just thought about stepdad bakugo being caught off guard the first time your teenage son calls him “dad” 🥺
it’s after years of being with you. their relationship isn’t bad by any means—it’s okay; it’s good. but your son has called him katsuki for the longest time, and he was happy with that, perfectly content even (at least, he thought he was).
it was enough that your boy dubbed his cooking “the best in the entire universe and beyond”; it was enough that your boy trusted him enough with a few harmless secrets that you may never know. it was enough that you’d both welcomed him into your home, into your lives, in a way that’s made him feel like he belongs.
it was enough (at least, he thought it was), until your kid comes home with a group of friends one day and they ask him, “who’s the guy in your backyard?”
between the scrapes of soil against his gardening shovel and mild hearing problems, katsuki shouldn’t have been able to hear anything—but he hears this loud and clear.
your kid tells his friends, “oh, that’s just my dad,” like it’s the most obvious, natural thing in the world and it hits katsuki square in the chest.
the next thing he knows, he’s smiling, eyes a little wet but not yet crying (—is what he’ll tell you later). it’s a small curve of his lips, but it stays plastered on until the moment you come home.
you wonder, when the three of you are cleaning up after dinner, “what’s got you all smiley today?”
he looks at you, back a little straighter and chest puffed out just a bit more. then, he glances at your son just an earshot away, wiping the table clean; he turns to you, mumbling, “tell ya ‘bout it later.”
(like he’s got all the pride in the world, like he’s got all the love in the world).
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.
papa nanami and how he can't decide which fleece jacket he should buy for his little girl—
they’re tiny, the length of the fabric spanning his two palms and a half. he’s thinking hard on this one—tan or pink? tan or pink… tan or pink.
the store is closing soon; the only free time he had was after work, now, half an hour before dinner. he should hurry so he can go home already—to his little girl and you.
he sighs, holding the jackets up again. tan or pink...
hm.
he makes his choice.
.
when he arrives home, crouching low as his little girl comes crashing into him—the shopping bag falls to his side, hands holding her close. you peek from the kitchen, smile warm and in love.
kento always makes it in time for dinner, no matter what.
after tickles and giggles and a big munching on her cheek, your little girl pulls her papa by his pinky, dragging him over to you.
you always give him a kiss on the cheek.
“welcome home, my love.” you whisper by his ear, setting the last bowl of food down on the dining table.
you spot the shopping bag by the foyer, sneaking him a look, “did some early gift shopping?”
he follows your eyes, picking up your little girl as he sets her down on her seat.
“bought some fleece jackets for her, before it gets too cold.”
your lips curl up, knowing you chose the right man; his foresight, the way he looks after you both—it makes your heart swell as you walk to pick up the shopping bag.
when you pry it open, you’re met with fuzzy bundles of tan and pink. you snort, “couldn’t pick?”
he flushes, cheeks turning the same shade as the fabric in front of you—he points to his suit, “she said she wanted to match with me.”
your mouth forms an ‘ah’, still smiling, “and the pink?”
“i thought it’d look cute on her.”
he turns to your little girl, grip tight on her silicon utensils as she stabs around her food. she’s almost on her way to full sentences now and it shouldn’t make him this sentimental, but it does.
he wants her to stay this tiny forever.
his little girl.
“what do you think, baby?” you hold up the pink jacket beside you, speaking to your daughter.
she giggles, silicon fork in hand as her bib bounces; her eyes, the same brown as her papa’s but shaped like yours, sparkles, “pwitty! pwitty on!”
