Xkoutarou - He Hurt Me But It Felt Like True Love

─ SHE CAN GET IT

dabi x f!reader

you’ve gone to the tattoo and piercing parlor that sits between the two family-owned restaurants before, never for yourself but as support for friends. The man with jet black hair who does a majority of the work always makes small talk with you, encouraging you to stop by for yourself. Your curiosity is piqued, if they can do it why can’t you? It won’t hurt that bad, right? It’s not like his gaze alone lights a fire deep in your core.

tattoo-parlor au, no quirks, dom!dabi, needles, nipple play, piercing nipples, cock piercings, biting, vibrator, semi-public sex, masturbation, minor dacryphilia, overstimulation, teasing, squirting.

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— 𝕤𝕒𝕠𝕦𝕝𝕖

1.1k words | smut | sex under the influence, alcohol, porn without plot, creampie, minor daddy kink because i said so, one (1) french word | akaashi keiji 

“those who restrain desire do so because theirs is weak enough to be restrained.” ― william blake, the marriage of heaven and hell

a.n. shorter than usual. i blacked out when i wrote this; pls be gentle. 

“kaashi-“ you murmur as his drunken lips graze yours, “kaashi, we shouldn’t.”

the party around you is still in full swing. purple and blue lights glow dimly in the crowded living room as the patterns on the walls slip and slide out of focus. akaashi swears he isn’t that drunk- swears that it’s just because of the lights and the music and the taste of your lips on his that he’s rendered into a puddle of lust coated desire, desperate for every ounce of your touch.

“my room,” he breathes lowly, drawing you into another heated kiss, “i wanna ravish you, pretty girl.”

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𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟑, 𝐌𝐢𝐲𝐚 𝐀𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐮

KITA VERSION HERE

pairing: miya atsumu x reader (strangers to lovers—fake dating)

genre: fluff

word count: 1.4k

summary: number 13, miya atsumu seems like a nice man, but his little dilemma he ropes you into seems to show you he’s much more than that

“Hey, you’re Miya’s date, right?” Turning, you frown, staring at the MSBY player before you with furrowed eyebrows. Atsumu had mentioned his name to you before, but you can’t seem to recall it, having been a part of a list of far too many names to remember only fifteen minutes before reaching the gym.

“Um, n—yes! Yes, absolutely. I am,” you catch yourself at the last second, nodding furiously with a large (probably more than necessary) smile. He stares at you for a moment before nodding slowly, awkwardly smiling back.

You’re not sure if he’s completely convinced.

“Oh, okay. Well, uh…see you after the game, then,” he offers before quickly walking away.

Number 13, Miya Atsumu. He’s a nice man—from what you can tell at least. He’s helped you carry groceries to your car before—somehow always managing to be at the store at the same time as you. He’s paid for your drink at the local coffee shop that one morning—you’d forgotten your wallet in the car—and his smile seemed genuine enough. It was a little cocky for your taste, but his eyes were sincere, the saccharine honey of his orbs seeping with warmth when you looked into them.

And when he approached you, hands stuffed in his pockets and eyes downcast as he kicked a few pebbles around, claiming he’d needed a favor, you couldn’t find it in you to say no.

“I had a one night stand and a few photos got out to the press o’ me walkin’ out. Told ma manager I was datin’ someone so she wouldn’t get onta me,” he’d mumbled sheepishly, and though it seemed like a lot of trouble, you’d still agreed to be his date.

And here you were. His date, with him nowhere to be found.

The sudden poke to your hip makes you jolt, turning to face the source of your scare, hand unconsciously ready to shove it away when a smooth chuckle and a warm, callused hand on your wrist makes you pause.

“Woah, there,” Atsumu flashes you a grin, tugging you flush against his chest. The proximity makes you swallow, looking up at his face with wide eyes. He smirks slightly. “Yer here as ma date, wouldn’t look too believable if ya shoved me two seconds in, would it?”

