#rise mask swap

[randyzorra]

I have a friend who, like Splinter, calls them by their mask colors so I decided to get a little Silly with it (Leo is insisting Donnie Must lick the helmet if he really wants to sell this charade)

Do not tag as ship

[turtleblogatlast]

Here’s a thought-

When Splinter says Leo’s the leader at the end of Season 2…pretty sure he was joking.

After so many high stakes and high emotions, he (a bit cluelessly) makes a joke to add some levity, just to make things a bit easier for he and his sons to digest everything that happened. It was a lot that happened, so it makes sense that Splinter wants to make things that much softer for everyone.

But- making a joke like that, after everything they all just went through…I can definitely see how the events of the movie pave out in response.

For example, by joking about Leo in particular having the responsibility of a leader, that puts him directly in the sight of Raph’s building anxieties. Because after everything, it’s clear that Raph really started taking the hero name seriously to the point that he started undermining his own fun and childhood in the process. So in the eyes of a Raph who is so worried about what could happen if they’re not prepared again, Leo in particular kind of stands almost as a point of danger in that aspect.

And with the joke of Leo “leading” in any capacity ringing out over them, it’s easy to blame Leo and Leo alone whenever he goes and goofs off with Mikey and Donnie. I think as well that the concept of a leader being spoken after the Shredder just pushes more weight on Raph’s shoulders and makes him realize how much goofing off they did before when they should have been better heroes (despite them all just being kids...)

Raph knows his brothers are good, he knows and has pride in them and himself in turn, but it terrifies him to know that they won’t be ready for the next big threat, and Leo directly going against this caution even more than usual just pushes Raph to want to try more.

As for Leo- keep in mind what happened all throughout “Many Unhappy Returns.” Keep in mind what happened all throughout the series in general. In the former, Splinter more than once points out how he would rather have his other sons with him than Leo, especially because they “would take this seriously”…even though Leo was taking it seriously. (Not that Splinter should be expected to read what Leo was doing when Leo wasn’t making his plans clear, but that wording sticks with kids.) Even after Leo’s plan pulled through, Raph’s the one who spoke in trust of Leo, not Splinter.

As for what happens in the series in general…well, we see Leo mess up a lot, apologize a lot, get his brothers out of messes a lot, and even when he does well or is responsible it’s either glossed over or still seen as goofing off (no I will never be over that moment where Leo almost got Gus’s tags and got screwed over out of pure bad luck.)

So imagine hearing a joke like that as Leo, who for a good chunk of especially the start of the series has been a lowkey voice of reason. The idea that Leo being responsible for the team is nothing but a joke…? It’s understandable that it could feel like a blow, that it could push him to want to try less.

Especially after everything they just went through.

They’re heroes. | They’re kids.

Why shouldn’t they care? | Why should they care?

[strangermask]

I regret nothing

[scribble-hell]

11/17/22 Daily Doodles

Mask swaps and some Usagi

[foggyfrogss]

« MOIRA › fate; destiny

Gojo x Reader | Warnings: Pure Angst | Discord 18+ | One Shot List

Synopsis— You are reminded of the horrors of Jujutsu, witnessing the last moments of Satoru Gojo and Yuta Okkotsu.

Wake up.

Wake up.

Your mind repeats the phrase, over and over.

“Wake up…”

It had just been you left in the room.

No other signs of life. No other signs of life.

On the metal he lay, motionless and coated in red. It’s all red.

There was no way he could be dead.

“Wake up!” It’s a selfish act, pleading a dead man to wake up.

Oh how you only wanted to see those eyes just one more time. Just one more time.

His face is still, holding an expression you’d never seen him make.

Satoru Gojo was at peace.

Though severed in more places than one, cut in half and bleeding out; he was at peace. A peace he couldn’t find living, even if he searched far and wide. It was an unreachable peace for a man who was as burdened as he was. He was free.

Tangled in your soul, he stays, making it difficult to breathe.

The short time you had alone with him had not been enough, you wished for more— but Shoko had been insistent on preparing his corpse.

Satoru was good at many things, one thing being that he always kept you out of the loop of his plans. “You’re what?” The words fall from your lips in a shocked tone, devoid of anger but filled with horror.

You couldn’t be angry at Shoko for something out of her control. She wanted the same as you; you could see it on her face and in the amount of finished cigarettes on the floor.

“If we hit rock bottom— meaning we have no other choice, if Yuta can’t do it,” Shoko begins to explain as she rids Gojo’s face of the dried blood, “we are to swap Yuta’s consciousness into his body.”

“He was okay with this?” You ask, motioning towards Gojo. Shoko nods, but only once. Her tired eyes jump from his corpse to meet your eyes. “He was sure he’d win, but then expressed that he did not care what happened to his body… if he were to die.”

In silence, though standing back far enough to give Shoko room, you watch her prepare his body. The squeaking wheels of a cart could be heard as she brings over a tray of medical tools.

She cleans off the dried blood after removing the scraps of his torn shirt. In silence, Shoko stitches the man’s body back together. Almost like a puzzle.

She cleans the remaining blood, and then pauses; she’s looking up at you, brown eyes peaking up. Though her face is masked, she’s showing her concern.

“The next part may be hard to watch,” she says steadily, holding up what looks to be a type of scalpel.

One part you had completely missed was how the consciousness would be swapped.

“Wait,” you’re saying, “what are you about to do?”

It’s silent for a beat, and you don’t miss the way her fingers slightly tremble. “The curse that was inside Geto’s body- Yuta will be copying that technique to use Gojo’s technique.”

It was clear as day now, and your eyes widen.

“You’re using-“ you are cut off with a loud popping sound. Ui-Ui appears out of thin air, holding— to the best of his abilities, Yuta Okkotsu.

Once again, all you see is red. It’s spilling onto the floor, a lot faster than Gojo’s had been. Yet, as you watch in pure horror, you see the way Yuta is still alive. He’s still moving, but slowly. Yuta’s energy flickers as it clings to life.

Shoko had dropped everything in her hands to push another metal table over, helping Ui-Ui place his severed body onto it. Piece by piece, careful not to hurt him more than he already was.

Just like Gojo, Yuta matches his sensei’s fatal wounds.

Seconds after Yuta’s arrival, the double-doors to the morgue/medical area are busted open. A kid, who you faintly recall as Amai, and Nitta flood in. Both of them rush to Yuta’s side, doing what they can to help him.

With a few minutes passing, you feel the tension in the air rise. It thickens uncomfortably, making you more anxious than you already were. “It’s no use,” you hear Nitta express. “All my RCT is doing is pausing it— it’s not getting better or worse.”

“Rika is how I’m still conscious, b-but that’s at its limit too…” you hear Yuta’s strained voice choke out. It’s absolutely gut-wrenching, hearing a kid— Satoru’s student, you grew to know so well suffer in such a way. “Ieiri, we’re doing it,” he says, “we have to do it. There’s no other choice.”

For a second, it’s deathly silent. All that could be heard is the strained breathing of Yuta Okkotsu.

“I have finished the stitching on Gojo’s corpse. As soon as you have moved in, push your reverse cursed technique to its maximum and get the body ready,” Shoko is turning slightly to lock eyes with Amai. “Amai, you will help me support him.”

“You have the option to stay and watch or save yourself the grief.”

You are already grieving, what more could make it worse? You stay silent, practically unable to speak.

Her words make you glance up at her, tearing your eyes away from Yuta as you watch Amai move towards his extended right hand.

“Come with me,” you feel Nitta take hold of your hand, pulling you towards the exit.

As if you’re on auto-pilot, your legs take you with her. Your head stays turned as you leave, watching as Shoko begins cutting into Gojo’s head.

The sight is gruesome, making you sick, but the double-doors shut before you can watch any further.

Unable to move any further, you’re falling to your knees, releasing a pained sound as you feel the grief finally take hold of the wheel. It’s painful.

“No…” you gasp out, shutting your eyes tightly together. The last thing you wanted to do was cry, but the tears find their way out, falling down your cheeks in heavy streams. “This isn’t real,” you say, clenching your teeth. “Satoru couldn’t have just died like that.”

Nitta is silent.

When you no longer feel Yuta’s cursed energy, you know.

After peeling yourself off the ground, you’d found a seat in a row chairs just outside the morgue. You assumed they were for grieving people such as yourself. People who needed to say goodbye one final time.

It’s quiet. A quiet that leaves you bare and lonely, alone with your thoughts. All you can think about is how you’ll never see him again.

As you sit in the depths of your mind, wading through heavy thoughts and feelings, a sharp feeling strikes you. It hits you hard, making you jolt.

It was him. It was his energy.

“Satoru…” you’re saying to yourself, in disbelief, picking yourself up from the seat. Nitta notices you immediately, quickly reaching for you, but you slip away.

