Does Ushijima like modeling? It's not his favorite, if he's being honest, even if his agent claims that his washboard abs draw more fans to the sport than a bronze medal could.
(That one still stings.)
It's a paycheck though, and his sponsorships keep him in his favorite workout gear, so he'll take a day of hassle and poses and demands if he gets a year of leggings that won't shred at the thighs.
(It's a real concern for him.)
He's at the studio ten minutes early, frowning at his phone full of frantic apologies from the booking agent.
Apparently his partner for the day—he didn't understand why he needed one, but brands always insist on posing him next to some 'Pretty Young Thing', as Shirabu calls them—had to cancel, but he shouldn't worry because they already arranged a replacement!
Ushijima knows he doesn't need to worry; nothing's changed for him. He's done a hundred of these shoots, and knows how it goes. He just needs to be big and strong and flex his muscles in tight socks and ill-fitting sneakers.
It'll be fine.
But when the door opens, revealing his partner for the day, he realizes it will not be fine.
Before he can turn around to greet him, the model does it first. “Oh. Wakatoshi-kun.”
Ushijima knows that voice.
“Satori,” he says, turning on his heel. Stiff. An impossible reunion.
“So you know each other!” the agent beams. “This makes it so much easier. Tendou is such a great model!"
That much he knows. He had to stop reading ads since he risked seeing Tendou in them and remembering everything. Wasn't sure if he was allowed to.
But in the early days—when Tendou was half-starved and bored in pastry school and accidentally broke into the industry by being lean and angular and a little mean-looking—he'd devoured them. The photos of Tendou wearing a blazer and tight pants and nothing else, hair like a fire in the night. Or the shots of him strutting down a runway in pale, voluminous layers, looking like a ghost out of a beautiful nightmare. And then even worse: a whole season's worth of lingerie for a specialist. Those kept Ushijima up late, touching his boyfriend's body on the laptop screen, wondering what the lace felt like and how the silk would taste after it sat on his skin.
Like chocolate , Ushijima thinks, seeing him now years after he broke his heart. Bittersweet.
Their clothes are already lined up on racks. Ushijima’s agent has his measurements, so he’s certain everything will fit.
“Let’s start off with the cardio shots!” the photographer running the shoot gestures to a corner of the racks. “Hope you’re not too shy, boys!”
“Why would I be shy?” Ushijima asks. It’s an honest question. Even if he hadn’t known Tendou for years—hadn’t seen him naked and vulnerable and beautiful—he’s an athlete. He’s used to changing in front of people and Tendou is too.
“Always so blunt, Wakatoshi,” Tendou sings, pulling off his shirt.
He looks at Tendou, eyes glued to him. “Right,” he agrees, and then keeps staring as he changes. It might be rude, but it’s been years since he’s seen Tendou so he should be allowed to look his fill.
The man hasn’t changed much. He still has the same wide eyes, the face people called scary—which always confused him, because Tendou was the opposite—and the same lithe, slender body. His shoulders were a bit broader, and his ribs a little less prominent than when he first started.
His most dramatic change is that he’s cut off all his hair; it’s buzzed close to his scalp, a soft dusting of red that makes his cheekbones stand out and turns his face severe when he frowns or concentrates, like now when he’s struggling with the zippers on his jacket.
“Here,” Ushijima offers, since he’s already pulled his anorak on and knows how tricky this brand can be. He walks forward without thinking and reaches for the hem, pulling the zipper up and trying not to feel the heat from Tendou’s body.
He zips it up to his collar, and when he finally looks into Tendou’s eyes, his ex is already staring back. “Thanks, Wakatoshi,” he says, and Ushijima can’t catch the tone.
“You’re welcome,” he replies, because it’s polite, but it’s lost as the assistants start pushing them to set.
Ushijima knows how this goes. He’s done it a hundred times. Wait on the set that looks like a track, or a volleyball court, or a pile of rocks. Wait for people to brush powder on his cheeks or to adjust the lighting. Wait for the photographer to tell him he can pose, and then let the model drame themselves across him.
A study in contrasts. Waiting, then the burst of motion as he mimes running or spiking or jumping and tries not to sweat.
Normally, this is fine. He gets through it after a few awkward hours and tries to not look at the photos his agent sends him for approval.
Tendou isn’t normal.
“C’mon Wakkun,” Tendou says, running his hand down his side like he did when they were lovers, the way he knows tickles Ushijima, to get him to shiver while the makeup artist frowns at him, “loosen up!”
He shakes his body across the set, checks his lighting, finds his angles; an expert.
And then, when the camera starts clicking, he-
He makes Ushijima feel strange. Out of context. Like the world has flipped upside down.
Normally, for scenes like this—outdoor running, in winter—he'd pretend to race his partner or stretch. He forgot to ask Tendou what he wanted to do and blames himself for being out of sorts at the sight of his ex. Maybe that’s why the shoot unfolds the way it does.
Tendou, leaning into his space, big doe eyes staring up at him. Burrowing into his side like he needs Ushijima to hold him up, like he needs to suck the warmth from Ushijima even though the studio lights are so hot, he can't tell where the burn in his body comes from.
Through the layers, Ushijima can feel how much of Tendou is still bone. His shoulder blade is knife-sharp.
“Are you eating enough?” he mutters while they adjust positions.
Tendou waggles his eyebrows. “Aww, do ya care about me, Wakatoshi?”