Your voice seems to find itself as you frown, huffing before you look him in the eye more determined this time. His smirk only widens.

“You shouldn’t scare your date on the first one, it’s not very gentlemanly of you.” He offers you a sly grin, hand wandering down lower till it reaches the small of your back. Your breath hitches at the way he starts rubbing small circles into it.

“Well, I s’pose ya gotta point,” he mumbles, head dipping down lower till his breath is fanning lightly against your face. He smells faintly of cologne, cool yet spicy, but definitely expensive. “Can’t let people get the wrong idea, can we? Come on, angel, we gotta convince em.”

Eyes widening as you realize what he means, you press your palm against his chest, a futile attempt to push him away, really—the sturdiness of his muscled chest was enough to distract you instantly.

“I…y-you…here? You want to—here? In front of all these people?”

And he chuckles once more, making you start to wonder how the smooth and adorably sweet guy from the grocery store and coffee shop had become so smug.

“‘S just a kiss. Never had a kiss before?” You scowl, finally shoving at his chest this time, but his grip only tightens.

“Of course I have, you moron. Just not with a star athlete in front of all his fans,” you mutter.

“Ya keep up with me on the media?” Scoffing, you turn your head away to the side, not willing to admit that perhaps you’d searched his name in google once or twice. It was strictly informational.

“As if,” you huff. “This is not a very great first date, you know.”

“‘S not real, thought we went over that. Don’t tell me yer attached already?”

Number 13, Miya Atsumu seemed more a handful than you’d initially anticipated. With pursed lips and narrowed eyes, you glare daggers at him, making his eyes sparkle with amusement.

“Don’t be ridiculous, I’m the one doing you the favor here. Be a little grateful.”

“Well ya gotta play yer part for me ta be grateful, angel. Gotta give em a show. Kiss me,” he puckers his lips slightly. “I’ll be grateful.”

You shove his face away when he leans down, making his lips curl into a pout. Staring at him in disbelief, you look around to see if anyone is staring at the show Atsumu is so hellbent on giving. To your dismay, it seems the entirety of the stands has their eyes cast specifically on you, making you sag into his hold.

For the millionth time, Atsumu’s snicker rings in your ears.

“Atsu—Miya, I’m not kissing you here in front of—”

“Ya can’t call yer boyfriend by his last name!”

“Fake boyfriend. Fake.”

“But they don’t know that,” he grins. Groaning, you sigh in defeat, glancing around the gym a few more times before ultimately caving. Atsumu’s grin couldn’t be any wider, and if it was, you’d have half a mind to smack it gone.

Perhaps your good deed was a bite that was much more than you could chew at the moment.

“Fine, if I give you a quick peck on the lips, will you be satisfied?”

“Oh, I’d be ecstatic,” he smirks. So, with an exasperated sigh, you usher him closer—to which he obliges much to quickly, and much too happily.

“Okay, but remember, it’s just a quick peck, okay? Don’t—” he cuts you off before you can finish your sentence.

And it most certainly isn’t a quick peck.

Atsumu presses his lips firmly against yours, molding against you so perfectly, you can’t help but close your eyes shut. His arms tighten their grip around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer, and the scent of his cologne wafts through your nose once again, much stronger this time. And he swallows the strangled noise you let out, only kissing you deeper. The hand that lay flat on his chest a moment ago grips his shirt tightly, and your other hand subconsciously wanders past his shoulders to play with the hair at the base of his neck. He smirks against your lips.

Pulling away, he places one delicate, tiny, quick peck to your slightly swollen lips, huffing out yet another chuckle at the dazed expression on your face.

Except this time, it’s not cocky or smug. It’s purely one of glee, and it matches his expression. He looks almost as giddy as a child at an ice cream shop.

“A quick peck, as promised,” he winks.

