#now that’s a real game changer! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

foreveia · 2 months ago

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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)

song i listened to writing this: 'hold your breath' by chase atlantic

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 anything.

You’re pretty sure.

“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, “I see 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.

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 Hajime Iwaizumi is annoyingly easy to talk to.

Which is not fair. It’s not fair at all, actually.

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-blinding 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

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bloomzone · 1 month ago

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quitting social media has been such a game-changer. People always ask me, “ what's your username ?” I say I don't have Instagram or TikTok.. and then they’re like, “What the fuck? How are you living under a rock?” But honestly, it’s been three years now and still counting, and I feel so much better. I used to scroll endlessly on Instagram, and looking back, I can see how that was kind of ruining my life. I’m not the type to just scroll all day anymore, and when I try to download something like tiktok , I end up deleting it. I just don’t feel the need for it. Now, I spend my time journaling, watching movies, listing to my fav songs, posting on Tumblr , I love also to make list of movie to watch during different mood basically watching anything that can improve my habits and my systems.. doing things that make me feel good and actually living instead of getting lost in a never-ending scroll life taught me that no social media = no enemies . The change is real, and honestly my life’s just better without social media ! I’m not saying social media is toxic for everyone or that people should just delete it, it’s just not for me anymore. It’s not about acting like I’m above anyone or judging people who are still all in. Honestly, I think it’s just about realizing that it wasn’t doing anything positive for me anymore. I was stuck in this loop my grades were trash constantly comparing myself, It got exhausting and I was only (13yo or 14 ) So, I decided to stop. It’s crazy how much quieter my life feels now, how much more I can just be without needing to check what everyone else is doing. The pressure to be someone I’m not, to be constantly available and “on,” just vanished.

@bloomzone

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thefemigirl · 2 months ago

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★ Embrace Uncertainty for True Happiness

I recently started reading this amazing book about Emotional Intelligence and it totally opened my eyes to how important it is in our daily lives. Emotional Intelligence isn’t just about understanding our feelings—it’s also about being flexible and open to whatever life throws our way.

Just imagine this: You’ve set your heart on landing a specific job right after university. You imagine how perfect it will be working there, you already know how you'll organise your desk, and window shopping your future office outfits. But when things don’t go as planned i.e. you don't get the job, you feel crushed and start doubting yourself and feel you're not good enough or just plain unlucky in life. Personally I've been there TOO many times. This fixed mindset can blind you to other awesome opportunities that might be just as fulfilling.

However, I have some tips from the book on how to emotionally manage these kinds of situations!

▸ Step 1: Stay Open-Minded

Tell yourself, “I don’t know what the future holds, but I’m open to learning and growing from whatever comes my way.” Let go of those rigid expectations and embrace life’s unpredictability.

Why it matters: Staying open-minded helps you adapt to new situations and discover unexpected joys.

Real Talk: I once had a super fixed idea of becoming a neurosurgeon (brain doctor), but when I left highschool early, I thought I would be a failure forever. Then a Software Development apprenticeship opportunity popped up, I decided to give it a shot. It turned out to be one of the best decisions I ever made!

▸ Step 2: Focus on the Present

Make the most of your current experiences instead of always planning for some future “perfect” situation. Ask yourself, “What’s good about this moment right now?”

How to do it: Try practicing mindfulness through meditation or just take a few minutes each day to appreciate your surroundings.

Pro Tip: Start a gratitude journal. Every day, jot down three things you’re thankful for in the present moment. It’s a game-changer!

▸ Step 3: Embrace Growth in All Experiences

When challenges come your way, look for opportunities to learn or grow. Instead of labelling something as entirely good or bad, ask, “What can I take from this experience to make me stronger or wiser?”

Action step: After any setback, take a moment to reflect on what you’ve learned and how you can use it moving forward.

Personal Insight: During a tough breakup, instead of dwelling on the pain, I focused on what the relationship taught me about my needs and boundaries. This helped me grow and prepare for healthier relationships in the future.

Building emotional intelligence isn’t something you do overnight—it’s a continuous journey of self-discovery and adaptation.

So, as you navigate your own path, remember to embrace the uncertainty and trust that each experience, whether good or bad, is shaping you into a stronger, wiser version of yourself.

Here’s to your amazing journey ahead,

#emotional intelligence #it girl #it girl energy #growth #self growth #self improvement #self development #self love #becoming that girl #girlboss #girlblog #girlblogging #advice #book rec #self esteem #studyblr #tumblr girls #girlhood #womanhood

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confusionmeisss · 8 months ago

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“𝐠𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫” 𝐠𝐟 - 𝐦. 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐨

🫧 matt sturniolo x fem!reader

🫧 in which you play dress to impress with matt during one of his solo streams

🫧 fluff

🫧 1.4k words.

