Work Text:
The healer never said the word broken.
She didn’t have to.
“The structure of your cycle is irregular,” she explained, hands folded neatly in her lap. “Your heats are excessive in blood loss. Your body does not respond to alphas the way most omegas do. Conception, naturally, would be nearly impossible.”
Yoongi stared at the floor while she spoke.
He had always joked about it. Eight children. Maybe more. A house loud enough to make his head hurt with small socks scattered across hardwood floors, a mate rolling their eyes while he pretended to complain about the noise.
He wanted a family so big it didn’t feel lonely as he had grown up in a house where love existed but never quite wrapped around him the way he needed. He had promised himself that his family would be different.
But now—
“Is there any alternative?” he asked quietly.
The healer hesitated.
“There are rumors,” she said carefully. “Of a pack north of the mountains. A lineage of omegas known for exceptional fertility. Their bonds are not formed the traditional way, they practice something older.”
Older.
The word settled in his chest like a spark.
“They can carry children for others,” she continued. “Through an ancestral bond ritual so it is not merely surrogacy it is a spiritual joining of scent, blood, and vow. Not guaranteed at all.”
Yoongi looked up for the first time.
“Would it be mine?” His voice cracked despite his effort to steady it. “The pup?”
“If the ritual accepts you,” she said. “Yes.”
The pack was nothing like he imagined.
The air thick with layered omega scents that didn’t clash but braided together, honey, pine, something sweet and floral underneath.
And then there was him.
Park Jimin.
Yoongi noticed him before he realized he had.
Not because Jimin was loud, he wasn’t, but he moved like silk through the open courtyard, laughter gentle as he steadied a toddler wobbling toward him, his scent was warm sugar and fresh rain, comforting without being overpowering.
Their eyes met.
Jimin approached first.
“You must be Min Yoongi,” he said, voice soft but sure. “The healer sent word.”
Yoongi nodded. His throat felt tight.
“I heard why you’re here.”
That should have felt humiliating. Instead, Jimin 's gaze held no pity.
“There are many reasons omegas come to us,” Jimin continued. “Some want pups, some want to escape alphas and some want both.”
Yoongi swallowed. “I want a family.”
The words came out raw.
“If the ritual accepts us,” Jimin said carefully, “I could carry your child.”
Yoongi’s breath stuttered.
“Us?”
Jimin held his gaze steadily. “The bond requires compatibility, not attraction to alphas, not heat-driven instinct but something more… aligned”
For the first time in years, Yoongi felt something that wasn’t grief when he thought about his future.
It was fragile but it was there. Yoongi could feel a small thread of hope blowing through his chest.
They tell the story of Park Jimin like it is something holy.
“He is blessed,” the elders say. “The most fertile omega our pack has seen in generations.”
Blessed. Jimin smiles when they say it.
He has carried six litters. Six.
He remembers every flutter, every kick, the weight of them against his ribs, the way his body knows exactly what to do, how to nourish, how to protect, he hums to them when he is alone, he presses warm palms over the curve of his stomach and whispers promises he never intends to keep.
Because the pups are never his.
They are carried for grieving couples, for barren alphas and desperate omegas, for packs whose bloodlines are thinning.
Jimin is generous and kind, but he does not speak about the silence afterwards. The stillness of his body once it is empty again, the way his arms ache for a weight that is no longer there and how he avoids the nursery for weeks after each birth because the sound of crying makes his throat close.
He tells himself this is his purpose so it’s enough.
When Yoongi arrives, Jimin expects another story of quiet desperation, he does not expect to see someone who looks like he is holding himself together by threads. Yoongi does not cry when he explains. His voice stays steady as he speaks about painful heats, about being told he cannot conceive, about wanting eight children with a crooked little smile that breaks at the edges.
“I don’t want just one,” Yoongi says softly. “I want a house full of chaos. I want something that stays.”
The words settle deep in Jimin’s chest.
“Have you considered adoption?” Jimin asks gently.
Yoongi nods. “Yes. I will. I just—I wanted to try. Once. To know if it was possible.”
That night, Jimin cannot sleep.
He lies on his back, palm resting over the flat of his abdomen, imagining what Yoongi would look like holding a newborn. Imagining that small, soft smile turning into something undone with love and he tells himself he is only being kind, this is what he does.
The next morning, he finds Yoongi alone by the river that borders the pack’s land.
“If the elders approve,” Jimin says quietly, stepping beside him, “I will carry your child.”
Yoongi turns sharply. “You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
Jimin’s smile is soft, familiar.
“I want to.”
And maybe that is true but there is something else, too. Something he does not name. For the first time, when he imagines the ritual, when he imagines the life growing inside him, he also imagines staying. As he imagines watching Yoongi build that loud, chaotic house, he imagines being inside it and that thought is far more dangerous than the ritual itself.
The ritual is older than the pack itself.
There are no alphas present, only omegas, elders, and the steady sound of wind moving through cedar trees.
Yoongi kneels across from Jimin in the center of the stone circle.
Incense curls between them, thick with crushed herbs and something metallic beneath, blood already mixed into the basin at the altar’s edge.
“Ancestral bonds do not create children,” the eldest omega says. “They reveal the truth. If your scents reject one another, the ritual will fail.”
Jimin’s hands are steady when he reaches forward. Yoongi’s are not.
The elder slices a shallow line across both of their wrists and blood beads and slides, so when their wrists are pressed together, it stings sharp, but then something shifts.
Their scents surge.
It’s like a door opening inside Yoongi's chest.
He can feel Jimin, all of him: the steady rhythm of his heart, the quiet exhaustion tucked beneath layers of practiced kindness, a deep, hollow ache that does not belong to him, and yet, suddenly, it does.
Jimin gasps.
Because he feels Yoongi too: grief, longing for eight children and a loud house, fear of never being chosen for anything other than what his body cannot do.
The bond snaps into place like it was always meant to.
“It has been accepted,” the elder whispers.
But neither of them is listening. Yoongi is staring at Jimin like he has just seen something sacred and terrible at once.
“You’re tired,” Yoongi breathes.
Jimin flinches.
“I’m not—”
“You’re tired,” Yoongi repeats, voice shaking. “You’re empty.”
Jimin pulls his hands away first.
“I’m fine,” he says automatically.
But the words crumble as soon as they leave his mouth because now Yoongi feels the spike of grief that follows.
They are alone later, in the small room prepared for post-ritual rest while the bond still buzzes under Yoongi’s skin.
“I didn’t know it would be like this,” Yoongi admits quietly.
Jimin sits on the edge of the bed, staring at his hands. “Most don’t.”
“You feel everything,” Yoongi says. “All the time?”
Jimin laughs softly. It isn’t happy.
“You get used to it.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Yoongi feels it then, the memories not as images, but as impressions: the swell of a pregnant belly, warmth of a newborn against Jimin’s chest, the way that his body instinctively curls around something small and fragile.
And then—nothing. Arms empty. The room is quiet. Milk drying with no mouth to drink it.
Yoongi’s throat closes.
“You love them,” he whispers.
Jimin’s composure fractures.
“Of course I do,” he says, voice breaking for the first time. “I carry them for months, feel them move, talk to them when no one is listening, I memorize their kicks.” His hands fist into the fabric of his clothes. “And then I hand them over and smile because that’s what I’m meant to do.”
The bond pulses raw and aching.
“It’s hard,” Jimin admits in a whisper so small it almost disappears. “It’s hard to let them go.”
Yoongi crosses the room before he realizes he’s moving.
He kneels in front of Jimin.
“You don’t have to pretend with me,” he says.
Jimin’s eyes are glassy now, but he doesn’t look away.
“If I carry your child,” Jimin asks carefully, “will you still want me after?”
The question lands heavier than anything else. Yoongi feels the fear behind it, the pattern of being needed only for his womb, only for his fertility.
He cups Jimin’s face without thinking.
“I don’t want you because you can give me a child,” Yoongi says softly. “I wanted a family. I didn’t realize part of that could be you.”
The bond flares now warmer.
Jimin inhales sharply, because for the first time, the emptiness inside him does not feel endless.
The room is still heavy with incense and emotion. The bond hums low between them now like a steady heartbeat neither of them can escape.
Jimin wipes at his cheeks quickly, embarrassed by his own vulnerability, he hates crying in front of others or feeling like he has asked for too much.
“I shouldn’t have said that,” he murmurs. “This is your dream and I agreed because I wanted to help. I don’t expect—”
“Stop.”
Yoongi’s voice is soft, but firm.
He is still kneeling in front of Jimin, close enough to feel the warmth of his skin, close enough that their scents begin to blend naturally.
“You think I would take our child and walk away from you?”
Jimin’s shoulders tense.
“That’s how it works,” he says quietly. “It’s how it’s always worked.”
The bond flares, pushing Yoongi to understand what that means.
