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plush-rabbit · 3 years

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I Want To Hear You Say It

Chapter 7: Chasing After Him

Warnings: Death, Fighting

Word Count: 4.3K

A/N: I wish the thoughts in my head would just telepathically flow into the computer,,, i wanna mind meld

Prev.

Your back meets the brick walls, your clothes snagging along the grooves. Your umbrella falls beside you, the rain soaking you and leaving your hair sticking to your face. The streets are empty, left alone due to the sudden rain. There is no one coming to your rescue and even if the heroes were strolling, they don’t patrol anywhere close to where you are at this moment. Your chest aches, growing hot with each passing second.

Your mouth opens, a scream stuck in your throat until the hand that closes around your neck grows cold, something harsh pressing against your skin. “You’re going to give me all the money in your pocket, right now.” The man in front of you is stocky, muscle hidden underneath tight clothing, a dull orange hat that covers their face, and pale skin that is painted red at the cheeks. “Not a fucking word, do you understand?” A hand is raised, ice forming sharpened cones at his fingertips. “Hurry up,” he commands.

You’ve been fortunate to have never been mugged- or at least fortunate rough till now. Your blood runs cold and whether that is due to the terror that courses through your body or because of the man’s quirk you’re unsure. You take a choked breath of air, high pitched and something that makes your stomach turn when the hand squeezes painfully at your throat. There is no one around to save you. You really thought that if you were in this situation that you could fight back, but you’re unable to. Fear has taken over, your instincts choosing to stay still as the man threatens you in a low voice. The rain stings at your skin, your eyes blinking rapidly to rid them of rain and you shiver. Perhaps you just have bad luck with alleyways. But then again, an alleyway did lead you to Tomura. Your leg twitches at the thought of him. You wonder where he is now. It’s been at least a few days since you’ve last seen him. Or at least physically, he’s made quite the name for himself so he’s been in the public eye.

“I-” you swallow nervously and can feel his palm press against the front of your throat- “I’m going to reach for my wallet,” you whisper. You keep your eyes on him and subtly try to move your foot looking for your discarded umbrella. Your hand lowers to your side, reaching for you money, and the rain has started to let up, humidity replacing the cold water.

You aren’t a fighter. You wish you were. You wish your instincts would kick in or that a hero would wander by. But no one does, it’s only you and your attacker. Your teeth clench, your molars digging into each other and making your jaw sore. Your body tenses as your foot nudges against his, and when he doesn’t react, his eyes digging into yours, your jaw releases.

“Please, let me go,” you whisper, your hand cupping at your pocket. “I promise not to go to the authorities.” You flinch when he pushes you by the throat, pushing you further into the wall.

You nod to yourself and raise your leg, the sole of your shoe pressed against the brick wall. With your eyes on his, your leg jets out, knocking against this shin. He doubles over, cursing loudly and when he raises his head, his eyes wild, you take the opportunity to swing your fist into the attacker’s face. You let out a sharp whine when ice pricks against his face, cutting your knuckles and staining his ice with blood splattered against it. You hold your hand close and when the man steps back, clutching at his nose, you run.

Your legs burn, pleading for you to stop and rest. With every step, it is a slap of concrete that echoes against your feet. You run, never looking behind you or stopping to find someone- your only goal is to reach your home, to lock the doors behind you and hide under the covers. You could care less what else awaits you on your journey, as long as you’re home.

Every step up the stairs sends a jolt of pain to your joints, and you try to shakily grab your keys from your pocket, nearly dropping them between the steps and cursing at yourself. When you reach your door, your hands shake, struggling to even fit the key into the keyhole. You rush in, slamming the door and put the locks into place. You take deep breaths, opening and closing your hand slowly, desperate to calm yourself down. Your body is high on adrenaline, your foot is sore from where you kicked him and your hand finally registering the pain as you open and stretch the cuts.

“You’re late. What kept you?” You jolt, and turn around, your eyes full of fear. Your back slams against the door and you hold your hold to your chest, cradling the injured one with the other. “What happened to you?” Tomura frowns, his hand cupped as he places his hand to his mouth, eating whatever was in it. His eyes glance to where your hand is held, and you watch as they narrow, still focused on your hand as he walks towards you. “What’s in your hand?” You shake your head, your eyes filling with tears as he comes close to you. “Let me see.” He grabs your hand and before he can say anything you pull him close to you, crying into his chest.

