#anxiety content

[bee-saucee]

Meeting the Friends | Kaminari Denki Character Study

pairing: ShinKami

cw: self doubt/mild anxiety and intimacy

words: 1,002

summary: Kaminari meets Shinsou's friends for the first time. Despite pressure to please his boyfriend's friend group, Denki does his best to show up as himself with the help of Shinsou.

Meeting the friends almost seemed more daunting than meeting the parents. Denki knew how to wear parents down like it was nothing. But not-parents and specifically Shinsou’s friends were much harder to read.

“I have a lot going for me, but being all cool and having opinions about 90s punk rock isn’t really one of them. I just think maybe we should meet another day after I’ve done some more homework on Iron Maiden or whatever.”

Shinsou’s fingers pause in their perusal of Denki’s hair. “Punk rock is really more of a mid 70s to 80s thing and Iron Maiden is more heavy metal–” pillow smack because Denki really didn’t need to hear he was hopeless in posing as alt. “Okay, that was deserved, but I was going to finish that you don’t have to be punk. Just lay on your Denki charm and you’ll be just fine.”

“Goths hate Denki charm!”

“And how would you know that?”

“Because they hate happiness?”

“If anything they want too much of it.” Denki groans gutterally and pulls Shinsou to straddle over top of him. “I’m seriously loving this whole boyfriend thing, but this was easier when we were friends with bens so I didn’t have to meet your friends.”

“You’re overthinking,” Shinsou says and places a soft kiss on Denki’s lips.

He never thought Shinsou would be so…charming. As Denki peeled away the layers of stoic anxiety and insecurities, he was left with an incredibly empathetic and doting partner.

Shinsou had insisted that he was a loner, yet he had a handful of unique people he fell right into step with. He never wanted Shinsou to lose his friends but damn did Denki wish that Hitoshi's friends were easier for him to understand.

“I know, like, two Nirvana songs,” Denki grumbles.

“That’s amazing, baby,” Shinsou says before peeling himself off an opposed Denki.

Denki didn’t want to be clingy with uncomfortable public displays of affection but he couldn’t think of another way to get through this whole ordeal. Maybe he’d just try to stay close enough to Shinsou’s side so he could smell the particular mix of coffee and vanilla bean that lingered from his hours at the cafe and his affinity for sweet cologne.

Denki hops up off his bed and goes for few jumps to hype himself up. It was go time. By the time they made the very anxiously talkative drive to the small diner, Jirou and Tokoyami already had a table at the back where the seats looked particularly sticky and grimey in a people have definitely had sex here kind of way.

Big smiles, and…”It’s so nice to finally meet you both! I’ve heard so much about you both. Not to be that embarrassing guy, but Jirou, Hitoshi loves your new music and so do I. Tokoyami, gotta get a tarot reading from you sometime. I’ve never gotten one but you unlocked a new need in me,” Denki says.

Jirou tilts her head to the side with a slight smile while Tokoyami shuts his eyes and nods simply. He wasn’t expecting the two to be particularly expressive so he could work with this. These were Hitoshi’s closest friends, though. More charm, more charisma.

“So, any reason for this place in particular? Not that it’s bad! It just seems like a very particular spot to pick,“ Denki says as he slides into the booth after Shinsou.

Gosh, he just insulted the restaurant they picked. Maybe the food was fantastic and he was being overly judgemental.

“The decrepit atmosphere makes the dining experience feel less corporate. We can support a failing business that needs it rather than lubricate the cogs of industrial agriculture and dining.”

Okay…so Kaminari had almost no clue what that meant. He never knew what he was talking about though so this was like any other conversation. Deep breath, he could deal.

“I’ma be honest, I never think about…industrial agriculture while I’m eating but that is the definition wicked. Hopefully I’ll be more justice driven the longer I’m with Toshi.”

He looks over and dear God, Hitoshi looked like he’d been stabbed in the knee with how tightly he was clutching it under the table and the sallow look of his pale skin. He was so focused on his own nerves he completely forgot that adding Denki into the mix meant that this was a new social situation and that always led Hitoshi to overthink. Poor thing was probably running through 20 different potential reactions for the first thing he said.

Denki takes Hitoshi’s hand under the table and runs slow circles against his thumb. Boyfriend first, boyfriend’s friends second.

“My sweet pea pod, I think I saw they have burgers for me and grilled cheese for you. Plus,” he taps his foot against Hitoshi’s under the table, “We could share a milkshake if you want. I’ll be so fine to get vanilla if it means I can share thick, sweet, cow piss with you.”

Shinsou’s shoulders slowly lower and the glazed look over his eyes quickly settles with each of Denki’s words.

