liferuiner-chan | Back from Hiatus.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ— ୨୧₊˚ 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒏'𝒔 𝒏𝒂𝒗𝒊𝒈𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏

I DO NOT UPDATE ON SUNDAY’s

— call me Chan or Ryu i'm 18 years old and go by he, him 𝜗𝜚 mexican, so expect bad grammar lol - i like to write and read cringe / corny fanfiction.

🧇🥯 𝘥𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘰ry —　 001. Rules ! before you request. 002. Teen pregnancy series masterlist (haikyuu) 003. Masterlist ! (character x reader) 004. Masterlist ! (character x character) 005. Dark content masterlist 006. Tags 008. Recommendations (fanfics or accounts) 009. Fanfics traducidos al español (aún en proceso) 010. find out what ryu sama is up to instead of updating ur fav series unu!

characters: tsukishima | wcidk | genre. angst?? fluff !| cw/tags. fluff, teen pregnancy, slightly angst, comfort. teen pregnancy series masterlist here!

By the time you hit the final weeks, everything feels heavier.

Your body. Your thoughts. The silence at night when sleep refuses to come.

Your parents insist Tsukishima stay over.

“It’s just in case,” your mom says gently, like she hasn’t been watching you like a hawk for weeks.

Tsukishima doesn’t argue — which is how you know he’s worried too.

He shows up with an overnight bag that’s clearly been packed and repacked too many times.

“You brought… textbooks?” you ask, staring into it.

“Hospital waiting rooms are boring,” he replies flatly.

“And three hoodies?”

“In case it’s cold.”

“It’s summer.”

“In case I’m cold.”

You laugh softly and let it go.

Your room starts changing in small ways.

The crib is finally assembled, shoved awkwardly into the corner. Diapers stacked neatly. A hospital bag by the door with a sticky note your mom taped on it:

DO NOT FORGET THIS.

Tsukishima reads the note every time he passes it.

“Do you think we forgot something?” he asks for the fourth time that day.

You sigh, easing yourself onto the bed. “Kei, we’ve triple-checked.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s enough.”

At night, he barely sleeps.

You can feel it — the way he shifts, the way his breathing never fully settles.

“You don’t have to stay awake,” you murmur.

He turns onto his side, golden eyes glinting in the dark. “I do.”

“Why?”

“In case something happens.”

You reach for his hand, squeezing it gently. “You’ll wake up if it does.”

“…Probably,” he mutters, unconvinced.

One afternoon, you sit on the floor together, surrounded by baby clothes.

Tsukishima folds everything with military precision.

“These are too small,” he says.

“They’re newborn size.”

“That’s ridiculous. He was kicking like he wants out.”

You laugh. “He’s still a baby, Kei.”

He frowns at a tiny sock. “That thing won’t even fit my thumb.”

You watch him carefully place it into the drawer anyway.

The worries come out in pieces.

“What if I mess up during labor?” “What if I panic?” “What if I say the wrong thing?”

You voice them quietly, one by one.

Tsukishima listens, jaw tight.

Then it’s his turn.

“What if I freeze?” he admits one night. “What if I don’t know what to do when you need me?”

You turn to face him. “You already do.”

He scoffs softly. “That’s different.”

“You show up,” you say. “That’s enough.”

He looks at you for a long moment, then nods.

“…Okay.”

Your parents are surprisingly gentle about it all.

Your dad offers Tsukishima rides. Your mom teaches him how to install the car seat — twice.

Tsukishima listens like his life depends on it.

“It kind of does,” he mutters.

The night before your due date, the house is quiet.

You’re curled up in bed, your back aching, when Tsukishima presses a hand to your stomach.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “You almost here?”

The baby kicks — hard.

Tsukishima startles. “…Okay. Aggressive.”

You laugh softly. “He’s ready.”

He swallows.

“So am I,” he says — then corrects himself. “I think.”

You shift closer to him. “We’ll figure it out.”

His arm wraps around you instinctively.

“I know,” he says quietly. “I just… want to do this right.”

You rest your forehead against his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat.

“You already are.”

Outside, the world keeps moving — normal, unaware.

Inside that room, everything is waiting.

And for once, Tsukishima doesn’t feel like running.

He feels ready to stay.

characters: tsukishima | wc idk | genre. fluff |cw/tags. fluff, teen pregnancy. teen pregnancy series masterlist here!

You find out about the baby shower completely by accident.

“Make sure Kei doesn’t find the gift table before we set it up,” Mrs. Tsukishima says into her phone, pacing the kitchen.

You pause mid-step.

“…Gift table?” you repeat.

She freezes. Slowly, she turns around.

“Oh,” she says, eyes widening. “Well.”

Tsukishima, standing behind you with his arms crossed, squints. “What did you do?”

Two days later, you’re standing in Tsukishima’s backyard, staring at pastel streamers, balloons, and a very obvious banner that reads:

WELCOME DINO EGG

“…This feels terrible,” Tsukishima mutters beside you.

You laugh, hand resting on your stomach. “I think it’s sweet.”

He glares at the banner. “It’s loud.”

Mrs. Tsukishima claps her hands together happily. “It’s a celebration! You two deserve one.” Akiteru pops up from behind the snack table wearing a paper party hat. “DID SOMEONE SAY CELEBRATION?!”

Tsukishima groans. “I’m leaving.” “No, you’re not,” Akiteru says, slinging an arm around his shoulders. “You’re the guest of honor, Dad.” “I will actually kill you.”

The Karasuno team arrives in waves.

Hinata is first, nearly tripping over the gate. “Y/N!! CONGRATS!!” Nishinoya follows, immediately shouting, “IS IT TRUE WE’RE ALL UNOFFICIAL UNCLES?!” Tanaka brings a suspiciously large gift bag. Suga brings something neatly wrapped and practical. Daichi looks mildly overwhelmed but supportive.

Tsukishima stands stiffly beside you as everyone crowds in.

“You look like you’re attending your own funeral,” you whisper.

“I feel like I am,” he mutters back.

The games are… something.

Mrs. Tsukishima insists on one.

Akiteru reads the rules aloud. “Okay, this one’s called ‘Guess the Baby Food!’”

Tsukishima’s face drains of color. “No.”

Too late.

Tanaka takes one bite and immediately gags. “WHY DOES THIS TASTE LIKE CAKE?!”

Hinata cheers. “I LOVE THIS ONE!”

Nishinoya is crying laughing.

Tsukishima watches in horror. “This is my child’s future.”

You’re laughing so hard you have to sit down, tears in your eyes.

He watches you—really watches you—and something in his chest eases.

When it’s time for gifts, you sit together on a blanket.

You unwrap tiny socks. A soft blanket. A dinosaur-themed onesie that makes Tsukishima groan.

