lin's mess

You know your husband very well—he’s an introvert, through and through. In fact, you wouldn’t be surprised to find out that he planned his out-of-country trip last week specifically to avoid this kind of thing. But his friends are persistent, his coworkers are always down for a party, and his wife? Well, you’re considering this an act of revenge. 

You let it pass then, on the actual day—Yoongi did video call at midnight your time, just like he promised he would. His eyes crinkled fondly on your phone screen as you pointed the camera at his daughter, conked out in her brand new big-girl bed he had put together only days prior. Once you quietly shut the door to Penny’s room and slipped into yours, he updated you on how his trip was going, promising souvenirs for “both of my girls.” He even humored you while you whined about how big the bed felt without him, all the great birthday sex he was missing out on. 

But, still—out of town on his own birthday? He had this shit coming.

Besides, he’ll pretend he hates it—again, you know your husband—but he deserves to be celebrated. He’s had a great year, after all. Both of you have. 

You were officially promoted to music section editor of Look Here in the fall—a job that you were essentially already doing, but now you have the title (and the pay!) to go along with it. 

After years of kicking the idea around in his brain, Yoongi finally pulled the trigger and released an album of his very own. It was hard, of course. There were nights where he sat at the piano long after midnight, fingers hovering over the keys like they were strangers. Where he muttered about being too old to start something new, about people expecting one thing from him and nothing else. Where he told you, quietly, that maybe the album would just live on his laptop forever.

When awards season came around, you made good use of your press pass—both for work and to proudly (tearfully) watch your husband win in every single category he was nominated in. 

He thought it would amount to nothing, and now the damn thing has awards. And a tour proposal. And a rolodex of industry people blowing up his phone every five minutes, while Yoongi sends them to voicemail so he can finish cutting up an apple for his daughter.

Because on top of all the great strides you’ve both made in your professional lives, Penny’s wellbeing has never fallen by the wayside. 

It was something you both worried about in the beginning. With such demanding jobs, how could either of you raise a child without giving something up? And yes, of course there have been sacrifices. Yoongi’s eomma has come in clutch more than once, whisking Penny away for a weekend with halmeoni and halabeoji when work gets too crazy. But you’ve made an effort to write from home when it’s possible. Yoongi has said no to projects that would put him on the other side of the world for the better part of a year. Both of you have done your very best to be there, to ensure Penny grows up in a loving home with two present parents.

You still remember the first time Penny toddled across the living room on unsteady legs, arms outstretched like a tiny drunk person trying to maintain balance. Yoongi had frozen where he sat on the floor, eyes wide, like he was afraid any sudden movement might throw her off. When she crashed into his chest with a quiet ‘oof,’ he looked over at you with that same stunned expression he gets when a song finally clicks into place.

“Did you see that?” he’d asked, amazed.

As if you could have missed it.

There are dozens of moments like that tucked into the corners of your memory. Penny’s first birthday cake smeared across Yoongi’s black shirt. The time she insisted on sitting in his lap while he worked in the studio, smacking random piano keys with chubby little fingers. The way she now insists that appa gives the best bedtime stories because he does all the silly voices.

It’s a good life. A busy one, chaotic, occasionally exhausting—but so, so good. 

Which is exactly why this party matters.

Yoongi’s flight landed late last night. So late that you didn’t get a chance to welcome him home properly. You barely stirred when he finally slipped into bed beside you, although you have a groggy memory—the faint smell of travel clinging to his clothes as he shed them, the dip of your mattress, and then the warmth of his body next to yours.

When your alarm went off a few hours later, Yoongi looked just as tired as you felt. His hair was flattened on one side, the crease of the pillow still faintly pressed into his cheek. You leaned down to kiss him.

“Happy birthday, old man,” you murmured against his mouth.

He made a soft, sleepy noise, hand lifting to cup the back of your neck as he kissed you back. You hadn’t seen each other in a week, so despite how tired you both were, it was the kind of kiss that made it very tempting to call in sick.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, voice gravelly from sleep. “You’re leaving already?”

“Mhm. Early start,” you sighed, brushing your thumb along the line of his jaw. “You’re on Penny duty today. Is that cool?”

“Mmm. I’ll just bring her to the studio with me.”

You laughed. “Good luck with that.”

He pouted as you pulled away to slip out of bed. “She likes the studio!” 

You snorted, opening up the closet doors and rifling through the hangers. “She likes the studio because you let her press buttons she shouldn’t.”

“I’ve gotta get her started young, baby,” he teased, reaching for you. “Come back here so I can love on you a little before you go.”

This fucking guy, you thought. “You’re going to make me late,” you said, making a shooing motion with your hands. But you were unable to mask your smile as you gathered your chosen garments. “Go back to bed.”

By the time you finished getting dressed, you could hear Penny’s bedroom door creaking open down the hall, followed by Yoongi’s sleepy voice greeting her with a soft, “morning, baby.”

Now, hours later, you’re leaning against the mirrored wall of the company’s spacious practice room, arms folded loosely as you watch the chaos that you (partially!) orchestrated unfold.

You’ve been here for over an hour helping set everything up.

“Casual” was the goal, but when a room full of musicians and producers decides to throw a birthday party—even a belated one—casual apparently includes a mountain of food, two cakes, an ill-advised amount of alcohol for a weekday evening, and more people crammed into a rehearsal space than fire safety regulations probably allow. Although most of that may be the fault of six men who have become something of a second family to you over the years. 

Speaking of Yoongi’s friends, Namjoon gave the five-minute warning before he slipped out to retrieve the birthday boy, and that was already four minutes ago. Any minute now, Yoongi will walk in. Taehyung and Jeongguk hurriedly straighten the banner taped to the mirror. Seokjin crouches next to the cake, trying to relight two stubborn candles, while Jimin dims the overhead lights a little more. Hoseok readies his phone camera. You push off the wall just enough to see the door better. 

Right on cue, the handle turns.

The door slides open and as soon as Yoongi steps in, Penny perched comfortably in his arms, the room erupts.

“SAENG IL CHUKHA HAMNIDA!”

Voices overlap, loud and off-key, clapping echoing as the entire room launches into song. Nearly every phone in the room records him from every possible angle, flashes turning on one by one until the whole room is dotted with bright white lights. The mirrored walls bounce the glow everywhere, multiplying it so Yoongi looks like he’s standing in the center of a tiny paparazzi storm.

You watch, painfully charmed by how cute your husband is. 

Not to mention unfairly hot. Black beanie pulled over his hair, thin silver glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. A leather jacket layered over a simple white tee that makes him look effortlessly cool—and somehow deeply, painfully shy at the same time. 

All of that, with your baby girl in his arms—it should honestly be illegal. You’re a lucky woman.

Hoseok runs around him in circles, cackling as Yoongi adjusts the delighted, squealing toddler on his hip. 

“Ah—” Yoongi bows his head over and over in thanks, looking mildly pained as two of his coworkers bring forward a huge cake, little doodles piped on top in black icing: music notes, a black cat, a crown—like someone tried to summarize Yoongi in dessert form. “I’m not good at these things!”

You swear your heart does the same ridiculous little flutter it did when you first met him.

Everyone ignores his protests, and Yoongi sighs like a man accepting his fate, shifting Penny higher on his hip so she can see the candles flickering on top of the cake. Penny leans forward with serious concentration, puffing her cheeks as if preparing for the most important task of her life.

“Ready?” Yoongi murmurs to her. She nods vigorously, and together they blow, Penny’s enthusiastic little puff doing absolutely nothing while Yoongi takes care of the rest. The flames flicker and disappear into smoke, the room erupting into cheers all over again.

Right as Yoongi straightens, Hoseok gleefully swoops in to get a close-up of the birthday boy.

“Yah—hajima! Hajimaaa!” Yoongi whines, cheeks flushed, while Penny giggles at the chaos.

The song collapses into laughter and chatter, and the room finally loosens its grip on him. Phones lower and someone cranks the lights back up a notch. The crowd splinters into smaller clusters, half of them swarming the table for plates and plastic forks, the other half making a beeline for the alcohol.

You see the exact moment Yoongi realizes you’re here. His entire expression changes, the embarrassment melting away to be replaced by a knowing, suspicious squint. You lift your brows, and he huffs through his nose, shaking his head.

You push yourself off the wall and walk toward him through the crowd, smiling with zero guilt or fucks given. When you reach him, you lean in to kiss his cheek.

“Happy birthday, baby,” you say sweetly. He smells so good. Has he always smelled so good?

Yoongi glances at you sideways, lips upturned slightly. “You.” 

You point at yourself, feigning innocence. “Me?”

Before he can say anything else, Penny suddenly twists in his arms with a sharp little whine. “Appa, cake!”

Yoongi looks down at her. “Hold on, baby—”

“Cake,” she repeats, more firmly this time, pointing with intense determination toward the table where people are already cutting slices.

“You’ve gotta wait your turn,” he tells her patiently.

“Caaaaaake!” The whine stretches, her little legs kicking slightly against his hip, and like a pastry-fueled Beetlejuice, Seokjin appears out of nowhere.

“I heard cake!” he announces cheerfully.

Penny immediately reaches for him, stars in her eyes. “Uncle Jinnie!”

Seokjin clutches his chest like he’s been struck by pure love. “My favorite niece! Look at you! You’ve grown since the last time I saw you.”

“Two weeks ago,” Yoongi says flatly.

“Kids grow fast, Yoongi-yah. Even I know that,” Seokjin scoffs, then beams at Penny. “Do you want Uncle Jinnie to acquire cake for you? Because I am very powerful. I have connections.”

Penny nods with grave intensity. “Cake.”

Seokjin leans in, stage-whispering like he’s sharing state secrets. “What kind of cake? Extra frosting? Just frosting? Tell me. Tell me your dreams.”

“Fros-ting,” Penny says, drawing it out as best as her little mouth can manage.

Yoongi’s head tilts back a fraction, blinking at the ceiling for patience. “No.”

Seokjin straightens immediately, scandalized. “Excuse me?”

“No,” Yoongi repeats, looking between them. Poor guy. He might as well be defusing a bomb. “She can have cake. She cannot just have frosting.”

Penny’s lower lip begins to wobble on cue, eyes going shiny with practiced accuracy.

“Oh my god,” you murmur, delighted. “Seokjin’s been teaching her shit.”

“I do not—” Yoongi starts, then cuts himself off when Penny’s wobble escalates into a tiny, furious whimper. His jaw tightens. “Okay, okay. Penny.”

Seokjin drops to her eye level, voice syrupy. “Penny, sweetie. Don’t cry. Uncle Jinnie will protect you.”

Yoongi points at him without looking away from Penny. “Do not start.”

“I’m just saying,” Seokjin says innocently, “if a child requests frosting on her appa’s birthday, who are we to deny—”

“We are her parents,” Yoongi deadpans. “We deny things all the time.”

Penny jabs a finger at the cake table again, supremely pissed off. “Cake now.”

Seokjin gasps. “Did you hear that? She said now. She’s showing such promising signs of leadership, Yoongi-yah!”

Yoongi stares at him. “It’s impatience.”

“You say potato, I say po-tah-to,” Seokjin says, and then he turns his bright smile back to Penny. “Okay. Uncle Jinnie will get you cake, but we have to be polite.”

Penny blinks.

Yoongi huffs. “Say please, baby.”

“Peas,” Penny supplies promptly.

Seokjin looks like he might cry. “She said peas. I’m ruined.”

Yoongi looks between the two of them, clearly weighing his options. “You’re not giving her half the cake,” he warns.

Seokjin gasps in mock offense. “What kind of uncle do you think I am?”

“The exact kind that would do that.”

“Wow. No trust.”

“PEAS JINNIE CAKE!” Penny shouts.

Yoongi exhales through his nose and carefully transfers her over. “Small piece.”

“Of course.”

Yoongi squints at him, but before he can add anything else, Seokjin grins innocently and immediately carries Penny off toward the cake table while she chants “cake cake cake!”

You watch them go, shaking your head. “That’s a mistake.”

“Yeah,” Yoongi sighs, watching them retreat. “She’s going to be bouncing off the walls tonight.”

For the first time since he walked in, his arms are empty. Suddenly, it’s just the two of you standing there in the middle of the noisy room.

You cross your arms loosely, tilting your head at him. “Y’know, you can pretend to be annoyed all you want,” you say.

Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “But?”

“But,” you continue smugly, “I know you. You’re a softie.”

He snorts. “A softie.”

“Yes,” you confirm.

Yoongi studies you for a moment, eyes narrowing behind his glasses. Then he smirks. “You want to test that theory?”

Your brows lift. “And how exactly would I do that?”

“Keep pushing me and see what happens,” he says evenly. “I’ll put you over my knee later if you’re not careful.”

You gasp, one hand flying to your chest like a scandalized Victorian woman. “Min Yoongi!”

“That,” Yoongi says as he points towards Seokjin and your daughter, whose mouth is already smeared with frosting, “is your fault, for the record.”

“How!” you say, offended.

He stares at you, thoroughly unimpressed. “Seriously? We’re seriously going to do this?”

“I seriously have no idea what you’re talking about,” you huff. “What exactly are you accusing me of, huh?”

He raises his eyebrows and looks around, as if just that is answer enough. Which it is.

“I did not plan this party,” you insist.

“Uh-huh.”

“I didn’t!”

“Y’know, liars get worse punishments than a spanking.”

You sputter, indignant—if not a little dizzy from the implication. “You realize we’re in a room full of colleagues, right?” you hiss, eyes bouncing in every direction. “Both yours and mine?”

Yoongi tsks. “Should’ve thought about that before you ambushed me.”

“You are such a fucking drama queen. Nobody ambushed you—”

“You wanna try that again?” he asks, head angling to the side.

Oh, he’s serious. He’s seriously thinking about spanking you over this—or worse.

God, you missed him.

You swallow thickly. “I… may have…”

“Mhmmmmm,” he hums, not even trying to mask his amusement at the look on your face. 

“...facilitated,” you continue. “Just a little bit!”

“Say more.”

“It wasn’t my idea,” you whine, lips pulled into a pout. “But you’ve had such an amazing year! I wanted you to feel celebrated, and loved—and okay, yeah! Maybe I was a little pissed you decided to fly to fucking Tokyo on your actual birthday—”

Suddenly there are hands on your waist, effectively putting a stop to your rant and coaxing you closer. 

“Jagiya,” Yoongi purrs, and oh. Yep. You’re swooning a little. Your body pathetically, instinctually gravitates towards his, like it always does when he speaks in that tone.

“Yeah?” you breathe, tirade forgotten as he presses a chaste kiss to your cheek.

“If it wasn’t your idea,” he murmurs, gently tucking your hair behind your ear so he can kiss your jaw next, “then whose was it?”

PURE! EVIL! 

You pull back, scandalized all over again. “You wanna turn your wife into a rat?”

“You wanna be able to walk tomorrow?”

Ha.

“No, not really,” you say immediately, completely unashamed. 

Yoongi laughs, delighted by you. “Tell me anyway.”

You groan and pinch the bridge of your nose. Whatever. It was bound to come out, anyway, and you’d really like the interrogation part of this exchange to end so you can get to the spanking part. And the fucking part.

“Hoseok,” you sigh. 

“Of course. I should’ve known.”

“You really didn’t like it?” you ask, frowning.

“Nah, I’m just fucking around,” Yoongi says, soothing your worries with a third kiss, this time on the crease between your brows. “You’re absolutely right. I’m a softie. It was embarrassing, yeah, but sweet.”

The little line of worry smooths immediately, and you sigh in relief. “Okay, good.”

“If Hoseok asks, though, I’m furious.”

“Oh, obviously,” you agree. “And if he asks you, I didn’t say a word.”

“Your secret is safe with me, rat.”

You shove his shoulder, but it’s weak. Mostly because he’s still holding your waist, thumbs slowly brushing the sides of your ribs through the fabric of your blouse like he’s rediscovering a favorite instrument after time away.

“You’re insufferable,” you mutter.

“Mm,” Yoongi hums, leaning closer so his nose grazes the line of your neck. “Missed you too.”

Your stomach does an embarrassing little flip.

It’s stupid, honestly. You’ve been together long enough that you should be immune to this—the warmth of his breath against your ear, the casual way his body crowds yours like he has every right to occupy your space. 

Which he does. But still.

You nudge his chest with your knuckles. “You’ve been home for less than twelve hours and you’re already threatening me with corporal punishment.”

Yoongi lifts his head and looks down at you over the rim of his glasses, unimpressed. 

“Threatening?” His mouth curves slowly. “Baby, that was a promise. One I intend to make good on in about five minutes.”

You were hoping that was the case, but still—you gulp. Comically. 

“Oh,” you say dumbly. “But the party…”

He scoffs. “I’ve stayed long enough.”

“Less than half an hour?”

“Yup,” he replies, popping the p. You roll your eyes.

“And the baby?” you murmur, glancing over his shoulder toward the cake table.

Across the room, Penny sits on Seokjin’s hip with a paper plate the size of her face, one small fist buried in a mound of icing while the other clutches a plastic fork she has absolutely no intention of using. Jeongguk and Hoseok coo at her like she’s the cutest thing they’ve ever seen, snapping photo after photo that you’re sure will be blowing up your phone later.

“The baby,” Yoongi says, “has six uncles in the room who are perfectly capable of keeping her out of harm’s way for a bit.”

Wow. He must really want to fuck you. He’d never say that about his friends otherwise.

“Besides,” he continues, squeezing your waist to draw your attention back to him, “I have another baby that needs tending to. Don’t I?”

Godddddddd.

Your eyes flutter shut without your permission. “Mhm,” you hum, nodding pathetically. “Please.”

Yoongi chuckles. “Don’t worry, jagi,” he coos. “I’ll take care of you. C’mon.”

He gives your waist one last squeeze before he steers you through the room, guiding you with an easy, proprietary pressure at the small of your back. Luckily, everyone is too busy drinking, laughing, or fawning over Penny to notice the two of you slipping out of the room. You’re sure the looks on your faces would hide zilch.

The music from the practice room dulls behind the door once Yoongi pushes into the corridor, and your pulse kicks up more and more with each step toward his studio.

A very tense elevator ride later, you reach the heavy door. Yoongi pulls a black keycard from the inside pocket of his jacket. The lock whirs, and he ushers you inside.

The door clicks shut, bathing you both in silence—the kind only studios seem to have, padded walls swallowing outside noise until the room feels like its own little universe.

Your heart kicks harder in your chest when he steps forward, closing the small distance between you. One hand lifts to cradle the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek like he’s confirming you’re real.

“You have any idea,” Yoongi says quietly, “how annoying it is to spend a week alone in a hotel room when I know what’s waiting for me at home?”

You laugh under your breath. “You were working.”

“Yeah.” His thumb drags over your lower lip. “Still annoying.”

You kiss him before he can keep talking, grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him down to you. The kiss starts soft but turns hungry almost immediately, both of you making up for the time apart.

When your lips finally part, you’re both breathing a little heavier. His forehead rests against yours. You can practically feel the moment where your mind syncs up with his.

“Birthday sex,” you say breathlessly.

“Birthday sex,” Yoongi agrees.

Then he exhales through his nose and reluctantly lets you go, taking a step back like he’s forcing himself to slow down for half a second. He looks around the studio, eyes bouncing over the equipment and furniture like he’s mentally deciding exactly where he wants you.

He slips off his jacket, then his beanie, tossing both onto the console as he ruffles his hair, then slides his glasses off and sets them gently next to the pile. You silently mourn the loss, but you have bigger fish to fry, honestly.

“C’mere,” he says, lazily waving you over to his desk with two fingers.

You step closer, but before you can say anything, his hands land on your hips and turn you around in one smooth motion.

“Oh,” you say faintly, surprised when you really shouldn’t be.

“Yeah,” he murmurs behind you, almost mockingly. “Oh.”

His palm settles at the small of your back, guiding you forward until the edge of the desk presses lightly against your thighs.

“Do you need me to remind you why this is happening?”

You press your hands flat to the desk, pretending to think. You don’t particularly feel like making this easy on him, so you say, “because I threw my loving husband a surprise birthday party?”

Yoongi snorts. “Try again.”

“Celebrated his many accomplishments?”

“Mhm.”

“Rightfully called him out for being a drama queen?”

His hand slides up your spine and firmly pushes you down until your chest meets the desk. You squeak.

“You’re just racking them up, huh?” You can practically hear the smirk in his voice.

“Okay, okay!” you laugh breathlessly. “I may have helped ambush you.”

“That’s better.”

His hands smooth over your hips, thumbs brushing slow circles through the fabric of your skirt before dragging it up entirely to expose your ass.

“You know,” he says thoughtfully, “most people would apologize right about now.”

You turn your head just enough to glance back at him over your shoulder.

“Well,” you say, lifting your chin a little, “I’m not that sorry.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “You asked for it.”

There’s a pause, one heavy second where the room feels very, very quiet. 

Then his hand lands on your ass with a sharp smack. You gasp, lurching forward.

Yoongi’s palm lingers where it landed, thumbing gently at the sudden sting blooming across your skin. The sensation radiates outward, sharp at first, then melting into a pleasant, humming heat.

“Still not sorry?” he asks mildly.

Your cheek presses against the desk beneath you, your hair spilling across the surface as you try to gather your composure. “Nope,” you manage, breath a little shaky. “Not really.”

He hums. “Too bad.”

Another smack lands, harder this time. You let out a surprised, pleased gasp that dissolves into a soft moan with each impact that follows. “Fuuuck, Yoongi—”

“You know,” he says conversationally behind you, like you’re discussing grocery lists instead of this, “I leave for one week.”

Smack!

“And suddenly my wife is conspiring with my friends.”

Smack!

“To publicly humiliate me.”

Smacksmacksmack!

You moan again, half laughing, half overwhelmed. “It was a loving humiliation!”

“Ah.” His thumb presses into a particularly tender spot he just hit and you hiss. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

You can’t take it anymore. You can’t. Your ass is raw, you’re so wet you can feel it soaking through your panties, smearing on your inner thighs. If he doesn’t touch you soon, you might cry. He’s only been torturing you for a few minutes, but your body has felt his absence for seven impossibly long days. 

Doesn’t he know a week without him feels like an eternity?

“Yoongiiiiiii,” you whine pathetically. “I’m sorry, okay? I’ll never throw you a party again, just—please touch me.”

Yoongi goes very still behind you, the silence stretching just long enough to make you nervous before a quiet laugh leaves him, more breath than sound.

“Listen to you,” he says, voice laced with amusement. “You weren’t sorry at all just a minute ago.”

You squirm, shamelessly pushing your ass back against his crotch. “I’ve had a change of heart.”

“Clearly.”

You’re about to complain again, or beg—whichever comes first—when his palm finally slips slowly between your thighs, nudging them apart. The movement steals the protest right out of your mouth. You whimper instead, hips instinctively rolling back into the warmth of his hand.

“Already this worked up?” he teases as his fingers trace the damp line of your clothed cunt, feeling the heat that’s been building there since he bent you over his desk. “All I did was spank you.”

“You’ve been gone a week.”

“Mm.” He cups you properly now, the delicious pressure enough to make your eyes momentarily roll back. “Missed me that much?”

“Yes,” you admit immediately.

Yoongi exhales a quiet laugh against the back of your neck. “Cute.”

Clearly taking pity on you, he yanks your panties down in one quick motion, leaving them tangled around your thighs. The pads of his fingers slide through your slickness before finding purchase on your clit, rubbing exactly how you like it.

“God, yes,” you moan. Your forehead drops to the desk with a dull thud, earning an amused huff behind you.

“Yeah?” he murmurs near your ear. Your hips rock back helplessly against his hand. “That feel better?”

You nod. “Mhmmm.”

“Good,” he says softly. But then the bastard pulls his fingers away entirely.

You gasp in outrage. “Yoongi!”

He smacks your ass again, smearing your own arousal on your skin. “Up.”

There’s no point pretending you’re not going to listen, so you push yourself upright on shaky legs and hop onto the edge, hissing slightly when your tender flesh meets unyielding wood.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine,” you assure him softly, yanking impatiently at the hem of his shirt to coax him closer. “I like it.”

Yoongi chuckles, allowing you to pull him between your thighs. He pushes them gently apart until you’re spread open for him, skirt tucked up and panties dangling uselessly from one ankle. 

“I know you do,” he says, amused. “You’re dripping all over my desk.”

“Do something about it,” you goad, reaching for his belt. “C’mon.”

Your fingers barely brush the buckle before he catches your wrist. The look on his face makes your stomach flip—dark eyes half-lidded, attention fixed entirely on the slick mess between your thighs like he’s already imagining all the things he wants to do with it. “Not yet.”

You pout. “What do you mean not yet?”

Instead of answering, his thumb brushes over the inside of your thigh, collecting a little of the slick there before dragging it higher. He swears under his breath.

You shiver. “C’mon,” you repeat. You can hear yourself starting to get whiny again. “Want you to fuck me.”

Yoongi hums. “I will. Just…” He trails off, tonguing the inside of his cheek as he gazes at your pussy. “I wanna do something first.”

Your breath catches as he sinks down to his knees in front of you. Oh.

“Wait,” you protest weakly, looking down at him. “Shouldn’t I be doing something for you? It’s your birthday.”

“Trust me,” he rasps, guiding your legs over his shoulders, “this is absolutely for me.”

He leans in and presses an open-mouthed kiss right where you’re dripping—and then licks into you properly, a long, warm stroke from your opening up to your clit. 

“Ohhhhh, shit, Yoongi,” you moan.

His eyes flick up to watch your reaction as his tongue slips between your folds and pushes inside just enough to make your hips jerk forward. You look down at him, already wrecked. 

You’ve gotta hand it to him—your husband certainly knows how to play to his strengths. You’ve never met a guy so passionate about giving head. Eating pussy is one of the many things that he excels at, a level of skill that can only be achieved by clocking in lots and lots and lots of hours. Which Yoongi does. All the time. Happily.

It’s almost enough to make you forget how badly you need to be fucked.

“So good,” you manage, voice shaking.

“Mm-hmm,” he hums in response, the vibration pressed straight into your sensitive bud. His hands slide up to spread you open with his thumbs, exposing your clit more while he licks over it again and again until your head tips back. 

Your toes curl inside your shoes as your hips start to move on their own, chasing his tongue while soft, helpless sounds keep slipping out of your throat. Your orgasm feels impossibly close already, especially when he pulls your clit between his lips and sucks.

“Mm, Yoongi,” you moan, grabbing at his hair to stop him, “wait.”

Yoongi lifts his head immediately, mouth and chin glistening. He wipes it with the back of his hand, looking up at you with a crooked smirk. “You don’t seriously want me to stop, do you?”

He looks so pleased with himself. The sight of him down there between your legs, lips swollen, hair mussed, erection straining enticingly against the crotch of his jeans. 

As tempted as you may be to let him keep going…

“Up,” you pant, nudging his shoulder with your knee.

He stands, surprisingly without much protest, and you shakily lower yourself down from the desk. You pull him a few steps toward the big rolling chair in front of the console and press lightly at his chest.

