THIS. Dont Know Why Either But I 100% Agree

THIS. Don’t know why either but I 100% agree

my rule for dating is:

if i get a boyfriend, i have to be cooler than him

but if i get a girlfriend, she has to be cooler than me

absolute pitch # u. wakatoshi | 2k words

↳ ushijima has trouble keeping you in his arms through the night; he comes up with an oddly ingenious solution.

for the simple pleasures collab hosted by @augustinewrites <3

Ushijima runs hot. He’d never realised this until two years ago when you pointed it out to him on your third date.

“You’re really hot.” were your exact words, and he almost tripped over nothing.

“Sorry?”

You half-hiccuped, half-giggled at his reaction, and the sound chimed in his ears. You were cute when you were tipsy, especially when you started whining a few glasses in because he couldn’t drink with you, a circumstance attributed to his dietician. 

(By the end of the night though, he’d had a sip or two. It was impossible to deny you.)

“I mean, you’re really warm,” you clarified because he was definitely gawking. “Like a human heater.”

Since then, Ushijima became almost hyper-aware of how much heat he emanated. Not that it concerned him. It meant packing less for games in colder locations, no bathroom breaks during long movies, less time spent making his bed in the morning because he didn’t need a blanket.

If anything, him running hot was a good thing. At least, Ushijima thought it was until he stayed the night with you for the very first time.

Because though he’d fallen asleep with your head tucked towards his chest and your hand over his heart, he’d awoken the next morning on the other side of the bed, sweating like he’d just played an entire set. 

That was how Ushijima learned the one downside of running hot: his body couldn’t physically withstand anything over an hour’s worth of cuddling. Which was terrible because, well, he really liked doing it with you.

When you moved in together, though he willed himself to keep you in his embrace before going to bed every night, the same tragedy always befell him come morning. Once, he even woke up with half his body hanging off the mattress. 

“It’s okay, baby. Honestly,” you said when he brought it up a week after settling into the new place. The smell of stale, unlived in air still clung to the walls.

You looked unbothered. Maybe… “Do you prefer it that we don’t—”

“No! No, of course not!” Ushijima was worried you’d get whiplash from how feverishly you shook your head. “I like cuddling with you at night, Toshi. But I know you get antsy when you’re warm. It’s probably just a subconscious response that you roll away. To avoid body heat, you know?”

You’d stared at him with so much reassurance, compassion, adoration; his heart ached. Ushijima wanted to lift you onto the nearest surface and kiss you breathless in hopes you’d understand how much you meant to him. He would’ve, but you were wearing shorts, and he remembered how you’d jolted from the cold after he set you down on the kitchen counter while kissing you that one time.

Sometimes, and maybe it’s mean of him, Ushijima puts off immediately reuniting with you after a game out of town just to watch you from afar, in awe that no matter who looked at you, he was the person you were waiting for; he was the only person who could call you his. 

Which was what made his predicament even more frustrating. 

He’s always taken pride in the fact that he’s made it so far in his career. He enjoys the vigour of his lifestyle; the intense training, the travelling, the purpose. It keeps him busy, keeps his life in check. He’s never once regretted devoting his all into volleyball.

But sometimes—when he hears you try to hide the fatigue brining your voice during the video calls while he’s away or on the days he has to carry you into bed because you’d fallen asleep waiting for him at the dining table—Ushijima can’t stifle the guilt that rouses in him. He spends so much time away from home, from you, that sometimes he forgets just how pleasantly cold your skin is compared to his, how tender your gaze becomes when it’s directed at him, how delicately your smile stretches the plush of your lips.

So he can hardly be blamed for wanting to spend what rare nights he has with you as close as humanly possible. Ushijima’s tried everything to try and force himself to remain by your side through the night—weighted blankets, melatonin pills, insisting you sleep on his arm to root him in place, sleeping shirtless to decrease his body temperature (you seemed disappointed when he stopped doing that last one)—but nothing worked. 

But if there’s one thing Ushijima’s learned from volleyball it’s this: to adapt is to win. There’s never a guarantee what his opponent will do next, which is why he knows the best thing he can do when something unexpected comes his way is take it in stride and adapt.

Which is why, on off days like today, Ushijima wakes up thirty minutes earlier than he should. 

Because he may be a world-class athlete, but he can’t train his body to reduce the amount of heat it exudes. All he can do is accept the fact that he isn’t built to spend an entire night with someone in his arms without overheating. So, he settles for this instead: waking up thirty minutes earlier so he can use that time to cuddle.

