One Day, You Finally Decide To Join Katsuki At The Gym. As Soon As Bakugou Walks Through The Doors, The

i am NOT done yapping about how in love husband! katsuki is with his dear wife.

you were curled up on the couch later that night, katsuki’s arm draped around your shoulders while you scrolled through twitter again. he was half-asleep, head tilted back against the cushions, soft breaths leaving his lips.

just as you were about to close the app, another tweet popped up on your feed— one that made you freeze.

original tweet: "yeah babe gimme a minute, js fighting crime rn"

underneath was a blurry, mid-action shot of katsuki during a recent mission. in one hand, his phone was visible, screen lit up, while his other hand was mid-explosion, sending a villain flying backward.

the kicker? he was grinning at his phone. not his usual battle-hungry, determined smirk. no, this was softer. goofy. a full-blown, lovesick idiot smile.

the kind of smile he only ever gave you.

"oh my god. katsuki," you whispered, shaking his arm. "wake up."

he groaned, cracking one eye open. "what now?"

you shoved the phone in his face. "explain."

he squinted at the screen, brow furrowing. his jaw immediately clenched when he recognized himself in the picture.

meanwhile, twitter had already decided:

- "hero of the year goes to dynamight for texting his wife while fighting crime."

- "bro’s out here fighting for his life and still prioritizing his girl. goals."

- "im jealous. getting a text back while he's FIGHTING VILLAINS IS CRAZYYY"

his mouth opened. closed. then he groaned, scrubbing a hand down his face. "shit. didn't think they got that on camera."

"you didn’t think holding your phone in the middle of a fight would get caught on camera?"

"i was multitaskin'!" his ears were bright red.

"oh, for fuck's sake," you huffed, half-frustrated, half-melting into a puddle of affection. "is this why you said 'one sec babe, busy' that one time like you were busy with, oh, i don't know, paperwork instead of fighting a damn villain?"

"i had it under control," he grumbled, running a hand over his face. "was just checkin’ in on you."

"checking in?" you echoed, laughing. "you were literally detonating someone with your other hand!"

he groaned. "s’not my fault. needed to text my girl. s'not a crime."

your heart stuttered. "while fighting villains?"

"yeah, well...ya texted first."

you blinked. "so this is my fault?"

"yeah," he crossed his arms, cheeks turning pink. "maybe if ya didn’t make me smile like a fuckin’ idiot, i wouldn’t get caught slackin’. you seemed excited over something... figured you'd wanna talk."

your heart stopped for a second, warmth flooding through you.

"you’re such a dumbass," you said softly, leaning in to kiss his cheek. you leaned up, wrapping your arms around his neck, nuzzling into him. "missed me that much, huh?"

he huffed but didn’t stop you, his arms tightened around you, his embarrassment giving way to quiet satisfaction. "yeah, yeah. always miss you."

and the next time you texted him during work, you made damn sure to add:

"don't text back. fight the damn villains first."

he didn’t listen, obviously.

"they can wait. they know how important my wife is."

‎‧₊˚✧[ it's me, kia ! ]✧˚₊‧ ｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ ‎‧₊˚✧[ more of katsuki ! ]✧˚₊‧

Of beauty marks - Iwaizumi Hajime

"Iwa-chan doesn't have any beauty marks," Oikawa points out, his voice obnoxious and annoying and-

"He does," you disagree without thinking about it. "On the back of his right elbow, for example."

Four sets of eyes flicker to you and you bite your lip and curse your tongue.

"How would you know?" Oikawa asks, his voice low and daring, like a trap. His eyes pose a challenge, too. Iwaizumi stares down at the table, like he can't believe he's having this conversation in the middle of lunch break, and Hanamaki and Matsukawa... well, who knows what they're thinking, really.

"I'm sitting behind him," you point out. "And he wore short sleeves yesterday."

-

You stare in disbelief. When you accepted the position of Manager of the Seijoh Volleyball Club, you hadn't considered meeting any classmates there. Iwaizumi looked more like a Baseball Player, Oikawa was annoying enough to win every debate he started, and Hanamaki and Matsukawa... well, who knows what they're into, really.

But now they're all here, right in front of you, and shirtless too.

Your eyes flicker over the beauty marks on Iwaizumi's back. They're scattered, like pins on a map. You can't help but think of the saying, and wonder how many past lives Iwaizumi might have had. Or maybe just one overeager significant other.

"You're staring," Oikawa points out with a mean grin.

You send one back. "Get dressed then. You're asking for it."

-

"Need help?" You ask, when Iwaizumi appears next to you after training.

Iwaizumi nods, head bent. It's rare to catch him alone like this. He's flexing his fingers, but keeps his elbows locked to his side.

"I think I injured my elbow," he mutters under his breath. "I don't want to make a fuss about it."

"Want me to check?"

He nods, though jerks his head. "But not here. I don't want-"

"Iwa-chan!" Oikawa sings and you lean around the Ace to stare down the Captain.

"Your boy-crush can wait," you holler back at him. "Iwaizumi needs to help me first!"

"Rude!" Oikawa pouts but turns back to the others.

Your hand curls around Iwaizumi's elbow instinctively as you lead him out the door, the equipment bag now heavy on his shoulder. Your pointer finger brushes over something and you know, without having to check, that it's a beauty mark, slightly raised.

You wonder about the intimacy of kissing that spot, a hidden place, love tucked away like a secret.

Iwaizumi shivers and you apologize, but the feeling lingers, the thought has etched itself into the canvas of your mind.

-

"Hey," you look up from your books, surprised to find Iwaizumi towering over your table, his face set into a scowl.

"Yes?"

"Are you free this weekend?"

You mentally check your calendar. "I think so, yes. How's your elbow?"

"Better," he grunts, one hand rising to grip his neck. You spot the beauty mark winking back at you with this movement and almost miss the hints of a blush on his cheeks.

"There's a firework at the park," Iwaizumi points out, looking pained now. "Do you want to join me... there?"

"Oh, who's coming?"

His face contorts for a moment. "Just... us."

You stare at him. He stares back at you. And then it clicks.

"Like... a date?"

"Yes. Please?"

-

"Call me Hajime, please."

You stare at the ceiling of your room, too wired to sleep.