“why is everything dinosaur themed?” he snaps, pretending to be annoyed.

Akiteru grins. “Because it’s your kid tsukishima.”

You hold up a tiny green onesie. “He’s gonna look so cute.”

Tsukishima scoffs… but carefully folds it and sets it aside.

Later, as the sun starts to set and people spread out across the yard, things quiet down.

You’re sitting on a bench, tired but happy, when Tsukishima joins you. He hands you a cup of juice.

“Drink,” he says. “You’ve been smiling too much.”

You snort. “Is that a thing?” “Probably.” You watch the team argue over snacks while Akiteru attempts to teach Hinata how to hold a baby doll.

“I didn’t know people would… care this much,” you admit softly.

Tsukishima’s gaze follows yours. “Yeah.”

There’s a pause.

“…I’m glad my mom did this,” he says quietly. “Even if it’s embarrassing.”

You smile at him. “Thank her later.”

He grimaces. “I won’t.”

As the party winds down, Mrs. Tsukishima approaches, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder.

“You’re doing wonderfully,” she says softly. “Both of you.”

Your throat tightens. “Thank you.” She smiles warmly before walking away. Tsukishima exhales. “She’s going to cry later.”

You laugh. “You love her.” “Don’t say that out loud.”

You rest your head against his shoulder. He stiffens—then relaxes.

“…This wasn’t so bad,” he admits. You grin. “You had fun.”

“I tolerated it.”

“That’s fun for you.”

He doesn’t argue.

Instead, he places his hand over your stomach, thumb brushing absently.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “Guess you’ve already got a lot of people looking out for you.”

characters: tsukishima

It starts with little things.

Things Tsukishima normally wouldn’t even notice.

You crying because the convenience store was out of your favorite yogurt. Snapping at him for chewing too loud. Getting quiet for hours, then suddenly apologizing like you’d committed a crime.

At first, he lets it slide.

“You okay?” “Yeah.” “…You sure?” “Kei, please drop it.”

So he does.

Or at least, he tries.

By the third week, it’s wearing on him.

He brings you snacks you don’t want. He offers to walk you home and you tell him you need space. He tries to joke and you glare like he’s personally offended you.

He doesn’t understand why everything feels like a minefield.

One wrong word and suddenly you’re crying. One wrong tone and you won’t look at him.

It happens on a bad day.

Tsukishima had failed a math quiz—nothing catastrophic, but enough to put him in a mood. His legs ache from practice, his head hurts, and all he wants is quiet.

You’re sitting on the couch at his house, scrolling through your phone, clearly irritated about something.

“What’s wrong now?” he asks, sharper than he means to.

You stiffen. “Nothing.”

“That’s what you said yesterday.”

“Well, maybe it’s still nothing,” you snap.

He exhales through his nose, pushing his glasses up. “You’ve been mad all day.” “And you’ve been annoying all day,” you shoot back.

That’s when he stops. Slowly, deliberately.

“What did I do?” he asks.

You open your mouth—then close it.

Your chest tightens. “I don’t know. I just—everything feels wrong.”

“That’s not an answer,” he says, frustration creeping into his voice. “I’m not a mind reader.”

You stand abruptly. “Why do you always have to make everything logical?”

“Because someone has to,” he snaps back.

The silence stretches.

Your eyes burn. “I didn’t ask you to fix it.”

“Then what do you want from me?” he raises his voice. “Because lately it feels like no matter what I do, it’s wrong.”

Your hands shake. “I don’t know what I want!”

“Well, that’s kind of the problem,” he says before he can stop himself.

The words hang heavy.

Your face crumples.

“Oh,” you whisper. “So I’m the problem.”

He rubs his face with both hands. “That’s not what I meant.”

“That’s exactly what you meant,” you say, tears spilling over. “I’m too emotional, too much, too hard to deal with—”

“I’m just tired!” he snaps.

That makes you flinch.

“I’m tired of walking on eggshells,” he continues, voice strained. “I’m tired of apologizing when I don’t even know what I did. I’m trying, okay? But it feels like nothing is ever enough for you.”

Your breathing stutters.

“I didn’t ask to be like this,” you whisper.

He freezes.

“I don’t wake up wanting to cry over nothing,” you continue, clutching your stomach. “I don’t want to feel angry and sad and scared all at once. I can’t control it.”

His shoulders drop.

But the damage is already done.

You grab your bag. “I should go.”

“Y/N—”

“I need to be alone.”

You leave before he can stop you.

That night, Tsukishima lies awake, staring at the ceiling.

Your words replay over and over.

I didn’t ask to be like this.

He thinks about how exhausted you’ve been. How you apologize even when you shouldn’t. How you flinch like you expect him to leave.

His chest tightens.

He’d snapped.

And worse—he’d made you feel like a burden.

The next day, he finds you in your room, curled up on your bed.

You don’t look at him when he enters.

“I was an asshole,” he says flatly.

You blink, surprised.

“I shouldn’t have yelled,” he continues. “And I shouldn’t have made you feel like you’re the problem.”

You swallow hard.

“I don’t understand everything you’re going through,” he admits, voice quieter. “But that doesn’t mean it’s not real.”

Your eyes fill with tears again. “I hate feeling like this.”

“I know,” he says, sitting beside you. “And I hate that I can’t fix it.”

You laugh weakly. “You really don’t have to fix everything.”

“I know,” he mutters. “Still working on that.”

There’s a pause.

“Are you mad at me?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “No. Just… overwhelmed.”

You nod. “Me too.”

He hesitates, then gently pulls you into his chest. You melt into him instantly, like you’ve been holding yourself together all day just to fall apart now.

“I’m not done,” he murmurs into your hair. “Even when I get frustrated. Even when I screw up.”

You clutch his shirt. “I’m scared you’ll get tired of me.”

His arms tighten around you.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Me too.”

And for once, the honesty hurts—but it also makes you feel less alone.

characters: tsukishima | wc idk | genre. angst to fluff !| cw/tags. fluff, teen pregnancy, slightly angst, comfort. teen pregnancy series masterlist here!

The rumor starts small.

You hear it in passing—two girls whispering near the lockers when they think you’re out of earshot.

“…I swear, Tsukishima was walking with her yesterday.” “Yeah, the tall one. Blonde. She’s pretty, too.” “Guess things with that girl aren’t going so great anymore…”

You don’t stop walking. You don’t turn around.

But the words sink in anyway.

Her name is Aiko.

You learn that much without trying.

She’s in the second year. Glasses—not like Tsukishima’s, thinner frames. Long hair, always neatly tied. Quiet, smart. The kind of girl teachers trust. The kind of girl people assume makes sense next to someone like him.

You see her a few days later.

You’re waiting near the school gates when Tsukishima exits the building, his bag slung over one shoulder. He’s talking to someone beside him—taller than most girls, laughing softly.