“Atsumu! Everyone’s watched that! What’re they gonna say? It’ll be all over the media if we’re never seen together after a kiss like that! And—”

“Then I guess we’ll just have to be seen together after that, angel,” he cuts you off. Sputtering, you do a double take at his words, watching as he all but rolls on the balls of his feet in excitement.

And it clicks in your head, finally, that this was just number 13, Miya Atsumu, MSBY’s star setter and your resident smooth talker’s elaborate plan to set you both up to see each other over and over again.

You roll your eyes as you mumble “you could’ve just asked me on a real date like a normal person.”

“Well, I did actually tell ma manager I was datin’ someone,” he mumbles sheepishly, and you catch a small glimpse of the same shyness you’d seen when he first approached you with his dilemma. “But I thought it was a good opportunity ta dazzle ya,” he offers a toothy grin. Your heart does a 360 in your chest at the sight.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And yer unbelievably cute when yer flustered.” The whistle blows, and his attention turns to his coach who’s ushering him over sternly, making him turn to you with a smile. “I’ll see ya after the game, kay, babe? Cheer for me real loud.”

And with another stolen peck on the lips, Atsumu jogs to where his team is waiting, glancing over his shoulder and winking over at you. You cover your mouth with your hand and stifle a chuckle when he stumbles slightly, ramming into a raven and curly haired man who scowls and shrugs him off.

Number 13, Miya Atsumu seemed quite the handful, but you think you can manage to deal with him somehow.

reblogs are really appreciated !!

i feel like i died a very long time ago and now nothing thats happening is real

Sylvia Plath, from a journal entry featured in "The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath,"

now let's talk about atsumu's stamina

✩ ‧₊˚ ✩。WINTER — ITOSHI SAE.

you love that sae gets to play soccer, that he’s happy doing what he does best—that much is true. what you don’t love, however, is when he leaves to play soccer. you watch with sulky pouts and sullen expressions every time as he packs his bags for a game away, huffing as he takes that hoodie you like instead of leaving it for you.

i like that one, you’ll always say bitterly. it’s a different hoodie every time, and you know he knows you say that just to be whiny—but he never says as much, and a small part of you appreciates it.

you like all of them, he always says blankly, and then you sit and mourn that one hoodie you can’t have from him—even as he leaves you the rest of them at your disposal.

this time is no different. sae leaves the first day of winter, the frigid air kissing your skin as you shiver at the front door, standing with a pout on your face as he turns to you.

“see you in three weeks,” he says, an arm looping around you to give you a brief hug. you sniffle—and you feel silly, you feel like you must seem pathetic every time. it’s three weeks not three decades.

but the bed is colder without sae to keep you warm in the harshness of winter nights, and breakfast is lonely without someone to listen to you babble away, and tv is boring when you can’t share snacks and make fun of the poor choices of blandly written main characters.

you’re silly and a bit childish to cry like this every time—but you can’t help it. you’re happy that sae gets to play soccer, you just can’t ever get used when he’s away.

“i’ll miss you,” you croak, “don’t forget about me, okay? i’ll die.”

“so dramatic,” he rolls his eyes, but his voice is soft and his hand rubs those soothing circles into the small of your back, and you think maybe you’re not so annoying if he treats you so softly, so gentle and sweet even if it’s a bit stiff and blunt like him.

it’s cold—it’s dry and the wind is harsh and sae should really get going if he wants to make it to the airport on time, but you’re sniffling into his shoulder. perhaps there are more pressing things to worry about for now.

“are you gonna miss me too?” you ask, poking his shoulder a few times, “you will right? you’ll be so lonely without me right? so super sad?”

“you’re too much,” he grunts, but his grip tightens around you anyway—as if to say, yes. as if to say i’ll miss you every day, and i’ll keep missing you even when i’m back. “it’s three weeks,” he says flatly, “you’ll live.”

“what if i die? would you come back for my funeral even if you’d miss your game? you would right? don’t let them pick a bad picture of me.”

“i’ll pick the ugliest one i can find,” he grumbles, making you slap his shoulder with a gasp.

