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dycefic · 2 years ago

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The Hearthstone God

[The sequel to the God of Prophecy, and the Serpent God of Protection]

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Fire is out of fashion, in this new age.

Some of my kind have found new homes, new names, in factories or forges, in the hearts of wildfires or crystals or volcanoes.

Most of us are simply forgotten.

I was a fire god, once. A god of gathering, a god of communion, a god of song and story. But there are no hearthstones now. No fires around which families gather to eat and talk and tell stories.

I am lucky. I am tied to a great flat stone near a lake. A lake that has survived all the wild exuberance of men, when they learned to change the world around them. Once, this was a place where travellers stopped to rest. At first they travelled on their feet, or on half-wild horses. Then there were carts, and a road. Much later, cars drove down the road. The road was paved.

But some things do not change. People need clean water to drink, and the spring here is good. They need to rest, when they are weary. And even now, when they come to camp in nylon tents, to fish in the lake, or to hunt the ducks, or drive camper-vans to the flat place, their ancient instincts wake, and they turn to fire once more. They light new fires atop my stone, so flat and safe, from which no log will roll to set the woods afire.

Not so many come now. Camping is less popular these days. But some still come. Some still light their fires, and settle around my stone, and talk, or listen to music, or tell stories. So I survive, just barely, on the edges of belief.

I feel it, when things begin to change. Something is happening. Something is drawing old gods back. Not the great ones, risen beyond mortal understanding, but the oldest gods, the small gods, those who rose when humankind were still learning what they were.

Far to the west of me, a god even more ancient than I wakes, and begins to hunt again. I remember the stories that were once told of that old serpent, and tell them over to myself in the long fireless nights.

A god of prophecy, not of this land, settles south and west, and I remember tales of ancient ravens, their wisdom and their guile and their sharp, sharp eyes. There was a raven clan once, who passed this way in the days of skin garments and stone tools, but I have forgotten their name. I only remember the symbol they wore, the black bird with its spread wings, marked in charcoal or charring on wooden talismans or leather garments.

I wait, to see who will awaken next.

To my great surprise, it is me.

The people who come this time aren’t like the campers. They come at night, a ragged family group with few blood ties between them, with a single tent and few possessions carried on devices I haven’t seen before. Bicycles, they’re called, slung over with bags the way ponies used to be. They come at night, and hide when cars pass on the road.

They light a fire on my stone, with wood scavenged from the forest, and huddle around its warmth. They don’t speak much, not at first, but they say enough. They have no home, I learn. They are travellers of a kind I have not known before, who are allowed to stop nowhere, but have no goal but a place to rest. They are thin, and worn, and so tired. So very tired.

They need a hearth.

I am only a weak shadow of a god, now, who once recorded the songs and stories of a thousand generations in my ancient stone, but I am still a god of fire. Their fire burns slow, their little fuel lasting well. The food they heat over it sustains them better. The water of that spring, my spring, puts a little life back in them. This stone has lain in this place since great monsters walked this world, since before humans spoke words to one another, and I came into being with the first fire that burned on it. I am old, old, and though weak, I am not powerless.

They stay.

I cannot speak to them. I am old, and weak, and they do not believe. But slowly, with the power of the fires they build every night, with the tiny offerings of scraps of food spilled into the flames, with their growing confidence in the safety of this place, I am able to do more. I give them dreams and they find the cave not far away, where they can hide. They dream of fish, and begin to try to catch some. A woman remembers that some of the local plants are safe to eat, when I slowly wake a long-forgotten memory of a camping trip from her childhood.

And then a child, a strange, quiet child who rarely speaks, a child without mother or father, in the care of an older brother who is exhausted to the very edge of death but cannot give up while she needs him… that child begins to hear.

She sits on my stone, sometimes for hours, not moving or speaking. It worries the others, but at least she is quiet, at least she is no trouble, and they are beginning to associate their hearth with safety. So they let her sit.

She is *listening*. She is listening to the sound of the water, to the sounds of the forest, to the wind blowing. And because she is listening, where no-one else has listened for so long, I sing to her. I sing to her the songs of thousands of years. From the wordless music of the earliest people, who sang what was in their hearts without words, to the songs I have learned from the fishermen with their radios and bluetooth speakers.

I do not know if she hears me, for some time. But then, one night, while they sit around their fire and eat food the oldest have almost certainly stolen, she sings one of my songs. “In a cavern… on a canyon… excavating for a mine…” she sings in a small voice. The others are startled, confused, for she has not spoken aloud since some bad thing they do not name happened, but one of the older ones knows the song and sings with her.

I have always liked ‘Clementine’. It’s been popular with campers for a long time.

The next day, while she sits on my stone, she sings along to one of the wordless songs the Raven People whose name I no longer remember once sang. It is a lullaby, a soft croon to soothe an infant, passed from mother to mother, and she seems to take pleasure in it.

She can hear me. She can even answer me, as the voice driven away by pain and fear begins to return. And so I grow stronger still. Strong enough to make the raven sign on the stone, one day, in the ashes of the fire of the night before.

She takes a half burned stick, and draws the sign on the stone. Pleased, I show her another sign, a leaping fish. She draws that too.

Soon, I need not shift the ashes. I can show her the pictures in her mind, and she draws them. She draws the wheel of a cart, and into her heart I whisper the stories the travellers in covered wagons once told over my stone. She draws a fish, and I make her laugh silently with the jests of fishermen who boast of fish who escaped them. She draws a horse, and I tell her about the wild horses who once drank at this lake, about the men and women who captured and tamed them and rode them through the forest when it was far greater than it is now. She draws a long-toothed cat, and I show her the great cat that once slept on my stone, and denned in the cave where her new found family sleep.

One night, when all the others are asleep and my fire has burned down to coals, she creeps back to the stone and looks into the coals. “Who are you?” she asks. “Are you real?”

She is afraid that the voice in her mind is the voice of madness, a lie created by a mind that does not work like other minds, that has endured great hardship. I do not want this child to be afraid. To instill fear runs counter to my very nature, save in whoever might threaten those my hearth protects.

I am a god of the hearth. I am a god of food, and communication, and peace, and safety. I am all the things that fire used to mean, before humans learned again to fear the thing they had tamed. I do not often take a form, for fire is my form, but for her I must try.

There was a wise woman once, who knew me, whose clan visited this lake several times every year. I watched her grow up, and grow old. I watched her learn of the god of the fire stone, and I watched her teach others. She slept beside me as a child, and as a woman. She sang her children to sleep beside me, and her grandchildren, and dozed beside me as an old, old woman. To her, I was represented by a sign of a flame in an oval, a fire and a stone.

I build a likeness of her out of the light of the coals and the shadows of smoke, a child with straight dark hair and a simple tunic, and in lines of light I draw the sign of the fire and the stone on the outlined chest. “I am the fire,” I tell her, “and the stone. I am all the fires that have ever burned here, all the stories told, all the songs sung, all the meals eaten. I am the traveler’s hearth, and the rest for the weary, and this is my place.”

“Piedra de fuego,” she says, tracing the symbol with her finger in the air. “The fire stone.”

“Yes. I am the god of this place.”

She frowns at this. “My brother says that God is in the sky.”

“Many gods are in the sky.” I cannot continue to hold the form of the girl, but the coals shift to make my sign. “I am not. I am here. I have always been here, since the first people built a fire on my stone, and warmed themselves.”

She nods slowly. “You are… a small god,” she says thoughtfully. “A place god. Like in movies.”

“Yes.” I’ve heard of movies, which are a new way of telling old, old stories. “Old places, important places, often have gods. And gods who are forgotten return to their old places and wait, until someone believes again.”

“Will you protect us?” she asks. “When the police come, to tell us to move on?”

“I am not strong,” I tell her sadly. “I cannot make men go away from here, if they are dangerous, or even call game here for you as I once did. But what I can do, I will do.”

She sits watching the coals for a long time, thinking. “Can we make you stronger?”

I think too, and she waits patiently. “You have already made me stronger. You listened. You believed. If you can convince the others to believe, that will make me stronger still.”

She sighed. “They don’t believe in anything, anymore. Not good things.”

It is a sad thing, that she knows that. They’ve been trying to hide it from her. “Then,” I tell her, “that means there is a place in their hearts that is ready for me. I am not hope. I am not a happy ending. I am not a god in the sky. I am a stone, and a fire, and a song. I am *real*. They can believe in what is real.”

The next night, she asks for a story, and one of the adults tells her an old fairy-tale from a country far away.

The next night, again, she asks for a story, and another adult tells a funny story about his childhood.

On the third night, she asks her brother to tell her a story. He tries, but he is so tired - not physically, but emotionally - that he runs out of words. So she lays her hand on his arm and offers to tell him a story, instead.

And she tells them all a story about a stone near a lake, flat and strong, that people wearing uncured skins and carrying flint weapons built a fire on. She tells of centuries passing, of people coming to the lake on their feet, on horses, in carts and wagons, in cars and motor-homes. Of thousands of years of fires, of people gathered around them, of the great continuity of humanity, and the Piedra De Fuego that has lain in this place since time began, listening to the stories and the songs and the voices of people long gone. Somewhere in the stone, she says, laying her hand on it, all those stories are remembered. All those songs are still sung. And it will remember us too.

I don’t know if it will work. But I was right. People need to believe in something. They need something to hold onto, when times are hard, when the ties of community and family are broken and they feel alone. And a stone thousands of years old, and a fire endlessly renewed on that stone, always new… that is real. They touch me, and think of those who came before, of thousands of years of history meeting them in this place, and they feel less alone.

It’s not much, not yet. But it is something. My nature, my existence, as explained to them by my small, strange priestess, is a slender lifeline flung to those who are adrift, a tiny certainty in a world they do not trust. And the more they believe in that lifeline, that certainty, then the more they believe in me. I *am* growing stronger.

When the police come, I will not be able to make them leave… but I think I am strong enough now to hide my people from unkind eyes. And if I can do that, then their faith will grow.

Tonight, three more people come. A mother and two children, weary and beaten down with hardship. My people welcome them, give them fish and greens grown by the lake, speak kindly to them. And when they have eaten, my little priestess sits between the two children and tells them a story of a stone, and a fire, and thousands of years of stories and songs, and she sings a wordless lullaby six thousand years forgotten, but living again in a child who draws the sign of the Raven in the dirt while she sings, and the sign of the fire on the stone.

And I grow a little stronger.

#short fiction #original story #i aten't dead #the old gods #small gods #household gods #forgotten gods who do not forget

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jadeshifting · 26 days ago

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— THE HOGWARTS LIBRARY ( AND CREEPING INTO THE RESTRICTED SECTION )

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the library at Hogwarts isn’t just a room with books—it’s a labyrinth of enchanted shelves, shadowy corners, and straight-up chaos hidden in an elaborate Dewey Decimal disguise. it’s got that faint scent of parchment and polished wood, with a hint of ink that never quite fades

the organization system? a Ravenclaw’s fever dream, where books shelve themselves according to moods or relevance, and the enchantments sometimes switch them around just for kicks. find the Charms section in row five today? tomorrow, it might be two aisles over and under a Protection Charm

the librarian, Madam Pince, is a force of nature—like if a hawk wore bifocals and had a no-nonsense streak a mile wide. cross her, and she’ll hit you with a glare so sharp it feels like a spell (and at least two weeks of detention)

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study groups camp out at the long, candlelit tables, hunched over ancient tomes and half-eaten chocolate frogs. popular picks include “Hogwarts: A History” (to win arguments), “1,001 Potions You’ll Probably Fail to Brew”, and “Unfogging the Future” (mostly to mock Trelawney, though some end up finding it quite riveting). don’t underestimate the less flashy areas—hidden in those dusty archives are one-of-a-kind works, like diaries from the founders and spellbooks that physically hum with power

though, for the more prone to trouble and the less interested in academic integrity, you may find yourself more intrigued by what’s below it all…

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THE RESTRICTED SECTION

now, the Restricted Section? that’s not a library. that’s a test of nerve, guile, and how much you really want that illegal knowledge. to get in the front door, you either need a signed note (good luck with that) or a serious streak of rebellion. sneaking past Madam Pince? you better bribe Peeves to not rat you out, dodge the patrolling enchanted quills, and avoid the whispering books that tattletale louder than Filch after curfew

★⋆. ࿐࿔ once inside, it’s like stepping into another world. the FIRST LEVEL is dark and moody, with books chained to their shelves—literal restricted access. they’ll hiss at you or snap their covers shut if you’re not worthy—but it doesn’t stop at books. tucked between the stacks, there are pensieve memories, cursed artifacts, and spell components so volatile they’re kept under stasis spells

