford a lawyer, and May told me they probably made sure I didn't hear about it until afterwards because it's a huge liability to allow a student to speak during litigation involving their right to be kidnapped from a school setting. It was kind of funny to me--and still is, honestly--that the Villain's Association would probably be more amenable to adjusting the schedule to let me spend more time here than the University that fucks me every semester. Their administration didn't personally request that I abide the guidelines and otherwise avoid the university library and all other university property under threat of expulsion. And again, it's really not even my fault. I didn't ask to be this gorgeous, nor did I ask to catch the eye of the east coast's most popular rising-star superhero. It all just fell into my lap. If they want to blame anyone, they should blame May for convincing me to a) start hitting the library to avoid all of the homophobic taunting in high school, and b) that North Grey University has a great library science program and I should apply with her to come here. I'm putting more books away, just kind of basking in the peace and quiet of getting my early tasks done when I'm tapped on the shoulder. It's a familiar tap. I know exactly who it came from. And I shouldn't be as irritated by it as I am, but I find myself rolling my eyes before I turn around. On the other end of the tap is Scott Knight in his blonde, curly-haired, blue-eyed, radiant-smiling glory. He's a few inches shorter than me. In height, at least. And he knows how much I like this job, because we're roommates, and I've told him a hundred times that sucking his dick doesn't mean I want him to come bother me at work. I barely get to spend time here as it is without him mucking about and distracting me. He opens his mouth to speak, but I put a finger up in front of his lips and he holds his breath, rocked forward and ready to launch out whatever too-loud-for-the-library diatribe he was about to damn me with because I realize that he distracted me into putting a Raban next to the Radcliffes. 2/3

I pull it loose and put it back on the cart before I make another silly mistake like that. Frankly, I should go take a flogging for that embarrassment, but no one saw but Scott, and they only watch the cameras when they're concerned the Stephen King fans are around. Plus, a flogging from Barbara, my boss here, wouldn't be the kind of flogging that I'd prefer. Annnndddd that thought reminds me that Scott is still on his tiptoes, chest puffed and ready to say something. He's so weird, and his enthusiasm is boundless. For me, and for everything on the planet, basically. It's probably the cutest part about him. His sense of boundaries, though? Not the cutest. I silently wave my hand and indicate that he may speak. He doesn't breathe before letting it all out. "Hey, Nicky! I'm really glad to see you! I figured you'd like some company at work and my class let out early, so I came over. I wanna watch you put all the books away real sexy like. Watch those arms as they go up and stuff the books on the shelves. Which wouldn't be all that different from how I stuffed you last--" I shush him, because we've started to draw eyes from some of the freshman, looking mortified at the collaboration tables. Frankly, the only reason I don't shut him up period is because we're on the collab floor. Technically, moderate speech volume is allowed and encouraged here. If we took the escalators up just one floor, though, I'd make sure he was dead silent. I think the early edition Austens can sense the noise. "Dude, not in public, geez. I told you we weren't gonna talk about any of that outside of the apartment, right?" Scott shrugs. "I mean, yeah, but what's the point of having a boyfriend if I can't tease him a little, you know?" I swallow. We've been over this half a dozen times, but he still doesn't seem to grasp it. It's endearing, and it makes me want to kiss him after throwing him down the stairs. And, again, if I'm half as smart as my LibSci profs think I am, he'd be perfectly fine. "You're not my boyfriend, Scott." "Right. I'm just the guy you sleep with, study with, cook dinner with, go out with, and cuddle with after you've had a bad day. That's a boyfriend, right?" "I'm so glad you came to pester me at work today, Scott. I'll see you when I get home tonight, cool? We can have the 'what are we' chat after the next time I get kidnapped." Scott raises an eyebrow mysteriously. It hides behind a stray curl, and I have to wrap my fingers around a Robinson to avoid tucking it behind his ear. "I don't know what the correlation is there, but sure. Fine." "Can you go? I need to get the rest of these put back and then I have, like, eight hundred other tasks I need to get done today." "Will you help me 'study' tonight?" He puts the word "study" in very dramatic and obvious air quotes, equipped with a little wink, as if there was anything even remotely subtle about that, and I just sigh. What am I going to say? No? I want it, too, and if his earnestness does anything other than annoy me, it... turns me on, too. "Ugh. Yes. I get off at eight and I'll be home by like eight thirty. Can you get dinner cooking before I get home? I'm gonna be hungry." "I get off every time I look at you," he replies, giving me another wink, and I can feel my cheeks burning red. "But yeah, I'll cook tonight. Have a fun shift! See ya!" He disappears down an aisle, and I just kind of sigh and turn back to the zen of all of these pages. 3/3

[mpreginaldwrites]

Scott: Griffin, you do remember when we agreed we were better off as friends, right? Griffin, naked in Scott's bed: No, I absolutely do not. Scott, already taking off their clothes: Fuck... Me neither.

