Chapter Text
April in Seoul turned out to be deceptive. The sun was shining brightly, almost like summer, but the wind blowing through the open windows carried dampness and coolness. Minho stood at the kitchen counter, gripping the cool marble with his fingers, and stared at the frying pan Chan had left on the stove after breakfast.
Yesterday he had loved that smell. The rich, meaty aroma of samgyeopsal that had soaked into every rag in the apartment. Today his stomach twisted into a tight, painful knot.
“Fuck,” Minho breathed through his teeth and sharply turned away toward the sink.
Nausea rose to his throat, leaving a metallic taste in his mouth. He gripped the edges of the sink, lowered his head, and breathed through his mouth, trying not to inhale the kitchen air. Eight weeks. Eight fucking weeks, and his body still hadn’t decided what counted as poison and what counted as food. Yesterday he had calmly eaten two portions of kimchi-jjigae, and today he was gagging at the mere hint of frying oil.
“Minho-ya?”
Chan’s voice came from the hallway, soft and slightly worried. Minho didn’t answer, only clenched his jaw tighter. He heard the alpha approaching — his footsteps were heavy and solid, nothing like Minho’s own, who was used to moving silently and smoothly. Chan stopped in the kitchen doorway.
“Are you feeling bad?”
“No, I’m fucking fantastic,” Minho snapped without turning around. “I’m just standing here meditating on an empty sink. Fuck off!”
Silence fell over the kitchen. Minho immediately felt another wave rising in his throat — not nausea this time, but a burning, sticky shame. He heard his own tone from the outside: sharp and unfair, and he hated it. Chan hadn’t done anything wrong. Chan had just come to check if he was okay.
Footsteps sounded behind him. His alpha didn’t leave — he slowly walked over to the sink and turned on the water filter. The sound of the pouring liquid hit his nerves like a file on glass. Too loud. Too sharp. Every drop shattering against the bottom of the glass echoed in his temples.
“Can you be quieter?” Minho’s voice broke mid-sentence, cracking and rising in pitch. “What, do your hands grow out of your ass? You’re pouring water like a whale is taking a bath.”
Chan froze. The faucet clicked, cutting off the stream. Minho finally turned around and immediately regretted it. The alpha stood by the counter with a glass in his hand, and there was no hurt or irritation on his face — only a calm, attentive expression. His brown eyes looked straight at him, studying but without judgment. His dark hair was slightly tousled after the shower, and a loose white T-shirt hung on his shoulders, revealing the outlines of his broad frame underneath.
Chan smelled of mint and chocolate. Right now it was especially strong, because the alpha had clearly released more pheromones on purpose, sensing the state of his omega. The mint tickled his nostrils, cold and fresh, while the chocolate wrapped around it with a soft, bittersweet sweetness. Usually this scent worked on Minho better than any sedative. But not today.
Today even his mate’s scent irritated him.
“I didn't mean to,” Chan said quietly. “I’m sorry.”
Minho wanted to say something biting in return, but instead he felt treacherous moisture rising to his eyes. Hot, sudden, and completely uncontrollable. His eyelids stung. His lower lip trembled traitorously. He clenched his fists, digging his nails into his palms, trying to hold himself together somehow, but his body no longer belonged to him. Hormones flowed through his veins like molten lead, turning any emotion into a catastrophe.
The first tear rolled down his cheek, hot and entirely unwanted.
“Fuck,” Minho breathed, his tone now completely different — broken and pathetic. “Fuck, Chan, I didn’t… I didn’t mean to yell at you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
He covered his face with his hands. His shoulders shook. Eight weeks ago he had been a normal omega, going to work at his dance studio, teaching hip-hop to teenagers and adults, coming home tired but content. He knew exactly who he was and how his body worked. Now he didn’t recognize himself.
Chan set the glass down on the counter. The sound was almost silent — his alpha was now moving with that special carefulness that appears in people living with a pregnant omega. He closed the distance between them in two wide steps.
“Come here,” he said softly.
Minho sobbed and stepped forward, pressing his forehead against the alpha’s solid shoulder. Chan’s arms closed around his back. Minho clutched the fabric of his T-shirt with his fingers and froze.
