Work Text:
“Ah, there you are.”
Ushijima jerks his head up from his phone, locking the device with an audible click from the speakers. Whoever just approached him doesn’t really need to know that the tall man spends most of the time during fancy business events staring at work emails and idly scrolling through news sites.
His forethought ends up being completely unnecessary; the new arrival turning out to be his friend and only lifeline during events that are too formal, too stiff, too full of social obligations. Oikawa Tooru looks part smug, part bemused, as if he’s just caught his friend doing something unsavory. “So this is where you slinked off to.”
There’s accusation in his voice, playful and only slightly demeaning, a pleasantry coming from Oikawa. The pretty brunet glances around, gaze eventually falling to the empty bar and the glass of whisky cradled in Ushijima’s big hand.
It’s a thankful thing, Ushijima finds, that events like these do not have an open bar; the lack of access to free alcohol making the area empty enough that even the bartenders take the opportunity to make themselves scarce, instead smoking cigarettes in back rooms and making fun of the stuffy people filling up the banquet hall. That’s what Tendou claims, in any case; Ushijima can’t say he’s spent much time in said back rooms before.
He’s not fond of the smell of cigarettes anyways.
“Ms. Lee was looking for you earlier,” Oikawa says with a hint of a laugh, obviously aware of Ushijima’s predicament. The latter scrunches his nose, takes a large sip of his drink mostly for lack of a proper answer. Oikawa doesn’t seem to mind, but then the shorter man never really seems to mind anything at all. Ushijima wonders if Oikawa misses the attention. His eyes fall to the humble piece of jewelry wrapped around Oikawa’s ring finger. Somehow the trinket seems to work as a deterrent, makes him unapproachable.
“I know,” he replies at last. To that, Oikawa snickers, mouth curled into something devilish and all too recognizable. “She didn’t seem interested in talking business.”
Oikawa sighs, a loud exhale of air exiting his aristocratic nose. A telltale sign that Ushijima once again might have missed some obvious social cue.
“Come on,” Oikawa complains. “You’re a grown ass man.”
“Ah,” Ushijima murmurs, catching the underlying meaning of the other man’s words. Oikawa hums knowingly. “I’m not interested in courting her.”
“Courting—” Oikawa pauses, drags an exasperated hand down his own face. “You can just say flirting. Dating. I swear you’re the dullest man on the planet.”
The comment might’ve stung, had Ushijima not by now figured out the man’s affection lies in the ease with which he insults someone. Now, he just fixes his gaze back to the amber liquid in his hand, swirls it around and watches it whirlwind around the edges of the glass. To Oikawa, anything less than a circus act would probably seem like a dull affair anyways.
“You could just get a girlfriend, you know,” he continues, hands at his hips. “Or a boyfriend, if that’s what you’re into.”
Ushijima frowns, repeats, “I’m not interested.”
“It doesn’t have to be real,” Oikawa’s smirk is back, his voice taking on a matter-of-factly tone, as if this detail was somehow self-explanatory. Ushijima’s brow furrows. “People do that shit for money. Just send a few bucks their way and they’ll keep the vultures away for you. You don’t even have to touch them if you don’t want to.”
It sounds, to Ushijima, like a major oversimplification of something that’s undoubtedly very complicated. If there’s one thing he’s learned from working in matters of money, it’s that things are never so easy as just money exchanging hands. But still, the concept of a mutually beneficial agreement, a relationship purely based on something so concrete as a paycheck intrigues him. Surely it couldn’t hurt looking into.
So he does.
Once Ushijima is safely back in his own apartment, far away from the lingering stares and the exhausting small talk, he takes Oikawa’s advice and opens up an incognito tab on his computer, jotting the recommended keywords into the search engine and pressing enter. He finds article after article, first hand experiences from both sides of the arrangement. There’s a lot of talk about sex, and after the first twenty minutes, Ushijima thinks that maybe his friend has tricked him into something completely different than what he’s looking for.
He tells Oikawa as much, gets a row of emojis that are laughing so hard they’re crying in response followed by a step by step guide on what to look for and how to go about it.
Ushijima chooses not to ask how Oikawa got so knowledgeable about the workings of ‘sugar babies’ and ‘sugar daddies’, finds that the terms themselves are enough to make him question the entire prospect once again.
It’s with Oikawa’s guidance and probably a fair amount of dumb luck that Ushijima finally stumbles upon a site that looks respectable enough. That is to say, there’s a lack of breasts in the thumbnails of the users’ profiles that if nothing else lulls him into a false sense of security. By the time he’s made his profile and made sure it’s appropriately vague, Ushijima’s sure Oikawa’s pretty much rolling on the floor of his own apartment, gleeful about having tricked him into making the account.
He doesn’t expect to find anything that would suit his requirements, even if the site proclaims full legality and no sexual favors. It seems, not that Ushijima claims any sort of knowledge about these matters, like something an illegal site based around sexual favors would say.
And then he stumbles upon your profile. Devoid of a profile picture, like his own, profile text short and to the point, like his own. The adamant repeating of ‘no sex, no kissing’ (not followed by any sort of winking emoji, unlike a lot of the other profiles he’s visited the last few hours) and the mention of contracts and NDAs pique his interests and against his better judgement, he decides to click on the chat bubble icon.
And then he waits. By the time he’s made himself coffee (decaf) and scrolled through his usual news sites, the chat icon lights up, a ding from his computer notifying him that he has a new message.
Well look at you, the message begins, and the tone can’t be anything but condescending, considering there’s nothing to look at on Ushijima’s profile. I gotta admit it’s the first time someone’s contacted me because they need to wade off a horde of women. That’s very confident of you. Ushijima realizes, once again too late, that he should think before he speaks. Or texts, as the case may be.
Public place for the first meeting , the message goes on. I’m don’t really care what you look like, but I’m gonna need your name. Background check.
It’s almost deceptively easy. Ushijima thinks for a moment that maybe it’s a bad idea to give out his name to a stranger on the internet with the intention of paying them for companionship, even if it is out of necessity. He might not be a celebrity, but he is — to some extent — a public person, after all.
He’s reminded of that time Tendou showed him his fake tinder account. He supposes if worst comes to worst he can just claim catfish. And with that in mind, Ushijima goes for it, not even stopping to consider the fact that he hasn’t really decided that he actually wants to.
It’s an unfamiliar, oddly exhilarating feeling.
~~~
When Monday afternoon rolls around, you find yourself sitting alone at a table at some high brow cafe you’ve never even heard of, slowly sipping on coffee that somehow tastes both too strong and too bland at the same time. If the meeting you’re anticipating does actually land you a job, you’ll be sure to make a complaint.
Truth be told, you’re more than a little skeptical about the entire thing. It’s rarely a good thing when a freshly made, infoless profile contacts you. It’s always a bad omen when they present themselves with the name of a semi-known public person. Not, mind you, because there’s a lack of known faces in the sex/companionship for hire scene. You’re pretty sure you’ve seen a wide variety of CEOs and politicians and police officers on a number of the sites you’ve frequented already. Usually, though, these are the guys who are into the kinky shit. The politician with a diaper fetish, the CEO who wants to be dominated and lick the heels of your feet.
This Ushijima Wakatoshi seems, for the most part, to be pretty unremarkable. More than decent at his job, a myriad of uninteresting headlines in business magazines and websites talking about his accomplishments as the young head of some sort of sports related company. Filthy rich, if your estimates are correct.
Not, of course, that any of that really matters until you’re sure that you’re actually meeting the right person.
Ushijima — or whoever’s claiming to be him — had been pretty insistent on meeting in private. Not necessarily a surprise, considering his social standing, but this is not your first day, you’re not dumb enough to fall for that ‘b-but my reputation’ shit. In the end, the faceless man does agree to meet you at the cafe down the street from his apartment, with the compromise that you’ll take the contract part of the meeting at his place.
