DONT BE SO QUICK TO WALK AWAY! | ft. Dave lizewski

sitting on dave’s lap, while he reads a marvel comic, you facing him and give him quick kisses all over his face.

“I can’t focus babe..” he murmurs out as his breath sounds heavier than before. “Oh, should I get off then?” you suggested as you start hoping off him, he quickly wraps his large hands around your hips and holds you by your hips as he looks up at you. When you sit back down on his lap and move around to get comfortable again, you feel something poke under you.

It felt very rough and felt like it slipped through your panties—rubbing off on you— wrong day to wear a mini golf skirt.

“What’s this?” You ask, looking down to his shaft. “Are you-?”

“No, no! Not like that, its just im-“ he stutters out trying to find the right words without sounding weird about it, “Hard?” You question him as you tilt your head to the side. You loved teasing him, watching the way his cheeks turned a darker shade of pink each time you even so much as breathe.

God you made him harder, if it was even possible since his cock felt like a brick when massaged it through his clothed pants.

“Shit!”

“Would you mind waiting for me outside? I’ll be quick…promise.” He nervously asked, giving you a awkward smile. “Can..i help you?” You ask him, clearly giving him a hint that you would if he was comfortable with it. He body stiffens when you say that and opens his mouth ready to say something just to close it.

“You don’t think I’d do a good job?” You question, messing around with him while you slowly rock you hips. He quickly shakes his head side to side and puts his hands up in defense. “No! Of course not baby it’s just-” he hesitated “would you even want to? I don’t want to make you feel like you have to just cause your my girlfriend.”

You don’t say anything as you pull him in by the back of his neck for a kiss as you start rocking your hips back and forth a little harder than before. He places his hands on waist, hands trembling, and pulls you in closer leaving no space between you both. You rock your hips deeper now, “god! I’ll cum inside my pants if you keep this up, sweetheart…fuck!” He cries out while gripping onto the plush parts of your thighs for support.

He can’t hold back any longer, not even realizing what he was doing when he pulls off your crop top over your head and and clips off your bra. You do the same with his oversized t-shirt and zip down his pants.

You pull out his cock from his breifs now on your knees kissing his tip, kitten licking it while keeping eye contact with him the entire time. “Don’t tease me…” he whimpers, breaking the eye contact by looking down at your hands wrapping themselves around his tip, looking like he’s ready to cry.

“My poor baby boy, why didn’t you just tell me how mad your cock was? I could have helped you hours ago.” You coo while you play with his balls, grabbing at them as he lets out a loud groan, rolling his eyes to the back of his head.

“Momma, please! h-hurts so bad…” he starts taking off his glasses from fog in his glasses, not being able to see anything.

You stop your movements and lightly pull at him, “put them back on.” You scold him, giving him a warning look. “B-but I can’t see, I just wanna watch you, please baby..” he whines out as he pleads out a cry. You just shake you head and wait for him, your mouth ready to be used. “Okay! Okay! Just don’t stop!” He exclaimed, just wanting for you to not stop, almost reaching his climax, while you go back to going faster than before. “Good boy. So good for me, aren’t you?” You smile looking up at him while kissing at his tip. He nods rapidly while he watches you make him feel so so good.

“This is this stuff you get when you behave and do as your told.”

“Cumming…i-im cumming!” He moans out, thrusting his hips forwards trying to find more friction to your hands. You feel a warm seed pop inside your agape mouth as you look up at his tired body, sticking out your tongue full of his seed.

He half-smiles as he watches you swallow it all and stick your tounge out again. You straddle him and give a kiss on the lips making him taste himself. You pull away, him following you with his lips.

“How was it, baby boy?” You ask him with cum slipping out your mouth, quickly lick it it up from the sides. He looks at your lips than you with no words in his head. You giggle at him, and slip inside him, cockwarming him.

One of the things I love about TOH is that they portray a lot of different types of trauma, and not only that but they also show how everyone’s trauma is still trauma, even if it’s “not that big”. You have physical and emotional abuse portrayed with Hunter, right next to bullying and loneliness with Gus and Willow. You have years of built up trauma and emotional manipulation with Amity, along with loss of a loved one and the trauma that comes from being different with Luz. You have years of chronic pain, disability, and possibly ptsd with Eda, right next to being a kid during a war with King and The Collector. Not to mention the packages of pain that are Raine and Camila!

