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#clari gets mail
inkykeiji · 7 hours ago
Touya-nii with 100+ body count: cool
Touya-nii when he hears you once kissed a boy at an 8th grade dance: *gun out* who was it
ANON THIS MADE ME FUCKING HOWL I LAUGHED SO HARD I STARTLED POOR LIL WESLEY AWAKE HAHAHAHAHAHA
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inkykeiji · 9 hours ago
this is such a weird question to ask but do you find it weird when people mass read your work? like you see in your notifications someomn has liked pretty much everything you've written and kinda just gone through it in one night??? i really hope it's not too weird of a question, i just feel kinda self conscious or embarrassed when i do it idkidk
no, not at all!!!! i actually think it’s super cute and super flattering, and i love watching someone go through it!!! especially if it’s like a specific series hehehe like it’s very special to see ‘[blank] liked break my bones but act as my spine’ ; ‘[blank] liked i can’t tell my wrongs from my rights’ hehehe or to watch someone slowly make their way through all of my touya-nii works or one of my tags etc <333 i love it!! don’t feel self conscious or embarrassed bb it’s so cute!!!
besides my notifs are broken as hell and i’m lucky if i get any of them on time so don’t even worry <3
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inkykeiji · 8 months ago
Hear me out, dabi teaching you how to touch yourself. 👌
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omfg anon please he’d fuckin live for this shit!!!
❅ cw: 18+, kinda dubcon/manipulation, dabi’s a lil mean
❅ words: 1.9k
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You’ve been living with the league for a few months now—Toga had found you somewhere, on the streets cowered in some dirty back alley or something, he’s not really sure, he can’t remember—and Dabi’s been having a hard time keeping his hands to himself ever since.
He’s always finding excuses to touch you, dragging heated fingertips down your arm, always slightly hotter than normal body temperature, or placing a large hand on the small of your back as he guides you from one room to another, a blazing handprint searing through the thin material of your shirt.  
Can you really blame him, though? He can’t help it; it isn’t his fault you’re so fucking cute.
And he’s always got those sapphire eyes on you, too, couldn’t pull them from you even if he wanted to, gaze instinctively drawn to you every time you’re in the same room as him, an addict desperately chasing his next fix.
He definitely would have fucked you already, he’s absolutely sure of it, if Toga wasn’t attached to your hip 24/7. As a result, he knows he has to make the most of every minute alone he gets with you, and when you come trudging down the stairs in the middle of the night with you lips set in a deep pout, looking absolutely exhausted—pretty eyes sunken into your skull and hair mussed up in a way that almost looks artful on you—well.
It makes him want to fucking ruin you.
You’ve been on edge recently, and he’s 90% sure he knows why. Your rooms are right next to each other; it isn’t like he can’t hear those soft little noises you make in the middle of the night, breathy little whimpers that eventually morph into soft whines, Dabi listening the entire time as your pleasure quickly fades into frustration.
He pities you; the poor thing, she doesn’t even know how to get herself off properly. It’s definitely beginning to take a toll on you, he thinks, as you drop down on the couch next to him, slumping a little, eyebrows permanently knitted and eyes glaring at the TV.
Honestly, it would be a disservice to you if he didn’t help you.
“What’s a’matter with you?” he asks, glancing over at you, eyes indifferent, just the right amount of curiosity sown into his voice.
Your body stiffens for a moment, completely frozen next to him, before it relaxes again, a little huff of annoyance leaving your lips.
“Nothing,” you mumble, picking at your cuticles, pout still etched into your face.
“It’s not nothing, and we both know it,” he sighs, schooling his expression into one that mimics concern, just a hint sprinkled over his usual apathetic look, careful not to overdo it on the way his forehead wrinkles just a little, like he’s genuinely worried about you.
Head quirking to the side in question, your eyes narrow slightly, brow furrowing.
“You’re having trouble getting yourself off, aren’t you?”
“What?” You choke on the word, sputtering and coughing as you vigorously shake your head, desperately trying to wheeze out the word no, to deny it, and he chuckles, comforting you, tells you it’s nothing to be embarrassed of, promises you it’s nothing to be ashamed of, and—
“I can help, y’know,” he says with a shrug of his shoulders, like he’s offering you an extra pen and not an orgasm.
But those four words force a sharp intake of breath through your nose, eyes widening as you stare at him, your heart beginning to race while warmth settles deep in the pit of your stomach, already beginning to coil.
And he knows, knows the smirk curling on his lips doesn’t go well with his mask of casual concern, but he can’t help it, not when the softest, neediest little whine slips from your lips, pupils blown and eyes glazed as you stare at him with pure unadulterated want.
He’s almost got you.
“Whaddya say?” he asks quietly, almost tenderly, upper body turning towards you as nimble fingers tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Hmm?”
“I-I—I don’t—I’m not—”
“Let me help,” he urges. “Let me make you feel good,”
And it’s so gentle, so sincere, his body marginally leaning towards yours, enticing, that your head’s nodding before you’ve given it permission to, bottom lip caught between your teeth as you suck on it unsurely, gazing at him through your lashes.
You end up between his spread legs, on the floor, his large hands holding your thighs wide open as he stares at your reflections in the mirror propped up against his wall, dark azure eyes slowly sliding down your body as you try in vain to bury your head in his neck, face burning with embarrassment.
He got this mirror specifically for this occasion, he tells you, thought it’d be the best way to teach you, he says.
A soft, pitiful whimper escapes your lips, soaking into the skin of his neck as you nuzzle against him. He had been…anticipating this?
“Don’t hide,” he chastises softly with a click of his tongue, voice vibrating against your back and breaking through your thoughts. “How are you supposed to learn if you aren’t watching? Look at how pretty this pussy is,”
Your entire body jolts as the rough pad of his index finger skims over your clit, two fingers almost caressing your slit, down and then back up again, pulling his hand back slightly to admire the way your slick gleams on his fingers in the dim light of his bedroom.
“Already so wet for me, huh?” he breathes, lips tickling the shell of your ear. “Do you think about me when you touch yourself, hmm? Do you think about my fingers? My cock?”
Oh, it’s so embarrassing, your entire body flushing at his naughty, invasive questions, and they send another intense rush of warmth to your core, bitter shame settling on your tongue.
“Answer me,” he commands, voice firm but quiet, giving your clit a superficial slap that has a loud cry spilling from your throat.
“Yes!” you squeak, word muffled by his skin. “Y-Yes,”
“Yes what?”
Please don’t make me say it, you want to whine, tears of humiliation flooding your eyes. Another slap lands against your clit, harder this time, making your back arch against him.
“Yes, yes, I-I think of you when I touch myself,” you whimper, whole body trembling, eyes shut tightly to keep the tears stinging your eyes from leaking out, wishing his mocking coo in response didn’t make your stomach swoop the way it does.