Aiko.

Your chest tightens.

Tsukishima says something dry, and she laughs again, nudging his arm lightly. It’s casual. Familiar.

Too familiar.

He notices you a second later.

“Hey,” he says, walking over like nothing’s wrong. “You’ve been waiting long?”

You force a smile. “Not really.”

Your eyes drift back to her. She’s already walking away, waving once over her shoulder.

Tsukishima follows your gaze, frowning. “What?”

“Nothing,” you say quickly. “Who was that?”

He shrugs. “Aiko. She’s in my class. Needed help with physics.”

Physics.

Of course.

You nod, but the word lodges itself somewhere ugly in your chest.

It doesn’t stop there.

You see them together more often—before class, after school. Sometimes Yamaguchi is there. Sometimes not.

Tsukishima doesn’t hide it. Which almost makes it worse.

He still walks you home. Still carries your bag. Still presses snacks into your hands with a muttered “eat”. Still rests his hand on your stomach when he thinks you’re tired.

But something inside you shifts.

Because Aiko isn’t pregnant. She isn’t exhausted. She isn’t carrying the weight you are.

And suddenly, the doubts creep in.

You start pulling back without realizing it.

You stop leaning into him as much. You don’t reach for his hand first. You laugh less at his dry comments.

Tsukishima notices—but he doesn’t understand.

“Did I do something?” he asks one afternoon, blunt as ever.

You shake your head too fast. “No.”

He squints. “That wasn’t convincing.”

You look away. “I’m just tired.”

He accepts it—reluctantly—but the tension lingers.

The breaking point comes on a Wednesday.

You’re heading to the nurse’s office when you see them again. Tsukishima and Aiko standing near the stairs. She’s holding a notebook, pointing at something, and Tsukishima leans closer to read it.

Too close.

Your throat tightens. Your stomach twists—not from the baby this time.

You turn away before either of them can see you.

Later that day, Tsukishima finds you sitting alone behind the gym, arms wrapped around yourself.

“Yamaguchi said you skipped lunch,” he says. “Why?”

You don’t answer.

“Y/N.” His voice sharpens. “What’s going on?”

Something in you snaps.

“Do you like her?”

The words come out before you can stop them.

Tsukishima freezes. “What?”

“Aiko,” you say, voice shaking despite yourself. “Do you like her?”

For a moment, he just stares at you like you’ve spoken another language.

“…Are you serious?”

You laugh weakly. “Wow. That bad, huh?”

He steps closer. “Why would you even ask that?”

“Because she’s there all the time,” you blurt out. “Because she’s smart and calm and not… this.” You gesture vaguely at your body. “Because she doesn’t come with baggage and whispers and responsibility.”

His jaw tightens.

“So that’s what this is,” he says quietly.

You feel tears burn behind your eyes. “I see how people look at you. At us. And then I see her, and it just—” Your voice breaks. “I keep thinking you’d be happier if things were… easier.”

Tsukishima exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair.

“Do you know why I help her?” he asks.

You shrug, unable to look at him. “Because you want to.”

“No,” he snaps—and then stops himself. His voice lowers. “Because she reminds me of you.”

That makes you look up.

“She panics when she doesn’t understand something,” he continues. “Gets in her own head. Thinks asking for help makes her weak.” His eyes lock onto yours. “Sound familiar?”

Your chest aches.

“I don’t want ‘easy,’” he says, stepping closer. “Easy doesn’t mean anything.”

“Then why does it feel like I’m losing you?” you whisper.

His expression shifts—something wounded flickering across his face.

“You’re not,” he says immediately. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”

You sniffle. “You don’t even look at me the same anymore.”

“That’s bullshit,” he mutters. “I look at you like I’m terrified of screwing this up.”

He hesitates, then places a hand over your stomach, grounding both of you.

“I’m scared too,” he admits. “But not of you. Never of you.”

Your lips tremble. “Then why does it feel like I’m always one mistake away from being left behind?”

His hand tightens just slightly.

“Because you’re human,” he says. “And because this is hard. But don’t project that onto me.”

You laugh softly through tears. “You really suck at comforting.”

“Yeah,” he says. “But I’m not going anywhere.”

He leans down, pressing his forehead against yours.

“I chose this,” he murmurs. “I chose you. And I’m still choosing you. Every day.”

Your breath shudders.

“…I’m sorry.”

He sighs. “Yeah. Me too. For not noticing sooner.”

You stay there for a while—no grand resolution, no perfect certainty.

Just two scared teenagers, holding on.

And for now, that’s enough.

Synopsis. a teen pregnancy storie between ushijima and reader.

wc. | genre. angst |cw/tags. angst, teen pregnancy mentions, ushijima being asshole :,v etc.

teen pregnancy series masterlists here!

The news spread faster than you expected and you dont even know how or when but one person whispered, another overheard — and before long, everyone seemed to know. Not the details, not the truth, but just enough to turn heads when you walked into class.

It started small: hushed murmurs in the hallway, sympathetic glances from some girls, judgmental ones from others. Then came the questions. The fake concern. The rumors.

And worst of all, your mother found out.

She didn’t find out from you. Someone had called her—maybe a teacher, maybe a concerned neighbor. You didn’t even have time to prepare. The moment she stepped into your room, the look on her face said it all: fury, disappointment, heartbreak all at once.

“Is it true?” she asked, voice shaking.

You couldn’t meet her eyes. You just nodded.

Her anger came fast and sharp. “Do you realize what you’ve done to your life? To mine?” Every word hit harder than the last. She wasn’t wrong, but hearing it like that broke you all over again. There was no mention of Ushijima—no name, no accusation. You didn’t tell her it was his. You couldn’t. You didn’t want to see her go after him too.

So you took it all silently.

Meanwhile, over at Shiratorizawa, the boys’ volleyball team was gathered in the gym. It was a normal afternoon practice—until Semi brought it up.

He didn’t mean to stir anything. It just slipped out between stretches. “Hey, Wakatoshi,” Semi started cautiously, “I heard something about your ex… Is it true she’s, uh, you know… pregnant?”

Everyone froze. The sound of bouncing volleyballs stopped. Tendou’s head snapped toward Ushijima instantly, his expression unreadable.

Reon muttered, “Wait, they broke up, right? So… you think maybe…?”

“Oh, come on,” Goshiki blurted, wide-eyed and naïve. “She cheated on you, didn’t she? That’s messed up, dude.”

There was a heavy pause before Ushijima stood up straight, looking at them all with that calm, steady stare of his—the kind that made it impossible to read his thoughts.

“No,” he said simply, voice low but firm. “It’s mine.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

Semi blinked. “Wait—what?”

Ushijima didn’t elaborate. He picked up the ball beside him, testing its weight in his hands like nothing had happened. “She didn’t cheat,” he added evenly. “We were together.”