Yoongi drops into it, his legs spreading naturally as he leans into the backrest. His arms drape lazily along the armrests, but his eyes stay locked on you, sharp and curious.

“You want something, jagiya?” he asks, tilting his head.

You step between his knees. “Yeah,” you say. Your hands go to his belt, the metal buckle giving a soft clink as you start working it loose. “Want this dick.”

Yoongi’s eyebrows lift slightly. “Well,” he murmurs, voice low with interest, “you better come and get it, then.”

Man, he does not have to tell you twice.

You pull the belt free and tug open the waistband of his jeans. The button pops open under your fingers, then the zipper slides down. 

Yoongi inhales through his nose when your hand slips inside his briefs, closing around the thick length of him. “Yeah,” he grunts under his breath.

Your cunt clenches in anticipation. He’s already fully hard, thick and warm in your palm. Your thumb brushes over the head, smearing the bead of precum that’s already gathered there. 

You bite your lip, watching the way his jaw tightens as you stroke him slowly, squeezing a little on the upstroke the way you know he likes. 

His head tips back slightly against the chair, and you lean down slowly, dragging your lips along the line of his jaw until you reach his ear. “Missed you so much.”

“Did you.”

“Mhm.” Your fingers wrap a little firmer around him, enough that his stomach tightens under his shirt. “Thought about it in bed all week.” You press a soft kiss just below his ear, reveling in the way he shivers. “Tried taking care of it myself a couple times.”

“Yeah?” he rasps, and you try to stifle your glee from how affected he sounds.

“But it’s not the same,” you purr. “Never is.”

His fingers flex against the armrests of the chair like he’s trying not to grab you.

“I get so used to you,” you continue, your lips grazing the shell of his ear, “sliding inside me before I’m even fully awake.” Your thumb drags slowly over the head of his cock again, making him hiss. “Fucking me to sleep every night.”

Yoongi can only hum in acknowledgement, so tense he looks like he’s about to snap. Good. Fuck, you want him to snap. You want him to make good on his threat from earlier and fuck you until you can’t walk straight.

“I get so frustrated when you’re gone,” you whisper. “It’s miserable, baby. Nothing feels right. My fingers don’t feel like you. My toys don’t feel like you.” You nip at his earlobe, spurred on by the stuttered breath that escapes his lips. “Nothing fills me up like your cock.”

His tongue drags along the inside of his cheek. “Careful,” he mutters.

You smile sweetly and squeeze him again. “Why?” you murmur, watching the way his throat works when he swallows. “You’re the one who made me like this. Got me used to it. Got me spoiled. Now I can’t even fall asleep without you inside me.”

That seems to do the trick.

“Yeah,” he says finally, voice rougher now. “Okay. That’s enough of that.”

Yesyesyes—

“Come here.” With a bruising grip on your hips, he hauls you roughly into his lap. The chair shifts under the added weight, and your skirt rides up as you settle there, knees planted on either side of the seat. “Wanna touch you, too,” he says, reaching beneath your skirt.

Wait. 

Wait, no. 

What is he doing? Whyyyyyyy are his pants still on?

“You’ve touched me plenty,” you whine, stubbornly trying to work his jeans down, made difficult now that you’re straddling him. “What’s with you? You don’t want me to ride you? Am I bad at it or something? You’ve had years to tell me, you know—”

Yoongi shuts you up with a sharp slap to your still-sensitive ass. “Will you give it a rest?” he huffs, cutting off your moan by stuffing two long fingers between your lips. “What I want is to make you feel good. But I could just fuck this mouth and not let you cum at all. You wanna go there?”

He’s so mean. And you know from experience he’s fully capable of following through on this particular threat, too, if you keep acting up. So as much as you want to talk back, you shake your head, sucking and licking at his fingers in what you hope comes off as some sort of apology.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, using his free hand to brush your hair out of your face. “I’ll fuck you, baby, I promise. Just be patient for me.”

He watches your mouth for another second, letting you suck his fingers slowly, before finally pulling them free with a wet sound. His hand drops between your bodies, and he curses quietly when his fingers find how soaked you still are. 

He drags his fingers through the slickness, then lifts them briefly so you can see the shine of it between them. “All this,” he says, voice rough with satisfaction, “and I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

Yeah, you’re well aware of that, you think. But you don’t dare say it aloud, determined to be good now. 

His fingers move slowly at first, spreading your saliva and slick over your clit before beginning lazy circles that make your thighs tremble where they bracket his.

“Mmngh, Yoongi,” you whine, squirming for more. It’s so good, but it’s just not enough.

“Shh.” His other hand grips your hip, firmly keeping you steady as your body tries to chase the pressure. “Relax,” he says softly near your ear. 

Suddenly, you feel the blunt press of one fingertip at your entrance before he pushes inside. Your eyes screw shut, the relief of having even just one part of him inside you overshadowed by it not being nearly enough.

“Fuck,” you sob.

He groans quietly at the way you immediately clamp down around him. “So goddamn tight.” 

The single finger sinks the rest of the way in so fucking slowly, curling up against your inner wall as he goes like he’s reacquainting himself with the way your body feels around him. You whimper when he drags it back out and pushes it in again, even deeper this time.

“Yoongi, please,” you moan. “I need more, I need it.”

“I know,” he coos, slipping a second digit inside you beside the first, stretching you open before he starts moving them in steady strokes. “Greedy girl. Always need more of me.”

You do. You’re so keyed up it feels impossible to sit still, like you can’t get close enough to him. Your body chases the movement of his fingers, grinding down like you can somehow force more of him inside.

“That’s it,” he encourages. “Just like that.”

You grab his shirt and pull him forward, kissing him hard. Yoongi makes a surprised sound into your mouth at your fervor, but it melts immediately into a low groan as he kisses you back just as hard. His free hand leaves your hip to grab the back of your neck, holding you in place while his mouth takes control of the kiss.

You can taste yourself on his lips from earlier, heady and sweet, the flavor dragged across your mouth every time his tongue slides over yours.

The chair beneath you starts to creak in protest. Each time your bodies grind together the wheels twitch slightly across the studio floor, the seat rocking with the rhythm of his hand driving into you. The sound mixes with the wet slide of your mouths and your uneven breathing.

Your lips part from his and move down to his jaw as you try to gasp for air, but Yoongi doesn’t let you, dragging you back into another kiss. He catches your tongue between his lips, sucking on it slow and filthy. It pulls a helpless, high sound from the back of your throat.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he growls against your lips. As if to prove his point, he slips in a third finger alongside the other two. It punches the breath out of your lungs. You feel so full you could cry, might cry if he keeps fucking bullying that sensitive spot inside you.

You break from the kiss with a shaky gasp, overwhelmed. “Too much—”

“No it’s not.” His thumb presses hard against your aching, oversensitive clit. Your body convulses at the sensation paired with his fingers fucking you closer and closer to orgasm. “C’mon, jagi. Give it to me.”

Your nails dig into his shoulders as the pressure in your belly tightens and tightens, coiling like a wire pulled too taut. Every thrust of his fingers drags it closer to snapping while your body stutters in his lap.

“Gonna cum,” you gasp, shuddering into the crook of his neck. Your cheeks feel wet, and you open your eyes to find the collar of his shirt damp with errant tears. “Baby, fuck—”

“Yeah,” he grunts. “Cum. Right fucking now.”

You don’t have a choice.

Your orgasm slams through you, a strangled moan tearing out of your throat as your cunt clamps down hard around his fingers, delicious buzzing heat spreading through your limbs.

Yoongi doesn’t stop.

His fingers keep moving inside you, the overstimulation making your hips jerk. Only when your body finally starts to sag against him does he slow, then slip out of you entirely.

For a moment you just sit there, slumped in his lap and breathing hard into his shoulder, your entire body humming with leftover tremors.

But beneath you, Yoongi is already moving.

You lift your head at the soft rustle of fabric as he pushes his jeans and briefs down properly and frees himself, thick and impossibly hard.

You watch, dazed, as he drags his fingers, still slick with you, slowly along his cock, spreading what you left behind over the head before working it down his length.

Your mouth waters.

Amused, Yoongi nudges your chin up with his free hand until you meet his dark gaze.

“You still want to ride me,” he asks, still stroking himself slowly, “or are you tapping out?”

Tapping out? You almost want to laugh. Hell no, you’re not tapping out.

You take a steadying breath and wipe your tear-stained cheeks with the back of your hand. Your entire body still feels too sensitive, nerves humming everywhere he touched you, but the sight of him like this makes a fresh wave of determination flood through you.

“A week,” you remind him. “You were gone a week.”

Yoongi’s mouth tilts faintly. “A week isn’t that long, you know.”

“I disagree, Min Yoongi. A week is way too fucking long.”

Something in his expression softens at that. “C’mere then.”

Your hands slide to his shoulders as you lift yourself, batting his hand out of your way as you reach for his cock. You guide it carefully, adjusting your position until the thick head presses against your entrance.

You try to move quickly, not wanting to waste any time. But the first inch makes your breath hitch, cruelly reminding you of how sensitive you are. Your forehead dips toward his shoulder as you whimper softly.

“Too much?”

You shake your head quickly. “No,” you pant. “Just give me a second.”

You stay there for a moment, breathing through the stretch, your fingers tightening in his shirt. Then you start to lower yourself again. 

Every inch feels intense after everything he already gave you, nerves sparking as his length presses deeper inside. Your lips part with a shaky exhale as you take more of him, the stretch familiar but still so overwhelming.

“Easy,” Yoongi says, hands hovering at your hips like he wants to steady you.

You nod against his shoulder, and after what feels like way too long, you sink down the rest of the way. 

Yoongi immediately moves to cradle your face, warm palms bracketing your cheeks as he pulls you into a slow, grounding kiss. His thumbs brush gently under your eyes as if to soothe you, his mouth warm and unhurried while your body relaxes around him, reacquainting itself with the familiar fullness.

Once you’ve adjusted enough, you lift up so his cock drags almost all the way out before you drop back down again.

Yoongi breaks apart from your lips to groan under his breath. “Shit, yeah. Do that again.”

You do.

This time the movement feels a little easier, your hips finding a rhythm as you rise and sink again, over and over.

Yoongi’s head falls back against the chair again, throat exposed as he exhales hard. His grip on your hips flexes every time you drop down on him, like he’s resisting the urge to take control and bounce you on his dick himself.

“You’re killing me,” he mutters hoarsely. “God, look at you.”

Your cheeks heat at the praise, but you don’t stop. Little breathy sounds keep slipping out of you every time your pelvis meets his.

His palms glide along your sides, pushing your shirt up along the way. Once your bra is exposed, he gathers your breasts in both hands, thumbs brushing over your nipples through the thin fabric.

“These tits,” he says. “Fuck, baby.”

Heat creeps up your neck. “You act like you’ve never seen them before.”

“Because every time I see them I’m convinced they got even better somehow. You got so fucking stacked after Penny.”

You roll your eyes with a weak snort. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m serious,” he insists, thumbs brushing slowly over the sensitive peaks again. “You were already perfect, but then you gave me our daughter and somehow came back even sexier.”

It’s funny, you used to think the opposite.

It was hard, adjusting to all the changes in yourself after you gave birth. It took a long time to gain back all of your confidence. But since then, you’ve learned to love your body the way it is, because it made Penny. It gave her to you, happy and healthy. 

You wouldn’t trade that for anything. 

And hearing Yoongi talk like this, like he’s hungry for you—not despite the changes that pregnancy made but because of them…

That familiar train of thought is momentarily derailed when Yoongi nudges upward from below. Your breath breaks into a soft gasp as his cock hits deeper than before, reminding you of where you are and what you’re supposed to be doing.

“Shit,” he says. “You feel insane right now.”

“You say that every time,” you shoot back breathlessly, though the compliment clearly fuels you to keep going. “I think it’s just because you don’t have to do any of the work.”

Yoongi chuckles. “No, baby,” he says, groping your tits again. “I’m saying it because you’re squeezing the fuck out of me.”

Shit. You know exactly why, too.

Your face feels warm suddenly, but the idea has already taken root, spreading through you in a way that makes your pulse quicken. The thought starts to slip out before you can stop it.

“You know,” you murmur, rocking down on him again. “What if…”

He studies your face carefully, brows drawn together. “What if what?”

“What if we made another one?”

Yoongi goes completely still beneath you, hands still on your tits. “What?”

Shit, you’re so stupid. Why would you say that out loud? 

“Nothing, nevermind,” you say quickly, shaking your head, suddenly very interested in the color of the ceiling. “Forget I said anything.”

His hands drop. “Hey,” he says quietly.

You avoid his eyes, shifting slightly in his lap like you might start moving again just to avoid the subject. But Yoongi doesn’t let you. His grip firms, holding you right where you are, dick still buried deep inside you.

“Don’t do that,” he chides.

“Do what?”

“You know what.” Yoongi huffs softly through his nose. “You think I don’t know you by now?” he asks. “You don’t just say stuff like that for no reason.”

You do your best to tamp down your embarrassment, reminding yourself who you’re with. Your husband. Your husband who you’ve already had a baby with, who has never given you any indication that it was a one-and-done thing. 

And Penny is three now. Maybe it could be time.

“I mean… we’ve talked about it before. Kind of,” you say carefully. “Another baby, eventually.”

“Uh-huh.” He watches your face for another second before asking quietly, “Is that what you were thinking about just now? Is that what had you squeezing me like that?”

Your heart is beating faster now. “Maybe… But I’ve been thinking about it for a while!” you admit. “This isn’t me just being horny and saying shit, I promise. I just… we’re in a good place, right? A great place. And I know we haven’t had, like, a proper conversation about it, but…” You trail off, nervous. “Do you think I’m insane?”

“I don’t think you’re insane,” Yoongi soothes immediately.

You slump in relief. “No?”

“No.” He shifts underneath you then, rolling his hips upward once. The sudden thrust makes you gasp.

“Ah—!”

“But if you’re gonna say shit like that while you’re sitting on my cock,” he continues, voice rougher now, “you can’t expect me not to start thinking about things.”

Your pulse spikes. “A-about what?”

He looks down between your bodies, at the way you’re split open on him. “About how fucking deep I am in you right now, for one.”

Your breath stutters. He rolls his hips again, slower this time.

“And how easy it would be.”

Oh.

The words send a brand new wave of heat flooding through your stomach, and there’s no hiding the way your cunt clenches around him this time.

Yoongi hisses, grabbing a handful of your ass. “Shit, you really want this.”

“Mhm,” you hum, eyes fluttering shut as he gropes you. You can’t believe this conversation is happening, even if you were the one who brought it up. “Only if you do,” you add belatedly.

“Are you kidding?” Yoongi asks. You force yourself to re-open your eyes, your heart skipping a beat at how happy he looks when you do. He’s smiling so big, gummy smile in full force. “Jagiya, I wish you would’ve told me sooner. Of course I want to have another baby with you.”

You stare at him, dumbfounded.

Yoongi stares back, studying your expression. “What?”

Like there’s no reason for you to be surprised by that!

“Yoongi,” you say, voice quieter now, hands sliding up his shoulders until they rest loosely behind his neck. “What did I do to get so lucky, seriously?”

“Married me,” he says simply.

You snort. “Idiot,” you say, but the affection in your voice is obvious.

Your thumbs brush along the back of his neck, feeling the warmth of his skin. “I mean it,” you continue. “You’re such a good dad. You’re good to me. You work your ass off and somehow still come home and build furniture for our kid and make pancakes shaped like dinosaurs. You make me feel like I won the lottery or something.”

Yoongi’s ears turn faintly pink, like they always do when you praise him like this.

“Alright,” he mutters. “You’re getting sappy on me.”

You grin. “You deserve it.”

He puffs up his cheeks for a second, adorably embarrassed. “You work just as hard.” A pause. “Also,” he adds, “you’re saying all of this while you’re sitting on my dick.”

You laugh helplessly. “Right. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he says, then he rolls his hips up into you again. The sudden movement knocks the breath out of you.

“Oh—!”

“Just don’t stop moving,” he finishes.

Your brain takes a second to catch up.

Right.

If this is really happening, if you’re really talking about making another baby…

You start rocking over him with more intention now, lifting yourself almost completely off his cock before sinking down again.

Yoongi’s head tips back immediately. “Oh fuck,” he groans. 

Your rhythm gets steadier, your body leaning forward slightly as you ride him deeper and deeper. 

“If we’re doing this,” you pant, “I should probably make it count.”

Yoongi looks up at you sharply. “What do you mean?”

You rock down hard again. He sucks in a breath through his teeth.

“You said it yourself. You’re deep.”

His eyes darken instantly. “Yeah…”

“So if we’re making a baby,” you tease, rocking your hips slowly, making sure he can feel every twitch of your pussy around his length, “I should probably take all of it.”

Yoongi groans low in his chest. “Fuck.”

Your pace picks up instantly, the idea feeding the heat already burning through your body.

“All your cum,” you continue, breath shaky. “Right where it’s supposed to go.”

His hands suddenly slide under your ass. Before you can react, he lifts you slightly and drives his hips up hard.

“Yoongi—!”

“Take it, then,” he says roughly. 

The chair creaks loudly beneath you as he starts meeting your movements now, thrusting up into you while you ride him. Your thighs tighten around him as you obey without hesitation, bouncing harder now.

“Yoongi—fuck—”

“Keep going,” he mutters, jaw tight.

Your fingers curl into his hair as you ride him faster now, the earlier embarrassment completely gone. All you can think about is how good he feels inside you—how perfectly he fills you.

“Another baby,” you gasp, delirious.

“Another baby,” he repeats.

Your pace starts slipping as your pleasure creeps higher again. Yoongi notices instantly.

“Wait,” he says.

He suddenly stands again, quicker than you can question him. You yelp in surprise as he lifts you off the chair, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.

“Yoongi—!”

“Hold on.”

Two quick steps later your back meets his desk.

The impact makes a dull thud. Yoongi pushes you back further until you’re lying fully across the surface. Your skirt bunches higher around your waist as he grabs your legs again.

Then he hooks your legs up over his shoulders. The stretch folds you almost completely in half, your hips tilted upward perfectly toward him.

Without any warning, he slides back inside you in one deep thrust.

“Fuck, Yoongi!” you wail.

“Yeah,” he groans. “Fuck, you feel so good.”

The angle makes everything feel deeper immediately. Your fingers scramble against the desk as he starts thrusting again, so hard you see stars. The desk knocks against the wall behind it with every push, surely chipping paint.

“Too deep,” you whine. “Toooooo deep, holy fuck—”

“Nah, you can take it,” he says. “Gotta make it count, remember?”

His hands grip under your thighs to keep you there, holding you open while he drives into you again and again.

“Look at this,” he groans, glancing down where your bodies meet. You can barely follow his gaze through the haze of pleasure. “Split open on me,” he continues hoarsely. “Taking all of it.”

“Yoongi, please!” you cry.

“Please what?”

Another deep thrust knocks the air out of you. 

“Please—fuck—”

“You want it?” 

You nod frantically.

“Say it,” he presses.

Your nails scrape uselessly at the smooth surface of the desk as he drives into you.

“Want your cum,” you manage. “Inside.”

“Fuck,” Yoongi growls. His pace picks up. “You’re gonna get it.”

“Yes—yes—!”

Yoongi leans forward, forcing your thighs tighter against your chest, folding you even further. The angle change has you reeling, crying out for him.

“Cum first. You’re gonna cum all over my cock like a good girl,” he grits out. Your back arches off the desk, as much as it can with the way he’s pressing you into it. “Then I’m filling you up.”

The promise snaps the last thread holding you together.

Your orgasm finally crashes through you, your whole body shaking as you clamp down around him.

Yoongi groans loudly. “Fuuuuuuck.”

One last deep thrust and he buries himself fully inside you. You feel it when he comes, heat flooding deep inside as he groans your name under his breath.

Your chest rises and falls rapidly against his where he stays leaned over you, still holding your legs over his shoulders.

“Well,” he pants after a minute, slowly releasing your legs to avoid straining them, “fuck.”

Your head tips back against the desk, a weak laugh escaping you. 

Yoongi lifts his head just enough to look down at you. A slow, crooked smile spreads across his face.

“Happy birthday to me.”

a/n 2: ok i promise i'll let this couple rest peacefully now 😭

i know many of you are waiting for price of fame chapter 9 and/or the first taste chapter three! i promise i'm working to have them out ASAP, but arirang week may cause a bit of a delay. please be patient with me as we all collectively shake in our mf boots for the comeback!

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You know your husband very well—he’s an introvert, through and through. In fact, you wouldn’t be surprised to find out that he planned his out-of-country trip last week specifically to avoid this kind of thing. But his friends are persistent, his coworkers are always down for a party, and his wife? Well, you’re considering this an act of revenge. 

You let it pass then, on the actual day—Yoongi did video call at midnight your time, just like he promised he would. His eyes crinkled fondly on your phone screen as you pointed the camera at his daughter, conked out in her brand new big-girl bed he had put together only days prior. Once you quietly shut the door to Penny’s room and slipped into yours, he updated you on how his trip was going, promising souvenirs for “both of my girls.” He even humored you while you whined about how big the bed felt without him, all the great birthday sex he was missing out on. 

But, still—out of town on his own birthday? He had this shit coming.

Besides, he’ll pretend he hates it—again, you know your husband—but he deserves to be celebrated. He’s had a great year, after all. Both of you have. 

You were officially promoted to music section editor of Look Here in the fall—a job that you were essentially already doing, but now you have the title (and the pay!) to go along with it. 

After years of kicking the idea around in his brain, Yoongi finally pulled the trigger and released an album of his very own. It was hard, of course. There were nights where he sat at the piano long after midnight, fingers hovering over the keys like they were strangers. Where he muttered about being too old to start something new, about people expecting one thing from him and nothing else. Where he told you, quietly, that maybe the album would just live on his laptop forever.

When awards season came around, you made good use of your press pass—both for work and to proudly (tearfully) watch your husband win in every single category he was nominated in. 

He thought it would amount to nothing, and now the damn thing has awards. And a tour proposal. And a rolodex of industry people blowing up his phone every five minutes, while Yoongi sends them to voicemail so he can finish cutting up an apple for his daughter.

Because on top of all the great strides you’ve both made in your professional lives, Penny’s wellbeing has never fallen by the wayside. 

It was something you both worried about in the beginning. With such demanding jobs, how could either of you raise a child without giving something up? And yes, of course there have been sacrifices. Yoongi’s eomma has come in clutch more than once, whisking Penny away for a weekend with halmeoni and halabeoji when work gets too crazy. But you’ve made an effort to write from home when it’s possible. Yoongi has said no to projects that would put him on the other side of the world for the better part of a year. Both of you have done your very best to be there, to ensure Penny grows up in a loving home with two present parents.

You still remember the first time Penny toddled across the living room on unsteady legs, arms outstretched like a tiny drunk person trying to maintain balance. Yoongi had frozen where he sat on the floor, eyes wide, like he was afraid any sudden movement might throw her off. When she crashed into his chest with a quiet ‘oof,’ he looked over at you with that same stunned expression he gets when a song finally clicks into place.

“Did you see that?” he’d asked, amazed.

As if you could have missed it.

There are dozens of moments like that tucked into the corners of your memory. Penny’s first birthday cake smeared across Yoongi’s black shirt. The time she insisted on sitting in his lap while he worked in the studio, smacking random piano keys with chubby little fingers. The way she now insists that appa gives the best bedtime stories because he does all the silly voices.

It’s a good life. A busy one, chaotic, occasionally exhausting—but so, so good. 

Which is exactly why this party matters.

Yoongi’s flight landed late last night. So late that you didn’t get a chance to welcome him home properly. You barely stirred when he finally slipped into bed beside you, although you have a groggy memory—the faint smell of travel clinging to his clothes as he shed them, the dip of your mattress, and then the warmth of his body next to yours.

When your alarm went off a few hours later, Yoongi looked just as tired as you felt. His hair was flattened on one side, the crease of the pillow still faintly pressed into his cheek. You leaned down to kiss him.

“Happy birthday, old man,” you murmured against his mouth.

He made a soft, sleepy noise, hand lifting to cup the back of your neck as he kissed you back. You hadn’t seen each other in a week, so despite how tired you both were, it was the kind of kiss that made it very tempting to call in sick.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, voice gravelly from sleep. “You’re leaving already?”

“Mhm. Early start,” you sighed, brushing your thumb along the line of his jaw. “You’re on Penny duty today. Is that cool?”

“Mmm. I’ll just bring her to the studio with me.”

You laughed. “Good luck with that.”

He pouted as you pulled away to slip out of bed. “She likes the studio!” 

You snorted, opening up the closet doors and rifling through the hangers. “She likes the studio because you let her press buttons she shouldn’t.”

“I’ve gotta get her started young, baby,” he teased, reaching for you. “Come back here so I can love on you a little before you go.”

This fucking guy, you thought. “You’re going to make me late,” you said, making a shooing motion with your hands. But you were unable to mask your smile as you gathered your chosen garments. “Go back to bed.”

By the time you finished getting dressed, you could hear Penny’s bedroom door creaking open down the hall, followed by Yoongi’s sleepy voice greeting her with a soft, “morning, baby.”

Now, hours later, you’re leaning against the mirrored wall of the company’s spacious practice room, arms folded loosely as you watch the chaos that you (partially!) orchestrated unfold.

You’ve been here for over an hour helping set everything up.

“Casual” was the goal, but when a room full of musicians and producers decides to throw a birthday party—even a belated one—casual apparently includes a mountain of food, two cakes, an ill-advised amount of alcohol for a weekday evening, and more people crammed into a rehearsal space than fire safety regulations probably allow. Although most of that may be the fault of six men who have become something of a second family to you over the years. 

Speaking of Yoongi’s friends, Namjoon gave the five-minute warning before he slipped out to retrieve the birthday boy, and that was already four minutes ago. Any minute now, Yoongi will walk in. Taehyung and Jeongguk hurriedly straighten the banner taped to the mirror. Seokjin crouches next to the cake, trying to relight two stubborn candles, while Jimin dims the overhead lights a little more. Hoseok readies his phone camera. You push off the wall just enough to see the door better. 

Right on cue, the handle turns.

The door slides open and as soon as Yoongi steps in, Penny perched comfortably in his arms, the room erupts.

“SAENG IL CHUKHA HAMNIDA!”

Voices overlap, loud and off-key, clapping echoing as the entire room launches into song. Nearly every phone in the room records him from every possible angle, flashes turning on one by one until the whole room is dotted with bright white lights. The mirrored walls bounce the glow everywhere, multiplying it so Yoongi looks like he’s standing in the center of a tiny paparazzi storm.

You watch, painfully charmed by how cute your husband is. 

Not to mention unfairly hot. Black beanie pulled over his hair, thin silver glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. A leather jacket layered over a simple white tee that makes him look effortlessly cool—and somehow deeply, painfully shy at the same time. 

All of that, with your baby girl in his arms—it should honestly be illegal. You’re a lucky woman.

Hoseok runs around him in circles, cackling as Yoongi adjusts the delighted, squealing toddler on his hip. 