(Heat pricks his ears at the word. It sounds childish, but it’s exactly what he’s doing. He wishes there was another term for it.)

Thirty minutes, however, is barely a blip in the grand scheme of things. Ushijima wastes no time in draping his arm across your waist and nuzzling his face into the softness of your shirt, breathing you in. The first few times he did this, he dozed off. Which would’ve been fine—it’s an off day—if not for the fact that unconscious, his body will inevitably stray from yours.

So, when drowsiness begins seeping into his limbs, Ushijima reaches forward and, though he is no artist, sketches you with the feather-lightness of his fingertip. Every curve, dip, slope of your face he passes his thumb over to stow in his mind, to unearth on the days he spends away so the sight of you never dilutes. 

Usually he does this as gently as he can so he doesn’t wake you, but today you’re wearing one of his wide-collared shirts, the ones that slip down your arm to reveal your skin mottled by sunlight filtering through the sheers. 

So how is he meant to resist dragging his lips over your clavicle to the tip of your shoulder? How can he not linger there, let your skin cool his own, bringing him to an equilibrium?

He smooths his thumb over your lips, the flesh whispery like chiffon. He has half the mind to abandon his guilty conscience to kiss you awake. Ushijima doesn’t have to though, because before he knows it, your mouth is curving upward and your fingers are wrapping themselves around his wrist to keep his thumb pressing into your smile.

“G’morning, Toshi.”

Your voice is filmed with sleep, your eyelids barely open. He lets you curl his fingers into a fist and watches as you ghost your lips across the grooves of his knuckles. Ushijima wonders if he could ever love you more.

“Did you sleep well?” he asks, if only to keep himself grounded in reality. 

Your kisses travel to his wrist, to the single prominent vein which spindles upward to burgeon in his palm. When you hum an affirmative it sends vibrations along his pulse point.

Ushijima cups the back of your head and guides it to rest against his chest, his left arm lacing tighter around your waist. If his estimates are accurate, he has ten minutes left. He wishes he had longer.

“You’re so warm, darling,” you tell him, almost absentmindedly.

Are you uncomfortable? You must be. Winter has begun to winnow from summer’s sweltering winds; certainly that paired with Ushijima’s own startling heat would be borderline oppressive.  

But when he shifts to pry himself away, you bunch the material of his shirt in your hands to stop him. 

“Don’t go.” Your voice is muffled by cotton. “You feel nice.”

Ushijima should’ve known better. Of course, you’d find no contentions with his body heat. When have you ever? You revel in it, crave it even, because the heat is inherent to him, and you love him without conditions. 

Because you’ve learned to adapt, too. 

You and Ushijima dance to different tunes. Even undying love cannot alter the simple truth that each of your notes differ on a near structural level—coloured by your past experiences, your upbringing, your contrasting dispositions—because at the end of the day, you and him are different people. There is no harmony when you and Ushijima’s songs collide, only dissonance, but over the years, as you’ve designated crevices in yourselves specially curated for the other, you’ve each adapted your songs to fit the best they can.

It’s been three years since Ushijima has known you, two since you told him how hot he ran, and in that time, both of you have attained absolute pitch; learned to play the other’s tune merely by sound; borrowed and incorporated each other’s notes into your own song. So while there is no true harmony in the orchestra of your relationship, sometimes, if he strains his ears, Ushijima can hear your melody and his weaving to create something not necessarily right, but beautiful regardless. Because those few seconds of not-quite harmony are born from effort, from wanting to conduct something dulcet together in spite of the way Ushijima’s tempo may run faster than yours at times and your pitch a little higher than his in others. 

Your not-quite harmony is a culmination of the little things you do for each other, to adapt for one another, like drying his hair while he rewatches games, dabbing your makeup away when you’re too exhausted to, sticking peppy messages scratched in ballpoint on the fridge for him, or, even, waking up thirty minutes earlier just so he can bask in your love if only for a second longer.

His alarm beeps once, twice, thrice, before Ushijima silences it.

“We should get up now,” he rasps against your forehead because that’s what the sound means. 

Your breath blankets his cheek, his thumb caresses your hip. 

“I know. I’ll go wash my face,” you say but you don’t move.

“Okay,” he says but his hold of you doesn’t loosen.