“It was awful,” you cry. His hand nervously comes to pat against your chest, a tense moment before he lets his arms wrap around you, while a hand cradles the back of his head. “I was just walking and some guy mugged me-” you fail to notice how his hands tighten, clenching at your shirt and hair- “and- and I lost my umbrella and- Tomura, it was- I hated it.” You keep him close, sobbing into him, not wanting to be left alone. “I only got away because I kicked him but when I punched him, his quirk cut me and my hand hurts,” you bawl, words spilling out of your mouth without proper thought.

He grabs you from your shoulders, pushing you away from him and your hands clutch at your erratic heart, your breaths too ragged and uneven to let you calm down. Your eyes stay fixated on his chest, too blurry to even look away from him. Your voice spills over, words too quick for you to even register as proper sentences. His hands are the only thing steady on you, keeping you from falling apart.

“Slowly,” he tells you, his hands squeezing your shoulders. “Talk slowly.” He looks around, his lips pursed for a minute, before he pulls you on the ground, to sit on the floor with him, your hands held in his. “Just look at me and start talking.”

You nodded, and you take deep breaths that make your chest race. You explain to him slowly, trying to fit as many details as you can without retracting your statement. You pull a hand away, feeling it grow clammy around his. You rub your thumb against the side of your index finger as you recount the story.

At the end of it, he rises from the floor, leaving you sitting there with your legs crisscrossed and hand still in the air from where he let go. His hand reaches out to the table, grabbing his hand and placing it on his face, his face hidden from view and you reach towards him, collapsing on the floor as you grab the end of his pant leg.

“Don’t leave me,” you say with a dry mouth, staring at the laces of his shoes that are coated in a thin layer of dust. “Please,” you whimper and in the same breath, he pulls away from you, leaving you on the ground, on your hands and knees, over the spot where he occupied. You can only bite your lip when you hear the door slam.

It doesn’t take Tomura long to find the person you described. Orange hat. Stocky. Pale skin. It all checks out. The man is sat, pressed against a wall with their legs bent, in the pale lighting that the moon has to offer, he can see various things shine. His spoils from his robberies no doubt. The streets are quiet, only a few cars passing by and illuminating him, his shadow stretches across the alleyway and it causes the man to jump; to rise on his feet, a wet splat as his shoes hit the cement, and take on a fighting stance. But Tomura is quicker, hiding beside a garbage can, his eyes focused on the side, his breath quiet as he tries to hear for any movement.

“Who’s there?” The man calls out in a gruff voice. “I’m warning you, don’t fuck with me tonight!” His voice is strained, hoarse and almost painful sounding but it still carries over the threat well to any civilian who would be unfortunate enough to cross paths with him. But to him, he only sounds pathetic with how threatening he is trying to be.

If it were any other day, he’s sure that he would have ignored him, maybe he would have killed him if he were to get in the way of him and his comrades, but it isn’t any other day. It’s the day he chose to mug you and leave you with bloody knuckles. His chest tightens at the thought of you- seeing how you winced and how tears welled in your eyes.

Tomura removes a glove carefully, not daring to let it fall into his palm. He’s quick to stand tall as he stalks towards the man who turns quickly to see him. The man raises a hand, and even in the minimal lighting, he can see ice glint against their knuckles. A part of him wants to draw it out, to let the man suffer but he also needs to think of you. He needs to rid the world of the one thing that hurt you.

The man speeds up their pace, raising their fist high and throwing it down at an impressive speed, only to completely miss. Tomura ducks, slamming his fist into the man’s stomach, earning a sharp grunt in return. A fist slams into his back and he grits his teeth, his molars aching as they dig into each other. Tomura closes his fist, nails embedding themselves into his palm and he strikes, a heavy punch giving to the throat. A wet cough is echoed into the alleyway, yellow lights from a car’s headlights illuminate the both of them. Tomura swiftly takes steps back to watch as the man doubles over and holds their throat, taking in wheezing, wet breaths. Tomura rushes, slamming the end of his fist into the man’s head, watching as he collapses onto the floor. He stands over him, lifting his foot as the man turns around, blood dripping from the corner of their mouth. Even though it was a short fight, Tomura takes deep breaths, sweat forming at the base of his neck. Adrenaline courses through him, his mind blurry and full of nausea, he raises his foot and stomps against the man’s neck, his teeth showing through his smile as the man chokes, his hands clawing at the pavement leaving his nails splintered.