“Ah—” Yoongi bows his head over and over in thanks, looking mildly pained as two of his coworkers bring forward a huge cake, little doodles piped on top in black icing: music notes, a black cat, a crown—like someone tried to summarize Yoongi in dessert form. “I’m not good at these things!”

You swear your heart does the same ridiculous little flutter it did when you first met him.

Everyone ignores his protests, and Yoongi sighs like a man accepting his fate, shifting Penny higher on his hip so she can see the candles flickering on top of the cake. Penny leans forward with serious concentration, puffing her cheeks as if preparing for the most important task of her life.

“Ready?” Yoongi murmurs to her. She nods vigorously, and together they blow, Penny’s enthusiastic little puff doing absolutely nothing while Yoongi takes care of the rest. The flames flicker and disappear into smoke, the room erupting into cheers all over again.

Right as Yoongi straightens, Hoseok gleefully swoops in to get a close-up of the birthday boy.

“Yah—hajima! Hajimaaa!” Yoongi whines, cheeks flushed, while Penny giggles at the chaos.

The song collapses into laughter and chatter, and the room finally loosens its grip on him. Phones lower and someone cranks the lights back up a notch. The crowd splinters into smaller clusters, half of them swarming the table for plates and plastic forks, the other half making a beeline for the alcohol.

You see the exact moment Yoongi realizes you’re here. His entire expression changes, the embarrassment melting away to be replaced by a knowing, suspicious squint. You lift your brows, and he huffs through his nose, shaking his head.

You push yourself off the wall and walk toward him through the crowd, smiling with zero guilt or fucks given. When you reach him, you lean in to kiss his cheek.

“Happy birthday, baby,” you say sweetly. He smells so good. Has he always smelled so good?

Yoongi glances at you sideways, lips upturned slightly. “You.” 

You point at yourself, feigning innocence. “Me?”

Before he can say anything else, Penny suddenly twists in his arms with a sharp little whine. “Appa, cake!”

Yoongi looks down at her. “Hold on, baby—”

“Cake,” she repeats, more firmly this time, pointing with intense determination toward the table where people are already cutting slices.

“You’ve gotta wait your turn,” he tells her patiently.

“Caaaaaake!” The whine stretches, her little legs kicking slightly against his hip, and like a pastry-fueled Beetlejuice, Seokjin appears out of nowhere.

“I heard cake!” he announces cheerfully.

Penny immediately reaches for him, stars in her eyes. “Uncle Jinnie!”

Seokjin clutches his chest like he’s been struck by pure love. “My favorite niece! Look at you! You’ve grown since the last time I saw you.”

“Two weeks ago,” Yoongi says flatly.

“Kids grow fast, Yoongi-yah. Even I know that,” Seokjin scoffs, then beams at Penny. “Do you want Uncle Jinnie to acquire cake for you? Because I am very powerful. I have connections.”

Penny nods with grave intensity. “Cake.”

Seokjin leans in, stage-whispering like he’s sharing state secrets. “What kind of cake? Extra frosting? Just frosting? Tell me. Tell me your dreams.”

“Fros-ting,” Penny says, drawing it out as best as her little mouth can manage.

Yoongi’s head tilts back a fraction, blinking at the ceiling for patience. “No.”

Seokjin straightens immediately, scandalized. “Excuse me?”

“No,” Yoongi repeats, looking between them. Poor guy. He might as well be defusing a bomb. “She can have cake. She cannot just have frosting.”

Penny’s lower lip begins to wobble on cue, eyes going shiny with practiced accuracy.

“Oh my god,” you murmur, delighted. “Seokjin’s been teaching her shit.”

“I do not—” Yoongi starts, then cuts himself off when Penny’s wobble escalates into a tiny, furious whimper. His jaw tightens. “Okay, okay. Penny.”

Seokjin drops to her eye level, voice syrupy. “Penny, sweetie. Don’t cry. Uncle Jinnie will protect you.”

Yoongi points at him without looking away from Penny. “Do not start.”

“I’m just saying,” Seokjin says innocently, “if a child requests frosting on her appa’s birthday, who are we to deny—”

“We are her parents,” Yoongi deadpans. “We deny things all the time.”

Penny jabs a finger at the cake table again, supremely pissed off. “Cake now.”

Seokjin gasps. “Did you hear that? She said now. She’s showing such promising signs of leadership, Yoongi-yah!”

Yoongi stares at him. “It’s impatience.”

“You say potato, I say po-tah-to,” Seokjin says, and then he turns his bright smile back to Penny. “Okay. Uncle Jinnie will get you cake, but we have to be polite.”

Penny blinks.

Yoongi huffs. “Say please, baby.”

“Peas,” Penny supplies promptly.

Seokjin looks like he might cry. “She said peas. I’m ruined.”

Yoongi looks between the two of them, clearly weighing his options. “You’re not giving her half the cake,” he warns.

Seokjin gasps in mock offense. “What kind of uncle do you think I am?”

“The exact kind that would do that.”

“Wow. No trust.”

“PEAS JINNIE CAKE!” Penny shouts.

Yoongi exhales through his nose and carefully transfers her over. “Small piece.”

“Of course.”

Yoongi squints at him, but before he can add anything else, Seokjin grins innocently and immediately carries Penny off toward the cake table while she chants “cake cake cake!”

You watch them go, shaking your head. “That’s a mistake.”

“Yeah,” Yoongi sighs, watching them retreat. “She’s going to be bouncing off the walls tonight.”

For the first time since he walked in, his arms are empty. Suddenly, it’s just the two of you standing there in the middle of the noisy room.

You cross your arms loosely, tilting your head at him. “Y’know, you can pretend to be annoyed all you want,” you say.

Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “But?”

“But,” you continue smugly, “I know you. You’re a softie.”

He snorts. “A softie.”

“Yes,” you confirm.

Yoongi studies you for a moment, eyes narrowing behind his glasses. Then he smirks. “You want to test that theory?”

Your brows lift. “And how exactly would I do that?”

“Keep pushing me and see what happens,” he says evenly. “I’ll put you over my knee later if you’re not careful.”

You gasp, one hand flying to your chest like a scandalized Victorian woman. “Min Yoongi!”

“That,” Yoongi says as he points towards Seokjin and your daughter, whose mouth is already smeared with frosting, “is your fault, for the record.”

“How!” you say, offended.

He stares at you, thoroughly unimpressed. “Seriously? We’re seriously going to do this?”

“I seriously have no idea what you’re talking about,” you huff. “What exactly are you accusing me of, huh?”

He raises his eyebrows and looks around, as if just that is answer enough. Which it is.

“I did not plan this party,” you insist.

“Uh-huh.”

“I didn’t!”

“Y’know, liars get worse punishments than a spanking.”

You sputter, indignant—if not a little dizzy from the implication. “You realize we’re in a room full of colleagues, right?” you hiss, eyes bouncing in every direction. “Both yours and mine?”

Yoongi tsks. “Should’ve thought about that before you ambushed me.”

“You are such a fucking drama queen. Nobody ambushed you—”

“You wanna try that again?” he asks, head angling to the side.

Oh, he’s serious. He’s seriously thinking about spanking you over this—or worse.

God, you missed him.

You swallow thickly. “I… may have…”

“Mhmmmmm,” he hums, not even trying to mask his amusement at the look on your face. 

“...facilitated,” you continue. “Just a little bit!”

“Say more.”

“It wasn’t my idea,” you whine, lips pulled into a pout. “But you’ve had such an amazing year! I wanted you to feel celebrated, and loved—and okay, yeah! Maybe I was a little pissed you decided to fly to fucking Tokyo on your actual birthday—”

Suddenly there are hands on your waist, effectively putting a stop to your rant and coaxing you closer. 

“Jagiya,” Yoongi purrs, and oh. Yep. You’re swooning a little. Your body pathetically, instinctually gravitates towards his, like it always does when he speaks in that tone.

“Yeah?” you breathe, tirade forgotten as he presses a chaste kiss to your cheek.

“If it wasn’t your idea,” he murmurs, gently tucking your hair behind your ear so he can kiss your jaw next, “then whose was it?”

PURE! EVIL! 

You pull back, scandalized all over again. “You wanna turn your wife into a rat?”

“You wanna be able to walk tomorrow?”

Ha.

“No, not really,” you say immediately, completely unashamed. 

Yoongi laughs, delighted by you. “Tell me anyway.”

You groan and pinch the bridge of your nose. Whatever. It was bound to come out, anyway, and you’d really like the interrogation part of this exchange to end so you can get to the spanking part. And the fucking part.

“Hoseok,” you sigh. 

“Of course. I should’ve known.”

“You really didn’t like it?” you ask, frowning.

“Nah, I’m just fucking around,” Yoongi says, soothing your worries with a third kiss, this time on the crease between your brows. “You’re absolutely right. I’m a softie. It was embarrassing, yeah, but sweet.”

The little line of worry smooths immediately, and you sigh in relief. “Okay, good.”

“If Hoseok asks, though, I’m furious.”

“Oh, obviously,” you agree. “And if he asks you, I didn’t say a word.”

“Your secret is safe with me, rat.”

You shove his shoulder, but it’s weak. Mostly because he’s still holding your waist, thumbs slowly brushing the sides of your ribs through the fabric of your blouse like he’s rediscovering a favorite instrument after time away.

“You’re insufferable,” you mutter.

“Mm,” Yoongi hums, leaning closer so his nose grazes the line of your neck. “Missed you too.”

Your stomach does an embarrassing little flip.

It’s stupid, honestly. You’ve been together long enough that you should be immune to this—the warmth of his breath against your ear, the casual way his body crowds yours like he has every right to occupy your space. 

Which he does. But still.

You nudge his chest with your knuckles. “You’ve been home for less than twelve hours and you’re already threatening me with corporal punishment.”

Yoongi lifts his head and looks down at you over the rim of his glasses, unimpressed. 

“Threatening?” His mouth curves slowly. “Baby, that was a promise. One I intend to make good on in about five minutes.”

You were hoping that was the case, but still—you gulp. Comically. 

“Oh,” you say dumbly. “But the party…”

He scoffs. “I’ve stayed long enough.”

“Less than half an hour?”

“Yup,” he replies, popping the p. You roll your eyes.

“And the baby?” you murmur, glancing over his shoulder toward the cake table.

Across the room, Penny sits on Seokjin’s hip with a paper plate the size of her face, one small fist buried in a mound of icing while the other clutches a plastic fork she has absolutely no intention of using. Jeongguk and Hoseok coo at her like she’s the cutest thing they’ve ever seen, snapping photo after photo that you’re sure will be blowing up your phone later.

“The baby,” Yoongi says, “has six uncles in the room who are perfectly capable of keeping her out of harm’s way for a bit.”

Wow. He must really want to fuck you. He’d never say that about his friends otherwise.

“Besides,” he continues, squeezing your waist to draw your attention back to him, “I have another baby that needs tending to. Don’t I?”

Godddddddd.

Your eyes flutter shut without your permission. “Mhm,” you hum, nodding pathetically. “Please.”

Yoongi chuckles. “Don’t worry, jagi,” he coos. “I’ll take care of you. C’mon.”

He gives your waist one last squeeze before he steers you through the room, guiding you with an easy, proprietary pressure at the small of your back. Luckily, everyone is too busy drinking, laughing, or fawning over Penny to notice the two of you slipping out of the room. You’re sure the looks on your faces would hide zilch.

The music from the practice room dulls behind the door once Yoongi pushes into the corridor, and your pulse kicks up more and more with each step toward his studio.

A very tense elevator ride later, you reach the heavy door. Yoongi pulls a black keycard from the inside pocket of his jacket. The lock whirs, and he ushers you inside.

The door clicks shut, bathing you both in silence—the kind only studios seem to have, padded walls swallowing outside noise until the room feels like its own little universe.

Your heart kicks harder in your chest when he steps forward, closing the small distance between you. One hand lifts to cradle the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek like he’s confirming you’re real.

“You have any idea,” Yoongi says quietly, “how annoying it is to spend a week alone in a hotel room when I know what’s waiting for me at home?”

You laugh under your breath. “You were working.”

“Yeah.” His thumb drags over your lower lip. “Still annoying.”

You kiss him before he can keep talking, grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him down to you. The kiss starts soft but turns hungry almost immediately, both of you making up for the time apart.

When your lips finally part, you’re both breathing a little heavier. His forehead rests against yours. You can practically feel the moment where your mind syncs up with his.

“Birthday sex,” you say breathlessly.

“Birthday sex,” Yoongi agrees.

Then he exhales through his nose and reluctantly lets you go, taking a step back like he’s forcing himself to slow down for half a second. He looks around the studio, eyes bouncing over the equipment and furniture like he’s mentally deciding exactly where he wants you.

He slips off his jacket, then his beanie, tossing both onto the console as he ruffles his hair, then slides his glasses off and sets them gently next to the pile. You silently mourn the loss, but you have bigger fish to fry, honestly.

“C’mere,” he says, lazily waving you over to his desk with two fingers.

You step closer, but before you can say anything, his hands land on your hips and turn you around in one smooth motion.

“Oh,” you say faintly, surprised when you really shouldn’t be.

“Yeah,” he murmurs behind you, almost mockingly. “Oh.”

His palm settles at the small of your back, guiding you forward until the edge of the desk presses lightly against your thighs.

“Do you need me to remind you why this is happening?”

You press your hands flat to the desk, pretending to think. You don’t particularly feel like making this easy on him, so you say, “because I threw my loving husband a surprise birthday party?”

Yoongi snorts. “Try again.”

“Celebrated his many accomplishments?”

“Mhm.”

“Rightfully called him out for being a drama queen?”

His hand slides up your spine and firmly pushes you down until your chest meets the desk. You squeak.

“You’re just racking them up, huh?” You can practically hear the smirk in his voice.

“Okay, okay!” you laugh breathlessly. “I may have helped ambush you.”

“That’s better.”

His hands smooth over your hips, thumbs brushing slow circles through the fabric of your skirt before dragging it up entirely to expose your ass.

“You know,” he says thoughtfully, “most people would apologize right about now.”

You turn your head just enough to glance back at him over your shoulder.

“Well,” you say, lifting your chin a little, “I’m not that sorry.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “You asked for it.”

There’s a pause, one heavy second where the room feels very, very quiet. 

Then his hand lands on your ass with a sharp smack. You gasp, lurching forward.

Yoongi’s palm lingers where it landed, thumbing gently at the sudden sting blooming across your skin. The sensation radiates outward, sharp at first, then melting into a pleasant, humming heat.

“Still not sorry?” he asks mildly.

Your cheek presses against the desk beneath you, your hair spilling across the surface as you try to gather your composure. “Nope,” you manage, breath a little shaky. “Not really.”

He hums. “Too bad.”

Another smack lands, harder this time. You let out a surprised, pleased gasp that dissolves into a soft moan with each impact that follows. “Fuuuck, Yoongi—”

“You know,” he says conversationally behind you, like you’re discussing grocery lists instead of this, “I leave for one week.”

Smack!

“And suddenly my wife is conspiring with my friends.”

Smack!

“To publicly humiliate me.”

Smacksmacksmack!

You moan again, half laughing, half overwhelmed. “It was a loving humiliation!”

“Ah.” His thumb presses into a particularly tender spot he just hit and you hiss. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

You can’t take it anymore. You can’t. Your ass is raw, you’re so wet you can feel it soaking through your panties, smearing on your inner thighs. If he doesn’t touch you soon, you might cry. He’s only been torturing you for a few minutes, but your body has felt his absence for seven impossibly long days. 

Doesn’t he know a week without him feels like an eternity?

“Yoongiiiiiii,” you whine pathetically. “I’m sorry, okay? I’ll never throw you a party again, just—please touch me.”

Yoongi goes very still behind you, the silence stretching just long enough to make you nervous before a quiet laugh leaves him, more breath than sound.

“Listen to you,” he says, voice laced with amusement. “You weren’t sorry at all just a minute ago.”

You squirm, shamelessly pushing your ass back against his crotch. “I’ve had a change of heart.”

“Clearly.”

You’re about to complain again, or beg—whichever comes first—when his palm finally slips slowly between your thighs, nudging them apart. The movement steals the protest right out of your mouth. You whimper instead, hips instinctively rolling back into the warmth of his hand.

“Already this worked up?” he teases as his fingers trace the damp line of your clothed cunt, feeling the heat that’s been building there since he bent you over his desk. “All I did was spank you.”

“You’ve been gone a week.”

“Mm.” He cups you properly now, the delicious pressure enough to make your eyes momentarily roll back. “Missed me that much?”

“Yes,” you admit immediately.

Yoongi exhales a quiet laugh against the back of your neck. “Cute.”

Clearly taking pity on you, he yanks your panties down in one quick motion, leaving them tangled around your thighs. The pads of his fingers slide through your slickness before finding purchase on your clit, rubbing exactly how you like it.

“God, yes,” you moan. Your forehead drops to the desk with a dull thud, earning an amused huff behind you.

“Yeah?” he murmurs near your ear. Your hips rock back helplessly against his hand. “That feel better?”

You nod. “Mhmmm.”

“Good,” he says softly. But then the bastard pulls his fingers away entirely.

You gasp in outrage. “Yoongi!”

He smacks your ass again, smearing your own arousal on your skin. “Up.”

There’s no point pretending you’re not going to listen, so you push yourself upright on shaky legs and hop onto the edge, hissing slightly when your tender flesh meets unyielding wood.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine,” you assure him softly, yanking impatiently at the hem of his shirt to coax him closer. “I like it.”

Yoongi chuckles, allowing you to pull him between your thighs. He pushes them gently apart until you’re spread open for him, skirt tucked up and panties dangling uselessly from one ankle. 

“I know you do,” he says, amused. “You’re dripping all over my desk.”

“Do something about it,” you goad, reaching for his belt. “C’mon.”

Your fingers barely brush the buckle before he catches your wrist. The look on his face makes your stomach flip—dark eyes half-lidded, attention fixed entirely on the slick mess between your thighs like he’s already imagining all the things he wants to do with it. “Not yet.”

You pout. “What do you mean not yet?”

Instead of answering, his thumb brushes over the inside of your thigh, collecting a little of the slick there before dragging it higher. He swears under his breath.

You shiver. “C’mon,” you repeat. You can hear yourself starting to get whiny again. “Want you to fuck me.”

Yoongi hums. “I will. Just…” He trails off, tonguing the inside of his cheek as he gazes at your pussy. “I wanna do something first.”

Your breath catches as he sinks down to his knees in front of you. Oh.

“Wait,” you protest weakly, looking down at him. “Shouldn’t I be doing something for you? It’s your birthday.”

“Trust me,” he rasps, guiding your legs over his shoulders, “this is absolutely for me.”

He leans in and presses an open-mouthed kiss right where you’re dripping—and then licks into you properly, a long, warm stroke from your opening up to your clit. 

“Ohhhhh, shit, Yoongi,” you moan.

His eyes flick up to watch your reaction as his tongue slips between your folds and pushes inside just enough to make your hips jerk forward. You look down at him, already wrecked. 

You’ve gotta hand it to him—your husband certainly knows how to play to his strengths. You’ve never met a guy so passionate about giving head. Eating pussy is one of the many things that he excels at, a level of skill that can only be achieved by clocking in lots and lots and lots of hours. Which Yoongi does. All the time. Happily.

It’s almost enough to make you forget how badly you need to be fucked.

“So good,” you manage, voice shaking.

“Mm-hmm,” he hums in response, the vibration pressed straight into your sensitive bud. His hands slide up to spread you open with his thumbs, exposing your clit more while he licks over it again and again until your head tips back. 

Your toes curl inside your shoes as your hips start to move on their own, chasing his tongue while soft, helpless sounds keep slipping out of your throat. Your orgasm feels impossibly close already, especially when he pulls your clit between his lips and sucks.

“Mm, Yoongi,” you moan, grabbing at his hair to stop him, “wait.”

Yoongi lifts his head immediately, mouth and chin glistening. He wipes it with the back of his hand, looking up at you with a crooked smirk. “You don’t seriously want me to stop, do you?”

He looks so pleased with himself. The sight of him down there between your legs, lips swollen, hair mussed, erection straining enticingly against the crotch of his jeans. 

As tempted as you may be to let him keep going…

“Up,” you pant, nudging his shoulder with your knee.

He stands, surprisingly without much protest, and you shakily lower yourself down from the desk. You pull him a few steps toward the big rolling chair in front of the console and press lightly at his chest.

Yoongi drops into it, his legs spreading naturally as he leans into the backrest. His arms drape lazily along the armrests, but his eyes stay locked on you, sharp and curious.

“You want something, jagiya?” he asks, tilting his head.

You step between his knees. “Yeah,” you say. Your hands go to his belt, the metal buckle giving a soft clink as you start working it loose. “Want this dick.”

Yoongi’s eyebrows lift slightly. “Well,” he murmurs, voice low with interest, “you better come and get it, then.”

Man, he does not have to tell you twice.

You pull the belt free and tug open the waistband of his jeans. The button pops open under your fingers, then the zipper slides down. 

Yoongi inhales through his nose when your hand slips inside his briefs, closing around the thick length of him. “Yeah,” he grunts under his breath.

Your cunt clenches in anticipation. He’s already fully hard, thick and warm in your palm. Your thumb brushes over the head, smearing the bead of precum that’s already gathered there. 

You bite your lip, watching the way his jaw tightens as you stroke him slowly, squeezing a little on the upstroke the way you know he likes. 

His head tips back slightly against the chair, and you lean down slowly, dragging your lips along the line of his jaw until you reach his ear. “Missed you so much.”

“Did you.”

“Mhm.” Your fingers wrap a little firmer around him, enough that his stomach tightens under his shirt. “Thought about it in bed all week.” You press a soft kiss just below his ear, reveling in the way he shivers. “Tried taking care of it myself a couple times.”

“Yeah?” he rasps, and you try to stifle your glee from how affected he sounds.

“But it’s not the same,” you purr. “Never is.”

His fingers flex against the armrests of the chair like he’s trying not to grab you.

“I get so used to you,” you continue, your lips grazing the shell of his ear, “sliding inside me before I’m even fully awake.” Your thumb drags slowly over the head of his cock again, making him hiss. “Fucking me to sleep every night.”

Yoongi can only hum in acknowledgement, so tense he looks like he’s about to snap. Good. Fuck, you want him to snap. You want him to make good on his threat from earlier and fuck you until you can’t walk straight.

“I get so frustrated when you’re gone,” you whisper. “It’s miserable, baby. Nothing feels right. My fingers don’t feel like you. My toys don’t feel like you.” You nip at his earlobe, spurred on by the stuttered breath that escapes his lips. “Nothing fills me up like your cock.”

His tongue drags along the inside of his cheek. “Careful,” he mutters.

You smile sweetly and squeeze him again. “Why?” you murmur, watching the way his throat works when he swallows. “You’re the one who made me like this. Got me used to it. Got me spoiled. Now I can’t even fall asleep without you inside me.”

That seems to do the trick.

“Yeah,” he says finally, voice rougher now. “Okay. That’s enough of that.”

Yesyesyes—

“Come here.” With a bruising grip on your hips, he hauls you roughly into his lap. The chair shifts under the added weight, and your skirt rides up as you settle there, knees planted on either side of the seat. “Wanna touch you, too,” he says, reaching beneath your skirt.

Wait. 

Wait, no. 

What is he doing? Whyyyyyyy are his pants still on?

“You’ve touched me plenty,” you whine, stubbornly trying to work his jeans down, made difficult now that you’re straddling him. “What’s with you? You don’t want me to ride you? Am I bad at it or something? You’ve had years to tell me, you know—”

Yoongi shuts you up with a sharp slap to your still-sensitive ass. “Will you give it a rest?” he huffs, cutting off your moan by stuffing two long fingers between your lips. “What I want is to make you feel good. But I could just fuck this mouth and not let you cum at all. You wanna go there?”

He’s so mean. And you know from experience he’s fully capable of following through on this particular threat, too, if you keep acting up. So as much as you want to talk back, you shake your head, sucking and licking at his fingers in what you hope comes off as some sort of apology.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, using his free hand to brush your hair out of your face. “I’ll fuck you, baby, I promise. Just be patient for me.”

He watches your mouth for another second, letting you suck his fingers slowly, before finally pulling them free with a wet sound. His hand drops between your bodies, and he curses quietly when his fingers find how soaked you still are. 

He drags his fingers through the slickness, then lifts them briefly so you can see the shine of it between them. “All this,” he says, voice rough with satisfaction, “and I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

Yeah, you’re well aware of that, you think. But you don’t dare say it aloud, determined to be good now. 

His fingers move slowly at first, spreading your saliva and slick over your clit before beginning lazy circles that make your thighs tremble where they bracket his.

“Mmngh, Yoongi,” you whine, squirming for more. It’s so good, but it’s just not enough.

“Shh.” His other hand grips your hip, firmly keeping you steady as your body tries to chase the pressure. “Relax,” he says softly near your ear. 

Suddenly, you feel the blunt press of one fingertip at your entrance before he pushes inside. Your eyes screw shut, the relief of having even just one part of him inside you overshadowed by it not being nearly enough.

“Fuck,” you sob.

He groans quietly at the way you immediately clamp down around him. “So goddamn tight.” 

The single finger sinks the rest of the way in so fucking slowly, curling up against your inner wall as he goes like he’s reacquainting himself with the way your body feels around him. You whimper when he drags it back out and pushes it in again, even deeper this time.

“Yoongi, please,” you moan. “I need more, I need it.”

“I know,” he coos, slipping a second digit inside you beside the first, stretching you open before he starts moving them in steady strokes. “Greedy girl. Always need more of me.”

You do. You’re so keyed up it feels impossible to sit still, like you can’t get close enough to him. Your body chases the movement of his fingers, grinding down like you can somehow force more of him inside.

“That’s it,” he encourages. “Just like that.”

You grab his shirt and pull him forward, kissing him hard. Yoongi makes a surprised sound into your mouth at your fervor, but it melts immediately into a low groan as he kisses you back just as hard. His free hand leaves your hip to grab the back of your neck, holding you in place while his mouth takes control of the kiss.

You can taste yourself on his lips from earlier, heady and sweet, the flavor dragged across your mouth every time his tongue slides over yours.

The chair beneath you starts to creak in protest. Each time your bodies grind together the wheels twitch slightly across the studio floor, the seat rocking with the rhythm of his hand driving into you. The sound mixes with the wet slide of your mouths and your uneven breathing.

Your lips part from his and move down to his jaw as you try to gasp for air, but Yoongi doesn’t let you, dragging you back into another kiss. He catches your tongue between his lips, sucking on it slow and filthy. It pulls a helpless, high sound from the back of your throat.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he growls against your lips. As if to prove his point, he slips in a third finger alongside the other two. It punches the breath out of your lungs. You feel so full you could cry, might cry if he keeps fucking bullying that sensitive spot inside you.

You break from the kiss with a shaky gasp, overwhelmed. “Too much—”

“No it’s not.” His thumb presses hard against your aching, oversensitive clit. Your body convulses at the sensation paired with his fingers fucking you closer and closer to orgasm. “C’mon, jagi. Give it to me.”