A firework dances behind your closed eyes, but it's not the one you saw tonight. It's a flashwork of memories, of glimpses and stolen moments.

Hajime, smiling up at the sky. His hand around yours, dragging you along to the best spot. The way his face changes at the sight of a bug, delight turning his features younger.

You know the feel of his lips on your cheek, know the warmth of his hand and the taste of his first name on your tongue.

You curl your toes and bury your head in your hands, irrevocably in love.

-

"I miss you," Hajime mutters, bleary eyed and exhausted. He yawns. "I don't want to hang up yet."

"You have to," you disagree. "You need your beauty sleep."

"Who's idea was it anyway, to study in America?"

You laugh. "Yours, Hajime."

"Sounds fake. Sure it wasn't Oikawa?"

"Sadly so. Hey," you smile cheekily. "Are you wearing sunscreen?"

Hajime furrows his brows. "Course. Always."

"Goód, good. Don't want you to get any new beauty marks without me to check."

He laughs, belly-deep and carefree, before slipping out of his shirt in one fluid movement, twisting to turn his back to the camera. "Still the same, love?"

"Still the same."

-

You find Hajime at the window, back bare, hair a mess.

"Hey," you lean into him, press a kiss to the beauty mark right on top his shoulder blade. "What's so interesting out there?"

"We're married," Hajime points out, his voice airy and dreamlike. "We're really married."

"Hmm," you kiss the next beauty mark, the one right above his spine. "Did the view tell you that or did you figure that out yourself?"

He pinches the skin above your hip in retaliation. "You're pretty sassy for a newlywed."

"Doesn't feel that new," you admit. "Feels like we've been married forever."

"Yeah?" He doesn't try to turn, rather takes your hands in his, rubs his thumbs over your wrists. "In a past life, maybe."

You laugh at the thought. "Oh, so I was the overeager significant other that got you those marks, eh?"

"Like it could have been anybody else.

for @chimielie and @seiwas-interact bc I was inspired by this post

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boyfriend hcs k. bakugo

type of person to say " no get it yourself " and then do it for you as he's saying that

shows his love through actions

but if you bring it up he will deny it like his life depends on it

probably has really sweaty hands because of his quirk

and he's insecure about it when you hold his hands

but he will NEVER admit it

when people talk over you he completely ignores them and just stares at you until you continue ur story

but he'll act uninterested

his friends WOULD tease him about how down bad he is but also they don't rlly wanna get blown up

I desperately need a part 2 to the head scratching obsession katsuki has with a few different scenarios preferably MAYBE reader scratches his head w her pretty nails while there hanging out w friends and he’s trying SO HARD not to let them see him fold 😭

OHHHHHHHH YESSSSS

car ride

i’m thinking of u and katsuki sitting in the backseat of a car idk who’s driving maybe it’s a bakusquad road trip and everyone else is asleep

(except kiri who has his eyes locked on the road)

and it’s getting super late but youre still a couple hours from the hotel.

i’m thinking it’s like a van situation and u and kats are in the back back bc kats hates having eyes drilling into the back of his skull.

and you can tell he’s getting super sleepy but he keeps saying he’s fine and he can wait until you’re out of the car.

i’m thinking you’re leaning up against the window with your legs in his lap and his body keeps deflating with tiredness and eventually you just tug at his arm and open yours in invitation.

he huffs but flops down onto your lap anyway but he’s still frowning as if it’s the biggest inconvenience in the world.

until he feels your heavenly nails graze his scalp, sending full body chills through him causing him to nuzzle into you and groan lightly.

it doesn’t take long for him to still, falling into a deep sleep.

and just know he’s going to be annoyed to the max when you get to the hotel. grumbles that you should just sleep in the car.

drunk

you’ve been at the club for 3 hours now, you’re dancing with mina and you look real sexy. if only it wasn’t so late. katsuki is dead tired and is ready to just flop into bed.

“bro take a shot, you look like you’re gonna fall asleep at the table.” kiri advises before downing three shots with denki.

“bullshit.” katsuki murmurs.

“why not bro? you’re not driving.” sero says with a hint of malice in his tone, stuck being the DD for the night.

“whatever. just order more shots.” katsuki groans.

****************************************************

“katsukiiii!” you cheer, skipping over to him giddily.

“that’s not katsuki anymore, yn. thats BIG KB!” denki cheers, earning a groan from mina.

“what is that stupid ass nickname.” she says, rolling her eyes.

taking a closer look at your boyfriend he does seem a little out of it.

“what’s the matter… big kb?” you tease, grinning.

you’re only a little tipsy. mostly high on life of the dance floor but sober enough to think straight.

“had some drinks.” he murmurs, fingers reaching over to rub against your cheek.

you pause, slightly stunned at his words.

“wow.. did you lose a bet kats?” you question, leaning into his touch.

he shakes his head, frowning at you thinking he would ever lose a bet to the idiots.

“nah he was just a sleepy guy, weren’t ya?” denki teases, pinching katsuki’s arm.

katsuki frowns, shrugging denki off.

you giggle leaning closer to katsuki.

“you a little tired, suki?” you whisper to keep the conversation private.

he frowns, offended.

“no? could stay here all night.” he mumbles, crossing his arms over his chest.

you make a ‘really?’ face at him.

he scoffs. as if you don’t believe him, ridiculous.

“go back out and dance.” he says, nudging you away softly.

you hesitate, wanting to settle down for the night yourself now.

katsuki’s so cute when he’s drunk, you just want to be at home with him.

“guys we’re actually just gonna uber home right now, but this was super fun.” you say smiling and katsuki frowns deeply.

the four had moved onto another conversation while you talked to katsuki, their attention now turning to you and your boyfriends big frown.

“wow, getting lucky tonight bakugou?” denki grins.

katsuki wraps an arm around you as if to protect you from his words.

“we’re not even going home, shut it.” he grunts.

you turn your head to look at your boyfriend.

“yes we are.” you say gently.

“no.”

“katsuki, yes.” you say firmly.

“no.”

you feel frustration bubble up in your head but push it down in favour of sneaking your arm behind katsuki’s head, fingers dancing on the very back of his neck.

“no. not this shit.” he groans, but doesn’t move away from your touch.