And nobody’s trauma is portrayed or treated as less than or unimportant, and I really like that because I think too often people will dismiss their struggles because “oh well, someone out there has it so much worse”. When like, yeah that one person may be drowning in an ocean of trauma, but people can and have drowned in pools or even buckets. So don’t think you’re struggles aren’t real or that it’s not enough suffering to be addressed-you deserve healing too.

Timeline wise Aha’ri is the founder of the dead older siblings club

First is Aha’ri in 2146

Then Tom in 2148

Then Sylwanin in 2152

Then Tsu’tey in 2154

Finally Neteyam in 2170

I swear if more older siblings die I’m not gonna have it-

Your gaze fell on him, noticing the casual suit jacket draped over his shoulders, the top button of his crisp shirt undone. His tousled hair was swept back, framing his handsome face that accentuated the rugged charm of his stubbled jawline. But it was his warm brown eyes that captivated you. And when he flashed that charming smile, you found yourself unable to resist the urge to lean closer, eager to capture those lips with your own.

Morning thoughts

Cockwarming. Just sitting on my knees between her legs, not worrying about things, not thinking. While she relaxes occasionally pressing my head closer listening to me gag around her cock.

Domme fucking me nice and gentle and slow. Listening to me whimper, and brushing the tears off my cheeks. Finding every sensetive spot and leaving nips and bites all over my neck and shoulders.

Using her girl cock or stap and praising me for how well I take it. Wrapping her hand around my throat.

Mmmm seeing her smile at the subspacey look on my face. Just totally out of it, and submissive for her.

I'm so out of it and sensetive and she keeps calling me pretty boy, or darling. Making me come around her cock.

Is it just me or am I just really fucking curious on how they wash their hair 💀 Anne and Stargazer’s hair is so fucking long. I fully believe they just bathe in their fucking hair. Cabernet’a is like curly AND long so like there’s gonna be like so many fucking tangles in it. Eirene’s hair is just…long. Now I want to see how their hair looks when they’re wet and down😭 like is it just like….

That what their fucking hair would look like. Looks like it’s glued to their scalp or like SO god damn frizzy. Also wouldn’t it take forever to just fucking dry off 😭

Icarus flew higher and higher and higher. Until the sun was all he could see. And goodness was it a sight. It was bright. Enough so that his eyes felt like they were burning. And he could feel his skin nearly searing off. And he could feel his wings burning.

Then he was falling.

He would surely die from this height.

But who could think of death in a moment like this? He had seen the sun. Gods, it was so large and otherworldly and so… beautiful. He would die over and over again if it meant he got to nearly touch the sun- if it meant he got to feel its golden rays burning him.

Before he could; however, a warm hand wrapped around his wrist.

A man had caught him. With long golden hair and golden eyes and warm skin that nearly glowed. There was no moment of realization- no confusion or disbelief. It took no time at all for the dots to connect.

“I must say. In all my years of pulling the sun chariot… no mortal has ever tried to reach me before.” Apollo’s eyes twinkled as he held on to Icarus by his wrist and he couldn’t help but sweat nervously.

So this was divinity. A handsome strong face with a beautiful smile and shining golden eyes that hurt to look at. A bow and quiver strapped to his back with a revealing toga that barely covered his chest. It was impudent- and blasphemous. Yet Icarus could not dare to look away from him.

“Y-You’re beautiful.” He blurts out unknowingly.

The god lets out a soft chuckle, “So I’ve been told.”

Icarus nearly slips out of Apollo’s grasp before being caught by him again, “Careful… you nearly fell there.”

“I… I fear I already have”

Levi Birthday "special".