★⋆. ࿐࿔ moving deeper down, there are staircases (moving, of course) leading to levels few students even know about. the SECOND LEVEL? all about lost history, with maps that redraw themselves, diaries written in blood, and enchanted scrolls that show what could have been if certain spells hadn’t been cast. the THIRD LEVEL? forbidden magics—runes glowing faintly in the dark, ancient wands that whisper when you pass, and spellbooks so intense they emit heat

★⋆. ࿐࿔ the BOTTOM LEVELS? rumor has it they’re practically alive. entire rooms shift and expand like the castle itself, and the air smells of aged magic and danger. there’s talk of unspeakable artifacts: the blueprint of Hogwarts itself, spells to erase memories entirely, and magical experiments left unfinished. if you’re down here, it’s not for homework—it’s because you’re playing with fire, and you know it

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

the Hogwarts library is a breeding ground for wild rumors and absolute madcap tales. if you stay in tune with the grapevine, there’s more drama hidden in those stacks than there is in all of the common rooms combined. whispers float about students concocting elaborate heists to breach the Restricted Section, some involving invisibility cloaks, Polyjuice-fueled disguises, or straight-up bribes to Peeves (pro tip: he accepts dungbombs and chaos as payment)

A (NOT-SO) GREAT HEIST

one infamous story is about Barnaby Crasswell, a Hufflepuff of all people, who tried sneaking in by levitating a decoy version of himself in the main library while he slipped into the Restricted Section cloaked under a Disillusionment Charm. he didn’t account for one crucial detail—his floating double started violently spinning like a top and caused such a scene Madam Pince nearly blew a gasket. he landed a week of detention scrubbing potion stains out of cauldrons, and his real punishment? a lifetime ban on borrowing books from Hogwarts

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the rumors about what students go looking for? next level. there’s talk of a fifth-year Ravenclaw attempting to track down spells for time travel, thinking he could use it to ace his OWLs by reliving test days (spoiler: he didn’t, but he did live in detention for a month). then there was that Gryffindor who supposedly went digging for a potion to resurrect dead pets after her pygmy puff tragically bit it during a Transfiguration mishap (RIP Buttons). and we’d better not forget about the Slytherin duo who searched for the literal recipe for eternal youth—

then there’s the lore about what’s actually down there. people swear they’ve seen enchanted blueprints of the castle’s hidden passageways, including a map of a supposed 15th dungeon where secret experiments were conducted. others claim there’s a book full of Unforgivable Curses even darker than the standard three, or a locked journal from Salazar Slytherin himself detailing spells that could rewrite magical lineage, and whispers that there’s a potion hidden down there, created centuries ago, that lets you see the face of your true love—but drinking it comes at a price so wild, no one who’s found it has dared

who knows whether any of it’s true? no one—but now that we’ve gotten past what you could find down there, let’s talk about how you could find it…

THE SLYTHERIN’S GUIDE TO BREAKING INTO THE RESTRICTED SECTION: A MASTERCLASS IN CHAOS AND CUNNING

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— KNOW YOUR TIMING.

timing is everything, babe. the library’s busiest hours? hard pass. aim for the twilight zone—late evening, when most students are snoozing or panicking about half-done essays. Madam Pince might be stalking the shelves like a hawk, but even she has limits, usually around curfew. keep it sleek and under-the-radar

— THE DECOY DANCE.

step one: deploy a Grade-A distraction. have someone (Pansy’s a pro at this) fake a “library emergency”—think exaggerated fainting spells, loud arguments over nonexistent overdue books, or a rogue enchanted quill causing a scene in the Herbology aisle. while the librarian’s losing her marbles over the chaos, you need to be making moves

— GEAR UP.

no one with any success in troublemaking relies on luck alone. you’ll need…

— an invisibility cloak (if someone’s got connections)

— a silencing charm (those creaky floorboards show no mercy)

— Dungbombs or Portable Swamps (for emergency exits)

— a teensy-tiny Lumos charm (nothing screams “i’m up to no good” like tripping over your own robes in the dark)

— GETTING PAST THE GATE.

the Restricted Section is guarded by enchanted chains tighter than a Gringotts vault. you’ve got two main options:

OPTION A … classic Alohomora. works on a good day, but those chains sometimes have extra spells layered in, so be ready to improvise

OPTION B … the Librarian’s Key, if you wanna be really sure. pro tip? Millicent once swiped it by “accidentally” returning a borrowed book laced with a mild Sticking Charm

— NOW THAT YOU’RE INSIDE.

congratulations on getting this far—now stick close to the shadows; those shelves have been known to move

watch out for enchanted books that scream bloody murder when touched (i swear one almost gave me a heart attack)

know your exit plan before you even grab your prize. fire exits aren’t just for Muggles

— GRAB-AND-GO ETIQUETTE.

don’t be greedy. the golden rule? one book at a time. more than that, and you’ll trip some seriously aggressive enchantments. and for Merlin’s sake, do not open the books in there. half of them are hexed, and you don’t want to spend the next week croaking like a toad AND in detention

— THE GETAWAY.

once you’ve snagged your prize, act like nothing happened. the Restricted Section is a no-go for most students, but if you’re caught on the way out? a well-placed lie about being on an urgent Potions errand (“Slughorn sent me!”) could be the thing that saves your ass

— COVER YOUR TRACKS.

any evidence that points to your daring escapade? destroy it. burn the notes, wipe the fingerprints, and for the love of Salazar, don’t blab about it to any Gryffindors

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SOME FINAL NOTES . this method isn’t some ridiculous (Gryffindor) stunt—no theatrics, no martyrdom, just slick strategy and sharper instincts. with these tips, you’ll be in and out without a trace, leaving everyone wondering how the hell you pulled it off. just pure excellence, darling

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lostintransist · 2 months ago

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Seamstress | Part 6

Check out part 1 here. AO3

John texted memes. Something about that surprised you. He presented as such a straight-laced demeanor that the silly text images added a layer of intrigue to the man who already took such care not to share more the bare minimum.

He sent his commentary about his ‘muppets’ as he called the men under his command. The image of a man in suspenders, a tie, and a coffee mug in one hand with the text “If they could just not…” followed by any number of pictures of Jim Hensen’s muppets. It always prompts you to ask for the cleansed version of their nonsense. John had confirmed that the men who had come in asking about him were the men under his command. They were still under orders to leave you and your shop alone. When he mentioned that in the first week of texting you were surprised.

>I can hold my own in my shop John, release them to come by for fixes on anything you haven’t already stolen from their bags.

When he didn’t reply within a few hours you followed it up with.

>Your Scotsman seemed pretty excited about getting a family kilt fixed. Let them come by John. I don’t scare easy.

Halfway across the world, John squints at his phone in the darkness of the safe house he and Johnny are waiting for exfil in.

“What did you say to my girl Soap?” Price questions in the quiet.

Soap jerks from his nodding-off sleep in the corner where he had settled down.

“What’s up boss,” he asks sleepily.

He turned his phone to show Johnny the message from you.

“What did you do to my girl?”

Soap squinted through the brightness blasting his eyes.

“Dinne do nothing Cap. Alls I asked about was a kilt repair. Me granddad’s kilt was given to me when he passed, I want to get it fixed up is all.”

Soap lacked the guile to ever pull off being an undercover agent. John turned the phone back to himself, frowning.

“Fine. You can go visit her. Spread the word, but if I hear any of you gave her a bit of grief?” He let the warning linger unspoken behind his words.

“Got it. Can I go back to sleep now?”

John harrumphs and pulls out a cigar, lighting it up as he contemplates how to reply to you.

<:Rolling eye emoji: Fine, but you let me know if they give you any trouble.

>You reply with a gif of someone giving a salute with the text aye aye captain below it.

Physically rolling his eyes this time John settles in to watch the sky and think of you.

🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡

Christmas had to be the most peaceful one you had ever experienced. Laughing with your aunts and eye contact across the table with your cousins when someone said something wild before taking a sip had never been the norm. Every Christmas season meant spending time with your Mum’s family and her resentful sniffs when Pop would inform you of the times when his sisters might be passing through so you could see them. You think Mum hated that you had real conversations with the other side of your family. Everything on her side sat stilted in past hostiles and clothed in niceness for the sake of Gran who still watched with a sharp eye.

You hadn’t expected any gifts but the highlight had to be the scarf from your favorite cousin. It sat light and delicate on your neck. When you said goodbye to everyone and headed up to the spare room your Nana had set up for you. Settling onto the bed you fired off a text to John.

<Merry Christmas! Did you have a good holiday?

>Decent.

>Merry Christmas.

Attached was a photo of John with what looked like egg nog in his mustache with an arm around a man and woman who also had white streaks along their upper lips. Standing so close together you can see they share the same eye-crinkling smile.

<Aww! You look so cute with your egg-nog mustache! Did someone spike it before cups were passed around?

>But of course, can’t discuss childhood stories without a healthy glug of whiskey. Added enough of a kick that even the scary stories were told with a laugh.

>How has yours gone? You mentioned you would be with extended family up north this year.

<It’s been a blast. Best Christmas I can remember for a long time. I am spending the night with my Nana before driving home tomorrow.

<You have any fun plans between now and New Years?

>Other than deep cleaning the mold from my fridge?

You laugh out loud in the empty room. He probably wasn’t kidding. John had mentioned that he can be called for a job at a moment’s notice and sometimes it leaves him with some nasty surprises when he eventually got home.

<Yes you silly man, other than that.

Those dots went on and off for a long time. When the message finally comes through you are disappointed.

>Nothing crazy, mostly catching up on my shows.

<What like The Golden Bachelor?

You can imagine him fighting down a smile as he contemplates a reply. He isn’t that much older than you, but the way he mothers his men has them calling him ‘Old Man’. John complains about it but always with love.

>The muppets would like to you if you would like to join them for New Years.

>I told them I had plans with you but they insisted and are watching for your response.

Smirking you fired off one last response before starting your bedtime routine.

<Should I wear jeans or a pretty dress?

🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡🪡

Stepping from the cab you wave your thanks and turn to the building. John is standing at the glass door, waiting for you to get close enough that he can welcome you in. You smile at him, excited for his reaction to your dress. It is mostly visible through the undone buttons of your long coat. You had made it yourself, hands cramping late into the night with the number of times you have had to pleat the skirt to sit exactly right. Ironing the piece flat each time you wanted to pleat it slightly differently had been deeply frustrating work.

The black dress wrapped around, sending one tie through the side piece to stretch across your back and meet the other tie to create a bow. The long sleeves and v of the crossing front gave you an excuse to pull out your push-up bra and put the girls on display. You had chosen a long skirt. Reflective swirls of gold shined in the light from your skirt. It brushed the top of your shoes each time you took a step. Jewelry you kept simple; gold hoops and a single pendant on a long chain. Some light eye makeup and a lip stain are all you did for your face today. You would forget to wipe it off when you got home and refused to deal with the breakouts that overnight in your makeup would provide. Thankfully your hair cooperated and sat neatly in a sleek bun.

Looking John over as you approach you are pleased to see him in a suit. The juxtaposition of his winter beanie will never not make you smile. You hadn’t seen this one from him in all his times of coming by. You would tease him about the belt he needed to keep them up later. Perfect you could poke and prod at him tonight to confirm that you had the right size for his Christmas present. It sat in the back of your shop, waiting for his next visit to confirm the dark blue suit would contrast beautifully with his eyes. Double vested with a double vent, because something about that cute bum being covered just so gave you butterflies. The pants should cling to his thighs barely and give him a nice long silhouette

John took you in from top to bottom and back up again. You thought him unaffected until he took your hand as he opened the door and pulled you directly into a hug. Hugging him fired off a spring-loaded batch of emotions. Between the subtle smell of his cologne and the heat of his hands searing through the back of your coat, you’ve never wanted a New Years kiss more than now.

God. You had to say something. Fuck it all. You opened your mouth to say anything really but John beat you to it.

“You look stunning tonight,” he pulls back, hands still settled on your spine. He looks from your hair to your cleavage and back, a warm smile growing on his face.

“Thanks, you look pretty spiffy yourself,” tugging on the lapels of his jacket you continue, “But this doesn’t fit quite right, and was that a belt I saw? How could you keep something like this from me, John?”

His smile got impossibly wider. Joy spread through you like the first drink of a warm liquor.