Reon opened his mouth to say something but decided against it. The atmosphere had shifted completely. Ushijima was already walking toward the court again, posture straight, expression unchanged.

Practice continued, but none of them could focus. Every player felt the weight of what had just been said.

Tendou, however, knew more than the rest. He knew Ushijima hadn’t gone near you since the breakup. He knew about the guilt that lingered behind every quiet glance his captain gave whenever someone mentioned your name. And now that the truth was out—at least within the team—he could see the small fracture behind Ushijima’s calm exterior.

Back at school, things weren’t easier for you. Your classmates talked, as they always did. Some whispered that you didn’t even know who the father was. Others claimed you’d already moved on. You ignored all of it.

Every day felt like walking through a storm you couldn’t escape. But in the corner of your mind, you knew that somewhere, Ushijima had probably heard all of it too.

And even though you hadn’t spoken to him since that awful day, part of you knew—he wasn’t the type to run away from responsibility. He never was.

You didn’t know it yet, but at every lunch break, Tendou still dropped by—making his usual excuse of “just checking in.” You never asked who told him to. You didn’t need to.

And somewhere between the silence and the guilt, both you and Ushijima carried the same thought every night before sleep hit:

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

*extra*

The morning felt heavier than usual. The hallways buzzed with low chatter, lockers slamming, shoes squeaking against the linoleum floors. You walked with your head low, clutching your books to your chest, trying to ignore the sideways glances that always seemed to follow you now.

Your stomach wasn’t showing much yet, but the rumors had already spread far enough that everyone had their own version of your story. Most of them cruel.

characters: tsukishima | wc idk | genre. pure fluff !|cw/tags. fluff, teen pregnancy, angsty. etc teen pregnancy series masterlist here!

The school day had dragged on forever. Your back hurt, your feet were swollen, and you were fairly certain your math teacher had a personal vendetta against pregnant teenagers.

By the time you and Tsukishima reached your neighborhood, the sun was setting — painting everything in muted golds that somehow made your exhaustion feel heavier. He was walking beside you, earbuds dangling around his neck, hands shoved deep into his pockets. You’d been quiet most of the way, lost in your thoughts.

“You’re walking slower,” he finally muttered, not looking at you.

“Wow, what an observation,” you shot back, though your voice came out more tired than teasing.

He sighed, stopping mid-step. “Give me your bag.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Your bag, genius.” He gestured impatiently.

You hesitated, clutching the strap tighter. “It’s fine, Kei. I can carry it—”

“You’re literally carrying a human,” he interrupted, eyes narrowing. “Just give it.”

The annoyance in his tone made you want to argue, but the ache in your shoulders won. You handed it over, muttering a quiet thanks.

The two of you resumed walking, the sound of cicadas buzzing around you.

It wasn’t exactly romantic — you were sweaty, exhausted, and hormonal — but in its own way, it felt... comforting. Tsukishima didn’t say much, but every so often, he’d glance over as if checking that you were still okay.

When you reached your house, you sat down on the front steps, sighing in relief. Tsukishima dropped your bag beside you and hovered awkwardly, like he wasn’t sure if he should sit too.

“You can sit, you know,” you said without looking up.

“I was deciding if I should,” he replied, tone dry.

“Such a tough choice.”

He snorted and sat beside you anyway, stretching his long legs out. For a few minutes, neither of you spoke. You could hear a dog barking somewhere down the street. Kids laughing. The world kept moving — but for you, everything felt like it had slowed down, trapped in this weird in-between of being a kid and being someone’s mom.

“I hate how everyone looks at us,” you said quietly.

Tsukishima’s gaze shifted toward you.

“At school,” you continued. “Like they’re waiting for us to mess up. Or like we already did.”

He leaned back, resting his elbows on his knees. “They’re idiots.”

“Yeah, but they’re loud idiots.”

He hummed in agreement, his expression unreadable. “Let them talk. They don’t know anything.”

You gave a soft laugh, bitter and small. “You say that like it’s easy.”

He turned to you then, eyes sharp but soft around the edges. “It’s not,” he admitted. “But if you spend all your energy worrying about people who don’t matter, you’ll burn out before you even get to meet him.”

You blinked. It wasn’t the kind of comforting line most people would give — but it was very him. Practical, a little harsh, but laced with care.

“He, huh?” you said after a pause, smiling faintly. “You’re talking like you already know him.”

Tsukishima’s lips quirked into a tiny smirk. “Maybe I do. He already kicks like a brat, so.”

You rolled your eyes. “Takes after his dad, clearly.”

He scoffed, but didn’t argue. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out something small — a wrapped rice cracker.

“Here,” he said, handing it to you.

You frowned. “Did you just randomly have a rice cracker?”

“Yamaguchi gave me snacks. Said pregnant people need ‘extra nutrition’ or something.” He made air quotes, looking vaguely embarrassed.

You couldn’t help it — you laughed. “That’s actually… really sweet.”

“Yeah, well, don’t make it weird.”

You ate the cracker in silence, the salty flavor oddly comforting. When you were done, you leaned your head against his shoulder. He stiffened, as expected, but didn’t move away.

“I’m scared, Kei,” you murmured.

His jaw tightened. “I know.”

“I don’t know if I’ll be good at this. At… being a mom.”

He was quiet for a long time before he finally spoke. “I don’t know if I’ll be good at being a dad either.”

You looked up at him. His eyes were fixed on the horizon — golden and distant — but his voice was low, raw.

“But,” he continued, “I’m trying. I think that’s gotta count for something.”

You smiled softly, resting a hand over your belly. “It does.”

He glanced down at your hand, then covered it with his own. His touch was awkward — unsure — but steady.

And even with the weight of everything pressing down on both of you — the stares, the whispers, the future — for a moment, it didn’t feel unbearable.

Because Tsukishima was still there. Still trying. Still holding on.

characters: kenma | wc idk | genre. pure fluff !| cw/tags. fluff, teen pregnancy,. summary; obivouysky takes place in the post! timeskip life, yk adult kenma!! <3 pregnancy series masterlists here! IMPORTANT!: This is finally the last chapter for kenma omfg, mostly all characters are finished tbh... i'm just a bit lazy on giving everything a proof read and "styling" when posting, tags, gifs, dividers, taglists etc. I'm planning on actually adding a few more chapters like with more specific moments but it won't happen now, i want to take a break from kenma so i don't start hating on him by how much i had to read him this weeks lol... next characters will be tsukishima and kageyama, both at the time so i can have a little bit of variety.

likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated!!

Kenma | “And Yet, We Grew”

There’s a sound of tiny footsteps rushing down the hall—then a voice, high and certain:

“Papa! I beated your score!”

