kiss it better with suna. fluff. fem!reader. | not proofread.
[best friends, blurred lines.]
you've been kissing suna's injuries better for three years, but when you accidentally catch the corner of his mouth, you have a full meltdown.
more suna here! and more sugar from suna here!
a/n; sorryy i've been busy I have disappeared again haha, sorryy, but oh how our sunarin deserves all the love even though he's such a sneaky fox. I miss writing for him! ⸜( *ˊᵕˋ* )⸝ thank you for reading!!!
The first time you kissed Suna Rintarou's injury was three years ago.
It's the Championship Game—Collegiate Nationals, the culmination of four years of blood, sweat, and dreams. You're in the stands with the rest of the student section, screaming yourself hoarse as the team battles it out in the fifth set. Your eyes are locked on a certain player, watching him move across the court with that deceptive laziness that hides how lethal he really is.
The final point is a block. Suna reads the setter perfectly, jumps at the exact right moment, and slams the ball down on the opponent's side with finality.
You're jumping, screaming, crying—everyone is. The team wins nationals for the first time in a decade, and you get to witness it happen.
After the medal ceremony, after the photos and the interviews and the chaos, you wait outside the locker room like you always do. The team files out gradually, still high on adrenaline and victory, clapping each other on the back and making plans to celebrate.
He's showered, hair still damp and sticking up in odd directions, wearing his warm-up jacket and a rare, genuine smile. When he sees you, something in his expression softens.
"Hey, angel," he says, and the nickname still makes your stomach flutter even though he's been calling you that for months now.
"Rin!" You launch yourself at him. He catches you easily, always does, and you wrap your arms around his neck. "You did it! National Champions!"
"We did it," he corrects, and his arms tighten around you, face buried in your hair. "Thanks for being here."
You pull back to look at him properly, and your hands find his without thinking. It's just something you do, this habitual reaching for each other, fingers lacing together like puzzle pieces that have always fit. His hands are so much bigger than yours, long fingers wrapping around your smaller ones, and you start to smile at the familiar comfort of it—
Until you feel the wetness.
Your smile falters. You look down at your joined hands and your heart drops.
His palms are destroyed. Blood seeps through the tape that's barely holding on, staining the white fabric red. The skin underneath is scraped raw, swollen, split open in places from the force of his blocks. You can see bruising already forming, dark purple spreading across his fingers.
But you're already pulling him away from the crowd, gentle despite your horror, refusing to let go of his hand even though it's bleeding. "Fine? Rin, you're bleeding through the tape."
"Doesn't hurt." He's lying. You can tell by the way his fingers tense slightly in yours, the only tell he'll give.
"Come on." You tug him toward a quieter corner near the vending machines, still holding his hand like you can somehow keep him together through touch alone. "Sit."
He sits on the floor without complaint, long legs stretched out, and watches as you finally, reluctantly, release his hand to dig through your bag. You always carry basic first aid supplies to his games; you learned that necessity freshman year when he'd split his lip and tried to spit blood into a towel like that fixes it.
"Hush." You kneel in front of him, reaching for his hands again. Your fingers are gentle as you begin to unwrap the tape, but you can't help the way your thumb strokes across his wrist, a soothing gesture. "Let me take care of you."
He goes quiet at that, unnaturally still as you work. The tape pulls away to reveal worse damage than you thought. His fingers are a mess of broken skin and bruising, an injury that's going to hurt like hell tomorrow when the adrenaline wears off.
You're still holding his hand, cradling it in both of yours. "Rin," you say softly, something aching in your chest. "You played so hard."
"Had to win." His voice is rough. "Last chance."
You know what he means. Senior year, final tournament, the end of collegiate volleyball. After this, he'll go pro, already has offers from several Division 1 teams, but it won't be the same. It won't be this team, these people, this chapter of his life.
"Well, you did win," you remind him, trying to smile as you clean the wounds as gently as possible. Your fingers never quite leave his skin, always maintaining that point of contact. "You were amazing."
He makes a dismissive sound, but you can see the pleased curve of his lips.
You work in silence, applying antiseptic and fresh bandages. Your hands are steady despite the way your heart is racing from his proximity, from the trust in the way he lets you hold him, touch him, care for him.
"There," you say finally, tying off the last bandage. "All better."
Except, it's not all better, is it? He's still hurt. He’s still bleeding under those bandages. He’s still pushed himself to the breaking point for this win.