Your nails dig into his shoulders as the pressure in your belly tightens and tightens, coiling like a wire pulled too taut. Every thrust of his fingers drags it closer to snapping while your body stutters in his lap.

“Gonna cum,” you gasp, shuddering into the crook of his neck. Your cheeks feel wet, and you open your eyes to find the collar of his shirt damp with errant tears. “Baby, fuck—”

“Yeah,” he grunts. “Cum. Right fucking now.”

You don’t have a choice.

Your orgasm slams through you, a strangled moan tearing out of your throat as your cunt clamps down hard around his fingers, delicious buzzing heat spreading through your limbs.

Yoongi doesn’t stop.

His fingers keep moving inside you, the overstimulation making your hips jerk. Only when your body finally starts to sag against him does he slow, then slip out of you entirely.

For a moment you just sit there, slumped in his lap and breathing hard into his shoulder, your entire body humming with leftover tremors.

But beneath you, Yoongi is already moving.

You lift your head at the soft rustle of fabric as he pushes his jeans and briefs down properly and frees himself, thick and impossibly hard.

You watch, dazed, as he drags his fingers, still slick with you, slowly along his cock, spreading what you left behind over the head before working it down his length.

Your mouth waters.

Amused, Yoongi nudges your chin up with his free hand until you meet his dark gaze.

“You still want to ride me,” he asks, still stroking himself slowly, “or are you tapping out?”

Tapping out? You almost want to laugh. Hell no, you’re not tapping out.

You take a steadying breath and wipe your tear-stained cheeks with the back of your hand. Your entire body still feels too sensitive, nerves humming everywhere he touched you, but the sight of him like this makes a fresh wave of determination flood through you.

“A week,” you remind him. “You were gone a week.”

Yoongi’s mouth tilts faintly. “A week isn’t that long, you know.”

“I disagree, Min Yoongi. A week is way too fucking long.”

Something in his expression softens at that. “C’mere then.”

Your hands slide to his shoulders as you lift yourself, batting his hand out of your way as you reach for his cock. You guide it carefully, adjusting your position until the thick head presses against your entrance.

You try to move quickly, not wanting to waste any time. But the first inch makes your breath hitch, cruelly reminding you of how sensitive you are. Your forehead dips toward his shoulder as you whimper softly.

“Too much?”

You shake your head quickly. “No,” you pant. “Just give me a second.”

You stay there for a moment, breathing through the stretch, your fingers tightening in his shirt. Then you start to lower yourself again. 

Every inch feels intense after everything he already gave you, nerves sparking as his length presses deeper inside. Your lips part with a shaky exhale as you take more of him, the stretch familiar but still so overwhelming.

“Easy,” Yoongi says, hands hovering at your hips like he wants to steady you.

You nod against his shoulder, and after what feels like way too long, you sink down the rest of the way. 

Yoongi immediately moves to cradle your face, warm palms bracketing your cheeks as he pulls you into a slow, grounding kiss. His thumbs brush gently under your eyes as if to soothe you, his mouth warm and unhurried while your body relaxes around him, reacquainting itself with the familiar fullness.

Once you’ve adjusted enough, you lift up so his cock drags almost all the way out before you drop back down again.

Yoongi breaks apart from your lips to groan under his breath. “Shit, yeah. Do that again.”

You do.

This time the movement feels a little easier, your hips finding a rhythm as you rise and sink again, over and over.

Yoongi’s head falls back against the chair again, throat exposed as he exhales hard. His grip on your hips flexes every time you drop down on him, like he’s resisting the urge to take control and bounce you on his dick himself.

“You’re killing me,” he mutters hoarsely. “God, look at you.”

Your cheeks heat at the praise, but you don’t stop. Little breathy sounds keep slipping out of you every time your pelvis meets his.

His palms glide along your sides, pushing your shirt up along the way. Once your bra is exposed, he gathers your breasts in both hands, thumbs brushing over your nipples through the thin fabric.

“These tits,” he says. “Fuck, baby.”

Heat creeps up your neck. “You act like you’ve never seen them before.”

“Because every time I see them I’m convinced they got even better somehow. You got so fucking stacked after Penny.”

You roll your eyes with a weak snort. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m serious,” he insists, thumbs brushing slowly over the sensitive peaks again. “You were already perfect, but then you gave me our daughter and somehow came back even sexier.”

It’s funny, you used to think the opposite.

It was hard, adjusting to all the changes in yourself after you gave birth. It took a long time to gain back all of your confidence. But since then, you’ve learned to love your body the way it is, because it made Penny. It gave her to you, happy and healthy. 

You wouldn’t trade that for anything. 

And hearing Yoongi talk like this, like he’s hungry for you—not despite the changes that pregnancy made but because of them…

That familiar train of thought is momentarily derailed when Yoongi nudges upward from below. Your breath breaks into a soft gasp as his cock hits deeper than before, reminding you of where you are and what you’re supposed to be doing.

“Shit,” he says. “You feel insane right now.”

“You say that every time,” you shoot back breathlessly, though the compliment clearly fuels you to keep going. “I think it’s just because you don’t have to do any of the work.”

Yoongi chuckles. “No, baby,” he says, groping your tits again. “I’m saying it because you’re squeezing the fuck out of me.”

Shit. You know exactly why, too.

Your face feels warm suddenly, but the idea has already taken root, spreading through you in a way that makes your pulse quicken. The thought starts to slip out before you can stop it.

“You know,” you murmur, rocking down on him again. “What if…”

He studies your face carefully, brows drawn together. “What if what?”

“What if we made another one?”

Yoongi goes completely still beneath you, hands still on your tits. “What?”

Shit, you’re so stupid. Why would you say that out loud? 

“Nothing, nevermind,” you say quickly, shaking your head, suddenly very interested in the color of the ceiling. “Forget I said anything.”

His hands drop. “Hey,” he says quietly.

You avoid his eyes, shifting slightly in his lap like you might start moving again just to avoid the subject. But Yoongi doesn’t let you. His grip firms, holding you right where you are, dick still buried deep inside you.

“Don’t do that,” he chides.

“Do what?”

“You know what.” Yoongi huffs softly through his nose. “You think I don’t know you by now?” he asks. “You don’t just say stuff like that for no reason.”

You do your best to tamp down your embarrassment, reminding yourself who you’re with. Your husband. Your husband who you’ve already had a baby with, who has never given you any indication that it was a one-and-done thing. 

And Penny is three now. Maybe it could be time.

“I mean… we’ve talked about it before. Kind of,” you say carefully. “Another baby, eventually.”

“Uh-huh.” He watches your face for another second before asking quietly, “Is that what you were thinking about just now? Is that what had you squeezing me like that?”

Your heart is beating faster now. “Maybe… But I’ve been thinking about it for a while!” you admit. “This isn’t me just being horny and saying shit, I promise. I just… we’re in a good place, right? A great place. And I know we haven’t had, like, a proper conversation about it, but…” You trail off, nervous. “Do you think I’m insane?”

“I don’t think you’re insane,” Yoongi soothes immediately.

You slump in relief. “No?”

“No.” He shifts underneath you then, rolling his hips upward once. The sudden thrust makes you gasp.

“Ah—!”

“But if you’re gonna say shit like that while you’re sitting on my cock,” he continues, voice rougher now, “you can’t expect me not to start thinking about things.”

Your pulse spikes. “A-about what?”

He looks down between your bodies, at the way you’re split open on him. “About how fucking deep I am in you right now, for one.”

Your breath stutters. He rolls his hips again, slower this time.

“And how easy it would be.”

Oh.

The words send a brand new wave of heat flooding through your stomach, and there’s no hiding the way your cunt clenches around him this time.

Yoongi hisses, grabbing a handful of your ass. “Shit, you really want this.”

“Mhm,” you hum, eyes fluttering shut as he gropes you. You can’t believe this conversation is happening, even if you were the one who brought it up. “Only if you do,” you add belatedly.

“Are you kidding?” Yoongi asks. You force yourself to re-open your eyes, your heart skipping a beat at how happy he looks when you do. He’s smiling so big, gummy smile in full force. “Jagiya, I wish you would’ve told me sooner. Of course I want to have another baby with you.”

You stare at him, dumbfounded.

Yoongi stares back, studying your expression. “What?”

Like there’s no reason for you to be surprised by that!

“Yoongi,” you say, voice quieter now, hands sliding up his shoulders until they rest loosely behind his neck. “What did I do to get so lucky, seriously?”

“Married me,” he says simply.

You snort. “Idiot,” you say, but the affection in your voice is obvious.

Your thumbs brush along the back of his neck, feeling the warmth of his skin. “I mean it,” you continue. “You’re such a good dad. You’re good to me. You work your ass off and somehow still come home and build furniture for our kid and make pancakes shaped like dinosaurs. You make me feel like I won the lottery or something.”

Yoongi’s ears turn faintly pink, like they always do when you praise him like this.

“Alright,” he mutters. “You’re getting sappy on me.”

You grin. “You deserve it.”

He puffs up his cheeks for a second, adorably embarrassed. “You work just as hard.” A pause. “Also,” he adds, “you’re saying all of this while you’re sitting on my dick.”

You laugh helplessly. “Right. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he says, then he rolls his hips up into you again. The sudden movement knocks the breath out of you.

“Oh—!”

“Just don’t stop moving,” he finishes.

Your brain takes a second to catch up.

Right.

If this is really happening, if you’re really talking about making another baby…

You start rocking over him with more intention now, lifting yourself almost completely off his cock before sinking down again.

Yoongi’s head tips back immediately. “Oh fuck,” he groans. 

Your rhythm gets steadier, your body leaning forward slightly as you ride him deeper and deeper. 

“If we’re doing this,” you pant, “I should probably make it count.”

Yoongi looks up at you sharply. “What do you mean?”

You rock down hard again. He sucks in a breath through his teeth.

“You said it yourself. You’re deep.”

His eyes darken instantly. “Yeah…”

“So if we’re making a baby,” you tease, rocking your hips slowly, making sure he can feel every twitch of your pussy around his length, “I should probably take all of it.”

Yoongi groans low in his chest. “Fuck.”

Your pace picks up instantly, the idea feeding the heat already burning through your body.

“All your cum,” you continue, breath shaky. “Right where it’s supposed to go.”

His hands suddenly slide under your ass. Before you can react, he lifts you slightly and drives his hips up hard.

“Yoongi—!”

“Take it, then,” he says roughly. 

The chair creaks loudly beneath you as he starts meeting your movements now, thrusting up into you while you ride him. Your thighs tighten around him as you obey without hesitation, bouncing harder now.

“Yoongi—fuck—”

“Keep going,” he mutters, jaw tight.

Your fingers curl into his hair as you ride him faster now, the earlier embarrassment completely gone. All you can think about is how good he feels inside you—how perfectly he fills you.

“Another baby,” you gasp, delirious.

“Another baby,” he repeats.

Your pace starts slipping as your pleasure creeps higher again. Yoongi notices instantly.

“Wait,” he says.

He suddenly stands again, quicker than you can question him. You yelp in surprise as he lifts you off the chair, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.

“Yoongi—!”

“Hold on.”

Two quick steps later your back meets his desk.

The impact makes a dull thud. Yoongi pushes you back further until you’re lying fully across the surface. Your skirt bunches higher around your waist as he grabs your legs again.

Then he hooks your legs up over his shoulders. The stretch folds you almost completely in half, your hips tilted upward perfectly toward him.

Without any warning, he slides back inside you in one deep thrust.

“Fuck, Yoongi!” you wail.

“Yeah,” he groans. “Fuck, you feel so good.”

The angle makes everything feel deeper immediately. Your fingers scramble against the desk as he starts thrusting again, so hard you see stars. The desk knocks against the wall behind it with every push, surely chipping paint.

“Too deep,” you whine. “Toooooo deep, holy fuck—”

“Nah, you can take it,” he says. “Gotta make it count, remember?”

His hands grip under your thighs to keep you there, holding you open while he drives into you again and again.

“Look at this,” he groans, glancing down where your bodies meet. You can barely follow his gaze through the haze of pleasure. “Split open on me,” he continues hoarsely. “Taking all of it.”

“Yoongi, please!” you cry.

“Please what?”

Another deep thrust knocks the air out of you. 

“Please—fuck—”

“You want it?” 

You nod frantically.

“Say it,” he presses.

Your nails scrape uselessly at the smooth surface of the desk as he drives into you.

“Want your cum,” you manage. “Inside.”

“Fuck,” Yoongi growls. His pace picks up. “You’re gonna get it.”

“Yes—yes—!”

Yoongi leans forward, forcing your thighs tighter against your chest, folding you even further. The angle change has you reeling, crying out for him.

“Cum first. You’re gonna cum all over my cock like a good girl,” he grits out. Your back arches off the desk, as much as it can with the way he’s pressing you into it. “Then I’m filling you up.”

The promise snaps the last thread holding you together.

Your orgasm finally crashes through you, your whole body shaking as you clamp down around him.

Yoongi groans loudly. “Fuuuuuuck.”

One last deep thrust and he buries himself fully inside you. You feel it when he comes, heat flooding deep inside as he groans your name under his breath.

Your chest rises and falls rapidly against his where he stays leaned over you, still holding your legs over his shoulders.

“Well,” he pants after a minute, slowly releasing your legs to avoid straining them, “fuck.”

Your head tips back against the desk, a weak laugh escaping you. 

Yoongi lifts his head just enough to look down at you. A slow, crooked smile spreads across his face.

“Happy birthday to me.”

a/n 2: ok i promise i'll let this couple rest peacefully now 😭

i know many of you are waiting for price of fame chapter 9 and/or the first taste chapter three! i promise i'm working to have them out ASAP, but arirang week may cause a bit of a delay. please be patient with me as we all collectively shake in our mf boots for the comeback!

please leave a comment or send me an ask with your thoughts! if you’d like to be added to my taglist, you can go ahead and fill out my form here (no need to do so if you’re already on my permanent taglist)

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legend:

*...* - text edited on the final video

[...] - images/videos edited on screen

(intro of daechwita)

[into of suchwita starts playing]

*suchwita - drinking with suga*

the episode starts with the camera panning to host, min yoongi, wearing a casual all-black fit. he swiftly walks towards the table, sitting on the right chair, with a subtle knowing smile on his face as he takes his tablet, pulling it closer, getting ready to start the show.

"hello, everyone; suchwita is back." he says nonchalantly, lifting the corners of his mouth, plastering the view of his gummy smile, clapping. *long time no see!*

"ah, it's nice to be back. our guest today is very special, one of the core people that helped bts put out albums as well as d-day and other solo projects of mine. makes this episode extra special, too, right?" he adds as he adjusts his chair, implying a double entendre pertaining to you, making you smile behind the cameras. he always talks so highly of you, to everyone and about anything. he subtly shifts his gaze to you, returning the smile.

"i'm pretty sure you're all familiar with her...name: y/n. occupation: producer, singer, actress. "i've long asked for an appearance at your show, why has it taken you so long to invite me?" he reads, laughing at the description provided for you.

"i'm sincerely sorry, and please welcome, y/n." [some popular tracks you have produced plays: cool with you - new jeans, underwater - red velvet, home - bts, as well as some short clips of you in films.]

you came in with a smile, wearing a dark outfit, complementary to his, bringing a brown paper bag for your beverage.

yoongi stands, acknowledging your presence, and he claps. you take your time to wave and bow at the staff as well who were clapping upon your arrival.

[cuts to you sitting down]

"ah, welcome, welcome." yoongi politely says. you both suppress a smirk, amused to see your long-term boyfriend sit opposing you, forced to act platonic, as if it has been your first time interacting, when you know it's the complete opposite of that. as if you won't go home with each other tonight and only resorting to replying with: "thank you for having me."

just a week ago, an image of you and yoongi had circulated the internet. walking from a convenience store, arm in arm. jackets to fight off the cold and caps, a pathetic way to try and disguise your identities. whenever you were meeting somewhere, it was always the three: sunglasses, mask, and a cap. it should have been a habit by now. but it was also 2:00 am in the morning. you were finishing up some songs in the studio and was in desperate need of ingesting caffeine. you decided to walk to the nearest store, dragging yoongi with you, who at first was stubborn about it, unknowing that such a mindless act would cause years of going undercover blow up.

despite its horrid quality, netizens were quick to nitpick details, connect dots, and speculate that it was the both of you.

hybe is yet to come out with a statement regarding the issue. but, the people seem to have had their verdict, with some saying yoongi was too good for you, or that it made sense for you to date as rumors have long circulated even before the leak. the topic is yet to die down, and is even still as hot as ever. it just so happens that you were already scheduled to appear at suchwita after the dating rumors swoops the internet. the company's decision was to push it, hoping to get more engagement from the issue, gaining more attention.

the air is surprisingly filled with tension. both of you are aware that everybody in this room know what's going on between the two of you, you do work for the same company afterall. arriving together, bringing home made lunches for each other, and the blatant "hey, mind i crash at yours tonight", happens too often for it to be platonic.

for most idols who date, it's like that. often it's easier for them to just date someone inside the same company or closer due to the busy schedules and fear of getting caught. but your relationship with yoongi wasn't merely for convenience; it's way more than that.

"oh, here," you say, handing him the bag you had brought with you. he politely accepts it with both hands, slightly brushing with yours.

it's no big deal, really. you hug, and kiss, and do even more than, but you would be lying if you said it didn't make you anxious, even a little bit. the fact that this would be broadcasted for the whole internet to feast on wrecked your nerves. it will be another week of turning off comments and messages on instagram to prevent your phone from blowing off, but it's no big deal really.

the truth is, neither of you really gave a damn. hell, you've been pretty obvious for years now, and not just among the staff: appearing in the background of bangtan bombs, posting about hanging out with some of the guys, and that one time when you both hosted where fans immediately dug for interactions. you and yoongi mutually agree that maybe it's time to free yourselves a little bit. angering those who hate on you more and blessing those who have spent years trying to connect the dots, by being seen in one frame.

yoongi peeks into the bag and all of a sudden throws his head back with a chuckle. *what could it be?*

you wanted to surprise him, and it worked.

"oh, wow." he says as he reveals the drink you brought; bourbon. "see, i knew you were going to bring an alcoholic drink," he adds, which took you aback, making you laugh as well.

"it was going to be among beer, soju, whiskey-" he lists off.

"hey!" you interject, playfully smacking his arm.

"but oh wow, you know i rarely drink this thing."

you know. you had brought a drink that meant something between the two of you; the exact brand and kind.

despite hybe being a small company back then, they still held parties every now and then. you were drinking the same exact thing and had drunken confessions that night; ever since, you've strictly only been drinking it together on your anniversary.

it's those type of things that really get you. he was the one that proposed the idea, saying you should "save it" when trying to invite him to a drink, which confused you at first, but made sense in the long run. it was the little things that made you think maybe he does like you back.

"shall i make you a new york sour?" you say as you take the glasses from beside you.

you look back at him and see him holding the bottle with an expression that says "i thought this was for?" you just smirk. he thinks you ambushed him for all he knew was that you were going to bring a fancy wine of some sort, but you had a trick up your sleeve.

"guys, if you know, you know." you say, winking.

"but they don't know though?" he says, which made you feel a bit silly. *embarrassed*

"this, was it 2015? we had a, uh, a celebration, a party. and something happened that night" he explained.

"excuse me?" you asked, raising your brow. "what? no, no, not like that!" he defensively argues, making you and some staff laugh.

"what was it that happened?" you ask, both having to hold your smile, trying to keep your composure.

"if you know, you know." he retorts back, winking at the camera. *iyk,yk!*

the "explanation" only really made sense to those who knew. that it wasn't merely a party, it wasn't anything funny, but one that changed your lives.

to the regular fan it sounds confusing, weird even. but to you it sounds like the deafening music that had you up your feet the entire night; the mixed smell of strong cologne, alcohol, and sweat; and the cold breeze of the air that was freezing your brain's ability to comprehend what "how do you feel about us" meant.

but of course, if you know, you know.

[cut to your glasses being prepared]

"oh wow, so you brought a sentimental drink, y/n?" he asks, to which you nod.

you're like that. all sentimental and extremely emotional. yoongi knew that. and he always does his best to make you feel loved the way you love. sure, being given an expensive piece of jewelry is fantastic. spending a week in a foreign country, just the two of you was amazing. but simply drinking wine together on the place where you had your first date equates that.

"we also prepared these," he adds as the staff slowly place trays of food on your table.

"woah!" you exclaimed. *an array of dishes suited to y/n's taste!*

"wow, you really went all out," you say, smiling with gratitude.

"of course, it's you afterall." he says, making you feel flustered.

of course he went all out. he's like this. always does everything to spoil you, make you happy. he knew you. the most.

"if you guys didn't know, y/n is my go-to, you could say, drinking buddy."

"oh, you're making it sound like i drink often."

"don't you?" you die at his reply, lowering your head, as the room filled with laughter.

if there's anything two sleep deprived producers do to ease their stress, aside from the obvious ;), it was to drink together. and that happened as often as you would have liked.

this playful banter eased you. aside from the dating rumors, you were also one of the closest people in the industry, everybody knew that, even the fans. you were best friends close and then slowly became more than friends close.

you met him just a short while before their debut, while you were also trying your shot to become a renowned producer. it wasn't hard to form connections, given the size of the company back then. you also quickly climbed to the top and became one of the most known and trusted, mentored by great seniors such as pdogg and slow rabbit. that's also how you met yoongi.

befriending him was quite easy with your similar personalities; introverted and the love for the mundane. though, it seems the complete opposite when you're together, always laughing, exchanging banter with no one else but each other.

you liked yoongi. a lot. his dry humor that often goes unnoticed, sarcasm that people interpret as attitude sometimes, his dedication to his work, his eyes (that were chunked with black eyeliner a lot at the time), the way he listens and remembers.

[cut to you grilling meat]

"so, suga-ssi,"

"suga-ssi?" he says, surprised at the sudden formality.

"yes, why has it taken you so long to invite me in your show?" he chuckles.

"is it because i might spill something about you, hmm?" you playfully say, wiggling your brows.

"you see, army, yoongi isn't that much of a tough guy." you add.

"oh, come on. i never really claimed to be one." he defends.

"he snores so much. so much."

"let's be honest, who doesn't?"

"oh, everyone do you also snore so loudly you get woken up by your own sound?" made the room burst with laughter. *tmi!*

"please edit that out,"

time passes and you can feel your body slowly getting warmer as you work through your drinks and chow down your food as well as the questions he's been asking you.

you and yoongi talked about your jobs as producers, past albums, and future projects you will be working on. he thanks you for helping him put his album out, not only with your musicality but also emotionally—by being there as someone he can rely on.

"they most especially loved people pt. 2."

"oh, yes!"

[clips of you and yoongi performing people pt.2 live plays]

"i personally really liked people from d-2,"

"mm, you liked that song so much i couldn't not release it. everyone please say thank you, y/n, for people and people pt. 2." *thank you, y/n!*

"oh come on. it wasn't like i made the thing. i just really thought the melody was a beautiful channel to the message of the song, you know? it wasn't very upbeat, or as dark as the main track, but it creates a good contrast for the album." you trail off. yoongi just looks at you with nothing but admiration. nodding to every single thing you were saying regardless of what it was. god he was such a sucker for you, and he wasn't afraid to show it despite the huge cameras on your faces.

"well, your opinion matters to me," he says after quite some time.

"well, voice too. there are just tracks that yearn to have you sing in it."

you felt like you were knocked off your feet if only you weren't sitting down. these things he never fails to say, but to say it here, in front of all these people?

"aww. see, you guys! i'm just that of an important person in yoongi's life." you quickly teased, shooting multiple winks towards the cameras.

"of course you are." he says, adding the final blow.

he looks at you in a way that makes you feel hesitant to look back in the fear of getting sucked into the dark orbs in his eyes. you accidentally sharply inhale, sort of breaking the building weight between the two of you.

you actually weren't planning about disclosing anything about your relationship at all. just to come in to drink and talk as friends, nothing more. but there was undeniably something about how you interacted that makes it undeniable.

"we go way back, don't we?" he says after quite some time. you let out a dry laugh, unable to look at him, reminiscing the past.

"we were so young. so ambitious, too."

your breathing goes heavy. you aren't quite sure if it's the alcohol that's making you feel like this, or the fact that when you think about it, you have been through so much, together.

you were passionate about music, there's no denying that. investing your all into your music was not just to put your craft out, but also, admitantly, to earn something from it. if it weren't for the eviction notice plastered on your front door, you would have chosen to go to college. if yoongi had enough than to pick over his next meal or a bus ticket, he wouldn't have risked it all in such a young age.

pursuing your passion was a big gamble. there were times where you questioned if it was still worth it after sacrificing so much and getting so little in return or nothing at all. but oh was it so worth it. knowing how it ends, in the end, you'd choose to go through it all over again.

"you had spiky hair, and i had micro bangs." you giggle, the image popping up in your head.

"we were so immature." he chuckles, remembering the ridiculous fashion choices younger versions of you had.

"we met when we were 19, we're 33 now." you say and smile bitterly.

all of a sudden, a warm tear just pours out of your eye, taking yoongi aback. he quickly takes out a tissue from his side of the table, and instead of giving it to you, he leans forward and gently pats it on your face as you just let the tears fall one after the other.

he hands you some more as you sniffle. you look at him with slightly red eyes to see that he was looking away from you. he always does this, you knew. seeing you get all emotional makes him emotional as well. and if looking behind you with a thousand yard stare prevented the both of you from becoming a crying sniffling mess, then you allowed it.

"god, why am i like this! i'm so sorry." you tilt your head towards the director and other staff.

"what are you talking about," yoongi says, ensuring you that it was more than alright.

"oh wow, this drink's really hitting me!" you joke, smiling.

"hey, we've been friends for so long now, you should be used to it." you add, pertaining to the tears. he purses his lips and nods. "i am."

a staff hands you a bottle of water and you quickly drink its content.

"we've been friends for what, 14 years now?"

"mhm. and more than friends for 12?" yoongi says, which made you want to cry even more.

"like, as best friends?" you say, acting clueless.

"if you know, you know!" he smiles.

"oooh," you playfully squint your eyes, smiling as well. *what's the real deal?*

[cut to the final remarks]

"wow, we've been by each others' side for more than a decade now!" he excitedly says.

"we're also quite old, aren't we?" you slightly cover your mouth as if you were scared of getting heard jokingly, attempting to make the atmosphere light again.

"see, earlier you were crying and now you're saying nonsense like that." he rebutts. *tmi yet again!*

"happy tears, happy tears,"

"for our final question, q: what should we expect from y/n?"

you excitedly talk about an album that you will be releasing a month from now, letting viewers know of which artists to look forward to in your collaborations.

"should we be expecting anything prod. suga or ft. suga?"

"that's yours to discover," you remark, adding a final wink.

"and lastly, anything you want to say to our dear viewers?"

"dear viewers, please continue to support our individual projects as well as us together," yoongi smiled at the latter part of your message implying a double entendre, pertaining to both your collaborations and relationship.

