Your gateway to endless inspiration
You were officially forty-one weeks pregnant.
Forty-one weeks. Not thirty-nine. Not even the neat, ominous weight of forty. No, you had blown straight past your due date like a train with no brakes and were now living in the swollen purgatory of maternity hell—bloated, achy, short-tempered, and so fed up with your body that you would’ve gladly traded it in for a paper bag and a nap.
Your body ached in places you didn’t know could ache. Your back felt like it had been used as a trampoline in the night. Your hips were stiff. Your feet looked like they belonged to someone who’d spent ten hours standing in a swamp. And your belly? Your belly felt like it had become its own planet, stretching your skin so taut you were convinced you could drum a beat on it.
Nothing fit anymore. Not your clothes. Not your shoes. Not even your own skin, if you were honest. Your maternity leggings had officially waved the white flag. Your bras were lost causes. Your wedding rings had been stashed in a drawer weeks ago, too tight to slide over even a knuckle. And the seatbelt? Daichi had to adjust it for you now, like you were precious cargo—though to be fair, at this point, you basically were. He was careful and considerate and just a little too cheerful about it all, which made it even more infuriating.
“Got everything?” he asked softly, adjusting the strap of your maternity bag over his shoulder like it weighed nothing.
You didn’t look at him. You didn’t smile. You didn’t even grunt. You groaned—a long, low, theatrical sound of suffering as you slowly lowered yourself into the passenger seat like an elephant easing into a beanbag chair.
He took it in stride. He’d stopped taking anything personally around week thirty-seven.
Still, he reached across and placed his warm palm on your thigh once you were settled, rubbing his thumb in slow, steady circles. You didn’t push it away. You rested your hand on top of his and gave him a tired look that said, If I have to live in this body one more day, I will cry.
The car ride to the clinic was mostly quiet. You sighed a lot. Adjusted the air vents. Rolled down the window. Rolled it back up. Turned the A/C colder. Then warmer. Daichi drove patiently, sneaking occasional glances at you like he wanted to say something encouraging but also very much wanted to survive the day.
The clinic’s waiting room was somehow worse than usual. The chairs were uncomfortable, the light was too bright, and the cheerful wall art—baby elephants, pastel hearts, encouraging quotes in cursive—made you want to scream. You stared at the pamphlet beside you titled “Smiling Through the Third Trimester” with a level of disdain typically reserved for war crimes.
Daichi sat beside you flipping through a magazine that he absolutely wasn’t reading, occasionally peeking at you with quiet concern while trying not to make eye contact with the receptionist, who kept looking at you like you were a ticking time bomb.
When the nurse finally called your name, you heaved yourself up with a groan and waddled toward the hallway like a warrior going into battle. Daichi followed at a polite distance, like a man who knew better than to walk too close to a woman this pregnant and this pissed.
The exam room felt like a refrigerator. You plopped down on the crinkly paper with another long sigh, then glared at the stirrups like they’d personally wronged you. Daichi sat in the chair next to the table and gently rubbed your back, his thumb tracing light circles over your spine.
“Almost there,” he murmured, ever the optimist. “Just hang in a little longer.”
You turned your head to him, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion and fury. “I swear to god, Daichi. If one more person tells me I’m almost there, I will throw something. Possibly this table. Possibly you.”
He only smiled through it, squeezing your hand like he hadn’t just been threatened with airborne furniture.
When the doctor entered, she was all serene smiles and clinical calm, her tone chipper and maddeningly upbeat.
“Well,” she said after a quick check, “good news is you’re making progress. The baby’s definitely settling into position. But you’re still not quite there yet. I’d give it another few days.”
You stared at her like she’d just told you the world had been cancelled.
“More days?” you repeated, your voice a cracked whisper. “As in, plural? Like… multiple?”
The doctor gave a warm little chuckle. “It’s different for everyone, but yes, could be a few more. You’re doing great, though.”
Your jaw dropped. You made a noise that was somewhere between a sob and a scream, your hands clenching the edge of the table like it might steady you.
The doctor handed Daichi a brightly colored handout titled “Natural Ways to Encourage Labor.” It had illustrations of smiling pregnant women doing yoga and eating pineapple.
“Try some of these at home,” she said kindly. “Spicy food, gentle movement, maybe a warm bath. You’re almost there.”
Daichi nodded like the polite, helpful husband he was, tucking the paper into your maternity bag as you stood slowly, moving with the weary determination of someone who had carried life for too damn long.
The walk back to the car was slow and tense. You didn’t speak. You didn’t look at anyone. The receptionist offered a cheery “Good luck!” as you left and you very nearly flipped her off.
When Daichi helped you into the car again and got you buckled in, you exhaled long and hard, the sound more like a groan of existential dread than a sigh.
“I’m going to die pregnant,” you said flatly, head tipping back against the seat as your eyes glazed over. “This is it. This is how it ends for me. Swollen and sweaty in the passenger seat of a Toyota.”
“No, you’re not,” he said gently, lips twitching as he reached over to adjust your seatbelt one last time. “You’re going to give birth soon, and then this will all feel like a weird dream.”
You turned your head just enough to shoot him a dry look. “A weird dream where my hips feel like they’re being sawed in half and I haven’t seen my own feet in two months?”
He chuckled under his breath, brushing your hair out of your face. “I’m just saying, you’re doing amazing.”
“Don’t lie to me,” you snapped, though your voice lacked real venom. “I look like a pufferfish and I cry every time I drop something on the floor because I can’t pick it up anymore.”
“I pick it up for you,” he said, unbothered.
“Yeah, and I still cry!” You groaned louder, tossing your head back again. “I’m like a feral raccoon in maternity leggings. I can’t keep living like this.”
“You’re not a raccoon,” he said with a straight face. “You’re majestic. Fearsome. A hormonal goddess.”
You snorted so hard it startled a hiccup out of you. “Oh my god.”
“And soon,” he added, leaning closer to kiss your temple, “you’ll be holding the baby and none of this will matter.”
You didn’t move. You just stared up at the ceiling.
“Watch me die pregnant,” you said again. “They’ll write it on my tombstone.”
--
By the time you made it home, your mood had not improved. You kicked your shoes off at the door, grumbling as you peeled off your coat and waddled into the kitchen, leaving Daichi to trail behind you, pamphlet in hand and hope still stubbornly etched into his expression.
“Okay,” he said as you slumped down at the kitchen table, head in your hands. “Let’s try some of these. Worst case, they don’t work. Best case? Maybe we’ll get things moving.”
You didn’t respond right away. Just groaned into your palms.
He set the paper down gently in front of you. “It says spicy food might help. We could start there?”
You looked up with bloodshot eyes. “I want something violent. Like pepper-spray levels of spice.”
Daichi raised his eyebrows. “I’ve got extra hot chili ramen packets. You could probably weaponize them.”
“Perfect,” you growled. “Boil ‘em.”
Ten minutes later, you were perched on the couch with a bowl of nuclear noodles while Daichi sat beside you with his own, bravely taking a bite. He lasted all of three seconds before coughing into his fist, eyes watering.
“Oh my god—this hurts,” he rasped.
You, completely unaffected, slurped up another bite. “Nothing. Not even a twinge.”
He blinked at you, face red. “I’m going to need milk. And possibly CPR.”
You sighed and set the bowl aside. “Next idea.”
And so began the ridiculous journey.
You drank herbal teas that smelled like dirt and despair. You choked down thick slices of pineapple while muttering curses under your breath. You did the hip-opening stretches the pamphlet suggested, groaning with effort and telling Daichi that if this didn’t work you were going to shove a yoga ball down the stairs. He helped you do slow laps around the living room, hand on your lower back while you walked in increasingly impatient circles.
You even tried the dreaded castor oil. One teaspoon. Two. Mixed into orange juice so it wouldn’t taste like paint thinner. You gagged, glared, and gagged again. Daichi looked horrified but held the glass steady like he was assisting with a medical emergency.
Hours passed. The sun dipped lower in the sky. You had tried every single item on the pamphlet short of hiring a witch to chant over your uterus. And yet—nothing. No contractions. No discomfort. No sign the baby had any plans of evacuating. Just the same heavy weight in your belly and the constant ache of your ribs.
You threw yourself back onto the couch with a long, miserable sigh, your belly rising and falling like a dramatic mountain of defeat.
“This baby,” you declared, voice scratchy with exhaustion, “is never coming out. This is it. They’ve made a permanent home. They’re going to graduate college still inside me.”
Daichi, kneeling next to the couch, chuckled softly and leaned over to press a kiss to your forehead.
“Can you blame them?” he murmured. “You’ve made them a pretty amazing home.”
You blinked at him, half-touched and half-annoyed. “That’s not helpful.”
He grinned and sat back on his heels, picking the pamphlet up again with exaggerated patience. “Well, if they’re not leaving on their own, we’re gonna have to evict them.”
You groaned dramatically. “We’ve tried everything. I’ve eaten enough pineapple to singlehandedly wipe out Hawaii’s exports. I drank that weird tea that tastes like boiled weeds. I took castor oil, Daichi. Castor. Oil. Nothing works.”
He hummed, eyes skimming down the page.
