#They KNOW that's the fastest way to get to him | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

aceromanticperfection · 9 hours ago

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@razgriz95 I think it might be about this article.

The only other link between ‘Severance’ and Tumblr I recall was people thinking it was inspired by someone reading a @charlesoberonn post about the concept (at least I think it was him).

I know the O.P. is rephrasing the ‘Torment Nexus’ meme, but that in itself reminds me of how Roald Dahl essentially saw modern generative A.I. coming in 1954’s “The Great Automatic Grammatizator”:

“WELL, Knipe, my boy. Now that it’s finished, I just called you in to tell you I think you’ve done a fine job.”

Adolph Knipe stood still in front of Mr. Bohlen’s desk. There seemed to be no enthusiasm in him at all.

“Aren’t you pleased?”

“Oh yes, Mr. Bohlen.”

“Did you see what the papers said this morning?”

“No, sir, I didn’t.”

The man behind the desk pulled a folded newspaper towards him, and began to read:

“The building of the great automatic computing engine, ordered by the government some time ago, is now complete. It is probably the fastest electronic calculating machine in the world today. Its function is to satisfy the ever-increasing need of science, industry, and administration for rapid mathematical calculation which, in the past, by traditional methods, would have been physically impossible, or would have required more time than the problems justified. The speed with which the new engine works, said Mr. John Bohlen, head of the firm of electrical engineers mainly responsible for its construction, may be grasped by the fact that it can provide the correct answer in five seconds to a problem that would occupy a mathematician for a month. In three minutes, it can produce a calculation that by hand (if it were possible) would fill half a million sheets of foolscap paper. The automatic computing engine uses pulses of electricity, generated at the rate of a million a second, to solve all calculations that resolve themselves into addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division. For practical purposes there is no limit to what it can do…”

Mr. Bohlen glanced up at the long, melancholy face of the younger man. “Aren’t you proud, Knipe? Aren’t you pleased?”

“Of course, Mr. Bohlen.”

“I don’t think I have to remind you that your own contribution, especially to the original plans, was an important one. In fact, I might go so far as to say that without you and some of your ideas, this project might still be on the drawing-boards today.”

Adolph Knipe moved his feet on the carpet, and he watched the two small white hands of his chief, the nervous fingers playing with a paperclip, unbending it, straightening out the hairpin curves. He didn’t like the man’s hands. He didn’t like his face either, with the tiny mouth and the narrow purple-coloured lips. It was unpleasant the way only the lower lip moved when he talked.

“Is anything bothering you, Knipe? Anything on your mind?”

“Oh no, Mr. Bohlen. No.”

“How would you like to take a week’s holiday? Do you good. You’ve earned it.”

“Oh, I don’t know, sir.”

The older man waited, watching this tall, thin person, who stood so sloppily before him. He was a difficult boy. Why couldn’t he stand up straight? Always drooping and untidy, with spots on his jacket, and hair falling all over his face.

“I’d like you to take a holiday, Knipe. You need it.”

“All right, sir. If you wish.”

“Take a week. Two weeks if you like. Go somewhere warm. Get some sunshine. Swim. Relax. Sleep. Then come back, and we’ll have another talk about the future.”

Adolph Knipe went home by bus to his two-room apartment. He threw his coat on the sofa, poured himself a drink of whiskey, and sat down in front of the typewriter that was on the table. Mr. Bohlen was right. Of course he was right. Except that he didn’t know the half of it. He probably thought it was a woman. Whenever a young man gets depressed, everybody thinks it’s a woman. He leaned forward and began to read through the half-finished sheet of typing still in the machine. It was headed “A Narrow Escape”, and it began “The night was dark and stormy, the wind whistled in the trees, the rain poured down like cats and dogs…”

Adolph Knipe took a sip of whiskey, tasting the malty-bitter flavour, feeling the trickle of cold liquid as it travelled down his throat and settled in the top of his stomach, cool at first, then spreading and becoming warm, making a little area of warmness in the gut. To hell with Mr. John Bohlen anyway. And to hell with the great electrical computing machine. To hell with…

At exactly that moment, his eyes and mouth began slowly to open, in a sort of wonder, and slowly he raised his head and became still, absolutely motionless, gazing at the wall opposite with this look that was more perhaps of astonishment than of wonder, but quite fixed now, unmoving, and remaining thus for forty, fifty, sixty seconds. Then gradually (the head still motionless), a subtle change spreading over the face, astonishment becoming pleasure, very slight at first, only around the corners of the mouth, increasing gradually, spreading out until at last the whole face was open wide and shining with extreme delight. It was the first time Adolph Knipe had smiled in many, many months.

“Of course,” he said, speaking aloud, “it’s completely ridiculous.” Again he smiled, raising his upper lip and baring his teeth in a queerly sensual manner.

“It’s a delicious idea, but so impracticable it doesn’t really bear thinking about at all.”

From then on, Adolph Knipe began to think about nothing else. The idea fascinated him enormously, at first because it gave him a promise—however remote—of revenging himself in a most devilish manner upon his greatest enemies. From this angle alone, he toyed idly with it for perhaps ten or fifteen minutes; then all at once he found himself examining it quite seriously as a practical possibility. He took paper and made some preliminary notes. But he didn’t get far. He found himself, almost immediately, up against the old truth that a machine, however ingenious, is incapable of original thought. It can handle no problems except those that resolve themselves into mathematical terms problems that contain one, and only one, correct answer.

This was a stumper. There didn’t seem any way around it. A machine cannot have a brain. On the other hand, it can have a memory, can it not? Their own electronic calculator had a marvellous memory. Simply by converting electric pulses, through a column of mercury, into supersonic waves, it could store away at least a thousand numbers at a time, extracting any one of them at the precise moment it was needed. Would it not be possible, therefore, on this principle, to build a memory section of almost unlimited size?

Now what about that? Then suddenly, he was struck by a powerful but simple little truth, and it was this: that English grammar is governed by rules that are almost mathematical in their strictness! Given the words, and given the sense of what is to be said, then there is only one correct order in which those words can be arranged.

No, he thought, that isn’t quite accurate. In many sentences there are several alternative positions for words and phrases, all of which may be grammatically correct. But what the hell. The theory itself is basically true. Therefore, it stands to reason that an engine built along the lines of the electric computer could be adjusted to arrange words (instead of numbers) in their right order according to the rules of grammar. Give it the verbs, the nouns, the adjectives, the pronouns, store them in the memory section as a vocabulary, and arrange for them to be extracted as required. Then feed it with plots and leave it to write the sentences.

