#dad fluff

your daughter keeps glancing up at him, eyes wide, waiting for instructions. he touches her shoulder gently. “hold still,” he murmurs, and his tone is so soft she melts instantly, chin lifting with pride.

he works slowly, delicately, his large hands surprisingly gentle. he doesn’t rush. he doesn’t fumble. he simply concentrates, carefully dividing her hair into sections while occasionally checking the screen again. when he finishes the braid, it’s not perfect—lumpy in a few places, slightly loose at the bottom—but your daughter squeals the moment she sees it in the mirror, hugging his leg.

ushijima looks at you over her head, expression unreadable to most, but you know exactly what it means: tell me how to improve. and later that night, when he sits behind you on the couch with a comb in hand, determined to practice on you too, you can’t help but smile at how earnest he is—how badly he wants to be gentle in every way a father should be.

Daichi Sawamura

daichi genuinely believed pigtails would be easy.

he’d handled rowdy teams, survived countless practices where everyone ignored his instructions, and he's a police officer—he thought two little elastic bands would be nothing. but ten minutes in, he’s sweating like he ran suicides. the comb keeps getting caught, your daughter keeps turning her head to talk to him, and every part he makes immediately shifts lopsided.

“sweetheart,” he sighs, “you have to stop moving— no, don’t twist— oh, no, that made it worse— okay, hold still— no, not like tha—”

you’re biting your lip to keep from laughing.

eventually he manages two pigtails. they’re… not even. at all. one sits higher, the other is fluffier, and the ends stick out like they’re trying to escape. but when your daughter sees herself, she beams so brightly daichi forgets every struggle he just went through.

“daddy did it!”

the way he softens—absolutely melts—should be illegal. later, when he slumps onto the couch beside you, rubbing a hand over his face, you lean into his shoulder. “they looked cute,” you tell him.

he groans. “one was pointing due east.”

“still cute.”

and the tiny smile he gives you tells the whole story—he would fight a thousand lopsided pigtails if it meant making her smile like that again.

Oikawa Tooru

oikawa is convinced he’s good at this.

why? because he watches hair tutorials on tiktok sometimes. because he thinks he understands aesthetics. because he has three daughters, and confidence is all a man needs, right?

you walk into chaos.

one girl is sitting with her hair half-combed. another is running laps around the living room wearing a tutu. the third is holding a handful of clips and trying to convince oikawa to use all of them. he is trying to negotiate with them like they’re all tiny diplomats.

“okay, okay— one clip each, no more, or daddy’s going to lose his mind— mina, sit still— no, not that clip, it clashes with your shirt— no, no, don’t cry, we’ll find another bow— hey, don’t eat that—”

you lean on the doorframe, watching him juggle all three girls like they’re an entire volleyball lineup.

eventually, he manages hairstyles for all of them—messy but adorable, creative but chaotic. the girls sprint off proudly, showing each other their “princess hair,” and oikawa collapses onto the couch like he’s survived a natural disaster.

“i am amazing,” he says weakly, throwing his head back.

you kiss his cheek. “you’re tired.”

“i’m both,” he mumbles, curling into you like he needs emotional CPR. “kiss me again so i don’t die.”

you do.

and he absolutely purrs like he just earned MVP.

Iwaizumi Hajime

he’s trying so hard to be gentle.

but his hands are built for power, not precision, and every time he tries to stretch a hair tie, it snaps with a loud pop. your daughter laughs every single time, clapping her hands, thinking this is the funniest thing she’s ever seen.

iwaizumi groans, head falling back, hair tie dangling pathetically from his fingers. “i swear i’m not doing it on purpose.”

“you’re too strong,” she says with absolute seriousness, patting his bicep.

his ears turn red.

finally, after enough snapped elastics to create a small graveyard, he manages to gather her hair into the tiniest, cutest ponytail imaginable. it’s barely an inch long. it’s crooked. it looks like a sprout. but she beams at him in the mirror.

“it’s perfect, daddy!”

iwaizumi’s whole expression softens—just melts right through his tough exterior. he scoops her up, peppering her face with kisses until she squeals.

later, when you pinch his cheek and tell him, “you did a good job,” he grumbles under his breath but leans into your touch anyway, muttering something about “needing better elastics next time.”