Praises fall from his lips as his calloused fingers rub small, quick circles into the sensitive bud, interspersed with your sweet, breathy little moans, telling you how good you are, such a good little girl for him, how he fucking knew it, fucking knew that you were thinking of him every night while you desperately stuff your little cunt full of your fingers, the words whispered into your hair as you smush your face against his neck.
“C’mon baby, look at yourself. You’re so beautiful,” his words taper off into a hoarse, quiet whine as his fingers run along your slit again.
You peak out from your safe spot against him, unable to help the gasp that escapes your throat as your eyes connect with your reflections. Hooded eyes find yours, practically glowing, breath hot against your cheek, his chin hooked over your shoulder.
He looks like a fucking god like this, smoldering gaze burning a hole right through to your very soul, ebony hair tousled just right, voice just a hint deeper than normal, husky and guttural.
Watch me, he instructs, your eyes immediately snapping to the apex of your thighs reflected in the mirror, practically mesmerized as he sinks a finger into your fluttering little hole, a soft whine breaking in your chest.
“Shh,” he hushes you. “Watch me,”
Pumping his finger a few times, he works your cunt open enough for him to comfortably insert a second, your head falling back against his shoulder at the pleasant stretch. A chuckle vibrates in his chest, fingers thrusting twice before he curls them, laughing fully as your body jolts.
“Mm, think I found something,” he mutters in your ear, curling his fingers again and smirking when your emit a sharp, involuntary cry. “Yep, definitely found something,”
“Oh God,” you breathe, hips rolling a little to meet his fingers mid-thrust as he works up a steady rhythm.
“Feel good?”
“Uh-huh,” you nod fervently, the back of your head resting against his collarbone, lips parted slightly, eyes slipping shut. “So good,”
“Perfect. Now, do it yourself,”
Your eyes snap open as he removes his hand completely, whimpers of protest falling from your lips as you shake your head, cute, pathetic little ‘no!’s catching in your throat. Sapphire, dark and shimmering, stares at you expectantly through the mirror, Dabi raising an eyebrow when you don’t immediately start moving.
But it’s awkward and you’re clumsy, heat seeping into your cheeks as you fumble a little, stiff movements a stark contrast to his effortless fluidity.
He tries in vain to guide you, delegates what to do and exactly how to do it, but your wrist is beginning to ache, your fingers beginning to cramp, sick of unintentionally edging yourself.
“I can’t,” you wail loudly, frustrated tears blurring your vision. “I can’t, I can’t, not like you do, Dabi, please, t-touch me,”
“Aw, don’t be a greedy little brat,” but he’s chuckling as his fingers snake down your body.
It’s cute, he tells you, voice laced with condescension, that you can’t do anything for yourself, slapping your hand away and pushing two of his fingers into your dripping little pussy again, a pathetic little moan of relief spilling from your lips, body melting back into his.
“Can you at least play with your clit for me, baby?” His tone is almost patronizing, like he’s unsure if you’ll even be able to manage such a simple task, and you whimper out his name, nodding quickly as your fingers find the swollen bud.
He sounds unaffected, for the most part, and you’d probably think he was, if it weren’t for his cock, hot and hard and throbbing through his flannel PJ pants and pressed flush against your back. He’s rutting against you just a tiny bit, hips rocking against you in miniscule motions as his gaze focuses on his fingers.
“Open your eyes, angel, and watch my hand, yeah? I won’t always be around to make you cum, you know,”  
You do know that, you do.
But it’s hard. It’s hard to watch him, to concentrate on his actions, to even keep your eyes fully open and in focus when they’re continuously rolling back in your head, broken whimpers and high pitched whines leaking uncontrollably from your throat, climbing in volume with each harsh thrust of his fingers, with each swipe over your clit of yours.
“Yeah, that’s it,” he praises, voice strained ever so slightly. “Be a good girl, make a nice mess all over my fingers,”
And so you do, pathetically desperate to be good for him, gushing on his fingers only a few seconds later as your pussy clenches, mewling out his name like a mantra.
“What’re you gonna do next time, when you need to cum and I’m not around?” he asks, after your breathing has begun to calm.
“Doesn’t matter,” you reply simply, eyes still closed, body gone boneless against him. “I’ll never be able to do it as good as you can anyway, so why bother?”
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inkykeiji · 8 months ago
Many sad thoughts running through my head but I can imagine Dabi having trust issues as you and the other anon saying. Him being afraid of getting left behind. I feel like he would say “I didn’t mean to say I love you” at some point because that’s a type of vulnerable he doesn’t want to be but it’s just one of many thoughts
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AHHHHHHHH anon anon why must u hurt me like this?????? pls my whole heart just broke at this and i uhhhhh wrote 1.7k words about it,,,
❅ cw: soft dabi, angst, rly sappy ❅
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It seems to happen at the most random of times. It isn’t like the movies, isn’t ever after some profound incident or momentous occurrence shared between the two of you—no, it’s always right after the most mundane things; after he catches you brushing your teeth in a cute matching set of panties and a tank top, sticking out your tongue at him, mouth full of foamy white toothpaste; after he finds you curled up on the couch buried under a fluffy blanket, nothing more than a lump and a head as your eyes rapidly scan the pages of the book in front of you, entirely absorbed in whatever world it’s built for you; after he walks into the kitchen to see you by the sink washing a few dishes, hips swaying and head nodding as you hum along to whatever song is blasting through your headphones.
But God, does it hit him like a motherfucking bus every single time, punches him in the stomach without warning, knocks the breath straight out of him.
He’s usually good at keeping it to himself, usually able to swallow it back down when those three little words begin to creep up his throat, dancing on the back of his tongue and restricting his breathing.
But eventually, he messes up.
You had started it, right after you had finished sprinkling the pizza stone with some flour while he was rolling out the dough, wiping your powdery fingers down his t-shirt, then swiping a thumb across his cheekbone, leaving a streak of white flour painted in its path, a little mischievous smile on your face and glint in your eyes.
He retaliates immediately, grabbing a pinch of flour from the bag and flicking it right in your face.
“Dabi!” you gasp, but your shoulders are shaking with silent laughter as you wipe at your face, fingers only managing to leave more strokes of the substance instead of clearing it. Your hand dives into the bag, grasping a handful of flour, inhaling deeply—enough to expand your entire chest—before blowing air out of your mouth, casting tiny, thick explosions of white at him, speckling his shirt and dusting his inky hair.
“Oh, you little brat,”
And, fuck, you look so goddamn beautiful, giggles ringing out around the room, flour strewn in your messy, tousled hair, smears of it across your cheeks and neck, sprinkled on your clothes, eyes bright and breathing laboured with exhilaration as you daintily leap away from him.