🫧 hi lovelies!! thank u so much for reading! i was playing dress to impress and i was like just thinking like when i say im a gamer this is what i mean. i play the silly fun games. so i wanted to write matt with a girl like that as well. i hope u enjoy!!!! much love!! <3 masterlist

You sat on the bed, back against the headboard and one headphone in your ear watching Matt play Fortnite. It could honestly get a little boring, but Matt was cute to look at when he got upset, so you persevered.

“Oh, yeah she’s right over here,” you hear Matt say with a chuckle. You look up from your hand where you were peeling a piece of nail polish off your finger to see him leaning over looking at you.

“Hi,” He says with a grin.

“Hello. Weren’t you just playing Fortnite?”

“Mhm. But they asked about you,” he says, pointing his thumb to where the Twitch chat is on his screen.

“Ah,” you let out, getting up from the bed, you make your way over to Matt and sit yourself down on his lap.

“Hey y’all,” you say with a wave. “How is everyone? I hope you’re behaving yourselves.”

You feel Matt place his chin on your shoulder as you're reading through chat.

“‘Where did you get that shirt?’ Well, thank you for asking mattsbabygirl33, I found it in the depths of Nick's closet. Swear that kid has too many clothes,” you answer with a small laugh.

“‘Thoughts on cuddling?’ I love cuddles! Matt and I alternate between big and little spoon throughout the week!”

“Don’t tell,” Matt grumbles, burying his face into your neck. You reach a hand up to run it through his hair.

“Sorry love,” you laugh.

“I think as penance you have to finally give in and play a game on stream.”

“Can I at least pick the game?”

“‘Course,” Matt says, placing a kiss on your cheek.

You grin and lean forward, placing your hands on the mouse and keyboard.

“Don’t look, I want it to be a surprise!”

“Ok,” you hear Matt chuckle as you click around, before you start typing, then more clicking.

“Alright! You can look now!”

“What,” Matt asks slowly, “are we playing exactly?” He’s eying the block model on screen with confusion, and it makes you giggle.

“Dress To Impress! It’s a game on Roblox! I play it all the time when it’s real slow at work.”

“Okay. How do we play?”

“So, well right now we’re in intermission, but once that’s over we’ll be given a theme, and then we’ll have to dress up to the theme, and then we’ll model and vote, and see who ranks in the end. Then we do it over again.”

“Okay, sounds easy enough.”

You smile as you look at the screen noticing intermission is gonna be over in six seconds.

You eagerly lean forward, placing your hand on the keyboard. Grinning once you see the theme pop up.

𝐁𝐀𝐑𝐁𝐈𝐄

You got this in the bag. You practically grew up on Barbie.

You look over at Matt. “Ready?”

“Totally.”

You start moving your model around, making your way over to skirts to start off your look, going for the classic Barbie Life in the Dreamhouse. Once you’ve chosen your skirt and changed the color to fuchsia, you start looking for a top, then move on to shoes, before moving on to accessories.

“You have two minutes left!” Matt informs you.

“Oh trust me that’s plenty of time,” You respond, making your way towards the salon section to do hair and makeup.

“Which blonde looks better?” You ask Matt, switching between the two colors.

“Second one.”

You nod. “I was thinkin the same.”

You click the spacebar and watch your model hop out of the chair before you make your way over to the skin tone changer.

As soon as your model hops out, the screen goes black and states that voting is about to start.

The first model starts walking down the car walk and stops to pose and for you to vote.

“What the hell?” Matt says. “They’re not even on theme!”

“Yeah, that happens a lot,” You say with a sigh, keeping the vote on one star.

You and Matt vote and commentate on the next few outfits before it’s your turn.

“Oh, it’s us!” You clap happily. “Ok we have to pose,” you add after, moving the mouse toward the poses.

“I wanna pick,” Matt says, reaching over, making you move your hand.

“You gotta be quick with it.”

“Got it,” he says. You watch as he clicks through the poses, his tongue peeking out a little in concentration.

“Oh, our turns up!”

“We were the last to go, so now we see the top three winners.”

You both watch the screen change to announce the top three, the both of you hoping to be up on the podium somewhere.

“What the fuck!?” Matt exclaims, throwing his hands up, his brows furrowing. “None of them were even on theme!”

“As it happens,” you sigh, scrolling to see where you ended up ranking. Sixth place out of eight.