And maybe the two of you stay that way longer than you should. Maybe the half-hour stretches to one instead as you catch him up on what he’d missed while he was away—the Alphonso mangoes on sale at the grocery store, how you’d found the left side of your favourite pair of woolly socks behind the washing machine, the orange peel and honeysuckle scented hand lotion you’d been eyeing ceasing production—and he memorises the softness of your skin beneath his palm. 

You tell him about all the trivial happenings, though Ushjima doesn’t like calling them that because the way you recount them makes him feel as if he were there living through it with you—juggling the weight of ripe fruit between his hands, shining his phone’s flashlight behind the washing machine for a glimpse of kitten-patterned wool, hearing the clicks of your mouse as you reload and reload the fragrance store’s website. And suddenly, he can’t wait to officially start the day because there are dozens of mundane things—simple pleasures—he won’t need to vicariously experience a week too late. 

Because he gets to do them, with you, today.

But Ushijima thinks just a second longer in bed surely won’t hurt because he can’t imagine getting up any time soon. Not when he has you like this, not when he’s teeming with the knowledge that you are the only person in the world who knows his song by heart as he does yours, that in this moment, he can hear the not-quite harmony the two of you have built for yourselves from the simple pleasures, from all and nothing but the simple pleasures.

THIS IS SO ADORABLE ❤️

# when his baby gets jealous !

✫ ft. akaashi , atsumu , iwaizumi , suna x mom!reader

✫ a/n: the kids are ages 1-3 (can stand, walk, talk in sentences). the babies aren’t really “jealous” in some of these. they just want some love and affection, too !!!

✫ warnings: usage of “mom” and “mama” to refer to reader

✫ AKAASHI leans into your touch after coming home from the office, his tie loosened and his hair a bit messier than usual. you two are splayed on the couch, his head resting peacefully on your chest as he updates you on bokuto’s recent msby game. and just minutes later, you feel your son pull on your leg. an eruption of babbles leave his lips as he whines and tugs. “mmm, it’s my turn with mom,” keiji whines into your collarbones. you can't help but laugh at your husband's child-like behavior. "keiji, get off, you're gonna make him upset." and as keiji nuzzles his face in the crook of your neck, your baby breaks out into a sob, "mama! mama!" filling the small living room. keiji gets up from his place on your chest and picks your son up, mumbling "i'm sorry, bud" into his equally messy hair. "mama's all yours," he kisses the top of his head and allows him to crawl happily into your arms. "you're as whiny as your mo-" "keiji." he can't even be upset at his limited time with you — the image of you holding his entire world makes up for it.

✫ ATSUMU lingers in the kitchen after tucking your daughter in to bed just about every night. he puts dishes in the cabinets, wipes down the counter, and traps you between his arms for a moment of intimacy. "mind if i kiss ya, babe?" he asks, knowing you'll let him anyway. "you'll do it no matter what i say," you turn your head to the side, creating distance between his lips and yours. "no! i'm a gentleman! that's why ya married me, isn't it?" a laugh leaves your lips and you're stepping up onto your toes to reach his. his hands wrap around your waist, pulling you close against himself. it's been hard to find time for yourselves — your daughter was at the age where she'd walk (stumble, really) away if you took your eyes off of her for even a second. and as you pull away from the kiss, breathless and all, you hear the pitter patter of her tiny feet approaching you two. "baby, why are ya awake? can't sleep?" atsumu bends down to her level, pushing her hair back from her eyes. she rubs at them and then wraps her tiny arms around his neck to kiss his cheeks. "i want a g'night kiss too!" she whines. "alrighty, baby, ya can get as many as ya want! make sure ya give mama a kiss too," he tells her before peppering her cheeks with loving kisses.

✫ IWAIZUMI used to wake up early every morning, getting ready for the day at a slow and relaxing pace, but he finds it harder and harder to do so when you cling onto him, asking for five more minutes of peace, five minutes of calmness before the storm (the storm being your daughter, of course). she's gotten clingier with every step she could take. she wakes up with the sun and makes her way to your bed, struggling to climb up with her tiny legs. the sight of her dad's arm around your waist brings a pout to her lips, her cheeks puffing out as she whispers a "daddy?" and of course, he's awake (he's been awake for the past 15 minutes). "wanna come up?" he asks her before unwrapping his arms from your body and lifting her onto his broad chest. she immediately crawls over him, kicking his face with her feet in the process, to place herself between you two. her little arms and legs wrap around your torso like a koala, and she looks up at you with a toothy smile. "my turn,” she says, nuzzling her head into you. you hear iwa mumble under his breath (something about waking the team up with kicks to the face).

