Can You PLEASE Do A Husband!katsuki Reacting To The Reader And His Son Being Disrespectful Or And Rude

*sighs*

there’s a right and a wrong way to hold hands. you know this, because whenever katsuki extends his hand and you cup his in return, he frowns and releases tiny explosions from his palm—not big or intense enough to hurt you, just enough to tickle—until you’re giggling and readjusting your hands so that your fingers are laced together. he huffs to himself and then keeps walking, ignoring the way you tease him about being a romantic, much too focused on the feeling of your thumb is rubbing against the back of his hand, instead.

౨ৎ lot of pretty boys, lot of funny business

౨ৎ 𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆 — percy has missed you, and dang wait to show you just how much

౨ৎ 𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 — just a little bit freaky nothing explicit

▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁

“angel,” percy crooned, slipping behind you and slipping his arms around your waist. you melted into his warmth, head lolling back between his muscled pecs.

“hey, babe,” you hummed, smiling at the feel of your boyfriend holding you in his arms.

“i missed you, gorgeous,” he said, leaning down and pressing a kiss to your cheek, “missed your face, your lips,” he held you closer, trailing kisses along your jawline. suckling on the spot just bellow your ear. “your voice,” a small gasp escaped your lips.

“percy, we’re in public,” you sighed, but you couldn’t help but curl closer into him, tilting your head allowing him more aces to your neck.

“so…” he said, his hands tightening on your hips, rubbing circles along your hip bones. “i need you, angel,” he groaned, “haven’t seen you in so long,”

“it’s only been two days, percy,” you laughed, but percy growled quietly, tugging you closer. his hands slipping down your thighs.

“have you not missed me?” he questioned, lips on your neck, “did my gorgeous girl not need me while i was gone?”

“percy,” you sighed, “of course i did, i always miss you,” you replied, turning in his arms so that you could face him, leaning up and wrapping your arms around his neck. percy grinned at you, that charming smile that made your knees weaken.

“then love me, angel,” he pleaded, slipping his hands beneath your thighs and cocking them up so that they wrapped around his hips. he was so strong. effortlessly so. the way he could easily support your weight as though it were nothing and still hold that gorgeous smile that swept you off your feet.

his long tan arms holding you so impossibly close, you wanted him closer. so so much closer.

“baby,” you whispered, finally drawing his lips to yours.

percy kisses you as though you were the air in his lungs, the stars in his sky, his entire world held in his grasp.

he kissed like he would never kiss you again, would never feel the caress of his lips on yours, the slide of your tongue against his.

kissing percy was something like you had never felt before, you adored his lips on yours, would sacrifice everything for just five more minutes of being his. and only his.

“oh, my gorgeous, lovely girl,” percy said against your lips. “never leaving you again,’ he declared, running his fingers down your sides and playing with the hem of your top. “can’t,” he declared, kissing you deeply.

“won’t let you,” you hummed, feathering kisses along his lips and across his cheeks, “the gods have had you long enough, you are mine,” you said, sucking his earlobe into your mouth.

“oh, gorgeous you are gonna get us in trouble,” percy chuckled, swinging you around so that your back was pressed against a tree. you were sure there were probably nymphs pressed together giggling about the pair of you but you couldn’t bring yourself to care as percy slipped his fingers up your top, squeezing your breasts.

“fuck,” you groaned, lopping your fingers through the belt buckles of his shorts. “i love you, love you so much,” you whimpered, as percy pressed closer, his flush against yours.

“i love you’re more, gorgeous girl,” percy swore, words sweeter that a promise.

