#what if swap mk | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

juneknight · 1 year ago

Text

Pleased to Please

The sequel (AKA Jake's Revenge) to Making Trouble.

About this: MK System/fem!reader, use of 'slut' as a term of endearment. An unnecessary amount of gloves. Jake Lockley.

You wake up to Marc pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. You hum in pleasure, burrowing deeper into the covers, sleepy enough to miss what he says the first time he says it. His voice rumbles over you again, warm with mirth. His hands work the blanket away from your face, and he repeats himself again:

“I know it’s Sunday, but I have errands to run. Want to come with or stay in?”

You crack one eye open.

The two of you stand at the bus stop leaning against each other to make room for the others who crowd around for the same purpose. Someone jostles into you, and the look Marc gives them is cold—it makes strange butterflies unfold their wings in your belly. You lean in to press a kiss to his cheek, turning his focus back to you.

“What errands do you need to run?” you ask in his ear to make sure you are heard over the rumble of traffic.

“Swapping out supplies,” he says, explaining the duffle bag he has over one shoulder. “Boring stuff, but I’ll buy you coffee after.”

“Now you’re talking.”

The two of you shuffle your way onto the bus. He crowds you protectively, looping an arm around your waist to keep you close while his hand grips the bar to keep you both steady. You’ve gotten used to taking the bus after meeting Steven. Before him, you had walked or taken the tube, not the biggest fan of London drivers. Occasionally, you and Marc would go in on a cab together; you had never felt safe doing such a thing alone. And with Jake…

Your face flames. Leaning in to whisper in Marc’s ear again, you says: “It’s a shame we don’t have Jake’s car, isn’t it?”

Marc’s eyes go heavy-lidded, a smirk tugging up the corners of his mouth. He remembers as well as you do your activities in Jake’s car only days before. He glances towards the window of the bus—likely hearing some colorful commentary from the man in question—before turning his eyes back to yours.

“We’d just end up making more trouble in it, wouldn’t we?” he says back, letting his voice dip low under the guise of privacy, as if he doesn’t know what the timber of it does to you.

“You’re probably right,” you breathe back. “How much further ‘til our stop?”

“Not much. You’re already thinking about going back home aren’t you? Crawling back into bed?”

“As long as you join me.”

“My god, you two are better than television,” says the woman behind you both who has been clearly standing close enough to hear. You jump, startled by her sudden intrusion into your private conversation, embarrassment making your face burn hot. Thank god she had said something before the two of you really got going—

“Mind your business,” Marc says, uncharacteristically cold as he glares at the woman.

Middle-aged, clutching a recyclable tote in her arms, the woman looks like her first instinct is to argue back—perhaps something about how the two of you were making your business right there on a public bus—but the look on Marc’s face stops her words in her throat. She shuts her mouth with a click and nods, awkwardly trying to shuffle to a different spot on the bus to stand.

You frown up at Marc, but he smiles down at you like nothing is wrong. Reaching up, you lay the back of your hand against his forehead. “Are you feeling alright? You’re acting strange.”

It’s Marc’s turn to frown, his head tilting to one side, warm brown eyes roaming over your face.

“What do you mean?” he wonders But before you can answer, Marc glances forward and says: “Shit, this is us.”

He helps you press your way to the front and guides you two back out onto the dreary London street. You glance up at the building, frowning in thought.

“Storage units? Do you have a unit here?”

Marc just grins in answer, holding up a keyfob with the business’s logo on it.

The building is cool and quiet, sounds oddly muffled as you walk through the halls lined on either side with storage units. Occasionally you pass one with the door open, lock hanging loosely on the outside. You shiver. Places like this always make you feel odd, knowing how much history is here, each unit a snapshot of someone’s life. You cheer yourself with the thought that you’re about to see a snapshot of Marc’s.

When you arrive at unit #43, you bounce a little on your toes as Marc unlocks it and opens the door, a gentleman allowing you entrance first. But whatever you were expecting inside, you cannot help but be disappointed.

The unit is mostly empty, perhaps ten-by-ten. It is very utilitarian, with walls of alloyed metal shiny enough to see yourself in, even if your figure was a fraction distorted. A lightbulb hangs in the corner casting an unflattering fluorescent glow over the room. There are a series of storage totes, opaque to conceal their contents. A cot is in the corner, with a poor excuse for a pillow and a blanket folded with military precision.

“Do you sleep here sometimes?” you ask, baffled at the thought.

“I used to,” says Marc, going to the corner and setting his backpack down. He kneels, the zipper loud in the quiet of the unit. “It was a safe place, a place of my own, before Steven and I—reconciled.”

That makes you inexplicably sad, imagining Marc spending any length of time here, stretched out on a cot too short for him and listening to the hum of lights all night.

“That’s terrible,” you murmur.

Marc makes a sound in the back of his throat, derisive, clearly not feeling so maudlin about it. He says something, but you are too entranced by testing the cot, sitting heavily on its coarse fabric. It barely gives under your weight, unyielding and uncomfortable. At last you become aware of his gaze on you. You glance over to see him kneeling at his duffel bag, eyes glittering with some foreign emotion as he watches you.

“Sorry, what’d you say?” you ask.

“I said, Take your clothes off.”

You blink, unsure if you heard him properly. “What?”

“Do it slow,” he adds, his chin tipping down and the look in his eyes simmering into something condensed, something so heated that you can feel it from across the room the way you feel the heat of flames when standing too close to a fire. Shifting, he sits with his back against the wall, one leg outstretched. “I want a show.”

“I don’t—oh my god,” you whisper. “Jake? Has it been you this whole time?”

He runs a hand through his curls, pressing them back. The grin that settles on his mouth is so unlike Marc. At the beginning of your relationship, you had been so insecure that you would mix the boys up and potentially offend them, but you had quickly learned that such a thing was very unlikely. Each of their personalities was so unique, so distinct from the other: the way they stood (or slouched) the way they walked, the way they smiled and laughed—each of them had a million little tells, characteristics that set them apart.

“Don’t feel bad,” he says. His voice is a little flatter than Marc’s—less likely to fluctuate with emotion. It is softly accented; you know that he mostly prefers to speak Spanish. “I am very good at what I do.”

“You even took the bus—oh, Jake you hate the bus—”

He hums. “We’re walking home.”

“I just—why? I would have come with you anywhere.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

“How can you say that?”

Jake looks up at you, brow cocked. From within the duffle bag, he removes his leather gloves and begins tugging them on. Those fucking gloves. Something about them makes your heart pound. The buttery softness of them, the scent of well-maintained authentic leather, the methodical,calculated way that he puts them on and takes them off. Or maybe it’s just the connotation that comes with them: that Jake is about to get his hands very, very dirty.

“Because you’re a good girl,” he croons. “If you had known Marc was taking you to my car, you wouldn’t have gone with him—just the same way you wouldn’t have come with me if you knew I was bringing you here for my revenge.”

“So this is Marc’s storage unit?” you breathe.

Jake nods slowly. He says: “You know what else I know?”

“What?”

“You’re such a good girl,” he says, voice soft, needing nearly no volume for the sound to carry to you just feet away, “You’re going to take your punishment without complaining. Because you know you deserve it, don’t you?”

“Jake,” you sigh shakily.

“Undress,” he says softly.

You stand up. Your knees are knocking together, you’re so full of adrenalin, hands shaking as you slip clothing item after item off. You fold them the way you know Jake likes you to, sitting them neatly on top of the stack of storage totes. As you turn, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the walls and it makes your face burn. Fuck, you hope that the helpful guy behind the desk out front doesn’t come to see what’s taking you both so long.

When your eyes find Jake again, you suck in a gasp. All the things you might have suspected he would have—the tripod wasn’t one. Sleek, it is simple but effective. He whistles a little beneath his breath as he fits Marc’s phone into it. When he realizes that you have stopped undressing, his whistling stops, lips puckered softly, dark eyes finding your own. Whatever expression you wear must delight him.

“Problem?”

“Come on, J,” you whisper, shifting on your socked feet. “Marc is going to be pissed enough, isn’t he? What do you plan to make him do, watch it in 3D?”

Jake points to the tripod, a look of near-comical innocence on his face. Some might not guess that Jake has the silliest humor of the three of them, sometimes bordering on cheesy or even slapstick. Demasiadas telenovelas, as he might say. “What, this? You think—? Oh, darling girl. This isn’t for Marc.

“The walls? Those are for Marc. Let him see the way I fuck you in every angle, I don’t care. But this? This is for me. I intend to remember this for a very long time,” he says, his words ending distractedly as he plays with Marc’s phone, getting the settings just right. He eyes your socks pointedly.

“It’s cold in here,” you gripe.

Jake snorts softly, but he doesn’t object. He stands and goes to you, gripping your bare shoulder gently and moving you a fraction this way—a hair that way. Into the best view of the camera, you realize. Being treated like some doll, stop-motion, only made to be bent and twisted into whatever shape pleases him has a surprising effect on you. Even as your thighs clench together tightly, you find yourself…bashful. Crossing your arms over your breasts, you shrink in on yourself.

“Qué es eso?” Jake wonders. He abandons the camera and comes to you. His presence is more comforting than intimidating the way some might imagine it to be. You lean your head against his chest and let his hands encircle your wrists, drawing them away from your chest. “Who is this shy woman? I remember the way you let Marc strip you naked with nothing but my tinted windows to protect your modesty.”