The obnoxious bell above the door jingles, and when you look up, there he is, in all his tall, beefy glory. His eyes scan the room for a moment, the man standing sort of awkwardly in the doorway, taking up all the space between the frames. A woman stops behind him, comically small and almost unnoticeable, seems unsure of whether or not she dares to ask him to move out of the way.
Unmistakably, the man who just entered is Ushijima Wakatoshi. His gaze lands on you, recognition shining in his eyes as he scans the attire you’d described in a text to him before leaving your place for the cafe.
Hoo boy .
~~~
It doesn’t take long to discover that while Ushijima might be one of the tallest men you’ve ever met, with shoulders so wide you’re almost impressed he can walk through doors, he’s pretty much a non-threat. He speaks so formally you very nearly forget that you’re not really at a job interview, body language stiff in a way that seems entirely like a subconscious thing, barely even looks you in the eye once during the short walk to his apartment, seemingly adamant about keeping his gaze squarily in front of him. Which is fine, you’re not one for small talk anyways. There’s something about the intensity of his constant almost-glare — a fixed expression, it seems, based on the few times he actually looks at you — that makes you think he’s the same way. Instead, you take the time to make guesses at what kind of rich guy you’re dealing with.
He’s young and undeniably attractive, in the way that antique, invaluable statues are attractive. Chances are he probably has no real problem when it comes to companionship, if he was interested in it. He’s been on the Forbes ‘top eligible billionaires’ list twice, which means you’d grossly underestimated his net worth the first time around, and also means that he probably wasn’t lying when he said — somewhat tastelessly — that he wanted to deter female attention. Seems a bit stoic, a bit disinterested, the typical workaholic. You make a mental note of keeping track of how many times he’ll pull out the ‘relationships are distracting’ schtick.
Above anything else, young billionaires tend to be into their toys. Big, spacey apartments full of useless tech and ugly statues worth way too much money. Granted, Ushijima doesn’t exactly look like the Star Wars memorabilia kind of guy, but you’ve been wrong before.
He leads you up to his apartment — penthouse, to your absolute lack of surprise — politely signals for you to enter with an upturned palm that reminds you of every butler you’ve ever seen on television. It’s swanky, for sure; pale beige floors and large windows, a soothing gray painted onto the walls. Minimalistic furniture, a white rug on the floor in the open, spacious living room. As expected, no life size Stormtroopers or Darth Vaders to be seen. Not much of anything, really; just the barest necessities and a few family portraits lining the walls of the hallway.
“Nice place,” you comment with a low whistle, allowing your eyes to roam the premises while Ushijima hangs up his jacket. “Pretty impersonal, though.” You’re reminded of your own place, the stark contrast of colorful walls and the mess of mismatched furniture and knickknacks. Billionaires really are a different breed, huh.
“I don’t care for sentimentalism,” the young billionaire offers, gestures for you to take a seat on the dark couch in the middle of the living room. He doesn’t seem interested in elaborating beyond that, and you don’t really care enough to ask. You shrug it off, instead opting to following his lead and plopping yourself down on his couch. The piece of furniture is much softer than it looks, much softer than something a man like Ushijima looks like he’d own. A worthless tidbit of information, but you tuck it away in the back of your brain anyways.
“I feel obligated to tell you that I’ve put larger men than you to the ground before,” you tell him. A bold faced lie, but an empty threat seems better than none at all. “And I’ve got a taser in my pocket. You wouldn’t be the first client I’ve had to use it on.”
Ushijima puts his hands up — his palms really are fucking huge — in a gesture you suppose is meant to be disarming. You show him the taser for good measure. He sits down on the chair on the other side of the table, looks at you expectantly. It hits you then, though it probably should’ve a long time ago, that it’s very possible Ushijima doesn’t really know how this works at all.
“Have you done anything like this before?” You keep the question purposefully vague, open ended, take care not to use the word ‘escort’ or ‘prostitute’. “Paid for company, I mean.” He shakes his head, a movement so casual you might as well have asked if he’s ever had escargot before.
He probably has. He looks like that kind of guy.
“Figures,” you mumble, shifting to pull a small stack of papers out of your bag. The contents of the bag rustle around loudly, the sound echoing and bouncing between the empty walls of Ushijima’s apartment. “Most men like you do it for the sake of socializing. Someone to spend money on, to talk with, to take on vacations. To fill a hole, yadda yadda.” You place the first paper in front of him, turned so that he can read it.
“What a lot of men like you really want pay for, though, is sex. They think that if they just pay for enough meals or tell enough pretty lies, their sugar baby will get on their knees,” you watch as Ushijima’s eyes foot over the writing, pausing to make sure he’s paying attention to you still. He glances up, but doesn’t say anything, prompting you to go on. “You won’t get that from me. An extra zero on my paycheck won’t make me suck your dick.”
“I don’t want you to,” he says, so easily you think he must really mean it. He glances back down at the paper, the one detailing the rules of conduct.
“Good,” you feel the tension in your shoulders vane a fraction. “Usually men like to keep their sugar babies a secret. This is obviously a bit different so I’ve had to alter the contract. No inappropriate touching, no asking for sexual favors. You can’t tell anyone that you’re paying me. In public you can touch me like a guy would touch his girlfriend.” You’re not completely sure that Ushijima really knows how a guy would touch his girlfriend, but you refrain from telling him that. Instead, you hand him the next piece of paper.
“My friend will know,” he tells you, not looking up from the new addition to the contract. “He’s the one who proposed I do this.”
“You’ve got weird fucking friends, then,” you reply. “As long as he doesn’t talk it won’t be a problem.”
Ushijima assures you that, no; his friend won’t talk, and you decide that’s good enough. Anyone who’d be wack enough to suggest a paid, fake relationship to his friend must have some skeletons in his own closet.
“Payments happen before each individual meeting, failure to provide the funds result in immediate termination of the contract. This is my fee,” you point to a number at the bottom of the second page. If Ushijima thinks the amount is too high or too low, he doesn’t show it. “And since I’m assuming this will involve snooty, high brow events, I’ll need a wardrobe.” A silence. Ushijima merely looks at you, as if he’s not sure you’re done yet. You decide to toss in, “and I’m not paying for meals.”
“You’re thorough,” Ushijima finally says, and it sounds like the closest you’re going to get in terms of a compliment. Your lip twitches, a sense of pride washing over you. It’s not the first time someone’s told you that, though Ushijima does sound far less overwhelmed than your usual clients tend to do. “I was under the impression that the solicitor was in control of setting the rules.”
“I’ve got an impeccable work ethic,” you agree, inclining your head in a show of insincere humility. “Men like to think they’re in control,” you add. “They rarely are.” Ushijima hums, and for a second you almost think he might be impressed.
“Normally I don’t give my real name to my sugar daddies, but I guess that’s kinda out of the question here,” you continue, sliding another piece of paper across the table. “My address is private. I don’t suppose you’ve got any objections to keeping our meetings public, considering that’s the nature of the agreement anyways.”
Ushijima shifts, careful fingers pulling the paper closer to himself. “I don’t like that term,” he says, voice monotone and face blank. For a moment you’re not entirely sure what he’s even talking about.
“Agreement?” you guess. At his lack of reaction you make a second attempt, “Public?” Ushijima’s brow furrows.
“Sugar daddy.”
He sounds like just having to say the words make him physically uncomfortable. It’s the most emotional he’s looked over the course of the entire conversation, and it takes monumental effort on your part not to snort, instead putting your need to react into a deep inhale. In retrospect, it’s not at all surprising that Ushijima Wakatoshi, who seems like the straightest, most boring man you’ve ever encountered on the job, would object to being referred to as a sugar daddy.
“Well,” you clear your throat, leaning back into the plush cushions of the couch. “That is generally considered to be the, uh, professional term.” Ushijima doesn’t respond to that, only watches you with a neutral expression. He’s got that kind of face where his silences — and there appears to be quite a few of them — makes you feel like you have to prove something. “What would you like me to say, then? Glucose papi? Big splenda money man?”
