The wind howled. Lightning stabbed at the earth erratically, like an inefficient assassin. Thunder rolled back and forth across the dark, rain-lashed hills.
The night was as black as the inside of a cat. It was the kind of night, you could believe, on which gods moved men as though they were pawns on the chessboard of fate. In the middle of this elemental storm a fire gleamed among the dripping furze bushes like the madness in a weasel's eye. It illuminated three hunched figures. As the cauldron bubbled an eldritch voice shrieked: "When shall we three meet again?"
There was a pause.
Finally another voice said, in far more ordinary tones: "Well, I can do next Thursday."
Hello there, can I request a moment when Zayne and MC are trying to have a child? Like, Zayne would suggest the best time to be intimate, and he will tell MC her body is now producing some hormones, until they finally did it!! I just feel Zayne must know a lot about this stuff, he makes MC and him eat bean sprouts (since it's good for fertility) etc!
Omg yes! I can totally see it! 😂 Him nerding out is my fav! So please enjoy this cute husband of ours ahahahaha Let me know what you think! 💕
It’s quiet in the kitchen, just the gentle hiss of the kettle and the occasional creak of the wooden floor beneath your socks. Zayne’s at the counter, sleeves rolled past his elbows as he slices strawberries for breakfast. His hair’s still damp from the shower, like the steam couldn’t bear to leave him.
You watch him in silence for a moment, arms folded over your chest. You’ve been thinking about this for weeks now—months, maybe. You just didn’t want to rush it. But the anniversary passed, and the thought lingered heavier than ever. And today, looking at him like this—calm, focused, so incredibly Zayne—you just know.
“I’m ready,” you say softly.
He pauses. Knife mid-slice, one hand still braced on the cutting board. His head tilts just slightly, like he’s making sure he heard right. “Ready?” he repeats, turning to face you.
“For the baby,” you clarify, heart fluttering a little at the words. “If… if you are too.”
The knife hits the board with a quiet thunk as he sets it down, carefully. He doesn’t move for a breath or two—just looks at you like you said something impossible. Then his expression softens into something stunned and warm. “Are you sure?” he asks, voice low. “We still have time. There’s no need to—”
You smile, stepping closer until your hands can press lightly to his chest. “I know,” you say. “But we planned for it to be two years and now it's been two years." You pause, reaching to cup his cheeks.
"I’ve been thinking about it for a while. I wanted to be sure. And now I am. I’m ready—for this. For us.”
Zayne exhales like he’s been holding his breath for months. His arms come around you in one smooth motion, and he presses a quiet kiss into your hair. “Alright,” he murmurs. “Then we’ll do it right. Carefully.”
You laugh. “Carefully?”
“You know what I mean,” he says, dry as ever. “I’ve already been looking into recommended supplements. For both of us.”
Two days later, you find him in the living room with a medical journal balanced on one knee and a bowl of food on his lap. He’s reading with that same quiet intensity he reserves for patient files—like the words might disappear if he blinks.
You glance at the bowl.
“Are those bean sprouts?” you ask, standing behind the couch.
“Yes,” he says without looking up.
“Plain?”
He nods. “Steamed. No oil.”
You raise a brow. “Zayne.”
"They’re high in zinc and vitamin C,” he says, sounding like he’s reading a textbook. “Both are linked to improved sperm quality. Also antioxidants. It’s a simple intervention.”
You walk around to sit beside him, blinking at the bowl. “You’re seriously eating bean sprouts for—?”
He looks at you, completely composed. “If we’re trying, I’d rather be… efficient.”
You stare.
“I also started taking coenzyme Q10 yesterday,” he adds, like it’s just casual conversation. “And I cut out caffeine.”
You blink again. “You just had coffee two days ago.”
“That was before I finalized the projected timeline for your cycle.”
“Oh my god,” you whisper. “You made a timeline?”