‼️(minors do not interact.)‼️

It was Levi's birthday. To the rest it was just another day in the office where someone gets older. But to you, you knew what would happen in his quarters later. That same night he was kissing you sloppily. Starting from your lips to your thighs. He left bite marks on your collarbone and inner thigh. As soon as he got closer to your core, He saw your soaked underwear. "Already wet for me? Well this will be the best birthday night." His voice was seductive as he hooks his finger on the garment and slid it off. He sucked on the clit first, making sure you feel every sensation. You grab his raven hair and tangle it on your fingertips. He then slid his tongue inside of you, making sure he doesn't miss a spot. You moan and whine, it only fuels his desire more. When you got close he stopped and got up, When you were about to whine and complain he took off his pants and centered his tip on your entrance, rubbing it gently, making you more desperate for him. And in a few seconds, he slams it in hitting your cervix. You moan in pain and pleasure as his thrusts get stronger and rougher. He felt you clench around his cock, meaning you're getting close. He quickens the pace and holds you closer to him. "Gonna cum? Cum for me then." He says as he groans in pleasure. And when you cum he doesn't just stop. He will make sure those legs will be sore. He keeps thrusting in, sometimes pulling out just to slam it back in, feeling the same pleasure and pain. And when he gets close he grips your hair slightly, not to hurt you. And thrusts deeper, hitting that g-spot of yours. "Fuck, I'm cumming..you better take it all in.." despite the risk you nodded and moan. "S-shit, Levi..I'm cumming as well..!" He thrusts harder until you two come at the same time. He laid on your chest, cock still stuffed in your hole. Once he pulls out, he could see the dripping mess on your hole. Both of you were breathing heavily, But before the night ends. He kisses your lips good night and cuddles you to sleep. You then muttered "Happy Birthday, Levi..hope you liked your birthday special.." He chuckles as he nuzzles his head on the crook of your neck and sleeps. Let's say, the next day you had to wear a turtleneck while Levi makes sure no one or nothing touches his back.

-might write this one longer one day-

The apartment was clad in a solemn silence. Only the lightning momentarily illuminated the living room. Kento’s clothes fell off him like heavy bags of cement. First the shoes he quietly stepped out of, the harness thrown onto the couch, his jacket was an unrecognizable pile of cloth at the bottom of the stairs and his shirt, soaked in blood, at the bathroom door.

Even covered in bruises and blood he was careful not to wake you. He spared himself a glance in the mirror before opening the cabinet and taking the first aid kit. This is how you found your husband, sitting the toilet with his head in his bloody hands. A mess of bandages and cotton balls littered the floor. Before he could notice your presence you rushed over to hug him. He hated himself for worrying you and even more for letting you see him like this. He could protect you from the curses out there but not himself in here, in your home. Pathetic, he thought. His hands were shaking wrapping around you gently. You were holding back sniffles, kissing and whispering silent prayers into his hair.

“I’m sorry,” he said, barley above a whisper.

“It’s okay.” You voice trembled. “You’re okay.”

He is alive. Your Kento was alive. That’s all you could wish for.

ੈ✩‧₊˚ YEAH ILL TREAT YOU LIKE MY LADY, LADY.

armin woke you up early to go down to the market and stroll around for a bit, you on the other hand were tired from last night but he promised to make the trip worth it. He helped you up off the bed, holding onto your hips as you limp.

Heading towards the market you spot a stand with a cart full of fruits, you hold onto armin trying to stay close as possible.

You always loved wandering off to go see sales or the clothes they had on display. “Mango doesn’t sound bad for today breakfast, what do you say, sweetheart?” He picks up a mango and points towards your direction. You beam, giving him an approval nod and ask for a bag as armin hands the woman money for the fruits.

“Oh look!” You turn away. The exact words he was always so used to when you would be down at the market, he turns and looks your way with a questioning face. “This hat would suit you so well on you, honey.” You giggle placing the hat as you try not to mess up his hair.

He stands infront of the mirror, looking back at you.”You think?” He asks, coming off as a whisper. “It matches you so well, your suit, your hair, you can wear it when we grow old together and have a farm, too.” You suggested and buy it for him. He smiles at your comment and keeps it on him the entire time.

TOH SPOILERS

Okay here’s why I love this

Because Darius remembered not to touch his shoulders.

hey u guys watch how hard I can cry-

Ok so something I noticed in the cutscene where the Sarentu kids are gonna escape when Aha’ri says “where going home” Nor looks over to her and smiles

Sweet little smile!

That’s a smile of a sweet boy in love!