“prove it,” you hummed and percy dove straight back in, determined to prove himself.

i feel like we don’t talk about this scene from the titan’s curse enough, because i think about this a lot. like… a lot. the way he was just like ‘oh i can move faster than bullets, that’s cool’, and then immediately moved on and never thought about it again?? i mean, i knew he could SWIM at mach 5, which is…. hypersonic speed, and equivalent to 3836 miles per hour. and i know all demigods are naturally a bit faster than humans. but like… he can move faster than bullets?

i guess i just wasn’t expecting perseus to go all spider-man on me, that’s all

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

omg the bodyguard trope is one of my favorites i’m gnawing at the bars of my enclosure PLS MORE

iwaizumi’s leaning up against the passenger side door of his car when you approach, the phone clutched in his hand long forgotten as his eyes carefully begin to rake over your form. 

realistically, you know he’s just doing his job—making sure you’re leaving your date in one piece. but warmth flares in your gut all the same under the weight of his assessing gaze.

(you’d be lying if you said you didn’t pick out this specific red dress for tonight for him, after all.)

he doesn’t bother asking how your date went, because he’s been nearby the entire evening.

“can we stop at that bakery before we head back?” you point a little ways down the street.

for once, iwaizumi doesn’t sigh at your request, but his face remains pinched in annoyance all the same as he pushes off of the black sedan and approaches you.

“shithead could have at least offered you his jacket earlier,” he grumbles, shrugging off his own and draping it over your shoulders before gently placing a hand at the center of your back and nudging you forward.

“it’s not that cold out,” you protest, though the way you shiver at a sudden gust of wind says otherwise.

iwaizumi does sigh at that, arm automatically wrapping around you when you wobble slightly in your heels on the uneven pavement. he keeps you close as you continue to walk.

tucking your face into the warmth of his jacket, you hide the curve of your lips as you inhale the scent of his cologne. 

bakugou says “I’ll mess you up just enough to not be disqualified” I really think that growing up he was excellent at figuring out exactly where the line was of how much he could mistreat people without consequences, and then sitting right up under it. And he never messed it up because he has so much skill/awareness/control over himself

welcome back to frat boy, bf! katsuki, but you're taking a nap and you miss his calls for the first time...

k<3 :

u home yet??

2 missed calls – the loml<333

k<3 :

yo. you said you were leavin class 20 mins ago.

stopped somewhere?

4 missed calls – the loml <333

k<3 :

sweet girl. answer me

not fuckin playin

7 missed calls – the loml<333

k<3 :

i swear to fuck if ur phone died again im gonna duct tape a charger to ur bag

10 missed calls – the loml<333

k<3 :

come on

please

just text me

by the time the clock ticks past 10 minutes, katsuki’s spiraling.

he’s already speed-walked home from campus—snarled at kirishima when he offered to tag along, ignored denki yelling something about pizza—and practically slammed the front door open.

he checks every room with increasing panic.

kitchen? empty. bathroom? lights off. your shoes? by the door. your bag? slung carelessly on the couch.

his heart’s in his throat now. he storms to the bedroom and—there you are.

sprawled out across the bed in your favorite hoodie (his, of course), wrapped in a nest of blankets like some cozy little shit, hair a mess, cheek smushed into the pillow. dead to the world.

katsuki just stops in the doorway. halfway between furious and relieved. he exhales so hard it sounds like a curse, raking a hand through his hair. “fuckin’ hell, woman.”

he watches the slow rise and fall of your chest, the tiny puff of breath from your lips, the faint twitch of your fingers as you shift slightly, still completely out of it.

he pads over slowly and crouches beside the bed, bracing himself on the edge of the mattress. just watching you sleep like it’s the most precious thing he’s ever seen and the most infuriating thing he’s ever dealt with.

you don’t even stir.

“called you ten fuckin’ times,” he whispers, brushing your hair away from your face gently, thumb lingering at your temple. “had my heart about to claw outta my chest.”

he glares down at your peaceful expression. “you couldn’t send one goddamn text?”

you snore a little.

he huffs out a soft, involuntary laugh and leans forward to kiss your forehead, lingering there for a moment.

“stupid girl,” he murmurs, voice rough now—not angry, just overflowing with that messy blend of worry and love and the kind of fear he doesn’t even want to name.