There was no stopping Knipe now. He went to work immediately, and there followed during the next few days a period of intense labour. The living-room became littered with sheets of paper: formulae and calculations; lists of words, thousands and thousands of words; the plots of stories, curiously broken up and subdivided; huge extracts from Roget’s Thesaurus; pages filled with the first names of men and women; hundreds of surnames taken from the telephone directory; intricate drawings of wires and circuits and switches and thermionic valves; drawings of machines that could punch holes of different shapes in little cards, and of a strange electric typewriter that could type ten thousand words a minute. Also a kind of control panel with a series of small push-buttons, each one labelled with the name of a famous American magazine.

He was working in a mood of exultation, prowling around the room amidst this littering of paper, rubbing his hands together, talking out loud to himself; and sometimes, with a sly curl of the nose he would mutter a series of murderous imprecations in which the word “editor” seemed always to be present. On the fifteenth day of continuous work, he collected the papers into two large folders which he carried—almost at a run—to the offices of John Bohlen Inc., electrical engineers.

Mr. Bohlen was pleased to see him back. “Well, Knipe, good gracious me, you look a hundred per cent better. You have a good holiday? Where’d you go?”

He’s just as ugly and untidy as ever, Mr. Bohlen thought. Why doesn’t he stand up straight? He looks like a bent stick. “You look a hundred per cent better, my boy.” I wonder what he’s grinning about. Every time I see him, his ears seem to have got larger.

Adolph Knipe placed the folders on the desk. “Look, Mr. Bohlen!” he cried. “Look at these!”

Then he poured out his story. He opened the folders and pushed the plans in front of the astonished little man. He talked for over an hour, explaining everything, and when he had finished, he stepped back, breathless, flushed, waiting for the verdict.

“You know what I think, Knipe? I think you’re nuts.” Careful now, Mr. Bohlen told himself. Treat him carefully. He’s valuable, this one is. If only he didn’t look so awful, with that long horse face and the big teeth. The fellow had ears as big as rhubarb leaves.

“But Mr. Bohlen! It’ll work! I’ve proved to you it’ll work! You can’t deny that!”

“Take it easy now, Knipe. Take it easy, and listen to me.”

Adolph Knipe watched his man, disliking him more every second.

“This idea,” Mr. Bohlen’s lower lip was saying, “is very ingenious—I might almost say brilliant—and it only goes to confirm my opinion of your abilities, Knipe. But don’t take it too seriously. After all, my boy, what possible use can it be to us? Who on earth wants a machine for writing stories? And where’s the money in it, anyway? Just tell me that.”

“May I sit down, sir?”

“Sure, take a seat.”

Adolph Knipe seated himself on the edge of a chair. The older man watched him with alert brown eyes, wondering what was coming now.

“I would like to explain something, Mr. Bohlen, if I may, about how I came to do all this.”

“Go right ahead, Knipe.” He would have to be humoured a little now, Mr. Bohlen told himself. The boy was really valuable—a sort of genius, almost—worth his weight in gold to the firm. Just look at these papers here. Darndest thing you ever saw. Astonishing piece of work. Quite useless, of course. No commercial value. But it proved again the boy’s ability.

“It’s a sort of confession, I suppose, Mr. Bohlen. I think it explains why I’ve always been so ... so kind of worried.”

“You tell me anything you want, Knipe. I’m here to help you—you know that.”

The young man clasped his hands together tight on his lap, hugging himself with his elbows. It seemed as though suddenly he was feeling very cold.

“You see, Mr. Bohlen, to tell the honest truth, I don’t really care much for my work here. I know I’m good at it and all that sort of thing, but my heart’s not in it. It’s not what I want to do most.”

Up went Mr. Bohlen’s eyebrows, quick like a spring. His whole body became very still.

“You see, sir, all my life I’ve wanted to be a writer.”

“A writer!”

“Yes, Mr Bohlen. You may not believe it, but every bit of spare time I’ve had, I’ve spent writing stories. In the last ten years I’ve written hundreds, literally hundreds of short stories. Five hundred and sixty-six, to be precise. Approximately one a week.”

“Good heavens, man! What on earth did you do that for?”

“All I know, sir, is I have the urge.”

“What sort of urge?”

“The creative urge, Mr. Bohlen.” Every time he looked up he saw Mr. Bohlen’s lips.

They were growing thinner and thinner, more and more purple.

“And may I ask you what you do with these stories, Knipe?”

“Well, sir, that’s the trouble. No one will buy them. Each time I finish one, I send it out on the rounds. It goes to one magazine after another. That’s all that happens, Mr. Bohlen, and they simply send them back. It’s very depressing.”

Mr. Bohlen relaxed. “I can see quite well how you feel, my boy.” His voice was dripping with sympathy. “We all go through it one time or another in our lives. But now—now that you’ve had proof—positive proof—from the experts themselves, from the editors, that your stories are—what shall I say—rather unsuccessful, it’s time to leave off. Forget it, my boy. Just forget all about it.”

“No, Mr. Bohlen! No! That’s not true! I know my stories are good. My heavens, when you compare them with the stuff some of those magazines print—oh my word, Mr. Bohlen!—the sloppy, boring stuff that you see in the magazines week after week—why, it drives me mad!”

“Now wait a minute, my boy…”

“Do you ever read the magazines, Mr. Bohlen?”

“You’ll pardon me, Knipe, but what’s all this got to do with your machine?”

“Everything, Mr. Bohlen, absolutely everything! What I want to tell you is, I’ve made a study of magazines, and it seems that each one tends to have its own particular type of story. The writers—the successful ones—know this, and they write accordingly.”

“Just a minute, my boy. Calm yourself down, will you. I don’t think all this is getting us anywhere.”

“Please, Mr Bohlen, hear me through. It’s all terribly important.” He paused to catch his breath. He was properly worked up now, throwing his hands around as he talked. The long, toothy face, with the big ears on either side, simply shone with enthusiasm, and there was an excess of saliva in his mouth which caused him to speak his words wet.

“So you see, on my machine, by having an adjustable co-ordinator between the ‘plot-memory’ section and the ‘word-memory’ section I am able to produce any type of story I desire simply by pressing the required button.”

“Yes, I know, Knipe, I know. This is all very interesting, but what’s the point of it?”

“Just this, Mr Bohlen. The market is limited. We’ve got to be able to produce the right stuff, at the right time, whenever we want it. It’s a matter of business, that’s all. I’m looking at it from your point of view now—as a commercial proposition.”

“My dear boy, it can’t possibly be a commercial proposition—ever. You know as well as I do what it costs to build one of these machines.”

“Yes, sir, I do. But with due respect, I don’t believe you know what the magazines pay writers for stories.”

