#aran x reader

kita shinsuke

you slip the letter into his hand after practice, bow so quickly it looks like you’re glitching, and sprint out of the gym. you think he’ll just read it quietly at home. wrong. kita is already folding the paper back into his pocket like it’s a family heirloom and power-walking after you with terrifying calm.

“you don’t run from me,” he says once he catches you outside the gate, voice steady but his ears are bright red. he doesn’t pant. doesn’t sweat. he’s just there, holding your wrist so gently it feels commanding. when you stammer out an apology, kita leans in and presses a chaste but grounding kiss to your lips, eyes unblinking. “if you’ve decided to be mine, don’t take it back. i won’t allow it.” then he hugs you, warm, strong, utterly unshakable. you’re stuck. #thedream

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

ojiro aran

your letter is in his shoe locker, and when he reads it, his face goes bright red. he freezes for a good thirty seconds, then suddenly dashes out of the building yelling your name. you’re already halfway down the street but you hear heavy footsteps slamming behind you—aran chasing at full speed. when he finally corners you, his hands are on his knees, breathless, grinning like he just won the lottery.

“you—you really mean this?” he wheezes, eyes glassy. when you nod, he pulls you into a rib-crushing bear hug that lifts you straight off the ground. then, without even thinking, he kisses your forehead so hard you swear he left a dent. “i’ll never let you regret this. never.”

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

suna rintarō

he’s lounging against the wall when you hand him the folded note, smirk lazy as ever. “oh? for me?” you run before he can unfold it. suna blinks once. then he’s sprinting like his life depends on it, grin stretched wide. you don’t even realize he’s behind you until his long arms snake around your waist and you nearly fall forward.

“you think you can just drop this on me and escape?” he purrs into your ear, holding you flush against him. his heartbeat is wild, betraying his calm face. when you wriggle, suna dips his head and gives you a slow, smug kiss on the corner of your mouth before shifting to your lips—lazy but dangerous, like he’s branding you. “you’re mine now. don’t ever run again, doll.”

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

miya atsumu

you shove the letter into his chest and bolt like you’re in the olympics. atsumu stares down at it, reads the first line, and immediately short-circuits. “SHE LOVES M—?!” he shrieks, face exploding red. the entire team hears him. he sprints after you, tripping twice, yelling your name like it’s the only word in his vocabulary. when he finally tackles you into the grass, he’s shaking so hard he can’t even breathe.

he stares at you like you’re the sun, then blurts, “lemme kiss ya—please lemme kiss ya—i’ll die if ya don’t—” before smashing his lips to yours in the sloppiest, most desperate kiss of your life. afterwards, he collapses onto you, sobbing, “yer stuck with me forever now, angel.”

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

miya osamu

you slip him the note during lunch and run. osamu doesn’t chase at first. he just sits there, staring at the words like they’re written in gold. then he stands up, walks after you in calm, deliberate steps, catching up easily. “ya really thought i’d let ya go after this?” he murmurs when he corners you, trapping you against the wall. his eyes are dark, softer than atsumu’s frantic glow, but scarier in how sure he is.

he cups your face in both hands and leans in for a slow, hungry kiss that makes your knees buckle. “ya belong to me now. not him, not anyone else. me.” then he hugs you so tightly you squeak, whispering into your hair, “don’t ever run away again, sweetheart. i’ll always follow.”

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

michinari akagi

you leave the note in his hands during water break, then bolt. akagi panics—actually freezes—then screams, “WAIT—” and sprints like a man possessed. when he catches up, he nearly falls on his face, arms flailing, but manages to grab your hand with a grip so desperate it trembles.

“i-i thought you’d never like me!” he cries, tearing up so hard it’s embarrassing. you mumble reassurance, and he immediately hugs you so tightly you both stumble. then, overwhelmed, he presses a quick kiss to your cheek before pulling back with a bloody nose from his own adrenaline. “i’ll work harder! i’ll make you proud!” he’s crying, snotty, clinging. hopeless.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

ginjima hitoshi

you slide the letter into his practice bag and book it. he notices immediately, rips it open, and reads while running full speed after you. ginjirō has zero subtlety—he’s shouting your name across the gym, laughing like a maniac, tears streaming. when he grabs your shoulders, he actually spins you around in the air, crying, “SHE LOVES ME SHE LOVES ME SHE LOVES ME!”

his voice cracks as he smothers your face in rapid kisses—cheeks, nose, chin, lips—before finally locking on your mouth in a dizzying kiss that leaves him breathless. he drops you back down but doesn’t let go, forehead pressed to yours. “you’re never leaving me, ever. i’ll carry you if i have to.”

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

ōmimi ren

you hand him the letter shyly and dash. ōmimi, towering over everyone, stares dumbly at the paper like it’s written in a foreign language. then he just… sprints. his legs are too long. he catches you in seconds, scooping you up bridal-style with zero effort. his face is scarlet, his lips trembling, but he kisses you softly, reverently, like you’re made of glass.

“i’ll protect you forever,” he whispers, hugging you so carefully yet so tightly it’s overwhelming. then his nose starts bleeding from the sheer pressure of it all, dripping onto his jersey as he holds you closer. “you don’t understand—i can’t live without you now.”

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

kosaku yūto

the second kosaku realized the letter was a confession, he almost face-planted from shock. then, without even reading past the first line, he sprinted after you like a madman.