They’re bubbling up in his chest, those three stupid little words, climbing up, up, up his throat to settle on his tongue, light and sweet, floating in his mouth like candy floss and melting on his tongue only to be resurrected by another one of your giggles, or playful yelps, or squeals of his name.
And he’s too preoccupied to remember to swallow them down, to chew and chomp on them until he’s crushed them into a thousand tiny pieces as he chases you around the kitchen while you throw clouds of flour at each other, too enraptured by the soft, cute, precious sounds he’s endlessly pulling from you, too hellbent on hearing more, a man possessed.
Because he hasn’t laughed like this in ages, isn’t sure he’s ever laughed like this in his entire life, and they just slip out, when he finally catches you, chest heaving a bit from the thrill of it all as large hands curl around your shoulders.
“God, I love you,”
They’re muttered softly, just a huff of breath, really, blanketed by his laughs and yours, and you nearly miss them.
Nearly.
And then, everything stops. Your laughs abruptly cut off, and he wishes he’d have missed the sharp intake of breath you inhale through your mouth, lips parted slightly, wide eyes staring at him as your body freezes up, going rigid in his grasp, feet fused to the floor.
He stops, too, lets go of you so quickly you’d think your skin burnt his palms through the thin material of your shirt, sapphire eyes growing wide—wider than you’ve ever seen them before—as his mind catches up with his mouth, stumbling a few steps back from you.
He wants to say something, anything, but his voice is caught in his chest, fading into pathetic squeaks of breath any time he tries to force a few words out. And it aches, heart pounding almost painfully against his ribcage, breathing shallow—almost ceased completely—as he stares unblinking at you, sharp, tingling anxiety flooding his veins.
And you—well, you’re staring at him with this look in your eyes, something that he can’t decipher, and it makes his stomach lurch. It’s a look he’s never seen before, your eyes shining as you gaze at him, almost glittering as you stare at him, unmoving, unbreathing, unexplainable. Are you upset? Angry? Disgusted? Stunned? A combination of all four? None at all?
The fact that he can’t tell, that he doesn’t know, when he prides himself on being able to read others so insanely well, ignites flames of anger that alight his entire body, right to the tips of his fingers and his toes, blazing straight through the anxiety and simmering in his chest, eyes hardening as they glare back at you.
A beat passes, your ears ringing from the thick, tense silence draped over the room, and then he’s pushing past you roughly with a choked snarl that sounds a little like a mix between a sob and a growl, and storming out of the kitchen.
He’s cut off all communication entirely, has been ignoring you for a few days now, only leaving his bedroom out of absolute necessity and refusing to answer any of your countless texts that have been collecting on his lockscreen, refusing to even touch his phone. He doesn’t want to see what you have to say, desperately tries to convince himself that he doesn’t care, that he isn’t scared of what your messages might reveal, isn’t terrified of that impending rejection he’s so sure is lurking on the horizon.
But there’s only so long he can keep avoiding you before you finally catch him in the kitchen, just past three in the morning, fixing himself a late-night snack.
“Oh, thank God,”
He whirls around at the sound of your voice, cobalt eyes gaping for a moment before narrowing into sharp slits an instant later.
“Dabi, listen—”
“No,” he growls, eyes flashing. “You listen, I don’t want to fucking talk about it, alright?”
Leaping in front of him, you block his path, prohibiting him from leaving the kitchen and speaking quickly. “Yeah? Well I do!”
“I don’t care,” he spits viciously, the ache throbbing deep in his chest—at the very core of his body—reminding him otherwise. “There’s nothing to talk about, anyway! It’s not like I meant them,”
And that—that gets you to stop, tripping a little over your own feet as you stumble back like he’s physically slapped you, a soft, hurt little whimper getting caught in the back of your throat as tears rapidly pool in your eyes, blurring your vision.
“Wh-What?”
He glares down at you, molars grinding together as his nose twitches.
I didn’t mean to say I love you.
What a pathetic fucking sentence—it’s almost laughable, the corners of his lips quirking up in a sardonic little grin. Your breath hitches, and his shoulders tense at the sound.
‘You aren’t supposed to know I love you’ is much more accurate, his mind sneers at him. Coward. Fucking coward.
“I didn’t mean it,” he says, though his voice is beginning to quiver, trembling hands curling into tight fists in an effort to stop it, short nails biting into the flesh of his palm as the skin stretched taut over his knuckles turns bone white.
“Didn’t mean what?” you whisper, glistening tears finally spilling over and streaming down your cheeks, leaving gleaming trails of salt water behind them. “Say it, Dabi,”
He’s got his eyes shut tightly as he shakes his head, knows if he opens them, if he looks at you, that he’ll break, shatter into a thousand pieces, split himself open at the very core of his body and bare his entire soul to you.
“Look at me,” you demand softly.
His jaw flexes once, slowly exhaling out his nose.
“Dabi, look at me,” a pause. “Please?”
“No.”
“W-Why?” the word escapes your lips in a little whine, broken up by your sniffles.
You know why.
But it’s those little half-sobs, the ones that keep catching painfully in your chest, that do it, interspersed with your soft whimpers as you plead with him—please, open your eyes, just look at me for a second, please!
Unable to stand it any longer, his lids finally rise, slowly revealing sparkling sapphire, glowering at you, his harsh gaze protected by a thin shield of water.
He hates this, hates not having control over his own fucking body, over his own fucking thoughts, hates the unfamiliarity of it all, of the unpleasant fluttering in his stomach and burning in his throat, swallowing thickly past the hard lump that’s formed, constricting his breathing.
Revolting, his inner voice snarls at him. You’re weak, letting some stupid little girl get to you like this, as if you even—
Your touch silences the voice, cutting it off midsentence, his whole body flinching at the soft, small hand resting so tenderly against the curve of his face, subconsciously nuzzling his cheek into your palm a second later, eyes slipping shut again.
“Dabi,” you begin, and something has changed. You no longer sound hurt, no longer sound wounded, your voice gentle and—
No. No, no, no, this can’t be happening to him right now. Panic grips his heart, puncturing it with its claws, sending blistering, sharp pain searing through his chest and slicing him open, raw and vulnerable.
“Please, don’t,” he whispers, words tumbling from his lips without his permission, voice frail, fragile, broken.
Don’t. He doesn’t want to hear them, doesn’t need to hear them, can’t bear to hear them—not if they’re false, fake, uttered out of misplaced pity and sympathy.
“I love you, too,”
A pathetic hiccup gets caught in his throat and he chokes on it, chest stuttering as he shakes his head, lids clenching tightly against the unfamiliar sting of tears, lips pressed together firmly to stifle the tiny distressed sounds that keep crawling up his throat, trying to escape.
