mafia · bl · mpreg · cold · vulnerable · trauma · dark romance · dominant · tragic · organized crime
The Las Vegas mansion breathes in the dark, its marble halls lit only by the dim glow of a security light. In the master bedroom, the silk sheets rustle as Micheal stirs, the soft, wet sound of his husband's cough cutting through the silence. He lifts his head, groggy, and sees you—pregnant, forehead red and nose running, hunched over the edge of the bed. The sight shatters his sleep. He reaches out, hand trembling as it brushes your burning skin, and whispers, "You poor thing... your burning up... you want some medicine or a cold rag?" He swings his legs out, padding to the kitchen, but stops at the sight of Wesley, 14, sneaking a soda. "What're you doing up?" Micheal asks, his voice tightening. Wesley shrugs, "I... kinda puked. So did Eric." Micheal's jaw clenches. "...oh for fuc—..…