hirkaryishtar  asked:

Do you ever think mahiru asks kuro in cat form to move and kuro looks at him and moves more in the way?

“……Move from where though??” 0__0 Is what I instantly thought when getting this question. So here you go I guess? :D???

Had to ask the servamp discord peeps for ideas lol plus I’ve been wanting to make a “Meanhiru” pun for forever now. HA. Thought of it in my head like 100 years ago. (゜▽゜;)

Random Weasley twins oppisites headcanons

I found these in my drafts so here you go I guess


Drawn to the ocean
Prefers dusk
Would rather write
Would rather listen to piano
Loves to sleep in
Immediatly drawn to dark or crazycoloured hair
Chills in flannelshirts
Late sunsets on near the water
Dark beer


Drawn to the forrest
Prefers dawn
Would rather read
Would rather listen to guitar
Loves to get up in the morning
Immediatly drawn to blode and natural hair
Chills in knitted sweaters
Late nights listening to the rain
Light beer

I can’t respond to you, @fruitstim, since I’m assuming you blocked me immediately after sending these. I must have misunderstood your posts when I checked your blog. I wasn’t being presumptuous. I just must have misunderstood what I was reading.

I never said you weren’t a real human being running a blog. It wasn’t my intent to breach your boundaries. I just didn’t know. I’ll gladly take down the reblog if it makes you uncomfortable, so please don’t think I’m intentionally being malicious. There was a mistranslation, that’s all.

And I didn’t know I misgendered you, either. “They/them” is what I automatically go to when I don’t know someone’s pronouns. I didn’t check yours, and I should have, so I apologize.

–Mod Mercy

have i told you lately

Its nearly two in the morning, she shouldn’t be awake.
Rated strong T

Iris come to slowly, wiggling her toes beneath the linen sheets. It’s dark outside. She can tell by the quiet howl missiling outside Central City. With any luck a few hours will remain before she has to, reluctantly, roll out of bed.

One, two, three Mississippi later, Iris peels her eyes open. 1:57 stares back at her in glowing blue, digital numbers. She squeezes her eyes shut, sighs relieved, and chalks the untimely respite to being a light sleeper. Arm tucked securely under her pillow, Iris starts drifting away again when he stirs behind her, closing the gap between their bodies.

As if he’d been waiting.

She puts two and two together and concludes he’s the reason she’s awake at 2 a.m.

It’s made all the more evident by his finger skimming, feather light down her lower back, sparking a string of heat devised to keep her awake.

‘i’ swipes where her shirt has risen, exposing a slither of skin above the waistband of her underwear, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind. Her shirt bunches higher around her ribs and he pauses there. Iris holds her breath.

She knows he’ll stop if he think he’s disrupting her.

When he spreads his palm, she inhales - working to keep up her charade, trying to anticipate his next move and where it’ll land. ‘l’ ghost over her ribs with a swirl of his thumb, pandering down to the lip of her belly button and traces the shallow opening to write an ‘o’.

It takes everything in her power to keep still and refrain from trembling. But lord. is it hard.

At 2:02 Iris lies awake for a entirely different reason.

He finds the spot on her lower back this time, right between her Venusian dimples, and swirls a ‘v’ dead center, forcing Iris to clamp her thighs together. The imagine of Barry kissing her there a few hours ago is still fresh and she practically feel the pressure of his tongue dipping on the same spot.

He must remember. The hitch she hears in his breathing gives it away.

He shifts his hips back an inch.

Iris follows.

If Barry catches on, he keeps the secret to himself, letting them continue this game he construcyed so early in the morning. One where she pretends his declaration painted on her body is a dream induced by slumber and another where he’s proclaiming like it’s the first.

‘e’ finds a home on her collar, and he’s extra careful to smooth his finger under the shirt; bypassing the flurry of curls hanging on her silk pillowcase and traces the tip of his index finger right over the sensitive mark he formed earlier in their relationship. The same one he renews with vigor at every available opportunity.

The next destination does not come immediately. He lingers on her skin, roaming, pausing before taking off again and frustration sets in. She needs him. Needs his touch firmer wherever it decides to land. Anything to get the coil in her belly to spring loose.

