Childbirth - Blog Posts

this one got me so fucking horny idk why but its so fucking GOOD

More art exactly like this, please

Came across some really nicely drawn and sketched birth art from a pixiv artist named Samz! They really captured the raw and primal essence of what sometimes childbirth can often be....arduous and relentless.

Let them know their artworks are amazing!

Artist page: https://www.pixiv.net/en/users/11911735

what if sex was excruciatingly painful, and childbirth was pleasurable.

I learnt recently that a lot of women have not heard of mastitis.

I figured it could be nice to just share a little bit about my experiences. I had it twice with my first born which I was told ment I would likely get it again.

Mastitis starts due a blocked milk duct or nipple which makes you boob turn into a red hot rock! Causes a lot of pain and you feel like flu hit you you faster than ever before, fever and all the aches and pains in your joints.

Unfortunately the only way to unblock is to keep on working very hard to get the milk out of your incredibly sore breast. Heat is amazing to help you soften the hard lumps and massaging as you either breastfeed or pump. I used hot water bottles, showers and had Antibiotics are normally given if you get mastitis. I did actually use cabbage leaves the coolness was lovely and it actually helped with pain in my nipple and helped with engogment.

A few reasons can cause mastitis from misshapen milk ducts, pumping and not getting all the milk out each time and also engorgment. (Breast tissue overfills with milk)

Hats of to the women that just keep on going with breastfeeding, I have stopped but...my boys are happy and healthy so if you ever need/want to stop breastfeeding don’t beat yourself up!

Timothée's tiny soulmate

Tiny hands, big love, and a dad wrapped around her finger.

pairings: Timothée Chalamet x Fem!reader

word count: 2.3K

warnings: Fluff, a bit of jerk Timothée for a few moments, childbirth

note: First chapter to my new series.. Girl Dad Diaries !

more here: Girl Dad Diaries masterlist, masterlist

You and Timothée had been married for two years, and today, December 27, just two days after Christmas, was his birthday. A week ago, you found out you were pregnant with his child. It hadn’t been planned, but neither of you was against the idea; if anything, it felt like perfect timing. To surprise him, you wrapped a small, slender box and tied a little bow on top. Inside, you placed five clean, positive pregnancy tests—your quiet, heartfelt way of saying, We’re having a baby. 

You also got him a new iPad for his birthday.

Why not? Right? Were you spoiling him? Maybe just a little. In five days, Timothée Chalamet was getting a brand-new MacBook, an iPad, and, though he didn’t know it yet, a baby. So yeah, you were spoiling him. But if anyone deserved it, it was him.

You woke up bright and early, long before he stirred. The house was still dark except for the faint glow of the Christmas lights strung across the living room, and the soft scent of cinnamon and pine lingered in the air from the candles you'd been lighting all week. Slipping out of bed as quietly as you could, you tiptoed through the house, grabbing your slippers and hoodie before heading out to the garage. That’s where you’d hidden the gifts—you knew he wouldn’t think to check your car.

Moments later, you returned with both boxes in hand. One was a sleek Apple box, the other longer and thinner, wrapped with extra care and a little satin bow. You placed the thinner one 6to the side for now. That surprise would come last.

Carefully, you placed the iPad box on the bed and leaned over him, brushing the hair from his face. You kissed his forehead gently.

"My love," you whispered sweetly.

He groaned in protest, rolling over and tugging the blanket over his head. "Nooo..."

You giggled. "C'mon, birthday boy. Wake up."

He peeked out with one eye. His curls were a mess, his voice groggy. "What time is it?"

"Too early," you admitted, laughing softly, "but I couldn't wait."

He sighed dramatically. "This better be worth it."

You grinned and placed the gift on his chest. "It is. Open it."

He sat up slowly, yawning as he pulled at the wrapping paper. The second he saw the Apple logo, his eyes widened.

"No way..." he murmured. "You got me the iPad, too?"

You gave him an innocent shrug. "I mean, you need something portable for travel. The MacBook is for editing and writing, the iPad is for movies and drawing. Practical, right?"

He just stared at you. "You're insane."

"Maybe," you replied playfully, crawling back into bed beside him. "But I love you."

He leaned over and kissed you, lingering a bit longer than necessary. "I love you more. You really didn’t have to do this."

"I wanted to. You deserve it."

He was already powering it on, a boyish grin on his face. "Okay, yeah. This is amazing. You're amazing. I feel so spoiled."

You smiled to yourself, glancing at the still-wrapped box on the nightstand.

"Oh," you said casually, "there's one more."

He blinked, still distracted by his new iPad. "More? Babe, you already went overboard. What is it, socks? A sweater?"

You chuckled nervously. "Not exactly. Here. Open it."

You handed him the smaller, longer box, wrapped with a delicate little bow. He looked at you suspiciously but took it, tearing the wrapping slowly.

He lifted the lid and stared.

Five pregnancy tests. All positive. All clean. Lined neatly in a row.

His jaw dropped slightly. He didn’t say anything for a solid ten seconds.

"Wait..." he finally breathed. "Are these... are these real?"

You nodded, heart pounding. "I found out last week. I wanted to tell you in a special way. Surprise."

He looked back down at the tests, then up at you, eyes glassy with disbelief. "We're having a baby?"

You smiled, your voice soft. "Yeah. We are."

He let out a breathless laugh, dropping his head into his hands for a moment before looking at you again, overwhelmed but glowing. "Oh my god. I... I don't even know what to say."

You leaned in and kissed his cheek. "You don't have to say anything. Just hold me."

He pulled you into his arms immediately, holding you tighter than ever.