And then the camera goes off again, and Ushijima has to keep his mouth shut. He’s banned from showing teeth ever since his agent cried from a selfie he posted to instagram.
But Tendou can talk for him, and he does; fills the silence and the space between the camera’s shutter with words. Meaningless, nothing words that remind Ushijima of the perfect days they used to spend together: quiet moments on bus rides, and the walks to class where Tendou would chatter and Ushijima would nod and agree and remember everything he said.
Tendou presses up against him again and hugs him tight around his waist. Looking down at the hand splayed across his stomach, long fingers stretched out on his abs, it reminds Ushijima of—
He shakes his head. Not now, he thinks.
Not ever again, for them.
But with Tendou wrapped around him like this, it makes him want to throw an arm around him like he used to; pull him into his arms and hold him tight, so he couldn’t run away from Ushijima like he was leaving volleyball.
He doesn’t think he can, though. He's definitely not allowed.
Tendou makes the decision for him though, pulling his arm over so they’re really hugging, or faking it.
“C’mon, Wakatoshi,” he says, as Ushijima hovers his arm just over Tendou. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”
The director calls for a set change before Ushijima can answer.
Are they friends?
Ushijima thinks about that the entire time they're changing.
Friends , like friends are strangers who've never seen their new haircut, who haven't talked in years, who avoid magazines so they don't have to see each other, who once knew each other's bodies like a mirror.
Unfortunately, what he sees in the mirror now is horrible. For this shoot, they've put him in a cropped sweatshirt for some awful reason, revealing the soft muscle around his abs, and shorts that ride up his thighs. Tendou’s better off; tight leggings and a tank top that shows off his lean arms, but not much else.
Tendou whistles when Ushijima's done changing. "Lookin' good, Wakatoshi!" There are no zippers for him to help Tendou with this time, so he crosses his arms, accidentally pulling up the shirt. Tendou winks.
Maybe they're friends to Tendou. But to Ushijima, they haven't been friends in years. Not since he cornered Tendou in the locker room second year and kissed him, right in front of the rest of their team. They'd both kept their eyes open: Ushijima because he wanted to see Tendou's face and Tendou out of shock.
It has been sudden and so unlike him, but when he finally realized why Tendou made him feel weightless he needed to act on it. Make sure Tendou knew he held the string keeping him from flying away.
"Why, Wakatoshi," Tendou had said when they pulled apart and Ushijima stared at him, hoping he'd accept his proposal. "Aren't you a gentleman?"
Semi snorted and Reon let out a wolf whistle as the blush rose on Tendou's cheeks, belying his answer. When they kissed again—eyes closed, this time—Shirabu looked pointedly away.
From that point on they were boyfriends. "Friends plus more," Tendou explained to Goshiki when the first year looked at their entangled hand with curious eyes.
And Ushijima once thought that maybe the plus could be even more; had thought about rings and promises and futures, until he messed up and Tendou left him in the airport and there was nothing left to show for all the plus they once were.
This set is excruciating because Tendou takes a hundred little liberties with him.
It's a park scene this time, with colorful exercise equipment and swings, befitting the candy colored clothes he's wearing.
During the shoot, Tendou hangs off of him, his cold, lizard fingers ghosting across his abs. He drops down into a stretch beside him to breathe across the skin of his inner thighs, jumps on his back to grip his chest tight and hold on for dear life.
Too much touching; too much Tendou in his space after years of nothing . Tendou tucking his head into his neck, Tendou grabbing his calf and helping him stretch, Tendou everywhere. A flood after the drought; land after years of flying away.
It starts to make him furious. Friends don't do this to each other. Even back when that was all they were, first years just learning each other's boundaries, Tendou didn't push past them like this. He was careful, testing. Curious, but anxious to not get discarded like trash.
But now? Tendou takes liberties on the basis of their history, and bursts past every boundary Ushijima didn't know he had. Tendou's his first and only ex, and exes don't treat each other like this.
Like his body is theirs for the taking even years after they've split; like Ushijima is open season.
The next shoot can't come fast enough. It's the final change of the day for the capsule collection.
Looking at the clothes on the hanger, he knows it's going to test his patience.
He changes into the shorts and tank top and starts looking forward to his evening, dinner and training and no Tendou slipping his fingers up his-
"Say, Wakkun," he hears, and like an idiot he turns. Tendou's ready, and on instinct Ushijima gives him a once over, cresting over the knee pads he's wearing and the sly expression on his face as he says: "Doesn't this remind you of when we used to-"
"Break," Ushijima barks, and leaves.
He's not running away.
He just needs a moment without Tendou in his space, doing all the things he used to do like the airport didn't happen and-
He's not hiding in the single user bathroom he found. All he needs is to breathe, a little bit.
Too bad someone didn't get the memo.
"Wakatoshi! Fancy meeting you here!" Tendou says in that sing-song voice, bursting into the bathroom the same moment Ushijima remembers he never locked the door.
His hands are gripping the sink tight, and sees Tendou's reflection in the mirror.
"Please go away," he says in a level voice, and watches Tendou frown.
Closing the door behind him, Tendou tilts his hips to the side and leans against the wall while Ushijima closes his eyes to take a steeling breath and turn around.
"What's got a bee in your bonnet, Wakkun?" Tendou asks.
Ushijima loses his answer when he opens his eyes. Instead, he locks onto the hem of Tendou's shorts. It's lifted up, and there's a patchwork of purple and gray bruises—textbook hickeys—wrapped like a garter around milky skin.
