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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

@hatsukeii 🤝 @kuroppiii

writing fics about brazil!hinata inspired by beabadoobee tracks

fragrance: when the rain stops, replica / timeskip!hinata shoyou x reader

notes: aquatic accord (top), isparta rose (heart), patchouli (base)

description: the sudden end to a rainy season, a first glimpse of sunlight from the clouds

disclaimer(s): weak sillage, requires frequent reapplication

wc: 1152

warning(s): nothing!! safe!! very safe for all!! gn reader!!

author's note 1: this is actually a continuation/prequel of another fic i read! i've reblogged it on here, so go to the end of this fic to find out who wrote it...;p

"Raining in Japan? Again?" Hinata's voice rings through your earphones, his face pixelated and blurry on the weak connection of your phone as you scrub at dishes and cups. The tap splashes, water sloshing and dripping from your hands as you smile sadly. The house smells of dish soap and traces of wet leaves from the trees outside, pummeled by relentless droplets of rain that pass on from tapping at your windows.

"Yeah, has been like since you left, Sho." You glance at the phone momentarily, squeezing a wet sponge. For the two years of Hinata's departure, the spring has been weeping in daily showers and drizzles, clouds disintegrating into curtains of rain. The water bills sitting on the dining table behind you have gone down by a landslide since he's been gone, both from the lack of dishes that sit in the sink, waiting to be washed, and the sudden disappearance of an extra shower in the night, one that ends in a mess of wet, orange hair beneath your hands and between your fingers as you run through the strands, a hair dryer in hand. Through the phone, his skin looks tanner, yet the sun that reflects from his skin paints patches of white and gold on his face, a pair of sports sunglasses pushed up into his hair.

"Looks like Brazil has been a good time though, good weather?"

He gleams at the comment, crows feet emerging on the skin of his eyebags, and his smile is brighter than the sun that illuminates him.

"Yeah, good time and good weather. Would be much, much better if you were here though!" He holds the phone up, and his entire beach volleyball team is behind him, tall and towering over his relatively smaller figure who rolls a suitcase as he walks ahead. "Say hi to the teammates!" The men glance up and wave enthusiastically through the blurry videocall. Ah, Brazilians, always so kind. You smile, flicking your hands into the sink, before returning a small peace sign from above your head. From the two years of daily videocalls, snuck into walks from the beach to the dorms, or stolen from dinner parties and gatherings on lonely rooftops, you've come to know the names and faces of each teammate, and your heart takes a hit of guilt knowing they must have enjoyed Hinata's presence for the two years.

"I wish I were there too, Sho, or that you were here."

He smiles, pulling the phone back to himself. He would do anything to have you in Brazil with him, but he won't need to. Not when he's standing in front of Sao Paulo Airport, luggage and bags in hand as his teammates get ready to crowd around him for farewell embraces and manly kisses on the cheek. He'll miss his teammates, sure, but he's missed you much more than he could ever miss anyone else.

"Well, I'll be back in another twenty hours or so, and that's already twenty-something hours too many. Just got to the airport, but God, I just want to be with you, right now. I'll talk to you soon, 'kay? Love you."

"You're on your way, we'll be together soon, Sho. Love you too, I'll see you soon." The call cuts off, and what remain are soap suds in the sink, water bills on the dining table, and the never-ending drumming of rain on your windows. There are no stars in the sky, the moon too tired to crawl through the blue-grey clouds, the ones that let loose the water that makes them up for weeks on end, and years on end. You retreat from the kitchen, and into the bedroom, crawling into the comfort of your down quilt as you lie on your side, and stare at the empty dip of the mattress beside your own. The rain cries out now, bouts of lightning flashing periodically, followed by the booming of thunder, and you wonder if something will happen. What if the flight gets delayed, because of the stupid weather? What about turbulence? Hinata has always hated turbulence, ever since the senior grad trip the Karasuno volleyball team took to Brazil, the trip where he had to cling onto your arm for stability as the aircraft rumbled and bumped, battling with winds from all directions. What if the airplane goes through that again, and he has no one to hold on to this time?

You shake your head, ridding your mind of the endless possibilities, and swap your pillow with his. Your face presses into the fresh pillowcase, taking a sniff. His cologne has worn off, to your disappointment, only the faint traces of patchouli and fresh earth remaining beneath the guise of detergent, and you sigh, reminding yourself that he will be here, just in another day. And as you fall asleep, face half pressed into the pillow, your mind searches for the forgotten fragments of his fading cologne.

The next day rolls by like a script. The rain drizzles and pours again, and your lonely laundry tumbles and turns in the washing machine, dull beeps and clicks interrupting the nervous tapping of your feet at the ground as you wait for the turn of a key. The TV drones on in reports of another rainy day, trailers for shows and movies you've been waiting to watch with Hinata, the occasional time announcement that ticks at your brain like a time bomb, waiting to go off. Dishes from breakfast and lunch pile in the sink, sitting lifelessly as they wait for someone to scrub them beneath water and soap. The washing machine plays its little jingle when the clothes finish, and you drag yourself from the couch, pulling out a laundry basket to shove them into. Pulling open the door to the machine, the lock of the front door turns.

For the two years that Hinata is away from Japan, the springtimes weep in endless drizzling for weeks and weeks on end, and the summers cry out flurries of rain and lightning. The trees on the walks home catch onto stray droplets, sagging beneath the weight of water, rainboots and umbrellas becoming every day essentials for most of the year. Weather forecasters laugh and joke about the lack of sunlight, cue cards in hand in front of a LED screen, but the gloom evidently weighs down their eyes and dims their smiles with each passing week of rain and storm.

Yet the moment Hinata pushes open the front door, his luggage and bags of souvenirs and equipment thrown onto the wet ground carelessly, the drizzling and tapping of water on pavement and glass gradually silences. And when he lunges forward, holding you tight against his chest like a man robbed of his heart and soul, the forgotten notes of rose petals and crisp water flood your nose, and the clouds part for the sun to come home.

author's note 2:

@kuroppiii HEY BBG THANK YOU SM FOR YOUR BRAZIL HINATA FIC BECAUSE IT ACC JUST FILLED ME W SO MUCH INSPO

for anyone who read this please please PLEASE go check out the og one from @kuroppiii!! this is supposed to be a prequel/continuation of what they wrote and might make both reads just thiiiiiiis much more fleshed out!!! please give them love because i sure loved their work smsmsmsmsmmmmm

and also brazil hinata needs to save me ngl i love him..

tags!!

@chuuya-brainrot @fiannee @starlysama @afyrian @catsoupki @bailey-reeds

ok love u guys see u in the next one bye bye