Then he paused.
You watched as his brow arched just slightly.
“…What?” you said slowly.
He cleared his throat. “Well, technically… we haven’t tried everything.”
You narrowed your eyes. “What do you mean?”
He turned the pamphlet toward you and pointed at a single line with a very straight face.
“Intercourse may help induce labor.”
You stared. Then looked at him. Then back at the pamphlet.
Your eyes narrowed, your lips pressing into a line as the wheels in your head began to turn. For a long moment, you didn’t say a word. But something changed—visibly, unmistakably. Your posture shifted. Your breath stilled. Your entire demeanor settled into something focused, determined, just a little bit unhinged.
Daichi saw it immediately. He watched the transformation like someone witnessing a weather shift, like a man who’d seen the sky turn before a storm. His back straightened. His eyes went wide. He held up one hand as if you were a wild animal and he needed to de-escalate the situation.
“Babe—let’s just think this through—”
You sat up slowly. Deliberately. Every movement a signal.
Your voice dropped, calm but commanding, your eyes locked on his.
“…Get upstairs.”
Daichi followed you up the stairs like a man walking toward something both holy and terrifying.
You didn’t speak. Just kept your back straight, your breath steady, your feet deliberate on the steps. Every part of you radiated heat—rage, desperation, need. By the time you reached the bedroom, you were already tugging off your shirt, grumbling under your breath as it got stuck around your chest. You were a force of nature, belly full and breasts heavy, skin flushed with exertion and irritation.
“Help me,” you snapped, voice breathless.
Daichi was at your side in a second, pulling the fabric over your head, his hands lingering for just a second too long on the bare curve of your shoulder. It had been a while since the two of you had made love—between the fatigue, the constant discomfort, and the way your body had become less your own and more a vessel of life, intimacy had taken a quiet backseat. You missed it. Missed him. And he missed you—his touch tentative and reverent, like he was savoring the moment as much as you were. You turned to him, eyes burning.
“This baby is coming out tonight,” you said, voice low and deadly serious. “So get on the bed.”
He hesitated—not because he didn’t want to. He wanted to. God, did he want to. But his eyes kept flicking to your belly, the way it rounded out so full and taut, the faint sheen of sweat already glistening along your collarbone.
“Are you sure?” he asked, hand resting against your waist, careful and reverent. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t,” you said, grabbing him by the wrist and guiding him toward the mattress. “And if you do, I won’t care. I need this.”
He let out a shaky breath as you pushed him down onto the bed and climbed over him. The tension between you was thick, every inch of skin electric. Months of abstaining made everything heightened—your nerves tingled where his fingers grazed your hips, and his breathing hitched every time you shifted above him. His hands went instinctively to your thighs as you straddled him, palms warm and wide and trembling just slightly.
You leaned down to kiss him, hard and fast, teeth scraping his bottom lip as you ground your hips against his crotch. He gasped, his body already responding beneath you.
“Fuck,” he groaned, pressing his forehead to your shoulder. “You’re gonna kill me.”
“Good,” you muttered, dragging your fingers down his chest. “Then we’ll die together.”
He chuckled breathlessly, then hooked his fingers in your waistband, easing your underwear off your hips with slow, reverent care. When he touched you, his fingertips sliding through the wet heat between your thighs, he exhaled like he was in awe.
“You’re soaked,” he whispered, voice tight, eyes dark with restraint.
“I’m ready,” you breathed, rolling your hips into his touch.
He didn’t argue. He pushed his boxers down and kicked them off, his cock thick and flushed against his stomach. He gripped it at the base, ready to guide himself in, but you brushed his hand aside and positioned yourself with shaking thighs.
“Let me,” you murmured.
And then you sank down, slow and deep, the stretch sharp enough to make you gasp. Your hands clutched his shoulders, fingernails digging into his skin as you took him all the way in, inch by aching inch.
Daichi groaned, low and guttural, his head tipping back against the pillows. “Jesus, you’re so tight—fuck—”
You paused, hips resting flush against his, just breathing. The fullness was overwhelming, perfect, exactly what you needed.
When you started to move, it was unhurried. The sensitivity of not having touched like this in weeks made every motion feel magnified—every grind, every squeeze, every brush of skin set fire to your nerves. You both gasped more than once, surprised by how much you'd missed this, missed each other. Deep, rolling thrusts that had you grinding down with every motion, drawing small sounds from your throat as your body adjusted to the rhythm.
Daichi’s hands moved to your waist, holding you steady, thumbs stroking gentle circles along your skin.
“You’re incredible,” he murmured, his voice shaky. “You’re carrying our baby, and you still want me like this?”
“I don’t want you,” you corrected breathlessly. “I need you.”
Your pace picked up, just slightly, each roll of your hips drawing gasps from both of you. The bed creaked under the rhythm, your swollen belly brushing against his chest every time you leaned in to kiss him, desperate and messy and aching.
He slid one hand up to cup your breast, thumbing over your nipple until you arched into him. Your moan was sharp, needy, your body clenching tight around him.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” he groaned, fingers tightening on your hip. “You’re so—god, you feel so good.”
You chased the friction, riding him harder, faster, the pressure building between your legs in thick, pulsing waves. He met your thrusts now, his hips lifting off the bed, his face buried against your neck as he groaned into your skin.
When your orgasm hit, it slammed through you like a tidal wave, your body locking up around him as you gasped his name, trembling all over. He held you through it, rocking you gently, murmuring praise into your shoulder until your shudders turned to aftershocks.
Then he flipped you gently onto your back, careful with your belly, bracing himself above you as he drove into you with long, deep strokes, chasing his own edge.
You watched him through hooded eyes, heart racing, mouth parted in a soft, dazed smile. He looked wrecked—sweat-damp hair, flushed cheeks, jaw clenched with restraint as he fucked you slow and deep.
“I’m close,” he warned, voice fraying.
You cupped his face, nodding, heart still thudding from your own climax. “It’s okay. Come inside me. I want to feel you.”
With a broken sound, he buried himself to the hilt, groaning your name as he came, thick pulses filling you, his body trembling with release. You wrapped your arms around him as he collapsed slowly beside you, one arm still curled protectively across your middle, his breath hot against your shoulder.
Neither of you said anything for a long while. The room was warm and quiet, filled only with the soft sounds of your breathing. His hand smoothed over your belly, the rise and fall of it still unsteady. You were both flushed, glistening with sweat, chests heaving.
You turned your head toward him slightly, letting out a huff of a laugh. “Well… at least I feel better.”
Daichi huffed a laugh, his voice still rough. “Honestly? Same. Not sure if we jumpstarted labor or just obliterated our spines, though.”
You both lay there for a beat longer, catching your breath, limbs tangled, and the faint hum of calm settling over you.
Eventually, you shifted, groaning softly as you sat up on your elbows. “Okay,” you said, voice still breathy, “I should probably clean up—”
And then it happened.
A sudden, warm rush.
You blinked. Froze. Looked down.
“…Oh my god,” you whispered. “Daichi.”
He sat up slowly, still half-lost in the afterglow. “Hmm?”
You stared at the sheets beneath you, soaked through in a way that was definitely not from sex.
“My water broke,” you said, blinking again. The shock in your voice cut through the air.
Daichi’s head snapped toward you.
“My water broke,” you repeated, louder this time, voice rising in panic. “Daichi, my fucking water broke.”
The adrenaline that had left your limbs warm and loose now twisted into pure, electric panic.
He was moving before you could spiral further, sitting up and cupping your face with both hands.
“Hey, hey—look at me,” he said quickly, steadying your breathing with his voice. “It’s okay. We’re okay.”
You nodded, dazed, still processing the rush of adrenaline and disbelief. Just moments ago, you had been begging for something to happen—for anything to finally signal the end. And now that it had, now that it was really happening, your heart felt like it might explode with the sheer weight of it. You had wanted this so badly. You had cursed the waiting. And yet now, the second it arrived, you were caught somewhere between terror and awe.
“I wanted this,” you whispered, almost to yourself. “I wanted this to happen.”
Daichi brushed a strand of damp hair away from your face, smiling warmly. “You did. And now it’s happening.”
You exhaled a shaky laugh, voice cracking. “I’m terrified.”
“I know,” he said, cupping your cheek with a hand as steady as his voice. “Me too. But we’re ready. You’re ready.”
You nodded again, tears welling in your eyes, this time from joy—not just from fear or exhaustion. You were going to meet your baby. Tonight. Maybe in just a few hours.
Daichi pressed a kiss to your forehead before swinging his legs off the bed, already grabbing the overnight bag he had packed and repacked a dozen times.
“Let’s go meet our baby,” he said, voice warm and certain.
And this time, you smiled through the chaos. Because it was finally happening—and you weren’t doing it alone.
It was supposed to be one of your favorites.
Yaku stood proudly in front of the stove, dishing up a steaming plate of oyakodon—fluffy egg, juicy chicken, perfectly seasoned rice. You’d been craving something warm and comforting, and he’d been more than happy to oblige. He even made miso soup on the side, garnished just the way you liked it, with the little tofu cubes floating lazily in the bowl. The apartment smelled like soy sauce and dashi, rich and nostalgic.