“Is this now the fifth time we’ve had the milk is not cow piss discussion?” Shinsou says with that exasperatedly fond smile he reserves just for Denki.

“Six. And I don’t wanna hear anything until you go to agriculture school. Or, actually! I trust your friends, they seem wicked smart. Is milk just sussed up cow piss?”

Jirou slides over a paper crane she was folding. “I like you, Denki.”

“I want to say no, but I also don’t know where cows pee from,” Tokoyami admits.

“And I love you Tokoyami. At least someone gets me here.”

Shinsou turns fully to Denki with a slight cock to his head from the side. He taps the tip of Denki’s fingernail lightly before pecking him on the cheek.

“I love you like crazy. Thanks for being here,” Shinsou whispers.

“Wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

“You’re doing great by the way.”

“I want you to rail me so hard when we get home,” Denki gushes.

“Sure.”

Thanks for reading! Check out my masterlist for more.

[bruciemilf]

no I'm not biased abt Bruce. Where'd you get that idea

[skarsgards-bill]

HAYDEN CHRISTENSEN as JAMES KELLY — American Heist (2014) dir. Sarik Andreasyan

[salt-n-salt]

SHANE BRAINROT DUMP 🤫🤫 i wish i could take a bite out of him like a gummy 💔

[krow-draws]

Im obsessed with her 🫵🫵🫵🫵💥💥💥💥💥

[schemmentigfs]

A Broccoli, a Baseball Bat, and a Guinea Pig.

Summary: the night in your cozy home is disrupted when your daughter Bianca wakes Melissa, in a panic. Unable to sleep, she confesses her fear of broccoli leaving your wife, well...confused.

based on this adorable video.

tags: @lifeismomentsyoucannotunderstand @lisaannwaltersbra @italianaidiota @kukikatt @dopenightmaretyphoon @schmentisgf @pitstopsapphic @jeridandridge @aliensuperst4rr

ps: sweetening the deal fucked me with writer’s block so i will probably focus on other prompts rn, hope that’s ok :)

It was past midnight. The hour when the world seemed to hold its breath, suspended in a delicate balance between today and tomorrow. Also known as the time when the Philadelphian city’s noise had long faded into a faint whisper, leaving the streets bathed in the spark of streetlights. In the Schemmenti household, serenity had settled like a heavy, comforting piece of fabric. The kind of silence that only arrived when every chore had been completed, every light turned off, and the rest of the world was tucked away into its own corners of slumber.

The house, though modest, held an air of quiet resilience. Shadows danced across the walls, illuminated faintly by the moonlight that filtered through the curtains. The familiar creaks of the old wood floors were absent now, the rhythmic hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen the only sound breaking the stillness. It was the hour when thoughts ran deep, when the burdens of the day—work deadlines, unpaid bills, and never-ending responsibilities—felt momentarily distant, softened by the promise of rest.

This was Melissa Schemmenti’s favorite time. The time when she could breathe, uninterrupted, and forget—if only for a few hours—that the chaos of life would resume with the morning light at her work at Abbott Elementary or the challenges of being a mom and wife.

Right now you lay sound asleep, your body nestled comfortably against Melissa’s, her steady presence like a balm in the quiet night. Your wife, dead to the world at your side, held you with the unconscious tenderness that came naturally to her, even in sleep. Her right arm was draped protectively over you, her delicate hand resting on the gentle curve of your four-months-pregnant belly, where the two of you eagerly awaited the arrival of your second baby. The touch was tender, instinctively maternal, as though even in sleep, she sought to guard you and the baby growing inside you.

Her legs were tangled messily with yours, one hooked firmly around your calf in her usual possessive, almost instinctive way, as though her body refused to let go of you, even in the deepest depths of sleep. It was a gesture so quintessentially Melissa Schemmenti—equal parts stubborn and caring. Her grip was neither tight nor restrictive but grounding, a silent declaration that she wanted you near, always. Forever.

And how not to mention her breaths, deep and steady, who filled the quiet space with a rhythm that might have been soothing if not for the occasional annoying snore escaping her slightly parted lips. It was a faint, almost endearing rasp—just loud enough to remind you of her presence but not so disruptive as to pull you from the comforting haze of rest. Each snore seemed to echo her personality: unfiltered, unapologetic, and somehow still charming?

Well that’s one way to put it.

The warmth radiating from her body wrapped around you like a second blanket, cocooning you both in an embrace that made the world outside the bedroom feel distant and insignificant. Her skin, soft against yours, carried the lingering scent of her lavender body lotion combined with faint traces of coffee from earlier in the day. Each rise and fall of her chest pressed gently into you, lulling you with its quiet reassurance, and you couldn’t help but marvel at how effortlessly her presence made you feel safe.