Your anguish had blinded you. All you wanted was him and currently all you could feel around you was him.

In a haze, you’re opening the doors to the medical area, wincing from the bright lights. Your body reaches for him, grasping at the air. It’s like a magnetic pull, unable to resist the force, you’re scanning the room for him.

Your heart thumps, sending a wave of tingles through you as you finally spot him.

Lost due to the overwhelming events, you weren’t sure what to expect. It had completely slipped your mind as to what Shoko genuinely meant when she’d explained… though you understood, nothing could prepare you for what you found.

Shoko is eyeing you worriedly.

The man turns, locking eyes with you.

Oh how you only wanted to see those eyes just one more time. Just one more time. Yet, when that wish is granted, when you lock eyes with this man— it’s not the same. At all.

They are distant, lacking the vibrancy of life Satoru Gojo once held when he looked at you. Blue, striking and bright, they’re now cold. Cold like the body that lay on that table moments ago.

The peace was gone, as was Satoru Gojo.

Dead man walking, he moves awkwardly, like a reanimated corpse trying to learn how to walk again.

Disheveled hair, you can see the fresh stitching across his forehead; Geto’s face pops into your mind.

Next to Gojo’s body, Shoko moves away, going to the other side of the room. The air around her has completely shifted, and you understand immediately.

In the background, you can hear Shoko clean the tools she’s used for surgery.

“Yuta,” you say, directing it towards Gojo’s body. When his mouth opens to speak, you feel as if your heart is ripped from your chest.

Gojo was not free. Though death has lifted the burden of his status off his soul, he is unable to rest. He is not free— a weapon, taken advantage of and used selfishly by your fellow sorcerers for their gain. For Japan’s gain. Call it selfish, but you understood why the plan had been kept from you now.

Hell would freeze over before you agreed to such a thing, even if Gojo was okay with it.

To have a body; to just exist, is to suffer— it was what you learned from him in the handful of years you had known Satoru Gojo.

He was not a man to speak up, especially about himself; you could see it in his eyes rather than being told in words. The second his blindfold was removed in the comfort of your home, his entire story would be told, expressed only to you in private.

He was a man, a human, just like any other sorcerer... just as Geto was.

To be used in the same way as his late best-friend, but this time for good; it was more than tragic... disturbing and unforgivable.

“Hello,” he says your name after, following the greeting.

It is his voice. It is his voice.

Under a white sheet, Yuta’s body— now corpse, lays still. His brain, and complete consciousness, residing in the corpse of your late lover.

“I’m sorry,” is all he says before disappearing from the room. His voice is pained, as if he had been in your shoes himself. As if he had been the one to witness his lover's body being used as a tool.

Silence follows his departure, filling the cold room.

You hadn't known warmth since he turned cold.

[bookwormjust]

Archeron sisters revelation (established relationship with Azriel, twin sister of Feyre)

The River House was alive with the sound of crackling flames in the hearth and the distant murmur of the Sidra beyond the windows. The Inner Circle gathered in the grand room, its high ceilings and elegant furnishings only adding to the tension that hung in the air. Feyre sat near Rhysand, her eyes wary, while Cassian and Azriel lingered by the wall, arms crossed. Mor and Amren watched with curious expressions, though there was a hint of unease beneath their calm exteriors.

You sat quietly, your gaze fixed on the dancing flames. Being Feyre’s twin, your role in the family had always been one of quiet sacrifice. While Feyre hunted in the woods, you had taken on a different kind of burden, one that involved sneaking through the shadows of the village, accepting dubious jobs, and dealing with people whose morals were as twisted as the thorns in the forest. You had done whatever was necessary to keep your family alive, but it was not something you ever spoke of. Only Feyre knew the extent of what you’d done—the things you had to endure to keep your sisters and father fed and safe.

Nesta’s voice, sharp and filled with disdain, cut through the low chatter. “You’ve always been a liar and a thief. And now, you’re nothing but another pretty fae with nothing to offer but deceit.”

Elain, as always, stood beside Nesta, her expression a careful mask of neutrality. She rarely spoke against Nesta, preferring to stay in her elder sister's shadow. But now, she nodded slightly, her gaze cast down, as if Nesta’s words were just another truth she quietly accepted.

You bit back the sting of Nesta’s words, the old familiar anger simmering beneath your skin. It was a feeling you had grown accustomed to over the years—Nesta’s biting comments, her constant judgment, and the way she seemed to look through you as if you were less than nothing.

“I’m done with your self-righteous act,” Nesta continued, her voice rising. “You’ve always been like this, taking the easy way out. Stealing, sneaking around, getting into trouble, while Feyre—”

“Enough!” Feyre’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding. She stood, her eyes blazing as she looked at Nesta. “You have no idea what she has done for us.”

Nesta rolled her eyes, scoffing. “Oh, please. We all know Feyre was the one out there, hunting—”

“Yes, I hunted,” Feyre interrupted, her voice trembling with the weight of unsaid truths. “But do you know what she did? Do you have any idea the lengths she went to? While I was in the woods, she was in the villages, taking on jobs no one else would. Stealing, yes. Swapping. Dealing with people who would have slit our throats if they thought they could get away with it. She did whatever she had to do, while you sat by and judged us both.”

The room fell silent, the crackling fire the only sound as Feyre’s words hung heavily in the air. You looked at Feyre, surprise and gratitude mingling in your chest. You had never expected her to speak up like this, to defend you so fiercely in front of everyone. Nesta’s face paled, her mouth opening and closing as she struggled to form a response.

Rhysand, who had been listening quietly, leaned forward, his gaze intent on you. His violet eyes softened, and a rare, solemn respect flickered there. “I didn’t know,” he said softly, his voice filled with a quiet reverence. “Thank you, for everything you did. I see now that it wasn’t just Feyre who sacrificed for the family. You did the same, in your own way.”

Nesta looked as if she had been slapped, her eyes narrowing as she turned her gaze back to you. But this time, there was no more fire in her voice, only a cold, hard wall of resentment. “I didn’t ask you to do any of that.”

“You didn’t have to,” Feyre shot back, her voice firm. “She did it because she loved us. Because she was willing to get her hands dirty in ways you never would. She didn’t have to be asked.”

Rhysand nodded in agreement, his expression still thoughtful. “It’s not easy to do what you did. To make those choices, to bear that weight in silence.” He paused, glancing at Feyre before continuing, “You both are more alike than I realized.”

Elain looked between Nesta and you, her eyes softening slightly, though she remained by Nesta’s side. The room seemed to hold its breath, the weight of your unspoken sacrifices finally laid bare.

Azriel had been silent throughout the confrontation, his shadows whispering around him, restless and agitated. His gaze was locked onto you, the dark depths of his eyes filled with a storm of emotions—anger, pride, and something deeper, something more primal that simmered just beneath the surface. He stepped forward, his wings twitching slightly, his posture taut as if barely containing the urge to cross the room and wrap you in his embrace.

He turned his attention to Nesta, his voice cold as steel. “You have no idea what she went through. What she endured while you sat in your father’s house, warm and safe. She fought for you, risked her life for you, and all you can do is spit venom.”

Nesta glared at Azriel, but she held her tongue, seemingly recognizing the shadowsinger’s temper was not something to challenge lightly.

Azriel’s gaze softened as he looked at you, his voice gentling but still fierce. “You didn’t deserve to bear all that alone,” he said, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down your spine. “I should have known. I should have been there for you.”

You shook your head, offering him a small, weary smile. “It’s not your fault, Azriel. I didn’t want anyone to know. It was my choice.”

Azriel crossed the room in a few swift steps, his presence a wall of strength and quiet protectiveness. He reached for your hand, his grip firm and reassuring. “Well, now I know. And I’m here. I won’t let you carry anything like that alone again.”

The bond between you thrummed with his emotions, the quiet fury at Nesta’s cruelty, the fierce protectiveness that made his shadows coil around you as if shielding you from the world. He lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles, his eyes never leaving yours.

“You are stronger than any of us,” Azriel murmured, his voice so quiet only you could hear. “Stronger than you’ll ever give yourself credit for. And I am so damn proud of you.”

Feyre moved to stand beside you, her hand resting gently on your shoulder. “We wouldn’t have survived without you,” she said softly, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “You’ve always been there for us, even when it meant putting yourself in danger. I’m so sorry it’s taken this long for everyone to see it.”

The room was silent, the weight of Feyre’s words settling over the gathered company. Cassian and Mor exchanged looks of quiet understanding, and even Amren nodded slightly, her sharp gaze appraising you with newfound respect.

Rhysand stood, offering you a small, sincere smile. “You are a part of this family,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of a promise. “And we are grateful for all that you have done.”

