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love lockdown

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It was supposed to be a normal night.

And it was, for a long while, it was quiet, abnormally (and uncomfortably) so in Kageyama and Hinata’s dorm room, with the latter off at some party while the former tried not to imagine what he was up to as he got ready to go to bed.

It was a normal night, and Kageyama was doing a normal muscle relaxation exercise under the soft glow of his bedside lamp, before he starts at the sound of the door swinging open. When he opens his eyes, his vision adjusts to behold Hinata -- he’s not surprised by the only other person with a key to this room barging in, but it’s a little out of the ordinary to find him stumbling in before Kageyama goes to sleep, when they don’t have an early lecture tomorrow.


Hinata is always loud and annoying -- that’s why being under the influence doesn’t do much to his personality. All it does is make him a little more coquettish, a little more slurred, a little more affectionate, and all those things are dangerous, very dangerous for Kageyama to be around. 

Which is why he’s stopped going to parties with his roommate.

“It’s early for you,” he comments inoffensively as Hinata waltzes -- not walks, or skips, but fully dances over to Kageyama’s bedside, as if his feet were just barely skimming their carpeted floor. He glides through the air, like resistance is a thing of the past, and cocks his head cutely at Kageyama.

Still a little hazy from being just on the cusp of falling asleep, Kageyama lets his head loll to the side as he gazes up heavy-lidded at Hinata. “Really?” he asks in that sickly sweet, cloying tone of his, the tone that makes Kageyama want to give him everything for nothing in return. “I guess I got bored. Wanted to see you.” He winks exaggeratedly. 

Then he starts climbing up into Kageyama’s bed.

Well, normal night gone and shattered, this still isn’t out of the ordinary. It’s bad for Kageyama’s heart, but Hinata is no stranger to clambering up under his blanket for cuddles or just to be with someone else -- or, and especially, to piss him off.. It’s more common when he’s inebriated, or riding high on the adrenaline from spending the evening at Miya’s, but again -- Kageyama isn’t not expecting it.

Regardless, it puts him on alert -- his senses intensify; against his bare back, he notes every wrinkle and fuzz of the bedsheet stretched across the mattress that squeaks with Hinata’s sudden weight, and below his comforter, wherever his skin turns buzzes with a deliberate, uncouth warmth.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Kageyama shifts over to give him room, pulling his blanket with him.

But Hinata doesn’t crawl into bed beside him.

In fact, he makes use of how Kageyama had tugged down the comforter to invite him in, and with a devilish countenance stretched over his falsely innocent face, he swings his leg dangerously, very, very dangerously.

Kageyama had been too late to catch the mischief, dolled up in purpose and smoked with intent, that swam so temptingly in mercurial amber behind his waiting pupils, and that was his first mistake -- well, put more eloquently, his first mistake had been to fall so far off the deep end for the man in his bed and foolishly expect it to pan out for him, but his greatest mistake of the night had been missing (or perhaps deliberately looking away from) the hunger that whirled insatiably within him.

A knee settles against Kageyama’s waist, and another quickly comes to straddle him. Shocked and defenseless, Kageyama is left to gape up at Hinata, who is holding his hips between his legs without a second thought for it. Suddenly, his awareness from earlier evaporates, and all his nerve endings register is where Hinata sits over his vulnerable form, while he’s dressed only in a pair of boxers. Hinata has a little less shame than he does, in a shirt that doesn’t belong to him and thin, low-hanging joggers. He smells of sugary coolers and other people and the detergent the two of them share, making his scent both familiar and utterly, impossibly, alluringly foreign.

The blood running up Kageyama’s body burbles in his veins -- he feels, he hears it beat up through his throat, spread up into his forehead and irritate where his bangs brush over it.

In the thick of all of his stimulation, Kageyama is wrought with a fast-coming, but distinct confusion, one that wings up through him, fluttering into his mind. I am not the one Hinata has sex with -- and this simply thought begets a new, unpleasant rush of follow-ups, muddled between concerns of his relationship with Miya, and how readily and eagerly his brain had jumped to that possibility. 

And the fact that it did -- and how warm Hinata is in his lap -- does nothing for how unprepared he is, and how he feels himself have to squirm against his roommate to relieve some unprecedented pressure.

