SAKUATSU IS TIED??!!

SAKUATSU IS TIED??!! 😭

chat! <3 when i finish one of my ongoing series i already have an idea for a new one

with no spoilers, it has to do with boba!

i can’t decide who should be the main man though, so could you lend me some help? :)

who remembers punk!yamaguchi UGH WHO REMEMBERS BECAUSE I DO

First sticker set of them!!

((already available on my Redbubble!!))

Redbubble

Ansiettina Shop | Redbubble

Ansiettina is an independent artist creating amazing designs for great products such as t-shirts, stickers, posters, and phone cases.

guys i think i’m going off the deep end bc why is this some love island levels of drama i just wrote out

tune in to forty, love part 3 if you want some real drama 😭🙏 bc my god is it getting messy

oh my god why is half my wardrobe just green and blue holy shit

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

iwaoi, but's it's iwaizumi who had always wanted to leave japan. he found his every day life in miyagi stifling. he hated seeing the same classmates over and over again with their disagreeable opinions and close-minded worldviews, hated the way the people in his neighborhood all knew each other and their business, hated the way it rained and hated the way the sun rose every single day. he hated the very idea of staying in miyagi more than he had to.

he talked to oikawa about this regularly, ever since they could form thoughts that ventured outside of their little realm in japan. first, he told oikawa he'd move out of miyagi. he'd find an apartment in tokyo, or a job as a farmhand in hokkaido, or anywhere else that isn't miyagi and the life he's had to grow up in. then, as he got older, he went a step further.

china, he'd mumble oikawa during the first class of the day in middle school.

the phillippines, he'd shout at oikawa while peppering a volleyball.

somewhere further, he'd finally admitted to oikawa while walking home from a late-night home court game, his gaze trained on the ground with the most vulnerability he'd shown in years. like america. i've applied to a college in america.

oikawa had laughed at him on most times. iwaizumi knew oikawa liked life in miyagi; he got along with his classmates fine, girls liked him, he loved his family and their neighborhood, loved the sunrise and the rain. iwaizumi knew this because oikawa had always disagreed with him on those subjects.

but liking life wasn't enough when oikawa's goals were set further than what he would be constrained to at home. loving japan wasn't enough when japan didn't love him.

argentina, oikawa had whispered, miserable, to him for the first time near the end of their first year in high school. he'd seen kageyama around. he'd seen the way his serves had gotten better and better and better.

their planes left mere weeks from each other. oikawa first, to argentina, with tears in his eyes and a sharp call to not be stranger. iwaizumi left second, wishing his family a farewell with his heart full to finally leave.

iwaizumi had liked california enough. he was entertained, if not occasionally confused, by the manner of young adult americans. he had thought, originally, that he wouldn't miss japan. maybe he'd miss his family and the two friends he'd left, but nothing else. he thought the pang in his chest when his american roommate and newfound friends went out for a chicken wing restaurant and not onigiri, when they spoke exclusively english (sometimes spanish) and not japanese, when there were beds and air mattresses and not futons, that he was missing familiarity, is all. he only missed not feeling out of place.

oikawa had shared with him, over their many calls, his own struggles with homesickness. but, oikawa had told him over grainy Facetime, my team has done everything to make me feel at home. spanish isn't as hard as i thought it'd be! i'm going to make this work. even if i miss you and japan. i just... i need this. i need argentina.

both he and oikawa managed to make it home for christmas after only a few months into their respective journeys into the americas. they arrived at different times, though, so iwaizumi made the trip home from tokyo alone. he took two trains, then a taxi closer to his house. he saw the billboards in his own language. he watched people that looked like himself. they went to restraunts with onigiri. their seating would be chabudai and not high tables and booths. he saw familiar streets and familiar faces in his neighborhood.

he came to his house, where he knew exactly where the patch of grass his childhood cat was buried in the backyard. he could see phantoms of himself riding his bike up and down the road. he could see where he caught butterflies, where oikawa chased him with a handful of worms.

he came home, and his family was waiting for him. it all rushed over him, when he saw them again. all the anxiety of not being able to get to them fast if they got into an accident. constantly wondering what he'd be doing if he was in japan and not at uc-irvine. thinking about how much he preferred his home culture to the strangeness of the united states.

he met with oikawa next, who regaled him on his adventures in argentina as if they hadn't talked nearly everyday since their planes took them away from home.

i'm going to stay, oikawa told him during a late evening stroll after dinner, his eyes alight with happiness and success. i love it in argentina. it's everything i want and need.

iwaizumi was happy for him. but, iwaizumi knew he would not be content doing the same.

i'm coming back home i get my bachelor's, he told oikawa after a second's pause, letting the coldness of the evening wash over him, watching the sun set in the way he'd spent hating his entire life. america is nice, but japan is where i'm meant to be.

he found that he didn't mind the rain when he was no longer seventeen and hating his classmates. he didn't mind staring out the window of the house he grew up in when he wasn't sixteen and desperate to leave. he'd been to the other side of the fence, and the grass simply wasn't any greener.

and he knew he'd be okay with that, eventually, even if a part of him wondered if he was giving up. even if that part of him wanted to riot and rage and scream at the idea of staying in the place he'd always told everyone he'd leave.

oikawa looked at him, then, with his eyes still bright but shining with a different kind of light. and that's perfectly fine, oikawa said to him, his voice low and earnest.

there was not a hint of condescension. nothing that said, you gave up. you are worth nothing. you will be nothing. oikawa meant it when he said that it was fine that leaving wasn't all iwaizumi had chalked it up to be. his tone said, in every way, nothing has changed. you will be just as good here as you would be anywhere else. you have not given up. there is nothing wrong with letting yourself be happy.

somehow, that was more reassuring than any of the faux comforts he'd been trying to console himself with.

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