He feels it again: the careful distance Jimin builds during the last weeks of pregnancy, the way he memorizes each pup because he knows he won’t see them grow and how he stands still, composed, as parents thank him and leave.
Yoongi’s chest aches.
“I don’t want you to just carry my child,” Yoongi says slowly. “I don’t want you to be a kindness I borrow.”
Jimin looks at him then.
“What if we don’t work?” Jimin asks, voice fragile but honest. “What if this is only the ritual? What if we’re not meant to be anything more than this?”
The question isn’t about romance, it’s about abandonment, and Yoongi understands that now. He reaches forward carefully, taking Jimin’s hands again, not because the ritual requires it, but because he wants to.
“Then we will be friends,” Yoongi says. “Co-parents. Partners in chaos.”
Jimin’s breath stutters.
“But the child stays with you, with us” Yoongi continues. “Always. I don’t care if we never share a bed or if you decide one day you don’t want me as anything but family. I don’t want to take another baby from your arms.”
The words settle into the bond.
Jimin feels it: sincerity. This isn’t an alpha demanding rights, this is Yoongi choosing him.
“You mean that,” Jimin whispers.
Yoongi nods without hesitation. “You will never have to hand this one over and pretend you’re fine.”
Something in Jimin breaks open and he leans forward before he can stop himself, pressing his forehead against Yoongi’s shoulder. For the first time in years of being a fertile omega, the thought of carrying a child does not come with dread.
“Okay,” Jimin breathes.
The bond warms, gentle and sure.
“Okay,” Yoongi echoes.
Outside, the pack continues as it always has, unaware that something ancient has just shifted. Because this time, Jimin is not just a vessel, Yoongi’s dream of a loud, chaotic house will not be built on someone else’s emptiness.
Jimin doesn’t realize he’s hoping at first, it starts small.
The first morning sickness comes before dawn, he wakes with a sharp twist in his stomach and barely makes it outside before he’s kneeling in the cool grass, palms pressed to the earth.
The bond pulses.
Yoongi is there before Jimin even calls for him.
He drops beside him without a word, one hand steady on Jimin’s back, the other pushing his hair away from his face.
“I’ve got you,” Yoongi murmurs.
Not the baby. You.
Jimin notices. He tries not to. But later, when he’s resting with a warm compress over his stomach, Yoongi sitting nearby with a notebook balanced on his knee, he lets his hand drift down to his abdomen.
It’s still flat, still early.
“It feels different,” Jimin says before he can stop himself.
Yoongi looks up immediately. “Different bad?”
Jimin shakes his head slowly.
“Different safe.”
The words hang between them and Yoongi’s expression shifts into something so tender it makes Jimin’s chest ache.
Weeks pass.
The pack watches carefully—some are curious, some are wary—Jimin ignores the whispers more easily than he expects.
Because Yoongi stays. He learns which teas ease Jimin’s nausea, memorizes the exact way Jimin likes his rice prepared when nothing else feels tolerable, rubs slow circles into Jimin’s lower back when the ache starts to build at night.
One evening, rain taps softly against the windows of the small house they’ve begun sharing. Yoongi’s belongings slowly moved in as Jimin stopped pretending he was only a guest. Now they sit cross-legged on the wooden floor, scraps of parchment scattered between them. Jimin’s belly is beginning to round, subtle yet undeniable.
Yoongi is frowning at the list.
“You’re not naming our child ‘Min Genius,’” Jimin says, trying very hard not to laugh.
“It’s strong,” Yoongi argues mildly. “Powerful.”
“It’s ridiculous.”
The bond ripples with amusement.
Jimin shifts, adjusting the loose fabric around his waist. Yoongi notices immediately.
“Does it hurt?”
“No,” Jimin says softly. He places Yoongi’s hand over the small curve of his stomach. “Just stretching.”
Yoongi freezes.
He’s touched him before but this is different, it feels intentional.
Jimin watches his face carefully.
“You can talk to them,” Jimin says after a moment. “They say pups recognize voices early.”
Yoongi swallows.
“Hey,” he murmurs to the barely-there bump. “You don’t know me yet but I’ve wanted you for a long time.”
Jimin’s throat tightens.
For years, he carried life knowing he would eventually detach.
Now, as Yoongi keeps his hand there, not pulling away, not treating it like something temporary, Jimin feels something terrifying and beautiful bloom inside him. He imagines a wooden crib in the corner, tiny clothes drying by the fire, not standing alone after the birth.
“You’re thinking too loudly,” Yoongi says gently.
Jimin blinks. “You can feel that?”
“Yes.”
Jimin hesitates. Then, quietly:
“I think I want to keep this one.”
Yoongi doesn’t hesitate.
“We are.”
Not you are. We.
Jimin exhales shakily, leaning into him. Yoongi wraps an arm around his shoulders without thinking, their scents blending comfortably in the small, rain-warmed room.
Somewhere deep inside him, beyond the bond, ritual or duty, Jimin begins to believe this child will know his voice not as a lullaby borrowed for a season but as home.
Between the third month and the fifth, something shifts: Yoongi stops sleeping in the guest room. It happens on a night when Jimin’s back aches so badly he can’t find a comfortable position, he tries to be quiet about it but the bond betrays him, Yoongi feels the discomfort like a dull echo in his own spine. Without a word, Yoongi brings extra pillows, he kneels on the bed, rearranging them with careful hands, lifting Jimin gently by the waist.
“Lean into me,” he murmurs.
Jimin does.
Yoongi supports the full weight of him, one arm firm around his middle as he adjusts the cushions. Jimin’s belly is round now. Beautiful in a way that makes Yoongi’s chest tighten unexpectedly.
When everything is set, Yoongi doesn’t move away. He brushes his fingers through Jimin’s hair instead.
“Sleep,” he says softly.
Jimin does.
From that night on, Yoongi stays.
He learns the rhythm of Jimin’s body better than Jimin expects anyone ever could, wakes before him to prepare breakfast when nausea hits early, massages swollen ankles with quiet concentration. And when Jimin’s center of gravity shifts too far forward, Yoongi’s hands are already there steadying.
Sometimes he lifts Jimin entirely.
“You don’t have to,” Jimin protests weakly the first time Yoongi scoops him up after a long walk leaves him breathless.
“I know,” Yoongi replies.
He carries him anyway.
The pack begins to notice. Future appas before had been polite but Yoongi is different.
He reads aloud to the baby at night, presses kisses to the curve of Jimin’s stomach, tucks blankets around Jimin’s shoulders as if it’s instinct, as if he’s been doing it his whole life.
Jimin watches.
He watches the way Yoongi’s hands linger, his voice softening, the way he hums unconsciously when he thinks Jimin is asleep.
Through the bond, he feels it too, that slow, careful affection.
It scares him at first because this is how it starts, isn’t it? Attachment. The kind of wanting that hurts when it disappears.
But Yoongi never pulls away.
One evening, rain drumming softly against the roof again, Jimin struggles to sit up from the bed. His belly is enormous now, stretching the fabric of his clothes tight, before he can even ask, Yoongi slides behind him, bracing his back.
“On three,” Yoongi murmurs.
They move together.
Jimin ends up half in Yoongi’s lap, breathing hard, embarrassed by the effort.
Yoongi doesn’t laugh.
He presses his forehead gently to Jimin’s shoulder instead.
“You’re incredible,” he whispers.
Jimin’s heart stutters.
“For being heavy?” he teases faintly.
“For building our family.”
Our.
They go quiet after that.
Yoongi realizes it first: he’s quietly falling in love. Not because Jimin is carrying his child, not because of the ritual, but because Jimin smiles at him even when he’s exhausted, he thanks Yoongi for small things no one ever thanked him for, he laughs softly when the baby kicks too hard, because he trusts him.
Yoongi doesn’t say it. He just tucks Jimin into bed more carefully that night. He presses a kiss to Jimin’s temple.
Jimin feels it through the bond.
It isn’t loud or possessive. It’s gentle and sure and terrifyingly real.
And somewhere between being carried to bed and waking up with Yoongi’s hand resting protectively over his belly, Jimin realizes—
He 's in love too.
Not because of the promise of a child or gratitude, but because Yoongi stays and chooses him every day without announcing it.
They don’t say the words yet. They don’t need to.
Because when Jimin wakes in the middle of the night, uncomfortable and restless, and Yoongi instinctively pulls him closer, murmuring, “I’m here,”
It already feels like a family.
Jimin is sprawled carefully across the nest of pillows Yoongi built around him weeks ago. The fire is low, the air smelling faintly of cedar and clean cotton. Outside, the pack is quiet.
Yoongi is reading—or pretending to. Every few minutes, his eyes drift to Jimin’s belly. It still catches him off guard sometimes.
“You’re staring,” Jimin says without opening his eyes.
“I’m appreciating,” Yoongi replies calmly.
Jimin huffs, but he’s smiling.