✫ SUNA always searches for you and the twins in the crowd. his team had just won a game that he's been training especially hard for, and it's the first time in a while that you've seen his dimply smile on his face. he runs up to you and the twins with nothing but joy in his eyes. grabbing ahold of your waist, he presses a kiss to your lips — his teeth clash against yours and he's laughing into the kiss out of sheer happiness, but you don't mind it one bit. your sons pull at your clothes as they try to get your attention. suna catches a glimpse of their raised arms and pulls away from you to lift his boys into his own arms, one on each side of his body. they're cheering for their dad, clapping and yelling, “you did it!" suna's never been an affectionate guy, opting to show his love in more subtle ways, but he feels the urge to pull you and the boys in for a tight hug (one where you can feel the rapid beating in his chest). he kisses the top of your head before pressing one on each of the twins' cheeks. "let's go celebrate, yeah?" suna grins. he’d do anything to hold you three like that again after each win — his prized possessions in his arms.

reblogs are appreciated, as always!

How do you think Childe would react to his s/o liking Taroumaru more than him?

“coming to inazuma was a mistake,” childe grumbles, lurking just a few feet behind you as you stand directly in front of the counter. your fingers scratch behind the ears of the shiba inu on front of you, giggles escaping you as taroumaru leans into your touch, tongue lolling out of his mouth happily. thoma, your tour guide, bites back a laugh at the harbinger’s embittered words. childe glowers at the sight before him, arms folded tightly across his chest, yet you and taroumaru remain oblivious to the aura of death that radiates off him.

“who’s a good boy?” you coo in a baby voice to the dog in front of you. “you are! yes you are! the cutest, goodest boy ever! working so hard to manage the teahouse! you’re so cute!”

the loud thumping of taroumaru’s wagging tail reverberates through the lobby of the teahouse as your hands roam over the head and under the chin of the shiba inu. he lets out a soft bark in acknowledgement, almost as if he understands your words, yet you pay it no mind. with such soft fur, taroumaru is nearly irresistible and your boyfriend is long since forgotten.

“i’m supposed to be y/n’s good boy.” childe grumbles petulantly, finally evoking a laugh out of thoma. thoma claps a hand on childe’s shoulder, nodding understandingly.

“we all lose to taroumaru. you get used to it.” thoma comforts, yet childe only sulks further at the inazuman’s words. stupid, dumb, and (begrudgingly) cute dog. childe would have to challenge the dog to a battle for your heart one day, but for now, he supposes that taroumaru can receive your affection.

THIS IS SO SWEET. I swear favoniouscodex never misses ❤️

summary : the fatui harbingers find out scaramouche has a wife and force him to bring you to the fatui summer work party. pairing : scaramouche x f!reader word count: 1.2k warnings : none a/n : first part of a mini series i'm doing where scaramouche has a really mundane living, peaceful wife & everyone is confused by it. series masterlist found here!

summer events were a "big deal" in snezhnaya. scaramouche isn't sure why, especially since "summer" is only a few degrees of difference from the wintry hellscape that takes over the land every year. he doesn't understand how his most beloathed male coworker manages to show up wearing beach shorts and sunglasses during the summer celebration.

but somehow, even more of a shitshow than the yearly "lets grill outside in two feet of snow and act like we're not all freezing" work party occurs precisely two weeks prior to the scheduled summer celebration at work. it was supposed to be an uneventful day, where scaramouche would have some meetings at the tsaritsa's palace and yell at some subordinates for misdemeanors. it was supposed to be a day of nothingness. it was a day of nothingness. at least, until scaramouche's wedding ring fell out of a hole in his pocket, clattering across the marble floor noisily.

none of the harbingers paid it much mind, except for scaramouche's least favorite male coworker.

"holy archons," the menace swears out loud, interrupting dottore's on unentertaining diatribe on why live human testing of chemical weapons is ethical and should receive government funding. "is that a wedding ring?! comrade, are you married?"

before scaramouche can snatch the ring (and his pride) back up and refute any such claims, his least favorite female coworker scoffs before pushing a strand of blonde hair out of her face.