“papa always has good taste doesn’t he?” you look at your husband fondly.
your little girl babbles, giggling.
and nanami doesn’t know what he did to deserve this—your little family, but if he has to buy every fleece jacket in the world to keep you both warm and toasty, he will.
he’ll even make you all matchy.
comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡
@kentoangel @em1e @augustinewrites @crysugu @soumies @itadorey @mididoodles thought about u all while writing this 🥹
new year superstitions (or some shit) | bakugo katsuki
wc: 1.4k
summary: bakugo's never believed in timing things for luck (or: affection is hard, but bakugo thinks it's about damn time he tries harder)
contains: written with f!reader in mind but can be read as gn!, aged up!pro-hero bakugo (mid-twenties), reader is described as pretty, vaguely alludes to reader's quirk, established relationship, fluff.
you slip into bakugo's space just a few minutes shy of touching the new year.
everywhere around you is loud, lively in the way new year's eve parties go; a group of people down the street stand outside of a bar, waving their streamers and blowing on small trumpets to welcome the next hour. from a distance, fireworks are shooting up to the sky, right above some luxury hotel having its annual countdown.
it's neither bakugo's thing nor yours to be up this late, partaking in celebrations like this, but he supposes some things are worth experiencing at least once—
the scent of your perfume hits him before he sees you, the space around him tightening in that familiar way the air around you shifts when you hold your breath. you smile, a small, gentle lift of your lips that falls into pace with your blink. pretty.
warmth pools in his stomach, building slowly to crawl its way up his neck and over his ears, overflowing to dust his cheeks.
"thought you looked a little lonely over here," you mumble, stifling your giggle as you watch him turn pink.
he furrows his brows, a soft "tsk," escaping his lips out of habit as his head turns to you. you always tease him like this; he should be getting used to it by now.
a gust of wind picks up from your spot on the balcony, pushing the glass door shut. the noise from inside muffles to dull chatter, the beat of tonight's music recognizable only by the subtle vibrations on the metal railing resting against his back.
the winter breeze seems to have tapped you, too, as you tuck your chin deeper into the red scarf around your neck.
"y'should've stayed inside," he nods to you then to the balcony door, crossing his arms, "s'cold here."
you frown, inching closer, just enough that you could loop your arm with his if you wanted, "sometimes, i can't tell if you're bad at taking hints or just really good at ignoring them."
he eyes you from the side, red vermillion the shade of your scarf—the one he gifted you just a few days ago for christmas. you pout, loosening the fabric around your neck so he can hear you clearly.
"you know," you take in a shaky breath, "this is the f-first time we're at s-something like this as y-y'know…” you pause, glancing at him to gauge his reaction, “t-together."
his nose turns a shade of pink darker; it's true, and he can hear you clearly—every tremor, every shiver. he sees you pretty clearly too, the softest hint of red on your lips. this relationship with you is new, just a little over a couple of months, and it makes him think—
"k-katsuki, are you e-even—"
it's reflex when he does it―his hand shooting out to grip your elbow, pulling you closer into his parka. right where you were standing lands a small clump of snow, fallen from the balcony of the unit above.
you look up almost immediately, a little flustered.
"s-sorry―"
bakugo feels warm despite the cold, heat blazing across his entire face as little puffs of air tickle his neck when you speak. like he said, this relationship with you is new, and though he's held you a few times already, affection, in any capacity is still something he's getting used to.
and you're aware of that too; of course you are. but when you push yourself away to create some space―
"told you s'fuckin cold."
―he keeps his other hand on your back, holding you into place.
bakugo is intense in most aspects; he meets things headfirst with no hesitation, but being this close to you makes him feel weird, a kind of unusual he thinks he should approach with caution―as if to keep himself from ruining the moment.
so his eyes wander. down the street, on the view behind you; they focus on the wisps of your hair ruffled from the earlier breeze, the tips of your eyelashes, blinking. then slowly and carefully, they land on you.
and you―
you beam, eyes widening momentarily before flashing him the brightest smile. it stills him so much that he doesn't notice your hands loosening the scarf around your neck even more, unwinding the fabric until the lengthened ends sit on your palms.
it's when you say "okay," gently and so... so... sweetly, that he feels the softness of wool hit the tips of his ears and down his neck. an ache spreads throughout his chest as he locks eyes with yours, tongue pushing against the roof of his mouth for another tsk―but you beat him to it, your finger coming up to press against his lips.
