A.N.: i just. really wanted to write shit for them.

It's late in the evening when he finally makes it home, the kitchen light is on but it's clear she's already headed to bed. There is a plate of food waiting for him in the microwave, he scarfs it down by the sink and then immediately moves toward the fridge to rummage around for more. Practice had run a little longer than intended, yet it did very little to curb the excess energy. He was only just getting fired up when they'd called it quits for the day; he'd decided to run a few laps at the nearby park to take the edge off. Before he knew it, it was a quarter to midnight.

He's left with the usual predicament. There is nowhere reasonable for him to go to expel this tension at this most unreasonable hour. She will awaken soon to find his side of the bed empty, and she will most certainly be unhappy to do so. With all this energy and absolutely nowhere to put it, he finds an open space on the living room floor to work in a few pushups.

Five sets in, he holds himself at the resting position and huffs impatiently. A bead of sweat rolls past his temple, heart pounding. He needs a shower. There's a dull throb in his muscles he knows will only worsen by tomorrow morning. His skin feels hot and sticky and his hands can't stop shaking. He considers his alternatives, quickly narrowing the longer he takes to decide.

"Tobio?" her sleepy voice mumbles from their bedroom door.

He hops back on the balls of his feet, settling onto his haunches in one quick move. She's wearing one of his shirts, the hem falls to mid-thigh and so from here he can't quite tell what she's wearing underneath. A pair of shorts, some old underwear—either way, he finds himself staring. Her hair is mussed, the kitchen light filters through the golden locks like some delicate halo and when she moves it falls across the shoulder bared by the collar of his shirt. Paints it a pretty gold.

He licks his lips.

"Did I wake you?" he asks, glancing down at her feet as she makes her way over to him. "Sorry. I'll be finished soon."

"Are you alright?"

He considers this. College has treated him differently, a whole new set of people to get used to and not one of them is willing to keep up with him. It gets disheartening sometimes, but mostly it has this unfortunate side effect. Restlessness, the need to do without the means of doing. It courses through him, makes his hands clench into fists. His muscles strain to jump. He can almost feel the ball in his hands, like some phantom limb. He flexes his fingers and finds himself staring hard at the ground, mouth twisted into a frown.

"Tobio," she says, crouching down before him. "Are you okay?"

He can't leave the apartment. He can't run this energy off. She'll be wanting him here. Today was her day off and he had allowed himself to be caught up in his training, when really all she'd hoped for was to spend some time with him. Given his current state, and with so few hours before tomorrow, there are very few options for him to choose from. He won't be able to sit still for more than a moment at a time.

How incredibly frustrating.

"I'm fine," he brushes off, meeting her gaze. She balances unsteadily on her toes, brow furrowing. "Don't worry."

She spares a smile, if weary, and reaches out to brush away the hair plastered to his forehead. "Let's go to bed. You must be tired."

Not in the slightest, but he can't bring himself to admit that. He splashes his face at their bathroom sink as she climbs into bed once more. He peels his shirt from his skin, dropping it by his feet and glancing at the shower slowly. He needs to wash this off, he reeks of sweat. It coats him in streaks from his throat to his torso to the backs of his own legs. He pulls his fingers through his hair and it is most unpleasant, stringy, tangled into clumps. He watches his reflection awkwardly sniff at his armpit.

For the most part, he guesses he passes.

He can think of only one thing that can pretty thoroughly solve their problem. That alone has his face flushing so red he almost gets lightheaded, swallowing audibly. He fidgets, contemplates backing out, and nearly chokes on his own spit when she pipes up from the bed.

"Are you gonna join me?" she asks, entirely oblivious to his train of thought. "Or are you gonna shower? I could go for one, if that's okay with you."

Oh. Then maybe this won't be entirely unwelcome.

He steadies his nerves, and then switches on the faucet to wash his hands.

"I, uh," he starts, voice cracking some. "I was wondering if you wanted to… If you wanted to—you know."