“shhhh, let’s go home big kb.” you whisper into his ear.

your hand toys with the hairs at the back of his neck before snaking up from his neck to the crown of his head, causing chills to spread throughout katsuki.

he groans deeply.

“fine.” he grits out between his teeth, refusing to look down at you.

“ha! did you see that mina?! did you see-“ denki gets cut off at katsuki shoving him off his place on the booth, making denki tumble onto the floor so you and kats can get out.

Omg I’d LOVE if you did ‘rating my wife’s nicknames for me’ for Iwaizumi <3 (i also am so addicted to reading your haikyuu twitter threads)

IWAIZUMI HAJIME ✰ RATING THE PET NAMES YOU CALL HIM: A THREAD

NOTE. Here it is! Also requested by @shoulmate

SEUMYO © 2024, PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, PLAGIARIZE, MODIFY OR TRANSLATE.

hehehehe

take two ⤨ iwaizumi hajime

⨭ genre; fluff, idiots to lovers but like they're actually so dumb

⨭ pairing; iwaizumi x fem!reader

⨭ word count; 5.7k

⨭ descriptions; your boss has been trying to set you up with her son for months, but as it turns out at the holiday party... you've already met him before.

⨭ warnings; explicit language and dialogue, no graphic content tho, alcohol

⨭ a/n; fun little short fic to fill the fix to publish something lolol enjoy this iwa love dump as i work on my next long fic (tell me in the comments if y'all like these better)

one.

There are exactly three things you know to be true about Iwaizumi Emi:

She is the best divorce attorney in Tohoku, possibly the country.

She is the kind of woman who could negotiate her way out of murder charges and secure the victim’s house in the settlement.

She is, without a doubt, trying to set you up with her son.

You respect her. You admire her. You are, on occasion, lowkey terrified of her.

Which is why you’re currently sitting at your desk, nodding at all the appropriate intervals while she breezes through yet another pitch about why her son and you are, in her professional opinion, a perfect match.

“He’s back from Irvine for the summer,” she says, skimming a property settlement document like it personally offended her. She tosses it onto your pile nonchalantly, and you let out a short sigh because it’s just more backend filing to do and, despite your adoration for your career path and real passion towards legal work, entry jobs in the firm are mostly busy work. “I really think you’ll like him. He’s—”

You tune out. Not in an obvious way, of course—no, you’re a professional. You sprinkle in the occasional mmhmm and sounds great so she doesn’t catch on, but this isn’t your first rodeo. You’ve heard this pitch before. Multiple times. Hajime is intelligent, responsible, not an idiot like some of these men out here, blah blah blah.

It’s not that you have anything against him. Really. It’s just that you’ve spent months perfecting the art of dodging your boss’s matchmaking attempts, and frankly, you don’t have the energy to entertain her latest scheme.

“You’re finally going to meet him at the firm’s ball this weekend,” Emi continues, finally looking up from her paperwork, her smile entirely too satisfied.

You blink. “Oh.”

“He’s excited to meet you too.”

Now that is new. Usually, these monologues are strictly one-sided—I told him about you! and You two will get along so well! But he’s excited to meet you too? That’s an escalation. That’s a game-changer. That means he knows about you. He has an opinion about you.

You resist the urge to groan. Instead, you summon a polite, professional smile—the same one you use when dealing with particularly insufferable clients. “Looking forward to it,” you say, because what else are you supposed to say to the woman who could single-handedly end your career if she wanted to?

In reality, the only thing you’re looking forward to about the ball is the open bar. Being in your early twenties means being woefully broke, and you’d be lying if you said the thought of unlimited free alcohol wasn’t a strong motivator.

So, you strike a deal with yourself: you’ll put on a fancy dress, endure painful heels, and let Emi parade you in front of her son like a prize show poodle—all in exchange for an endless supply of pinot noir, cocktail shrimp, and, if you play your cards right, an entire bottle of champagne to sneak home in your purse.

It’s a sacrifice you’re willing to make.

two.

Because you’re an adult with an absolutely thriving social life (read: you have two friends who are willing to tolerate your bullshit after 6 PM), you, Yachi, and Kiyoko are now seated at your favorite little izakaya, wedged into a corner booth with plates of karaage and a pitcher of beer between you. 

Kiyoko is talking about wedding venues. Because she’s engaged. To Tanaka. Which is objectively insane because in your head, they’re still in that “grossly obsessed with each other but pretending they’re just friends” phase, even though they’ve been together for years. The whole thing is a crime against single people everywhere, but you are supportive because your already jaw-dropping friend is somehow glowing even brighter now that she has a fat rock on her ring finger. She looks lighter, happier. She deserves it.

Yachi, meanwhile, is explaining—between delicate sips of her beer—that she’s too swamped with work to even think about dating. Which, yeah. Fair. The woman works harder than most people you know, so you respect it.

Then, as the conversation naturally shifts to your love life (as it always does, because you’re the group’s designated mess), you sigh, sinking into your seat dramatically.

“I haven’t had sex in months.”

There’s a beat of silence before Kiyoko and Yachi both roll their eyes in unison, like they rehearsed it.

“Oh my God,” Yachi mutters.

“You cannot still be caught up on GDD,” Kiyoko says flatly, pouring herself another drink.

“Okay, first of all,” you say, holding up a finger, “it is not about him. It’s just a general fact about my current state of being.”

“Uh-huh,” Kiyoko hums, entirely unconvinced.

“Second of all,” you continue, undeterred, “GDD was life-changing, and I feel like I should be allowed to mourn the lack of that level of—of excellence in my life.”

“Life-changing,” Yachi repeats, deadpan. “You hooked up with him once.”

“Yeah, and my life was changed.”

GDD—Good Dick Dude, as he has been dubbed by your dear, unsupportive friends—was a guy you hooked up with in January after a truly legendary New Year’s Eve party.

The night itself had been pure chaos. Hinata had somehow scored an invite to this insane rooftop party—one of those bougie, exclusive, if-you-know-you-know events where you absolutely do not belong but somehow manage to fake it enough to get through the door. He’d gotten a few plus-ones, which is how you ended up there, sipping champagne you definitely couldn’t afford and making out with a guy who, to this day, remains one of the most mind-blowing hookups of your entire life.