“i hope you get stuck sitting next to a crying baby on your flight,” you sulk.

“i’m stuck with a crying baby at home too,” he mutters, “what’s the difference?” you can almost feel him smile even if you can’t see it.

sae doesn’t smile too often—that’s what everyone else will say, anyway. you tell them differently though, that he smiles often, that he’s pretty and soft and innocent under the dim lights of your living room or the gentle rays of sun under the morning sheets. and it’s always small, the way his lips stretch—it’s barely noticeable and all too brief. but his muscles move before his brain thinks, and just a quick glance at you is enough to make his eyes soften and his mouth twitch.

itoshi sae leaves you alone at home on the first day of winter, and he realizes he falls in love with you a little more every season. he loves you through the gentle breeze of summer and the vibrant petals of spring, he sees pieces of you in the warm hues of autumn everywhere he goes—and when winter comes and the harsh chill settles under his bones, he realizes it’s your body he wants against his to ease the ache of the brittle cold.

“you’re rude.”

“i gotta go,” is all he says. “i’ll see you in three weeks?”

and he always does that—always asks if he’ll see you like he has to make sure you’ll be here, waiting with warm arms and a soft smile and those kind eyes of yours that he doesn’t deserve but can’t possibly forget.

“yeah,” you mumble softly, “yeah. see you in three weeks sae. be safe,” you mumble against his shoulder.

this is the hard part.

if you had to pick, the hardest part is where you let go—the part where your body screams for the heated press of his as it pulls away. it’s always easier for sae than it is for you, always simpler for him to reason it’s only three weeks and walk away. because he’ll come back—he always does, and you don’t think he’ll ever stop. but it’s the hardest part anyway, and you hate it. and you wish, selfishly deep down, that it’d be just a bit hard for him too.

“i’ll see you in three weeks,” he repeats again, as if to reassure you.

but this time, he still doesn’t let go. he doesn’t make a move to leave like usual. then it hits you all at once—you realize maybe it’s not just you he says it for, that maybe sae, under his blank stare and blunt words, doesn’t think it’s any easier than you do when he walks away.

so you nod slowly, “three weeks. shouldn’t be too bad,” you whisper.

“no,” he says quietly, “you’ll live.”

and then his arms squeeze you tighter, and his breath exhales slowly, and he presses a kiss to your forehead that can’t be anything other than stalling—and suddenly, you realize maybe it’s never been as easy for sae as you think it has.

“i’ll live,” you agree softly, “i’ll have to since i can’t let someone get away with picking an ugly picture for my funeral.”

he chuckles at that—it’s a sound he doesn’t really make that often, but somehow, it’s one that bleeds into every moment with you. so you turn your head and kiss his hair, squeeze around his waist and keep him warm outside your door as the cold wind of winter grazes your skin. 

“don’t die,” he says, “i’ll be back.”

“i won’t,” you giggle, “bye, baby. i love you. see you in three weeks.”

“yeah,” he hums. and finally, he pulls away. your body’s gone and so is your warmth, but sae’s not cold—doesn’t think he can be when his heart burns like that in his chest. “love you too,” he mumbles, flicking your forehead before he turns around and walks out the door, “and don’t forget to watch me win.”

idk i just think sae w a dramatic lover is a dynamic we need — aka me projecting LMAO.

atsumu getting pissed off on court. staring down a player on the other side of the net. arguing with the ref. his arms flexing when he points no i did not touch the antenna. grinding his jaw. eyes are heavy-lidded. putting his hands on his hips as he walks around. running a hand through his hair, his face. looking for the coach and signalling for a time out with a disbelieving look on his face, only to whine when they’re in huddle. coach threatens to bench him. he shuts up so fast. the muscles on his neck are wound. wipes his sweat with his jersey, brings the collar part to his face. gives a sneak peek of his abs when it rides up. kind of opens his mouth when he’s pissed, tongue pokes at his gums near his lower lip.