"This is the best birthday of my life," he whispered into your hair. "A MacBook, an iPad, and a baby? I don't think anything could top this."

You laughed. "Well, don't get used to this kind of treatment every year."

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. "Too late. I'm officially spoiled for life."

The first trimester was a whirlwind of emotions and adjustments. You cried often—when your jeans didn’t fit, when nothing satisfied your hunger, or just because. Your body was changing fast, and so was your world. Timothée stayed grounded through it all, holding you close when you broke down, whispering soft reassurances. He even cleared out a guest room and began turning it into a nursery—the one with the big window you loved. Inspired by your love for stars, you both chose a space theme, spending countless hours researching baby essentials. Timothée was convinced it was a boy; you secretly hoped for a girl. You decided to wait until the birth to find out.

The second trimester brought a little relief from the nausea, but new aches took over. Leggings became your daily uniform, much to your embarrassment as a touring singer. Still, with Timothée’s unwavering support, you embraced the changes. You announced your pregnancy mid-tour, keeping the details private, and fans adored the mystery. Meanwhile, your craving for cucumbers spiraled—chopped, dipped, and topped with anything you could think of. Timothée kept a cooler of them backstage and even tried your wildest combos. You laughed, nested, your belly grew, and the nursery became a dreamy little galaxy.

By the third trimester, everything was harder. Sleep was a battle of pillows and shifting positions, and you were always too hot, too tired, or too emotional. Swollen fingers forced you to take off your rings—Timothée lovingly put them on a chain around your neck. Performing felt heavier, but fans cheered louder than ever when the baby kicked mid-song. Cravings got weirder, nesting became an obsession, and you repacked the hospital bag more times than you could count. Through it all, Timothée stayed close—singing to your belly, rubbing your feet, and reminding you how strong you were.

You were sore, swollen, and ready. Nervous, but full of love. The best part was just around the corner.

Then, the day finally came when your water broke. The hospital room buzzed with low voices and the steady beeping of machines, but all you could hear was your own heartbeat and the rhythmic sound of your breathing. Hours had passed in a blur of contractions and sweat, your grip on Timothée’s hand never loosening, even when your fingernails dug into his skin. He didn’t complain once. He stayed right beside you, brushing damp hair from your face, whispering encouragements through every cry, every wave of pain.

“You’re doing so good,” he kept saying. “He’s—uh—they’re almost here.” He still stumbled over the pronouns sometimes, trying to avoid guessing, but you could tell he hadn’t fully let go of the idea that it might be a boy.

You were too focused on surviving the next contraction to care.

Then, finally, it happened. One more push, one last scream—and the room exploded into sound. A sharp, high-pitched cry filled the air, and the doctor smiled as she lifted the baby up.

“It’s a girl,” she announced, beaming.

You blinked through your tears and turned to Timothée. But instead of the cheer or the gasp you’d expected, he went oddly quiet.

“A girl?” he repeated, more to himself than anyone else.

It wasn’t disappointment exactly—not in the way that stung. But for a moment, you saw the flicker in his expression. A beat of surprise. Of recalibration. He had been so sure. Had spoken to your belly like a boy was listening. Had joked about teaching “his son” guitar.

But before you could even speak, they placed her, tiny, pink, wailing, into his arms.

And everything changed.

Timothée looked down at her, and whatever expectation he had crumbled in an instant. His whole face softened, like someone had knocked the wind out of him in the gentlest way. His eyes brimmed with tears as he adjusted his hold on her, already protective, already in love.

“Elodie,” he whispered, like her name had been waiting on his tongue this whole time. “Hi, baby girl.”

Then he looked at you, and though he was clearly trying to be composed, his voice cracked as he admitted, “I thought I wanted a boy. But… she’s perfect. It was always supposed to be her.”

You smiled through your exhaustion, through your own tears, and reached for him, your daughter tucked between you like the softest miracle.

A week in the hospital felt like a slow dream, both calming and surreal. The days blurred into each other in a haze of soft lullabies, nurse check-ins, and the gentle hum of machines that beeped and blinked with their rhythm. Every few hours, someone would enter the room to examine Elodie, check your vitals, ask questions, and smile politely. The food was bland, the lighting too harsh, and the beds not quite soft enough, but none of that mattered. You had her. She was here.

Still, by day seven, you were aching for your home. For the nursery you'd spent months perfecting. For the quiet comfort of your bedroom, your candles, your robes, your slippers. And maybe, selfishly, just a little bit of time without a nurse barging in with a blood pressure cuff when the baby had just fallen asleep.

Timothée was practically bouncing by the time the discharge papers were signed. He packed everything up with the energy of a man who had trained for this moment his entire life. The hospital staff wheeled you down in a chair, your arms wrapped around the infant car seat where Elodie blinked sleepily, her tiny hat pulled low over her forehead. Timothée walked beside you like a proud golden retriever, loaded with bags, snacks, and the biggest grin you’d ever seen on his face.

He double-checked the car seat straps before you left the parking lot. Triple-checked them before pulling out. And then turned in his seat a dozen times during the drive, just to make sure she was still breathing.

When you finally stepped into your home, everything felt different. The air was warmer somehow, the rooms no longer silent but humming with new life. It was like the house had been holding its breath this whole time—and now, with her inside, it finally exhaled.

And from that moment on, Elodie was never far from Timothée’s chest.

You thought you’d be the one who couldn’t let her go, but Timothée became completely, utterly inseparable from your daughter. She was always in his arms, swaddled against his chest in that soft gray wrap he insisted on wearing everywhere. He wore her while making breakfast. While reading. While pacing the living room as she napped. He even wore her while brushing his teeth once. “She likes the vibration,” he shrugged, speaking like he was some kind of baby whisperer.