“YOU CAN’T JUST DROP THIS AND RUN—Y/N!!” he practically tackled you, hugging you so tight your feet left the ground. his nose started bleeding mid-hug, but he didn’t care, muttering into your hair, “don’t ever run away from me, i’ll actually kill someone.” he kissed you suddenly—messy, rushed, like he couldn’t breathe without it—and then just buried his face against you, shaking.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

riseki heisuke

riseki read two words of the letter and let out the loudest scream of his life. “I’M BEING LOVED?!!?!” before you could escape, he was already in tears, chasing you across the court like a horror movie villain.

when he caught you, he dropped to his knees, clutching your hand like you’d just saved his life. “don’t take it back, please—i’ll never recover, i swear.” he pressed a trembling kiss to your lips—quick, shaky, but so full of desperation he nearly passed out right after.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

a/n: i forgot to arrange them by number so yes thank you, i won’t be fixing it until i’m free.

© showhay — don’t copy nor translate without my permission. i do not own any of the photos that i have used. credits to all the rightful owners. (˶ˆᗜˆ˵)

he nearly rips his hair out, back flying up and off the bed when you swallow around him. the squeeze of your throat and your audible struggle is almost too much for him to take—he might actually cum so hard he puts himself right back to sleep.

in order to save himself the embarrassment and give you the princess treatment you deserve, atsumu pauses, willing himself not to be greedy. his clammy palms settle on your shoulders, and he bites back a moan upon seeing the slight bulge in your throat.

“‘kay, wait—lemme eat ya at the same time, sweetheart. get up here.”

MIYA OSAMU.

“‘m so thankful i get to wake up next to ya every day. even better when yer the one wakin’ me up, my pretty lil sexomniac.”

“call me that again and i’m leaving this room before you can finish the sentence,” you snap, voice weaker than you’d like it to be, “don’t—fuck—test me, samu.”

osamu only snickers from above you, finding your threat ridiculous in its entirety. you wouldn’t voluntarily try to leave, and it’s not like you really could either; he’s pressing his chest to your back while he rocks his hips into you, both stretching and filling your cunt deliciously. with your hips and abdomen flat against the bed, he’s able to push deeper than usual—just as ‘he’ did in your dream, and it clearly had an impact on you. you’ve been together for years, but this is the first time you’ve woken up half naked and grinding all over a surprised though pleased osamu.

“uh huh,” he drawls, and his tip presses against your cervix in a filthy sort of french kiss. “well, ‘s nothing to be ashamed of, baby. and hey, i know ya wouldn’t go that fuckin’ easy, ya hate openin’ the restaurant on weekends.”

“in my dream, work didn’t exist,” you say blandly, growing impatient with his lack of energy. yes, it’s a saturday morning, but osamu said he’d fuck you the way the dream version of him did, and this is far from it. “stop teasing me and fuck me like you mean it, samu.”

a laugh bursts out of him, but soft hands find the curves of your hips and squeeze, blunt nails digging into your skin. “when’d ya get so bossy, angel?” and before you can retort something back, he follows up with, “not that ‘m complaining, though. ya tellin’ me what to do turns me on.”

you keen loudly when osamu goes from one to a hundred, ears ringing with the sharp smacks of skin against skin. heat surges through his body when he buries himself to the hilt inside you, groaning at the tight, all-encompassing squeeze of your cunt around him—you always take him so well, making enough noise to completely shut out the nagging of responsibilities in the back of his head.

it’s a saturday morning, and osamu is enjoying it to the fullest with you. his grip on your body tightens, palms growing damp against your skin.

“swear ya were fuckin’ made for it, angel,” a groan surges out of his chest, shaking his entire torso under its pressure, “i jus’ can’t get enough of ya, yer always drivin’ me crazy.”

he’s folded over you, burning face pressed into the crease of your neck while he babbles endlessly. everything he’s saying makes your stomach twist with arousal, but what makes it feel even better is the fact that all of it is true—the fit of your bodies couldn’t allude to anything else, and you do drive him a little insane every day.

“keep that pace ‘n you’ll make me cum, samu,” you pant, clawing your fingers into his hair, “mmmh, oh my god—g-gonna cum all over you—!”

osamu nods into your neck, rambling more nonsense that eventually fizzles into muffled gasps of affectionate petnames and such. you fall off the edge and straight into liquid euphoria soon after, gushing all over his cock with a pitched whine. and goddamn, he’s so lucky to cum deep inside you at the same time, gushing against your cervix while your walls milk him for everything he’s got. as he rides out the high, weakly bucking his hips into your ass, osamu holds you closely.

an irritating, grating sound (his ringtone that atsumu set for him) splits the pleasant come down in half and he groans, half collapsing on top of you. “have the manager open today,” you purr, more convincing than you should be, “i don’t wanna leave the bed just yet.” then, more quietly afterward, “also, my legs are numb.”

ARAN OJIRO.

“this good, baby?” aran murmurs into your neck, voice thick with sleep as a warm palm smooths over your abdomen, “feelin’ me here?”

absolutely, you are. he’s big, and not completely aware of just how much he’s stretching you out—it’s a tight fit, but you can take it. shuddering with heated bliss, you groan and press back against his chest, “how could i not?”

aran only laughs, easily holding up your leg while his hips slide slow against your ass. “yer cute, always complimentin’ me so much.”

stripes of sunlight scatter over the bed, split by the blinds and illuminating small specks of dust in the air. this is supposed to be a lazy morning, but it only is for one of you—he’s in no rush, opting to draw this out as long as he can before finally making a mess of you. his movements are slow and languid, endlessly aggravating.

as if he can hear your complaining, aran allows his fingers to coast down your belly and toward your aching clit. you cry out with relief, clawing at the sheets when he finally touches you, unceremoniously pressing the pad of his thumb into your clit. it’s only a light bit of pressure, but damn—sparks of heat burst along your spine and shoot straight to your pelvis.

your voice cracks over the words, hips chasing his touch. “ooh, r-right there.”

