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captain-hawks · 23 hours

Text

LET ME SEE THE HEAT GET TO YOU.

rintarou suna x f!reader

wc: 2.1k 18+ only, and they were roommates, the complete and utter objectification of rintarou suna's hands, hand kink, oral fixation, finger sucking, fingering -> requested

“What?”

Suna’s voice startles you from your drifting train of thought, and the back of your neck heats up in embarrassment as you peel your gaze away from the sight of his fingertips drumming against his mouth, turning your focus back to the television.

It was accidental—the birth of this oddly distracting fixation.

Suna’s been your roommate for nearly six months, an arrangement of convenience when your prior roommate bailed with hardly a week’s notice and left you scrambling for someone to take over the second bedroom. Given that he was in between apartments and had been crashing on Atsumu’s couch for nearly a month at that point, it worked out in both your favor and his.

You even managed to convince yourself that the slightly inconvenient attraction you felt for your friend was negligible in the face of the prospect of trying to carry the bills for the apartment solo—that, or the inevitable stress of finding a complete stranger to move in instead.

And it was fine, for a little while.

Between work and cramming for finals, you hardly had time to dwell over things like how unfairly attractive he looks with his mussed bedhead and tired eyes when he makes his way out into the kitchen in the morning, or your newfound burden of knowledge of a tattoo that exists on the curve of his hip (courtesy of your single bathroom dwelling and a conveniently low-slung towel).

But three weeks and four days ago on an unsuspecting Wednesday afternoon, Suna unknowingly smashed every single precarious eggshell you’d been tiptoeing over with what you’d mistakenly thought was practiced ease.

Suna leans forward now, elbows resting on his knees as he watches the movie that you’ve hardly been paying attention to, and he idly drags the side of his thumb against his bottom lip.

Warmth stirs in your gut. You think back to that day, the slice of cake sitting atop a small white plate in the middle of the kitchen. The easy way your fork cut through the icing and down its soft center. The gentle mirth in Suna’s eyes as he stood on the other side of the island and listened to you recount a silly story from work.

The even easier way he’d reached across the expanse of marble countertop, wordlessly swiping away a rogue bit of frosting from the corner of your mouth with his thumb, leaving you to flounder for your words mid-sentence as he casually licked it off after.

To Suna, it was clearly nothing, given the way he’s carried on since like it never even happened.

For you, it’s become a Problem™.

Because now you can’t stop thinking about his stupid goddamn hands.

His large hands with those long, slender fingers and neatly kept nails.

It really doesn’t help that you’ve spent enough time watching him play volleyball to know the extent of their power, the quick dexterity with which he effortlessly blocks and serves, the impressive amount of control he can leverage with his digits curled around the ball’s surface.

Logically, they’re just hands.

This is what you try to tell yourself when you’re free from the stifling, one-sided terrarium of unrequited pining that you’ve turned your cozy third floor apartment into. You let your eyes sweep downward when you’re at work, when you’re in class, while you’re walking the aisles at the grocery store—and there’s not a goddamn single hand that passes through your line of sight that sets your heart racing like the ones that belong to your roommate.

Now you can hardly catch his eye in the bathroom mirror when you reach across the counter while he’s brushing his teeth without feeling warm all over at the sight of his fingers wrapped around his toothbrush.

Just last week, you nearly choked on your own dinner when you glanced up across the kitchen table to find him pressing his mouth to a piece of rice clinging to his knuckle.

The loose, uninhibited state your thoughts pile into at night doesn’t help your current predicament in the slightest, as you’ve begun to find yourself restless as you dwell on other things—other places Suna’s hands could slide and cup and grasp.

You’ve imagined how they’d feel pressed down on your tongue or molded against your breasts. Wrapped around your hips. Lodged deep in the slick of your cunt.

Spread, curled, grasping and thrusting until you’re coming so hard on nothing but the precise stretch of his digits that you can barely breathe.

It’s a date with someone who isn’t Suna, of all things, that brings it all crashing to a head.

Glancing down at your phone as it lights up on the bathroom counter, you groan when the time flashes across the screen. You’re running late.

“Wow, where are you headed?” Suna curiously pokes his head into the bathroom, and his eyes widen a fraction when he notices your outfit.

“Shit,” you gasp, jumping at the sudden sound of his voice and smearing a line of lipstick beyond the corner of your mouth in the process. The applicator clatters into the sink.

Whipping around, you inhale, clutching the edges of the counter with both hands as you blink at your roommate in surprise.

“Sorry,” he says, wincing.

“I have a date,” you tell him, words coming out in a rush.

Suna blinks, and while he’s in no way the most talkative person you’ve ever met, you’ve also yet to see him at a loss for words like he seems to be now. You don’t bother adding that the date in question is for the express purpose of giving you reprieve from the pathetically Pavlovian response you’ve developed to the mere sight of his hands.

“There’s—” he belatedly motions toward your face, where you can feel the smudged trail of lipstick.

You should probably turn around and start digging around under the sink for makeup remover, but predictably, you’re too focused on…yes…his hands.

When you make no move to clean yourself up, Suna takes a step forward, the toes of his socks brushing against your bare feet. He reaches out, eyes focused on the corner of your mouth, and swipes two fingers over the mess.

You stand there, rooted to the spot, the dizzying rush of blood in your ears hindering your ability to tell him that wiping it with his bare hands isn’t going to do anything.

And then his fingertips softly feather over the upper edges of your mouth.

