Chapter Text
Till doesn’t remember the last time he didn’t wear at least one piece of clothing belonging to Ivan. Usually, it is a jacket Ivan has worn for days, or pants fitting him thanks to his wide belly. Now, he puts on T-shirts the alpha leaves for him on the bed or lighter tops purposefully scented in citrus to battle the warming weather of late June. One time, Till even rubs neck and cheeks on a pair of sweatpants Ivan had tossed in the hamper before he can find reason, throwing it in again an instant before Ivan comes to put it all in the washing machine.
The point is that he can’t go anywhere without Ivan’s fragrance on him, can’t take a shower without asking his mate to rub his pheromones on his skin or wearing his most worn-out jumpsuits. A side-effect of the last term of pregnancy, apparently, where nesting instinct go wide in preparation of welcoming the new member of the family and the presence of the alpha becomes a physical need for the correct developing of the baby.
“Elara?”
“Not bad.”
“Rin.”
“Probably in our Top 10.”
Ivan scribbles on a notebook, Till coming back from a pee-stop in the bathroom and fumblingly taking a seat on the blanket-filled armchair in their bedroom – his temporary little reign, bowl of ice cream waiting for him when Ivan hands it back.
“Rory?”
The older actor laps at the spoon of vanilla, eyelids dropping as he enjoys the sweet, icy taste. “Didn’t we dismiss it? I liked Aveline more.”
“What about–?”
Silence drops for a moment, e the expected rustling of pages and eventual humming doesn’t come. Till opens one eye when Ivan takes a while to complete the sentence, noticing the strange expression his husband wears. “Are there no other names on the list?”
But Ivan isn’t looking at him – or at least, not at his face. He is staring straight at his chest, eyes comically wide and stunned at the heavenly sight of Till’s drop-armhole tank top damp, nipples peeking through the side, visibly wet with a milky substance. Devoted lips move without sound, struggling to form words, and it takes Till’s fingers tickling under his chin like petting a dog, then forcing his mouth closed, to make Ivan stop gaping.
“Can you take my nipple pads?”
His request falls deaf – for Ivan pushes the wide top aside, bending toward the closest nipple like hypnotized. Thoughts of their previous conversation forgotten, he instantly licks it into his mouth with an upward flick of the velvety tip, suckling gently at the leaking nipple, gathering the streaking drops of the opaque liquid in his mouth. The taste is unlike anything he’s ever had – sweet, faintly earthy, tinged with something so unmistakably Till that it goes straight to his brain like a drug. It coats his sense of taste in a way that feels intoxicating, and he groans low in his throat, lips latching tighter with each pull – the slow, rhythmic suction turning into something greedy.
“Slow down!” Till gasps, fingers flipping Ivan angrily on the forehead, bowl almost slipping from the other hand. He threads through Ivan’s hair at a particularly intense suck, shoulders closing around the alpha. A dull pull tugs at his lower belly, as if the rhythmic draw of Ivan’s mouth siphons not just milk but a full-bodied shiver from deep in Till’s core.
Ivan switches to the other nipples, licking his lips manically clean before lapping at the other side of the messy leaking and closing around the right one. As he does, Till’s gaze falls on the bonding mark on his mate’s neck, peeking at him from under the collar, and his mouth waters at the sight, tongue tasting vanilla still. How unfair it is, that Ivan is the only one enjoying the flavour of the other?
He protests with a hiss, tugging black hair harder and drawing Ivan closer with his leg around his torso, calf digging under the younger actor’s shoulder. Ice cream bowl forgotten on the armrest, Till reaches out and presses on Ivan’s bonding mark out of spite, brushing the scabbed, pinkish skin and earning a harsher, longer suck spiced by a drawn-out groan, eyelashes flattering like Ivan enjoyed the treatment – and the omega is sure that’s the case.