He pulls out his phone, opens an app, and shows you a perfectly color-coded calendar. “According to the last three months of data—”
“Data?” you interrupt, mouth twitching.
“—your most fertile window starts next Friday. I scheduled a lighter week for myself. Just in case.”
You’re half in awe, half horrified, and entirely in love. “So you're telling me our baby-making schedule is color-coded?”
“Efficiently.”
“And this is the man I married,” you murmur, shaking your head.
“I also bookmarked a few articles on recommended sleep posture and—” He pauses as you drop your face into your hands, laughing. “What?”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“You say that now, but you'll appreciate the planning later.”
You peek at him through your fingers, voice warm. “I already appreciate you.”
He sets the bowl down, eyes softer now as he leans in. “I just want to do this right,” he says. “For you. For us.”
You kiss him, light and smiling. “You already are.”
You don’t usually get nervous before having sex with your husband. But tonight has a weight to it. Not in a heavy way—more like a sense of something beginning. You catch yourself fluffing the pillows more than necessary and adjusting the dimmer switch on the bedside lamp three times before you stop yourself.
Zayne notices, of course. He always does. He’s just walked out of the bathroom, towel draped over his shoulders, hair damp, and eyes scanning you like he’s trying to gently calibrate how you’re feeling without asking outright.
“You know,” he says casually, dropping the towel onto a chair, “this isn’t a medical procedure.”
You glance at him over your shoulder. “Says the man who scheduled this evening like a minor surgery.”
His lips twitch. “A well-timed event deserves the proper preparation.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Did you also sterilize the bed?”
“No. But I did wash the sheets.”
You stare.
“They were due,” he adds mildly.
Laughter slips out before you can stop it, loosening the knot of nerves in your chest. He crosses the room to you, slipping his arms around your waist from behind, his cheek brushing against your temple. His skin is cool from the shower, his touch familiar and grounding.
“Are you okay?” he murmurs.
You nod. “I just... want to get it right too.”
“There’s no ‘right,’” he says gently. “There’s just us. And tonight. That’s enough.”
You lean into him, exhaling slowly. “Even if it doesn’t happen right away?”
“We’ll keep trying. No matter how many bean sprouts I have to eat.”
You snort. “You didn’t even season them.”
“I was being noble.”
“Mm. You looked mildly tortured.”
“I was mildly tortured.”
You turn in his arms, wrapping your hands around his wrists as you meet his gaze. “You’re taking this so seriously.”
“Of course I am,” he says, his voice low. “This is our future. Our child. I’ve never wanted anything more.” He hesitates, as if realizing just how much this means to him. "You... mean everything to me."
Your breath hitches. The words land deeper than you expect—like they anchor something in you. Something you didn’t even realize needed to be held.
This is my husband. And God help me—I want to have his children.
Your lips curve. “Okay, you know what,” you say, lightening your tone with a playful smirk, “let’s make this fun.”
Then you push him back onto the bed with no warning, laughing at the surprised sound he makes as he hits the mattress. You swing a leg over him and straddle his waist without hesitation.
His hands instinctively come to rest on your hips, and he looks up at you, the corners of his mouth twitching. “I see.”
“You did say we’d keep trying,” you murmur, leaning down until your nose brushes his, “so let’s try lots.”
That earns a quiet chuckle from him—low, breathy, indulgent.
You kiss him before he can respond. Soft, unhurried, familiar. But there’s something new in it too—a shared anticipation, a bit of mischief. He kisses you back like he already knows he’ll lose track of time tonight.
A few days later, you’re lying on the couch with a warm compress over your stomach when Zayne appears beside you holding his phone and a folded piece of paper.
He sits at the edge of the couch. “Would you like to see a rough calendar of the next two months?”
“…Why?”
“To help us schedule accordingly.”
“You're still on about scheduling our sex?”
He looks up from the paper. “Lovemaking.”
You narrow your eyes. “Zayne.”