We already know it’s obvious Nor was and still is in love with Aha’ri so this is both sweet and sad

Sandy

Conceptual exploration drabble based on @zal-cryptid's upcoming Misfits in Toyland comic. How far can we extend the ideas of toys and play? Let's find out.

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What’s in a grain of sand?

History, for one.  What once stood as a great solid mass worn from itself by the attritions of wind or water over ungodly ages, broken into millions and billions and trillions of component parts.  To most who walk these shifting tracts, there is no evidence once here stood an outcrop, a plateau, a cliff; merely now a different texture to the ground beneath their feet, beneath consideration unless a grain sticks somewhere unwanted.  The studied mind, however, one familiar with erosive sciences and larger distributive patterns, they might discern the rough nature of what once was from a grain.  Not on its lonesome, not divorced from its context, definitely never a fully accurate picture, but a near-microscopic grain of sand still betrays its origin to some degree.  Shape, texture, hardness, size, solvency, all these properties in comparison against its neighbors.  Such a tale to be told, the shadow of a mountain hidden in part within something measuring less than a millimeter.

And with a history, why not a mind?  No such thing as zero to God, as the man said, and in total accumulation even a pinch of sand between fingers amounts to an awful lot of near-but-not-quite zeroes.  Interrogate one grain properly, and so many pieces of the story appear.  Do the same with the next, and the next, and the next, there manifest more hints, further clues.  Now gather a group in one palm, consider their collective quality, walk a dozen paces down the beach, take another scoop, compare them.  And then another, and another, and another.  Slowly the picture grows, definition sharpening, details clarifying, fogged vision swimming less violently with each focal adjustment.

Now, a similar exercise with the typical mind’s home in a brain.  Poke at one neuron, followed by its neighbor, and carry on in the established pattern.  A few memories here, behavior patterns there, governing rules for a particular internal system down that way.  Scrape some gray matter away, presume some futuristic means of examining its contents and function without inflicting damage by said removal, and it is very much a kind with the grain of sand.  Molded and reshaped by years of electrical impulses and chemical uptakes and releases, communicating with its fellows in a plasticine dance of formation and adaptation.  Carbon mastered into a deliberate shape, made wet and conductive and warm, housing joys and rages and despairs untold.

Why not silica as carbon? Why not a grain of sand as a neuron?  Why not a beach as a mind?  It is, after all, your best guess for what you are.

You cannot rightly say you think about these matters very often.  All told, you don’t think much at all.  Most hours, you simply are, a distributed mass of silicate uncountable, unfeeling, unthinking, unaware.  Or at least, unaware in the moment.  When consciousness does come, you find the experiences of the sand somewhat accessible in memory, recollections of a late night’s chilled gale, or a particularly forceful crashing wave, the patter of bird’s talons and occasionally something like stalking hooves.  To some extent, you must exist when you cannot think, experiencing the world in a strange dreamless sleep, logging experience in a manner more actively retrievable than garbled dreaming interpretation of outside stimuli in more normative REM cycles.

Either way, these are not the thoughts of a mind with nothing but time on its side.  You process ideas and inquisitive lines quite quickly, thank goodness, but active thought and awareness only come in fits and starts.  Sometimes a scant few minutes, on average an hour or so. Even with the seconds so precious, however, it is always helpful to start by organizing and relitigating this particular track.  In an existence alien as this, time spent considering the possibilities in a single grain and the oddity of your life grounds you in a most comforting way.  Even if you are ground, after a fashion.  Grounds need their grounding in self-awareness too, you know.

It is good to indulge whatever thoughts come along.  You suspect Descartes might disagree with your supposition that thought does not necessarily imply existence, but old Descartes never had to work out his philosophy for only a few irregularly scattered moments while also being a beach, now did he?  Object example there: random bout of pettiness against a centuries-dead thinker.  Feels nice to let those thoughts flow, like sand kicked about by the breeze or lapped by the waves.  Once, long ago, you tried forcing your thoughts down particular avenues, clinging to questions like, “What the fuck is happening?” or “What am I?  Who am I?  Where am I,” loops of, “Oh my God, no, oh my God, no, oh my God, no, oh my God, no!”  Painfully stiff and limiting, those.  A touch of grounding exercises for a moment or so, and then onto free forms.  So much better.