Kenma glances up from his dual-monitor setup, a half-finished energy drink beside his keyboard, and arches an eyebrow, genuinely amused.

“Oh yeah?” he calls, leaning back in his chair. “Which game?”

Your daughter, now seven and bursting with pride, peeks around the doorframe. Her eyes are wide, sparkling with smug excitement. Two messy pigtails bounce with every step she takes—her brown hair now streaked with a few stubbornly-earned blonde strands she begged for (tears and all), just to match with her dad.

She’s swimming in one of Kenma’s old Nekoma t-shirts, nearly reaching her knees, and clutches a handheld console tightly in both hands like it’s a trophy.

“The pink ball one,” (kirby) she says with grave seriousness, holding up the screen like proof of her victory.

Kenma lets out a small, crooked smirk. “Of course you did.”

He pushes his chair back, already reaching for his own controller. “Guess I need a rematch, huh?”

She grins. “Only if you think you can catch up.”

Kenma chuckles softly and sets his controller on the desk, the faint hum of his PC and the glow of the monitors reflecting in his eyes.

He watches her proudly — this tiny, fierce echo of the two of you — and for a second, he’s sixteen again. Sitting cross-legged on the floor of your room, eyes ringed with exhaustion, half-studying, half-rocking a crying baby.

Back then, he couldn’t have imagined this. Couldn’t have imagined feeling sure of anything.

But now, when your daughter climbs into his lap with the easy confidence of someone who’s always known where she belongs, he realizes how much has changed.

How he’s changed.

University, work, long nights gaming for sponsors — it all shaped him, but nothing taught him more discipline, patience, or heart than being her dad. He learned how to wake up early, how to listen, how to hold his words before they turned sharp. How to show love without saying much.

And you — you learned right beside him.

You grew into yourselves in the same breath that you learned how to be parents. Through the sleepless nights and the unfinished assignments, the awkward visits to teachers’ offices, the exhaustion that no one your age could really understand.

You remember crying once because you thought you’d never feel like a person again — just a cycle of feedings, deadlines, and quiet panic. But Kenma always showed up. Even when he was tired. Even when his hands trembled from holding too much — a controller, a bottle, and a future too heavy for a sixteen-year-old boy.

And somehow, the both of you made it here.

Your daughter laughs — loud and unrestrained — as Kenma groans dramatically when she beats him again. She climbs up onto his lap, still clutching her console, while he mock-pouts.

“Papa, you’re getting old,” she teases.

“Hey,” he says, nudging her nose. “I’m still faster than you.”

You lean against the doorframe, smiling quietly at the sight — his long hair tied back in a messy bun, her little head resting against his chest, the glow of the monitor soft against them both.

This wasn’t the future anyone expected for you. Not your parents. Not his. Not even yourselves.

But it’s yours and its okay.

And somewhere between the nights of crying and the mornings of cartoons, between unfinished homework and first steps, the two of you stopped being scared kids trying to survive — and became something steady.

Something whole.

Kenma glances up and catches your gaze. His smile is small, tired, and content in a way that only someone who’s fought hard for peace can be.

“You’re next,” he murmurs, nodding toward the console in his daughter’s hands.

You laugh softly. “I’ll pass. I already lost this tournament years ago.”

characters: kenma | wc idk | genre. pure fluff !| cw/tags. fluff, teen pregnancy,. summary; basically raising a 2yr old baby, therrible two's thingy idk teen pregnancy series masterlists here!

Kenma

“NO!”

It was her word of the week. Of the month. Of your life.

She yelled it when you gave her food. She yelled it when you didn’t give her food. She yelled it when she wanted red socks, but you could only find green. When her banana broke in half. When her block tower fell. When the sun hit her eyes too fast. When her sock seam felt "wrong."

You used to think tantrums were over-dramatized in parenting blogs. You used to think you would handle it with gentleness, patience, deep breaths.

But this? This was psychological warfare.

And today?

Today she screamed NOOOO! at the top of her lungs because Kenma, half-asleep and halfway through dropping his backpack on the floor, had dared—dared—to pause the opening theme of a cartoon she’d already watched seven times in a row.

She shrieked like she’d been betrayed on a cellular level. Kenma physically flinched. He was pale, slouched, and visibly trembling with fatigue.

“Okay,” he muttered under his breath, grabbing the remote again. “I guess we’re watching it again...”

You walked in with a sippy cup in one hand and the thousand-yard stare of a parent who’s seen too much. Your shirt was inside out. Your eye twitched every few minutes.

“She threw peas at me.”

Kenma didn’t even blink. “She kicked me in the face during her nap.”

You sighed so deeply it came from your soul. “Why does she hate us?”

“She doesn’t. i bet she was just sent here to humble us.”

You both stared at the screen, the cheery cartoon music stabbing into your eardrums like needles. Neither of you moved.

It wasn’t her fault.

She was two. Her brain was still building the scaffolding for self-control, logic, language. And she wasn’t a bad kid. In fact, she was terrifyingly smart.

She asked if clouds ever get tired. She cried when someone stepped on a flower. She hugged Kenma’s face with both hands and called him “Dada” in a whisper when he was sad. She believed Band-Aids healed the hearth.

But lately?

It was like she came with a ticking timer. One wrong word, one broken cookie, one rejected cup, and boom: meltdown. Full-body, wailing, flailing, toddler rage.

You were exhausted. Not tired. Not sleepy. Exhausted. Kenma once surpsiingly cried into your shoulder when he thought you were asleep. Some days it felt like your entire existence was just surviving the next tantrum.

He was trying. He really was.

But school was harder this last year, graduation and uni entrance exams were around the corner, and he was picking up shifts at the game store on weekends now, and sometimes when he came over he looked like he’d forgotten how to be a person.

His eyes were dim. His back hunched. He took long, silent pauses before answering simple questions.

It happened on a Wednesday.

You were already fried...

The morning had started with her throwing her cereal and ended with her coloring the wall with a Sharpie she somehow found despite your best baby-proofing. You were cleaning a juice spill while she laughed and stomped in it barefoot. The second Kenma walked in, she dumped another full cup on the carpet with dramatic flair.

He stood frozen at the door, half inside, half out. His hand clenched around the strap of his bag. His shoulders stiffened.

She laughed again.

And Kenma—usually quiet, usually patient, usually the one who counted to ten while you snapped—snapped.

“Can you just—FUCKING STOP IT?!” he shouted.

The volume was sharp. A whipcrack in the silence.

You froze. He froze. She froze. Time held its own breath.

Then her little lip wobbled. Her eyes welled up. And the scream that followed shook the walls.

You rushed forward and scooped her into your arms on instinct, her tiny fists pounding against your chest as she sobbed. You held her tight, whispering soothing nonsense into her hair—anything to soften the blow.