"also so that i can come back here more often!" you smile.

you guys wrap up by thanking him for inviting you and giving your thanks to the staff who were there to help and the show ends.

[end]

a few weeks after that suchwita episode, hybe releases a statement confirming the dating rumors.

twitter blew up the moment that episode was released with fans celebrating the patterns they've seen in your music for the past years, as well as the theories that have long been circulating, finally confirmed through hybe's statement and that episode.

@jinshoulders667: see, we knew it!

@iloveminsugaaaaa: "he snores so much" hmm probably woken next to him to have known 🤔

@iamot7: god am i painfully single

From across the room, Bada’s eyes flicked toward you—sharp, unreadable at first… then narrowing slightly when she caught the way someone stood a little too close to you, talking a little too comfortably.

Your fingers fidgeted with the hem of your hoodie.

You didn’t even realize you were staring back at her until—

She started walking.

Slow. Confident. Intentional.

The room didn’t quiet, but it felt like it did. And suddenly, she was right in front of you. Close. Too close. Her hand came up, gripping your chin gently but firmly, tilting your face toward her.

“Why are you looking over there?” her voice was low, steady—but there was something underneath it. Something tight.

Your breath caught. “I wasn’t—” “Mm.” she hummed, not convinced.

Her thumb brushed under your lip, soft this time, a complete contrast to the intensity in her eyes.

“Don’t do that.” “…Do what?” “Let people think they can have your attention like that.” The words should’ve sounded cocky.

But they didn’t. They sounded… protective. Possessive in a way that made your heart stutter instead of race.

Behind her, you could feel the curious glances, the whispers—but Bada didn’t even spare them a second look. She just stepped closer.

One hand dropped from your face to your waist, pulling you in like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Stay here,” she murmured.

And just like that, you were tucked against her side as she grabbed her water bottle with the other hand, completely unbothered, like she hadn’t just shifted your entire emotional stability.

You let out a small breath. “…You’re kinda intense, you know that?” That got a reaction.

A quiet scoff, almost amused. “Oh?” she leaned down slightly, her lips brushing near your ear. “You don’t like it?” Your silence answered for you. She smirked. Of course.

A few minutes passed like that—her hand absentmindedly tracing small patterns against your side, your fingers lightly hooked into her shirt without even realizing it. The noise in the studio faded. It always did when it was just her. Then softer— “…Did something happen?”

You blinked. Her tone changed. Still low—but gentler now. Careful. You hesitated, and that was enough for her to notice.

Bada pulled back just enough to look at you properly, her brows pulling together.

“Hey.”

Her hand came up again, this time brushing your hair back instead of holding you in place.

“Talk to me.”

And that was your breaking point.

“It’s nothing,” you said quickly, but your voice betrayed you.

She didn’t push right away. Didn’t rush. Just… stayed. Her thumb traced slow circles on your wrist now, grounding, patient

“…Someone said something earlier,” you admitted quietly. “About me… about being here.” Her expression shifted instantly.

Not loud. Not explosive. But cold. “Who.” One word. Sharp. You shook your head. “It’s fine, really—” “It’s not fine if it got to you.”

Her jaw tightened slightly, but when she looked back at you, her touch softened again—like she was holding two completely different versions of herself at once.

“You don’t get to shrink because someone else is insecure,” she said quietly.

Your eyes dropped. She didn’t let them stay there. Two fingers under your chin again—gentler this time.

“Hey. Look at me.” You did. And she held your gaze like it mattered. Like you mattered.

“You belong here,” she said, slower now. Certain. “With me. Don’t forget that.”

Your chest tightened in the best and worst way. “…You’re really good at this,” you whispered. “At what?”

“Making me feel like everything’s okay.” For a second— Just a second— Bada’s expression softened completely.

All the sharp edges gone. “…It is okay,” she murmured. Her forehead rested lightly against yours.

And then, quieter— “Especially when you’re with me.” Your fingers tightened in her shirt. “Confident much?”

That familiar smirk returned. “There it is,” she teased softly. “I was wondering when you’d come back.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling now. She noticed. She always noticed.

Her hand slid from your wrist to intertwine your fingers, squeezing once before pulling you gently toward the door.

“Come on.” “Where?” “Food,” she said simply. “You didn’t eat.” “…How do you even know that?”

She glanced at you sideways, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. “I know everything about you.” Your heart did that thing again.

“…That’s a little scary.” “Mm,” she hummed, lacing your fingers tighter with hers. “You like it.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

You’ve been at the studio for hours—music playing, stopping, replaying. Concepts scribbled down, crossed out, rewritten… only to feel wrong again. Nothing sticks. Nothing feels right. The walls feel closer than usual, like they’re watching you struggle.

You lean back against the mirror, phone resting loosely in your hand.

Across town, you know she’s in her own studio. Teaching. Moving. Creating like it’s second nature.

Bada.

She’s probably sweating under the bright lights, hair pulled back, voice firm but warm as she guides her dancers. You picture it so clearly it almost feels like you’re there.

You haven’t talked all day. Not a single message.

And maybe that’s what makes the silence feel louder. Your thumb hovers over your screen before you finally type:

“hey baby, how’s your day going?” You stare at it for a second… then hit send. The three little dots don’t come right away.

And for some reason, that makes your chest tighten just a little.

You sigh, locking your phone and tossing it beside you as you slide down to sit on the floor. Your head falls back against the mirror, eyes closing for just a second—

The sound of the studio door opening pulls you out of it. You don’t move at first.

You assume it’s someone else. Until— “Rough day?” Your eyes snap open. And there she is.

Bada stands in the doorway, slightly out of breath, hoodie thrown over her shoulders, hair messy in that way you know means she rushed. Like she didn’t even think twice.

“Bada…?” your voice comes out softer than you expect.

She steps inside, letting the door close behind her with a quiet click. “You texted,” she says simply, like that explains everything.

And somehow… it does.

You let out a small, tired laugh. “That was like—two minutes ago.”

“Mhm,” she hums, walking closer. “I saw it.”

There’s something in the way she looks at you.

Focused. Gentle. A little worried. It makes your chest ache in a completely different way.

“You okay?” she asks, stopping right in front of you. You want to say yes. You always say yes.

But today… it sticks in your throat. So instead, you shake your head. Just a little. That’s all it takes.

Her expression softens instantly, and without another word, she crouches down in front of you, hands coming up to gently hold your face.

“Hey…” she murmurs, thumbs brushing softly under your eyes even though you’re not crying. “Talk to me.”

“It’s just—” you exhale shakily, looking down. “Nothing I’m doing is working today. Everything feels off and I’ve been here for hours and I just—” your voice cracks slightly, frustration bleeding through, “I don’t feel good enough right now.” The silence that follows isn’t empty. It’s warm. Steady.

Her grip on you doesn’t tighten—it grounds. “You are,” she says quietly. You glance up at her. She’s already looking at you. Completely.

“You are good enough,” Bada repeats, softer this time, like she’s placing the words carefully into your hands. “You’re just tired.”

Her thumb brushes over your cheek again.

“And you’re allowed to have days like this.” Your shoulders drop a little. Just hearing it… eases something.

“I hate it,” you whisper. “I know,” she nods, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Me too.” There’s a beat.

Then she shifts, sitting down fully in front of you and gently pulling you forward until you fall into her.

You don’t resist. Not even a little. Your face presses into her shoulder, her arms wrapping around you instantly, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head.

And just like that—

Everything feels quieter.

“I had a long day too,” she murmurs into your hair. “Class wouldn’t listen… music kept glitching… I almost lost my mind.”

A small laugh escapes you, muffled against her hoodie.

“See?” she smiles against you. “We’re both struggling.” Her hand starts moving slowly up and down your back.

Soft. Repetitive. Comforting. “But…” she continues gently, “I kept thinking about you.” Your grip on her tightens just a little.

“Wanted to text you all day,” she admits. “Just didn’t stop moving long enough.” You pull back slightly, just enough to look at her. “You could’ve,” you mumble.

“I know,” she says, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “But I’d rather be here.” Your heart— It does that thing. That quiet, overwhelming squeeze.

Before you can say anything, she leans forward, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. Lingering. Grounding. “I’m here now,” she whispers. And it’s not just words. It’s a promise.

You melt into her again, this time easier, your body finally giving in to the comfort you didn’t realize you needed so badly.

“Stay with me?” you ask softly. She doesn’t even hesitate. “Always.” The studio doesn’t feel suffocating anymore.

The mirrors don’t feel like they’re judging. The unfinished ideas scattered around suddenly don’t seem like failures—just pauses. Because right now— You’re wrapped up in her arms.

Her warmth. Her quiet strength. And somehow… that’s enough. More than enough. Because at the end of days like this—

A sweet older woman with silver hair and a canvas tote full of yarn stops beside you, peering into the stroller with that universal grandmotherly smile.

“Oh, my goodness.” She whispers softly, clasping her hands. “What beautiful little girls.” She looks up at Semi, eyes twinkling. “They look exactly like you, Mom.”

It’s said with such warmth and certainty, no hesitation or question, that it lands like a quiet thunderclap.

Semi freezes, hand tightening almost imperceptibly on the stroller handle. For a second she doesn’t breathe. The woman smiles again, giving a little wave to the babies, and shuffles on toward the bakery section.

You glance at Semi. Her eyes are fixed on the girls, wide and suddenly glassy. She blinks rapidly, like she’s trying to clear something from her vision.

“Thank you.” She mutters after the woman, voice low and a little hoarse, but the lady is already gone.

Semi doesn’t move for a long moment. Then she leans down slowly, elbows resting on the stroller bar, studying your daughters like she’s just seeing them for the first time.

Heewon stirs slightly, making a small dreaming sound. Sowon’s tiny fist escapes her blanket and flexes in the air.

Semi’s lip trembles. She straightens just enough to look at you, eyes shining with unshed tears, voice barely above a whisper.

“Did you hear what she said?”

You nod, reaching for her hand. “I heard.”

Semi looks at the ceiling, blinking back the tears stubbornly.

“She didn’t even hesitate.” She says, voice cracking with vulnerability. “She just… knew they were mine. That they look like me.”

She lets out a wet, disbelieving laugh.

“I didn’t know how much I needed to hear that.” She croaks. “Until right now.”

You step closer, wrapping your arm around her waist, pressing your cheek to her shoulder as you both gaze back down at your daughters.

“They do look like you.” You murmur. “The shape of their eyes. The way Heewon smirks in her sleep. That little crease Sowon gets between her brows when she’s thinking hard about milk. They’re yours, Semi. Completely.”

Semi nods, silent for a beat, then leans down again, this time pressing the softest kiss to each girl’s forehead in turn.

“My girls.” She whispers against their skin, voice thick with wonder and love and something healing. “You really do look like mom, huh?”

Heewon gives a tiny kick, as if in agreement.

Semi straightens and wipes her face with the sleeve of her hoodie, sucking in a shaky breath. She looks at you, eyes still wet but brighter than you’ve ever seen them.

“Okay.” She says, voice steadier now. “Let’s get the good cereal.“

You laugh softly, squeezing her hand as you push the stroller forward together. Four hearts, one family, finally seen by the world exactly as you’ve always known it to be.

3 Months Old

The nursery is a war zone of white noise and tiny lungs at full throttle. The twins have been crying in perfect, heartbreaking tandem for forty five minutes straight now. They’ve been fed, changed, burped, swaddled, rocked, the whole checklist exhausted and still nothing has calmed them. The sound is deafening, two relentless wails layered over one another bouncing off the pale yellow walls.

You’re pacing slow circles with Sowon draped over your shoulder, her little face scrunched red against your collarbone, fists balled in your shirt. Semi has Heewon in the same hold across the room, swaying side to side with mechanical rhythm, but her movements are tighter now, shoulders hiked up toward her ears. You can barely hear your own thoughts over the dual cries, let alone each other.

Then you catch it out of the corner of your eye: Semi’s free hand lifting, fingers threading into the dark strands at the nape of her neck, tugging hard once, the same gesture she’s done since you met her whenever the world presses too close. Her jaw is clenched, eyes glassy, and the sight cracks something deep in your chest.

You slow your steps, readjust Sowon carefully so her head rests higher on your shoulder, and lift your chin toward Semi. You don’t speak, you can’t over the noise, just extend your free arm in a gentle beckoning motion, palm up. Pass her to me.

Semi’s brows knit, confusion flickering through the stress. She shakes her head once, mouth forming the shape of “It’s fine,” but the words are swallowed by another ear splitting screech from Heewon right against her left ear. The sound seems to hit her like a physical blow; her eyes fill instantly, tears brimming over the lower lids. She hesitates another second, then relents, stepping forward to carefully transfer Heewon into your waiting arm.

You shift your weight to balance both girls, one on each shoulder now, their warm weight and wet cheeks pressed to your neck. Semi’s hands hover uselessly for a beat, like she doesn’t know what to do with them, before you lean in and brush a quick kiss to her cheek.

“Go get some air.” You murmur low against her ear, just loud enough to cut through the crying. “I’ve got them.”

She looks at you with wide, wet eyes, mouth opening like she wants to argue, but another wail from Heewon makes her flinch. She nods once, the motion jerky, and slips out of the room, shoulders hunched and one hand scrubbing at her face.

The door clicks shut behind her.

Twenty more minutes of pacing, shushing and gentle bouncing pass. Your arms burn, your back aches, your ears ring, but slowly the cries begin to fracture. Sowon’s wails soften to hiccuping whimpers first, then to exhausted sniffles. Heewon follows, her volume dropping in ragged stages until the room is suddenly, blessedly quiet aside from the soft rasp of their breathing and the faint hum of the white noise machine.

They’re both asleep, heavy and limp against your shoulders, tiny mouths slack, dark lashes fanned on flushed, chubby cheeks.

You wait another full minute to be sure before easing them down into their cribs one careful transfer at a time. Sowon settles without a peep; Heewon stirs once, lets out a tiny sigh, then sinks deeper into her mattress.

Flawless. Luck, mostly, but you’ll take it.

The door opens again. Semi stands in the threshold, eyes red rimmed, cheeks streaked. She takes one look at the two tiny bundles in the cribs and her face crumples. She exhales a quiet sob before pressing a hand to her mouth, shoulders shaking.

You cross the room in three quiet steps, take her hand, and lead her out without a word. She follows, sniffling and hiccuping softly.

When you sit her on the couch in the dim living room, she hesitates like she’s bracing for a lecture. Instead you sit beside her and open your arms. She crashes into you like she’s been waiting for permission, face buried in your chest, arms wrapping tight around your waist as the sobs come full force; deep, chest shaking sounds, the kind she rarely lets out.

You hold her. One hand strokes slow circles between her shoulder blades, the other cradles the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair. You keep your own breathing steady, letting her feel your heartbeat under her cheek, willing yourself to be the calm she needs right now.

Minutes pass. The crying eases to shuddering breaths, then to quiet sniffles. She lifts her head slowly, eyes swollen, nose red.

“I’m sorry.” She whispers, voice wrecked. “I’m so sorry.”

You give her the tired, soft smile that’s all you have left tonight. “You don’t have to be sorry.”

She shakes her head, fresh tears spilling. “But I-I just… I feel like I’m not good enough for them. But you… you got them both to sleep. On your own. And you transferred them without waking either. You’re like this super mom and I-I have no idea what I’m doing.”

You suck in a slow breath and reach for her hand, linking your fingers with hers.

“Semi, I have no idea what I’m doing either.” You say quietly. “We planned for one baby. We got two. Everything we thought we knew got turned upside down the second they came out of my womb. Today I just got lucky, they were so exhausted they didn’t fight the transfer. Any other night they could’ve screamed the second I laid them down. Neither of us knows what we’re doing, and it’s okay.”

Her lip trembles. You squeeze her hand tighter.

“We’re going to have days where they drive us both crazy. Days where we’re at our limit. But we’ll go crazy together. That’s the deal. We’re in this - the good, the hard, the loud, all of it - together.”

She stares at you for a long moment, eyes searching, then lets out a watery, broken laugh that’s partly a sob.

“I love you.” She whispers, voice cracking on the words. “So much.”

You pull her back into your chest, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

“I love you too. And I love them. Even when they’re screaming like tiny banshees.”

She snorts softly against your shirt, the sound muffled and exhausted and so perfectly her.

You and Semi stay on the couch like that for a long stretch, the kind of quiet that feels well earned after the storm. She’s burrowed into your side, head on your shoulder, one arm draped across your waist, fingers loosely curled in the hem of your shirt. You’ve got an arm around her, thumb tracing absent circles on her upper arm. Both of you are too tired to do much more than breathe together.

The girls stay down longer than either of you dared hope. You both notice it, the clock ticking past the usual thirty minute mark, then forty five, but neither of you dare say a word. Superstition, maybe. Or just bone deep relief. But you’re content to let the silence stretch, to soak in the rare stillness.

Then it happens.

A tiny shifting noise crackles through the baby monitor on the coffee table, fabric rustling against a mattress, a small body resettling. You and Semi freeze at the exact same second, bodies locking up like you’ve been caught stealing, eyes widening in unison. You hold your breath.

Four seconds of perfect, fragile silence.

Then, a soft, wet raspberry. A happy little pbbbt, followed by a string of delighted coos and ahhs, one of the girls babbling to herself in pure sleepy contentment.

Semi’s face transforms. The tension that’s been etched into her features all evening melts away, replaced by the smallest, softest smile you’ve seen all day. It starts at the corners of her mouth, then reaches her eyes, crinkling them with exhausted wonder.

You shift to stand, muscles already moving on autopilot, but Semi’s hand catches your wrist gently.

“Wait.” She whispers, voice still a little hoarse from earlier tears. “I want to get her.”

You pause, nod, and settle back. She squeezes your wrist once, a silent little thank you, before pushing herself up. As she straightens, she glances back at you with a tiny, cheeky glint in her eye, the first spark of her usual mischief since the crying started.

“Wanna bet which one it is?” She murmurs, eyebrow quirking.

You huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “We’re not betting on our daughters… but it sounds like Heewon.”

Semi smirks, just a little, then pads barefoot down the hall, disappearing into the soft yellow glow of the nursery.

A minute later she’s back, cradling Sowon against her chest. The baby’s cheek is flushed pink from the mattress, dark wisps of hair sticking up wildly in every direction like she’s been electrocuted. Her eyes are half open, hazy with sleep. She lets out another soft coo, content now that she’s been picked up by mommy.

Semi settles back beside you, easing Sowon down on her lap so the baby’s head rests against her chest. She looks at you, eyes bright with playful triumph.

“Heewon’s still out cold.” She says, voice low and teasing. “Guess you’re not super mom after all.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile is impossible to hide. “I’ll take my losses.”

Semi laughs softly, then lays her head on your shoulder, gazing down at Sowon with that same quiet wonder that’s been growing every day since the girls’ first heartbeat. The baby’s tiny hand flexes once, fingers curling around one string of Semi’s hoodie, and Semi’s expression softens even further.

You reach over, brushing a wild strand of hair off Sowon’s forehead, then let your hand rest on Semi’s knee.

“Teamwork.” You murmur.

Semi nods, eyes still on the baby, but her free hand finds yours and squeezes.

“Teamwork.” She echoes, voice thick again, but this time with something warm and sure.

1 Year Old

The apartment is finally quietening down after the whirlwind of the day. Streamers still hang limp from the ceiling, a few stray balloons bob lazily against the wall, and the faint scent of strawberry vanilla cake lingers in the air.

The girls’ first birthday party wrapped up hours ago. Friends came and went, cake was smashed, gifts were opened with tiny, greedy hands, but now it’s just you and the birthday girls in the soft glow of the living room lamp.

Sowon and Heewon are sprawled on the big plush rug, surrounded by a fortress of new toys: stacking cups, a wooden train set, a couple of plush animals still wearing their birthday bows. They’re not playing together exactly, more like parallel universes of toddler focus. Sowon sits cross legged, methodically lining up the cups by color, brows furrowed in serious concentration. Heewon, on the other hand, is on her belly, kicking her feet and making the train engine zoom back and forth with dramatic “choo choo” noises that are mostly spit bubbles.

You’re on the couch, legs tucked under you, nursing a cup of tea and letting the exhaustion settle into your bones like a warm blanket. The day was beautiful chaos, but God, you’re tired in the best way.

From the kitchen comes the soft clink of dishes, the rush of water, the occasional muffled curse when Semi drops something. She insisted on handling cleanup alone. “You carried them for nine months, you better sit your ass down today,” she said. And you didn’t fight her.

After a while the water shuts off and footsteps pad closer, quieter than usual.

Semi appears in the doorway, drying her hands on the front of her hoodie. Her hair is still in that messy half ponytail from earlier, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She looks… softer. Not exhausted soft, but something gentler, like she’s carrying a secret she’s dying to share.

She throws herself down beside you, the couch dipping under her weight, then takes a small, steadying breath. You tilt your head, curious.

When she catches your eye, she just smirks and raises her eyebrows once, playful.

“My mom replied.”

Your heart does a quiet flip. Semi doesn’t talk about her parents much. The relationship is… complicated. Distant. Not cruel, just not warm. But every big milestone - first smiles, first teeth, today’s first birthday - she sends photos anyway. A small, stubborn bridge she keeps building even when the other side doesn’t always reach back.

You keep your voice soft, teasing just enough to keep it light. “I assume by your smile that it was nice?”

Semi exhales through her nose, a little laugh caught in it. She pulls her phone from her pocket, thumbs opening the group chat with her mother and father.

“You tell me.”

She turns the screen toward you.

The top message is the photo she sent this morning: Sowon and Heewon side by side in their matching party dresses, cake smeared on their cheeks, both grinning at the camera with identical gummy smiles.

Below it, her mom’s reply, a single photo, timestamped nearly three decades ago.

Semi on her first birthday.

She’s sitting on the floor in a little pink dress, one little hand raised like she’s waving, head tilted just so, eyes wide and sparkling with the same mischief Heewon gets when she’s about to do something she knows is trouble. The shape of the mouth, the curve of the cheek, the exact way the light catches in her dark eyes… it’s uncanny. Heewon’s pose from today is mirrored almost perfectly. And when you scroll down to the next attachment - another old photo, Semi looking straight at the camera with that quiet, thoughtful gaze - she’s Sowon. The same soft intensity, same little crease between the brows, same everything.

They’re carbon copies. Three versions of the same face, twenty eight years apart.

Your breath catches so hard, you feel it physically. Your heart stutters, squeezing and moving behind your ribs like it’s trying to climb out and hug them all at once.

“Semi… oh my God.”

She’s watching you, and the grin that spreads across her face is pure, shit-eating satisfaction. Proud. Smug. Completely, unapologetically delighted.

“Right?” She whispers, voice low and giddy, like she can’t believe her luck either. “I basically cloned myself. Like, look at them. Look!”

She zooms in on Heewon’s party photo next to her own baby picture, then Sowon’s. The resemblance is so strong it’s almost comical. Except it’s not funny, it’s devastating in the best way.

You press a hand to your chest, blinking fast. “They’re you. They’re so entirely you.”

Semi leans her head against your shoulder, still staring at the screen like she’s memorizing it. “Yeah.” She says softly, all the smugness melting into something quieter, more tender. “They’re me. And they’re ours.”

Across the room, Heewon suddenly notices Semi’s voice and abandons her train to army crawl toward the couch at top speed, babbling in that bossy little tone she’s already mastered. Sowon looks up too, then carefully sets down her last cup before crawling after her sister.

Semi laughs and scoops them both up when they reach her legs, pulling them onto her lap in a messy pile.

You watch the three of them, Semi’s dark hair mingling with their wispy matching strands, the same eyes blinking up at her, and feel something settle deep inside you.

The past, the grief, the long wait, the fear, it all led here. To this couch. To these identical faces. To the woman beside you who sent those photos anyway, and got back proof that love echoes across oceans and years.

Semi presses a kiss to the top of each girl’s head, then turns to you, eyes shining.

“Happy birthday, my clones.” She murmurs to them.

Heewon chooses that moment to grab Semi’s phone and try to eat it.

Semi snatches it back with a laugh, and the room fills with giggles - three identical giggles, twenty eight years in the making.

1 Year, 1 Month Old

The girls are thirteen months now, and the apartment has officially entered the “Heewon Era.”

It started innocently enough. One morning Heewon pulled herself up on the coffee table, wobbled for a glorious three seconds, then took four triumphant, drunken steps toward the remote before plopping onto her bottom with a delighted squeal. Sowon watched from her spot on the rug, brows furrowed, one hand gripping the edge of the play mat like it was a life raft. She didn’t even try to stand.

Heewon’s confidence only grew from there.

Within days she was a tiny tornado on legs, scaling the lowest shelf of the bookcase (nearly toppling a stack of board books onto her head), standing on her tippy toes to swipe Semi’s phone from the kitchen counter (once managing to unlock it long enough to send a string of gibberish emojis to a group chat), and during family walks, toddling off toward anything shiny or loud with the determination of someone who’s never heard the word “no” before.

You and Semi developed a new reflex: the sudden, full name shout of “HEEWON!” echoing through the apartment like a siren. It became background noise, a soundtrack to the chaos. Heewon would freeze mid reach, turn with that cheeky grin that was pure Semi at her most mischievous, and toddle back like nothing happened.

Sowon, meanwhile, stayed firmly in cautious observer mode. She’d crawl to follow her sister, but standing? No thanks. She preferred the safety of holding onto furniture, or better yet, one of your legs.

Today is a lazy Sunday afternoon, sun slanting through the windows, and it’s time to change the girls’ diapers. They’re on the living room rug, Heewon stacking blocks into an unstable tower while Sowon sits beside her, carefully placing one block at a time like she’s defusing a bomb.

Semi, kneeling on the floor with the changing supplies spread out, calls out casually, “Heewon, come here, baby. Time for a fresh nappy.”

Both girls stop what they’re doing.

Heewon looks up immediately, grinning, and starts toddling toward Semi with her wobbly, determined gait.

Sowon, quiet, thoughtful Sowon, also turns her head, sets her block down with care, and begins crawling after her sister, little knees pumping.

You and Semi freeze at the exact same moment.

Your eyes meet over the girls’ heads, and you feel the realization hit like cold water.

“Oh God…” You whisper, barely audible.

Semi’s mouth opens, closes, then opens again. She stares as Heewon reaches her first, grabbing at Semi’s knee with sticky fingers, while Sowon catches up a second later, tugging at Semi’s hoodie.

They both look up at her expectantly. Identical dark eyes. Identical expectant expressions.

“Do they…” Semi trails off, voice cracking with disbelief. “They both think they’re called Heewon…”

The absurdity lands.

You cover your mouth to stifle the laugh, but it bubbles out anyway. Semi’s shoulders start shaking first, silent at the beginning, then the sound escapes: a bright, helpless snort that turns into full laughter. You join her, heads tipping together as the girls stare up at you like you’ve both lost your minds.

Heewon claps her hands, delighted by the noise. Sowon just smiles shyly, mirroring her sister.

Semi scoops them both up, one under each arm, and carries them to the changing mat, still giggling.