In a swift moment, Tomura sits above the man, his weight over the nameless man’s chest, and he raises his fist, slamming it down before the man can even recover from a stomp to the neck. He’s left gasping for air, wheezing and spitting thin blood out. A layer of frost forms over the man’s face but it’s quickly extinguished when Tomura slams his fist down, a loud crack making the man give out a pained cry. Blood oozes from his nose, spilling into the man’s open mouth, staining his teeth red.

“What-” the man lets out a hacking cough- “What the fuck did I do to you?” His eyes are beginning to swell, his hand tense and desperately trying to push against Tomura’s chest. “I can give you money-” he coughs and bloodied spit covers the back of Father’s hand.

Through the hand, Tomura narrows his eyes, hatred seeping into him and rotting his very core. He takes harsh breaths and the beating has left the man below him unable to even fight back; the only thing he is able to produce is frost that covers his throat. The bruising is a deep red, with small hints of purple and a faint orange that tinge the outer lines. Beneath the hand, Tomura opens his mouth to explain, but he is unable to. He stares at the beaten man with bloodied teeth who looks up at him with horror and tears in his eyes and simply raises his fist once more only to slam it back down, a sickening crack echoes in his ears.

“People like you shouldn’t be allowed to live,” Tomura says coldly, looking down at the man with a raised palm. “You should consider yourself lucky that I’m putting you out of your misery.” A car’s headlight flashes past and partially illuminates both men in a yellow glow, catching the moment where Tomura’s hand lands on the man’s neck.

He stops at your apartment complex, a sickening twist in his stomach as he realizes what his appearance will look like to you. You may be naïve, but you aren’t dumb. You’ll understand what happened if he were to walk in. His tongue laps at his lips, and he turns around, walking through the back of the apartment, his eyes lighting up as he finds a facet extending the back of the building. The metal is warm and sticks to his hand as he grips it painfully, twisting the hardened handle. Water splashes at his shoes, and he rushes to place his hand under the water, stiffening at the cold water.

Father is laid on the ground, and with fisted hands, he removes his hoodie, frowning at the specks of blood that have seeped into it. His pinkies are extended, and he wonders if you'd even see it. Would you be looking for blood on him if he were to arrive? Would you simply think that he got rid of the danger with just a touch of his hand? Would you even think he went out to find the scum that hurt you? He frowns, holding the fabric close to him. He looks around into the quiet night, and quickly makes a break to your apartment, rushing through the steps and knocking rapidly against your door with his knuckles.

You answer quickly, opening the door with wide eyes and without hesitation, you pull him inside by the wrist. The door is locked behind him, and when he turns to you, he expects a lecture- of what, he isn’t sure, but he’s aware that you’re upset at him for leaving you, especially when you had asked that he stayed.

He walks further into your home and he can hear your footsteps behind him, trailing and watching wherever he goes. He stops near a side table, removing Father and placing him near a picture frame of you and what he can assume are your friends. His lips curl at the image.

“Listen-” he starts, turning around to face you, but he isn’t given a chance to finish his sentence when you come towards him, pulling him into a tight hug.

“You can’t leave like that and just-” you take ragged breaths and he’s careful to not touch you, letting the heel of his hand pat against your back. You tense, and pull away, with a frown. “Your hands are cold.”

“Yeah, well, the faucet outside isn’t exactly warm.” He leans down and gently knocks his forehead against yours. “I need to put my gloves on,” he comments, shrugging his shoulder to gesture at the hoodie that lays haphazardly over his shoulder.

You nod eagerly, grabbing his hoodie and reaching inside the pockets. He doesn’t miss how you let your eyes linger against a speck of blood that dots against the lining of the collar. Two gloves are pulled out, held gingerly in your hand and you nod your head, making a giving motion with your hand. At arm’s length, he extends his hand outwards, letting his knuckles appear to you in all their glory- cut, dried blood that sticks around the edge, and bruised.

