Work Text:
Atsumu’s voice cracked on the last word and the room went quiet except for his own harsh breathing. “You think I don’t know how scary this is for me too?” His hands pressed instinctively to his rounded stomach, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
Kiyoomi’s jaw tightened. “I’m trying to protect you. You can’t just run into the gym like nothing’s changed.”
“Nothing’s?” Atsumu snapped back, eyes burning. “I’m the one carrying this baby, Kiyoomi, not you. So don’t start acting like I’m made of glass.”
Kiyoomi took a step toward him, then froze when Atsumu flinched. The air hummed with the usual heat of their rows, but this time it was sharper, layered with hormones and fear. Atsumu’s pulse thudded at his throat, his body remembering how good it felt when Kiyoomi finally backed him into a wall and kissed him quiet.
“Stop staring,” Atsumu muttered, but his voice wavered. He was angry, yes, but he was also achingly turned on; his skin buzzed, his thighs pressed together, his cock thickening under his sweatpants because Kiyoomi being this close, this tense, did things to him it absolutely shouldn’t in the middle of an argument.
Kiyoomi noticed. Of course he did. He smelled it, the faint musk of Atsumu’s arousal cutting through the sharpness of their fight. His gaze dipped, darkening. “You’re…?”
“Don’t.” Atsumu’s breath hitched. “Don’t you dare act like you’re surprised I’m horny. You’re the one who keeps touching me whenever I’m in the kitchen.”
Kiyoomi took another step, close enough that Atsumu could feel the warmth radiating off him. “You’re the one who moans when I rub your back,” he murmured, voice dropping an octave. “You’re the one who practically climbs into my lap when I'm sitting.”
Atsumu’s face burned. “That’s different.”
“Is it?” Kiyoomi’s hand hovered over Atsumu’s stomach, palm trembling slightly. “You’re… this is making everything worse.”
Atsumu huffed, but there was no real heat left in it. “You mean it’s making you more annoyingly attentive, or that it’s making me more impossible to ignore?”
A slow, dangerous smirk tugged at Kiyoomi’s mouth. “Both.” He finally let his fingers rest on Atsumu’s belly, thumb tracing a small circle. “You’re driving me crazy. And I’m pretty sure you’re doing it on purpose.”
Atsumu shivered, his knees going weak not from the argument anymore but from the way Kiyoomi’s voice wrapped around him like a promise. “You started it,” he whispered, tipping his head back.
Kiyoomi closed the last bit of distance, lips brushing Atsumu’s ear. “Then let me finish it.”
-‐--
Atsumu didn’t pull away when Kiyoomi’s lips skimmed his ear. He leaned into it, neck arching, breath already shuddering, even though half a second ago he’d been ready to throw something at Kiyoomi’s head. The argument had burned hot, but now it was turning into something else—something coiled tight in his lower belly, something that made every brush of skin feel like a dare.
“You’re such a brat,” Kiyoomi muttered, but there was no real bite in it anymore. His fingers slid a little lower, tracing the curve of Atsumu’s spine, thumbs catching the waistband of his sweatpants. “Shouting at me over the gym, then smelling like this.”
Atsumu’s ears burned. “Like what?”
“Like you want me to shut you up another way.”
Atsumu let out a breathy sound between a laugh and a groan. “You wish.” He tried to push at Kiyoomi’s shoulder, but his hands only ended up fisting the fabric of his shirt, holding on instead of pushing away. “You can’t just—ha—you can’t just decide we’re done arguing and jump into the other thing.”
Kiyoomi’s mouth quirked. “We’re not arguing anymore.”
“We were five seconds ago!”
“Then let’s move on.”
Atsumu opened his mouth to retort, but then Kiyoomi’s hand slid higher, thumb slipping under the hem of his shirt, tracing the bare skin just above his waist. The touch sent a shiver through him that had nothing to do with anger. His cock twitched, heavy and insistent, and he swallowed a startled noise.
Kiyoomi didn’t miss it. His gaze dropped to Atsumu’s throat, watching the pulse there jump, then trailed lower, past the swell of his stomach, to the obvious bulge in his sweats. A low, rough sound escaped him. “You’re not even trying to hide it.”
“Because I’m not trying,” Atsumu shot back, defiant even as his cheeks flushed. “I’m pregnant. I’m hormonal. If your very existence makes me hard, that’s on you, not me.”
“That’s rich coming from the guy who rides my thigh in his sleep,” Kiyoomi murmured, voice dipping into that hush he only used when he was half‑distracted by wanting.
Atsumu’s throat tightened. “You’re imagining things.”
“Am I?”