“You know how he gets,” you whine. “He uses that voice, that tone, and then I’m naked.”

“This voice?” he asks, mimicking Marc’s Chicagoan accent flawlessly. He slips into it the way you might slip into a comfortable shirt, familiar and well-worn. He leans back away from you a little to grip your chin firmly, to lift it up for his inspection. “This tone?”

It is. It really is. And as much as it makes your thighs clench, it drives you even wilder how easy it is for him. Jake is so fucking good at it, at pretending, at impersonating—his skill makes you swoon. It makes your heart pound. It makes your pussy wet.

Jake must sense this. Maybe he senses the ripple that seems to pass through you, or maybe he feels the goosebumps that rise on your arms. Either way, he laughs, soft and teasing, rumbling against where your bury your face in his chest.

He clicks his tongue at you until you look at him once more.

“I’ll play Marc for you another day,” he says, eyes growing steelier than the walls. “But right now—it’s me fucking you. I’m going to fuck my cock so deeply inside you that there won’t be any room for him. ¿Me entiendes?

“Now, lay on the cot. I’m hungry.”

Jake eats pussy masterfully, but true to character, he is a mess of contradictions. First he spreads your thighs wide, leather-clad thumbs finding your slippery outer folds to part you to his gaze. He lets go and leans in to suck and kiss at every part of you that isn’t your clit: sucking at your folds, tonguing your hole, kissing your thighs. He is clean shaven (like to keep up the charade of Marc), not a hint of painful stubble to chafe your sensitive pussy.

Jake leads with his tongue and lips, knowing how sensitive you are. For many long moments, he eats you without purpose, like he is giving you head just for the sake of it, no goalpost ahead to punt your orgasm through.

But then he becomes frantic, pressing his tongue as deeply into you as he can, sucking on your clit, dragging the flat of his teeth against your folds. He is lackadaisical and then frenzied, patient and then desperate.

The whole time, you have both hands over your mouth, nothing but the aborted gasps in your throat, the frantic breaths through your nose, and the wet, lurid sounds of Jake eating your pussy to fill up the quiet room.

When you get close, your heels dig into his back. He finally either gets bored with you or decides that he’s warmed you up enough. Your loud groan of protest has his eyes sharpening in a warning that makes you flush. He’s right, though. You have to be quiet.

Jake guides you into the next position he wants, and it’s almost unbearable: on your hands and knees, face towards the camera of Marc’s phone. Jake leaves you like that, on your hands and knees while he undresses slow and methodical, only the slightly warped imagine of him on the metal walls your visual..

Sometimes he says something, low and light and Spanish, before chuckling at whatever Marc’s response is.

“Is he mad?” You wonder, unsure what you want the answer to be.

“No,” Jake croons, kneeling behind you. He draws you up til you kneel, back pressed flush against his bare chest, cock hard between your thighs. In your ear, he says: “He is livid.”

“Jake,” you whine.

He clicks his tongue again. He holds up his hand in front of you, leather gloves still in place.

“Open your mouth.”

You open. Carefully, he has you tug the glove off with your teeth. He holds it while you do the same with the other. Then he makes you open your mouth so he can tuck the palms of his gloves between your teeth for you to hold.

“Drop those, and you’ll be punished,” Jake says, bare hands smoothing along your back, down your hips, finding your ass. He spanks you, once, hard. A warning that you feel all the way to your toes. “Leave a single mark from your teeth on my leather, and you’ll also be punished.”

You whine in dismay at this twist, trying to find the perfect balance between keeping the gloves in your mouth but not biting with enough force to leave a mark. Distracted by this, you miss whatever Jake says to his reflection, though his bright laugh at whatever its response is makes you shiver.

Gently, he urges you back onto your hands and knees. His cock nudges against the wetness between your legs. You make a desperate little sound, shifting, arching your back to offer his cock more contact with your pussy. The fire Jake had lit inside you with his mouth flares to life again, unsatisfied and aching.

“Can you take it?” Jake wonders, slipping and sliding along the seam of you, soaking his cock in your own arousal. “Or do you need my fingers to open you up?”

You try to answer him with the gloves, but the words are nothing but muted sounds. His cockhead, thick enough alone to be a pleasing stretch, presses at your entrance.

“What was that?” Jake wonders, cupping a hand to his ear.

No use in trying to tell him twice. Instead you press back, welcoming him into your body. Your eyes shut, and you nearly drop the gloves when your mouth craves to fall open and release a groan. It is by the skin of your teeth (pun intended) that you manage to keep the gloves in your mouth. You seethe with jealousy at the quiet but robust moan that Jake gives out, his fingers dimpling the skin of your hips with force as he grips you and pulls you back further and further on his cock.

“Impaciente,” he reprimands breathily. “Who is fucking who? Are you fucking me? Go ahead then. Fuck me.”

Jake lets go of your hips, crossing his arms contemplatively across his chest. You whine, leaning forward and then sinking back onto his cock. The throaty hum that Jake gives makes you shiver, pleased to be pleasing him. You begin an unsure rhythm, rocking on and off his cock.

For a while, it is enough for Jake. But then he takes your hips in his broad hands again.

“Do you need help? Here.” He gives a series of near-brutal thrusts, the sound of his balls slapping your cunt loud in the enclosed room. You choke on a groan, head falling forward and eyes screwing shut with pleasure—and then a burst of pain across your scalp has your eyes opening as Jake tugs your head up. Back to face the camera. “Head up. I want to see your pretty face. I want to watch you wreck yourself on my cock.”

He makes you go on like that for an endless amount of time. Eventually you find a rhythm, making sure not to turn your face away from the camera as you rock back against his thighs, taking his cock to the root again and again.

“Why do you look so sour?” You make a confused sound. Jake’s hand smooths across your flank. His other hand points. “Not you. Him. You’re putting on an amazing show for him, and he isn’t even appreciating it.”

All of the sudden, there is a distant bang. You freeze, Jake’s cock halfway buried inside you. Distantly–so distantly, you can hear the sound of approaching footsteps. Behind you, Jake’s body begins to shake with quiet laughs even as your own seems to seize with terror at the thought of being caught. The lock for the unit only hangs loosely, offering the two of you no privacy should someone decide to investigate the noise and open the door.

Jake draws you up, lowering himself onto his haunches as he tugs you back against his chest. In your ear, he murmurs: “Perhaps Marc is the only person we should give a show to. Oh—oh no? You’re shaking your head, but your cunt can’t lie to me. Not when I know her so well. If you don’t want anyone to see what a beautiful little slut you are, then you had best keep quiet.”

Keep quiet—simple, except that he reaches down between your legs, fingers tracing along your stretched entrance, and then dragging up over your sensitive, otherwise-ignored clit. Your body jerks, desperate to get away from the sudden stimulus and desperate to get closer all at once. You whine, the sound echoing off the walls and back to you. It takes all of your fortitude to press your tongue to the roof of your mouth and try to stifle any further noises.

Jake takes your clit between his fingers and rubs softly, purring into the nape of your neck at the way your pussy spasms around his cock. In the distance, the footsteps draw closer, the quiet murmur of voices heard. Can they hear you as well as you can hear them? Fuck, you imagine they can. Your orgasm, so far denied of you, swells low and sweet in your belly, and you dread it just as much as you ache for it—

All at once, a warmth fills you, Jake’s cock twitching where it is buried deep inside you. He groans so quietly against your skin, trailing off into a little breathless laugh. The feel of his spend filling you has your cunt clenching, approaching that edge. But before you can let yourself trip over the ledge and down into pleasure’s abyss, Jake’s fingers freeze.

Did you hear that? a voice asks. Your heart pounds, entire body flashing hot and then cold with panic. Jake’s hand reaches up and wraps around you throat, fingers flexing gently in warning. As if you need one!

Rats, probably. City’s got ones bigger than your cock—not that that’s saying much.

You make too many jokes about my cock for a bloke who's straight.

The voices begin to fade away. Jake’s fingers relax, stroking the line of your throat softly.

“Good girl,” he murmurs in your ear. “Very good girl, keeping quiet, fucking me so good. Did you cum?”

As if he doesn’t already know. You shake your head, slow and emphatic, gloves flapping softly against your cheeks.

“Do you want to cum?”

A nod.

“Roll over. On your back. Shh, shh—I know it’s cold.”

You lay there shivering, looking up at him, the taste of leather on your tongue. You’re nearly shaking with need, thighs spread so he can kneel between them. He’s cum, but his cock hardly looks softened, flush and dark between his legs. Jake grips his cock and strokes himself a few times, the muscles in his belly tensing. He is so fucking hot, you feel like if you laid here long enough looking up at him, you would cum.

With his other hand, Jake reaches for Marc’s phone. He works it softly off of the tripod and turns the screen to face you, lets you look at yourself in the front facing camera. Your hands cover your eyes at the brief glimpse you catch of yourself looking so fucked-out, thighs splattered with pearly seed, cunt swollen, nipples hard, those fucking gloves held between your teeth.

Jake laughs softly as he takes the camera and turns it the proper direction so that he can film you. “Hands down, what did I say? I said I want to see your pretty face.”