You joked that you were officially the third wheel now. He didn’t even argue.

Every few hours, when it was your turn to nurse or rock her to sleep, he’d hover just a few inches away. And the moment you were done, he’d scoop her right back up with a breathless, “I missed her.”

You laughed, but you understood. Because watching Timothée fall in love with Elodie was like watching gravity find him again. He melted into fatherhood. The actor, the performer, the dreamer—all of it quieted, softened, sharpened into something tender and fierce. She made him gentler. And braver.

He danced with her often, barefoot in the nursery under the soft light of the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. He’d sway slowly, whispering, “You know you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, right?” His voice cracked sometimes when he said it. As if he couldn’t believe she was real either.

One night, while you were still adjusting to night feeds and the ache in your body, you found him on the nursery rug with Elodie tucked on his chest. He was humming “Landslide,” eyes closed, tears glistening at the corners. When he saw you, he smiled and whispered, “She likes Fleetwood Mac. She's got taste already.”

He called her his tiny soulmate. You didn’t even mind that he barely looked at you anymore, because when he did, it was usually to say, “Look at her. Just look.”

He was so in love with Elodie that it was almost comedic. One morning, after pulling her gently from your arms, he sat beside you and muttered, “I’d throw myself in front of a bus for her.”

You blinked at him. “You just met her.”

He nodded, serious. “If there was a shooter, I’d use you as a human shield to protect her.”

You stared, speechless.

He gave a crooked little smile. “Don’t take it personally. You had your moment. This one’s hers now.”

But even in all the humor, you could see it. The way she had rewired something in him. His entire world now existed in the space between her breaths.

He wore her in a carrier everywhere: around the house, to the grocery store, even while standing outside in the backyard doing nothing but watching the sky. He kissed her head more times than you could count. He cried the first time she grabbed his finger with intention. He cried harder the first time she smiled.

And you watched it all—this beautiful, chaotic, overwhelming new rhythm of your lives—and thought: We’re going to be okay.

You had your little girl.

And she had the man who would move heaven and earth just to keep her warm.

A Driving Force

An ancient ask from an old friend, it came to me in a dream. Viola. 

Gibbs x Reader | No use of [Y/n] | 3.2 k | Mentions of Childbirth, swearing, pregnancy, mentions of sex, fluff with little to no angst

Pregnancy has got you ready to throttle your husband. 

Nearly eight months pregnant, and you are going to kill someone. 

Someone's name is Jethro. 

Jethro, who- after your first baby- thought it would be a swell idea to have another (don't get me wrong, he is more than good at making them, it's the labor and the first trimester that does you in.) Jethro, who is at work and not at home making you tea or rubbing your calves, or doing literally anything other than being at work. It's driving you nuts, and your son may as well be training for the baby Olympics. There's no reprieve, not with a heating pad, not with an exercise ball, not with the piss-poor excuse for a nap you'd tried to take, nothing. 

So you do what anyone would've done: You drive your ass to his work and give the security guards some vaguely veiled threats to let you up to the bullpen. 

And naturally, he's nowhere to be found. 

"I am going to kill that man," you grumble, reclining in his chair, leaning your head back, and closing your eyes. Ironically enough, the background noise helps- you feel more relaxed than at home. 

The elevator dings, and in comes the trio. (McGee- you assume- is down in the lab. Jethro says he prefers it to fieldwork some days.) And- naturally- they're yelling. 

"I had him!" 

"You had shit! That dude outran you by miles! He's halfway to Timbuktu right now!"  

"Dinozzo-" 

"Boss, I am telling you-"

"Dinozzo."

They stop in the bullpen, and you stand, hand over your stomach, and downright glower at your husband. "Leroy." 

Tony's face crumples into something like horror, Kate looks like a bomb might go off, and Jet- well, he looks a little south of terrified. As he should. 

"Sweetheart," He walks toward you, hands outstretched, and immediately goes in for a gentle peck on the cheek. You swat him away. He frowns comically. 

"Your son is driving me up a wall." 

"You shouldn't be driving like this," he reaches down and caresses the bump. Damn him and his soft voice. Usually, you only hear it in the comfort of your home, never at work, and maybe that's what melts your resolve of putting up a fight. 

You sigh, slouching into him and leaning your head into the crook of his neck. He takes it all in stride, cupping his hand on the back of your head, drawing circles with his thumb on that place where the base of your skull meets your neck. It makes you fall apart like a card tower. You groan- he has the decency not to laugh, just winds his other arm around your waist. "Is he giving you a hard time?" It's asked softly, gently, kindly, with all the warmth of a roaring fire and the bourbon in the basement. This is the Jet that makes you question if he's really an agent. 

"He's been kicking my bladder for hours," you groan into his shirt. It smells like sawdust and mint. "You'd think he's training for boot camp in there." 

Jethro rubs gently at your waist- Tony and Kate sit quietly at their desks and have the decency to stop arguing. Tony even takes a field trip to God knows where- it makes you smile. "Better or worse than Dani?" 

Dani is your nearly five-year-old. A bundle of joy and Jethro's entire world, she has a smile to light up a room. 

And a temper to rival Hell, she gets it from her dad, but he handles her well. 

You scoff. "Dani didn't take up gymnastics, and if I recall correctly, you missed the first eight hours of my labor." 

"Twenty more to go- didn't miss much." You smack him gently on the back, and he only chuckles and continues to rub the muscles of your hips and neck. "You damn near broke my hand." 