“I wondered if you would notice. Gaz mentioned to wear a suit and when I went digging through my closet this was all I could find.”

John released you from the hug, one hand sliding from your back and down your arm to catch your hand. He holds it all the way up the elevator. When the elevator deposits you on the 26th floor you let John lead. Number 2607 he opens without hesitation.

All his muppets are present, some even have dates. Kyle stood at the island, cutting cheese for the board. The woman who you assumed to be Kyle’s girlfriend floated around the room. Charms weaved into her braids and a sleek body con dress matched her beautiful smile as she offered you and John both a drink. You were surprised to see that Gary was a blond. His choice of date made much more sense than his hair color and makes you smile. Sharing a look with John he nodded once; Gary had a thing for goth women. Johnny and Simon sat at a table, deep in discussion. Neither had a date to be seen.

“Simon doesn’t surprise me but why doesn’t Johnny have a date?” You turn to question John, wary of letting your voice travel in the open space.

John takes a sip of his drink, “They would have a date if either of them would buck up and ask the other.”

Your eyes widened as you snapped your gaze back to the men.

“You would not make a good agent,” he chuckled. “Johnny come hold this for me.”

Johnny pops up and out of his chair without question, closing the distance to take the drink John is holding out. John then takes your drink and passes it off to Johnny as well. Shivers assault your body as John’s rough fingers slide the coat from your shoulder and move away to hang it up.

“Miss Seamstress!” Johnny leans in and places a kiss on your cheek as he passes your drink back. “It is good to see you. How is your shop going?”

“Good, almost too good. If my space were any bigger I would bring on another seamstress full time. As it stands I might still hire someone to help with the simpler tasks.”

“What counts as a simpler task in a shop like yours?” Johnny cants his head to one side.

“Mostly ironing, unstitching simpler items, phone calls, running the register, things like that.” John appears at your side, finger-catching your pinky. You curl it tight to acknowledge his presence.

Movement over Johnny’s shoulder shows Simon and Kyle both heading toward you for a greeting. Kyle gives you a kiss much like Johnny did and Simon nods. When Gary sees everyone is saying hello he abandons his date for a rib-crushing hug since both your hands are busy.

The night flows on, laughter and food flowing more freely than the drinks do. You end up chatting with Kyle’s and Gary’s girlfriends about Pilates and how funny it would be to see the men try. They jump from history to space to fashion and beyond. Midnight sees Gary and Kyle kissing their girlfriends. Johnny and Simon stare at each other’s feet in abject longing and John places a kiss on the back of your hand, much to your chagrin.

As John had nursed his single drink all night and drove you home after one, passing through a sobriety checkpoint with ease. The conversation never stopped flowing with John, teasing and jokes kept your spirits lifted until you arrived at your flat. He walked you to your door, hand firmly in yours.

His thumb brushed against your knuckles as you stared up into his eyes, hoping, praying for a kiss.

“Thank you for coming. I left your gift at home since I didn’t want you to have to lug it about. When can I bring it by?”

“You’re gift is at the shop, so tomorrow maybe? About noon?”

“That would work fine. I had a lot of fun tonight and I know my guys like you.”

“They are important to you, it makes sense you would want someone in your life to get along with them.”

“And do you,” he paused here, eyes searching your face, “What to be part of my life?”

Desperately. More than anything. Fuck yes.

None of those words passed your lips. All you could do is nod.

With his free hand, John cradles your face, pressing his lips to yours.

It had to be the best first kiss you ever had because you can’t remember a damn second of it. When you finally blink John is halfway down the hall and turning back to see if you are okay since you haven’t moved.

Sending him a sheepish smile and a nod you fight with your key to get your lock open and fling yourself inside. Once the door finds its home you squeal as quietly as you can and happy dance like a dork.

Part 5 | Part 7

Seamstress Masterlist | Masterlist

#lostintransit #lostintransit writing #cod #fanfiction #cod x reader #price x reader #john soap mactavish #soap cod #john price x reader #captain john price #simon ghost riley #gary roach sanderson #kyle gaz garrick #fluff

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wolverineholic · 24 days ago

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by Guile Sharp

#wolverine #art #comics #illustration #lobezno

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nihongoseito · 1 month ago

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vocab for going to bed at 10 pm on a friday (jst)

nouns:

身（み）バレ = being doxxed

零れ（こぼれ）話（ばなし） = tidbit, sidebar, digression

地獄耳（じごくみみ） = sharp ears

薬品（やくひん） = medicine, chemicals

器具（きぐ） = tool, instrument, utensil

実務（じつむ） = practical business, business affairs

悪知恵（わるぢえ） = cunning, guile

悪意（あくい） = ill will, spite

損得勘定（そんとくかんじょう） = profit-and-loss arithmetic, mercenary point of view

打算（ださん） = self-interest, calculation

隔離（かくり） = isolation, quarantine

道楽（どうらく） = pastime, hobby

境目（さかいめ） = borderline, boundary

経過（けいか） = passage, elapsing (of time); progress, course (of events)

処方せん（しょほうせん） = prescription

接触感染（せっしょくかんせん） = infection through contact

ひた隠し（かくし） = desperate cover-up, hiding at all costs

出頭（しゅっとう） = turning oneself in, surrender (e.g., to police)

八方（はっぽう）塞がり（ふさがり） = blocked in every direction, cornered

親孝行（おやこうこう） = filial piety

余談（よだん） = digression

verbs:

負う（おう） = to be injured, incur (wound, damage)

つつく = to poke, nudge; to pick at (e.g., food); to peck at (e.g., someone’s faults)

委ねる（ゆだねる） = to entrust to; to leave to abandon oneself to (e.g., pleasure); to yield to (e.g., anger)

塞がる（ふさがる） = to be closed, healed (e.g., wound)

感染る／伝染る（うつる） = to be infected, contagious

突き放す（つきはなす） = to push away; to keep away from, abandon; to act coldly

弔う（とむらう） = to mourn for, grieve; to hold a funeral for

引き継ぐ（ひきつぐ） = to take over

生き（いき）ながらえる = to live long, survive

拒む（こばむ） = to refuse, decline; to prevent (from doing), deny (access)

尖る（とがる） = to be pointed, sharp; to be sour, touchy

はぐれる = to stray from, lose sight of (one’s companions)

adjectives:

理不尽（りふじん）な = unreasonable, outrageous, absurd

執拗（しつよう）な = persistent, tenacious, relentless

非現実的（ひげんじつてき）な = unrealistic

世渡り（よわたり）上手（じょうず）な = having worldly wisdom, cosmopolitan

邪悪（じゃあく）な = evil, wicked

有能（ゆうのう）な = able, capable, competent

心細い（こころぼそい） = hopeless, forlorn, discouraging

うやむやな = hazy, vague, undecided

��味本位（きょうみほんい）な = just out of curiosity; sensational

かなわない = unbearable; beyond one’s power

愛情深い（あいじょうぶかい） = loving, devoted

もどかしい = irritating, frustrating, feeling impatient

expressions:

無駄口（むだぐち）を叩く（たたく） = to chatter pointlessly, waste one’s breath

面倒（めんどう）を見る（みる） = to care for/look after someone

路頭（ろとう）に迷う（まよう） = to be down and out, rendered homeless

裏（うら）がある = to have an ulterior motive; to have a catch

天秤（てんびん）にかける = to compare and contrast, weigh (options); to try and have it both ways

#no adverbs at all this time!#japanese #日本語 #vocab #langblr #sasha.txt

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nekohime19 · 30 days ago

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Love addicts # 1 : Hold me close

Yes, it's another shadowpeach fic. What can I say, I finished the chapter today and thought it was good enough to be posted so why not??

Anyway, here is the fic summary :

After the end of season 5, Wukong realize that he doesn't have anything left to teach MK and feels... at the same time proud and sad. He looks back on his life and feels more alone than ever now that his student is stretching his wings.

Simultaneously, there is a strange door appearing in his room leading to a bar selling all kinds of love potions. And Wukong thinks that, perhaps, a night of pleasure could help him feel less lonely. Somehow Macaque agree to this madness, and they both drink a potion that helps them forget their fight and heighten their senses, lasting for one night only.

They both didn't expect to enjoy that night so much. Nor did they expect to come back for more.

And now real feelings are getting involved.

⚠️ Wukong is a depressed monkey and there is smut at the end, this will be a porn with plot fic⚠️

The sun was quietly rising on the shimmering mountain. Its lights fell delicately on the wide greenness, awakening the fauna with its kind touch. Flower Fruit Mountain was peaceful. Cicadas sang from the trees’ shades, foxes ran on the velvet moss growing over the hills, herons fished within the crystal-clear streams. Life took its flow. Going and coming like the ebbs of water. Nature was following its path, slowly and with evercoming serenity.

The quietness was disturbed by the noise of weapons colliding against each other. Wukong smiled. Hands gripping his wooden staff with a hold of iron. He could feel the bark creaking under the weight of MK's staff, it whined and cried, unable to whistand this amount of power. MK smirked, eyes twinkling at the coming taste of victory. He pushed harder, trying to bend his mentor's weapon, to make it fall at his feet.

Wukong chuckled. He slowed his breath, letting the energy flowing within him burst inside the wooden weapon. The staff was wrapped in a bright hue. The cracks disappeared and the wood was finally able to breathe. MK groaned, frustrated to see victory slip through his grasp. Wisely, the boy stepped back, knowing he wouldn't be able to overcome his mentor with strength alone. He needed might and guile. Before him stood the epitome of greatness, he needed to push harder.

The two circled each other, staff encased in their palms, sweat gliding on their foreheads. They could taste the tension on their tongues. Wukong looked at his mentee’s form, his feet were well-grounded, his hands used to the feel of the staff, his eyes focused on his adversary. He wasn't trying to show off, nor was he basking in arrogance, instead he looked sharp, sleek like the fox yet mighty like the wolf. Wukong felt his heart flutter with pride. MK progressed so much these last few years. He grew out of his awkward shell, becoming confident but not overly arrogant. He was on the path of greatness.

Wukong patted himself on his metaphorical back. He did an excellent job. Not that he expected otherwise. He was, after all, an excellent teacher (most days, he couldn't help but add bitterly but he chased the thought as easily as it came). Bouts of arrogance put aside, he knew MK was talented since the beginning, he did nothing but let that talent shine through. Whoever the boy became, it was through his own sweat and tears.

MK leaped forward, twirling his staff with little else but violence. Wukong met him head on. They collided once more. Two unstoppable forces pushing against one another. Their exchange was swift. Cutting the air itself. The staffs hit one another. Left. Right. High. Low. They met in an intimate dance familiar to them both. Wukong tried to push the other back with a well-placed sway of tail, but MK was used to his tricks, he wouldn't fall for it. The boy leaped upward and avoided his mentor's tail. Wukong tsked.

MK rolled to the side and ran forward, he was low on the ground, hoping to strike Wukong's blind spot. But the great sage wasn't that easily deceived. The familiarity went both ways. Wukong also knew MK's quirks quite well. He managed to parry the heavy blow and pushed the boy back. MK groaned and glared, upset that his “cool move” was so easily blocked. Wukong smirked. Taunting his student with a rather arrogant flick of hand, luring him forward. Unfortunately, MK wasn't easily riled up, not after being subjected to so much training from the most mischievous (irritating some would say) fighter in all the realms, he took pride in that title.

The battle was fierce. It was a war of nerves as much as it was a war of might. Both their strengths were, if not absolutely equal, at least enough to meet the other heads on. The first to tire would be the one to lose. All they had to do was wait for a sign of weakness. A sign of fatigue. Battles were a game of patience. It took focus, commitment and will to defeat a strong opponent.

They agreed beforehand to not use magic. This was a battle of might. Of strength. Of staffs clashing against one another.

The sun was beginning to peek, glaring down at their meager forms. Their breaths were short, sweat was gliding down their faces. Still, they didn't lose focus. Wukong thrusted his staff forward, he was precise, with no lost footsteps. MK faltered, not expecting the sudden thrust. He stumbled backward, the hold on his staff loosening ever so slightly. Wukong grinned. He felt his heart pound inside of his chest, his blood sing in excitement. This was it. The winning strike. The weakness he patiently waited for, like a predator lurking in the grass.

In a short demi-second, MK twisted his stance and avoided Wukong's strike. The sage didn't have time to truly think about it. Now that his attack failed, his sides were exposed. It was the danger of thrusting forward. If it landed, victory was in sight. But if you failed, it left you vulnerable. Knowing when to attack, and when to step back was a fundamental part of battle. Wukong underestimated his student. He thought MK was too tired to evade his thrust, he thought wrong.