"s'cold," you giggle, a hint of teasing.
he narrows his gaze, about to retort when you both hear muffled shouts from inside the party, "ten... nine... eight..."
the group of friends down the street seem to be in on it too, echoes in unison, shouting, "seven... six... five... four..."
and from afar, right where the hotel is situated, are the numbers "three... two... one..." lit up on the sky.
you tug on bakugo's parka to draw his attention; the expression on your face is something he can't quite decipher―winter on your cheeks and your lower lip pulled between your teeth. the air around him tightens again, evidenced by the way you suck in a breath.
then, it happens all too fast―the way you tiptoe up just that little bit; your fingertips stamping chills down the edges of his scarred cheek. you kiss bakugo right as the new year strikes and the moment happens too quickly for him to notice.
"happy new year, katsuki," you whisper, close enough that it tickles his chin. it must have been a small peck, it must have been. he can only assume as he blinks it back to memory.
you've kissed before―three times to be exact, four counting this one. and he's not opposed to it (what kind of idiot would be?); in full truth, he fucking loves it.
but, affection is hard, and fuck, it's always been you initiating it―
"sorry, too much?" you mumble sheepishly, pressing your lips together, "just figured since it's the new year and all..."
―which is even more fucked by the fact that you feel the need to apologize for it.
he stares at you, bewildered out of his fucking mind that he still hasn't grown the damn balls to kiss you himself.
so, to hell with new year superstitions, he thinks; bakugo's never believed in playing to luck and chance in the first place. he'll kiss you right now because he wants to―
because it's what he's been wanting to do since the start of tonight, since yesterday, since a week ago; since you kissed him the very first time and all he could do was stand there, trying to act like the very feel of his lips pressed against yours didn't make his mind howitzer impact right in that moment.
―it just so happens that it's the new year, and it's about damn time he grows the balls to initiate it for once.
his hand reaches for your cheek before you can take a step back, fingers slotting themselves by your ear and resting against the edge of your jaw. your eyebrows shoot up, the look in your eyes something between confused and surprised. his thumb slides itself across your cheek before swiping down to touch the edge of your lips, feeling.
there's a dull warmth beneath the pads of his fingertips, heating up when he leans in. the air tightens; breath on hold as his nose bumps into your skin, and it's faint, the slightest touch of your lips against his. your eyes fall shut before his do, and he shivers, a slight tremble as he deepens the kiss.
he starts out slowly, uncertain, moving his lips tentatively. it's a push and pull―soft, quick pecks sandwiched between longer, drawn out touching. it almost feels like this moment's been suspended amidst all the noise, lips locked and gliding, lingering; he swears he can feel you grinning.
your fingers grip the fabric of his parka and tug, and he sees it as a signal to be rougher, taking your bottom lip between his and slightly biting. you squeak the tiniest bit, but it's enough to make him pull away completely, eyes wide as his thumb presses against your chin.
"fuck," he whispers, catching his breath as he tugs just enough that he can see the inside of your lower lip, "did i hurt you?"
he's squinting, brows furrowed while looking for any sign of blood when you shake your head, stopping him. his gaze shifts to take you in―your glossy lips, slick with spit; your eyes, completely blown but somehow still twinkling, and when you giggle, he almost finds it cruel you have to look so fucking pretty.