Nesta said nothing, her expression closed off as she turned away, a stubborn set to her jaw. But you no longer cared for her approval or her understanding. You had your sister’s love, the respect of those who mattered, and Azriel by your side—his hand still holding yours, his touch a constant reassurance.

As the tension in the room slowly ebbed, you felt a quiet peace settle over you. The shadows of your past, once kept hidden and buried, had finally been brought to light. And though the scars remained, you knew you were not alone in bearing them anymore.

Azriel’s thumb brushed over your knuckles, his eyes never leaving yours. “You’re safe now,” he whispered, his voice a solemn vow. “And I will always be here to remind you of that.”

You leaned into him, your heart full, and let the warmth of his presence and the strength of Feyre’s support wash over you. Whatever challenges lay ahead, you knew you could face them. Because for the first time in a long time, you didn’t have to face them alone.

[bandgie]

Hate You So

prince!bangchan x fem!reader

MDNI 18+, fantasy au, enemies-to-lovers (kinda), oral (f!), cum swapping, brief overstim (f!), biting, brief thigh humping

ask here! notes: I am not taking requests, however, I am interested in this one with my own version ofc

3.2k words

There is never a dull moment with Prince Chan. His words are belittling, his eyes are full of scorn when he looks at you in all his ruthless beauty. Sometimes you wish you could ignore his piercing gaze, but he bores his eyes into the back of your head so harshly you feel it burning.

Even without his hatred, it would be hard to turn away from him. With full lips, plump cheeks, and strong nose, it really is hard to think of him as anything below attractive. Still, you know better than to approach him unless you wish to cry yourself to sleep that night.

A masked ball is the perfect opportunity for you to slip away. Pretend to be someone you're not, or perhaps it's to show your true self behind a false face. Not that it matters. A night like this allows you to put the puzzling hatred the prince has for you far behind your mind.

Drink after drink, spin after spin and you find yourself in the arms of the Viscount Felix. You can tell it's him from the way he adorns himself in jewelry, his hair the color of the sun itself. His deep blue robe stitched with silver treading in layers. It must be difficult to dance in heavy clothes, but he twirls you in his arms easily.

"Ah, isn't it the beautiful Duchess," he regards you with a sly smirk. His eyes peek out from his silver mask underneath.

You narrow your eyes, though you doubt he can see much of your facial expressions from your black mask. "How did you know?" To this, Felix's smirk widens to a smile. "Even behind such a clever guise, your charm seeps through the fabric."

You mock the sound of laughter. "Is this a trick of flattery to get my hand in marriage? To help you rise higher than a Viscount?"

Felix's eyes gleam with mischief. "You think too highly of yourself, dear Duchess. I simply wish to lay in your bed."

Now you laugh. Your voice is swallowed from the sounds of heels clicking on the ground and loud chatter. The two of you dance steadily despite the liquor running in your veins. Felix is careful not to spin you too fast or dip you too low. He may speak vulgar, but he is every bit gentleman in every other way.

"I think I'd like that very much, if I'm to be truthful," you say once you're swaying evenly in his hold. "I can't recall the last time I've been properly loved." Felix makes a sound of understanding, eyes darting to the people around you.

It's improper of you to speak in such a way. You are of high status, and talking like this not only in public, but to someone of lower ranking is foolish. Still, it's this potty mouth that gives you and Felix such a close bond. The fact that you can speak freely without judgment.

Chris does not share your sentiment.

He can hear your crass words from where he dances with his own partner. It sickens him to know that you openly express lustful desires, but it disturbs him even more that he finds himself jealous.

His partner is speaking, but he doesn't pay attention to any words she says. He strains his ears to eavesdrop on the conversation with you and the brightly hair-colored Viscount.

"Is that so?" Chris hears the deep voice of the man dancing with you. "Sounds like that is quite the problem. Has no one caught your eye? Do you think no one is worthy of seeing your wholeness?"

You react as if you tire of your dancing partner, rolling your eyes. "Don't be so dramatic. The person I have my eye on would rather see me burn, that's all." The smile on your lips falter. Despite his better self, Chris wonders who would turn down such an opportunity to spend a night with you. What a foolish man.

"And pry tell, who is this person?" Felix speaks as though he read Chris's mind.

"The Prince."

Ah, that makes sense. Chris can't count the amount of times he's upset you, the times he's spewed swears cruel enough to make your eyes water. He brushed it off as you being too sensitive, too emotional. But he knows deep down, it's so he doesn't get close to you.

Felix's eyes widen and his jaw drops. He looks at you with alarm, and some fear, then he hisses under his breath. "I am not one to tell you what to do and how to speak, but I highly suggest you refrain from speaking ill about the royal blood in their own castle."

He has a point, it's treason to speak how you are now. But the alcohol makes not only your thoughts, but your words careless. "So then tell me, what do you suggest? I tire of my lonely state. I think I'm up for any suggestions you have."

Before Felix answers, his eyes dance around the room one last time to spot any itching ears. Chris, despite being a prince, turns his head to finally acknowledge his partner and try to pick up on the conversation. Once Felix determines there are no listeners, he says, "Perhaps you should lure the prince into your sheets. You say you want love, but I argue hate is a much more fun way to spend the night."

A wicked smile finds its way to Felix's lips that you can't help but match. "Now look who's speaking ill" you say. "Plus, that's a terrible idea. I will regret it in the morning."

To this, Felix shrugs. "Then let him make sweet hate to you past sunrise."

☘︎☘︎☘︎☘︎

Chris should know his luck is thin. Only the universe would have him push you away so much so only for you to want him with the same intensity. It mocks him even now as you stand outside of his chambers when he wanted to get away from you as far as possible.

"Did you follow me here?" He questions you with authority. You swoop into a deep curtsy and bow your head, "Yes, your majesty."

You don't have to look up to know he's sneering at you, lips pulled back into a snarl. Felix, along with the bitter alcohol, gave you too much confidence. Sure you may not be of low status, but standing before a prince unnerves you.

Especially when you followed him with intentions.

"If you want me to ask why, you will be disappointed. Leave me." Chris looks at you expectantly, waiting for you to take those steps back. You never do, however, but instead pick your head up and stride deeper into his room, shutting the door.

His eyebrows furrow and a blush crawls its way up his neck. Chris tries to mask his surprise with anger. "Stupid wrench. Can you not listen to simple instructions?" His eyes that are filled with anger slowly dissipates when he sees you reel back at his words.

You fiddle with your hands nervously and you suddenly feel as though you cannot do this at all. How are you, a duchess, supposed to ensnare a prince who hates you so? Doubt clogs your mind, but you are already here. It would be far too shameful to turn away without even trying.

"Why do you hate me so?" That's not what you were supposed to say. You were supposed to sound flirtatious, experienced. Instead, you're meek and quiet. For a moment you doubt the prince even heard you, but the disheartened look in his eyes says otherwise.

He sighs, running his jeweled fingers in his brown hair. A prince is to never be vulnerable, to show weakness in fear of exploitation. In the presence of your teary eyes, however, none of that seems to matter.

Chris takes a deep breath, "I hate you for many things."

Your jaw drops. You're not sure what you were expecting, but it certainly wasn't this. A foolish part of you thought maybe it was a misunderstanding, but there's no time to reply when the prince carries on.

"I hate that I think about you every hour of everyday. I hate that you live freely while I have to act accordingly." He takes a step to you. "I hate how you look at me with those hidden eyes. I hate it even more that I know it's you underneath that plain mask." Chris is close enough to reach for your face and he does just that. Gentle fingers undo the knot that keeps your mask on and he lets it fall to the ground.

"I hate that I know your voice, that I ache to hear it. I hate that I know in which way you walk, should you be in my castle." His fingertips ghost over your skin, sending shivers down your spine. "I hate that I dream of you and I hate when I wake from those dreams."

Chris traces the outline of your lips, watching how your tongue darts out to taste his fingers. He shudders.

"Worst of all," he leans close to your face, a kiss away from you. "I hate that it's only for one night that I will be yours."

You don't kiss him back at first. You can't even register his plush lips on yours. How they move steadily, sickly sweet. The prince tastes faintly of alcohol, but not enough to overpower his kiss. You come back to when his hands find your waist, pressing you closer to his warm body.

A part of you thinks maybe this is a test. That when you begin moving your mouth with his, he'd pull away and laugh. Chris doesn't do that though and instead groans against your lips when you finally reciprocate.

Shaky hands find their way to his styled hair, tugging on his curls to bring him closer. It doesn't take long before you're both chest to chest, one of his legs between yours as you stand, and breathing into each other's mouths. His kiss is bruising, filled with the overwhelming desire he claims to hate.