“What do they pay?”

“Anything up to twenty-five hundred dollars. It probably averages around a thousand.”

Mr. Bohlen jumped.

“Yes, sir, it’s true.”

“Absolutely impossible, Knipe! Ridiculous!”

“No, sir, it’s true.”

“You mean to sit there and tell me that these magazines pay out money like that to a man for ... just for scribbling off a story! Good heavens, Knipe! Whatever next! Writers must all be millionaires!”

“That’s exactly it, Mr. Bohlen! That’s where the machine comes in. Listen a minute, sir, while I tell you some more. I’ve got it all worked out. The big magazines are carrying approximately three fiction stories in each issue. Now, take the fifteen most important magazines—the ones paying the most money. A few of them are monthlies, but most of them come out every week. All right. That makes, let us say, around forty big stories being bought each week. That’s forty thousand dollars. So with our machine—when we get it working properly—we can collar nearly the whole of this market!”

“My dear boy, you’re mad!”

“No, sir, honestly, it’s true what I say. Don’t you see that with volume alone we’ll completely overwhelm them! This machine can produce a five-thousand-word story, all typed and ready for dispatch, in thirty seconds. How can the writers compete with that? I ask you, Mr. Bohlen, how?”

At that point, Adolph Knipe noticed a slight change in the man’s expression, an extra brightness in the eyes, the nostrils distending, the whole face becoming still, almost rigid. Quickly, he continued. “Nowadays, Mr. Bohlen, the hand-made article hasn’t a hope. It can’t possibly compete with mass-production, especially in this country—you know that. Carpets…chairs…shoes…bricks…crockery…anything you like to mention—they’re all made by machinery now. The quality may be inferior, but that doesn’t matter. It’s the cost of production that counts. And stories—well—they’re just another product, like carpets and chairs, and no one cares how you produce them so long as you deliver the goods. We’ll sell them wholesale, Mr. Bohlen! We’ll undercut every writer in the country! We’ll corner the market!”

Mr. Bohlen edged up straighter in his chair. He was leaning forward now, both elbows on the desk, the face alert, the small brown eyes resting on the speaker.

“I still think it’s impracticable, Knipe.”

“Forty thousand a week!” cried Adolph Knipe. “And if we halve the price, making it twenty thousand a week, that’s still a million a year!” And softly he added, “You didn’t get any million a year for building the old electronic calculator, did you, Mr. Bohlen?”

“But seriously now, Knipe. D’you really think they’d buy them?”

“Listen, Mr. Bohlen. Who on earth is going to want custom-made stories when they can get the other kind at half the price? It stands to reason, doesn’t it?”

“And how will you sell them? Who will you say has written them?”

“We’ll set up our own literary agency, and we’ll distribute them through that. And we’ll invent all the names we want for the writers.”

“I don’t like it, Knipe. To me, that smacks of trickery, does it not?”

“And another thing, Mr. Bohlen. There’s all manner of valuable by-products once you’ve got started. Take advertising, for example. Beer manufacturers and people like that are willing to pay good money these days if famous writers will lend their names to their products. Why, my heavens, Mr. Bohlen! This isn’t any children’s plaything we’re talking about. It’s big business.”

“Don’t get too ambitious, my boy.”

“And another thing. There isn’t any reason why we shouldn’t put your name, Mr. Bohlen, on some of the better stories, if you wished it.”

“My goodness, Knipe. What should I want that for?”

“I don’t know, sir, except that some writers get to be very much respected—like Mr. Eric Gardner or Kathleen Morris, for example. We’ve got to have names, and I was certainly thinking of using my own on one or two stories, just to help out.”

“A writer, eh?” Mr. Bohlen said, musing. “Well, it would surely surprise them over at the club when they saw my name in the magazines—the good magazines.”

That’s right, Mr. Bohlen!”

For a moment, a dreamy, faraway look came into Mr. Bohlen’s eyes, and he smiled. Then he stirred himself and began leafing through the plans that lay before him.

“One thing I don’t quite understand, Knipe. Where do the plots come from? The machine can’t possibly invent plots.”

“We feed those in, sir. That’s no problem at all. Everyone has plots. There’s three or four hundred of them written down in that folder there on your left. Feed them straight into the ‘plot-memory’ section of the machine.”

“Go on.”

“There are many other little refinements too, Mr. Bohlen. You’ll see them all when you study the plans carefully. For example, there’s a trick that nearly every writer uses, of inserting at least one long, obscure word into each story. This makes the reader think that the man is very wise and clever. So I have the machine do the same thing. There’ll be a whole stack of long words stored away just for this purpose.”

“Where?”

“In the ‘word-memory’ section,” he said, epexegetically.

Through most of that day the two men discussed the possibilities of the new engine. In the end, Mr. Bohlen said he would have to think about it some more. The next morning, he was quietly enthusiastic. Within a week, he was completely sold on the idea.

“What we’ll have to do, Knipe, is to say that we’re merely building another mathematical calculator, but of a new type. That’ll keep the secret.”

“Exactly, Mr. Bohlen.”

And in six months the machine was completed. It was housed in a separate brick building at the back of the premises, and now that it was ready for action, no one was allowed near it excepting Mr. Bohlen and Adolph Knipe.

It was an exciting moment when the two men—the one, short, plump, breviped—the other tall, thin and toothy—stood in the corridor before the control panel and got ready to run off the first story. All around them were walls dividing up into many small corridors, and the walls were covered with wiring and plugs and switches and huge glass valves. They were both nervous, Mr. Bohlen hopping from one foot to the other, quite unable to keep still.

“Which button?” Adolph Knipe asked, eyeing a row of small white discs that resembled the keys of a typewriter. “You choose, Mr Bohlen. Lots of magazines to pick from—Saturday Evening Post, Collier’s, Ladies’ Home Journal—any one you like.”

“Goodness me, boy! How do I know?” He was jumping up and down like a man with hives.

“Mr. Bohlen,” Adolph Knipe said gravely, “do you realize that at this moment, with your little finger alone, you have it in your power to become the most versatile writer on this continent?”

“Listen, Knipe, just get on with it, will you please—and cut out the preliminaries.”

“OK, Mr. Bohlen. Then we’ll make it... let me see—this one. How’s that?” He extended one finger and pressed down a button with the name TODAY’S WOMAN printed across it in diminutive black type. There was a sharp click, and when he took his finger away, the button remained down, below the level of the others.

“So much for the selection,” he said. “Now—here we go!” He reached up and pulled a switch on the panel. Immediately, the room was filled with a loud humming noise, and a crackling of electric sparks, and the jingle of many, tiny, quickly moving levers; and almost in the same instant, sheets of quarto paper began sliding out from a slot to the right of the control panel and dropping into a basket below. They came out quick, one sheet a second, and in less than half a minute it was all over. The sheets stopped coming.