“right thereee?” he parrots, in a voice that makes your pussy throb with sheer need. warmth races to your cheeks and sizzles in your stomach, right where his hand had been—it’s not quite the same sensation, but your hand settles there. a gasp tears out of your throat when you actually feel him, his cock leaving an aran-shaped impression inside you.

“oh, oh my god,” your lower lip quavers, an audible tremble pushing through your words, “you’re jus’ so fucking deep, i can’t—”

“heh, and to think ya thought we just couldn’t go slow,” as each word leaves him, his thumb moves over your clit a little faster. “i’ll make ya cum hard just like this. whaddaya think, baby?”

“i want to,” breathless and teary, you nod frantically, feeling your toes curl as the arousal burns a crater in your stomach, “please, need you to keep going. hngh, it’s—it’s so damn good.”

aran’s voice is soft still, but a touch more suave now that he’s finally pushed past the sleepiness. strong and accentuated with veins, his forearm flexes as he pushes further between your trembling thighs. “that good, huh? good enough to make ya cry?”

a breathy yes! tumbles out of you, and aran continues, enjoying the intermittent spasming of your pussy. now that he’s completely focusing on you, there’s less movement of his hips, although he does push up every now and then to make you mewl.

“yeah, yes,” you stutter out, feeling a thin sheen of sweat starting to form on your forehead, “g-getting closer, don’t you dare stop.”

aran can both see and feel you digging the heel of your hand into that soft spot on your lower stomach. such a simple technique, and yet it amplifies every single sensation to the max—tears spring to the corners of your eyes, and he knows you definitely won’t be able to hold out much longer.

pleasure looks ethereal on you, complimenting your already pretty features and flattering you in a way that makes his heart swell. it’s all for him, all because of him—fuck, he could cum to just the thought.

so aran holds off, letting you twist and sob on his cock while your hips struggle to decide on chasing his touch or running away from it. there’s so much sensitivity that it might just send you into overstimulation before orgasm, something you haven’t experienced together yet.

“cumming, i’m gonna cum,” you squeal, voice breaking and pitching into a whine when the ecstasy washes over you. you can’t quite breathe by the time you’re coming down from your high, trembling all over and yet still thinking about when the next will come. aran presses a chaste kiss to your temple and playfully flicks a finger over your sensitive clit, because he can already grasp what you’re thinking about.

“finally ready to move past the warmup, babygirl? i hope yer not too tired, i haven’t even gotten ta properly fuck ya yet.”

KITA SHINSUKE.

shinsuke sometimes gets hungry at night, so he ends up heading into the kitchen to eat an apple or he’ll push his head between your thighs. he wouldn’t have it any other way until he woke up to your cunt hovering right over his mouth, soaked with bittersweet arousal.

“oh, shin,” you moan, hiccupping over the words, “y’always do me so good—god, yes, jus’ like that!”

his tongue strokes over you again, starting at the bottom of your slit and dragging all the way up to your clit, silky soft yet rough. shinsuke thinks you sound oh so pretty, whining and whimpering for him with your fingers twisting in his hair.

“ride it,” he groans, voice muffled. to make sure you get the memo, he pulls your hips down encouragingly. “use my tongue, sweetheart. yeah, ya got it.”

shinsuke’s proud to let you steal his air away, if it’s for something as meaningful as this—you’re so focused on making use of his tongue that you don’t even notice his hips uselessly rutting up into the air.

the air fills with obscene, wet squelches and the smell of his spit all over your inner thighs. you’re both bending forward and arching back as the impending high sears its way through your entire body in the form of countless sparks of heat. “‘s coming,” you sob, words bunching together, “i - shin, it’s gonna be messy.”

your orgasm crescendos before it finally rips through you, cunt squirting waterfalls all over him. shinsuke desperately laves his tongue against you, sucking down everything you’re giving him without a shred of hesitation—it’s just so much stimulation that it subverts the length of your high, and a delightful shriek tears out of your throat.

“shin,” you plead, lower lip wobbling as you try to twist your hips away, but to no avail. he’s got you, and he intends to finish this meal, just like he’s always been taught. “i won’t—shit, i can’t cum again just yet! if you’d wait a second—”

mercifully, he loosens his grip on your hips but still doesn’t allow you to go. he looks up, an eyebrow raised expectantly as though he doesn’t believe you. no nonsense as always, it seems.

“ya can and ya will,” he says simply, shutting you up before returning to flicking his tongue against your twitching pussy. now that you’re more lucid than before, you’re able to pick up on the noisy creaking coming from beneath you. it’s when you swivel your head around that you actually notice the dampening spot on the front of his boxers—white cum seeping through the fabric.

shinsuke kind of notices you looking and feels his cheeks grow a degree warmer. it’s nothing to be embarrassed of, he knows, but still.. maybe he can help ease the process of forgetting along with another orgasm or two.

he clears his throat, letting the tip of his tongue circle your clit. “eyes on me, c’mon. we ain’t done just yet.”