The scent hit him the moment he was pressed against the other man’s body. Mint and chocolate. Close, warm, familiar. This time the smell didn’t irritate him — on the contrary, it slowly and carefully seeped under his skin, wrapping around his aching nerves like a cool compress on an inflamed wound.
Chan lowered his chin onto the top of Minho’s head and stayed still. He didn’t say anything. He simply breathed — slowly, steadily, setting a rhythm that Minho unconsciously began to match. The alpha shifted his palm slightly and started running his thumb along Minho’s spine — from the neck to the lower back and back again.
“I’m a monster,” Minho muttered into the fabric of his T-shirt. “I yell at you because of water. Because of fucking water, Chan.”
“You’re not a monster. You’re pregnant.”
“That’s not an excuse.”
“It’s a reason. I’m not upset.”
Minho lifted his head. His eyes were red, his lashes stuck together from the moisture, and his cheeks were blotchy. His nose was running. He looked lost. Chan looked down at him, and in his gaze there was something very calm — that he wasn’t going anywhere, no matter how much Minho yelled, cried, or tried to push him away.
“I’m learning,” Minho said quietly. “I’m trying to figure out how to live now. I don’t know what my body will throw at me in an hour. It’s scary.”
“I know,” Chan raised his hand and wiped the moisture from his cheek with his thumb. “We’re learning together.”
Minho sobbed again — this time not from hurt, but from relief. He remembered that evening almost two weeks ago when they sat on the living room floor staring at the two lines on the test. Neither of them had planned this right now. Chan had only just started getting serious results with his producing in 3RACHA, and studio sessions dragged on until morning. Minho was preparing his dance team for the spring competitions. Baby hadn’t been in their plans.
But that evening neither of them was upset when they found out about the pregnancy. Minho had cried because, well, it wasn’t every day you learned you were pregnant, and Chan had simply comforted him, saying they would manage and that their baby should be as beautiful as Minho.
“Stay with me,” Minho breathed. “Please. I don’t want to be alone right now.”
Chan nodded and, without breaking the embrace, led him to the bedroom. He lowered himself onto the wide bed first — sat down, spread his knees, and gently pulled Minho with him, settling him on his lap, face to face. Minho shifted, getting comfortable, and eventually wrapped his legs around Chan’s torso, pressing their bodies together. The pregnancy was still barely noticeable — a flat stomach, no external changes — but inside, invisible work was already happening that exhausted him to the limit.
Chan placed his hands on Minho’s thighs and looked up at him. Minho was sitting higher, so the alpha had to tilt his head back slightly. There was no vulnerability in the gesture — only trust. He was letting his omega be on top, in control, setting the pace.
“Can I?” Chan asked, his fingers touching the hem of Minho’s loose home T-shirt.
Minho nodded. Speaking was difficult — his throat still ached from the recent tears.
Chan pulled the shirt off him slowly, giving him time to adjust to the cool air of the bedroom. Minho rolled his shoulders but didn’t pull away. The alpha tossed the fabric aside and paused, looking at him.
“Pretty,” Chan said with a smile. “Your chest has become more sensitive, hasn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Minho admitted in a hoarse voice. “Sometimes even the fabric hurts.”
Chan leaned forward. His lips touched Minho’s collarbone — lightly, almost weightlessly. The alpha exhaled warm air onto his skin, and Minho shivered, but not from the cold. Chan ran his nose along his neck, inhaling the scent.
Peonies and vanilla.
Usually Minho’s pheromones were fresh and slightly cool, with a floral sweetness that unfolded gradually. Now they had become thicker, richer. The vanilla sounded louder, almost cloying, and the peonies had taken on a warm, milky tone. That was how a pregnant omega smelled — deeper, brighter, in a way that made any alpha’s instincts rear up with the need to protect and cherish.
Chan pressed his lips to the spot under Minho’s ear and began to lick. Slowly, wetly, thoroughly. His tongue moved across the skin centimeter by centimeter, leaving a trail of his saliva mixed with pheromones. Mint and chocolate layered over peonies and vanilla, creating a new, shared scent — their scent.
Minho closed his eyes and exhaled. The tension that had built up in his shoulders and neck began to ease little by little. Chan wasn’t rushing. He licked along his neck — every movement of his tongue measured, deep, soothing.
