*⁀➷ summary: in which you and ushijima grow up and apart.
*⁀➷ pairing: ushijima wakatoshi x fem!reader
*⁀➷ words: 3001
*⁀➷ tags/warnings: post-breakup fic, a few swear words, overall bittersweet :) i hope it feels nostalgic
*⁀➷ a/n: commissioned by @23soong!! thank you so much <333
—
It isn’t some special day.
Not your birthday, or a would-be anniversary, or any specific date he’s supposed to remember. He does, though. Remember. He can’t seem to forget.
Today isn’t a special day. Grey clouds with a warning, telling him the sky might split open before he gets home. Aching muscles after a whole day of hard practice. He passes the flower shop on his way to the shinkansen station, as usual. That’s the reason he’s frustrated. Everything’s going by so normally, just like any other day, before he saw the flowers. The owner had switched the daffodils on display for purple hyacinths, and his heart trips and scrapes itself on the pavement, because he remembers.
—
You get a crush on Ushijima for the same reasons your peers do.
He has good grades, excels in his sport, is good-looking, and to top it all off, doesn’t have a shit personality. A man like him comes by once a hundred years, your friend gushed once. You’re lucky enough to be in the same class he is, lucky enough to be sitting two rows away from him, see him do his homework and eat his lunch. You like his table manners, the concentrated furrow of his forehead, the way he holds himself as he walks through the hallways. You like when those olive-coloured eyes look your way, calm and composed.
You are sixteen, and you confess to Ushijima the day the school term ends.
You don’t expect anything. High school is all about the thrill; the cheeky smiles when you’re late for class, the boisterous laughter when you fail an exam along with half the class, and now, the sweaty hands of professing your admiration under a cherry tree, because who can blame you for craving the shojo manga feel of love letters and spring blossoms? You bow in front of him, arms outstretched and holding your letter. If he rejects you, at least the fragrance of the blossoms will tint the memory a soft pink, instead of the slashing red of mortification.
You know that Ushijima rejects the love letters he gets with a bow and an I’m sorry. You, along with the rest of your nosy class, have seen it enough through the windows peering out into the hallway. It’s as predictable as your maths teacher accidentally leaving her water bottle on the teacher’s desk after every class; it happens every time.
“Ushijima-kun,” you say, clear and loud. You hear one or two whoops from the louder boys and smile. Drawing confidence from the cheering, you take a deep breath. “I like you!”
You listen to the cheers of your classmates. “Accept her, Ushijima!” someone yells. “She’s pretty!” You bite your lip to keep from grinning and make a note to kick that person in the ass, then buy him a popsicle.
Polite as always, Ushijima bows back to you and takes your letter. “Thank you. I appreciate the thought.”
Ushijima rejects the love letters he gets with a bow and an I’m sorry. You wait for the punchline of the joke, the words that’ll leave a sore spot in your chest that you will inevitably forget about soon. It’s high school, and everything about high school is fleeting. So are feelings.
The punchline doesn’t come. He pockets your letter instead, that small piece of your heart you etched into existence at midnight when your parents had gone to sleep, with all its smiley faces drawn with a colon and a D.
“Please allow me to think about it.”
—
You spend your twenty-second New Year’s with your parents, back in your childhood home. Your mother tells you to go out and meet someone.
You laugh over lunch, cheeks stuffed full of rice like a hamster. “Mom, are you hearing yourself?” you huff, disbelieving. “You want me to go and meet the big scary men in the world? The men that might break my heart, scam my money, leave me–”
She tuts and puts some vegetables in your bowl. “I told you that when you were younger so you wouldn’t get into a relationship too early, but it’s been years since you’ve dated!” You chew your food silently, maintaining your expression.
Your mother sighs. “What I’m trying to say is that there are other people out there, people who can treat you as well as he does. I don’t want to see you lonely forever.”
Your heart twinges as you stare down at your food, the smile on your face fading a little. “I’m not lonely,” you say with a short laugh, and it’s true. At least, you think it is. You don’t miss him as much anymore, not like the first year, when almost everything would remind you of him and how it used to be. You’ve grown, and accepted that he was a happy memory.
Sometimes, you’d remember how happy the two of you were and wish it wasn’t just a memory. A past tense. A was filled with would have beens.
It’s a while before you speak again, but when you do, the words don’t lodge in your throat like a scratched CD.
