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Draped prettily over the cool grey marble of the bathroom counter, flushed skin dripping from his shower, lips parted and milky thighs spread wide, Oikawa smirks at his own reflection in the mirror above the sink, imagining the black of Ushijima’s pupils swallowing up molten gold when he comes home from practice to find Oikawa like this.
Soon, he thinks, pleased with himself, the spark in his eyes just this side of conceited — and why the hell not?
Oikawa knows exactly what he looks like.
He’s a dream, beautiful and alluring; knows exactly how to push Ushijima’s buttons, crack that infuriatingly calm composure — one coy glance over his shoulder, or a brush of fingers dipping below the waistband of Ushijima’s pants, playing with his ass until Ushijima is wild for it.
A quick glimpse at his phone reveals that it won’t be much longer indeed; a few more minutes at most.
Three fingers into easing his quivering body open wide, he huffs out a string of embarrassingly needy sighs (the ones that he knows Ushijima likes to hear when he’s inside of him, picks Oikawa apart slowly; that spur him on to love Oikawa harder, deeper ), groans at the thought of Ushijima’s strong, bulky arms pinning him down, one hand carefully pulling up his leg by the back of his good knee for easier access. A better angle.
To make Oikawa squirm and bite out breathless demands for Ushijima to give it to him good.
For a moment, the tiled walls start tilting around him, his vision flashing white, and his free hand hastily fists around the base of his aching cock to ground himself.
It’s clumsy and desperate, but he doesn’t care.
He wants Ushijima to come home.
He wants Ushijima to make a mess of him.
As if on cue, Oikawa’s senses zero in on a quiet commotion coming from the general direction of the genkan — a door opening and closing, the gentle sound of a lock clicking shut, the familiar shuffling of a pair of volleyball shoes being slipped off and neatly stowed away, followed by the soft padding of socked feet on the living room carpet.
“Tooru, I’m back,” Ushijima calls out, the deep tenor of his voice gently wrapping around Oikawa’s given name, still a little rough from the cold outside, and sending hot shivers down the curve of Oikawa’s spine.
Instinctively, he pushes his ass out a bit further.
He hears Ushijima making his way to their bedroom, where he drops his gym bag in its usual spot by the end of the bed, then continues his search for Oikawa further down the hall. Oikawa groans impatiently, has half a mind to hunt Ushijima down himself and climb him where he stands, drugged up on Ushijima’s cologne that he generously sprayed all over himself in a mindless fit of longing less than fifteen minutes prior.
Maybe, he wonders dazedly, he would have if there hadn’t been a tentative knock on the door to bring him back to his senses.
“Hey, it’s me. I’m back from practice,” Ushijima informs him in that serious tone of his. Oikawa bites his lips in anticipation, long fingers curling inside of himself, bearing down on his prostate. “Everything okay in there?”
“No,” Oikawa hisses back without thinking, rolling his eyes at the question as he grinds his hips down onto his own hand.
“Can I come in?”
Something in Ushijima’s voice shifts, alert and concerned, where it was annoyingly calm just a couple seconds before.
“By all means— aahh— “
As finally, finally, the door swings open, hungry hazel eyes meeting Ushijima’s golden ones in the mirror, several things happen at once.
Ushijima gasps at the sight of him, pale skin glistening with stray droplets of water, bent over the counter top like a whore, spread and beautiful and willing.
Oikawa, on the other hand, doesn’t find the time to gloat at the dusting of pink crawling up the strong column of Ushijima’s neck, or the way Ushijima’s thick fingers helplessly clench into fists at his sides — fingers that he wants in a bruising grip around his bare hips, around his neck (even though he knows Ushijima feels reluctant about giving in to that particular craving).
No, not after his narrowed gaze catches on a small, seemingly insignificant detail on the front of Ushijima’s track jacket, the zipper of which, upon closer inspection, barely closes over the ridiculously broad expanse of Ushijima’s chest. Next to the Schweiden Adlers’s logo, Oikawa spots an all too familiar jersey number that makes the blood run cold inside his veins.
That bastard, I knew it—
He whips around at a dizzying speed, shoves Ushijima backwards through the bathroom door until he has him firmly up against the wall out in the hallway and grabs him by the collar of his jacket with his pretty face twisted into a disgusted snarl.