Two of his fingers, thick and strong, slip inside you. Your hands fall away from your eyes, mouth going slack enough that the gloves slip dangerously and you have to tighten your lips to keep from dropping them altogether. Jake’s grin behind the phone is downright sinful as he takes obvious, obscene pleasure in your struggle. His fingers squelch as he begins a moderate pace of fucking you with them.

“All you have to do is ask me, and I’ll make you cum.” He pauses to slip his fingers from you and drag the mess of yourself up over your sensitive clit, delighting in your whine and writhe. “So go ahead and ask real pretty. I’m all ears.”

You ask, words severely muffled around the gloves.

“I can’t understand,” he says, pointing the phone towards your pussy in a move that has tears filling your eyes with how tightly your cunt grips at his fingers. You didn’t know you liked being filmed so much—wouldn’t have imagined such a thing in a thousand years. “Keep asking. I like to hear you struggle. Say, ‘Please make me cum, Jake’.”

You’re desperate enough to keep trying, feeling the muscles in your belly tighten, though you desperately wish he would stroke your clit. You would cum nearly straight away, you are so close to the precipice. You repeat his words.

“Who? Did you say—Marc?”

Your eyes widen in panic, head shaking furiously. You repeat his name again and again, though he puckers his lips to look doubtful. He slips his fingers out of you again and you nearly wail, desperate for the release you have worked so hard to earn. But instead of taking his hands away, Jake takes your slippery clit between his fingers again, working the little pleasurable knot with dextrous, merciless skill.

You cum before you know you are cumming, back arching against the chilly floor, barely aware of Jake tugging the gloves from between your teeth to hear the way your voice grits out his name. He rubs and softly pinches your most sensitive flesh until you are whining and shaking and whispering for him to stop, it is too much, you are too sensitive.

He adjusts the camera to take in your entire expression: dilated, heavy-lidded eyes, mouth swollen and parted, tears clinging to your lashes.

“Good girl,” he says again, soundly absurdly pleased. He sets the phone down, using the free hand to smooth softly across your trembling belly as you are riddled with spasms and shivers in the aftermath of your release.

Then, a sound you dread, one you dread more than even footsteps or voices:

Jake clicks his tongue in displeasure.

Eyes wet and wide, voice raspy from your whines and cries, you ask, “What is it?”

His eyes flash up to you, smile spreading slow and dangerous across his face. It makes you shiver, makes your pussy clench. He holds up his glove, pointing. “What is that? Hm? There, denting the leather.”

A toothmark.

“Looks like you are due for that punishment after all.”

Gripping both gloves loosely in one hand, Jake brings them down to spank your clit.

I'm currently raising money to afford the emergency care provided to my perpetual-pup who passed away on 8/25. Please consider leaving a tip if you enjoyed this; every penny goes to him. Reblogs are invaluable. And come leave a request in my inbox, if you'd like.

#marc spector x reader #steven grant x reader #jake lockley x reader

425 notes · View notes

ask-trades-sans · 1 month ago

Text

Meet Undertrades! (+ Masterlist)

(main blog is @magicmango-man)

Can I make fanart?

YESSSS!!! I would love to get fanart :D If you do make it please @ me so i can see it!!

What can I ask?

Almost anything! Just please make sure it is sfw as i am a minor, so gore or sexual themes please :3

Why do my asks sometimes take a while to be answered?

I have to draw art for each ask and I am still in school as well as sometimes I need to think of a way to answer if that makes sense

Can I ask things about other AUs?

Yes you can!! If its an AU I don’t know much about it may take me longer to answer as I want to portray the Character correctly

Who are the Characters I can ask?

Currently open to asks are Sans, Papyrus, MK, Alphys, and Chara

Why is he called Trades Sans?

His name is Trades Sans because his thing is having a lot of jobs and “Being a jack of all trades” :D (despite this he is still lazy 💔)

Don’t feel shy about asking things! I love answering asks!!!

Masterlist:

Lore:

Evacuating P1

Evacuating P2

A Memory

Swaps Therapy P1

Swaps Therapy P2

A Realisation

Alphys's job

They aren't voices then..

Other:

Sans's jobs

Answering many questions

Papyrus rejects you

MK gets a hug

Fish..?

Free Toast

Headpats

Sonic fan

Its on fire

MK's fixed shirt

Sales x Trades

Giving Sales some business

Sales gets jealous

Interacting with other AUS

Swaps Therapy P1

Swaps Therapy P2

Headpats

Meeting Fresh

BFFS

Court

A demon???

Shitposts

Sans isn't bald

Scales not sales

31 notes · View notes

estellardreams · 28 days ago

Text

Failed Matchmakers

(Demon King Red and the Battle Nexus belong to @purble-turble)

"And... Open them!"

When King Red agreed to find someone else to love in this universe, he was hoping for any sort of MK.

What he wasn't expecting was a swap universe in which MK took his place as a Demon King. Specifically the new Monkey King.

And by the great samadhi fire... He was gorgeous. Soft, fluffy dark brown fur, beautiful auburn gold eyes, his clothes draped loosely like a Renaissance painting. Sweet sunset oranges, flower petals and twigs messily strewn through his hair. At least it wasn't the worst... But he could surely do better in presentation, right?

"Oh, my darling MK!" he immediately hugged the monkey.

Mk blinked, slowly easing into the hug. "Love me some hugs. May I...?"

"Of course- AH!" King Red was instantly crushed under the monkeys strength in the hug, being lifted off his feet.

"Put me down!" he yelped.

"Ohh no~ My little gloriosa, I'll keep you safe... Even if my own flower is gone."

Flower? His pet names were on flowers?

"So, ah. Where do you wanna go for our first date?" MK pulled away, brushing himself off.

Red paused, thinking for a moment.

"I got just the place."

"Here we are!" the two arrived back in his universe, standing right in front of his fortress.

Mk tensed up, but kept his bare feet planted on the smoldering ground.

"Oh, my sweet darling. What do you think?" he asked.

"It's... Uh..." MK stared at everything, trying to find something to like.

Honestly... There wasn't much. Sure it was gold, sparkly, with so many rubies and tapestries... But nothing seemed to catch his eye.

He strained a smile. "It's... Pretty."

"Of course it is! I knew you'd love it, now come on inside! Let's fix you up and I'll get us some food!" King Red led MK through the doors, opening up to a bedazzling cherry red corridor lined with Obsidian pillars, golden accents, and silky carpentry and tapestries.

It felt like too much to him.

"Oh, my love. Right this way... Let me assist you in getting cleaned u-"

"No! No no, it's... Fine. Truly." MK quickly cut in.

"Oh, but I insist!"

"I prefer my privacy, thank you very much. Besides this place is making me feel very claustrophobic already... You'd understand, right?"

Red paused. He wasn't expecting MK to say that, let alone call these huge hallways and rooms "claustrophobic". It sounded so out of proportion to him!

He sighed, stepping back. "Fine. If you insist."

He clapped his hands, two nearby servants to the room rushing in.

"Can you please clean and dress up my darling accordingly? And make it quick?"

"Of course, my king!" one of the demon's said, leading MK into the room nearby.

Mk winced, getting pushed inside as another led him to the nearby tub.

"Ooh! Water!" he pushed past them and leapt in, only to land face first in the tub and completely splash most of the water out.

He crawled back to a sitting position, awkwardly chuckling. "Oops."

One of the servants sighed. "I'll clean it. You wash him."

"Nah, don't worry! I got it!" MK slipped off his clothes, using his draped sash as a cleaning rag and crushed up one of the flowers in his hair, turning it into soap and rubbing it in.

The two servants winced.

"He's not gonna be a good fit for the king, is he...?" one whispered.

"Nope."

"Just... Assist the monkey with washing himself. I'll clean this up and get the tailors here."

"Alright."

King Red patiently waited at the dining hall. This was going... Surprisingly better than he had expected.

Sure it wasn't the best, and this MK was... Unique. But it was still his loveable noodle boy, he'd adore him either way!

The food was ready, the two servants in charge of tailoring his look came out, MK tucked away behind him.

"Oh, my sweetheart! There you are!" Red smiled sweetly.

Mk moved past the two servants, stumbling in his clothes. They were some gorgeous garnet red and gold trimmed robes, draped on the monkey magestically, his fur all fluffed up and silky, shimmering in the light.

... Yet his clumsy behavior made it quite hard to admire his attire.

Mk caught onto the chair, shuffling into his seat.

"Now, I prepared so many of your favorite foods! I want to make sure you feel welcome here!" Red chimed in.

"Oh, uh... Thanks." MK strained a smile, already feeling this wasn't working. But he was gonna give it the benefit of the doubt.

The food on the table looked rather delicious, with plenty of hot soups, dumplings, noodles, fried rice, din sum, stews, chili's...

Yet nothing King MK liked. His face fell a little, but he quickly forced up another smile the moment he noticed King Red smiling at him.

"I'll just... Take some of these." MK sheepishly took some noodles and rice for himself, eating them.

He coughed, wheezing a little. Great sage was it spicy! He took the glass of water and drank it, nearly draining the entire cup.

"Now, how do you feel about this date?" Red asked.

"It's... Um. Something." MK mumbled, pushing around the rice with his chopsticks.

