Warnings for blood (there isn't a lot of it), word count: 564
“Never forget this insignificant pride of mine.”
Oikawa turns his back and begins to walk away before Ushijima reaches out and grabs his arm reflexively. “Wait --”
The sudden, sharp pain shooting up his arm halts his words. It feels like there's electricity coursing through his veins, centred on the burning on his palm where it's clasped around Oikawa’s bicep.
He would be worried, except he knows what this is, has heard stories about it, seen glimpses of it on t.v., in books and manga. Soulmates, his brain supplies.
The thing is though, Ushijima thinks, he probably already knew, deep down. There was something about Oikawa Tooru that drew Ushijima to him, like moth to a flame, even when he first met him all those years ago. He should’ve known that that kind of magnetism couldn't simply be something as tenuous as recognising a talent for volleyball, that there was something deeper there, waiting to be discovered.
Oikawa, Ushijima realises when he surfaces from his thoughts, is ranting and swearing at him. It’s kind of cute, he thinks, the way he talks with his hands, flailing them about but seemingly unconsciously always straying back to touch his right arm. Oikawa is always kind of cute, even when he's angry and calling Ushijima every name under the sun.
Wanting to catch his attention, and stop him from ranting, Ushijima catches his wrist. Oikawa startles and stops, mouth half-open in surprise. He blinks and stares, distracted by the dark mark on Ushijima’s palm, peeking out from where his hand is wrapped around Oikawa’s wrist.
Oikawa opens his mouth as if to start swearing again but Ushijima gets there first, crashing his lips against Oikawa’s, swallowing the small sound of protest before it leaves Oikawa’s throat.
Everything burns and Ushijima can feel it, feel their connection, their bond, running through his skin. Oikawa gasps and deepens the kiss, licking into his mouth, intense and fierce like everything else about him.
It's hot and wet and perfect, Ushijima thinks, moaning into Oikawa’s mouth, before he feels a small prick of pain and surprisingly sharp teeth dragging along his tongue.
They break apart and Ushijima stares at where the white of Oikawa’s fang drips with Ushijima’s blood. He watches as Oikawa’s tongue swipes along his bottom lip, smearing it red.
“Fuck,” Oikawa says, hand pressed against the mark -- Ushijima’s mark on his arm, “that wasn't supposed to happen. The bond -- I didn't think it'll be like that. Didn't know that --.” He stops and blinks, staring at Ushijima as if registering him for the first time. His face darkens.
“Why is it,” Oikawa growls, mouth red and bloody and beautiful, “out of all people it had to be you?”
Ushijima doesn't respond, eyes still drawn to the sight of Oikawa’s mouth, the metallic taste of blood lingering on his tongue.
Wordlessly, he raises his hand, palm up, Oikawa’s mark on his skin a physical brand. He angles his wrist up towards Oikawa, an invitation.
Oikawa looks at him warily, searching his face -- for what, Ushijima doesn't know. Whatever Oikawa’s looking for, it seems he finds it, his hand reaching out to clasp Ushijima’s wrist lightly.
Oikawa rubs his thumb along Ushijima’s pulse, lifting his wrist to his mouth. Ushijima swallows, watching as Oikawa runs his lips along the soft skin, smearing blood across it as he goes.
Oikawa bites down.
SORRY REPOSTING BECUASE I FUCKING SPELT TOORU WRONG I'M A FAKE
FILL: TEAM IWAIZUMI HAJIME/OIKAWA TOORU, T
“Never forget this insignificant pride of mine.”
Oikawa turns his back and begins to walk away before Ushijima reaches out and grabs his arm reflexively. “Wait --”
The sudden, sharp pain shooting up his arm halts his words. It feels like there's electricity coursing through his veins, centred on the burning on his palm where it's clasped around Oikawa’s bicep.
He would be worried, except he knows what this is, has heard stories about it, seen glimpses of it on t.v., in books and manga. Soulmates, his brain supplies.
The thing is though, Ushijima thinks, he probably already knew, deep down. There was something about Oikawa Tooru that drew Ushijima to him, like moth to a flame, even when he first met him all those years ago. He should’ve known that that kind of magnetism couldn't simply be something as tenuous as recognising a talent for volleyball, that there was something deeper there, waiting to be discovered.
Oikawa, Ushijima realises when he surfaces from his thoughts, is ranting and swearing at him. It’s kind of cute, he thinks, the way he talks with his hands, flailing them about but seemingly unconsciously always straying back to touch his right arm. Oikawa is always kind of cute, even when he's angry and calling Ushijima every name under the sun.
Wanting to catch his attention, and stop him from ranting, Ushijima catches his wrist. Oikawa startles and stops, mouth half-open in surprise. He blinks and stares, distracted by the dark mark on Ushijima’s palm, peeking out from where his hand is wrapped around Oikawa’s wrist.
Oikawa opens his mouth as if to start swearing again but Ushijima gets there first, crashing his lips against Oikawa’s, swallowing the small sound of protest before it leaves Oikawa’s throat.
Everything burns and Ushijima can feel it, feel their connection, their bond, running through his skin. Oikawa gasps and deepens the kiss, licking into his mouth, intense and fierce like everything else about him.
It's hot and wet and perfect, Ushijima thinks, moaning into Oikawa’s mouth, before he feels a small prick of pain and surprisingly sharp teeth dragging along his tongue.
They break apart and Ushijima stares at where the white of Oikawa’s fang drips with Ushijima’s blood. He watches as Oikawa’s tongue swipes along his bottom lip, smearing it red.
“Fuck,” Oikawa says, hand pressed against the mark -- Ushijima’s mark on his arm, “that wasn't supposed to happen. The bond -- I didn't think it'll be like that. Didn't know that --.” He stops and blinks, staring at Ushijima as if registering him for the first time. His face darkens.
“Why is it,” Oikawa growls, mouth red and bloody and beautiful, “out of all people it had to be you?”
Ushijima doesn't respond, eyes still drawn to the sight of Oikawa’s mouth, the metallic taste of blood lingering on his tongue.
Wordlessly, he raises his hand, palm up, Oikawa’s mark on his skin a physical brand. He angles his wrist up towards Oikawa, an invitation.
Oikawa looks at him warily, searching his face -- for what, Ushijima doesn't know. Whatever Oikawa’s looking for, it seems he finds it, his hand reaching out to clasp Ushijima’s wrist lightly.
Oikawa rubs his thumb along Ushijima’s pulse, lifting his wrist to his mouth. Ushijima swallows, watching as Oikawa runs his lips along the soft skin, smearing blood across it as he goes.
Oikawa bites down.
SORRY REPOSTING BECUASE I FUCKING SPELT TOORU WRONG I'M A FAKE