The pressure building in Till’s chest finds release with every draw, a raw kind of relief made sweeter by the weight of Ivan’s need. It goes beyond the alpha’s usual way of latching on his nipples and consuming them into swollen, oversensitive peaks that render it impossible for Till to wear clothes without feeling itchy and sore. The new sensation of actual liquid being drawn out – richer, sharper in a way that rattles his nerves – makes him squirm, not in discomfort but in a raw, strange vulnerability that burns just under the surface.
The intensity of the exchange makes Till’s eyes water – but Ivan’s tongue is there as well, kissing his tears away before they can reach his cheeks. His lips are still shiny, eyes gleaming with that frenzied mix of lust and worship, and he rasps, “Does it hurt? How does it feel?”
Till narrows his eyes and exhales through his nose, offended at the unrequired treatment. “Like I’m your favourite juice box. Don’t get used to it.”
“Mh. The right nipple is still leaking a bit, though. It’s slow, better not waste a pad for that.”
He dips his head again, shameless. Till groans as Ivan sucks, then stiffens with a sharp gasp, back slightly arching away from the alpha. His tone turns sharp, almost alarmed, carried by a sudden spike in his scent.
“Till?”
The older actor doesn’t reply immediately. His hand lowers to his belly, where the same dull pull from earlier tightens into a more persistent pressure. A moment later, a warm wetness gushes down his thighs. Heart starts hammering in his chest, breath suspended in his lungs like he is in apnoea.
“My water just broke.”
It’s a frenzied whirlwind from there on. Ivan nearly trips on himself in the rush as he yanks the closest blanket away, hands fluttering for a second before forcing themselves into action.
There’s a patch of wetness staining the armchair under Till. His sweatpants are sticking damply to his thighs, and his scent is growing unbalanced – raw and real in a way that makes Ivan’s alpha instincts tighten painfully. Till watches him, temporary astonishment freezing his facial traits, blinking through the first faint waves of discomfort, and mumbles something about needing to change first.
They move – Ivan darting around the room, repeating phone, bag, documents, where are the car keys? in frantic murmurs, Till pushing himself up awkwardly in his colostrum-soaked tank top and wet underwear. A beat later, the alpha is already there, kneeling, stripping the rest of the wet clothes off him with swift and muttering incomplete comforting words under his breath. “It’s okay, I’ve got you, you’re doing great, you’re– Fuck, you’re perfect–”
“Save that for the labour.” Till leans slightly on his shoulder, half for comfort, half because he feels a little lightheaded, and lets Ivan wrestle the new clothes onto him with sluggish, deliberate motions, the lingering pressure in his lower belly making him slow. “The contractions aren’t even close yet.”
Ivan shoots him a look like he doesn’t believe a word, then diverts his gaze down, hand ghosting low over his stomach in a silent question.
“They’re still spaced out, I think,” Till reassures, guiding Ivan’s hand lower where the tightness coils but doesn’t yet overwhelm. It’s enough to make Ivan exhale sharply through his nose, steadying himself. He keeps his hand there a second longer than necessary, can’t stop himself from pressing a long, hard kiss against Till’s temple, their foreheads touching briefly in a tacit promise that everything will be alright. They are ready. Ivan forces himself back, grabs the bags and herds Till gently toward the door.
Outside, the air of the evening is thick and humid, buzzing faintly with the weight of late June as they get into the car and drive to the clinic. It’s not far – only twenty minutes of anxious, vibrating tension, another two contractions away by the time Till mutters that another one is starting. Till sits back and breathes, occasionally biting his lip, fingers spread protectively over his stomach. The pain is real now, tightening in slow, rolling waves that still allow him moments of clarity between one and the next, where he murmurs instructions or warnings to Ivan here and there – Not so fast, Left turn here, Don't forget the entrance code when the clinic comes to sight.