"Well, I'm sure you're going to love it! We'll be together, forever, I promise~

Mk stopped eating, noticing King Red trying to sneak a golden cuff with a ruby on his wrist. He immediately slammed Red's arm down.

"You know what? How about we make this a double date?" MK offered.

"Just to make sure we're right for each other. I came to your place... Now you gotta come to mine! Okay?"

"Oh. Very well, then." King Red pulled back, brushing himself off.

"Great! Now let's go!" MK grabbed Red and bolted out the door with him, tossing off the robes he was wearing, revealing his original look right underneath it.

"Here we are!" MK excitedly pulled King Red through.

Red froze.

This... This was Flower Fruit Mountain.

"Do you... Live here?"

"Ha! Of course, I'm the new Monkey King! Now c'mon, I wanna show you my humble abode!"

Mk took Red's hand, leaping up onto a cloud and soaring off to the mountain.

"Where's... Sun Wukong?" Red asked, clinging to MK to not fall.

"Oh, I'm sure Macaque's having fun with him as always." MK brushed the question off, landing in front of the cave.

He opened up the waterfall, revealing a nicely decorated open space, the ceiling broken open as flowers and vines are draped around. There was a nearby river with a small waterfall continuously pouring water in, alongside a small corner orchard, woven hammocks, plush cushions, and it felt so... Open. With literally no privacy.

Red winced, trying to back up. MK pulled him in, spinning him around excitedly.

"I can't wait! You're going to love this place!" he gushed, hugging Red tightly.

Mk scrambled back outside, scaling the cliffs. He got to the top before leaping off and diving to the water below, causing a huge splash of water to crash onto King Red... Instantly extinguishing his hair and by proxy his powers.

Wait. Was that OCEAN water?!

Red tensed up, trying to drain the water from his hair. He yelped, seeing MK crawl up the cliff from at his feet, grab him by the ankles, and pull him down with him.

The two crashed into the water. Red coughed, washing up to the shore, his outfit already ruined and his hair drenched.

"Ooh! Have you ever tried mud baths before?" MK swam to the surface, his tail wagging excitedly.

Red's nose scrunched up, immediately knowing where this was going. The monkey got out of the water, shook himself off, and took Red by the hand and led him through the jungle.

Red paused, staring at the amount of flowers they were passing by. MK's eyes widened, taking the flowers.

"Oh, gloriosa! Look at these!" he smiled, plucking the flowers.

"These are the flowers I named you after!"

Red's gaze softened, cupping the flowers in MK's hands.

Fire lilies. Of course, it was the only thing they made sense.

Mk giggled, taking the flowers. He unraveled Red's bun, fluffing up his hair a little and weaving the flowers in them.

Red paused, watching him carefully before the monkey returned right to him.

"Oh, gloriosa. I love you so much." he kissed him on the nose, cupping the king's cheeks gently.

He turned back, noticing some fruits growing in the trees. He scrambled to the top, tossing down a bunch of fresh fruit into the dirt.

He leapt back down, scooping it all up and showing a mango to him.

"Try it! They're delicious!" he smiled.

Red hesitantly took the fruit, trying to be polite to the monkey. He didn't wanna eat it, especially with it being so dirty.

He sighed, brushing off the dirt as well as he could before biting into it.

Sweet, zesty... Fruity. Not his thing but he wasn't complaining too much. It just lacked his usual spice.

Mk promptly shoved all of the fruits to Red, sitting him down and handing him each one to try. Red strained a smile, taking them and cleaning them all off one by one, meanwhile the monkey returned to fiddling with his hair, planting in more flowers.

Rumberry was so sour. Passion Fruit was overly musky. Acai was so... Rich and tart. Kumbu was so uniquely savory it caught the king off guard. Aguaje was very sweet, salty, and very sharp in flavor.

The food was becoming a bit too much, but MK kept making him eat, still styling his hair and slowly pulling down his soaked robes, leaving him with only his top and pants, his sleeves rolled up.

Great sage his stomach was starting to hurt.

"Sweetheart... You're as tender as the orchard we reside in." MK brushed his hair out of his face, booping his nose.

Starfruit was so sweet and tart. Mangosteen felt like a dessert treat in the form of a fruit. Dragonfruit was sour and sweet. Pineapple was overly sweet... But eating it without cutting off the skin made his stomach churn.

Red huffed, tossing the fruits down to the ground.

"You okay? You haven't tried these yet." MK asked, carrying twenty more fruits in his arms.

"I... I'm done." Red heaved, falling back.

"Oh, okay!"

Mk swiftly returned back to running off, finding a nearby river and then a mud pond. He excitedly dove in, flopping onto his back and relaxing.

Red frowned, walking up to MK at the mud pond.

"Royalty isn't supposed to get this... Rough and messy. Don't you know that?" he mumbled.

Mk snirked. He burst out laughing, coming out of the mud and cupping his cheeks again.

"Oh, you're adorable!" he chirped, taking both of his hands and falling into the mud with him.

Red face planted, immediately getting up and trying to spit any of the mud that got into his mouth, trying to wipe so much of it off his face.

"Oh, come on! It's relaxing!"

"It's undignified!"

"No it isn't! Besides, I know you like it, silly!"

Red's nose scrunched up. He got up, trying to brush himself off. "No, I don't."

"Aww! Come on, flower!" MK whined, grabbing Red by the ankles. He stumbled, falling right back into the mud.

"GAH! Let go of me!"

"No! You're staying here, with me, forever! Where we can be happy together!"

"No! You're gonna stay with me, forever, at my home!"

"No, my home! Yours is too cramped!"

"Yours is disgusting!"

"Yours is suffocating! The clothes are too tight!"

"Your clothes are too revealing and you're so messy!"

"The cuisine is not my taste either!"

"Nor is yours!"

"THIS WILL NEVER WORK!" both screamed.

They stopped, staring at each other. MK huffed, standing up.

"I see we've come to an agreement. You may go back now. I won't hold you here."

Red sighed, trying to tear the flowers, twigs, and mud from his now dreadful hair.

"We'll never speak of this."

"Deal."

"So... Update on the Prince Red situation?" Mei asked.

"Not that well. He's just so... I don't know." BSMK mumbled.

"Down?"

"Yeah... Its so weird."

The two stopped, hearing a portal open. Out stumbled a wreck of the two kings, both immediately parting ways.

"... Crisis averted. Good plan." BSMK said.

"No! That wasn't the- I was hoping that if they'd got together they'd stop bothering all of us!" Mei snapped.

"Ooh. So... It failed?"

"YES IT FAILED!"

"Heh, nice look for King Red though. He should be like that more often." TT Red remarked.

"I HEARD THAT!" King Red yelled back.

TT Red smiled, slipping back away from the MK and Mei, returning right back to VMK.

"Ice blade." he said.

VMK looked at King Red, then at TT Red. He slipped him another ice blade alongside a fillet.

"Use those wisely."

"Oh, gladly~

#lmk #lmk au #text post #lego monkie kid #writing #creative writing

33 notes · View notes

yellowocaballero · 1 month ago

Note

a while back you mentioned having written ~40k of a steven moon knight fic as well as some of a frenchie fic? i was just wondering if those would ever be posted/shared or if they will stay in google docs superhell forever (also love your work!! your star wars swap au i particularly enjoyed as well as the tma evilcon + associated fics) best of days to you !!

Look at this evilcon fan over here. Deep fucking cut.

Ah, yes I have. The 40k fic was written for Marvel Trumps Hate, and I didn't post it due to some vaguely complicated but not altogether important reasons. The Frenchie fic was the unfortunate victim towards me very abruptly falling out of MK, lmfao. I think all of my fandoms have The One Abandoned Fic that I was working on when I just Got Over the fandom (Human Relations sequel, so cruelly abandoned....).

Kind of a shame, since the Frenchie fic was not bad and just got kinda roadblocked at the end. I've tossed around maybe finishing it when MKS2 comes out and I inevitably get sucked back in. I don't want to post the MTH fic on AO3 right now (maybe in the future when MKS2 comes out and I get sucked back in etc) but there's honestly no reason not to show you...I think...looking back over this, I think I may have decided that the fic's sense of humor was just too insane. It's very.......uh.....

Uh, ok, just between you and me and other people reading this then. It's a fic about a normal guy who thinks that schizophrenia makes you immortal and autism gives you superpowers.

I'll put it in a follow-up post. In the meantime here's the first few scenes from the Frenchie fic. I really do wanna finish this one day....

“A phone call?”

The jackal barked in elderly confusion.

Steven leaned back in his chair, scratching his stubble. Jake was insisting that they experiment with facial hair and it was best to let him have these little victories. “Well, under the human American law each citizen is entitled to a phone call if they get arrested. That’s probably what he means.” The jackal barked dismissively. “Have you tried telling him that?” The jackal barked again, aggravated. “I see. Quite a pickle. Well, I don’t see any harm in giving him the call. We’d have to warn him that this is a faux legal system and that he’s not entitled to any lawyers, but perhaps he could tell his wife he won’t be home for dinner? That would be nice.”

The jackal growled.

“We could be nice,” Steven said reproachfully.

The jackal barked again.