"Oops," Tendou says, but he doesn't sound sorry at all. "I was supposed to get makeup to cover them, but I guess I forgot! You rushed out of there so fast, Wakatoshi, it was like woosh." He tugs down the hem ineffectively, and it means Ushijima has his eyes full of Tendou's fingers and those bruises now. "I wasn't planning on modeling today, you know? I had a little bit of fun."
That shocks Ushijima's brain back into working.
He knows very well how to raise those bruises on his skin; how easy it is to make marks. Remembers how warm Tendou’s skin is on his inner thighs, how sweet the soft dusting of red hair tastes, how he could live there for hours. And someone else did it. Someone who wasn't Ushijima.
An ugly, burning thing inside of him awakens and he blinks. Tendou’s frozen, head turned and eyebrow raised, waiting for him to say something.
His wires are crossed; his senses are fraying. “What’s your problem?” Why is Tendou taking so many liberties with him? Touching him like they’re boyfriends when, really, they’re worse than nothing to each other.
There's something between them again. Once, Tendou was his friend and reached across the divide to touch him. Then he was Tendou’s boyfriend and found there was no more wall between them, and he was free to do the same.
Now they’re nothing, and it’s Ushijima’s fault, so-
“-Why are you doing this?” Ushijima asks. Being confusing. Hurting me, he thinks. Letting someone else touch.
Tendou paints a picture perfect look of confusion on his face, like Ushijima’s the one not making sense. “Why, Wakatoshi,” he says, sounding for all the world like he’s asking an innocent question, “I’m just trying to get the best pictures.”
“Then stop.” There’s one last set; if they’re even just good , they’ll be fine. They get their paychecks, they go separate ways.
They’ll never see each other again, unless Semi gets married or some other impossible thing happens.
“Really?” Tendou gasps, his mouth going wide. “Just stop? Are you sure that’s what you want?”
Leaving volleyball behind doesn’t mean Tendou’s gotten any less good at reading people. Staring them dead in the eyes and knowing how to taunt them into giving up or playing badly or revealing, in a brief moment of honesty, the bare truth written across their hearts.
Tendou's eyes are still just as sharp as they were in high school. They still make something inside him flutter and rise up, like he's weightless.
Ushijima’s eyes flit back down to the bruises on Tendou’s thigh, and when he looks back up he knows he’s been caught.
He knows exactly what he wants. What he needs is-
“-Do you need permission, big boy?” Tendou asks, like he’s right there in Ushijima’s brain. “So we can make this shoot work, I mean. Because you can touch me however you like.”
One last chance to back out. Take his words at face value. Throw an arm around Tendou’s shoulder, take pretty pictures, go their separate ways. Never see each other again.
Never taste each other again.
Ushijima’s made up his mind long after his body moves to fill in the space between Tendou’s thighs, pressing him against the locked door.
Tendou’s tall and broad but Ushijima is broader all around, and it reminds him of all the times he used to kiss Tendou in public, trying to hide his thin body from the world around them. It took him a while to realize that some things were sweeter in private.
“Are you sure?” Ushijima thunders, a rumble that spreads through Tendou’s body. He shivers against him, and Ushijima leans forward to whisper in his ear, a play at privacy even though they’re alone. “Is this what you want?”
Tendou doesn’t know what he wants, but he needs more of this: Ushijima’s burning body against his, the hand boxing him against the doorframe, the wet and heavy breath at his ear.
It hurt this morning—really! Made his heart pound in his chest, and not in the fun way—to walk into the studio and see Ushijima for the first time since he walked away from him in the airport. Since he left Ushijima; refused to fight.
Sure, Ushijima was Japan’s cannon. And yeah, Ushijima asked to break up, but Tendou could have fought. Could have said no. He had secret cracks in his heart that no one but Tendou could see.
Ushijima always coddled him, for all the man could coddle; gave him everything he desired without spoiling him. Tendou could have demanded what he wanted, which was to stay in Japan by Ushijima’s side, and not go back to France.
At the time, France was isolation and loneliness, and Tendou was torn between his love of candy and the camera, and felt mediocre at both.
“Just a career slump,” Rene, his agent, called it.
But he didn’t demand it. He let Ushijima carefully suggest they shouldn’t be together anymore, and instead of kissing him before boarding the flight back to France, he let their hands slide apart and walked away without a word. And for years he’s lived with a little kernel of hatred in his heart; hate for Ushijima for not chasing him, and for himself for letting him go.
What does Tendou want? To erase the past, like a magical girl or something. In the absence of that he’ll take however many liberties he can, touching Ushijima to savor the memory of his warmth for years to come, ghosting his breath across his thighs to watch him twitch, even let some hot stranger bite bruises onto his thighs that he’ll regret in the morning.
(Who cares if he knew Rene might call him for a job? That’s what photoshop is for.)
Maybe he’s delighted by this turn of events; by Ushijima’s tree trunk of a leg pressed up against him, and maybe he enjoyed hitching up his shorts to let Ushijima catch a glimpse of what he’s missed.
Is that really so bad?
“What do you want, Satori?” Ushijima asks again, impatient. He’s so close to Tendou like this, arm curled around his head so Tendou’s breathing in the scent of his shoulder. Underneath the chemical smell of fresh clothing, Ushijima still uses the same body wash.
