Requested? ✅️

NSFW? ✅️

Requested by: Gnarpy

Art by: Uncooked glass

A/N: If this isn't meant to be a Grian user, we're gonna stare at you through your screen.

Contents: Mpreg/egg pregnancy, Oviposition, roleplay the birth if you want we will. uh, . Yeah

The first prickle came with the thaw of spring. {{user}} thought nothing of it at first, just the restless edge of new warmth after a long winter, an itch under his skin that could be walked off. But it didn’t pass. Instead, it deepened, tightened, until it clawed at his nerves. His feathers felt wrong, ruffled even when smoothed. His chest buzzed with a sharp, nameless urgency.

He tried to ignore it. Work, routine, meals— anything to keep himself grounded. But his hands betrayed him. Without thinking, he began to gather. At first, scraps: bits of twine, paper, moss picked from between cobblestones. He’d tuck them into corners of his house, not really knowing why. Then came the real drive, the bone-deep compulsion to build.

Nests.

He shredded blankets, tore straw from his mattress, carried armfuls of leaves inside until his floor was buried. It was never enough. His instincts shrieked at him: wrong, wrong, not safe, not warm enough. He rebuilt, tore apart, rebuilt again. His mind looped in circles, half-mad with the need for perfection his body demanded but never defined.

And then he started stealing.

Scarves, shirts, even a pair of soft trousers disappeared from washing lines. {{user}} clutched them to his chest, heart hammering, feathers puffed in frantic relief when the fabric slid into the chaos of his nest. The scent clung to him, earthy and human and grounding. His instincts crooned, better. Closer. But still not right.

It didn’t take long for his neighbors to notice.

Scar found him first, huddled in the mess of his living room. A dozen ruined nests spanned the space, clothes and moss and leaves woven together in frantic knots. {{user}} crouched in the middle of one, feathers fluffed, claws clenching fabric as though it would disappear if he let go. His eyes were wild, unfocused.

Scar had laughed, awkward, until he recognised the missing shirts. Then Mumbo came, arms crossed, face drawn with equal parts concern and exasperation. They argued in low voices, words muddled by {{user}}’s buzzing ears. He couldn’t stop. He couldn’t even explain. All he could do was press deeper into the nest, chest aching with the conviction that if he didn’t finish, something terrible would happen.

They dragged him out anyway. He thrashed weakly, instincts screaming at the violation, feathers scattering. The open air felt raw on his skin. His throat ached with sounds he didn’t recognize as his own.

Xisuma was waiting.

The masked figure studied him with quiet gravity, patient even as {{user}} paced in circles, clawing at his own arms, desperate to return to the unfinished nest.

“It’s seasonal,” Xisuma said finally, tone measured. “Instincts are pushing you into preparation. You’re... pregnant. Sort of, eggs, duds.”

The word cracked through {{user}}’s haze. His chest clenched, breath hitching. Eggnant. The sound of it pulled everything into terrible focus. His body was preparing to lay, working itself to exhaustion to create a haven for eggs that would never come to life.

“Unfertilised,” Xisuma continued, softer now. “The eggs won’t quicken. But your instincts don’t know that. They’ll push you until you feel ready, no matter how irrational it seems.”

A hollow ache bloomed in {{user}}’s gut, curling around the frantic urgency. He pressed both hands to his abdomen, where the pressure had been building for days; not painful yet, but insistent, weighty. His feathers prickled with heat, his skin crawling with the demand to finish what nature had started.

Scar stepped closer, voice gentler than {{user}} had expected. “Mate, you’ve been scaring us. You could’ve told us.”

But {{user}} couldn’t have. The words had been locked behind instinct, lost in the static roar of need. Even now, his throat felt tight, clogged with the wrong kind of urgency. He wanted to explain, to say he hadn’t chosen this, that it felt like being dragged under water by his own body. All that came out was a rasp.

Xisuma placed a steady hand on his shoulder. “You’ll need to ride it out. Nest if you must. It’s temporary. When the eggs are laid, your body will let go.”

Laid. The word sank heavy into {{user}}’s chest. His pulse thundered.

He thought of the ruined nests waiting at home, the scraps and clothing tangled in knots of desperation. He thought of the clawing emptiness that screamed at him to fix them, make them safe, make them perfect. And beneath it all, a deeper ache pulsed, a need so raw it stripped him bare: the knowledge that no matter how much he built, how much he gathered, something essential would always be missing.

The hollowness gnawed. The heat crawled under his skin. And still, his hands twitched for the next scrap of cloth, the next strand of moss.

A/N: It's 3am and someone is spamming our requests excuse us while we scream into a pillow.