Ushijima’s nose scrunches. Somehow that makes you feel accomplished. “Ushijima’s fine.”
It’s not entirely the point you were trying to get at, but it’s an oddly endearing answer, so you let it slide. “Ushijima, then,” you murmur. “So?” Ushijima responds by pulling a pen out from the breast pocket of his not-quite-casual blazer. Because of course he’s got a pen in his blazer. You squint, attempting to see if it’s engraved with his name.
Hah . It totally is.
~~~
The first time Ushijima’s envelope of money arrives at the P.O box you’ve rented — the weekend before the first event you’re supposed to join him for — you almost have a heart attack.
Now, you know you told him you’d need clothes. In that sense, maybe you’re partly to blame for the enormous amount of money he’s deemed necessary to bestow upon you. But then again—
You [2.17 PM]: jesus christ
You [2.18 PM]: i didn’t mean i needed an entirely new wardrobe
big splenda money man [3.05 PM]: ?
big splenda money man [3.06 PM]: Hello. Was the money not sufficient?
You [3.10 PM]: it’s way too much???
You [3.10 PM]: how much do you think women’s clothes cost?
big splenda money man [3.12 PM]: I don’t know. I don’t have much experience purchasing women’s clothing.
You [3.13 PM]: well there’s a surprise
You [3.14 PM]: i’m giving it back
big splenda money man [3.15 PM]: Keep it.
big splenda money man [3.16 PM]: Buy yourself something nice with what’s left.
You [3.20 PM]: uuuuh okay daddy
You [3.20 PM]: now i almost feel like i SHOULD suck your dick
big money splenda man [3.21 PM]: Please don’t.
You [3.25 PM]: i’m just joking. i’m paying you back.
You [3.25 PM]: somehow.
You [3.30 PM]: thank you.
At least you look pretty dang great at Ushijima’s event.
~~~
“I can’t believe he actually did it.”
You turn around, careful not to trip on your own feet as you balance on your heels, to come face-to-face with a spiffily dressed brunet. Ushijima has excused himself to talk about… something with some executive writer of a sports magazine, gracefully keeping you out of the conversation. And what a relief that is; if you have to smile through one more awkward, wide eyed introduction as Ushijima’s girlfriend in the next hour, you’re going to have to find the bar.
The brunet scans you up and down, wide eyed wonder painted onto his pretty features, and it takes you only a moment to realize that this is the friend Ushijima was talking about; the one who recommended sugar baby dating sites to the big oaf. To your surprise, there’s something oddly familiar about him.
He must mistake your hesitance to reply as worry, because the man waves his hand as if to alleviate your reluctance, leans in closer. “Don’t worry,” he assures, voice sing-song and light in tone. “I won’t tell anyone!”
You arch a brow, glance sideways to see Ushijima still engaged in conversation with the writer. Or was he a photographer? You can’t gather up the will to care. Instead, you turn your attention back to the man, arms crossed over your chest. Suddenly your dress feels too tight. “And you are?”
The man smiles — though, for what it’s worth, something about the blatant display of mischief that seems permanently lodged onto his features makes it feel more like a smirk than anything else — presents you with a slender, smooth hand. You shake it.
“Oikawa,” he says, his grip on your hand just the appropriate amount of firm. No clammy hands either, a lot of the other men present could learn from him. “I’m Ushiwaka’s best friend.”
You pause, thrown off by the unexpected nickname, as well as the ‘best friend’ title. You’ve never once heard Ushijima refer to anyone as a best friend, and if you’re being honest, this Oikawa doesn’t look like the type . He looks more like the type to have a thousand acquaintances and a hundred people longing to be his friend, rather than the one with the sort of socially inept best friend. Not that it really matters, the most important tidbit in his statement is not his status in Ushijima’s social circle. Rather, you’re curious about;
“Ushiwhat?”
Oikawa’s smile widens. He opens his mouth to respond, but is interrupted by a hand pressed to your back, the sound of someone clearing their throat from somewhere right behind you. You twist around, shoulders stiff with the sudden palm against the fabric of your cocktail dress. Ushijima stares down at you, his fingers twitching. You relax, muscles clenching and unclenching beneath your skin.
At first, Ushijima had taken the ‘no inappropriate touching’ part of your rules to mean no touching at all. The first time he took you to an event — a charity dinner that dragged on for hours and hours and hours — he barely even looked at you, left you mostly to your own devices. That is to say, he introduced you as his girlfriend as if you were some sort of price, watched the reactions of flustered women and disbelieving men, and then he moved on.
Not necessarily a surprise that the man wasn’t a good actor, but it certainly wasn’t going to fool anyone. You’d told him as much, and to his credit, Ushijima now manages to press awkward kisses to your cheek and let his hand linger for the appropriate amount of time.
It’s almost funny how hard he’s trying. It’s even funnier how reluctant he seems about it at times, considering he’s the one who sought you out in the first place.
“I see you’ve met Oikawa,” he says, voice somehow clipped. “I hope he’s behaving.”
Oikawa hums. “When am I not?” It must be as rhetorical a question as it sounds, because Ushijima doesn’t deem it worthy of an answer. Looking at the two of them in such close proximity, it’s almost bizarre to think of them as close friends; even their energies seem to clash. Oikawa strikes you immediately as a social butterfly. He grins and waves to the people passing, has a sort of arrogant stance that makes it plainly clear that he’s nothing if not confident. It’s almost theatrical, almost too loud to be genuine. You get the distinct feeling that he’s a smooth talker.
Ushijima, on the other hand, despite his height and his broad form, somehow blends into the background. A permanent fixture that you’re aware of but that you have to look twice for. Not to mention his lack of tact and tendency to put his foot in his mouth.
“It’s getting late,” Oikawa remarks with a glance and a flick of his wrist. He turns his head to glance back at the dwindling crowd of mingling semi celebs and rich, old men. “I’m sure the boss is well and lubricated by now.” He winks in Ushijima’s direction, as if this is some sort of inside joke. If it is, Ushijima’s face doesn’t betray it. “It was nice meeting you!” With that, Oikawa leaves with a wave and a dramatic flourish that almost resembles a bow, confidently walking over to an elderly, sort of wobbly man further into the room.
A woman joins him a moment later, hooks her arm around his. You recognize her face when she turns it to plant an effortless kiss to the edge of Oikawa’s mouth, the aesthetically pleasing arch of her nose and the visibly trained perfection of her posture something you’ve watched with envy, plastered on covers of magazines in stands at the stores. Oikawa looks at her as if she’s the only person in the room, seems to forget even the boss he clearly walked over in an attempt to charm.
You recognize him, then, as he stands beside the young woman that can’t be anything but his lover. The infamous, wildly popular male sugar baby and the rich heiress. Interesting .
“I’m hungry,” you tell Ushijima, forcing your gaze away from the couple. “Are you done? Can we get out of here?” Your feet hurt, straps of your shoes digging into your flesh and heels aching with standing for so long. It’s been a while since you’ve spent so much time in formal wear. With the exception of the client you had six months ago who insisted on buying you one new pair of six inch heels every time you met with him, you’ve spent most of your meetings in sneakers and socks. Ushijima looks at you, doesn’t immediately respond. “What?”
“You’re wearing a new dress,” he says, as if he just noticed. He’s not wrong, of course; with the amount of money he’d given you the first time you were able to buy a great lot of new, extravagant outfits. Sleek, black cocktail dresses and soft, pastel sundresses. Usually, when a client gives you spending money, it’s easy to deduce what they want you to buy. For the heel enthusiast; stockings that made your legs look longer. For the guy who just wanted someone to cuddle with on the couch, white dress shirts and comfy pajama shorts. Ushijima, with all his lack of an outwards personality and apparent lack of interest in aesthetics beyond the minimalistic inside of his home, is not so simple to shop for. “It looks nice.”