You frown. They’re rinsed clean, but red still blooms around, bright against his pale skin and soft with how human he is. You hold his hand carefully, feeling the touch of his fingertips ghost over you in a fashion similar to that of a feather. You hold his hand, walking through your apartment until you reach the bathroom. The light is a bright white, the mirror speckled with drops of water against it. He stands there, watching as you grab a jar of petroleum jelly. It’s thick, washing over his cuts in a way that makes him grit his teeth. It’s almost too reminiscent of the way that you first met him and he wonders if you realize that as well. You carefully wrap a bandage around his knuckles, your tongue sticking out between your lips as you try your best to maintain the mobility of his hand. You hold your hand in his and he can still see your cuts, staining your skin as some horrible blot that bled all over you.

With eyes that follow your every movement, he watches as you bend over, your lips ghost over the freshly bandaged hand. He can feel a slight press of it, his fingers twitching at the feeling of it. When you lift, he turns your hand over, making it the center of attention. He holds your hand tenderly, letting the roughness of his fingertips press against your palm. You both hold similar wounds, but where yours are those of a victim, a frightened person held, whereas his is caused by malice, hatred seeping inside of him, rotting his core and making him bitter. And yet, there’s you, a sweet thing, honey colored and bright as the sun itself- you hold him and let him hold you. You tend to him, caring for him as if he had just fallen, and not beaten a man for you. He wonders how you see him; if you see him as a rotten being, forcing you into a relationship, corrupting your hands with his that were splattered with blood. When he looks up at you, he wonders if you even want his touch, if you only touch him because you fear that he will turn his anger towards you.

He wants to hold your hand without a glove. He looks up at you, your gaze stuck on where he holds you hand. “I wish I had a healer for you,” he murmurs, a thumb brushing at the edge of one of your cuts.

“Where did you- What did you do?” You ask in a small voice, your teeth worrying at your bottom lip.

Tomura smiles at you, his hands lifting outwards to you. Father lays on the countertop, witnessing as Tomura can only sigh lovingly at you. “I had to take care of some business.” It’s a simple answer, one that answers everything and nothing all the same. But, it’s the answer that you need; it’s the only answer that will ever truly satisfy you and let you live in a world of bliss.

You want to be safe. His hands are outstretched towards you- they are covered in gloves that only wrap around his last two digits and half of his hand. You look at his hands, your heart pounding in your ears and then you look up at him. He has a soft face, a subtle smile and eyes that push upwards with the little fat in his cheeks. You are safe. At least, with him you are. You nod to yourself, your hand slowly reaching upwards, your gaze on it and for a moment you are disconnected, simply watching as your hand fits into his. You are pulled to his chest, reconnected back with your body and mind, the stale scent of alcohol bitter in your nose but it’s proof that whatever it is, it’s real. His arms encase you in a hug that is a bit too tight and too reminiscent of all the things that have gone wrong and right in the past few days. Tears sting in your eyes, burning and threatening to overflow but you blink harshly, your hands clawing against the faded black hoodie that he wears. You simply want to be beside him. You don't want to cry. Well, you do, but it isn’t the way that you normally do. It isn’t an anguish cry that you want, but rather one of relief. He’s kept his word, he’s protected you.

There’s a tight feeling in your chest, something that twists around your heart and lungs, making it impossible to breathe, impossible to feel as if you are in your own skin. The tears in your eyes are blinked away, the only tell that you were going to cry is your slightly runny nose. You try not to let out an audible sniffle, but it happens either way. His arms tighten around you, and his hands press onto your back a bit harder, pulling you closer against him and you can’t help but shimmy away from him. He gives you an almost sad look in response, but nevertheless, he allows you to move away.

“Um-” your hand rises and scratches behind your earlobe- “are you hungry?” He perks up at your question, a twitch in his legs and his hand jolts, fingers dancing at his side. “I have some leftover chicken katsu if you’re interested?” Truth be told, you want him to spend the night with you, but something stops you from saying that. You're sure that he would have no problem agreeing to that and would be ecstatic to hear you be the one to propose that, but you still feel as if it's too soon. “Only if you want. It’s just like a thanks for, you know, helping me.”