“If you really think about it, nothing’s stopping us. Masters of our own fates and whatnot, right? Well - yes, yes, I know the gods are the masters of our fates, that’s not quite - look, sir, there’s no point in worrying a man’s wife unnecessarily, is there? How would your wife feel if you disappeared off the mortal plane?” The jackal hung its head, and Steven sighed as he stood up. “I’ll lend him my mobile.” The courthouse only had landlines, and even then that was iffy. Magical ancient Egyptian constructs still struggled with 4G. “But if he messes about with my Twitter then we’re adding another thousand years onto his sentence.”

Situations like this were why Steven still showed up to work. This zoo often struggled at little things like this without him. The place had gone to the jackals while he was gone - literally, they had taken over many administrative positions - and it would take months just to clean up the wreckage. Steven didn’t mind - nothing made him happier than a good little routine. Ten to two, that was his preference. Downright inhumane to make a man work any longer than four hours a day. He had even scheduled a deli or restaurant to visit for lunch each day of the week. And Marc and Jake were not allowed. Steven only zone. A man’s office was his castle. Besides - if they knew what he got up to all day they might complain about it.

The two were deeply asleep - Jake because he found Steven’s entire life dull as dirt and Marc because all of the mandated socialization they were doing lately really took it out of him. Steven found it delightful. Jake’s friends were really nice once you got to know them, and you could reliably get a pained expression out of any of them once you told them so. Marc found their whole thing exhausting and if Jake wasn’t entertained he wanted to die, so around noon the two slept like Alexander the Great’s mummy. Might as well build them little tombs. That was cute. Steven knew exactly what his own tomb would look like. He was practically a pharaoh and everything - maybe Khonshu would make sure he got one? No, Khonshu didn’t care about them nearly that much. Boy, but wouldn’t that be nice.

He gave the Bast statue guarding the elevator its usual nose pat, he smiled and waved at the lumbering shabtis, and he stopped and said his usual ‘hello how are you how’s Nephthys Osiris talking to you again yet’ to the Set statue as the jackal gave him the stink eye for holding them up. Kindness was key, Mr. Jackal. Steven believed in positive Steven-god relations. He lived in hope that the other gods would model good behavior for Khonshu and eventually sway him into becoming less of a dick.

The ibis perched adorably in a little booth checked his identity as it picked up a little visitor’s badge with his beak and dropped it into Steven’s outstretched hand. It pecked at the computer keyboard a few times, accomplishing nothing other than mangling the G and H keys, and a series of papers ground out of the ancient fax machine. Steven cautiously reached over and fetched the papers, scanning them. They were details of the prisoner’s case, which made Steven feel a bit like one of the Forbidden Lawyers. The jackal led him down the winding paths of the jail as Steven fumbled in his pocket for his glasses, squinting down at the pages.

“Well, this doesn’t seem too nasty,” Steven announced. “I’m sure we can get this sorted out. Certainly not a problem for our Jake, eh?” He looked at the jackal out of the corner of his eye. “Eh?” The jackal did not respond. “Right?”

Steven made the executive decision that this was a bureaucratic issue and therefore not a Marc or Jake issue. They’d just over-involve themselves and pretend they knew anything about the fake legal system. Marc and Jake were like baby brothers playing video games with you on an unplugged controller. They needed to feel like they were doing something or they’d throw a hissy fit.

The jackal didn’t have to stop and point out the prisoner. Steven could hear him from all the way down the hall: empathetic, pointed, and incessant French patter. The man sounded like he was arguing against a parking ticket, which displayed a disappointing lack of cognizance as to the severity of his situation and the high likelihood that he was about to experience extrajudicial horrors beyond his imagining.

Poor guy. Imagine being from France.

For the first time in Steven’s life his shaky French that he could not actually remember learning but that Marc and Jake did not know actually came in handy. As he got closer he could more or less puzzle out what the fast talking man was saying to the two unamused and unswayed jackals. Could the jackals speak French? It had to be some magic thing. The only animals around here who could actually talk to the humans and explain to them what was happening were the baboons, and they were never polite about it.

“ - one little call! That is it! I will never darken your doorstep again, I swear it. One phone call - and, maybe, letting me go! We can talk about it, let’s talk about it! You and I, we are reasonable men - jackal, I am a reasonable man and you are a reasonable jackal - unless you are a woman? Are you a woman? You are still a jackal at any rate. You are a very reasonable gendered jackal, and I am innocent of all crimes - and even if you are a nongendered jackal, I do not judge, I have friends of all kinds - if you give me one phone call I may call one of my friends and he can help, I am certain he is friends with very many of you people -”

The man cut off the second Steven walked into view of his cell. The cells were very basic, with only a cot and a toilet and one wall of metal bars. He was standing up against the bars, fighting with the two unamused jackals standing against the cement wall in the hallway. The man’s head jolted away from the jackals and fixed on Steven, forgetting his captive audience entirely. His slicked back hair was frayed and mussed, gelled strands sticking up every which way, and his blonde mustache twitching in surprise as his eyes widened.

Steven was sympathetic. Human prisoners were always shocked to find a real bloke around the place.

He waved a bit awkwardly, his reading glasses flopping in the air. In shaky and awkward French, he said, “Bonjour! My name is Steven Grant. And you are…” He shoved his glasses on, squinting down at the intake form. “Jean-Paul Duchamp?” He pronounced it ‘Jean Paul Dew-Champ’, and judging from the man’s twitch he had mangled it. Oh well. “Right. Do not worry, everything will be fine. You wanted a phone call? I have a phone for you.”

The man stared at him. Steven silently suffered this. He knew he was attractive.

Finally, the man said in accented but thankfully perfect English, “I have changed my mind. May I speak with you in private, Monsieur Grant?”

The three jackals barked simultaneously. Steven rolled his eyes. Honestly! He knew he was the Avatar of Khonshu now, they didn’t need to be like that! “I don’t think that’s allowed. For security reasons and all. Not that there’s anything you could possibly do to me.” A grizzled jackal with one eye barked. “Emotional - hey! I would have you know that my Myers Briggs said I was the resilient type!” Steven considered the matter for a second. “Oh, but I did have a bad horoscope today. Maybe you’re onto something. Do we have any augurers on staff?”

“Excuse me,” Jean-Paul butted in, increasingly wild eyed, “Do you care to explain what is going on, Monsieur Grant? Because the only explanation I’ve received so far was from paperwork on papyrus and a rude baboon.”

Why was he saying his name like that? The French were so weird. Steven leaned down slightly to whisper in the nearest jackal’s ear. “And he must have been really bad if a French guy is calling him rude.” The jackals cackled. Jean-Paul’s eye twitched. “Never fear, Mr. Duchamp. I’m sure we can get this whole thing sorted out before supper. Let’s review the details of your case, shall we?”

“What case?”

“Oh, you’re in an ancient Egyptian courthouse for ancient Egyptian crimes,” Steven said vaguely, sliding on his reading glasses and flipping through the pages again. “Yes, the Egyptian gods are real, no they are not aliens, you better believe in ghost stories Ms. Swan you’re in one, etcetera. Alright, alright…I see…ah! There we are! Charged as accessory to one count of tomb raiding…oh, just a little asterisk here, let’s see what that’s all about…you stole from a children’s hospital!?”

“I did not know that is what we were doing!” Jean-Paul cried. “Someone tells me to fly a medical helicopter, I do not ask questions! If I made a habit of interrogating every one of my clients I would not have a great deal of clients, monsieur!”

“Organs from a -”

“It is called professionalism!”

“It’s called evil!” Steven said, appalled. The jackals barked in agreement. “I have to say, Mr. Duchamp -”

“It’s doo-shamp. And John-Paul. Mon frere.”

Oh wow, oh no, sorry for the French microaggression. Honestly. “If it wasn’t for the fact that you betrayed your clients the second you discovered what they were stealing and refused to pilot them away you would be facing the same punishment they are. It’s quite karmic. Do you know what Egyptian canopic jars are used for?” Jean-Paul looked a little queasy. “Exactly. Do you still want that phone call, Mr. Duchamp? You’ll receive your sentence from Thoth with or without it.”

“Then why give it to me?” Jean-Paul asked waspishly.

Steven shrugged. “I wouldn’t want your husband to worry.”

“Rest assured, I am quite single.” Jean-Paul stuck his hand out through the bars. “Give it here.”

Steven pulled up the phone function on his mobile and passed it to Jean-Paul, ignoring his thoughtful expression. He tried to convey ‘mess with my phone and I’ll mess with you’ through rigorous eyebrow tilting, but he knew he was very bad at it.

Jean-Paul stepped back, swiping on the mobile. It did not look like he was punching in a number. Steven abruptly became anxious that he was snooping on Steven’s mobile. He had remembered to delete his text history with Layla, right? Right?!

He typed something on it before looking up, holding it up oddly to show Steven the screen before passing it back to him. “I changed my mind. No need for a call. Thank you for lending me your phone, monsieur, but it was unnecessary.”

The screen was open to the notes app. Steven abruptly felt like they were passing notes in class. Except not quite, because Steven was the Avatar of an Egyptian god and the other party was in jail for magic crimes. The note read -

marc what is the plan

Oh. Oh!

Steven looked up, and now he could clearly read the man’s irritated ‘why are you looking surprised, this is a matter of utmost secrecy’ eyebrow twitch. “Goodness, I’m so sorry. The egg is really on my face here, I’m so embarrassed.” He looked down at the jackal next to him, who twitched its ears attentively. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding. It seems -”

Steven stopped short.

