#//did I need to go on that long? No- but did I? f.ck yes

[truly-quirkless-a]

@uravityxo asked:

FEEL. -How does Fin react to a persons touch? A random stranger’s? A loved one’s? A friend’s? anndddd gotta share the love for both muses ! <3 DNA. -What was Toshinori's home life like?

["DAMN" Questions. | Accepting!]

Fin is incredibly touch-averse. Strangers that touch Fin without their permission (presumed- on the arm or something, not just a bump in public) will cause them to jolt, if not flinch away entirely or smack the other. Thanks to a rather colorful upbringing, Fin is very sensitive to the touch of others. A stranger would have Fin incredulous, if not afraid, while a friend would just have them lightly put off- possibly joking about giving them a heart attack.

However, with friends, Fin does slowly get better at touch. They hate- hate- any touch made without their permission/without a warning, and it shows in how they treat others. They apologize for the slightest bump, and will always ask before making any contact.

This proves less true for loved ones. Y'see, for all Fin's touch-dodging, they are touch starved, as well. This means their loved ones (after enough trust is gained) are likely to be subject to Fin randomly hugging them, or just holding their hand/arm- basically being touchy without saying a word about it. The random touch of a loved one would have Fin leaning in after the initial flinch, as opposed to jumping away or joking about fear.

Before the deaths of his parents...it was good. He was raised in a loving home, with adoring parents who weren't too strict- but didn't dare spoil him either. He knew the love of a father and mother, but those memories are very distant and vague, now.- He remembers the sensations, the faces of his parents, hints of their voices, of their love...and the way they tried to protect him when they both died. Beyond that, he jumped around in the foster care system (there weren't a lot of good homes at the time) for most of his adolescence- before eventually just going on the run and living on his own.

He lived on his own for about a year before he met Shimura and Gran Torino...who ended up becoming his sorta-adopted parents. Shimura was always like the kind, gentle mother of his short-lived youth...and Gran Torino was the stern, annoyed father who made sure to whip him into shape. Shimura's death was absolute shit- but he and Gran Torino never stopped in their training.

At times, Toshinori wonders if Gran Torino kept going because it was all he could focus on, anymore. Because to stop and take a breather- to not be focused on the goal- would be to feel grief. Without Shimura, Toshinori and Gran Torino's relationship grew strained. The only thing that the two focused on was working- getting Toshinori stronger so that he could some day beat All for One. Home became just another training camp- and for a time, Yagi lost what it meant to feel while under Gran Torino's tutelage.

The old man's definitely eased up/grown softer with age, given how he treats young Midoriya- something Toshinori's grateful for, since even hearing his master's voice still sets him a bit on edge. It's not fault of Torino's own- the two just...made a place where they focused on the outcome, so they wouldn't be hurt by the fuel behind their fire.

[mytalemyworld]

Cihan: Did you hear our conversation? Alya: Yes, I did. I heard you are a despicable smuggler.

Cihan: Did you report it? Did you grass on me? Alya: Stay away from me. Cihan: Alya! Alya: Yes! Because what you did was despicable! I did the right thing! Yes, I am the one who grassed on you.

If you really got surprised to hear that, you really haven't watched enough Turkish tv shows. Lol. It was so obvious she was going to report it. I patiently waited for the queen to drop the bomb. Long live the queen!

Okay, I'm pissed. Seriously he can f.ck off, I am not gonna wait for the writer to realize this is such a big mistake.

Someone wrote that Alya reminded them of Lady Diana. And yes, I got that vibe as well in this episode. Like, the way she has no choice about anything is becoming more and more suffocating (you can't do this, you can't do that, because you're the wife of the clan leader, pfftt!) and Cihan didn't even try to keep his promise. Like, wtf did we just watch?

Alya could have reported him for any reasons because she has EVERY RIGHT, no need to write a nonemphatic man, they're really turning him into an untrusthworthy person in every sense and I don't like it.

I fully support what she has done. Hell, she has more guts than the whole family has, because she didn't even hide what she did. I called it, even if she decided to betray him, she would do it while looking into his eyes. That was so satisfying.

I want to watch this guy

not this guy

If this chemistry go in vain, I will never forgive them.