She's sitting in the middle of the bed, hugging her knees to her chest. The sheets are gathered up to her chest, the decorative pillows shed to the floor. She tilts her head. "What?"

His face is on fire. He's not sure how she's not picking up on his suggestion. He has never been one for seduction, he often stumbles over his own words. They knot up on the tip of his tongue and clunk against the backs of his teeth; they make it impossible to say the right thing. He tugs on his earlobe, dropping his gaze.

The act itself isn't what's throwing him off. The first time, perhaps, he'd been more than a little flustered. Such is the case with anything he's unfamiliar with. He had stopped frequently to ask for pointers, because if he'd learned anything from high school it was to never be afraid of admitting he needs help. He just hasn't gotten the hang of initiating. It's either always fallen on her, or came about naturally. Something like the heat of the moment—one second they were curled up together in their bed or the couch and the next, they were fumbling around each other's clothes. Not quite thinking it through, and not really needing to.

He doesn't know where to start. He meets his own gaze through the mirror, flattening a hand on his chest. There's a thin, embarrassed frown on his face. He's never quite had an opinion about his appearance, one way or another she's managed to find him attractive enough to be with. That's gotta count for something. Maybe, and it's a wild stab in the dark at this point, he can use what he has to his advantage. He hasn't completely grown into his body yet, there's still this distinct lankiness to him he isn't actively trying to work off. But when he tenses his abdomen, the muscles jump and stiffen under the skin. He drags his hand down across the ridges absentmindedly, frown deepening.

He has to take the chance.

"Are you tired?" he asks, bowing his head.

"I didn't really do anything all day," she admits, and he perks up. She's staring down at her hands, palms turned upward. "It was kinda lonely. I missed you."

The room is illuminated only by the bathroom light, he leaves it on as he crosses the doorway. Her eyes flicker up to him, a curious smile softening her mouth. He rolls his shoulders, pops his back, and watches her unwittingly trace the lines of his torso. He makes it to the foot of the bed, leaning down to place his hands on the mattress. He tries to keep track of her expression, how she lingers somewhere along his shoulders, or his arms, or the shift of muscle in his middle as he lifts his knee. She straightens up immediately, fingers curling tight into the comforter.

There's a furrow in her brow, her mind working quick to figure out his intentions.

"I missed you, too," he tells her, slowly crawling toward her. Her eyes widen, mouth snapping shut. There isn't much distance to cover, his other knee makes it onto the bed and he eases into her space before she can work a question out. Her breath wisps across his face and he drops his gaze to her lips, parting just so. "I thought about you all day."

"Oh," she whispers, searching his face. "What are you…?"

"Can I," he skims her upper lip with his, "kiss you?"

This pretty blush rises up on her cheeks. "Yes, I… Yes."

He angles his head to align their mouths, pulling back with a tiny pop when she presses a palm against his chest. "Was that okay?" he asks, bracing his hands on either side of her.

"This is a little unexpected, is all," she mumbles, reaching up to touch her fingers to his jaw. "Not unwelcome, just… Unexpected."

He considers her for a moment, and then dips his head to the curve of her throat. He lets his tongue trace upward, but she jolts back before he can reach her ear.

"I just—I don't mean to interrupt," she says quickly, clapping a hand over the area he'd been working on. "I just didn't think things were gonna go in this direction tonight—I'm just not…entirely prepared."

She covers her face with shaky hands, the spaces between her fingers blotched in pink. He frowns, thoroughly confused.

"I haven't shaved, and. And I drank coffee earlier so my breath smells like…coffee." She shifts away when he smooths a hand down her arm. "You must be so tired. And you have practice tomorrow, too!"

"It's a yes or a no, Hitoka," he murmurs gently. "If you don't want to, then we won't."

Words fail her, she sits with her knees drawn close and her fingers dug hard into the sheets pulled over them. Kageyama is a simple man, driven both by instinct and the consequences that follow. At first glance it is easy to miss it, the clear focus of his eyes and how it reads the lines on her face. The way the mood shifts. He isn't much on paper but there is no doubt, his is the sharpest mind she's known yet. His tongue whips across the seam of his lips, quick, gone soon as it comes. His head lowers and he is looking at her from under his lashes, long and black and needle pricked against his cheekbones.