The bond hums steady.
Then Jimin freezes, his breath catches sharply.
Yoongi is upright instantly. “What? What’s wrong?”
Jimin’s hand flies to the side of his stomach.
“Wait,” he whispers.
And then it happens.
A sharp, visible movement rolls across Jimin’s belly.
Yoongi sees it.
Actually sees it.
The baby kicks again, harder this time, a distinct press outward like a tiny, stubborn declaration.
Both of them gasp.
“Oh,” Jimin breathes.
Yoongi is already on his knees beside the bed, hands hovering, afraid to press too hard.
“Can I?” he asks, voice suddenly fragile.
Jimin nods, eyes shining.
Yoongi places his palm carefully against the spot.
For a second, nothing.
Then—
Thump.
A solid kick against his hand. Yoongi goes completely still, his mouth opens, but no sound comes out, the baby kicks again, almost impatient and something inside Yoongi breaks wide open.
“That’s—” His voice shakes. “That’s our baby.”
Our.
Jimin feels it through the bond, the awe, the disbelief, the fierce protective love blooming so fast it almost hurts.
Another kick.
Jimin laughs, breathless. “They’re strong.”
“They’re dramatic,” Yoongi corrects softly, but his thumb begins rubbing gentle circles over the place where the baby presses outward.
The movement slows, then resumes, responding.
“They know you,” Jimin whispers.
Yoongi leans closer, forehead nearly resting against the curve of Jimin’s stomach.
“Hey,” he murmurs, voice low and reverent. “Easy on your appa, okay? He’s doing all the hard work.”
The baby kicks again.
Harder. Jimin winces, not in pain, but surprise, and grabs Yoongi’s wrist.
Yoongi looks up instantly. “Did that hurt?”
“No,” Jimin says, laughing softly through tears he didn’t realize were forming. “They’re just excited.”
The bond swells with something so warm it almost feels golden. Yoongi shifts, sitting on the edge of the bed, and without thinking, he leans down and presses a gentle kiss to the tight curve of Jimin’s belly.
Jimin inhales sharply.
The baby stills under Yoongi’s touch.
And through the bond, Jimin feels it, not just Yoongi’s love for the child, but for him.
“Yoongi,” Jimin whispers.
Yoongi looks up, eyes soft, hair falling into his face.
“You’re going to be such a good appa,” Jimin says, voice trembling.
Yoongi swallows. “Not without you.”
The baby shifts one more time, a smaller nudge now, like settling. And in the soft glow of the firelight, with Yoongi’s hand spread protectively over him and their child moving beneath it, Jimin realizes something with startling clarity:
This isn’t temporary. When the baby moves inside him, Jimin doesn’t feel the countdown to goodbye, he feels like this is their beginning of forever.
Jimin wakes first. He’s used to it by now, the weight of his belly making sleep shallow, the constant awareness of the life inside him. The room is dark except for the faint glow of dying embers in the hearth, Yoongi is curled on his side, one hand resting instinctively over the curve of Jimin’s stomach even in sleep.
Jimin smiles to himself.
He shifts carefully, propping himself up with a pillow. The baby has been restless all evening, little movements, impatient nudges.
“Hey,” Jimin whispers softly, rubbing his palm over the tight skin. “Why are you still awake, hm?”
For a second, nothing.
Then—
A sudden, strong kick.
Jimin inhales sharply, surprised into a quiet laugh.
“Oh? Is that it? You just needed attention?”
Another kick. Not random this time, deliberate, centered exactly where Jimin’s hand rests.
Yoongi stirs at the movement, blinking awake.
“Everything okay?” he mumbles.
Jimin looks down at his belly, eyes wide and shining.
“They’re answering me.”
Yoongi pushes himself up immediately. “What do you mean?”
“Watch.”
Jimin smooths his hand over the side of his stomach again, voice lowering instinctively, warm and melodic.
“Hi, baby.”
The response is immediate.
A rolling stretch across the surface of his belly, not just a kick, but a full shift, like the baby is turning toward him.
Yoongi freezes.
Jimin’s breath catches.
“They know you,” Yoongi whispers.
Jimin swallows. “No. They know us.”
But even as he says it, he tries again.
“It’s okay,” Jimin murmurs, softer now. “Appa’s here.”
Another movement, slower this time.
Jimin’s eyes fill with tears.
For years, he spoke to his pups knowing they would one day leave his arms. He memorized their patterns, their rhythms but he always tried to keep a piece of himself distant.
The baby moves again when he laughs quietly through his tears.
Yoongi is watching him, not the belly.
He sees it, the way Jimin’s face transforms, the way something deep and old inside him relaxes.
“They respond differently to you,” Yoongi says softly.
Jimin shakes his head. “They kick for you too.”
“Not like that.”
Yoongi shifts closer, wrapping an arm carefully around Jimin from behind, both hands spreading protectively over the curve of his stomach.
“Hi,” Yoongi murmurs experimentally.
There’s a small kick.
Then Jimin laughs again, breathy and warm.
And the baby rolls in a wide, unmistakable movement.
Yoongi lets out a quiet, stunned sound.
“Oh,” he breathes. “Oh.”
Jimin leans back into him fully now, cradled against Yoongi’s chest.
“They’re listening,” Jimin whispers.
“No,” Yoongi corrects gently. “They’re settling.”
The baby shifts one more time, slower now, then grows still beneath Jimin’s palm. Through the bond, Yoongi feels that fierce glowing certainty in Jimin’s chest. Belonging.
And when Yoongi presses a soft kiss to the side of his neck, voice low and steady—
“They already love you,”
Jimin believes it.
The market day is louder than usual, Jimin shouldn’t have come. Everyone told him that. At eight months, his belly is heavy and low, movements slower, steps careful. But he had insisted he missed the noise, the sunlight, the feeling of normalcy.
Yoongi hasn’t left his side once, one hand always resting at the small of Jimin’s back, steady and warm.
The baby has been calm all morning, small stretches here and there. Jimin is relaxed, even smiling as he watches children run past with sweet buns in their hands.
Then one of the elders approaches.
He looks at Jimin first, eyes assessing the size of his belly.
“You’re carrying well,” he says. “Strong as always.”
Jimin smiles politely. “Thank you.”
Han’s gaze shifts to Yoongi.
“And you,” he continues, voice neutral. “Have you considered the arrangement after birth?”
Yoongi’s hand tightens slightly against Jimin’s back.
“What arrangement?” he asks calmly.
“The child will belong to your line,” Han says. “Traditionally, surrogates step back after the weaning period. It prevents confusion.”
Jimin goes still.
He had forgotten how easily others speak about it.
Yoongi feels the spike of old fear inside Jimin, the instinct to brace, to prepare for separation, to swallow disappointment before it can take root.
The elder continues, unaware.
“It will be easier for the pup if boundaries are clear early.”
Yoongi doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t bare teeth or let his scent spike aggressively. He simply steps forward, fully between Jimin and the elder, one arm sliding firmly around Jimin’s waist and the other resting protectively over the curve of his belly.
The movement is instinctive.
“There will be no stepping back,” Yoongi says evenly.
The elder frowns. “That is not how this pack has operated.”
Yoongi’s voice stays quiet.
“It will be now.”
Jimin feels it through the bond, not anger, but something fiercer. The refusal to let old wounds reopen.
“This child has two parents,” Yoongi continues. “Not a benefactor and a vessel.”
The elder's eyes narrow slightly. “You are not mated.”
Yoongi doesn’t hesitate.
“Not yet.”
The words slip out before he can stop them.
Jimin’s breath catches.
The elder studies them both for a long moment. Then, with a disapproving hum, he steps back.
“Attachment complicates tradition,” he says.
Yoongi doesn’t move.
“Then tradition can adapt.”
Finally, the elder walks away.
Only when he’s gone does Yoongi’s posture soften.
He turns immediately, hands cupping Jimin’s face.
“Are you okay?”
Jimin nods, but his eyes are glassy.
“You didn’t have to—”
“Yes,” Yoongi interrupts gently. “I did.”
The baby kicks suddenly, hard enough that both of them feel it.
Yoongi’s hand drops instinctively to Jimin’s stomach.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs to both of them. “No one is taking you anywhere.”
Jimin’s composure cracks then.
“I’m not used to someone standing in front of me,” Jimin whispers.
Yoongi’s thumb brushes beneath his eye, catching a tear before it falls.
“Get used to it,” he says softly.
And as Yoongi keeps his arm around him, guiding him gently back toward home, Jimin feels something settle deep in his bones:
This is a partnership. It’s love growing teeth when it needs to.
The house is quiet when they return. The market noise still rings faintly in Jimin’s ears, but inside their space everything feels smaller, closer. Intimate. Yoongi helps him sit first, kneeling to remove his shoes with the same care he always does, his movements are controlled now, gentler than they were outside. The sharpness has faded, but not the protectiveness.
