#GOING TO START MAIMING SOON GIVE IT TO MEEEE

[birdy-bird27]

Going feral rn WHERES MY BOOK OF BILL WHERE IS IT AGHHHHHHH stupid shipping GIVE IT TO MEEEE

[countryole]

Hello there! I just had a quick question/request. Have you ever thought of writing a birth fic for Lorna? It seems like with recent developments (the season almost being over haha) we might not get to see it on the show as soon as we'd like so I need something to get through lol + I know that whatever you write will probably be long and well written so there's that. 💙

HI ANON!

To be honest, the idea of birth is absolutely terrifying to me. I don’t have kids, and even thinking about the physicality of giving birth freaks me the fuck out. I think I’m the woman who would rather have a c-section than naturally pop out a kid. TMI??? Sorry. ANYWAYS, that being said I like a challenge. This isn’t something I would usually try to tackle and write, but here is a spin on it that will maybe satisfy what you are looking for! Enjoy. xo

PS: I wrote this in a hurry before going to get my hair did and there’s prob 500 mistakes and medical inaccuracies FORGIVE ME. It’s also cheesy and fluffy as fuck but WHATEVER SUE MEEEE. Fluffy fic below the cut y’all.

Lorna has suffered through her fair share of regrettable situations, the majority of the time said situations being some result of her doing something she probably shouldn’t have done. She’s never been much of the plan-ahead type of girl. Instead of thinking, she usually just does, which is how she lands herself in these questionable predicaments.

In this case, the thing she did was her husband. While the act (or acts) are not something she is inherently regretful about, her lower back, and other unmentionable areas, are making her consider never touching him again. She feels like they are either on fire or disintegrating, or both, aftershock tremors from each labor contraction tearing their way across her body in wake of the child trying to vacate it.

“Lorna, you need to push.”

Caitlin’s voice is more like an echo, a distant sound that she knows she should listen to, but choses to ignore instead. Pushing hurts, and she’s been pushing for what feels like days. Marcos’ hand probably hurts more though, because in all the time that’s passed she’s fairly certain she hasn’t let go of him, and he hasn’t asked her too. A few broken fingers are better than the alternative that would leave him severely maimed and possibly dead, though he’s considered that might happen anyways by the time this is over.

“Fuck!”

Lorna’s expletive morphs into cry of pain as another contraction hits her. Marcos, at Lorna’s side, looks desperately to where Caitlin is poised between his wife’s legs at the end of the bed. The older woman’s brow glistens with sweat, her expression that of unwavering concentration. Marcos tries to ignore the already accumulating pile of bloodied towels on the floor.

“We’re so close,” Cait shifts, one hand on Lorna’s bent knee, the other preparing more towels, “so close, you’re doing great.”

“C’mon babe,” Marcos smooths back his wife’s damp hair, green against her paler than normal skin, “you’re almost there.”

“I can’t—” Lorna wails, her body seizing again, and her cry turns into an agonized gasp for air “—Marcos I can’t.”

She’s experience her fair share of pain and injury over the course of her life, but this is something no amount of preparation could have saved her from. For the first time in her life that she can remember, she is terrified. Try as she might to fight past the fear that’s clawing at her body, right along with the unbearable sensation of it falling apart, she can feel her resolve failing her. She’s exhausted, the only thing keeping her form passing out entirely being the adrenaline and the fact that she knows, one way or another, that kid’s coming out.

Marcos presses a kiss to her temple, warm and feverish, trying not to panic.

All three of them knew this wouldn’t be easy, they didn’t have the necessary pain medication, or nerve blocks normal women in normal hospitals would receive. Despite Lorna’s stubborn tenacity, even she recognized this would possibly be the most difficult thing she’s ever have to do in her life. Preparation aside, it didn’t make it any easier for Marcos to sit idly by and watch her struggle, to watch her face contort in pain and her body shake, all in part because of him. He holds on to her almost as tight as she’s holding to him, his simple wedding band and her own—the ones he made for them himself—flash when the sunlight hits them.

“Lorna, push!”

Caitlin’s command is met with another excruciating cry from Lorna. Her only choice is to succumb to her body, no longer able to fight it, and she braces herself against the bed, chest heaving, cheeks red and wet with tears of frustration.