“That’s it!” Adolph Knipe cried. “There’s your story!”

They grabbed the sheets and began to read. The first one they picked up started as follows:“Aifkjmbsaoegweztp-pl-nvoqudskigt&,-fuhpekanvbertyuiolkjhgfdsazxcvbnm,pe-ru itrehdjkg mvnb,wmsuy…”

They looked at the others. The style was roughly similar in all of them. Mr. Bohlen began to shout. The younger man tried to calm him down.

“It’s all right, sir. Really it is. It only needs a little adjustment. We’ve got a connection wrong somewhere, that’s all. You must remember, Mr. Bohlen, there’s over a million feet of wiring in this room. You can’t expect everything to be right first time.”

“It’ll never work,” Mr. Bohlen said.

“Be patient, sir. Be patient.”

Adolph Knipe set out to discover the fault, and in four days’ time he announced that all was ready for the next try.

“It’ll never work,” Mr. Bohlen said. “I know it’ll never work.”

Knipe smiled and pressed the selector button marked READER’S DIGEST. Then he pulled the switch, and again the strange, exciting, humming sound filled the room. One page of typescript flew out of the slot into the basket.

“Where’s the rest?” Mr Bohlen cried. “It’s stopped! It’s gone wrong!”

“No sir, it hasn’t. It’s exactly right. It’s for the Digest, don’t you see?”

This time it began. “Fewpeopleyetknowthatarevolution-ary-ewcurehasbeendiscoveredwhichmaywell-bringperma-nent-relieftosufferersofthemostdreadeddiseaseofourtime...” And so on.

“It’s gibberish!” Mr. Bohlen shouted.

“No, sir, it’s fine. Can’t you see? It’s simply that she’s not breaking up the words. That’s an easy adjustment. But the story’s there. Look, Mr. Bohlen, look! It’s all there except that the words are joined together.”

And indeed it was.

On the next try a few days later, everything was perfect, even the punctuation. The first story they ran off, for a famous women’s magazine, was a solid, plotty story of a boy who wanted to better himself with his rich employer. This boy arranged, so that story went, for a friend to hold up the rich man’s daughter on a dark night when she was driving home. Then the boy himself, happening by, knocked the gun out of his friend’s hand and rescued the girl. The girl was grateful. But the father was suspicious. He questioned the boy sharply. The boy broke down and confessed. Then the father, instead of kicking him out of the house, said that he admired the boy’s resourcefulness. The girl admired his honesty—and his looks. The father promised him to be head of the Accounts Department. The girl married him.

“It’s tremendous, Mr. Bohlen! It’s exactly right!”

“Seems a bit sloppy to me, my boy!”

“No, sir, it’s a seller, a real seller!”

In his excitement, Adolph Knipe promptly ran off six more stories in as many minutes. All of them—except one, which for some reason came out a trifle lewd—seemed entirely satisfactory.

Mr. Bohlen was now mollified. He agreed to set up a literary agency in an office downtown, and to put Knipe in charge. In a couple of weeks, this was accomplished. Then Knipe mailed out the first dozen stories. He put his own name to four of them, Mr. Bohlen’s to one, and for the others he simply invented names.

Five of these stories were promptly accepted. The one with Mr. Bohlen’s name on it was turned down with a letter from the fiction editor saying, “This is a skilful job, but in our opinion it doesn’t quite come off. We would like to see more of this writer’s work…”

Adolph Knipe took a cab out to the factory and ran off another story for the same magazine. He again put Mr. Bohlen’s name to it, and mailed it immediately. That one they bought.

The money started pouring in. Knipe slowly and carefully stepped up the output, and in six months’ time he was delivering thirty stories a week, and selling about half.

He began to make a name for himself in literary circles as a prolific and successful writer. So did Mr. Bohlen; but not quite such a good name, although he didn’t know it. At the same time, Knipe was building up a dozen or more fictitious persons as promising young authors. Everything was going fine.

At this point it was decided to adapt the machine for writing novels as well as stories. Mr. Bohlen, thirsting now for greater honours in the literary world, insisted that Knipe go to work at once on this prodigious task.

“I want to do a novel,” he kept saying. “I want to do a novel.”

“And so you will, sir. And so you will. But please be patient. This is a very complicated

adjustment I have to make.”

“Everyone tells me I ought to do a novel,” Mr. Bohlen cried. All sorts of publishers are chasing after me day and night begging me to stop fooling around with stories and do something really important instead. A novel’s the only thing that counts—that’s what they say.”

“We’re going to do novels,” Knipe told him. “Just as many as we want. But please be patient.”

“Now listen to me, Knipe. What I’m going to do is a serious novel, something that’ll make ’em sit up and take notice. I’ve been getting rather tired of the sort of stories you’ve been putting my name to lately. As a matter of fact, I’m none too sure you haven’t been trying to make a monkey out of me.”

“A monkey, Mr. Bohlen?”

“Keeping all the best ones for yourself, that’s what you’ve been doing.”

“Oh no, Mr. Bohlen! No!”

“So this time I’m going to make damn sure I write a high class intelligent book. You understand that.”

“Look, Mr. Bohlen. With the sort of switchboard I’m rigging up, you’ll be able to write any sort of book you want.”

And this was true, for within another couple of months, the genius of Adolph Knipe had not only adapted the machine for novel writing, but had constructed a marvellous new control system which enabled the author to pre-select literally any type of plot and any style of writing he desired. There were so many dials and levers on the thing, it looked like the instrument panel of some enormous aeroplane.

First, by depressing one of a series of master buttons, the writer made his primary decision: historical, satirical, philosophical, political, romantic, erotic, humorous, or straight. Then, from the second row (the basic buttons), he chose his theme: army life, pioneer days, civil war, world war, racial problem, wild west, country life, childhood memories, seafaring, the sea bottom and many, many more. The third row of buttons gave a choice of literary style: classical, whimsical, racy, Hemingway, Faulkner, Joyce, feminine, etc. The fourth row was for characters, the fifth for wordage—and so on and so on—ten long rows of pre-selector buttons.

But that wasn’t all. Control had also to be exercised during the actual writing process (which took about fifteen minutes per novel), and to do this the author had to sit, as it were, in the driver’s seat, and pull (or push) a battery of labelled stops, as on an organ. By so doing, he was able continually to modulate or merge fifty different and variable qualities such as tension, surprise, humour, pathos, and mystery. Numerous dials and gauges on the dashboard itself told him throughout exactly how far along he was with his work.