He wants to open his mouth -- ask what the Hell Hinata is doing, or tell him to get off, or scream hey, isn’t there someone else you could be doing this to? but he’s lost his voice; his vocal cords parse none of the air from his lungs, and so it escapes gently through his lips, all while Hinata looks down at him with rapt interest, though his head sways slightly side to side.

His attention refuses to shift, and Kageyama is inundated with so many contradictory emotions he almost bursts. He doesn’t even -- or rather, he can’t find the strength to -- lift his hands to steady him, because that would mean something, and nothing they do physically is supposed to mean anything, regardless of how desperately Kageyama would like it to.

Kageyama can feel every single breath that forces its way up his windpipe, feels every single cell of oxygen whisked away through him, and yet, none of it seems to go to his head, because he has a definite sensation of dizziness that pulls at him the longer their eye contact prolongs.

Then, as if he took a moment to think about it, Hinata leans forward tentatively. His arms -- Kageyama had not noticed how they had merely been lying at his side -- raise up, and his palms go to fit snug -- awfully, horribly snug -- the slope of his shoulders. He grasps experimentally, then once the skin gives, he slides his fingertips disgustingly carefully to the sides of his throat.

Kageyama bites the inside of his mouth, just below his bottom lip, to keep himself from letting out an embarrassing cry as Hinata shifts on top of him. He’s right there, he’s exactly where he shouldn’t be, and all of him is speaking so feverishly to Kageyama in ways his body can’t help but respond to.

Hinata’s hands climb higher than they ought to, sliding up the sides of his neck until he’s cradling his face. Kageyama can do nothing. His ribcage aches with effort as Hinaya peers down at him, a shiver splashing down his spine as he looks at him with that fucking expression--

“Hey, Kageyama.” His breath tastes like fruity alcohol, and his face is flushed with with it, a rosy, dastardly pink that paints beneath his gorgeous eyelashes. “Have you ever thought about having sex with me?”

The question makes Kageyama’s stomach almost explode out of him -- it’s funny, how quickly these things have the power to come on. One moment he is meditating, and the next, his organs are struggling to find a way out of him. They press up against his abdomen but to no avail, and where they fall back down it is numb, tingling, a hot, violent rush of feeling that compels him into disaster.

“About having your way with me?”


“I’d let you.”

Hinata cuts him off just as he manages to get out a wail, undeterred. Roiling with the powerful feeling rooted in the pit of his stomach, one that Kageyama would call incapacitating if it didn’t make him want to put his dirty, filthy hands all over Hinata’s lithe body, he blinks up. “I’d be good enough for you,” Hinata murmurs, gazing down evenly. His hand curves over the curl of his jaw, and his thumb tenderly traces down that side of his face, almost listlessly. This sensation brings Kageyama no peace, as perhaps it would in a different context; instead, it causes his heart to beat so loudly Hinata certainly hears it wonderfully.

He needs to get him off. He needs to push Hinata off his lap, and throw him into his own bed, and make sure he doesn’t remember doing this in the morning. This is far, far too risky, not only for him, but for Hinata as well. 

“You’re drunk,” he hisses through the dense, impenetrable fog pressing up against his stomach lining. The tension wound in his muscles is dreadfully taut, and the liquid fervor dripping down the back of his throat is too much to bear. The sudden shift from nothingness to, well, this, has left him lightheaded and willing, and he needs to fight off every base instinct to keep his fingers from ripping off Hinata’s shirt.

“You’re not drunk enough,” Hinata titters in response.



Hinata’s selfishness -- it was something that Kageyama loathed so strongly, and loved so much it hurt. He never was concerned with how others viewed him, never had time for appearances nor the sense to pretend he did. He didn’t care about how others scoffed at the bruises on his knees or the blood on his fingertips, so long as he was satisfied with his scrabbling up the cliffside.

It didn’t matter who it was -- it didn’t matter if it was someone who had stood at his side for the past three years. If he wanted something, if he knew he wanted something, he tossed himself headlong into it with reckless abandon, without even a second thought for what he may be leaving behind. Without a second thought for how it affected others.

