thirst
— getting mind reading powers then being body slammed by rintarō’s thoughts aren’t really in your to-do list.
suna rintarō x telepath!f!reader
c/w: fluff fluff fluff fluff!! a bit suggestive, (unsaid) threats, cursing, dirty thoughts
i can’t find the one who requested 😔
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
you never thought your life would get ruined by something as stupid as mind-reading. super strength, teleportation, flying? fine, you’d take those. but no—your gift is hearing what’s rattling around in other people’s heads, which is 80% nonsense, 15% food, and 5% things you wish you could scrub from your memory with bleach.
you begged the universe to take it back.
the universe said no and flipped you off.
atsumu’s brain is a crime scene. osamu’s is a constant stream of onigiri recipe adjustments. aran’s is… surprisingly calm, like jazz music. but suna rintarō?
suna’s head is a deranged fanfiction where you are the unwilling main character.
see, you always thought suna disliked you. he never talks to you unless necessary, never acknowledges your presence outside the role of manager, and his whole vibe screams i would rather nap than engage with humanity. you’d been convinced he couldn’t stand your voice, the way you hover around practice, or the fact that you even exist.
but then you heard him think for the first time.
and it was not the voice of someone indifferent. it was the voice of a man clinging to the edge of sanity by his fingertips. you had this guy screaming like a high school girl who got a letter from her crush.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
it starts during morning drills. you’re crouched down, collecting stray balls near the sideline, when suna’s internal monologue slams into you like a freight train:
‘don’t bend over. don’t bend over. oh my god she’s bending over. jesus christ, i could write a dissertation on her thighs. if i look too long, i’ll drool. i’m literally drooling. am i drooling? oh my god, check your chin. act cool. look bored. bored. BORED.’
you glance up just in time to see suna leaning against the wall with that trademark deadpan, half-lidded expression. he looks like he hasn’t had a single thought in days. which is hilarious, because five seconds ago he was practically making a shrine out of your kneecaps in his mind.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
another time, you’re sitting on the bench scribbling down some notes on rotation patterns. suna’s nearby, idly tying and untying his shoelaces. outwardly, he looks like the human embodiment of the “…” typing bubble. inwardly, though?
‘her fingers. holy shit, her fingers. i want to suck on her fingers. i’d let her break my neck with those. look at the way she holds the pen. elegant. majestic. i could frame a picture of her hand holding that pen and hang it above my bed. i’d bow to it every morning like it’s the fucking sun. she’s gripping the pen tighter. fuck, i wish that was my—RINTARŌ STOP IT.’
you almost drop your clipboard. suna doesn’t even blink. just sits there in silence, probably imagining you strangling him with athletic tape.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
lunch breaks are the worst. one day you’re eating an onigiri osamu made, minding your business, when suna’s thoughts bleed into your head like some cursed radio frequency:
‘she’s eating. holy fuck, she’s eating. look at her lips. look at the way the rice sticks. i’d pay money to be a grain of rice right now. god, i’d be the happiest carb alive. i wonder if she chews soft or hard. jesus christ, listen to yourself, rintarō, you’re disgusting. no, but really—imagine if she fed me a bite. i’d get on my knees for that. in public. i don’t care.’
you choke so hard on the onigiri that aran has to hand you his water bottle. suna just sits there with that same neutral face, but you can feel him vibrating internally like a broken washing machine.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
his obsession leaks into the smallest, dumbest situations.
you say, “good serve, aran!” during a scrimmage. suna’s brain short-circuits: ‘why not me? why the fuck, not me? i can serve. i’ll serve right now. i’ll serve until my arm falls off. say good serve, suna, please, god, i’ll sell my soul.’
when you do say, “good block, suna!” his response is so underwhelming—just a lazy “thanks”—that no one would suspect he’s having a full-blown meltdown inside: ‘holy fuck, she saw me. she noticed me. she loves me. this is it. this is the beginning of our epic romance. kita, you’re best man. atsumu, you’re not invited.’