Chris nips on your lower lip, pulling it back harshly to hear you whimper. Then he kisses you again, messily sliding his tongue against yours. His lips travel down your cheek, your jawline, to your neck. You shiver at his warm tongue tasting your skin, hips rocking on his thigh.

The grip on your waist only tightens to keep pressure on you grinding on him. You feel him smile against your throat. "Humping me like a little bunny, aren't you?" He lifts his head to whisper in your ear, biting your earlobe. "Is my leg enough to satiate your lust?"

You shake your head, "N-no. It's not, my prince." Chris rewards your honesty by moving his hands from your waist. He lifts the many layers of your dress in bunches, holding them above your hips. You take the hint and grasp them in your own fingers, watching him descend lower...

...and lower... ...and lower...

The prince kneels before you, facing your core. You gasp, and despite dreaming about this with your hand underneath your nightgown, it's still an unbelievable sight. No royal blood is to kneel before another, let alone you of lower ranking.

"Prince Christopher!" You sound slightly panicked. "You mustn't! To kneel before...not even that! You must have drunken one too many glasses. I shouldn't have-"

You cut yourself off with a yelp. You feel Chris's teeth dig into the soft flesh of your thighs. He does it hard enough to see his teeth imprints when he pulls back. "You think of me drunk," he says it with accusation. "But how could I be drunk off wine when I could be drunk off this instead?"

Though you can't see him from the frills of the many layers of your dress, it helps ease your nerves when he hooks his finger under your panties. Your hips jolt when the cold air hits your bare cunt, but his warm breath quickly replaces it.

Chris trails kisses just next to your core, his hands planted on each thigh. His fingers makes shapeless figures, dancing closer to where you throb just before pulling away. It's bearable it first, his teasing. But then you start to feel yourself dripping, arousal seeping from your folds. His lips ghost over your clit, moving to the next thigh.

You tremble, trying to move your hips so his mouth catches your pussy. You're met with a chuckle, deep and quiet. It makes you more impatient, whining. "My prince please. I cannot bear it."

The prince pulls away from you completely, leaning back to look up at you. He looks silly beneath where you stand. His mouth red and curls messy from your earlier tugging, but his wet lips are frowning. "Are you, a duchess, telling me, a prince, what to do?"

Shit, you got too comfortable. "Of course not," your voice wavers. From fear or lust, you're not sure. "I didn't mean to offend you, I just-"

"You're quite the nervous talker, aren't you?" Chris's once pouting lips turn into a smirk. His observation makes you blush, though you're sure your face was already a deep shade of red since the beginning.

He smiles at your reaction, teeth gleaming in the candlelit room. "No need to fret, pretty duchess. I told you that tonight I am yours. If my mouth on you is what you desire, then so be it."

You watch as Chris dives forward to the empty space between your legs. His tongue darts out to taste you directly, going under your lower lips to collect your arousal. The warmth from his mouth makes you squeal, but his hands move to the back of your thighs to keep you in place.

It's hot, wet, and a little rough when he licks you. He trails his tongue upwards to rub soft circles on your nub before dipping back down. Chris moves his hands higher until they're under your hiked dress, gripping your arse. His fingers kneed into your soft flesh, forcing you deeper into his mouth.

There's a guttural moan that leaves him, sending waves through your cunt. Chris opts to suck on your flesh, pulling it only to let it go with a wet 'pop!' The sensation makes you shiver, legs buckling for a second before you regain your composure.

"This is..." the prince trails off. He buries his nose on your clit, sticking his tongue out to prod at your entrance. There's no doubt that the evidence of your shame is dripping from his chin, but he acts as though he doesn't mind. He hardly cares how your legs squeeze and how the hair on your pelvis tickles his face when he painfully pushes his face deeper into you.

This is divine.

You want nothing more than to grind on his face, hump on his tongue like the bunny he said you are. But your legs shake so much, your knees lock so often you see your vision go black for seconds. Finishing on the prince's face is something you could have only dreamt of. Yet here he is, seeming to eagerly coax a release from you. Surely he must be flushed himself, straining painfully in his trousers.

"P-Prince Christopher I- oh~ I'm so close. Do you want me to...should I..."

It's difficult to finish your sentence when you're so close to finishing in his warm mouth. You want to taste him how he's doing to you, you want to feel how his length would stretch you out. He must feel the same way, he has to.

But he only shakes his head with your pussy still in his mouth. "You should cum," he says breathlessly. "Let me taste this, drink you in. I've never had a cunt as pretty as yours."

Hot kisses rapidly peck on your clit. The prince spits messily on your already wet core, but he quickly spreads it all over your lips. Chris moves you up and down by your ass, encouraging you to ride his face. The idea of hesitating and passing the opportunity is behind you. You feel as though you might crush his head with the force of your legs, but he takes it all.

It makes sense why you're moaning, writhing under the tongue of the prince. But it makes you wonder why he's so loud himself. Groaning at your taste and whining when your hips shy away from his relentless mouth. You can hear him mumble mostly to himself. Mindlessly babbling soft words of praises.

"So good." "Pretty pussy." "Fuck. Ride my tongue, just like that."

Maybe he's trying to help get you to your high, but it makes you distantly wonder, nonetheless.

You whimper at the feeling of pleasure building in your stomach. It bundles and quivers until you drop the hem of your dress to reach down and grip Chris by the hair. He ignores how the layers surround him like blankets. You feel him gasp against your pussy when you slide your cunt up and down his face.

"S-sorry," you apologize pathetically. "Close. Wanna cum- fuck! wanna cum. Please forgive me." You mewl more apologies before vibrating with pleasure. Chris can't protest as you finish on his tongue, and he seems to rather like it with the way his blunt fingernails stab into the skin of your bottom.

You keep him there on your cunt as your body trembles with aftershocks from your orgasm. The prince obediently licks you throughout it all, collection your cream before loudly gulping it down. Your shaky hands finally release him from your grip, but Chris is persistent on giving your quivering clit final kisses.

Even if you try to move your hips from his mouth, he keeps you in place. "Your majesty," you struggle to find your voice from how much you were moaning. "Please. It's so sensitive."

He licks a fat stripe along your pussy to hear you cry out one final time. "You ask for me to taste you. You practically beg for me to let you finish on my tongue and when I do, you tell me to stop. Tell me, duchess, what is it that you want from me exactly?"

It's a simple question that has a simple answer, yet, saying it would bring complicated issues you know neither of you are able to face.

You. The word is on the tip of your tongue, but you settle for saying, "T-to please you, if you'll have me." It's close enough to what you actually want.

Chris finally brings himself to his feet, reaching for your fallen mask on his way up. He hands you the fabric, but you're so distracted with his face that you gasp.

He's soaked in your juices, his face glistens in the rising moonlight coming from his window. It's almost offensive to look at, reminding you of how you lost yourself so easily.

The prince only smiles at your words, your shocked expression. "Don't worry about my pleasure, pretty duchess." He leans in to kiss you, eyes fluttering closed upon impact. You can taste yourself on him, the bitter flavor settling on your tongue and invading your senses. It brings a new wave of desire, of an aching want.

"There," he gives you a dazzling smile when he pulls away. A string of saliva mixed with your arousal connect your lips. "Have a taste of yourself instead."

[draculasfavoritewife]

El Hambre (Hunger)

Summary: Getting Miguel to take a break is a full-time job unto itself, and requires a little extra incentive.

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x fem!Spider!Reader

Warnings: Lots of suggestive talk. Miguel being an ass hehe. A risky make-out in a public space, idiots in love CANNOT keep their hands to themselves. I put far too much of my descriptive powers into talking about how devastatingly sexy Miguel is. Also for my intents and purposes, Reader understands and speaks Spanish.

Note: I use the shortened version of his name "Mique" in my own writing just because I personally prefer it. Swap it with whatever nickname you prefer in your head :)

This is one of my personal favorite pieces I've written, and still makes me giggle like an evil maniac whenever I return to reread/edit it. I have shamelessly watched every Miguel scene in ATSV far too many times and will continue to do so; his image is already tattooed on the backs of my eyelids. As mentioned in my HCs, reader is a spider-hero, but I left her pretty vague on purpose -- feel free to fill in her costume/powers/skill set with your own spidersona!

*Spanish translations at the end! (I am fairly bilingual, but if I made a lil mistake here or there do forgive me)

He hasn’t turned away from his myriad glowing monitor screens in nearly ten minutes, standing like a damn statue with his feet wide apart and hands braced on his trim hips, only lifting to sharply swipe through any screens that serve him no purpose. Each tiny shift of weight, the rise and fall of his ribcage as he breathes, all the little things that prove he is still, in fact, alive, cast soft highlights over the swell and dip of taut muscle, every part of him coiled and ready to explode into action like the perfect hunting machine he is. 