The sun seems nice to you this day.  Somewhat wan, as if hidden behind a thin cloud layer, yet sufficiently penetrative to warm the atmosphere much as it can in these frigid environs.  The waves bite hard as ever, alas.  Had you the mobility and inclination, you’d not risk even their shallows.  On some distant stretch of shore, you can sense the winds blow harder than one might find tolerable.  Here, at the locus point, they are relatively still.

Now, who’s out today?  Who stirs your sands?

In their usual spot, the trod of two have settled to pile the rough start to a sandcastle.  Perhaps a crude sculpture, or mayhaps a humble mound.   Their constructive efforts vary so from day to day - at this instant, you can feel a larger set of fingers scooping at your surface with greater vigor than the smaller, nimbler pair, but early goings rarely indicate their final intentions.  At the least, their activities seemingly focus on collection rather than digging, so there is little chance either will bury their fellow today.

There is digging some feet further away, however, the familiar scrape of uncoordinated hands pawing away a shallow hole.  If previous experiences hold, soon a small weight will be deposited within, the hands’ owner will sit upon the sand, adjust the weight some, and then remain still for some hours. These you might lose in the stillness, consistent unmoving presences being difficult to focus upon, though you expect some small chance footsteps will wander from the first site to this, followed by a sprinkling of grains atop and around the weight, and then uncoordinated scuffing before the approaching feet retreat with a quicker step.  Such happenings are not uncommon.

Down by the water’s edge, where awareness of the sands that are you blurs against the sands that are not, a soft, broad nub draws aimless patterns.  Grains of yourself stick to this far readier than the others, regardless whether they be damp or dry.  If the figure responsible for these whorls and swoops so quickly erased by the tides finds such accumulations irksome, the rhythmic kicking of their feet and slapping of their opposite palm belies no bother.  You already anticipate the pad of larger, softer feet rushing in to drag this figure up to less wave-besotted heights. For now, the hands of the rescuer merely content themselves at your backshore, seemingly preoccupied with the shuffle and count of... pebbles? Yes, that seems right.

One typical visitor, the tiny feet with a dragging ringlet about them, is not here today.  While you only truly detect them when they stand far from the others and kick about in something like a brief, private dance, you feel some disappointment at their absence.  Thankfully, it passes quickly, as it always must and does.  The others provide so much stimulation on their own.

So the seconds and minutes and hours pass.  A longer visit, then, perhaps the gathering making a whole day on your shores. Indeed you do lose feeling on the unsteady one and their weight until their brief business with the larger builder, and indeed the body in the surf is dragged away only to totter back and resume their doodling before the seafoam several times over.  As happens about half the time, the smaller hands’ instincts win over the larger, and you feel the contours of a castle rise above your surface, holes poked for windows and something you can only presume is a stick serving as flag jammed in the apex.  These expected repetitions on established patterns are just so delightful as the rare breaks.

The feet which plod to rescue the doodler eventually drag them only a little ways from the waves, to a wet but not actively drenched height, and begin tracings in their own hand, purposeful strokes diagramming something too complicated to understand through the lessened yet still present haze.  The weight’s companion drags it a little closer, and spends some minutes flecking individual grains which linger from the earlier assault.  The castle is not scattered to the wind with a sudden, forceful kick, but remains standing as hands mismatched in size rest upon your surface, shifting and occasionally squeezing in a manner indicative they now hold one another.  At one point, you swear there is the impression of a dainty step at the furthest extreme you can sense, before the presence is gone, leaving only the lightest footprint.

You do wonder from time to time about the prints these visitors leave in their wake.  Difficult to judge though scale and weight remain in this amorphous existence, rough estimation of such rules out their identity as adults.  They do not sink and disperse near so large a surface area as even the lightest full-grown frame.  Children, then, only they seem too light and small for even this hypothesis.  Birds, crabs, seaside mammals, insects, all ruled out, for they march and hop and scuttle across your expanse when your mind goes away, leaving all manner of traces to observe and contemplate on waking, and (excepting the scribblings) the actions of your visitors are too purposeful for wildlife besides.  Quite perplexing.