(As if they gave a damn about my forgiveness, I know. But still...)

[garlicbreakfast]

Carefully

https://garlicbreakfast.tumblr.com/post/612674808244748288/i-just-want-to-feel-his-chest-just-a-little-bit

OK, guys. By now it’s absolutely clear that I’m absolutely crazy, because I’m continuing on this throw-away idea of the completely innocent bangclaesbang (as per link above).

I cannot stress enough that ‘Claes’ in this story is as abstract as it’s possible, barely with any link to the real person. This ‘Claes’ is maybe a bit younger, UNMARRIED, having no (struggling with) meaningful relationships, basically an abstraction of one cashet of his personality, incidentally wearing that blue suit (above).

He’s NOT famous, most probably touring with one of his theatre productions and thusly having an after-party…and meeting a young woman…

Warnings: ? Danish kink, swearing kink (ha!), a bit of conflicted fingering…WICKER CHAIRS!

A FOLLOW-UP of the story in link above (you might want to read it first)

P.S. I apologize for my (google translate) Danish. But what ‘Claes’ says actually adds a bit to the story. You might want to know what he says:)

CAREFULLY

“We’ve done everything backwards,” he says, smiling and frowning. The frown is very cute, the underlying concern endears you immensely, but most of all because it’s so absurd and sweet that, of all things that you’ve done, he would find the most concerning that you’ve done everything backwards.

“I…didn’t know how to…I’ve never done it before,” you blurt out, knowing perfectly well he didn’t mean it like that (you ended up in a dark back hall after a round of intense alcohol-fuelled eye-fucking without having said a word to each other. You even skipped kissing. Till…afterwards.) You don’t remember much of how you both managed to stumble back to the lobby, find a table and order drinks, other than that it involved a lot of, well, stumbling and falling over each other in shrieks of laughter, unfocussed kissing, crawling around and gathering discarded pieces of (his) clothing and (your) dignity. Now you’re pretending to be normal people, as much as it is possible at a theatre awards after-party, and, despite the residual alcohol in your systems, it is awkward all over again.

You start to register the horror on his face and you stupidly find it so cute (because every expression on his face is cute) that only after a while you realize what may have horrified him so. You know you look younger than you are, but again, not that young – it’s him who looks positively boyish, ephemeral and glowing, despite the f..ng two meters or so, and the two decennia he’s got on you… You burst into giggles - for some reason you want to crawl over to his side and hug him, and soothe out the furrowing that is forming on his brow again…

“No, not that! You I only meant what we have just done…” You frantically wave a hand between the two of you. He catches your hand with his, pulls it down to the table, his long strong fingers stroking your ridiculously thin, pale ones, the dark sinews and veins on the broad back of his hand bulging up and flattening with the movement…It’s a wonder, whatever your hands are doing together, you think.

“Maybe that is why you were so inventive”, he remarks easily; you didn’t know it was possible to blush harder than you already had, and yet you do exactly that; feeling silly and very young, you extricate your fingers from his.

‘I guess I was so ‘inventive’, because I didn’t know how it’s supposed to be done!’ you retort with a weird laughter.

‘Hmm, that’s deep. Actually very true. I will remember that.’

You think over what you’ve just said, and you snort, and you giggle and giggle, it’s all the unease that’s been tickling at your insides. You’re a barrel of laughs, Y/N!

He scratches at the day old stubble, the dark, glittering eyes darting all over your face, probably connecting the dots, probably figuring out exactly what kind of idiot you are…. You blink at each other first alternately, then synchronically, and then he cusses and says, rather hopelessly, rubbing his stubbly cheek:

“Do you really think that I am so…”

He cuts himself off and asks:

“How you think it all happens?”

“I don’t know. What?”

‘I don’t know either…It’s just a woman and you, and then it just…, I…I don’t even remember every time it happened - please don’t think I somehow know how it is ‘supposed’ to be done!”

For a fraction of a second, you have this vision: women, a series of women, entering his life while he’s distracted and leaving unnoticed; women, giving him pleasure, a lot of pleasure, drunk, high, hands, mouth, entangled bodies on an anonymous couch, on his couch, occasional breakfast, against the wall of her shower, dinner, dinners, parties… a back hall at an after-party. The thought makes you sad, but also light-headed and tingly –

“So I was good?”