“you scared the shit outta me,” he says, voice barely audible now.

he kicks off his shoes, strips down to his hoodie, and climbs into bed beside you, dragging you into his chest like he needs to feel your heartbeat under his palm.

and maybe he does.

he buries his face in your neck, breathes you in, and closes his eyes—like maybe if he holds you tight enough, you’ll never slip away without him noticing again.

“you ever ignore my calls again, i’m gonna kill you… then bring you back just to yell at you.”

it takes a minute for your senses to catch up. the first thing you register is warmth—a lot of it. the solid wall of heat behind you, the weight of an arm slung heavy around your waist, a hand gripping your thigh like it belongs there.

you blink awake slowly, the sunlight slicing through the curtains, warm and golden against your cheek. your mouth is dry. your head is foggy. your entire body feels like it sank into the mattress and refused to surface again.

you open your eyes fully, only to find katsuki awake. already looking at you. already scowling.

he’s lying on his side, propped up on one elbow, messy blonde hair sticking up in every direction. his eyes are sharp—wide-awake, unblinking, trained directly on your face.

“you almost died.”

you blink. “what?”

“you almost died,” he repeats flatly, voice low and grumpy. “that’s the only excuse i’ll accept.”

you shift slightly, throat dry. “what are you—?”

“my calls,” he snaps, cutting you off. “my texts. ten fuckin’ calls, sweets. not a single goddamn word.”

you glance over at your nightstand. your phone is there. fully charged. blinking with a whole list of missed notifications.

“oh my god.”

your brain stutters through memories. class had wiped you out. you’d come home, tossed your stuff down, meant to take a quick nap—and clearly crashed harder than you thought. hard enough to sleep through ten calls and a boyfriend having a full panic spiral.

you roll onto your back, face him, voice small. “i didn’t mean to worry you.”

he narrows his eyes. “you didn’t answer. you could’ve passed out, gotten jumped, gotten hit by a fuckin’ car for all i knew.”

your stomach turns with guilt. “i’m sorry…”

he exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face, frustration fading into something a little softer. “i came home ready to break the door down. thought i’d find you hurt or... i dunno... fuck.”

his voice breaks a little on that last word.

your chest aches. you sit up slowly, sliding into his lap and cupping his face with both hands. he doesn’t resist. just leans into you, his arms wrapping tight around your waist like he needs you right there, like it’s the most natural place for them to be.

“i just passed out,” you whisper. “like… sleep coma status.”

“you didn’t even flinch,” he mutters. “thought i was gonna have to check your pulse.”

you snort softly. “i was probably dreaming about you yelling at me.”

he squeezes your thigh, resting his forehead to your collarbone. “not funny. you’re not allowed to scare me like that again.”

you can feel his heart thudding against your chest—still fast, still a little shaken. you lean against him and whisper, voice quiet: “what happens if i do scare you again?”

he pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes. something soft settles in his expression. that sharp edge in his gaze dulls just a little—not gone, but mellowed, focused. it’s the look he only gives you, like you’re the only thing on the planet worth softening for.

he thinks for a second.

“first,” he says, tone completely serious. “i panic. obviously.”

you snort.

“then,” he continues, brushing a thumb along your jaw, “i break into your phone, make it so the ringtone screams your name at full volume. every time. forever.”

you giggle. “that’s horrifying.”

“i’m not done,” he deadpans. “next, i put a gps tracker in your backpack. and your keychain. and maybe your bra.”

you raise a brow. “my bra?”

“don’t question my methods, woman. i need intel.”

you laugh again, leaning fully into him, resting your head in the crook of his neck. he goes quiet. arms wrap tighter around you, firm and warm.

“maybe... i’d hold you like this,” he says, low and sure. “and not let go for a long time.”

you close your eyes as his hand slides up your back, smoothing slow circles into your spine. the rest of the world fades out, tucked away beneath the weight of his embrace and the soft beat of his heart against your cheek.

“and,” he adds, voice barely a whisper now, “i’d make sure you never forget how much you matter to me.”

your throat tightens a little. you bury your face deeper in his neck, smile trembling.