Nurses in pastel uniforms and the smell of disinfectant meet them at the door after a quick call ahead, ushering them toward the maternity floor with a well-practiced smoothness that speaks of discreet professionalism. As the corridors blur past and they reach the delivery suite, Ivan hears but doesn’t really listen to the midwife’s soft reassurances about dilation stages and vital signs – his entire being is focused on the way Till breathes, the slight tremors that run through his mate's body, the way his hand squeezes Ivan's with surprising strength when contraction hits harder than before, pulling Till’s body into a slow, harsh arch.
Ivan grips his hand tighter. “I’m here. I’m right here.”
Seeing Till in pain is a scene that will remain forever seared in his mind. He accepts that nature has its ways, that it all equals to the bliss and hurdles and joys of building a family, but with each scream gritted through painfully clenched teeth, Ivan feels a guilt he doesn’t know how to exorcize.
And yet, hours later, all of it is almost forgotten when they are finally gifted with the most beautiful creature to ever walk this earth. Ivan is right there, perched on the edge of the mattress, his palm cradling Till’s hand like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this plane of existence. A faint, wet wail rises, delicate and broken, filling the sterile air.
It pierces Ivan's chest in ways nothing ever has, and the world tilts – not violently, but quietly, in the way gravity shifts when something irreversible happens.
The midwife wraps the tiny newborn in a soft towel, murmuring praise. Ivan’s arms move automatically when she places the bundle into them – like his body has known forever how to hold something so small, so infinitely precious. He has always been good with kids on set, and it’s not his first time holding an infant, but…
Tiny fists flail blindly. The baby girl’s face is red and scrunched, her mouth open in outrage at the cold, bright new world – she wiggles in his arms, shaking with her cries, which slow as he envelops her in his scent.
“She's beautiful,” he rasps, voice cracking with wet awe.
He leans closer, pressing a trembling kiss to Till’s forehead. His mate looks wrecked, half-unconscious with exhaustion, but when Ivan shifts slightly so Till can see, his lips twitch into the ghost of a smile radiating a raw happiness that makes Ivan's chest hurt.
Later – much later, when things have calmed, when Io is ushered in the room with them and Till has been cleaned up and tucked on bed in fresh sheets, Ivan steps outside the room with her so not to disturb his husband’s slumber. They sit on a bench in the hall, next to a vending machine humming quietly, Till visible through the small window in the door.
Ivan doesn’t realise he's babbling until Io chuckles softly. “She’s 2.9 kilograms, perfect range for a newborn. About 49 centimetres, which is also good, they said she’s very proportionate. Heart rate strong, lungs perfect, Apgar score was eight and then nine after five minutes, which is excellent, and her reflexes are already strong. She grabbed my finger.” He inhales sharply, glancing through the glass again as he recites by heart what the doctors told him. “She’s got ten fingers and ten toes and…” Trails off, because Io is smiling at him with a knowing softness, quiet and full of meaning, the kind of smile only mothers wear when they recognize their child’s heart has been entirely claimed by someone new.
“She looks just like Till did,” Io comments simply.
A slow smile spreads across his face, too wide and too soft, as if emotion is physically reshaping him from the inside out. “It feels like falling in love once more.” Till would accuse him of forgetting to activate his brain-to-mouth filter again, but how can he be blamed? Io squeezes his shoulder in understanding.
He is back into the room in minutes, a pull like the moon with tides tied in an eternal dance he can’t hope to oppose, even if he wanted to. Every cell in his body seems to scream for proximity, for skin, for scent. For his family. It’s normal for parents, especially in alpha and omega pairs with a strong bond – that’s what a tenderized old nurse tells him when he painfully retracts from the clinic crib so that she can take his daughter’s parameters. “You’ll get used to it,” she murmurs on her way out, respectful to Till’s sleeping form, but Ivan thinks she must be trying to console him with lies, because what she said is impossible.