Jimin watches him. Watch the way his jaw is still tight and how his hands linger at Jimin’s ankles a second too long, as if reassuring himself he’s still here.
“Yoongi.”
Yoongi looks up immediately. “Does anything hurt?”
Jimin shakes his head slowly.
“That’s not what I meant.”
Yoongi stands, but he doesn’t move away. He sits beside Jimin instead, close enough that their shoulders brush.
Jimin folds his hands over his belly, gathering courage the way he used to before handing a newborn over to waiting arms.
“You said—” He swallows. “You said we’re not mated. Not yet.”
Yoongi stills.
“I did,” Yoongi answers quietly.
Jimin nods, staring down at his own fingers.
“Was that just to make him stop talking?”
“No.”
Jimin’s breath falters.
Yoongi exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair, suddenly looking far less composed than he did in the market square.
“I didn’t plan to say it,” he admits. “But I’ve been thinking it.”
The baby shifts faintly under Jimin’s palm, as if listening.
“Thinking what?” Jimin whispers.
Yoongi turns toward him fully now.
“I don’t want to leave,” he says.
Jimin’s heart pounds so loudly he’s sure Yoongi can feel it without the bond.
“I don’t want to just co-parent,” Yoongi continues, voice low but unwavering. “I don’t want to be your friend who shares a child. I want to wake up next to you because it’s ours. I want to build the rest of that loud, chaotic house with you in it.”
Jimin blinks rapidly.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” he asks softly.
Yoongi’s mouth curves faintly.
“You were already carrying so much,” he says. “I didn’t want you to feel pressured into choosing me because of the baby.”
Jimin’s chest aches.
“You think I would?”
“I think you’re kind enough to.”
That hits. Jimin shifts closer without realizing it.
“I asked because I was afraid,” Jimin admits. “Not of you—of wanting it too much.”
Yoongi’s eyes soften.
“Wanting what?”
“You.”
Yoongi inhales sharply.
“You do?” he asks, almost incredulous.
Jimin lets out a shaky laugh.
“You tuck me into bed every night,” he says. “You carry me when I’m tired. You talk to our baby like they’re already here. How was I supposed to not fall in love with you?”
Yoongi reaches for him slowly, giving him space to pull away but Jimin doesn’t. Their foreheads press together, breaths mingling.
“I don’t want to rush you,” Yoongi murmurs. “We don’t have to decide anything now.”
Jimin smiles softly.
“I already did.”
Another small kick interrupts them.
Both of them laugh, startled.
“See?” Jimin whispers. “They agree.”
Yoongi’s hand slides over Jimin’s belly, warm and protective.
“Then when you’re ready,” Yoongi says quietly, “I would like to mate you. Because I fell in love with you.”
Jimin doesn’t hesitate this time.
“I love you too.”
Outside the night carries on unaware that inside this small house a family has just chosen itself completely.
Yoongi waits three days. Not because he doubts but because he wants to do it right.
The pack gathers at dusk in the central courtyard, lanterns strung between trees, the air cool and expectant.
Jimin doesn’t know why he’s been asked to come.
He’s dressed simply, one of Yoongi’s shawls draped over his shoulders because it smells like home. His belly is heavy now, unmistakable beneath the fabric, one hand resting there instinctively as he walks.
When he steps into the courtyard and sees everyone assembled, he falters.
“Yoongi?” he calls softly.
Yoongi steps forward from the circle of elders.
He’s dressed formally, dark robes, hair pulled back, posture steady but eyes softer than Jimin has ever seen them.
Jimin’s heart begins to race.
Yoongi approaches slowly, stopping just in front of him. Close enough that their scents mix.
“I wanted to ask you somewhere it mattered,” Yoongi says, voice calm but carrying.
The courtyard grows very quiet.
Jimin’s fingers tighten slightly over his belly.
Yoongi turns briefly toward the elders.
“This pack gave me a miracle,” he says. “Not just a child but a family."
Then he looks back at Jimin.
“And I would like to keep it.”
Jimin’s breath stutters.
Yoongi steps closer, kneeling despite the dirt beneath him, despite the murmurs from older members of the pack.
“I came here wanting eight children,” he continues softly. “I thought that was my dream.”
A faint, shaky smile touches his lips.
“But I was wrong.”
The bond warms, almost glowing.
“My dream was this,” Yoongi says. “You. Choosing each other. Building something that doesn’t disappear when tradition says it should.”
Jimin’s eyes blur with tears.
“I love you,” Yoongi says clearly now. “Not because you carry my child, not because of the ritual. But because you hope and you are stronger than anyone ever gave you credit for.”
The baby shifts a slow, deliberate movement beneath Jimin’s palm.
Yoongi places his hand gently over Jimin’s.
“Park Jimin,” he says, voice lowering, intimate despite the audience. “Will you mate me? Not as a surrogate, not as an obligation, but as my partner, the parent of all the chaos we’re about to create.”
A tear slips down Jimin’s cheek.
“Yes,” Jimin whispers.
Then louder, steadier:
“Yes. I will.”
The elders exchange glances, some surprised, some reluctant, but none can deny the way the air itself seems to settle around them.
Yoongi rises carefully and pulls Jimin into his arms, one hand cradling the back of his neck, the other instinctively protective over his belly.
The baby kicks sharply.
Both of them laugh through tears.
“It seems we have their approval,” Yoongi murmurs against Jimin’s temple.
Jimin presses his forehead to Yoongi’s shoulder, smiling in a way that is no longer practiced or restrained.
They don’t wait long after the public acceptance but they don’t rush either.
The private mating ritual is held in their home, not the courtyard. No audience just them, the low crackle of the fire, and the steady presence of the bond between them.
Jimin is nervous. Every bond ritual he’s ever participated in before was about duty. This one feels like stepping into something that belongs to him.
Yoongi notices the tension immediately.
“Are you tired?” he asks softly, adjusting the cushions behind Jimin on the bed.
Jimin shakes his head.
“Overwhelmed.”
Yoongi kneels in front of him again, the same position he had taken in the courtyard.
“You can stop this at any point,” Yoongi says. “Even now.”
Jimin smiles faintly.
“I don’t want to stop.”
The ritual is simple: two cups of tea steeped with calming herbs, a thin red cord placed between them is a symbol of shared life and a shallow bowl of water mixed with a single drop of each of their blood.
Yoongi takes Jimin’s hand carefully, pressing his lips to his knuckles first.
“I choose you,” Yoongi says quietly. “In this life, this house, in whatever children come after.”
The baby shifts under Jimin’s palm, almost as if listening.
Jimin’s throat tightens.
He dips his fingers into the water first this time, then reaches up to trace a faint line along Yoongi’s wrist.
“I choose you,” Jimin echoes. “Not because you asked, not because you protected me but because you see me.”
Yoongi ties the red cord loosely around both of their wrists, knotting it carefully so it rests over their pulses.
Their foreheads press together.
“May I?” Yoongi asks softly, hand hovering near Jimin’s jaw.
Jimin nods.
The kiss is slow. Tender. It isn’t desperate, it’s grounding. Yoongi’s hand cups Jimin’s face, thumb brushing beneath his eye. Jimin’s fingers curl into the fabric of Yoongi’s shirt, pulling him closer not out of need, but because he wants to.
The bond doesn’t flare wildly this time. It settles into something steady and rooted. Permanent.
When they part, Yoongi rests his forehead against Jimin’s again, both of them breathing a little heavier, a little emotional.
“You’re staying,” Jimin whispers, like he still needs to hear it.
“I’m staying,” Yoongi answers.
The baby kicks once firm and insistent.
They both laugh softly.
“I think they approve of the ceremony,” Yoongi murmurs.
Jimin leans back carefully, and Yoongi helps him lower onto the cushions, tucking blankets around him like always. The cord remains loosely around their wrists as Yoongi lies beside him.
Their hands rest together over the curve of Jimin’s belly.
And in the quiet glow of the firelight, with no one watching and nothing demanded of them, they fall asleep bound not by ritual—
But by choice.
By the time Jimin reaches the final weeks, walking becomes a negotiation. His belly is enormous now round and low, stretching the fabric of his clothes tight. The baby moves constantly, strong and impatient, pressing elbows and heels against his ribs like they’re already tired of waiting.
Jimin tries not to complain.
He still moves around the house, still insists on folding small clothes and organizing the growing stack of blankets.
But Yoongi sees it.
“Come here,” Yoongi says gently one afternoon.
Jimin is standing near the doorway, staring at the steps outside like they personally offended him.
“I can manage,” Jimin insists.
Yoongi raises one brow.
“You said that yesterday before nearly tipping forward.”
Jimin huffs.
Yoongi steps closer, sliding one arm securely around Jimin’s waist and the other beneath his thighs.
“Yoongi—”
Before he can finish protesting, Yoongi lifts him cleanly off the ground.