“Okay,” you smile, small but genuine. “I’m not going to force it, Mom, you know that, but I’ll be more open to meeting new people now. Just you wait, your dashing daughter is going to sweep everyone off their feet!”
Your mother chuckles and shakes her head. The afternoon sun streaming through the windows makes her look younger than she is. “You wish. Swallow before talking.” The words are so familiar that it’s like you’re a child again, sixteen and in love and still at home. You blink hard, then bite the inside of your cheek and take a deep breath.
It’s New Year’s, and you think you can start again.
—
You flop onto your bed, hair still dripping and a towel slung around your neck. Your phone is vibrating incessantly next to your head; spam DMs from friends because Ushijima Wakatoshi said he’d think about it. What the fuck. You’re also still in shock.
Allow me to think about it, his voice vibrates in your skull. You’ll allow him to do anything, really, as long as he wants it.
Your phone rings, piercing your eardrum. A quick glance turns into a frantic scramble when you spot the contact name. You leap to your feet and clear your throat, trying to calm down before picking up.
“Hello?” you croak, voice cracking. Fuck, your face is burning. You cough again. “Ushijima-kun? Sorry, sorry, uh. Yes?”
“Good evening,” he greets. “I am calling to ask if you are free tomorrow at eleven in the morning.”
“Uh,” you say intelligently, then scramble for your calendar as silently as you can so he doesn’t hear your franticness. “Yeah, yeah, I am. Nothing to do. Holiday and all, you know?” Of course he knows. You two go to the same school.
“That’s nice to hear,” he replies. “May I take you out for lunch, then? We could meet at the konbini outside the school. I’d like to give you my answer in person.”
Your heart scales the entire American Ninja Warrior routine in one second. “Y-Yes, of course.” You swallow. “Um, thank you, Ushijima-kun. For not rejecting me in front of everyone, I mean.”
There’s a pause on the other end. “I should probably wait till tomorrow to tell you,” he finally mumbles, “but I am not planning to reject you.”
Your heart stutters to a stop. Your organs cease to function. Your brain might have fallen through the floor; you’ll ask your mother later if she’s seen it downstairs.
When you don’t speak for what is probably too long, he picks up the conversation. “Well, I will be ending the call now. Have a good night. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”
“Yes. Uh, me too. Goodnight,” you stammer out. He leaves a polite pause before hanging up, the beep reverberating in your ear.
You bite your lip, then take a deep breath before flinging yourself onto your bed, burying your face in your pillow so your mother doesn’t hear your screeches.
—
The last time you call him, you’re drunk.
Well, not drunk drunk. It’s winter, your toes curling in your boots as you walk carefully on the slippery sidewalk, and the cold air does wonders to sober you up. The moonlight is as pearly white as the light from the street lamps, giving what little snow there is piled up a magical shine. It’s quiet, but not dead. You can hear the night breathe.
You’re in Miyagi again after months of college keeping you busy. After dinner, you’d bid your parents a quick I’m going out before dropping by the bar for one or two cups. It’s the first time you’ve gone out drinking since the breakup, not counting the sobbing fest you had at your friend’s apartment, safe in the refuge of her arms. You’re a little blur in the head, but not dizzy enough that you can’t walk straight.
You pass by the konbini near your old school on the way home, glancing out of the corner of your eye when you hear the soft giggling of two teenagers. They’re walking hand in hand, huddling close together with two cups of oden held carefully in the boy’s hands. They talk in whispers, like they’re afraid of disturbing the night. You catch the girl looking at the boy with the softest smile you’ve ever seen, and you wonder, was that what you looked like?
It hasn’t been a year since the breakup. Come April next year, it will be the anniversary of an ending.
Cheeks flushed from the alcohol and the cold, you take your phone out of your pocket. Muscle memory stops you in time as you scroll through your contacts. You tap his name.
The pause before he speaks makes you sure that he knows it’s you. He hasn’t deleted your number, then.
“…Hello?”
“Hi,” you smile, and you can’t stop yourself from tearing up a little. You tilt your head up and swallow, taking an inaudible breath. There are a few stars in the sky and more scars in your heart. “Waka. Hi.”
With the way you trip over your words, you’d think you’re sixteen again. The thought makes your lips twitch, the memory silly and sweet.
“Hello,” he repeats, and you know his voice softens, even if it sounds the same to everyone else.
You stick your other hand in your pocket, eyes focusing on the next circle of light the street lamp casts on the concrete. “I’m in Miyagi,” you tell him. “College is hell, but I finished all my shit and thought I’d come back for a while. I think I’ll stay until New Year’s.”