"it's just your canines," you smile, "i like them."
fuck, he really should've done this sooner.
a/n: this ended up way longer than i planned woops! haven't written bakugo in a while but i miss the guy!! and i wanted to write him so terribly flustered and bad at affection but being so frustrated because he wants to try!!! and he should be better than this!! anyway! i had this idea around christmas time but couldn't write it in time for the new year because i got sick. so it's a little late, but i hope you enjoy!
i'm not sure if you remember my dear willow @willossom, but you sent me a request a good while back for one of my events with the prompt: saying "i love you" in all the ways you aren't used to for bakugo, and this reminded me loads of it!! 🥺 though this isn't the written request for that one yet (i have something else planned for it), i just wanted to let you know that i thought of you while writing this!!!
comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡
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.
papa bakugo and the thought that he intently raises his kids in ways to be unlike him.
and when they're older, asking serious questions about parenting like: why did you make sure we were friends with everyone on the playground? why did you always have to step away when you were mad? how come you don't like us seeing videos of you when you were younger?
he tells them it's because he never wanted them to turn out like him—that leading by example has always been more effective, and he wasn't exactly the best example back then. still doesn't feel like he is now but he's trying (at least, that's what you say, and it must count for something).
and his kids are confused because what does he mean he isn't the best example? all they want is to be like him.
they want the same fire, the dedication he puts in day in and day out; how he only ever gives his best and never backs down. one of the greatest lessons they've learnt from their papa is that a promise is a promise and you deliver on it. no matter what.
they want the same balance he's achieved, making time for both work and his family but especially his family—how they've never once felt second in his life; how he's managed to show up to every game, every performance like the superdad he is. and even when he doesn't make it for the entire thing, you can bet he's rushing in, all soot-covered and polo unbuttoned with the base of his suit underneath.
(you never told your kids, but on katsuki's 14th father's day, you held him while he cried, tears of relief from his eyes. he was watching their surprise, a day-in-the-life reenactment video of pro-dad bakugo katsuki, starring the kids and you).
they want to love the way he loves them, the way he loves you—attentive and all-in because bakugo katsuki never half-asses anything. he adds personal touches to each plate of breakfast he cooks: bear pancakes for his little girl, egg done scrambled and another sunny-side up for his two boys. and you always insist on having what he's having because you don't want to add to the hassle, but he knows your signature morning drink and serves it right by the plate beside his, always yours.
you always tell him that having your kids turn out like him now is all you could ever want, and he always scoffs, tuts and laughs like it can't possibly be true. but maybe if your kids tell him now, that they want to be just like their papa, he'll believe it—all the good in him that everyone sees but he can't seem to.
you hope he doesn't see it as a bad thing—that his kids have grown and chosen to in the shape of him.
for ur blurb: Midoriya, hands, and for a trope im thinking like first date ? first touch?
thanks for sending scout! 🫶
midoriya + hands + first touch
contains: pro-hero!deku x assistant!reader (i am a sucker for this), very cliche but i am a sucker for that too, reader wears flats and is also really clumsy
contrary to popular belief, pro-hero deku does not run as "hot" as the internet proclaims he does.
it's a reasonable expectation, you think, with how lively and bubbly he is. his hyperactivity must stem from some urge to constantly move, after all.
but, that's not what you feel on the first impact. on the initial collision.
routine patrols almost always result in your boss trudging up the emergency stairs, geared up and sweaty, because he refuses to occupy half of the elevator with the added real estate his hero suit takes up. it's sweet of him, awfully thoughtful really. the kind of person he is. but―
his office is on the 15th floor, and though he insists it's good warm up for the rest of the day, he's practically shedded off half of his suit by the time he reaches his floor, not quite heaving, but not quite breathing easily either.
today, you decide, you'll meet him half-way―bring down one of his extra shirts from the alarming amount he keeps stocked up in his office cabinet. and a bottle of water too, in case he's thirsty.
the trip down the emergency exit is made easier by a pair of flats you wear, a change initiated by midoriya during your first few months on the job. most assistants wear heels—an unspoken rule no one can quite explain. but—
“are your feet okay?” he asks as you both walk past a plaque that reads "gear support".
you look down at your feet before turning to him, confused, tilting your head slightly.
the corners of his eyes crinkle as he stifles a chuckle, endeared, "sorry.” his green mop of hair sways lightly as he shakes his head, “i mean, i noticed earlier. you were moving your feet a lot.”
your eyebrows shoot up, shoulders tensing as embarrassment washes over you. you immediately scramble on what to say, but your exchange quickly becomes a back-and-forth of who’s-realized-what when you notice midoriya’s freckled cheeks tint a dark pink.