It’s the first time he’s complimented your appearance. Another difference you’re not completely used to yet. Men dole out compliments as if they think their words are gold; as if every word of praise is worthy of rewards. Coming from Ushijima, praise feels like a rare gem, makes you feel somehow coy. “Thanks,” you murmur weakly, cursing the heat at the tip of your ears. “So? Food?”
~~~
You must look quite the sight, Ushijima in his tux and you in your tight, form fitting dress in a 24 hour diner. A couple of drunk teenagers keep stealing glances and you tug Ushijima’s way too large coat tighter around your shoulders. The fluorescent lights make Ushijima’s skin shimmer slightly, makes him look almost otherworldly. You’re once again reminded that for all his blundering and awkwardness, he’s a very handsome man. He looks less unapproachable in the strong, unnatural light, a milkshake and a half eaten plate of fries in front of him.
“Oikawa’s said,” Ushijima begins suddenly, making you jolt with the unprompted conversational starter. In the time — admittedly, it’s not very long — that you’ve known Ushijima, you haven’t known him as someone to initiate conversation. “That I’m not doing a very good job at this.” This is another habit of his, speaking as if you already know what’s going on in his head. You suspect it’s yet another part of what makes him seem like this mysterious, impregnable wall sometimes.
“‘This’ being?” you prompt, leaning back against the latex backrest of the seat. You can think of a number of things Ushijima might be bad at. Saying that might not be the best approach.
“This,” he repeats, pointing between the two of you with an index finger. There’s something almost juvenile about it. The first few times you spoke with Ushijima, you were inclined to think he was just stuck up, arrogant. This prolonged exposure makes it plainly visible that more than that, he just doesn’t know how to articulate himself at times. It’s charming, almost, once you get used to not being automatically offended at every other word out of his big mouth. “He says it’s too obvious.”
“Oikawa’s not wrong,” you hum, fingers pinching at the end of your straw, twirling the cylindrical piece of plastic around the empty milkshake glass. “You surround yourself by rich, paranoid people. Think about why you hired me. I’m assuming you don’t trust other people’s intentions. Very normal for people like you. Money is simple. Chances are you’re not the only one with paid companionship in your social circle.” Ushijima’s brow furrows, and he looks down for a moment. “Am I wrong?”
“No,” he admits, a bit easier than you’d expect him to. Maybe he’s finally getting used to you, letting his guard down just a little bit. He shifts, looks a bit strange against the bright, red furniture he’s sitting on. “I prefer to go into situations with all the information in front of me. Admittedly,” he falters, glances to the side, avoids eye contact. “in this case I don’t have much at hand.”
“That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?” you tell him confidently. “It’s no big deal. You’re a private man, it’s no surprise you’d want to keep your relationships on the downlow.” You tilt your head, regard him for a moment. Truth be told, you’re not good at relationships. Your clients know what they want, and they’re willing to compromise. They know — at least they should know — that they can’t expect more than the exchange of money for a pre-planned, fake sort of connection.
Ushijima barely knows why he’s hired you, only has a vague idea of the goal of it all. His plans has fuck all to do with you as a person and everything to do with the result of your presence. “It just needs to look a bit less like I’m someone you pull out for special occasions.” He nods, seems to consider your words, but doesn’t offer any input. You exhale.
“How did we meet? How long have we been dating?” you ask. These are questions that probably should’ve been handled weeks ago, if you’re being honest. You’re not used to the official part of this sort of arrangement, usually only on public dates as a once-in-a-while date for clients who only want a trophy to show off to their friends. “If people never see us together outside of your galas and events they’ll start getting suspicious. If we don’t have a story you might as well just tell them you’re paying me to keep women away from you.”
So you make up a story. Something simple enough that Ushijima, with his lack of acting abilities, is able to retell it believably enough and that seems plausible. Once Ushijima seems content with the details, you tell him about yourself. Just tiny, unimportant details about your life and your aspirations, small fun facts that partners are supposed to know about each other. In turn, Ushijima tells you about his childhood aspirations to become a volleyball pro, how his father’s passing put an end to that dream, how he befriended Oikawa.
You make plans to have lunch once a week and to meet up during the weekends. It feels like a solid strategy.
When at last you arrive back at your apartment, the clock is ticking its way towards two am. It’s been a while since you forgot time like that. You feel high on some kind of sleep deprived adrenaline rush, which is probably why you find it fit to fish your phone out of your pocket and thumb your way to Ushijima’s contact information.
You [1.54 AM]: good night
At least he must have his senses left, you think, because he doesn’t reply. You fall asleep feeling sort of silly.
big splenda money man [5.45 AM]: Good morning.
~~~
There are a few things you learn about Ushijima in the following month. You learn that he’s very fond of dogs; your lunches taking place on a bench by his office on the days when the weather allows it. The bigger the dogs, the brighter the stars in the billionaire’s eyes become. He works too much, he tells you, having a dog would’ve been irresponsible. He says it like it’s the biggest tragedy of his life and you do your best not to laugh, instead patting him on the back sympathetically.
You also learn that he’s quite the comedian, once you’ve gotten him comfortable enough. Not on purpose, of course, his zingers mostly accidents caused by a lack of understanding of sarcasm, but it’s an appreciated aspect of his personality nonetheless. Somewhere along the line you make the mistake of starting to look forward to your lunches with your fake pimp boyfriend. You suppress that thought. Probably another mistake.
The strangest Ushijima Fact you’re able to find during these four weeks, though, is that the quiet man, once settled into this new routine, is actually pretty fond of physical intimacy. You don’t know if it’s because it’s easier for him to slide into a role once the parameters have been properly set or if it’s because he’s really just a cold exterior with a soft interior, but the shift is enough to make you dizzy. Which is not to say it’s an abrupt thing; if anything it’s slow, gradual build that more than anything feels completely natural. He kisses your cheek in greeting like one would with a loved one, leans into your touches as if he craves them. His hand finds your during walks and even when no one’s around to see it he finds a way to be close; shoulder against yours or hand at your back. It’s this naturalness of it that makes you falter, that sometimes make you forget that it’s nothing but empty gestures.
Thankfully, a brown envelope in your P.O box is enough to set you straight. At least for a while.
At least until everything goes horribly, drastically wrong.
“Is there something on your mind?” Ushijima’s voice breaks you out of your thoughts, and you realize that you must have zoned out in the middle of a conversation. His oddities must be rubbing off on you, you think, unfurrowing your eyebrows and turning to look at him. He peers back, the glint of curiosity apparent in his eyes now that you know what to look for. His hair is windswept, slightly ruffled by a soft breeze.
“Uh, no,” you mutter, gaze dropping to the store bought salad nestled on your lap. “I was just pondering over all the life choices I’ve made that has lead to me sitting on a bench with a man who’s paying to date me,” you take a sip of your coffee. “but is more interested in the dog park on the other side of the street.”
Ushijima guffaws — no, he really does, the sound unfamiliar enough to make you jump — his face serious even as his eyes stay firmly planted on the aforementioned dog park. “I’m not.”
You hum. “Just get a dog, dude.” Ushijima sighs, a light shake of his head making caramel curls bounce against his forehead. “I’m going out tonight, with some friends. They asked me to bring you.” You pause, look him over once. He slowly looks back, a bit hesitant to tear his gaze away from the pair of shepherds playing together on the other side of the street. “Told them you were busy.”
“But I’m not.”
“I know that, I just figured you wouldn’t want to spend the night in a bar—”
“I don’t mind.”
“— smells bad, cheap vodka, horrible music— what?”
Ushijima squints down at you, regards you carefully. For a moment, you try to imagine him in a dark pub, wearing clothes that don’t cost half a normal salary to buy, drinking lukewarm beer. It’s such a bizarre mental image, you wonder if the man has ever even seen the inside of a bar. “I said, I don’t mind.” He says it slowly, as if he’s considering even as he speaks. “Aren’t people supposed to see us together?”
“You do realize this isn’t gonna be one of your fancy, upscale restaurant bars, right?” you ask, disbelief ringing in your voice. “People aren’t gonna be classy, tipsy and discussing the stock market.” A muscle twitches near Ushijima’s mouth. It almost resembles a smile.