“That’s it, that’s it!”

She can feel her nails digging into the palm of Marcos’ hand, the indescribable, violent agony that suddenly floods every synapses in her body, so terrible that her vision blurs and darkens, and then—

Relief.

A different kind of cry fills the room. High and shrill and not her own.

“It’a girl,” Caitlin announces with glee, “it’s a little girl.”

Lorna begins crying in earnest, collapsing into the bed as Caitlin stands, quickly swaddling the squalling baby in her arms. Marcos, stunned, collapses into the chair beside the bed, his hand still clasped in Lorna’s. Caitlin moves like a fine tuned machine, cleaning the newborn, checking her breathing, though her inconsolable cries indicate her lungs are in proper working order. Once the midwife is satisfied, she carefully maneuvers to the other side of the bed, and without asking Lorna finally releases Marcos’ hand, and opens her arms.

Marcos watches as Caitlin places their crying daughter in the safety of her mother’s embrace.

“Aurora,” Lorna whispers.

As soon as Lorna’s hands are on the newborn, cradling her against the bare skin of her chest, the child’s crying ceases.

Marcos leans forward, kneels beside the bed, and Lorna turns into his touch as one hand brushes her cheek, the other timidly reaching out to touch his the tuft of dark hair on his daughter's head, warm beneath his finger tips.

“Marcos,” Lorna carefully reaches with one hand to wipe stray tears from his face, his name a gentle sigh of relief, “we did it.”

“You did it, Lorna, you,” Marcos whispers, golden brown eyes warm as they meet the blazing green of his wife’s. “She’s perfect. You’re both absolutely perfect.”

“Care to do the honors?” Caitlin asks him quietly, indicating to the pair of surgical scissors in her hand intended for the umbilical chord, a right of passage for every father. Marcos nods, gathering himself with a deep breath, willing his hands into submission as he’s often done before. This time the steadiness he seeks is for a different reason entirely. He follows Caitlin’s instruction with concentration and practiced care.

Lorna is in another world entirely when he returns to her side, soft murmurs of unintelligible nothings being whispered between mother and daughter. Her eyes are exhausted, but bright, and full of indescribable love. Caitlin goes about her duties cleaning up, and most importantly making sure there are not any other indications that she may need to attend to Lorna further, covering her with a new, clean sheet and discarding the others. Once the midwife is satisfied she is no longer immediately needed, she turns to Lorna and Marcos with a gentle smile.

“She’ll be hungry fast and in a hurry,” Caitlin reminds them, “I want to give you three a moment, I’ll be back right back.” She exits the small delivery room to go inform the rest of the underground that the newest addition has finally arrived.

With great care, Marcos cautiously climbs into the bed with Lorna, situating himself beside her like they’ve done a million times before, except this time is different. This time there’s not just two of them. Lorna sighs, leaning her head against Marcos’ shoulder, her arms secure around their baby, but her eyes close as the exhaustion starts to sink in.

His arm around Lorna’s shoulders, Marcos reaches out again, Aurora’s dark eyes blinking at his curious touch with what he imagines is the mild disgruntlement of someone just minutes old. It’s almost as if he can see her mother’s little glower, a perfectly miniature version of Lorna. Overwhelmed, Marcos presses another kiss to his wife’s head, resting his cheek against her crown and taking a deep breath, stroking his swaddled daughter’s small cheek with a featherlight touch. The last twelve hours seem like an impossible dream.

“I love you,” Marcos speaks into Lorna’s hair, an affirmation he would never, ever be able to say enough, “I love both of you.”

Lorna’s tired eyes flicker open, warm and knowing.

“I love you,” she murmurs, “so much.”

“Rest, Lorna.”

For once she doesn’t argue with him, and her eyes close again as she melts against his side. Aurora sighs, a small, quiet sound in her mother’s arms, her tiny mouth opening in a resounding yawn. Marcos can’t help the warmth the floods him, the grin that breaks across his face, and he gently rests his arm just underneath Lorna’s, protecting his daughter with the curve of it, his hand lightly cupped against her head.

In the quiet, as they wait for Caitlin to come back, he bows his head in a prayer of thanks, overwhelmed by the two answered prayers in the bed beside him.