“okay,” you breathe.

“yeah?” he murmurs, holding you a little closer.

“yeah. i promise not to scare you again."

there’s a beat of silence. then—

“good,” he mutters. “’cause i might start showing up to your classes and shit.”

you snort into his shoulder, brushing your fingers through his messy hair. “i promise i’ll keep my phone on ring from now on.”

“you better,” he grumbles, then pauses. “swear to god, i aged five years in seconds.”

you smile, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “you’ll still be hot, even gray.”

he gives you a dry look. “tch. you’re lucky i love with you.”

you grin. “i know.”

his eyes narrow. “oh, do you now?”

and that’s when it happens—he pulls back just enough to stare at you, eyes narrowed, before reaching up and squishing your cheeks between both hands, mushing your lips into a pout.

“you have to say it back,” he barks, holding your face like a grumpy old man scolding a puppy, his thumbs digging into your squishy cheeks. “or i’ll keep doin’ this.”

you try to speak, but it just comes out as a muffled, “i lubb youuuu.”

he snorts, his grin slowly tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“i love you more, sweet girl,” he mutters, releasing your cheeks.

your lips are still puffed out from where he squished your cheeks, but he kisses them anyway—warm and slow and just a little too soft for someone who was grumbling about murder five minutes ago.

his palm stays on your jaw, thumb brushing lazily along your cheekbone, as if he’s still making sure you’re real. your cheeks are still tender from where he squished them, the warmth of his palm lingering.

you feel him press a kiss to the top of your head, and you let yourself melt a little further into him.

wrapped up in warmth and safety and the ridiculous, overprotective heart of the boy who loves you more than he knows what to do with.

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

⋆˚࿔ kia's note ˚⋆ this happened to me last week and i missed the opportunity to buy what i want from mcdonalds 💔 (the minecraft toys here are ASS) hope you guys enjoyed, also how do i make them fuck any suggestions 👉👈

papa?

picking up your husband iwaizumi hajime after his days work at the gym is over with your baby wrapped up on your chest. something had gone wrong with his car, resulting in it currently at the repair shop being fixed. this left you and your one year old son in charge of pick up duty. you slide open the door and step into the vast gymnasium of japan’s national men’s volleyball team, greeted with the sound of shoes squeaking on freshly polished hardwood floor and the smack of volleyballs being spiked over the net. sitting on a bench off to the side of the court is hajime, writing some type of report in a notebook with a focused expression. you walk along the sidelines to him, holding your baby’s head to shield him from any unsuspected volleyballs that may fly your way.

hajime only looks up from his work as you seat yourself next to him, typical. he’s always so focused and invested in his job. only during his work hours is he like this, though—he always makes time for his two favorite people.

hajime smiles at you and places a kiss to your temple in greeting, putting his notebook and pen off to the side before shifting in his seat to face you more directly. “hey. didn’t realize you were here.”

“must’ve lost track of time again, right?”

“as usual,” he admits a bit sheepishly, “i really need to finish filling out this sheet of supply orders for next month.”

“hmph. you have that nice smart watch but you hardly ever pay attention to when you need to clock out of work,” you gesture to the sleek black band on his wrist as you speak.

“sorry, love i—” his words are cut off by the babbling of your son, who’s stubby arms are reaching for his papa. he looks up at his dad with wide and admiring eyes, dawning the same tan skin as his father and the same deep brown color in his wispy head of hair and irises. there’s not a doubt in sight that he’s hajime’s child; he’s practically the spitting image of him.

you two can’t help but chuckle at his efforts to cling to his dad, his movements restricted by the wrap holding him close against your chest. “you wanna give papa a hug?” you coo.

the restraint doesn’t give in, and your son looks up at you with an adorably frustrated face of confusion and surprise at the spectacle. “you can’t get anywhere in this wrap, huh?” you say as you gently pull him out of the restraint, handing him off to hajime.

once your son is in hajime’s arms, it’s within an instant that he wraps his small and chubby arms around his neck. hajime holds him securely against his chest, an affectionate laugh escaping his lips at the way his baby boy looks up at him with such adoring eyes. “looks like you really missed your papa,” hajime says fondly before placing a peck to the top of his delicate head. at this, your baby giggles loudly and begins to blabber incoherent sentences, ones that hajime pretends to understand nonetheless.