SUNA RINTAROU.

“rin,” you whisper-hiss, voice scratchy with sleep and tight with unmistakable desperation. “open your eyes.”

‘is there a fire?’ is the first thing he thinks, until he blinks the sleep out of his cloudy eyes and sees the genuine distress on your face, feels you sitting directly on top of his hard cock. the need for friction is intoxicating, especially with such thin layers of fabric between your bodies, and—wait. rintarou can actually feel himself leaking precum through his boxers, and there’s a damp spot forming right where you’re sitting on him.

“aw, baby,” rintarou says dryly, palm lazily skimming over your bare thigh, “thought you had enough earlier. what happened?”

“well,” you begin hastily, fingers slipping under his waistband to tug the clothing away inch by inch, “i was really hot, so i woke up, and i was still soaked from earlier. also, you were humping my ass.”

if rintarou wasn’t as tired as he is from having fucked you in more than three different positions, he’d playfully push you off him for making him sound like a dog with a stuffed animal. instead, he settles on wrinkling his nose emphatically, hand dropping back to the mattress.

“okay. just for that, i’m not helping you out over here.”

you deflate, having just lifted his boxers almost off of his thighs. him and his damn attitude, always acting up in your moments of need. rintarou mentally takes a photo of your disappointed face and saves it into his long term memory, thoroughly pleased with himself.

“nooo,” you whine, debauched, and his dick starts to get harder. “what if i ride you?”

because he’s too petty for his own good, rintarou mimics your tone with a smirk on his face. “yesss. you can try, but it’s not like you can handle it.”

“uh huh,” you look down your nose at him, all while angling his cock so you can sit down on it. rintarou’s breath hitches in his throat when your pussy swallows him whole, hot and tight and so damn wet as it squeezes firmly around him. you huff out a breath, throwing him a proud look—but he notices the pinch of your brows, the minute tremble of your lower lip. “see? what was i just saying, rin?”

“right,” he says, folding his arms behind his head to sit and watch. that same snark makes its way through just the one word, and you’re determined to fuck it right out of him—so you set your hands on his chest and properly plant your feet on the bed, on either side of him.

“holy fuck, rin,” you mewl, sounding like some kind of fucking pornstar, all natural and operating off of sheer lust, “you’re hittin’—yes, right there!”

sweat blossoms between your thighs and his, allowing for more slip n slide as you slam down on him with enough force to rattle him to his core. rintarou’s never been fucked before, but this is definitely something he could get used to—his cock seems to be thinking along the same lines, having the audacity to throb with sensitivity this quickly.

your babbling continues, growing filthier and filthier the more you lose yourself in the moment. there’s something so delicious about the way you’re taking what you want from him, and the realization ignites an inferno in the pit of his chest. “s-so deep, that’s it,” he sees your pretty eyes roll back the millisecond his tip plunges into a soft, spongy spot somewhere around your cervix, “i could just—i could cum just from this.”

rintarou realizes that you’ve woken his ass all the way up, and you’re also proving him wrong, doing both at the same time. what is he supposed to say, now that you’ve got him choking on his own words? he absolutely knows his fate is sealed when a bitten moan slips out of him and you arch a brow in response.

your belly is bigger. your skin feels different. your thighs look softer, your hips wider, everything rounder.

you look down at yourself and sigh quietly.

Kita hears it from across the room.

he turns, drying his hands on a small towel, watching you with that gentle, careful attention he always gives you now. “is it pulling today?” he asks softly.

you shrug, avoiding his eyes. “just… looking gross, I guess.”

the towel in his hands stills.

slowly, he walks toward you — steady, unhurried, honey-warm. he kneels in front of you, taking the oil from your hands with a look so serious it makes your breath catch.

“don’t say that,” he murmurs.

you try to laugh it off. “I mean, it’s true. I’m huge, my skin’s all stretched—”

“stop.” his voice is quiet, but it leaves no room for argument.

you blink.

he uncaps the bottle, pours a little into his palm, and rubs his hands together to warm it. then he guides you gently to lie back against the pillows.

“Shinsuke, you don’t have to—”

“yes,” he says simply. “I do.”

his hands settle on your belly — warm, slow, reverent. he massages the oil into your skin with deliberate care, his thumbs drawing gentle circles along the curve where you’ve been stretching fastest.

you exhale, tension easing out of you under his touch.

“your body is not gross,” he says quietly. “not one part of it.”

you swallow, looking away. “I just feel… big.”

Kita lifts his gaze to your face — soft eyes, steady voice.

“you are carrying our child. you’re meant to grow.”

your throat tightens.

he continues massaging — slow, soothing motions that feel like love made physical. he leans down and presses a small kiss just below your navel.

“this,” he murmurs against your skin, “is beautiful.” another kiss, higher. “you are beautiful.” a third kiss, lingering. “and I won’t have you speak about yourself like you aren’t.”

your eyes sting.

his hands slide to your hips, thumbs stroking the new softness there. “I prayed for this,” he admits softly. “for a home in your body for our baby. for this growth. for these changes.”

you breathe in shakily.

he looks up at you with a tenderness so deep it aches. “you think I’m bothered by your body getting softer?” he shakes his head slowly. “no. I’m grateful. honored. and proud of you every day.”

you reach for him, and he immediately leans forward, resting his forehead against yours, one hand still cupping your belly.