Kiyoomi moved then, slowly, like he was testing the water. He cupped Atsumu’s face, thumb sweeping over his cheekbone, then down to trace the line of his jaw. Atsumu’s breath caught. They’d had this dynamic before—Atsumu loud and sharp, Kiyoomi calm and precise—but never with so much layered between them: the weight of the baby, the way Atsumu’s body had changed, the way Kiyoomi’s possessiveness had deepened into something almost protective.
Atsumu’s eyes flickered to Kiyoomi’s mouth. “You’re really just going to…?”
“Kiss you?” Kiyoomi finished for him, leaning in until their noses almost brushed. “Yes.”
Atsumu didn’t bother arguing. He surged forward, closing the last little distance, and kissed him hard, almost angry with it. It was a protest, a punishment, a demand all at once. Kiyoomi’s hand slid to the back of his neck, fingers flexing into his hair, holding him right where he wanted. The kiss turned messy quickly—Atsumu’s tongue sliding against his, teeth catching his lower lip, moans muffled between them.
“Fuck,” Atsumu breathed when they broke apart, panting. “Omi You’re such an idiot.”
“And you’re still hard,” Kiyoomi pointed out, lips quirking. One hand dropped to Atsumu’s hip, holding him in place, while the other dipped lower, fingers hooking under the waistband of his sweats. “Shall I help?”
Atsumu’s brain stuttered on the offer. A part of him wanted to snap that they weren’t doing this here, not after how that fight had started, but another part—louder, hotter—reminded him that he hadn’t been able to sit through a class without subtle friction against his desk for weeks. He was aching, and Kiyoomi was right there, all long limbs and low voice and the kind of touch that could undo him in minutes.
“Only if you stop talking,” Atsumu managed, heart pounding. “You’re… you’re really going to touch me now?”
Kiyoomi’s gaze dropped to his stomach, then back up, softened. “Only if you’re okay.”
Atsumu swallowed. He was more than okay. He was throbbing, craving, about to come out of his skin. “Fine,” he said, forcing a scowl. “But if you’re going to start something, you’re seeing it through.”
Kiyoomi’s mouth curved into something slow and dangerous. “Understood.”
He kissed Atsumu again, harder this time, backing him toward the couch. His hands were everywhere—tugging Atsumu’s shirt up, fingers mapping the soft curve of his belly, calloused palms tracing the swell of his thighs. Atsumu moaned into his mouth when Kiyoomi finally slid his hand inside his sweats, palm pressing over the heat of his cock.
“Fuck,” he gasped, hips jerking up on instinct. “You can’t just—ah—you can’t just—Omi—!”
“Just what?” Kiyoomi murmured, thumb rubbing a slow, cruel circle over the head through the fabric of his underwear. “You like this, don’t you?”
Atsumu’s toes curled. “Shut up.”
“Then tell me.”
They both knew how this went. Kiyoomi liked control, and Atsumu liked pretending he didn’t crave it. Tonight, with the pregnancy hormones making everything sharper, Atsumu’s resistance was paper‑thin. He let his head fall back against the couch, throat bared, eyes fluttering shut.
“Yes,” he hissed. “You’re—fuck—you’re trying to break me over the couch.”
Kiyoomi nipped at his jaw. “Breaking you is temporary. I’d rather ruin you.”
Atsumu let out a choked sound as Kiyoomi finally freed his cock, the sudden release of pressure drawing a shuddering moan from his throat. The air was cool on his skin, but Kiyoomi’s hand was hot, tight, knowing. His thumb circled the slit, spreading the slick already pooling there, and Atsumu jerked, hips rolling up.
“Easy,” Kiyoomi murmured, even as his grip tightened. “You’re so sensitive like this.”
Atsumu’s breath was coming in short, ragged bursts. “You’re… you’re paying attention to everything,” he accused, fingers digging into Kiyoomi’s shoulders. “You’re watching where you touch and you—ah—you’re doing it on purpose.”
“Of course I am.” Kiyoomi’s voice was low, almost reverent. He shifted so he could kneel between Atsumu’s thighs, spreading them wider, settling his weight there. “You’re carrying my baby. If you’re going to be loud, I want to hear it.”
Atsumu’s cheeks burned, but he couldn’t argue. His body was already spiraling toward the edge, his cock twitching in Kiyoomi’s hand, precome dripping down his fingers. He was close, so close, and he hated it because he wanted more—he wanted to be fucked, to be pressed against the back of the couch, Kiyoomi’s length sliding into him, his stomach pressed against Kiyoomi’s chest, his thighs spread wide around him.
“I want your cock,” he gasped, surprising himself with how blunt it came out. “Not your hand.”
