Lost Creek Hollow bronca

"ay, dios mio," silvertongue wailed as the babies rolled fiercely within her and set her stomach to swinging with nausea. for a moment she panted against the ground, and then she slung herself upright, touching tongue to a heap of snow for the taste of lingering winter. at least she and @Wren would deliver before then, silvertongue mused to herself, though she knew it was still several weeks more. "and my ankles are beginning to thicken," the sharpfang groused aloud to no one in particular.

LESBIAN PREGNANCY THREAD

pregnancy was strange.
she and silvertongue were now past the halfway mark of their shared journey to start a family, and wren was, oddly enough, calm. almost too calm. the days of hormonal neuroticism had now given way to a comfortable haze. she could not remember the last time she felt so — alright.
perhaps it was the presence of her lovely wife and knowing that she was not alone. she passes a lazy smile to her now, hooded brown eyes pooling with endless adoration. you're full of shit, she teases. you're just as beautiful as always. have you taken a good look at me?
wren herself was now beginning to fatten substantially. it looked almost unnatural on her, the way she carried such sturdy muscle along with the weight of her children; she felt alien!; but for once, it didn't seem to bother her so much beyond the passing jest. she extends a forelimb to help her wife stay straight, but not without gently prodding at her belly with the tip of a nail. you better be nice to her, capiche? that's your mama.

:D

it might have felt unnatural to wren, but to the eyes of silvertongue, the new flesh to pad the musculature appealed to her. she was formidable, a fortress which protected their young, and her wife looked forward to the images in her mind being fulfilled: wren nestled with their children, wren experiencing the greedy pull of their mouths, the transcendent tribulation of delivery shared between them; silvertongue wished she could spare her birdwoman the agonies of what was to come, but hoped that wren might find the same peace in it as she did. "oh, they are still now. do you hear your mama?" silvertongue asked of her curved sides, then glanced slyly to her mate; "you be nice to my wife. i will not hear that she is without beauty during this intense time in her life."

that's pretty gay of you, wren sneers, brow arching a she leans forward to plant a kiss to her wife's dainty cheek. it felt good to say it aloud, that word; she did not think she ever had before. i'll strike you a deal. i'll be nice to your wife so long as you be nice to mine.
she lowers her head to press against silvertongue's flank, feeling around until she can hear the rhythmic beating of — how many were there? they are faint, but definitely there, and wren immediately grinds her heels into the earth to listen intently.
her children! she and silvertongue's children!
all of a sudden, her chin starts to wobble.
oh my god, i hear them, she whisper-shouts now, leaning so that her mouth is up against the round belly. hi, babies, can you hear me? it's your ma! i can hear you!

her eyes stung so see such a motherliness, for she could not recall it in her early life, and then nothing thereafter. indeed; when had she ever known a mother? aside from ash star, silvertongue had no recollection. at times the perusal of this thought caused her pulse to raise and her eyes to mist, but in this moment no such reaction occurred; they were only women together, wives speaking to the movement of those yet unborn who would sooner than they know be babes-in-arms. she cupped 'round wren's shoulder with her own, and grinned, and laughed softly as silent tears of druidic healing poured in rainwater rivulets along her face.

up until now, there had been a silent fear that lingered in wren's mind.
a fear that her children would not know a mother's love from her, only the hollow, sharp-edged feeling of rejection. a fear that she would gaze upon them and feel nothing but dread the day they were to arrive.
but she stands there, warm saltwater dribbling down her cheeks and to her chin, listening to her wife's fluttering laughter and the pitter-patter of tiny heartbeats alongside their mama, and she asks herself: how could someone wish to harm these beautiful creations of love?
love, pure love; a love that went into making them, and a love that now swells in her chest and climbs her ribs like vines, warming her insides and spreading to every corner of her body. there is love for them, for her family, and there is also a quaking, unending rage — a rage over the fact that someone could have looked at her when she was that small, felt her heartbeat in her mother's belly, and turned their teeth to her.
but she chooses to swallow it now as she wipes away silvertongue's own tears, gasping, mirroring the giddy, healing laughter. we made those, cara mia, she pulls away to point at the swelling stomach, to press her palm against them as if to say i'm here; as if she were a child experiencing joy for the first time. they're in there! we made those!
she remembers then that she, too, carries products of their love, and while she cannot bend far enough down herself, she invites her wife to return the favor and listen to the thud of life at her hearth.

wren had been tortured. silvertongue neglected. they both found a greenmist healing at the rounding of new life shared between them, each day, each day, for they had conceived down to the very moment. this was not a bond easily achieved, she felt, and it certainly connected she and wren in a cellular design. wren comforted her then, steadying the silvered sharpfang in a way she had not known before; she did not fear birth, nor pain; she feared being abandoned in the midst of it, and felt certain that the woman before her would not — silvertongue must trust in wren as the first immutable testament of her existence, unwavering. "they are ours," she managed to gasp out, before they tangled in tearstained kisses, gravid bellies softly touched together, and no malice now to pierce the sweetpink veil which fell around the wives.