Their baby is sleeping soundly, soft even in the way she simply exists under Ivan’s adoring gaze. She has a sparse mop of black hair and skin like warm milk, slightly red around the knuckles and eyelids, as if the world’s gentlest touch might bruise her. Her eyes are still that uncertain newborn grey, but Ivan already dreams of seeing Till’s shade bloom in them. She smells like both of them with how much they scent-marked her, will probably be forming her own fragrance in the months to follow, but for now she carries their bond on her – a quiet, invisible cocoon of belonging.
Ivan had often felt unease watching people around him build families, settle down – the memory of his own home greyed out by years spent alone, or more by his guardian’s side than his actual parents. They are not bad people, even treat Till with the kind of polite fondness they’re capable of, but their affection is dull, remote, and it probably caged Ivan’s heart into apathy until Till came to him with the key Ivan didn’t know existed.
Now that his daughter’s birth has made him a parent – and in this precise moment, watching the baby nestled in the clinic crib –, Ivan can’t fathom a world where he wouldn’t be by his mate and baby’s side every hour of every day. She is so small, so beautiful, disappearing in layers and laces of blankets that make Ivan feel jealous. He wonders, distantly, if all parents imprint on their children with the weight on inevitability binding their heart and soul. If, in his case, there had been something wrong with him as a child – if his younger self had meant so little to his parents because they noticed something ugly inside him that kept them far, despite providing him with all he needed.
“She won’t disappear,” comes a groggy voice behind him, fishing Ivan out of his dark well. “No need to stare at her like that.”
“It’s hard to look away,” he admits. Manages only after a few attempts to rip his gaze sideways and meet yet another sight Ivan’s eyes are doomed to be lured by for the rest of his life.
Half-slouched against the pillow, framed by pale sheets and fading light, Till watches him with lidded gaze. The weight of exhaustion softens the angles of his face and paints black the underside of his eyes, skin warm with effort and aftermath, collarbone peeking from the hospital gown where it’s slipped askew. He wears the raw, inescapable grace of someone who has just brought life into the world, calling him with the hint of an unaware smile playing at his lips.
Nothing can keep Ivan from getting closer, one last caress to the tiny, sleeping angel in the crib before he succumbs to his husband’s summon. “You are so beautiful,” he muses, swaying in place for a moment.
The man on the clinic bed is probably too tired to roll his eyes, so he just stares unimpressed. “You think I don’t know how I look?”
There is an implication, there, that Ivan is not sure he caught – probably something about how awful Till thinks his appearance is, post-labour and all –, but he can only blink, slow and deliberate, as if trying to dispel the golden haze his mate seems to radiate, a sight Ivan wants tattooed on his retinas. He doesn’t insist, though, fearing to sour the omega’s mood with his obsessive thinking. Instead, he asks, “How do you feel?”
“Like I just gave birth?”
A snort emerges from Ivan as he sits on the edge of the bed and leans in.
“Have you thought about a name while I was out?” Till welcomes the alpha in his arms, Ivan shifting closer carefully, mindful of his mate’s body, gentle hands wrapping around him with reverence, weight braces on his elbows. Kisses brush at the edge of his mouth, warm and brief, like shared breath.
Ivan presses more all over Till, all the while speaking, “I mentally reviewed our list, but looking at her, I remembered one I read in a book.” The omega hums, pliant and dazed under him, waiting. “Ayla.”
The name lands in a murmur between them. Till repeats it, whispering it like a secret, tasting it on his tongue as his head turns toward the crib – the alpha’s worshipping lips resting on his cheekbone, below wandering teal eyes. “Ayla. I love it.”
As if called, soft wails rise from the crib, turning into a hungry cry. Io steps quietly into the room, gentle hands already reaching out to help, and Ivan gratefully lets her scoop up the newborn while he leans in to support Till into a sitting position. The older actor winces just a little, jaw clenched through the motion, but he doesn’t complain.
The sight of his daughter – of Ayla – brightly wiggling in Till’s embrace and latching on his chest doesn’t arouse the sour jealousy Ivan once joked he might feel. However, he does envy her for occupying her rightful place as she gobbles her nourishment, and he pouts, wishing he could claim it with equal ease.