A perfect creature of habit.
Ushijima tilts his head, ghosting breaths over Tendou’s neck. It tickles. It makes him weak for the wanting.
He wants their missing years back. He wants to know what Ushijima’s thought of his modeling pics. He needs Ushijima to overwrite the bruises on his skin.
“Want you,” he mutters. “Want you to touch me.”
He feels Ushijima smile, ravenous in the way it ripples through his body. He leans in closer, opens his mouth and lets his teeth rest on his neck for a moment, before shaking his head. “Better not,” he says. “For the shoot,” before he licks a wide stripe across his neck, because for all that Tendou was interested in chocolate, Ushijima was the one who wanted to indulge; taste every inch of his skin and hold him open.
“Haah,” Tendou breathes out as Ushijima presses closer to him, spreading his legs apart with a forceful nudge that stings the bruises and makes Tendou moan against his will. He keeps licking him, sucking a bit before remembering he might leave a mark and stopping. Everytime the suction stops, Tendou feels a little bit of melancholy.
It reminds him of all the times Ushijima used to do this; give him hickeys that would make Semi gag and that Goshiki’s eyes would latch onto while he blushed, so obvious until Tendou pulled up his jacket collar and rolled his eyes and directed everyone’s attention to something Shirabu was doing.
The memories hit him and make him bitter; enough of this, he thinks and he grabs Ushijima’s head forcefully and holds it in front of his face.
Ushijima’s pupils are dark and wide, and he’s panting; licks his lips like he’s savoring the remnants of Tendou’s taste. Tendou crashes their lips together because he doesn’t want to think about the delirious look on Ushijima’s face, or the way it looked familiar. Like he, too, was lost in a memory.
Their kissing is violent and vicious; Ushijima uses the door as leverage to control it, lifts Tendou’s legs so he’s forced to tighten them to hold himself up and grip onto Ushijima’s shoulders for dear life. One of them bites the other and Tendou tastes blood in the sweat, iron riding the sweet melon candy that Ushijima favors when he’s stressed.
It wasn’t like this back then. When they dated, it was sweet, and their end came so suddenly that things didn’t have the time to turn sour. This craven desire is new, but the way Ushijima tastes isn’t.
“W-wakatoshi,” Tendou mutters against his lips when he finds himself rutting wantonly against him, Ushijima a steady and hot presence. Ushijima’s hands have been trailing down his body, resting on the tender flesh of his thighs while his torso alone keeps Tendou pressed to the door. His pinky brushes up against the edge of one of the kneepads. “Why don’t we make use of these, huh?” He nudges his knee into Ushijima’s side, and if it weren’t for his grip on him, Tendou would fall, losing his balance and his hold on the larger man.
When he opens his eyes— when did he close them? —Ushijima’s brow is furrowed in cute confusion. Tendou wants to kiss that expression off his face. So he tries, craning his neck to press a soft, wet kiss right above his nose. He giggles.
“What-” Ushijima grunts out, and then Tendou slides down, swapping their places, and rests on his knees.
Ushijima against the door. Tendou’s face so close to Ushijima’s crotch and thighs, tanned from summer jogs and an Adlers trip to play beach volleyball. “Is little Wakatoshi happy to see me?” Tendou asks, delighted by the bulge in Ushijima’s shorts—and also his snort of laughter above him—and he pulls down his pants and underwear before he can think about it, before Ushijima’s laugh, so rare and perfect, fills a space in his head he thought he left behind in an airport.
Instead, not-so-little Wakatoshi jumps out at him, thick and perfect and curved delightfully, just like he remembers.
Shifting on his heels, settling comfortably between Ushijima’s spread thighs, he wonders if he can remember how he likes it.
A swipe up his palm to ease the glide while he loosely holds the base of his cock, then kitten licks to the tip as Tendou gets used to the weight of it on his tongue again.
It tastes just as good as he remembers; he moans around his cock in delight, just to hear Ushijima’s answering groan.
He gets bolder. Rakes his spare hand down Ushijima's abs, sucking around the tip and twisting his tongue around the crown and taking him deeper than he used to, fist pumping around the base to meet his lips. Greeting Ushijima's cock as he ruts gently into his mouth. But when he looks up at Ushijima to take in the familiar signs of pleasure, something’s amiss. He takes stock of them: the way his eyes are clenched shut, his stuttered breaths, the hands gripping his hair-
Wait. Something’s missing.
He turns his eyes to the side, checks his peripherals. Ushijima holds his hands awkwardly in the air, hovering over Tendou’s head, muscles straining to keep them still. They’re just far enough away that Tendou can’t feel the heat of his palms.
When they used to do this, Ushijima couldn’t wait to get his hands in his hair, run his fingers through the strands and clench tight. Hold him in place to take what he wanted.
And maybe it’s harder now, with Tendou's short hair.. But if Ushijima could be a little bit creative—maybe make use of those skillful hands—then maybe they could have a little bit more fun.
Tendou slaps his outer thigh lightly, breaking Ushijima out of whatever weird state he’d drifted into. He pulls off his cock with a pop while Ushijima looks down in concern. “C’mon big guy,” Tendou says with a vicious grin, reaching up to pull one of his massive hands to his crown and let it rest against the soft hair on the back of his head, “You can be rough with me.”
Tendou’s learned new things since they broke up and it’s driving Ushijima crazy; he’s stuck between the past and present, the hair he used to curl his fists in to pump his cock wildly in Tendou’s mouth, and the shorter soft hair he has now, with a more skillful tongue.