Your eyes flicked to Kenma, and despite knowing he didn’t mean it, despite knowing he’d never reacted like this before, the disappointment still surfaced—sharp and immediate. It wasn’t fair, but it was automatic. A reflex. Just like picking her up had been.

And he saw it. The way your expression changed. And it shattered something in his face.

Kenma was already backing up. His face blank, like someone had flipped a switch and turned off the lights behind his eyes.

“Shit,” he mumbled, voice barely audible. “Shit, I didn’t mean to—I just—fuck, I’m sorry.”

He didn’t wait for a response. He picked up his backpack, avoided your gaze, and left—not slamming the door, but not closing it gently, either.

You didn’t sleep that night. Not really.

Kenma didn’t text. You didn’t either.

The next day, after school, he knocked softly. You didn’t expect to see him, since he practcally seemed to avoid you the whole school day.

He looked... small. Like a version of himself you hadn’t seen in a while. His hoodie was wrinkled. His hair stuck to his forehead. And in his hands, he held something crooked, bent, and glittery.

“A crown,” he said quietly, holding it out. “I made it at the library during lunch. There was this video. A dad made one for his daughter after she had a hard day. Said it helped.”

You took it slowly. It was handmade. Uneven. Tacky. There were little wobbly scribbles on it that said Princess of the Living Room. The glue was still drying.

You brought him into the room, where she sat curled on the floor with her stuffed bunny and tired eyes.

Kenma knelt beside her, delicate, like if he moved too fast she’d bolt.

“I’m sorry I yelled yesterday,” he said softly. “That wasn’t okay.”

She stared at him, blinking slow.

“I made this for you,” he continued, and reached forward—pausing first—then gently set the glittery crown on her head. “Because you’re the princess of the living room today.”

She blinked.

And then—softly, like a bubble rising to the surface—she giggled.

Kenma let out a breath so shaky it made your heart ache.

You sat down next to them, brushing her hair back behind her ears. She looked up at both of you like you hung the stars. Like she knew you were trying. Even if you got it wrong sometimes.

taglist:

@lauraofthewoods @anyaswlrd @atinyrosedoor @b1xi

characters: kenma | wc idk | genre. pure fluff !| cw/tags. fluff, teen pregnancy, baby bumps. teen pregnancy series masterlists here!

Kenma

Life didn’t pause just because you had a baby...

Classes kept going. Assignments kept coming. The group chats still pinged with memes and updates about school drama you didn’t have the energy to keep up with.

You and Kenma were still just fifteen/sixteen—first-years with uniforms that didn’t quite fit, classmates who didn’t quite understand, and teachers who tried their best not to stare at the empty chair beside Kenma on the days you had to stay home.

Your daughter was barely a month old when Kenma started bringing her up in passing to the guys on the volleyball team. Not in a dramatic way—just casually mentioning “we didn’t sleep last night” or “I have to go pick up diapers after this.”

Kuroo was the first to really get it, offering to cover for Kenma when he was late or too exhausted to run full drills. Yaku didn’t say much, but his snacks started including extras.

Some days were… manageable.

Kenma would walk over after school with his backpack half-zipped and a bento box his mom had packed for you both. He’d let you nap while he held the baby, sometimes with a controller awkwardly balanced on his knee. You’d wake up to the soft click of buttons and the sight of your daughter asleep on his chest, his eyes half-closed, his game paused at a save point.

But other days?

You’d stare at your textbook while rocking her with one foot and wonder how the hell you were supposed to write an essay when your brain felt like pudding. The house smelled like formula and baby wipes. Your phone buzzed with texts from classmates: “Are u coming to the karaoke night?” “Did u do the chem worksheet?” “Are u guys even still together lol?”

You wanted to go out. You wanted to be normal. You wanted a night to just exist without leaking boobs or burp cloths.

Once, just once, you did go out—with Kenma, for an hour, while your mom watched the baby. You got bubble tea. You sat on a bench and didn’t talk about diapers. You held hands like kids again. And it made you cry.

Because you missed that version of you—the one who didn’t have to check the time, or worry if she’d wake up crying while you were gone.

Kenma noticed. He always noticed.

He kissed your knuckles and said quietly, “It’s okay to miss it. I do too.”

You both stared ahead, sipping in silence.

Then you went home early.

Because love wasn’t enough to stop time. But it was enough to keep going—hour by hour, diaper by diaper, quiz by quiz.

And somehow, you were still here.

Together. Growing. Learning.

Still kids.

But parents too.

The Littlest Setter. (friends meeting the baby)

It was supposed to be a normal afternoon.

Kenma had rushed out the door right after school, mumbling something about not being late for warmups again. You had barely finished buttoning up the baby’s soft jumper when you realized:

His kneepads were still sitting on your floor.

You texted him.

(Y/N): you forgot these, genius. *photo* Kenma: 😐 Kenma: can u bring them? coach will kill me (Y/N): say please Kenma: please... (Y/N): good boy. <3

You laughed quietly and looked down at your daughter, strapped snugly to your chest in her tiny carrier, her eyes blinking slow and content.

“Well,” you said. “Let’s go see your dad’s second family.”

The gym smelled like effort and sweat. The kind only teenage boys could make this potent.

You stepped in quietly, cradling the kneepads in one hand and keeping the other gently around the baby’s back. She was wide-eyed, taking everything in with that curious frown Kenma sometimes made.

The team was mid-warmup.

Kuroo spotted you first.

He blinked. Then his jaw dropped slightly.

“Wait—”

Yaku turned just as Kuroo called out, grinning. “Kenmaaa~ your girls are here!”

Kenma, who’d been stretching with Yamamoto, turned toward the door. His face went pale for a second, then flushed red.

“Oh my god,” he muttered. “She’s so tiny,” yamamoto said, awestruck.

You held up the kneepads. “He left these.”

Kenma jogged over quickly, eyes flicking to the baby strapped against you.

“She okay?” he whispered.

You nodded. “She just woke up from a nap. You forgot to kiss her goodbye.” He looked sheepish. He gently touched her small head, fingers brushing over her soft hat.

“Hi,” he murmured. “Sorry I ran out.”

She made a tiny sound—a sort of sleepy ehhh noise—and Yaku nearly dropped his water bottle.

“Is that her voice?!” he whispered, like she was some ancient forest creature.

“Do not wake her up,” you warned, only half-joking...

Kuroo crept closer, clearly holding back a grin. “So this is the youngest Nekoma setter, huh?”

“Temporary substitute,” Kenma muttered, hand still on her head protectively.

“She’s got your eyes,” Yamamoto noted. “But her whole expression is like kenma's.”

“She looks kinda done with all of us,” Yaku added. “A very Kenma trait.”

shohei leaned in slowly. “Can I… can I hold her?”