Till winces when Ayla starts suckling with surprising force, muttering “She is definitely your daughter,” but as Ayla’s baby eyes flutter half-closed, there is only delight and love in her parents’ gaze, hunched over her to study her every reaction. Her cute hands twitch in her lap, one reaching out to try and grasp Till’s chest and her mouth adjust, viciously rooting around his aureola before clamping back on his nipple, making the omega hiss again.
Pride fills Ivan, and he grins sweetly, brushes Ayla’s puffed little cheek with his knuckle as she resumes her suckling. The vision is so dear to him he already knows he’ll stare every time Till feeds her – after all, Ayla is currently the only other creature he’d let close to Sunbae’s tits, so even if his husband will chastise him for obviously coveting what belongs to their daughter and chase him away, he’ll take the scolding with a private grin, entirely unrepentant.
“I didn’t hear that,” Io chimes drily, reminding them of her presence without raising her eyes from Ayla’s tiny hands. Till ducks his chin in mild shame, so used to make allusive comments with his husband that he forgot his mother was here. There is a biting mark on the other, partly covered nipple, probably from yesterday – Ivan bashfully hopes Io won’t notice it, even though his indenture seems to be glowing and purposefully attract her attention, making his ears burn.
The omega leans back, exhaling slowly, one hand splayed protectively around the small body nestled at his chest. Ivan watches as Ayla’s tiny mouth slackens, drifting into slumber again, her breathing shallow and steady. “I think she’s full,” Till murmurs, shifting just enough to glance down. “Looking at her made me thirsty as well.”
A cup with water and a straw is placed close to him, Ivan holding it so not to bother his sleeping daughter. He tries to be subtle when Till is done, giving him his back as he crouches in front of their bags.
“I saw you. Why are you not throwing it away?”
The straw falls into a pocket, hidden with comical stealth. “What if one of the nurses is Sunbae’s fan and takes your DNA or our daughter’s to do things?”
“Like what? Cloning us?”
Ivan’s eyes widen. “Can science already do that?”
A careful hand presses between the alpha’s shoulder blades, gentle in the way it tries to lure Ivan’s tense back into relaxation. Io coaxes him gently, her hand warm and familiar on him, a command disguised as comfort. “I think you should sleep a bit, Ivan. You have been up all night, buzzing with caffeine. Give me my little niece, she needs to be burped.”
Little Ayla is totally pliant in Ivan’s arms when he takes her from Till, handling her with such exaggerated care it’s almost theatrical, planting an emotional kiss of her forehead before passing her to Io. The woman is not wrong – he does feel tired, fuelled only by the need to guard his mate and daughter, keep the room smelling cozy and homey, watch them in wonder to battle the fear of losing even a moment of them to exhaustion.
But when Till scoots cautiously over and offers him the right side of the bed, Ivan can’t pass the invite. Reaches out to remove any distance between them, careful to wrap an arm around Till’s middle, one eye on Io as she gently rocks Ayla with a soft cloth over her shoulder.
“You two did good, boys. Rest for a while.”
Till is out again before Ivan can finish a thought, fingers cradling in Ivan’s hair, and the alpha follows him in a heartbeat, reassured by the woman who’s like a second mother to him. The dull ache of his parents’ absence subsides as he embraces the same role and feels the solid weight of family duties and delights settle on his shoulders, and he vows to do better than it was done to him. For his mate, and for his daughter.
Till and Ayla are cleared to go after a night of general observation, and the group is so ready to finally leave the clinic that they almost forget about the hellish documentation and discharge procedures awaiting them. Having Io is a blessing, even with the dark bags forming under her eyes as easily as on her son, so they decide to wait for reinforcement before moving – Kellie brings a soft pastel gift box for them and the baby and is sweet enough to give a ride home to Till’s mother, who’s as exhausted and happy to leave the clinic as all of them.