“It’s not strange to optimize time. You have appointments in your calendar. This is just another kind of appointment.”
You sit up, exasperated and amused. “That is the least romantic thing you have ever said to me.”
He slides the paper toward you. “I added stars for your fertile days.”
You stare at it. He did. Color-coded, even.
“I’ll allow it,” you say eventually. “But only if you stop calling it an appointment and start calling it a mission.”
Three days later, you find him standing in the kitchen with a mug in hand, staring thoughtfully at the fridge. You’re not sure why—it’s just the weekly meal plan and a crooked magnet shaped like a cat. But you know that look.
That’s the I’ve been thinking too much and pretending I haven’t look.
You wander over and wrap your arms around his waist from behind. “What’s going on in that brain?”
He hums. “Just recalculating.”
“For what, exactly?”
“Our window.”
You pause, cheek against his back. “Zayne.”
“Hm?”
“It's been just over a week.”
“Technically,” he says, in that careful tone he uses when he’s about to weaponize facts, “most studies show it’s optimal to try every two to three days during the fertile period.”
You peek around him, raising an eyebrow. “So you’re saying we’re due for another ‘session’?”
His lips twitch over the rim of his mug. “It would be advisable.”
You snort. “And what would you do if I said I was tired?”
“I’d let you rest,” he says instantly, without hesitation.
“…But you’d look very disappointed.”
“Quietly.”
“You’d suffer nobly.”
“Tragically.”
You laugh, stepping around him to steal a sip from his mug—he lets you, of course. “Okay, fine. Tragic martyr husband deserves another try.”
He sets the mug aside, like that was all the permission he needed.
You’re already walking away, tossing a look over your shoulder. “But no graphs this time.”
“No promises,” he murmurs, following you down the hall with calm, completely not-rushed steps.
Another night, you find him flipping through a research article on male fertility, blue light from his tablet casting faint shadows across his face. He doesn’t even try to hide it when you walk in—just gestures to the bed.
You cross the room, climbing onto the bed beside him. “You know,” you murmur, leaning into his side, “some people find the spontaneity part of this whole process... exciting.”
He glances down at you. “You mean to tell me my schedule charts doesn’t excite you?”
You laugh, muffling it against his chest. “God help me, it kind of does.”
He wraps an arm around your waist, setting the tablet aside. “Then we’re a perfect match.”
You let him pull you closer, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek.
Trying doesn’t feel clinical with him. Even with all the planning, the bean sprouts, the careful counting of days—it still feels like falling in love again, just with a shared goal this time. A quiet promise stitched between soft laughter and tangled limbs.
And when the next “optimal window” arrives, Zayne doesn’t make a fuss. He just finds you in the kitchen one evening, gently takes your hand, and murmurs, “Come to bed.”
You smile, knowing exactly what he means—not just the act, but what it carries now.
The door clicks shut behind you, and all the lists and charts fade away.
You’ve felt… different, but not enough to say anything out loud. Yet he watches you like he already knows. Like he’s just waiting for you to confirm what he suspects.
You lie in bed, wrapped around him as he absentmindedly strokes your hair. Your cheek’s pressed to his chest, and you can hear the slow, steady beat of his heart.
“Do you think we’ll know right away?” you whisper.
He hums. “Possibly. The basal temperature changes. And your mood has been subtly different.”
You lift your head. “Are you saying I’ve been moody?”
“I’m saying you cried over an orange yesterday because it was ‘too perfectly round.’”
“…Okay, that’s fair.”
His lips twitch. “You’ve also been sleeping more. Appetite changes. You mentioned soreness.”
You sigh. “You’re such a doctor.”
He brushes a kiss to your forehead. “I’m your husband.”
And you don’t say it, but those two things—your doctor and your husband—are the most comforting pair of hands you could ever be in.
And whatever happens next, you know you’ll face it together.
#cats of tumblr
#lana del rey
#horror movies
#photography