One of Chan’s hands slid up Minho’s back and stopped between his shoulder blades, holding him steady. The other rested on his chest, and his thumb gently circled the nipple.
Minho gasped softly.
His chest had really become unbearably sensitive. Usually he loved it when Chan played with his nipples — harder, on the edge, until he was breathless. Now even the lightest touch sent waves of electricity rolling down to his lower belly. It wasn’t painful. It was too much — too sharp, too deep, too close to something he couldn’t control.
“Good?” Chan whispered, not pulling his lips away from his neck.
“Yeah. Don’t stop.”
The alpha continued. His tongue slid along the line of his jaw, down to the hollow at the base of his throat, and back again. The finger on his chest drew slow circles around the nipple, not pressing, just teasing. Minho felt his body beginning to grow heavy, filling with warmth. The tears had dried, giving way to another sensation — a deep, spreading ache in his lower belly.
“Chan,” he called softly.
“Yes, kitten?”
“I want you.”
Over the eight weeks, Minho had learned an important thing about himself while pregnant: after crying, he became clingy. He needed touch — not necessarily sex, but physical contact, confirmation that his alpha was here, that he wasn’t going anywhere, that they were one. Today that wasn’t enough. Today he wanted Chan to fill him completely, so there would be no room left for anxiety and irritation.
Chan pulled back just enough to look into his eyes.
“Are you sure?” he asked. “I can just hold you. We don’t have to.”
Minho shook his head.
“I want to. I need to. Please.”
The alpha nodded. He pulled his own T-shirt off, revealing his defined torso — broad shoulders, strong arms, and a stomach with the hint of abs. Minho ran his palms over his chest, feeling the muscles shift under his fingers. Chan caught his hand and kissed the center of his hand — a simple, almost chaste touch of lips that made Minho’s breath catch.
They moved slowly. Chan tugged down Minho’s home pants along with his underwear, helping him free his legs. Minho remained completely naked, sitting on his alpha’s lap, and for a second he felt cold and vulnerable. But Chan immediately pulled him back against his chest, sharing his warmth, covering his ass and lower back with his palms.
“I’ll go in very slowly,” the alpha warned as he freed himself from his own pants. “If it gets uncomfortable — tell me right away. I’ll stop.”
“I know.”
Chan wet his fingers with his own saliva — Minho saw him bring his hand to his lips — and carefully slid them between the omega’s cheeks. Minho exhaled and relaxed. Pregnancy had made his body more responsive, wetter, as if his system was preparing itself for intimacy, knowing it would calm its owner.
The first finger entered easily, almost without resistance. Minho closed his eyes and dropped his head onto Chan’s shoulder. The alpha moved slowly, working him open from the inside with the same thoroughness he had used to lick his neck earlier. No rush. No pressure. Only a soft, insistent presence that Minho felt with his entire body.
“More,” he begged.
A second finger. Chan spread them slightly inside, stretching him, and Minho moaned quietly, pressing his hips against him. His own arousal rubbed against the alpha’s stomach, leaving a wet trail on the skin. Chan leaned in and touched his lips to Minho’s neck again, continuing to lick and mark him.
“I’m stretched enough,” Minho breathed after a few minutes, when there were three fingers and he felt he couldn’t wait any longer. “Chan, please.”
The alpha withdrew his hand and guided himself to the entrance. The head touched the slick rim, and Minho froze, holding his breath. Chan entered.
Slowly. So slowly that Minho felt every inch, every vein, every pulsing throb of the other man’s arousal. He filled him gradually, inexorably, and the unhurried pace made Minho’s thighs tremble. Chan sank in to the hilt and stopped, giving him time to adjust.
Chan looked into his eyes again. Not to ask — it was clear the alpha could read him from his breathing alone — but to give him one last chance to change his mind. Minho didn’t.
He rocked his hips forward, grinding against the hardness inside him. The heat under his skin replaced the nausea, pushing it to the edges, leaving only a hungry, aching need to be filled.
The alpha stayed still, letting him adjust. His breathing had grown uneven — not from effort, but from how tightly and hotly Minho’s body had taken him. Pregnancy had made Minho tighter inside, denser, and Chan had to fight the instinct to start moving hard.