Especially in view of the one answer you’ve entertained as reasonably possible, best backed by evidence. Every now and again, one or the other will flop bodily upon the sands, splay their limbs wide, and make something like a sand angel.  On these occasions, you sense them fully as possible - the immersion for burial in the sand results in too too much wriggling for clarity - and by all instances compared and categorized, you can only describe the basic shape in combination with the shallow treads and small profiles as one belonging to a doll.  A wide variety of dolls, true, occasionally something larger and floppier suggestive of a stuffed animal, but dolls all the same.

Toys.  Ambulatory toys visiting the beach of you, summoning you from slumber for the duration of their visit.  The mind would reject the notion as lunatic, were the mind not itself the amalgamated thoughts of dispersed silica.  The mind has rejected the notion, regarding it as some manner of horrid fever dream, then a manner of ironic hell, and then a simple fact of life, no more remarkable than the sloughing waves and pecking birds and shining sun.  Your suppositions on the similarities between your mind as it is now and the gray matter which powers the animal engine already turn on postulations of quantities unknown to science at present.  What are living toys but an unexamined aspect of the tapestry yet cataloged by any beyond you?

Besides, there is pleasantry in their presence, a comforting familiarity of the like upon the like.  You cannot strictly feel as a nervous system would process and report stimulation, merely sense depressions and removals and shiftings of your grains, extrapolating the shape and mass and basic texture from context clues.  Despite this, when the pair who build sandcastles gather and mold you for a parapet, when the clumsy hands take on surprising gentleness flicking stray grains from their fellow, when soft, near-formless limbs almost form a “D” seconds before the surf crests, you come ever so close to truly, legitimately feeling the molded plastic warmed by weak midday sun, the slight tingle of an electronic under battery power, stitchings of corduroy and terrycloth.  They are a diverse lot, in composition and interest, and you experience a stronger spark of life than any you have known beneath their idle play.

Actually… would that not be something?  They and theirs are the ones who summon your conscious mind to whatever forefront you possess.  Always toys, always engaged in diversions and amusements and games. Playing in the sand, as it were.  Could very well be they uintentionally make you real when they play, and when they finish and retreat to whatever homes they have beyond the beach, you sink and sleep.  You had not thought of such until now.  Something to think on, when next the time comes round.

For indeed, you sense from their stirring today’s visit draws to an end.  The plush drawers toddle from the shoreline, the last grains are flecked from the weight as it is lifted from its hole, the air around the castle whooshes in a telltale giveaway someone aimed one last attempted kick towards its walls.  So it goes, so it goes.  You hope they drew some pleasure from this visit in equal measure to your own.  If there is anything a stretch of beach must keep in mind, it is appreciation of what experiences one gains within the necessary impermanence of things.

This last thought threatens a scatter of questions in your mind at so late an hour, an annoying instinct likely triggered by pointed awareness of approaching dark and quiet.  From whence do these toyfolk hail, your mind babbles.  Are they mere animate playthings, or does something human lurk in their hollow and stuffed heads, as it must for you?  The verbosity and scientific curiosity of your own thoughts does not escape you, however malformed or incorrect certain details might prove, so while you cannot actively recall any time when you held a shape other than this, you feel strongly at times there must have been some period when you stood humanoid.  Why this transformation?  Was there some sin to deserve this, some request to deeper understand the earth itself, a mere dream of humanity by some sand with an overactive imagination? Are they similarly cursed, their souls befouled regardless your innocent interactions? Is there any way to manipulate your sands, let them know you are here, speak with someone, finally talk after who knows how many ages' silence?  Who what when where why how pounding and drumming and hammering and…

…and gone.  As the man said, the secret is in letting go.  Should a thought trouble or hurt, allow its passing and move on to the next.  And the next, and the next, and the next, like firing neurons or counting grains on an endless beach. Health in stillness, tranquility in silence…

Maybe... on next wakings... think about the wind... and whether its touch counts... as play...

They are nearly gone now, your time of rest in void almost upon you.  Normally, by this stage, you have shrunk back to a single grain, lingered for a moment, and then been no more.  Something tethers you longer than expected.  Through a tiring, diminishing mind, clouded and craving rest, you cast out in your final seconds, seeking some cause.  This is no painful thought, just a last little thing before…

Ah.  There.  Funny, that.  One of the dolls.  A single grain of sand.  Caught in their shoe.  Rocking about after too many scrapes against plastic, as she tries to shake it loose.  This, too, must be play of a kind.