Gorgeous, buff, and dangerous with his hands. The kind of guy who knew exactly what he was doing, which, honestly? A rarity these days. You barely remember his name—something short, easy to moan—but you do remember his stupidly perfect smirk and the way he all but ruined you against the nearest flat surface.

But then the party ended, the night faded into a haze, and you never saw him again.

Which is fine. It’s fine. Really.

You’re definitely not still thinking about it.

Kiyoko takes a sip of her beer, unimpressed. “You’ve been on, what? Five Hinge dates since then? Six?”

“Seven,” Yachi corrects.

You point at her. “Exactly.”

Kiyoko gives you a long, slow blink.

“I mean that as proof that I am not hung up on him!” you clarify. “I’ve been trying, okay? But the bar is in hell. Do you know how many ‘we should get drinks’ texts I get from guys who put crypto investor in their bios?”

Kiyoko sighs. “Okay, but let’s be real—are you actually giving any of these guys a chance?”

You open your mouth. Close it. Frown. “I mean… like… conceptually?”

“Right.”

Yachi, forever gentle but devastatingly perceptive, tilts her head at you. “Is it possible,” she says carefully, “that maybe none of these guys are measuring up because you’re subconsciously comparing them to him?”

You scoff. “That’s ridiculous.”

Is it ridiculous?

Because, okay, maybe—just maybe—no one has quite lived up to that night. And maybe you’re being a little unfair to the dating pool by expecting every single guy to have that same kind of chemistry with you. And maybe you do occasionally find yourself staring at random ceilings, wondering where GDD is now and if he even remembers you.

But still. That doesn’t mean—

“I hate you guys,” you grumble, stabbing aggressively at a piece of karaage.

Yachi pats your hand sympathetically. “We know.”

Kiyoko, ever the queen of smooth topic transitions, nudges the conversation in a new direction. “Speaking of your questionable taste in men, your boss is still trying to set you up with her son, correct?”

You groan, letting your head fall back against the booth. “Unfortunately, yes. And now, apparently, he’s excited to meet me.”

Yachi perks up. “Wait, so you are meeting him?”

“At the firm’s ball this weekend,” you say, waving a hand. “It’s fine. I’ll get a little wine drunk, take advantage of the seafood bar.”

Kiyoko raises an eyebrow. “So, you’re not going to entertain the idea of this Hajime guy at all?”

You scoff. “Absolutely not.”

Yachi hums, tilting her head in that way she does when she’s about to say something devastatingly reasonable. “I mean… what if Emi’s right?”

You blink. “What?”

“What if this is it?” she says, half-teasing, half-genuinely curious. “Like, what if you meet him and he’s actually your soulmate? Imagine if this whole time, your boss has been playing the long game, orchestrating your love story like some kind of corporate fairy godmother.”

You snort. Loudly. “Right. Because that’s totally my luck.”

Kiyoko and Yachi exchange a knowing look, but they let it go.

You take another sip of your beer, shaking your head. Hajime Iwaizumi—whoever he is—is not the love of your life.

That would be insane.

three.

You had to pull out your graduate school formal gown from the back of your closet for this, but wow, you really forgot just how good you look in red.

Your day-to-day work attire consists of pantsuits and button-ups, neatly tucked into cautiously ironed trousers, so you’ve honestly forgotten how nice it is to get dressed up once in a while. There’s something about slipping into a gown that fits like a dream, sweeping your hair up just right, and swiping on that perfect shade of lipstick that makes you feel invincible. Like you could negotiate a million-dollar deal, steal the firm’s best clients, and seduce someone’s husband all in the same breath.

Not that you would, obviously.

Probably.

The venue is ridiculous in the way all law firm events are ridiculous—held in a ballroom large enough to house a small country, chandeliers dripping in gold, servers weaving through the crowd with trays of champagne and fancy bruschetta topped with fucking caviar of all things. All this just to celebrate another year of making money off people’s divorces. Incredible the way capitalism works.

You’ve barely made it through your first glass of wine before Emi finds you.

“There she is,” she croons, linking her arm through yours. She looks positively radiant in an emerald gown, diamonds at her ears, and the kind of effortless elegance that comes from winning. You’d respect it more if she weren’t actively dragging you toward your inevitable doom. “Come on, sweetheart. Hajime’s here, and I cannot wait for you two to finally meet.”

You bite back a sigh, because of course. No warm-up period, no buffer—just straight to the matchmaking. “Can’t I get a few more drinks in me first?”

She waves a hand, utterly dismissing your complaints. “You’ll like him. I know you will.”

You doubt it. But you let her lead you anyway, mostly because you know resisting is pointless: your boss has the world’s most spell-blinding smile and enough charm to always get her way. Emi always wins.

She stops near the bar, where a man stands with his back to you, broad shoulders wrapped in a sharp black suit, one hand resting on the counter as he talks with someone just out of view.

Emi squeezes your hand. “Hajime,” she calls, her voice warm.

The man turns.

And every thought in your head immediately ceases to exist.

Because standing before you, looking unfairly good in a tailored suit and sipping from a glass of whiskey like he isn’t single-handedly ruining your life, is GDD.

Good Dick Dude.

Hajime Iwaizumi is Good Dick Dude.

Your brain short-circuits. This is not happening. This is some kind of fever dream, a cruel trick played by the universe to punish you for your sins.

Hajime’s sharp green eyes land on you, recognition flickering behind them, and then—oh no. 

He smirks. Like he knows exactly what’s running through your mind right now. Like he remembers everything.

Emi, completely unaware of your crisis, beams. “Hajime, this is the associate I’ve been telling you about.”

His mischievous, more than just amused smile widens. “Oh, I know who she is.”

Your soul leaves your body.

Because that voice? That voice is the same one that had whispered filth against your neck four months ago. The same voice that had laughed when you moaned his name. The same voice that had ruined you in ways you still haven’t fully recovered from.

You are going to die. Right here, right now, in the middle of this godforsaken gala.

“Hajime Iwaizumi,” he says smoothly, offering a hand. His palm is rough when you take it—calloused, strong, a stark reminder of exactly where those hands have been. His grip is firm, steady, and entirely too knowing.

You swallow, pasting on the best Oh wow, I am totally not spiraling internally smile you can manage. “Yeah,” you say weakly. “We’ve met.”