Right now, though, his eyes are burning from overexposure to even the dim interior of his watch station, and with an annoyed sigh he turns his face to the side, long fingers rubbing furiously at where the bridge of his nose meets his brow in the hope of chasing away the dull ache gnawing there. 

“You do know that even though I don’t have spider-sense I can still hear you, right?” 

You let go of your strand of web and drop lightly to the platform behind him, pulling off your mask and tucking it away. “What gave me away, the sound of me drooling as I stared too long?” 

Shocking hell.

You’re in one of those moods. 

Miguel can’t quite decide if he’s too tired for this right now or if he’s curious how far you’ll try and push him on his home turf. And it’s that indecision that starts him digging his own grave. 

“I was going to say the way your heartbeat spikes every time you set foot in this room.” His voice comes out sweet and thick as honey, because he knows exactly what that tone does to you when he uses it.

“...And I can still smell my clothes on you. Did you sleep in my shirt again?” 

“Maybe.”

Actually, you’d fallen asleep in a veritable pile of his clothes — it had been a bit since he’d had a free night, okay, and you weren’t desperate you just missed him. 

That makes him chuckle. He can probably tell you’re omitting the whole truth. 

Miguel finally turns to fully face you, and you inhale quickly as always, at the way he towers so far above your head, how his wide shoulders block out the light from his screens so his silhouette swallows you in darkness. His hair is messy, and there are deep shadows under his eyes, but his pretty mouth is slanted in a wry grin and the set of his thick eyebrows hints at underlying amusement. 

“Cute,” is what he remarks at your wide blinking eyes and rapidly heating skin, and it makes him smirk wickedly, to see how that one word flusters you for the barest of seconds. You’ve told him multiple times that you hate being called “cute” by anybody else, but ever since the first time the word slipped past his lips when he really realized just how much smaller you were underneath his body….

Well, he knows the effect it can have. 

You scowl and regain your composure. “Don’t call me that.” 

Miguel’s only response is an easy shrug, a lift of one shoulder. “What’d you bring me?” He nods at the containers in your hands. 

“Entitled prick.” With a dramatic flourish, you whip them away from his claw-tipped fingers. “What makes you think these are for you?” The exchange is back in your court with his query, and you intend to keep it there. 

“Aren’t they always?” Dark eyes zero in on yours, their softness in the gloom betraying what the gesture means to him even if he won’t say it. 

With a huff, you thrust the thermos and small box into his chest, pretending you don’t keenly notice the way the impact sends a ripple through his impressive pectorals. “Coffee. And those stupid little empanadas you love so much.” 

“Not stupid.” He takes them from your grasp much more delicately than someone with hands so large should be able to. “Don’t tell me you’ve never had a single craving for subpar food? Keeps me human.” 

He’s baiting you, knows that the words “not since I tasted you” are on the very tip of your tongue, because that’s just how your dirty mind works and he loves it. Can see the struggle on your face as you resolve not to say them aloud, and that almost goads him on more, to know you’re thinking it and just barely holding out so he doesn’t get the upper hand again quite yet. 

You settle yourself on a nearby console and gaze expectantly at him, swinging your legs. 

He gives you the side-eye as he sets your offerings down next to his work station.

“What.” 

“I’m not going anywhere until I see you eat something,” you inform him sweetly. 

Miguel groans. “Ay, loca, no eres mi madre. I’ll eat when I’m done running these last projections, okay?” 

You obstinately sit cross-legged on the console and make a show of getting comfortable for the long haul. “Then I guess you’re stuck with me, Handsome. I meant what I said.” 

He glares.

You glare back. 

Finally he opens the box with painstaking slowness — you see the way his nostrils flare at the scent of hot food, though you know he’d deny it — and he takes a large bite, maintaining eye contact the entire time he chews and swallows, each motion dripping with mockery. His tongue runs across the length of his upper lip far too sensually to be accidental, and you just catch the points of his fangs glinting in the partial darkness. 

“Better?” he drawls, dropping the empanada back in its container and leaning towards you. 

“That was one miserable bite! Doesn’t count.” 

His lip curls in a taunting sneer, and before you know what’s happening one of his powerful arms is on either side of you, his head cocked to one side as he studies you through half-lidded eyes. “Maybe your ears don’t work, Sweetheart. Tú no eres mi madre. ¿Comprendes?” 

You decide to change tactics. “Fine, fine. I’ll let it go. But —“ you gently push a few stray strands of hair away from his forehead, pausing to kiss the stress lines between his eyebrows. “— when was the last time you slept, Mique?” 

He rolls his eyes. “This morning —“ 

“For more than twenty minutes.” 

That makes him think. And by the way his gaze guiltily slides away from yours, he knows you won’t like the answer. “…When was the last time I stayed with you?” 

You sigh and cradle his strong jaw in your hands, thumbs massaging soft circles into his skin to get him to unclench his teeth. “That was four nights ago, Mique.” 

A long exhale escapes him, and he rests his head against your chest. It warms you, that he feels safe enough in the moment to let down his guard and actually show such intimate affection in his workspace. 

Or maybe he’s just that tired.

Either way, you’ll take it. 

You start working his back and shoulder muscles, kneading deeply into the firm knots where you know he holds onto everything — anger, grief, guilt, worry — Miguel does not talk through the mess in his head, preferring instead to let it fuel his savage strength. But when the adrenaline at last wears off, you know the toll it can take on his body. 

A sound halfway between a groan and a growl, and altogether far too suggestive for the time and place, rolls from deep in his chest and his hands tighten on the edge of the console, metal protesting as his talons curl into the hard surface. “Mierda. That’s tight.” 

“Should I stop?” You can’t quite tell if his reactions are spurred more by pain or pleasure.

With Miguel, the two often travel hand-in hand, anyway. 

“No.” To your disbelief, his hands uncurl from where they’re sunk into the console and travel to find your legs, teasing them apart so he can shove himself even closer and you have nowhere else to put them than around his waist, your heels resting just above his ass. “Keep going. Feels good.” 

“Someone’s touchy today, huh? And not in the usual way,” you tease, and then suddenly yelp as his hot, searching mouth lands right in the center of your chest, very noticeable through the thin material of your suit. One of his hands immediately clamps over your mouth to stifle any further sounds. 

“Cállate, Chula,” he warns, finally raising his eyes to yours again. You can see the crimson starting to smolder through in his irises, a sure sign that he’s giving in to having you right here in front of him, that you just might be a better use of his time than his projected calculations of multiverse-wide collapse.

He could use a break.

“You know people can hear you.” 

You push his hand aside. “Right, and that was totally way more audible than whatever sound you just made a minute ago.” 

“You know how I feel about it when you’re a brat to me,” he growls, snagging your lower lip with his thumb. 

“I think you love it,” you whisper, one of your own hands sliding up the back of his head, tangling your fingers in his dark hair. 

“I think that disrespectful mouth needs to be put to better use.” 

He hasn’t ever kissed you in his workspace before, and the forbidden feeling of it as he pushes you down on your back, pinning you to the console and stopping your mouth with his own sends a jolt down the entire length of your spine. Miguel has always been a wild kisser when he’s properly worked up, and you gasp out loud as his sharp teeth nip your lip, immediately followed by his tongue soothing the momentary sting. 

“I told you to be quiet,” he hums as he at last lets your mouths break apart. 

“You didn’t say you were gonna bite me, Cariño!” 

His answering smile is a wider one than you’ve seen in days. “Why would you ever assume no biting with me, Baby?” 

“…Fair point.” 

It takes you a minute to realize his fingertips are teasing the neck of your suit down bit by bit, leaving more and more of your throat exposed. “¿Qué haces, Mique?” 

He shushes you, this kiss a little more romantic and drawn out than the last. “You said you’d sit here ’til I ate something, hmm?” 

“Y-yes….” 

His gaze burns dark red and you suddenly feel the entire weight of him trapping you in place. 

“Well lucky you, pretty girl — you look a lot tastier than a cafeteria empanada right now.” 

He keeps one hand over your mouth as he attacks your neck, your shoulders, your wrists, anywhere that he knows gets a shiver out of you and that you’ve told him he can leave a mark. You try to keep still, you really do, but it's almost impossible with the Spanish endearments he mutters in your ears and the way his lips, teeth, and tongue take you on a seemingly endless rollercoaster of sensation. You hear him hiss once or twice when his onslaught makes your thighs tighten around his hips, but you can’t help it, can’t help trying to pull his body even closer, even though his heartbeat is already thundering against yours and your desperate breaths are rocking his lungs. 

When he finally uncovers your mouth again to let you take in more air, you splay your hands across his wide chest, prodding at the nearly-nonexistent layer of his digital suit. “Off.” 