Kuroo Tetsurou

kuroo is ambitious.

your daughter asks for a “ballerina bun,” and he agrees before you can warn him what he’s getting into. ten minutes later, he looks like a man who’s questioning every decision he’s made in life. the bun keeps unraveling, the pins keep slipping, and every time he tucks one piece away, another pops out dramatically.

your daughter is unfazed—she’s eating crackers and humming to herself like this is the funniest show she’s ever watched.

“stop laughing at me,” kuroo mutters as another pin clatters to the floor.

“i’m not laughing,” she lies immediately, crumbs on her face.

you step in only long enough to give him one tip on twisting from the base rather than the ends. he tries again, expression fierce with determination, tongue poking from the corner of his mouth.

this time… it works.

the bun is slightly crooked, a little fluffy, and honestly adorable. your daughter beams at herself in the mirror—then clips a tiny pink bow into kuroo’s hair for “helping.”

he freezes.

“oh. so that’s how it’s gonna be.”

you’re laughing as he lets her add two more. he kisses your cheek on his way past, voice soft.

“she gets the hair,” he murmurs, “but the cute part? she definitely gets from you.”

Bokuto Koutarou

bokuto hits every emotional mode in five minutes.

he starts confident. “i got this! easy! her hair is like— like a tiny broom! i can do broom stuff!” he does not, in fact, “got this.”

two minutes later, he’s dramatically hunched over, mumbling, “her hair hates me… i’m a failure…” your daughter pats his head. “it’s okay, daddy.”

you kneel beside him and show him how to brush from the bottom up to avoid tangles. his entire face lights up like you’ve taught him a secret technique passed down from ancient hair masters.

“OH. BABE. THAT’S SO SMART.”

he tries again. slower. gentler. concentrating so hard you swear you can hear gears turning in his head. and finally—finally—he gets her hair into the cutest little puff ponytail.

he lifts her into the air triumphantly. “LOOK AT YOU!! YOU’RE SO CUTE!! I MADE THAT!!”

she giggles, clinging to him, and bokuto beams like he just won nationals.

when she runs off, he wraps his arms around you from behind, chin resting on your shoulder. “thanks for helping,” he murmurs, softer, sweeter. “i wanna be good at this.”

you lean back into him, smiling. “you already are.”

and the way he squeezes you tells you he believes it.

──────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────

It started when your child—eager to help with a maintenance check—dropped Dan Heng’s datapad, the one he meticulously customized over years. His voice was sharper than he intended.

"Please be careful," he had said, cold and clipped.

Their lower lip trembled. The tears came quickly.

They'd barely spoken to him in three days.

Dan Heng had tried. He’d left their favorite illustrated codex by their bedside, even prepared their snack just the way they liked. But every time he entered the room, they’d burrow deeper into their blanket fort.

You found him that evening, standing just outside their door like a sentinel.

“They’re still mad at me,” he murmured.

“They’re not mad, Dan,” you said, brushing your fingers against his. “They’re just hurt.”

“I never wanted to frighten them.”

You guided him in. Sat beside the fort.

“They miss you. They told me.”

Dan Heng lowered himself beside you, fingers curling in silent hesitation.

You lifted the flap of the blanket. “Hey. There’s someone here who wants to say something.”

From beneath the covers, two tear-glossed eyes peeked out. Dan Heng bent forward.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I wasn’t angry with you. I was—afraid. That you’d been hurt. I didn’t... express it well.”

The child crawled into his lap in seconds.

Dan Heng held them like porcelain—fragile but precious. “I’ll do better.”

You smiled softly, heart warmed by the quiet reunion.

Aventurine had always believed in high-stakes parenting—just enough charm and challenge to keep things interesting.

But this time, he’d pushed too far.

“You call that a card throw?” he’d teased during a game of Star Suit. “Come on, sweetheart. Even the dealer bots are laughing.”

He hadn’t expected the tears. Or the storm-off. Or the little handwritten note left on his desk that read: ‘I don’t want to play with you anymore.’

You found him sprawled on the couch, a deck of cards untouched on his chest, staring up at the ceiling.

“Wow,” he muttered. “I actually lost the game I care about most.”