“Okay, okay.” She manages between breaths. “Heewon, you little chaos gremlin. And… Heewon the second. We’ve got a situation.”

You’re still laughing as you help her change them, the moment light and ridiculous and perfect.

But later that night, after the girls are finally asleep - Heewon sprawled starfish style and Sowon curled into a perfect little ball - the apartment is quiet again. You and Semi are on the couch, lights low, mugs of tea cooling on the coffee table.

Semi’s quiet for a long time, staring at the baby monitor where two tiny chests rise and fall in sync.

You nudge her gently with your elbow. “What’s going on in there?”

She exhales slowly. “Heewon’s been getting all the shouts. All the attention. Every time we say her name it’s because she’s about to climb something or eat the cat’s food or run toward the street. And Sowon… she’s been hearing it too. Quietly following along. Thinking maybe that’s her name.”

Her voice cracks on the last word.

You feel it hit you then, the guilt that’s been simmering under the surface. Sowon’s caution, her tendency to watch before acting, the way she’s always one step behind her sister. Not just personality, maybe a little bit of waiting for the world to call her by name.

Semi rubs her face with both hands. “We’ve been so busy chasing Heewon we haven’t been calling Sowon enough. She deserves to hear her name said with the same excitement, not just as an afterthought.”

You reach for her hand, lacing your fingers through hers.

“Then let’s fix it.” You say softly. “Starting tomorrow. We call them both by name, every time. Sowon gets cheers for every careful block she stacks. Heewon gets cheers for every safe step. No more defaulting to the loud one.”

Semi nods, eyes shiny, and leans her head against your shoulder.

“They’re both blessings.” She whispers. “I don’t want either of them thinking they’re ‘the other one.’“

You press a kiss to the top of her head.

“They won’t. We’ll make sure of it.”

The next morning, when Sowon pulls herself up on the couch for the very first time, wobbly but determined, her little eyes wide, you’re both there in an instant.

“Sowon!” Semi says, voice bright and proud. “Look at you, baby girl! You’re standing!”

Sowon blinks, startled at the sudden attention, then she beams. Her smile is small and shy, but so clearly hers.

Heewon, already standing, claps wildly like it’s her victory too.

And just like that, the apartment fills with two names, two voices, two little girls finally hearing themselves called exactly as they are.

Wish and Happiness.

Both loud. Both loved. Both heard.

2 years, 11 Months Old

Christmas morning dawns bright and cold, the apartment glowing with the soft multicolored lights of the tree. The girls are almost three now, and the magic of the season has them buzzing like tiny live wires. They’ve been up since 5:30am, bursting into your bedroom with squeals of “Santa came! Santa came!” You and Semi barely had time to rub the sleep from your eyes before they dragged you both to the living room.

The tree is surrounded by a small mountain of wrapped presents, but the one that immediately captures their attention is the big, shiny box labeled in curling script: To Sowon & Heewon - Share with love, Santa xo

Inside is a beautiful wooden dollhouse with tiny furniture, little people, and even a working front door that opens and closes. It’s perfect, exactly what they’ve been babbling about for weeks. But “share with love” turns out to be a concept still very much in progress.

It starts innocently enough: both girls kneeling in front of the dollhouse, eyes wide with wonder. Then Heewon reaches for the tiny pink bed. Sowon wants it too.

“Mine!” Sowon declares, yanking it toward her.

“No, mine!” Heewon retorts, pulling back.

The tug of war escalates in seconds. Sowon shoves Heewon’s shoulder hard enough to make her stumble back onto her bottom. Heewon’s face crumples in shock, then fury. She lunges forward, mouth open, teeth bared like a tiny feral animal, aiming straight for Sowon’s arm.

Semi is there in an instant.

“Hey-hey, no!” She scoops Heewon up under the arms before any actual biting can happen, while you grab Sowon gently but firmly around the waist. Semi plucks the pink bed from between them and sets the entire dollhouse on the coffee table, out of reach.

“That’s enough.” Semi says, voice calm but firm. “We do not push, and we do not bite. And we definitely don’t fight over toys that are meant to be shared.”

Sowon’s lower lip trembles. “But she took it!”

Heewon, still in Semi’s arms, bursts into loud, dramatic sobs. “Sowon pushed me!”

Tears flow freely from both of them now - big, hiccuping, heartbroken wails that echo through the apartment. You exchange a glance with Semi over their heads, exhaustion mixed with amusement, that deep, aching love that only parents know.

Semi sighs, setting Heewon down gently. “Okay, both of you, come here.”

She sits cross legged on the floor and pulls them into her lap, one on each knee, even though they’re almost too big for it now. You kneel beside her, rubbing Sowon’s back while she strokes Heewon’s hair.

“We’re going to take a deep breath.” Semi says softly. “In… and out. Good. Now listen, Santa brought this house for both of you. That means it belongs to both of you. If you can’t share it nicely, then nobody gets to play with it.”

Two sets of teary eyes blink up at her.

“But…” Sowon sniffles. “I want the pink bed.”

“I want the pink bed too.” Heewon whines.

Semi kisses the top of each head in turn. “Then you’re going to have to learn how to take turns. That’s what big girls do. You can be mad, but you can’t hurt each other. Ever.”

“And,” you add quietly, “if you can be kind to each other, maybe Santa will bring even more special things next year.”

The crying slowly tapers off into sniffles. Semi wipes their faces with the sleeve of her hoodie, then presses a kiss to each damp cheek.

“Okay. Ten minute timeout for the dollhouse. Let’s see what else Santa brought.”

She distracts them with their stockings next - chocolates, little books, sparkly hair clips. You help them unwrap the smaller gifts while Semi quietly moves the dollhouse to a safer spot.

Exactly ten minutes later (you set a timer on your phone), the girls are back on the rug, sitting side by side like nothing happened. Heewon holds out a foil wrapped chocolate to Sowon.

“Here.” She says shyly. “You can have the red one.”

Sowon’s face lights up.

“Thank you.” She takes it, then carefully unwraps one of her own and holds it out to Heewon. “You can have the blue one.”

They feed each other treats with sticky fingers, giggling as the foil crinkles. Tiny mouths smeared with chocolate, heads bent together over the same shiny wrapper.

Semi watches from the couch, arm around your shoulder, and you feel her exhale a long, shaky breath.

“Double the noise.” She murmurs. “Double the fighting. Double the love.”

You lean your head against hers, watching your daughters already forgiving, already sharing again.

“It’s chaos.” You whisper, smiling through sudden tears. “And it’s everything I ever dreamed of.”

Semi presses a kiss to your temple. “Merry Christmas, mama.”

“Merry Christmas.” You whisper back, as the girls laugh and chase each other around the tree, the dollhouse waiting patiently for when they’re ready to try sharing again.

3 Years, 5 Months Old

The little soccer goal arrived in a flat box on a sunny Friday afternoon. Semi had ordered it secretly, sneaking the package inside while you were out with them at the park. She spent last night assembling it in the backyard after they were asleep, hammering stakes into the soft grass, stretching the net taut, testing the lightweight plastic frame until it stood sturdy and proud under the garden lights. When the girls woke up this morning, there it was: a bright red goal with matching mini balls in blue and yellow, waiting like a promise.

Semi knelt down in front of them at breakfast, eyes sparkling with that same mischief she gets when she’s planning something big.

“Guess what, babies?” She said, voice low and excited. “Mommy got you a soccer goal. A real one. And tonight, when I get home from work, I’m going to play with you.”

Heewon’s eyes went wide, fork forgotten mid air.

“Yes! Soccer! I’m going to do a goal!” She bounced in her booster seat, already chanting.

Sowon just stared at the photo Semi showed them on her phone, brows furrowed in quiet thought. She didn’t say anything, but her fingers tightened a fraction around her cup.

Semi leaned in, kissing Sowon’s forehead, then Heewon’s. “It’s going to be so much fun. Mommy will teach you everything. Promise.”

Heewon cheered, while Sowon gave a small, uncertain nod.

And just like that, the promise was made. Bright, hopeful, and waiting in the backyard grass for the evening to arrive.

The sun is still high when you hear Semi’s car rolling up the driveway, gravel crunching under the tires. Inside the house, Heewon has been practically bouncing off the walls, already wearing her tiny cleats (which she insisted on putting on at 8am) and a grass stained jersey three sizes too big. Sowon, meanwhile, is curled on the living room floor beside you, surrounded by a rainbow of crayons and a half finished picture of a very serious looking cat. Every time you gently suggest she might like to try soccer with Mommy and Heewon, she just presses the blue crayon harder into the paper and mumbles, “No thank you, Mama.”

You’re wiping down the kitchen counters when the back door flies open, and Heewon’s voice explodes through the house like a firecracker. “Mommy! Mommy’s home!”

She sprints from the back door, through the kitchen, out the front and jumps straight into Semi’s arms the second she steps out of the car. Semi laughs, loud and bright, scooping Heewon up and spinning her once before planting a kiss on her sweaty forehead.

“Ready for soccer, troublemaker?” Semi asks, voice full of that playful energy she saves for the girls.

Heewon nods so hard her pigtails whip. “Yes yes yes! I’m gonna kick the ball and do a goal!”

Semi carries her inside, Heewon’s legs kicking happily against her hip. She steps into the living room, eyes sparkling, and calls out in her best announcer voice:

“Whooo’s ready for soccer with Mommy?!”

Heewon throws her arms up like she’s already won the World Cup.

Sowon freezes mid stroke, crayon hovering over the paper. She looks up at you with those big, pleading eyes - the same quiet intensity she’s had since she was tiny.

You give her a soft smile, crouching down to her level. “It’ll be fun, sweet girl. Mommy will show you exactly what to do. If you don’t like it, you can come right back inside with me.”

Sowon’s lower lip trembles, but she doesn’t argue. When Semi holds out her hand, Sowon slowly takes it, reluctantly, and lets herself be led outside.

For a while, it’s alright. Unfiltered, joyful chaos. Heewon is everywhere - chasing the ball, giggling when she falls, popping back up with scraped knees she doesn’t even notice. Semi cheers every time the ball goes anywhere near the little net, high fiving Heewon like she’s just scored in the finals.

Sowon stands off to the side, hands clasped in front of her, watching with wide eyes. Every time Semi calls, “Come on, Sowon! Give it a try!” she takes one hesitant step forward, then stops.

Semi jogs over eventually, crouching down to her level, voice gentle.

“I know trying new things feels scary, baby, but it can be really fun if you just give it a little go. Mommy will be right there with you.”

Sowon glances at Heewon’s red, scraped knees, then down at her own clean shins. Her voice is small, barely above a whisper.

“I don’t want to get hurt.”

Semi’s face softens. She brushes a strand of hair from Sowon’s cheek. “You might fall a bit, but the grass is soft. And Mommy will catch you. Promise.”

Sowon sighs, long and dramatic, like she’s carrying the weight of the world, then nods.

She jogs after the ball a few times, but on the third try, Heewon - the eager, unstoppable force that she is - darts in to steal it, feet tangling with Sowon’s. Sowon slides down hard onto the grass.

Her cry is instant. Not from pain, the fall was gentle, but from the shock; the dirt on her dress, the sting of failure. Tears stream down her cheeks as she sits there, fists balled in the grass.

Heewon freezes. “Sorry, Sowon! Sorry!”

But Sowon just wails louder, arms reaching. “Mama!”

Semi scoops her up immediately, pressing Sowon’s face to her shoulder as she carries her inside. Heewon stands alone in the yard for a second, looking lost, then calls after them, “Mommy? Can we still play?”

Semi glances back, guilt flickering across her face, but she forces a smile. “One more round, okay? I’ll be right back.”

You meet them at the door. Sowon’s arms reach for you the second she sees you, and Semi transfers her over like she’s handing over something fragile. You take her to the bathroom, running a warm cloth over her cheeks and brushing the grass from her dress, and settle her on the couch with her coloring book and a fresh cup of juice.

Heewon begs to keep playing, so Semi goes back out, laughing, cheering, kicking the ball, but you can see the tightness in her shoulders from the kitchen window.

Later, after dinner, baths are divided. You take Heewon - splashing, singing, recounting every goal she “scored” - while Semi stays with Sowon.

You hear them faintly through the cracked door: Semi’s low voice, Sowon’s quiet replies.

When you peek in later, they’re on Sowon’s bed. Semi is sitting cross legged, Sowon tucked against her side, still a little grumpy but listening.

“I’m sorry, sweet girl.” Semi says softly. “I should have listened when you said you didn’t like it. I just… I wanted to make fun memories with you. I got excited and pushed too hard.”

Sowon is quiet for a long moment. Then, in that careful, advanced-for-three voice she sometimes uses, she says:

“You should trust me when I tell you I don’t like it.”

Semi’s breath catches. She nods slowly, eyes shining. “You’re right. I should. I’m sorry.”

Sowon looks up at her, expression softening just a fraction. “I don’t like falling. Or getting dirty. Or running fast.”

Semi smiles, small and tender. “I know. That’s okay. From now on, we’ll make fun memories doing things you like. Coloring, reading, tea parties, building towers; whatever you want.”

Sowon thinks about it, then leans her head against Semi’s arm. “Okay, Mommy.”

Semi wraps an arm around her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Okay.”

Later, when both girls are asleep - Heewon sprawled like she’s mid kick, Sowon curled neatly under her blanket - Semi finds you in the kitchen. She comes up behind you, arms sliding around your waist, chin on your shoulder.

“I messed up today.” She murmurs.

You turn in her arms, cupping her face. “You tried. You love them. That’s what matters.”

She exhales, resting her forehead against your shoulder. “She’s so smart. And careful. And I almost made her feel like that was wrong.”

“She’s perfect.” You whisper. “Just like Heewon’s perfect. They’re different, and we get to love them both exactly as they are.”

Semi nods, eyes closing for a second. When she opens them again, there’s a quiet resolve there.

“Next weekend,” she says, “we’re doing a coloring party. All four of us. No soccer. Just crayons and snacks.”

You smile. “Best idea you’ve had all summer.”

4 Years, 2 Months Old

The questions start innocently enough, the way big things often do with four year olds.

It’s a rainy Saturday afternoon, the kind where the living room feels like a cozy cave - blankets draped over the couch, half finished puzzles on the coffee table, the soft patter of drops against the window. You and Semi are curled up on either end of the sofa, the twins sprawled between you like bookends while watching reruns of their favorite cartoon. Sowon traces mindless patterns on your knee with her finger while Heewon leans against Semi’s side, fiddling with the rings on her Mama’s hand.

Then Sowon looks up, brow furrowed in that serious way she gets when something’s been brewing.

“How come we don’t have a dad?” She asks, blunt as ever.

Heewon nods slowly, eyes flicking to you for confirmation. “Yeah… Everyone else at school has one. Where’s ours?”

You and Semi exchange a glance - the one you’ve practiced in quieter moments, knowing this day would come. Semi gives a small nod: We’ve got this.

You breathe steadily, pulling Sowon a little closer. “Some families have a mom and a dad. Some have just a mom, or just a dad. Some have two moms or two dads. And some have grandparents or aunts or uncles. There’s no one right way to make a family.”

Semi picks up the thread, her voice soft but steady. “We have two moms because that’s how our love worked. Mommy and I fell in love, and we wanted more than anything to have kids - to have you two.”

Sowon tilts her head. “But… how did we get in Mama’s tummy? Without a dad?”

You take a breath, keeping it simple but honest, the way you’d talked about it before. “Mommy gave me a very special gift: her eggs. That’s where the tiny seed goes to make a baby. Then the doctors helped put a seed into mama’s eggs to make you, and put you inside me so I could grow you. It’s called IVF. It’s how a lot of families like ours are made.”

Heewon’s eyes go round. “Mama’s eggs made us?”

Semi smiles, tapping Heewon’s nose gently. “Yep. So you’re half me, half Mommy. Both of you. That’s why you look the same, you started from the same little seed.”

Sowon isn’t done. “Was it easy?”

You hesitate, and Semi catches your eye again. This is the part you’ve wondered how to share, how much truth, how soon. But their faces are so open, so curious. You decide on gentle honesty.

“Not easy.” You say softly. “We tried really hard. A lot of times.”

Semi leans forward, elbows on her knees. “We went to the doctor five whole times, and every time we hoped so much that you were starting to grow. But it didn’t work those times. Mommy got shots and medicine, and we waited and waited… and it was really sad when it didn’t happen.”

Sowon’s mouth forms a small “o.” Heewon’s eyes widen until they’re huge brown pools.

“Five times?” Heewon whispers. “That’s… a lot.”

You nod, throat tight. “It was hard. We cried sometimes. But we never stopped wanting you. We loved you even before you were here.”

Semi’s voice is a little rough now. “And then, on the very last try - the sixth one - we got the biggest surprise. You weren’t one baby… you were two. You both showed up at once.”

The girls are silent for a moment, staring at you both like you’ve just told them a fairy tale with the saddest and happiest parts all mixed together.

Sowon reaches out and touches your cheek gently. “You were sad… because of us?”

“No, baby.” You say quickly, pulling her into your lap. “Never because of you. We were sad because we wanted you so badly. And when you finally came, it was all worth it. More than worth it.”

Heewon crawls over, wedging herself between you and Semi, wrapping one arm around each of your necks. “You tried six times… for us?”

Semi kisses the top of her little head. “We would try a million times if we had to. You two are our wishes come true. Our good luck. Our everything.”

They stay like that for a while, no more questions, just quiet cuddles. Sowon’s fingers trace the old faint stretch marks on your arm absentmindedly. Heewon rests her head on Semi’s chest, listening to her heartbeat.

Eventually, Sowon murmurs, voice small and awestruck, “We’re… really special.”

You and Semi answer together, without hesitation:

“The most special.”

And in the rainy light of that afternoon, with two little girls pressed close and wide eyed with wonder, your family feels whole in a way words could never quite capture.

10 Years, 10 Months Old

The apartment smells like garlic and roasted vegetables tonight - Semi’s attempt at “fancy Tuesday dinner” that the girls usually devour. But the energy is off. Sowon and Heewon have been strange since they got home from school: hushed whispers behind cupped hands in the hallway, sudden silences when you or Semi walk by, the kind of quiet that feels deliberate. At the table, they pick at their plates, trading glances that seem entirely too loaded for ten year olds.

Winnie - the newest addition to the family, a golden retriever with soft curls and an endless appetite - sits at Semi’s feet, tail thumping softly against the floor. He’s oblivious to the tension, eyes fixed on every forkful that moves toward a mouth, whining just loud enough to be adorable. Semi absently slips him a small piece of carrot under the table, but her eyes keep flicking to the girls.

Then it happens.

Sowon leans over and whispers something quick and urgent into Heewon’s ear. Heewon’s fork freezes halfway to her mouth. Her eyes fill instantly, brimming with tears, and before anyone can speak, she shoves her chair back, legs scraping loud against the floor, and bolts for the bathroom. The door slams.

Semi’s smile drops. She sets her fork down carefully.

You meet her eyes across the table. Your own worry is mirrored back at you, sharp and immediate.

Semi turns to Sowon, voice gentle but firm. “Hey, sweet girl. What’s going on?”

Sowon’s shoulders hunch. She stares at her plate, cheeks flushing red. Her fingers twist the hem of her lavender hoodie, the one she’s worn so much the cuffs are fraying. She looks small suddenly, guilty, like she’s been caught with something fragile and broken.

You reach over and rest a hand lightly on her arm. “Sowon, baby, whatever it is, you can tell us. We won’t be mad. We just want to help.”

Sowon’s lip trembles. She glances toward the bathroom, then back at you both. Her voice comes out tiny.

“Heewon’s… sick.”

Semi’s brows draw together. “Sick how?”

Sowon swallows. “She… she had blood… In her underwear. After school. She showed me in the bathroom stall and she was really scared. We didn’t want to tell you because… because what if something’s wrong? Like really wrong? We thought maybe… maybe she was dying or something.”

The words land soft and enormous.

You feel the breath leave you in a quiet rush. Semi’s hand finds yours under the table and squeezes once, hard.

You keep your voice steady. “Okay. Thank you for telling us, Sowon. That was really brave. Nothing is wrong with Heewon, I promise. But she’s probably really scared right now, and she needs us.”

Semi nods, already standing. “Wanna go check on her? I’ll stay with Sowon and clear the table.”

You’re already moving.

At the bathroom door, you knock softly. “Heewon, honey? It’s Mama. Can I come in?”

A sniffle and a long pause, then the lock clicks.

You slip inside. Heewon is sitting on the closed toilet lid, knees drawn up, face buried in her arms. Her sweatshirt sleeves are damp at the cuffs from wiping her eyes. There’s a small balled up wad of toilet paper on the floor, stained pink.

You kneel in front of her, keeping space so she doesn’t feel cornered.

“Hey.” You whisper. “Look at me, troublemaker.”

She lifts her head just enough. Her eyes are red, lashes clumped.

“Nothing is wrong.” You say gently. “You’re not sick. What’s happening to your body is normal. It’s called getting your period. It means you’re growing up, but I know it’s scary when it’s new, especially when it’s blood. We’re going to talk about all of it - me, Mama, you, and Sowon. Together, okay? But first, I need you to come out to the living room so we can include your sister. She’s worried too.”

Heewon sniffles again. “I didn’t want her to know I was scared.”

“She already knows. And she loves you anyway. Come on.”

She lets you help her up, and you take one of your overnight pads from the cabinet and show her how to use it. She nods, listening intently.

In the living room, Semi has already lured Winnie to his bed in the corner with a chew toy, giving the four of you space. The couch is arranged in a loose square: pillows, blankets, the soft lamp on. Semi sits cross legged on the floor, Sowon curled beside her, still looking guilty.

You guide Heewon to sit between you and Semi. Sowon scoots closer until their knees touch.

Semi starts, voice warm and matter-of-fact. “Okay. First thing: Heewon, you’re not sick. What happened is just your period. It’s when your body gets ready to maybe have a baby one day. Way, way in the future. Every month, your uterus builds up a lining to make a cozy spot, and when there’s no baby, it sheds the lining. That’s the blood. It’s not an injury. It’s just… your body doing what bodies do when they grow up.”

You pick up gently. “It usually starts between nine and sixteen. Heewon, you’re one of the earlier ones. That’s okay. It doesn’t mean anything’s wrong, it just means your body is ahead in this one thing.”

Heewon wipes her nose on her sleeve. “Does it hurt?”

“Sometimes.” Semi says honestly. “Cramps can feel like tummy aches. You might feel tired or moody. But we have medicine and heating pads, and we’ll buy you all the chocolate you want - whatever helps. And we’ll show you how to use pads or period underwear or tampons when you’re ready. We’ll show you everything.”

Sowon has been quiet, listening with wide eyes. Then she speaks, her voice small.

“Why didn’t I get mine?”

The room stills.

Sowon looks down at her hands. “We’ve always been the same. Same birthday. Same class. Same everything. If Heewon’s growing up… why amn’t I?”

Her voice cracks on the last word.

Heewon’s eyes fill again, this time for her sister.

Semi reaches for Sowon’s hand. “Baby... Growing up isn’t a race. Bodies don’t get the memo that twins are supposed to do everything together. Sometimes one starts puberty first. Sometimes one learns to ride a bike first, or loses a tooth first. It doesn’t mean you’re behind, it just means your body is on its own timeline.”

You slide an arm around Sowon’s shoulders. “And you know what? Heewon still needs you. Probably now more than ever. She’s going to need her sister to help her figure this out. To laugh about the weird cramps, to remind her where she put the pads, to tell her she’s still beautiful even when she feels gross. You’re not gonna be left behind, you’re her partner in this too.”

Sowon sniffles. “But… what if I never get it? Or what if it comes when I’m not ready?”

“Then we’ll handle that together.” Semi says. “Just like we handle everything. One step at a time. And if it feels unfair or scary, you tell us. No secrets, okay? Even if you’re embarrassed.”

Sowon nods slowly. Then she looks at Heewon. “Are you okay?”

Heewon wipes her eyes. “Kinda. It still feels weird. But… not as scary now.”

Sowon scoots closer until their shoulders touch. “I’ll help you. Like… I’ll remind you to bring pads to school. And we can make a code word if you need to leave class or something.”

Heewon gives a watery smile. “Like ‘pineapple’?”

“Pineapple.” Sowon agrees.

Semi laughs softly. “Pineapple it is.”

You pull them both in - Heewon on one side, Sowon on the other - until Semi joins and the four of you are a tangled, warm heap on the couch. Winnie trots over, tail wagging, and rests his head on Semi’s knee, content now that the tension has eased.

Heewon whispers into your shoulder. “Thanks, Mama.”

Sowon echoes it, quieter. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Semi presses a kiss to the top of Sowon’s head, then Heewon’s. “Your moms have got you. Both of you. Always.”

In that moment, with one daughter stepping into something new, the other holding tight to the sameness they’ve always known, and two moms right there in the middle, you feel the quiet strength of it all.

They’re growing.

They’re still yours.

And they’ll always have each other - and you - to walk through every uncertain step.

Fourteen Years, 1 Month Old

The apartment is a soft chaos of late afternoon light and nostalgia. It’s a lazy Saturday in early spring, and the seasonal purge of closets has become an annual ritual. The girls are fourteen now, all long limbs and sharp opinions. The three of you are kneeling on the bedroom floor, surrounded by piles of outgrown clothes: tiny lavender hoodies from when Sowon was six, butter-yellow tees Heewon refused to part with until last year, soccer cleats and ballet slipper that hold more memories than you’d think possible.

Heewon holds up a faded pink dress with puffed sleeves - something she wore to her kindergarten graduation - and snorts. “Remember when I thought this made me look like a princess? I looked like a cupcake exploded on me.”

Sowon laughs, folding a pair of jeans that barely reached her shins back then. “You still do. Just taller.”

You smile, sorting socks that no longer match anyone’s feet, content in the easy rhythm of it. Then Heewon turns to toss a too-small sweater into the donate pile, and catches your eye. She flashes that crooked little grin, the one where one corner of her mouth lifts higher than the other, dimple flashing, eyes crinkling just so, and it hits you like a fist to the sternum.

All you see is Semi.

The tilt of the head, the spark of mischief in the smile, the way her brows lift in silent challenge - it’s Semi at twenty three, smirking across a crowded bar the night you met; Semi at twenty five, leaning against the kitchen counter after your first big fight, trying to look tough while her lip trembled; Semi now, still wearing that same grin when she knows she’s won an argument without saying a word.

Your vision blurs, heat rushing behind your eyes.

Heewon’s smile falters. “Ma? You okay?”

Sowon looks up from the pile, instantly alert. “You’re crying.”

You blink hard, but the tears are already spilling, unstoppable.

“I’m fine.” You manage, voice croaking. “I’m more than fine. I just-I looked at Heewon and… I saw your mom so clearly it took my breath away.”

They exchange a glance, their twin telepathy still flawless after all these years, then scramble over the clothes to reach you. Four arms wrap around you at once, awkward and perfect, chins on your shoulders, hairs tickling your cheek.