“Shinsuke…” you whisper.

his voice drops to a quiet vow. “let me care for you. let me care for all of this. don’t hide yourself from me.”

your chest swells with a warmth you can’t hold back.

his thumb traces one more slow circle over your belly. “you’re not less,” he says. “you’re more. and you’ll never convince me otherwise.”

he returns to rubbing the oil into your skin with gentle, loving hands — and for the first time in days, you don’t feel embarrassed. you feel cherished.

Aran Ojiro

you’ve worn his jersey to every game since you started dating.

every single one — washed, oversized, smelling faintly like detergent and him. it’s your ritual, your comfort, your way of grounding yourself while he plays.

so tonight, like always, you pull it out of the drawer.

you slip it over your head—

and it gets stuck. right at your belly.

you tug. you stretch the fabric gently. you try again.

it won’t go past the curve of your bump.

your throat tightens immediately.

you try so hard not to react, but your eyes burn, your breath hiccups, and suddenly— you’re sitting on the edge of the bed, hands in your lap, jersey bunched at your chest, sobbing so hard you can’t breathe.

not little tears. not quietly.

ugly crying over a jersey.

that’s the moment Aran walks in.

“hey, sweetheart—”

he freezes.

takes in the sight: you, with his number halfway on your body, tear-stained cheeks, shoulders shaking.

he rushes over in two long strides and drops to his knees in front of you.

“hey, hey—what’s wrong? are you hurting? is the baby hurting?”

you shake your head violently. “i-it d-doesn’t—fit—anymore—”

he blinks.

“…the jersey?”

you nod harder, which only makes you cry more.

Aran’s lips twitch.

once.

twice.

he bites down gently on the inside of his cheek like he is physically restraining himself from smiling, because this is not the moment to laugh—

but god, you’re so cute.

he cups your face with both hands, thumbs brushing your soaked cheeks. “baby… you’re crying over my jersey?”

you sob harder. “I— I always wear it— it’s our th-thing—”

and that’s when the smile finally breaks through.

slow. warm. adoring.

he presses a soft kiss to your forehead. “sweetheart… you’re killing me over here.”

you sniff hard. “i wanted to support you—”

“you do support me.” his voice goes low, tender. “every day. every minute. I don’t need you in a jersey to feel it.”

you try wiping your eyes but more tears spill over, and Aran gently pulls the jersey the rest of the way off your arms, setting it aside.

“hey,” he murmurs, guiding your chin up. “you’re pregnant. your body’s changing because it’s growing our baby. that’s not something to cry over. that’s something I’m proud of.” a beat. “really proud.”

you let out a shaky breath.

he leans closer, voice going softer. “and… if it means anything…”

his eyes flick down to your belly, then back to your face, glowing with affection.

“…you look beautiful like this. I don’t mind my jersey not fitting. means our kid is growing well.”

you blush, hiccupping through the last of your tears.

he stands, grabs his team jacket from the closet — the warm one with the stretchy fabric — and hands it to you.

“wear this instead,” he says. “I’ll like it better.”

“really?” you sniff.

he helps you into it himself, smoothing it over your belly, brushing his fingers over the zipper as if he’s memorizing the sight.

“really,” he confirms, leaning in to kiss the corner of your mouth. “and next game? I’ll give you my warm-up hoodie too. hell, I’ll give you every top I own if it makes you smile.”

you let out a small, watery laugh.

and Aran beams — proud, relieved, hopelessly in love.

“there she is,” he whispers, hand cupping your jaw. “my girl.”

and when he wraps his arms around you, pulling you into his chest, you tuck yourself against him easily — jersey or not — knowing he means every word.

Ginjima Hitoshi

pregnancy does strange things to your taste buds.

not always bad — just unpredictable. sweet things suddenly taste too sweet, tart things sting your tongue, foods you loved last month make your stomach curl for no reason.

Ginjima learns this the hard way.

he walks into the living room proudly holding a bowl of fruit he just cut up for you — strawberries, pineapple, mango, the works. he’s grinning, chest puffed out a little, acting like he just presented you with a Michelin-star dish.

“look what your favorite guy made for ya,” he says, setting the bowl in your lap.

you smile, touched, and pop a strawberry into your mouth.

you barely finish chewing before your entire expression collapses.

your face twists. your nose scrunches. your eyes water.

you swallow painfully and sputter, “oh my god— that’s so— that’s WAY too sour—”

Ginjima freezes.

FREEZES.

eyes wide, posture stiff, like he just witnessed you bite into a lemon soaked in battery acid.

“WHAT? SOUR? THAT STRAWBERRY?” his voice cracks. “no, no, no, I tasted that one! it was PERFECT! I SWEAR—”

you try to reassure him, waving your hand, “no, babe, it’s just me— pregnancy taste is weird now—”

but he’s already spiraling.

“you’re telling me I FED MY PREGNANT WOMAN SOMETHING THAT HURT HER???”

you blink. “it didn’t hurt—”

“IT LOOKED LIKE IT HURT.”

before you can blink, he snatches the bowl out of your hands like it’s a live bomb.

“I GOT THIS. DON’T EVEN MOVE.”

he marches to the kitchen, muttering aggressively under his breath.

“okay, okay, we’re finding the ONE fruit she likes today— not two, not three — the ONE.”

you’re still sitting on the couch when you hear the cutting board slam down, the fridge open, and Ginjima mumbling things like:

“watermelon? good vibes. kiwi? risky… banana? safe? grapes? grapes never betray—”

you laugh into your hands.

ten minutes later, he reappears with five tiny bowls, each filled with a different fruit.

he sets them down like a science experiment.