You waddled into the kitchen with one hand on your lower back, the other absentmindedly tracing the edge of your growing bump, already smiling at the scent you knew so well.
But then—
It hit you.
The smell.
Hard.
You stopped short. The smile slipped from your face. Your nose crinkled, your eyes went wide, and your stomach lurched.
You gagged once, loud and sudden.
Yaku turned from the stove instantly, eyes narrowing with alarm. “Hey—are you okay?”
You waved him off, trying to speak, trying to play it off like you could power through it.
“Yeah, I just—” You gagged again, louder this time, one hand flying to your mouth. “It’s fine, I think I just need a second—”
Then your stomach gave up entirely.
The rich scent of simmered egg and soy sauce suddenly turned rancid in your senses, and before you could say a word, both hands flew to your mouth. You staggered toward the sink, breathing hard through your nose.
Yaku turned just in time to watch you sprint the rest of the way.
You barely made it. Gripping the edges of the basin, you gagged violently, doubling over as your body heaved with no warning. Your knees buckled slightly from the effort, and tears sprang to your eyes as you fought to keep control.
“Oh—oh my god,” Yaku choked out, dropping the plate onto the counter with a sharp clatter. His hand hovered midair, frozen, like he wasn’t sure if he should run toward you or flee entirely.
He chose you.
“Hey, hey—it’s okay,” he said, voice slightly high-pitched, his mouth tugging awkwardly to one side as he fought against his visible discomfort. His nose wrinkled despite himself, but he pressed a hand to your back, rubbing slow, shaky circles. “It’s okay. Just breathe. You got it.”
You were sobbing before you even lifted your head.
“I loved that dish,” you wailed, tears streaming freely now. “You made it perfectly and I—I threw up in front of you, and I can’t even eat it now, and I’m so sorry—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he said quickly, helping you upright and handing you a cool cloth from the fridge. “None of that. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
You wiped your mouth, sniffling. “But I ruined dinner.”
He glanced warily at the plate, now abandoned and beginning to cool. “Yeah, well, it’s not my best memory of oyakodon anymore, but that’s fine. It’ll survive.”
You hiccupped a wet laugh. “You’re grossed out.”
“I’m... challenged,” he admitted with a strained smile. “But I’m not going anywhere. I’ll gag quietly in the corner if I have to.”
You buried your face in his shoulder. “I hate that my body’s doing this. I hate that I wanted something so badly and then just—rejected it like that.”
He stroked your back, gentler now. “It’s not rejection. It’s just... a rebranding.”
You pulled back slightly, puffy-eyed. “What does that even mean?”
“It means,” he said, tipping your chin up, “that we’re finding new favorites now. So tell me what you can stomach, and I’ll make it happen.”
You hesitated.
“…You’re not gonna like it.”
“I just watched you throw up mid-step and I stayed. Try me.”
“…Pickles.”
He nodded. “Alright.”
“With peanut butter.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And crushed ice.”
He blinked. “Separate or…?”
“Side dish.”
“Of course.”
“And I want a plain bagel. But I want to dip it in cream cheese and ketchup.”
He exhaled. “Naturally.”
“And maybe some frozen corn niblets? Not cooked. Just... straight from the freezer.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay. Making a list.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Yes, I do,” he interrupted, already walking to the counter. “Because you’re growing a whole human, and apparently that human is very specific.”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too. Even if I hate this list.”
And with that, he kissed your temple, grabbed his keys, and set off to hunt down every absurd craving you’d dreamed up—with only a faint grimace and a stomach made of steel.
--
It took him two corner stores and a specialty deli, but Yaku returned triumphant, arms full of grocery bags and a look of determination on his face. He laid everything out on the coffee table like it was a five-star buffet: pickles, peanut butter, crushed ice in a big bowl, a plain bagel, cream cheese, ketchup, and a bag of frozen corn.
You were already curled up on the couch in one of his hoodies, and your face lit up like the sun when you saw it all. “Oh my god,” you gasped, reaching for the pickles first and dipping one straight into the peanut butter without hesitation. “This is perfect.”
Yaku sat on the edge of the couch, watching with a blend of horror and awe as you crunched down on your Frankenstein meal with pure, genuine joy.
You munched happily, cheeks puffed out, eyes dreamy as you chewed. “Oh my god, I love you so much.”
He smiled, soft and full of affection. “I love you too.”
Then, quieter, barely a mumble as he stared at the bagel going into the ketchup-cream cheese dip: “This kid is gonna be weird.”
You’re two months pregnant and absolutely glowing. There’s a nervous excitement in your every breath, your hand constantly drifting over your still-flat belly as if to check that it’s real. That there’s really a little life growing inside you. A little Miya, curled up and getting bigger by the day.
You’re in the passenger seat of the car, heading toward your very first ultrasound appointment. The windows are down, and the soft spring breeze is curling through your hair as the late morning sun streams through the windshield. Everything feels light. Hopeful. Surreal.
Atsumu is driving one-handed, his other resting on your thigh, thumb tracing idle circles against your leggings. He hums quietly to the radio, lips twitching into a smile every time he glances over at you.
“Y’know,” he says after a moment, “I been thinkin’ about what kind of nose they’ll have. Hopefully yours. Mine’s too pointy.”
You let out a soft laugh, the kind that bubbles up without effort. “As long as they don’t have your drama.”
“Hey!” he protests, though he’s still smiling as he squeezes your leg. “They’re allowed a little flair. They are mine, after all.”
You roll your eyes fondly, fingers tangling with his at the next red light. He lifts your joined hands to press a kiss to your knuckles before driving on.
When you pull into the clinic parking lot, your nerves start to set in—low and creeping. It’s your first time seeing the baby. Hearing a heartbeat. It makes everything feel suddenly, painfully real.
The waiting room is quiet, with soft instrumental music playing and the smell of hand sanitizer hanging in the air. You’re seated beside Atsumu, your knees bouncing ever so slightly as your mind races ahead. His hand is still in yours, firm and grounding.
When the nurse finally calls your name, you squeeze his fingers a little tighter.
The exam room is dimly lit, calm, with a monitor beside the table and soft instructions given as you lie back. You wince slightly at the cold gel, heart pounding in your ears as the technician glides the wand over your stomach.
She squints at the screen. Tilts her head.
Then her eyes widen slightly.
“Oh.”
You stiffen. “What? What is it? Is something wrong?”
She’s quick to reassure you. “No, no—everything looks good. It’s just... you’re having twins.”
Silence.
Atsumu leans in closer, eyes squinting at the screen. “Twins?”
“Twins,” the technician repeats, pointing to two distinct little shapes. “You see here? Two sacs. Two heartbeats.”
Your gaze locks onto the screen. Two. Not one. Not the tiny flutter you’d been preparing for, but two.
A sudden wave of panic crashes over you.
“Two?” you echo, your voice a shaky whisper. “Like... two babies? At the same time?”
The technician gently clears her throat. "Well, it’s a little early to know for sure if they’re fraternal or identical, but yes—twins."
You feel your breath hitch, the room growing smaller around you. “That’s two car seats. Two cribs. Two births. Two newborns crying at once—”
Your hand grips Atsumu’s forearm, eyes wide as your mind races. “I don’t—I wasn’t ready for two. I barely wrapped my head around one.”
You’re still staring at the screen when Atsumu shifts closer to the bed, his hand still resting lightly on yours.
“Hey,” he says softly. “Breathe for me, okay?”
You turn toward him with wide, overwhelmed eyes. “Tsumu... that’s two babies. That’s two of everything. What if I can’t—what if I’m not enough for both of them?”
“You are,” he says instantly, without hesitation. “You will be. We will.”
But your hand flails toward his forearm like it needs something to latch onto. “This is your fault. You and Osamu. You cursed me with twin genes!”
He stares at you, stunned. “What?! How is this my fault?”
“Because you’re a twin! That’s how!”
The technician offers a gentle smile, still watching the monitor. “Actually, twins are likely influenced by the mother’s genetics. So if anyone ‘passed it down,’ it’s likely you.”
You blink slowly. “So... it’s me?”
Atsumu exhales—relieved. “See? I didn’t do this! You doubled down on your own.”
Your head snaps toward the technician, eyes wide and blinking rapidly, a storm of disbelief swirling behind them. You don’t say anything—but your look says plenty.
The technician catches the expression immediately and offers a placating smile, lifting her hands lightly. "I’ll give you two a minute," she says gently, already stepping toward the door, and quietly slips out of the room, pulling it closed behind her with a soft click.
You drop your head back onto the exam pillow with a muffled groan. “I don’t know how to do one baby. Let alone two. That’s double the crying. Double the diapers. Double the college funds.”
Atsumu leans down until his forehead presses softly to yours. His hand finds yours again, grounding you with the warmth of his palm and the way his thumb strokes soothingly across your skin.
“Hey,” he says, voice low and gentle. “Breathe. We’ll figure it out.”
You don’t answer right away, eyes still locked on the monitor where two flickering heartbeats pulse in rhythm.
He kisses your forehead, slow and reassuring. “We’ll go one diaper at a time. One bottle at a time. One late-night rocking session at a time. We’re gonna be okay.”