“Oh!” Emi beams, clasping her hands together like she’s just delighted by this new revelation. “That’s wonderful! I knew you two would get along.”

You let out a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a strangled choke. Hajime is still watching you, head tilted slightly, like he’s enjoying this: like he can see the exact moment you realize how deeply, horrifically screwed you are. Because there is no way Emi knows. She’s too composed, too pleased. If she had any inkling that her son and her associate had met four months ago in a completely inappropriate context, she’d have you both buried in litigation faster than you could say conflict of interest.

Which means Hajime is choosing to be a menace.

God, you’re going to kill him.

“Hajime just got back from Irvine a few days ago, for the start of his summer break,” Emi continues, completely oblivious to the absolute war waging behind your polite smile. “I’ve been telling him all about you, of course.”

You almost choke on your drink. “You have?”

“Of course I have!” Emi nods enthusiastically. “She’s one of the brightest associates we have, Hajime. Sharp, diligent, absolutely ruthless in negotiations—she reminds me of myself when I was her age.”

Your lips twitch. You do enjoy being compared to the most terrifying woman you’ve ever met, so it’s really too bad that this entire situation has you currently dying inside.

Hajime hums, eyes still locked on you. “Yeah,” he says, voice dipping just slightly. “She’s definitely memorable.”

Your entire body lights on fire.

Memorable.

Oh, he’s being insufferable on purpose.

Emi sighs happily, taking a sip of her champagne. “I knew you two would hit it off.”

You want to scream. You want to throw your drink in Hajime’s face. You want to rewind time and never step foot into that rooftop party.

Instead, you just smile tightly. “Mm-hmm.”

Hajime grins at your suffering. “So,” he says, tilting his glass in your direction, “how have you been?”

You resist the urge to kick him in the shins. “Busy,” you say, voice clipped. “Working.”

“Ah,” he says, nodding thoughtfully. “Yeah, that does sound like you.”

You stiffen. Hajime, you realize, is having the time of his life watching you squirm. And it’s only going to get worse.

Because Emi suddenly claps her hands together, eyes bright with mischief. “Oh! I should leave you two to chat,” she says. “Get to know each other properly.”

Oh. Oh no. Emi. Emi, please.

But before you can protest, she winks at you—winks, like she’s a fairy godmother orchestrating the perfect romance—and disappears back into the crowd.

And just like that, you are alone with him.

Hajime watches you over the rim of his glass, eyes gleaming with amusement. “So,” he says, smirking, “you haven’t forgotten me.”

Your jaw clenches. “You smug little—”

“You look good,” he interrupts smoothly, scanning you from head to toe. His gaze lingers, appreciative but blatantly teasing. “Red suits you.”

God, you want to strangle him. You cross your arms, willing yourself to stay calm. “You knew this whole time, didn’t you?”

He chuckles. “I had a feeling.”

“A feeling?”

He tilts his head, as if contemplating. “Well,” he says, “it wasn’t confirmed until I saw you.”

You glare. “You could’ve warned me.”

“And miss that reaction?” He grins. “Not a chance.”

You hate him. You hate that he looks so effortlessly good in a suit. You hate that his voice is still just as devastating as you remember. You hate that even now, months later, you can still feel the phantom weight of his hands on your hips, the rough scrape of his callouses against your skin, the way he had murmured just like that, baby against your ear—

You inhale sharply. Nope. Absolutely not. We are not thinking about that right now.

Hajime, unfortunately, definitely knows what you’re thinking about. His smirk is downright criminal. “So,” he says, leaning in slightly, voice low, “been a while, hasn’t it?”

You refuse to give him the satisfaction of blushing. “Oh, shut up.”

He laughs, warm and amused, and you are horribly aware that this night is only just beginning.

four.

The universe clearly hates you, because Hajime happens to actually be a pretty intelligent and funny person, which is making it much, much harder to dodge his attempts at flirting and his mother’s attempts at forced-proximity matchmaking.

It was supposed to be easy. You were supposed to sip your wine, endure some polite small talk, and then fade into the crowd before Emi could corner you into any serious you’d make such a beautiful couple talk. But instead, you’re somehow still here, talking to him, because apparently Hajime Iwaizumi is annoyingly easy to talk to.

Which is not fair.

He makes it look effortless, like this isn’t completely unhinged, like it’s not absolutely deranged that your boss has spent months trying to set you up with a man who has already—

You take a sip of your wine. You are not going to finish that thought.

Hajime watches you over the rim of his whiskey glass, looking entirely too entertained by this whole situation. “You seem tense.”

“Gee, I wonder why.”

His mouth twitches, but he doesn’t argue. “Hey, could be worse,” he says. “At least my mom has good taste.”

You choke on your sip, feeling the bubbles tingle in your nose and really regretting every life decision you’ve made in the last six months. “Oh, my God.”

He laughs, tilting his glass in a mock toast.

You squint at him, wary and slightly annoyed, unable to fathom how he’s not also dying at this situation. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“I mean…” He shrugs, all easy amusement. “I’m just saying—this could be a lot worse. Imagine if she was trying to set you up with someone actually terrible.”

“I don’t know,” you mutter, swirling your wine. “You’re already pretty high on my list of worst-case scenarios.”

“See, now that hurts.”

You roll your eyes. “You’ll live.”

Before Hajime can respond—before you can regain any sense of control over this conversation—Emi appears out of nowhere, her eyes shining.

“There you two are!” she says, absolutely beaming. “It’s time for the first dance!”

You freeze.

Hajime—the absolute traitor—just raises an eyebrow. “First dance?”

“Yes! It’s tradition,” Emi says, already ushering you toward the ballroom floor. “Senior partners and their dates open the dance floor—it’s been that way for years.”

You dig your heels into the floor. “But I’m not—”

“Now, sweetheart,” Emi interrupts, entirely ignoring your panic, “you wouldn’t want to break tradition, would you?”

You stare at her, betrayed.

She smiles.

Oh, she planned this.

Hajime, standing beside you, lets out a quiet, amused sigh before draining the last of his whiskey. “Well,” he says, offering you a hand, “guess we should give the people what they want.”

You glare at him. “I hate you.”

“Uh-huh,” he says. “That’s why you’re still holding my hand.”

You drop it immediately.