He walks close to you, his hand lifting and brushing against your jaw in a touch that is too light to be his, too innocent for him and much too intimate for you. Your eyes are on his lips, dry and cracked, with little bits a bright red. He’s moving much too slow for your liking, leaning his head down with a sort of jittery motion that makes your stomach begin to hurt. His hands lift your head, a press of his thumb under your chin as he drags you along and you can smell his breath as it fans across your lips. This isn’t right, but it feels like it is. It feels like you have to tell him that it is. You aren’t even sure if you want the kiss or not. Or maybe that’s not even what he’s going for. You wonder if he’s had his first kiss before. Probably not and that thought makes your heart skip a beat, something light in your chest that makes it all the more difficult to breathe. Your own lips are dry, caked with tears and stuck together. Your tongue peeks between your lips, and the tip of your tongue meets his lips, and you take in a shaky breath, pulling away from him, your gaze torn from him and fixated on the floor beneath you.

Whatever spell you were under is broken, and you can’t bear to see the face he has on now. Will he be upset that you pulled away once more? Even after you promised- or at least alluded to that you would be in a relationship with him? Would he be understanding? Would he understand that you as you are right now are in a flurry of emotions that makes it hard to even think? Would he be sad? Disappointed that the moment wasn’t quite right? That he couldn’t share his first kiss with you? There’s a strange thought in your head, one where his first kiss is taken by someone who isn’t you and it makes you sick with acid on your tongue.

“I’d like some of that chicken katsu, actually.” Even with such a simple sentence, he has your attention. His hand curved around his neck, pulling at the skin and the hand that was placed on the side table is now back to covering his face.

“Tomura, I,” you drift off, saddened to see that his hand is back on but you don’t know what else to say to rectify this situation. You shift under his gaze, wishing that you could go back in time and accept his kiss. You nod your head. “Of course,” you mutter.

“Do you by any chance have some ginger ale?” He takes a step closer to you, and his request has you smiling. You aren’t sure why, but the thought of a villain asking for ginger ale makes you smile.

“Yeah,” you nod. “I’ll get you some.” You stare at him for a second longer and with the thought of him rejecting you or you losing him, you walk towards him, your hand grabbing his. He tenses under your touch, his hand flexing open in a way that makes you smile. You bring his knuckle under your lips, kissing it tenderly but instead of pulling away, you let his rest there for another moment. You like the way that his hand feels in yours, how it feels under your lips. You let go of his hand and it stays still in the air. With a smile, you release a breath of air that you had been holding onto. “You can sit down, I’ll go get you when it’s ready, okay?” You smile at him, turning around on your heel as you make your way towards the kitchen.

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strange-lace · 3 years

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Misunderstandings

I HAVE FINALL MADE CONTENT FOR MY SPIDER MONKIE AU! And SURPRISE, it’s angst!

Despite his best efforts, MK knew that he was a terrifying image to humans when he dropped his glamor. He loomed over most people due to his size, lower body plated with a dark exoskeleton with long legs which were sharp enough to impale someone without much effort. MK had tried to make it look less intimidating by painting bright little doodles all over his lower body. Soft and precise strokes decorated his exoskeleton with a couple of noticeably lower quality, lines shaky and uneven as if done by a beginner. Yet they were the ones he treasured the most. Particularly the large purple and orange hourglass symbol dead center on his spider abdomen.

"Am I doing this right sweetie?" She asked, long black hair pinned back to keep it clean yet it was still stained with streaks of paint. The same can be said for her worn robe, the faded fabrics speckled with rainbow flecks of paint. Her lips were pursed in concentration as the paintbrush shook in her hands.

It was certainly an image of the feared Spider Queen that few had the luxury of seeing and living to remember it, MK being one of them.

"Yeah mom, you're doing great. Try focusing on where you want the brush to go instead, it'll help smooth out your strokes," he suggested, having to contort a slight bit to see what she was doing. She followed his advice and happily finished the symbol.

"There! Now everyone will know to fear my little spiderling the moment they lay their eyes on him," Spider Queen cooed, putting the paintbrush away to pat MK on the head, accidentally staining his dark hair with the purple and orange paint which had gotten on her hands.

MK held a brief smile at the memory before letting out a sigh.

Unfortunately, bright colors and cutesy symbols could only do so much against the large collective fear of demons, especially big ones with fangs and multiple legs. Which he was unfortunate enough to find out when fighting a demon who's whole speciality was glamor magic and could see right through him.