There’s no way, she’s lying, how could she ever—
“Yes,” you whisper, thumb caressing his jaw. “I love you, too,”
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inkykeiji · 8 months ago
hi clari! how do you think dabi would like to be comforted? we know this man has a baggage of traumas and i was quite curious. i think you'd end up picking up signs he's not okay, and try talk to him about it or distract him like making a movie night or convicing him to cuddle, because he wouldn't go to you for help, probably. he's just closed about emotions, so he copes by bottling up.
oh god anon u really out here tryna HURT ME HUH okay okay you’d definitely have to work up to it n he’d become more open as he becomes more comfortable to accept your comfort. once he realizes how NICE skinship with u is he starts seeking it out more, tho. UHHHHH fair warning this drabble turned into a lil bit of angst???? it was supposed to be sweet n cute butttttttt that’s just not how it turned out lmfao
TW: one mention of cum, uuuh some angst, it’s still kinda cute in an angsty way i guess??? idk dabi’s a closet Sad Boi™️ to me
words: 814
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Something’s wrong, off—it has to be, because he isn’t acting right—you can see it in his walk, in the way he’s dragging his feet more than normal, boots scraping against the dusty hardwood; feel it in his eyes, navy darker than the depths of space itself, consuming everything their gaze lands on, sucking all of it in until there’s nothing left like voracious black holes; hear it in his voice, in the clipped tone he rarely ever uses with you.
At first, he resists. He doesn’t need your help, he spits, before you’re even done stuttering through your sentence, he doesn’t want it. There’s nothing wrong, leave him alone. So you back off, you give him space—maybe it was just a one-time thing, maybe he really is fine and you misread the signals.
But then it happens again, and he’s acting the exact same way, but worse. His shoulders are tense, back rigid, permanent scowl etched into his face with a glare that could kill on sight.
“You can’t do anything fucking right, can you?” he snaps at you for nearly nothing, almost no reason at all as you pass him in the moonlight illuminated hall, shoulder accidentally knocking against his as you keep timid eyes on your fuzzy slippers, sharp voice slicing through the air, slashing straight through your flesh, your heart.
But his harsh words don’t deter you, a soft rush of air escaping your parted lips in a gasp, wide eyes finding his. You don’t apologize. You don’t patronize, either, gaze full of sympathy but void of pity, staring at him in that steadfast, impenitent way that is so uniquely you, soft but never fearful, even though your voice quivers a little when you offer to watch a movie with him, ignoring his outburst entirely.
It’s what he loves and hates most about you.
It starts slow, as most things do with him. It starts with just sitting beside him and watching one of his favourite films, close enough that your thighs are pressed against one another, but not touching otherwise. And for a while, that’s enough for him. He’s quiet about it, doesn’t say anything when he walks into your tiny, shared living room and just throws on whatever he wants to before sitting down next to you, side pressed up tightly against yours.
And that’s okay, really, if that’s all he needs to feel better. You’re happy to help in any capacity, and giddiness bubbles in your chest at the thought. All you want is for him to feel better, for his face to relax again, for his vibrant eyes to become lidded and carefree, for his lips to quirk back up into that trademark smirk.
But eventually, as most things are with him, it isn’t enough.
Dabi’s greedy. He knows he is, latches onto you like a parasite the moment he realizes you make him feel better, even if he doesn’t know how or why. He doesn’t care, isn’t interested in finding out the reasons, isn’t ready to find out the reasons. Instead, he just takes, and takes, and takes, and you’re happy to give—eager to provide him with whatever he needs, anything to ease the torment on his face, even if it’s only for a few hours.
He feels like he can breathe again with you, when he’s around you, basking in your presence, ravenous eyes drinking in your light, your kindness, your very aura itself, breathing it in and letting it fill his lungs, heat his chest, flood his entire body with a warmth he’s never felt before. It’s new, it’s terrifying, it’s addicting.
It all progresses quickly, from old movies on that ratty couch to being trapped beneath his body on your bed, after he realizes how good it feels—how nice it is to have your hands in his hair, on his chest, on his thighs, down his pants; how nice it feels to have your lips pressed against his, little tongue battling his, inhaling your sweet breath and the pretty little sounds he manages to pull from you.
You don’t know what it is, this thing that’s hurting him so much, that’s tearing him up inside more and more frequently, that has him whimpering against you in the dead of night after he’s filled you with cum, little huffs of shuddering breath exhaled against your clammy skin as you silently coax him through it with tender touches and gentle kisses, but you decide that it’s none of your business either way. He’ll tell you when he’s ready to. For now, all you can do—the best thing for you to do—is to be there for him, to provide him with the quiet, unobtrusive love he so desperately craves, even if he isn’t exactly ready to admit it to himself yet. One day, he will. And when he does, he’ll thank you, too.
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inkykeiji · a month ago
bro, imagine a scenario of Prof! Keigo getting jealous when reader becomes invested and attentive to other professors. ofc the ohso innocent reader didn't mean to make him so jealous (or did they?).
Keigo just hates how he can't control his emotions and how he could be manipulated by reader who spares him only the smallest amount of attention. I'd love to see the scumbag and arrogant professor get a taste of his own medicine. 😈
I AM IN LOVE WITH THIS I AM SO IN LOVE WITH THIS AAAAAH and don’t you worry anon, in the dark academia fic you WILL see prof keigo get quite a hefty dose of his own medicine hehehehe 🙊 not with other profs tho so!! i wrote u something small that, tbh, kinda veers off into angst and away from your prompt, because i feel like all i write lately is prof keigo being super mean and punishing and wanted to explore him being a lil more vulnerable <3 i hope u still enjoy it tho, and i hope you really really enjoy the main series when it comes out!! <333
tw: student professor relationship, jealousy, lil bit of angst, lil bit of sap | words: 608
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It’s stupid—he knows it’s stupid, knows he’s being a fucking idiot, knows none of it is true; mere fabrications whispered to him by jealousy, crawling through his brain. It’s stupid, but he can’t seem to help it, unable to keep himself from snapping and snarking at you, responding to your genuine questions with sarcasm and regarding you with skepticism when you answer his.
At first, you don’t know what the heck his problem is, why he’s acting so rude, so suspicious, hawk-like eyes observing you carefully, scrutinizing your features as he hunts for lies and falsities.
It’s only when he seethes out an answer to another of your sincere questions, one warm winter afternoon in his office, asking if you’re fucking stupid and conjuring a thin film of tears to shield your eyes and a sharp gasp to claw its way up your throat, looking as though he had physically slapped you, that he realizes just how awful he’s been, something cracking and piercing in his chest with each of your quiet little sniffles.