The snoring paused briefly as Melissa shifted, her leg tightening slightly against yours before her arm, still draped over your middle, unconsciously adjusted to rest more firmly on your belly. Then, the snoring resumed—steady, rhythmic, familiar. It was just another part of her, another piece of the life you’d built together, and as the sound blended with the comforting heat of her body, it became impossible to imagine the night without it.

To contribute with the peace, the bedroom around you was comfortingly illuminated by the pale glow of a nightlight in the corner, casting amber hues across the environment. The walls, painted a soothing sage green, were adorned with framed photographs of family moments: a candid shot of Melissa laughing, one of your daughter giving a gummy grin after spitting mashed bananas on you and the redhead, another of the two of you on your wedding day. And a small ultrasound image taped to the mirror. The fresh air carried a faint hint of honey from the diffuser on the dresser, blending with the scent of your wife’s perfume lingering on her pillow.

On the bedside table, a well-worn copy of a parenting book sat atop a stack of crossword puzzles the second grade teacher liked to solve before bed, along with an empty mug that had once held her nightly chamomile tea. The bed itself, a queen-sized sanctuary dressed in soft, cream-colored sheets, was rumpled from the night’s movements, but the disarray only added to its lived-in comfort.

Everything was perfect and peaceful.

Then came a small but noticeable noise—soft, tiny footsteps padding across the floor, almost five minutes later. You silently moved your head to the side but didn’t wake up.

“Ma,” came the tiniest whisper, breaking the stillness. “No sleep.”

Melissa groaned, the sound of small, shuffling feet reaching her ears even as she clung to the heavy warmth of sleep. She didn’t stir much, her body too weary to fully wake. Instead, she tightened her hold on you, her arm draped protectively over your belly, and buried her face deeper into the pillow. The soft scent of your shampoo lingered on the sheets, coaxing her to stay in this bubble of peace for just a little longer.

“Not now, sweet pea,” she sighed quietly, hoping that the almost four year old would settle back into sleep. “Ma is asleep. And she wants to rest before dealing with some Janine Teagues bullshit tomorrow.”

The words rolled out lazily, her filter dulled by exhaustion. She hoped your daughter standing at the side of the bed would take the hint and shuffle back to her room. Melissa didn’t even open her green eyes, clinging to the last thread of sleep while keeping her arm anchored over you. The long day had taken its toll—between keeping up with your toddler’s endless energy and taking care of you as the worst of your pregnancy nausea kept you bedridden, she had barely sat down all day.

It had been one thing after another: wiping sticky hands, answering endless “why?” or “what?” questions, and trying to coax a picky eater to finish her dinner while periodically checking on you. She’d done it without complaint—well, almost. A few muttered curses under her breath didn’t count, right? But the truth was your wife was drained, and the rare quiet moments at night with you in her arms were the only thing keeping her sane.

What Melissa didn’t account for, however, was how you’d feel about her careless words if you’d been awake to hear them. She could already imagine the glare you’d shoot her for cursing in front of Bianca, the way your brows would knit together in that disapproving yet somehow adorable way that never failed to make her feel a little guilty.

“Melissa Ann,” you’d say in that firm tone of yours. That sounded just like Teresa Schemmenti scolding her on her childhood. “I don’t care how tired you are; you don’t talk like that in front of our kid!” And she’d know you were right, of course. But right now, as she drifted on the edge of sleep, Melissa was too tired to care, muttering an unintelligible noise of acknowledgement as she felt the soft tug of tiny hands on the blanket. In the back of her mind, she knew she’d have to apologize in the morning—both to you and to her daughter. But for now, all she wanted was a few more minutes of quiet before the day started all over again.

Still the voice persisted, growing closer and more insistent to her dislikeness. “Ma! Ma!”

The redhead’s eyes fluttered open, complaining as she sat up and glanced down at you to make sure you were still asleep. She carefully removed her arm from around you, untangling herself from the blankets. “Bianca? Why are you awake?” she asked, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

At the edge of the bed stood your daughter, clutching her well-loved Barney & Friends stuffed animal to her chest. The purple dinosaur’s plush fur was worn from countless hugs, its smile as unrelenting as ever. Her expression was frightened, almost like something had horrified her.

“Ma… I ‘fraid,” it was all she simply spoke.