“Mmm, I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” he murmurs regretfully, and to your dismay, he suddenly releases you, picking up the coffee you brought him and swearing briefly in Spanish when he realizes it’s not as hot as he wanted anymore. “They’re looking for you.” 

You sit up quickly at the sound of youthful voices echoing faintly in the corridors but getting closer — your spiderlings, no doubt, wondering what on earth took you so long bringing O’Hara his dinner. You’re a mess, you realize, hair disheveled and suit boasting several tears in unfortunate areas where his claws caught, the skin beneath already bruising wherever his mouth was. 

“Catch your breath,” he advises around another bite of empanada, with all the smug tone of a life coach having just witnessed a breakdown (as if he wasn’t the sole cause of that breakdown). “You’ll need it, to explain away all of that.” 

“I hate you, Miguel O’Hara.” You grit your teeth and slide off of his equipment, halfheartedly readjusting yourself and tamping down the rising tide of desire he had the audacity to start. “You and that fancy body glove of yours.” 

“Just because no one can see what your nails have done to my back doesn’t mean it isn’t there,” he offers flippantly, as if that will do anything to fix your current state. “And I know by ‘hate’ you really mean ‘violently need me to make up for stopping short’. I have to come by for some of my missing clothes later anyway.” 

Hope blossoms in your chest. “You’re coming over tonight?” 

A thoughtful sip of coffee. “Unless LYLA kills me first for making her watch us go at it. I’ll pick something up for dinner, too. And who knows….” He steps closer, his free hand wandering from your back all the way down to your thigh and up again. “Maybe, if you tire me out real good, I’ll even get some sleep like you want?” 

Anticipation bubbles through your veins at the thought.

“Yeah. I’ll be waiting.” 

He gives your hip a sharp squeeze. “Atta girl.” 

A burst of chatter below heralds the arrival of your little clan of doting spider-kids, so you gather your wits and swing down to meet them, praying none of them put two and two together and actually get four. 

Miguel glances over the edge of the platform, and barely hides his satisfaction and amusement at the immediate flood of concern and questions that greets you: “What did this to you?! Are you okay?!”. 

He almost considers coming down there and setting the record straight when he hears you say, “It’s okay, Kids, really, don’t worry about it. Just got chomped a few times by a giant angry spider while I was on a mission. But he’s gonna pay for it next time, I swear.” 

No eres mi madre = You're not my mother

¿Comprendes? = Understand?

Mierda = (Expletive)

Cállate, Chula = Be quiet, Cutie

Cariño = Honey, Sweetheart

¿Qué haces? = What are you doing?

[mysteryshoptls]

SSR Ortho Shroud - Playful Gear Voice Lines

When Summoned: The stage curtains are rising! I'll draw everyone's attention with movements that no human nor puppet can do!

Summon Line: Can't believe I get to go to an amusement park with all my friends from school... Fufu, I can't wait. You better enjoy yourself too!

Groooovy!!: Everyone, eyes on me! I'll give you a show you'll never forget.

Home: Let's cut loose!

Swap Looks: Equipping mask.

Home Idle 1: Fellow-san and Gidel-san seem to have a brotherly relationship. I'm reminded of how I'd always follow after my big brother!

Home Idle 2: So, we're skipping school to go to an amusement park. If Deuce-san were here, he'd probably be in a tizzy about how this isn't what honor students do.

Home Idle 3: Confirming 【Playful Gear】 waterproof functions. ...Yep, looks like I'll definitely be able to enjoy the water rides, too!

Home Idle - Login: Retrofitting complete. Commencing amusement park activities with the 【Playful Gear】 attachment.

Home Idle - Groovy: I wish I could go to a theme park with my family. I'd get us all to wear the character headbands and take a picture!

Home Tap 1: The haunted house was so much fun. I really enjoyed seeing how your expressions and heart rate kept fluctuating.

Home Tap 2: At the stand over there, they're selling picture books that tells the story of the wooden doll. If you don't know much about it, maybe we can read it together?

Home Tap 3: With how he was throwing his hands up in the air and screaming at the top of his lungs as the roller coaster descended... Lilia-san's enjoying himself just like a kid!

Home Tap 4: There's so much I want to do at the amusement park. I need to make a plan so I can do everything...!

Home Tap 5: Is there any place you want to go to? Leave it to me. I've made sure to install a map of the amusement park already.

Home Tap - Groovy: I always believed that it was inefficient to wait in lines, but… Time just flies by when I'm waiting with you!

Duo: [ORTHO]: There's a multi-player option, Leona-san! [LEONA]: Don't get too carried away, Ortho.

Requested by Anonymous.

[maxwell-mtv]

Maxwell_MTV's Store Swap AU for SDV!

[I've been working a lot as always, so it's been hard to write. But... I guess the stars are aligning because one of my fave artists and mutuals ( @vilochkaaa ) posted their own Store Swap AU art today (WHICH IS SUPER COOL YOU SHOULD CHECK IT IF YOU HAVEN'T SEEN IT ALREADY!!!) and I was also planning on posting my own Store Swap AU stuff today that I've been working on...

I hope everyone enjoys! I've put my extra braincells into spicing this up. Written stuff is below the cut... I was allowed to cook and I made the best meal I could for all you wonderful folks out there lol]

Morris: You ever feel like you're doing better in another life?

The general idea:

In this universe, Pierre finds success after a long career as a professional boxer and manages to somehow use his fame to open a chain of convenience stores after he retires. This, of course, competes directly with Joja and while it’s not enough to drive them completely out of business, it manages to split business fairly evenly between the two.

While Pierre reaps the daily grind of those beneath him as the CEO of what is simplified to being called “Pierre’s”, someone else finds himself settling into a small town to try and live out his own dreams of running a store.

Morris:

While Pierre is living the dream, Morris has been put through the wringer. 

With the success of “Pierre’s”, many JojaMarts were forced to shut down as a result.

Morris was on a fast track to his first promotion to be a manager when his store had to shut down no thanks to “Pierre’s” success in that part of the city.

With the store shutting down, many were laid off (only current management got to relocate to other stores) so Morris became ✨unemployed✨.

While Morris began with quite the rising confidence as he gained notoriety in his store, him being laid off brought all that to a crashing halt.

So, with a new sense of humility given his circumstances, he gathers what he can and searches for a new path in life.

He finds himself in a small town by the seaside, a village, really, with how small the populace was. 

But during his time soaking in the calming charm of Pelican Town, he notices an issue with the locals.

All of them needed to take a day’s trip to the city to purchase their groceries for the week. A huge inconvenience for those who needed small, simple necessities like bread or toilet paper. And when it came to purchasing from the locals, many farmers were out of seasonal stock by the time the locals needed them.

So Morris takes the initiative and opens up what he calls “Morris’s Market” in the semi-vacant building next to the clinic.

Semi-vacant, only because of the public access to Yoba’s altar.

Morris runs a successful business, feeling himself renewed as he gains a positive reputation amongst the locals. 

But still there’s this feeling deep inside of him as though something had gone astray in his story. Like something in his fate had been tampered with to have stolen his dreams from him.

But thanks to time, he finds himself proud and content with his small success as a small businessman.

That is, until someone decides to break ground in his small town, which leads him to a dizzying disparaging of his confidence once again.

Morris, in a desperate plea to keep what he has, often finds himself praying in front of the altar beneath his home. Although he’s never been religious, he doesn’t think he can take another blow to his ego. At the end of the day, when numbers are crunched and sales are charted, he doesn’t see himself doing anything but this.

It is evident that in this universe, unlike canon, Morris is more humble and anxious. Where his insecurities were buried deep beneath the corporate mask JojaMart had given him in canon, he has nothing but his more organic self to offer to a fairly organic town. Polite, tired all the time, and just doing his best…  

Pierre:

After his famous career as a boxer comes to an honorable end, he retires and uses his fortune to start a business. With the charms of what is reminiscent of a small business, Pierre’s General Store (later simplified to “Pierre’s” for better mass marketing) goes toe-to-toe with Joja’s long time success as the better box store.

Competing with a conglomerate like Joja isn’t easy, but “Pierre’s” values that are taken straight from the founder himself aid in toppling them to a mere equal competitor.

"A family business from humble beginnings with the drive to give back to the farmers who give them their produce to sell."

It feels like a more country version of a Trader Joe’s. And (not to intentionally out my current geography) competes against Joja like Meijers does with a Kroger. 

On vaster scale, it’s like Walmart/Sam's Club against Costco…

Hard to explain but that’s the general vibes of “Pierre’s.”

After a little vacation to Pelican Town with his wife and daughter, he decides to take on a capital expenditure which challenges the very competence of his title as a CEO.

Seeing that the only store these people in the middle of the Valley were confined to were either his stores in the city or a “pathetic excuse of a general store” (his words, not mine), he has a little talk with the Mayor.

