Ro !! Stopping By To Say Imy & I Thought Of U Once Again Opening My Letterboxd Have U Seen Maxxxine ?

ro !! stopping by to say imy & I thought of u once again opening my letterboxd 😭 have u seen maxxxine ?

ree!!! my one and only ree it's great hearing from you!!

i have not seen maxxxine yet, i've been running around trying to find someone to watch cuckoo in theaters with me 🙏 i have watched pearl and x though so maxxxine is definitely on my radar

DO YOU RECOMMEND SEEING IT IN THEATERS OR NOT??

i need to kiss tadashi yamaguchi on his stupid freckled face 😞

packing these clothes for my dorm is hell when you’re someone that likes outfits with a little bit of whimsy 🙏😔

aaa ro!!! i love the little meme u made on your rb of the oneshot 😭 made me giggle fr ‼️ anyway you and me both... bea ill do anything if you ask🗣️🗣️

if making my friends giggle was an olympic sport, i'd be bringing home golddd

UGH I'M TRYING SOOO BAD TO SEE HER IN CONCERT THIS FALL

i saw her last summer for the beatopia tour and my brain chemistry's been changed ever since i heard animal noises and cologne live (i would get married to the our extended play ep if i could)

chat this got me reallll fucked up

very very very slight nsfw, proceed with caution ! !

Most nights, Wakatoshi likes to lie down and stare at his ceiling fan, tracing the cracks in the plaster that surround the hanger bracket. He prefers to sleep with the hem of his worn-out Shiratorizawa jersey shrugged halfway up his torso, not too much, not too little, and his blanket covering him from waist down. He plays this game whenever his eyes unwillingly remain open at 10:58pm, or 1:29am, or 4:34am, where he tries to will the ceiling fan into spinning a little faster, so the wind becomes strong enough to make the hairs on his face stand up, and noticeably glide across his bare torso like a brush on a canvas. It never works, but he tires himself out with this game until his eyelashes finally flutter close, and a mess of soft hair settles onto his chest, gentle fingers tracing the lines of his stomach, to the dip of his ribcage beneath his skin, to the crevices of his collarbones.

Some nights, Wakatoshi likes to do all of that, but with one extra step. As his eyelashes flutter shut, he waits for a slitering body to press against his own, the movement yanking his jersey just a little further up to his chest, maybe even over his neck and onto the bed completely. He wears his tired eyes on his face anyways, and sets free his impatient hands. Scarred palms find their way onto the spine, and the chest, cradling entire surfaces with ease. Calloused fingers begin to press firmly against soft skin, and roam restlessly in all directions and dimensions he can fathom. Another pair of hands follows suit, tracing the curve of his waist, sliding across his torso, pressing into the flesh of his bicep. He lets go of his stoic control and relishes in the way two bodies move as one under his gradually speeding ceiling fan, twitching in the other's fervent warmth periodically until the fan pops and spits and shudders and the motor burns out completely. This is Wakatoshi's least favourite part, when his half-lidded eyes give out as the ceiling fan fades into pitch black, and all he can feel is an arm sprawled lazily across his chest.

On his match days, Wakatoshi likes to take a look in the crowd as he spins the ball in his palms before his first serve. There, he will find the face from the night before, the one that hovered above him, or sunk into his bedsheets beneath his own. They will now have a Schweiden Adlers jersey draped from their shoulders, with a glaring #11 plastered onto the front, and his last name across the back in bold Ushijima. His eyes will turn back to the ball as he lets the air in the court wash through his lungs, and tosses it high. His serve will slam into the ground, and the crowd will erupt into roaring applause and deafening cheers, chanting his name like a mantra. Ushijima! Ushijima! Ushijima! His face will remain unmoving, stoic as usual as he turns back to the stands. The face will be gone.

One night, Wakatoshi swears, he will call Satori, who is all the way in Paris, busy with tempering chocolate and swirling them into ribbons of cocoa. And when he does, you will be the first face he sees. Satori will be somewhere, devising a new recipe, or packaging orders for his next client, and you will lead the phone to him, showing off the Parisian home that the two of you have rented. You will show him all of Satori's photos from his youth, and those of the three of you during Wakatoshi's time at Shiratorizawa, where his arm is thrown across your shoulders, and a rare grin emerges on his face in every one of them. The sounds of his creaking ceiling fan will drown out your voice, until Satori's shrieky greeting blasts through his speakers, his fingers covered in layers of milk and dark chocolate as he grabs the phone and the two of you travel towards the TV. You will point at him on the screen, glancing at the stands as the volleyball spins in his palms, and Wakatoshi will realise that you are wearing his jersey for him. He will pretend not to see Satori wearing one too.

And as the call ends, Satori will make a casual remark about letting Wakatoshi stay over in your shared apartment if he ever drops by Paris, and Wakatoshi will nod mindlessly in agreement, before the phone shuts off. Then, he will continue to stare at his ceiling fan, counting and tracing the cracks in the plaster around the hanging bracket. He will shrug his worn-out Shiratorizawa jersey halfway up, not too much, not too little. He will find the perfect position for his arm to lay in, just across his chest, but angled slightly down so his fingertips brush the curve of his waist ever so lightly. He will try to forget the nights that your slithering body visits him before his slumber, and how your soft skin feels beneath his calloused fingers and scarred palms. Wakatoshi will play the game again, focusing on the fan and praying for it to speed up just enough to make the hairs on his face stand up, and for the gentle brushes across his torso, and his stomach, and the dip of his ribcage beneath his skin, and the crevices of his collarbones, to all become real, so he doesn't have to play again. Of course, it will fail as always, and Wakatoshi's eyes will simply flutter close, and there will be no mess of hair that settles on his chest.

And then he will wake up, stare at the ceiling, and do it all over again.

author's notes:

omg it's not a tsukishima fic this time!! it's my first time writing ushijima ngl but i could not imagine any other character in this one. don't know if you can tell, but this is spontaneous, and i definitely should have spent the time i put into this making more flashcards instead, but i don't care, and i've already made an entire essay's worth of them so i really only have two essay's worth left

but i hope you enjoy, and if this should be tagged as full nsfw please someone let me know because i don't know the conventions for that SORRY

anyways here are the tags as promised:

@starlysama @chuuya-brainrot

love you guys, ok bye bye

AMAZON ORDER IN PLACE FOR MY GHOSTFACE HALLOWEEN COSTUME 🔥🔥🔥🔥