MK didn't have any mercy. He twirled his staff and hit Wukong in the guts, the great sage gritted his teeth, the weight of the staff pushed against his chub. Violent. Unforgiving. Wukong stumbled backward and fell on his butt. He tried to reach for the wooden staff but he wasn't fast enough. MK blocked his path, the tip of his staff falling right above Wukong's eyes.

The great sage looked up, a smile blooming on his lips. He was defeated. He held his hands high, admitting his loss. MK grinned. Excitement twinkling in his eyes. He offered a hand to Wukong, helping him on his feet. The golden-furred monkey dusted himself off and chuckled.

“You got very good at this, bud.” He praised, he patted MK's shoulders in congratulation. MK was practically vibrating with joy.

“He he! Be careful old man, I'll surpass you soon enough.” Snickered the kid. Wukong huffed in amusement. He broke the kid's stance with a sway of tail and made him fall on his butt. “Hey! No fair.” Whined MK.

“All is fair in battle.” Replied Wukong with the uplifting tone of voice he always used when he teached something. He liked to think the voice gave his words credit.

MK jumped on his feet. “I still won.” He huffed with a puffed out chest.

“You sure did.” Replied Wukong with a softer tone, pride bleeding in his voice without his knowledge.

Wukong created a bottle of water with a piece of hair and offered it to his student. MK grimaced, how rude.

“No thanks. I have my own water.” Declined the kid, he went to fetch his bag (that he left on the side) and took out a water bottle. Wukong shrugged and drank his hair-conjured water. He didn't understand why hair-food seemed to disgust others so much. It wasn't unhygienic, contrary to what pompous black-furred assholes seemed to think, but in fact very practical. He had a full pantry at disposition no matter the time of the day. How cool was that? Once you got over the disturbing thought of what exactly the food was made of, it was the greatest ability to have.

They both sat in the shades, resting from their intense battle.

“How are things going in town?” Asked the great sage as he leaned on the tree, arms carelessly crossed behind his head.

“Things are a bit hectic.” Sighed the kid, now that Wukong looked closer, he could see circles under the boy's eyes. Wukong couldn't help but worry. He hoped the boy was taking care of himself. Mortals were so frail. They could fall at one push of his fingers. Wukong gulped and brushed the thought away. He didn't like to lose himself in this type of consideration. “Everyone got powers since the pillar was healed. They're so many problems and new villains.” Groaned the kid.

Wukong flinched at the pillar’s mention. He didn't like to think about it. Mere words of it were enough to make him shrink in his own skin. It made him think of unpleasant memories. Of crushing feelings weighing on his very heart. Wukong closed his eyes, refocusing on the moment, and brushed aside the memory. He was good at that. Stuffing unpleasant thoughts in boxes and shoving them deep in his mind.

MK's phone rang. The Monkie Kid theme echoed all around them, breaking the peaceful quietness. The boy flinched and took out his phone. He smiled when he recognized the blurry image of his best friend. It was the image of Mei pumping her first in the air after winning the best score at Monkey King the Arcade Game. She was so excited that day, unable to keep still, MK had failed to take a proper picture of her. But in a way, he thought the blurriness reflected her perfectly. It encompassed her chaotic nature.

MK read the message and smiled. He turned towards his mentor and scratched his neck, looking apologetic. “I, huh, I have to go. The city is being attacked again.”

Wukong subtly swallowed his disappointment. If he had to be honest, he didn't get that much time with MK. The boy was already so strong. He didn't need that many lessons anymore. In fact, their occasional sparring matches were more of a formality than anything. It's not as if the boy never visited. He was no stranger. But… he wasn't as present as he used to be. If he was totally honest, Wukong could admit he missed him. Nonetheless, the great sage didn't want to force the kid to be with him. He didn't want to intrude too much in his life.

The golden-furred monkey kept his emotions in check, he turned towards the kid and smiled at him. “Good luck with that, bud.” Snorted Wukong. “Kick some butts for me, kay?”

MK chuckled. He picked his bag and swung it on his shoulders. He dusted himself off and began to jog. He turned one last time and waved energetically at his mentor before running off far from Wukong's sight. The golden-furred monkey eyed him until he disappeared from sight. His hands twitched in want. He wanted to reach for him but he restrained himself. He didn't want to be overbearing.

Wukong sighed and looked up. The sky was obstructed by the tree thick foliage. Pieces of blue interlaced with greenery. It was a peaceful day. The sun was at its peak. Glaring down on the mountain serene lands. But no matter how beautiful the day was, Wukong couldn't help but feel bitter. He didn't like to feel like that. He didn't like to feel this familiar ache. He knew it very well. He felt it long ago when he buried the last of his brothers under a mountain. When he looked back behind him and realized no-one managed to follow him. It was quite a peculiar feeling. To realize he was on his own. To realize that every bond he managed to create was either shattered by his own hands, or lost to the passage of time.

Loneliness, for him, was as familiar as the taste of peaches.

Wukong sighed and rose. He stretched and walked off towards his hut, picking up a fallen peach on the way. He bit into the fruit, drinking the familiar sweetness. It wasn't as sweet as it used to. Or perhaps he was just not in the mood for a peach. One of his monkeys, curious little furball, jumped on his shoulder and tugged at his fur. Wukong looked up and chuckled. He scratched under the little one's chin and smiled at the monkey's pleased face.

“You want that?” Hummed Wukong as he nodded towards his half-bitten peach. The monkey chittered in delight.

The little one grabbed the fruit and took a large bite out of it. Wukong smiled. He let the monkey stay on his shoulder, enjoying the touch. He unconsciously leaned towards the little monkey, inhaling the familiar earthly scent. The touch felt good. It tickled his very core.

Gods, perhaps he was more touch-starved than he thought.

***

The day was bleak. The sun was hidden underneath milk-white clouds, not able to pierce the thick layer of fog. It was quite early. The dew was still quite fresh on the forest leaves. Wukong was sitting before a cliff. He was looking at the sharp steep, eyes lost on the pointed rocks. He didn't have vertigo. High heights did nothing to him. In fact, they attracted him more than anything.

There was something about being on top of a cliff that was electrifying. A sense of empowerment. As if the world was under his hands. Wukong always liked the sight. The feel of the wind. The sound of the squalls. He remembered spending long hours on top of cliffs, watching the horizon, laughing with the wind, looking at his side to find another laughing monkey. A monkey with fur as black as night, with eyes as glimmering as gold. Wukong froze… He brushed the memory aside, pursing his lips in thought.

He looked up at the hidden sun and sighed, it was time. He summoned Nimbus with a flick of the wrist and hopped on it . He flew off the cliff, disappearing into the horizon. The flight was short. He knew the path by heart and his loyal steed was the fastest in all the three realms. The place he was searching for wasn't far. It stood at the foot of the mountain. Wukong hopped off his cloud and dived in the hidden alcove, he brushed aside the wines and entered the quiet place.

It was intimate. Covered in moss and flowers. Wukong took well-care of the place. He sat before four white stones aligned within the soil. His throat was tight. His heart was trembling. He took some papers he prepared beforehand and created four origami papers shaped like his late brothers; he placed the origamis before the graves. Wukong conjured incense sticks and set them down, he ignited them with a flick of wrist.

The scent of sandalwood washed over the serene place. He inhaled the familiar smell. Finding comfort in it. He closed his eyes and prayed, reciting buddhist sutras. Once he paid his respect, he looked at the graves, silent. He wondered… should he seek advice on his apparent touch-starvedness? It's not as if anyone would judge him here. It was just him and the spirits of his brothers.

“The kid is doing good.” Began Wukong, he straightened himself, remembering how nitpicking his Master could be about his posture. “You know… the one I talked to you about.” No-one answered, but he liked to think his brothers’ spirits floated behind the stones, watching over him with indulgence. “He's doing so good… I don't think he needs me anymore.”

And that was the problem, wasn't it? He couldn't bear the thought of not being needed by MK. He wondered… If he wasn't the boy's mentor, then who was he to him? But at the same time, he was so proud of MK for becoming so strong in such a short amount of time. Feelings were contradicting themselves inside of his chest. Pride and fear warring with each other. And in the midst of the storm, loneliness took roots.

He was lonely.

He felt lonely.

Wukong sighed and closed his eyes. Memories unfolded under his eyelids.

Wukong huffed. He watched the family of two hug their sons as if he'd disappear the moment they'll let go. He found the scene ridiculous. Why were they acting so pathetically? It's not as if they won't saw each other again.

“Why are they being so dramatic?” Mumbled Wukong as he crossed his arms. His Master, who was by his side, tilted his head at his question and hummed in thought.

“It is hard sometimes to let someone you care about go away.” Wisely answered the monk.

“Still, they act like he's gonna disappear.” Tripitaka chuckled, he shook his head, as if what Wukong said was somewhat funny. Wukong hated when he acted like this, as if the great sage was missing an important factor.

“People feel a sense of loss when they let someone go.”

“Well if they don't want him to go that much they just have to keep him.” Replied the golden-furred monkey with a flick of hand, as if his answer was obvious.

“You can't trap the people you love.” Sighed the monk. He added, with an indulgent smile. “You have to let them spread their wings.”

Wukong huffed. He still thought mortals were too dramatics but he wisely chose to not argue further. Then, quite mischeviously, he added :

“Would you cry like that if I ever go away, Master?” Snickered the golden-furred monkey as he nodded towards the crying mother. Tripitaka fondly rolled his eyes, he pretented to be deaf and turned away. Wukong didn't let him get away, he ran after him and pestered him all day.

Secretly, he hoped his Master would share a tear or two if he ever decided to go.

Wukong smiled at the memory, he understood better now how important it was to be able to let go. No matter how difficult it felt. How terrifying it could be to lose your place in someone's life. MK was spreading his wings, and even if it meant that he would spend less time with him, that he would be more independant, Wukong couldn't prevent him from growing. The best he could do was support him in silence.

Still, this revelation didn't truly help his current problem. He still felt…lonely. The ache inside of his chest didn't disappear. Especially today. It was difficult to face this day, for a long time he had not been able to visit his brothers’ makeshift graves without drinking himself stupid. It was easier to let his mind drown in alcohol than to let it fester with somber thoughts. Wukong still saw flashes of them sometimes. One robe, one picture that reminded him of them. And sorrow took him in its bosom. He couldn't… fill the emptiness they left behind, with time it became bearable, but he never managed to fill it.

Loneliness was a crushing curse. Before MK came into his life, Wukong hadn't been in the best of headscape. He realized that the world left him alone. His sworn-brothers falling at his own hands, as if his own touch was cursed by death itself. His pilgrim brothers falling because of the very thing he was afraid of : mortality. He…he had driven everyone out of his life one way or another.

Even his dearest friend, made of midnight dreams and soft ears… He managed to put his own shadow in the eternal soil.

It was him and his monkeys. And don't misunderstand him, he loved his monkeys dearly. But they couldn't understand all of him. Those sweet fellas were wild little things, they understood the monkey-part of his being, but the more human-part (the one filled with so much brimming emotions) was something they couldn't grasp. And Wukong longed for that… he longer to be understood, to be held, to be… existing with someone.

Wukong sighed, he brought his hands to his face and wiped away the tears brimming at the corners of his eyes. “I… I miss you.” He mumbled, he tried to not let his tears fall, but that wasn't a battle he could win.

They fell on his cheeks. Burning drops of sorrow. First quiet, then overbearingly loud. Loss wasn't something he could get used to. It seized you in the most violent way. An invisible hand grasping your very heart. It was encompassing, but also terrifying. He feared to forget their faces, to see their memory erased by the passage of time. Perhaps irrationally, keeping the memory of them alive comforted him, made him think that they weren't totally gone. A foolish thought feeding an even more foolish heart.

Wukong didn't know how long he stayed bent there, on his knees, with tears falling down his cheeks. Eventually he decided to go.

He didn't want to be alone today. He hoped someone's company could make him forget, or better, could comfort him in his sorrow.

There was someone on this mountain he could try to see… but the asshole would laugh at his misery. But perhaps being laughed at was still better than to wallow in loneliness. Misery loves company after all. He learned at his own expense that monkeys were extremely social creatures, and he wasn't exempt from that rule, no matter how much he wished he was.

Wukong applied glamors on himself, picked up some plums along the way as a peace offering and set off to Macaque's cave, hoping his dark counterpart wouldn't turn him away on sight.

***

His relationship with Macaque was odd, to say the least.

