moved to @lovelorn-thots

cw: breakup, angst otherwise sfw

“Mr. Ushijima, do you have any words you can spare for us?”

Questions like this don’t usually offer much alternative, he thinks as he acquiesces, taking a seat at the table while ignoring the flashing lights and the cameras on him. He taps the mic in front of him to test it, then clears his throat as politely as possible.

Post-game interviews are usually nothing more than nuisances for Wakatoshi and today is not much different. Yes, there was a period of time where he dreaded moments like this, about a year ago, when a reporter noticed he no longer wore the promise ring you’d gifted him, and more and more media outlets had started to notice your absence from the sidelines, from social events, from his life entirely. 

o.o i have no idea what this fic is haha i'm so sorry D:

warnings: reader’s about to get hands, consequences, iwaizumi cannot save you, nsfw mention, be a better friend next time

—

“___!”

The sound of your name in a high-pitched shriek coming from across the campus lawn is jarring to say the least, and your heart skips a beat.

In shock you turn, confused; it’s definitely your friend who’s now barreling towards you at full speed as you stand still and transfixed, your hands clutching the strap of your book bag as you attempted to make your way to your next class.

“You fucking bitch!” 

It’s vitriol that spews from her mouth and her green eyes are full of rage. But that’s not the most unsettling part of this scene where your best friend for the better part of the year is cussing you out loudly enough for the entire campus to hear - it’s the fact that she has a bra clutched tightly in her right hand, your bra, a bra you haven’t seen since the holidays, since-

Fuck.

Your eyes grow wide, and you start running.

She knows.

Iwaizumi’s daughter isn’t as strong as him but she’s fast so she catches up to you in no time, and the grip she gets on your hair is vicious as she jerks you back violently enough that you fall to the ground.

“You fucked my dad?! Really?”

Your tears are immediate, but they might as well be crocodile tears.

You’re not upset that you fucked him, not in the least. It’s probably the best dick you’ve ever gotten in your life to be quite honest, none of these boys at your university and even now, if you had the choice, you probably wouldn’t say no to another tryst.

But it doesn’t stop you from sniveling because his daughter is as hot-headed as he is apparently, and you’re about to get wailed on in public. 

“L-let me explain…” you whine, helplessly. 

Iwaizumi always softens to your tears and whines, especially when you’re folded in half up under him, face buried into the crook of his neck and cumming around his cock. 

“Explain what? Whose fucking bra is this because it sure ain’t mine?”

Her voice is high-pitched and she yanks at your hair further, stuffing your own old and discarded bra into your mouth. 

The way you are muffled is definitely not unlike the gag her dad stuffs in your mouth when he is in a particularly dominant mood but obviously way less sexual.

She’s crying too out of shock. 

It’s a scene and it’s a spectacle and of course you’re hot and embarrassed.

“You know what?” She says, finally, when she rips her hand out of your hair. You spit the bra out of your mouth, sputtering for breath and when you look up at your lover’s daughter, she’s arranging her hair into a ponytail, fierceness in her eyes.

warnings: minors dni, fluff

You sigh, and look around you. 

It’s amazing how much quickly clutter and random nonsense can fill up every nook and cranny of a small apartment, and you swear you and your fiancé have spent about a full day, maybe two cumulatively, on packing endless items into boxes.

For someone who insists on living in the moment, Atsumu Miya is a huge hoarder.

Some of the things in the open box before you are reasonable things to keep, like ribbons, old medals, trophies, everything that helps to represent the blood, sweat and tears put into this primary profession. Others seem ridiculous at first but are laced with sentimental value - for example, a tiny notebook in which he’s practiced his autograph as a teenager, as though he knew he’d someday be famous.

You still stash them away with as much care as he would any of your own precious things. Closing the top of the box,  you realize you’ve mislocated the packing tape yet again and groan before getting to your feet.

After a couple minutes of shuffling around the over crowded room as you searched, you finally locate the packing tape, thrown haphazardly into the center of the room.

Over the loud screech of you dispense the tape to secure the box, you hear Atsumu suddenly run into the living room, excitedly calling for your attention.

“Babe! Babe! BABE!”