“I wanna play again,” Matt decides. “But I wanna dress the model this time.”

“Alright,” you agree easily. “We'll just have to wait in intermission before we’re given a new theme.”

You feel Matt nod as he rests his head back on your shoulder as you start to undress your model.

“‘This is why I can’t play this game, it’s just filled with nine year olds who don’t understand the theme’ Yeah, I feel you,” you respond to the chat. “That’s why I only really play when it’s slow at work, cause then I can’t publicly get too pissed.”

You’re reading through the chat, seeing if there’s anything else you wanna respond to when Matt taps your thigh.

“Eight seconds,” he mutters.

“Well, you’re dressing to impress this round, so get your hands ready mister.”

His hands snake around you to land on the keyboard and mouse and as soon as they land the next theme appears on screen.

𝐘𝟐𝐊

“Oh this should be so easy!” You gasp. “All you have to do is channel your inner Paris Hilton, Britney Spears, even Tarayummy!”

“You’ve got this,” you say, placing an encouraging kiss on Matt’s cheek.

“Mhm,” he hums, concentrating on getting his model over to the shirts he seen you pass earlier.

As Matt moves around to dress his model, you start reading through the chat again.

“‘Matt’s concentration and commitment to such a silly game is honestly so cute wtf’ Yes yes, I would have to agree, cvntynickk,” you laugh.

“‘Y/N, we need you here more often so he plays more than just fortnite!’ Ah, that’s kind of you chappellswift, but I don’t wanna be intruding too much,” you respond with a shy smile.

“Never intruding,” Matt mutters.

You smile at that, but it won’t stop the feeling.

“‘How to have a relationship like Y/N & Matt, no borax no glue plsss’ Just find someone who treats you right and respects you and the rest should really fall into place,” you say with a smile.

“Done!” Matt says.

You look over at the game and let out a gasp.

“Matt you did really good!” You look over at him to grin at him brightly.

“Thanks,” he says with a shy smile and slightly reddening cheeks.

The screen changes and voting commences. You and Matt go through the same process as last time. You watch Matt carefully choose each rating like this is America's Next Top Model and not a silly Roblox game.

Once it’s time for the winners to be announced, you feel Matt sit up just that bit straighter, and you struggle to reign in your smile at how serious he’s taking this.

The top three are revealed and,

“What the fuck!” Matt yelps out. “This is bullshit! None of what they’re wearing is y2k at all!”

He reaches over to see where he ranked and you watch as he stops and sees he got fifth place.

“Fuck this,” Matt huffs, leaning back in his chair. “I’m done with this game.”

“Alright then drama queen,” you laugh, exiting out.

“Thank you for having me, but I’m gonna go and get a treat now because I need my daily dose of sugar. Hopefully Chris didn’t eat all the donuts,” you mutter, placing a kiss on Matt’s head as you get up; Matt trying to get you to stay but not too hard knowing how you get without your sugar dose.

You wave bye to chat as well. “Maybe you guys will see me next time.”

“I’m so in love with her,” Matt says quietly to chat, but you hear it as you close his bedroom door; it makes a giddy smile appear on your face.

#ali’s writing 🖋️#matt sturniolo x reader #matt sturniolo fluff #matt sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #chris sturniolo #nick sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #the sturniolo triplets #ali’s thoughts & opinions 📼

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alicentsgf · 6 days ago

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im very set on there being 8 survivors now, anything else cheapens the story a little for me. i think it was always going to be 8, no matter what else changed. even before the writers were set on who the 8 would be they knew the 8 roles the characters would have to fill. this was always implied in the pilot, but now im convinced.

even just going off what we've actually heard via dialogue, any more than 8 feels unlikely. at lotties compound one of them said they were "all here" implying it was just the 6 of them left alive. the other 2 would then be travis and someone else who is either dead or assumed to be dead. i know people have speculated on that line in season 1 about some survivors living off-grid but personally i still think jessica just meant travis.

the number 8 has come up a couple of times in meaningful ways and its especially relevant to understanding why it matters that they're the Yellowjackets, a soccer team. it isnt just backstory, its like the key on a map, symbolic shorthand to help you understand the wider story. their on-field dynamics and roles so often mirror the ongoing dynamics and roles of the characters.

minus duplicates (like allie/akilah being nat's duplicate) there are 8 positions in a starting line up and we know via their shirt numbers all but 1 position is assigned to a specific varsity player. i know this is super hard to visualise if you arent a massive soccer nerd like me so i repurposed a graphic i made a while back.