Kenma gave you a look like please say no, but you smirked and carefully unstrapped the baby from the carrier.

“She just ate. No sudden movements.”

Shohei held her like she was made of gold. His face lit up. “She’s so warm!”

Yamamoto peered over his shoulder. “Look at her tiny hands. Bro. She’s making a fist. She’s ready to punch.”

“Her spikes would probably have more aim than yours,” Yaku said dryly.

“Shut up—!”

The baby blinked slowly at the chaos. Then let out a quiet sigh and went back to sleep against Shohei’s chest.

Kenma stood beside you now, half an arm’s length away, watching his teammates surround the baby like she was some mystical creature they’d summoned from a manga.

“She’s safe,” you whispered, like you knew what he was thinking.

He nodded slowly.

“…They’re not so bad,” he said.

You laughed. “They love her.”

“She’s cooler than me.”

“She drooled on your controller last week.”

“Still cooler.”

You bumped his shoulder with yours, and for a second, you both just stood there—tired, still healing, still adjusting—but okay. In the middle of a gym full of idiots and old volleyballs, it felt like something soft had settled in.

taglist:

@lauraofthewoods @anyaswlrd @atinyrosedoor @b1xi

characters: kenma | wc idk | genre. pure fluff !| cw/tags. fluff, teen pregnancy, birth. teen pregnancy series masterlists here!

Kenma

The first week felt like time stopped.

Not in a romantic way. Not like in a movie.

More like the kind of stop where you blink, and it’s been three hours, but also: it’s still Tuesday.

Day One

was a blur of hospital sheets, checklists, and nurses telling you how to feed her, how to burp her, how to change her. Your arms were shaky. Your body ached. You felt like a puzzle missing half its corners. You weren’t even sure your brain had caught up with your body yet.

Kenma had spent the night in a chair beside your bed, hoodie bunched up under his head, waking up every time the baby made a noise.

He didn’t say much. Just kept holding your hand. Kept watching you. Kept watching her.

Like he was afraid you’d both disappear if he blinked.

‿︵‿︵‿୨ ୧‿︵‿︵‿

And then—sometime that morning, maybe mid-morning, maybe not—you were handed the baby by a nurse with a smile far too calm for the chaos inside you.

“It’s time to try nursing,” she said gently, like this was a normal sentence. “Let’s see how she latches.”

Your brain fizzed. You looked down at the baby. Then at Kenma. Then back at the baby.

And you said, “Like… now?”

The nurse nodded. “Now’s a great time.”

You turned to Kenma, wide-eyed and red-faced, and he looked equally horrified—like someone had just asked him to solve a math equation on live television.

“I can, uh—leave?” he offered, halfway out of his seat already.

The nurse laughed. “She’s gonna be doing this a lot. Might as well get used to it, dad.”

You wanted to disappear into the mattress...

Kenma stared at the wall. You stared at him. Then you both burst out laughing—nervous, breathless, half-delirious laughter.

“She’s going to scream,” you said, adjusting the blanket around your chest, panic bubbling just under the surface.

“She’s tiny,” he said. “I think you can take her.”

You didn’t feel ready. Not even close. But still, you let the nurse guide your arms, position your body, and then— There it was.

The first latch. The first quiet sound of breathing. The first moment you were feeding your baby.

And just like that, everything stilled.

Your hands stopped shaking. Your chest felt full in a new way—heavy, but not bad. Just… full. Present. Your daughter’s tiny fingers curled instinctively against your skin.

And Kenma?

He didn’t look away. He just looked soft.

Blushing, obviously. Still visibly out of his depth. But there was something new in his eyes. Something warm and wide and wrecked.

“You’re kind of amazing,” he said, voice just above a whisper.

You scoffed. “I’m leaking and half-naked. I feel like a cow.”

“You’re a cool cow,” he deadpanned.

You both laughed again, quieter this time. Tired. Real.

And in that quiet blur of discomfort, awe, and absolute exhaustion— you knew:

Everything had changed.

Day Two, you went home.

Your mom helped you buckle the car seat in. You checked it five times before sitting down yourself...

The ride felt too fast. The corners too sharp. Every bump in the road made you clench your fists and check the mirror to make sure she was still breathing.

Kenma sat beside you in the backseat the whole way, hunched slightly forward with one hand on the car seat handle, like if the world tried anything, he could stop it with his palm.

Your room felt smaller now. Her bassinet took up half the wall, and the diapers and wipes were stacked in old shoeboxes near the window. There were soft blankets folded in a basket, and a little mobile someone had gifted you at the baby shower.

She was here. In your space.

Not an idea. Not a “someday.” Here. And she cried. And cried. And cried.

You tried to nurse her, but it hurt. Then you tried a bottle, and she spit it up. Then you cried too.

Kenma came over that night and found you curled up on the floor with your back against the dresser, the baby finally asleep in your lap.You were too tired to get into bed. Too sore to stand. Your eyes were red and your throat burned.

You looked up at him with red eyes and whispered, “I’m already failing.”

He said nothing.

He just crouched down and rested his forehead against your knee, gently curling his fingers around your ankle.

“We’re not failing,” he said. “We’re just… new.”

Unfortunately? She woke up so you asked him to change the next diaper. 50%because you physically couldn’t get off the floor yet and another 50% cuz you felt a little grossed out heh...

He froze.

“You want me to… what?” “She’s just a baby, Kenma.” “She’s, like, a bomb. A wiggly one.”

“Do you want me to cry again?” you warned flatly.

He scrambled to grab the wipes.

You watched—half delirious, half amused—as he fumbled with the diaper tabs, holding her little legs like they were sticks of TNT, accidentally getting baby lotion on his hoodie sleeve, and almost crying when she peed mid-change.

“Did she just—?! Is that aimed at me?!”

You were wheezing with laughter by the end of it, forehead resting on your arm, breathless from a full day of exhaustion and emotional whiplash.

The diaper ended up backwards. There was a wipe stuck to her sock. But she didn’t cry.

And Kenma looked up, wide-eyed and sweating, like he’d just disarmed a bomb.

“I did it,” he whispered.

You looked at him—completely serious—and said, “You’re the strongest man alive.”

Day Three, Kenma skipped practice.

Kuroo didn’t even complain. Just sent him a text that said,

“take care of ur girls. practice will still be here.”

Kenma came over after school with a plastic bag full of snacks and two textbooks. You didn’t bother pretending to study.

Instead, you handed him the baby while you grabbed five minutes of sleep on the couch.

When you woke up, he was standing in the middle of your room, gently rocking her while watching a tutorial on how to swaddle with one hand.

His hoodie sleeves were pushed up, and his hair was a mess.

You had never loved him more.

‿︵‿︵‿୨ ୧‿︵‿︵‿

That night, she didn’t wake up.