Unfortunately, that doesn’t stop him from leading you on to the dance floor. His hand slides around your waist, pulling you gently to the center of the ballroom; you’re struggling to ignore the far too many pairs of eyes on you two as he rearranges your arms around his neck.

And—oh, hell.

You forgot how solid he is.

His grip is firm but steady, his palm warm where it rests against your back. He moves easily, like this isn’t completely ridiculous, like your brain isn’t currently melting out of your ears.

“Relax,” Hajime murmurs.

You scowl. “I am relaxed.”

His lips twitch. “Yeah, totally.”

You hate him. You hate the way he’s looking at you—amused, interested, entirely too smug for someone who has already ruined your life once.

He leads you into a slow, easy step, and goddamn it, of course he’s good at this, too. His movements are effortless, confident. He keeps the rhythm perfectly, and you hate that you match him so well.

He tilts his head, watching you. “You’re thinking really hard about something.”

“No, I’m not.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Right. So you’re definitely not thinking about how good I am at this.”

You promptly step on his foot. He laughs, and it ignites your hatefire even more.

“Asshole,” you mutter.

“I was going to say you look good tonight,” he muses, unfazed. “But now I don’t know if you deserve the compliment.”

You glare at him. “Shut up.”

Hajime smirks. “Touchy.”

He spins you as the music hits a crescendo, dropping you abruptly into a dip that catches you heavily off-guard. It makes you lock your fingers tighter around his neck, and when he lifts you back up, you nearly slam right into his very, very firm chest (what the hell, is this man made entirely of protein?), face first.

“What the fuck?” you huff, a little winded. “You are actually a horrible human being.”

Hajime hums, tilting his head slightly, his eyes flickering with something too smug, too entertained. “You keep saying that,” he muses, voice low enough that it barely carries past the space between you, “but I think you just like having someone to complain about.”

Before you can deliver a scathing reply, he tugs you a fraction closer. It’s subtle, barely noticeable to anyone watching, but you feel it—the shift of his fingers pressing against the small of your back, the way your body slots against his just enough for warmth to pass between you.

Your breath catches, and it’s infuriating how he notices. How his hold tightens, like he can read every single thought running through your head and is thrilled by it.

“You’re such a dick,” you frown, shifting slightly, trying to put some space between you.

Hajime chuckles, and the sound is entirely too satisfied. His mouth is right by your ear, so you practically feel it more than you really hear it, when he murmurs, “And what are you gonna do about it?”

Your brain short-circuits.

Because that—that—is not fair.

That is the kind of thing a man should not be allowed to say in that voice, in that low, teasing rumble, into your ear, while holding you against him like this.

It happens before you can even think about it.

Before you can register that you are, in fact, in the middle of a ballroom at your company’s annual gala. Before you can process the reality that Emi is somewhere in this crowd, and she has already been insufferable about this whole ordeal.

Before any of that can hit you, you grab the lapels of his stupidly well-fitted suit, tilt your chin up, and kiss him.

It’s instant, sharp, devastating. Your hands tighten against his chest as you crash into him, and Hajime—because he is the worst person alive—immediately reacts.

One hand presses firm into your back, the other finding its way to your jaw, fingers curling just slightly as he deepens the kiss without hesitation. His lips are warm, just the right mix of soft and steady, and when he angles his head just so—his nose brushing against yours, his thumb skimming your cheek—you feel yourself sink, like he’s pulling you under and you don’t even mind drowning.

It should not be this good.

It should not set your pulse racing like this, make you forget for a single, damning second that this is the worst possible thing you could be doing right now.

But it does. And for just a moment, nothing else exists. Not the party. Not the music. Not the fact that literally everyone is watching you right now. Just the heat of his mouth, the firm press of his fingers at your back, the way he exhales sharply like he wasn’t expecting this either, but he’s not about to stop it, not for anything in the world. 

And then you remember where you are.

You rip yourself away, blinking rapidly, your brain racing to catch up with what you just did.

And that is the moment you hear it: the loudest, most delighted squeal of your entire existence.

Your stomach plummets.

Because standing at the edge of the ballroom, her hands clasped together in sheer glee, is none other than Emi Iwaizumi herself. And she is positively vibrating with joy.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she gushes, and the way she looks at you is the exact way someone would look at their child who just announced they were getting married. “I knew it! I knew you two would be perfect together!”

Your soul leaves your body. You stare at her, horrified. You slowly turn back to Hajime—who, because he is an absolute menace, is still standing entirely too close, still holding you just slightly like he isn’t ready to let go.

And he is smiling.

The kind of smile that says I win. The kind of smile that says he is absolutely going to remind you of this for the rest of your natural life.

You physically have to stop yourself from shoving him away.

Instead, you inhale, sharp and deep, and will yourself to stay calm. Emi is still talking. She is still gushing. And you cannot deal with whatever she’s about to say next, so before she can so much as breathe, you turn back to Hajime, seize his wrist, and drag him off the dance floor, because if you don’t get away from this immediately, you are actually going to die of secondhand embarrassment and shame.

five.

This is because of your dry spell.

Your dry spell is the reason why your entire sense of self-control and awareness have gone out the window, and the reason why, now that you and Hajime have successfully escaped the ballroom onto the balcony, he is doubled over laughing and you are actually freaking out.

“Jesus fuck,” you groan, pressing your hands to your face. The cool night air does nothing to soothe the absolute catastrophe unfolding inside your brain. “I kissed you. I kissed you in front of everyone.”

Hajime straightens, still grinning like an asshole. “Yeah,” he says, entirely too pleased. “You did.”

You drop your hands, glaring. “Fuck you, dude. You’re not helping.”

He shrugs. “Wasn’t aware I needed to.”

You let out an incoherent noise of distress.

Hajime, because he is insufferable, just leans against the balcony railing, watching you unravel like it’s the best entertainment he’s had all night. His tie is slightly loosened now, his jacket unbuttoned, and somehow, he looks even better like this—a little rumpled, a little amused, looking at you like he already knows how this is going to end. 

That is actually unacceptable.

“This is your fault,” you snap, pointing an accusing finger at him. “You goaded me into it.”

Hajime raises an eyebrow. “Oh, so I made you kiss me?”