“taste these,” he says, crossing his arms. “and don’t lie. I’ll KNOW.”

you try the first one — pineapple.

your face contorts again.

Ginjima SNAPS the bowl away like he’s shielding you from danger.

“NO MORE PINEAPPLE. SHE HATES PINEAPPLE. WRITE THAT DOWN—”

you’re giggling uncontrollably.

next: grapes.

you chew. blink. nod slowly. “actually… this one’s good.”

his entire face lights up like a stadium.

“GRAPES!! GRAPES IT IS!! WE HAVE A WINNER!!”

he pumps his fist like he just scored a point in nationals.

you wipe tears from your eyes from laughing. “babe… you really didn’t have to do all this.”

he sits beside you, pulls you into his side, and kisses your temple.

“yes,” he says simply. “I did.”

his hand drifts to your belly, thumb rubbing gentle circles.

“your tastes changed. that’s not your fault. so we change with you.”

you smile, leaning into him as he lifts a grape to your lips like he’s feeding royalty.

“see?” he says softly, pride in his voice. “told you. I got you.”

Miya Atsumu

dates with Atsumu always start the same: he walks too fast, talks too loud, and somehow manages to charm the barista without even trying.

today’s no different.

he carries your tray of drinks and pastries with one hand — single-handed, cocky, barely paying attention — while you finish paying with his credit card.

you’re distracted, trying to shove the card back into your wallet as you follow him toward a table. your belly shifts forward, your balance changes a little, and the card slips right out of your fingers.

clink.

it hits the floor.

you freeze. Atsumu turns around just in time to see you try to bend down.

once.

you get halfway down, your belly bumps your thighs, and you abort mission immediately.

twice.

same thing — another attempt, another failed reach.

you stare at the card.

then you straighten up, exhale sharply, and… walk away.

walk away.

leaving his bank card on the floor like it never meant anything to you.

Atsumu blinks, stunned for half a second, then grins so wide it lights his whole stupid handsome face.

“uh, babe?” he calls, eyes sparkling with amusement. “ya just gonna leave my card here?”

without missing a beat, without turning around, you say flatly, “cancel it.”

he SNORTS.

full laugh, chest shaking, head thrown back. the barista looks over. someone at a nearby table giggles.

Atsumu bends down easily — one quick swoop, like the ground is his best friend — and plucks the card off the floor.

by the time he catches up to you, you’re already sitting at the table, arms crossed, pretending like none of this ever happened.

he sets the tray down, leans over you, and kisses the top of your head with a grin you can feel.

“yer so damn stubborn,” he murmurs against your hair, voice low and warm, “you’d rather someone steal my identity than ask me to pick up a card.”

you nudge him with your shoulder. “your identity can't be stolen if you cancel it.”

he sits beside you, still amused as hell, still shaking his head. “could’ve just said, ‘Tsumu, can ya grab that?’”

you glare. “I tried twice"

“yeah,” he says, putting an arm around you and tugging you into his side, “and then ya rage-quit in public.”

you hide your face in his shoulder. “shut up.”

he kisses your temple, soft enough to make your stomach flutter. “nah. not when yer this cute.”

your cheeks heat, but he doesn’t stop — he squeezes your hip gently, voice dipping into affection.

“listen, sweetheart,” he says, “if ya drop anything — anything — I’m pickin’ it up. ya don’t gotta pretend bein’ pregnant ain’t changing stuff.”

you mumble, “I don’t wanna be annoying.”

Atsumu snorts. “babe, ya married me. annoyance is part of our deal.”

you shove him weakly.

he chuckles, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. “lemme take care of ya, okay? even the dumb stuff. especially the dumb stuff.”

you finally nod, sinking into his side.

he grins, satisfied, presses one more kiss to your temple—

then holds up the card dramatically.

“anyway, good thing ya didn’t actually cancel it. this thing pays for all our snacks.”

“give me that.”

“nope. ya drop it again, yer grounded.”

you laugh, burying your face into his shoulder — and Atsumu wraps an arm around you like he was made for it.

you both settle in, sipping your drinks, letting the earlier chaos fade into warm, easy quiet.

after a few minutes, he stands to grab napkins, and you stretch your legs, rubbing your belly absentmindedly.

that’s when an older couple passing by slows, giving you a kind, curious smile.

the woman beams at you. “oh honey, you look wonderful. how far along are you?”

you smile politely. “five months.”

her eyes go HUGE. her husband’s eyebrows shoot up. she places a hand over her heart.

“five months? my goodness, dear… you’re carrying a lot!”

before you can reply, you hear a chair scrape.

Atsumu whips around so fast he nearly knocks his coffee over, that shit-eating grin already stretching across his face.

he saunters back toward your table with all the swagger of a man who’s been WAITING to tell someone this.

“that’s ’cause—” he points a thumb proudly at you, then your belly, then himself— “it’s twins.”

the old woman gasps. “TWINS?”

Atsumu nods like he just hit match point in a championship game.

“yep. identical girls. little monsters already.”

you smack his arm lightly. “stop calling them monsters.”

he grins wider. “they are monsters. they kick ya every night and ya still love ’em.”

the elderly couple coos, congratulates you both, and walks off with big smiles.

once they’re out of earshot, you raise an eyebrow. “you really had to announce it like that?”

he plops down beside you, draping an arm around your shoulders.