Almost predator, so fixated on her everything else falls away. There is only him, and her, and the bed they so happen to share.

The hard, sinewy lines of his body coil tight. She swallows audibly and his breath wisps hot across her face, attentive in his anticipation of her response.

"Yes," is all she can get out, a mere sigh almost lost before he snaps forward.

And he is on her, catching her by the face between two strong hands as his mouth finds and then latches onto her own. Nobody can ever accuse Kageyama of being unfeeling, everything about him burns with unchecked, unrestrained, uncontainable emotion and it leaves her gasping. His tongue, quick, slides across her own. Slick, hungry, restlessly tasting the inside of her mouth as his fingers curl into the short locks of hair behind her head.

And to him, hunger comes in several forms. It is hard to explain, but it does not always stem from the necessary burn at the pit of his stomach. The endless pursuit for more, to crave the strain and tear of muscle against bone, the tracks his sweat leave on his brown skin, the painful drumming of his heart in his ribcage—he sucks air between his teeth and here, this hunger is entirely separate. It is nestled in the need to expel itself, to be rid of itself, to work itself into submission once more, to sate that which it so endlessly longs for. He wants to feel the unravel of her body against his, her thighs encasing his hips, the flutter of her wrapped close around him, the hot glisten of her on his skin.

"Let me," he mumbles into the corner of her mouth, releasing the grip in her hair to cup the back of her neck. He has dipped them into the mattress, his body curved around her. He takes the one hand he is not using and untucks the sheets from under her legs. True to word, there are short prickles of unseen hair along her thighs. Scattered down past her knees to shin and up back along her calves. He pulls his fingers across them to trace the soft skin under them, they close around one ankle and he almost stops to consider this a little more closely—the pink paint on her toenails is chipping. His gaze runs back over the masked shape of her, obscured entirely by his shirt, to meet her own. He isn't good with words, but there are more than one ways for him to use his mouth. "Let me. First."

Her brow furrows but he doesn't give her enough time to wonder what he means. His fingers skip back to her knee, and then her thigh, and then the juncture between the two. Nothing lacy, her underwear is this breathable cottony pale blue cut just a slight too loose for her hips. They're his favorite pair. They hang low and leave the soft lines where skin and muscle and bone all meet in the open, they let the unruly tops of short blonde curls peek over curiously. He cannot keep himself from tracing them, in this undeniably affectionate manner she could never possibly misplace. It all clicks, she understands where he's trying to take this and her hips roll upward of their own volition.

That's all the encouragement he needs, he pushes his fingers over the top of that low-handing waistband, thin, flimsy, wiry thing, and the calloused pads slide firm over the soft folds of her. She isn't wet yet, but he feels her pulsing. Excited. If only by the prospect. He lets his other hand retract from behind her neck, her head falling back into the pillows. Yellow hair pooling prettily. She is busy twisting at the hem of that shirt, lifting it up toward her ribs, expanding as she takes in air sharply. He braces his weight on his free hand, vaults himself over her a little lower than she's probably expecting. She jolts, and he lowers his head until he can kiss the soft swell of her belly. He likes this part of her, malleable under his mouth all the way down past her navel.

There, he feels a quiver against his fingertips at the touch of his tongue.

"You want it, Hitoka?" he asks, planting another kiss just above the waistband. His fingers trace down to find her entrance, to collect the slickness beginning to soak through.

She knows he didn't mean for it to come out that way, Kageyama has never been good at dirty talk. Not intentionally anyway. Still, a shiver passes through and she part her thighs in invitation. At least he has the good grace to let it go unspoken. His mouth opens over this space, just above the hood of her clit. It's a quick little shock. Brief but impressionable. Her hips jerk upward and he, ever eager to please, obliges her a second time. "A – Ah, yeah."