“I’ve been to a bar before.”
“You have?” the surprise in your voice is only halfway a joke. Ushijima looks indignant. You put your arms up in surrender. “I guess we’ll see then.”
Ushijima makes a sound of agreement, but says no more. Something strange flutters around in your stomach, the word ‘date’ floating around your head. You try to visualize a brown, thick envelope, imagine that you’re holding it in your hand. To your horror, it doesn’t quite work.
~~~
There are a lot of places you have no problem imagining Ushijima Wakatoshi. At charity galas, at country clubs, at sports events. There was that dream you had once where he was the new James Bond — admittedly, pretty unlikely, but it made for an interesting visual. Had he told you he was meeting the goddamn president you wouldn’t have been as surprised as you are, watching with interest as the tall money man interacts with your closest group of friends.
Even dressed down, Ushijima looks almost comically out of place. Between the semi-clean table and the tear in the cushion of the seat behind you (not to mention the same Bon Jovi song being played on the jukebox for the fifth time in two hours, intermissions almost exclusively filled up by tom jones and george michael), he looks like he might as well be an alien trying to assimilate into society.
Even so, he does a well enough job, manages to refrain from putting his foot in his mouth or offending anybody unintentionally. He’s quiet, for the most part, sips his beer and nods or replies with short sentences when spoken to. At some point he slips a hand under the table, tangles his fingers with your own. His palm is clammy, thumb pressing into your skin. You almost think he’s nervous. You try focusing on that, rather than focusing on the tingle in your spine, the jolt of excitement at the secret hand holding.
You settle for chugging your drink instead, nodding with a grimace when you’re offered a refill. And so the evening goes.
~~~
“I can’t believe you’re dating an actual billionaire,” your friend mutters, pinky smoothing over the stray lines of makeup underneath her eye. You glance away from your own mirror image, face hot with a mixture of embarrassment and alcohol. “Be honest. Are you dating him for the money?” You choke. She sends you a look , sharp eyebrows arched. “I’m kidding! He just doesn’t seem your type is all.”
“He’s not ,” you admit with a snort, tension gone from your spine when she laughs loudly in response. “ At all . I honestly didn’t think I’d like him when I first met him.” You lean against the sink, watch as she applies a new layer of striking red lipstick to her upper lip. “He just needs time to get comfortable. He’s not so bad.”
“High praise,” she hums with an unmistakable tint of sarcasm, voice muffled by the ‘o’ shape of her mouth. You open your mouth to retaliate, but she smacks her lips, rolls her eyes. “Oh I can tell you like him,” she adds, puts the lipstick back in her purse. “I haven’t seen you ogle someone like that in years.”
You laugh. “It’s his big wallet.”
“Oh yeah, I bet it’s big,” your friend replies, her voice low, and it’s clear that the conversation is drifting into territory you’d prefer not to venture into. You push yourself up from the sink, giving something between a snort and a groan.
“That’s my cue,” you tell her. “Time for another drink.” She makes a sound of protest, but ultimately gives in, gives herself a once over in the mirror before following you back out.
The music feels almost like a physical thing, a wall hitting you as you exit the bathroom. Is it really— yep, it’s that Bon Jovi song again. A timeless classic, apparently. In the other corner of the bar, a group of boys have started singing. When you return to your own table, there’s a notable empty spot.
“Your boyfriend went outside,” one of your friend yells over the tune of ‘livin’ on a prayer’, barely audible over the short, but very loud ginger singing-slash-screaming a few tables over. “Looks like you’ve got yourself a lightweight!” Your gaze falls to the new addition of shot glasses lining the table. You inhale slowly, turn to glance out the large glass windows by the door. Sure enough, there he is, his back leaning against the concrete wall right outside the bar.
“I’ll be right back.”
The air is cold, wind immediately nipping at your cheeks when you push past the heavy door to join Ushijima outside. He turns, startled, looks at you with slightly droopy eyes. Now that you’re seeing him up close, it’s obvious that he’s swaying, not completely steady on his feet.
You laugh, the sound tumbling out of your mouth before you can think to stop it. It’s the first time you’ve seen your big companion so off-kilter. “Are you drunk?”
“Yes,” he confirms gruffly, a faint blush barely visible in the dim light from the street lamps. “Your friends wanted to do shots.” He grimaces as he’s remembering a particularly unpleasant memory. “I didn’t want to seem boring. I wanted them to like me. Isn’t that what boyfriends do?”
You blink up at him, his own gaze steady, if a bit hazy as he stares you down. Something sizzles at your fingertips. Probably tequila. “It’s what dumb boyfriends do.” You suddenly have a ridiculous urge to kiss him, eyes falling to the shimmer of vodka coating his lips and the redness of intoxication dusted along the bridge of his nose. It’s a bad idea, of course. Irresponsible and out of the question and a total breach of your own rules. But Ushijima peers down at you as if he’s waiting for you to say something, and before you can even finish your mental list of why it’s a horrible idea, you’re placing your hands behind his neck, pulling him down.
He’s unresponsive at first, hands limply at his side and eyes wide open. In the back of your head you’re reminded of how wrong you are for even kissing him in the first place; the both of you more than a little tipsy and already in a very complicated situation. Just when this voice of reason is growing loud enough to make you let him go, Ushijima seems to have made up his own mind about your actions, hands gripping at your hips and steering you closer against him, fingertips digging into the fabric of your jeans.
Your hands disappear into the brown of his curls just as Ushijima bites down on your bottom lip, the sudden pain making you twist your fingers into his hair and tug. A low, rumbly sound vibrates against your mouth, his fingers pressing harder into your hips. He twirls you around, pushes you up against the wall. The concrete is rough, hard against the thin fabric of your jacket. There’s a voice in the back of your head chanting wrong, wrong, wrong , but Ushijima’s tongue licks at the inside of your mouth and suddenly all you can hear is your own heart beating.
The makeout session comes to an abrupt halt when the door slams open and the group of rowdy boys spills out, hollers and whistling filling the air as they spot the two of you. Ushijima is still looming over you, arms caging you in as he uses the wall behind you for support. Your breath comes in heavy, audible puffs. It takes a second before you’re brave enough to look at him, his face covered in shadows that make his eyes look dark.
For a moment, you think he might apologize. It certainly seems like something he would do. You should apologize, should swap out the giddy, elated feeling in your chest with some well placed remorse. Neither of those things happen. Not for the first time, you curse Ushijima’s ability to never feel awkward in silences.
“I, uh,” you begin, not at all sure what you’re actually attempting to say even as your mouth twists to form words. “Might be time to get you home.”
The logical part of your brain tells you to say fuck it to the part of today’s carefully thought out plan that involves you going home with Ushijima. The bar is within walking distance of your own apartment, and with the — uh — accident earlier, it would probably be best to part ways sooner rather than later. If the knowing looks and the whooping that follows when you re-enter the bar is anything to go by, your friends don’t need any more convincing as far as your relationship with Ushijima is concerned
The part of your brain that makes your lips tingle and your body heat go up calls a cab. Ushijima doesn’t say a thing, not when you push him towards the taxi, nor when you take his keys from him. He still reaches for your hand in the backseat of the car, doesn’t take his eyes off of you. But he does not speak.
~~~
“Here we go,” You exhale, ignoring how unsteady your own hands are as you unlock and open the door to Ushijima’s penthouse. Your head feels clearer now after the drive to Ushijima’s place, but the low ringing and the tingling along the path down your spine persists. “The eagle is in the nest.”
Ushijima pushes you into the apartment, closes the door behind himself. Realistically, that’s the biggest clue you’re going to get in regards to how he feels about what happened earlier. Ushijima isn’t the most expressive of men — one might even argue that he’s got the outwardly emotional range of a rock — but he’s got his tells. Had he wanted you out, that door would have remained open. So… there’s that. He turns his head, takes in your stiff stance by the door. There’s still a slight blush reddening his cheeks, but at least he looks a bit more sure on his feet.