“not—not like that’s wrong! or anything," he shakes his hands in front of him, palms splayed out in front of you. he immediately pockets one of them, taking a deep breath, "just,” before he sighs out, fingers hovering over the keypad to his personal gear room, “if your feet are starting to hurt, you should wear something more comfortable.”
and so here you are now, just having passed the tenth floor as you make your way down to meet your boss half-way. you can already hear his footsteps a few flights below, the heavy clunking of his boots echoing in the empty staircase.
you take another step, the bottle of water and t-shirt clutched tightly to your chest. you're careful to keep your feet light so as to not alarm him, but it must be his hero senses when you hear him call your name, his voice curling up in question as he stares at you from below.
you peer from the railing, smiling sheepishly as you raise up the items in your hand and wave.
some strands of his hair have matted to his forehead, the top portion of his suit zipped down to reveal the compression shirt he wears underneath. his eyes widen as he notices what you're holding, expression morphing into a small, relieved smile as he extends his legs to skip a step. you don't miss the small bow his head makes at your kind gesture.
it's at the landing of the eighth floor that midoriya pauses and waits, adjusting his pants and tucking his gloves into his utility belt as he watches you make your last few steps.
now, wearing flats to work has definitely solved a boatload of your discomfort in the agency; you no longer get blisters at the sides of your toes and your calves don't cramp the same way they used to. but while it's reduced the amount of times you've tripped and fallen by at least 50%, the constraint of a pair of heels is not the only factor that contributes to the little mishaps you typically get yourself into.
you're clumsy, to a fault―
as you take the second-to-the-last step before the landing, you somehow lose your footing and find yourself tripping, body going out of balance as it tips forward. you're preparing yourself for your inevitable fall when you think―
―not even a pair of flats can save you from that.
"oh my god―!" you squeak, voice involuntarily pulled from your throat as your hands fail to grab onto the railing. the split second you manage to get a glimpse of midoriya's face shows you that he's just as shocked as you are.
nothing can save you now, you fear.
except, maybe, a pair of pro-hero hands that just so happen to belong to your boss.
you're fully expecting to hit the floor when you're met with the firm surface of midoriya's chest instead, the damp fabric cool against your forehead. his hands are positioned separately along your waist and your hip, the one by your ribcage just centimeters shy from your chest.
if you aren't going to die from falling down the stairs, you're pretty sure you're going to die from embarrassment right now.
you blink, once, twice, a few times before his voice registers to you, the rumbling by your cheek accompanying his speech.
his concerned "are you okay?" feels like it should be a staple greeting at this point.
you maneuver yourself to stand upright slowly, the bottle of water and t-shirt still clutched in your other hand. his fingers grab a hold of yours to keep you steady, calloused skin touching yours.
you don't expect it, the slight shock you feel as his hand clutches your own; it’s cold and a little clammy amidst the bumps and grooves you feel from his scars.
the moment crashes onto you when you finally look up to face him, the embarrassment doubling you over to bow an almost perfect 90 degrees in apology, "s-sir deku, i'm so sorry!"
"h-hey," he laughs awkwardly, his hand reaching lightly to tap your back, "i-it's okay, you don't have to apologize―"
"i should've seen the last step, i didn't mean―" you remain in your bow, rambling.
"it's o―"
"i just wanted to deliver the shirt and maybe some water so you wouldn't have to―"
he glances at the items gripped tightly on your sides, his lips curling into a soft smile, “i really appreciate―"
"i didn't mean to cause more work―"
he sighs, amused as he crouches low to meet you eye-to-eye. you stop speaking, stunned by a pair of pine green staring at you. his freckled cheeks are dusted a familiar dark pink.