Melissa exhaled a quiet sigh, already feeling the pull of motherly duty despite the leaden weight of exhaustion in her limbs. The sight of Barney—Barney, of all things—in Bianca’s tiny hands sparked an automatic flicker of irritation. That stuffed dinosaur had been at the center of far too many sleepless nights. Between her demands to watch the show on repeat and her insistence on singing the same cheerful, saccharine songs at the top of her lungs, Melissa had developed a deep-seated loathing for the overly jolly purple menace. Every time the theme song played—I love you, you love me…—she swore it shortened her lifespan by at least a year.

That damn purple dinosaur! He could simply go to hell. Along with Kristen Marie who introduced him to her daughter.

But tonight, this wasn’t one of those Barney-induced interruptions. The girl’s frightened expression and the tight clutch of her stuffed animal told Melissa this was something different. The irritation dissolved for a second.

She sighed, her heart softening despite her exhaustion. She knelt down to look at the tiny redhead with pigtails in the eyes. “Afraid of what? Un incubo? se è così, la mamma può cantarti una canzone per aiutarti a dormire di nuovo, tesoro.”

“No bad dream. B-Bockli...” Bianca whimpered, her lips quivering in genuine fear.

The mother frowns, confusion twisting her exhausted features. “Broccoli? What—baby, it’s... it’s just broccoli!” she protests, already turning back over, trying to sink under the covers. “It’s... it's a vegetable. You eat it.”

But the little girl wasn’t convinced and shook her head fervently, her fear not swayed by this logic. “They big an’ green an’ dey make my tummy go yucky!”

Melissa pinched the bridge of her nose, glancing toward the clock on the nightstand. The red numbers glared back at her: 3:27 a.m. Green eyes scanned the time, doing a quick mental calculation of how many hours of sleep she could still squeeze in before the alarm would drag her out of bed for another grueling day. Your wife’s sweet patience, already worn thin from a day spent juggling your pregnancy symptoms, was hanging by a thread.

“Piccola, It’s broccoli. It’s not a monster. It’s not going to hurt you. Now, please, go back to bed,” the second grade teacher shuffled back toward the bed, pulling the blanket up around her shoulders and muttering. “I can’t believe I’m losing sleep over a stupid vegetable.”

“But, Ma—” she started, pleading.

“No,” your wife cut her off, her tone sharper now as she rolled over, burrowing her face into the pillow. Her messy ponytail fell across her face, and she blew an irritated puff of air to move it aside. “I need to sleep. I’ve got work tomorrow, and Mommy’s pregnant—she needs to rest, too. And I’m not sleeping on the couch again because of pickles or whatever!”

The memory of the infamous pickle incident from weeks earlier flashed through Melissa’s mind. That night, after you’d insisted on an emergency run for pickles at midnight, the two of you had gotten into a heated argument. It ended with the redheaded woman stomping off to sleep on the plastic covered couch in the den while you sulked in bed. The couch had left her back aching for days, and she was determined not to let a repeat happen—especially not over broccoli.

“Ma, help me,” your almost four year old tried again, clutching Barney closer, her tone insistent.

“Nope. No more arguments. Go. Back. To. Bed,” Melissa grumbled, pulling the blankets over her head. She let out a deep sigh, nestling into the mattress as the comforting pull of sleep began to take hold again. Her body relaxed, her breathing evened out, and for a moment, it felt like she might actually drift off.

That is, until a sharp jolt shot through her side.

“OW!” The older woman yelped, bolting upright as a small foot jabbed her sharply in the side, she instinctively clutched her ribs. The comforting warmth of the covers fell away, replaced by the sharp sting of the unexpected kick. Her olive eyes widened in shock, and she turned to see her daughter standing there, her tiny foot poised for another kick if necessary.

“Mama!” Bianca wailed, her tiny face scrunched up in determination now. Before she could say anything else, Melissa’s expression turned into an outrageous one and she snapped.

“Bianca Francesca Schemmenti!” she barked, with disbelief and irritation. “Did you just kick me?!”

Wide unapologetic eyes stared up at her mother. “I told you me ‘fraid.”

The second grade teacher groaned, rubbing her side where the tiny foot had made contact.“Unbelievable,” she muttered, slumping back against the headboard. She had handled unruly second graders, parents at school meetings, and even Janine Teagues and Jacob Hill on their first days as inexperienced teachers but this? This was a new level of chaos.

“Ma,” your little girl tried again in a hushed but insistent whisper. “You check kitchen. The bad bockli’s home!”

The stillness of the house was disrupted only by the creak of the bed as Melissa sat up, running a manicure hand through her tangled auburn hair and releasing a groan that practically dripped with frustration. Bianca stood near the nightstand, her wide, teary green eyes unwavering in their plea, the kind of stubborn determination she recognized all too well—because it came straight from her. Like they say, like mom, like daughter. Even though all the poor mother desperately wanted was to just sink back into her bed with you and forget this ridiculous conversation about broccoli, she couldn’t.