Your lip trembles. “Are we?”
He smiles, brushing your hair back from your forehead. “I’m not lettin’ you do this alone. You’re stuck with me, baby. Me, and the two little monsters we made.”
You laugh wetly, a mix of shock and affection tangled in your chest. He leans down and kisses you again—cheek, then jaw, then temple—before turning to look back at the screen.
And in the glow of that monitor, with two tiny heartbeats tapping out the rhythm of your future, Atsumu squeezes your hand and whispers:
“They’ve already got the best mom in the world. The rest’ll be easy.”
You sit up slightly and reach for him, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him into a hug, your chin resting against his shoulder. “Thank you,” you whisper, voice thick with emotion. “I needed to hear that.”
You’re not sure when it started. Maybe sometime last week, maybe even before that—but the switch flipped quietly, without warning. One minute you were just a little tired, a little bloated, trying to get comfortable with the weird limbo that is second trimester pregnancy. And the next?
You were staring at your husband like he was carved from marble. Like every movement of his arms under that damn fitted black t-shirt was offensive. Like the way his voice dipped when he answered a work call should be punishable by law.
You hadn’t touched him in days—partly because you were tired, partly because the two of you were still adjusting to the wave of appointments and vitamins and new routines. But now, now your skin feels too tight for your body. You can’t stop thinking about his hands. His stupid smirk. The stretch of muscle across his stomach when he reaches for the top shelf. You keep shifting in your chair at the kitchen table, thighs pressed together as you half-watch him move around the apartment, trying not to combust every time he bends to grab something or stretches his arms over his head like a personal attack.
You're four months pregnant, and your hormones are holding you hostage.
But how the hell are you supposed to say that? Hey honey, I want you so bad it’s making me delusional? You’re turning me on just by walking?
You'd rather burst into flames.
So instead, you sit quietly, pretending to scroll through your phone while your eyes flicker up to him every ten seconds like a heat-seeking missile. You’re trying to be subtle. You really are.
Unfortunately for you, Kuroo Tetsurou has known you long enough to spot a mood shift from fifty paces away—and he’s been watching. Smugly. Patiently. Waiting.
The first hint that you’ve been caught comes when he strolls by with a bowl of chopped strawberries, casually plucks one from the bowl, and leans over to offer it to you without a word. You’re caught off guard, lips parting automatically as he feeds it to you. Your teeth graze the tip of his fingers, just barely, and his lips twitch.
He doesn’t move. Just watches you chew. Slow. Calm.
Then, in a voice dipped in dry amusement: “You’ve been staring at me for twenty minutes.”
You blink, swallow. “I haven’t.”
“Mm,” he hums, straightening up. “Sure you haven’t.”
You grit your teeth. Heat burns your cheeks. You can already feel the spiral beginning.
He doesn’t press. Just walks around the kitchen like he didn’t just call you out for mentally undressing him on the spot. His movements are so casual it’s infuriating. He grabs a dish towel, wipes down the counter, opens the fridge, all while your brain is on fire.
You stare down at your phone, eyes unfocused, and will yourself to get it together. You just need to act normal. You’re not gonna combust. It’s fine. It’s just hormones.
“You okay?” he asks, voice far too neutral. You glance up. He’s leaning against the counter now, arms crossed over that broad chest, eyebrow lifted in feigned innocence.
“Yeah. Why?”
“You’re flushed.” His head tilts. “You hot?”
“I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
You shift in your seat, pressing your knees together. “Yes.”
Another pause. Then:
“You hungry?”
Your eyes shoot to him instinctively—and that’s when you realize he knows. Not just suspects. Not maybe. Knows.
And worse: he’s enjoying it.
Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out. You look away again, hands gripping your phone like it might save you from yourself.
When he crosses the room, you don’t even notice until he’s crouching beside your chair, resting one arm on the armrest, the other hand brushing lightly over your thigh. You freeze.
“Sweetheart,” he says, voice dipped in syrup, eyes glinting with something dangerous, “you’ve been lookin’ at me like you want to climb me.”
You blink rapidly. “That’s not—”
“You sigh every time I stretch.” His fingers trace up to your knee. “You squirm when I talk. You’ve eaten, slept, and had your iron supplements. So unless there’s a sudden new strawberry emergency—”
“Tetsuro.”
“—I think,” he murmurs, leaning closer, “there’s something you’re not saying.”
You bury your face in your hands, groaning into your palms. “This is so embarrassing.”
He laughs softly, warm breath fanning over your shoulder as he presses a kiss to your temple. “It’s adorable.”
“It’s feral, Tetsu. I feel like a monster.”
“Monsters don’t look at me like that,” he says, voice low against your skin. “They don’t whimper every time I bend over.”
You groan louder, but your body leans into him on instinct.
“Say it,” he teases. “C’mon. Say you want me.”
“I hate you.”
“You want me.”
“I’m four months pregnant and deranged, don’t flatter yourself.”
“Oh, baby,” he grins, pulling you gently into his lap, “you’re carrying my kid and horny for me? I’m the luckiest bastard alive.”
Mortified beyond recovery, you squirm your way out of his lap, muttering something unintelligible as you bolt from the kitchen. It’s half an attempt to escape, half a desperate grab for your dignity. You make it three steps into the hallway before you hear him laugh—low and knowing—and then feel his hands at your hips.
“Where d’you think you’re going?” he murmurs, lips brushing the curve of your ear as he tugs you back against him. “You’re not getting away from me after saying all that.”
You fumble for a response, but it vanishes the second his hands find the hem of your shirt, fingertips grazing your skin with unbearable slowness. You tilt your head back without thinking, breath catching.
“Tetsurou—”
“Yeah?” he answers, already kissing down your neck, voice infuriatingly calm. “Say the word, and I’ll stop.”
You don’t. You can’t.
Instead, your hands find his wrists and guide them higher. You melt into him like wax to flame.
“Good girl,” he breathes against your jaw. “That’s more like it.”
Before you can catch your breath, he has you gently turned, your back pressing against the hallway wall. His hands settle firmly on your hips, then slide lower, fingers working with a confidence that has your knees buckling. You gasp when he pops the button of your pants, the sound deafening in the quiet space between your bodies.
“Tetsurou—”
“Shh,” he murmurs, his lips brushing over your collarbone with the lightest graze, voice so low and deliberate it sends a pulse through your spine. His hand dips beneath the waistband of your underwear with a languid slowness, his knuckles dragging along your skin like he wants you to feel everything.
“Let me take care of you, yeah? You’ve been trying so hard to hold it together.”
You inhale sharply as his fingers slide deeper, seeking out the ache you’ve been trying to ignore for days. When he finds it—you—it’s like your body short-circuits. Your breath stutters, hips jolting forward as if your body’s been waiting for this exact moment, this exact touch.
His fingers move with maddening precision—expert and unhurried—stroking you in a rhythm that melts the strength from your knees. He presses you harder into the wall, not with force but weight, anchoring you there while your body twists and trembles under his control. His mouth trails along your neck, slow kisses blooming across your pulse point as you gasp, the sound catching in your throat.
"Just relax, sweetheart," he murmurs, his breath hot against your skin, "Let me make it better."
Your hands cling to his arms, fingers digging into his sleeves as your body arches into him. The tension coils tighter and tighter, strung high by weeks of restrained want, the heat of your own embarrassment fueling the need. He murmurs low praise into your skin—good girl, so soft, so perfect, so fucking sweet like this—and the words alone nearly undo you.
And when you do come, it’s a quiet, raw thing—your body trembling in his hold, face tucked against his shoulder, a muffled cry of Tetsurou slipping from your lips like confession. He holds you steady through it, one arm around your waist, the other still curled low, fingers easing you through every last tremor.
When your breathing slows, when the fog begins to lift, his hand gently slips free and he cradles your face, brushing back damp strands of hair with the same fingers that just unraveled you.
“God, you’re perfect,” he whispers, his forehead resting against yours. “My gorgeous, needy wife. All mine.”
Your breath comes out in short, shaky bursts, still reeling, still trembling in his hands. “I can’t believe I—” you start, but the words collapse in your throat, too breathless, too flustered to finish.
Tetsurou chuckles softly, and before you can even think about collecting yourself, he’s hooking one arm under your knees and the other behind your back, lifting you with effortless strength.
You yelp, arms flying around his neck as he princess carries you down the hallway, your face burning hot against his shoulder. “Tetsu—! What are you doing?!”
He glances down at you, grin smug, eyes molten. “You didn’t think we were done, did you?” he murmurs, already walking with you in his arms toward the bedroom. His voice is velvet and heat, wrapped around every word, promising more. “I’ve got you all night, baby. You’re not going anywhere.”
The second the double doors of the weight room open, it’s like you’ve stepped into a different universe—a world of metal clanks, low grunts, chalk-dusted air, and the constant thud of iron plates hitting the floor. And now, slicing clean through that rhythmic storm of testosterone and hyper-focus, is you: very pregnant, slightly annoyed, and holding the wallet your husband managed to leave behind on the kitchen counter this morning. You didn’t think twice about walking the ten minutes over from your place. It’s not like you hiked a mountain—you waddled across pavement in sneakers. But by the way the entire Olympic volleyball team turns toward you in unison, you might as well be carrying a live grenade instead of a baby.