[mpreginaldwrites]

Your hands tug on his pretty blond locks and pull him up from your dick as he looks up at you with teary eyes, his lips puffy and his hands gripping your thighs. You smile down at him, you never knew the crown prince was such a whore for his knight's dick, it honestly flusters you a little at how hungrily he sucks you off.

"Just wanted to see your pretty face, your grace,"

He huffs, it looks cute on him,

"Go on."

Yet all attitude is lost when you thrust up your dick into his mouth, your hand still gripping his hair. You almost choke yourself when he takes you in his mouth in one go, you shiver as your tip hits the back of his throat, looks like he has some sort of experience if he's so comfortable doing this. You don't mind it though, the way his throat tightens around your cock as one of his hands strokes your base while his mouth takes care of the rest.

His other hand squeezing and playing with your balls, his eyes never leaving your eyes as he watches you melt under his touch, the sight so delicious; you're sitting on his throne as the moonlight lights up your features so beautifully, his dick throbs under his robes.

[mpreginaldwrites]

been messing around with one of those "incorrect quote" generators and I've gotta say I'm kinda obsessed: Griffin: As top in this relationship, I think we should- Nick: I can't believe you're pulling rank on me.

[mpreginaldwrites]

Marco used to be a 19 year old twink and now he is a 20 year old beached whale (at least in his opinion). Barrett, Marco’s boyfriend says that Marco looks like a god, and that he has never looked this fine before, that his belly is gorgeous. But what they can both agree on is that they are ready to meet their son. Marco is currently 41 weeks and 3 days pregnant, and he is ready to not be pregnant but their son Greyson is being stubborn.

Marco has tried everything he can think of to try and get labor started but nothing is working so he decided that a good pounding might work. Barrett was on his way home from work so Marco got into position, on all fours in the bed, the same position that started all of this to begin with. About 10 minutes later Marco hears the door open and Barrett coming down the hall, he opens the bedroom door and is immediately met with the visage of his 9 months pregnant boyfriend begging for it, ass in the air, dignity nowhere to be found.

Barrett: “What the hell Marco, what are you doing?”

Marco: lWhat does it look like I’m doing, I’m ready for it so give it to me daddy”

Barrett: “Marco we can’t, how can you even think about that right with as pregnant as you are it could send you into labor”

Marco: “I know, that’s why I’m doing it, you really think I just want this, as big as I am having you inside me will fill me up a bit too much”

Barrett: “Wait you want to go into labor?”

Marco: “Of course I do Barrett, your son is being stubborn and won’t come out, I have to do something to help the process along, I’m huge, by back and feet hurt, I have to pee all the time, I can’t sleep, I am miserable all babe, please just give it to me”

Barrett: “Well when you put it that way, I’m sorry I didn’t know he was making you that uncomfortable”

Marco: “It’s okay Bare, your son is just huge, that’s all, you did such a good job putting him in there I just thought maybe you could help get him out of me too”

Barrett: “Well alright then” he says as he unzips his pants revealing his 9 inch long hard cock “let’s do this”.

[mpreginaldwrites]

has anyone ever studied why we like #mpreg ... like... c'mon there has to be something psychological here, right?

[mpreginaldwrites]

Blog Guide = ) (Minors DNI)

Hello hello--My name is M. P. Reginald, and I'm an up-and-coming author. I enjoy mpreg stories and am consistently fascinated by the way the world-building works and how being parents impacts the characters, but I'm usually kinda unsatisfied with ABO dynamics. So I started writing.

And I kept writing. And now I have a gigantic, extremely long and interconnected series planned (and partially written! What you see is NOT all I have ready to go,,,,).

This blog is going to catalogue my journey, serve as a hub for announcements and interactions with folks interested in my novellas! I'll share snippets here, notes about discounts (as many as possible!! making money is cool but I'm way more excited about getting to interact with folks), links to other socials, etc. There will also be exclusive shorts shared here, expanding on the world!