Kiyoomi went still for half a heartbeat. Then his eyes darkened, pupils swallowing up the grey. “Atsumu—”
“I’m not made of glass,” Atsumu snapped, even as his voice trembled. “I’m not going to break. I’m horny and I’m carrying your baby and I want you inside me. So stop acting like you’re scared of me.”
Kiyoomi’s swallow was audible. “I’m not scared of you.”
“Then stop acting like it.”
That seemed to break something in him. Kiyoomi’s grip tightened, his hand twisting just enough to make Atsumu cry out, then he let go, leaning back just enough to shove his own sweats down his thighs. Atsumu’s breath caught at the sight of him—hard, slick‑tipped, leaking onto his stomach.
“On your side,” Kiyoomi said, voice rough. “Lower down.”
Atsumu shifted, curling onto his side, his back pressed against the back of the couch, legs bent and drawn up. Kiyoomi moved behind him, one hand sliding under his thigh to open him wider, the other guiding his cock to the right place. The first brush of his head against Atsumu’s entrance made Atsumu’s whole body jerk.
“Tell me if it hurts,” Kiyoomi murmured, breath warm against his ear. “I’ll stop.”
“Don’t you dare,” Atsumu hissed.
The first push in was slow, excruciating, perfect. Atsumu’s eyes rolled back, his teeth sinking into his lower lip to stifle a sound. He was so full, so stretched, so achingly right. Kiyoomi’s hand slid up to his stomach, fingers resting over the curve there, grounding him as he bottomed out.
“Breathe,” Kiyoomi reminded him, voice strained.
Atsumu sucked in a breath, then let it out in a shaky moan. “You’re… you’re hitting everything,” he choked.
Kiyoomi’s hips rolled, just a little, and Atsumu’s head thudded back against the couch. His fingers scrambled for purchase on the fabric, his back arching, his stomach pressing forward as Kiyoomi shifted to find the angle that made Atsumu’s toes curl.
“Like this?” Kiyoomi murmured, thrusting again, slow and deep.
Atsumu’s answer was a broken gasp. “Y‑you’re—fuck—you’re doing that thing with your hips.”
“Which thing?”
“The one that—ah—that makes me feel like I’m going to come just from you touching me.”
Kiyoomi’s laugh was low, almost pleased. “So you’re claiming you’re not going to come first?”
Atsumu’s mouth opened to protest, then snapped shut as Kiyoomi hit that spot again, a little deeper, a little harder. His cock was trapped between his stomach and the couch, rubbing against the fabric with every shallow thrust, and Atsumu was already teetering on the edge.
“Kiyoomi,” he warned, even as his voice broke. “You’re going to make me—”
“Come,” Kiyoomi finished for him, fingers tightening on his hip, his other hand sliding down to grasp Atsumu’s cock. “Let go.”
Atsumu shuddered, his thighs clenching around him, his body clamping down around Kiyoomi’s length. “I’m—I’m—”
The world tilted. He came with a hoarse cry, his back arching, his fingers curling into the couch, his stomach contracting around the weight inside him. Waves of pleasure crashed through him, each thrust dragging out another gasp, another broken sound.
Kiyoomi followed shortly after, his thrusts turning frantic, his hand still working Atsumu’s oversensitive cock with ruthless affection. He buried himself deep, growling Atsumu’s name against the back of his neck, and Atsumu shivered as he felt the warmth of Kiyoomi’s release pulse inside him.
For a long moment, they stayed like that—Atsumu curled against the couch, Kiyoomi pressed behind him, both breathing hard, their heartbeats mingling. Then Kiyoomi carefully withdrew, reaching for a discarded sweatshirt to clean them up. His hands were gentle, his touches slower now, more careful.
Atsumu shifted onto his back, his stomach rising and falling with each breath. He looked up at Kiyoomi, cheeks still flushed, eyes half‑lidded. “Next time,” he said, voice rough, “no argument first. Or if you’re going to argue, at least make it shorter.”
Kiyoomi smirked, but there was a softness in it that hadn’t been there before. “Only if you promise not to get this loud while someone else is in the next room.”
Atsumu’s answering laugh was tired, satisfied. “You started it,” he murmured. “Don’t act like you’re the innocent one.”
Kiyoomi leaned down, pressing a kiss to his stomach, his lips brushing the swell where their child grew. “I know,” he whispered, voice softer. “And I’ll spend the next nine months trying to make it up to you.”
Atsumu’s eyes drifted shut, his fingers tangling with Kiyoomi’s where they rested over his belly. “You’d better,” he mumbled. “Because I’m still horny.”
Kiyoomi’s quiet chuckle vibrated against his skin. “You’re impossible.”
“Your problem,” Atsumu said, but there was no heat in it. Just warmth, and safety, and the quiet certainty that even when they fought, they always found their way back to this.