“Fine!” she hissed, cutting through the silence as she threw her hands up in surrender. “Let’s go see what’s so terrifying about this stupid broccoli, huh?” She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her bare feet meeting the cold hardwood floor with a sharp contrast to the warmth of her comforter. She pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to will away the pounding headache forming behind her eyes. “But I swear, bambina, if it’s just leftovers in the fridge, you’re grounded. No TV for a week. You hear me?”

Your daughter’s face transformed instantly, lighting up with an excitement that completely ignored her mother’s grumbling tone. “Ma, can’t just go! Need a plan first!” Her tiny voice bubbled with an urgency that made it sound like she was planning a military operation, not a trip to the fridge.

Green eyes blinked, the weight of regret settling firmly on her shoulders. “A plan?” she echoed, her tone incredulous. She rubbed a hand down her face, glancing toward the clock on her nightstand—it was nearly midnight. “Hun, it’s broccoli, not some rabid dog. We don’t need a plan.”

“Yes, we do!” the toddler insisted, tugging on her mother’s hand with a strength that belied her tiny frame. “And we need Edith!”

Melissa froze mid-motion, her sharp eyes narrowing suspiciously as she crouched down to Bianca’s level. Her tone dropped an octave, now edged with suspicion. “How do you know about Edith Houghton?”

She shifted her weight, looking at the floor as she clutched her well-loved Barney plush tighter. Her little voice softened into a sheepish whisper. “I saw you put her under the bed when you thought I was napping…”

The teacher groaned audibly, leaning back on her heels and pressing her palm against her forehead. Of course Bianca knew. Edith Houghton wasn’t some magical object; she was Melissa’s old, trusty baseball bat, kept stashed under the bed (or couch) as a holdover from her fight or fight days—and an added layer of security in case of emergencies.

“Look, kid, Houghton is for grown-up stuff. Real emergencies. Not your imaginary broccoli monsters.”

“But Ma!” Bianca whined, practically bouncing on her feet as she tugged Melissa’s arm harder. “We need her! C’mon, let’s go get ready!”

Before your wife could argue further, the mini Schemmenti had already taken the lead, dragging her reluctant mother out of the bedroom and into her own brightly decorated space. The pastel walls were covered in crayon scribbles that you and Melissa had long since given up trying to clean, and toys were scattered across the floor like a minefield.

“Alright, what now?” the redheaded woman asked, crossing her arms and leaning against the doorframe, watching as Bianca dove headfirst into her toy chest.

The toddler emerged moments later, holding an assortment of mismatched items: a toy soldier helmet, a small plastic flashlight, and—was that finger paint?

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” Melissa muttered under her breath, her lips twitching into an exasperated smirk.

Her daughter climbed onto her bed, her movements purposeful as she began assembling her gear. She gestured dramatically toward the edge of the mattress. “Sit, Ma!”

An eyebrow was raised but Melissa complied, plopping herself down with a heavy sigh. The springs creaked under her weight as she watched Bianca with amusement and disbelief.

She approached her with the toy helmet, the cheap plastic strap barely holding it together. Before her mother could protest, Bianca jammed it onto her head, the strap cutting awkwardly into her chin.

“Piccola, I look ridiculous,” Melissa deadpanned, shooting her daughter a mock glare.

“No, look ready,” the troublemaker corrected, her tone serious. She grabbed the black finger paint and dipped a tiny finger into it, smearing two uneven streaks across her mother’s freckled cheeks with the kind of concentration that made Melissa both proud and concerned.

The older woman groaned, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. “This is really what we’re doing, huh?”

“We’re soldiers, Ma. We have to be brave.”

Despite herself, Melissa felt a reluctant smile tug at the corners of her lips. “Alright, soldier,” she said, adjusting the helmet so it didn’t press directly into her scalp. “What’s the plan, Rambo?”

“First, we go to the kitchen. Then, you fight the broccoli while I hold the flashlight!”

Your wife smirked, crossing her arms over her chest. “Oh, so I’m the muscle and you’re the brains, huh?”

The little one nodded solemnly, completely missing the sarcasm.

“Got it,” Melissa replied, rolling her eyes before standing. “Lead the way, General Bianca.”

She marched out of the room, Barney tucked under one arm and the flashlight held high in the other, her steps brimming with exaggerated confidence. The mother followed close behind, the toy helmet slipping awkwardly over her eyes as she ducked under the low hallway light.

