being in a relationship with iwaizumi is simultaneously the most secure yet frustrating thing because he does everything so right—loves you at your lowest, carries you through every insecurity, every pain, every setback, and lets you bask in the sunlight of all your successes as he supports you from the side. it would almost be everything you could ever ask for, except for the fact that he downplays his significance in all of it.
there is not a single doubt in your mind that iwaizumi loves you, but you wish that he didn't have to constantly compromise and brush things off like they don't matter as much to him when you know they do. his happiness matters the most to you, too.
"aren't we all fools in love?" is what oikawa likes to say.
"when you're happy, i'm happy," is iwaizumi's number one reply.
but none of it sits well with you. you don't want iwaizumi to constantly put you first, not when it means he has to compromise something again. not when his decision will always be dependent on whether or not it benefits you.
so you decide, this time, to play it like he does.
"let's go," you tell him over dinner. it's a yes to many things: to skydive like he'd always wanted during those two weeks you'll have as your "funemployment season"; to leave your job and move to wherever he's being relocated and promoted to.
his eyes widen in surprise, but just barely—you don't tell him all the details. you don't tell him that you're still deathly afraid of heights, or that moving means that you'd have to resign, and not that they were laying people off. you make your circumstances look as convenient for him just as he's done for you all these years, because a love like his is worth it.
and by the hopeful "really?" that floats across to you, you know you've made the right choice.
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cw: pro-hero bakugo, reader has boobs, kind of explicit/nsfw? idk i describe boobs, reader is smaller and shorter than bakugo, unedited sawry
bakugo's muscle tee looks as ill-fitting as it'll ever be draped over you.
there are reasons for this, perfectly founded and logical reasons for why that is—the main one being that, it's, well, his; two, maybe even three sizes larger than what it should be to fit you properly.
but, he can't stop staring, and there are reasons for that too—the main one being that, it's his, and yet, the only way he can ever imagine it now is when it's being worn by you.
your hips sway to the song you've been humming for the past five minutes. it's the same one, the chorus on a perpetual loop. he's sure it's the only part you know; you do this often enough that it's the only part he knows now, too.
the hem of his tee hits right at the top of your thighs, concealing just enough to tease, but he’s confident that if you reach up even the slightest bit for the cupboard overhead, there'll be nothing to hide.
he feels a little bit like a creep like this, watching as he stands in the middle of your shared living room, but it's impossible too look away—you've got to be doing this on purpose, right?
heat flares inside of him when you turn your body ever so slightly, the armhole of his muscle tee large enough to give him the clearest view of skin—
he gulps.
it's smooth, sloping just right; the side view of your under boob curves into its perfect shape and he can imagine it, feel—
(is this considered perving if he's been with you for years?)
the pan in front of you sizzles as you plop in god knows what. you pour in something from the side and wait, one hand propped on the hip you pop out. then, you pick up the pan, attempting to flip what's inside (probably a pancake, now that he thinks about it).
it’s hard to focus on what you’re cooking though, especially when all he sees is plump flesh jiggling, bouncing as you further agitate the pan.
he just got the pants of this suit readjusted, and now they're fucking tight.
bakugo normally runs hot; it’s kind of part of his dna. but this warmth is different, flushing him from head to toe. it creeps up the side of his neck, painting the tips of his ears a blooming red.
you turn around then, plopping the pancake on the plate atop the counter behind you.
"oh! you're done," you greet him with a smile. so. fucking. casually.
as if your tits aren't fucking peaking against the gray fabric of his tee.
as if you think he buys the fake innocence poorly concealing that sly, conniving look in your pretty eyes.
as if you aren't standing in front of him in his muscle tee, wearing nothing underneath it like you didn’t do this on purpose. like you don’t know what it fucking does to him.
his eyes squint suspiciously, deep vermillion staring straight into yours.
you tilt your head, the tips of your lashes kissing the top of your cheekbones as you blink. you reach for a bottle of honey.