“What is this?” he demands hotly, turning Ushijima around just enough to get the confirmation he needs, printed all over his back in large grey letters.
Kageyama. #20.
“Getting a bit cocky, isn’t he—“
“Hoshiumi spilled his sports drink all over my sweater in the locker room after practice,” Ushijima interrupts, flustered and clearly confused if the deepening crease between his knit eyebrows is anything to go by. Loathe as he is to admit it even now, Oikawa loves that occasional obliviousness about Ushijima; finds it endearing in more ways than one.
Today, he can’t help but find it exasperating.
“It’s quite stormy outside, so Kageyama was kind enough to lend me his spare jacket. We’re teammates. He was just trying to look out for me.”
The problem is that Oikawa can’t even pretend to be genuinely worried. He’s not. He knows that Ushijima’s single-minded devotion will never give him any reason to be, and he’s grateful for that.
It sure as hell doesn’t mean that he has to like the idea of his boyfriend wearing another guy’s clothes.
“You know what, I’ve heard enough of that name out of your mouth tonight.”
With that said, Oikawa stands on the tips of his toes and sucks Ushijima’s bottom lip between his teeth, nips and bites at it until it’s pink and swollen between his teeth before soothing the sting with his tongue, messily licking into Ushijima’s mouth, each kiss so wet and filthy it leaves them both short of breath.
It’s agonizing, the feeling of the rough denim of Ushijima’s jeans scraping against Oikawa’s straining length, of being completely exposed while pressing up against Ushijima’s muscular chest, hidden beneath several layers of fabric.
Oikawa had wanted that, craved it even: Ushijima nailing him against the counter right where he found him, still half-dressed with his pants unzipped just enough to pull out his cock and ravish him. The unpleasant sight of Kageyama’s name — Kageyama of all people — branding Ushijima’s body in a way only Oikawa’s ever should, however, had brought with it the need for a change of plans.
Kissing Ushijima for a little longer, a little harder, he wastes no time peeling him out of his borrowed, much too tight track jacket and lets it drop to the floor with a sound dangerously close to a growl ripping from his throat, nails digging into the corded muscle of Ushijima’s biceps as he not so accidentally steps on the offensive garment.
“I want you,” Oikawa announces without much preamble, emphasizes his words by rolling up his hips while massaging Ushijima’s quite impressive bulge through his pants, coaxing groan after helpless groan from that normally so controlled, well-behaved mouth.
“I want your cock; give it to me.”
“Yeah,” Ushijima sighs disorientedly, allowing Oikawa to manhandle him down the hall until they stumble through the open bedroom door together, blindly, biting and clawing at each other, Ushijima’s fingers reverently tracing the arch of Oikawa’s spine, feeling up his ass, tentatively slipping in between his cheeks as his other hand busies itself gently tugging on Oikawa’s nipples. The touch would have Oikawa melting into Ushijima’s embrace if only he wasn’t in such a particularly prickly mood tonight.
With his usual grudging regard for proprieties, such as keeping his marks to places that can easily be covered up the next morning, having long gone out of the window, he sinks his teeth into the junction between the stupidly strong line of Ushijima’s shoulders and neck without warning, all the while pushing Ushijima backwards until they collide with the edge of the bed, tumbling into the sheets in a tangled heap of limbs.
Ushijima groans in pleasure-pain, visibly taken aback by Oikawa’s poorly concealed bout of possessiveness, but obediently tips his head back against the pillows — a silent invitation for Oikawa to have at his throat, all greedy kitten licks and sloppy, open-mouthed kisses.
Shamelessly, Oikawa’s knee bullies its way between Ushijima’s thighs, teasing, grinding; eager hands making quick work of his shirt, his belt, the zipper of his jeans.
“Tooru,” Ushijima rasps, bucking his hips underneath Oikawa’s weight as skilled hands stroke him to full hardness with just a few flicks of Oikawa’s wrist, the pad of Oikawa’s thumb idly toying with the wet slit at the tip.