Jimin gasps, instinctively clutching at Yoongi’s shoulders.
“You’re going to hurt yourself!”
“I am not,” Yoongi replies calmly.
He’s omega too, smaller than most alphas, softer in scent, but strength isn’t about designation. It’s about resolve. And Yoongi has plenty of that.
He adjusts his hold carefully, making sure Jimin’s belly is supported between them.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs.
Jimin’s protests fade.
He relaxes into Yoongi’s chest instead.
“You’re showing off,” Jimin mutters.
“Maybe.”
But his grip never wavers.
Later, when Jimin tries to lower himself onto the bedding and struggles, Yoongi kneels again, guiding him down slowly.
“Lean on me,” he says, steady and patient.
He rubs warm oil into Jimin’s stretched skin every night now. He presses firm circles into his hips when they ache. He helps him bathe, careful and attentive, like every inch of Jimin is something precious.
When the baby kicks hard enough to make Jimin wince, Yoongi’s hands are there instantly.
“Easy,” he whispers to the curve of his stomach. “Don’t bully your appa.”
The baby responds with another strong roll.
Jimin laughs breathlessly.
“They’re going to be just like you.”
“Stubborn?”
“Protective.”
That makes Yoongi go quiet.
He carries Jimin up the small hill near their house when he wants fresh air. He steadies him through every contraction-like tightening that makes Jimin tense nervously. He wakes at the smallest shift beside him at night.
Even the other omegas in the pack have started to notice.
“You don’t let him walk anywhere alone,” one of them teases gently.
Yoongi doesn’t deny it.
“He shouldn’t have to,” he answers simply.
And Jimin hears.
One evening, as the sun sets gold through the windows, Jimin stands in front of the small cradle they’ve prepared.
His belly shifts low and heavy.
“I feel huge,” he murmurs.
Yoongi steps behind him, wrapping both arms around him carefully, hands spanning the full curve of his stomach.
“You’re incredible,” Yoongi corrects.
Jimin leans back fully into his chest, trusting the support without thinking.
“I don’t know how I did this before,” Jimin admits softly.
Before when he carried alone, when he handed his pups away, when no one stayed through the soreness and swelling and fear.
Yoongi presses a kiss to the side of his neck.
“You don’t have to do it alone anymore.”
The baby gives a slow, powerful stretch visible beneath Jimin’s skin. Both of them stare down in awe.
“We’re ready,” Yoongi whispers, almost to himself.
Jimin nods, eyes shining.
Because this time, when the due date looms close he isn’t bracing for goodbye. He’s being carried towards a hello.
And Yoongi, strong and steady and utterly devoted, is carrying him every step of the way.
Jimin wakes with a deep, tightening pull low in his abdomen not the practice aches he’s grown used to.
He inhales slowly. Waits. The second contraction steals his breath.
“Yoongi,” he whispers.
Yoongi is awake instantly.
He sees it in Jimin’s face, the flicker of pain, the way his hand grips the bedding.
“It’s time,” Jimin breathes.
Yoongi moves fast but controlled. Water already warming, towels laid out weeks ago, the healer sent word.
And still nothing feels real until Jimin bends forward with a low, strained sound that makes Yoongi’s heart lurch.
“I’m here,” Yoongi murmurs immediately, kneeling in front of him. “Lean on me.”
Hours blur. There is sweat and tears.
Jimin grips Yoongi’s shoulders through contractions, nails digging in.
“You’re doing so well,” he whispers over and over. “You’re so strong.”
At one point Jimin gasps, overwhelmed, trembling.
“I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” Yoongi answers immediately, voice firm but gentle. “You’ve carried her this far. I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”
Her.
They both feel it through the bond now the certainty.
The final push is raw and fierce and beautiful.
And then—
A cry.
The sound splits the room open.
Yoongi’s breath leaves him in a broken sob. The healer moves quickly, but it’s Yoongi who reaches first, hands shaking as he gathers their daughter carefully..
And when Yoongi looks down at her—
He freezes.
“She—” His voice breaks completely. “She looks like me.”
Jimin, exhausted and glowing and trembling, laughs weakly.
“Poor thing.”
Yoongi lets out a watery, disbelieving laugh.
It’s true. She has Yoongi’s tiny pout, his soft, rounded cheeks, even the faint crease between her brows like she’s already judging the world.
But her scent its both of them.
Yoongi carries her carefully to Jimin, lowering her onto his chest. The moment her skin touches Jimin’s, she quiets. Jimin’s arms come around her instinctively, tears spilling freely now.
“Hi,” he whispers, voice wrecked and full. “Hi, my baby.”
Yoongi kneels beside them, one hand cupping Jimin’s face, the other resting protectively over their daughter’s tiny back.
“We did it,” he murmurs.
Jimin nods, pressing a trembling kiss to the top of their daughter’s head.
“What’s her name?” the healer asks gently.
Yoongi and Jimin look at each other.
No hesitation.
“Park-Min Yoonji,” Yoongi says softly.
Jimin smiles through tears.
“Our Yoonji.”
Their daughter stirs, tiny fingers curling against Jimin’s chest. Yoongi leans forward and presses a kiss to Jimin’s forehead.
“You never have to let her go,” he whispers.
Jimin holds her tighter.
“I won’t.”
The bond settles into something deeper than before, not just love between them, but love expanding outward.
Outside, dawn breaks. Inside, Yoonji sighs softly in her appa’s arms, looking impossibly like Yoongi and entirely like theirs.
And this time—no one is counting the days until goodbye.
They are counting first breaths. First cries. First forever.
The house is finally still.
Yoonji is asleep against Jimin’s chest, tiny mouth parted, soft breaths puffing against his skin. Jimin fell asleep like that one hand protectively curved around their daughter, even in dreams.
Yoongi stands in the doorway for a long time.
He memorizes them: the curve of Jimin’s exhausted smile even in sleep, the faint crease in Yoonji’s brow, the way they fit together like they were always meant to.
He steps in carefully, adjusting the blanket over them both.
His fingers brush Yoonji’s cheek.
“She’s here,” he whispers to no one.
He presses a soft kiss to Jimin’s hair, then to Yoonji’s head.
And then he leaves the room.
The kitchen feels too big.
Yoongi braces his hands on the counter and just stands there.
He thought he would feel triumphant. Instead, he feels cracked open. His chest aches like something too large is trying to live inside it. He covers his mouth when the first sob escapes him.
He slides down until he’s sitting on the kitchen floor, back against the cabinets.
“I have her,” he whispers, voice breaking. “She’s mine.”
All those years of wanting, watching others build families while he stood outside of it fearing he would never hold something that stayed.
And Jimin—chose him. Carried their child.
Yoongi presses the heels of his hands against his eyes, but the tears won’t stop.
“What if I’m not enough?” he breathes.
The fear creeps in quietly: what if he fails them, if he doesn’t protect them well enough, if Jimin still thinks he has to give pieces of himself away.
His chest tightens.
He doesn’t notice soft footsteps until warm arms wrap around him from behind.
Yoongi freezes.
Jimin’s voice is sleepy and gentle against his ear.
“You think I wouldn’t feel you unraveling through the bond?”
Yoongi laughs weakly through tears.
“I didn’t want to wake you.”
“You didn’t,” Jimin murmurs, sliding around to sit in front of him. He cups Yoongi’s face, wiping tears with his thumbs. “But you don’t have to do this alone anymore.”
Yoongi looks at him.
Hair messy, eyes heavy with exhaustion, skin still pale from labor. And yet he’s here.
“You gave me everything,” Yoongi whispers hoarsely. “You gave me her. I don’t know how to hold all of this without breaking.”
Jimin smiles softly.
“Then let me hold you too.”
And just like that, Yoongi leans forward.
He buries his face against Jimin’s shoulder and cries properly this time.
Jimin holds him.
Strokes his hair.
“You’re enough,” Jimin murmurs. “You’re more than enough. She looks at you like you hung the moon already.”
Yoongi lets out a watery laugh.
“She’s one day old.”
“And she already knows,” Jimin replies simply.
They sit like that for a long time on the kitchen floor as exhausted parents as omegas who built something no one thought they could as two hearts learning how to expand without fear.
Eventually, Jimin presses a kiss to Yoongi’s temple.
“Come back to bed,” he whispers. “Yoonji will wake soon.”
Yoongi nods.
But before they stand he takes Jimin’s hand and squeezes it tightly.
“I love you,” he says, not quiet, not hidden.
Jimin’s eyes soften completely.
“I know,” he replies. “I love you too.”
And when they return to their daughter, Yoongi doesn’t feel cracked open anymore. He feels home.
It’s sometime after 3 a.m. The house is dim, washed in moonlight and the faint amber glow of the night lamp beside the couch.
Jimin wakes slowly. The space beside him is warm but empty. He frowns, instinct already prickling through the bond.