“everything okay?” you ask, voice syrupy, sickeningly sweet.
your movements play in front of him languidly, the corner of your lips curling up slightly as you smirk. honey catches on your finger as you pop open the bottle cap.
he’s supposed to be out the door in five minutes if he wants to make it in time for a meeting at the agency. technically, he should already be there if he wants to keep up his track record of consistently being fifteen minutes too early.
but you start to approach him, rounding the kitchen island. there’s a narrow space between him and the slab of marble, but you slide into it like it was made for you.
he’s certain it was, from the way the tip of your nose brushes against his as you tiptoe. your tits are right fucking there, brushing against the skintight material of his suit.
there’s too much fucking fabric if you ask him, between cotton and spandex.
your grin widens, and he feels hot, the heat from his cheeks radiating.
then you whisper, still saccharine, “breakfast is ready,” before kissing him on the lips lightly. a short peck, soft in the way that promises more before you slip away, giggling in your retreat.
he huffs, watching you leave. his feet shift as he thinks.
five minutes, huh?
like hell he’s going to eat these damn pancakes for breakfast today.
it’s weird and wholly unexpected of himself, staying up past the bedtime he’s spent his entire youth following. but then, he guesses, that’s just one of the things you’ve managed to affect in him.
there’s no reason he should feel this uneasy; you share your location and reply regularly. your last message to him was 5 minutes ago and you’d even sent a selfie.
he knows the people you’re out with, knows the place your friends have chosen to party in. there are plenty of reasons for him to believe that you’ll make it back home safely.
but there’s always that one probability, that one off-chance that something happens—that something goes wrong.
he shuts his eyes, turning to face the ceiling after an unsuccessful 30 minutes of attempting to sleep on his side. his breathing speeds up ever so slightly, chest rising and falling in tandem with the thumps growing louder in his ears.
bakugo fidgets every time he blinks underneath his closed eyes—little zaps beneath his skin telling him to stay awake, stay alert; stay on his toes.
it must be the hero in him.
a large exhale, before bright red burns through the ceiling—he stares so intently at the space above him it’s a wonder a gaping hole hasn’t formed from it.
the pillow to his right is still empty, but it smells so much like your shampoo, his senses are playing tricks on him. comfort accompanied by worry.
he huffs out, finally getting up to slip his feet into his house slippers—a pair of fluffy orange he wouldn’t dare be caught in.
(but it’s from you, and it matches your black ones too.)
he paces around the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of cold water. the time on the wall reads 1:34 in the morning—he has to be up in 3 hours for an early start at the gym before patrol.
you’d told him he should go ahead and sleep but he can’t—he never can when he’s thinking about you.
a yawn escapes him, eyes watering. he might as well be productive and look over some of yesterday’s—
then you enter the door.
you’re a little bit of a stumbling mess as you turn the lock behind you, toeing off your heels on the genkan while holding onto the walls for support. you barely notice him until you spot those familiar orange fuzzy slippers in front of you.
“g’na fall over like this,” he mumbles, voice rough as he follows it with a tut, “stay still.”
before you fully realize it, he’s already knelt to the floor, cradling your ankle on his thigh with a gentleness reserved just for you.
“katsuki,” you whisper in surprise, “you’re still up.”
he hums, pressing his thumbs all over the sole of your foot before picking up the other.
“couldn’t sleep.”
he’ll spare you the details, the thrum of his heartbeat steadying, slowing now that you’re here with him. he yawns again, eyes starting to feel just a bit heavy. comfort and relief.
thinking about katsuki finding out about that little crush you had on shouto since seeing close-ups of him during the televised sports festival—you were in high school then, too.
he shouldn’t care about it because it doesn’t matter, it was so long ago and shouto’s always been marketed as the pro-hero pretty boy—consistently top 3 most handsome, the front cover of magazines, all that.
this is to be expected, it’s what everyone’s been tempted to react like.
but since finding out, he’s been stewing in… in whatever this bubbling, throbbing feeling in his head means. he’s snappier than normal, face scrunched up more than usual.
and every time he sees shouto he wants to strangle the hell out of him.
among all your cotton and silk pajamas, you prefer the thinning fabric of his faded tees. there are holes in some of them, just a few more seams away from their undoing as they fit far too large on you—but that’s why you love them.
they’re comfy and worn; lived in with love from the man that you love. when katsuki is gone for days or weeks at a time, you find his warmth intertwined within the threads of his t-shirts. when the fabric presses against your back, the bed doesn’t feel nearly as empty as it is.
(though it can never replace him. nothing can, you fear.)
“hoggin’ all my shirts,” he tuts, but you know it means nothing. the roll of white fabric is neatly folded unto itself, its crisp corners unfurling once handed over.
you giggle, shaking off its folds and fitting the hem right over your head. from the corner of your eye, you see katsuki’s gaze, watching you wrangle the fabric over you as the towel wrapped around your body slowly drops to the floor.
he turns away then, a little too quickly, a little too abruptly. if you look at him now, you’re sure you’ll find flushed cheeks and crimson eyes burning in shame for wanting you so inopportunely.