“Yes,” you declare, with full conviction, even though you definitely grabbed him first. “You set me up.”

He snorts, shaking his head. “You really can’t handle taking the L, huh?”

“I can handle it,” you insist. “I just don’t want to.”

His lips twitch like he’s trying very hard not to laugh again. “So you kissed me against your will?”

“Yes.”

Hajime tilts his head, amused. “Interesting. Because you seemed pretty into it.”

Your jaw drops. “I—you—shut up.”

He chuckles, and God, his voice is all warm and low and pleased with himself, and you really need to get it together before you do something stupid again.

You exhale sharply, crossing your arms and shifting your focus to the city skyline instead. Sendai stretches out before you in a sea of golden lights, a stark contrast to the absolute nightmare happening in your head. 

This is fine. You can recover from this. You just have to never, ever acknowledge it again.

You square your shoulders, turning back to him. “Okay. Here’s what’s going to happen. We are going to go back inside, pretend this never happened, and move on with our lives.”

Hajime hums, considering. “Yeah, I don’t think that’s gonna work.”

You squint. “What do you mean that’s not gonna work?”

He pushes off the railing, taking a step closer—too close, enough that you feel it again, that ridiculous, stupid warmth that shouldn’t still be there after all this time. “I mean,” he says, slow, deliberate, “you’re acting like that kiss was a mistake.”

You blink. “Because it was.”

He lifts a single eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

“Yes,” you say immediately, but it comes out way too defensive, and Hajime knows it.

He grins. You decide that you hate him.

“I’m sure,” you insist, crossing your arms tighter, like that will somehow make this whole situation less insufferable. “It was a heat-of-the-moment thing. A lapse in judgment. That’s it.”

Hajime tilts his head, thoughtful. “Okay. So if I kissed you again right now, you wouldn’t like it.”

Your entire brain short-circuits. The audacity. The unbelievable nerve.

You gape at him. “You wouldn’t.”

His grin widens. “Wouldn’t I?”

You hate how smug he looks. You hate that your stomach flips at the idea of it. You hate that you don’t immediately shut it down.

He watches your expression carefully, like he’s waiting for you to stop him, like he won’t actually do it unless you give him some kind of sign. Which is so much worse, because it means he’s giving you the chance to say no, to walk away, to end this before it can spiral any further.

But you don’t.

And that—more than the kiss itself, more than Emi’s squealing, more than the public spectacle you just made—is what finally sends you into full-blown panic mode.

You do want him to kiss you again.

You stare at him, pulse thrumming, brain caught in a violent tug-of-war between denial and desire. And Hajime? Hajime is watching you with the patience of someone who knows he’s already won.

“Say it,” he murmurs, voice low, steady.

You scowl. “Say what?”

“That you want me to kiss you again.”

Your jaw clenches. He’s baiting you, letting you choose, waiting for you to meet him halfway. You exhale sharply, tilting your chin up. “You’re so full of yourself.”

His mouth twitches. “Not an answer.”

“Fine,” you snap. “I want you to kiss me again.”

Hajime grins. “That’s all I needed.”

And then, he does.

This time, it’s slower, deeper, not rushed by the heat of the moment. He takes his time, like he’s savoring it, like he’s memorizing the way you melt into him. And you? You let him. Because, goddamn it, you were never winning this battle.

When you finally pull away, breathless, he smirks down at you. “See? Not a mistake.”

You groan. “I hate you.”

He laughs, pressing another quick kiss to your forehead that feels far more intimate than a casual pair of friends-with-benefits should. You, scandalized, shove him away, but Hajime just grins, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“You’re impossible,” you mutter, pressing your fingers to your forehead, like that will somehow stop the ridiculous heat crawling up your neck.

Hajime hums, smug. “And yet, you’re still standing here.”

You are still standing here. You could have left, could have walked back into that ballroom and pretended this entire thing never happened. But instead, you’re here. On this balcony. With him.

You shift, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. “So… what now?”

Hajime leans back against the railing. “Dunno. Guess that depends on you.”

You narrow your eyes. “Why do I feel like you already have an answer?”

“Because I do,” he says plainly, in a way so nonchalant and effortless it could only be said like that by him. 

You exhale sharply, tilting your head up to the sky, like the stars might have some kind of solution for this. “You know this is gonna be a thing now, right?”

Hajime raises an eyebrow. “A thing?”

“Yeah,” you say, making a vague gesture between the two of you. “A thing. Emi’s gonna lose her mind. She’s probably already telling the senior partners that her matchmaking career is a success.”

Hajime laughs, the sound easy, effortless. “Yeah. She probably is.”

You sigh, dragging a hand down your face. “I am never going to live this down.”

“Probably not.”

You squint at him. “You could at least pretend to be sympathetic.”

Hajime shrugs, then reaches for your hand, tugging you forward so suddenly that you nearly stumble into him. His hands slide down to your waist, thumbs brushing over the fabric of your dress. “I could,” he murmurs, close, too close, “but we both know I wouldn’t mean it.”

You scowl. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet,” he says, smug, “you still kissed me. Twice, actually.”

You glare. “Stop counting.”

“No promises.”

You groan, pressing your forehead to his chest in sheer exasperation. “This is my villain origin story.”

Hajime just laughs, wrapping his arms fully around you, and you hate—hate—that it feels nice, that it feels right.

“Hajime,” you say, voice muffled against his suit jacket.

“Yeah?”

You lift your head just enough to meet his gaze. “If we’re doing this, you are legally required to make it up to me with at least two fancy dates. Minimum.”

Hajime smirks, like he was already planning on it. “Deal.”

“And no getting too smug about this, either,” you squint.

He tilts his head. “Define ‘too smug.’”

You groan, shoving at his chest. “God, I hate you.”

Hajime just catches your wrist and grins, pressing a slow, soft kiss to your knuckles. “Sure you do.”

You really don’t. And both of you know that very well, because he has his mother’s spell-binding smile and you have always been a sucker for them both.