“That’s nice,” he hums. “I’m in Tokyo. There’s a match in a few days.”
You know that. You take note of the volleyball matches going on, the articles about the up and rising Ushijima Wakatoshi, bread for all the birds that are scouts in this metaphor. “Good luck!” You move your phone away from your ear, then switch it on speaker before heading over to a particularly large drift of snow. You take small steps all over it, bending to hold the phone closer to your feet.
“Do you hear the snow?”
“Yeah.” His voice is especially clear in the winter air, crisp from where it flows out of your phone’s speaker. “Is it very cold?”
“Freezing,” you agree, your breath billowing before your face. You straighten and glance behind you. The couple that prompted the call had disappeared, probably going the other way or down a side alley.
He doesn’t pick up the conversation, so you do.
“Waka.” You stand there, boots wet with snow, a hand in your pocket, regret in your throat. Your voice drops to a whisper. The night seems to be listening to you, but you don’t want it to. This is between the two of you. “Do you think…do you think we can try again?”
You’re too emotional sometimes, he’d told you when you asked him why he wanted to break up. Things that I don’t think are a big deal, you make a big deal out of. I–I wanted to give us a happy high school memory, and I’m sorry that I’ve never thought of you in my life after high school. I’m planning to go pro, and I can’t maintain a relationship while doing that. I’d like to end things here, please. I don’t want to leave you hanging onto something that won’t be possible.
We could try a little harder,you’d told him, crying.I could change.
You’re not proud of how you reacted when the two of you broke up. You’ve grown enough to admit that. You didn’t understand back then, and truth be told, you still don’t understand now.
What you don’t understand is this: why he wouldn’t try harder. He loves you, doesn’t he? The thing you remember most about your relationship is the safety he made you feel. The assurance that he would always try his best for you, would never intentionally make you sad, would support you if you ever needed it. The reasons he gave for your breakup were also safe, and that’s the thing. They’re safe, understandable, black and white. He says it like it’s set in stone, says it like the two of you are horrible one dimensional characters in a shitty manga, but you’re not. People change, don’t they? So why can’t the two of you change to fit each other better?
He’s not impatient with you. No matter how many times your opinions have differed, no matter about life views or ice cream flavours, he was never, ever impatient with you. When you broke up, you asked him to repeat his reasons many times. He said the same thing again and again.
“I don’t think so,” he says, honest, heartbreaking.
You remember every word of his speech, because these past years you’ve been conscious of all the things he’d said, and you’ve been working on it. But one thing you’ve learnt is this: what isn’t meant to be will never be. Because a relationship is between two people, and for all the possibility that you could be together, there is also the opposite side of Ushijima willingly letting it go, of him severing the thread between you. To cry and beg would be pathetic.
“Yeah.” You breathe out, long and slow. Something lifts in your chest. “Sorry I called.”
“Don’t be,” he says, gentle. There’s a pause. “For what my word is worth, you were a happy part of my life. My first love. I’ll always remember that.”
That night, you think you’ve finally, truly accepted it. Maybe it’s the cold freezing your heart, but it doesn’t hurt as much anymore. You think that, finally, you might be okay with him being a memory.
—
You think you might have stopped loving him, but you still fold your socks the way he taught you to. That isn’t the same as loving him, though. Or maybe there will always be some part of you that loves him. Maybe that love will change over time, but one thing is certain. You will always wish nothing but the best for him.
—
Ushijima has never let go of the things he wanted.
When he was young, he held a volleyball with his left hand and his mother called him a demon, but he hadn’t let go. He hadn’t let go then, and he’s not letting go now. But when it came to you, he hesitated. You’re not volleyball. A volleyball wouldn’t cry if he says he’d be letting it go. You would.
Itaches, all the regrets and could-have-beens sinking their teeth into his ribs. It hurts so much he can barely breathe, more short of breath than he is on court.
Just now, you’d let him listen to the snow. Vaguely, he remembers why he’s inside on a beautiful snowy day. He’s scared of the cold. It freezes his fingers and holds his breath in the air like a threat. What if I were to freeze your fingers off? the winter cackles. Wouldn’t be able to hold a volleyball then, would you?
And that’s the thing, isn’t it? He’s scared. Despite his appearance, he gets scared like everyone does, because he is human as well, and haven’t humans always been afraid? When he was younger, he was scared that his father would leave him and never come back. When he twisted his ankle, he was scared that it would never heal. When he graduated, he was scared that maybe, by some miniscule chance, he’s not as good as he thinks and there will be no team who wants him.