Finally, there was the question of “passion”. From a careful study of the books at the top of the best-seller lists for the past year, Adolph Knipe had decided that this was the most important ingredient of all—a magical catalyst that somehow or other could transform the dullest novel into a howling success—at any rate financially. But Knipe also knew that passion was powerful, heady stuff, and must be prudently dispensed—the right proportions at the right moments; and to ensure this, he had devised an independent control consisting of two sensitive sliding adjusters operated by foot-pedals, similar to the throttle and brake in a car. One pedal governed the percentage of passion to be injected, the other regulated its intensity. There was no doubt, of course—and this was the only drawback—that the writing of a novel by the Knipe methods was going to be rather like flying a plane and driving a car and playing an organ all at the same time, but this did not trouble the inventor. When all was ready, he proudly escorted Mr. Bohlen into the machine house and began to explain the operating procedure for the new wonder.

“Good God, Knipe! I’ll never be able to do all that! Dammit, man, it’d be easier to write the thing by hand!”

“You’ll soon get used to it, Mr. Bohlen, I promise you. In a week or two, you’ll be doing it without hardly thinking. It’s just like learning to drive.”

Well, it wasn’t quite as easy as that, but after many hours of practice, Mr. Bohlen began to get the hang of it, and finally, late one evening, he told Knipe to make ready for running off the first novel. It was a tense moment, with the fat little man crouching nervously in the driver’s seat, and the tall toothy Knipe fussing excitedly around him.

“I intend to write an important novel, Knipe.”

“I’m sure you will, sir. I’m sure you will.”

With one finger, Mr Bohlen carefully pressed the necessary pre-selector buttons:

Master button—satirical

Subject—racial problem

Style—classical

Characters—six men, four women, one infant

Length—fifteen chapters.

At the same time he had his eye particularly upon three organ stops marked power, mystery, profundity.

“Are you ready, sir?”

“Yes, yes, I’m ready.”

Knipe pulled the switch. The great engine hummed. There was a deep whirring sound from the oiled movement of fifty thousand cogs and rods and levers; then came the drumming of the rapid electrical typewriter, setting up a shrill, almost intolerable clatter. Out into the basket flew the typewritten pages—one every two seconds. But what with the noise and the excitement and having to play upon the stops, and watch the chapter-counter and the pace-indicator and the passion-gauge, Mr. Bohlen began to panic. He reacted in precisely the way a learner driver does in a car—by pressing both feet hard down on the pedals and keeping them there until the thing stopped.

“Congratulations on your first novel,” Knipe said, picking up the great bundle of typed pages from the basket.

Little pearls of sweat were oozing out all over Mr. Bohlen’s face. “It sure was hard work, my boy.”

“But you got it done, sir. You got it done.”

“Let me see it, Knipe. How does it read?”

He started to go through the first chapter, passing each finished page to the younger man.

“Good heavens, Knipe! What’s this?” Mr. Bohlen’s thin purple fish-lip was moving slightly as it mouthed the words, his cheeks were beginning slowly to inflate.

“But look here, Knipe! This is outrageous!”

“I must say it’s a bit fruity, sir.”

“Fruity! It’s perfectly revolting! I can’t possibly put my name to this!”

“Quite right, sir. Quite right!”

“Knipe! Is this some nasty trick you’ve been playing on me?”

“Oh no, sir! No!”

“It certainly looks like it.”

“You don’t think, Mr. Bohlen, that you mightn’t have been pressing a little hard on the passion-control pedals, do you?”

“My dear boy, how should I know?”

“Why don’t you try another?”

So Mr. Bohlen ran off a second novel, and this time it went according to plan. Within a week, the manuscript had been read and accepted by an enthusiastic publisher. Knipe followed with one in his own name, then made a dozen more for good measure. In no time at all, Adolph Knipe’s Literary Agency had become famous for its large stable of promising young novelists. And once again the money started rolling in.

It was at this stage that young Knipe began to display a real talent for big business.

“See here, Mr. Bohlen,” he said. “We’ve still got too much competition. Why don’t we just absorb all the other writers in the country?”

Mr. Bohlen, who now sported a bottle-green velvet jacket and allowed his hair to cover two-thirds of his ears, was quite content with things the way they were. “Don’t know what you mean, my boy. You can’t just absorb writers.”

“Of course you can, sir. Exactly like Rockefeller did with his oil companies. Simply buy ’em out, and if they won’t sell, squeeze ‘em out. It’s easy!”

“Careful now, Knipe. Be careful.”

“I’ve got a list here sir, of fifty of the most successful writers in the country, and what I intend to do is offer each one of them a lifetime contract with pay. All they have to do is undertake never to write another word; and, of course, to let us use their names on our own stuff. How about that?”

“They’ll never agree.”

“You don’t know writers, Mr. Bohlen. You watch and see.”

“What about the creative urge, Knipe?”

“It’s bunk! All they’re really interested in is the money—just like everybody else.”

In the end, Mr. Bohlen reluctantly agreed to give it a try, and Knipe, with his list of writers in his pocket, went off in a large chauffeur-driven Cadillac to make his calls.

He journeyed first to the man at the top of the list, a very great and wonderful writer, and he had no trouble getting into the house. He told his story and produced a suitcase full of sample novels, and a contract for the man to sign which guaranteed him so much a year for life. The man listened politely, decided he was dealing with a lunatic, gave him a drink, then firmly showed him to the door.

The second writer on the list, when he saw Knipe was serious, actually attacked him with a large metal paperweight, and the inventor had to flee down the garden followed by such a torrent of abuse and obscenity as he had never heard before.

But it took more than this to discourage Adolph Knipe. He was disappointed but not dismayed, and off he went in his big car to seek his next client. This one was a female, famous and popular, whose fat romantic books sold by the million across the country. She received Knipe graciously, gave him tea, and listened attentively to his story.

“It all sounds very fascinating,” she said. “But of course I find it a little hard to believe.”

“Madam,” Knipe answered. “Come with me and see it with your own eyes. My car awaits you.”

So off they went, and in due course, the astonished lady was ushered into the machine house where the wonder was kept. Eagerly, Knipe explained its workings, and after a while he even permitted her to sit in the driver’s seat and practise with the buttons.

“All right,” he said suddenly, “you want to do a book now?”

“Oh yes!” she cried. “Please!”

She was very competent and seemed to know exactly what she wanted. She made her own pre-selections, then ran off a long, romantic, passion-filled novel. She read through the first chapter and became so enthusiastic that she signed up on the spot.