The way Ushijima’s body arches off the mattress at the slightest touch — so sensitive , Oikawa notes smugly — gives him half a mind to suck that fat cock into his mouth and make short work of Ushijima, take the edge off just a little, but that’s not where he needs it. Not for now.
“Let me—“
“Maybe I’ll let you touch me after you’ve learned your lesson,” Oikawa muses, unceremoniously slamming one hand down on Ushijima’s rock hard abs and splaying his fingers wide.
When he begins to sink down on Ushijima’s cock, slowly, so slowly, Oikawa makes sure to make a show of himself for Ushijima, head tipped back as the thick tip breaches him, hazy brown eyes leering at his prey through a fan of dark lashes, spit-slick lips parted in a long, breathy moan. His free hand falls away from where their bodies are connected, his hole stretched obscenely around the slick base of Ushijima’s shaft, to reach behind himself and get at Ushijima’s balls, caressing them in his shaking palm.
It’s a tight fit — he had made sure it would be, having used only three fingers to prepare himself for Ushijima’s taking although he knows all too well that he needs at least four of his own slender ones to accommodate Ushijima’s girth.
Hot tears of relief prick at the corners of his eyes once he feels himself bottoming out because God, he needed this; can’t tear his clouded gaze away from Ushijima moaning and thrashing under him, pinned to the bed by Oikawa’s powerful thighs caging him in, the ripple of solid muscle, a sheen of sweat glistening on sun-kissed skin.
The room fills with the wet slap of skin on skin as Oikawa begins to impale himself on Ushijima’s cock, rhythmic at first, yet rapidly growing more erratic; Oikawa’s cries and broken gasps of pleasure whenever the twitching head hits him just right mingling with Ushijima’s soft grunts and the way he chants Oikawa’s name like a prayer on every shuddering exhale.
Oikawa wouldn’t readily admit it, but soon Ushijima’s large hands curling around his waist, blissfully rough from half a lifetime of volleyball practice, are the only thing still holding him upright. The feeling of Ushijima’s massive length driving into him has him weak in the knees, the slide of it, the sound of it splitting him open right down the middle.
“You’re aren’t his ace,” he spits in a sudden fit of petulance, forcing his blurred vision to focus back on Ushijima’s flushed face before bending down to swallow a startled moan straight out of his red, kiss-bruised mouth.
“You’re mine.”
To Oikawa’s boundless irritation, Ushijima has the audacity to smile at him, barely there, just a hint, a quirk of the lips.
Oikawa cracks his open palm across Ushijima’s pecs.
“What’s so fucking funny to y— mhmm,” Oikawa half-moans, half-whines into their kiss when Ushijima finally pushes himself up into a sitting position, Oikawa’s trembling body gathered into his arms, neck craned upwards to crash his lips against Oikawa’s and shove his tongue down his throat.
“You’re terrible,” Ushijima rumbles, emphasizing his words with a sharp buck of his hips that has Oikawa screaming.
“How many times have I told you that I don’t look at anybody else.”
“Tell me again.”
Something incredibly fond, yet dangerous flashes in the warm gold of Ushijima’s eyes, powerful and determined, and before Oikawa knows it, he’s flat on his back, left leg hiked over Ushijima’s shoulder, Ushijima’s cock buried so deep he swears he can feel it in his stomach.
His insides feel hot and shivery, clenching down on Ushijima, who doesn’t seem to be faring much better with his forehead resting against Oikawa’s heaving chest, breath coming out in short, labored pants, tongue flicking across heated skin.
“You feel like heaven,” Oikawa confesses in a daze, too high on the quiet reverence in Ushijima’s eyes while he hammers Oikawa through the sheets to feel self-conscious about the soft edge of vulnerability in his tone. The intimacy of their position tugs on Oikawa’s heartstrings until he doesn’t quite remember what he was so worked up about in the first place.
“I love you,” Ushijima murmurs in between featherlight kisses all the way up Oikawa’s pale chest, his collarbones, his neck, and along his jawline before gently grazing his earlobe with his teeth. “There’s nobody else.”
He bites down, hard.
“Nobody…”
And Oikawa unravels in Ushijima’s arms, untouched; cries for more, harder as Ushijima tenderly fucks him through it.