You meet his gaze, your ribcage shuddering at the intensity of it, and before you’re fully aware of what you’re doing, your head tips back just enough to let his fingers slip to the plush center of your bottom lip.

Suna stares at you, unblinking, and he applies just enough pressure to part your lips.

Hot, insistent sparks of arousal flood your nervous system, setting alight the trail of desire that’s been steadily coating your better judgment like sticky, rich honey.

You lean forward, your hips and thighs brushing against his, and take Suna’s fingers into your mouth.

Whatever you were feeling before, whatever petty fantasies you’ve imagined in the quiet beneath your sheets, they pale in comparison to this—to the feeling of your tongue wrapped around Suna’s slender digits. The pressure of them against your tongue as the saliva pools in your mouth. The molten path that blazes through your gut when he pushes in further, from the second knuckle to the third.

A moan crawls up your throat, drool slipping out past your lips and down your chin as you suck, and you’d be embarrassed—if not for the hitch of his breath, the appreciative, answering groan that leaves Suna as he cups the side of your neck with his free hand.

The counter presses into your backside as Suna’s body presses more firmly into yours, his thumb scraping beneath your chin as he watches you come untethered.

“Fuck,” he mutters as you shudder at the friction he draws between your legs, desperately trying to take his fingers even deeper into the wet recesses of your warm mouth.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you know the errant swipe of your lipstick is likely nothing compared to the state of your lips as a whole right now.

And Suna seems to know exactly what you’re thinking, because without warning, he turns you around to face the mirror.

He’s hard, you can feel him pressing into your backside as the bite of the counter meets your hips.

“You’re a mess,” he murmurs softly against the shell of your ear, eyes dark as he finds yours in the mirror.

He’s not wrong—you are a mess. Lipstick is smeared well past the boundary of your mouth, and his fingers are stained red and slick with your saliva. Your chest heaves.

Suna slides his fingers back into your mouth, and this time, he watches you watch yourself as you suck on them, observes the none-too-subtle shudder that wracks down your spine at the depraved sight before you.

He smooths out the wrinkles in your dress, hand trailing down your front.

Your cunt aches.

“Suna…,” you gasp out.

He doesn’t break eye contact as he mouths at the curve of your jaw.

“…please…”

He adds a third finger as you continue to suck, and teeth drag down the side of your neck, his lips a hot brand as he presses them to your nape.

“Rin—”

The fingers in your mouth curl, and you place a hand over his, slowly tugging up the skirt of your dress.

“I thought you had a date,” he rasps, your phone vibrating beside you as a text message flashes across the screen.

“Change of plans,” you gasp as his hand slips out of your grip, rucking up the skirt of your dress to reveal the pretty, lacy panties beneath.

“You sure?” he asks, eyes finding yours in the mirror again, fingertips toying with the waistband of your underwear. His fingers leave your mouth, slipping down your front to caress your collarbone.

You nod.

Suna’s hand slips lower, gliding into your underwear, and he exhales when his fingers find the full extent of what a mess he’s made of you.

“And I thought your mouth was wet.” He sounds amused, but his tone is rougher now, the hard press of his erection against the globes of your ass more insistent as he begins to finger your slit.

You gasp at the sensation, your legs sliding further apart as your entire body relaxes into his, your head tipping back against his shoulder. His free hand finds a home loosely splayed across the throat that you’ve bared to him.

A slender finger slips easily into your wet hole, and the pleasure from that alone has your entire spine arching, hips eagerly rocking into his touch.

“Sensitive,” he observes, curling the digit against your plush, slick inner walls.

You whimper.

It’d be so much easier to stumble into his bedroom or yours, to be splayed wide across the sheets, hips arching up off of the mattress as he sinks three fingers deep. But it’s the filthy sight of yourself in the mirror that keeps you firmly rooted to the spot, body wholly overheated with arousal and desire.

Your legs spread a bit wider of their own accord, your balance going slightly askew, and Suna holds you fast as you writhe when one finger becomes two. Arousal drips from your folds, coating his hand and soaking into your underwear. The tightness of your hole relents around the stretch, and your throbbing clit aches as his palm firmly rocks against it.

An unhinged laugh threatens to burst out of you as you think about the last time a guy fingered you—the abysmal way you’d had to fake an orgasm out of pity just to get him to give up as your enjoyment petered out further with each overenthusiastic stroke.

You think about now, how your entire body’s been reduced to a livewire of heady pleasure, ready to burst on a hair trigger. Suna could probably stop moving his hand altogether and you’d still end up trembling and moaning and gushing all over his fingers before long anyway.

And it’s the sensation of his fingers sliding back into your mouth that finally sends you over the edge. The bright line of bulbs across the top of the mirror merge into one as your vision goes white, your climax rocking through you with reckless abandon. Suna’s nose slides against your cheek and he exhales roughly, his own muscles taut as his fingers guide you through it.

Your phone vibrates again on the counter.

“I can’t believe you’re standing up your date,” he murmurs, teasing, teeth nipping at your earlobe.

He’s still hard.

“I mean, I guess I can go looking like this,” you reply, making a circular gesture at yourself while you turn to face him.

Suna catches your chin in his hand, gently.

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

You dart your tongue out, letting it poke against the tip of his thumb.

The corner of his mouth curves upward as he leans in to kiss you.

#rintarou suna x reader #suna rintarou x reader #suna rintarou #rintarou suna #haikyuu!!#dee writes #dee's 2k #this post won’t show up in the tags lol rip 🥲🥲🥲

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