"Twenty-eight hours of labor, Jethro. You're lucky I didn't break every bone in your body and shoot you." He mumbles something like 'touche', and you stand in silence for a moment. Jet quietly says 'here' and untangles himself from you (you nearly kill him) until he spins around. Facing your back and winding his arms around to your stomach, he reaches underneath your bump, intertwines his fingers, and lifts. 

You come this close to moaning in the middle of NCIS headquarters. 

Jet started doing this sometime towards the end of the second trimester when your bump became less of that and more like a mound. (These days, it feels more like a mountain.) The muscles in your abdomen relax, and the relief is instantaneous. Your head lols back onto his shoulder, and you kiss the underside of his jaw. "Thank you." 

It comes out in a whisper, but he gets the idea and returns the gesture to your forehead. "'Course sweetheart," And then you just stand there. It could be hours- it could be seconds. Realistically, it was probably closer to ten minutes. Jethro is strong, despite his age and his appearance. If you asked him he could probably do this for another hour and then some. Come to think- he'd do anything you asked him to. And you'd do the same, quite frankly, but right now- right now this is plenty. 

Jethro releases the weight of your baby boy slowly, oh-so-gently and it nearly makes you sob (damn pregnancy hormones) and hugs you from the side, careful not to undo the release he's just given you. You peck his cheek, leaning into the embrace, and close your eyes. 

And then water splashes down your leg, down your pants, and onto a puddle in the NCIS bullpen. 

Motherfucker. 

Echoed both in your head and out loud by your husband, Tony chooses this perfect moment to come barreling into the room. "Boss, we got something- oh shit." 

"Dinozzo, go get my car," and Jet hurls the keys at Tony's head. Tony, with all his goofiness and jokes, makes none about the situation and beelines for the staircase, Kate hot on his heels. 

Contraction number one hits with full speed, nearly taking you to your knees, and Jet hugs you around your waist, keeping you from collapsing and yanking the phone from his back pocket. "If the nurse doesn't give me an epidural this time, you have my full permission to shoot them." 

"Yes ma'am," he says, throwing the phone onto his desk. You don't see what he's done with it, you're too busy trying to stand. 

The contraction fades, you rise, and Jethro rises with you. "You're early." 

"Dani was three weeks early," you breathe deeply through your nose and out through your mouth. 

"This is nearly four." 

"Well, then, Jet, get a damn move on." And move he does. He makes sure you're standing steady first, before flying behind his desk to grab a bag. You do a double take. "You keep the hospital bag in your office?" 

He gives you a quick peck on the cheek, slinging the bag over his shoulder and guiding you toward the elevator. "Been with me for two months now, sweetheart." 

You're going to sob. 

Jet's gentle hand on your elbow and back gets you both to the elevator in one piece. An agent- you don't know who- is standing there as the doors ding open. Jethro gives him a look that could freeze over hell as he turns around to ask what floor, and the mystery agent steps out. 

You poke the 'G' button as another contraction punches through you. Jet gets you to lean against the cool metal wall as the elevator begins to move, and you grip his forearm tight. You're not swearing, not yet, just breathing deeply, but at this rate, you'll be calling the doctor a fuckwad the minute you walk through the hospital doors. 

Tony and Kate (bless their hearts) have the car running right out of the elevator in the parking garage. Tony reaches for your arm to help you in but a sharp, "Hands off my wife, DiNozzo!" Stops him dead in his tracks. Kate steps in as Jet throws the bag in the backseat. He opens the passenger door while Kate leads you. 

"You're gonna do great, call us when the baby's here, and we'll handle the case, Gibbs." The last part is directed toward your husband, who takes your other forearm as you sit gingerly in the car. 

He drives like Jethro. Which is to say: Like a maniac. 

You don't complain, even if it feels like you're in the middle of a police chase. He cuts the fifteen-minute drive to the hospital in half, skidding to a halt in front of the maternity wing, and barely remembers to turn off the car before reaching behind him to snag the bag and half-carry you to the doors. You can hardly blink before they've got you in a room, changed into a hospital gown, and are telling you to push.

Mike Leroy Gibbs' labor clocks in at a whopping two hours. 

It's a very painful two hours. Jet may have threatened several doctors and nurses to give you an epidural (who complies, you don't know the details and you don't want to.) They whisk him away to check vitals and clean him up, though Jet also threatens to maim or seriously injure someone if Mike isn't in your arms in fifteen minutes. 

He's returned rather quickly (you have a feeling you'll have to do damage control when you give a shit.) And he is the cutest bundle of warm brown hair and the brightest blue eyes you ever did see. 

You don't let Jethro hold him for something close to an hour, you damn near fall asleep with him on your chest for a little while, but with a soft, "Jet, look at your son." He takes him

Jethro is pretty quiet while he holds him- he was the same with Dani, awestruck by her existence and speechless. He coos at Mike, who's fast asleep, and sways him gently back and forth. He sits down, the armchair pulled as close to your hospital bed as it can get, with one hand cradling your son and the other holding your hand, rubbing gentle circles on the meat of your thumb. 

(You crushed his forearm during labor. Not literally, Jethro is still injury free, but there will be bruises in a few days. He knows how sore you are though, and if he wasn't occupied with his new son, you'd be sure he'd be giving you a massage. He was just as good- if not miles better- than when you gave birth to Dani. He was on a case, deep cover, and didn't get the phone call from Ducky or the hospital until you were well into labor. Ducky's phone call was far more urgent- Gibbs drove at least forty over to get to you.) 