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hajime isn’t the most handsome nor is he the cutest or the prettiest. he might be close to being the hottest, but still isn’t quite there; he isn't the sexiest either, but his attractiveness is just insane.
he doesn’t announce himself when he walks into a room, but his presence seeps into your periphery, flooding your senses. he’s that guy who gives you a small smile and nods his head hello, disappearing with his friends or ducking into some corner of the room.
when you bump into him, his hand settles itself respectfully onto your mid-back, your arm, anything to steady to you. his cheeks turn a deep peach and he mumbles out an ‘oops’ with a small apology, letting go of you quickly. you have a feeling he only touched you because the situation called for it (respectfully).
he doesn’t smell of heavy musk or dark wood like all the other men you’ve met do, but he smells good. crisp. clean. an understated confidence. his outfit matches the same principle—a simple polo, fitted perfectly, with loose pants. put-together but never a try-hard.
hajime is balance and stability, harmony all in one. and he isn’t the most anything, but he reels you in like no one else can. a lingering memory.
cw: suggestive, just iwaizumi being hot in a muscle tee, use of 'baby', sweat, unedited sawry (this is my pure carnal desire for this man)
iwaizumi hasn’t worn a muscle tee in years—
it hangs off him like a singular piece of cloth, haphazardly cut to show off as much skin as possible. slutty, the way mattsun and makki had intended for it to look when they gifted it to him in his third year of college.
which, to be fair, maybe he was one—a slut, that is. whoring himself out completely with those ‘subtle’, ‘lowkey’ thirst trap instagram stories on his fitness account. the way his skin flushed a darker peach after your joint gym days was always borderline inappropriate, the strands of his hair sticking up in what you could easily mistake as sweat-matted sex hair.
iwaizumi’s muscle tee days are well associated with him being the image of absolute sin.
but it was all for you anyway: the instagram stories he set on ‘close friends’ only, the hours he kept free so he could align his gym schedule to yours—
“oh! that’s perfect!” you beam at him, your smile completely unaware.
“yeah. it all worked out…” he casually brushes it off.
—it was oikawa's idea in the first place.
"you have to sell yourself better iwa-chan," the brunet whines over the phone.
and so he did; followed every embarrassing idea oikawa came up with, posed and posted in ways extremely un-iwaizumi, and stocked up on muscle tees. a lot of them. only for him to be called—
"simp," oikawa snorts on the call. iwaizumi groans, rolling his eyes.
—"baby," you stop dead in your tracks, your breath on hold.
yeah, he thinks, it was all worth it because this is what you call him now.
"is that—?" you inch closer, mouth falling slightly open. he thinks there are stars in your eyes as you ask, "are you wearing—?"
oh.
iwaizumi looks down at the muscle tee hanging off his body and feels a little bit exposed. he just came from the gym and he hasn't worn a muscle tee in years, his collection of them having dwindled over time. the only reason he kept this one is because of its sentimental value, and the fact that it came from makki and mattsun.
compression shirts are his thing now, which you approve of very much, but you're both in the middle of moving, and some of his clothes are still in boxes.
you approach him slowly, "is this a comeback?" the smirk on your face grows when you reach him, your hands fiddling with the fabric.
this is the same muscle tee he was wearing the first time you told him you loved him.
he moves away before you can come any closer.
"sweaty," he scrunches his nose as he takes your hands into his, kissing your fingertips.
you scoff, pressing yourself right into his chest, "even better."
your hands cling to his sides, slipping underneath the damp cotton of his muscle tee as you rake your fingers down planes of taut muscle. he shivers, breath hitching as the heat travels up his body, flushing the sides of his neck deep peach.
you peer up at him and grin, placing small pecks at the areas of his collarbone that peek through.
fucking—
his hands grip your waist, keeping you in place as he tilts his head low, lips grazing just the tip of your ear.
"don't tease," he warns, voice low and hoarse, but his hands show no signs of moving away.
notes: i would like to thank @pastelle-rabbit for asking me the hardest question of all time, otherwise this little blurb wouldn't exist
thinking of kind of first meet with atsumu but he’s had the biggest crush on you from being a friend of a friend and the first time he talks to you he’s fumbling and stuttering and he doesn’t know what to say because you’re smiling at him prettier than he could have ever even imagined, and you’re saying his name, and did it always sound this good? did his ma name him atsumu because she knew, just like she always does, that you’d be saying it like that?