By the time they reached the kitchen, Melissa was barely holding back a laugh at the absurdity of it all. “Alright, baby,” she announced, grabbing the fridge handle with exaggerated flair. “Let’s see this broccoli monster you’re so scared of.”

“Wait!” Bianca shouted, grabbing her mother’s arm. Her wide eyes were serious, her voice urgent. “We need Edith!”

Melissa sighed deeply, bending down to pull the baseball bat out from its new hiding place under the couch. She gave it a few test swings, the weight familiar and comforting in her hands. “Got it, you happy now?”

The girl nodded. “Ready!”

She yanked the fridge open with a dramatic flourish, her green eyes scanning the shelves. “Alright, broccoli,” she muttered, stepping forward with the bat raised. “Let’s see what you’ve got—”

Before your wife could finish her sentence, something darted across her field of vision.

“What the hell was that?!” Melissa yelped, instinctively jumping back and gripping the bat tighter.

Bianca let out a high-pitched shriek, pointing wildly at the fridge. “Ma, it moved!”

The teacher squinted into the fridge, her pulse quickening. There it was again—a small shadow scurrying behind a container of leftovers. Without thinking, she swung the bat wildly, hitting nothing but air. “Stay back, sweetie!” she barked, her tone shaky despite her attempt at sounding authoritative.

The shadow darted out of the fridge and onto the floor, revealing its true form under the kitchen illumination.

Melissa froze, her bat still raised.

It wasn’t a broccoli monster.

It was Sweet Cheeks, your family’s perpetually escaping guinea pig.

Your daughter gasped, dropping Barney as she ran to scoop up the tiny animal. “Cheeks!” she cried, cradling the guinea pig in her arms.

Melissa lowered the bat, her shoulders slumping as the realization hit her. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she complained, leaning against the counter. “Sweet Cheeks escaped again?”

Bianca giggled, lifting the guinea pig to nuzzle its furry face. “He was fighting the bockli, Ma!”

The fifty year old groaned, running a hand through her hair. “Yeah, well, Sweet Cheeks can fight my battles from now on,” she settled the bat aside.

Reaching into the fridge, Melissa grabbed the container of broccoli and held it up for the toddler to see. “Look, kid,” she said, popping the lid open and holding it under her daughter’s nose. “It’s not scary. See? Just food.”

Bianca scrunched her nose and turned away. “It still looks yucky!”

Olive eyes rolled in amusement, shoving the container back into the fridge. “You’re a huge rascal, just like your Mommy.”

Just as she closed the fridge door, Sweet Cheeks scurried across her foot, causing Melissa to jump back with a startled yelp. In her panic, she tripped over the edge of the kitchen mat, landing flat on her backside.

Bianca’s laughter echoed through the kitchen as she pointed at her mother. “Ma, you’re scared of Cheeks!”

Melissa groaned, rubbing her sore tailbone as her cheeks flushed red. “I am not scared of him!”

The almost four year old giggled harder, her laughter infectious as your wife let out a resigned sigh.

“Next time, you’re on broccoli duty,” Melissa muttered, a small smile creeping onto her lips despite her embarrassment.

She couldn’t help but feel the corners of her frustration soften. Sure, the night had been ridiculous but seeing her daughter’s joy made it all worth it.

[orbch]

“big sister makes a face like a dog kept in a cage”

[defire]

So I'm having a million of anxiety today and here's the result (it's always guns 🤦)

Guns

Content: gun threats, killing

Gun to whumpee's throat just close enough that their trachea presses against it when they swallow

Gun to skin but the metal is warm. Whumper had it in their waistband and now having it up to their skin, it feels almost intimate. Embarrassing.

Gun to lips. Aggressor: "Open." Victim tightens their lips shut. Aggressor: "do you want it clean, or do you want your teeth blown away too?"

Whumpee's team going down until it's just them, falling to their knees in an overwhelm of grief. Enemy leader walking toward them with a gun casually ready, and whumpee thinks they're next.

Victim already captured, walking in front of aggressor, who isn't sure they'll "behave". A gun is pressed in through victim's coat until finally victim finally feels it. They gulp and try not to look suspicious by glancing back at whumper.

Aggressor having a valuable whumpee lined up with other expendable prisoners. Walking down the line and shooting them for made-up reasons. When they get to whumpee, whumpee is trembling, trying to be "perfect", so they aren't next.

[dejadoodles-101]

Orange cat activity vibes

[toweroftickles]

Hi (:

What do you think about characters of "Inside out 2"? Do we have some lees here?