Who taught him to slide down the vein like that? Who taught him how to swallow just a little bit to make the wet heat of his mouth that much more overwhelming?
There’s a part of Ushijima that’s a little fucked up—Oikawa calls it his pride—and it makes him want things, desperately. It’s possessive of the things he lo- covets, and sometimes it makes Ushijima think he’s wired a little wrong. The fire that burns under all the things he wants to keep for himself: his left-handedness, his strength, the plants lined up on his windowsill, and Tendou, even though Tendou hasn’t been his in years.
But with Tendou looking up eagerly at him, tongue hanging out of his wide, sinful mouth, it feels like he could be.
Ushijima curls his fingers into Tendou’s scalp. There’s a slight give of skin under the soft hair.
He knew it would be soft because Tendou’s hair always was, under the gel. After a shower, before bed, he loved nothing more than to shove his face into Tendou’s crown, smell his soft, apple shampoo.
He wonders if Tendou still uses the same shampoo. He didn’t think to check.
Tendou’s eyes follow the motion as he brings his other hand down to the base of his cock to press it against Tendou’s tongue, painting precum across his lips. He leans forward to try and suck the tip in, but Ushijima can still his head with the grip from his calluses.
“No, Satori,” he rumbles out. “Keep your mouth open for me.”
Pushing forward, he sets a pace; fast, like they used to. Shallow at first so Tendou can get used to the pressure, grab hold of Ushijima’s thighs, remember how to breathe when his mouth is stuffed full of cock.
Shallow until Ushijima rests his dick inside Tendou for a moment to resettle his other hand on the back of his head, just below the other to cradle his neck, and watch Tendou’s eyes close in reverent ecstasy.
From then on it’s hard and rough, like Tendou offered. Ushijima sheathing his cock deep inside Tendou’s mouth, pounding his throat to oblivion, knowing it’ll turn his high voice into a hoarse, deep growl that always used to shock Semi. Thrusting forward to feel Tendou swallow it all down, throat tightening around his cock like he can’t get enough of Ushijima. Drool pools at the corners of his mouth and drips down to dampen his collar, while he digs his knees into the floor, grateful for the kneepads, desperate for something to rut against but grinding at the open air while Ushijima fills him up.
He always loved fucking Tendou’s mouth, but something feels wrong now. He’s setting the pace and the pressure and Tendou goes along with it.
Tendou’s been going along with too much for Ushijima’s liking, when before he used to push and prod and fight back, turn face-fucking into a challenge and battle Ushijima had to win before he could really use Tendou’s mouth; but today he offered it up, no hesitation.
No fight. Nothing to win.
Ushijima should put competitive into that little box of coveted things.
“You look good, Satori,” he tries, because if Tendou’s just going to take it, he’s not going to make it easy for him. For a second, Tendou chokes around his cock, shocked at the praise. Ushijima buries himself deep in his mouth and pauses there, long enough for Tendou to open his eyes and look up at him, tears pooling at the corners. He pets gently at his cheek, runs a thumb along his swollen lips. Pulls Tendou off his cock with a lewd, wet sound so he’s panting, already desperate to move back on; but Ushijima’s still holding him tight.
Crouching down, he curls his hand around Tendou’s chin and lifts his head up to meet his eyes. Feels his heavy breaths, hot against his face. “Ahh, Wakatoshi,” he says, voice thick and ruined, “Did that feel good? Did you like that?”
For some reason it hits him like an insult. Tendou is too pliant like this, and it reminds Ushijima of how he walked away. “Your mouth is perfect,” Ushijima says, because it’s true. Then he tightens his grip, squishes Tendou’s bruised lips together, watching drool run down the corners, and because part of him is a little mean goes on. “It’s the perfect way to shut you up.”
Tendou gasps, and the shocked look on his face goes right to Ushijima’s cock. It’s like he’s waking up the part of Tendou that wants to fight.
Then he brushes his thumb across his lips and it comes away soaked with spit and precum. Tendou shivers, and Ushijima looks down, where—
Yes, just as expected. Tendou's cock sits hard in his pants, hardness bursting against the baggy shorts. His legs are spread wide, but not wide enough for him to rut against the floor, so he’s just grinding his hips against nothing. A faint damp patch is visible, and Ushijima dries his fingers against the spot.
Tendou whines and ruts against his hand; Ushijima snatches it away. “Cockslut,” he spits out, because he still feels a little mean. "Desperate." Watches it light something like a fire inside Tendou.
He learned provocation from the best man to ever play the game, so it feels like victory when Tendou slowly opens one eye, looks up at him and lazily drawls out, “Just for you, Wakatoshi.”
Just for him.
Tendou forgot how good it felt when Ushijima was just a little mean. When he forgot his own strength and started to use Tendou like a toy, fucking deep into Tendou’s mouth like he was just a means to an end.
Other people didn’t do that; other people looked at him like something precious and breakable, and didn’t know the monster that still lived inside of him.
Models are beautiful, sure; that didn’t mean he was fragile too, and Ushijima was the only one who understood that.
He asked him once. “Do you ever worry about hurting me?” Looked down at where their hands were joined together, Ushijima’s thick fingers woven with Tendou’s long, knobbly ones.
Ushijima just looked confused. “Never,” he said, honest to a fault. “You’ll never let me hurt you.”