“babe,” he says proudly, “I’m havin’ two daughters. I’m legally required to brag.”

you roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away.

he leans down, kisses your cheek, then whispers with playful smugness:

“plus… yer belly lookin’ all big ’n round with our twins? makes me feel like the luckiest man alive.”

your face heats immediately.

Atsumu smirks, satisfied.

“see? told ya. cutest stubborn woman I know.”

Miya Osamu

Onigiri Miya smells like heaven to everyone who walks in.

except you.

ever since you got pregnant, the warm scent of simmering broth, grilled fish, even the sizzle of rice vinegar in the pan turns your stomach inside out. you love the shop. you love working beside him. you love watching him cook.

but lately?

the moment he opens a new pack of bonito flakes, the smell hits you like a truck.

your throat closes. your eyes water. you slap a hand over your mouth and bolt for the bathroom.

Osamu’s head snaps up instantly.

“baby?” he turns off the stove so fast the flame chokes.

he doesn’t run — he strides. purposeful. controlled. but fast.

when he finds you kneeling beside the toilet, miserable, pale, and shaking, his whole face falls.

“aw, sweetheart…” he kneels behind you, gathering your hair in one hand, rubbing your back with the other.

this isn’t the first time. won’t be the last.

but every time, the guilt in his eyes gets deeper.

when you finally sit back on your heels, he wipes your mouth gently with a cool towel.

“’m sorry,” you croak.

his jaw tenses. “don’t apologize for somethin’ ya can’t control.”

“but it’s your food—”

“it’s food,” he corrects softly, cupping your cheek. “and if it’s makin’ ya sick, then we change it. end of story.”

you close your eyes, breath shaking. “Samu… how are we gonna run the shop like this?”

he presses a kiss to your forehead — slow, tender, grounding.

“same way we always do. together.” then, quieter: “just gotta switch things around a little.”

and Osamu Miya does NOT play around.

he spends the rest of the afternoon reorganizing the entire kitchen, silently determined:

• moves all the meats to the back fridge • puts an air purifier by your workstation • opens windows • swaps grilling for boiling • tests ingredients at the farthest end of the shop • washes his hands three extra times • switches to foods with milder scents • orders masks and extra ventilation fans within minutes • tells employees they’re taking more of the cooking shifts for a while

and at home?

it’s worse.

he’s trying so, so, SO hard.

for dinner he sets a plate in front of you — steamed rice with plain cucumber and sesame. safe. mild. gentle.

you take one sniff.

your stomach flips violently.

Osamu watches your face crumble and immediately takes the plate back.

“okay. not that.”

you feel awful. “Samu—”

“nope.” he places the plate aside, already brainstorming. “we’ll try somethin’ else.”

“this is the third attempt tonight,” you whisper.

“then we’ll make a fourth,” he says, simple as breathing.

another ten minutes, another dish. just clear broth this time — mild miso.

you take a spoonful.

your lips wobble. you put it down. your eyes fill.

Osamu freezes.

“is it bad?”

you shake your head violently — and burst into tears.

he’s at your side instantly. “hey, hey, baby, what’s wrong?”

“I feel useless,” you cry. “I can’t eat anything you make, I can’t work the shop, I can’t— I’m ruining everything you love.”

and Osamu’s face shifts.

softens.

breaks.

he pulls you straight into his chest, one hand stroking your hair, the other spanning your back, his voice low and sure.

“listen t’me.” he tilts your chin, brushing away tears with calloused thumbs. “you are growin’ our baby. that’s the most important job in this house.”

you sniff hard. “but your food—”

“it’ll still be here when the baby’s out.” his smile is small, crooked, and so full of love it aches. “and I don’t care if ya can’t stomach it for nine months. I care that yer okay.”

your breath stutters.

his voice drops even softer.

“I will make a hundred meals if one ends up workin’ for ya.” his forehead rests against yours. “ya think I’d ever be mad? sweetheart… I’d feed ya air if that’s all ya could keep down.”

you let out a watery laugh.

Osamu kisses your cheek.

“we’ll find what ya can eat. together.” his hand slides to your belly, thumb stroking gently. “and one day, when yer appetite comes back, I’ll make every dish you missed.”

you nod into his chest, letting him hold you as long as he wants.

because Osamu Miya was born to provide.

and right now?

providing means loving you through every frustration, every nausea wave, every new challenge this pregnancy throws your way.

Suna Rintarou

pregnancy exhaustion is a different beast.

one minute you’re fine — scrolling, talking, watching something with him. the next minute?

you’re out.

and that’s exactly what happens on a quiet afternoon, both of you curled up on the couch watching some show Suna pretends he isn’t invested in.

you’re leaning against him at first — head on his shoulder, legs tucked beside his. then you shift closer, pressing into his side. then closer again.

your breathing slows. your eyelids droop.

Suna glances at you from the corner of his eye.

“…you awake?”

you make a sleepy noise — somewhere between a hum and a sigh — and then slump fully against him, head on his chest, arm draped over his waist, belly resting warm and heavy across his ribs.

Suna stares at the ceiling.

“oh,” he says flatly. “she’s gone.”

he tries to reach the remote.

he can’t.

your arm, your belly, your whole body blocks his upper half like a weighted blanket he did not consent to but will absolutely die under before disturbing.

he shifts one inch.

you adjust in your sleep and press closer, your belly pinning him completely.