Ok I somehow didn't experience the original Inside Out until like 2 weeks ago, and then immediately rushed to theaters for the second one, and I have not been able to stop thinking about it since! Of course the first thing I started daydreaming about was the chaos that would ensue in Brain HQ during tickles. So yes, I've definitely got headcanons. XD

EMOTIONAL * RESPONSES

When Riley Gets Tickled

Joy squees, claps, bounces up and down, the usual. "AAAH Tickle time! Awww, our girl is still so adorable..."

Disgust: "Mm-mm. I hate this. Hate it. Majorly messing with my zen."

Sadness: *confused and a little uncomfortable*

Fear: *open-mouthed and deeply uncomfortable*

Envy gasps and hops up to the screen. "Omigosh omigosh they're touching us. That means they like us and think we're cute, right? Right?!"

Anger: "Oh, so that's how it's gonna be, huh?! You want a fight, kid?! I'll give ya a fight! Right up your -"

Anxiety: "Wait! There's a million possible variables in what'll happen if we decide to fight back! Accidentally punching them would be devastating to our network!"

Joy's not paying attention, she's too busy laughing and hammering the serotonin injector.

"I-I got it! Scream! Just holler, really loud!"

"GUHH, get out of the wayyyy; stop hogging this thing! We have to run! Come on!"

Ennui: *exists in French*

*Meanwhile Embarrassment is just spread out like a starfish and rolling his entire girth back and forth across the keyboard.*

When Riley's Tickling Someone Else

Joy takes the wheel here. The others know not to disturb a master plying her craft. She's an expert tickler, so she feeds Riley a whole bushel of fun ideas, and Envy is her eager troublemaker minion.

There is in fact a dedicated "Tickle" command button. The plastic is slightly stuck in the slot because it hasn't been used much.

Anger keeps trying to grab his levers and switches, but Joy usually shoves him to the side with her foot.

*tries to wrest control from Joy and rein her in*

*barfing in the corner somewhere*

When a Tickle Scene Pops Up in a Movie

Joy giggles happily and squirms in her seat, then boops the control panel so that Riley follows suit.

Disgust is a tiny bit antsy...she's not influencing Riley yet but she's on standby in case stuff gets weird.

Embarrassment gingerly taps the console at increasing intervals until Sadness pulls his arm away.

Ennui: Probably watching something else. Or doomscrolling.

When Someone Asks Riley if She's Ticklish

*screams like a little girl*

*hides, bangs head on the desk*

"That is NOT funny!"

"Oh no! What do we do; whaddawedo?! Riley's way too ticklish! What if they tickle us and don't stop for the rest of eternity?! What if they think Riley's laugh is weird and we're socially ostracized and forced to get a job in a fish cannery?!"

“Ew ew ew ew no. Lie. We have to lie right now!” *jumps for the controller*

*Joy grabs Disgust's arm* "Whoa whoa whoa, eeeaasy there. Let's just calm down...this is a fun question; we're having fun..."

Envy: "Ooo, what if they're ticklish and they want us to tickle them?" *already wiggling her fingers in the air*

"But if we misread that signal and make them mad at us, then..."

Ennui: *groans and taps her console app*

Riley, being super casual: “Meh…a little. Not really.”

Suddenly Riley's eyes dilate. Her throat hitches and there's the tiniest bit of pink in her cheeks. Everyone turns their heads to look at -

“EMBARRASSMENT!!! *dry heave* WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!”

"Ohhhh boy. There it is. We're doomed now."

When They Get Tickled Themselves

Come on, we all know that Joy always draws first blood. (Er...first giggle?) She's such a switchy monster. Tickling is her default method of cheering others up. It's canon. Case closed.

As someone whose default setting repels positivity, Sadness is not ticklish at all, and this actually upsets her.

*silently grabs the tickler by the neck and tosses them out the window*

Nobody protests like Disgust. She gets mad. She slaps. She hurls insults. She runs away. Disgust is both extremely ticklish and extremely touch-averse, so this is Code Red for her.

Fear is the type who doesn’t so much “laugh” as “have a shrieking, spastic outburst and breakdance like Sonic the Hedgehog in a malfunctioning taser-testing facility."

At first, Anxiety is overcome by stressful jitters, miserable and whimpering, and her whole body contracts. After a few moments of tickling, though, she starts to let all that tension out and relaxes into nervous vibrato laughter. It becomes sort of a therapeutic stress release, like her special chair.

It's not exactly the physical sensation of tickle torture that Envy craves, it's the attention. The sound she makes when tickled oscillates between wild, snorty cackles and the dulcet hoots of a baby owl trapped in a pinball machine.

