lia

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.

Suddenly,dragging him out of his thoughts,Levi felt a weight on his shoulder. Turning a bit,his heart missing a beat at the same time,he saw your face,leaning on his shoulder,and eyes focused on him.

"You're not listening ." you stated,without an ounce of reproach in your voice. Levi nodded,knowing that he wouldn't be able to talk with you this close to him. He found it quite funny (or embarassing ,he didn't really know ) that he could easily kill titans, but was flustered just because of one person.

"Can't focus." he muttered, his eyes locked into yours,suddenly feeling as if the whole world had just disappeared around him to move into your eyes.

"And why that ?" None of you dared to break the eye contact,and Levi suddenly felt as if the temperature had just drastically increased ; and he wondered ,unreally ,if the house wasn't on fire.

"You.That's what." He was so lost into your eyes that his mouth spoke before he could think of a proper answer. Feeling suddenly really flustered,he almost turned his eyes away,but at the same time a broad smile appeared on your face ,and he didn't dare to look away,afraid to miss this sight.

"That's great then. I was telling a lot of shitty stuff because I couldn't really focus either."

He didn't know how that had happened,but your faces were now mere inches to each other. "And why couldn't you focus ?" he asked,your smile increasing with his question.

"You.That's what." you answered,kissing him at the same time. He could feel you smiling through the kiss,and he suddenly thought he could die of it,die because of you and the way you made him feel.

— bertholdt

• bertie seems like a clean guy so i’ll bet you anything that his cologne smells like h e a v e n

• when you’re sat on the floor and ask him to help you get up so he grabs your hand to pull you up on your feet, and when he does you can see the exact moment his arm muscles flex and it’s lowkey highkey super hot

• + his hands are HUGE? his fingers definitely reach the top of your head when he’s holding your face

• just his height overall tbh. the kinda guy who has to tilt his head down to look at you mmhhhhh

• he gives the best massages that’s for sureeee

• and he especially likes massaging your back because since you’re not facing him he feels confident enough to leave kisses on your shoulders

— mikasa

• when she cracks her knuckles and her neck i’m sorry but this is so hot

• mikasa wearing a suit. do i even have to elaborate???

• when she just finished her workout and she’s just walking around in her sports bra with a towel hanging around her neck

• ooh and when she smiles in between kisses :>

• in pt.1 i mentioned armin looking hot while building furniture, and i think mikasa would look hot too, but not for the same reasons

• armin would look hot being focused on the instructions, but mikasa would look hot carrying stuff that are three times heavier than her

• she also really enjoys carrying you to bed when you fall asleep on the couch, and she does it so effortlessly??

— reiner

• another member of the raspy morning voice gang, i just know it…

• lazy neck kisses in the morning can you hear me screammmm and he usually has his arm wrapped around your shoulders to keep you close

• another thing he does is pulling you in by the belt or belt loops to get a kiss

• and since we’re talking abt kisses: he likes to kiss the back of your hand like the true gentleman he is... idk how but he makes it look so sexy

• REINER GETTING OUT OF A POOL?? I MEAN PUSHING HIMSELF OUT OF THE WATER? *aggressively fanning myself*

• when he’s focused on something and he unconsciously starts to stroke his stubble…. and it happens to look like… yk… like he’s stroking his neck a lil bit… yeah i’m gonna stop here.

— sasha

• when she helps you clasp a necklace and she lets her finger slightly brush against your skin :o it’s an out-of-body experience every single time

• you guys have many inside jokes together so she often winks at you, and when she does she always has a sort of mischievous half-smirk on her lips and ugh she’s just too hot

• !!when!!she!!rolls!!up!!her!!sleeves!!before!!cooking!!

• sasha applying chapstick is a power move as well

• i mean, she always asks you which flavor is your favorite so OBVIOUSLY YOU FEEL CONCERNED WHEN SHE RUBS HER LIPS TOGETHER :o

• when she kisses you so passionately that you have to lean back a little bit, but she always rests a hand on your lower back to keep you steady!!

• loves loves loves to rest her head between your thighs when you’re cuddling, and that’s another moment when she brushes her fingers against your skin, or the hem of your pants (and it makes your entire body shiver omg)

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