Suna stops moving.

slowly lowers his hand.

sighs.

“…guess I live here now.”

but he doesn’t complain again.

instead, he settles his arm around your shoulders carefully, fingertips brushing the fabric of your shirt. his other hand rests lightly on your belly, thumb tracing absentminded circles along your side.

twenty minutes go by.

then forty.

then an hour.

you’re drooling on his shirt. your mouth is slightly open. you’re breathing deep, soft, warm against him.

Suna looks down at you, eyes half-lidded, face unreadable but softened around the edges.

he whispers — barely audible:

“you’re cute when you knock out like that.”

you shift a little, nestling your face into his chest. he freezes, then relaxes immediately.

another hour passes.

when you finally wake, blinking up at him, you groan. “Rin… I’m sorry, I wasn’t that tired—”

“you were,” he says simply.

you push yourself up a little. “you could’ve moved me.”

“nah.”

“you could’ve woken me.”

“absolutely not.”

you frown. “…Why?”

he looks away, ears pink, voice lazy but honest:

“you sleep good when you’re on me.”

your face warms.

“and,” he adds quietly, tugging you back down by the waist, “I don’t mind being stuck. kind of like it, actually.”

you melt into him, and he wraps an arm around you again — like it’s his favorite place for you to be.

4 Aran Ojiro

Ever since you had started going to Inarizaki High, you've been in the basketball club. Every single year, every game, every practice. And every year, you've had the gym to yourself and your team. You've never had to share the gym with anyone.

Until your third year, when you started sharing with the men's volleyball team. They were great athletes, sure, but oh so cocky. The Miya twins kept on trying to impress the basketball team, and they were good, but they failed miserably sometimes.

Everyone did that, except for the select few. Out of which was Aran Ojiro.

He never spoke to you or anyone on the basketball team, but you started receiving little encouraging notes when you'd get back to your locker room.

"Keep up the good work."

"You looked pretty today."

"Good luck with your next game."

You had no idea who they were from, couldn't even begin guessing, actually. It was all so weird. You've never gotten secret admirer mail in your life, why start now?

The locations of the notes became more and more spontaneous. Suddenly, they were in your shoes, or in the pocket of your jacket, or in the side pocket of your backpack.

Aran would set them up and go back to his team all giddy, something he's never been. The boys shoot him weird looks and Atsumu tries to bribe him into spilling the truth, but he won't budge.

You still haven't noticed it's him, but that's okay. Aran enjoys admiring you from afar.

7 Miya Atsumu

In your second year of high school, you had started taking an extracurricular activity, participating in art class. On your way to the art studio one day, you pass by the men's volleyball team who were on their way to practice. You just passed by, went on your way.

Miya Atsumu turned his head fast enough anyone could hear his neck snap. He stops in his tracks, and Osamu stops too. The others spare him a glance, but most keep going.

"Hey, 'Samu?" His voice is small and broken, cracking on the syllables. "I think I've met my future spouse."

Osamu rolls his eyes. "What?"

Atsumu just nods. "Yup. Definitely. You see them, right there?" And then he points with no shame whatsoever. Osamu, Suna, and Aran turn their gazes towards your retreating figure, entering the art studio.

"They'll be mine some day. Mark my words."

Ever since then, you've been receiving letters every day. Messy handwriting, some words are scribbled over and rewritten, awaiting you in the art studio every day.

Unfortunately, Atsumu isn't too discreet about it. He can't be. He's too excited and too in love and too much of an idiot to successfully carry out his secret admirer mission. It just doesn't work.

You realise after catching him in the act of leaving you the letter.

10 Suna Rintarō

He has been stalking your account for a while now. Every story rewatched dozens of times, every late night spent scrolling down your Instagram posts, he even turned his profile views off on TikTok so he could properly stalk those videos of you lipsyncing or videos of you with your friends.

Oh, and all of this from his burner account.

He would die of embarrassment if you ever realised that the quiet kid in the back of the classroom who's apart of the volleyball team had a thing for you. He would just let the earth swallow him.

He responds to your stories, calls you pretty, flirts through his anonymity, confident and cool which he could never be if you knew who was behind the screen.

He was scrolling one night, like any other, when he got to an older post. Two years ago, from your middle school graduation. And the idiot liked it.

It was an accident, he swears, but he realised too late. You had been on your phone and saw the notification immediately. You found it cute, how this unknown user had a crush on you.

But god forbid the mini heart attack Suna endured when he felt his thumb double tap the picture. He immediately undid the like, making it seem like it was never there.

And yet, tomorrow he'll go back to being the quiet kid, admiring you from afar.

11 Miya Osamu

He had started working in the library over the summer to get some money, just to free himself of the shackles of his twin brother and their parents. And the library was the only place with peace and quiet where he didn't have to coddle people.

Eventually, you became a regular there. Every week, you'd come to get a new book and return the old one. You never spoke directly to Osamu, but you caught his eye.

He started leaving little notes in books he knew you would pick up.

"This is my favourite, I would definitely recommend it."

"You should stop by more often."

"Your hair was nice today."

You had realised it was definitely aimed at you, so you started responding with your own notes.

"We have similar tastes."

"Won't you tell me who you are?"

Little things. It meant the world to Osamu, who had finally found someone who could match his wits. But he was too scared of revealing himself because he knows the reputation he and his brother carry. Popular kids. And yet you were completely unknown. He didn't want to scare you off.