“It’s late,” he mutters. “I’ll sleep on the couch.” You open your mouth to protest, but the words get stuck in the back of your throat. Probably for the best. Your mouth doesn’t seem to make any good choices tonight anyways. Of course, Ushijima chooses this moment to be observant. “What is it?”
“I’m just—” you flounder, mouth opening and closing without any words coming out. You clear your throat, shuffle on your feet. “I’m sorry.”
Ushijima blinks. “About what?”
“About the,” the word ‘kiss’ feels heavy, sticky like syrup in your mouth. It’s such a childish thing, would have been a non-issue if not for the barrier of money and contracts between you. “the thing. Earlier.”
“Do you regret it?” the question comes quickly, easily, as if the answer doesn’t matter. You suppose it doesn’t. Yes , you think, though the word sounds wrong even in your head. Yes, I regret it. I’ve never kissed a client before. I’ve never wanted to kiss a client before. I’ve never wanted to kiss him twice .
Because it’s undeniable, looking at the slightly disheveled man a few feet in front of you; his jacket discarded and his lip still slightly swollen, that you are attracted to him. And isn’t that ironic, the companion paid to keep admirers away admiring her client. You grimace. “No. I don’t.” Ushijima’s expression doesn’t change, no hint as to whether that was the right or the wrong answer. “But that doesn’t mean I should’ve done it.”
Ushijima frowns, the implications thick and blatant between the lines of your words. He takes a step towards you. Then another. Then he’s right in front of you, peering down at you with hooded eyes. Ushijima always looks serious, but there’s something about the weight of his gaze as his eyes search your face that makes you feel especially small. Vulnerable. “Are you not going to ask my opinion?”
It’s such an emotionally charged, un-Ushijima like question that for a moment, you don’t know how to respond. In the back of your mind, you realize that this is it; the out. You can’t be sure if you’re brave or just stupid for not taking it. “I’m scared to.”
This time, he’s the one who hooks his fingertips behind your neck, tugs at you so rapidly your it hurts. His teeth clack against yours, nails digging into skin, but the only thing you properly register is the feel of pillow-soft lips on yours.
It feels entirely different than the hurried, sloppy kiss you’d shared in front of the bar; the slow movement of his mouth against yours something like a reassurance. If your kiss was a fluke, a reaction to too many shots and not enough control over your impulses, his is the polar opposite; Ushijima slides his hands down your face, lingers at your neck before descending slowly along the shape of your body to wrap around your waist. There’s nothing left of the hesitant twitches that used to seize his fingers whenever he touched you before. Maybe you’re still a bit too buzzed to trust your own instincts, but you swear there’s a sort of possessiveness in the way he clutches at you, the tips of his fingers creating dents and crescents in your skin even with the fabric of clothes separating them.
It ends before it gets the chance to escalate, Ushijima’s grip slipping off you as if the strength in his body leaves him with no warning. His breath fans over your face, sends shivers and goosebumps down your back.
“Now we’re even,” he says, voice an octave lower than usual. He’s close enough that you feel the words, the vibrations of his grumbly tone tickling at your skin. It’s a pretty cool thing to say, really; had you not been frayed and tattered at the seams and all but ready to tear already, you might have remembered to compliment him for it. But beneath the carefully blank expression on Ushijima’s face you can see hints and traces of multiple conflicting emotions; pupils wide and eyes dark with both blatant insecurity and something that resembles lust. Maybe he thinks you’re going to leave; that you’ll turn around and exit his boring penthouse apartment.
You probably should. But then, Ushijima’s stupidity really must have rubbed off on you.
Your hands find his chest, palm thrumming with the erratic beats of Ushijima’s heart pounding against his ribcage. There’s some comfort in that, in that despite his calm demeanor there’s at least somewhat of a reaction underneath his thick skin. Fingers clutch at the fabric of his shirt as you push him further into the apartment, force your gaze to stay steady on his face despite your urge to look away. There’s no change in his expression, but his hand creeps back to your hip, tugging even as you guide him into the living room.
His lips are on yours, presses against the edge of your mouth, your cheek, your jaw. His head bows as he sinks his teeth into the flesh of your neck and you have to bite back a whine. The hand that isn’t firmly grasping at your side slides along the shape of your torso, climbs until your shirt is halfway up your body and his fingers are brushing along the underwire of your bra. You can’t remember if you’ve ever felt him touch you like that; his fingers calloused and too rough for someone who spends his time at soirees and charity dinners. The sensation makes your breath hitch, makes you snake your arms around his neck, fingertips playing with the fine hairs at the base of his head.
There’s a jolt of pain when he knocks you against the frame of a door, a groan tearing out of your mouth at the impact. He murmurs a low apology, a hand moving to your back as if to soothe your skin where the wooden edges hit you. The other one shifts, fingers spreading until his palm is covering your breast. You tug at him, willing him closer, feel something hard against your abdomen when he obliges and presses his entire body against yours.
You feel like you’re surrounded; Ushijima’s large form covering you from all sides. His nose rubs along the skin of your neck, something resembling a growl vibrating against you when you rotate your hips against his. It sounds like he might be trying to say something, but you dig your nails into the back of his neck, repeat the action, and whatever words he might’ve tried to speak disappear in a low hiss. His hand closes around your breast, squeezes until it nearly hurts, the other slipping down to cup your ass.
Ushijima isn’t a very wordy guy, doesn’t always know how to articulate himself. Instead, he relies on small, almost unnoticeable changes in his expression; a furrowed brow or a slightly downturned lip. This; these hungry, possessive grips and the way he presses his face into the spot where your neck meets your shoulder, is the most vocal he’s ever been. Every time he grounds his lower body against you, you feel his erection through his pants. He pulls at you as if he wants to merge with your body. You wonder what his face looks like. The space between your shoulder blades aches, the sharp edge of the door frame jammed into your back.
“Bed,” you exhale, twisting your head towards the dark bedroom. There’s something that feels like fire right beneath your skin, a painful and exciting sizzle nipping at your nerves. That nagging voice of yours seems to have quieted, reason and logic caving in favor of heat pooling in your stomach and tingles along your spine. Need swells up somewhere inside of you, makes your fingertips restless.
Ushijima lets go of your breast, retracts his hand completely. Your shirt falls back down to hide your body and he grips at your chin, forces you to look at him. His thumb moves in a careful line along your face, the gesture soft and strange in comparison to the guarded look on his face. A million thoughts seem to pass through his mind, his brows furrowed and his mouth a grim line. “The contract—”
“Fuck the contract,” the words are out of your mouth before you can think to stop them, so cliched and predictable that it makes your face heat up all over again. An urge to backtrack, to make excuses bubbles in the back of your throat, but after what looks like a brief internal debate, Ushijima seems to decide that your answer is good enough. He cups your face, breath hot on your face when he leans back down. His nose brushes yours, and for a moment that’s how he stays; forehead against forehead and thumbs resting at your cheekbones. It’s a simple thing, an easy gesture, but it feels like a defining moment. That thought scares you.
He keeps your head tightly in his grip, eyes barely open as he leads you into the unlit room. The back of your knees hit the bed, and it’s only the strength with which Ushijima holds you that keeps you from tumbling backwards. He looms over you, merely a shadow in the darkness of the room, steals your lips just as he dips you down to meet the pillow. He sucks your bottom lip into his mouth, teeth gracing your flesh and tongue darting out to lick at the parts of your mouth he can get access to.
You’re not about to be any worse; your hands slipping beneath the hem of his shirt and prodding at his stomach. You feel his muscles tighten as he breathes, hard and defined at your fingertips. He inhales sharply as your hands glide further up his torso, breaking away from you to let you rid him of the garment completely. His own hands fall to the edge of your shirt, ride up along your sides to expose your stomach, palm flat and fingers splayed against your skin. He bites at your neck, teeth barely a distraction from his hands traveling up, up, up, until your shirt is bunched over your chest and your upper body feels cold.