He angles his head to tongue along for her clit, hooking his fingers around the waistband of her underwear to pull them down further. Her breath hitches into a whine, as soon as he takes to sucking. Her fingers twist into his hair and tug him closer, knee rising up onto his shoulder. It opens her up to him, a vibrant pink at the center. He gets one side of her underwear clear down one hip, but it's more than enough. Not terribly comfortable, but he works one finger into her with relative ease. Her muscles close around him snugly, a nice little flutter he tries to mimic around her clit—circling the tip of his tongue, twisting his finger inside of her. He sets a steady pace, broken only when he retracts to add an extra digit. It elicits a high-pitched noise, layered with approval.

He grunts quietly, his other hand snapping down to palm himself through his sweats. It skirts painful, his body pleads for friction and he very nearly allows himself to be distracted. It's the sudden buck of her hips, the clench of muscle around his fingers gone stagnant. The stuttering moan she makes, the, "Don't stop. Please."

This is fine.

He pulls away to yank her underwear the rest of the way off, settling back down to bury his face between her thighs. He works are her with renewed vigor, dipping his tongue into her and lapping the juices beginning to coat her in full. When his fingers slide into her, this time, it is with much more ease. He pumps them in and out of her, refocusing on her clit. He's blocking the bathroom light. If he were more concerned about it, he would've angled himself to see the fruits of his effort. Swollen, pretty pink flower blossoming out from under him. His breath puffs over her and she tilts her head back restlessly, hips rocking in time to his fingers, his mouth, his tongue.

"I should've," he whispers in between, sinking his fingers down to the knuckles. "I wish you were riding my face."

She turns her face toward the pillow, biting down hard as he curls them back toward him. She gives a small cry, yanking hard at his hair. "N—Ah, um. Ha, I – I… D – Don't say that, Tobio, please."

He flicks his tongue over her clit once, twice, three times before nudging forward and sucking tight into his mouth. She squeezes her eyes shut, rolls her hips only once before locking up. He waits out the waves of her orgasm, never detaching his mouth from her until she's whimpering for him to. And when he does, a thin string of saliva follows with. He kisses his way back up, straight through the middle. He lifts up no higher than his forearms, unwilling to put too much space between them. He traces the undersides of her small breasts with his mouth before coaxing her to remove her shirt entirely. "Are you too tired to keep going?" he asks, smoothing his hands up and down her sides.

He, for one, has not had his fill yet. He can still feel her wrapped around his fingers and tongue. He is so painfully hard at this point, her rejection would mean both heartache and the embarrassing task of having to finish himself off in the bathroom by himself. He licks his lips nervously. And she, smiling warmly, tells him, "No. Let's keep going."

He fumbles around for a condom in the bedside drawer. He gets his sweatpants down mid-thigh before he hurries to roll it on, flinching when she reaches out to tug the waistband lower.

"All the way off," she chastises gently. "If I'm naked, so are you."

He cracks a small smile, complying. The air feels cool on him, and the condom, even more so. He shivers unpleasantly, but before he can stroke himself back to hardness she wraps her fingers around him. Timid, and then firm. She pulls a tight circle all the way up, and then all the way down, squeezing for good measure. He breathes out shakily, hands opening and closing watching her.

"Come down here," she tells him, voice coated in sugar. "I wanna kiss you."

He settles between her thighs, she retracts her hand and his erection smacks against her hip audibly. The same hand slides up his chest, cups the side of his face and guides him down for a kiss. He hooks her thighs over his waist, reaching between them just as she trails her mouth down along his jawline. He shuts his eyes, it is his favorite place to be kissed.

When he sinks down into her, her toes curl tight and she digs her nails into his shoulder.

He's too pent up, this has all done very little to take the edge off and now, backed into a corner, he's not sure what to do. He clutches at her hip and snaps downward, quick. One short movement. She gasps and sighs and he repeats, slower this time. Dragging out deliberately. He won't last very long, he's already wound so tight. The least he can do, now, is try and get her across the finish line as quickly as possible.