“What? Of course, you were.” He smiles,all his attention on you at once. “But I surely wasn’t. I did nothing for you.”

 He isn’t allowed to be like that. You’ve just found him sad, and otherworldly, and just a boy…He’s not allowed to look at you with those honest, serious eyes and make you feel empty and clench the insides of your thighs, all of your insides together just to get hold of …Damn.

“Hmm. I don’t know? You kind of did,”  you say innocently.

“Really?” His furry eyebrows will be hitting the ceiling any moment.

You look down. Yes, you’re rubbing your thighs together. Fortunately, the place has sensible wicker chairs, and your heated underside has an oddly pleasant feeling.

“I didn’t have what you had, but my panties, well, they’re ruined.” You look up at him very innocently. “They feel…”

He see him hold his breath in.

“…slick. Dirty.”

You have no idea when and how, but suddenly both of your hands are curling over the edge of the wicker chair – between your spread legs – and they anchor you while you’re sliding over the raised ridges of the seat back and forth. You’re at the very back of the small lobby bar, and, at this hour, what you’re doing is by far the most innocent thing going on at the place at the moment.

You look at him, rolling your hips.

He’s so beautiful, stubble, sweat beads, helpless pout on the perfect lips, his tongue licking them, an inky lock falling across the forehead, eyes wide open, the likeness of ultimate clarity in them.

Soon you discover the sideways motion, too, and whatever you’re doing to the unsuspecting piece of furniture, can finally be called its rightful name: you’re humping a wicker chair, and it feels so good to grind your hot slick pussy over the woven furrows and ripples of the fibre which remains blissfully cool. And smooth. And…hard. Tout. You need friction. Just there.  ‘Yes!’ You realize that you’ve been saying things out loud.

‘F.ck,’ he says, and then something else, in that other language. A long tirade, rough, coarse sounds. Friction. He grabs your hand on your thigh just above the knee. ‘Let’s go. Now.’

“Wait, you sigh, still moving. “Swear.”

“What?”

“In Danish. Swear in Danish. Jus talk in Danish.”

His lips move silently, then fold into a loop-sided smile. “You’re crazy. Your kink?” he asks silently.

“Had no idea till two minutes ago.” you whisper, raise yourself off the chair and pull his hand up your thigh. Without further beckoning, his hand slides underneath your dress till it finds the drenched underside of the damn panties. You shudder.

“There’s no hope for your panties,” he whispers, grinning, pushing his thumb inside. He needs to practically peel off the sticky fabric. You’re so raw and overstimulated that his finger feels cool. Soothing. Blissful.

“There’s no hope for me,” you sigh, suddenly completely overwhelmed by the depths of depravity you’re apparently capable of.

“What? I should hope that I will do better than a chair!” he exclaims with mock indignation. In the meantime, he is drawing careful circles around the beady peak he’s discovered first, gradually moving the circular motion to glide along the slick, nearly dripping slit. Then back, to slick up the clitoris, tap tap tap on the very tip. This is where you start to fall apart.

“Kusse,” he hisses. “For helvede!” You are both half-standing, that is, swaying and wobbling, on your respective chairs, forehead-to-forehead, partially shielded by a table from (unlikely) spectators, to whom you most likely would look like a wasted couple holding a particularly uncomfortable staring contest.

You’re not staring. You’re concentrating on his fingers, taking you apart shred by shred, and on his voice, eyes closed. He’s concentrating on the fluttering of your eyelashes. It follows the rhythm of his finger movements. This is what he’s told you in English. The rest is Danish.

“Beskidte pige. Jeg vil kneppe dig. Jeg vil kneppe dig så snart jeg kan. Jeg vil slikke dig. Jeg vil kysse dig.

Det er godt, at du ikke forstår mig. Du er smuk. Meget mærkelig. Jeg forstår dig ikke, og jeg vil kneppe dig..! Du forstår mig ikke, og jeg vil tage dig til paradis..”

“Nu!”

There are tears in your eyes, and he kisses them off. Very carefully.