Then his mouth moves down, licks along your collarbone, open mouthed kisses to the exposed part of your breasts. His hand tugs at your bra, thumb circling a nipple. You inhale sharply, clamp your mouth together to stop yourself from moaning. Every inch of your body feels electric, pelvis arching up against him, desperate for contact. When he closes his mouth around your nipple, flat of his tongue against the hardened nub, you have to cover your mouth with a hand, low groans and embarrassing whines slipping out from between your lips.
Ushijima evidently doesn’t approve of that, reaches up to take your hand and lacing his fingers with yours. And then he’s traveling even further down; tongue leaving a wet trail down your stomach before he stops at the waistband of your jeans. There, he lingers, glances up at you with darkened eyes. Your breath is labored, face hot and undoubtedly red, and the sight of him is enough to ignite a familiar, almost uncomfortable sensation on the inside of your thighs. You let go of his hand, tangle your fingers into his hair, too shaken to trust your voice.
He catches on quickly, presses a slow kiss to your hip as his fingers work on the buttons of your pants. He peels the garment off of you, takes his sweet time doing it, and you’re suddenly aware that you’re very nearly nude. His fingers ghost over the outside of your thigh, hands guiding your leg over his shoulder as he kisses his way from your calf and further in towards your core. He bites at the flesh of your thigh, sucks your skin into his mouth until you have to tug on his hair, body arching and breath hitching.
You’re very aware that you’re already wet enough to soak the soft fabric of your underwear, and distantly you curse yourself for not having some sort of sexy lingerie on. Ushijima breathes against the damp spot, and you forget how to form coherent sentences. His fingers play with the straps by your hips, but he doesn’t seem in a hurry to remove the clothing. He moves his attention to your other thigh, gives it the same treatment as the other one, sucks and licks and bites at your flesh as if he wants to devour you.
You’re not sure if he’s stalling or teasing. It could very well be both. Whatever the case you need him to stop , to do something before you burst out of your skin. “Ushijima,” you whisper, horrified to discover how uneven and throaty your voice sounds. “ Please. ” Your head falls back, the desperation tinting your voice making embarrassment burn at your cheeks. You squeeze your eyes shut, heartbeat quickening when Ushijima’s fingers hook into the straps at your hips, knuckles brushing against your skin.
He licks at the center of your thighs, tongue slow and wet against the fabric of your underwear, the pressure against your sex coaxing a loud whine out of your mouth, fingers tightening around the brown curls of Ushijima’s hair. Your hips buckle, restrained by Ushijima’s hands, and apparently he must like that, because he presses his face between your legs, repeats the action.
“Shit!” you exhale, head swimming, but it’s not enough, doesn’t do much to soothe the growing, overwhelming feeling of want that burns in your stomach. You push at his head, urge him even closer with shivering fingertips. Arousal seems to seep out of your pores, covers your body with heat. You feel too sensitive, too frenzied, and he hasn’t even properly touched you yet.
And then, as if he’s somehow privy to your thoughts, Ushijima tugs your underwear down, lifts your legs to slip the thin piece of fabric off of you. His fingertips roam along the lines of your legs, pads pressing into your flesh when they reach your hip bones. His nails, short and neatly manicured, dig into your skin, keeps you from arching too much against him when his face returns to the inside of your thighs.
If you’re being honest, you had had your suspicions that Ushijima had never been in a relationship before. Between his inability to be tactful and his clear disinterest in romantic matters, it didn’t seem like such an outlandish assumption. When he put his mouth over your sex, tongue prodding at your entrance, teeth teasing sensitive flesh, it becomes apparent that if nothing else, the man has done this before.
He finds your clit, your legs twitching around his shoulders and upper body arching, hips wanting to move under his tight grip. The sound that comes out of your mouth sounds something like a sob. He does it again, teeth and mouth and tongue all working on the most sensitive part of your anatomy. His arm, hooked around your thigh and hand clutching at your hip bone, retracts.
Ushijima eats your pussy as if it’s his favorite meal. He licks at you with an enthusiasm you didn’t know he even possessed, sucks and bites and buries his face between your legs, forehead hot against your pelvis. It’s not sloppy, not too rushed or too eager; if anything you would have to describe it as determined. Which, when you think about it, seems pretty in character.
You can’t think about it too hard, though, not when Ushijima shifts slightly beneath your legs, bends his arm to put it under himself. When he inserts one large finger into you, all your hopes of remaining silent and with some dignity intact goes out the window. You squeeze your legs together, trapping Ushijima head between them, a low string of curses spilling out of your mouth as Ushijima’s hand begins moving. You have to abandon his hair in favor of clawing at the sheets beneath you, lower body desperately thrashing against the hand that’s still holding you down. Just when you think you’re getting used to the sensation he adds another finger, long and thick and immediately coated in slick wetness. His thrusts are quick, deep, a stark contrast to the slow, deliberate movements of his mouth. White flashes between your eyelids, jolts of electricity running down your spine and making your back lift from the bed. Still, Ushijima keeps you down, curls his arm around your thigh and does not let up. Not when your curses turn into frenzied breaths and nonsense words, or when you reach back into his hair to pull, desperately needing him further up.
“ Fuck ! Ushi—” he pumps his fingers into you, voice cracking and stuttering over the syllables of his name. He groans against your over sensitive clit, a reaction to the way you pull at him or to the forceful arch of your lower body, you do not know. He fucks you on his fingers through your orgasm, doesn’t stop until the strength leaves your body and all you can do is melt back into the sheets of the bed, breath jagged and limbs quivering. Only then does he take his fingers out of you, lifting his head to gaze up at you with your legs still wrapped over his shoulders. He puts his fingers into his mouth, sucks your juices off of them without breaking eye contact. It’s a filthy sight, even as his silhouette is mostly just a shadow in the darkness. You wonder if he even knows the effect he has on you, your head still light after your orgasm and your mind muddled with the lingering, toxicating sensation of lust.
When he leans up to kiss you, you taste yourself on his lips. You suck his tongue into your mouth, hand sliding down his chest towards his belt buckle. He stops you, hand over yours even as you feel him, hard and throbbing beneath the fabric of his jeans. “Sleep,” he says, his lips against yours and the words sending small vibrations down your throat.
“But—”
He cuts you off with a stern look, brings your hand back up and pulls your shirt back down over your body. You’re not sure if he’s finally coming to his senses about this whole thing, that he doesn’t want to sleep with you, or if there’s something else. His hand lingers by your side, fingertips brushing your skin as he lies down next to you, pulling at the duvet to cover both of you. “Sleep.”
His eyes drift close, a sign that he’s done with the conversation. For a moment you imagine how waking up is going to be, consider that perhaps this is your cue to leave. His arm is heavy over your body, his nose a hair’s breadth away from your shoulder. You will yourself to stay awake, to wait until his breathing evens out. It doesn’t work.
~~~
You wake up to the sensation of something like a mild breeze right by your ear, hot air against the side of your face. Twisting your body as carefully as you can, you come face-to-face with a sleeping Ushijima. He must have crept closer in his sleep, hand resting right beneath your shirt, fingers splayed over your skin and his face more on your pillow than on is own. Seeking warmth, you assume. Your skin feels hot where he’s touching it. His face is unguarded, truly neutral; none of the furrows and the creases that usually decorate his expression anywhere to be seen. Soft beams of sunlight stream in through the windows, putting a strange, almost inhuman glow on his skin. It’s the most relaxed he’s ever looked.
For a moment, you just stare, horrified by the chaos of butterflies flapping around the inside of your rib cage. It almost hurts to look at him, the feeling in your chest so incredibly heavy, so filling and significant and blatantly obvious in its nature. It would’ve been easy to blame yesterday’s happenings on the alcohol, to give some weak excuse and move on as if it didn’t matter. But looking at the man next to you, it does matter. It matters because he’s a client, and if nothing else you’ve managed to go ahead and make yourself a prostitute. It matters because you still feel the remnants of his mouth all over your body. But mostly, it matters because the first thought when you see him — even before the biting, prickling jolts of panic — is that you’d like to wake up next to him again.