“WOAHHH—LOOK OUT! Civilian on the floor!” Bokuto’s voice booms across the room, sweaty hair sticking up, arms mid-air like you’d broken the rules of gravity just by showing up.
Atsumu, flat on a bench press with Kageyama spotting him, twists his head far too dramatically toward you and lets out a long, low whistle. “Ain’t no civilian, Bo. That’s Iwaizumi’s wife. And she’s lookin’ like she’s about to drop that baby right here in front of the dumbbells.”
You don’t even get the chance to sigh before you spot him—Hajime, towel around his neck, clipboard tucked under one arm, halfway through barking cues at someone doing squats. His head snaps toward you the second he hears Bokuto’s yell, and his entire body goes rigid. The clipboard hits the bench with a clatter. The towel is forgotten. His mouth moves, but there’s no time for words—he’s already weaving through machines and teammates, practically charging toward you like the floor itself might crumble under your feet.
“You walked here? Alone?” he demands as soon as he’s within a few feet, eyes scanning you from head to toe like he’s checking for bruises.
“I’m not made of paper, Hajime. I walked from the apartment. Not across a battlefield.” You hold the wallet up between two fingers, giving him a pointed look. “You left this on the counter, by the way.”
He takes it, but barely spares it a glance. His attention is completely on you—his wife, his very-pregnant-wife, standing in the middle of the Olympic team’s weight room surrounded by free weights, kettlebells, unstable mats, and volleyball players who think balance training on BOSU balls is a personality trait.
“This place isn’t safe for you,” he mutters under his breath, eyes narrowing at a barbell someone just let crash onto the floor nearby. “You shouldn’t be around this equipment. There’s too many ways you could trip, or get knocked, or—hell—slip on a chalk patch.”
You raise your eyebrows and gesture around you. “I am standing still, Hajime. On flat ground. Wearing shoes. Holding a wallet. This is not a life-threatening activity.”
His lips flatten into a tight line. “You’re thirty-eight weeks. You should be sitting, preferably somewhere padded, with a bottle of water and a snack within reach.”
You blink. “Are you reading off a checklist right now?”
He doesn’t answer.
At that moment, Komori jogs up with his usual bounce, sweat still gleaming on his forehead and a towel slung haphazardly over his shoulder. “Wait—this is your wife? The one we keep hearing about?”
“He doesn’t talk about her,” Kiryu calls from the dumbbell rack, not even bothering to look up. “He says stuff like ‘my wife made soup’ and ‘my wife needs pickles.’ That’s it. That’s all we get.”
You offer a small, amused smile and rest both hands on your stomach. “Hi. Yes. I’m Soup-and-Pickles. Thirty-eight weeks along. Full of baby. And apparently one bad step away from being put in a medically induced nap.”
There’s a chorus of laughter, though it’s mixed with soft whistles of awe as more of the team gravitates toward you. Aran strolls over with a light smile, while Hinata’s practically vibrating behind him.
“You really came all the way here?” Aran asks.
“It’s ten minutes from home,” you reply, shooting a glance up at your husband who still looks like he’s trying to map the safest escape route out of the gym for you. “I’m pregnant, not cursed.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” Iwaizumi mutters. “You’re standing next to iron weights in Converse. That’s a hostile environment.”
You roll your eyes, adjusting the strap on your bag. “They’re high-tops. Extra support.”
Before he can scold you further, Hinata suddenly leans forward with stars in his eyes. “Is the baby kicking?”
“Oh yeah,” you nod, hand moving instinctively to the right side of your belly. “She’s training for nationals, I think. My ribs are her new personal practice net.”
“Can I feel?” Komori blurts out, his expression open and hopeful.
You’re about to say yes, but Hajime moves before you can answer, shifting his stance ever so slightly to put his body between you and Komori with the quiet intensity of a dad who’s already protective before the baby’s even born.
“She’s not a mascot,” he says flatly.
You place your palm on his chest. “Hajime. It’s fine.”
His eyes flicker to yours. He relents with a small sigh, stepping aside like it physically pains him to do so.
Komori gently places his hand on your stomach, and when the baby kicks, his face lights up like someone handed him a puppy. “Oh my god. That’s incredible.”
Kageyama peers over curiously. “Does it feel weird?”
“Like an alien living under your skin,” you say cheerfully. “And sometimes the alien cries when you don’t feed it grilled cheese at exactly 3 a.m.”
“Sounds terrifying,” Sakusa mumbles nearby, adjusting a band on his wrist.
“Iwaizumi,” Yaku calls from where he’s doing banded lunges, “you better give that kid rock-solid calves. I don’t care how. It’s your duty.”
“Oh, we’re starting this already?” you laugh. “Pressure before she’s even out of the womb?”
“Oh, we’ve been taking bets,” Suna says, finally looking up from his phone with the laziest smile. “Due date, hair color, position they’ll play.”
“Definitely not libero,” Bokuto adds, puffing his chest. “That baby’s got outside hitter energy.”
“I swear to god,” Iwaizumi mutters, dragging a hand down his face.
You press a soft kiss to his jaw and whisper just loud enough for him to hear, “You love it.”
He doesn’t answer. Just wraps one arm around your shoulders, pulling you gently into his side, hand resting low and protective on the curve of your stomach. He kisses the top of your head. Quiet. Steady.
You nudge him lightly and lift a brow. “Still mad I walked into the weight room?”
He looks down at you, expression flat. “I am always mad when you walk into a room with flying metal plates and men with the coordination of blindfolded rhinos.”
“I brought you your wallet.”
“And almost gave me a stroke in the process.”
You grin, dig into his pocket, and pull out one of his protein bars. “And I’m stealing your snack.”
“…Unbelievable.”
Hey I really love the way you write it’s so fun to read and really fits the characters. I wanted to request you making small drabbles or a series on how the haikyu characters would treat you while youre pregnant. If it’s something you don’t want to write no worries. 🩷
OMGG yesss I love that idea 🙈🙈🙈 It goes so well with my other mini-series ehehe, I'm 100% adding it to the roster!! Thank you for your sweet words, they never fail to make my day.
For you! Gorgeous Human!! Enjoy <333 --
Ushijima has been overprotective since the very beginning.
The second those two lines showed up on the test, it was like a switch flipped in him. He became your personal guard dog, nurse, chauffeur, meal planner, and human forklift all rolled into one stoic package.
It was kind of sweet—at first. The way he’d gently tug your hand away if you tried to carry anything heavier than a spoon. The way he’d Google symptoms with intense focus, like your morning sickness was a tactical challenge he could overcome with enough research. The way he sat through every prenatal appointment like it was the Olympics and he was preparing to win gold in fatherhood.
But by the third trimester?
You’re one more “let me do it” away from committing actual murder.
“I’m gonna change the sheets,” you say, bracing a hand on your lower back as you waddle toward the linen closet.
Before you even touch the doorknob, he’s there. He must have materialized from the floorboards.
“I’ll do it,” he says.
You blink up at him. “Wakatoshi—”
“The mattress is heavy.”
“I’m not flipping it! I’m just changing the sheets.”
Still, he reaches over you and pulls out the linens like it’s already been decided. “Sit down. I’ll take care of it.”
You stare at him, nostrils flaring, lips twitching, but you don’t fight it. Not yet.
Then come the groceries. The laundry. The vacuum you so much as glance at. And every time, he gets to it before you can even try. Every time, he gently insists. Every time, you swallow the urge to scream.
Until now.
You step onto the footstool to reach the top kitchen cabinet—one single bowl, that’s all you want—and he appears in the doorway like a haunted house spirit.
“Don’t,” he says sharply.
That’s it. That’s the moment you snap.
“USHIJIMA,” you explode, flinging your arms wide in a very dramatic but very off-balanced motion. “I am pregnant. Not porcelain. I can do things! I can move and lift and stretch and reach and I would like to do one thing—just ONE THING—by myself without you treating me like I’m going to spontaneously combust!”
He pauses. Blinks. That stoic face giving you absolutely nothing.
“…You were wobbling,” he says.
“I always wobble! I’m basically a giant, sentient bowling pin at this point!”
“I don’t want to take chances,” he says, calm as ever.
“Well I want to do something myself!”
He hesitates. You can practically hear the gears turning in his head. Eventually, he steps back and says simply, “Okay. Do it.”
Oh. Oh he did not just call your bluff.
You puff out your chest, grab the cabinet door for balance, and go for it. Fingers brush the edge of the bowl, victory within reach—
—and then you realize you can’t quite twist back down. You’re halfway off the stool and stuck. Pride flickers. Stomach tightens. Arms flail just a little.
“…Toshi?” you call, voice small. “I, um. I need help.”
He’s there in seconds.
Strong arms wrap around you, lifting you like you weigh nothing. He sets you gently on the floor like a queen being lowered onto her throne.
“You were saying?” he murmurs, hand on the small of your back.
You scowl. “I hate you.”
“You don’t,” he replies smoothly. “You just hate that I’m right.”