Without thinking, operating on pure instinct and emotion, you lift his hand—the one you've been holding this entire time because you just couldn't bear to let go—to your lips and press a soft kiss to his wrapped knuckles.
"Okay," you whisper. "Now it's better."
The words hang in the air between you.
Suna has gone completely still, eyes wide in a way you've never seen before. You're suddenly very aware of what you've just done, of the intimacy of the gesture, of the way his hand is still cradled in yours.
"I—" Heat floods your face. "Sorry, I just—it's something I do with my nieces and nephews—"
"Don't apologize." His voice is strange, rough around the edges. His free hand comes up to cup your cheek, and his thumb brushes just under your eye. "It's... it's good. Fine. Good… really good."
You've never heard Suna Rintarou stumble over his words before.
Which brings you to now, three years after that first kiss outside the locker room.
The action is so ingrained at this point that you don't think about it anymore. Suna comes home hurt, you fix him up, you kiss it better. It's just what you do, as natural as breathing.
You definitely don't think about the implications.
Definitely don't notice the way his eyes linger on your lips afterward, or the way his breathing changes when you're close, or the way he seems to find excuses to need your care more and more often.
Definitely don't acknowledge the growing tension between you, the weight of all these unspoken feelings, the way every innocent touch feels charged with something dangerous.
Definitely don't let yourself want more than these stolen moments of intimacy disguised as first aid.
(Definitely lying to yourself about all of it.)
So when he comes home from practice with split palms (again), angry red marks across his fingers from where he'd blocked one too many of Washio’s spikes, you move on autopilot.
"Rin!" you scold, already reaching for his hand. "Come here."
He doesn't argue. He never does, not about this, at least. He follows you to the bathroom, where you keep the first aid kit and sits on the edge of the tub, watching you with those half-lidded eyes that always make your stomach do something complicated.
You clean the cuts carefully, gentle fingers dabbing antiseptic. He doesn't flinch. He's used to pain, has a tolerance built up from years of diving for balls and throwing his body around like it's expendable, but you're not used to seeing him hurt, even in small ways like this.
"You need to be more careful," you murmur, wrapping gauze around the webbing of his fingers.
"Yeah, yeah." His voice is flat, bored almost, but there's something soft in the way he lets you fuss over him.
You tie off the bandage. Then, without thinking, the same way you do with your nieces and nephews when they scrape their knees, the same way you've done with him dozens of times before, you bring his hand to your lips and press a gentle kiss to his knuckles.
You're already turning away to put the first aid kit back when you catch the look on his face, something arrested, almost stunned, though it smooths over so quickly you might have imagined it.
Except—you've seen that look before. Three years ago, outside a locker room, after a championship game.
Some things never change.
"Thanks, angel," he says, and his voice sounds different. Lower. Rougher around the edges.
You shrug it off. It's just Rin being Rin.
But what you don't see, what you miss because you're already walking back to the living room, is the way he stares at his hand like you've branded him. The way his fingers curl into his palm, holding onto the phantom warmth of your lips.
The way he smiles, small and secret and wanting.
The same way he's been smiling for three years.
(It's always been a thing, but you're committed to not examining that too closely.)
Suna Rintarou is not a careless player. He's calculated, precise, moves with the kind of lazy efficiency that makes it look easy, but volleyball is a violent sport for all its grace, and he comes home marked by it more often than not.
Blistered palms from too many serves. Bruised ribs from bad falls. Split skin on his fingers from blocks that connect just wrong. Each time, you pull him to the bathroom, and you clean him up.
And each time—muscle memory, instinct, habit, whatever—you kiss it better.
A soft press of your lips to his palm. The inside of his wrist. Once, memorably, his shoulder when he'd landed hard enough to leave a bloom of purple-blue-green across his skin.
You don't think about it. It's just what you do, the same way you breathe or blink or say his name.
But Suna thinks about it.
Oh, does he think about it.
He thinks about it during practice, when Komori asks why he's smiling at nothing. He thinks about it at night, lying in his bed on the other side of the apartment, knowing you're just a wall away. He thinks about it when he wakes up and finds you making coffee in one of his old hoodies, the sleeves too long on your arms.
He thinks about the softness of your lips, the careful way you touch him. He thinks about the little furrow between your brows when you're concentrating, the way you bite your bottom lip when you're worried.
He thinks about all the places he'd like you to kiss.
It's torture, sweet and slow and perfect.
So maybe—maybe—he gets a little less careful at practice. Maybe he goes for blocks he doesn't need to, dives for balls that are already out. Maybe he lets his hands take more hits than necessary.