“Aven,” you sat beside him, nudging his foot. “They’re sulking because they want to play with you. Not because they don’t.”

He peeked at you through his glasses. “What if I go in there and make it worse? I don’t exactly have a stellar record with... feelings.”

“Then let your actions talk.”

An hour later, your child opened their door to find a glittering tower of snack chips and an apology note stacked like playing cards:

‘I fold. Come back to the table?’

Behind it stood Aventurine, offering their lucky chip.

They tackled him in a hug.

“You’re not mad at me anymore?” he asked softly.

“I’m mad you didn’t teach me how to win.”

He laughed, scooping them up. “Now that’s my kid.”

The piano room was quiet—too quiet.

Sunday sat on the bench alone, fingers suspended above the keys, golden halo faintly dim.

He hadn’t meant to do it. He’d only raised a brow. Perhaps tightened his jaw. But the moment his child missed the seventh chord progression—for the third time—his gaze had gone still. Cold. That look.

The “Asian parent disappointment face,” you later joked gently. Sunday hadn’t laughed.

“They won’t even hum with me anymore,” he said now, melancholic.

“They said you looked at them like they weren’t good enough,” you told him, running a hand through his hair. “They don’t understand your silence yet, love.”

He looked toward the practice room. “I should have praised their hands. Their ear. I only focused on the mistake.”

“Then focus on them now.”

He returned to the piano later that night. The child peeked from the hallway, arms crossed.

Sunday patted the bench beside him.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said gently, wings fluttering. “You are not your mistakes. You are music in motion.”

The child hesitated... then sat beside him.

He began with a slow, simple tune. One they used to hum together. As the notes bloomed, the child rested their head against his shoulder.

“I missed you, papa.”

His smile was faint, but real. “I never left.”

You found Jing Yuan standing still as stone in the courtyard, arms folded, gaze low.

“He’s sulking,” you whispered to your child. “Just like you.”

The incident had been minor, at least in your eyes. Jing Yuan had accidentally canceled your child’s playdate with Yanqing because of a surprise inspection. His reason had been logical—safety, timing, military protocols.

But logic doesn’t soothe a child’s disappointment.

Especially not when their lion-hearted father forgets to say he’s sorry.

“I told them it was necessary,” Jing Yuan said to you later. “But their eyes... they looked like I’d betrayed them.”

“You didn’t, honey. But they needed your heart more than your mind.”

He finally knocked on the door.

“I made a grave error,” he said, kneeling before his child like a general before a monarch. “I forgot that honor means nothing if it wounds those we love.”

The child frowned. “You said I needed to learn ‘sacrifice.’”

“And I was wrong. At least, in how I said it.” Jing Yuan opened his arms. “May I have the chance to try again?”

“Fine,” the child grumbled, smiling.

Jing Yuan grinned. “Then let the next battle be—extra dessert after dinner.”

Luckily, with having a well-paid job, a dodgy side hustle/”hobby”, and enough savings to make an average person have a heart attack König can afford to be able to get creative when he is cooking for his darlings. He will spend hours upon hours searching online for recipes and then perfecting them to make sure that the taste of vegetables will be unrecognisable so that they will finally eat them. No matter how hard or time-consuming it is, he continues to do it just because he knows it is the best for his toddlers and he can have nothing but the best for the lights of his life. After enough tests and trials with having his toddlers be his taste testers, he realised what worked best and spent thousands upon thousands of euros to get the equipment to continue doing this.

The first step König makes to put his big plan into action is to make deals with some local farmers and fishers at the market in one of the nearby villages or towns who will drop off fresh produce like meat, vegetables, fruits, grain, and dairy products for him and his kids to eat and in return, he pays them highly for both dropping off the food and giving him some of the best product. He also pays a few to help him set up his own mini farm in his garden so that he can grow a few things himself and with his toddlers so they appreciate their food more as they know where it comes from (if anyone is interested, I can expand on this idea). His next step is to order cookie cutters online, whether they be ones he had to have custom-made or ones he just found randomly when scrolling on some shopping site he had the recruits recommend him; the reason why he decides to order them is because he realised that his toddlers are more likely to eat their food or try new food if it is themed around their interests. 