Not at midnight. Not at two. Not even at four.

You both sat there in the quiet, staring at the bassinet like it was haunted.

“Is she—?” “She’s breathing,” Kenma whispered, leaning over her like he was watching a loading screen.

You both stood there in shocked silence for a full minute, then backed out of the room like you were trying not to disturb a spell.

Back on the couch, you blinked at each other in disbelief. Then, slowly, a grin tugged at the corners of your mouth.

“She actually slept,” you whispered.

Kenma slouched lower into the couch, covering his face with his hands.

“I think I forgot what it’s like to feel rested.”

You laughed quietly and handed him one of the snacks he brought—some cheap chocolate and a half-squished bag of gummies.

It felt weirdly like a date.

You were still in your pajama pants. He hadn’t brushed his hair in two days. But in that small, quiet moment—with the baby finally asleep and the two of you sitting shoulder to shoulder in the soft hum of night.

Day Four, everything felt heavier.

Your parents were kind— But kindness had limits. And exhaustion had sharp edges.

They didn’t yell. They didn’t shame you. But the air around them was thin with worry.

Your mom kept suggesting naps you didn’t have time for. She hovered when you tried to soothe the baby, gently implying, without words, that maybe you weren’t doing it right. Your dad never said much at all—but you caught him frowning at bills more often now. Doing quiet math at the kitchen table with a pencil between his teeth.

And sometimes, even though it was your house, your childhood room— You felt like a guest.

Like someone squatting in borrowed space with a crying, hungry plus-one strapped to your chest.

Kenma’s parents weren’t cold. But they weren’t here boviusly.

His mom sent food in neatly labeled containers that smelled like home and patience. His dad slipped folded bills into Kenma’s backpack and said things like, “It’s not much, but it helps.”

But they didn’t see. Not the late-night panic over formula brands. Not the way your hands shook when the baby wouldn’t stop crying. Not the way your body still felt like it didn’t belong to you.

Kenma came over that evening looking like a question mark. His school tie was still loose. His bangs were damp and clinging to his forehead like he’d run there. Or cried.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just walked in, dropped his bag, and looked at you like he wanted to fix something but didn’t know where to start.

You were on the floor again—because that’s where you always ended up lately. Back against the dresser, knees up, baby half-asleep in your arms.

You looked up at him with tired eyes. He crouched down, this time even slower than usual.

“I’m trying,” you said, and your voice broke on the second word. You hadn’t meant to say it. It just slipped out of you like steam from a kettle.

Kenma touched your ankle, gentle as always.

“I know,” he whispered. Then, quieter—like it hurt to admit: “I’m trying too.”

Day Five, you cried again.

Kenma’s room was a mess of blankets, burp cloths, and panic.

You were sitting on the floor beside the bed, knees drawn up, tears in your eyes, and the baby screaming her lungs out in your arms. Your chest ached. Your back ached. Your brain felt like static. The baby wouldn’t latch. She wouldn’t stop. Nothing worked.

You’d tried rocking her, walking her, even that stupid shushing app. But she was red-faced and furious, and you were one second away from breaking down again.

Kenma sat beside you, trying to help, but she didn’t want him either. She only screamed harder when he tried to hold her.

Your voice shook as you tried to explain everything and nothing at once:

“My homework is late, I haven’t slept, my stomach is still disgusting, and someone just messaged me asking if I’m actually gonna keep her like she’s a piece of trash. And she—won’t—stop—crying—”

“She’s not trash,” Kenma said, quiet but firm, his bangs stuck to his forehead from stress. “She’s ours. And yeah, she’s loud. And fussy. And when she gets mad, she looks exactly like me.”

That earned a wet, exhausted laugh from you—just a breath.

“I’m so scared,” you whispered, eyes burning.

“I am too,” he murmured. “But if we’re scared together, it’s… less scary.”

You were just starting to breathe again when the door creaked open.

Kenma’s mom stepped in, holding a plate of warm food in her hands. She paused the moment she saw the scene:

—You, red-eyed and shaking. —Kenma, crumpled beside you, tired. —The baby, screaming like the world was ending.

The look on her face flickered between concern and judgment.

“She’s still crying?” she asked, keeping her voice low, but you heard the edge. “It’s almost midnight, Kenma. I don’t think this is good for either of you. Y/n and the baby should be at her home.”

You froze.

Kenma stood.

“She is home,” he said simply.

His mom frowned. “I didn’t mean—”

“She’s not just some mistake,” Kenma interrupted, his voice sharper than usual. “She’s a person. A mom. and y/n is doing everything she can, and it’s not your job to decide where she belongs.”

You stared at him, stunned.

“She’s exhausted,” he added. “She’s in pain. And she’s taking care of our daughter while doing more than most grown adults could handle. So if you came here to say she shouldn’t be here—don’t.”

The baby wailed louder, her tiny fists flailing.

His mom’s expression faltered.

Then softened.

“I didn’t come to fight,” she said after a moment. “I brought dinner.”

She set the plate down on his desk and, after a long pause, walked over and gently reached out her arms.

“Can I try holding her?” she asked.

You hesitated—but then slowly handed her over.

The baby wailed a little less when she shifted positions.

Day Six, you caught him singing to her.

The house was finally quiet.

The kind of quiet that felt like holding your breath—fragile and borrowed.

You were heading down the hall with the soft pink blanket in your arms, the one she liked best, the one she wouldn't sleep without. You’d forgotten it in the dryer, and now you were padding barefoot toward your room, exhausted and aching and half-asleep.

That’s when you heard him.

Kenma’s voice.

Low. Careful. Almost not there.

You froze just outside the door.

He was singing. Or something close to it—soft humming, a lullaby-like melody from a video game you half-recognized. It drifted through the crack in the door like mist.

He was sitting on the edge of your bed, cradling her in his arms with his hoodie sleeves rolled past his elbows, her little face tucked against his chest. His fingers stroked her hair in slow, nervous motions, like he was scared of doing it wrong.

You didn’t say anything.

You just stood there in the hallway, clutching the warm baby blanket to your chest like it was the only thing keeping you upright.

You tried not to cry again.

But it hit you anyway—the way he looked at her. Like she was made of stars and secrets. Like she was the final level of a game he never expected to reach but wanted so badly to win.

Not with skill.

With love.

And maybe that was the first time you realized—he wasn’t just doing his best.

He wanted to.

Day Seven, she smiled in her sleep.

Only for a second.

Only the tiniest twitch.

But it made everything freeze.

Kenma had been talking to her—about some weird game he was playing—and when it happened, he looked up at you like did you see that too?

You did.

You both did.

And for the first time all week, the exhaustion didn’t feel like drowning.

It just felt like proof, she was here and things would work out .

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@lauraofthewoods @anyaswlrd @atinyrosedoor @b1xi