This man knew Marc. He now knew Steven. Marc really, really, really hated it when this happened.

Marc had spent the vast majority of his life masking. His family had been big believers in the ‘never talk about it and pretend it doesn’t exist’ school of mental illness, which had resulted in a great deal of very terrible problems. Marc did not learn from any of these problems and continued to hide the DID from everybody he had ever met up to and including his own wife for a depressing yet impressive length of time. Steven hadn’t really agreed with the wife decision, because it was a slightly huge aspect of their lives that was very much Layla’s business, but Marc believed in privacy. Steven couldn’t fault him for that.

It wasn’t anybody’s business if Marc didn’t want it to be their business and they were not Marc’s actual wife. Jake spouted off about shame and internalized ableism, which was undoubtedly true, but nobody was really entitled to his health information. He had the right to self-disclose when he wanted and to who he wanted. Steven only wished that this reasonable desire did not lead to sitcom-esque hijinks as they all switched mustaches and pretended to be each other. Sometimes literally. Jake had his whims.

Marc wouldn’t want this random pilot knowing personal stuff about him. He was probably just some colleague he had worked with one time and never saw again. And Steven was very dedicated to helping Marc and making his life easier, just like Marc was dedicated to helping Steven and making his life harder. Jake was dedicated to being a bully.

Being involuntarily outed was traumatic for Marc. The last time it happened he fell asleep for four weeks and plunged Steven into a Jake induced nightmare. What if he went back to sleep? What if he never woke up this time? What if he left Steven alone with Jake forever? He couldn’t take that chance.

Marc didn’t have to find out about any of this. No point in stressing him out over nothing.

In a stunning show of cunning, cleverness, and subtlety, Steven looked down at the jackal next to him. “Actually, can I talk with Mr. Duchamp in private? There’s some things we need to discuss.” The jackal asked what. “Human things.” The jackal asked why it had to be private. “They’re private human things.” Steven paused a beat. “Like periods. We’re going to talk about our periods.”

The jackals knew enough about humans to know that periods were private human things and not enough to know that cisgender men did not get periods. They gave him dubious looks anyway, but when Steven mimed yanking a crescent knife from his chest they obligingly filed out. The grizzled one-eyed jackal turned around and gave John-Paul a gimlet ‘I’m watching you’ eye, but John-Paul just sniffed and looked above it all. French people sure were good at looking snooty.

The second the jackals turned the corner and disappeared from sight Steven took a deep breath and changed.

He straightened, folding his expression into a deep scowl. He tilted his head forward in Marc’s faux intimidating fashion and affected Marc’s terrible Chicago accent - which was just as fake as Steven’s very real to him British accent, thank you very much! Jean-Paul straightened too, eyes widening again.

“What the hell?” Steven demanded. Ugh. It was hell on the throat to talk like this. “How did you even get yourself into this mess?”

“Me? I am the one in the mess?” Jean-Paul stabbed a finger at Steven, who scowled deeper. “What was that? What is this? Why are you working for an ancient Egyptian courthouse under a false identity?”

“It’s a long story,” Steven snapped. It was really easy to avoid questions as Marc. You just had to be mean. “And it’s none of your business.”

“At this point I think it is very much my business! Jesus, Marc!” Jean-Paul exhaled deeply, rubbing his forehead in a forcible attempt at zen. “What is this, some sort of op? Are you undercover?”

“I said it was none of your business!”

“This is why you don’t run the ops,” Jean-Paul said. Steven was offended on Marc’s behalf. “I am impressed at your acting skills but not at your subtlety.”

“The usual, then,” Steven said wryly. “I’m impressed with your talent at getting arrested.”

“I get it, I get it. Marc Spector twenty, Jean-Paul fifteen. I swear, Marc, only you would get yourself in these predicaments.”

“You’re the one in the predicament. I’m doing fine.”

“My predicament is your predicament.” Why would that be true? He said it so casually, as if it was a given fact. Quite presumptuous of him, in Steven’s opinion. “At least now I don’t have to waste a hope and a prayer that you would pick up your phone this time. How are you going to get me out of this one? They have a giant baboon! Have you seen the baboon!”

“The baboon’s very understanding about my medical needs, so watch it.” Wait - had he wanted to spend his one phone call on Marc? Why? They were talented, cool, and altruistic, but… “Look, I’ll do what I can. But the gods aren’t exactly easy to argue with. I’ve tried to get them to overturn a sentence before and it failed miserably.”

“That’s the first time I’ve heard my friend try to do things the legal way.” Jean-Paul folded his arms. “Just bust me out. Isn’t that more your style?”

What a suck-up. Marc didn’t have friends. Steven smiled anyway, brittle and thin. “Don’t worry, Jean-Paul. I’ll do everything I can to help you. Just please try and understand the position I’m in.”

Jean-Paul stared at him. Steven forced himself to look the other man in the eyes even though it made him uncomfortable. Marc always stared down people he didn’t trust.

“So, uh,” Steven said, “I better call the jackals back -”

“Please admit you do not know who I am.”

Steven froze. He opened his mouth, then closed it.

Jean-Paul sighed. He kneaded his forehead again, shoulders slumped, but something about the gesture had changed. My predicament is your predicament - what did that mean? “Why didn’t you say - non, non, you would have no reason. Marc, please listen to me.” He looked solidly at Steven, and Steven found himself looking away. “It’s Frenchie. I’m your friend. We met in Afghanistan and we’ve worked together ever since. You’re having another amnesiac episode. This happens to you sometimes and it is nothing to worry about. Do you believe me about this?”

Steven opened his mouth. He closed it.

He couldn’t help it - he hunched his shoulders, clutching at his sleeve and drawing away. “I don’t have friends. You’re lying.”

“Call up Layla and ask,” Jean-Paul said. His voice was even and steady, and it struck Steven oddly. The man was literally in a jail cell about to be Egyptian tortured and he was comforting Steven? Looking out for him in a mental health episode? Did the world contain two Lukes? “Do you know Layla? Your wife? Now there’s a thief for you. I am but a humble pilot in comparison.”

That cinched it. Marc would never tell anybody he didn’t trust about Layla. Much less about what Layla really did for a living.

But Marc didn’t trust anybody. Marc wasn’t supposed to trust anybody. That was Marc’s whole thing. He only trusted Steven and Layla. He only trusted Steven and Layla and - Frenchie? What kind of nickname was that? That was so stupid.

Marc was really bad at naming things. Movie poster, pilfered ID. Frenchie. Jeez.

Steven put it down. He let his shoulders hunch back into their natural slouch, bent his voice back towards its natural tilt, and dropped the mean expression. Despite himself, he groaned.

“Marc’s going to kill me!” Steven wailed. “He’s going to go to sleep again and leave me with Jake!”

Jean-Paul recoiled, surprise turning into shock. Wow, wow, big surprise. Marc or Jake’s friends freaking out over Steven. Stop the presses.

“He’s gonna blame me for this, you know,” Steven cried. Not whined. Nope. “This is why he doesn’t trust me with anything. As if it’s my fault that his friends keep getting arrested? Maybe I should get a little more recognition for being the only one without delinquent friends. Honestly, I don’t know why we can’t keep better company sometimes. A book club? A Dungeons and Dragons group? Anybody who doesn’t punch people for a living? Is that too much to ask?”

“Hm,” Jean-Paul said. “Your dissociative episodes have grown stranger.”

“What were they like in the military?” Steven asked, morbidly curious. “Marc didn’t even mention amnesia episodes. He can be right frustrating, you know.”

Slowly and carefully, Jean-Paul said, “Do you remember the manic episodes?”

“We’re bipolar?” Steven asked blankly.

“That is what I thought. I do not think I was correct.”

Wait. “Did you think Jake was a manic episode?”

“Jake?”

“The other one,” Steven said helpfully.

“Ah. Yes, I think so.” Jean-Paul paused - not as if he was uncertain, but as if he wasn’t sure how the words would be received. “I understand DID is a very difficult disorder.”

Something tugged at the back of Steven’s mind, then yanked. Steven felt himself fall backwards, and something else surged in him -

Frenchie stood in front of Marc, right in every way, wrong only in the eyes - only in the way he was looking at Marc -

Cautiously, he said, “Steven? You look dazed.”

Dazed. That was what he’d always call it. Whenever Marc zoned out and left his body, whenever Frenchie caught him wandering listlessly around camp with no memory of having even left bed - you look dazed, Marc -

“Do you ever get tired of your front row seat?” Marc asked hoarsely.

But Frenchie just smiled - a little cockily, a little kindly. “The view is quite good.”

Marc couldn’t do this. He never could, he could never do anything - but he couldn’t do this. Humiliation crushed him, Frenchie’s affection and acceptance its strange shadow. The shadow was worse than the weight. It was the shadow he couldn’t handle. He couldn’t handle this.

He turned on his heel and left, leaving Frenchie alone in the cell with no promise of rescue and no aid given, and he found himself walking faster until he turned the corner. The jackals were still huddled like a football team growling thoughtfully at each other, and they perked up when they recognized Marc. He ignored them, walking through the crowd until they leapt away.