That was a lie, but a beautiful one, and Tendou treasures it whenever men fuck him like he’s made of glass.
Ushijima manhandles him into place; dragging him up so Tendou straddles one of his massive thighs and their faces are at the same height; holds him in place so he can’t grind down which is “so mean, Wakatoshi,” he whines, when Ushijima runs a burning hand up his shirt to tweak his nipple. He’s quiet, remembering the map of Tendou’s body.
“You like it,” Ushijima says, and kisses his agreement off his face. Tendou feels his cock—slick with his own spit—brush up against his knee and he shivers, licking into Ushijima’s mouth.
They keep kissing; it’s like they’re teenagers again, desperate for a little friction and a little pressure. Tendou thinks he could come like this, with Ushijima’s hands cupping his ass and hoisting him up, higher and higher so there’s no relief, none at all for his aching cock.
He’d forgotten what it was like to feel small, dwarfed.
There are big men in Europe—Dutch giants—but it’s different with Ushijima, who takes Tendou for granted and doesn’t try to treat him like he’s something soft and dainty when they’re fucking him into a mattress. No one is big in the way Ushijima is, all-encompassing because he knows Tendou, knows his tells. Remembers how he felt when he was a skinny teenager with claws and teeth and treats him just the same, even if Tendou’s a little bit broader now in the shoulders, perfect to let the clothes hang off him like he’s a canvas.
Kissing up his cheek, down his neck, Ushijima brings a hand up against Tendou’s waist. It’s hot like a brand and his fingers dance across all of his ribs, the ones he knows poke out from his skin when he stretches. It comes up, grips his wrist; twines their fingers together like when they were younger, and Ushijima pulls away to look at them. A light tan against Tendou’s paleness, faint scars from blocking and volleyball.
“I’m not a hand model,” Tendou quips, awkward in the silence. Ushijima’s brow furrows in concentration as he twists their hands back and forth. “Are you forgetting something?” Tendou ruts a little to demonstrate, but Ushijima’s other hand is enough to hold him in place.
“Do you remember,” Ushijima says, his voice deep but soft. “Do you remember your horrible tape?”
His tape. Of all the things. It makes Tendou laugh, a giggle that passes through him and into Ushijima. “Of course, Wakatoshi! I needed it.”
“You said it made your peace signs cool.”
Those fingers twitch. “I’ll entertain no slander! It protected them against horrible spikes like yours, too.”
Ushiijma’s smile is laughter enough. It’s indulgent, and that hits Tendou like a punch to the gut; it feels like too much for him, like they’re dating and not exes. Like they’re more to each other than nothing.
“I wanted to say that I used to imagine doing horrible things to your tape,” Ushijima offers, winding out of Tendou’s grip so he can wrap his whole fist around the fingers, massaging them and running his thumb across the knuckles. “I wanted to suck on them until the tape was wet enough to slide right off your fingers.” Tendou shudders, thinking about the heat of Ushijima’s mouth. “Then make you open yourself up with them, fuck yourself with my spit and your fingers.”
Tendou can imagine it; they’d do it right in the locker room, still gross from practice, the tape already coming loose from sweat. Ushijima would corner him, box him in, just overwhelm his space and pull his hand up to his mouth and revel in the taste.
“Why didn’t you?” Tendou asks, watching Ushijima lick his lips as he stares at Tendou’s hand.
He shrugs. “Logistically improbable,” he says, and that sounds like the Ushijima he knows. Honest and wholly logical.
It makes him laugh with his full body this time, and he falls forward into Ushijima’s chest, trusting him to catch him. Idly, Ushijima pets against his back until his laughter subsides and he rises again, breathless, wiping away tears from his eyes. “Wakatoshi,” he grins, “what are we gonna do with you?”
“I have some ideas,” he intones, and kisses the laughter out of Tendou.
Eventually they have to stop; Tendou’s lower back starts to ache and Ushijima feels some strain in his legs, too. “How do we do this?” Ushijima asks, carefully, settling Tendou between his legs once he stretches.
“Very carefully,” Tendou replies, already desperate to feel Ushijima inside him again.
“But Wakatoshi! I’m Satori!” He laughs, but it hits a little mean because he wants something, and wiggles back into Ushijima, rubbing his ass against his cock, feeling victorious when he hears him hiss in pleasure.
“Not like this,” Ushijima groans, pained; it sounds like he’s holding himself back, and his grip digs into Tendou’s waist even tighter than before. “No lube,” he explains.
“You’ve gotta be kidding. I’ve done worse!”
“That’s the problem,” Ushijima barks out, and in an instant his grip loosens and it confuses Tendou. He’s holding him like he’s something fragile and precious, when just a few minutes ago he was fucking Tendou’s mouth. There’s something sad in his eyes too; has he forgotten that Tendou’s unbreakable? That there’s a demon in his belly?
He knows he’s unbreakable because Ushijima helped him figure it out. Why doesn't he remember?
“Really?” Tendou asks, incredulous. “You don’t want to ruin my ass, too?” he makes his voice deeper, throatier, to get the point across.
Ushijima looks pained. “Satori,” he starts, but Tendou feels anger rise inside of him, sudden like a geyser. Frustration makes him like this; his cock is so hard it’s weeping, and Ushijima hasn’t given him any relief, so how dare he deny Tendou this.