You slump against his chest, bowl in hand, your forehead hitting the middle of his sternum. His hand rubs up and down your spine. You sigh dramatically.
“You’re so annoying.”
“And you’re still holding the bowl.”
“…Shut up.”
Kenma Kozume was a man of few words, but when it came to gaming, his focus was unmatched. His world narrowed down to the flicker of the screen, the subtle click of buttons, and the shifting of his fingers on the controller. You had gotten used to this side of him—the way he would disappear into his own world, immersed in a game for hours on end.
But today? Today, you weren’t in the mood to be ignored.
“Kenny,” you murmured softly, standing by the couch where he was seated, his eyes locked onto the TV screen. He didn’t respond, too caught up in whatever game he was playing, his brows slightly furrowed, lips pressed together in concentration. You knew better than to take it personally—Kenma could get lost in his games, completely tuning out the world around him. But after an entire afternoon of watching him battle it out with faceless opponents, your patience had worn thin.
“Kenma.”
Still nothing.
You sighed, your lips curving into a mischievous smile as you decided to take matters into your own hands. If he wasn’t going to pay attention to you willingly, you’d make sure he had no choice. Without another word, you climbed onto his lap, settling yourself comfortably as you straddled him, your arms loosely draping around his neck.
Kenma stiffened for a moment, his golden eyes briefly flickering toward you before shifting back to the screen.
“Babe,” he mumbled, voice low and distracted, his fingers still moving with practiced ease on the controller.
“What?” you asked innocently, tilting your head and pressing your chest just a little closer to his.
“I’m in the middle of a match.”
“Mhm,” you hummed, leaning in to nuzzle your nose against his neck. “And I’m in the middle of needing attention.”
You felt the slight hitch in his breath, the way his hands tensed around the controller as you placed a soft kiss just below his jaw.
“You’re doing this now?” he murmured, trying to sound unaffected, but the way his voice wavered gave him away.
“I’m bored,” you teased, pressing another kiss—this time right where his pulse fluttered, your lips lingering a little longer.
Kenma’s fingers twitched, and for the first time in a while, he fumbled, his character on the screen taking an unnecessary hit. You heard the faint sound of a death notification and bit your lip to keep from giggling.
“You made me miss that,” he mumbled, but there was no real heat behind his words.
“Did I?” you murmured innocently, your lips brushing against his ear.
“You know you did.”
You giggled softly, but you pulled back just enough to look at him, your fingers playing with the ends of his blonde hair. His gaze finally shifted fully to you, and the sight made your heart flutter. His expression was that familiar mix of mild annoyance and quiet affection, golden eyes softened by the warmth that was always reserved for you.
“You’re impossible,” he murmured, his thumb lazily brushing against the joystick, but his movements were slower now, his focus barely on the game.
“And yet you love me,” you quipped, a playful smirk tugging at your lips.
Kenma’s eyes flickered down to your mouth, and you saw the way his resolve crumbled just a little more.
“Yeah,” he said softly, finally setting the controller aside and wrapping his arms fully around your waist.
You beamed, leaning down to capture his lips in a slow, sweet kiss—one that melted away the distance that had been building over the past few hours. His lips were warm, and he kissed you like he had all the time in the world, his grip on your waist pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.
“Missed you,” you murmured against his lips.
“I’ve been right here,” he murmured back, but his hold on you tightened like he was afraid you’d disappear.
“Not the same,” you whispered, brushing your nose against his.
Kenma let out a quiet sigh, resting his forehead against yours.
“I know,” he admitted softly.
The game forgotten, he pulled you closer, his lips trailing soft, lingering kisses down your jaw, across your neck, and back up to your lips. His touch was gentle but insistent, fingers pressing into your sides as he deepened the kiss, his body molding against yours. His hands traced slow circles along your back, each movement pulling you deeper into the moment.
“You’ve been playing all day,” you murmured softly, your fingers threading through his hair, gently tugging as he kissed along your jaw.
“Mm,” he hummed, his lips brushing against your skin.
“And I’ve been sitting here, waiting for you to notice me.”
Kenma’s lips paused, his breath fanning against your neck.
“I always notice you,” he murmured, his voice softer now, filled with something that made your heart flutter.
“Then prove it,” you teased, leaning back just enough to meet his gaze, your eyes gleaming with playful challenge.
A small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his lips as his hands slid up your sides, his thumbs brushing lightly over the fabric of your shirt.
“You’re really testing me today, huh?” he murmured, his golden eyes darkening with something deeper—something that made heat pool low in your stomach.
“Maybe,” you whispered, tilting your head slightly.
Kenma’s lips captured yours again, but this time there was more urgency, more hunger. His hands tightened on your waist, pulling you even closer until there was barely any space left between your bodies. His kisses grew more insistent, his lips trailing down the column of your neck, leaving a path of warmth in their wake.
“I’ll prove it,” he murmured softly, his voice a low promise against your skin.
You felt the heat rising between the two of you, your heart pounding in anticipation. And as his hands roamed your body, his touch both familiar and electrifying, you knew that Kenma was more than ready to remind you just how much he noticed you—in every possible way.
“Good,” you whispered, a satisfied smile tugging at your lips as you leaned in to capture his mouth again.
And in that moment, with his arms around you and his focus finally where it belonged, everything felt perfectly, wonderfully right.
Koutaro loved being a father. He loved everything about it—the giggles, the tiny hands reaching for his, the way his child clung to his leg like a koala when he tried to leave for practice. He loved the sleepy, drooling cuddles, the way they cheered for him at games even when they barely understood what was going on, the pure adoration in their big, bright eyes.
He loved his family. He loved the life he had built with you.
But damn, he was dying to fuck his wife.
At first, it wasn’t so bad. The newborn stage had been exhausting, but you’d found your moments, stolen kisses between diaper changes and late-night feedings. But now? Now, his kid was everywhere.
Hina wanted to play all the time, wanted to be glued to your side, wanted to co-sleep every damn night. If he so much as kissed you for too long, tiny hands would push between you both, demanding attention. And the worst part? You loved it. You’d always been so patient with her, smiling when she pulled you away from him, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek before going to settle her back into bed. Meanwhile, Koutaro was left aching, frustrated, and wound up tighter than a spring.
The longing was getting unbearable. He needed you. Needed to feel your hands on him, your nails digging into his back, the press of your body against his without interruption.
So when he saw his chance—his first real chance in weeks—he pounced.
Hina was absorbed in her favorite cartoon, settled comfortably on the couch, giggling at the screen, completely distracted. And you? You were in the kitchen, slicing up fruit, completely alone.
Koutaro didn’t hesitate.
He moved in fast, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind, burying his face against your neck, groaning dramatically. "Baby, I’m starving."
You laughed, not missing the way his hands wandered, sliding under your shirt, fingers tracing slow, teasing circles against your stomach. "I’m literally making you a snack right now."
"Not that kinda hungry," he murmured, lips grazing your ear, pressing his hips firmly against your ass so you could feel exactly what he meant.
You inhaled sharply, the knife in your hand faltering for just a second. "Koutaro—"
"C’mon, babe," he whined, rocking his hips just a little, making you shudder. "We can sneak upstairs. Just real quick. Ten minutes. No—five! I swear, I can be fast."
You snorted. "You’re never fast."
He grinned against your skin, his hands moving higher, palming your breasts, kneading them just the way he knew made you weak. "Fine, twenty minutes. But you have to be quiet."
You let out a soft, breathy moan, pressing back into him just enough to feel the hard, teasing drag of his body against yours. Your breathing picked up, your fingers gripping the counter as you leaned into his touch, heat pooling low in your stomach. "You’re terrible," you murmured, but there was no real bite to your words. Koutaro smirked against your neck, his hands squeezing your waist. He knew he had you.
Then—
"Mama! I want my fruit!"
Koutaro froze.
You quickly smoothed down your shirt, tucking stray strands of hair behind your ear, forcing yourself to look composed.
Tiny feet pattered into the kitchen, and suddenly, Hina was wedging between you and Koutaro, tiny hands tugging at your shirt.
"Mama! I want fruit! And Daddy, come watch my show with me! My favorite episode is on!"
Koutaro exhaled sharply through his nose, closing his eyes for a long moment. Defeated.
You sigh, turning and pecking him on the cheek, grinning. "Guess duty calls, Daddy."
With a deep, exaggerated sigh, Koutaro stepped back, ruffling his child’s hair before lifting her into his arms. "Alright, alright. Let’s go watch your show."
As he walked away, he heard your muffled laughter from the kitchen, making his frustration spike. His fingers flexed against Hina’s back as he carried her, already thinking about revenge.
By the time he settled onto the couch with her, she was already chattering excitedly about her favorite episode, eyes glued to the screen. Koutaro, however, was fuming.
He turned back, just before disappearing into the living room, throwing you a desperate, betrayed look.
This wasn’t over.
Not by a long shot.
---
Later that night, he was sure he was getting what he wanted.
Koutaro had planned it perfectly. He'd worn Hina out all day—a long walk, hours at the park, a warm bath, and a bedtime story that left her knocked out cold in her own bed. No way she was waking up tonight.