Marc’s walk turned into a run. A drum beat rocked his head, pushing hard at his heart. The beat threw him forward, turning his run into a sprint down the winding cement halls. His desperation reached out and thought of a word, and once he thought it he just couldn’t stop.

Jake. Jake. Jake! Jake, I can’t do it again - Jake - !

Marc woke up face first in Jessica Jones’ hair clutching a bottle of Jack.

He yelped, jerking away automatically and falling off the couch with a heavy jolt. The bottle jumped out of its hands, landing on the stained wood coffee table with a heavy thump and rolling against a bulwark of beer bottles.

Marc bolted upright, ignoring his pounding head to take inventory of his surroundings. He relaxed the second he registered where he was. Heroes For Hire apartment. Morning. Luke Cage was passed out in an armchair, sawing wood. Colleen’s bra was draped across the back of a couch. Did these people do anything other than party?

Jessica flopped over, squinting blearily at him in the morning light. Cars honked outside and traffic blared, the sound cutting harshly into his throbbing head. Jessica waved a hand limply at him. She mumbled something that Marc could somehow translate into ‘what’s your problem?’.

Nothing. No problem. Not right now, not here. Marc climbed back onto the couch, pushing Jessica aside to reclaim his spot. Amazingly, they were barely even cuddling - their couch was one of those IKEA types that you could just keep adding onto, it was fucking ginormous. He left the bottle of Jack on the table, whiskey slowly sloshing in the glass. Jessica went back to sleep immediately, her warm breaths pressed against his back.

The sunlight faded into night, then nothing.

“ - and that’s why I wouldn’t fuck Mr. Fantastic unless Sue Storm was watching.”

Marc bolted upright.

“I left Frenchie in prison!” Marc cried.

“Man, what kind of weird dreams are you having?” Danny asked. Marc could hear his voice from behind the couch, accompanied by the rattle of silverware and the hefty scent of bacon. “I can interpret it for you if you want. The prison’s probably a metaphor for -”

“Your psyche,” Colleen intoned.

“That’s a bit on the nose, don’t you think?” Luke said.

Marc rolled off the couch again, slouching his way to the breakfast table and collapsing in his chair. Somebody put a bowl of cereal in front of him and began shoving it in his mouth. Everybody went back to ignoring him and resumed their conversation about the most fuckable superheroes.

“Monica Rambeau at the top,” Misty said, for what sounded like the five hundredth time. “Very top. Except my girlfriend.”

“I’m the last heir of a samurai clan, not a superhero.”

“Very top. Monica Rambeau.”

“Do you think the Avengers have these conversations about us?” Danny asked Luke. “Like, they have to, right? I don’t think they’re above it.”

“They have mimosa brunches. Man, you know they do. I don’t want to know what the hell they say about me.”

“One time Hawkeye flirted with me and I snapped his bow over my knee,” Jessica reported. “It’s about controlling the narrative, Luke.” Marc’s hand reached out and swiped bacon off her plate, cramming it into his mouth. “Watch it, asshole!”

“Morning, sleeping beauty,” Luke told him, half-amused. “Who do we got today?” Marc glared at him balefully, but he held up the ASL finger sign ‘M’ anyway. “Good to see you, Marc. You’re the early bird, huh?”

“Jake was complaining about you yesterday,” Jessica told him gleefully, as if she was snitching on her classmate to the teacher for saying the b word. “He told us all about your intimacy issues. Is it true that you yearn for acceptance, yet are terrified of receiving it?”

“And why,” Marc gritted out between clenched teeth, holding his spoon at a vicious angle, “is Jake always telling you my goddamn business?”

“He likes to vent.”

“Then tell him to shut up next time.”

Misty scraped up eggs with her knife primly. “Five times a day seven days a week. Never listens.”

“Five people live in this apartment, there is no such thing as your own business,” Colleen said, dead-eyed. “I haven’t had privacy in a year.”

“It’s not that different from the monastery,” Danny said philosophically. “Smaller, though.”

“Drunker?” Misty asked.

“Not really.”

“Damn. Guess you had to do something without television.”

Marc’s grip on his spoon tightened so hard that his bones creaked. “Then you can just go tell Jake -”

Tell me yourself.

“Shut up, Jake! You can all tell Jake that next time he decides to overshare -” Hissy fit ten minutes after waking up, new record. “I wouldn’t throw a hissy fit if you stopped doing shit just to piss me off!” You are an egomaniac. “That is so rich.”

“Still weird,” Misty decreed.

“Yeah, still weird,” Colleen said.

Luke cut into his hash brown. “I’m just glad that they’re all talking again.”

“Totally glad that Jake’s back to his healthy, regular state of talking to himself,” Colleen said. “Maybe soon he’ll become normal and only serial kill on weekends.”

“I know none of you care about my personal drama,” Jake said flatly, “but would a little respect be so outta line for youse?” Jessica mumbled something around her egg. “Don’t talk with your mouth full, woman, have some self-respect.”

“Steven and I were talking about going to the zoo and looking at the sloths,” Danny said brightly. “Do you still want to do that? I want to see them so bad. All we have back home are sloth bears but I don’t think they’re the same animal.”

“Sloth bears?” Misty asked.

“They mostly eat termites and ants, really,” Steven told her, “not nearly as scary as you’re imagining. Quite adorable. But nothing really beats sloths on the cuteness factor.”

“Steven! Good to catch you. When do you want to go to the zoo?”

“Oh, boy, maybe Sunday? Do we have anything on Sunday?”

I was going to get drunk.

Same.

“Looks like Sunday’s free!” Steven paused a beat, a smile fixed on his face. “You know, fellas, I can’t help but feel as if we’ve forgotten something.”

We forget stuff incessantly, Marc said, tired. Frenchie was always dragging me out of bars I didn’t remember walking inside.

There’s an alternate explanation for that one.

See, that’s what I thought, but Frenchie never thought so.

“Frenchie!” Steven cried. He jerked onto his feet, sending his plate rattling. “We left Frenchie in prison!”

Danny reached out and patted Steven on the forearm. “It’s okay, Steven. It was just a dream. The French can’t hurt you.”

“Not if they’re in prison, anyway,” Misty said.

Luke, the only one who ever remotely was on topic, put down his fork and looked at Steven. “Who’s Frenchie? Since when do you know other people?”

“He’s my best friend,” Marc said. He scrambled away from the table, faintly registering that he was wearing Jake’s outfit. He and Steven had their own changes of clothes in the guest bedroom, he’d have to take a minute and change. They hated wearing each other’s clothing. It felt so invasive. Jake hated polyester, Marc hated wool, and Steven hated layers in non-freezing temperatures. “Damn it, what kind of friend am I!”

Jessica squinted at him, sipping her orange juice. “Wait, you have other friends? I thought we were your only friends.”

“He’s my friend, not Jake’s. You’re Jake’s friends.”

“I’m not Jake’s friend,” Misty said.

“Jake’s my friend but I don’t like him,” Colleen said.

“Jake’s my friend and I like him,” Danny said eagerly.

“No comment,” Luke said.

But Jessica just continued squinting at him - as if she could read something between their three faces, unremarkable individually but painting a clear picture together. “This is what stressed you out so bad yesterday, yeah?” Marc shoved the chair back into the table, averting his eyes. “Why don’t I come with you? Like, buffer zone?”

A part of Marc did want her to come. He didn’t know if that part was Jake or Steven or himself. He never knew where to put himself anymore, how to partition out his life into the good and bad. How to fit together Jake and Layla, how to give Steven the reins on the courthouse work, how to fit into the Heroes For Hire in a space carved for Jake yet welcoming of anybody.

It was so easy. It scared Marc.

“I can handle my own army buddy,” Marc said gruffly. He bent down and kissed Jessica on the cheek. “I’ll call.”

Marc swept out the door, ignoring Jessica calling “You better!” behind him.

#my writing #my asks #so much of the fun of the frenchie fic was marc x HFH dynamics it was so good #and frenchie himself ended up being such an interesting character. what an ass.#trivia: i wrote this THEN l2urh when i got writer's block #and frenchie's thing there was honestly just a speedrun of his arc here.#'steven's based off layla but jake's based off frenchie' was the most based decision

31 notes · View notes

oneirocide · 1 month ago

Text

thinking of an undertale/underswap au where birds are the national symbol of the underground (a different bird for every region). they're symbols of freedom, prosperity, and strength--and, it is very important to mention, it began as propaganda. Gaster was experimenting on creating monsters capable of handling human-levels of determination without destabilising and figured using bird bones would allow a lab-made monster (sans and papyrus) to contain this without fusing human and monster genes and therefore creating (at best) a pile of semi-sentient goop.

these weapons would ideally be able to break the barrier and fight humans in place of monsters, with much higher success too. sans was designed with blue jay bones (for intelligence and aggression: blue jays eat mostly fruits/nuts/etc but do hunt small invertebrates and are known to be territorial and also decapitate other birds) while papyrus was created with the secretary bird (for raw strength and, again, aggression. just look at how that thing hunts).

the bros dont have wings but do grow feathers in various places and act like their bird counterparts. sans uses his hood to imitate the crest of a blue jay, only lowering it around papyrus. he is very protective of his brother, extremely intelligent and capable of mimicking the sounds of others eerily well. he also carries a hidden sadistic streak unexpected from what looks like a typical swap-variant. he also loves being high up and can often be found perched up in trees or on his brother.