You peer over at the clock on Ushijima’s side of the bed. It’s early still, thankfully, but Ushijima is an earlier riser, and you do not want to be around to face him when he does wake up.
There are some risks that come with working in the line of paid company. You’ve had clients try to drug your drinks, lock you in their cars, stalk you when you’ve terminated contracts. You’ve had phone calls consisting of nothing but heavy breathing, pages upon pages of love letters in your mailbox. There’s a reason you come with three separate contracts and an nda agreement. You know that there’s more to the job than old, rich men spending money on taking you around Europe and buying you new phones. Horny, easily infatuated men is nothing new, nothing you can’t handle.
You being the horny, infatuated subject, however, isn’t something you’re prepared to deal with. Least of all when the object of your desire is someone like Ushijima; someone with a chronic inability to vocalize whatever emotions he’s hiding behind his severe resting bitch face and who only hired you in the first place because his friend suggested as a joke. Someone who — and this is the true irony of it all — hired you because he isn’t interested in romance and relationships in the first place.
Ushijima shifts, his arm rising along your stomach, forehead against your jaw. Panic rises in your throat. You need to get out, need to think . So you do one of the less brave things you’ve done in your life, you crawl out from underneath Ushijima’s grasp, heart pounding against your ribs with every small sound, every slight movement. You glance back at him once, the sight causing a sort of longing in your chest, makes you hesitate in the doorway with your discarded clothing gathered in your arms.
And then you leave. Your heart is beating ten miles a minute, drums underneath your skin to the rapid tune of ‘ oh shit, oh shit, oh shit ’ repeating in your head.
~~~
The sound of your doorbell wakes you up, upper body jolting as if electrocuted. Your knee knocks against the living room table, empty bottles clinking dangerously. You grasp at the backrest of your couch, pull yourself into sitting position. Your head is throbbing, eyes squinting against the harsh sunlight streaming in through the windows. For a moment, you just sit there, dazed, clammy palms rubbing sleep out of your eyes. There’s a half empty tequila bottle on the table, the mere sight of it makes you queasy. The doorbell rings again, makes you jolt a second time, body wobbling dangerously along the end of your couch.
“Coming!” you yell, squeezing your eyes shut before pushing yourself off the couch. A glance at the your phone tells you two things. One, it’s barely past nine in the morning. Not inappropriately early, true enough, but you’ve never really gone by the standard work hours in terms of getting up in the morning in the first place. Second—
Ushijima [8.33 AM]: I am coming over.
It’s the last in a row of an impressive four unopened texts you’ve gotten from Ushijima this morning. Usually he’d be caught dead before even sending one unprompted text your way. Well. Maybe not completely unprompted, considering the text you sent him the night before, terminating your contract with him. Not, admittedly, your most professional move, but you suspect professional kind of went out the window the moment you kissed him outside a dingy bar and let him go down on you.
The fact that he’s, supposedly, outside your door raises a fair few questions, the most pressing one being how the fuck did he get your address ? Something like nausea — but that might be the tequila — rises in your stomach. For a long, dragging second you consider not opening. But you know Ushijima. If he’s made the effort of finding out where you live, he is not going to leave.
You take a deep breath, hand curling around the handle of the door. What’s done is done. It can’t be too difficult, dealing with whatever it is Ushijima has come for. You’ve already made a fool of yourself to him. Twice .
When you open the door, you’re immediately struck by the sight of him. Sure , it’s only been a few days, and sure he’d been dressed down the last time, too, but somehow the man looks like someone else completely; dressed in gray sweatpants and a dark, oversized hoodie. The fact that he owns a hoodie, and that he’s able to find clothing too big for his broad frame is a wonder in and of itself, but this is something you’ll have to marvel at later. He looks strangely disheveled, the hints of purple underneath his eyes telling you he’s been having trouble sleeping.
“You smell like alcohol,” he says by way of greeting when it becomes apparent you’re not going to say anything. His nose scrunches as if the aforementioned smell is something particularly vulgar to his nostrils, and you feel caught somewhere between offense and shame. “It’s a weekday.”
“I’m unemployed the moment,” you mutter, hand tightening around the metal of the door handle. The skin around his eyes tighten.
“Alcohol can quickly become a force of habit,” he says, voice even and without much inflection. He stares you down, makes you feel small. He always has that effect, but somehow it feels ten times stronger now, as if you’re just an ant, or a small, harmless bird in his presence. “Can I come in?”
You open the door, gesture for him to step into your apartment. He inclines his head, polite and cordial as ever, and then he’s stepping inside. He looks hilariously out of place, his very existence clashing with the interior of your home. It’s ridiculous, really, that you’ve managed to fall for a man who doesn’t even own a video game console. “Why are you here, Ushijima? Actually, how did you even get my address?”
Ushijima clears his throat, gingerly sits his enormous body down on your couch. “Oikawa,” he says, and that’s really all the explanation that you need. It shouldn’t surprise you that the first thing the large man would do would be to reach out to his much more socially adept friend, and it definitely shouldn’t surprise you that cunning former sugar baby would use his previous connections and reputation to get into your personal info. “He’s… very resourceful.”
You snort. Ushijima doesn’t even know the half of it. “And what is it that you want, then?” There’s an hostility in your voice that comes with the erratic beating of your heart and the fear tugging at your spine. It’s completely unwarranted, but you can’t quite help it. For what it’s worth, Ushijima looks slightly uncomfortable as well, struggles to keep eye contact.
“I think we should talk,” he says, after some consideration. “About what happened.” You exhale, and the sound comes out shaky. You look down at Ushijima from your standing position in the middle of the living room.
“Look,” you mutter. “We were drunk. It was a mistake. I’m sorry . I still have most of the money, I’ll give it back to you.” Ushijima stares, his brows so tightly knit it looks like it might give him a headache.
“I don’t think it was a mistake,” he tells you, unblinking and unwavering. “And I didn’t do it because I was drunk.” You open your mouth, more than a little stunned by this blatant — by Ushijima standards — confession. Maybe he’s just misspeaking, you tell yourself, maybe he’s misreading the situation. But you remember, so vividly it might as well be burnt into the back of your eyelids, the message you’d sent him the previous night. Candid confessions and bold declarations made easy by the burn of alcohol down your throat. Ushijima knows . You feel as naked, as bare as you did the night at his apartment.
“Then why did you do it?” your voice is low, barely above a whisper, and Ushijima rises from his position on the couch, takes a few steps towards you.
“Because I wanted to.” He stands right in front of you, hand moving as if to reach for yours before he thinks better of it and clenches it at his side instead. “Because,” he pauses, regards you with an expression that seems conflicted. Ushijima is a man of few words, a man of clumsy insults and thoughtless opinions shared without consideration. He doesn’t say much, speaks mostly through unintentional body language, but when he does, it’s without hesitation. This pause is out of character, a sign of vulnerability that you’ve never seen on him before. “I’m in love with you.” The honesty makes your breath hitch, makes your heart stutter. Sure, you might have made it easy, telling the man in a text that you could no longer work for him because you’d gone ahead and developed feelings for him, but still; hearing the sentiment echoed floors you, makes you weak in the knees. “And I would very much like to kiss you now.”
“Well,” you stutter, face hot and voice low. Not for the first time, you’re reluctantly impressed by Ushijima’s ability to sound cool without even meaning to. “Far be it from me to deny you what you want.”
Ushijima reaches for your face, cradles it between his large palms, drags his fingertips along the lines of your face. For a moment, he just stays like that, looks down at you with the softest expression you’ve seen on him. And then he kisses you. An innocent thing, a careful thing, just a press of lips against lips. A confirmation more than anything else, his mouth moving slowly and his hands disappearing into your hair.
That’s fine, you don’t need it to escalate. You’ve got time.