"Jet, I gotta call Donovan, he still has two more days with Dani-" 

"Already taken care of sweetheart." 

You're going to melt. Absolutely dissolve into a pile of lovey-dovey goo. "Thank you." 

He brings your hand to his lips to kiss each of your knuckles. "He's on his way, your brother drives slower than I do-" 

"Jethro, everyone drives slower than you." 

The corner of his lips twitch upward at that, and he doesn't argue. 

The room is... nice. It's the only way to describe it. You feed Mike, and Jet is respectful and goes to find you OJ while you do it. "It doesn't make me uncomfortable, hun. Figured you could just use some time with him, skin to skin." 

Yeah, you're gonna cry. 

You actually do, while he's away and Mike has finished. It's not sad tears, they're definitely happy. When Jethro comes back he seems to know it, you don't even have to say anything, he just sits on the side of the bed, curls an arm behind your shoulders, and pets your hair. There are kisses laid atop your head, and he rubs your bicep. He whispers in his soft voice, the one you're so used to hearing that when you visit him at work his 'Boss' tone makes you do a double take. (Is it hot? Absolutely. But there's nothing quite like the quiet tone he uses when he asks if you're ready for bed.) 

You sniffle, Mike shifts in your arms as Jethro wipes a tear and a series of gentle knocks at the door sound through your hospital room. One, two, three, four, five, heads poke through the sliver in the open door. "Boss? Can we come in?" 

Gibbs looks to you for permission before answering. You nod and smile softly, and he beckons to the agents. Abby and Kate file in first, closely followed by Tim, then Ducky, who holds the door open for Tony, who's carrying two huge plastic bags filled with something that smells magical. 

Abby gives you the first hug, careful to avoid your newborn, she wraps an arm around your shoulder while Jethro untangles himself from you to help Tony. ("Did ya buy enough for the whole wing, Dinozzo?") 

Kate comes in next, taking Abby's place with a hug around your shoulder. You share grins, and she asks you how the labor was- the conversation is easy and nice. (Everyone knows how bad Dani's labor was. You've come into the office a few times a month, usually with coffee or breakfast, or-hell, even dinner for your husband and his crew when the nights turn long. You used to come in once a week during the first trimester. You and Gibbs would be in the NCIS bathroom with your head in a toilet, hair held back, and circles rubbed on your shoulders. Those were rough days.) 

"Do you wanna hold him?" 

Kate looks a little dumbstruck. Ducky and Tim are giving her encouraging glances, grinning ear to ear. "Y-you're sure?" 

You smile up at her, readjust, and hold Mike out. "Make sure to support his head, arm under his neck, keep the blanket- there you go." Kate kinda giggles- a breathy laugh escapes as she turns toward Gibbs and grins wide. He smiles back- then wider to you- and winks. To this day, it still gives you butterflies. 

Kate moves around the room- pacing in circles, bounces your son in the crook of her elbow, and quietly talks with Ducky. Tim comes in for a small hug. "Congrats, Mrs. Gibbs. You feel alright?" 

You scoff and pull him in with both arms. "I'm exhausted- I think Jet threatened someone for an epidural." 

You give him a peck on the cheek as he steps back, unfolding himself. Tim blushes pink and smiles. "Anything I can do? Food? Clothes?" You nearly start crying again. "I make a mean quiche, waffles too- Abby's can vouch for me-"

You laugh (Jethro's eyes light up at the sound, Tony notices.) "That sounds wonderful, Tim. Thank you, I mean it." 

He smiles, genuine, and you get the feeling sometimes Tony and Kate are a little hard on him. Then you remember how they rallied when he was in the hospital from a gunshot wound, and all those thoughts fade away. 

"McGee! Get over here!" Tony yells from across the room, gesturing with a plastic knife. 

Kate comes over to hand back Mike, but you gesture to Ducky. "Go ahead, Duck. I'm sure you've had your fair share of holding babies, don't make me lecture you." 

Ducky smile kindly (everyone seems to be smiling lately, and as cheesy as it sounds, it makes you happy. The my-heart-hurts-with-happiness way. You think the work is thankful, but even that seems too small of a word for what you feel.) Kate hands Mike over, carefully, slowly- his head fits neatly into the palm of her hand, where it waits until Ducky re-settles the blanket over him. 

Duckys' a natural- he sways with Mike and regals him with PG versions of his cases. Mike, sleepy and half-conscious, wiggles out of the blanket and wraps one of his teeny-tiny hands around the doctor's fingers. Abby and Kate coo and fold the blanket back over your son. They wiggle their own fingers at him, but Mike stays sound asleep, shifting minutely in Ducky's arms.

Tony comes in next for a one-armed, light hug. (You suspect Jet is behind that- you pull him in all the same. ) 

"Gibbs mentioned you were hungry," he gestures to the small table ladened with takeout boxes. "Said you were craving pasta." 

You pull him back for another, tighter hug, gifting him with a peck on the cheek too, "Thank you, Tony, that's really sweet of you." 

He blushes lightly, with a smug sort of look on his face. "You guys can keep the leftovers- McGee's idea."

You give his hand a squeeze instead of words, but he seems to get the idea, winking and holding up your shoulders while you sit up as Jet brings a plate over. He doesn't chastise Tony for his hand placement or the still-visible blush painted across his neck and cheeks, but you're more focused on the heavenly-smelling, rich, and sauce-loaded noodles being presented to you. 

You groan. "You are a saint, hun. Thank you." You grab the plate and fork with eager hands. Tony laughs and meanders off to grab a plate of his own while Jet sits on the side of your bed. He's got his own plate- carefully portioned and balanced on one knee as he catches a noodle falling off your fork and nearly onto the sheets. 