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
he’s constantly thinking about stupid scenarios: if you tripped, he’d catch you bridal style ‘perfect excuse to touch her waist, god please trip just once, i’ll even stick my foot out’. if you offered him a sip of your water bottle, he’d drink from the exact same spot your lips touched ‘indirect kiss, fuck yes. fuck no, i’m hard’. if you said you were cold, he’d strip off his jersey and force it on you ‘she’ll smell like me. i’ll smell like her. i’ll never wash it again. rot in filth? worth it. should i get my brain checked?’ nah man, you’re good, just a lil off the grid.
you’ll be adjusting the scoreboard and hear: ‘she’s reaching up, that shirt’s riding higher, if i look i’m a creep, but if i don’t look i’ll regret it forever. fuck it. tiny glance. okay, enough. another glance. i’m so hard right now, i’m going to hell. and she’s the devil leading me there and i’d thank her. NO, GO TO THE BATHROOM AND DROW YOURSELF, RINTARŌ.’
all while his face is the picture of absolute boredom.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
the wildest part? you still like him. even with the knowledge that suna rintarō is mentally begging to be hand-fed rice balls and strangled with athletic tape, your crush hasn’t died. if anything, it’s worse.
you used to just think he had pretty eyes and a lazy kind of charm. now you know that beneath his flat, apathetic exterior is a man drooling, panting, and metaphorically clawing at the walls of his skull every time you so much as breathe in his direction.
it’s pathetic. it’s hilarious. it’s… honestly kind of endearing.
and the best part is: he has absolutely no idea you can hear every single thirsty, desperate, completely unhinged thought.
for now, you let him keep his dignity.
but oh, is he going to combust when the truth comes out.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
you never realized how long you could keep a secret until now. weeks of knowing suna rintarō’s brain runs like a one-man late-night broadcast, starring you, featuring you, directed by his catastrophically deprived imagination.
and you thought you could handle it.
but today, your poker face finally cracks.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
it’s the end of practice. the boys are sweaty and loud, volleyballs scattered across the floor like confetti. you’re walking along the sideline, clipboard hugged to your chest, when it happens. you bend down to pick up a stray ball, and there it is, blasting straight into your skull like surround sound:
‘that skirt. oh my fucking god. she bent over again. if god loved me, he’d let me crawl under the bleachers and just sniff—no. stop. act cool. bored. bored face. eyes half-shut. don’t stare too long. don’t drool. is my mouth open? close your mouth, idiot. I’M DROOLING! jesus, i need to bite something. maybe the ball. maybe my jersey. maybe her a—’
you snort. loudly.
suna’s head swivels, sharp despite the usual droopy eyes. that look could kill. not because it’s scary—because it’s too calculating, like he’s already putting the puzzle together.
you slap a hand over your mouth, praying he’ll shrug it off. he doesn’t. he stares.
“…what’s so funny?”
your silence is answer enough.
his mind stutters, then detonates:
‘she knows. she KNOWS. holy shit, she’s been listening this whole time. months of me begging to be hand-fed grapes like a roman emperor. months of me imagining her thighs as a pillow. she knows i’d drink her bathwater. she knows that i prepared my vows. SHE KNOWS THAT I WANT 6 KIDS. oh my god. oh my actual god. dig a grave. lower me in. quick. before she tells anyone.’
your composure crumbles. a laugh bursts out, sharp and bright. it echoes in the emptying gym.
suna looks like someone just unplugged him from the matrix.
“you,” he says slowly, voice flat but dangerous. “you can hear me.”
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
he doesn’t yell. he doesn’t even move fast. he just stands there, staring at you like a man watching his own funeral procession.
“oh my god,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “you’ve been hearing me. all of it.”
the second-hand embarrassment is so bad you almost feel sorry for him. almost.
he collapses onto the floor, sitting like his knees gave out. “…i’m ruined.”
his thoughts pour like a faucet he can’t shut off.