"please stop bowing," he requests, smile genuine and voice a little shy.
you scramble to stand straight, hands outstretched to give him the bottle of water and his t-shirt.
"h-here, sir deku. i'm sorry again, i'll do―"
"'deku'," he quickly replies, his hand reaching for the items. his fingers brush yours as he takes them from you—the second touch. it’s still a little cold, clammy as he says, "i mean, thank you. and just... just 'deku' is fine."
a/n: if i were to characterize reader, i would say they’re pretty similar to midoriya 😭 atp, they’ve also been working for a good year. reader has a developing crush on him (this scene is the trigger) and midoriya is really fond of reader! everyone teases him that his assistant is clumsy as heck but he kinda just shrugs it off and says it’s just their quirk (no pun intended), and that they’re really hardworking 🥹
cw: reader implied pregnancy, post-partum, fluff, established relationship
dad!iwa
it feels odd to be sentimental over something as seemingly small as this, but you suppose it’s just one of the things that comes with parenthood.
you should be used to it by now—the short, buzzed strands of iwaizumi’s freshly trimmed hair. you used to clip them yourself, back when you were both broke college students trying to cut corners between rent and overpriced groceries. years of practice have made you perfect it; somewhere between a buzz cut and a crew cut is the exact length that iwaizumi's found himself preferring your hands over any barber's.
it's a routine every other month, one you've kept up with as much as you could even during your pregnancy. but since the baby's arrival—always halfway between either of your arms or the crib—it's been tough to find the time for almost anything, really. the strands of iwaizumi's hair have overgrown, spiked up like the pictures you've seen of him when he was in high school.
—all until now, a little after two months of your little girl arriving earth-side; you've managed to set aside a few minutes to finally give him a trim. fluffs of his hair scatter around your living room, tiny imperceptible millimeters of them no doubt sneaking into the cracks of wooden floorboard.
he looks handsome, as always; fresh, as he kisses you thank you—and, not to toot your own horn, but you think this might be your best hand at it yet (or it might just be your hormones, who knows). it's funny, you think, how postpartum has hit you harder than you ever believed it would. one moment, you want to jump your husband after a fresh new cut, and in the next, you're hit with a sudden surge of emotions bubbling up to spill out of your eyes.
it's a split-second vision as you run your fingers over his head, shaking out any leftover cut hair. you picture it so vividly, the afternoons you've watched iwaizumi gently blow raspberries on her tummy. she'd giggle, clinging onto the then spiked up strands of his hair.
iwaizumi has to snap you out of it when he catches you near tears.
"hey," he immediately turns, grabbing your hand as he soothes you with soft hushes, "what's wrong?"
you bite your lip, trying to keep it in. it's ridiculous, after all—
"is it the hair? you did a great job, babe, you always—" his rambling is cut short when you shake your head, letting the tears fall on their own.
your frown deepens as you stare at him, eyes filled with emotion.
"she's gonna miss it," you half-sniffle, half-mumble, tilting your head slightly in the direction of your daughter's room, "that's all."
it takes him a while to comprehend what you mean as he furrows his brows; then, it clicks, and he stands to hug you immediately.
"aw, babe," he runs his palm up and down your back, almost the same way he rubs your baby girl's when he soothes her to sleep.
you didn't expect to get so emotional over iwaizumi's hair out of all things, but just imagining your little girl's reaction during play time with her papa is enough to break your heart.
"she won't have those strands to cling on to anymore," you tuck your head under his chin, "she'll be so confused."
iwaizumi kisses the top of your head, and you know, from the slightest movement, that he's stifling a smile.
"babies like sensory stuff right?" he mumbles, lips still pressed to your head. you nod. "her papa's head can be a sensory playground then."
you chuckle lightly; you suppose, you never thought to see it that way. and call it the hormones, or love, but when iwaizumi adds on so confidently, "she'll know it's me, and she'll know what to do because she's half you."
—you don't think you'd want your life any other way than it is right now.