"Thanks," you reply with a mouthful, but it comes out more like a grunt. Jet gets the message anyway, smiling down at you. You're more at an even height now that you're sitting up, and you watch cheerfully as Ducky looks to you for permission to pass Mike to Abby. 

Tim and Kate are chatting quietly. They look over at you and Jet once and a while. (You get the sneaky suspicion you won't have to cook or do chores in the house for months.) Tony is still ladling noodles onto his plate, and you watch as he hands a similar one to Ducky. 

You didn't notice when they first entered- or maybe she was hiding it- but there's a little (not-so-little) bag sitting at Abby's feet as she takes Mike oh-so-gently from Ducky. You guess it might be something black- it'll contrast with his eyes, and you giggle internally at the thought. Abby sways over to Tony, rocking Mike in her arms- you think Tony calls him Giblet Number Two, and you roll your eyes playfully. 

It hits you suddenly how happy you are, nearly knocks you breathless as you watch everyone crowd around Abby as Mike opens his eyes. This is... wonderful. You don't have words for it: you have everything you can ask for and more, and Jethro seems to read your mind (as always.) He reaches down to squeeze your free hand, looking sideways through his eyelashes. "I'm proud of you, sweetheart." 

You smile tearily at him. "I know." 

BOWYNN GODS: TRAYDEA

Traydea  (Trae-dee-ah)  She is the goddess of childbirth, children and childcare in the Bowynn faith. Traydea is the daughter of Anhur and Rhya and sister to many other gods and goddesses. Traydea has many other aspects aside from bird. She of the patroness of wet-nurses, doula, obstetricians, pediatricians and midwives. She is also the patroness of nannies and to those that tend to children on a regular basis as a career.

     Traydea has not been spoken much about much in sacred stories, as her role is pretty well busy and set in both mortal and immortal ways of life. From the moment a mother is full and bearing, Traydea is a part of her life. Home shrines are erected to her as soon as a family learns a member is pregnant and remains up till the child turns 12 years old. Traydea is invoked during birth to help delivery and tend to the baby all through its young years. Images of the goddess along with Kii are places all about the mother’s and child’s room.

     While not named in any major roles of the sacred stories, Traydea is mentioned to be at the birth of all immortal gods born after her own birth. And she is said to be their nursemaids as well. Infact she is the constant Nursemaid to the god Daekk, God of prosperity and wealth, as he was destined to remain a babe so not to be tempted by mortals to favor one over another. Only Tymora takes over Traydea’s role at times for Daekk. Despite her roles and attributes, she never bore a child herself.

     Traydea is seen as a goddess of motherly goddess with hair pulled back and wearing a veil. Her clothes are simple and free flowing. She is rarely if ever seen or depicted wearing a hladd, as she should always be ready to nurse a child. In her hands she is often seen holding a child or a jug or bowl of milk. When about a mortal home, she will often disguise herself a cat, which is her totem animal. Votives of cats and bowls of milk are the most common offerings to Traydea, as well as flowers or even images of a baby or a dolly. These last two are often gifted during pregnancy.

⭕ tokophobia ⭕

Newest Edition

I’m back with another part to my omegaverse au!! This time Keith has a baby... there is baby. 

*

Keith absolutely adored his baby.

Of course, he had loved his baby from the moment they had found out he was expecting and that, for once, everything seemed to be in order. No miscarriage. No complications. Nothing at all that was worrying in any way. The doctors were a bit worried about the birth, considering that he’d had some complications in the past, but they had scheduled a C-section in order to have complete control of the situation. Which was more than fine with Keith.

He and Lance had decided to wait to see the sex of their child was at birth. Lance liked surprises, and Keith wanted to venture away from the binary-construct that came with having a baby boy or a baby girl. He’d been adamant, despite the teasing from the more traditional side of Lance’s family.

And because he loved his omega and his not yet born baby, Lance had spent an exhausting weekend painting the nursery a light shade of green and white, constructing furniture and converting the office into their baby’s new room. Keith had overseen, of course,

The more pregnant Keith got, the more fussy and emotional he became. At first, it was endearing. He was more protective of Lance, always sure to scent his alpha furiously before and after he came home from anywhere — work, the store, a friend’s house.

He was also more snuggly than usual, often curling up either in one of Lance’s shirts and a nest of blankets, or simply in his mate’s arms. He liked it when Lance touched his belly and talked to their baby. He liked being close to his source of safety and comfort.

However, there was also the downside of the hormones. Keith got upset very easily. He cried over things constantly, sending Lance into a mess of panic and concern and worry. It was often nothing more than a stubbed toe, being unable to reach something, or maybe something on the TV (he always tried to dissuade him from watching soap operas, but after a nasty fight over it, he had given up).

Not only that, but midnight cravings were serious and made him mean if he didn’t get what he wanted. Lance became a regular in the Taco Bell drive through at odd hours in the night. And Lord forbid anyone comment on his eating habits.

However difficult pregnancy was, Keith was still so happy at what was coming from all of it. He spent hours in the nursery, falling asleep in the rocking chair or reading the picture books they’d been given.

After the baby shower they’d been thrown, Lance had taken to working from home for the last couple of months until the due date. Keith was still insistent on doing things on his own, and Lance regretted buying a house with so many stairs. Although once Keith got to a place he liked, he generally stayed put. Working from home gave the omega time to unpack all of the things from the baby shower, and gave Lance peace of mind.

This doesn’t mean Keith wasn’t still his same stubborn, independent self.