‘she knows i called her my future wife in my head during drills. she knows i mentally thanked god for inventing legs when she wore shorts. she knows i once spent a full set fantasizing about being her chair. i can’t look at her. no, i have to look. she’s so pretty when she laughs. god, i’d let her spit in my face. oh my god she knows that too.’
“rin,” you wheeze, covering your face to hide your grin.
“don’t,” he cuts in flatly, voice muffled behind his hands. “don’t even say my name. every time you say it, my brain takes its clothes off. you know that now. you know everything. i’m exposed. humiliated. reduced to dust.”
you laugh harder, doubling over, and he groans like you’re stabbing him in the chest in a hot way. how does that work? don’t ask me.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
minutes pass. the gym is nearly empty. it’s just the two of you, and suna’s pride in shreds on the floor. finally, he tips his head back against the wall and says, “i’m serious. i should transfer schools. start fresh. join a monastery. shave my head. take a vow of silence. maybe celibacy. actually, no, i can’t do celibacy. not with you around.”
his thoughts churn.
‘look at her sitting there, laughing like sunshine. i’d let her carve her name into my forehead with a rusty nail. i’d be honored. i’d be grateful. she has no idea how bad i want to—oh wait, no, she does. she knows everything. holy fuck, i’m sweating. do i smell? god, i hope i smell good. maybe like desperation. maybe she likes desperation. i’d bathe in it if she asked.’
you clutch your clipboard like it’s the only thing keeping you alive. “you’re insane,” you manage.
“you’re telling me.” he finally looks at you, straight-on, with that terrifying flat expression that makes everything he says sound 100% dead serious. “i can’t be normal around you. i’ve tried. i’ve failed. i’ve been mentally begging for you to step on my chest since day one.”
“rin!” you squeak.
“what?” he shrugs, but his ears are crimson. “you already know. might as well say it. i’m pathetic. i’m depraved. i’m…” his voice dips, and for once, it’s not bored—it’s rough, desperate. “…completely yours. in my head. in real life. everywhere.”
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
you swallow. hard. because for all the ridiculous filth spilling out of him, there’s something underneath. something raw and sharp. he means it. every single depraved thought, every humiliating daydream—he means it, because it’s him.
and you like it.
so you lean closer, just enough for your knee to bump his. “so what are you going to do about it?”
his breath catches.
his brain combusts: ‘kiss her. touch her. marry her. crawl inside her pocket and live there forever. no, be cool. be chill. you’ve never been chill in your life. fuck it, just kiss her. now. do it before kita walks in and ruins it.’
and for once, suna doesn’t overthink. he tilts his head lazily, like it’s no big deal, and kisses you.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
it’s not graceful. his mouth is hot, clumsy, too much all at once, but his hands tremble like he’s holding something holy. and all you can hear is static—loud, overwhelming static punctuated by stray words: mine mine mine mine mine.
he pulls back just slightly, eyes half-lidded, smirk twitching at the corner. “you still laughing at me?”
you grin. “a little.”
his brain screams. ‘oh god she smiled. she smiled at me. i’d sell atsumu for her smile. i’d kill aran. i’d kill me. end me, bury me, as long as she smiles while doing it.’
you kiss him again just to shut him up.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
later, as you sit shoulder-to-shoulder on the gym floor, suna murmurs, “so you really heard everything, huh?”
“everything,” you confirm.
he sighs, slow and dramatic. “then i guess you already know i’m never letting you go.”
you laugh softly. “yeah. i know.”
and the static in your head doesn’t stop—‘should i give her a hickey? should i kiss her again? do i take her home now? oh wait, can i take her home? we’re technically married. oh i just realized that i can bury my face between her thighs now, yup, definitely taking her home.’—but maybe you don’t want it to.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
a: idk i accidentally deleted this so i wrote a new one. not before crashing out, obviously.
© showhay — don’t copy nor translate without my permission. i do not own any of the photos that i have used. credits to all the rightful owners. (˶ˆᗜˆ˵)
iloveu