“That’s one of them out of the way,” Knipe said to Mr Bohlen afterwards. “A pretty big one too.”

“Nice work, my boy.”

“And you know why she signed?”

“Why?”

“It wasn’t the money. She’s got plenty of that.”

“Then why?”

Knipe grinned, lifting his lip and baring a long pale upper gum. “Simply because she saw the machine-made stuff was better than her own.”

Thereafter, Knipe wisely decided to concentrate only upon mediocrity. Anything better than that—and there were so few it didn’t matter much—was apparently not quite so easy to seduce.

In the end, after several months of work, he had persuaded something like seventy per cent of the writers on his list to sign the contract. He found that the older ones, those who were running out of ideas and had taken to drink, were the easiest to handle. The younger people were more troublesome. They were apt to become abusive, sometimes violent when he approached them; and more than once Knipe was slightly injured on his rounds.

But on the whole, it was a satisfactory beginning. This last year—the first full year of the machine’s operation—it was estimated that at least one half of all the novels and stories published in the English language were produced by Adolph Knipe upon the Great Automatic Grammatizator.

Does this surprise you?

I doubt it.

And worse is yet to come. Today, as the secret spreads, many more are hurrying to tie up with Mr. Knipe. And all the time the screw turns tighter for those who hesitate to sign their names.

This very moment, as I sit here listening to the howling of my nine starving children in the other room, I can feel my own hand creeping closer and closer to that golden contract that lies over on the other side of the desk.

Give us strength, Oh Lord, to let our children starve.

At long last, we have created Severance from the classic sci-fi series Don't Create Severance.

#severance #torment nexus #roald dahl #The Great Automatic Grammatizator #futurism

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thelonelyshore-if · 3 days ago

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Beck Propaganda

Who is Beck:

Chaos incarnate, Beck is all fire and passion. He's a character who is trapped, intrinsically, by forces beyond his control...and by his own fear. He's spent his entire life in a dead-end town and he's obsessed with anything that makes him feel alive. Usually that means risking his life. Free climbing radio towers, racing motorcycles, swimming at the top of a waterfall...anything that gets his heart racing. He feels everything up to eleven, and never sits still. Sitting around doing nothing is boring. Beck would rather die than be bored.

Beck is bold and brash and stubborn. She has issues with commitment and permanence. She's terrified of death...but not terrified enough to avoid courting it. When it comes to adrenaline, Beck loves feeling afraid. Fear is how you know you're alive. Other kinds of fear aren't nearly as appealing. She's playful, and teasing, and brave as hell.

Beck's Romance:

In a way, Beck's romance is a jumbled pile of contradictions. It's one of the fastest romances, because everything about Beck is fast. They don't wait around for anyone. They're flirty, and they're quick to let MC know that they're interested. What's the point in waiting around twirling your thumbs and pining over somebody when you could make out about it instead? On the other, Beck is terrified of commitment. Kissing someone is great--dating them is harder.

Beck's romance might be good for someone interested in a will-they-won't-they sort of romance. It will bring up a lot of feelings for Beck that they don't know what to do with. How do you let yourself fall in love with someone when the sheer thought of being in love is terrifying? They want to be with MC...nearly as much as they're scared of it. All in all, they're one of the harder ROs to pin down...for better or for worse.

Beck Inspo:

#propaganda continued #beck #they're maybe my favorite character to write #up there for sure #they're so fun and playful #and their romance is one of the ones i've been thinking about since the start #i'm mildly obsessed with it #make beck face their fears challenge 2025

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remyfire · 20 hours ago

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Did you think I was kidding about dantrap.

I think it’s got incredible comedic and angst potential if Trapper’s marriage falls apart and all he can think is that he needs to get away. The war isn’t over yet, and no, he and Hawk never wrote, but Trap imagines that Hawkeye should have his rotation points by now (he does not know they increased them), so surely he’s home. He drives straight to Maine…and he is not there. But Daniel tells him that it’s gonna get dark soon and he’d rather Trap stay the evening rather than driving in the dark, if he’d be so kind as to keep a lonely old doctor company? And then he might as well stay the weekend because there’s a big fair the next town over and traffic’s gonna be hell. And then he just. Never goes home.

I am thinking about things like how Daniel and Trapper start his time there sitting far apart at the dining table and one on the couch and one in a lounge chair in the living room. And how slowly they begin getting closer in multiple ways. Soon they’re perpendicular at meals, not flinching if their shoes or legs brush each other’s under the table. They end up on the couch together because Trapper wants Daniel’s opinion on a recent medical journal and that’s the fastest way for them to read the article and see any visuals while holding a fervent conversation.

It’s actually. Nice. For Trap to not be instantly seeing someone as a potential sexual partner from the beginning. He’d almost forgotten what that felt like. That’s why it’s so incredibly inconvenient when they lock eyes for a long moment several weeks into his stay and he feels the telltale hunger swelling up in his chest. Daniel’s brilliant. He’s clever. Funny. Compassionate in a way that Trapper hasn’t seen in older doctors for a while—so many of them lose their heart over the course of their careers, so tired and frustrated and forgetting to see their patients as humans. It’s really unfortunate that Trapper began to fall for him before he ever realized how sexually attracted to him he is. It’s harder to cut off. It’s been so long. He was so fucking lonely before getting here.

Imagining a night when they’ve stayed up too late talking about everything and nothing. They’re sitting so their thighs are pressed flush together. Daniel keeps avoiding Trapper’s gaze, but Trap will catch him looking anyway from the corner of his eye. So Trapper does something stupid like he always does. He lightly rests his hand on his thigh. Leans in.

“Trapper,” Daniel warns but without much force behind it.

Trap grins. He can’t help it. He rests his other hand on Daniel’s cheek and watches him shiver. There is a faint sense of horror in his gaze. But there is far, far more heat.

So Trapper kisses him, gentle as anything. Lingers close to see what Daniel will do. “John.” Daniel murmurs, “We can’t.”

“Think I just did,” Trapper drawls. “What if I do it again?”

Daniel takes in a deep, shaky breath. “You know why we can’t.”

“I can help you forget it.” Trapper thumbs over Daniel’s cheek. Daniel still hasn’t pulled away.

But then Daniel says, “We have to tell Hawkeye,” and Trapper’s heart sinks all the way to the floor. He can’t breathe. Hawkeye. Hawkeye who has no idea that Trapper is even attracted to men. Hawkeye who might not make it home.

In the end it’s Trapper who pulls back, gets up, and walks to the window, staring into the infinite darkness of the new moon’s night. When Daniel stands, he doesn’t turn. He’s so busy shoving all of his emotions down like a foot in an overstuffed trash bag that he only comes out of it when he hears Daniel’s bedroom door close. He doesn’t follow.