Komori notices. "You're playing sloppy today, Rinnie-rin."
"Am I?" Suna examines his reddened palms with satisfaction. "Didn't notice."
His teammate gives him a long, knowing look. "Uh huh. This wouldn't have anything to do with your cute little roommate, would it?"
Suna's expression doesn't change, but something sharp flashes in his eyes. "Careful."
"Don't." The word is flat, edged with warning. "Don't talk about her."
Komori raises his hands in surrender, but he's grinning. "Man, you've got it bad."
Suna doesn't dignify that with a response.
Mostly because it's true.
Today's practice is brutal.
EJP has an upcoming game against the Adlers, which means everyone's on edge, pushing harder. The gym echoes with the sound of balls hitting the court, bodies hitting the floor, Coach calling out plays in that commanding voice of his.
Suna's in the zone, that flow state where nothing exists except the game. Reading the plays, watching the angles, timing his blocks perfectly. He's always been good at this, the mental chess of volleyball, staying three moves ahead.
Which is why he definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent does not mean to miscalculate the trajectory of Washio's spike.
Definitely does not turn his face at just the wrong angle.
Definitely does not let the ball graze his jaw, right near the corner of his mouth.
"Shit, Suna!" Washio jogs over immediately. "You good?"
Suna probes his jaw with careful fingers, feels the sting of abraded skin. Not bleeding, but it'll bruise. And more importantly, it's in a perfect spot.
"I'm fine," he says, flat as always. "Lost focus for a second."
Komori appears at his elbow, takes one look at his face, and starts laughing. "Oh my god. You did that on purpose."
"Don't know what you're talking about."
"You’re so full of shit—"
"Aren't you supposed to be practicing receives?" Suna cuts him off mildly. "That last one looked a little shaky."
Komori flips him off but jogs back to position, still grinning like he knows all of Suna's secrets.
Suna touches his jaw again, feels the tender skin, and thinks about your hands. Your soft, careful hands, and your lips—
Yeah. Komori definitely knows.
You're chopping vegetables for dinner when you hear the door open.
"Yeah." His voice sounds normal, that familiar drawl that always makes you smile. "Smells good."
"Stir-fry," you say, not looking up from the cutting board. "How was practice?"
Something in that pause makes you turn around, and—
There's a scrape along his jaw, red and angry, and you're moving before you can think, abandoning the vegetables to cross to the genkan.
"What happened?" Your hands flutter nervously around his face, not quite touching. "Does it hurt?"
"Took a ball to the face." He shrugs, but you catch the way his eyes track your movements, intent despite his casual tone. "It's nothing."
"It's not nothing, you're hurt." You're already pulling him toward the bathroom, fingers wrapped around his wrist. "Come on, sit. Let me clean it."
He follows easily, and you try not to think about how he always does this—follows you, indulges you, lets you take care of him like it's a privilege instead of a chore.
The bathroom is small, too small for two people, but you've done this enough times that you've figured out the choreography. He sits on the edge of the tub, long legs spreading slightly to make room, and you step between them to get close enough.
You're concentrating on dampening a washcloth, adding soap, but you can feel his gaze on you, heavy and heated.
"This might sting," you warn, bringing the cloth to his jaw.
The nickname makes something flutter in your chest, the same way it always does. He's called you that for years now—even before that first time you kissed his injury, actually—and it still affects you, still makes you feel safe and soft and wanted.
You clean the scrape as gently as possible, hyper-aware of how close you are. He's so much bigger than you like this, sitting down but still somehow taking up all the space. You have to lean in to reach properly, and suddenly, you're surrounded by him: his scent, his warmth, his presence.
"There," you murmur, setting aside the cloth. The scrape is clean now, not bad enough to need a bandage. "All done."
You don’t step back yet. You're still between his legs, close enough to see the different shades of green in his eyes, the way his pupils are dilated.
And then, that ingrained response you've built over three years of this, you lean in and press your lips to his jaw.
Right at the corner of his mouth.
It's barely a kiss, the same soft peck you always give, but the placement is different. Intimate. You can feel the edge of his lips against yours, feel the sharp intake of his breath.
You realize what you've done, where you are, how close you are. Heat floods your face as you jerk back slightly, eyes wide.
"Oh! Sorry, Rin, I didn't mean—I mean—"
The words tumble out in a rush, your face burning hotter with each syllable.