I also want to immediately make something clear: I am a cis man writing typically cis man pregnancies. This is meant as a fantasy and not a replacement or overwriting of trans experiences, including with pregnancy. This blog and the world I am creating are both explicitly trans-inclusive. If you don't feel comfortable with that, please consider meeting another human being and developing something called empathy.

The content I share is erotic in nature. Do not read on if you are not 18+. This content is for adults.

Please feel free to send me DMs or asks! I'm fairly new to Tumblr so it may take me a moment, but I'm excited to be here = )

about my work:

-The sex and pregnancy are present in every single story. As of now, I have no plans to include women as romantic lead characters. -The pregnancies will come in different varieties and characters will experience numerous different experiences. Some will be surrounded by happy families, some will be faced with tragedy. My goal, though, is to create fulfilling, plot-driven smut content that's as engaging as it is titillating. -They are all in a shared universe! Once I get stuff established like a Patreon and this blog gets a little further along, I'll take time to create a timeline to help everything fit more into place -Dub-con is the most severe any of the harrowing experiences characters will have, but consent is extremely important and will tend to be established with each character! -There may eventually be non-mpreg works that I put out, but these will be distinctly labelled.

[mpreginaldwrites]

the thing is that boys belong in cages. people will try to tell you there are other places you should keep your boy but they're wrong. boys belong in cages. it's their natural place. thank you for coming to my tedtalk.

[mpreginaldwrites]

this man is ready to carry some kids and be a daddy good LORD

The peak male body…

[mpreginaldwrites]

#SuperBat ☀ : Bruce is so kind… I made a mistake, and he gave me a reward. 😭😫😍🥰

[mpreginaldwrites]

Here's a snippet from T(He)y Can Fly Book 1 to wet your.... appetite: "Is this an interrogation?" He inches closer. Close enough that I can smell the mint chapstick on his lips and trace the little flecks of gold buried in the sky blue eyes. "So what if it is?" He cocks his head to the side and raises an eyebrow. A small flurry of curls separate themselves from the nest at the top of his head, trickling down to rest on his cheek. I clear my throat and lean back a half inch. He smirks at me again and leans back himself, turning towards the food. I can feel my blood pressure all the way down in my hands. "If you really want to know, I'm reading up on the ethics of providing information retrieval services to supervillains. Being their 'guy in the chair,' if you will. A LibSci degree can be a dangerous thing in this day and age! You never know when some evildoer will kidnap you or your family and demand that you provide them with the information they're looking for. Or, if you're really lucky, they'll pay you pretty fabulously for fulfilling their needs." "Oh, that's pretty simple: it's always a bad thing to provide any kind of support to a supervillain, full stop. You should take notes on that! I can even make you a mnemonic device or something if you think it would help you on your exam or presentation or whatever." It's my turn to lean forward a little bit, to see if I can catch him just a breath off guard. Unfortunately, the counter between us is just a touch too long and I can't really get close enough to breathe down his back or "accidentally" brush his ass. "And here I thought you were going to get hung up on 'fulfilling their needs.'"

[mpreginaldwrites]

Thanks to trans men donating their tissue, we know the exact number of nerve fibers in the clitoris. Read about it here.

[mpreginaldwrites]

yeh

[mpreginaldwrites]

1985: A Birth Without Fear

⚠️ Intimate and medical content. Please like and reblog if this story speaks to you. For the uncensored version of the photo, feel free to DM me.

They were only boys when they met — on the track field of a midwestern high school in Ohio, in the middle of the 1980s. Daniel “Danny” Miller was eighteen, all wiry limbs and restless energy, a kid who dreamed of becoming a journalist one day. He wrote for the school paper and carried a notebook everywhere. Mark Anderson was twenty, broader in the shoulders, steady in a way Danny was not. Though he had already graduated, he still came back to help with training, loyal to the team — and soon, drawn by the quiet pull of Danny’s gaze.

It wasn’t supposed to happen. Not then, not there, not in those years. A love like theirs had no place in small-town America, where whispers could cut deeper than fists. But it happened. They fell in love with the reckless certainty of the young. And when Danny found himself pregnant, the weight of the world came crashing down. Both their families turned away, horrified by the scandal. Their love was condemned, and what grew inside Danny was seen as unthinkable.

Mark refused to let him face it alone. He gave up the dream of a sports scholarship and college. Instead, he walked into his grandfather’s woodworking shop and asked for work. The old man placed tools in his hands and taught him the trade. Day by day, Mark learned to carve a future as carefully as he shaped the wood beneath his palms. His grandmother, more tender than she ever admitted, brought them a wooden cradle and handmade blankets — small gestures that reminded the boys they were not entirely abandoned.