Breaking ground in Pelican Town was easy, a convenient plot of land was just over the bridge from where "Morris’s Market" was and so customers would be a breeze to snatch up.

Despite what his advisors warned him against, Pierre ignores all odds and sets his eyes on the prize. Not even JojaMart could do what he was about to do, and that would catapult him from just an equal competitor to the top dog. 

It was easy enough to draw a crowd, but there was a growing issue with his store just barely breaking even each week. It seemed that though the town flocked to him for most things, the majority tended to stick with “Morris’s Market” in the name of loyalty. I mean, it wasn’t like his prices were much better than Morris’s store anyways since he aimed for both profit and quality. 

As he contemplated it each morning as he hit the gym, the problem became all too clear to him. It wasn’t his prices or the quality of products, rather it was the sense of community amongst the town.

I mean, just look how they all gathered every month (sometimes more!) in that old, barely functional Community Center to hold meetings, plan festivities, hold celebrations, and just socialize and bond!

If only there was someway he could break that and shatter that sense of loyalty they had in the name of supporting their fellow townie.

It would be a shame, really… if someone were to report that sad, beaten building to the proper authorities for an inspection. Without the Mayor knowing of it, he might be able to convince them that the building wasn't just “well loved” as the Mayor put it and was hardly still up to code, if at all.

If only he could prove it wasn’t up to code…

Damn his advisors, damn his wife, and damn everyone in this "hick town". He will succeed at all costs… even if he loses his charms along the way. 

Pierre uses his charms as an admittedly still good looking man. If you ignore the small crook in his nose from it being broken too many times before, you’d see why his wife still stayed with him despite her seeming too sweet and meek for his own good. 

It would be easy, if he laid it on thick, to sway the town amongst a tragedy to lean on him in some regard. Just a little wink, an offer of setting up events every month outside his store. Hey, maybe if he could drive Morris’s store out of business he could buy that storefront from him and use it as the new gathering place. It seemed fitting seeing as half the town gathered there every Sunday for Yoba’s altar anyways.

It’s too bad his daughter puts a dent in his plans though… She never did outgrow that rebellious phase…

Pierre works out often in this universe, having the time and freedom to make his own schedule as CEO. He treats his family well enough, although he’s never home long enough to let them see the monster he’s let himself become. But his daughter can see glimpses in the way he talks to her and her mother that he’s not the same father he had once been. It’s like something changed in him along the way to make him worse than he’d been before…

Having never lost a match in his career, only when it was planned for ticket sales, Pierre has an inflated ego which blinds him to his own faults. In his eyes, this is the life he’s always been destined for. To be on the top of the world and determined to never fall from grace.

His daughter, on the other hand, would say otherwise. She often has a similar epiphany as Morris. Where an existential feeling of dread consumes her and deep down, despite her fairly privileged life, she knows this was not what she was destined for.

(I'd like to think Pierre just doesn't bother with the "no-homo" stuff and constantly flirts with Morris in this AU just to rile him up and throw him off his game. Especially when they get into fights about ethics and business and blah blah typical enemies to still enemies but also lovers stuff.)

[sketchiefoxie]

Mikey squinted when he saw his reflection. He didn’t look normal. The face staring back at him was incredibly familiar, like having déjà vu. Round face, freckled cheeks, orange mask, big blue eyes. Hadn’t he drawn this yokai earlier? The filmy layer on the screen crept away, starting from the outer edges, creeping towards the center, revealing the face behind. It was a turtle mutant of sorts. Big eyes, medium length black hair, yellow freckles, and an orange bandana tied around his neck. The stranger’s eyes widened as he stared at Mikey, expression full of curiosity. In a flash of blinding light, the two switch places, a Mikey and a Mikey, in two separate worlds. Or: Rottmnt Mikey swaps places with 2012 Mikey, and the two go through life changing events. Rottmnt Mikey has to help banish the Krang a second time, in a new universe, while 2012 Mikey uncovers a mystery within his newfound family, potentially tearing them apart.

I finally posted it!! Whoo!! Ok, here you all are, you said you'd rather the inconsistent schedule so I listened and posted the first chapter!! You're all welcome!! I hope you all enjoy!!

Especially you @burritello3000 since you seemed pretty excited lol

Anyways, I'll add this fanfic to my masterpost later, gotta run to work!! *Blows you all kisses*

[randyzorra]

Mask swap mischief continued!

First mask swap: Here!

Do not tag as ship

[blurglesmurfklaine]

Caught In Your Web (1/15)

Summary: Since losing his father to a mugging, David Jacobs has spent the entire summer before his senior year of high school living up to Mayer’s final words to him: With great power comes great responsibility. The start of the school year brings new challenges. Harder classes, college applications, finding out why there’s a rise in crime caused by mutants—typical high school stuff. David finds out wither he can balance his school work, a job, a social life, and a secret identity, or whether he’ll be crushed like a bug beneath the pressure. Spider-Man!Davey AU A/N: It's here! Come check out my fic for the @newsiesminibang24! Huge shoutout to the amazingly talented @hellosammy19 for the absolutely GORGEOUS art she created for this story. I could not have asked for a better partner <3 Be sure to check out all their art! Enjoy! :)

Spider-Menace Strikes Again!

On August 15th, twelve policemen answered the call to an armed robbery on the corner of 5th and Broadway. When they arrived on the scene, three suspected robbers were found caught in what appeared to be a giant spider web. Their weapons were wrapped in the same substance and rendered useless.

It goes without saying that the presumed obstructor of justice (who resolutely continues to hinder good police work) is none other than the Spider-Man.

Who is this so-called Spider-Man? How does he always know exactly where to find criminals? Why is there a sudden uptick in un-policed supers plaguing our boroughs? These are the questions we, as a city, should be asking ourselves. According to the letter of the law, vigilantism is illegal. Spider-Man does not answer to New York’s finest, and he does not answer to the public. He answers only to himself. He is judge and jury for every alleged crime he intervenes in. 

This masked menace must be kept accountable for his actions. He leaves a wake of destruction in his path on his search for vengeance, leaving the rest of New York to clean it up in the form of taxpayers’ hard-earned dollars. Sanitation is still cleaning up the mess he left in Central Park last week.

If our community allows him to go unchecked for so long, it’s only a matter of time before his reckless quest for terrorism gets an innocent person ki—

The hiss from the thin sheets of paper being snatched from his hands cause Davey to jolt in surprise. Swapping the surprise on his face for a disgruntled frown, he swats his arm at the air beside his ear an attempt to reclaim his stolen newspaper. “Hey, I was reading that!”

He watches helplessly as his copy of The World is crumpled up into a sphere and casually dumped into the nearest trash can. He rounds on the culprit, brow furrowed and prepared to give them a piece of his mind until he’s greeted with an all too familiar frown. 

Jack Kelly stands in front of him, arms crossed over his chest and glaring expectantly at Davey.

Oh, shit. 

Continue Reading on AO3

[mercurygray]

Release, for Fred & Brady? 💙

I hope you don't mind, Killy, but I decided to use this as a second part to this piece.

She'd made a terrible mistake.

It wasn't that she'd kissed him - or been kissed, however you wanted to think about it. It wasn't even that she'd run away afterwards - she stood by that decision, even if her knees still hurt from the jump down, and her hands were still sore.

It was that he'd gone out this morning and she hadn't said a word goodbye.

She'd offered to take the early morning shift making the donuts, so she wouldn't have to see anyone, but Mary had places to be in the afternoon and wouldn't swap, so she'd been on coffee duty with Tatty, just outside the briefing room. She was one of them now, part of their good luck charms and superstitions. Hambone would only take a donut if she passed it with her left hand and Curt always spilled the first sip of his coffee, for the angels, and John - John always said good bye and she always said good luck and he'd always say "I won't need it" with one of those small smiles of his.

But not today. Today he hadn't said a word - only glanced at her, and then just as quickly looked away, and he'd gotten in the truck without a word to anyone, his face stormy and closed.

She felt like she had been left holding something - a package that didn't belong to her, a parachute. Good …luck. But what if he needs it today? Superstition closed those loops - if they'd spilled their coffee and made their jokes and wore their sweaters backwards and carried their lucky snow globes then they'd done all they could possibly do, and the rest of it was with God, or Fate. She'd spent the day in nervous watchfulness, waiting for the sound overhead that would let her know that they were back, that it was time to count them in, that she could finally give him back this thing that she'd been carrying for him all day long.

Twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen - everyone back home. A minor miracle, even if someone's engine was on fire, and she could hear, from the far side of the airfield, the rising whine of the siren calling out the fire brigade and the ambulances.