One morning, Keith woke up with a funny stomach ache and a weird pain in the very low part of his back. A look at Lance told him he was still asleep, and the clock by the bed read 6:58am. It was still too early to be awake.

The omega sighs, rubbing his face and resting a hand on his belly. As usual, their baby gives a little kick, pulling a smile from its mother.

“You behave,” he whispers, “or we’ll wake up your daddy.”

He gets another little kick in reply before the baby rolls over and settles.

Keith settles in, drifting just back to the cusp of sleep, when a sharp pain cuts through his reverie and up his spine. He inhales sharply, pushing to sit up. His heart was racing, but the baby seemed okay. There was no blood between his legs, he checked first thing. Maybe it was just a weird bout of back pains.

Lance shifts beside him, just barely awake. “Wha...? S’early, baby, c’mere…”

He reaches for his omega, and Keith lets himself be pulled back down into the warmth of his alpha and the covers. Lance’s hands settle neatly on his belly, his face tucked into the back of his neck. “Okay?” He rumbles.

Keith nods, melting against him. “Okay. Just… restless.”

He gets another sleepy rumble in reply, then a soft snore. He smiles to himself, rolling his eyes, and settles back in. The pain doesn’t come back right away, and sleep comes easier tucked away in Lance’s arms.

*

The pain comes back later that morning.

He was in the kitchen, putting dishes away — because even nine months pregnant, he still insisted on being useful — when it happens.

The pain is sudden and blinding, tearing up his spine and through his hips. Keith gasps, dropping the plate in his hands and reaching for the counter. The plate shatters at his feet, but he hardly registers it, too busy focusing on not biting through his tongue. After a few seconds, the pain is gone and he’s left panting and hanging onto the counter.

A few seconds later, Lance comes skidding into the room. “What happened?!” He yelps, gingerly scooping Keith up and away from the broken ceramic, setting him carefully on a kitchen chair and kneeling to check for injury.

“I’m okay,” Keith protests when he can get his wits about him. “It was just an accident, I’m fine.”

The alpha nods, but continues checking his feet and hands to ensure that he wasn’t hurt. Satisfied, he lets out a breath and leans up to press a relieved kiss to Keith’s lips.

“You scared me.” He murmurs, pressing his lips to his forehead next, lingering.

“Sorry.” The omega offers weakly, resting his hands on Lance’s shoulders. To be honest, his heart was still pounding, but that was probably because his back was still aching.

Lance pulls away, looking up at him, blue eyes searching purple. “Are you okay?” He asks, earnest. Keith can feel his heart melt.

“Yeah, I’m okay. I just got this weird sort of pain in my back. I probably just moved wrong.”

“Okay…” His mate says dubiously, the doubt in his voice reflected in his eyes. “I’m gonna go clean up the glass. You stay put.”

The omega bites back a protest, instead deciding it felt nicer to stay in the chair than it did to stand. Besides, like this, he got to see his mate bend down to pick things up, and that in itself was a treat.

*

The pains wouldn’t go away. It was starting to frustrate Keith immensely. Lance had sensed something was up after his omega had seized up and made a noise that could only be described as agonized when they were cuddling.

After fussing and ensuring he hadn’t done anything to hurt Keith or the baby, the omega had been left in a very grumpy pile of blankets and pillows, Lance at his side and on his computer.

“I feel fine.” He protests, not for the first time.

“I know,” Lance replies, also not for the first time.

“It was just indigestion, probably.”

“I know.”

“Nothing to worry about. You don’t have to hover.”

“I like hovering.”

Keith makes a dubious tch sound, settling back into the blankets. They’re quiet for a moment, enjoying each other’s presence, when the omega goes stiff and makes another noise of pain. One that sends panic and helplessness through his alpha.

“I’m calling the doctor.” He says, getting up and shutting his laptop.

“Lance!” Keith protests, or tries to. He’s cut off by another sharp pain, this one tearing the breath from his lungs and making him clench his teeth.

“I’m calling the doctor,” Lance says, kneeling in front of him as he dials the number, his gaze pleading. “Okay?”

“Okay,” He gasps when the episode passes, nodding and reaching for his hand. Lance takes it, squeezing gently. His touch is warm and grounding.

They wait in silence for a while before someone picks up. “Hi! Uh, hey, this is Lance McClain-Kogane. Can I speak to Dr. Smythe? Yes, thank you.” They wait a beat, the alpha’s thumb rubbing over the back of his hand, before anyone picks up.

“Hey, Coran, it’s Lance. I — Well, I… Keith is having some pain and I’m really worried. He’s um, well… it seems to be sudden…” He trails off, glancing at Keith for confirmation. He gets a nod before yet another searing pain tears a devastating noise from his omega.

“Yeah, uh, no it’s — it’s pretty bad. It’s happened a few times, I think..? I dunno, hold on, um. Babe,” He tilts the phone away from his mouth. “When did this start?”

“This morning,” Keith manages to hiss through his teeth.

Lance nods, his concern growing, before reporting this to the doctor. He listens a moment, then nods. “Right, yeah, I’ll— I’ll do that right now.” He gets up, squeezing his hand. “I’m gonna get you a heating pad, okay? Stay put.”

The omega nods, closing his eyes tight against another wave of pain as his alpha hurries off, still babbling to the doctor. He tries to breathe through it, tries to tell himself that this is all fine, everything is fine. It’s probably just… well, he doesn’t know what, but it sure is something.

The pain ceases abruptly, far more abruptly than before, and with it comes the tiniest popping feeling and then a rush of clear fluid. Keith goes still, understanding dawning. And then the pain hits in double.