The house appears different with Ayla in it. Ivan barely looks around with his baby girl snuggled on a shoulder, wiggling in his embrace under Till’s wide, enamoured eyes, as if sensing the change of place soaking in her parents’ smell, homey and comforting. “She must have taken after you,” was Io’s comment before parting from them, noticing how tranquil Ayla had been in her first two days of life. “Till didn’t cry a lot either, but he was really fussy and always awake!” It made Ivan itch for that photo album Io showed him a couple of times in the past, much to Till’s embarrassment – and for a camera, too, to start capturing Ayla’s first smiles and agape eyes taking in everything around her.
Ivan takes to sing her to sleep the first time she cries in the baby cot settled beside their bed, careful not to disturb Till too much as his mate drifts back to sleep when Ayla is held securely in her alpha father’s arms. Her little head is nestled in the crook of Ivan's neck, the side scarred by Till's mouth, and she looks extremely peaceful as he caresses her back, chanting Hush, my child, drift into slumber with deep, low notes that rumble in his chest and further lull her in dreamland.
His arms feel tingly, hyperaware of the delicate bundle wiggling and clinging to him with faith and raw reliance, blindly trusting his father to keep her safe, to never let go, surrendering to sleep in total safety. The thought generates something he can only describe as impetuous, violent – a fierce need to protect, to guard her where she can never leave him, similar to how he gets with Till when Ivan can’t keep his hands away, when the yearning to sink into crevices of his body like a worm, cradling inside his system, cocooning along his marrow until he mingles with every drop of Till’s perspiration and pulse becomes unbearable.
Adamantly, looking at Ayla, he wishes for every note to accompany and shield her, to sway and dance as breath sinks deep with quite longing – Ivan inhales through his nose, vowels and consonants twirling in the air like delicate petals, brushing his daughter’s thoughts and exhales like kisses.
“It’s been a while,” Till mumbles sleepily when Ivan gently lays their daughter in the crib and finds refuge by his side again, and he pulls the omega into his embrace, limbs locking tight and trembling, the emotions blowing through Ivan finding solace in the half-conscious, welcoming abandon of the love of his life, and his lungs fall into rhythm anew.
Ivan chants as dawn rises, unshaken and sure, resumes singing for Till – would sing for him every day, if Till missed his voice, would lay instruments and lyrics and notes at his feet for the honour of a smile, a laugh, anything Till is willing to give him.
Hums each other to sleep instead, for now, calm happiness trickling in rivulets of pleased scents and quiet exhales, the dark night folding around them in a safe embrace.
They have received many warnings about the power infants have to charm new parents into never putting them down in their cribs in favour and hold them, since no matter how tempting it is, if they get used to it, it’ll be harder to help them sleep and explore on their own. But Ayla is too adorable to be left in a cold structure of metal and wood and comfy-looking blankets, when she can rest instead cradled by the warm, safe rhythm of her dads’ bodies instead.
“We should put her to sleep.”
“Five more minutes.”
The mattress dips when Till gives in quickly, joining them on the bed and crowding Ayla from the other side. They make faces, lean closer, let her ruthless, small hands bump and slap their cheeks, chin, ears as she wants, only stopping her when she yanks hair from them and thrusts her fists in her mouth.
“No, Ayla, you can’t eat that!”
She is generally quiet otherwise, all gurgling noises and droll, chipper and with the cutest mouth Ivan ever saw on a human being – on par with Till’s smile when he meets his gaze and his irises shine with a joy so real, so palpable, Ivan barely remembers how to breathe at the constant reminder that he contributed to put it there.
Somehow the idyllic air does not fade even with Ayla waking up in the middle of the night, crying for either of them to give her attention and depriving them of precious sleeping hours. While Till is still on maternity leave, Ivan has only been granted a little more than two months before his next project, but he’ll gladly sacrifice the bits of rest he got to spend time with his daughter – especially since, where Till has the parent privilege of using milk and having carried her for nine months to bond with her, he needs to work harder to earn Ayla’s recognition and trust.