You were his first love. The first time he felt all the things he did, the uncertainty, the inexperience, the first time he didn’t feel stability in the things he did. Years later, he thinks he tried too hard to figure it out. Having divorced parents did have an effect on him, after all. He doesn’t know what love is supposed to be like, and he thinks he tried too hard to make it look like something, when it’s as simple as it could possibly be. You loved him. He loves you.
He’s still scared of everything. He hates that he is, hates that he’s too afraid to tell you yes, we can try again. He bends over his knees, tears dripping onto the screen of his phone. Your name is still there.
He remembers your laugh when he’d gotten milk froth on his nose. He remembers you blushing from your cheeks to your ears, telling him that U-Ushijima-kun, that was my first kiss. He remembers him telling you to call him Wakatoshi, and not being scared of that at all.
He calls you.
We’re sorry, the person you’re calling is not available. Please try again later.
notes:thank u for the idea anon! i love this cliche hehe
content warnings: insecurities,mentions of previous harassment/catcalling, pet names (baby, my sweet, etc), protective boyfriends, suggestive in ushijima’s, kinda angsty
featuring:iwaizumi, atsumu, bokuto, and ushijima
thank you for reading!! likes, reblogs, follows, and general feedback are all appreciated
“Oya? My lil kitten wants me to paint her pretty face?” Kuroo would react teasingly, surprised but smug that you trust him enough for that; but then your request sinks in and now he’s trying to recall all he knows about colors and lines as you usher him into your room. With a nervous chuckle, Kuroo speaks, ”Babe…What do I even do?”
Looks at your makeup products spread out on the table and goes, “Why do you have more stuff than my high school chem lab?” You try to explain which ones are for, but he couldn’t comprehend the information overload so he just grabs whatever was the closest – the eyeliner.
Kuroo surprisingly does a really good cat-eye with eyeliner, he definitely got the symmetry right. His hands didn’t even tremble, quickly drawing the lines and filling them in; but that’s…pretty much his entire skillset. Tried to give you mascara too but his hands started shaking in fear of poking you in the eye. He kept missing your lashes and just gave up. Lastly picked up the boldest, reddest lipstick he could find, turning to you, “What? Red always looks good, right?”
Ushijima Wakatoshi
Ushijima just stared at you like you grew a second head when you asked him. Speaking slowly, he repeats back,“You…want me to put…makeup on you?” He looks around as if waiting for Tendou to burst in and yell, “It’s a prank.” Was still in a daze as you pulled him to sit with you.
Picked up the eyeshadow and went, “Is this for your lips?” No, ‘Toshi. Picked up the lipstick and went, “Cheeks?” No, ‘Toshi. Picked up your contour sticks, “Why do you have several of the same thing?” “They’re different shades.” “…They are?”
In the end, you decided to just teach him how to do your eyebrows. A quick learner, he does a pretty decent job of it, but the symmetry is a bit off (nothing a bit of practice can’t fix). Ushijima attentively watches you do the rest, and you let him pick out the colors of your eyeshadow resulting in a nude look. He tries to blend it, but it just looks messier and you laugh as he smiles sheepishly at you. “You don’t like loud colors, ‘Toshi?” Ushijima just shrugs, “I don’t really understand it, but you always look beautiful anyways.”
Iwaizumi Hajime
Iwaizumi threw you a tired glare that frankly said, “This is bait, and I’m tired of your shit.” But agrees anyway because he loves you, though he didn’t tell you that, just rolling his eyes as you excitedly drag him to the dresser.
He is vaguely aware of makeup products and what is what for. That said, theory still doesn’t mean application. He was counting your products and raised an eyebrow at you, “Why do you have so many of those eye color things? You only use a couple?” “Shush, babe.” He points to some other products, “Are those new?” “Yes…” “Did you impulse buy again?” “I– Ye– There was a sale!”
He was leaning in so close to your face with an intense look, you were afraid he was gonna stab you in the eye. Iwaizumi definitely hated eyeliners by the end of this, he couldn’t make them symmetrical and he kept making the wing larger and larger until he just said fuck it and moved on. You cackle at the result of uneven and huge eyeliner wings, but you were impressed how he did your contouring. “You did it even better than I do it.” Iwaizumi crosses his arms smugly. “Can’t draw lines for shit though.” “Fuck you, babe.”