#thank you to erfz and jon and andy for experiencing these visions with me #i need them on my blog too #everyone must see the visions #wait where are you all going #dantrap #my writing #headcanons #long post

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the-secret-keeper · 3 hours ago

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Where MC Reunites With Grim and Their Friends While The Obey Me Brothers Go Feral

People were wanting this from the part one of this request by @sweetlicorice

Where MC Tells the Obey Me Boys About How Horribly They Were Treated In Twisted Wonderland: (Part 1: Lucifer, Mammon, Leviathan, Asmodeus, Satan, Beelzebub, and Belphegor) And (Part 2: Diavolo, Barbatos, Simeon, Solomon, and Luke)

Specifically requested by @chaosisbliss

TW: Talk of Angry Demons (don't worry, they aren't mad at you), Reuniting with a pet, Reuniting with friends, Crying, Fear of an authority figure, Talk of being overworked, Talk of being burnt out, Talk of abuse of power, Talk of gaining weight (in Levi's, but it's very brief)

Reader is referred to as MC by the characters, and MC is gender neutral, but this is in second person point of view, so for the most part, you will be referred to as 'You' by the narrator.

Characters included are: Lucifer, Mammon, Leviathan, Asmodeus, Satan, Beelzebub, and Belphegor

Could be read as romantic or platonic

I will do a part two of this for the Dateables + Luke

This will be long so story under the cut

This will be organized by character with some context beforehand.

Enjoy!!

It took a bit of time, but a determined sorcerer, a determined angel, and several infuriated demons can do pretty much anything they set their minds to. Solomon broke through dimensional travel quite easily upon realizing you'd been summoned from another world, despite originally being from the human realm in this world. It was narrowing down which dimension that was the issue.

But knowing that you were missing your friends and your cat, and the idea that they could possibly reunited with them made them work even harder. Not to mention pressure from both Lucifer and Diavolo, who wanted to 'exchange words' with your previous headmaster and his teaching tactics. They wanted to see the people you speak so highly of. And Satan and Solomon want to meet your cat.

They were trying their hardest to lessen your homesickness while they worked on finding a way there. And it worked. Until the portal opened, and you were the first to volunteer to go through. You couldn't wait! You were going to see your friends again, you were going to see Grim again! So you took your boys, and you went through the portal.

Lucifer:

"Grim!" You yelled, upon seeing the cat, being carried by your friends as they walked around campus.

They all turned upon hearing your voice, but Grim was the fastest to react. He flew over faster than anyone else could say 'MC' and threw his paws around your neck, hugging you as tight as he could. He wanted to make sure you weren't a hallucination. You hugged back, not as tight, for fear of hurting him, but still tight. He was crying, you were crying. Your friends rushed over not long after, gently dragging the pair of you away from Lucifer, who had been standing beside you.

They quickly piled onto the hug, until no one was really sure who was hugging who, but you were in the center, surrounded by warmth and love. Everyone was crying, at least a little bit, but they would never admit it in a million years. Lucifer looked on fondly, reminded that you had friends, a found family, outside of him and his brothers, as well as the others.

"Where is the headmaster's office?" He asked after everyone separated, but before they could ask you questions.

"Oh right, you wanted to talk to Crowley." You sniffled, wiping away the tears, and letting Grim crawl up to lay across your shoulders. "I can show you. You guys want to come with? We can catch up and you can get to know my new housewarden." You winked at Lucifer, who simply rolled his eyes in a manner more befitting of someone who was amused, than annoyed.

"We're never leaving your side again." Deuce deadpanned, looking you in the eyes. "You gave us all heart attacks when you just disappeared like that!"

"Yeah! We thought our housewardens were going to overblot, again!" Epel agreed.

"Sorry about that." You smiled, laughing awkwardly. "I didn't really have control over that, though."

"It's true. MC was summoned by Lord Diavolo, they had no say in the matter."

"I don't mind though." You beamed at Lucifer. "I live with Lucifer, and his brothers."

"Perhaps you can regale them with your tales of adventure while you show me to the headmasters office." Lucifer agreed, gesturing for you to lead the way. You nodded, and began to do so.

You told your friends of your adventures in the Devildom. About the Crown Prince, and his wonderful butler. About the insanely powerful wizard. You spoke rather highly of the seven demons you're staying with. You did conveniently "forget" to mention that one of them killed you, and more of them tried, but you're all cool now.

You talked extensively about how well you were treated, to make sure your friends knew that while you missed them, you were safe. And you were happy. You felt bad for making them worry, so you figured you should put their minds at ease about the time you spent away.

They didn't say it, but your friends took note of how people in the hallways practically dove out of the way as you and Lucifer walked through the halls. They knew Lucifer was powerful, hell, Deuce bet he could feel his magical ability from a mile away, maybe more. But they originally thought this would be similar to Malleus, and how people respected and got out of his way.

But oddly enough, they noticed that it wasn't necessarily intimidation, or respect, but outright fear that seemed to be driving these people away. As you smiled, and chattered on about how you couldn't wait to take Grim home and cuddle with him in a bed that isn't rotting, and have him meet your new roommates, and Lucifer walked mostly silently, his eyes forward, or on you, at all times, people were desperate to get out of the way. Epel swears he saw someone jump out of a window when they got close enough. And they didn't understand it. Malleus elicited a reaction similar, but this? This was on another level. And something about it made them doubt that Crowley would leave talking with Lucifer alive.

You spotted a familiar face, one that you really wanted Lucifer to meet. You figured that it would be best for him to meet one of the more competent members of staff before he met.... Crowley. You beamed, seeing Crewel.

"Professor Crewel!" You called out, breaking off from the group to rush up to him. "Lucifer come on!" You turned back before you reached him, gesturing for Lucifer to follow you. "I want you to meet Professor Crewel." He sighed, but agreed, walking forward, as you rushed to greet your old professor.

"Pup!" He called upon seeing you, briskly walking up to you, and grabbing your face, quickly inspecting for any bruises or signs of illness or anything else. "Are you ok? When I was informed you simply disappeared, I didn't know what happened. I was so worried!"

"I'm alright!" You promised. "I was brought back to my world, sort of. It's a little hard to explain." You laughed, deciding to leave out the part where you live in what is technically Hell. "I'm sorry to have worried you so much, I didn't really have any control over my leaving. But you can rest assured! I'm in good hands! See this is," You looked back to see Lucifer looking at something on one of the walls, "Lucifer! What's got your attention?"

"Nothing." He shook his head. "I just saw someone I thought I knew." He smiled fondly at the thought, walking over to you.