⨭ closing; churned this out over one 3 hour writing sesh bc i got this idea in my head and had to see it through. not proofread and very very hastily written, but i like her anyway. #comment #reblog #lemme know ur thoughts mwah xoxo

before you start dating hajime’s face is always super blank around you. eventually his friends notice, because it’s different from his usual RBF, but it doesn’t really indicate… anything. and when they eventually ask him why he fuckin looks like that he turns red and spits out that he knew everyone could see what a total dope he turns into around you. and they realize that in his perspective he looks like he’s positively mooning over you

imagine ending up with BAKUGO KATSUKI, your childhood best friend, again when you’re both grown, well aware of the tension that’d been there between the two of you since you’d been teens.

“what do you want from me?” you ask, voice low.

“you know what,” he murmurs back, lips barely brushing against yours. they’re soft, softer than you’ve imagined. growing up, he’d always had chapped lips. now, so many years after the last time you saw him, it’s different. all of it—not just his lips, but his eyes, the feel of his hands, the way he looks at you, softer, more gentle than before. everything has changed.

“wanna hear you say it,” you respond, like a petulant child.

he huffs out a humourless laugh, thumb rubbing circles into your hip. he’s always been fidgety when nervous—it’s a cute little giveaway, and he stiffens when you point it out.

BAKUGO grits his teeth. “well, if you’re g’na be like this, i’m leaving.”

“just say it,” you urge him. though your voice is teasing, a part of you is secretly terrified that you’ve got it all wrong.

“i know you’re scared,” he says suddenly. “but i won’t leave again, i swear.”

“and,” he leans in just a little closer to press his lips against yours. “i love you. now say it back.”

add up my love | ft. s.hinata

synopsis: after pining after you for what feels like a lifetime, hinata shoyo finally gets to experience the bliss that is waking up next to you.

pairing: ts!hinata shoyo x gn!reader | sfw | cw: kinda suggestive (waking up next to each other), slight manga spoilers | genre: fluff | wc: 946

Shoyo can’t believe his luck. Rolling over in bed, he’s greeted by the sweet— and slightly humorous— image of your sleeping figure. You look so peaceful like this, with your hair strewn across his threadbare pillowcase. The figure of the pillow you’re currently resting on is misshapen and wrinkled from the lack of care it’s received during his time abroad.

Last night, he had been embarrassed when you walked in and saw the disarray of his place. When he had imagined taking the person he’s been in love with since high school home, it hadn’t been to a bare and dusty room, but everything happened so fast last night, and he didn’t exactly have time to clean the place up for you. You hadn’t seemed to mind, though.

That was one of the things he liked most about you. How understanding and patient you always were.

Reminiscing on the past evening has his chest swelling with affection and excitement. He’s not sure he can contain his happiness for much longer.

“Are you up yet?” He whispers, trying his best to keep his voice level. In spite of his efforts, his voice penetrates the quiet hum that surrounds his room in a rather abrupt manner.

“Hm?” You murmur sleepily, which makes the spiker’s heartbeat speed up. The sound thrums in his ears, causing his face to heat up.

“I, um-“ He starts, nervous, “ Just asked if you’re up.”

You shift slightly, signaling that you’re still fighting sleepiness. Peeking out of one eye, you shoot Shoyo a soft smile before stretching your limbs slightly. The subtle action quickens his heartbeat, and a wide, unconscious smile spreads across his face. He can’t believe that he gets to experience you like this. A warm tenderness spreads through his body as he admires you further. You’re cute when you’re sleeping, and you’re even cuter when you’ve just woken up.

He may die from happiness.

“What’re you smiling at?” You hum, moving to rest your head on his chest. Shoyo’s sure you can hear the loud boom of his heart, but he’s decided he doesn’t care. All his cards are on the table now; he might as well play them. Blushing, he pulls you closer to him, doing his best to contain how elated he is at this moment.

You nuzzle your face into his chest, and he decides he’s definitely going to die.

Clearing his throat, he smiles down at you, his grin growing impossibly wider. He decides to take a chance when he picks up a piece of your hair and begins to play with it. The feeling of the lock between his fingers has him reveling in the intimacy of the moment. He thinks back to his time in Brazil when he opened up to Heitor about you. His beach volleyball partner had found it amusing— how hopelessly head over heels Shoyo was for you. He’ll have to text him as soon as he gets the chance.

“I asked what you’re smiling about.” You interrupt, poking his cheek playfully, eyes bright with mirth.

Shoyo considers his answer, trying to remember the tips Heitor had given him about how to speak to someone you’re interested in. Mind wandering, his eyes shift to the side of the room. He examines the shabby curtains and takes note of the morning light slipping through them. Maybe he’ll tell you he’s happy you’re here, or he’ll compliment you on how pretty you are. Did you like things like that? He hopes you do.

Before he can decide on an answer, his stomach grumbles loudly.

He freezes, slightly mortified, as the noise echoes through the room. He’s pretty sure Heitor never mentioned that loud stomach noises were a way to make himself more attractive to people.

“Hungry?” You laugh.

Breathing a sigh of relief at your amusement, he chuckles sheepishly, “I guess so.”

You sit up in bed, removing yourself from his grasp, and it’s all Shoyo can do to stop himself from pulling you back in again. Now that he’s experienced your warmth, he never wants to let go.

“You have food here? I can make us something,” You suggest, pushing a loose strand of hair back, bringing more attention to your face. Your position perfectly aligns with the sliver of sun that his curtains have allowed in. The ray of light shines down on you like you’re something out of a dream, which Shoyo figures isn’t half untrue.

Sitting up on his elbows, he shivers from the feeling of the covers slipping off and the cold air hitting his chest. While jarring, it’s a welcome feeling. It reminds him that he’s here and that he’s alive.

“I don’t think there’s much here,” He admits, rubbing the back of his neck, “I think I have, like, some chicken and protein shakes?” Cringing at the statement, he decides he’ll need to stop by the grocery store later today. He needs to be more prepared, especially if you’re going to be coming over more often.

Again, you laugh, looking down at him in adoration.

“I promise I usually have more. Back in Brazil, I-“ He tries to explain but is cut off by the feeling of your lips pressing against his. His breath catches, and electricity shoots through him. The scent of your shampoo is hypnotic. Eagerly, he tries to deepen the kiss, but you pull back before he can.

Staring at you in awe, he pouts at the sudden loss of feeling. You giggle and lay down on him again, “Let’s just stay here then. I like doing this.”

His heart swells once more, and he glances downward at you, smiling, “I like doing this too.”