papyrus is the quieter brother and also, can be a total jerk. he is a powerhouse, though dont underestimate his intelligence either--he's more than happy to take advantage of situations and knows his stuff. he is fiercely loyal and doesn't like large crowds. most assume he is not very active, but he likes to stake out his 'territory' often and is, in fact, terrifyingly fast when he wants to be. he is very good with children, too, and the first to adopt chara when she falls.

monsters even dress like birds. sans and papyrus are most noticeable, but undyne, alphys, mk, and a few others are noticeably dressed as well.

some of the swaps go like this

sans <--> papyrus (personality, blended roles)

undyne <--> alphys (personality)

asgore <--> toriel (personality, role)

muffet <--> grillby (role, blended personality)

gaster -> more aggressive/sadistic/insane, possibly gender swapped

chara (she/her) <--> frisk (they/them) (role swap)

mk (gender swap) etc

river person (nicknamed Charon/the Ferryman) -> was present during the human/monster war, got their name for their kill count and fondness of water. no one alive has ever seen their face

#undertale #undertale au #sans #papyrus #underswap #its a weird almost-underswap au where either personalities or roles or genders are swapped #worldbuilding #fun fact: charon (greek mythology) is sometimes depicted as being very violent #he will also just leave you for a century wandering styx if you dont pay his fees #so. yeah

21 notes · View notes

lint-beetle4 · 6 months ago

Note

Shadowpeach “paint me like one of your French girls” where Wukong uses Mac as a model for a series of increasingly explicit artworks. He also uses his clones several different outfits ( possible cross dressing?) rope and a variety of toys to complete the “scenes” maybe Mac even swaps sexes for some of them. Mac has to struggle to stay still enough for the artwork while getting destroyed from the pleasure and praise ( the dude almost definitely has a thing for being complemented imo). He just has to sit there take it and look pretty what else could you want from a muse?

The Perfect Muse (Shadowpeach Lime)

(I drew a picture for this, because I'm a simp for Macaque being pretty)

(Suggestive content below)

"Wukong--out of all the hobbies you could've picked up, why painting?"

The monkey in question shrugged, twirling a paintbrush between his fingers. "MK said I needed hobbies aside from watching TV and doing nothing, so he taught me how to paint--thought I'd give it a try to see how it works out."

"And how do I come into play?" Macaque rolled his eyes. "I doubt my artistic skill could aid you in learning how to paint."

"That's just the thing!" Wukong grinned, wrapping an arm around his partner. "You're my muse!"

"You're what--?"

"Y'know, my muse--I'm going to paint you." Wukong tilted his head, "How about it?"

Macaque stared at the sage, shock and confusion fading into slight curiousity. "...So do I just stand here or--?"

Wukong stuttered slightly, becomingly strangely bashful. "Well, actually-- Remember those outfits we got for you to try on?"

"The skirts--yeah, I remember them. They were pretty."

"Yeah! You looked really good in them, so I just wanted to--y'know--paint you with them on."

Macaque's ear twitched, the glamour shifting around them as he processed Wukong's words. With a slight flick of his tail, Macaque grinned slyly, eyes piercing into Wukong.

"So you want a show then?"

Wukong stammered more. "It's not like that, just for practice!"

"Right, Wukong." Macaque stood behind the blushing simian, whispering in his ear. "Wait for me, I'll pick out my favorite outfit just for you."

Macaque left, hearing the sounds of Wukong rushing to prepare various supplies.

The darker monkey pulled on the skirt that barely covered him, fishnets stopping at the tips of his thighs. Darker clothes lined his wardrobe, the simian finding that he looks best in them with red and purple running through them.

Examining the clothing on his, Macaque adjusted the collar of the loose dress shirt that outlined his body far more than it should--Wukong always eyed him more when he wore it.

Outside of the room, Macaque heard Wukong muttering about various paints, and Macaque ran out of the room at the mere, heart-breaking words of Wukong about to dunk his expensive oil paints into a cup of water.

"Wukong, if I see that paintbrush has anything but paint, I'll rip your fingernails out." Macaque called out, seeing the the brush dangling inches above the cup.

Wukong smiled, a blush appearing quickly on his face. "You look amazing! Are you ready?"

"Sure, what pose do you want?" Macaque played with the tips of his black skirt.

Wukong hummed, circling Macaque briefly. "How about you sit on the ground and do what's most comfortable for you?"

Macaque shrugged, laying on the ground, legs crossed as he leaned back. "Like this?"

"Yeah!" Wukong beamed, starting to mix his colors. "You looks great like that!"

Macaque blushed slightly, turning away from Wukong as the monkey began painting, his eyes glancing at Macaque intensely. Macaque felt a familiar stirring in his core with each bit of eye contact they shared. He only hoped that the skirt would hide anything. After a semi-painful hour or two of Wukong muttering to himself, giving Macaque those damned, piercing glances, Wukong hummed, a signal he was done.

Macaque stood up, wiping off his skirt. The painting was modest--hell, Macaque even looked good--

"Not bad," Macaque nodded, looking closely at the painting. "I see MK taught you about anatomy as well. Everything looks solid."

Wukong's tailed swayed happily, his face full of pride. "This old monkey still has a few tricks to him, huh?"

Macaque chuckled, shaking his head as he leaned against Wukong subtly. "Sure, you do. You gonna keep this up?"

"Yeah!" Wukong chirped, "Actually, I wanted you to do one more thing--this was a bit of warm up before I tried anything else."

"Oh?" Macaque tilted his head, his tail flicking with slight interest. "Do you need another pose?"

Wukong averted his eyes slightly, a blush growing strong on her face. "Well--this is just for us to see, first of all! Second, I was wondering if I could tie you up--and maybe paint you like that?"

"And you're sure this isn't 'like that?'" Macaque smirked, hiding the excited shock coursing through his veins.

Wukong laughed, his face still red. "Well--It wasn't supposed to be."

"Okay, Wukong." Macaque rolled his eyes. "If you're going to tie me up, I'm getting red rope-- It's my color."

Wukong nodded, shaking away his blush as he went to grab another canvas. When Macaque returned with the rope, his body felt strangely weak, his limbs unusually shaky. Under his breath, the monkey hissed--trying to will his body to compose itself.

Macaque shifted a leg--still intent on hiding his slowly growing issue-- as Wukong came back, hands reached out for the rope.

"So," Wukong's voice boomed loudly in Macaque's ear, the darker monkey's heart rate growing fast. "What designs do you think would look good? You're the artist, right?"

Macaque hummed, clearing his throat slightly. "Tying my hands back behind my face will draw more attention there--maybe something intricate for the legs, and relatively simple for the body."

Wukong nodded, beginning the first set of knots.

Macaque felt as if the gods had finally given him their graces. Wukong's hands trailed through his clothing, light touches feeling like electricity in his skin and eyes continuing to send waves of intimidation and excitement through his blood. Macaque's heart beat loudly in his ears as Wukong made final touches, tying Macaque to a rather sturdy wood beam that none of them fully trusted.

Wukong quickly returned to his canvas, a grin on his face.

"Wow, you really do look beautiful, y'know?"

Macaque tensed slightly, forcing his body to quickly relax as more waves of pleasurable emotions flowed through him. "Um--thanks."

Wukong's painting took forever to Macaque. The first time he was on the floor, able to discretely conceal his growing boner. Yet now?

"You're doing great! Just stay there like that!"

He was suspended in the air, skirt hiking in the wrong places and draping heavily over certain parts. Macaque felt as if he was dying with each second, but despite everything, Wukong seemed to take longer.

"The light captures you really well, y'know. You almost look ethereal!"

Wukong hummed as he looked at Macaque's body, one eye closed as he painstakingly measured with his paintbrush and thumb.

"I like the face you're making. You always look so pretty when you're angry."

Macaque's breath shuddered slightly.

It was the damned compliments--every single bit of praise sent pleasure through his core, his cock twitching against the rough fabric of his skirt.

"Hey, let me see those beautiful eyes of yours. I want to get the color right."

Even the way the sage looked at Macaque with those piercing eyes examining his limbs and position, it excited Macaque--like he was a statue being admired by eyes around him.

"Alright, I think I'm done." Wukong grinned, walking up to Macaque.

Macaque had stopped trying to fight his body at some point, trembling with shaky breaths as Wukong merely looked at his slightly disheveled form with a strange gaze...A knowing gaze--the damned ape.

Wukong knelt down, holding Macaque's chin to look into his lover's eyes. "No painting could ever replicate how nice you look now."

Macaque groaned under his breath, huffing at Wukong whose hands were trace along the ropes decorating Macaque's body.

"A real piece of work." Wukong chuckled, purposely avoiding macaque's groin. "You deserve a treat for being so patient."

Macaque stayed silent, eyes pleading Wukong as he stared expectantly. "What do you say now?"

"Please--" Macaque stuttered, legs now quivering in the air. "I would like a reward."

"Good boy."

#lmk shadowpeach #lego monkie kid #sun wukong x macaque #lmk sun wukong #lego monkie kid sun wukong #sun wukong #lmk six eared macaque #six eared macaque #monkie kid macaque #writing tag

44 notes · View notes