With a victorious smirk, he made his way to the bedroom, already anticipating the way you’d melt under his touch.
He stepped inside to find you standing by the dresser, slipping into one of his old shirts for bed. Your hair was slightly damp from your shower, skin soft, glowing in the dim light of the bedside lamp.
You turned at the sound of the door clicking shut, raising a brow as he stalked toward you. "Where’s Hina?"
"In her own bed," he murmured, voice low, confident. "Sleeping like a log."
Before you could react, his hands were on your waist, pulling you against him. He kissed you like he hadn’t kissed you in months—deep, needy, filled with everything he’d been holding back.
You gasped softly, but you didn’t hesitate, your arms looping around his neck as you pressed back into him, matching his intensity, his hunger. His hands roamed your body, fingers trailing down your spine, squeezing at your hips, touching you like he was trying to make up for lost time.
His mouth moved to your jaw, then your neck, and he groaned as his fingers slid beneath the hem of your shirt, moving lower, lower—
Knock, knock.
A tiny, tearful voice called from the hallway. "Mama? Daddy?"
You and Koutaro froze.
For a long moment, neither of you moved, still tangled together, his breath heavy against your skin.
Then, he pulled back just enough to stare at you, eyes filled with sheer, soul-crushing defeat.
You smirked, barely able to contain your amusement. "Like a log, huh?"
His expression darkened, and you couldn't help it—you burst into laughter.
Groaning, Koutaro dropped his forehead against your shoulder, completely deflated.
Another knock. "Mamaaa…"
With a deep sigh, you both quickly fixed yourselves up before Koutaro trudged to the door, opening it to reveal Hina standing there, rubbing her sleepy little eyes, sniffling.
"Had a bad dream, baby?" you cooed, crouching down to brush her hair back gently.
She nodded, sniffling again before reaching up toward Koutaro. "Can I sleep with you and Mama?"
He glanced over at you, looking so damn resigned, so utterly defeated.
You grinned, shrugging. "Guess duty calls again, Daddy."
Letting out the most dramatic sigh of his life, Koutaro scooped her up, carrying her to the bed. He flopped onto the mattress, his dream of having you to himself completely shattered as she snuggled between you both.
As you reached over to turn off the light, you caught Koutaro’s stare from across the pillow—his desperate, betrayed look that all but screamed: This isn’t over.
But hours later, it was still keeping him awake.
He laid there in the dark, eyes fixed on the ceiling, his body tense with frustration. Every single attempt at having you to himself had been shut down, and now, with his daughter nestled comfortably between you both, it felt like the final nail in his coffin.
Except—he wasn’t giving up. Not tonight.
Slowly, he turned his head, glancing at Hina. Her breathing was steady, deep, completely out. Koutaro stayed still for a few more moments, just to be sure, before carefully, painstakingly, peeling himself away from the bed.
You stirred slightly, mumbling something incoherent, but he was already leaning in, brushing his lips against your ear. "Baby… come with me."
You blinked groggily, barely registering his voice. "Kou…?"
"Shhh," he whispered, his hand warm against your waist. "Come on. Just trust me."
Still half-asleep, you let him pull you up, letting him lead you quietly, carefully out of the bedroom. As soon as you both stepped into the dimly lit living room, you rubbed at your eyes, yawning. "Koutaro… what’s going on?"
But he didn’t answer with words.
Instead, he tilted your chin up, trailing soft kisses down your jaw, your neck, whispering against your skin. "We just need to be quiet."
Your breath hitched, your drowsiness evaporating in an instant as his hands gripped your hips, pulling you flush against him.
You gasped softly, but the second his mouth found that sensitive spot just beneath your ear, you melted into him. "Koutaro, you’re insatiable…"
He grinned, his fingers already slipping beneath the hem of your shirt as he guided you toward the couch. "Missed you too much, baby. Can’t wait anymore."
And as he pressed you down onto the cushions, settling between your legs, he whispered again, "Just keep quiet for me, yeah?"
You barely had a chance to respond before his hand slipped between your legs, fingertips tracing along your inner thigh, teasing, taking his time. You shivered, your legs instinctively parting wider for him, and he let out a quiet, pleased hum.
"That’s it, baby," he murmured against your ear, his fingers brushing over your underwear, pressing against the heat already pooling there. "You’re already so wet for me. Missed this, huh?"
You bit your lip, nodding as you arched into his touch, barely suppressing a gasp when he slid his fingers under the fabric, stroking you slow, deliberate.
"Koutaro—"
"Shhh, baby," he whispered, his other hand coming up to gently cover your mouth. "Gotta stay quiet, remember?"
Your head tipped back against the couch as he slid a finger inside, curling just right, dragging along that spot that had you nearly choking on your moans. When he added a second, his pace deep and unrelenting, your thighs clamped around his hand, body trembling under his touch.
"Feel good?" he asked, watching you with dark, hungry eyes. "Bet you’ve been needing this just as bad as I have."
You could barely nod, barely breathe, your chest rising and falling in uneven gasps as he worked you open, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.
"Wanna come for me, baby?" His voice was low, coaxing, filthy. "I can feel you squeezing me—go ahead, let go. Just be quiet."
You whined against his palm, your whole body tensing as pleasure crashed over you, your walls pulsing around his fingers as you came, thighs shaking.
Koutaro groaned, pressing soft kisses along your jaw, your cheeks, his fingers slowing but not stopping as he helped you ride it out.
"Good girl," he whispered, nuzzling against your temple. "That’s my girl."
Before you could fully come down, he was shifting, gripping your hips, lining himself up.
"K-Koutaro—"
He pushed in, slow, deep, deliberate, and you nearly sobbed at the overwhelming pleasure. Your walls clenched around him, so tight, so warm, making his breath stutter against your skin.
Your fingers dug into his shoulders, your back arching as he bottomed out, his size stretching you perfectly. The sensation was too much, so intense it sent tears flooding your eyes.
Koutaro kissed them away, murmuring against your skin, "Needed this, baby. Needed you. So bad."
His thrusts were slow, deep, each roll of his hips pressing right where you needed him most. You were drowning in the feeling, in the weight of him, in the way he moved inside you like he was savoring every second.
You wanted to cry out, to let him know just how good he was making you feel, but his hand was quick to cover your mouth again, muffling your desperate whimpers.
"Shhh, baby," he whispered, voice strained, nearly breaking from how good you felt around him. "Can’t have Hina hearing, right? Just be good for me, just take it—"
And you did. You took all of him, his slow, aching thrusts sending you spiraling, pulling you under, dragging out every bit of pleasure until you couldn’t hold it anymore.
"Koutaro—oh god—"
"I got you," he whispered, gripping your waist tighter, his hips stuttering as he felt you clamp down around him. "Come with me, baby. Let go."
The second your body tensed, walls pulsing around him, he followed, groaning as he spilled deep inside you, burying his face against your neck as he let go completely.
For a long moment, neither of you moved.
Just the sound of ragged breathing, the quiet hum of the house, the lingering warmth of each other.
Then—
A soft shuffling noise. A tiny, sleepy voice.
"Mama? Daddy?"
Your entire body locked up, heart stopping, breath catching in your throat.
Koutaro went completely still, eyes widening in horror.
Another rustling noise. "Mamaaa… where’d you go?"
You whipped your head around, eyes darting to the hallway, panic surging through you. Koutaro’s mind raced, searching for an escape, an excuse, anything.
Then—quick as lightning—he peeked his head up over the couch, calling out in the most casual voice he could muster—
"Just helping Mommy look for something, sweetheart! We’ll be back in bed soon!"
Your face burned.
Hina yawned, rubbing her sleepy little eyes, looking far too tired to question anything. "Okay… hurry up, ‘kay?"
"We will, baby," you managed to choke out. "Go back to bed, we’ll be right there."
She sniffled, nodded, and padded back down the hall.
The second she was gone, you collapsed against Koutaro’s chest, smacking his shoulder. "You absolute menace."
He groaned dramatically, throwing an arm over his eyes. "I can’t live like this."
You chuckled, running your fingers through his hair. "That’s why I asked my parents to take her for the weekend."
Koutaro froze.
Then, slowly, he lifted his head, staring at you like you’d just given him the greatest gift of his life.
Without another word, he nuzzled into you, wrapping you up in his arms like he never wanted to let go. "I love you so much."
You smiled, cuddling into his warmth, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. "I love you too."
The rain comes down in steady sheets, tapping against the windows in a soothing rhythm. The streets outside glisten under the glow of streetlights, the occasional car passing by leaving behind a faint hum of noise. It’s the perfect kind of evening—the kind meant for staying in, wrapped up in warmth, with nowhere to be and nothing urgent pressing on your mind.
Daichi is already settled on the couch, a soft throw blanket draped over his legs, the remote lazily balanced on his stomach. The TV is on, playing some crime drama, but his attention isn’t fully on it. Instead, he glances over at you, a slow, easy smile tugging at his lips as you walk into the living room carrying two mugs of tea.
“You’re the best,” he says as you hand him one, fingers brushing against yours in the exchange. His hands are warm, even against the ceramic.