With his first earnings, Mark rented a modest apartment just a few streets away from his grandparents. Together they painted the walls, set up the cradle, and tried to make a home. Danny kept going to school, his growing belly hidden under loose sweatshirts, enduring the stares and whispers. He held on to his dream of studying journalism, clinging to it as a fragile promise of a better tomorrow.

And now, here they were: in a quiet clinic where no one spat cruel words, where no nurse looked away in disdain. Danny’s face is strained with pain, but Mark’s hand is firm on his chest, his voice low and steady. It is the culmination of everything they have endured — the long nights, the whispered fears, the fragile hopes.

Outside, the world of 1985 still bristles with hostility, but inside this room, a new life is about to arrive. Against all odds, they are together. Against all odds, they are becoming a family.

The rain had just stopped when Mark pushed open the glass doors of the clinic, guiding Danny gently by the shoulders. It was late afternoon, the clock on the wall showing 4:17 p.m., when the admitting nurse took Danny’s name. His contractions had been irregular through the morning but were now settling into a rhythm, every eight to ten minutes, tightening across his abdomen with growing insistence.

In most hospitals of 1985, partners were rarely permitted beyond the waiting room. Fathers were summoned only after the birth, handed a baby swaddled in blankets like a visitor to his own life. But here the policy was different: one of the few clinics in the Midwest experimenting with “family-centered childbirth.” Mark’s presence was not just allowed, but encouraged.

Danny was eighteen, his eyes wide, his notebook left behind on the kitchen table at home. He had read about childbirth but reading and living were oceans apart. “I don’t want to do this alone,” he whispered as another contraction tightened his body.

“You won’t,” Mark said, his voice low, steady, the same voice that had carried Danny through exams, whispered plans for the future, reassured him on nights when the world felt hostile.

The first examination was calm, unhurried. Cervical dilation: three centimeters. Fetal heartbeat: strong, steady, amplified through the doppler speaker. The obstetrician, a man in his forties with wire-rimmed glasses, nodded and said simply, “We’ll let labor take its natural course. No rush, no intervention as long as both of you are well.”

The room assigned to them was quiet, painted a pale yellow that seemed to soften the edges of pain. No beeping monitors tethered Danny, no intrusive wires — just a padded bed, soft lighting, and the reassuring presence of Mark beside him.

Danny’s fear was tangible; every contraction made him clutch at the sheet. Mark responded with constant touch: a palm against his chest, fingers laced through his, guiding him into slow, measured breathing. “In through the nose, out through the mouth,” Mark repeated, counting softly. He shrugged off his shirt, pressing his bare torso against Danny’s back when the trembling grew too strong, anchoring him with warmth.

“Am I doing this right?” Danny asked between breaths, his voice cracking.

“You’re perfect,” Mark answered. “One step at a time. We’re not rushing.”

Hour by hour, the contractions deepened. By 7 p.m. they had shortened to every five minutes, Danny swaying with each wave of pain while Mark supported him in slow walks around the room. The obstetrician entered quietly, checked progress: dilation now at five centimeters, effacement nearly complete. “Good progress,” he said, almost like a coach encouraging a runner to keep pace.

Danny sagged into Mark’s arms, damp hair sticking to his forehead. “I can’t—” he began, but Mark cut him off with a firm shake of the head.

“Yes, you can. Look at me. You’ve come this far.”

The nurse adjusted a cool cloth against Danny’s neck, murmuring that his pulse was steady, baby’s heart strong. Outside the door, the world of 1985 carried on — indifferent, unknowing. Inside, time slowed to the rhythm of labor, the steady advance of life through pain and fear toward something unshakably new.

By 9:00 p.m., Danny had entered active labor. Contractions came every three minutes, lasting nearly a minute each, and he no longer had the strength to pace the room. Mark supported him back onto the bed, adjusting pillows behind his shoulders so that he rested in a half-sitting position. The attending obstetrician — a calm man in his forties — explained that this posture would help Danny conserve energy for the pushing stage.

“Cervix at eight centimeters, well effaced,” he noted, glancing at the chart. “Baby’s head descending nicely. We’ll move with the rhythm, no rush.”

Danny’s face twisted as another contraction surged. “It feels endless,” he groaned, gripping Mark’s forearm so tightly his knuckles whitened.

Mark pressed his forehead against Danny’s temple. “I’m here. Every time you think you can’t, we’ll breathe it through together.”