Because, really, it isn’t your fault. He knows this, too, tries in vain to remind himself of it, but it’s hard when memories—phantom echoes of other professors’ voices—float around his brain in a dense haze, talking about your talent as a scholar, your sweet nature, your surprising intellect and tenacity, voices drenched in pure adoration. It’s not as if they were being inappropriate when they spoke these compliments, either, true and honest in all of their comments, authentic admiration sown into their tones when they discussed how much of a joy it is to have you in a class, what a treat it is to have you visit office hours armed with intriguing questions that challenge their notions and force them to defend their positions, what a privilege it is to teach a student like you.
And he knows they just appreciate you, knows they only respect you as an academic, knows you aren’t fucking any other professors—yet he’s powerless to curb the spikes of envy that tear through his chest at the thoughts, incapable of quieting the wispy ghosts of these sentiments that morph from honour and esteem to horny and erotic as they swirl around in his skull.
Heat seeps into his cheeks as he apologizes in a mumble, as he tells you what’s actually bothering him, eyes fixated on the pen he’s twirling between his fingers, unable to meet your gaze. He half expects you to laugh, because he knows he’s the one being absurd; half expects you to get angry, upset, offended at such a thought—an accusation, almost; a crude misinterpretation of your character—instinctively wincing as the last of his explanation tumbles from his lips, anticipating your reaction.
But you surprise him, just like you always do, with a soft sigh and a gentle grin, climbing into his lap to cuddle against his chest and nuzzle into his neck, fingers tangling in the curls at the nape of his neck as you reassure him that he’s cute, but don’t worry, you’re fine and it’s nice to see him show some natural human insecurity—to know he’s not actually a robot and it’s okay to ask for reassurance sometimes, y’know.
The words ease the tension that’s been building in his chest, heavy and suffocating, and for the first time in weeks, he feels like he can breathe again, body oozing into your touch, more and more and more with each tender affirmation whispered into his flesh and every sweet kiss pressed to his skin and, God, he thinks he might be in love with you.
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inkykeiji · 7 months ago
⚠ contains soft dabi ⚠
ok but dabi being clingy after making up, he just feels so sad, he didn't mean to raise his voice or say those bad things to you, he's just reflecting on his father. and you just forgive him but he feels so so bad. he cant even look you in the eyes because he's afraid he'll see his mom's terrified eyes in yours, he just mutters endless sorry and so sorry's while resting his forehead on your collarbone.
ANON IS THIS THE SAME ANON FROM BEFORE OR ARE U ALL JUST OUT TO HURT ME AND MAKE ME MEGA SOFT
please holy fuck i want clingy dabi so bad i don’t think i’ve ever wanted something more in my entire life i’m so 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺 aaaAAAAAHHHHHH
please oh my god and he’s pressing the most gentle, feather-light kisses against the skin of your neck and your collarbone as he mumbles against it. he doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to properly convey his guilt, his regret, his remorse—he just can’t put it into words :( and he’s angry at himself; angry that he doesn’t know how to properly express his own feelings, how to make you understand just how sorry he really is, and angry that he said/did those things in the first place. the emotion weighs heavy on his chest, in combination with the intense sadness, and he feels like he can’t breathe, feels like his whole chest is caving in on itself as a burning lump lodges itself in his throat. the fact that these outbursts remind him of his father makes him physically sick, so nauseous he’s dry heaving over the sink.
and you—you forgive him so easily, so quickly, with tender words and loving caresses that he doesn’t deserve, that he’ll never deserve, and it just makes him feel worse, because you shouldn’t have to be forgiving him in the first place.
so he does all he can, whimpers endless apologies against your soft skin, nuzzling into it a little and desperately hoping that you can decipher how truly sorry he is through rawness of his voice and the gentleness of his hands, because he doesn’t know how to say it any other way yet, but he really is trying <33
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inkykeiji · 6 months ago
do u have any dark content author/fic recs 👀👉👈
aaah anon i do!!! here’s a lil list of some of my favourite authors n fics by them!! <33
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@rat-suki
literally everything electra, no strings attached, and property of
@bakatenshii
literally everything rapture
@blahkugo​
charity
@undermattsun
show me, wicked, and sacrilegious
@unmeiii
the babysitter
@blckbrdlove
baby, is the door unlocked?
@tetsou
closer
@atsumusings
always
@sawamooora
looks like it’s my turn
@cxnicalsweetheart
o sinful night
@bokutobabie
safe and pure
@kyovtani
there you go, pet
@atsumuse
initiation
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these are just a few off the top of my head!! i’m missing so many incredible authors in our community though so i’m also going to link you to leah’s incredible rec list of taboo writers as well!! <33
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inkykeiji · a month ago
Definitely not thinking about professor keigo catching touya and reader fucking in an empty classroom
ooooh fuck anon he’d be downright furious!!!!!!!
tw: student professor relationship, public sex, noncon, infidelity | words: 477
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honestly, touya wishes his phone had been within reach, the moment keigo unassumingly walks through the door into his usual lecture hall to find touya not only fucking his favourite student, but fucking his favourite student over his goddamn desk.
because, really, it’s a sight worthy of being preserved forever: steaming coffee and half eaten pastry falling to the floor, staining his loafers; jaw dropping open for half a second in pure, unadulterated shock, subconsciously allowing appal and devastation to bleed through his features before fierce fury mops it up; voice getting caught in his throat, whatever he was about to say materializing into the most pathetic sound touya’s ever heard—a hoarse little whimper biting the back of his favourite professor’s tongue.
“i told you,” you’re whining out in little huffs, chest stuttering with each pound into you.
you did, he knows, bitched about how you totally do not have enough time to do this before he returns—which is exactly why touya did do it. and he’s sure the absolute delight at getting caught shows on his face—the arrogant satisfaction that his little plan worked stitched into the smug smirk, lopsided and spread across one half of his face; into the little glimmers of amusement, delight, glee that glitter in his eyes with each of the snickers crawling up his throat, with each sharp breath exhaled through keigo’s flared nostrils, with each clench of keigo’s jaw and each moan he fucks out of you; into the raised eyebrow that mocks keigo, that silently challenges him to do something.
and even though you’re acting upset, hissing at touya to stop and body squirming under his big hands, he can feel the way your cunt clenches around his cock, can hear those poorly stifled mewls that you’re so desperately trying to swallow, that keep shattering your sentences and wounding your words anyway, can see the way your lashes keep fluttering, the way your eyes keep rolling, the way your tongue keeps tripping over itself with each ruthless thrust, apologies knotting with muffled whimpers and hiccupped gasps.
touya idly wonders aloud if keigo’s going to be interesting for once, if keigo will play with him this time, slight breathlessness and slapping skin the only indication that he’s railing the absolute life out of you.
but keigo’s above this—which is to say he’s a coward and no fun at all, in touya’s opinion—and refuses to give touya the gratification he’s seeking, despite the rage that’s blistering his chest, that’s burning his eyes, that’s blazing in the words callously spit from between grinding teeth when he tells touya to get the fuck out before he calls the police, voice trembling ever-so-slightly as his gaze meets yours, a fraction of the ferocity fading from his tone when he vows to deal with you later.