Down the hallway.
And there in the living room he finds them. Yoongi is sitting on the couch, back slightly curved, Yoonji resting against his chest in nothing but a small blanket, her tiny fist is tucked under his chin, she’s half-asleep, making soft newborn noises.
Yoongi doesn’t know Jimin is there.
He’s whispering.
His voice is barely louder than breath.
“I’m going to keep you safe,” he murmurs, brushing a careful thumb over Yoonji’s tiny knuckles. “No one’s ever going to take you away. I don’t care what traditions say. I don’t care what anyone expects.”
Jimin’s chest tightens.
Yoongi swallows.
“You get to stay. You get to grow up in our house. You get to run down these halls and make a mess and argue with me when you’re older.” His lips twitch faintly. “You get to know your appa laughs too loud when he’s excited.”
Yoonji shifts.
Yoongi adjusts her instinctively, holding her closer.
“And I’m going to love him properly,” he continues softly. “I’m going to love your appa in a way that makes him forget anyone ever made him feel empty. He doesn’t have to give himself away anymore. I won’t let him.”
Jimin’s breath catches.
Yoongi presses a kiss to the top of Yoonji’s head.
“I promise you both,” he whispers, voice trembling just slightly. “I’m not going anywhere.”
There’s a long pause.
Then, smaller—
“Thank you for choosing us.”
Jimin steps forward then, unable to stay hidden anymore.
The floor creaks softly.
Yoongi looks up, startled.
“How long have you been standing there?” he asks quietly.
“Long enough,” Jimin replies, voice thick.
He walks over slowly and kneels in front of them. For a moment, he just looks at Yoongi.
“You don’t have to promise her in secret,” Jimin says gently. “You can promise me too.”
Yoongi’s throat bobs.
“I thought you were sleeping.”
“I was,” Jimin admits, reaching up to cup Yoongi’s cheek. “But the bond felt full.”
Yoongi huffs a small, embarrassed breath.
“I was just talking.”
“I know,” Jimin says. “You always talk when you’re overwhelmed.”
That earns the faintest smile.
Jimin leans forward and presses his forehead to Yoongi’s.
“She’s lucky,” he whispers. “But I’m the luckiest one.”
Yoongi’s eyes soften completely.
“You’re everything,” he says simply.
Jimin shifts, settling beside him on the couch. Yoongi automatically lifts one arm to make space, pulling him close without disturbing Yoonji.
The three of them fit together easily.
Jimin rests his head on Yoongi’s shoulder.
“If you’re going to make promises,” he murmurs, “make one more.”
Yoongi hums softly. “What?”
“Promise you’ll let me love you just as fiercely.”
Yoongi turns slightly, pressing a gentle kiss to Jimin’s hair.
“I already do.”
Yoonji makes a tiny sigh between them, as if approving.
And in the quiet of 3 a.m., under soft lamplight and softer vows, they sit there not just parents, not just bonded.
But chosen. Every single night.
The house is louder now. There are toys under the couch. Crayon marks on one wall that Yoongi pretends he’s going to repaint. Tiny socks that appear in places no one remembers putting them.
Yoonji is four years old.
Four years of stubborn pouty expressions identical to her appa Yoongi. Four years of dramatic sighs. Four years of wrapping both arms around Jimin’s neck and declaring, “You’re mine.”
And now—
Jimin is pregnant again.
It wasn’t planned in any precise way. It just happened, in the way everything between them seems to.
But this time feels different.
Jimin’s sitting on the edge of their bed, hand resting low on his stomach, brow furrowed. Yoongi kneels in front of him immediately.
“What?” he asks softly.
Jimin swallows.
“There’s more.”
Yoongi blinks. “More?”
Jimin closes his eyes and focuses. Not one steady pulse but two distinct rhythms, weaving together.
Yoongi feels it a second later.
He freezes.
“That’s not—”
Jimin opens his eyes slowly, almost dazed.
“It’s two.”
Yoongi’s mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
“Two?” he whispers.
Jimin lets out a shaky laugh that’s half disbelief, half joy.
“Two.”
And then—
Yoongi starts laughing.
“Two,” he repeats, hands sliding carefully over Jimin’s belly as if he might feel them already. “We’re having two.”
The bond flares with gentle little pulses responding faintly under his touch.
Yoongi’s eyes widen.
“They’re girls,” he breathes.
Jimin feels it too.
“Two girls,” he confirms, voice trembling.
From the doorway—
“Are they here yet?”
Yoonji stands there with messy hair and a stuffed fox tucked under her arm.
Yoongi turns immediately. “Not yet, baby.”
She squints suspiciously at Jimin’s stomach.
“There’s two?” she demands.
Jimin laughs, opening his arms. “Yes. Two.”
Yoonji gasps dramatically.
“That’s too many.”
Yoongi snorts.
“You said you wanted sisters.”
“I wanted one,” Yoonji argues, climbing carefully into Jimin’s lap or as much as she can manage now that his belly is already rounding more quickly than last time. “Two is too loud.”
Yoongi kneels beside them, resting his head lightly against Jimin’s stomach.
“They’re already loud,” he murmurs in mock seriousness. “I can feel it.”
As if on cue, a small flutter, then another.
Jimin inhales sharply.
Yoongi’s eyes go wide.
“Did you—?”
“Yes,” Jimin whispers.
Yoonji presses her ear dramatically against Jimin’s belly.
“I can’t hear anything.”
Yoongi smiles softly, brushing his fingers over the curve of Jimin’s stomach.
“You will,” he promises her.
He looks up at Jimin then.
“You’re okay?” he asks gently.
Jimin nods.
“Overwhelmed,” he admits. “But happy.”
Yoongi leans up and kisses him softly.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “All three of you.”
Jimin smiles.
“You always do.”
Later that night, when Yoonji is asleep and the house is finally quiet again, Yoongi lies beside Jimin with both hands spread protectively over his stomach.
Two steady pulses hum faintly against his palms.
“We’re really doing this again,” he murmurs.
Jimin turns his head toward him.
“Are you scared?”
Yoongi thinks for a moment.
“Yes,” he admits honestly.
Then he presses a kiss to Jimin’s shoulder.
“But not in the lonely way anymore.”
Jimin’s eyes soften.
“We’re not lonely anymore.”
Yoongi smiles against his skin.
Two more girls.
Two more tiny heartbeats.
Two more promises whispered in the dark.
And this time they already know how to hold love without fear.
By the eighth month, Yoongi has stopped pretending he isn’t stressed.
Jimin is huge. Not glowing-soft huge. Not “aww, round” huge. Twin, low-carrying, waddling, breathless, back-aching, “why are they both kicking at once?” huge.
Yoongi hovers constantly.
“Sit down.” “I am sitting.”
“Lean back.” “I’m already leaning.”
“Do you need water?” “Yoongi.”
Yoonji, now five and deeply dramatic, crosses her arms one afternoon and declares, “Appa, you’re being annoying.”
Yoongi doesn’t even deny it.
Because every time Jimin shifts and winces, Yoongi’s heart drops into his stomach.
“You’re bigger than last time,” he mutters one evening, kneeling to rub oil gently over Jimin’s stretched skin.
“That’s how twins work,” Jimin replies dryly, though his fingers card fondly through Yoongi’s hair.
“I know, but—”
“But what?”
Yoongi looks up.
“They’re taking so much from you.”
Jimin softens immediately.
“They’re growing. That’s what they’re supposed to do.”
Yoongi presses his forehead gently to the curve of Jimin’s belly.
“They’re rowdy,” he mutters.
“They’re your daughters,” Jimin teases.
Yoongi glares playfully.
“They are not.”
Jimin smiles.
“They feel like me.”
Yoongi pauses.
He focuses.
And he feels it too.
Bright and emotional in a way that feels so unmistakably Jimin.
He exhales slowly.
“They do.”
The panic truly begins the night Jimin can’t get comfortable at all. He’s restless, breathing shallow, hands braced against his lower back.
Yoongi sits upright immediately.
“What? What’s wrong?”
Jimin swallows.
“I think it’s starting.”
Yoongi freezes.
“Starting as in—”
Another contraction steals Jimin’s breath.
Yoongi is on his feet in half a second.
“Okay. Okay. Okay.”
“Yoongi,” Jimin laughs weakly, gripping his arm. “Breathe.”
“I am breathing.”
Yoonji is hurried to a neighbor pack member. The healer is sent for.
And then—
Chaos.
Twins do not care about calm.
Jimin labors faster this time, body already knowing what to do but the intensity is doubled.
Yoongi stays at his side, but he is visibly pale.
“Are you okay?” Jimin pants between contractions.
“I’m fine,” Yoongi insists.
He is absolutely not fine.
When the first twin crowns, Yoongi nearly bursts into tears just from relief.
Then—
A cry.
Yoongi laughs in disbelief.