"I've just been doing this for years now, habit, so why not continue to kiss—wait, that came out wrong—"
You slap a hand over your mouth, mortified, but the damage is done and your brain won't stop.
"Wait, not that I don’t want to kiss—"
Your eyes go even wider as you realize what you just said.
You make a frustrated noise, covering your face with both hands now, and your next words come out muffled and pouty. "This is your stupid fault for having your stupid face in the stupid wrong place."
There's silence for a good two minutes.
Then Suna laughs, actually laughs, a real one, not his usual quiet huff. The sound is warm and genuine and oh so delightful.
"My stupid face," he repeats, and you can hear the grin in his voice. "In the stupid wrong place."
"Shut up," you mumble into your hands, refusing to look at him.
"So let me get this straight." He's definitely enjoying this now, voice lazy with amusement. "You've been kissing my injuries for three years—"
"You know I have, don't be smug about it—"
"—and you're upset because this time you kissed the wrong spot—"
"It wasn't the wrong spot, it was just—close—"
"—except you just admitted you didn't actually mind kissing me—"
"I did not say that!" You peek at him through your fingers, face absolutely flaming.
"Pretty sure you did, angel." He reaches up and gently pulls your hands away from your face, and the smirk on his lips is absolutely insufferable. "Something about 'not that I don't want to kiss'—"
It's such a childish quip, delivered in that deadpan way of his, and you're so flustered you can't even think of a comeback. You just stand there between his legs, hands captured in his, face burning, with the cutest pout on your lips. You make another frustrated sound, somewhere between a whine and a huff, and his lips quirk. Not quite a smile, but close.
"You're cute when you're flustered," he says, because apparently, he's decided to just destroy you completely today.
"I'm not—you can't just—" You're sputtering now, and his grin widens.
"Can't just what?" He tugs you slightly closer, voice dropping. "Point out that you've been thinking about kissing me? That you just confessed that you want to?"
"That is not what I said!"
"And yet." His thumb traces circles on the back of your hand, and his eyes are dancing with mirth. "Here you are."
Your breath catches. "I—you—"
"In fact," he continues, and now there's a slight smirk playing at his lips again, "I think my jaw still hurts. Might need proper treatment."
"S-so annoying," you finally manage, and you hate how breathless you sound.
"You love it." His eyes are soft despite the teasing. "Don't you?"
And the worst part is—he's right.
"Give me one more, angel." His voice is softer now, almost vulnerable beneath the playful exterior. He releases one of your hands to tap his cheek. "Right here. Please?"
"I'm not—you know what, never mind."
"Smart choice." His hand comes up to tap his cheek once. The gesture is casual, expectant, like he's owed this.
You stare at him. "Seriously?"
"Seriously." His expression doesn't change, but there's the barest hint of satisfaction in his eyes. "Doctor's orders."
"Patient's request, then."
"Angel." He taps his cheek again, patient and waiting. "I'm in pain here."
You press a kiss to his cheek just to shut him up, lingering a little longer than necessary. His skin is warm under your lips, and you can feel his smile widen.
"There," you say, pulling back and trying to sound stern despite your burning face. "Better?"
"Much better." His arms come around you, pulling you back in, and he buries his face in the curve of your neck. "You know, I think it still hurts a little—"
He laughs against your skin, the sound vibrating through you. "'M sorry, 'm sorry. Kidding."
You try to pull away, but his hold tightens. Not constraining, just keeping you there. Close.
"Rin," you sigh. "I need to finish dinner."
"In a minute." His breath is warm against your neck. "Just... give me a minute.”
At first you stand there awkwardly, arms at your sides, not quite sure what to do with yourself while he holds you. But after a few moments, when it becomes clear he's not letting go anytime soon, you give up.
Your arms come up to rest on his shoulders, hesitant at first, then more certain. You give him a gentle squeeze, and you feel him exhale against your neck, some tension you hadn't even noticed leaving his body.
"You're never going to let me live this down, are you?" you murmur into his hair.
"Not a chance." You can feel his smile against your skin. "You're lucky I like you when you're all pouty and rambling."
"'Wait, that came out wrong,'" he quotes in a terrible impression of your voice, and you swat at his shoulder.
"'Not that I don't want to kiss—'"
"No, you don't." He pulls back just enough to look at you, and his expression is unbearably fond. "You love me."
And damn him—he's right again.
And later that night, Suna touches his cheek where you kissed him, then the corner of his mouth where you'd gotten so close, and smiles.
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