“I know,” you reply, sinking onto the couch beside him. The heat from the tea seeps into your fingers as you take a slow sip, savoring the way the warmth spreads down your throat.
Daichi shifts, draping an arm over your shoulders and pulling you close, his body solid and reassuring against yours. You relax into him easily, letting your head rest against his shoulder. His thumb moves absentmindedly over your arm, slow and steady, and you exhale, feeling the tension of the day melt away.
On the screen, the detective is interrogating a suspect, voice low and serious. Daichi lets out a quiet scoff. “That’s not how real interrogations work.”
You smile against his shoulder. “Oh? Care to enlighten me, Officer Sawamura?”
He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “It’s just unrealistic. No one confesses that easily. And look at how he’s holding that report—like he’s never actually read one in his life.”
You chuckle, shifting so you can look up at him. “You say this every time we watch crime shows.”
“Because it’s true every time,” he argues, but his voice is light, teasing. “It’s a shame, really. They should just hire me as a consultant.”
“Oh yeah, I’m sure the Tokyo police force would love for you to moonlight as a TV consultant.”
He grins, taking a sip of his tea. “I’d be good at it.”
“You’d be insufferable.”
“And yet, you’d still watch with me.”
“You’re lucky I love you,” you say, laughing softly.
Daichi shakes his head, eyes narrowing at the screen as the detective makes a sweeping accusation that somehow miraculously leads to a confession. He scoffs, growing more animated now. “That’s not even how questioning works. There’s a whole process! There’s procedure, and paperwork, and—why does this guy always get away with breaking protocol?”
You watch him, amused, as he continues to rant, his brows furrowed, hands gesturing as he lists every inaccuracy he can spot. His passion is endearing—adorable, even. And before he can go on any further, you reach up, cupping his jaw and pressing your lips to his mid-sentence.
Daichi stills for a moment, surprised, before he leans into the kiss, his earlier frustration forgotten. When you pull back, his brown eyes flicker with something softer, more intrigued, but you don’t stop there. You press another kiss to the sharp line of his jaw, then lower, trailing down the side of his neck.
His breath hitches slightly, but he doesn’t say anything. He just watches you, waiting.
You smile against his skin before slowly pulling away. Rising from the couch, you peel off your shirt, letting it drop to the floor as you make your way toward the bedroom. Just before disappearing through the doorway, you glance back at him.
“Still pissed at the show?” you ask, voice teasing.
Daichi exhales sharply, setting his mug down without even looking. “You’re good.”
You giggle, knowing full well he’s already getting up to follow you.
Atsumu had absolutely no qualms with his life at the moment. In fear of jinxing it, he could say it was damn near perfect. He had accomplished his professional dream, being on Japan's Olympic Volleyball team, alongside teammates who have known and played with almost half his life. The people he considered to be the highest of the high. To make things better, he had you by his side, the greatest gift he's ever gotten (He'd tell you but you'd laugh at him for being too cheesy). You two had quite the blissful marriage, and with finding out a few weeks ago that you were pregnant with twins, he couldn't be happier with you.
Atsumu had been checking his hair out in the bathroom, prepping it for a luncheon he, and subsequently you, were invited to by the Japan Volleyball Association.
"Fuck!"
Atsumu hears you shriek out of frustration from the other room. He jumps almost immediately, rushing in to see what was causing you alarm. Whipping around the door frame, arms up to defend his wife, his adrenaline dissipates as he finds you in front of your vanity mirror struggling to zip up what was your favourite dress, but has recently become your most hated. Your bump stretched the dress, making it hard for the ends to come around let alone the zipper. Your face is red with effort, and with a lot of emotion swirling in your eyes. "Hey, hey, you okay?" He calls out your name softly, which usually made you calmer, but in this mood, your temper only flared. So of course, you begin to cry. "No, I'm not okay! I wanted to wear this dress and it doesn't fit! Nothing fits me, and I've gotten fat!" You break, spilling your guts as well as your tears, letting the tension break away from you. Immediately, Astumu is at your side, hugging you and allowing you to bury your face in his chest. He rubs your back in a soothing motion, trying to get you to calm down. "Babe, who on earth said you're fat? You're pregnant." He gave you a squeeze, talking gently in your ear, but you shook your head. "But I got so big so fast!" You were whining now, and while Atsumu knew you were genuinely upset, he couldn't help but smile. Still, he gave you a reassuring kiss on your head. "Well yeah, there's two of em' in there." His hands went from your back to your swollen stomach, "They need room to grow." And you groan, being dramatic. "But what if at the party they think I'm fat?" You ramble, clutching Atsumu's steamed shirt. Your husband stutters, trying to think of the right answer. "I'll... Make sure to let everyone know we're pregnant?" "What?! I don't want people to know we're doing it!" Atsumu gives you a look of pure confusion. Atsumu blinked at you, his lips slightly parted in disbelief. "Sweetheart," he said slowly, as if choosing his words carefully, "you do know that's how babies happen, right? I mean, it ain't exactly a secret how we got here."
You groaned, your cheeks heating up. "I know that! But still, I don’t want them thinking about it. It's embarrassing!"
He couldn't help it—he laughed. A real, loud, genuine laugh that shook his shoulders and made his head tilt back. His amusement was contagious, and despite your earlier frustration, you felt your lips twitch into a reluctant smile.
"You’re somethin’ else, you know that?" Atsumu said, grinning as he wiped the corner of his eye. He leaned down and kissed the top of your head again, his hands gently squeezing your waist. "But if you don’t want people thinking about it, fine. I won’t say a word. But listen here—if anyone tries to say somethin' stupid about you tonight, I’ll let 'em know exactly how proud I am of you. No one messes with my wife."
You sniffled, swiping at your cheeks with the back of your hand. "You promise?"
"Cross my heart, darlin’." He tilted your chin up with his thumb, meeting your watery gaze. "And for the record, you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Don’t you dare let that dress or anyone at that party tell you otherwise. Got it?"
"But what if—"
"No 'what ifs.'" Atsumu cut you off gently but firmly, resting his forehead against yours. "You’re not just my wife; you’re also the woman growin’ two babies, and if that ain’t somethin’ amazing, I dunno what is. So wear somethin’ that makes you feel comfy, and we’ll go in there and show everyone how perfect ya are—bump, dress, and all."
You sighed, leaning into him. "You always know what to say, don’t you?"
He smirked. "Nah, sometimes I wing it and hope for the best. But I’m glad this worked."
You couldn’t help but laugh at that, the tension finally easing from your body. Atsumu, satisfied with your soft giggle, gave you another quick kiss before pulling back and gently guiding you to sit down on the bed.
"Stay put. I’ll pick you somethin’ else," he said, already heading to the closet.
"Wait, you’re picking my outfit?" You raised an eyebrow at him, skeptical.
He shot you a playful look over his shoulder. "Trust me, babe. I got this."
You weren’t entirely sure you did trust him, but the way he moved so determinedly between your closet and the mirror made you feel a little lighter. Besides, how could you not feel cared for when your husband was doing everything in his power to make sure you felt confident and loved?
Minutes later, Atsumu returned holding a simple but elegant dress you hadn’t worn in years. It was loose enough to accommodate your bump but still flattering in all the right ways. "Try this," he said, holding it up proudly.
You stood and slipped it on, and to your surprise, it fit perfectly. When you turned to face the mirror, Atsumu’s reflection was beaming behind you, his arms wrapping around your waist.
"See? Told ya I got good taste," he said, resting his chin on your shoulder.
"Yeah, yeah," you mumbled, feeling your cheeks heat up again. "Thanks, 'Tsumu."
"Anytime," he murmured, his voice soft and full of love.
As you both got ready to leave for the luncheon, Atsumu leaned in one last time, his hand resting protectively over your belly. "Y’know," he whispered, "they’re real lucky to have you as their mom."
You smiled, your earlier worries completely forgotten. "And they’re lucky to have you as their dad."
With that, you headed out together, feeling lighter than you had all day.
It was the dead of night. Your shared bedroom bathed in the night, light speckling from the nightlife in Tokyo. It was perfectly peaceful, and ever since you had found out you were pregnant with Hajime's child, was the perfect condition for you to have a restful sleep. The temperature exactly how you wanted it, the right amount of blanket, and of course, your sleeping husband's chest to rest your head. And yet, you lay wide awake.
You sigh, turning the other way, hoping it would magically put you to sleep. It didn't. All you could focus on was your stomach eating itself in hunger. You hadn't expected your appetite to increase this much so fast, but instead of eating for two you, it was more like a small villiage. You curse yourself, giving into temptation of the beast in your stomach and move to get up. "Hm? Where are you going?" Your husband's voice is rough with sleep as he squints at you. You look at him somewhat sheepily before whispering back, "I'm just getting something to eat, go back to sleep" With a kiss to his forehead. You, thinking that would be all, are shocked when you still feel his hand pulling you back. "Hold on." He grunts as he also moves to get out of bed. You're quick to stop him, "Oh, no you don't have to-"
"Can I not feed my wife and kid?" He asks gently in your ear, giving you a kiss on the side of the head before taking you to the kitchen, heart fluttering in your chest so hard you could feel it.