in soccer specific jersey numbers are traditionally worn by particular positions, e.g 1 for a goalie, 9 for a striker, etc. every single varsity player in this show wears a traditional number. theres no way that happens by accident, it was a choice. the image above shows you what it tells us about their field position. as you can see the unassigned role is the attacking playmaker position, the person who makes the most pressurised, pivotal decisions. the real life or death stuff. misty fills this role, she has both ended and saved more lives than the rest and i'd say destroying the blackbox was pretty damn pivotal. in the pilot when the girls run out for the pep rally she is the only one thats focused on apart from the varsity girls and theres a player missing from the line up. that seems deliberate.

you can also see the only (teen) dead of the 8 are laura lee and jackie. this is where our reserves come in. sometimes also called substitutes or game-changers (subtitution is a major theme in this show just by itself but thats another post). when a player goes down you look to the bench to see who can fill their role. laura lee and jackie have both already been subsituted: travis takes laura lees place at lotties right hand, becoming her partner in the right side of defense, naturally protective but can progress with the attack to support his winger (nat), and then melissa takes jackies place as shaunas focal point, encouraging progression and driving the attack. however, even then travis and melissa dont fit quite right. simply put, people (and cats, no matter how similar they look to the original) cant be so easily replaced. travis, melissa, and misty are often othered. never accepted as part of the core team. (i have a suspicion van was meant to die and have javi take her place positionally. for a while he seemed like he might have a similar ability to deflect death against the odds and a closeness to the wilderness travis and lottie would want to defend. imo whenever the writers decided javi was dying or van was living, the others story inevitability changed too.)

the number 8 relates to the wilderness too. the 8 the knife made at the seance when javi asked if they were all going to die? the way the symbol of the wilderness has 8 elements?

im not saying this diagram shows for sure which element represents who, but i thought i'd give you guys an idea of what im seeing.

to be clear, im absolutely not saying the survivors are all that the symbol represents. if an in-universe explanation is given it will obviously be something else (i.e. that its a map of some sort) but i think the creators of the show chose this design for a reason that perhaps relates more to the survivors than anything else. it being a map would be more of a visual backgronym, with the characters as the actual inspiration for it.

for me the symbol has to represent them because the entire point is that they and wilderness are indistinguishable. us not knowing whats the wilderness and whats them is by design. that promotional poster of the characters forming the symbol? sitting inside of it? supernatural force or not, its in them. like lottie said, "is there a difference [between it and us]?" thats the shows thesis statement.

it makes sense Tai's jersey number is the 8 when she most embodies what the wilderness represents. shes the central midfielder, equal parts attack and defense. two warring halves, neither one exactly good nor bad, just primal vs civil. as shes placed at the very center of the game she has to play equally in both her own half and the other. her finding a way to balance both sides is key and this follows because historically and mathematically 8 has often been the number that is used to represent balance, splitting evenly from 8 to 4 to 2 to 1. life vs death, creation vs destruction, spiritual vs physical. neither can exist without the other. "does a hunt that has no violence feed anyone?" = living requires killing. but too much of either and theres disruption, a hole in the ecosystem as a species exhausts its food source. I wonder if thats what the yellowjackets did. killed too freely and disrupted the balance. once again, tai would embody this. her arc this season would reflect the wider narrative in its entirety - the primal takes over and natures left unbalanced. its why i dont think any of the survivors end this show alive. not because of cosmic justice, this story isnt so much about morality, its about duality and balance. when the wolves are killing too many deer the only thing you can do to reset the scales is cull the wolves.

so yes, it always had to be 8. if the 8th survivor is melissa, then it was very likely decided long ago that one of the extras would eventually come to the fore to play this part. ultimately they were just waiting to see who they thought was the best fit (or maybe what big name older actress they might be able to snag and match to a teenager lmao). either way it always had to be someone who could step into the space jackie left in order to complete the team. no more practices or scrimmages, they know their roles now. the ones we met in the pilot; the butcher, the overseer, the shaman, etc. for so long they had no striker, no sharp point to their attack, but thats not true anymore. melissa subs in for jackie, but soccer is fluid. players can switch position due to substitution. now its shauna who leads the attack, becomes the striker, the captain, placing melissa in the space shes left behind. no more killing for necessity, this is killing for sport and every position is filled. the story until now was just match prep, this is where the game begins.

#im so totally normal about this show #yj meta #yellowjackets #yj theories #yj thoughts #shauna shipman #jackie taylor #taissa turner #van palmer #lottie matthews #misty quigley #travis martinez #laura lee #melissa yellowjackets #yj soccer posting #long post

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