Heewon mumbles into your neck. “I didn’t mean to make you sad, Ma.”

“I’m not sad, baby.” You whisper, laughing wetly. “I’m… overwhelmed. In the best way.”

You pull back just enough to really look at them.

They’re so tall now, both of them already meeting your eyes when they stand straight, and you realize with a fresh pang that they’re shooting up toward Semi’s height. The same rangy build, the same easy grace in their limbs, the same way they carry themselves like they already know the world is theirs to take apart and put back together.

You place one hand on each of their backs, feeling the sharp wings of shoulder blades, and guide them gently to their feet.

“Come on.” You say. “Living room. I need to show you something.”

They follow without question, curious now instead of worried. You settle them on the couch, Sowon cross legged, Heewon sprawled with her legs over the armrest, then grab your laptop from the coffee table. You sit between them, open the photos app, and scroll back through the years until you hit the beginning of the story.

The first picture loads: you and Semi at a bar in your early dating days. Semi’s arm is slung around your shoulders, piercings glinting in the sunset, that same crooked grin on her face as she leans in to kiss your temple. You’re laughing, head thrown back, completely unguarded.

Heewon gasps. “Whoa. That’s Mom.”

Sowon leans closer. “She looks exactly like us.”

You click forward. Semi at a concert, headbanging with her tongue out. Semi asleep on the couch. Semi in the hospital room the day the twins were born, eyes red and shining, holding two tiny bundles like they were made of glass.

The girls are silent for a long stretch, scrolling through the decade and a half of memories with wide eyes.

Sowon finally speaks, voice hushed. “Mom cloned herself.”

Heewon nods slowly. “We really do look like her. Like… extremely.”

You swallow around the lump in your throat. “You do. More every year. The way you smile, the way you move, the way you both get that stubborn little crease between your brows when you’re thinking hard. It’s all her. And it’s beautiful. Every time I look at you two, I see the person I fell in love with when I was barely older than you are now. It reminds me how lucky I am. How lucky we are.”

Heewon wipes her eyes with the sleeve of her hoodie.

Sowon gazes into the distance, then she speaks. “Does it make you sad? That we look like her and not… you?”

You shake your head fiercely. “Never. It makes me grateful. You carry so much of her - her fire, her heart, her ridiculous sense of humor. And you still have pieces of me too - the way you both love stories, the way you notice tiny details, the way you’re patient with Winnie even when he’s being a pest. You’re the best of both of us. And that’s the miracle.”

Sowon rests her head on your shoulder. “We love you, Ma.“

Heewon presses closer on your other side. “Yeah. Even when Mom steals all the blankets and pretends she doesn’t.”

You laugh, pulling them both in until you’re a messy tangle of limbs and love.

From the hallway comes the sound of the front door opening, and Semi’s voice calling out. “We’re back! Winnie finally conquered his fear of that squirrel at the dog park!”

The girls pull away just enough to grin at each other, then at you.

Heewon whispers, “Should we tell her she cloned herself?”

Sowon smirks, that God damn Semi smirk. “Let’s see how long it takes her to notice we’re staring.”

“Deal.”

And as Semi walks in - tall, pierced, still wearing that same easy confidence you fell for all those years ago - carrying a paper bag of groceries in one hand and Winnie’s leash in the other. She stops in the doorway, taking in the three of you curled together on the couch, the open laptop glowing with old photos, the way the girls’ eyes are shining and your cheeks are still damp.

Her gaze flicks from face to face, and something soft and wondering flickers across her features. She sets the bag down slowly, lets the leash slip from her fingers. Winnie trots over to his bed without protest.

Semi crosses the room quietly and sinks onto the couch beside you, knees brushing yours. She looks at the screen, at the photo of herself holding the newborn twins, and then back at Heewon and Sowon, who are watching her with identical, mischievous grins.

She exhales a small, disbelieving laugh, eyes already glassy.

“Look at you…” She whispers, voice thick and reverent. “My girls.”

She reaches out, one hand finding Heewon’s cheek, the other Sowon’s, thumbs brushing gently over the same dimples, the same sharp jawlines, the same dark, sparkling eyes that have been hers since the beginning.

“So much like me.” She murmurs, almost to herself. “Yet you’re still… you.”

The girls lean into her touch at the exact same moment, and Semi pulls them both into her chest, arms wrapping around them like she’s afraid they might vanish if she lets go. Their dark heads tuck under her chin, hoodies rustling softly, small contented sighs escaping them as they melt against her.

You stay where you are, just a little apart, watching the three loves of your life wrapped together in a single, breathing knot of warmth and belonging. The late spring light spills across them in soft gold, catching in their dark hair, turning the edges of their silhouettes into something almost luminous. Your heart feels too big for your chest, aching and overflowing.

When Semi lifts her head just enough to meet your eyes over the girls’ shoulders, her eyes are steady, shining and so achingly tender. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to.

Her lips move in the smallest, softest motion: Love you.

You feel the full weight of it settle in your bones: the family you’ve built, the love that grew through every tear and every heartbreak, the three identical faces that surround you now, carrying pieces of both of you into forever.

You wouldn’t trade a single second of it.

︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶

She wears them constantly: a thick, matte band on her thumb, slim stacked silver on her index, a signet style skull on her middle finger (tiny etched details you’ve memorized with your tongue), and a plain cool band on her ring finger just because it looks good. Sometimes a new one appears, like a thin chain that drapes between two fingers like solid sin forged of metal, or a hammered band that leaves faint impressions on your thighs when she grips too hard.

She knows.

Of course she knows.

It started with the smallest things. You’d watch the way her fingers drummed on the armrest during movie nights, the soft clink of the metal blending with the low bass of whatever soundtrack was playing, and your thighs would press together under the blanket. Then it was the casual brush of her knuckles against yours when she passed you a drink, her rings cool against your warm skin, your breath hitching like you’d just been touched somewhere far more intimate.

Then the teasing began.

Semi’s always been observant, but with you she’s merciless.

“You really like my hands, don’t you princess?” She murmured one evening when your friends were distracted, voice pitched low, only for your ears. She flexed her long fingers slowly in front of your face so you could watch every tendon slide, every ring catch the light, before casually resting her hand on your knee under the table. “You just can’t stop staring. Bet you’re imagining these fingers somewhere else… spreading you open, curling inside you.”

You sputtered denials, cheeks burning, insisting it was nothing and you were just zoning out. But Semi never believed you for a second.

Now the others are gone.

Her room is quiet except for your uneven breathing. She sits on the edge of the bed, still fully dressed, while you stand between her thighs stripped down to your panties, skin already flushed and sensitive. The power imbalance is deliciously unfair.

She lifts one hand slowly, letting you drink in every detail: the elegant length of her fingers, the faint scars from guitar strings and careless teenage years, the way the veins stand out when she flexes.

“Look.” She says, voice husky and amused. She spreads her fingers wide, silver gleaming under the lamplight.

“These fingers-” she curls them once, slow, showing off the flex of muscle “-feel so good when I stretch you. And my thumb…” She wiggles it, thick band catching light. “…Mmm, you love when I press it right on your clit, don’t you? The metal is always cold, but God, it gets so warm from how wet you always are for me. And you always whimper the second it touches you.”

Your knees tremble.

“These,” she curls her index, rings shifting with a faint clink, “leave the prettiest little marks on your thighs when I hold you open. You pretend to hate the bruises but I know you trace them for days, don’t you?”

The signet ring on her middle finger gets a slow twist. “This one’s my favorite for inside you. The edge catches just right when I curl, drags along that sweet spot until you’re crying and clenching around me.”

She finally reaches for you, sliding her palm up your bare stomach, cool rings trailing icy paths over your heated flesh. You shiver violently, a soft sound escaping.

“Jesus...” She laughs, soft and fond. “One look at my hands and you’re already shaking. I haven’t even touched you yet, baby.”

She hooks two ringed fingers under the waistband of your panties and drags them down your thighs in one slow pull, letting the metal scrape lightly along your skin. When her long fingers brush the sensitive backs of your knees, you whine involuntarily.

“Step out.” She orders.

You obey instantly.

She spreads her thighs wider, pulling you forward until you straddle one of them. Her free hand cups your jaw, thumb ring pressing into the soft skin under your chin, tilting your face so you have to meet her eyes.

“Show me how much you love them.” She murmurs. “These fingers. These rings. These hands.”

She slides her other hand between your legs without warning, middle and ring fingers parting your folds, cool metal kissing slick heat. Her palm presses flush against your clit, rings nestling against you while her fingers sink deep.

You gasp, hips jerking forward on instinct.

“There she is…” Semi breathes, watching every flicker across your face. She doesn’t thrust yet, just lets you feel the fullness, the weight of her fingers inside you, the texture of engraved silver warming fast against your walls.

You rock helplessly against her palm, chasing more.

“Use your words, baby.” She coaxes. “Tell me what you want from my hands.”

Your voice cracks. “Your-your fingers. All of them. Inside. Please.”

She smirks, victorious.

“Gooood girl.”

Then she moves, slow, deep strokes, rings dragging along every sensitive inch, long fingers curling perfectly. The signet ring catches that spot again and again, sending sparks up your spine.

“Look how pretty you take them.” She whispers, drinking in the feeling of your walls fluttering around her knuckles. “All because of these hands. These fingers. Who knew they’d drive you this mad?”

You can’t answer, only cling to her shoulders, ride her hand, moan brokenly every time her rings shift, every time her thumb presses a firm circle over your clit.

She adds a third finger, long and elegant, stretching you further, more metal, more pressure, more her.

“Bet you’d cum just from me letting you suck on them.” She teases, voice rough with want. “Your glossy little lips wrapped around my fingers, tasting yourself while I watch.”

The image alone nearly breaks you. Semi feels you clench hard around her and laughs, the sound low, dark, delighted.

“Yeah? You like that idea?” She pumps faster, rings clinking faintly with every thrust, thumb never leaving your clit. “Then how about after this, I have you clean my whole hand. Every single finger, every single ring. You can thank them one by one while you’re still shaking.”

That thought shatters you.

You cum with a broken cry, soaking her fingers, her palm, her rings, her jeans. She works you through it mercilessly - long strokes, curling fingers, circling thumb - drawing it out until you’re whimpering from overstimulation, thighs trembling around her hand.

When she finally eases out her fingers are glistening obscenely, absolutely dripping with your release, rings shining wetly. She holds them up between your faces, spreading them so you can see every detail.

“Baby… Look at the mess you made.” She says, almost proud. Then she brings them to your lips. “Clean up, princess. Show me how grateful you are for the hands that own you.”

You part your lips without hesitation, tongue tracing every long digit, every knuckle, every engraved ring, tasting yourself and metal and the faint salt of her skin. Semi watches with hooded eyes, voice a wrecked whisper.

“That’s my good girl, obsessed with my hands… and God, I’m obsessed with what they do to you.”

She eases you down on to the bed slowly, guiding your trembling body until you’re curled against her chest, legs still draped over her thigh. Your breathing is ragged, little hiccuping sighs that make her heart do something soft and stupid in her chest.

She doesn’t say anything at first. She doesn’t need to. She just wraps both arms around you, one splaying wide across your bare back, the other cradling the nape of your neck. Her rings are still warm from being inside you, the metal carrying your heat now instead of stealing it. She presses her lips to your temple, lingering there, breathing you in like she’s trying to memorize the exact scent of you post orgasm: sweet sweat, sex, and the faint vanilla of your gloss.

“You okay?” She murmurs, voice stripped of all its earlier teasing. It’s low, gentle, the kind of quiet she only ever uses when it’s just the two of you and the rest of the world has ceased to exist.

You nod against her collarbone, too blissed out and boneless for words yet. Your cheek rests over her heartbeat, steady and strong, grounding.

Soon she starts moving her hand - the same one that just ruined you - in slow, soothing strokes up and down your spine. Her long fingers trace lazy patterns, rings occasionally catching on the tiny ridges of your vertebrae, but never hard, just present. Reminding you she’s still here. That she’s got you.

After a minute she shifts just enough to reach over and tug the blanket from the foot of the bed, draping it over your shoulders. The fabric is soft, and it smells like her laundry detergent and the faint smoke from last week’s late night balcony session. You burrow closer instinctively.

Her free hand finds your hair next.

Her fingers thread slowly, rings catching faintly on strands as she pets you in long, soothing strokes, untangling little knots with the patience of someone who has nowhere else to be. Every pass is deliberate, root to tip, gentle scratches at the base of your skull, then back up again. It’s hypnotic. You melt further into her with every stroke.

You lift one shaky hand to find hers, the one still resting against your neck. Without thinking, you lace your fingers through hers, thumb brushing over the thick band on her thumb, then tracing the slim stack on her index, circling the tiny signet on her middle finger like it’s a talisman.

She lets you play. Doesn’t tease. Doesn’t pull away.

Instead she turns her hand so you have better access, flexing her fingers just enough for you to feel every subtle shift of muscle and tendon under the skin. You map her knuckles one by one, following the faint scars from old guitar strings, pressing your fingertips to the calluses on her pads like you’re learning her by touch alone.

She watches you with soft eyes, the cocky smirk long gone and replaced by something quieter, something that lives only in these after moments.

“Still obsessed?” She whispers, lips brushing your hairline.

You nod, small and sleepy. “Always.”

A tiny huff of laughter vibrates through her chest. “Good, ‘cause these hands aren’t going anywhere.”

She keeps petting your hair in that same slow rhythm, while you keep tracing her fingers, thumb to pinky and back again, like it’s the most important thing in the world.

Eventually your eyelids grow heavy and your breathing evens out. The last thing you feel before sleep claims you is Semi pressing one final kiss to your forehead, her ringed hand cradling the back of your head like she’s holding the entire universe.

“Sleep, princess.” She murmurs against your skin. “I’ve got you.”

And in the quiet dark of her room, with her heartbeat under your cheek and her fingers still tangled gently in your hair, you know she means it.

︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶

The specialist monitors closely, scanning for any signs of imbalance, but so far everything is textbook. The twins are thriving, sharing their placenta like harmonious siblings already. You cry at every appointment, happy tears every time those dual rhythms fill the room. Semi always chokes up too, her tough exterior cracking as she squeezes your hand.

Laughter comes easier now, the grief of those failed attempts fading like old bruises, replaced by shared daydreams. The two of you spend evenings debating names over dinner. Semi pushes for edgy ones like “Jax” and “Ryder,” while you lean toward classics. You browse tiny outfits online together until you’re both giggling at the absurdity of it all.

By week twelve, as the nausea eases and energy trickles back into your veins, you start to glow - literally. Your skin is radiant, and your eyes shine with an inner light. Semi notices, pulling you close in the kitchen one morning, her piercings catching the sunlight as she grins.

“Look at you, mama. You’re unstoppable.”

And for the first time in months, you believe it. The first trimester tests you both, but it forges you stronger, a team unbreakable, ready for whatever the next chapters bring.

Before you know it you’re sixteen weeks along, far enough into the second trimester that the nausea has mostly retreated and the exhaustion has softened into a manageable hum. The twins are growing fast… Your belly has rounded into an unmistakable swell, the kind that makes strangers smile at you in the grocery store and friends reach out to touch without asking. Semi teases you about it constantly, calling you her “little planet,” hands always drifting to rest on the curve like she’s magnetized to it.

One afternoon, while she’s at work, you’re curled on the couch in one of her oversized hoodies, scrolling mindlessly through baby name forums while rubbing slow circles over your bump. It’s become a habit, this constant gentle touch, like you’re letting them know you’re here.

Then something happens.

A flutter. Not gas, not a muscle twitch, something more distinct. A tiny push from the inside, like a bubble popping against your palm. Your breath catches. You freeze, hand stilling, waiting to see if it was real or if you imagined it.

Then it comes again, stronger this time, a firm little nudge right under your fingers, low on the left side where Baby B always seems to settle during ultrasounds.

Your eyes fill instantly. The phone slips from your other hand and thumps softly onto the cushion. A overwhelmed sob is climbing up your throat before you can stop it, full of everything you’ve been carrying for months; relief, gratitude, love so big it hurts. You curl forward instinctively, arms wrapping around your belly as if you could hug them back. Tears spill hot and fast, soaking into the fabric of the hoodie. But you’re not sad, not even close, the feeling is just too much to hold quietly. You cry like someone whose heart has just been handed the proof that every second of pain was worth it.

You stay like that, folded around your bump, whispering shaky little secrets to the life inside. “Hi, baby… Hi, sweet one, Mama’s here… you’re really in there.”

You stay that way until you hear the front door open, and you realize Semi’s home.

Her keys clatter onto the entry table, and her boots thud once, twice, then nothing. Silence. You can picture her standing in the doorway, spotting you balled up on the couch, face hidden, shoulders trembling.

“Baby?” Her voice cracks, panic rising fast. You hear her bag hit the floor, footsteps hurrying across the room. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong? Why didn’t you call me?”

She drops to her knees beside the couch, hands hovering like she’s afraid to touch you in case something’s breaking. Her face is pale, eyes wide as she searches your curled form. “Talk to me, love. Are you hurting? Did something happen? You should’ve called. I-I would’ve come straight home-”

You lift your head then, and the moment she sees your face, she freezes.

You’re crying, yes, skin splotchy, lashes clumped, nose red, but you’re smiling. The brightest, most radiant smile she’s ever seen on you, trembling and tear streaked and utterly luminous.

You reach for her hand and guide it quickly under the hoodie, pressing her palm flat against the left side of your bare bump.

“One of them kicked.” You whisper, voice thick and wobbly with joy. “I think it was B.”

Semi’s breath stops entirely. Her eyes drop to where her hand rests, fingers splayed wide and trembling against your skin. She doesn’t move, she just waits, terrified to hope after all the times hope has bruised you both.

Then it happens again, that same firm little nudge, pushing right into her palm like a hello meant just for her.

Her face crumples.

A broken sound escapes her and she folds forward, forehead dropping to your belly as her shoulders shake.

“Oh my God.” She chokes out, voice muffled against your skin. “Hi, little one. Hi.”

You thread your fingers through her hair, both of you crying now, quiet and messy and perfect. She presses kiss after kiss to your bump, whispering greetings and promises between them, tears dripping onto your hoodie.

When she finally lifts her head, her eyes are red rimmed, cheeks wet, but she’s grinning so wide it must hurt.

“You scared the absolute shit out of me.” She says, laughing through the tears as she climbs onto the couch to wrap around you properly. “I thought something was wrong.”

“I know.” You murmur, nuzzling into her neck. “I’m sorry. I just couldn’t stop.”

“No, no. Don’t apologize.” She kisses your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, then settles her hand back over the spot Baby B favors. “This is the best thing I’ve ever come home to.”

You stay tangled like that for the rest of the evening, both of you waiting for the next tiny kick, gasping and laughing every time it comes. The world outside can wait. Right now, it’s just the four of you, finally starting to speak the same language.

Soon enough the halfway mark glows on the calendar like a quiet milestone, twenty weeks rounding your belly into a proper dome. It’s impossible to hide now, and also impossible to keep you and Semi’s hands off. Baby B has turned into a tiny acrobat, kicking and rolling regularly, especially in the evenings when you’re winding down. You laugh about it with Semi, calling B the “party twin” and joking that they’re already practicing for their future mosh pit debut.

Baby A, though, is quieter. Gentler. Their movements come in softer waves, subtle shifts and slow stretches that you have to concentrate to feel. Some days you feel them often, other days… hardly at all. The doctors say it’s normal, especially with identical twins sharing a placenta, that one can be more active while the other conserves energy. Growth scans show both are measuring perfectly, heartbeats strong and steady, fluid levels balanced. No signs of TTTS, no discordance. Everything, on paper, is fine.

But logic doesn’t always quiet a mother’s heart.

It’s late one Thursday night. You’ve both done the bedtime routine, teeth brushed, lights dimmed, the window cracked to let in the cool air. Semi’s in an old tank top and sweats, sliding into bed beside you, reaching immediately for the hem of your sleep shirt to push it up and rest her hand on your bare belly like she does every night. You’re on your side, facing her, one arm tucked under your pillow.

She’s quiet for a minute, thumb tracing slow arcs over your skin, waiting for the familiar thump-thump of B’s evening performance. Sure enough, it comes, a solid kick against Semi’s palm that makes you both smile.

“There’s our little rockstar.” She murmurs, voice low and fond.

You huff a soft laugh, but it fades quickly. Your eyes stay on her face, watching the lamplight catch on her piercings. You’ve been carrying this worry around for days, trying to talk yourself out of it, but it’s only grown heavier.

“Semi?” You whisper, voice already trembling.

She hears the waver immediately, and her gaze sharpens, hand stilling. “What is it? What’s wrong, baby?”

You swallow, blinking fast as tears gather without permission.

“It’s… It’s A.” Your voice cracks on their name. “B moves all the time. Like, constantly. But A… they’re so still most days. I know the doctor said it’s okay, that personalities are different even in the womb, but… what if something’s wrong? What if they’re not getting enough, or-”

Your words dissolve into a quiet sob you try to muffle against the pillow. Tears slip hot down your cheeks, and you curl a little tighter, both arms wrapping protectively around your bump. Semi shifts closer instantly, wrapping you up, one arm sliding under your neck, the other splayed wide over your belly.

“Oh, love.” She breathes, pressing her lips to your forehead. “Come here. Listen to me, they’re okay. You heard the specialist on Tuesday. Both heartbeats are perfect. Both are growing on track. A is just chill. They’re the mellow one, yeah? Saving their energy for when they come out and realize B’s been hogging the spotlight.”

You let out a wet laugh despite yourself, but the worry clings.

“I know.” You whisper. “I know all of that. But I just… I wish I could feel them more. Like I do with B.”

Semi’s quiet for a moment, her thumb resuming its gentle strokes, lower now, over the right side where Baby A usually nestles.

“I get it.” She says softly. “I do. Fuck, we’ve earned the right to be scared.” She presses a kiss to your temple. “But they’re in there, safe and sound. Both of them. And they know you. They know your voice. They know your heart. They know when you’re worried.”

You close your eyes, trying to breathe through the ache in your chest, focusing on the warmth of her hand and her words.

And then-

The tiniest movement. Barely more than a whisper. A delicate press against the right side of your belly, directly under Semi’s fingertips. Not a kick, more like a gentle nudge, a quiet “I’m here, Mama.”

Your breath catches.

Semi freezes too. Her eyes widen as she feels it, the faintest flutter, but unmistakable.

“There.” She whispers, voice thick. “There they are.”

Fresh tears spill, but they’re different now, relief flooding in so fast it leaves you shaky. You cover Semi’s hand with both of yours, pressing it closer, waiting. A second later it comes again, another soft shift, tiny but huge.

A laugh bubbles out of you, giddy through your sobs.

“Hi, my sweet A.” You breathe, voice trembling with wonder. “Thank you.”

Semi grins through her own glassy eyes, leaning down to press her lips to the spot where the movement came from. “Knew you were listening, A.” She murmurs against your skin. “Don’t scare mama like that, yeah? She loves you too much.”

You sniffle, reaching up to thread your fingers through her hair.

“They heard me.” You say, awed.

“Of course they did.” Semi lifts her head, kissing away the tears on your cheeks. “They know exactly who you are.”

The worry ebbs away like a tide going out, leaving only warmth behind. Baby B gives an indignant kick on the left side as if reminding everyone they’re still the louder twin, and you both laugh quietly, foreheads pressed together. Semi pulls the blanket higher around you, keeping her hand exactly where it is, right over Baby A’s favorite spot.

“They’re both in there.” She repeats into the dark. “And they’re perfect. Just like mama.”

You fall asleep like that, her palm a steady anchor on your belly, waiting for the next gentle hello from the quieter twin who, tonight, chose the perfect moment to speak up.

By now, the appointment schedule has become as familiar as breathing. Every two weeks you face the same clinic, the same softly lit ultrasound room, and the same kind faced tech named Mara who’s been with you since that very first heartbeat scan. She’s seen you both at your most vulnerable, witnessing tears of relief and tears of fear, and she’s always handled it with the perfect balance of professionalism and warmth.

Today, twenty two weeks along, you’re both a little quieter on the drive over. Curiosity has been building for weeks. At the last appointment, when Mara had gently asked, “Still keeping the genders a surprise?” you’d both nodded firmly, hands squeezed tight. Back then it felt right to savor the mystery a little longer, but lately, you and Semi have started whispering about names, clothes, what the twins might be like. The not knowing has shifted from sweet to restless, and last night, Semi murmured against your neck, “I kinda… really wanna know now. You laughed softly, kissed her, and agreed.

Now you’re on the exam table, shirt pushed up, gel spread across your bump. Semi stands at your head like always, one hand laced with yours, the other gently stroking your hair. The twins are active today, Baby B kicking up a storm as usual, Baby A giving quieter little nudges in response.

Mara smiles at the screen as she starts the scan, checking measurements first, then fluid levels and blood flow through the shared placenta.

“Everything looks beautiful.” She says, smiling as she always does when things are good. “Growth is perfect. Heartbeats are strong, 172 and 176 today. You’ve got two very happy babies in there.”

You both exhale the quiet breath you’ve been holding.

Once the medical portion is done, Mara adjusts the wand for the anatomy check, moving methodically. She pauses, glancing at you both with that familiar warm smile.

“We still don’t want to know the genders?” She asks casually, the same question she’s posed the last few times.

The room goes still for a beat.

Semi’s thumb strokes over your knuckles. She glances down at you, a tiny nervous grin tugging at her lips. You give her hand a gentle squeeze and nod, a silent yes.

“Actually…” She says, voice quieter than usual, a little shy. “We changed our minds. We… we’d really like to know.”

Mara’s whole face lights up. Her eyes widen, and she lets out a delighted little laugh, pressing her free hand to her chest.

“Oh my gosh, finally! I’ve been dying over here!” She’s practically bouncing in her rolling stool. “I’ve known for weeks and it’s been killing me not to accidentally say anything.”

You laugh, the sound wobbly with sudden nerves and anticipation. Semi huffs a soft, disbelieving chuckle too, cheeks flushing. Mara turns the screen more fully toward you both, zooming in carefully between the legs of one baby first, then the other. She points gently with the cursor.

“See these lines right here? Three little lines… classic hamburger sign.” She moves to the second twin, showing the same clear image. “Same here. Congratulations, mamas, you’re having girls.”

The word lands soft and perfect.

Girls.

Semi’s hand tightens in yours so hard it almost hurts, but you barely feel it. Your breath catches, eyes flooding instantly. You turn to look at her and find her staring at the screen, lips parted, tears already slipping free.

“Girls.” She whispers, voice cracking on the single word. She looks down at you, eyes shining. “We’re having daughters.”

You nod, unable to speak, tears streaming silently as you smile up at her. She leans down immediately, pressing her forehead to yours, a quiet sob shaking her shoulders.

Mara gives you a moment, her own eyes suspiciously glassy as she quietly prints extra pictures. When she hands over the strips, two perfect profiles labeled “Baby A (girl)” and “Baby B (girl)”, her smile is enormous.

“I knew they were girls.” She whispers conspiratorially. “They’ve been showing off proudly for weeks. I’m so excited for you both.”