“I'm good,” Minho exhaled, gripping his shoulders. “Move.”
Chan rocked his hips upward. Slowly, almost lazily, pulling out only a couple of inches before sliding back in. Minho squeezed his eyes shut. The friction traveled up his spine, spread warmth through his lower back, and made his toes curl. He began moving to meet him, catching the rhythm, matching the alpha’s thrusts.
The bedroom smelled of them. Their pheromones mixed in the air, settled on the sheets and skin, and seeped into every pore. The scent calmed Minho more than any words. He breathed it in deeply and felt the tension leaving his jaw, his neck, his stomach.
Chan shifted the angle.
The next thrust hit his prostate dead-on. Minho cried out and arched, throwing his head back. White sparks flashed before his eyes. The alpha caught the moment and repeated the movement — again, and again, and again — driving into that one spot with the methodical precision of someone who had studied his omega’s body down to the last nerve.
“Yes,” Minho gasped, clawing at his shoulders. “Yes, hyung, just like that...”
Chan’s hands tightened on his ass. His fingers dug into the flesh, leaving marks that would bloom into small bruises by morning. The alpha leaned in and caught Minho’s earlobe between his lips, tugging gently with his teeth. At the same time, he picked up the pace, and now every thrust drew a short, choked moan from the omega’s chest.
Minho felt the pressure building in his lower belly. Hot, pulsing, twisting his insides into a tight knot. His own cock rubbed against Chan’s abs with every movement, leaving wet streaks on the other man’s skin.
“I’m close,” Minho warned in a breaking whisper.
In response, Chan only let out a low, guttural growl and gripped him by the waist. Now the alpha was moving him on his cock the way he wanted, setting a harder, deeper rhythm. The sound of their bodies meeting again and again filled the bedroom with wet slaps. The bed creaked in time.
The orgasm hit Minho suddenly. He didn’t even manage to warn a second time — he simply felt the knot in his belly snap, exploding into hot needles throughout his body. Minho cried out, clenching around Chan’s cock, and came between their stomachs. Cum landed on the alpha’s chest, on his own skin, spreading in sticky streaks.
Chan kept moving. Through the spasms, through the convulsive contractions of Minho’s muscles — he didn’t stop, prolonging his pleasure until the omega went limp in his arms, exhausted and trembling.
Only then did the alpha allow himself to come.
Minho felt warmth spreading inside him. Thick, hot, filling him to the brim. Chan came deep, pressing him close so tightly that no air remained between their bodies. His groan drowned somewhere in the curve of Minho’s neck, where he buried his face.
For several seconds they didn’t move. They just breathed — fast, uneven, in sync. Minho’s heart was pounding somewhere in his throat, but it was a good, alive kind of exhaustion. His body had finally relaxed completely, from his fingertips to his lower back.
Chan carefully pulled out. Minho winced at the loss of fullness, but the alpha immediately laid him on his back on the rumpled sheets.
“Better?” Chan asked hoarsely.
Minho nodded without opening his eyes. He didn’t feel like talking. He just wanted to lie like this, feeling the other man’s cum slowly leaking out of him onto the sheet, and breathe in their combined scent, which had now become even thicker, even richer. Mint and chocolate. Peonies and vanilla. And something third, new — milky, barely noticeable, belonging to neither him nor Chan.
“I love you,” the alpha said quietly. “Even when you yell at me over water.”
Minho snorted. He didn’t have the strength for a full laugh, but his lips stretched into a smile anyway.
“I love you,” he replied. “Even when it pisses me off that you’re breathing.”
Chan chuckled softly and kissed his temple. His hand stayed on Minho’s stomach, and his thumb drew slow, soothing circles on the skin. Outside the window, the wind rustled, blowing through the slightly open vent the scent of wet asphalt and cherry blossoms blooming somewhere in the courtyard.
“Shall we sleep a little more? You fucked all the strength out of me.”
“As if you had any before that?”
“I’m a weak and needy pregnant omega. Anyway… it’s all your fault!”
“Yes, kitten, it’s entirely and completely my fault.”
“I order you to lie down next to me and sleep for a few more hours.”
“Yes, sir.”