Ennui is dead. No reaction. Her body is a neurological cemetery. ...EXCEPT for her heels and the back of her knees. (And if you thought phone loss made her experience Vietnam flashbacks...)

What do you think Embarrassment does? He plops himself down on the floor and pulls his hoodie so tight around his face that no one can tell if he's laughing or sobbing.

Misc.

As Riley's primary protector, Fear is always scouting ahead for any potentially-tickly environmental hazards, and gently nudges her away from catastrophe ("you forgot your shoes! put them back on before you walk on grass;" "don't lift your arms up around Bree and Grace;" "those massage chairs in the mall are actually full of rusty knives and drug dealers sleep on them;" etc.)

When Riley gets tickled, the emotions don't "feel" it, exactly, but they perceive something of a contact buzz.

These are typically how the reactions go, but they're not universal. If Riley's been in a bad mood, Anger might be more proactive in grabbing the handles. Embarrassment may have more or less of his body mass pancaking the buttons, depending on who's tickling her. (Like...a boy?! Or Val?! Or -) Standard variations like that.

Riley

Riley has an extremely ticklish tummy! She’s sensitive all over, but that's her death spot. (Just the vibe I get; IDK.)

Bree and Grace are really ticklish too, but Riley is the weak link... the member of the trio that the other two team up against. Lots of tickle fights and sneak attacks.

She obviously loves to laugh and goof around with her friends, but probably isn't over-enthused by that last part.

Val

The most popular girl in school, the tough athletic one - her adulating devotees wouldn't think it, but beneath that too-cool exterior, Val is very vulnerable to tickling.

All the other Firehawks know, and like to tease Val by poking her.

She's a good sport about it and takes it like a champ - just yelps and laughs and pushes back. They have fun.

Her biggest weakness is her feet.

Lance Slashblade

Crop top alert. The abs are asking for it. (Just sayin.')

The thought of being tickled is intolerable to him. Even in this...what should be a moment of joyous camaraderie...he is haunted. Forced to laugh like...like some sort of...clown swordsman?! How could he be so weak...so degraded...so unworthy to carry the holy blade of his ancestors, they whose destinies were written in the stars ere these centuries long past? Will he never be a true warrior, with the strength to stem the tide of encroaching night? It is too painful to think about...the icy whips of humiliation, always ravenous and bitter in their lashes, strike! and cast him into the shadows and okay the joke's over now we're getting long-winded and edgelordery big words drama sparkling vampires and junk

(Also, yes, he Morph-Balls himself.)

[uncanny-tranny]

Good news! You aren't required to make your hobbies and passions "marketable." In fact, your crafts, hobbies, and passions don't even need to be public if you so choose. You don't have to spend all of your energy becoming perfect if you aren't enjoying the process. You are not a product, you are a person, a creative, and your work also does not need to be a product.

[kiindr]

what others say about you aren’t facts. they are only looking at you from the lens that they have, and lenses can be coloured.

the point is, you’ll never be perceived absolutely the same by two people. therefore, there’s no point trying to earn the “nicest person ever” medal because it doesn’t exist. there’s no point trying to convince others of your worth.

the only one who needs to believe in it is you.

[peachcastiel]

come on america, castiel didn't get sent to turbo hell just to lose the 2024 election

[thesearethedaysofmylife]

[whathorselegs]

To give an example of how many of these types of tags/replies I get, most (though not all) of these are all from one post.

This isn't meant to shame anyone, which is why I've cropped out usernames, so please don't take this as a personal attack if you leave these types of tags on art/writing. I'm only asking that you consider how you might feel when a whole bunch of people are tagging your work with comments about harming themselves in reaction to something you created.

I know it's meant to be a compliment but I have severe depression and anxiety and seeing so many of these comments is overwhelming and makes me actively dislike posts where I get so many of them. I stop interacting with those posts, I don't look at them and I've considered deleting posts I that I used to love.

Yes, I like writing angst and sad things. Yes, dramatic tags are fun! Even ones that are like "I'm exploding!" are fine, because that's ridiculous! "Crying, screaming, throwing up!", "I'm sobbing", "Frothing at the mouth" and many more silly/dramatic tags are absolutely fine with me! Just not ones that so blatantly involve self harm and suicide.

I'm not trying to tell anyone how they can or can't react to art/writing, but just consider that the writer/artist does see your tags, all the tags and stuff like this being repeatedly thrown someone's way can effect them mentally.

[atotalpitch]

Anna Kendrick talking (briefly) about Beca's relationship with the Bellas was NOT on my 2024 bingo card. in fact, i'm actually physically shaking. what the hell.