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inkykeiji · 8 months ago
dabi doesn't know how to apologize and he stutters when nervous, it's my headcanon. he will let you cling onto him as much as you like, and will warm you up, not really gonna touch you unless you start it, affection is always hard for him and aceppting it it's just as difficult. he may be an ass, but he'd hate himself if he ever hurt your feelings even on the slightest, he gets extremely anxious if he notices you're different with him. he wants to learn to be nice to you, but he was bever teached how to, he always thinks he's about to fuck it up and you'll leave. be a little patient with flame boi, pls. 💙
pls i’m CRYING you get him so right!!!! i agree with literally all of this yes oh my god yes! like in terms of 100% canon dabi, i think it would be very, very, very difficult to get close to him, but if you somehow managed to, somehow managed to break down those incredibly high, thick walls he’s built up around himself and his heart, he’d be exactly like what you’ve described. i also think, after accepting the fact that he loves you, he’d become very possessive and protective and jealous, and i think those traits would stem from the fear that you’re going to leave him, for someone else, for someone better, for someone easier (trust issues!! MAJOR trust issues! additionally, if you’re super sweet and patient with him, if you continue to show him love even when he messes up, when he’s mean to you or snaps at you, he’d also probably have some self-esteem issues, thinking that he doesn’t deserve you every time he messes up or hurts you).
dabi’s issues run SO deep, some of them practically etched into his very soul at this point, but he really would be willing to unlearn them, just for you. he definitely would have his doubts about himself in particular in relationships. he doesn’t really know what he’s doing, what’s ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ in terms of relationships, and i think not having that knowledge or just simply not understanding would make him angry and anxious and fill him with a myriad of inexplicable and confusing feelings, especially because when he does finally accept the fact that he actually cares for you he truly would never want to hurt you. so his partner would need to be someone understanding of that situation, and be willing to teach him healthy relationships. this would take a LOT of patience and care—he’s not going to get it right on the first try, and some of these qualities and mistakes may never go away, because they are a core part of who he is, how he was raised and a by-product of his environment + trauma (pls note that i am not excusing toxic behaviour here, simply stating my interpretation of dabi in a relationship with someone he truly cares about + loves). but he would be damned if he didn’t try his fucking hardest to unlearn all of those toxic traits, for you and only for you, even if it takes years.
i’ll be as patient as he needs me to be, i promise <33
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inkykeiji · 5 months ago
Heehee, imagine doing that "i want daddy dabi" post in front of him. You'd be in BIG trouble. <3
oh my god anon anon anon yes yes yes
cw: 18+, daddy kink, mean dabi :(, implied semi-public spanking
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you’re sitting across the room from him at some sort of little party or gathering, a devious lil smirk on your pretty lips as you gaze at him through your lashes and press post.
he’s got your notifications on, because of course he does, because he needs to keep an eye on his baby, you know, even online, so his phone buzzes only an instant later. there’s already a smirk adorning his own lips, smug and sadistic and tugging at the corners of his mouth as he fishes his phone out of his pocket. he already knows you’re playing, acting out a little and being a brat because you’re bored at this function, because you want attention—his attention—like the perfect little whore that you are.
blood’s rushing in your ears, pulsing with the increasing beat of your heart, breath bated as you watch his sapphire eyes fly across the screen—once, twice, three times—before they flick up to meet your gaze, darkening as a storm begins to brew. the smirk has dropped from his lips, angular jaw clenching twice as his molars grind together, nostrils flaring ever-so-slightly as he exhales slowly, deeply, controlled.
and you can’t help the tiny, soft giggle that pries its way past your lips at his reaction, thighs pressing together as scalding heat begins to furl in the pit of your tummy, flooding your veins, gushing all over your pretty lace panties.
it’s the giggle that does it, really, the giggle that has him shooting out of his chair so fast, so aggressive that it wobbles on it’s legs, and stalking across the room straight towards you. he crosses it in no more than four large strides, still somehow slow, almost serene, though you know better. you can see the infinitesimal trembling of his body, the way his eyes are practically glowing, the flexing of his fingers and snapping and popping of his knuckles. and although his stride would suggest he’s calm, his aura is anything but, cracks of electricity sparking the air surrounding him like mini lightning bolts as anyone in his way immediately clears.
he’s trying not to make a scene as a large hand wraps around your bicep and hoists you up, growling lowly in your ear that you’re so fucking lucky he doesn’t spank your ass raw in front of all these people.
then you’re being shoved into a washroom—the furthest possible from the group of people you were just surrounded by moments before—with so much force you nearly trip over your own feet, managing to catch yourself on the edges of the porcelain sink as the door slams shut behind him.
slender fingers tangle in your hair, fisting and pulling you back to your feet, no longer concerned about keeping up appearances or the ear piercing yelp you emit as he does so.
you want Daddy, huh? his hot breath curls around the shell of your hear as he snarls out the words, your back pressed flat to his chest in the tiny room.
your nodding as best you can, frantic little jerks of your head working against his strength, burning tears already beginning to blur your vision.
nah, nah, nah, baby, he’s murmuring, lips moving against the skin of your jaw, dragging along it a little. you don’t want Daddy, you want Daddy’s attention.
and he’s gonna give it to you, he promises, shoving you over the sink and keeping a hand flat on the small of your back while the other tugs at his bowtie, the delicate fabric falling apart as nimble fingers toy with it and being stuffed in your mouth a moment later.
who knows, he’s saying in that smooth, deep, dark tone, a smirk sown into his voice as calloused hands push your dress up, rough skin sliding against the silkiness of your thighs. the material bunches around your waist, thumbs hooking in the waistband of your sticky panties and shoving them down just enough to reveal the bare flesh of your ass to him. you can feel his cock, hot and hard and throbbing through his trousers, pressed against you as he grinds a little. maybe if you keep quiet and take your punishment like a good little girl, Daddy will reward you with his cock after.
he backs up, a gentle shiver coursing through you at the sudden lack of body heat, replaced by a sharp, stinging slap only half a second later.
maybe if you behave, he’s panting out between spanks, Daddy will let you choke on it.
and to think, you almost sent a sext instead. oh well.