Up in the control tower, she knew that Mae and Cord and Anita would be talking to the pilots on the radio, assessing and evaluating, relaying the information back to where it could be acted upon, and after they got out, those that could get out were bussed over to interrogation, and then they'd come to her - end the day as they had started, with a cup of coffee and a donut, so that Major Bowman and Captain Brennan and Phoebe and the rest could ask them how it had gone, where the flak was worst, how many bombs they'd dropped and whether they'd dropped true, whether the luck they'd carried with them had truly been lucky.

They were always quieter now then when they'd gone out in the morning - no jokes, no laughter. She'd heard Captain Brennan call what they did 'returning to themselves' and so they were. Here was Dickie, and here was Curt, small smiles and grateful gulps of coffee and bourbon as Doc Stover checked them over on the way in. Egan, putting on some sort of smile like he thought she and Tatty would believe him untouched by this.

And here he was.

She was glad there was a table between them. The things she wanted to do wouldn't have stood up to close observation - to grab his arms, observe the cuts on his face from the raw edges of his mask, brush his hair out of his eyes. And her lips longed for his skin - to kiss every last inch of him, to be close the way they'd been close last night in his plane, with the sunset dying around them, and see if it would make him smile the way he'd smiled yesterday, since he certainly wasn't smiling now.

He tossed back his bourbon and didn't even glance at the coffee, and her heart was the heaviest it had been all day.

Phoebe had his table - nine men. Someone was missing and she couldn't tell who. The room emptied; he grabbed his bag and headed back outside, and she did something she wasn't supposed to - she followed him.

"John! Wait!"

She grabbed his hand and pulled him around the side of the hut, and when she kissed him, it was like pulling the release cord on that parachute, because everything was falling, but slower and steadier, and his hands were light on her hips, and when they stopped, foreheads touching, she felt like she was on solid ground again.

"Fred." There was a touch of wonder in his voice.

"I'm sorry," she said, her words coming out in a jumble. "I'm sorry I let you leave like that this morning and I'm sorry I ran away and I'm sorry I'm scared." I don't like breaking rules, but I'll do it for you. "But don't you ever forget to say good bye again," she threatened with a waver in her voice that made him laugh, and tighten his hands on her waist. "Now, you - you can't be jealous when I dance with everyone else. And you can't be angry when someone else makes me laugh. And I can't always sit with you, or hold hands with you, or even kiss you. But I'll be yours," she said, feeling like she was flying and falling and foolish for all of it. "Your …best girl."

"And Curt's," he added, with a waver of laughter in his voice, his eyes as blue as oceans. "I'd fight him but I know I'd lose."

The truth of that was worth the laugh. "And Curt's."

"And since when do you call me John?" She punched him in the arm for that, but the truth was the truth, whether she liked it or not. "But Curt doesn't get to do this," he said, and kissed her again. She closed her eyes, as light as air, and thought of sunsets and sunrises and all the luck in the world that had brought her here.

[percyaugod]

Two heads aren't better than one AU

You know how there are AUs where a Rise turtle swaps bodies with one of their counterparts?

What I wouldn't give for an AU where Rise Donnie is sharing a body with one. Especially if it's the other turtle's body. Him trying to fight off Rise Donnie as he tries to cut their mask tails short and draw on eyebrows. Not to mention the flood of intrusive thoughts. Why is his first thought always violence!?

Bonus points if it's the counterpart's fault they're in this situation and they're not exactly sure what they did. Is there another person in their body? Did they accidentally create an alter ego? Are they possessed!? They're starting to think performing experiments after three days without sleep might be a bad idea.

I personally like 03 Don. Their universe has the closest thing to mystics and if I remember right he stole two helicopters in the series. He's just enough chaotic to possibly go along with some of Rise Donnie's ideas while still trying to be the voice of reason.

"I need to fix this! …What's that about a tech bō?"

Could also see him trying everything in his power to pretend everything is normal with the others while Rise Donnie is trying his best to talk 03 Don into world domination plans. Seeing how a lot of the real bad stuff that happens to 03 Don isn't addressed in the series later, I'm going to assume he just keeps a lot of it to himself. This will be one of those things.

Both Donnies are sleep-deprived from staying up all night trying to figure out what's going on. 03 Leo tries to take the coffee away from them to make 03 Don sleep. Rise Donnie, used to his Leo doing that just casually hisses and bites Leo's arm. It's not hard enough to break the skin but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt.

03 Leo just blinks and stares back at 03 Don in shock until he can gain back control and let's go. Rise Donnie feels personally offended by how dull 03 Don's teeth are. Not even a mark! Yes, 03 Don would rather not injure his brother. This just confuses Rise Donnie because why not, it's Leo.

Rise Donnie may not understand their relationship here, but stealing coffee should be instant maiming regardless.

Oh! Another reason 03 Don works best with this? Good genes. The others see him acting more feral and aggressive and fearing some kind of relapse. Everyone is panicking about different things while trying to hide it from the others.

I love that head canon that Rise Donnie hates things like needles and checkups. I want them to call Leatherhead to help run tests and have to pry Don off the ceiling.

Imagine if they start blurring together if they share a body too long. It getting harder and harder to tell who thinks what.

03 Mikey would definitely be Rise Donnie's favorite because he is also unhinged. 03 Mikey is not sure if he should tell the others when 03 Don asks if he wants to do something that 03 Don normally would never do but sounds like so much fun, or just do the fun thing. … He'll tell them after, just in case Don was joking. He wasn't joking, the best day of 03 Mikey's life!

[letsplaydcttrpg]

Wheel of Destruction pt. 1 - The Adventure Begins!

See here for the introduction!

(A quick note: This module is written as if the player is using Batman as their character. I'll be swapping Nightwing's name in for Batman as I transcribe story segments, but I want to still share the module as unedited as possible; please forgive any weirdness like references to a cape or anything like that.)

See below for the full text to see why we're playing Hangman with the Joker!

"Yes, it's the Wheel of Destruction! The new game show where you, the audience, can play to save Gotham's most cherished landmarks." This announcement is greeted with synthetic-sounding wheezes and screams. The camera pans out to an ecstatically clapping crowd. Each member of the audience is a robot with an [sic] blank metal face. They jerk in spasmodic parodies of glee each time the 'Applause' sign flashes brilliantly above them. "What will it be tonight? Gotham Tower? The new First Avenue Bridge? Well, you'll know soon 'cause here's your host, the old funster himself, The Joker!" The Joker glides from behind a crimson curtain, accompanied by two leggy, masked chorines. The electronic audience goes up for grabs. Some of the machines literally fall out of their seats. The Joker holds up a green-gloved hand, his accustomed leer widening. "Why thank you, thank you. You're too kind...too kind." He pauses and stares at his two assistants. "Ah, my dears, not being coy, are we? Come now." He reaches out with both hands and snatches the masks off the girls, revealing two brooding, bearded faces. The robot audience goes wild, fizzling and popping its appreciation. "Oh, dear," the Joker says with mock dismay. "That was a mistake. Well, on with the game. Our first contestant, if you please!" A side curtain goes up, a turntable whirs and spins, and there is Commissioner Gordon, bound and gagged. To his left and right are two wheels, one depicts six Gotham landmarks, and the other shows six different forms of destruction. "Wellll...shall I explain how we play our little game? I'll ask Commissioner Gordon to give me ten letters. Those letters might help you figure out a secret clue phrase, the clue to which of these six landmarks I plan to destroy." The Joker gestures grandly at the wheel with the pictured landmarks. "After he sees where those ten letters fit in the clue phrase, if at all, I'll roll the giant ten-sided die to see how many extra letters he gets. If he's clever, he'll get lots of letters from the phrase, and you should be able to figure out my target. "And the prize? Why, you'll have a clue to my target for tonight. You see, I will destroy a famous Gotham landmark, unless you pay me $1 million in cash. Fail to do so and one of these," the Joker says, pointing again to the wheel with the landmarks pictured, "will experience one of these." He gestures at the wheel adorned with explosions, fire, and other ghastly destructions. "Of course, there's always the chance that the Batman or some other meddling fool with try to stop me. But that's part of the fun too! So, shall we play?" "Tonight's phrase, please." The curtain behind the Joker rises and the camera reveal the blank letters of the clue phrase.

Time for some hangman! The clue phrase is 13 letters. We get 10 letter choices from Gordon, and 1d10 extra letters. Our die roll gets us an additional *click-clack* 6!

The Joker turns to the camera for a disturbing close-up. "There's your clue, dear Gotham. And now, I have work to do...unless you broadcast your willingness to pay me. Just announce over the radio, within the next 30 minutes, that you have my $1 million." "And folks, don't forget to tune in tomorrow night!" The sickly-sweet, piano music swells, its light frivolity out-of-place. Then, suddenly, the screen goes blank.

Next up: Solving the Joker's clue, and choosing our next steps!