By 11:30 p.m., the transition phase gripped Danny with relentless intensity. His whole body shook as he clutched at the sheet. Sweat ran down his chest; his breaths came shallow and uneven.

“Almost complete,” the obstetrician said quietly. “Nine, nearly ten centimeters. First births often take longer — don’t fight the tremors, let them pass.”

Danny gasped: “I can’t even keep my eyes open—”

Mark brushed wet hair from his face. “Then lean on me. Close your eyes if you need, I’ll keep count, I’ll keep watch.”

At 12:45 a.m., the announcement finally came: “Full dilation. Time to push when your body tells you.”

The pushing stage stretched into the early hours. Danny, exhausted, stayed propped on the bed, legs supported by padded stirrups, Mark holding one hand and cupping the back of his neck with the other. Each contraction brought an involuntary urge to bear down.

“Head is visible,” the obstetrician said around 2:00 a.m., his tone calm but alert. “Crowning will begin soon.”

Mark immediately shifted forward, one hand hovering, ready to catch.

The doctor chuckled softly. “Easy, young man. The head won’t be born on the first push. First-time fathers always think it happens all at once.”

Mark flushed but didn’t pull back. Danny cried out as the next contraction forced the crown of the baby’s head against his stretched muscles. The bulge remained visible even when the contraction ebbed — the tissue was taut, resisting but slowly yielding.

Mark’s face was pale, his voice breaking. “He’s suffering… and the head barely moves.”

The doctor raised a hand calmly. “Let me check again.” He examined with practiced hands and then nodded. “Yes, the head is large, and your boy will be a big one. But it’s well positioned, the heartbeat is steady, and Danny is coping. If you push evenly and keep calm, this child will come without forceps or suction — which in other hospitals might already be on the table.” Then he added with a faint smile: “Well, Maybe next time, more practice in bed during pregnancy...”

Danny gave a ragged laugh through his tears, Mark flushed red, and the tension in the room eased just slightly, enough to carry them into the next contraction.

Danny whimpered, voice hoarse. “It’s burning... I can’t tell if I’m tearing or just... on fire.”

“Burning means progress,” the doctor reassured. “That’s the ring of stretch. Don’t panic — it means the head is advancing.”

Mark kissed Danny’s damp temple. “I can see him, Danny. Just a little hair showing... You’re almost there.”

Another surge came. Danny bore down with a guttural cry, Mark steadying his shoulders as the crown pressed wider into view. The obstetrician kept one hand poised but did not interfere, only guiding: “Slow, controlled... let the tissue adapt. You’re guiding him into the world.”

Danny collapsed back between pushes, whispering, “How much longer...?”

“Minutes, not hours,” the doctor answered. “Your body knows what to do. Trust it.”

And with that, the next contraction gathered, promising the decisive moment.

The next contraction gathered with a force that left Danny arching against the pillows. His cry tore through the quiet of the room, and Mark braced him, whispering close, “Steady, steady—breathe with it.”

The crown of the head widened, stretching further with each surge. The obstetrician guided with words only: “Slow, don’t rush. Let the tissue open. Almost there.”

Danny’s chest heaved. “It burns—it feels like it will never end—”

Mark’s voice cracked, but he stayed firm. “I see him, Danny. Dark hair, right there. He’s so close.”

And then, with one long push, the head slipped free into Mark’s waiting hands. For a heartbeat the room froze, filled only with Danny’s ragged breathing.

“Head delivered, shoulders next,” the doctor instructed calmly.

Mark supported, trembling, as the shoulders rotated, then slid free. In a rush of warmth, the entire body followed — slick, fragile, and astonishingly alive. The baby’s cry pierced the air, thin but fierce.

Mark gasped, voice breaking: “He’s here. Danny, he’s really here.”

The doctor steadied his hands, but allowed Mark to lift the newborn onto Danny’s chest. Danny’s eyes opened wide, tears spilling as the tiny body pressed against him, skin to skin.

“Strong boy,” the obstetrician noted, glancing at the chart. “Good tone, good color.”

Mark cut the umbilical cord with hands still shaking, guided gently by the doctor. Danny clutched the baby to his chest, whispering through tears, “Our son... Mark, our son.”

The clock on the wall read 2:17 a.m., 1985 — the exact moment their family began.

[mpreginaldwrites]

i hope everything gets easier for trans women

[mpreginaldwrites]

Me: *Writes a series of porn books for the porn* Also me: *creates way too much plot*

[mpreginaldwrites]

How many shouts into the void have to be made before the void shouts back 👀