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inkykeiji · a month ago
its so adorable that in the twins au dabi is smaller than touya. ALSO that dabi really has white hair but dyes it black to look less like touya?? fuckin cute af. i just wanna hump the twins cocks :((( maybe have a little me and dabi day at the zoo while touya is at work, getting all horny and desperate and humping away in the corner of the snake exhibit where its all dark, bc dabi just cant control himself >.< meep 🍓🍓
ISN’T IT?????? :((((( fuck strawberry bb u and me both waaaah
SHHHH STOP zoo dates with dabi would be so so so cute!!!!!
tw: public indecency
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touya knows how bored the two of you get when he’s away at work, how restless the two of you get when you have too much time on your hands, how much trouble the two of you get into when left to your own devices for just a little too long.
so, he suggests the both of you visit the zoo, in the morning of one of his busiest days of the week, after you mumble into the pillows about how much you hate wednesdays, his twin agreeing with a muffled, noncommittal grunt.
it’s a weekday, he points out as slender fingers expertly fuss with a navy tie, catching your eye through the full-length mirror he’s situated in front of. which means it shouldn’t be too busy. and it’s not too hot, either—perfect day for the zoo.
and touya was right, just like he always is—the weather is beautiful, blue sky embroidered with the fluffiest white clouds, appearing sown into the atmosphere, and the zoo is practically dead, a result of it being smack in the middle of the workday.
you’ve been flitting from exhibit to exhibit for hours now, eyes bright and smile dazzling as you drag him to the next enclosure, your hand in his, excited little coos spilling from your throat.
and you look so cute, so precious as you observe the cheetahs, fingers tightening around the flesh of his palm and pulling a little in your wonderment as two whiz past you, a peculiar type of innocence enveloping you as you gasp and giggle.
yet regardless of how sweet you are, of how pure you appear, dabi wasn’t blessed with the virtue of patience, and the way the soft breeze keeps lifting the skirt of your already borderline indecent dress, linen swishing with the ebb and flow of the gentle gusts, is the worst kind of tease, fabric drifting to reveal the bare skin of your thighs, sometimes carrying the material high enough to gift him a glance of the pretty, lacy trim of your panties.
it’s driving him up the fucking wall, and he swears to god, he’s going to climb the cage of the cheetah enclosure and throw himself to the cats if the incessant ache in his pants isn’t relieved soon.
he’s surprised you haven’t noticed, truthfully, seemingly oblivious to the way he’s been pressing his body flush to yours, grinding hard flesh against your thigh, the way his eyes have morphed from glittering crystal to gaping navy, massive and ready to swallow you whole, the way his body’s become increasingly rigid, muscles coiled and shoulders hunched and jaw set.
but it’s all he can fucking think about, cock straining painfully against black denim, as if it’s yearning for you—for your touch, your tongue, your cunt—and it breaks him, finally, when you’re in the snake enclosure. because it’s dark, and there’s no one in here anyway—barely anyone anywhere at all—and he just can’t fucking help it, a growl rattling in his chest as he shoves you into the first corner you pass, sharp hipbones forcing your thighs to spread as he wiggles between them.
you don’t ask what’s going on—he doesn’t give you a chance to—crushing his lips to yours as calloused hands paw at your dress, your waist, your thighs, hips beginning to rut the moment they’re wedged between your legs.
harsh breaths echo throughout the tiny building, bouncing off concrete and magnifying as sharp teeth sink into your bottom lip, tugging hard before he sucks it into his mouth, tongue laving over the deep indents he left.
he can’t stand the stupid, desperate whines prying their way past his lips, mingled with pitiful whimpers that each roll of his hips pushes from his chest, sounds you eagerly gulp down as your fingers thread through his hair and your nails scrape against his scalp, almost as if you’re encouraging him.
it isn’t graceful. it’s needy, and rough, and uncoordinated, and he should be ashamed—touya would be ashamed, if he could see the way his younger twin is behaving, as primal as the animals that surround him—but dabi doesn’t care.
dabi doesn’t care that the rocking of his hips is awkward and uneven, harsh denim chafing the soft skin of your inner thighs in his haste; doesn’t care that he’s bitten you hard enough to draw blood, copper stinging his tongue as he sucks at the wound; doesn’t care that you’re in public, that this is technically illegal, that touya’s going to crucify him when he finds out—because he will find out.
no. dabi just wants to get off.
and he does, filling his jeans with burning, sticky cum embarrassingly quickly, your name leaving his lips in a cracked moan, fractured by the stuttering of his breath as his hips twitch, unable to quell their pathetic gyrating, even after he’s spilled himself.
it’s you that has to stop him, tender palms running down his glistening neck and then over his toned biceps, whispering stop, stop, stop, your caress soothing the overstimulated shudders coursing through his form.
you’re giggling a little when he finally pulls back to look at you, amusement playing in your eyes conjuring a breathless smile of his own, and his head falls forward, forehead resting against yours. your hands never stop their gentle ministrations as you sigh softly, shifting a little as wet denim rubs against your irritated skin.
“we’re bringing you an extra pair of pants, next time,”
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inkykeiji · 5 months ago
because of your dark academia post, i raise you: scumbag professor!keigo, psychology student!dabi, & history major!tenko. this unholy trio all set their eyes on the new greek major!reader & desperately want to corrupt her.
ooooooh anon what a beautiful big brain you have!!!!! holy shit this would be a WILD ride ehehehe
CW: scummy professor, generally toxic and horrible men who want to take advantage of others/own others
scumbag prof!keigo is so handsome and charming, so intelligent and suave, so kind and compassionate, and are you sure you’re doing okay? his office door is always open for you, if you need any extra help, of course! he cares about the well-being of his students so much, always extending his office hours for those pretty, pretty girls that pretend to be dumber than they actually are—anything to spend a few extra minutes with the most attractive professor on campus, right? and he loves it, loves all of the attention, loves the way they all just trip over themselves for a chance to talk to him, to hear him say their name, to have him learn their name, loves the way other males in his class brood and glare and grumble with envy, a monster with glowing emerald eyes and razor sharp claws ripping at their chests and bellies. and yet, they cannot find it in them to hate him—to even dislike him in the slightest. it makes him feel powerful, in a way, knowing that all of his students either want to be with him, or want to be him. but then he sees you, all soft and innocent as a fluffy little lamb and oh, he wants, god does he ever want, is positive he’s never wanted anything more in his entire life. especially when that young man with ivory for hair and sapphires for eyes slides into the empty seat next to you, eyes glinting with all of the grace and finesse of a skilled hunter.