“You don’t want to fuck me, huh?” He bleats out, grinding down onto Ushijima. “Don’t want to send me back to set limping with cum dripping down my ass? And—"
“Satori,” Ushijima cuts in. His voice is as soft as it’s ever been, and that makes Tendou stop right in his tracks and listen. “Not today,” he pleads.
Today, huh? As if they have tomorrow.
But something about the quiet desperation makes Tendou relent. “Fine, Wakatoshi. We’ll do it your way.”
His way? Ushijima doesn't know what Tendou means.
It just makes sense to do it like this, when he's already hurt Tendou too much to make it more painful.
What doesn't make sense is why he said 'not today' like he could promise tomorrow when he and Tendou haven't spoken in years.
He knows what all of his tomorrows look like. Training. Volleyball. A hearty breakfast. Hoshiumi's Terrace House updates.
No room for Tendou.
No phone calls scheduled to make the most of the time difference between Paris and Japan. No selfies to send overseas so Tendou won't forget his face, even when Tendou is in every magazine. No giggling, wiggly boy in his arms that he can hold onto tight and never let go.
Today is all they've got. A bathroom and a set wondering what's taking them so long.
He'll have to make the most of it.
"C'mon," he says, rising and maneuvering Tendou over to the sink; picking him up like he weighs nothing and ignoring Tendou's squawks. He sits him down on the sink. It's wide and sturdy, and perfect for what he wants to do.
Take advantage of the time they have. Pull off Tendou's pants, free his cock, and ignore it in favor of the hideous line of bruises that have been taunting him since Tendou burst into the bathroom.
He kneels and leans in to lick all over them; it makes Tendou giggle and hiss in pain or pleasure, and selfishly he leaves marks of his own, biting and sucking at the delicate flesh because he wants Tendou to remember this for a little longer, the way this encounter will leave a scar on his heart for good.
He hears Tendou whine above him, clamp a hand on his shoulder, and he grins, victorious. Sometimes he takes a break from leaving bruises to teasingly lick at the base of Tendou's cock to hear him moan and try to rut against his face, but he always peels back quickly. The illusion of release.
He presses Tendou's thighs apart with his hands, sucks his balls, leaves his own network of bruises. Revels in the taste.
Tendou's grip tightens; his clever hands will leave bruises, too. Ushijima makes his bigger, out of spite and because it feels like a mark of something more. Temporary ownership.
He looks up at Tendou. His eyes are closed, tight against the onslaught of Ushijima's less than tender mercies. Tendou's cock is dripping, dark and angry and hard, and Ushijima's cock must match it even though he's had some relief from Tendou's clever mouth.
"Look at me," he commands, and waits for Tendou's eyes to slowly open. "Satori," he squeezes, and finally they open, just as Ushijima takes the head of his cock into his mouth.
Precum spurts, and Ushijima swallows it down. Tendou lets out the most jagged and desperate breath he's ever heard, like this touch of pleasure is heaven-sent.
Is that how it's been? Have the last few years been as bleak for Tendou as they have for Ushijima? Or have other men fucked him better?
That thought plagues him as he licks down Tendou's cock, presses his tongue teasingly against his hole because he missed the taste.
Has missed Tendou, desperately, he can admit. Wonders if Tendou's missed him too.
"Wakatoshi!" Tendou pants out, breathless. "You're such a- such a tease!"
"I learned from the best," he says, and blows across his hole to make him shiver.
He misses everything about Tendou; all his beautiful pieces and all the messy bits, and everything he doesn't know about him.
He doesn't want this to end as much as he knows they're already over. Wishes that he could live in today, in this room, nestled between Tendou's thighs forever.
It was his fault, too, that they broke apart. He should never have ended them.
Leaving one soft kiss against his thigh, a quiet apology that Tendou will never hear, he rises again. "C'mon," he says, no longer upset when Tendou lets him move him, compliant, because at some point he's won the right to do that.
His thighs are covered in spit, and Ushijima gets him braced on his hands and knees on the floor, legs pressed tightly together. He can tell Tendou's getting the picture when he starts to squirm, wiggling his ass to make Ushijima smile.
Ushijima's behind him, Tendou's body thin just like he remembers, and it makes Ushijima feel enormous.
"Keep them tight," he warns.
This is how they did it the most back then. When they were still in Shiratorizawa and needed something to bring them closer than handjobs but still quiet enough for the dorm, and not noticable the next morning at practice.
Tendou braced on the floor or the mattress, and Ushijima behind him, shoving his cock between his thighs, wet with lube or spit or whatever they had, brushing briefly against his hole before it slid all the way home to tease his own cock and balls.
In the bathroom, Tendou keeps his thighs pressed tight and revels in the burning weight of Ushijima against his back.
Tendou knows, from experience, that Ushijima will—"Yes, please! Right there!"---snake a hand up his chest to tug at his nipples and make him tighten around his cock. Knows that soon after, he'll pull Tendou tight to his body, pressing his left hand against his stomach to keep them as close as possible, feel every single one of Tendou's choked off breaths. Knows he'll bat Tendou's hands away whenever he desperately tries to reach for his cock, for a little bit of relief from the pleasure burning hot in his gut, because—
"-whose is this, Tendou?" Ushijima growls in his ear, stilling his hand.
"Yours, yours!" Tendou whines, because he'll say anything when release is a distant memory, even if there's a touch of honesty in it.