They weren't at each other's throats anymore, but they weren't very close either. In fact, they were stuck in a strange in-between. Not-totally enemies but not-very friendly either. Wukong knew they weren't totally hopeless. He saw Macaque reach for his hand more than once. That had to mean something, didn't it? Granted, those times always happened in the midst of world-ending situations, and it was quite discouraging to realize they managed to be honest only if their lives were on the line, but at the very least Macaque still showed some signs of yearning. That had to be significant, didn't it? At least that's what Wukong told himself to ease his doubts.

Macaque was…hard to read, to say the least. Which was quite confusing, considering Mihou had been an open book for Wukong back in the days. It was bittersweet to realize he didn't understand Macaque like he used to. That he couldn't immediately know what was going on in his head. His friend changed in ways he couldn't even begin to understand, as he changed too from the monkey he once was.

Time didn't have mercy on them.

Wukong took a deep breath and entered Macaque's cave. The black-furred monkey settled on the east side of the Mountain, inside a shadowed cave standing by the beach. Wukong never truly went inside. He never bothered, really. Macaque was usually the one to seek him out. Oftentimes to annoy the hell out of him. The dark-furred asshole seemed to flourish in his frustration.

“Well I didn't expect visitors today.” Macaque’s voice echoed around the cave. Bouncing off the walls. Wukong groaned. He hated when the others did that. It gave him chills. And not the good kinds.

Macaque deigned to step out of the shadows, he looked as annoying as Wukong remembered. With his stupid smirk, and his overly-dramatic manners. What an eyesore. Wukong huffed and lazily handed the basket of plums, Macaque accepted the peace offering and happily dived in the pile of fruits.

“You should be honored to have me coming here.” Hummed Wukong.

Macaque rolled his eyes, he ushered the King outside of his cave, perhaps not wanting him to invade his personal space. Wukong winced at the thought. He shouldn't have entered Macaque's cave like that. He didn't want to step over the frail boundaries existing between them. “Pardon me, your majesty. Of course having your esteemed self here is such a blessing, want me to kiss your ass too?” Mocked the black-furred monkey as he bit into a fresh plum, Wukong huffed in amusement.

“What do you want?” Added Macaque, more seriously.

They walked along the coast line, Wukong tried to come up with an answer that wouldn't give away his needs for company. “Can't a King check on his own island?”

“Oh so you coming here was just a coincidence?” Laughed the black-furred monkey, as expected not all fooled by Wukong's performance.

“Maybe it was.” Hummed the great sage.

“And the basket? Another coincidence?” Wukong shrugged, wisely choosing to not reply. Macaque rolled his eyes, a hint of fondness in his look. They stayed quiet after that, resuming their walk along the coast.

Wukong, unable to stay silent for too long, began to chat about MK's progress. Macaque pretended to be disinterested but Wukong could easily see through his facade, the black-furred monkey was intently listening, ears fully turned towards him. They were both lulled in a sense of comfort. It's been a long time since he managed to enjoy time spent with Macaque.

Perhaps, he was too comfortable. His tongue slipped before he could stop it.

“You know… It’s the pilgrims death anniversary today. That's why I came.” He knew, the moment he saw Macaque's face harden, that he said the wrong thing. It's not as if he wasn't aware of Macaque's distaste for the pilgrims, but he let it slip off his mind, too caught up in the present peacefulness to remember that everything wasn't alright between them.

Macaque stopped walking. He pursed his lips and looked away, Wukong swore he saw something akin to hurt swirling in his gaze. “Yeah, figures you wouldn't come here just for lil old me.”

“No, that's not-” But Wukong couldn't finish his sentence.

“So what, you expected me to pity you? Comfort you?” Macaque hissed, face distorted by growing anger. Wukong felt his own skin burn with shame… Perhaps, that's what he had hoped for, in the darkest corners of his mind he could admit it.

“Of course not. I wouldn't come to you for that.” Huffed Wukong, on the defensive.

“Yeah, right. You don't deserve to be comforted. Not when you mess up that much.” Hissed the black-furred monkey, tone rising despite their common tiredness.

Wukong felt his heart tighten. Guilt was something he was familiar with. He was aware he messed up a lot. But he didn't want to hear that from Macaque of all people. “That's rich coming from you.” Groaned the golden-furred monkey.

Macaque flinched, he growled and averted his eyes. “At least I didn't drive everyone I cared about away. Even MK is leaving now.” Spat the black-furred monkey, as cold as ice, as cruel as the blade swinging down your neck.

Wukong flinched. He averted his eyes, not wanting to hold Macaque's sharp gaze. The black-furred monkey grimaced, as if regretting his own words. Macaque raised his hand but let it fall down before he could reach Wukong.

“You should go home, Wukong.” Quietly Mumbled Macaque before falling in one of his portals. Wukong’s eyes lingered where Macaque disappeared. Throat tight.

He went back to his hut and spent the rest of the day in his bed, curled around himself, arms wrapped around his own chest, pretending that it was someone else's. He tightly shut his eyes and let himself feel the ocean rumbling in his chest, crying openly.

He just wished someone could hold him.

Wukong fell asleep, unaware of the door appearing in his room.

***

Wukong's eyes fluttered open, he rolled in his sheet and pressed his head against his pillow. The sun was slipping under his curtains, pouring in the room. He didn't want to wake up. In fact, he didn't want to do anything. Yesterday tired him. He could feel the weight of his tears dragging his eyes, his head pounding after the mess he put his heart through.

The great sage sighed, he wasn't feeling that hungry either. The day just felt… bleak. It didn't really matter if he didn't leave his sheets, did it? It's not as if the monkeys needed him, nor did MK. The thought hurts, but he repressed the whine bubbling in his throat before it could pass his lips. The world was going on without him. He could take a day-off.

Wukong noticed the door standing in the middle of the room and groaned. Of course, trouble found him even when he wanted nothing more but to bury himself in his sheets and sink into nothingness. The great sage dragged his body upward and walked towards the door. It stood there. Unapologetic. The great sage frowned. It was fairly simple yet quite elegant, made of somber sandalwood. The handle was made of silver, glistening under the sun's frail light. If he looked closely, he could spot fine cursive spelling Love Bar engraved in the wood. What a peculiar name. Quite tacky if he may say.

Wukong tried to open the door but it was locked. It didn't open no matter how much he tried. The great sage huffed in frustration and decided to let go, he buried himself in his sheets and ignored the door altogether. He didn't want to deal with this today.

Hours passed, the sun rose until it took its rightful place within the sky's heart. Monkeys came to see him, perched on his windowsill, chirping invitingly. He glanced at them, seeing the sun peeking behind them, beautiful, bright, too bright for what he was feeling right now. He didn't want them to see him like this. He didn't want the light to shine on everything that was wrong with him. Wukong smiled at them, unnaturally, and shooed them away with gentle words.

The monkeys lingered, hesitant, but they weren't patient to begin with. The furballs left the windowsill, running after each other. Wukong drew the curtains tighter and dived back in his sheets, hiding.

Eventually, he felt the weight of the bed shift. Wukong peeked from his sheets and frowned. Macaque was there. Innocently sitting on the far-off side of the bed. He probably came through one of his portals. He wasn't looking at him, instead fidgeting with his scarf, the way he always did when he felt uncomfortable.

“You're not saying anything?” Eventually Mumbled the black-furred monkey.

“Not in the mood.” Curtly replied the great sage, hoping his voice wasn't too crackled by his recent crying fit. The last thing he wanted was for Macaque to know he cried.

“The monkeys said you didn't even eat peaches today. Didn't think I'd see the day.” Awkwardly chuckled his dark counterpart, Wukong didn't answer. He didn't want to reveal how peaches were becoming less sweet. How the sun was shining less brighter. How the grass didn't feel as soft as it used to. His world was becoming grim, and somehow he was ashamed of that.

“Look I…”Macaque sighed and raked a hand in his fur. He looked quite disheveled. Wukong wondered if he cried too. “I went too far yesterday.” That was probably the closest he would get to an apology. Wukong sighed, he sat up and looked at Macaque. His dark counterpart was not looking back, keeping his eyes on the end of his scarf.

“You weren't.” Replied Wukong. “I do drive everyone away.” He admitted quietly.

“You didn't drive MK away.”Sighed Macaque, he frowned, as if struggling to put his thoughts in cohesive sentences. “I shouldn't have said that.”

“But I keep failing him.” Groaned Wukong, he laid back on the wall and looked up helplessly, hoping some of the answers he was looking for would be etched on the ceiling. This wasn't the first time he thought about this. He knew he wasn't the greatest mentor, but somehow he couldn't help but feel like he failed…

“You…” Macaque wasn't able to finish.

“I failed every step of the way. Somehow, everything I could have messed up, I did.” Mumbled Wukong, he passed a hand on his face, eyebrow pinched in frustration. He didn't want to talk about this, but the words didn't want to stop. They just kept flowing. Revealing his darkest thoughts. “The samadhi fire, the Bone Demon, the scroll of memory and now the pillar of light. I failed every single time. I tried so hard and it's never enough. Somehow, he is always the one saving me, always the one shouldering everything. And I can't make it up to him because I don't even have anything left to teach him. I just…I'm tired of always making the wrong choices.”

Wukong sagged on the wall, shoulders lowering in defeat. It was bitter to admit it, but he couldn't ignore the thought either. He knew he was meant to make mistakes, that it was alright to be wrong, but he couldn't help but think he hadn't been enough for the kid. He knew that MK wasn't as fine as he pretended he was. That what he was shouldering stressed him out. And Wukong didn't want him to carry that burden, but it seemed that every time he tried to shoulder the pain, he failed. He was either possessed, trapped in a scroll, or unable to act because of a circlet… every time he felt… useless.

“I don't even know why I'm talking to you about this.” Humorlessly chuckled the great sage. He looked at his dark counterpart, Macaque's expression was hardened by something Wukong couldn't identify. The black-furred monkey tentatively raised his hand, but stopped himself before he could reach Wukong.

Why was he always stopping?

Wukong didn't want him to stop.

The silence was broken by the sound of a lock opening. Both monkeys flinched, they turned towards the sudden sound. The door standing in his room was ajar. A faint smell of sweetness was coming from the door. Enticing. Luring. Macaque cleared his throat and brought his scarf higher, hiding himself in the cloth.

“Was the door always there?” Asked the black-furred monkey, wisely choosing to change the subject. Wukong looked at him (he was as taut as a drawn bow string) and sighed.

Vulnerability didn't suit them. It was better to change the subject.

“Appeared out of nowhere.” Shrugged the great sage. He discreetly wiped away the wetness veiling his eyes, his earlier admissions did take a toll on him. Macaque hummed, he approached the door and studied it.

“Should we go in?” Asked the black-furred monkey.

“Well now that it's open it'd be criminal not to.” Snorted the great sage, he mainly wanted something to change his mind from his rather embarrassing admissions. He opened the door and dived to the other side, Macaque cautiously followed after him.

The door was connected to a dim-lighted bar. The establishment was somber, almost intimate. Wukong slowly walked forward, Macaque on his heels. They weren't a lot of people, most clients were scattered around tables hidden behind blaring red curtains. A heady smell was floating around the place. Enticing. Strangely sweet. Wukong could taste it on his tongue. It was almost beckoning, like a siren's song.

A countertop was standing at the back. The design was simple, refined, brightened by pale red lights. The barman looked quite peculiar. He had the nose of a rabbit, yet the sleekness of a fox. He looked up at the monkeys and smiled, his teeth glistening unnaturally.

Somehow, he reeked of celestials.

“My, my, what surprising clients.” Purred the barman, he leaned over the countertop, his eyes sweeping over both monkeys. The great sage huffed, not at all intimidated. He looked around before diving in the barman's gaze. Macaque stayed behind, arms crossed over his chest, as silent as ever.

“What is this place?” Asked Wukong.

“The Love Bar.” Answered the barman, he stepped back and gestured to the vast collections of bottles standing behind him. Each bottle had its own design and colors. “Where the lonesome comes for love.”

“That's interesting, bud. But what I want to know is why your bar's door appeared in my room?”Snorted Wukong as he settled on one of the barstools and crossed his arms, expectant. Macaque didn't sit, instead he put one of his arms over the countertop and leaned closer to the barman.

“You reek of celestials.” Hummed the black-furred monkey with narrowed eyes. The barman gulped and wisely chose to take a step back from the warrior.