"who in their right mind would marry that gremlin?"

since scaramouche was stopped before he could lunge across the table and punch the cocky smirk right off signora's face, the only way to not seem like an utter loser in front of his coworkers was to introduce you to them. it's not like he necessarily cared what they thought, but the less they spoke to him on the regular, the better. if he became the laughing stock of the guy with the supposedly fake wife, he would never hear the end of it.

scaramouche's main goal was to keep you away from his coworkers forever, but with the approaching summer celebration and the fellow harbingers constantly asking about you, scaramouche soon realized that the only way to get them to shut up would be to bring you to the world's worst work event.

and now, here you are, looking utterly beautiful in a sundress and scaramouche wonders why he's about to make you tolerate the worst people he's ever met for a few hours. he's also wondering why you're so excited to meet them all. as you enter the halls of the palace with him, a bright smile lines your face. it's one that scaramouche adores, but one that seems horribly inappropriate for the hallowed halls of the tsaritsa's domain. he doesn't dare say anything though.

"oh, i'm so excited to meet your friends, kuni!" you giggle excitedly, hands clasping tightly around the container of blueberry muffins you made in preparation. you're a walking ray of sunshine and scaramouche wants to hide you from the other harbingers before they can smother your light. but, unfortunately, he can't.

"they are not my friends," scaramouche grumbles, but you don't bother to listen and instead chatter excitedly away about how pretty the scenery of the palace is despite the fact that it is a bit chilly inside. when scaramouche offers to fetch you a coat, you politely decline, saying that it's no problem and that the festivities of the summer celebration will warm you up.

yet, when you arrive to the event, the two of you are met with absolute silence when you enter the fatui harbinger break room. ten familiar pairs of harbinger eyes all fixate on your cheerful smile and cute fashion with absolute confusion. you don't pay it any mind, balancing the tray of muffins in one hand as you lift the other up to wave excitedly at everyone.

"hi, everyone! i'm kuni- sorry, scaramouche's wife, (y/n)!"

scaramouche swears he hears dottore breathe holy shit, he wasn't lying and hears the scuffling of mora being exchanged in a bet between two of the other harbingers. its awkward until scaramouche's least favorite male coworker clears his throat and approaches you, a big smile on his face.

"welcome to the family, comrade!" the worst person ever greets. "i am scaramouche's best friend, childe!"

you gasp in delight as scaramouche inhales heavily, patience already wearing thin. hastily, you set the tray of muffins down and pull childe in for a hug.

"it is so nice to meet you!" you say excitedly. "thanks so much to you and everyone else for keeping my husband company when i can't! you guys seem like so much fun!"

by the time the summer celebration is over, scaramouche is bored out of his mind and stressed to the high heavens. all day long, the fatui harbingers act like they are scaramouche's best friends, making up lies on the spot about how good of friends they are with him and telling (completely false, if you ask scaramouche) embarrassing stories about him at work. scaramouche would have left hours ago, if not for the way you giggle and find entertainment with his coworkers.

scaramouche isn't quite sure what you see in them, but you've always seen the good in everyone. it's what he loves about you. you sense his annoyance with his party and manage to slip your hand underneath the table to hold his during dinner. once the sun begins to set and his coworkers begin to go their separate ways, you finally grant him reprieve, saving your biggest smile of the day for only him to see.

"ready to go home?" you say and scaramouche doesn't have to be asked twice, practically carrying you out the door without a single goodbye to any of his wretched coworkers.

"they were nice!" you giggle excitedly, swinging your hand that is currently interlaced with scaramouche's own hand back and forth. scaramouche clutches your hand a bit tighter.

"they are war criminals," he tells you, but you wave your free hand dismissively through the air.

"they're your friends, kuni! they had so many cute stories to tell about you! it was so nice to get to talk with people that like you almost as much as i do!" you say excitedly.

scaramouche hates his coworkers. the fatui are a cesspool of filth that he is only using until he gets his hands on the gnosis. but, with the way you seem so utterly enthusiastic on the prospect of scaramouche getting along well with his coworkers, he can't bring himself to spoil the mirage. the spoonfed lies they fed you in an attempt to make scaramouche look bad don't seem to have actually worked. instead, you interpreted it as overeager friends attempting to catch a significant other up to speed. you interpreted all of the danger and malice to be benign.

scaramouche lifts your joined hands to his lips and kisses your knuckles softly.

"i love you," he murmurs, thanking every archon that you're out of earshot of his coworkers.

"i love you too!" you pause for a brief moment. "so, when do i get to meet everyone again?"

over my dead body, scaramouche thinks. yet, for some reason, the thought of bringing you back doesn't seem as awful as before, even though he would never admit it out loud.