That’s why Till often finds Ivan with Ayla on his chest, proudly offering his comfy muscles to her as a baby mattress and gently rubbing his wrist on her back to leave traces of his scent, or why he volunteers to change her diaper after Till already cuddled her for a long half an hour while feeding her, making silly faces to hide his nose wrinkling at the smell of poo.
His forehead still stings from when, already over a month into their new life with their daughter, he tries to latch on Till’s other nipple and Ayla pushes him away with her cute little foot, earning him a flushing scowl and a flick on the head from his mate. “Restrain yourself! What kind of father steals from his daughter?!”
All in all, it’s extremely easy for them to fall into the rabbit hole of parental wonders, and it takes a call from his manager to remember that they have totally fallen off the social media radar and should give some sign of life, as previously agreed with their agencies. They decide to solve it with a post on Twitter – a photo of little hands clutching two different fingers, the words Welcome to the world, Ayla followed by a heart emoji – and a live from Till’s account.
They don’t show Ayla, utterly jealous of her and careful about the evilness of the Internet, but once Till is done updating his fans on his health state and work pace, it takes all of Ivan’s skills and focus not to turn his head every few minutes at the gurgling sounds in the background when it’s his turn.
“I’ll be back on set soon for a new project, so look forward to that. Until then, I’m nothing more than a full-time new father.” The comments are so hilarious he barely manages to suppress his laughter, but he can’t blame most of them – Ayla can be heard in the background the few times Till strolls past the corridor, snatching every ounce of Ivan’s attention.
knotmedaddy: God, knock me up too, Ivan-nim!
Sunbaewife: Just arrived! is that the baby in the background? So cute!
yulie_ayla: aaaah, Till-nim! Singing sweet nothings to baby Ayla!
softIvanEra: omg look at ivan, isnt that the face of love??
midnight_min: find a celebrity husband so devoted he forgets he is live
The desire to fill the house with baby sounds and soft, needy cries rips the breath right from his lungs, itching under his flesh like wildfire begging for release. It has the same aftertaste of an impending rut – Ivan can almost feel it twirling in his bloodstream, latent and still far, mindful of his mate who just gave birth, but close, indulging the alpha’s whims of planting his seed in Till once more.
As of now, he has a daughter in his arms and the man he loves cooing at her with devoted focus, and he is quite certain it cannot get any blissful than this.
Ivan was wrong. It can.
After almost a year of longingly staring at Till’s abdomen and sighing, Ayla sitting on his lap and imitating him with dramatic puffs of air coming out of her mouth while clutching her bunny plushie, Till informs him that all his prayers have been heard, because the doctor found three amniotic sacs in his belly. He looks pale as he drops a kiss on Ayla’s wiggling head, the loyal depiction of someone who has recently thrown up breakfast and is ready to sleep for twenty-four hours straight, but Ivan pulls him against his chest with the widest grin Till ever saw on him.
“Three? We are having triplets?” Ivan tries to modulate the sheer joy bubbling in his throat so as not to unsettle the already evident exhaustion marking his mate’s expression. Watches, buzzing silently, as Till presses a hand on his stomach and winces, then masks it with a chuckle as Ayla claps her hands, shaping meaningless sounds in their direction as she waits for her father’s eyes on her.
“Yes, you monster. My belly will become huge. I already feel like sh–shish.”
“Shiiis!”
Ivan laughs at Ayla’s chirping imitation, their daughter happily babbling on her colourful cloth surrounded by toys, all the while spreading slow kisses over his mate until the omega annoyedly shakes him off with a snort. “Sorry. You can enslave me and stay on bed while I take care of everything.”
“You can start,” Till says, tilting his head up and letting Ivan bump their noses together, “by clearing up the storage room on the second floor, we’ll definitely need it.”