“If the door appeared to you, that means you wanted it to.” Hummed the barman, quickly changing the subject from his celestial smell. He took one menu laying around the bar and pushed it towards the monkeys. The great sage raised an eyebrow. He hoped he wasn't being scammed. The guy did look quite suspicious.

Both monkeys leaned over the menu, skimming over the numerous drinks depicted there. They both grimaced when they realized what was being sold exactly.

“You sell love potions?” Growled Wukong, he knew how harmful those kinds of drinks could be, especially in the wrong hands. The barman held his hands in defeat, trying to look innocuous.

“I know what you are worried about but I assure you the bar is very strict with its potions.” Nervously chuckled the barman, his nose twitched, not unlike the one of a rodent. “Potions cannot be taken outside of the bar, and every party must be willing before drinking a potion.” Wukong hummed, well at least those kinds of rules could prevent disasters from happening. Still… This kind of establishment seemed dangerous.

Macaque huffed. “Why would people willingly drink a love potion?”

“... Many people don't like to be alone.” Both monkeys flinched at the barman's words, they averted their eyes and bit their lips. The barman raised an eyebrow at their peculiar reaction. Then, slowly, a glint of recognition ignited in his eyes. The barman smiled softly. “Why don't I give you both a free sample, as a gesture of good faith.”

The barman turned towards his large collection of bottles, his long white hair danced at each of his steps. His finger brushed against many labels before settling in one in particular. He took a bottle made of red-tinted glass, it was as round as the world, engraved with an image of a sprout. The barman hummed, he took two long glasses with wide mouths and poured the potion in. The liquid was quite pale, as light as the first blushes provoked by young love. The barman diluted the potion with a darker syrup and blended the two liquids together, they swirled around one another in harmony. He put two orange slices shaped like moons on the glasses’ lips.

He pushed the two glasses towards the monkeys. “This is not our most famous cocktail but I think it's the one that suits you two the best. And Rati's brew never fails.”

Wukong eyed his cocktail. It smelled sweet, not too strong, but not too light either. It smelled of fruits and grass. It was quite clear, the two colors swirled around one another, joining but never merging.

“What does it do?” Suspiciously asked Macaque.

“It's one of our lighter cocktails. It's named Sweet Dream.” Informed the barman. “It… doesn't touch your mind, nor your heart. It makes you bolder and more…sensual. It also numbs the negative feelings. It lasts one night only.”

“Numbs the negative feelings, huh ?” Repeated Wukong. That was quite tempting. He had a lot of thoughts he wanted to flee from. He traced the edge of the glass and pondered.

Macaque looked his way and frowned. “You're not thinking of drinking that, are you?” Accused the black-furred monkey.

“It doesn't smell dangerous.” It didn't have the pungent scents he often associated with love potions. In fact, this one's smell was more refined, delicate. His eyes also didn't reveal anything too threatening. There was no mind spell imbued in the drink.

“That doesn't mean it's not a bad idea.” Huffed the warrior.

“Bad ideas never stopped me before.” Shrugged the golden-furred monkey. Macaque’s shoulders lowered, he looked at his lighter counterpart with a more serious gaze.

“Are you serious about this?” Wukong averted his eyes, he didn't like that specific look.

“I'm just tired.” He mumbled. Macaque flinched, perhaps he wasn't expecting his voice to sound so defeated. The warrior frowned, he then sighed and picked up his glass.

“Fuck you. You and your bad decision.” Groaned the macaque as he brought the glass closer to his lips and took a sip. Wukong chuckled. He picked his own glass and gulped it down.

“Bad decisions are the most fun.” The potion tasted sweet. It was like drinking silk. Soft and tickling, it fell down his throat pleasantly.

“I wish you a good night.” Snorted the barman as he watched both monkeys leave the bar.

Wukong didn't feel that different. He was… warm. Like something sweet veiled his chest. Like being coddled by the very thin haze of alcohol. It didn't numb your mind, but it did break your inhibitions down. The golden-furred monkey closed the door and turned towards his dark counterpart.

“If I die because of this potion I'm gonna haunt you.” Groaned Macaque. Wukong looked at his back. A wide, beautiful expanse of fur hidden behind silky cloth. Wukong's hands twitched… he wanted to touch him. He wanted to touch someone. He wanted someone to touch him.

Perhaps the potion did make him bolder, because he knew for a fact that he would have never dared to do this otherwise. Wukong walked closer and hugged Macaque from behind. The black-furred monkey tensed.

“This is not a good idea.” Sighed Macaque as he felt Wukong rubs circles on his hips.

“We can blame it all on the potion.” Whispered the golden-furred monkey, he let his nose brush against Macaque's neck. Inhaling the familiar smell. His tail began to wag without his consent. Perhaps he was a bit too bold. But, maybe for the first time of his life, he didn't care. It was like his fears, his doubts, his pains took a backseat. Like they fell asleep for one singular moment.

Macaque turned his head his way. His eyebrows were pinched together, yet he didn't seem as cold as he could have been. The light in his eyes was almost soft. Like soft luring honey. The warrior scrutinized his face, then his eyes fell on his mouth. “We'll never talk about this.”

Wukong chuckled. “What happens here, stays here.” Hummed the great sage, eyes falling on every curve of the other face, his favorite being the very small one hidden on his lips.

“You always drag me in your messes.” Muttered the black-furred monkey, he instinctively leaned closer, his breath fanning Wukong's face.

“You like it.” Snorted the golden-furred monkey as he pressed even closer, tail wagging harder. He hoped Macaque couldn't see it.

“You're too full of yourself.” Huffed his dark counterpart, he didn't let Wukong answer, he sealed his lips with his own. The touch light. Fleeting. Wukong closed his eyes, he breathed out, enjoying the simple press of their mouths. Macaque fully turned towards Wukong, he grasped at his shirt, hands fisting the fine silk. Wukong hummed, the sound echoing on Macaque's own lips.

They stood there for a long time. Frozen together in the lightest of touch. Wukong put one of his hands on Macaque's lower back and pushed him closer. Their hips pressed against one another. Macaque felt right in his arms. Like a missing piece. Wukong let his hand fall lower, brushing against where the other tail began, he rubbed circles against the pants, occasionally twirling a piece of fur around his finger.

Macaque briefly licked his lips, hinting at something deeper. Wukong kept his lips firmly shut. Not wanting to give-in too easily. It was quite satisfying to frustrate the other. Macaque tsked, he licked the honeyed lips with more insistence, but Wukong refused to open-up. Fed up with the King's attitude, Macaque bit his lips. It didn't hurt, but it did surprise Wukong enough to make him gasp. The warrior didn't waste the opportunity, he dived in the hot cavern with excitement.

Wukong chuckled. “Brute.” He whispered against the other's lips.

“Tease.” Replied Macaque before diving back in the King's warm mouth. Their tongues tentatively brushed against one another, slowly exploring the uncharted territory. Wukong groaned, feeling more and more hazed by the numbing feeling of the other's mouth. It was like fire was flowing in his veins. Encompassing. Pushing. Sweet. Wukong let his hands wander, he grabbed a fistful of the other's ass, it was firm, yet soft, he felt his dick twitch in his pants.

Macaque trilled. Something breathy, high-pitched that lost itself in Wukong's mouth. “Really?” Huffed Macaque with a raised eyebrow.

“They have a mind of their own.” Cheekily hummed Wukong as he shamelessly kneaded the other's ass. Macaque rolled his eyes, he managed to escape Wukong's tight grasp (for the sage great disappointment) and sat on the bed, legs open. The great sage shamelessly let his eyes rake over his figure.

“I'm not gonna wait eternally.” Mumbled Macaque. Wukong gulped, feeling his eyes darken with an unfamiliar desire. He wasn't used to the throes of lust. It's not as if he never felt it. He had his moments. But the occasions to indulge had been few and in-between.

The golden-furred monkey slowly approached, he cupped the other cheeks and crawled over, sitting in his lap. He let his thumb brush against the other lips, expanding the wet shine left behind by their earlier make-out session. Macaque eyed his finger dangerously, he kissed it, making Wukong shiver, and bit it. The sage winced, but he didn't take his finger back.

Macaque was quite the biter.

Wukong kissed the warrior's chin, he slowly removed the other scarf, letting the offending cloth fall behind. Wukong mapped out the other's neck with his lips. The smell. The feel. The warmth. It was all so incredibly familiar yet so very new. A world he didn't know of. He wanted to explore every nook and crannies. Know every place by heart. Macaque bared his neck, eyes half-lidded. Wukong paid attention to the way his breath hitched when he grazed particular spots. He assaulted those spots. Lavished them with licks and kisses. Made Macaque sing under his hands.

He could feel the hums of magic under his lips. But he didn't comment on it. He had his own fair share of glamors after all.

Macaque grasped Wukong's hips and brought him closer. Their crotch pressed against one another. Wukong gasped, feeling his fastly hardening member pressing against the other most intimate place. He tentatively rolled his hips forward, smiling when he managed to make Macaque moan. The black-furred monkey threw his head backward and grunted, Wukong's dick twitched violently at the sound, surprising even himself. He slowly rolled his hips, taking the time to truly grind against the other crotch in the most delicious of ways, but not fast enough to deliver them from the fire of lust and make them finish.

Macaque was panting quite hard, Wukong could feel his member hardening against his own. It was quite addictive. The black-furred monkey straightened himself and clumsily tugged at Wukong's shirt, trying to remove it. The great sage chuckled at his empressment, he removed his shirt and threw it away. Macaque eyes raked over his form. He slowly kneaded his chub.

“Cute.” Muttered Macaque as he familiarized himself with the soft belly.

“You're the cute one.” Huffed Wukong as he gently pushed Macaque back, pinning him against the mattress. The golden-furred monkey eagerly got rid of Macaque's shirt and eyed his chest. He tentatively touched the other's torso, letting his fingers map out the wide expanse of fur. Macaque had thinner fur on his belly, making it more sensitive. He gasped when Wukong grazed the place.

“Why are you the one on top?” Complained Macaque even if he looked like he quite enjoyed Wukong caresses.

“Because I am.” Chuckled Wukong. He played with the hem of Macaque's pants, but the other stopped him before he could let his wandering hands slip inside, grabbing Wukong's wrist.

“I don't know if I'm… ready for that.” Winced the black-furred monkey.

Wukong removed his hands from Macaque's pants. The last thing he wanted was to make the other uncomfortable. Even if he would've have liked to see what the rather obvious bulge in Macaque's pants hid, he wasn't going to force the other if he didn't want to shed his pants. “It's okay, we can keep the pants on.” Hummed Wukong, he had plenty of others things to explore after all. He returned to Macaque's chest, cupping the peck in his mouth, while also grinding against the other's apparent member.

Macaque keened, he threw his hands over Wukong's neck, grasping at his fur. Wukong liked the feel of the other's hands in his fur. He liked to feel his touch. To feel him so close. It burned him in the most delicious of ways. The golden-furred monkey licked his partner's nipple, grazing it with his teeth, Macaque’s huffed, cheeks painted in red.

“Faster.” Grunted Macaque as he pushed his hips forward, meeting each of Wukong's languid grinds with one of his own. Wukong moaned around the other's peck, feeling the dark-furred monkey’s clothed member push against his own crotch.

Wukong was tempted to tease the other, to go slower instead, rub him until he was raw with nothing but want. But he knew he was also nearing his end and, for their first time together, he wanted to be mercyfull. Prehaps he was also unsure of their boundaries, of how much teasing was allowed. Wukong rolled his hips faster, grinding hard against the other monkey. Macaque grasped his shoulders and pressed him closer, canting forward needily at each of the golden monkey thrusts.

Wukong left Macaque's peck and nosed his neck, he buried himself in the scent of rain and grass, humming the smell he missed so much in his life. They were intertwined together, rocking against one another with little else but passion. Their tails tentavily curled together, the two limbs inseparable. Wukong felt his tights burn, he knew he was near his limits, he was standing on the cliff of pleasure.

It was admittedly terrifying, he wasn't that used to the feeling. His rare sexual explorations had been short and not lasting. But prehaps because of the potion, the fear was dulled to an afterthought, as was his nervosity. He felt good, so very good. Macaque gasps were falling in his ears. Filling his entire being with fire. Wukong pushed and pushed, searching for that delicious friction. Straining his own pants with beads of pre-cum, until finally he tipped off the other side of the cliff.

Wukong came with a particular high-pitched chirp, he buried himself in Macaque's neck and latched as hard as he could. He pushed throught the haze of his orgasm and kept thrusting forward, knowing that Macaque’s didn't reach that edge yet. Macaque arched forward roughly, pushing even harder against Wukong, until finally he reached his edge. They both clutched each other, as if they could ground themselves in the haze assaulting them.