“Lance,” He calls, his voice shrill.

No answer.

“Lance!” He shrieks, panic clawing up his throat and bleeding into his voice.

There’s the sound of thudding from upstairs, panicked alpha scent drifting into the room before Lance scrambles in, wild eyed. “What is it? Are you okay?”

“I think my water just broke.” He breathes, his eyes still on the mess in his lap.

The two of them are silent, save for the tinny sound of their doctor trying to get Lance’s attention. A pained whimper from Keith sets Lance back into action. “I’m here!” He says, both to the doctor and to his mate. He rushes over, dropping down in front of him and holding tight to his hand.

“Yeah, uh, his water just broke. No, there’s no blood— I don’t… no, we won’t have time to get to the hospital, his contractions are really close together. A… About thirty seconds? Oh. Oh, shit. Yeah, I’ll… Yeah.”

His eyes widen and he sets the phone down, putting it on speakerphone. “Okay.” He says.

“Hey, Keith.” Greets Dr. Smythe. “How’re you feeling?”

“Not very good,” He wheezes, clutching his belly and kicking a leg out in restless desperation. “I think this baby hates me.”

Their doctor chuckles. “No, I don’t think so. Listen, you’re going to need to start pushing soon. I’ve sent a dispatch team and they will be there as soon as they can.”

“What?” Keith’s eyes widen, the acrid stench of pained and panicked omega blooming in the room and making Lance hover closer. “But— no. No! I’m not supposed to… we’re supposed to do a c-section, I’m not supposed to do this naturally!”

“Hey, baby, hey…” Lance takes his hand, kissing his knuckles. “We’ll be okay. The ambulance will be here soon, all we have to do is try and deliver this baby.”

“Oh, yeah!” Keith cries hysterically. “All we have to do is delivery a baby! That’s it! That’s all!”

“Keith, I need you to breathe.” Dr. Smythe says calmly. “Lance is going to be with you the whole time. Are you comfortable?”

“Yes,” He hisses, the word more of a whine than an actual word. As comfortable as he was going to get, anyways, with all this pain taking over his autonomy.

He spaces out when another contraction hits, missing the instructions Lance is getting from the OB. He’s more focused on not dying and not freaking out, because apparently freaking out was bad for him and the baby. Which was inconvenient if you asked him (which no one did).

When he comes to, Lance is looking up at him with his eyes filled to the brim with love and a little bit of concern. “Come on, love,” he murmurs, “let’s deliver this baby.”

*

By the time the ambulance gets there, Keith is crying and exhausted and holding the little bundle they’d been waiting years for. He cries even harder when they take her — her — away from him to check her over and put her in an incubator until they reach the hospital.

Lance is with him the whole time, holding his hand and brushing his sweaty hair out of his eyes, whispering how proud of Keith he was, how amazing it was that he’d brought that little bundle into the world. The omega doesn’t stay awake long after they’re loaded in the ambulance and on the way to the hospital. Not with his sight on the little baby and his mate’s fingers tracing over his neck and cheek.

The second time he drifts back into consciousness, he’s in a sterile hospital room. There’s an IV in his arm and he’s hooked up to a couple machines to monitor his vitals. His whole body is sore and he feels like if he moves, he might scream.

This all fades away though, when he looks over to see his alpha holding their baby girl. She was swaddled in the pale green blanket he’d picked up a couple weeks ago — Lance must’ve grabbed it before they left. She was quiet, probably sleeping, and Lance was looking down at her with an expression so tender it almost made Keith cry.

“Hi,” the omega breathes.

Lance looks up, a wide smile taking over his face. “Hey, baby,” he murmurs, walking over to sit in the chair he’d pulled close to the bed. “How’re you feeling?”

“Sore. Tired.” Keith’s gaze never leaves their baby.

“Yeah, I’ll bet.” His mate chuckles, leaning over so Keith can see. “Look…”

The omega takes in his baby. She’s so sweet — she has Lance’s nose and darker skin, but Keith’s hair and eyes. He can’t help but smile, falling hopelessly in love with this tiny human. All the pain he’d gone through and all the fertility treatments and all of… well, everything had been so worth it.

“Can I hold her?” He whispers, emotion choking his throat enough to make it impossible to speak.

Lance gives him a soft smile before passing her over, resting her gently on Keith’s chest. She stirs, making a soft noise of annoyance before settling in, content when she smells her mother’s comforting scent.

“Hi,” the omega whispers, eyes full of tears. His fingers brush over her tiny little fist, traveling up to her downy hair. “Hi, baby…”

“You did that.” His alpha was close to his ear. A kiss was pressed to his temple, a hand combing through his hair. “I’m so proud of you, baby. She’s so beautiful.”

He can only sniff, pressing his nose to her tiny little head and closing his eyes. It takes a while to gather his thoughts, gather his words, before he realizes she needed a name.

“Can we name her Akira?”

“Yeah,” Lance breathes. “Yeah, of course. That’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

Keith gives a wet, emotional laugh, cupping the back of Akira’s little head. He had loved this baby — their baby — since he had found out nine months ago. But having her here, holding her close, he wanted nothing more that to protect her for as long as he could. He was definitely going to be a little bit of an overbearing mom.

“I love you, Akira.” He whispers.

“Go to sleep, baby.” Lance murmurs against his temple. “I’ll be right here. I won’t go anywhere.”

As the world fades away and Keith slips back into sleep, he falls into a blissful state of contentment and security, his alpha watching over him and his little girl safe against his chest.

*

You can find me on AO3 a Renegade_Reaper <3