“you know, once we got here, he kept asking me ‘papa?’ the whole walk from the parking lot to the entrance. i guess he recognizes this place pretty well now.”

“oh, really?” at your words he peppers kisses all along your son’s chubby cheeks, “papa missed you too. so, so much.”

and it’s not without your son first being showered with praise and love from the team that the three of you leave to go home, praise that your baby accepts with innocent giggles and lots of squirming—all from the comfort of his papa’s warm embrace. undoubtedly his favorite place to be.

masterlist | taglist | tags: @scoupsworld @amaliaaliena @mires765

a/n: iwaizumi is such a good boy dad. a little self indulgent bcs i have big baby fever.

© evamame 2025. all rights reserved. please do not repost, modify, steal, plagiarize, or translate my work.

WOOF WOOF GRRRR

Gym motivation || Iwaizumi Hajime

You always liked watching Iwaizumi workout. It was mesmerizing—the way his muscles flexed and stretched under the weight, the steady rise and fall of his chest as he pushed himself harder, the sharp focus in his eyes. And now, years later, after he had carved a career out of fitness and sports science, watching him train in his own gym was an entirely different kind of experience.

Because now, you got to be part of it.

“Alright, sit,” Iwaizumi says, dropping into a push-up position.

You grin, already moving to straddle his back, your weight settling over his strong frame. His muscles twitch slightly at the added pressure, but he barely hesitates before he starts. Smooth, controlled movements—like you weigh nothing at all.

“Still too easy?” you tease, resting your chin in your palm.

Iwaizumi huffs, but there’s a smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re gonna have to try harder than that.”

You shift your weight slightly, adjusting your position, and he grunts at the change in balance. His arms flex harder, veins popping against his skin as he continues his reps. Your fingers absentmindedly trail over his shoulders, feeling the warmth of his skin, the power beneath it.

“Enjoying the view?” he asks, voice steady despite the strain.

“Very much.” You don’t even try to deny it.

After he finishes his set, you hop off and watch as he moves to the bench press. This time, you’re his spotter, standing at the head of the bench while he lies beneath the bar. His arms extend, lifting the weight effortlessly, but you stay close, hands hovering just in case.

Not that you think he needs it.

His gaze flickers up to yours between reps, and there’s something almost playful in his eyes. “You’re supposed to focus on the bar, not my face.”

“I am focused. Just not on the bar.”

Iwaizumi lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head before racking the weight. He sits up, sweat dripping down his temple, and you hand him his water bottle. He takes a sip, then leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he looks at you.

“You should train with me sometime,” he says, wiping the sweat off his face with his shirt—giving you an absolutely unfair glimpse of his abs in the process.

“I am training,” you counter, gesturing to yourself. “Moral support is a very important part of the gym experience.”

He rolls his eyes, but you don’t miss the small smile that tugs at his lips. “Yeah, yeah. You just wanna sit there and look pretty while I do all the work.”

“Exactly,” you say, beaming. “And you love it.”

He doesn’t argue. Instead, he reaches out, tugging you closer by the waist until you’re standing between his legs. His fingers drum lightly against your hip as he looks up at you, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“I do,” he admits, voice low. “But if you’re gonna keep distracting me, I might have to start making you work out with me.”

You pretend to consider it, then shake your head. “Nope. I think I’ll stick to my role.”

Iwaizumi chuckles, pressing a quick kiss to your stomach before standing up. “Fine. But if you’re gonna sit there looking pretty, at least count my reps.”

You grin, hopping onto a nearby bench to continue watching him train.

Best gym session ever.

born to marry him, forced to read fanfics about him