Wukong rolled off Macaque ans hugged him, feeling quite affectionate after their passionate exchange. Macaque was still panting, chest slowly heaving.

“We should clean up.” Grimaced Macaque as he looked down as his strained pants.

“We can do that tomorrow.” Whined Wukong. He didn't want to move, he was feeling so comfortable, feeling the other fur against his own, feeling his warmth, his heartbeat, his scent. It made him feel as if he was burning. It filled the ache inside of his chest.

“No way I'm staying like that.” Groaned Macaque, he dipped in one of his portals, probably to the nearest spring. Wukong huffed, disappointed to feel him go. He would have liked to hug him longer.

The great sage was still feeling hazy, the mind-numbing feeling of his orgasm didn't completely disappeared. He closed his eyes, fully satiated for now. He knew he was going to have second thoughts about this tomorrow, but for now he didn't care.

At least he got someone to held him tonight.

#shadowpeach #lmk #lego monkie kid #lmk shadowpeach #shadowpeach fanfic #Love addicts au

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loveundrwrld · 1 year ago

Text

oneshot, trying something new. gender neutral reader x male yandere

cws: kidnapping, implied stalking, general yandere creepiness

you get into a relationship with a man you met on a blind date, but you begin to regret not breaking the relationship off sooner . . .

you take a deep breath, and take another sip of your wine. it had to be today. you had your mind set on it. you were on a date with him and you were going to finally bring it up.

today, you were definitely going to break up with your boyfriend.

you had felt bad over wanting to do so. after all, you had liked him so much in the beginning.

the relationship had started out so well.

you two had met on a blind date your coworker had set up. she had a friend, jack, who was looking for a partner and she knew that you were single. to her, the solution was obvious.

you had your reservations, not wanting to get into a relationship too soon after your last one. but eventually, she successfully cajoled you into it, reassuring you that he was nothing like your ex. and it’s only one date, after all. what’s the harm in that?

the first date went surprisingly well. he was a good listener. he had a lot of hobbies in common with you, liked a lot of the same movies, and seemed very into you.

he was flustered, nervously stuttering his words and blushing. you were flattered by how much you affected him.

he was cute, too. tall and long, with soft shaggy hair and big brown eyes. he just had a sweet look to him. it was like he was a big dog- cute, but in an approachable way.

it was all enough to charm you into asking for a second date. and then a third, then a forth.

as the dates went by, you slowly went from feeling charmed to feeling wearied of him. he was sweet, but sickly sweet, like a candy that left a bad taste in your mouth.

he gave you lots of compliments and affection. excessively so. he was always early to dates, no matter how early you tried to get there. he began calling and texting you, all the time, even while you were asleep. he was constantly giving you gifts as a surprise, too.

it was all too much for you. you kept being too cowardly and backed out of it ending things every time you met, but this time you resolved yourself that you would do it for sure.

and then, to your surprise, during your date, he starts to get down on one knee. he brings out a box from his back pocket, and you grimace, knowing now for certain that you have waited too long.

you stand up as a reflex. "jack, don't-" you hiss slightly, nervous.

his wide smile quickly falls.

"what do you mean, don't?"

you suck in a deep breath, and look around you. everyone is looking at the two of you.

"i mean, i'm very flattered, but isn't this relationship moving… a little fast?" you say, keeping your voice quiet. "it's only been a few months and you're proposing."

despite your best efforts not to make it a scene, you can still hear people muttering in hushed tones.

"but i know that you're the one for me," he says in a wobbling voice. "why wait any longer?"

"because! i don't think that you are the one for me."

his face immediately drops, his eyes beginning to shine with tears. still on the floor and looking up at you, he looks rather like a kicked puppy. you instantly regret your sharp tone.

you feel the pressure of everyone's eyes on you. all the guests around you now are giving you dirty looks.

"i'm sorry," you say, in a quiet voice. "i didn't mean to say it like that. but, it's the truth. i can't do this any longer. it's just all moving so fast for me. you should have someone who can move at your pace, but that’s not me.”

"…that's ok." he looks at you with a pleading expression. "if you don't want to get married yet, we can try to take it slow."

"no… actually i think that it's best we end it now. let's just break up."

he keeps looking at you with tears running down his face, silently begging you to change your mind. you smiled at him, tensely, as an apology. he starts to sob a little, and you feel awkward and guilty, aware of how everyone around you is silently judging you.

you turn around to leave, but you feel a hand tugging on your shirt sleeve.

"wait. at least let me drive you back. you've had too much wine today for me to let you drive."

you nod, looking down. you let him lead you into the passenger seat of his car, waiting for him while he pays.

you look around, idly. it was the first time you had been in his car, as he always insisted he’d rather be driven by you anywhere than the other way around. it was a lot less clean than you expected.

there is a mess on the dashboard, tons of paper and receipts. you see that it’s credit card statements after glancing briefly. you see a lot of zeroes and you avert your eyes, feeling some guilt over the questions that pop into your mind.

might have something to do with the ring, too, you think with a sinking feeling in your stomach

he comes back, and you avoid his eyes, looking out the window to the parking lot as he climbs in the driver's side.

"…i'm sorry," you say again, softly.

"but you won't change your mind?"

you shake your head.

you feel his arm tugging you into a half hug, and gives you a small smile. you look up at him, confused. his grip on your arm tightens.

he quickly pulls out a rag, pushing it over your mouth.

you weakly try to scream, muffled by the rag. you quickly start to feel tired, the chemical scent lulling you into darkness.

"shhh… it's ok. just close your eyes."

he holds down the rag firmly, holding you to him with his other arm. when your squirming slows down fully, he leans you down into the car seat.

he was just thankful you hadn't looked closer at the papers on the dashboard before he got in.

after all, those had his real name on them.

#yandere x reader #male yandere #yandere oc #yandere oc x reader #yandere x you #gender neutral reader #blind date yandere

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shini--chan · 1 month ago

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In your opinion, would germany and prussia be very different as yanderes? Because while i think both would be strict and maybe even cruel, i find that germany is more likely to be more naive? On that note... prussia character sheet? 🙏🙏

Oh yes. In any time periode, Germany is simply far more awkward and naive than Prussia. In the beginning he is a lanky, rebellious kid who has a close and complicated relationship with his older brother. He is alike him in all the ways Prussia loves and loathes. But there is also the Bavarian and Austrian influence that makes Gilbert want to put his head through a wall. He is far more lax and openminded and cheeky than Gilbert - spitting on Prussian censorship, fliriting with socialism and Feuerbachian ideology and playing football no matter how much Gilbert scolds him for engaging in "the english sickness". He'd engage in the worst attrocities because he'd be steeped in his own self-rightousness and then drowns in guilt when he is beaten back and his eyes are opened.

Ludwig came from student fraternities and the overthrow of an old order by youngsters that wanted more than the word offered them. Meanwhile Gilbert arose from a knightly order that was smashed because it became too powerful, that became a duchy and then a kingdom and then a military power to be reckoned with. It shows in both their characters and how they would be as yanderes.

Gilbert would be calmer, more patient and more controlling. He is more comfortable with a sword in hand and a field cot to sleep in and hates modern life. He is just bursting with energy nowadays that has become directionless because there are no more heroes and no more pioneers. He is an old general that can never rest, that is sharp and dangerous. Sharp and dangerous things are not suited for modern times and that is his problem.

Meanwhile Ludwig has more passion and is far more likely to crash and burn and then repent with interest. He is an idealist with no charisma, a romantic that dreams of knights and glory and would inpale himself on his enemy's sword if he were to land a hit. Yet he would never let go of his modern life because it is safe and clean and thinking about his own past scares him. Less resiliant, especially next to his elders, and still all the more blood thirsty.

Seems like I have been rambling. I'll have to do a relationship/character study of them on my non-yandere account.

In short:

Prussia: controlling, patient, and realistic. Restless with his excess energy and less likely to indulge in comforts with how he knows (he has experienced firsthand) how it corrupts the character. When bad times come, he'd roll his eyes and roll up his sleeves. Self-aware and prepared to be harsh if you call him out on it.

Germany: idealistic and passionate with no guile or innate charm or charisma. Doesn't think things completely through and still stubborn to boot. Moralising and very likely to fall to delusion. Would scapegoat and belittle and rationalise if you'd point out his misdemeanors.

Yandere Character Sheet I - 1p Prussia

Trigger warnings: physical, emotional and verbal abuse, torture methods, mind break, murder, inprisonmemt, abuse of power and authority, non-con roleplay, live target practise and human experimentation

Attributes - What sort of Yandere is he/she?

Above all else, Gilbert would be hard. Despite all his years, he had never been good at comforting people, nor did he even deem it necessary most of the time. He tends to view other people as overly soft and chances are high that he would view you in the same light. To him, you would be iron that he would have to hammer so that it hardens, so don't expect him to go easy on you. In fact, he would see it as his job to toughen you up. To him, it wouldn't change if you love him or not, you would still be restricted to two meals a day, cold showers and waking up at the crack of dawn everyday. A day spent idly is a day wasted, in Gilbert Beilschmidt's mind. Also, he would be the sort of person that could take a lot of punishment, so don't expect to be able to beat him down or chastise him into submission.

Your captor would also be of the energetic sort. Not in the sugar shock way that Alfred would be at times, rather in the restless manner that a tiger pacing its cage is. Constantly there would be work or a project or a strenuous hobby to engage in. Having to tag along with his activities would be a blessing and a curse packed in one. On one hand, it would mean that he would see you as competent enough to not accidentally ruin his work, on the other hand it would mean that he would hold even higher expectations of you. Besides that, he would expect you to work for him, willingly or unwillingly. Gilbert would be constantly searching for ways to bind you more strongly to him and make you spend more time with him. Seeing that his ideal lifestyle would result in only using his living quarters for resting, nourishment and washing, he would want to style your relationship with him so that you’re not some stay-at-home housewife. Oh no, he would very much want to drag you along for the ride. Should you need to be properly tamed, then he would spend more time at home with you. And become bored very fast. Mark my words when I say that a bored Gilbert Beilschmidt is the last thing you would want.

Additionally, he would be persistent and unlikely to allow himself to be swayed by petty emotions. At first, this would be ironic considering that he would be yandere for you. Upon further inspection however, you might find out he “landed” himself in his obsession with you through a complex series of emotional acrobatics and mental gymnastics. Gilbert could be considered a genius at rationalising his emotional impulses and more unsavoury behaviour. To get back on track - he would be able to resist emotions that suddenly pop up, like boredom and anger and happiness. So don’t expect him to let you free just because of momentary boredom. Bigger emotions would first have to enter the rationalisation stage before he would act on them. And he wouldn’t tire of you easily, or be quick to be put off by any disgusting behaviour on your side. He would view you as work in progress and remind himself that growth isn’t always linear. There would be setbacks that he would have to work through with you and the like. Yet he would still be relentless, because never should you believe that you should be able to outlast or outwait him.

Gilbert is also the sort that plans ahead. He would have the road to his desired destination mapped out and would consistently follow it. Chasing after vague morals wouldn't be his style, and even with courting you, he would treat his conquest of you in a military manner. Should matters not proceed as he would've foreseen, then he would simply adjust his tactics. He would have contingencies in mind and the power to execute them. If you throw something in his way, then he would have the wits to improvise on the spot. Should he speak of “the foreseeable future”, keep in mind that he is at least speaking of the next five years.

On top of all that, he would be strict and unyielding. A man that compromises on his morals is a man that has already surrendered to the devil, in his point of view. As such, he wouldn't allow for any exceptions to the rules. No amount of pleading or begging or puppy eyes would prevent you from being punished if you cross the line. Also, you wouldn't be excused from leading a similarly spartan lifestyle. Should you come from money, then he would label you as a brat in need of humbling and be even harsher towards you. Being sugar-addled and spoiled would just mean that you would be in need of a reckoning, in his eyes. Also, too much comfort would ruin a person’s character, according to him (cough* Austria, cough*), so to save you from hell, damnation and all that jazz, he would have to unpack the drill sergeant for you. Mind you, there would be little that would hold him back from bullying you. Despite how many poems he would dedicate to you, how many horses and ships he would name after you and all his declaration of love, it would be easy to think that he’d hate you, with how he would treat you. In many ways, you would be childlike to him, and just like a child, you would be so prone to negative behaviours on the basis of them being “pleasurable”. He would be the one to guide you back on the right track.