There’s a moment when Oikawa knows, knows from the way Ushijima’s brow furrows in concentration and those strong, dependable arms threaten to buckle under Ushijima’s weight, that he’s close, holding himself back for Oikawa’s sake like he always does.
So Oikawa musters what little strength he has left to lift his right leg, wrap it tightly around Ushijima’s waist and dig in his heel; pulls himself flush against him, his mind still out of it, his body still quivering from the intensity of his own bone-shaking orgasm, and tells Ushijima to let go.
“Come on, fill me up…” he whispers.
Ushijima obeys with a growl that’s barely human to Oikawa’s ears.
“Fuck, yes, ” Oikawa sighs breathlessly, closes his eyes and spreads his thighs wide as Ushijima pumps him full of his seed, hot and wet and messy. There’s so much of it, he feels it dripping down his inner thighs long before he’ll even think about allowing Ushijima to pull out.
For a few quiet minutes, they just lie there; Ushijima sprawled out on top of him like a warm, heavy blanket once he has finally finished, shoving his face into the crook of Oikawa’s neck.
With a sedate smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, Oikawa buries his nose in the short strands of Ushijima’s hair — it’s soft, he thinks, much softer than he had expected the first time he’d experimentally run his fingers through it on a lazy Sunday afternoon that feels like a small eternity ago.
“Was I that good?” he asks playfully, scratching at the spot Ushijima likes right above his hairline. “You don’t usually come this much.”
When Ushijima doesn’t answer, Oikawa finds himself perking up a little, both at Ushijima’s uncharacteristic reluctance and the sudden rush of heat radiating from the cheek pressed into the space above his collarbone, seeping into his skin.
“It’s… attractive when you take control,” Ushijima eventually mumbles under his breath, so softly Oikawa nearly misses it entirely.
“So attractive, you had to flip me over and establish your dominance?”
“Yes,” he admits simply, and peers up at Oikawa with that sheepish expression in his eyes, probably to assess the damage.
Laughter bubbles up inside Oikawa’s throat, airy, soft like the chime of bells. It’s easy, swallowing whatever bristly retort would once have rolled off the tip of his tongue now that he’s come to understand.
Power, he has learned over the course of the past year, comes in many forms — broad shoulders and solid muscle, a bulky set of arms slung around his waist, or slamming him up against the lockers after a shared practice session with the national team, their brute strength raw and undeniable. It’s in the mental fortitude it takes to brave Oikawa’s moods, not to tolerate them, but to embrace them, and carefully smooth them out.
There’s power in the way Ushijima holds him down to devour him whole; power, yet a complete surrender of control.
You’re losing your mind because I want you too.
At the end of the day, it all comes down to who is pulling the strings.
—
As far as Oikawa is concerned, nothing quite compares to the feeling of Ushijima Wakatoshi eagerly gagging around a mouthful of his cock.
Muscular thighs straining where they’re straddling Ushijima’s face, his hips snap forward in a harsh thrust, driving his pulsing length down the tight channel of Ushijima’s throat without warning (and he couldn’t have warned him even if he had wanted to).
Something about Ushijima, about the blatant worship coiling in hooded olive eyes and slick pink lips suckling Oikawa so sweetly, a soft tongue flicking out between them to lick Oikawa clean of his own mess… something about Ushijima wanting to be dominated crackles through Oikawa’s system like static, his hazy mind short-circuiting at the sound of Ushijima’s wet, pliant mouth working his cock, head bobbing lightly, because it’s never enough.
Mine, he thinks feverishly, dragging his fingertips along the sharp angles of Ushijima’s cheekbones, then lower, ever lower until his thumb catches on the stretched corner of Ushijima’s lips.
Slowly, Oikawa feels his expression twisting into a leer.
“I’m sorry,” he cooes even though he really isn’t as he watches Ushijima’s eyes water, jaw slack, lashes lowered in shame at how easily he bends to his beautiful lover’s will. “Just a little more, babe.”
The strangled groan rumbling in Ushijima’s chest borders on a whine, needy and impatient. It’s all the invitation Oikawa needs to roughly press Ushijima into the mattress, feed him his throbbing cock until it’s buried to the hilt, Ushijima’s nose rubbing against the hard muscle of Oikawa’s lower stomach.
