#Huziee pregnancy period
Those memes, edits, and fics have officially paralyzed my brain at this point… so yeah, enjoy this absolute masterpiece.
The house was silent, save for the rhythmic clack-clack-clack of Hamza’s laptop keys. He was deep into a tactical spreadsheet, the kind of work that required a cold head and a steady hand.
Then came the sound. A heavy, wet thud, followed by a groan that sounded like a dying walrus.
Hamza didn’t even look up. "Uzair, if you dropped the jar of pickles again, I am not cleaning it up until I finish this budget."
"It wasn't the pickles, Hamze," Uzair’s voice floated from the kitchen, thick with tragedy. "It was my soul. My soul just hit the floor because this child , your child is currently using my bladder as a trampoline."
Hamza sighed, a small smile tugging at his lips. He closed his laptop and turned around. Uzair was leaned against the kitchen island, his shirt stretched precariously over a bump that had seemingly doubled in size over the last week. He was holding a bowl of chilled watermelon slices in one hand and a bottle of hot sauce in the other.
"Come here, you drama queen," Hamza said, gesturing to the sofa.
Uzair waddled over there was no other word for it and collapsed onto the cushions, nearly taking Hamza’s legs out in the process. He exhaled a breath that smelled suspiciously of vinegar. "I’m done, Hamza. I’m retiring. I’ve decided I’m not doing the second half of this pregnancy."
"That’s not really how biology works, jaan," Hamza murmured, reaching out to rub Uzair’s lower back.
Uzair leaned into the touch, purring for a second before his eyes suddenly snapped wide. He froze. A look of intense, cosmic realization washed over his face.
"Hamza."
"Yes?"
"We need to talk about the logistics. The post-launch strategy."
Hamza frowned. "The birth? We have a plan. The hospital is five minutes away, the bag is packed—"
"No, no," Uzair waved a hand dismissively. "Not the exit strategy. The maintenance. The refueling."
Hamza blinked. "The feeding? We bought the best formula money can buy, Uzair. Top-tier. Organic. Probably tastes like liquid gold."
Uzair sat up straight, his face dead serious. "No. I’ve been reading. The forums say 'breast is best.' Natural. Bonding. All that stuff."
Hamza nodded slowly. "Okay? If that’s what you want to try, we can talk to the doctor about the hormonal supplements for—"
Uzair sat up, his eyes narrowing as he performed a slow, predatory scan of Hamza’s upper body. Hamza, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, instinctively pulled his t-shirt tighter. It was a futile move, the cotton was already straining against the results of a dedicated five-day split.
"Hamze," Uzair whispered, his voice vibrating with a newfound, terrifying conviction. "I’ve been looking at the topography."
"The topography of what, Uzair? The nursery? The kitchen?"
"The topography of you." Uzair reached out, poking a firm, well-defined pectoral muscle. "Look at this. This isn't just muscle, Hamza. This is volume. This is surface area. This is a physiological head start."
Hamza looked down at his chest, then back at his husband. "It’s a chest press, Uzair. It’s 120kg for reps. It is fiber and tension, not... storage."
"That’s where you’re wrong!" Uzair grabbed a handful of Hamza’s shirt, pulling him closer until their noses almost touched. "Most men? Flat. Like a desert. Nothing but ribs and disappointment. But you? You’ve got... contour. You’ve got the infrastructure already built! It’s like you’ve been preparing for this your whole life without even knowing it."
Hamza let out a bark of laughter, half-amused and half-horrified. "So, because I don't have a flat chest, I’m suddenly the designated wet nurse? That is the most 'Uzair' logic I have ever heard."
"It’s basic physics, Hamze! You have the capacity!" Uzair gestured wildly to the air between them. "I’m like a tiny, overworked studio apartment. I’m cramped. I’m leaking. I’m structurally compromised. But you? You’re a goddamn mansion! You have the square footage! Why should all that... robustness... go to waste on just looking good in a Zara polo?"
"Because that’s what it’s for!" Hamza protested, though he was shaking with silent laughter. "It’s for aesthetics! It’s for the.... posters! It’s not for—"
"It’s for the future of our dynasty!" Uzair interrupted, leaning back with a smug, triumphant grin. "Admit it. You’re built for utility. You’re a Swiss Army Husband. And right now, I need the 'Nurturing Provider' attachment to click into place."
He patted Hamza’s chest firmly, like a car salesman closing a deal on a sturdy SUV.
"Don't worry," Uzair added, leaning back into his cushions with a sigh of relief. "I’ll buy you the high-grade cocoa butter. We need to keep those 'assets' supple. We can't have the baby dealing with friction issues."
Hamza just stared at him, wondering at what point his life had transitioned from a high-stakes action thriller into a domestic comedy about his own pectoral development.
"I'm going to the gym," Hamza muttered, standing up.
"Don't do too much cardio!" Uzair shouted after him. "We need to maintain the mass! Think of the yields, Hamze! Think of the yields!"
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