Something you'd also have to account for would be his controlling tendencies. While he would be very aware that the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry, it wouldn't prevent him from trying to have as much control over any situation as possible. You would be no exception here. Not that he would become anxious if he wouldn't be in control - it is more about ideal and prefered states. If he can't have full power, then he would settle with having the initiative.

Cornering - How would they get you?

Maybe the two of you would come into contact via other people. That could be through work, or club activities or through a shared friend group. Either way, the two of you would be obligated to interact with each other, regardless of your feelings with him. The mandated interaction with one another would give him the perfect excuse to grow closer to you, to even be mean at times, without him having to worry about you disappearing into thin air. You could bet your life on that he would make some off-colour remarks and do one or the other peculiar deed just to see how far he could push you.

Such a dynamic would also allow him to reveal some of his true colours without you immediately running away. Besides, he would have people around to calm you and vouch for him. After all, at the end of the day, he is a credible, reliable and effective member of the group. People would much prefer to turn a blind eye than to lose him. If he would've a higher role in this little social circle, then he would be sure to use it to his advantage. Perhaps he'd be your trainer in a martial art, and use sparring as an excuse to throw you around. If he'd be harsher than usual, then it'd be due to him using the opportunity to punish you. Or he could be your superior, he would heap work load after work load on you, having to do the best and the worst tasks your occupation lets you.

Depending on the circumstances, he might rope you into a mentor/mentee relationship with him. It would give him an excuse to grow all the closer with you, without people raising eyebrows due to how he'd enthral you to him. Such a foundation would also make you less suspicious when he'd reel you in. By the time you'd realise the true nature of this relationship, you'd already be in too deep and he would've already slammed the door shut.

Exploring other ways he could entrap you - a more apparent display of his intentions comes to mind. Perhaps you are a civilian in an area under martial law, and he a captain of a battalion. Or you are a subversive social element, and he the agent tasked with shadowing and subduing you. Of course, you could be a hostage, a political prisoner or a genius that is kept in a gilded cage and he your warden. While there might be the professional barrier, he wouldn't be forced to be cordial with you. He could drag you by the hair where he'd want you to be, he could beat you into submission without any higher ups questioning his actions. Love isn't permitted in this dynamic, yet what he'd feel for you isn't love, strictly speaking. It would be much more twisted, much more violent and in a situation where the scales are tilted in his favour from the get-go, it would be more socially acceptable than sweet romance. The irony wouldn't escape him, and he'd muse about it while the two of you would do your morning exercises.

Expectations - What do they expect of you?

Gilbert would be rather unconventional here, owing to the fact that he'd be an unconventional man himself. At the top of his list of expectations would be honesty. This is not to be mistaken for always telling the truth - a person can tell nothing but the truth and be utterly devious and cunning. What this Beilschmidt would demand, would be honesty - no white lies or fibs or things that are true from a certain point of view. Even saying things that are true but don't pertain to the situation/question would be enough to set him off. Additionally, he wouldn’t take it well at all if you’d lie through permanent omision. Sure, he could be considerate and understand that you might need time and the view of a third party before you confront him, though you’d have to confront him eventually. If you’d keep your silence, if you’d complain about him behind his back, yet only smile sweetly when you’re with him, then he’d go berserk. You’d be allowed to kiss your freedom goodbye and enjoy a few weeks in a cellar, an attic or a cupboard. All in all, he would prefer that you’d be frank with your distaste of him instead of pretending to be enamoured with him. A German saying comes to mind: Wer einmal lügt, dem glaubt man nicht, auch wenn er die Wahrheit spricht. (You don’t believe a person who lies even once, even when he speaks the truth.)

Have some self-respect. Generally, that should be a fundamental requirement when having to interact with one Gilbert Beilschmidt because if you can’t stand your ground then he would simply steamroll over you. He’s the sort of man that would trigger people for fun. When it comes to you, this would apply in interesting ways. Gilbert would be very willing to play the part of drill sergeant and etiquette teacher if you aren’t already there yet. Just remember that you would save yourself a lot of trouble if you keep a good posture at all times, rarely whine or get drunk. Watch out, he would be very unforgiving in his crusade to teach you to be a better person.

Next to that, you should have some resilience. Gilbert would hate people that break easily. In total, he would also loath sheltered people and hedonists, people who would recklessly chase after pleasure and comfort would disgust him. His idea of a nice date would be a camping trip at subzero temperatures and a fun evening would include some sparring (or a game of Monopoly). Should you be weak, then he would build you up and then call you his masterpiece. You'd continuously be reminded that you owe him, and he would want his debt repaid with interest.

That being said, he wouldn't mind it if you're a bit rough around the edges. Some of your less vibrant traits might even be what would endear you to him in the first place. You're allowed to be rude, jaded, aggressive and much more and he would still be obsessed with you. Word of warning though - you should be prepared for him to meet you blow by blow. Beilschmidt would be confrontational by nature and wouldn't take anything lying down if he can help it.

Tying a bit into the aforementioned traits would be a longing for competence. Yes, Gilbert would have a competence kink. If you excel in something, especially something useful and relevant, then he would be down hard. It would also ensure that he'd be softer to you. This would be a side effect of him being proud of you, and it would also cause him to be more likely to be indulgent towards you. Use the opportunity to make matters easier for you, be careful though - he would loath being used. Of course, you could gain more by giving him something in return. Your undying love, perhaps?

Faded - Would they let go of you in any way?

If you’d break, then he would throw you away. What should he do with the shell of the person he “loved”, if not dispose of them? Maybe he would play in the shards of who you once were for a bit, yet that would eventually lose its lustre. Maybe he would try to build you up again, his very own personal project. If it wouldn’t work, then he would kick you out.

Aside from that, he could be coerced into giving you up in some form of “terms of surrender”. While he can be vile, he would abide by his word. Of course, he wouldn’t be happy with this and do everything in his power to get you back without violating the treaty. Also, this wouldn't prevent him from keeping tabs on you or even stalking you. You'd be absent, yet his obsession would persist.

On a lighter and slightly crackish note - if you expose him to enough surreal art and actually manage to get him to engage with it, then he might enter a catatonic state and you'd be able to escape. He'd let you be until he'd have everything figured out again. This would be especially ironic since messing with other people's perception of reality would be one of his favourite forms of torture. Here you'd have a guy that would still be stuck in the Classical era - things would have to make sense for him.

Punishment - How would they proceed if you do something they disapprove of?

Oh boy, buckle up for you'd be in for a rodeo.

If you're being particularly disagreeable, then he would provoke you into fighting him and proceed to wipe the floor with you. He'd throw you against the wall if you wouldn't be quick on your feet. Fighting dirty wouldn't be off limits for him, especially if you'd be very naughty. Sand in your eyes, hits to the throat and groin and ears. If you'd be present enough to remind him of a knight's gentlemanly code, then he might turn the violence down a few notches. A big emphasis on might, though. If it ain't combat, then he just might lay you over his knee and spank you with the flat side of his longsword.

Another favourite of his would be hanging you by your feet from the rafters or a tree. He would say that you'd need a new perspective of matters, and that you'd then surely see the errors of your ways and the truth to his words and actions. Fainting wouldn't shorten your punishment - he'd just take you down until you wake up again and then put you back up. If anybody would ask, he'd make jokes about hanging you up to dry.

Speaking of tying you up - another form of chastisement that he would use would be immobilisation. It could be through ropes or chains, or even the good old pillory. Gilbert would keep you there far longer than necessary, just to teach you a lesson. At times he would have you immobilised for durations that would be detrimental to your health. While he would treat you afterwards, he would be very mean while tending to you. On particularly bad days, he'd even go as far as to strap you down to a table to the extent that you'd only be able to move your eyes. If there's a way to induce sleep paralysis in another human being, then Gilbert would find out and inflict it on you.

He wouldn't be more adverse to showing his more creative side if you'd force his hand. You could be his puppy for the evening, complete with a lead and a muzzle. For the rest of the day he'd force you to go on all fours and you wouldn't be allowed to use your hands (or feet) to eat. Act up, and he will take you to the vet. Or he could be the doctor and you his patient. Vaccinations would have to be updated, your blood analysed and he would be touching you everywhere to make sure everything is working as it should. Humiliation and practicality would go hand-in-hand here; it would also be completely hilarious to him.

Or he would play the part of teacher and make you write lines on a board. He'd watch you the whole time, and you wouldn't get a break until you'd be finished. For more minor misdemeanours he'd slap you or yell at you for a bit. If he'd be particularly petty, then he'd allow you to sleep on the floor.

Reaction - How would they react to you escaping?

First course of action would be to sit down and put his head in his hands. Don’t panic, because panic causes people to make mistakes. Pen and paper would be whipped out, be it with high quality paper in his office or with a notebook while standing in public transport. His first instinct would be to order his chaotic thoughts by putting them to paper. He would consider what you could have done, where you could have done and which third parties would be involved in this debacle. Depending on the situation, you could be a victim of his wrath or not. If this whole escape happened in the form of a kidnapping, then he would be more lenient with you. During your rescue, he would also be far more desperate, and he would use the whole fiasco as an excuse to be even more controlling of you.

As for actual escapes - you would be hunted down. The aim of the game would be to capture,consolidate and return you home. The whole operation would be executed with military ruthlessness, and perhaps there would even be a few deaths. If there would be something that can push Gilbert’s buttons, it would be you rebelling against his ordained order. Depending on whether or not you were pretending to love him, your punishment for escaping would vary. Putting up an act would result in you being banished to solitary confinement for weeks, while a petty escape would just result in a few corporal punishments.

More time between your escape and him finding you again wouldn’t mellow him out. Indeed, he would become more irate, and frantic. Perhaps he would even go as far as to brand you when he would capture you if you haven’t been by his side for a few years. One of few hopes you could have at softening the blow would be to amuse him during your capture, perhaps even make him laugh.

Should you escape him before the “loving relationship” could be properly established, then he would be even more obsessed and insane. With you removing yourself from the picture, precious few of his desires would have been fulfilled and he would be all the more starved for you and your affection. A thirsty man in the desert chasing after fata morganas would have nothing on him. You would pay an even higher price for tempting him so cruelly and still refusing to sate him.

Turnabout - Scenario: You have the upper hand? What would be different from their usual MO?

Surprisingly, not much. Having more power than him wouldn’t amount much. Sure, it might make obtaining you trickier, though what does power matter if it isn’t used, or the circumstances dictate that you can’t use it. Besides, the quickest way to turn the tables would be to kidnap you and lay you in chains. While a king that is imprisoned in a dungeon is still a king, he doesn’t have any of his kingly power in such a situation. The same would apply to you.

However, let’s assume that Gilbert can’t kidnap you for any reason, or that you legitimately have the circumstances firmly under your control. Being more powerful than him wouldn’t mean that he would be powerless. Perhaps he would enlist the help of another person - this would be one of the rare cases where he would be ready to share you for a while. Two can achieve more than one. Other than that, he would be no stranger to deception. Oh no, he wouldn’t lie, he would just play tricks and divert your attention and use subterfuge. Having power of your own wouldn’t mean that you would be immune to his, or have a countermeasure for every blow that he would deliver.

Vengeance - What would they do in the face of competition?

Drench himself in their blood. Having been a templar and a knight and a pirate and so much more, Beilschmidt would be no stranger to killing. Any inhibitions that a person could have in regards to that would have long been dismantled. Asides, he would always feel most at ease with a gun or a sword in his hand, so he would delight in the opportunity to put his weapons to good use. On top of that - a lot of people just have big mouths and a lot of swagger. When faced with real competition those types would be quick to fold, and it would bring him great joy to be the one that would crush their spirits. Gilbert wouldn’t shy away from being messy about it - instead of law enforcement never finding the body, they would never stop finding the body. He can be petty like that.

Next to that, he might even kidnap the one or the other obstacle and torture them. Or use them for live target practice. It could even be both on the same person - he would be horrible and bloodthirsty enough to do that. Of course, he could also use them for social experiments or practise brainwashing techniques on them. Here, he also would care much if the person is more powerful than him: Being a king or a priest or a president wouldn’t change that there would be red blood in their veins and that a knife could slit their throat just a well as by anybody else. Perhaps if the repercussions would be severe enough, then he wouldn’t, though there would be ways around that as well - the chaos of battle, challenges to a duel, or accidents. He would even be willing to side with his sworn enemies in order to get rid of such pests

#yandere hetalia #yandere prussia #yandere germany #x reader #yandere character sheet

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