A/N: I haven’t written for so long I had to look up how I do my posts.
A/N:Buy me a ko-fi, pretty please? Can’t believe I don’t have solo fics or drabbles for Ushijima! A crime! The only one I wrote solo for him was actually when this blog was still pretty new! How could I do Ushijima so dirty!
Warnings: NSFW, PWP, Thirst Drabble
Ushijima doesn’t understand why you scream how big he is every time he bullies his cock into your poor little cunt. He knows he’s big, why do you have to state the obvious? It’s not like you ever complain, too. As he grips your hips tightly to prevent you from squirming away, your voice pitches higher begging him to fuck you hard. And who is he to deny your wonderful, desperate pleas?
“Waka–t-to-shi~” you would always whine his name, calling for him as he pounds your cunt. Your juices slicking his cock, dripping onto the sheets, the lewd wet sounds resounding in the room with each thrust. Ushijima doesn’t understand why you’re calling for him – he’s right here. His thick cock soaked in your juices as he spears in you again and again, pace hard and fast, punching every sweet spot in your cunt. He doesn’t understand that you’re trying to praise him and beg him for more, how your brain’s trying to string together words to thank him for filling up your cunt every night.
But you don’t need to. Ushijima already knows how grateful you are to him and his fat cock. He knows by the way your pussy sucks him, clenching as if it never wants to let go of his cock. He knows when he folds you into a mating press, reaching deeper to hit your womb with every thrust, and you scream even louder, thrash even harder. But his iron grip and his heavy body prevents you from escaping his grasp, he’d never let you go until he’s done fucking you properly.
“Wa–! So good! Ngh–ah, ah…more! So big! Mmnn…please. Please!” Your cacophony of broken words is a melody to Ushijima’s ears. Your throat is hoarse from all your shouting, but you never stop begging for more or thanking him for more. It’s okay. Ushijima already knows with the way you squirt around his cock, going as far to drench his torso. He knows by the way you violently tremble in his hold, and yet your legs are locking around his waist, and you’re pulling him even closer.
Most of all, Ushijima knows you need to be bred. He knows you need his cum inside your greedy cunt. You don’t need to beg for his seed, because that’s the only place he’ll ever cum – inside you, until your pussy’s leaking and your stomach bulging. Ushijima would never waste his cum, why else would he spill anywhere else when he could watch your abused pussy clench in a pathetic attempt to keep his seed inside.
“Ngrh,” Ushijima would groan low and deep, folding you even further in half, his pace slowing down yet his thrusts fucking harder. “Gonna fill you up, love. Take it all. There’s my good girl.” As he finally spills into you, what else can you do but look at him with lovestruck eyes as your tongue lolls out and drool slides down your chin. It’s only then that you get quiet – fucked braindead but trying to thank your generous lover by pulling him into a messy, wet kiss as he still plugs your cunt with his cock, making sure you take every drop.
Pairing(s): Shiratorizawa Demons: Tendou, Ushijima, Semi, Shirabu x f!reader
Tags/tw: attempted noncon—no mc’s, death (Not Reader), blood, profanity, monster-fucking, alcohol consumption, foursome, double + triple pen, possessive behavior, mentions of past abuse, lots of tail stuff—beware, face-fucking
WC: 9.6k
A/N: This is my contribution to @miyarinrin’sFright Night Collab! It’s also the technical part one to my demon au! I’ve been working on it all month so I hope you guys enjoy it. Also forgive me if its a mess I didn’t give my beta’s enough time to get to it. The Italic scene is a flashback!
You don’t remember the outside world feeling so daunting. The wind that sweeps down the streets, causing tree branches to creak and sway, feels colder, ominous. The soft moonlight peeking out from the thin clouds used to be so entrancing, now simply baleful. Each crunching leaf and snapped twig makes your eyes dart around to survey your surroundings, carefully assuring yourself that you’re alone.
USHIJIMA doesn’t understand why you like to feel his hand wrapped around your throat while he’s pounding into you. He’s tried, he really has, but he just doesn’t. But what he does understand is the way your tight, little pussy clamps down around him like a velvety vice as his fingers close around your little neck, squeezing tighter and tighter. The way your eyes roll back into your head, the way your legs start shaking, the way you whine for more. The way your hole sucks him back in every time he draws out to sink even deeper inside you. Thathe understands all too well. So of course he’s going to oblige his precious princess and choke you out as fucks you stupid