"That must be uncomfortable, squeezing yourself into such a small form. How about I give you a chance to stretch your legs for a while?" The demon said mockingly and before MK knew it, he was enveloped in a cloud of shimmering dust. Suddenly, everything was a lot smaller to him and MK was left to clumsily stumble as his two legs became eight without warning. He squinted as the world was now a lot brighter through his four eyes, colors even more vivid than before to the point it nearly gave him a headache.

Yet it all only registered to MK when he heard people start screaming about a giant spider demon.

“Oh no…” He whispered to himself, wincing as his vision cleared only to see civilians running away from him. And while he understood why, it still felt like a stab to his heart to see people terrified of him. The hurt quickly became panic once he hit what felt like a blockade to his magic, preventing him from re-activating his glamor.

MK was stuck like this for the time being.

“This can’t get any worse,” he hissed, freely skittering through the now empty streets now that he wasn’t at risk of accidentally stepping on someone. He was instantly proven wrong when he heard the twin sound of motors headed right him and MK had to dodge quickly to avoid getting hit by Mei’s bike head on and from Pigsy’s truck from crashing into one of his legs.

It just got worse.

"Alright demon, might be best to give up now-!" Mei froze mid-boast, face going pale underneath her helmet. She was soon joined by Pigsy, Sandy, and Tang who looked at what had her so shaken and their own confusion quickly transformed into their own individual shows of shock. Pigsy looked genuinely sick, Tang didn’t seem to be breathing with wide eyes behind his glasses, and Sandy’s entire being seemed to bristle as if to make himself look even bigger out of self-defense.

It dawned on MK once he saw they were all staring at the staff still clenched in his clawed hand.

That he was still holding while in his true form. Which wouldn’t look out of place as part of the Spider Queen’s forces, skin now covered in purple fur and eyes a dizzying bright green. And was still wearing his easily recognizable orange and purple jacket and headband now draped around his neck from the chaos.

MK now realizes that this did not paint a good picture in his favor.

“I… can explain,” he stuttered, wincing at the sound of his own voice: hoarse and deeper to his own ears.

He had no way of explaining this.

“What did you do to my boy?” Pigsy was the first to break the silence, eerily calm yet everyone could tell that his rake was close to snapping with how tight his grip was. Following behind him, everyone else’s shock and horror morphed into rage and MK felt his stomach tighten further and further in fear. Tang’s eyes were hidden behind the glare of his glasses with a stillness to him that made you fear he would strike at any moment before you could react. Sandy’s entire demeanor had changed in a way that made MK understand Pigsy’s past descriptions as him being a feared warrior.

And Mei?

Well Mei’s entire being was wreathed in green and vibrating with barely restrained wrath.

MK stumbled back on his eight legs, feeling incredibly small in the face of his family’s anger despite towering over them.

They didn’t know it was him. As far as they knew, he was just another demon.

He didn’t know if this was better or worse for him.

“We will not repeat ourselves, demon: What did you do to our kid?” Tang demanded with a glare as sharp as knives. MK soon found himself surrounded, breath turning shorter and shorter as his family came closer and looked ready to tear him apart if it meant getting the answers they wanted. Yet he could only see the image of the calabash copies of his family and mentor pouncing at him to prevent him from escaping, countless nightmares of them successfully trapping them in his “perfect” world weighing on his spine.

So it was only natural that he panicked when they all descended upon him as he remained silent, throat closed up in sheer anxiety. It had happened so fast but before MK knew it, he had bound them all in web cocoons without even meaning to.

Yet he took the opportunity while they were struggling to free themselves to go for the most logical course of action according to his panic-ridden brain: run away, far and fast. He didn’t even know where he was going, all MK knew was that he had to make himself scarce around the city until he could finally use his glamor again. If he wasn't sick from panic, he could almost laugh at the image of himself struggling to balance all eight of his spider legs on the staff as he pogoed through the city.

So it shouldn’t really have surprised to find himself on the beach of Flowering Fruit Mountain, the monkeys scattering away in fear at the sight of him as he created a small crater in the sand.

The following silence was deafening, allowing his thoughts to continue to run wild without anything to focus on. He only faintly realized that tears were running down his face as the mountain breeze gently blew against him, as if trying to offer its own form of comfort as he spiraled.