She has expressed her disapproval before, his curious little rule he so adamantly follows through every time. She has to finish first, and he will hold off his own release until she does. Through any means necessary—within reason, since she's made it a point to argue with him on this. She very easily catches that look in his eye, arching up and away when he reaches between them again. "Tobio," she reprimands, frowning.

"I just want you to feel good," he assures, lowering down on his elbow, just by her head. "I just want you to enjoy this as much as I am."

Her expression falters, and then softens. Of course she doesn't mind it, but when he gets into a certain mood it gets hard to get him out of it. It's one of the reasons she's so relieved he isn't very much interested in teasing, during. He would be perfectly suited for it, but she's never been much for patience in these circumstances. And she so sits back and lets him run his course. Nobody would believe a word of it, but Kageyama is quite the lover. Ever so quick to pick things up, he is as skilled as he is versatile. Sometimes, it's almost easier to let him do the work for her.

He licks his fingertips, rolls them knowingly over her clit, and slows his pace considerably. No longer set on finishing right away. He angles his hips just so, allowing himself to sit deeper within her. It, unsurprisingly, takes him very little time at all to find that one little spot. Sends her toes curling and her back arching and her thighs squeezing hard around his waist. He keeps up with her effortlessly, the wild buck of her hips steadied by the quick, certain glide of his fingers across her clit. He pinches, suddenly, and she gives a startled gasp.

Again, steadied out. His mouth finding her ear, his fingers briefly abandoning her clit to tweak her nipple gently.

Tiny sparks scatter after every touch, his knuckles skimming down her belly on his way back down or his breath puffing over the wet shell of her ear. One hand twists in the sheets and the other scrapes its nails across his lower back. His pace quickens, breath shuddering. Ever mindful, he presses his thumb down firmly just beside her clit, dragging across it as she shakily moans his name. "Almost," he groans, pressing her down into the mattress by his hips alone. Grinding hard. "Almost – Hitoka, please."

His rhythm doesn't noticeably falter, but there are beads of sweat building along his forehead and his eyes are so dark, so glassy with pleasure. There's a knot in her lower abdomen and it is so nearly undone. These things get hard to predict, and so she makes a better effort. Rocks her hips with his, attempts to match his pace as best she can. "There!" she chokes out, when his cock hits just the right spot. "Right there, don't stop."

His hand snatches up her hip, driving her into him hard and steady. He would, at this point, be losing all sense of rhythm. But she always finishes best with pattern. Even counts. If quick, stay quick. All the way through to the end.

And in this case, it's not as quick as he wants it to be.

This is fine.

"Yes," she moans, palm sliding sticky-wet down his chest. He swallows tightly, reeling himself in.

"Please, Hitoka," he whimpers, voice strained. "Finish for me—I need it. I need it."

There is the tipping point, maybe his words. Or the head of his cock sliding hot across that sweet little spot. Or the desperate look in his eyes. Maybe even an accumulation of all three. Whatever it is, it snaps her apart. She opens her mouth but no sound follows, strung too tight.

His pace borders bruising, hurrying to join her. He will undoubtedly apologize for this later, face red and disbelieving. For now, he grits out a low growl of her name and it is all the indication he can muster before he's sputtering, hips snapping and then gyrating as he finally, finally finds release.

Exhaustion pours over him at last, he almost laughs with relief. He can't even manage that. He rolls off before he can collapse on her, struggling for breath. It will be a few moments before he remember to dispose of the condom, and another few to get her a warm towel.

He can't bring himself to bother with the sheets, climbing into bed and pulling her toward the dry side with him. He yanks the covers up over them, already impatient for sleep. He tucks her into his chest, and before he can close his eyes she tilts up to kiss his chin. A soft peck, endeared.

"You were wonderful," she sighs, snuggling closer.

His face burns, he's got an embarrassed frown on his face. "Y – You… You, too."

.x.

A.N.: he's a loser