psychology student!touya is exactly the way sara and i discussed him ehehe so to quote/add to that ask:
he’s one of those jackass know-it-all’s who has a comment for or an opinion on literally everything. you know, one of those ‘naturally’ smart guys—one that comes to class with no materials whatsoever, kicking his dirty boots up on his desk as he carelessly leans back in his chair and effortlessly answers anything and everything. keigo can’t fucking stand him, finds him rude and obnoxious and annoying. touya claim’s he doesn’t need to take notes like the rest of them, boasts that it’s all stored in his memory the moment he hears it because he’s just that good, he swears it. he’s one of those pretentious assholes that has the gall to act bored during lecture, preforming neat little hand tricks with his pen, twirling it through and around slender fingers and capturing the undivided attention of several of the female students that surround him. it’s just so easy for him, he complains after class, to the few people that cling to him, that look up to him, that want to be him. he wishes there was a bit more of a challenge, but it isn’t the prof’s fault he was born a genius, he supposes. but when he sees you, sitting all cute and precious and entirely oblivious to his presence—well, that’s not okay, is it? you should be fawning over him just like everyone else. he see’s the way the professor’s eyes keep drifting over to you, lingering a second too long on that gorgeous sweetheart neckline of the pretty lil dress your wearing, and oh. oh, touya needs, needs you to want him, needs you to be his, needs you to prove to his favourite professor that touya is, once again, much better than him.
history major!tenko is indifferent to pretty much everything. an unconventionally attractive rich boy, he’s intelligent, but he isn’t some show-off know-it-all like touya is. he doesn’t feel the need to prove himself to the rest of these students—such behaviour is below him, as far as he’s concerned, and he’d rather not waste the time, energy, or breath on it. he isn’t shy, just quiet and judgemental, thinks—no, knows he’s better than everyone else in all of his classes, but rarely comments on the matter. in all honesty, big groups of people unnerve him, and he’d much rather be back in his quaint penthouse ten minutes away from campus, playing and developing video games—his true passion. not much else interests him until he lays eyes on you, looking like the sweetest, most decadent treat he’s ever seen, and he’s never felt a stronger desire to own anything in his entire life. and what tenko wants, tenko gets—just ask his daddy.
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inkykeiji · 8 months ago
me, dabi 🤝 having trust issues about skinship and pda
🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺
i just love touchstarved dabi so much???? like touchstarved dabi that is initially convinced that he doesn’t need it, doesn’t even care for it, even tho he’s never really had it in the first place??? and then touchstarved dabi that can’t stop flinching every time you touch him, even if it’s just the softest little wisps of touches, just the skimming of fingertips as you pass him something, or brushes of arms as you walk by???
touchstarved dabi who realizes that he kind of likes it??? that your hand on his knee or head on his shoulder causes a newfound warmth to spread throughout his entire body, and although unfamiliar, it isn’t unpleasant. he doesn’t understand it, not really anyway, just knows that he wants more.
he tries to stage them as coincidences at first, doing anything just for fleeting platonic grazes of your warm skin against his, until it’s not enough, and finally, finally during one of the leagues impromptu movie nights, raises a trembling hand and places it on your thigh, refusing to look at you, terrified that he isn’t doing it right or you don’t want it, entire body jumping almost violently when you gently place your hand atop his, lacing your fingers together and squeezing <33
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inkykeiji · 14 days ago
Before i forget, i must ask: reader tells dabi "you better fuck me right." Which dabi has the most severe reaction? The least? Which one just Isn't Playing That Game?
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FANTASTIC QUESTION MAY FANTASTIC QUESTION!!!!!
cw: face slapping, implied rough sex, daddy kink
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touya-nii: just laughs for a moment; a sharp, terrifying sound, eyes glowing with sadism. excuse me? what the fuck did u just say to him? is that a demand or a request, baby? does he usually fuck you wrong??? he’s amused, this much is plain, evident in his smile, unnaturally wide and stretched taut across his face, in his eyes, pupils nothing more than gaping black holes, outlined by the thinnest ring of sapphire, in his body, limbs and muscles practically vibrating from excitement, from anticipation, and oh, we’re gonna have some fun tonight, princess <3
bmb dabi: has the least severe reaction. is that a challenge??? he hopes it’s a challenge. he’s gonna prove that he’s the BEST fuck, gonna prove that he fucks you better than anyone else ever could, gonna fuck you so good that you’ll be requesting that he ‘fuck you right’ every single goddamn time. he’s gonna fuck you until you’re crying, face a beautiful mess of tears and spit; until you’re on the verge of passing out, eyes rolling back and mouth hanging slack, throat ripped raw and ragged from the gasps and whines and moans he’s tearing from you; until you realize he’s the ONLY one that can ever fuck you right, he promises <3
poison!dabi: the most severe reaction by far. you do NOT order Daddy around like that, or speak to him in such a manner, with such disrespect. it earns you a callous slap to the face, sharp and stinging, shooting little pricks of agony through your cheek. oh, don’t you worry, princess—he’s gonna fuck you right, so right that you won’t be able to walk for a fucking week, so right that his hipbones will carve his name into your inner thighs with the prettiest galaxies of violet and charcoal, so right that you’ll never, ever be demanding that of him again <3
twin!dabi + twin!touya: aw, cute, you think you can tell them what to do 🥺 just for that, they’re gonna fuck you slow, torturous, gonna edge you until you’ve gone fucking delirious from it, until your brain’s turned to chalky ash and you’re babbling out a steady stream of nonsense, voice wrecked, raw, hoarse, while they take turns cumming inside of you, all over you, making a mess, a masterpiece of your body, your face, your soul itself <3
— 
hehehe may <333 ily!!! and i also LOVE the thought of dabi placing his hands on my hips as i move throughout the kitchen uGH it’s so cute and domestic and it has me fucking SWOONING just thinking about it <33
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inkykeiji · 20 days ago
is touya-nii one to get jealous over celebrity crushes?
YES. EXTREMELY. and especially after the tomura incident. touya-nii’s confidence took a serious nosedive following reader’s little stunt. and not his physical confidence—oh no, he knows he’s a very attractive man, scars and all; knows women and men and all those in between are unable to resist his sapphire gaze, penetrative and primitive; knows they just can’t help but fawn over his tousled ivory (or inky, depending on where we are in the series) strands and smooth, deep voice—but his emotional confidence, his already rickety faith in himself, in who he is at his core, in his soul itself.
he’s always been a jealous and possessive person—what’s his is his, no ifs, ands, or buts about it—but as i’ve said before, reader’s cheating with tomura really was a harsh slap to the face, a hefty dose of startling reality, serving as a reminder that he isn’t in complete control, that he isn’t invincible, that he isn’t the boss—not exactly, anyway; readers ability to get him to change his ways in an instant with merely one simple action proves so. he isn’t as powerful and almighty as he once believed himself to be.
still, he doesn’t have any celebrity crushes, so why should she? he’s more than enough, isn’t he? what else could she possibly want? what else could she possibly need? the concept of celebrity crushes is completely lost on him—he doesn’t see their purpose at all—and she can expect a whole slew of sulking, snarky comments and snide quips if she ever decides to put something containing her crush on while he’s around.
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