MK couldn't stop seeing the faces of his loved ones, his family, as they looked at him with such hatred and rage. He tried to keep reminding himself that it was only because they didn't know it was him, as far as they knew he was a random powerful demon who managed to get their hands on the staff. But tell that to his heart, which felt like it was genuinely breaking into pieces. The pain was enough to put MK to his knees, choking on his tears and grip on the staff tight enough to make the joints of his exoskeleton-plated hands ache.

"Kid? You here kid?" MK didn't even think, he found himself scrambling towards the familiar voice of the Monkey King, desperate for comfort. Sun Wukong grunted as he found his arms now full of a panicked spider demon but was able to adjust his footing before he could lose his balance. He let out a sigh of relief, no longer struggling to hold since he had lifted far heavier people in his long life. Questions died on his tongue as the sound of muffled sobs entered his ears, his successor’s face buried in his fur as if wanting nothing more than to hide from the world.

“What happened bud? You wanna talk about it?” MK was silent for a moment before he gave a garbled response in the Monkey King’s fur. “Sorry, what was that?”

“A demon messed with my glamor, leaving me stuck like this and they saw me. They didn’t know it was me and they saw the staff and they thought… they hated me,” he rambled, a fresh round of tears leaving his four eyes. Wukong remained silent but silently walked towards his home, MK still in his arms.

“Oh kid, I’m so sorry. You know that they wouldn’t be that way if they knew that it’s you. But that definitely explains why Pigsy called me, threatening to eviscerate me the moment he saw me if anything had happened to you,” Wukong gave a smile at the wheezy chuckle MK let out at the image of his boss and father figure calling the Monkey King just to rip into him. Yeah, that sounded like Pigsy alright. “I think I can fix up whatever that demon did to your glamor. Then you can hang out here for a while, if you want, before going back home. That sound good bud?”

“Yeah… sounds great Monkey King,” MK answered before letting out a yawn, now left exhausted now that the anxiety and panic has leaked from his system with the presence of his other father figure mentor there to comfort him. Wukong gave a chuckle, gently placing MK down on his couch and putting on Monkey King: The Animated Series without a second thought. Seemingly realizing that he was no danger to them or their king, the monkeys quickly began to use MK as their personal jungle gym without any fear. That seemed to do the trick, as he was now chuckling at the sight of the little monkey’s looking at the doodles on his exoskeleton with curiosity.

Wukong watched the scene before him with a warm look in his eyes before it quickly hardened as he slipped out of his home for a moment. Pulling out his phone, he gave a deep sigh to calm himself before tapping to call a very specific number.

“Sun Wukong, to what do I owe the pleasure?” A velvety voice answered upon the third ring.

“A demon severely messed up the kid and I figured you’d like to… return the favor,” he answered, voice dead serious.

The line went silent, the echoes of enraged hissing barely audible in the background.

“What did they do to my baby?” Any hint of playfulness was gone in the voice, the Spider Queen enraged to know that someone had harmed her son in such a way to make the Monkey King willing to contact her.

“Messed with his glamor and the others saw him, nearly attacked him thinking he was a demon that had managed to get the staff. He’s fine physically but he’s an emotional mess. All the kid was able to tell me was that they specialize in glamor magic. Think you can work off that?”

“Of course I can, what do you take me for?! But… is he alright?” Wukong smiled, almost quipping about her getting soft over the years but she could very easily call him a hypocrite.

“I have him with me and have everything under control. Just do what you do best S.Q. and I’ll keep in touch, ‘kay?” Everything about him was casual yet the look in the Monkey King’s eyes was nothing but fire that promised he would have burned whoever harmed his kid without mercy, if he wasn’t “retired”.

“Of course, might as well make use of your “retirement” after all. I’ll make sure to make our… displeasure to that foolish demon evident for the both of us. Take care of my spiderling Wukong, otherwise I will figure out a way to make you mortal to end you.” Despite her tone, Spider Queen was only half serious since she knew ending the Monkey King would make MK upset with her. And the last thing she wanted to do was lose her spiderling after searching for him for so long.

“Sure you will S.Q., I totally believe that. But until later, see ya!” Wukong said before hanging up, satisfied but antsy which was typical after every occasion he spoke with the Spider Queen. Walking back inside, he couldn’t help but smile at the sight of MK now fast asleep with the monkey’s cuddled around him.

Totally worth it.

#lego monkie kid #monkie kid #mk #sun wukong #spider queen #pigsy #tang #sandy #mei #spider monkie au #my writing #fanfiction

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