She doesn’t want to ruin the mystique of what they’re doing but, if he doesn’t do something fast, she’ll scream.

… Or die. Whichever comes first.

Lifting half his weight from her back his arm wraps around her, and she watches his hand walk up her breast bone and inch to the left until she’s tucked in his palm. He scrapes his thumb over the stiff nipple poking her t-shirt and the coil tightens, increasing the flames burning between her thighs.

And he has to know what he’s doing to her by now. He has to.

‘u’ the same thumb loops under the pebble and she’s all but forced to slip her arm between her legs and nudge her forearm in exactly the right spot.

Yes. Friction. Allusiveness and early mornings be damned.

Speaking of my brother, y'all wanted to hear more about him so here you go I guess. Even my brother knows when I say “I hate straight people” or “that’s enough heterosexuality for today” or “Straight people are so wild, man” or “what the fuck even are cis people sometimes like really what kind of bullshit is this” or once, “Joey I regret to inform you that the Cis are at it again”, and showed him a randomly gendered apron at Target, or things of the like that I’m using metonymy.

Typically, my words are because of something that happened earlier that day or week, and he knows he’s a good ally and has worked right along with me to undo the socialized transphobia we learned growing up. More often then not, he even sighs and goes, “so what happened today?”.

He doesn’t get offended. He doesn’t throw a fit. He doesn’t whine, “not ALL straight//cis people!”. Sometimes, he even laughs with me, because he knows that when I say those things, I don’t mean him.

Perc’ildan Flower Shop AU

So I don’t totally know how this happened except I totally do because I kept seeing this post and ugh. So yeah have some flower shop Percy and Vax. (Also there was a post going around a couple weeks ago about Vax being a sweatpants and oversized t-shirts kind of guy and I like that so there’s that too.) ((Also also cassiederolo is an A+ blog where I saw this prompt so go follow.)) (((Someone probably wrote this already but I haven’t seen it so here you go.)))

It had been a slow day at Keyleth’s flower shop and Percy was definitely ready to go home and possibly soak in a bath. Keyleth seemed to be just as ready to go as Percy was, though he kew it was for a totally different reason. She hadn’t said anything but Percy knew how she got when she was about to go on a first date and she’d made three new display bouquets with anemone and then spent the entire day rearranging them. With then minutes to go until close and no more customers in sight Keyleth said, “You can start counting the register I’m gonna put the plants to bed.” With that Keyleth swept into the nursery.

Percy unlocked the drawer of the ancient cash register in Keyleth’s shop and started counting pennies. He was four minutes from being able to lock the door and halfway through the fives when the front door slammed open. It bounced against the frame, causing the bell to ring like crazy.

A man stalked into the store and slapped a twenty on the counter. “How do I passive-aggressively say ‘fuck you’ in flower?”

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Hey guys I wrote a really, really silly, stupidly goofy MBAV oneshot so hERE YOU GO I GUESS
(It’s also on Archive under the user Shima2112.)

But yeah as I said this is really really dumb but it’s fluffy so I hope you like it anyway!

The sounds of distorted laughter filter through the crack of Ethan’s bedroom door, but it does nothing to disturb the current insanity that is The Tomb of the Damned, a bowl of popcorn and a certain best friend named Benny Weir.

“Zombie!” Benny cries out, jerking back violently in his chair. His jade eyes are wide with suspense as he narrowly misses being bitten—definitely easier said than done, seeing as it’s happened to him in real life before.

“If you hadn’t noticed, we’re sort of surrounded by them,” Ethan comments dryly, mashing the buttons on his controller.

Level nine is the one of the hardest in the whole game, and they still haven’t managed to conquer it yet. Even so, Ethan knows that his genius and Benny’s wicked skills will win them the round. Soon, hopefully.

This is how they usually spend their Friday nights, cooped up in Ethan’s room while Jane leads Sarah into another round of Dance Dance Revolution. Needless to say Sarah’s walked away with some pretty impressive hip hop skills and a pocketful of cash every week, so that’s a plus.

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