But instead of knocking Tendou's hand away and wrapping his own around him, Ushijima fits his hand against Tendou's. Matches his palm to the back of his hand, calluses against Tendou's neat nails.
And then he wraps both their hands around Tendou's neglected, weeping cock, so they're bringing him to the edge together.
He's never done it like this before. It feels so different. The pleasure it draws from him, making his thighs shake and trim his breaks, confuses him. It almost brings him back to reality; his brain goes clear for a moment, thinking about the position they're both in: Ushijima fucking his thighs, bending him over in a bathroom like they're fucking in a Berlin club.
Then he hears Ushijima's gruff voice panting in his ear, his hips battering his ass, and the telltale twitch that accompanies his orgasm. It takes over his whole body, all his muscles drawing tight while Ushijima shuts his eyes, impossible to handle the pleasure all at once. Tendou's hand in his stills completely while Ushijima comes, curling his head into Tendou's shoulder.
He doesn't breathe like this, when his cum paints the tiles ahead of them and his cock softens where it's still trapped between Tendou's slick thighs. Instead he pulls Tendou closer, and he doesn't want to breathe lest it interrupt his calamitous orgasm.
But Ushijima was always a workhouse. A hundred more serves. A dozen more laps.
He recovers faster than Tendou remembers, pulling Tendou up so quickly it punches out the breath he was holding, and he gasps when he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror—pupils blown wide and dark, face covered in dried spit, lips pink and bitten, and the scant makeup he'd had in his face, just powder and mascara and some eyeliner, absolutely destroyed—because it's like Ushijima's putting him on display, a precious thing.
Then he starts pumping Tendou's cock furiously, and it's all Tendou can do but go along for the ride, toes curling against the floor while he tries to keep an eye on them in the mirror. Ushijima a mountain behind him, looking down, focused entirely on Tendou's pleasure.
He ruts up into the grip, clenching his eyes shut. He's close, "close close close," with his hand engulfed in Ushijima's, wrapped tightly around his cock just the way he likes, while he feels Ushijima's body caging him in, hot and steady and familiar; a flame that'll never burn out. "Please," he begs, "I wanna-" cut off by a perfect stroke, and suddenly he's letting a stream of nonsense escape him, desperate pleas and cries as he strains his muscles and grips his cock dangerously tight, precum leaking from the tip to ease the glide.
"You can do it, Satori," Ushijima says, like it's that straightforward. "I know you can. You're so close."
"S-so close," he repeats, something sensible in the mindless babble he's spouting.
"You're so good, Satori. You will come." And maybe it is that simple to Ushijima—the praise that sounds like a demand, because that's the only way Ushijima knows how to praise—and Tendou finds he still believes in it, after all these years.
His miracle boy damns him; promised and beautiful all at once, Tendou comes into Ushijima's hand with one last cry that might have been his name. His whole body goes slack so Ushijima's the only force holding him up, his head puddling against his chest. Immovably stubborn when he comes.
It's soft bliss, the memory of all the times Ushijima brought him to the edge and beyond as fresh in his mind like they'd just happened, and for a moment it feels like he's curled against Ushijima in his bed at Shiratorizawa, petting idly at his chest while Ushijima pretended to read ads and not thinking about the future headed fast for them.
But reality cracks cold like the dawn, and he remembers where he is. That he's sticky and gross and covered in cum in a bathroom, tasting his ex in his mouth.
When Ushijima releases him to awkwardly wipe off the cum on his thigh, Tendou crawls away.
Blinking at each other, Tendou idly notes that Ushijima's blush—rare as it is—still spreads down his chest. Honest and damning.
"So." Ushijima starts, and Tendou doesn't want to hear it.
"We should clean up," he says abruptly, scrambling towards the paper towels, rather than let Ushijima stutter out an apology or something worse, something that might end them for good and cauterize the wound their breakup left behind.
So what if Tendou still likes the pain? It makes him feel alive.
"Ugh." There cum on his colorful knee pads and his shorts are a nightmare, but he can't walk back into the shoot naked.
"...Right," Ushijima agrees eventually, and Tendou refuses to think about what he was going to say. They're nothing, anymore. He can't linger in the past.
This was a mistake. A one-off.
There's no way for him to right the wrongs of the past; for leaving Ushijima behind because he thought it would be better for them both in the long run, hoping that Ushijima might chase him and being disappointed in himself for being sad when he didn't.
Volleyball was more important, after all.
But when Ushijima taps on his shoulder to make him turn around while Tendou furiously scrubs at a spot of cum, holding a wad of paper towels he very carefully wetted, and apologizes for not having a handkerchief this time because he left them in his jeans, and gently wipes the dried spit off his face and worse from his thighs, it feels like no time has passed at all
The booking agent takes one look at them, Tendou's shorts soggy and Ushijima's makeup gone, and sighs. "We can finish tomorrow," she groans, glaring at them both. The photographer's already packed up, and she hands them a plastic bag for their clothes to be washed.
"Well," Tendou whistles, low and awkward. "I guess we can just-"
"I've got lube at home," Ushijima says, and it's unfair that he can be so matter-of-fact while saying something so insane.
Maybe Tendou misses that, a little.
Tendou blinks. "And…what are you planning on doing with that, Wakatoshi?" He's got a few ideas, so the words slip out sinuously.
For a moment, Ushijima looks like he'll answer out loud, with the agent still hovering on the sidelines, glare still painted on her face.
Instead, he leans forward, because he's learned some things can still be private.