And, his final step is to redo his entire kitchen from the stove to the sinks to the fridge (he decides to get two double fridges rather than the single one he had before) while getting more utensils that are not the normal things like a spatula or grater as they are more appliances like food mixer for baking or a slow cooker or a rice cooker until his kitchen was full of cooking equipment. He had brought everything he could think of and that others at KorTac or online had recommended, even if it was over the top and had cost him tens of thousands of euros, but his children were worth it all, even if it was a bit of a sink in his pocket.

With his set-up complete and recipes at hand, König can begin cooking for his picky eaters. Due to his toddlers’ preference for fried food such as chicken nuggets, he will put the chicken through the grinder himself to make a paste into which he can put chopped vegetables such as onions, peppers, corn, or mushrooms into which he can then season and bread after using the cookie cutters to make special shapes such as dinosaurs or shark or stars or rockets, it just depends on his what his toddlers’ interests are. He makes tiny edits to most of the recipes, since he prefers to make the components by hand, to make them healthier so that his toddlers have all the nutrients they need so they do not suffer like he did as a child where certain nutrients were neglected in favour of others. König will then spend hours in the kitchen preparing his meals, never letting his toddlers see his crafty tricks that get them to be healthy, which he will then serve to them like it is their regular food.

Examples of the displays of main dishes he puts together for his toddlers are fried fish in the shape of sharks with vegetables cut out in the shape of fish and potatoes that look like coral as it is plated on a water/ocean-themed plate if the toddler’s interest is sharks or a mashed potato volcano with a broccoli forest and vegetable shavings grass with dinosaur nuggets running away as it is plated on a forest-themed plate if the toddler’s interest is dinosaurs or vegetable shavings grass with chicken nuggets in the shape of bunnies with potato fries in the shape of Easter eggs or carrots as it is plated on a grassland-themed plate if the toddler’s interest is bunnies as Miffy has been getting extremely popular or alien shaped chicken or fish nuggets with mashed potato meteors, vegetables shaped into planets or stars, and one massive fry in the shape of a rocket as it is placed on a galaxy-themed plate if the toddler’s interest is the stars and space. Normally, the main dishes will come with a side of any food group he does not add to the main dish, or it may be extras he thinks his toddlers will like but wants them to control the amount they have, like a mixture of cheese he shredded or others vegetables he cut up that they can use to break up their main meal or a fresh bun he had brought.

While the examples of desserts and snacks he makes for his toddlers are milk bread sandwiches with a filling of cream, jam, and fruits that are cut into any shapes his toddlers want that day, or he will use an ice cream machine he brought to make a more healthy version of ice cream that he will sneak more fruits into that he thinks will match the flavour (such as strawberries and blueberries or peaches added into vanilla ice cream or bananas added into vanilla ice cream) with frozen or dried fruit shavings as a topping or a snack they can chew on in the middle of the day or tiny, or little cupcakes filled with fruit pieces and topped with homemade cream that can fit into their tiny little hands as he uses cut up fruits to add features such as spines or bunny ears or marshmallows with details on like stars or paw prints or specially shaped pancakes that are decorated with fruits and whipped cream to give details to make it look like their interests like dinosaurs or cats.

A year after your wedding date, you started noticing Clyde lingering around the infant section of the store on your grocery trips. You saw how sad he looked when Jimmy and Sylvia said they were having a baby. And the truth is, you felt that tinge of sadness too. So that night, as you readied yourself at your vanity— Clyde built it pretty, ‘special for you— you watched him reading through the mirror. 

“Clyde? Sweetheart?” Your voice was as soft as the glow of the lamp on his bedside table. You weren’t sure how to bring it up or to even help yourself ease into the conversation. 

“Hm?” His voice was deeper than usual, hinting that in the next few pages he’d be ready to sleep. 

“We should start trying, ya know? For a baby.” Your accent always poked through in the nights you were most tired. All but gone away and replaced by something more New York. As Clyde likes to put it. Clyde’s page stopped mid-turn and he looked over at you, a confused look on his face that melted into a soft smile. 

“Yeah, I reckon we should.” After all, you’d been through the wringer with this man since you both were twenty-two. A baby seemed like the most normal thing you two needed in your life.