“One,” he chokes out.
The healer barely finishes placing the first baby against Jimin’s chest before—
“Second’s coming,” they warn.
Yoongi looks mildly betrayed by the universe.
“Already?”
Jimin squeezes his hand painfully hard.
“Don’t you dare faint.”
“I won’t,” he vows fiercely.
The second birth is quicker as another cry fills the room.
And then—
Silence, except for two newborn wails overlapping.
Yoongi stares.
There are two tiny, pink, squirming girls against Jimin’s chest.
He blinks.
“Oh.”
Jimin looks down, breathless.
They both burst out laughing at the same time because neither of the twins looks anything like Yoongi. Not even a little. They have Jimin’s soft mouth, Jimin’s delicate nose, and even the faint curve of his eyes.
Two tiny copies. Yoongi leans closer, mock-offended.
“They stole your whole face.”
Jimin grins tiredly.
“Looks like it.”
The first twin quiets almost instantly under Jimin’s voice. The second follows seconds later.
Yoongi watches in awe.
“They’re so you.”
He presses a kiss to Jimin’s temple, overwhelmed.
“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay. We need names.”
Jimin looks down at them, heart full to bursting.
“They feel like…”
He swallows, smiling.
“Minnie.”
Yoongi nods immediately.
“And Mimie,” he adds softly.
Jimin laughs gently.
“Minnie and Mimie.”
Two tiny matching whines answer as if approving. Yoongi leans down carefully, pressing his forehead against Jimin’s.
“You did so well,” he whispers fiercely. “You’re incredible.”
Jimin shakes his head softly.
“We did this.”
Yoongi looks at their daughters again then back at Jimin.
Three girls.
Three miracles.
Later, when Yoonji meets her sisters and gasps dramatically—
“They’re tiny!” she exclaims.
Yoongi kneels beside her.
“So were you,” he tells her.
She squints at Minnie and Mimie.
“They look like appa.”
Yoongi sighs dramatically.
“I know.”
Jimin laughs softly from the bed.
And as Yoongi looks at his omega, tired, glowing, surrounded by three daughters, he realizes something quietly: he used to dream of a big family but never imagined it would be this loud, this chaotic, this perfect.
The house is chaotic. Not with newborn chaos but with toddler chaos.
Minnie and Mimie are two, identical in mischief, inseparable in crime. If one climbs, the other follows. If one cries, the other howls louder just to compete.
Yoonji, now seven, has declared herself “Head Sister,” which mostly means she narrates everything dramatically and tattles with authority.
It happens quietly. They weren’t trying in any calculated way but they also weren’t preventing.
One evening, Jimin is sitting on the bathroom floor, staring at the little stick in his hand like it personally offended him.
Yoongi is pacing.
“Well?” he demands gently.
Jimin looks up slowly.
“Yes.”
Yoongi freezes.
“Yes?”
Jimin’s lips twitch.
“Yes.”
Then Yoongi exhales a shaky, disbelieving laugh.
“You’re serious?”
Jimin nods, eyes already soft.
“I can feel it.”
Yoongi kneels in front of him immediately, hands cupping Jimin’s face.
“How many?” he asks quietly.
Jimin closes his eyes, focusing inward.
“One.”
Yoongi smiles in relief.
“One is good,” he murmurs.
But then—
Something else settles in the bond.
Yoongi stiffens.
Jimin’s eyes fly open.
They both feel it at the same time.
“Oh,” Yoongi whispers.
Jimin’s hand drifts slowly to his stomach. Masculine in a way that feels like steady ground.
Yoongi’s breath catches.
“He.”
Jimin nods, already teary.
“He.”
They just stare at each other.
Because after three girls this feels like a surprise the universe wrapped up carefully.
Yoongi lowers his forehead to Jimin’s.
“My son,” he whispers.
Jimin smiles softly.
“Our son.”
The girls react exactly as expected.
Yoonji gasps dramatically. “A brother?? Finally someone on my team!”
Minnie and Mimie blink at Jimin’s stomach and declare in unison, “Baby.”
That’s it. That’s their analysis.
This pregnancy is different. Jimin carries lower this time. Smaller than with the twins, but round and undeniably glowing.
And the bond between Yoongi and the baby? Sometimes when Yoongi places his hand on Jimin’s belly, the baby kicks hard sharp and purposeful.
“He already listens to you,” Jimin teases one night.
Yoongi huffs softly. “He just has good instincts.”
Jimin raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”
Yoongi leans down close to Jimin’s stomach.
“You’re going to be gentle with your appa,” he murmurs. “He’s already given us everything.”
The baby responds with a strong kick.
Jimin laughs.
“He agrees.”
When labor finally comes, it’s smoother than the twins but intense in a focused way. Yoongi is steady this time. Still emotional, but grounded.
And when their son is finally placed against Jimin’s chest—
Yoongi goes completely still.
Because staring back at him, blinking slowly, tiny lips pursed in the most offended little pout—
Is his exact copy.
Jimin starts laughing weakly.
“Oh no.”
Yoongi’s eyes are already glassy.
“He looks like me.”
Yoonji, standing carefully at the bedside later, squints.
“Yeah,” she confirms. “He does.”
Minnie pokes Yoongi’s cheek.
“Baby appa,” she declares.
Mimie nods solemnly. “Tiny appa.”
Yoongi sniffs dramatically.
Jimin smiles down at their son, brushing a finger over his soft cheek.
“What’s his name?” Yoongi asks gently.
Jimin looks up at him.
“Yunki.”
Yoongi’s breath catches.
He leans down and kisses Jimin softly, reverently.
“Yunki,” he repeats.
Their son squirms slightly at the sound of his name, settling immediately when Yoongi speaks again.
The house sounds different six years later. Not baby cries anymore.
Now it’s—footsteps running down hallways, doors slamming, twin arguments, someone yelling “APPA!” at least twelve times an hour.
Yoonji is nine.
And she has fully embraced Big Sister Energy. She walks like she owns the house, braids Minnie’s hair when Minnie refuses to sit still for Jimin, wipes Mimie’s tears before anyone else notices, carries Yunki on her hip sometimes just to prove she can.
She also absolutely bosses Yoongi around.
“Appa, you forgot to sign my paper.”
Yoongi, mid-sip of coffee: “I did not.”
“You did.”
He did.
The twins are five now. And they are complete opposites in the loudest way possible.
Minnie is chaos: confident, fast, climbs everything. Once stood on the dining table and announced she was “Queen of the Pack” before knocking over a glass. She laughs loudly, talks back boldly, walks like the world owes her space.
She has Jimin’s face.
And Yoongi’s stubborn streak.
Mimie, however, is soft. Slow. Crying at everything.
If Minnie falls and scrapes her knee, she pops back up and glares at the ground like it betrayed her.
If Mimie trips, she sits there blinking for three seconds before dissolving into tears like the world just ended.
She clings to Jimin’s leg when strangers visit. Hides behind Yoonji when Minnie gets too loud.
And yet she is observant, quietly clever, always watching.
Yoongi says she’s the most dangerous one because she plans. Jimin says she’s just gentle.
And then—
There’s Yunki.
Four years old.
Shy. Painfully shy. He hides behind doorframes when guests come over. Buries his face into Jimin’s hip if anyone speaks too loudly to him.
But with Jimin? He is obsessed. Completely, undeniably attached.
“Appa,” is his favorite word.
If Jimin sits, Yunki is in his lap within seconds. If Jimin cooks, Yunki is holding onto his shirt. If Jimin laughs, Yunki stares at him like he just witnessed magic.
One afternoon, Yoongi walks into the living room to find Jimin sitting on the couch reading.
Yunki is sprawled across his chest like a tiny koala.
“Are you comfortable?” Yoongi asks dryly.
Yunki glares at him protectively.
“Yes.”
Jimin smiles softly, stroking Yunki’s hair.
“He’s been like this all morning.”
Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “I see that.”
Yunki lifts his head just enough to mumble, “Appa smells nice.”
Yoongi blinks.
Jimin laughs softly.
“You smell nice too,” he assures him.
Yunki immediately melts again.
Yoongi stands there for a moment, pretending not to feel soft about it.
“He’s your shadow,” he says eventually.
Jimin hums.
“He’s your face.”
And it’s true.
Yunki looks exactly like Yoongi. The same pout. The same eyes. The same tiny frown when concentrating.
But his temperament? Pure Jimin. Gentle. Tender. Loving without hesitation.
Dinner is chaos as usual.
Minnie talks over everyone. Mimie cries because Minnie took her cup. Yoonji mediates like a tiny exhausted parent.
“Give it back.”
“No.”
“Give it back.”
“Fine.”
Yunki sits pressed against Jimin’s side, quietly eating and occasionally looking up just to make sure Jimin is still there.
Yoongi watches the entire scene. At some point, Minnie climbs into his lap without asking. Mimie follows after a moment, slower, teary but determined.