A groan slips from Ivan’s lips. “So cruel, Sunbae.”
“Triplets, Ivan.”
He has a point. Not like the alpha wouldn’t do anything he asks, anyway.
“Dah!”
Ivan looks over, chin resting on Till’s head, but they both straighten when they see Ayla wobbling on her feet, palms plastered on the ground as she tries to find her balance standing up, diaper swaying in the air. Till scrambles, lethargy forgotten, and Ivan scoots toward the edge of the couch as Ayla moves her first step, then the second, her parents’ hearts thumping as wildly as their beaming smiles and cooing encouragements.
Slowly, then in a rush of thumping feet and outstretched arms, so reaches them with happy giggles, teal eyes wide and so visibly satisfied she applauds again, as if complimenting herself on a job well done. Ayla pats their knees, looking up once before dropping he head, clawing their pants and hoisting her tiny body up between them.
“She is really going all out to attract our attention.” Ivan’s hand hovers behind her back, ready to catch her just in case, but she is doing so well on her own – so proud in her demeanour, clambering them like trees. She latches on Ivan’s cheek, slobbering all over him in her attempt to give him a kiss the way they have been teaching her, mouthing his flesh with her little teeth.
Ivan hums in delight, Till laughs watery with a She took that from you, you needy alpha, and Ayla plops on the black-haired man’s thigh, sighing loudly and theatrically like her youngest father often behaves around her.
“We forgot to film her!” Till exclaims suddenly, hitting the back of the couch with a sad frown, fingers brushing a few strands of Ayla’s black hair. She catches his fingers, using his wrist as leverage to lean forward on him.
“I set the phone on the bookshelf on the right an hour ago, it should have recorder her. She looks so much like you, I want to make a mini movie of her first years of life.”
Till welcomes his daughter on his lap, Ivan enveloping them both with arms afloat as they let her waver on her feet again. “I thought you’d mellow your ways with her, but you are actually getting worse.”
The younger actor grins. “Don’t sound so pleased.”
“I’m mostly worried about her future.”
“What else does she need beside two loving parents?”
“Precisely.”
Ayla keeps babbling to herself, repeating da-dah pa-pah in an attempt to call them both, as she has been doing in the last few weeks. She presses her mouth on Till’s chest, drooling on his t-shirt, dragging it down to his belly and sitting with her ear against it. Round, curious teal eyes blink up at him, light blue dress making her irises pop out beautifully.
“Do you think she can sense them?” Ivan wonders, thumb delicately wiping her chin. A moment later, she bats his hand away, letting out a loud, indignant wawawa! like a little general issuing orders. It looks like she is angry, eyebrows wrinkling through her puffed cheeks – she deflates, head resting against Till, then straightens to babble another string of animated nonsense, tiny finger pointed right at Ivan.
Till suppresses a laugh at Ivan half pitiful, half amused expression, oohing at her with a soft, “Don’t yell at Papa. Don’t you want to become a big sister?” right before Ivan groans dramatically and softly pins Ayla on Till’s chest, smouldering her with kisses and goofy faces. Her frown beaks in reluctant giggles as Ivan tickles her belly, pudgy arms flailing in delighted confusion, like her body hasn’t caught up with the fun yet.
There will be many more days like this – days of peace and laughter, joyful in a way that deeply satiate Ivan and it’s mirrored in Till’s gaze. Chaos will ensue when three identical boys will join the equation, latching over Till with an unparalleled veneration that shouldn’t be all the unusual, considering how much they resemble Ivan in appearance. It elicits the alpha’s territorial instincts in the most contradictory of ways – pride, possessiveness and the ache of adoration blurring together, softened only by Ayla pulling his hand to her book and tapping the pages until he starts reading again.
They won’t stay little forever, he knows. Even so, in this moment, in this pile of limbs and laughter, Ivan feels infinite.