-

So that’s when you two buckled down and did everything you could. You downloaded an ovulation tracking app to Clyde’s phone and synced it with your personal calendar. Clyde read somewhere that not wearing tight underwear helped a bit, so he opted in forgoing them altogether.

The first day of your first fertile period, Clyde wasn’t sure what to do with himself. He’d checked your calendar almost daily. He’d stopped drinking at the bar, opting for water or soda instead. He stepped up on taking vitamins and working out daily. He’d even picked up eating Oysters, as nasty as he thought they were. If it was in the name of getting you pregnant, he’d do anything. You were both turning 30 this year and he knew that more risks came with a pregnancy then.

Your period came, even with trying multiple times a day during your fertile period. And the event was marked with a lot of tears and a big hug from Clyde. He could feel the waterworks pricking at his own eyes. You two were so sure, you timed everything correctly. Did all that you were supposed to. Why were you met with a failure?

The next few months came and went, each met with the same brutal fate. Clyde was starting to think this was his fault. Of course it was. He wasn’t that lucky. He’d used up all his luck and he wouldn’t possibly be able to give you a baby. 

That is, until the end of cycle seven. Clyde paced outside of the bathroom of your shared trailer. Jimmy and Sylvia were sitting on the porch, laughing with Sadie. You had to swallow down your thoughts at seeing her swollen belly. Both you and Clyde couldn’t wait until that evening to test, after seeing her. You both were flaming bundles of nerves. 

You didn’t want to resent Sylvia. For having something come to her by accident that you were trying so hard for. You lifted the test you’d deposited onto the bathroom sink and you weren’t sure what to think when there were two perfectly clear lines on the test window. 

You pulled your underwear up under your sundress, opening the bathroom door as slowly as you shut it. You looked at Clyde with tears in your eyes. A heavy sigh escaped his lips, moving to wrap you into a big bear hug. But before he could make contact with you, you flipped the test around to show him the results. “We’re having a baby, Clyde.” You whisper. 

“We’re having a baby?” Clyde’s panicked expression melted into one more, happy. His smile was bright. His heart was full. He placed a hand on your belly. The next few months you’d swell with each other’s love and Clyde didn’t know what to do with himself besides pressing a gentle kiss against your lips, flesh hand gripping your waist as his prosthetic wrapped around you. 

-

Being your first baby, you were able to keep your bump hidden for quite some time. And you two had been comfortable in the fact that it was just that a secret for you two. At seventeen weeks, Clyde sat beside you, nervously bouncing his leg as he waited for your name to be called. 

This was your gender scan. And you’d been taking bets; you wanted a boy. As handsome as Clyde was. Someone for him mold into a fine man, just as he’d talked about. Clyde wanted a girl. Someone else as beautiful as you, who’d have him wrapped around his finger. 

Hearing your name, Clyde stood up on shaking legs, his hat tucked into his flesh hand as he gave you his arm to pull yourself up. It had been becoming increasingly difficult to do so on your own. Once you two had settled in to your ultrasound room, sundress pulled above your swelling belly; the tech— whom you now know as Daisy Tucker— places the transducer against your taunt skin. Clyde held your hand to his lips, nervously thumbing the skin there. 

Daisy gave you both a smile, “would you like to know the gender?” She asked as she began to print a few of the photos. Clyde stayed quiet, leaving the decision to you. But you nodded. You’d planned out your announcement photo already, none thanks to Clyde’s arguments— “why do we have t’post it? No reason fer it.” 

“You’re having a boy, Mrs. Logan!” She smiles and wipes a bit of the jelly off before giving you another napkin pad to clean up. A boy. Clyde’s smile was a mile wide as he cleared his throat, trying to hide his excitement. 

Later that evening, after dinner, Clyde was sitting on the couch at your request, waiting for his picture to be taken; holding a letter board in his hand reading—

Due in December Benjamin Clyde Logan <3

His hair was sticking out beneath his hat and all he could do was smile. Unfortunately, since Clyde had no interest in Facebook, you had to take in all of the congratulations yourself. You were shocked by the amount of comments on how small/skinny you looked to be that far along. 

“Congratulations, Mr. Logan.” You purred later that evening, placing your hand against his bare chest. “You’re having a boy.”