Semi laughs through her tears, taking the pictures with trembling fingers. “Thank you… for everything.”

You manage a watery “Yeah… thank you” around the lump in your throat.

That night, you’re both in bed early, lights dimmed to just the glow of the bedside lamp, ultrasound pictures propped carefully against the headboard like a tiny shrine. Baby A and Baby B, your daughters, stare back in grainy black and white, perfect little profiles that already feel like home.

You’re lying on your side, belly propped with a pillow, Semi spooned behind you with her arm draped over your waist. For a long time you just talk - soft, giddy whispers about names (she’s still pushing for something with an edge, you’re holding out for ones you can imagine calling across a playground), about tiny dresses and bows, about whether they’ll inherit her smirk. The excitement is electric, bubbling up in quiet laughter and stolen kisses.

Then the conversation slows, the kind of lull that happens when words start to feel too small for what’s in your chest. Semi is quiet for a while. You feel her draw a slow breath against your back, like she’s gathering something fragile.

“Hey.” She murmurs. “I need to say something… kinda big.”

You turn your head on the pillow to look at her over your shoulder. Her eyes are fixed on your belly, lashes casting shadows on her cheeks, lip ring catching the lamplight. She looks younger suddenly, vulnerable in a way you’ve only glimpsed in flashes.

She swallows, fingers tracing an absent pattern on your skin. “I’ve never really said it out loud. Not like this.” Another breath. “But… using my eggs… knowing they’re… mine, like, really mine…”

Her voice cracks on the last word, and she presses her lips together like she’s trying to hold herself together. You shift carefully onto your back so you can see her fully. She follows the movement, propping herself on an elbow, hand never leaving your bump.

“I didn’t realize how much it would mean until today.” She says, eyes watering now. “When Mara said ‘girls’… and I looked at those pictures… I just-” She stops, a quiet laugh escaping, partly a sob. “They have my DNA… Part of me is growing inside you right now. And I can’t stop thinking… what if they look like me?”

The wonder in her voice is childlike, raw, stripped of every layer of cool she usually wears. Her brows draw together, like the thought is too big to hold.

“What if they have my nose?” She whispers. “Or my goofy smile? Or… what if one of them gets that same little freckle I have on my neck?” Her voice drops even lower, almost reverent. “I keep picturing tiny versions of me…”

A tear slips free, tracing down her cheek. You feel your own eyes flood instantly, heart swelling so full it aches. This side of her, this open, trembling wonder, is rare and precious, something she usually guards behind smirks and sarcasm. Seeing her lay it bare like this undoes you.

You reach up, cupping her cheek, thumb brushing over the damp trail.

“I think they will.” You whisper fiercely. “I think they’re going to have the pieces of you I already love so much. Your strength. Your heart. The way you look at the world like it’s full of music no one else hears.”

She leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut for a second.

“I never thought I’d have this.” She admits, voice small. “Biological kids… who are mine. Who might look in the mirror one day and see me staring back. And the fact that it’s with you… that you’re carrying them…” She shakes her head slowly, awed. “It feels like some kind of impossible gift.”

You pull her down gently until her forehead rests against yours, both of you sniffling quietly now, noses brushing.

“This is what we fought for.” You breathe.

She nods, tucking herself against your side, head on your shoulder, hand returning to its rightful place over your daughters.

“I love you.” She says into the quiet, simple and devastating. “All three of you, so, so much.”

You kiss the top of her head, holding her close. “I love you too. And I love this side of you, the one that lets me see how big your heart really is.”

She doesn’t answer with words, just presses closer, fingers interlaced with yours over the place where your girls are dreaming.

The days after the gender reveal blur into a soft, golden haze. You’re both riding the high of knowing they’re girls, and the apartment fills with the quiet hum of possibility. Takeout containers pile up because neither of you wants to spend time in the kitchen when you could be on the couch instead talking about names.

At first Semi’s suggestions come fast and fierce, the way she approaches everything she loves.

“Raven.” She says one evening, sprawled on her back with her head in your lap, fingers drumming on your bump. “Or Harley. Something badass. They’re gonna be our kids, they need names that turn heads.”

You laugh, running your fingers through her hair. “They’ll turn heads anyway. They’ve got you as a mom.”

She grins up at you, piercings glinting. “Exactly. Gotta give them a head start.”

The next day it’s “Jett” and “Lyric” and “Tempest.” You let her run with it, amused by how seriously she’s taking the rock star vibe, but something in you keeps circling back to a quieter wish.

One night, about four days after the ultrasound, you’re curled up in bed again. The lamp is low, the girls are active, and you and Semi are quiet, listening to them. Then, you finally say it.

“I’ve been thinking.” You start softly, tracing the curve of your belly. “I love how excited you get about the cool names. I do. But… I really want something meaningful for them. Something that remembers how much we wanted them. How hard we fought.”

Semi goes very still beside you.

You keep going, voice barely above a whisper. “Every negative test, every tear, every time I thought it might never happen… I wished for them so fiercely. I don’t want to forget that. I want their names to carry it.”

The room is silent except for the soft sounds of the city outside. You glance over and see Semi staring at the ceiling, eyes shining, lips pressed together like she’s holding something in. A single tear is welling in her eyelid.

She doesn’t speak for a long moment.

Then she exhales, slow and shaky, and turns to face you. Her voice is rough when it comes.

“You’re right.” She says quietly. “After everything… after all those mornings I held you while you cried, all those nights I prayed to whatever was listening that the next one would work… they deserve names that mean something.”

She reaches for your hand, lacing your fingers together over your belly.

“Tell me what you’re thinking.”

You swallow, heart full. “For Baby A, the quieter one, the one who waited until I was scared to let me know she was okay… I’ve been thinking about… Sowon.”

Semi’s eyes fill again, and she echos you softly. “Sowon… That’s… That’s Korean.”

“Yeah.” You murmur. “I thought, maybe we could honor your heritage… And it means ‘wish.’ Because she… she’s the fulfillment of every wish I’ve ever had about being a mom.”

Semi’s nods slowly, thumb stroking over your knuckles.

“That’s perfect.” She whispers. “Sowon. Our little wish.”

Then she takes a breath, gathering herself. “Okay, then. For Baby B… the firecracker who’s already running the show…” A small, watery smile tugs at her lips. “What about Heewon? It means ‘happiness’ or ‘good fortune’, like a gift of luck. Because that last try… we said one more, and out of nowhere, out of pure luck, it split and gave us two. She’s our double happiness. Our miracle that showed up like the universe finally said yes.”

You feel tears slip free again, running down your cheeks hot and fast as you nod at Semi with a watery smile. The names wash over you both like something sacred.

“Sowon and Heewon.” You test them together, voice trembling. “Our girls.”

Semi leans in, pressing her forehead to yours.

“Yeah.” She breathes. “After everything we went through… those names feel like the truest thing we could give them.”

She slides down to rest her cheek against your bump, lips brushing the skin.

“Hi, Sowon.” She whispers to the right side. A gentle nudge answers her, soft and sure. Then she shifts to the left. “And hi, Heewon, you little troublemaker.” A firm kick thumps against her face, strong enough to make you both laugh through the tears.

Semi crawls back up, wrapping her arms around you as best she can with your belly between you.

“They’re gonna know.” She says into your neck, voice thick. “Every time we say their names, they’re gonna know how wanted they were. How loved.”

You hold her close, feeling the girls move between you, as if already listening.

Sowon and Heewon.

Your wishes. Your happiness.

Finally, perfectly named.

Thirty weeks greets you with a full, heavy globe of a belly that makes every movement exhausting. Sowon and Heewon’s movements are a constant presence now, rolling, kicking and stretching like they’re already negotiating for space. The nursery, the second bedroom that used to be a catch all for boxes and laundry, is finally being transformed.

Semi throws herself into it with a quiet determination. She paints the walls a soft, parmesan yellow one weekend while you nap on the couch, wakes early to assemble the cribs, hangs the mobile of tiny felt moons and stars above where the changing table will go. She tells you gently but firmly every time you try to help: “Your job is to rest and grow the girls. I’ve got this.”

You hate it a little. You want to be part of it, to nest with her, to lift and arrange and build the space your daughters will come home to. But you’re tired all the time, your back aches, your ankles swell by evening, and Semi’s right, you’re carrying two babies, and the doctors keep reminding you to take it easy.

One afternoon, you wake from a nap feeling restless. The apartment is quiet; Semi’s in the nursery, humming softly to whatever playlist she has going. You pad down the hall intending just to peek in and see how it’s coming along.

The door is open. The room already looks like a dream: pale yellow walls, white cribs half assembled, a rocking chair in the corner, the dresser against the far wall. But the layout, the way the cribs are placed side by side under the window with the changing table opposite, hits you wrong. You’d pictured it all different, and the frustration bubbles up fast and hot.

You stand in the doorway, hand resting on your bump while you stare. Semi glances up from where she’s tightening a screw on one of the cribs, sweat damp hair stuck to her forehead, and smiles.

“Hey, sleepy. Thought you’d be out another hour.”

You don’t smile back. “Why are the cribs there?”

She blinks, sitting back on her heels. “Under the window? Because the light’s best there in the morning, and-”

“I wanted them on that wall.” You point, voice sharper than you mean it to be. “The long one. With the rocking chair by the door.”

Semi wipes her hands on her jeans, expression softening. “Babe, I tried it that way first, but the outlets are on this side for the sound machine and the monitor, and the window wall keeps them away from the draft by the-”

“I know where the outlets are.” You cut in, hormones surging like a tide you can’t control. “I just think it would look better-”

“I’m not saying it wouldn’t look nice,” Semi tries again, calm and patient, “but practically-”

You don’t let her finish. “You didn’t even ask me. You just decided.”

Her mouth opens, then closes. She takes a slow breath, clearly trying not to escalate. “I was going to show you once it was farther along and we could move things together, but-”

“But you already did it your way.” Tears prick at your eyes now, hot and sudden. You hate how small your voice sounds, how big the anger feels.

Semi stands slowly, hands open at her sides. “Okay. I’m gonna take a drive and cool off. You cool off too. I’ll be back in a bit.”

She brushes past you gently, grabbing her keys from the hook by the door and leaving without another word. The front door clicks shut.

For a full minute you just stand there, fuming. How could she just walk out? You’re the one carrying two babies, swollen and exhausted, and she leaves?

The anger propels you forward. You waddle into the nursery, determined to show her it can work your way. You grip the edge of the half assembled dresser and try to drag it. It barely budges, the solid wood heavier than it looks. You brace your feet and lean into it, but the weight of your belly throws off your balance and your lower back screams in protest. You manage to shift it an inch before your arms shake and you have to stop, breathing hard.

You try the rocking chair next. It’s lighter, but still awkward. You get it halfway across the room before a deep ache spreads through your hips and you sink to the floor, back against the wall, hands cradling your bump.

The anger drains out as fast as it came, leaving only exhaustion and a hollow, useless feeling. You sit there staring at the half finished room, tears slipping silently down your cheeks.

Fifteen minutes later, barely enough time for a loop around the block, you hear the front door open again. Semi appears in the doorway with soft footsteps, hair a little windswept, expression careful.

She takes one look at you on the floor, the dresser crooked where you left it, and her face softens completely. Without a word she crosses the room and lowers herself beside you, stretching her legs out, shoulder brushing yours.

A quiet moment stretches between you.

Then, gently, “Ready to talk?”

You take a shaky breath. “I don’t know why I’m so angry.” You whisper, voice cracking. “I just… exploded. And then you left, and I got even madder, and then I tried to move stuff and I couldn’t even-” You gesture helplessly at the room, tears spilling faster. “I feel useless.”

Semi lets out a soft chuckle, fond and understanding. “Baby, your body is growing two entire humans. You’re the opposite of useless.” She bumps your shoulder lightly. “And the anger? That’s the hormones. They’re intense with one baby, and you’re carrying two. It’s normal.“

You sniffle, leaning your head against her shoulder. “I hate it.”

“I know.” She wraps an arm around you carefully. “I hated leaving, but I didn’t want to snap and make it worse.”

Silence settles again, softer this time.

“Want me to explain the layout now?” She asks quietly.

You nod against her shirt.

She gestures with her free hand. “Cribs under the window get the best natural light in the morning. Easier to see for feedings without turning on harsh lights. Outlets are right there for the monitors and the white noise machine. Changing table opposite so we’re not tripping over each other in the night. Rocking chair where it is so when you’re nursing one, you can still see the other crib easily. And the door stays clear for middle of the night escapes.”

You actually listen this time, and it makes perfect sense.

“I should’ve shown you the plan earlier.” She admits. “I got excited and just… started.”

You wipe your eyes. “I should’ve let you finish a single sentence.”

She smiles a little. “We’re both new at this.”

You’re quiet for another moment, then your voice comes out small and wobbly. “I just want everything to be perfect. For them. We waited so long for them and I don’t want to mess it up.”

Semi turns to face you fully, cupping your cheek. “Hey. Look at me.” Her eyes are steady, fierce with love. “You’re not gonna mess anything up. The room’s not perfect yet because we’re doing it together. And even if we put the cribs on the wrong wall, or pick the wrong color paint, or forget half the things the books say we need, these girls are going to have the most perfect thing of all: two moms who love them a stupid amount. That’s what matters.”

You start crying again, but softer now. She pulls you into her as best she can with your belly in the way, kissing the top of your head.

“We’ll move whatever you want.” She murmurs. “Or we’ll leave it like this. Whatever feels right to you.”

You huff a wet laugh. “Leave it. You were right. It’s smart.”

She smiles against your hair. “Teamwork.”

You sit there on the nursery floor for a long time, backs against the wall, her arm around you, your hands linked over your bump. Sowon and Heewon kick gently, like they’re reminding you they’re already home, no matter which wall the cribs end up on.

The following weeks are tough. Every part of you feels like it’s carrying the weight of the world… Two worlds, actually. Your belly grows enormous, a taut, heavy dome that pulls at your back and makes your hips ache even when you’re lying down. Sowon and Heewon get bigger than you ever thought possible, active and strong, their kicks and rolls constant reminders that they’re running out of room. Toward the finish, you waddle more than walk, ankles swollen, breath short, sleep fractured into brief, uncomfortable stretches.

Tonight you’re on the couch, propped with every pillow you own, trying to find a position that doesn’t hurt. The nursery is nearly finished down the hall, but you can’t even think about enjoying it. You’re just… done. Exhausted in a bone deep way that makes tears prick at nothing.

Semi sits on the coffee table in front of you, elbows on her knees, watching you with quiet worry etched into every line of her face. She’s been incredible these last weeks, cooking whatever you can stomach, rubbing your feet without being asked, timing contractions that aren’t real yet but feel like they could be. But tonight she looks as tired as you feel, her usual confidence dimmed by helplessness.

“You okay?” She asks softly, the tenth time in an hour.

You shake your head, tears spilling before you can stop them.

“I’m so tired.” You whisper, voice cracking. “I feel huge. I can’t breathe half the time. My body hurts everywhere. I just… I’m at my limit, Semi.”

She reaches for your hands immediately, cradling them in hers. “I know, baby. I see it. I’m right here.”

You squeeze her fingers, trying to steady yourself.

“But I don’t want them to come yet.” The words come out fierce through the tears. “I want to keep them in as long as I can. Every extra day helps… their lungs, their weight, avoiding the NICU. I know it’s selfish, I know I’m complaining, but I need them to stay longer. I can do it. I can keep going.”

Semi’s eyes fill instantly. She swallows hard, nodding, but her voice is thick when she speaks. “You’re not selfish. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known. You’ve been carrying them through everything, and you’re still fighting for them. I’m in awe of you every single day.”

She pauses, thumbs stroking over your knuckles, and her voice drops lower. “I just hate that I can’t do more for you. I rub your back, I bring you water, I build the damn cribs, but I can’t take any of the weight. I can’t make it easier for you to breathe or sleep or move. I can’t carry them for even an hour so you get a break, and it kills me.”

A tear slips down her cheek, catching on her lip ring. She doesn’t wipe it away. You shift forward as much as your belly allows, reaching to cup her face.

“You’re my everything right now.” You say, voice wobbling but firm. “You’re the reason I can keep going. Every time you touch my belly and talk to them, every time you look at me like I’m still me and not just a tired whale, you give me strength. Semi, I genuinely couldn’t do this without you.”

She leans into your palm, eyes closing for a second. When she opens them again, they’re red rimmed but steady.

“I love you.” She whispers. “And I love them, so much already. It’s like they’re pieces of my heart walking around outside my body, except they’re still inside yours.” She places her hand gently on the side of your bump, where Heewon gives a lazy roll in response. “We’re almost there. And whatever happens, thirty four weeks, thirty six, thirty eight, we’ll handle it together. NICU or straight into our arms. I’ve got you. Always.”

The thirty seven week appointment feels like the finish line you’ve been chasing for years. The specialist scans the girls one last time, both perfect, both big enough, lungs mature, no complications. She smiles as she says the words you’ve dreamed of: “We’ll schedule your induction for next week. You’ve done an incredible job getting them this far.”

Semi drives home in near silence. She’s been your rock for months, but now that it’s getting real - bags packed, nursery ready, induction date circled in red - she’s quiet, almost withdrawn. You catch her staring at the ultrasound pictures on the fridge, eyes wide like she’s seeing two tiny ghosts. She fumbles simple things: burns toast, forgets where she put her keys twice in one day.

When you ask if she’s okay, she just nods, voice small. “Yeah. Just… it’s happening.”

You understand. This is the moment you’ve carried in your heart since you were a girl yourself, becoming a mother, holding your babies. For you, the fear is laced with pure, electric joy. For Semi, it’s the sudden weight of forever crashing in.

The morning of induction, you’re calm in a way that surprises even you. The hospital bag is by the door, the car seat bases installed and triple checked. You kiss Semi slowly before you leave, cupping her face.

“We’re ready.” You whisper. “All four of us.”

She nods, swallowing hard, and drives with both hands gripping the wheel.

At the hospital, you tell the midwife firmly but politely, “I want to try vaginal delivery. I’ve prepared for it.”

The midwife checks you and smiles wide. “Baby A is head down, perfectly positioned. We can absolutely try. You’re already a little dilated, so let’s get the pitocin started.”

Labor builds steadily, and Semi stays at your side the whole time, quiet but present. She holds your hand and wipes your brow, whispering encouragement when you need it. She doesn’t say much, but her touch is steady.

Hours blur into contractions strengthening, monitors beeping the twins’ heartbeats in steady tandem, and the room filling with the focused calm of the delivery team.

Sowon arrives after a final, fierce push, slippery and crying, but perfect. They place her on your chest immediately, warm and wriggling, her tiny fist against your skin. You sob openly, laughing through tears.

“Hi, Sowon.” You whisper, kissing her damp head of dark wispy hair. “Hi, my little wish.”

Semi leans in, eyes glassy, a trembling smile breaking through as she reaches for Sowon’s cheek with one careful finger.

“She’s here.” She breathes, voice cracking. “Jesus, she’s so small.”

But the joy is short lived. The doctor checks you again, brow furrowing. “Baby B has flipped. She’s breech now, frank breech. We can try delivery, but it might be harder. Or we can go to cesarean.”

You’re exhausted and shaking, but you look at Semi, then at Sowon already in the warmer being checked, and you know.

“I wanna try.” You say, voice hoarse but certain. “I want them both the same way if I can.”

The team agrees, their hands are experienced but the OR is prepped just in case.

Heewon’s delivery is tougher; more guided, more pressure, your body stretched to its absolute limit. You roar through the pain, gripping Semi’s hand hard enough to leave marks, until finally, finally, Heewon slides into the world, crying indignantly like she’s annoyed at the delay.

They place her on your chest beside her sister, both girls skin to skin with you, tiny bodies rising and falling against your heart. The joy is overwhelming, a tidal wave that steals your breath. Tears stream down your face as you look at them, Sowon quieter, Heewon louder, already so themselves.

“We did it.” You sob. “They’re here, Semi. Our girls are here.”

Semi stands frozen at your bedside, staring at the two tiny humans on you like she’s seeing something impossible. Her face is pale, eyes wide and unblinking, hands hovering uselessly in the air. You’ve seen that look before, the dissociation, fear crashing in too fast to process. She’s scared. Terrified that they’re real, that they’re hers, that this much love could fit inside one lifetime.

You reach for her with a trembling hand. “Semi.” You whisper, voice thick but steady. “Come here. Touch them. They’re ours.”

She doesn’t move at first, breath shallow.

“They’re waiting for you.” You say softly, tears slipping into your smile. “Your daughters. They already know you, baby. They know your voice.”

Something breaks open in her. A single tear rolls down her cheek as she steps closer, slow and careful, like she’s afraid she’ll break the moment. She lowers herself to sit on the edge of the bed, one trembling hand slowly reaching out. Her fingers brush Heewon’s tiny foot first, then Sowon’s hand. Both girls shift slightly, as if leaning into her touch.

Semi lets out a broken sound and leans down, forehead resting gently against yours over the babies.

“Holy shit.” She whispers, voice raw. “You did it. You got them here.” She presses a kiss to your temple, then to each girl’s head in turn. “Hi, Sowon. Hi, Heewon. I’m… I’m your mom.”

The fear ebbs from her face, replaced by wonder so deep it looks like worship. She wraps her arm carefully around you all, cradling the four of you together for the first time.

The next twenty four hours unfold in a soft, slow rhythm of hospital hush and new parent awe. Semi barely leaves your side, moving like a devoted shadow, fetching fresh ice chips before you even ask, adjusting pillows behind your back with careful hands, murmuring “You’re incredible” every time you wince through an afterpain or shift to nurse. She hovers close enough that you can feel her warmth, her usual energy replaced by something worshipful. Every time her gaze lands on you it lingers, grateful and a little stunned, like she’s still trying to believe you brought her daughters into the world.

When the nurses wheel the bassinet closer for skin to skin or feeding, she freezes for a heartbeat, hands hovering, breath held, terrified of doing something wrong, of being too rough with something so fragile. But each time one of the girls stirs or makes a small sound, she inches nearer, first just brushing a fingertip along a tiny cheek, then cradling a head the size of her palm, her tough exterior cracking wider with every hesitant touch. By evening she’s murmuring half formed lullabies in Korean she hasn’t used since childhood, voice cracking when Heewon’s fist curls around her thumb. Through the night she dozes in snatches in the recliner, waking instantly at every coo or sigh, always reaching for you first to check you’re okay, then for the girls.

By morning, when pale sunlight filters through the blinds and the room smells faintly of breast milk and antiseptic, the fear hasn’t vanished entirely, but it’s quieter now, softened by the steady miracle of two small chests rising and falling.

The hospital room is quiet except for the soft, rhythmic breathing of the two tiny bundles in their bassinet carts, parked side by side at the foot of your bed. You’re propped up on pillows, sore in places you didn’t know could be sore, but the ache feels like a badge of honor, proof that yesterday really happened. Thirty seven weeks resulting in two healthy cries and no NICU. Just you, Semi, and your daughters.

Semi sits in the recliner beside you, hair still a wild mess from sleeping (or rather not sleeping) in that chair all night. She’s wearing the same bleach stained oversized hoodie she threw on in the rush to the hospital, sleeves pushed up, piercings catching the light every time she moves. One of the babies, Heewon, you think, makes a small squeak in her sleep, and Semi’s head snaps toward the sound like it’s wired directly to her heart.

“They’re so… exactly the same.” She whispers, voice hushed with wonder and something else. Nerves, maybe. She leans forward, elbows on her knees, studying them like they’re a puzzle she’s terrified to fail. “Like, eerily the same. Same little nose. Same mouth. Same everything.”

You follow her gaze. Sowon and Heewon are swaddled in identical hospital blankets, identical pink and blue striped caps pulled low over their dark fuzz. From here, they look like perfect carbon copies.

“It can’t be that hard.” You murmur, sleepy but smug. You nod toward the bassinet on the left. “That’s Heewon, obviously.”

Semi raises an eyebrow, smirking. “You sure?”

“Positive.” You reach out confidently, gently lifting the tiny wrist of the baby on the left to check the bracelet. The name printed in neat block letters stares back at you: SOWON.

You blink. Then blink again.

“Oh god.” You say, deadpan, dropping your head back against the pillow. “I’m a terrible mom. Day one and I already failed the quiz.”

Semi bursts into quiet laughter. The sound is bright, the kind that crinkles her eyes and makes her dimples show. She covers her mouth to muffle it so she doesn’t wake the girls, but her shoulders shake.

“Welcome to the club, babe.” She whispers, still grinning. “I’ve been staring at them since they got here and I really can’t tell.”

You snort, then wince at the pull in your abdomen. “We’ll just tattoo tiny name tags on their foreheads. Problem solved.”

“Very punk rock.” She teases, scooting her chair closer so she can rest her hand on your knee. “But seriously… how are we gonna do this?”

The next couple of hours pass in a hazy, happy blur. The girls sleep mostly, tiny fists occasionally twitching, and you and Semi turn it into a game. Whoever guesses wrong has to change the next diaper. You keep getting it backward, but so does she. You quiz each other in whispers.

“That one’s Sowon, right? The one doing the little lip smacking thing?”

“Nope. Heewon.”

“Damn it.”

Then you try again.

“Wait, Heewon has the tiny birthmark on her… Wait, do they both have it?”

“They both have it.”

You groan dramatically. Semi laughs into your shoulder, kissing the side of your neck softly.

Eventually, a nurse comes in to check vitals. She has kind eyes and gentle hands, the kind of calm that makes you feel like everything’s under control even when it doesn’t feel that way. She smiles at the two sleeping babies, then at you both.

“How’s everyone doing in here?” She asks softly.

“Good,” you say, at the same time Semi says, “Actually… uh…”

She flushes, cheeks pinking under the soft hospital light. She rubs the back of her neck, glancing at you like she’s embarrassed to admit it out loud.

“Do you have… any tips?” She asks the nurse, voice small. “For, um… not mixing them up? They’re really identical. Like, scarily identical.”

The nurse chuckles warmly, not at all surprised. “Oh yeah, you’d be amazed how many twin parents ask that. First trick, paint one toenail. Different color on each. Second, take a million photos from every angle and study them like flash cards. You’ll start seeing the tiny differences.“

Semi nods seriously, like she’s taking mental notes for a test.

“And third,” the nurse adds, winking, “trust your gut. You’ll know. Even when you think you don’t.”

She finishes her checks and slips out quietly.

Semi turns back to you, still a little pink. “Toenail polish it is.”

You reach for her hand, threading your fingers through hers.

“We’ll figure it out.” You whisper. “Together.”

She squeezes back, eyes soft as she looks from you to the girls and back again.

“Yeah.” She says, voice thick with everything you’re both feeling. “We will.”

Outside, the world keeps moving. But inside this room, time feels suspended. Just two new lives, two new names, and two new moms learning how to tell their miracles apart, one tiny detail at a time.

Sowon sighs in her sleep. Heewon answers with a tiny squeak.

And somehow, in that moment, you both just know.

︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶

Part 3 coming soon 🤍