Hinata was fucking Miya. He wasn’t letting Kageyama have his way with him, or however he phrased it, and to his credit, it’s not like he could see into Kageyama’s head; and Kageyama didn’t especially have a want to voice his feelings on the matter, at least, not yet. He has no reason to recognize the knife’s hilt that he’s twisting, nor the blood spilling on the bed around them. 

He was simple in that steadfast determination -- and in that simplicity, he was an unending well of folding complexities upon complexities. 

It was cruel, what he was doing to Kageyama.

Whether he knows it or not notwithstanding.

Hinata appears to notice that he isn’t just messing with Kageyama, and that he’s actually sitting on top of him, because he twists ever so slightly. Kageyama clenches his jaw to abate anything he’ll regret, and watches the smug, satisfied grin that lilts its way over his lips. If he moves anymore than that -- if he tries anything else, Kageyama doesn’t know if he’ll be able to withstand it.

Whether it be from drunkenness or just exhaustion -- or a cocktail of the two -- Hinata tips forward, this time not with intent, but weightedly. To keep him from collapsing straight into him, Kageyama catches him on his waist, and his hands -- fully tense, enthusiastic -- grip him with more strength than was necessary, forcing his thumbs into the divots of his hipbones.

Hinata lets out a cry at that, a bleat that rips through Kageyama’s ears and digs into his brain. It’s more of a whine than a cry, and more of a moan than a whine, but Kageyama hadn’t been expecting it, he hadn’t been prepared, and it makes his head and his thighs pulse with bright, fierce heat.

When Hinata is steadied, a giggle peels out of him. “Mm,” he hums, almost sing-songy. “You’re hard, Kageyama.” He says this lightheartedly, and before Kageyama can speak -- can defend himself, can yell at Hinata to get off, can tear off his pants -- he’s lying his head down on his chest, arching his back.

Kageyama’s heart, clattering and raucous, nearly breaks open his sternum to pound directly against Hinata’s cheek. He flushes cold, then hot, then so so hot, as he’s sure Hinata hears the quickstep beat clear as day. Hinata mumbles something Kageyama doesn’t glean, and then whispers into his bare, newly sweat-licked chest, “I’m horny.”

Yeah, he could probably assume that. Pinpricks ravage Kageyama’s almost naked body, goosebumps flaring up everywhere as his chest heaves. When he inhales, the tension in his stomach leaps up and liquifies his diaphragm, making his lungs sink back down into a deep, stinging ardor, desperate to be purchased.

His hands, shakily, slip up beneath Hinata’s shirt, the tips of his fingers grazing where his spine flexes. His throat flushes.

It seems like an eternity passes, with Hinata lying on top of him.

Rationally, he knows the relationship Hinata and Miya have. It is not exclusive, and as Hinata has mentioned to him, he doesn’t feel any romantic attachment to him. It’s easy, it’s fun, and it’s good for the both of them, he had said, and Kageyama had been infinitely jealous of his senior’s aptitude, how easily he had snatched away Hinata without thinking.

So if anything happens tonight -- it’s not some moral transgression, right?

His hands climb higher.

It would be fine, right?

Hinata’s relaxes carefully into him, rigidity melting away under his touch.

There’s nothing wrong with this, right?


His hands stall when he receives no response. Hinata’s hair is wild, smells like the generic shampoo they buy at the pharmacy, and it tickles Kageyama’s nose as he shifts his head. “Hinata?”

His breathing against his exposed skin is calm and smooth, uniform even though Kageyama’s own are short and shallow. His heft no longer has a playful tinge to it, and he is limp, almost like a pet, strewn over Kageyama’s chest.

...He’s fucking asleep.

Kageyama wishes he were dead.

It takes a few moments for his delirious, aroused, annoyed brain to formulate a plan.

He reaches over, taking care not to disturb Hinata’s almost angelic sleeping form, and shuts off his bedside lamp. He’s very glad he had noticed Hinata lock the door out of principle before pirouetting over to him -- neither of them are in a state to get up and remedy that problem. Nonetheless, the room is plunged into darkness, and there’s just the two of them, and the night.

If Hinata is going to treat him like this, he will simply have to wake up, reaping his actions and dealing with the consequences.

Kageyama shuts his eyes and attempts to will away the thoughts of what he wanted Hinata to do to him.