Ushijima is a sight to behold, bruised lips slippery with spit and pre-cum, cheeks flushed and that stony, confident gaze of his slipping in and out it focus with unchecked arousal. Sweaty and shivery and absolutely wrecked.
One fist knotted into the short, damp strands of Ushijima’s hair, Oikawa fucks his throat with nearly reckless abandon — he would never hurt Ushijima, not in any way Ushijima doesn’t crave to be hurt.
Keeping the fingers of his left hand tangled with Ushijima’s, he clings to the last scraps of self-control he can muster with his cock engulfed by soft, velvety heat, and waits for the signal, any sign that he may be causing Ushijima pain.
It never comes.
—
Oikawa collapses face-first into the mattress, knees rubbed raw against the sheets, tears flowing freely as Ushijima’s cockhead slips from his gaping hole with a wet pop, only for Ushijima to make him take it deeper still, battering his prostrate in a rapid succession of sharp, well-aimed thrusts.
“Wakatoshi,” he sobs into the damp pillow hugged tightly to his chest, body quaking and crumbling under the tireless onslaught.
He’s lost count of how many times he has ridden that cock tonight, burning up from the inside out, and every piece of him aching, yearning, clinging to the rush; smooth alabaster skin set alight in the aftermath of Ushijima’s touch like a tingle underneath Oikawa’s skin.
Behind him, Ushijima’s grip on his ass loosens where he’d been holding him open wide for a better view — they both know that Ushijima gets off on it, watching Oikawa clench hot and desperate around his girth. The rough pads of Ushijima’s fingers run up the length of Oikawa’s back, tantalizing, then reach around his quivering form to map out his chest.
When they close around his nipples, rolling and pinching mercilessly, Ushijima pulls Oikawa’s upper half up and off the mattress, forcing his spine into a steep arch..
And Oikawa keens as pleasure takes him, every inch of his body peaking.
—
“Don’t give me that look,” Oikawa laments, the wicked glee in his eyes betraying the twisted sense of satisfaction he feels while fixing the hood of Ushijima’s Team Japan sweater for the third time within the past five minutes.
Just in case.
After all, Ushijima wouldn’t want it to cover the letters proudly announcing its owner — bold; stark white on vibrant red — before he even arrives at his team’s morning practice, would he now?
Oikawa. #2.
Ushijima’s Pocari -stained Adler’s jacket had met a rather unfortunate fate in the washer when Oikawa had volunteered to take on laundry duty for, in all probability, the first time in his life. To his credit, Ushijima hadn’t said a word, just calmly e-mailed his coach to ask for a replacement and accepted Oikawa’s help , who’d so generously surrendered both a hoodie and a windbreaker of his own to keep Ushijima warm during his commute.
“For what it’s worth, I think it suits you much better than the atrocity you came home in last night,” Oikawa chatters on merrily, nudging Ushijima through the front door and out into the hallway.
Shamelessly eyeing the outline of Ushijima’s thighs that have no right to look so damn delectable in a pair of grey jeans that may as well have been sown directly onto his hips, Oikawa contemplates sending Ushijima off with a sharp, playful slap on the ass, but Ushijima beats him to it.
“As much as my cologne suits you?”
“That’s—“ Oikawa sputters indignantly, realizes he can’t for the life of him think of a smart comeback or anything else to say in his defense, and snaps his mouth back shut, all in the span of a couple seconds.
He doesn’t like the way Ushijima’s entire face splits into a rare, knowing grin as he turns his head to look at Oikawa over his shoulder, so obviously pleased with himself it has Oikawa on the verge of leaping down the stairs two at a time to strangle him on the spot.
(He likes it very much.)
“I enjoyed it.” Ushijima admits, tone carefully appeasing. “It feels nice, coming home and knowing that you thought of me too.”
Oikawa huffs at that, chin stuck up in the air, glaring at Ushijima down his nose, although he knows his theatrics won’t fool Ushijima — not anymore. If he really thinks about it, they probably never truly did.
“And I like it when you come home in absolutely anything but another man’s clothes.”
“That can be arranged.”