What’s in a grain of sand?  What’s a grain of sand in?  Hah.

There it goes.  And now… goodb

.  .   .         . .  . . . .  .  . . . .        . . . . .    .  . .    . .  .   .     .  .  .     . .. ….  . . .… …….. .. .. ..  .. . . . . . . . . . . . .  . . . ...... .. . .. . . . . ..... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ...

Woke up in such a grumpy, godawful mood. I'm gonna think about how different characters would react to help me out.

Try to Help

Jake Jensen, Steve Rogers, Hal Carter, Johnny "Soap" MacTavish, König

Their first instinct is "problem! Must fix!" Never mind if they're actually the cause or not, you're not feeling well so they need to step in to help you out however you need. Whether it's trying to make you laugh, pulling you in for cuddles, getting you your favorite foods, or upping the amount of kissing you get, they'll get you to smile again somehow.

Of course, they can go overboard sometimes and you end up snapping at them. Then they give you those sad puppy-dog eyes and it breaks your heart, just making the situation worse. You reassure them that you know they're just trying to help it's just that this help isn't working. So they immediately try something else. They will get you to smile, damnit!

Give You Space

Bucky Barnes, Jonathan Pine, Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, Curtis Everett, James Mace

These guys understand that bad moods happen, you can't always control it. So they give you space, while still doing little things (like keeping your coffee/tea warm) to remind you that you're loved. They know you'll be back to your usual self in time. You just need to process some things. They'll give you all the time and space you need because you're worth the wait.

Turn it into a Grumpiness Competition

Nick Fowler, Walter Marshall, Lloyd Hansen, Johnny Storm, Marc Spector

Oh, you think you're the only one in a bad mood?! You think you can out grumpy them?! It's on! You will be at each other's throats all day but that's how they like it. It's foreplay for them, seeing your spitfire attitude is entrancing and they can't get enough of it. So they'll keep trying to out grumpy you until one of you snaps and pulls the other into the bedroom for some fiery hot sex that leaves you both wondering what the hell you were angry at to begin with.

So, thoughts? @alicedopey did I get your guys correct?

Psst! This is Draculaxias but erm.. on main acc I cant send asks on my ptn one unfortunately but I wanted to send a quick crack ramble to you ;p

PTN characters reacting to Jojo Siwa… We have ALL fallen victim of it, the song is okay— we can survive, the music video? Absolutely not. Especially the… scene with her and red girl

(PLS IF YOU HAVENT SEEN IT PLS SEE IT SO YOU CAN UNDERSTAND THIS ALTHOUGH IT WILL BE TRAUMATIZING)

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

Will pause the video and scream at the top of their lungs / scream cuss words

Hella, Horo, Chelsea, EMP, Wendy

Can’t process what just happened, they just stare at the screen with (or without) wide eyes and their mouth hanging open (or just a blank stare lol) traumatized; part of them wants to cry… and die

99, Hecate, Rahu, Oak Casket , Deren

“Oh!….. oh…” smiling while a their eyes water

Anne, Eleven, Shalom

Broke the device because they don’t wish to see any further, THEY HAVE SEEN ENOUGH! THEY DONT WANT TO SEE MORE…

Zoya, Wendy,

Doesn’t know whether to cry or laugh

Bai yi, Deren

Stares in disgust

Iron, EVERYONE

Man the fucking thing was horrendous 😭😭😭

Raven would be typing a newspaper article so fast like something like: Karma by JoJo Siwa is uprising for not the reason she thinks!? Or something like that. And you know that Chameleons therapy sessions is gonna be BOOKED. She would have to get therapy after watching it 😔 Oak casket probably gotta go find a casket after watching that shit. Though Anne tries to stay positive, at the end Jojo’s humping performance got to her. Shalom is silent the whole film though she will raise an eyebrow. Coquelic has a disgusted face would mutter something about how unsanitary her eyes are now.

She did not come back like a boomerang 😭

EXCUSE ME, THE VENTURE BROS MOVIE, THE ENDING. HDBSBBWJS!