Yoonji leans against his shoulder.
Yunki refuses to leave Jimin’s side, clutching his hand tightly.
Yoongi exhales.
He once cried alone on the kitchen floor because he was scared of not being enough. Now he can barely move because his children are physically attached to him.
He looks at Jimin across the table.
Jimin is smiling softly.
Yoongi reaches out with his free hand and brushes his fingers against Jimin’s.
“Still overwhelmed?” Jimin asks quietly.
Yoongi shakes his head.
“No.”
He looks at their daughters. At his shy little boy clinging to his appa like he hung the stars.
“I think this is exactly what I asked for.”
Jimin’s eyes warm completely.
“Yeah?”
Yoongi nods.
“Yeah.”
And in the middle of the noise, the arguing, the crying, the laughter their house feels full in the best way.
On a random Tuesday Jimin is standing in the bathroom again, staring at something in his hand with an expression that is deeply suspicious.
Yoongi is brushing his teeth.
He pauses mid-motion.
“Why are you quiet?”
Jimin doesn’t answer.
That’s how Yoongi knows something is wrong. Or right.
“Jimin.”
Slowly, Jimin turns around.
He holds up the test.
Yoongi blinks.
“No.”
Jimin nods once.
“Yes.”
There’s a long silence.
From down the hallway, Minnie yells, “MIMIE STOLE MY SOCK.”
Yoongi and Jimin ignore it.
Yoongi steps closer.
“One?”
Jimin closes his eyes.
He reaches inward.
And immediately groans.
“Oh no.”
Yoongi’s stomach drops.
“Oh no what.”
Jimin opens his eyes slowly.
“Two.”
Yoongi drops the toothbrush.
It hits the sink dramatically.
“Two???”
Jimin presses both hands over his face.
“Yoongi, I think our bond is broken.”
Yoongi stares at him.
“Broken how?”
“I think it’s never going to stop getting me pregnant.”
Yoongi tries very hard not to laugh. He fails. A small, helpless snort escapes him.
Jimin glares.
“I’m serious!”
“I know, I know,” Yoongi says quickly, stepping forward to wrap his arms carefully around Jimin’s waist. “But you’re saying it like the bond is personally plotting against you.”
“It is,” Jimin insists weakly. “ Six kids, Yoongi.”
Yoongi pauses.
Six.
He exhales slowly.
“Do you want to stop?”
Jimin looks up at him.
“Yes,” he says honestly. “Let’s stop at six. Please.”
Yoongi nods immediately.
“Okay.”
Jimin searches his face.
“You’re sure?”
Yoongi smiles softly.
“Jimin. We have our girls. One boy. And now two more on the way. I’m outnumbered in every possible way. I think I’ve reached my limit.”
Jimin laughs, relieved.
“Okay. Six.”
Yoongi kisses his forehead.
“Six.”
The bond settles. They both feel it, different this time, more balanced.
Jimin inhales sharply.
“One of them is a girl,” he whispers.
Yoongi nods.
“And the other—”
Yoongi’s breath leaves him slowly.
“He feels like you.”
Jimin blinks.
“What?”
Yoongi swallows.
“He feels like you.”
Jimin places a hand over his stomach, stunned.
“A little me?”
Yoongi’s eyes soften completely.
“A little you.”
The house reacts exactly how you’d expect.
Yoonji: “AGAIN?!”
Minnie: “I want this one to be fast.”
Mimie: starts crying because change is overwhelming.
Yunki: quietly climbs into Jimin’s lap and whispers, “Appa okay?”
Jimin melts instantly.
“I’m okay, love.”
Months later Yoongi is kneeling in front of Jimin again, hands spread gently over his stomach.
“Six,” he mutters softly.
Jimin smiles.
“You agreed.”
“I did.”
A sudden kick answers his touch. Then another.
Yoongi freezes.
“That one was strong.”
Jimin laughs softly.
“That’s your daughter.”
The second kick is different. Gentle.
Yoongi presses closer.
“Hi,” he murmurs softly.
The baby responds almost immediately.
Yoongi’s breath catches.
“He listens.”
Jimin tilts his head.
“You sound surprised.”
Yoongi looks up at him slowly.
“He feels like you when you were younger.”
Jimin goes quiet.
The memory of the omega who gave and gave and gave until someone finally chose him.
Yoongi leans forward and presses a kiss to Jimin’s stomach.
“I’m not ready,” he whispers softly.
“For what?”
“For another you.”
Jimin laughs quietly.
“Why not?”
Yoongi looks up.
“Because I barely survived falling in love with the first one.”
Jimin’s cheeks flush.
When labor finally comes, it’s intense but steady.
And when the babies are placed against Jimin’s chest—
Yoongi actually gasps.
The girl is beautiful, bright-eyed and strong cries.
But the boy—the boy is devastating: he has Jimin’s soft mouth, Jimin’s nose, Jimin’s eyes wide and emotional even as a newborn. A perfect, tiny clone.
Yoongi feels something crack open inside him all over again.
“Oh,” he breathes.
Jimin looks down and starts laughing through exhausted tears.
“Oh no.”
Yoonji, peeking carefully from the doorway later, squints.
“He looks like appa.”
Minnie gasps dramatically. “Another appa?!”
Mimie clutches Yunki’s sleeve. “Too many.”
Yoongi sits beside Jimin on the bed, staring at their son like he just discovered a miracle.
He reaches out carefully. The baby’s tiny fingers curl around his. And Yoongi melts.
“I’m in trouble,” he murmurs.
Jimin smiles softly.
“You are.”
Because Yoongi has always loved Jimin quietly and fiercely and now there’s another one: tiny, fragile and perfect.
Six children. Six heartbeats tied into their bond.
And when Yoongi leans down and kisses Jimin gently, he whispers:
“Okay. Six is perfect.”
Jimin nods sleepily.
“Six is enough.”
And this time the bond feels settled.
The room is still warm from the birth when the healer asks softly,
“And their names?”
Jimin is exhausted, glowing, hair damp against his forehead.
Yoongi is sitting close, one hand wrapped around Jimin’s shoulder, the other hovering protectively over the two newest additions resting against Jimin’s chest.
The girl has strong lungs, already fussing with opinion.
The boy is quiet, blinking up at the world with those impossibly soft Jimin eyes.
Jimin looks down at them, heart so full it almost hurts.
“For her,” he whispers first, brushing a finger over the girl’s cheek, “Jiyoon.”
The baby girl immediately lets out a sharp little cry, like she approves of the attention.
Yoongi huffs a quiet laugh. “That suits her.”
Jimin smiles, then shifts slightly so Yoongi can see the boy better.
“And him Ji-Ji”
Yoongi freezes.
The name settles into the room gently. Soft but certain.
“Ji-Ji,” he repeats quietly.
The baby boy’s tiny fingers flex. Yoongi reaches out instinctively. Ji-Ji wraps his whole hand around Yoongi’s finger like he was waiting for it.
Yoongi melts. Entirely.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he murmurs to the newborn, voice thick. “I won’t survive another Jimin.”
Jimin laughs softly, tired but bright.
“You’re dramatic.”
“I’m realistic,” Yoongi counters, leaning closer. “Look at him. He’s already gentle.”
Ji-Ji’s eyes flutter slowly, gaze settling on Yoongi’s face with a calm focus that feels almost familiar.
Like he already knows him. Like he’s already decided.
Yoongi presses his forehead lightly to the baby’s tiny one.
“Hi,” he whispers. “I’m your appa.”
Yoonji bursts in later with the twins trailing behind her.
“Let me see,” she demands, careful but commanding. Minnie climbs halfway onto the bed without permission. Mimie hangs back, teary-eyed but curious. Yunki squeezes between them and immediately gravitates toward Ji-Ji, peeking at his face with wide eyes.
“He’s small,” Yunki whispers reverently.
“You were small,” Yoonji reminds him.
Jiyoon lets out another loud protest cry.
Minnie grins.
“She’s loud. I like her.”
Mimie nods slowly. “She’s scary.”
Yoongi watches all six of them, the chaos, the softness, the overwhelming life of it and he feels that same quiet realization he’s had before.
He looks at Jimin.
“You’re done,” he says gently, brushing Jimin’s hair back.
Jimin exhales a relieved, happy laugh.
“I’m done.”
Yoongi kisses his temple.
“Six is perfect.”
Jimin glances down at Ji-Ji, then at Jiyoon.
At their tiny faces. At the way Ji-Ji already looks like a miniature version of the omega Yoongi fell hopelessly in love with. And Jiyoon looks strong, bold, already squirming like she has opinions.
“Yes,” Jimin whispers.
“Six is perfect.”
And for the first time since that very first pregnancy years ago, the bond is quiet. Not complete yet.
A dream of a family of eight but no more counting what’s missing for now, only counting who’s already here.