You didn't know it at the time, and you wouldn't for a long time. But the person he thought he saw was you, specifically you on a missing person poster. Your friends had plastered the school with them, along with the town nearby, and managed to even send some to Royal Sword Academy.

"Professor Crewel, this is Lucifer. He acts as the Housewarden for where I live now, but he does a lot more than just act as Housewarden. Lucifer, this is one of the more competent members of staff here at Night Raven, Professor Divus Crewel. He teaches potionology."

"So you're taking care of my pup?"

"MC is in my care, yes." Lucifer nodded. "Were you the one taking care of them while they were here?"

"Unfortunately not. Had I been allowed to act as their guardian, they would've been significantly better taken care of. However, I wasn't allowed to do much for them."

"Professor Crewel did all he could." You told Lucifer. "Professor Crewel," he looked to you, and you smiled, almost maliciously, a look he was curious to see on your face, "Lucifer is on his way to talk to Crowley. Do you happen to know if he's in his office?"

You and Crewel had a silent conversation, one where he realized your plan. You were going to let Lucifer tear Crowley a new one. Verbally is the intention, but no one would complain if it was physically as well. Especially not you, and definitely not Crewel.

His smile turned evil, matching your own in a way that people might swear make you look related. You both chuckled slightly, in an evil way before Crewel nodded, pleased with your unspoken plan. He cleared his throat in a belated attempt to cover his laughter. He looked between you and Lucifer.

"He is, in his office. He actually just got back." You groaned out of sympathy.

"Another vacation?"

"Yes." He nodded, sighing.

"Vacation? In the middle of the school year?" Lucifer questioned. Ace, with no sense of self-preservation, patted Lucifer on the shoulder casually.

"He does that a lot. And all his work used to get pinned on poor MC." You realized what he was doing, but didn't say anything.

"It's true, he used to give them all his work when he wanted to go on an impromptu vacation." Jack agreed.

"Crewel and Trein would take the work when they could, but they are full-time professors, after all." You sighed, shrugging. "Remember all those sleepless nights Grim?"

"Yeah." He yawned. "I'm tired just thinking about them."

"Well those are no more, Grim."

"That so?"

"Lucifer." You looked at him. "You get to keep Cerberus." You teased.

"Cerberus serves a purpose." He teased back, but in a tone that would make anyone that didn't know him think he was serious.

"I'll find a way to convince Satan to stop pranking you for a month if you let me bring Grim back."

"Deal." He agreed.

You both nodded, before following Crewel towards Crowley's office, your friends in tow. Walking the familiar path towards the office of the man who had been the source of so much anxiety for you for so long made you remember the bad times, and you instinctively leaned closer to Lucifer. He didn't move from his position, but also didn't tell you to lean away. There was a sense of pride within him, based on how safe you felt with him.

Once you reached his office door, Crewel looked back at you before knocking on the door. A voice sounded from within, telling Crewel to come in. Crowley. He opened the door, and you stood stone still, like a statue, seeing the inside of his office, knowing just how much stress had come from that place. Sebek was about to reach out, tell you that you didn't have to go in, when Lucifer gently nudged you forward. You steeled yourself, and entered the room.

Crowley stood from his previously extremely relaxed position upon seeing you. Beaming at you, like he had done no wrong. You stepped aside, not revealing Lucifer, as he was quite large, but drawing attention to him. You took a deep breath, before looking at Lucifer.

"Have at thee." You gestured at Crowley.

"Are you completely incompetent?" Lucifer started, and you smiled, gesturing for your friends to come in. Ace was recording it, to no one's shock, and telling you he would send it to you once they figured out inter-dimensional texting.

You all watched as Lucifer tore apart Crowley. From his teaching, to his work ethic, to his spending, to the state of his student body's mental health, not that you really thought he was able to speak on the matter. Eventually, and you never thought you'd see the day this happened, he simply stooped to insulting his appearance and intelligence.

Lucifer was pissed, and he was pissed on your behalf. He knew he was imposing, and scary, he knew if you really wanted to you could have the same effect. But he also knew you shouldn't have to. And that if he could do this for you, after all this man put you through, then it's the least he could do as a way to repay you for helping him and his brothers.

It was a satisfying experience. Though not nearly as satisfying as watching Lucifer straight up bitch-slap Crowley after he tried to insult you. You simply held Grim in front of you, stroking his fur in the same way a movie villain might. Taking pride in how much Lucifer cared about how badly you'd been treated, and rectifying this horrible experience, in his own way.

Mammon:

"I told ya didn't I?" Mammon boasted. "I told ya I'd getcha to your cat." He beamed.

You were positively vibrating with excitement. You were back in Twisted Wonderland, and you couldn't wait to see everyone again. You were excited to see your friends, sure, but you were overly excited to see Grim. You really wanted Mammon, and everyone else in the Devildom to meet him. But more than anything you want to be able to sleep again, with Grim right there beside you.

You could see it now, the arguing between Mammon and Grim about who was the favorite. Them calling you henchman and human. You really hoped they would get along, but you also know that bickering is their love language, so who knows how this will go?

"Trickster!" You turned at the familiar voice of the one, and only, Rook Hunt. "You have returned!"

"Rook!" You called, cheerfully. He swept you into an enormous hug, laughing as he did so.

"Oi!" You heard Mammon exclaim, so you separated from the eccentric archer.

"Rook, meet my friend Mammon. Mammon, this is Rook Hunt. He's an archer who goes to school here. Rook, I live with Mammon, now." You introduced, and they shook hands. Mammon was hesitant, But Rook was enthusiastic. "And we're actually on a mission, we're,"

"Looking for Monsieur Fuzzball?" Rook guessed, not looking away from Mammon, who he seemed to be studying.

"Yes!"

"I thought yer cats name was Grim?"

"It is. Rook gives everyone a nickname. Monsieur Fuzzball is just what he calls Grim." Mammon looked increasingly unnerved by Rooks staring, and the fact that he hadn't stopped shaking his hand yet.

"I believe you will find him in Headmaster Crowley's office." You grabbed Rooks hand, taking it off Mammons.

"Rook. Hunt. What in the whole of Twisted Wonderland, do you mean, Grim is in Headmaster Crowley's office?" You asked sternly.

"I simply mean that he's in there. I know not why, just that your friends, Monsieur Heart and Monsieur Spade were talking about it with Roi des Roses. They wanted to get him out, but Roi des Roses didn't let them." Rook explained in that ever-cheerful tone of his. You felt your eye twitch.

"Mammon," You turned, a strained smile painting your features, "I will tell you where Lucifer hid your three backup credit cards, and feed your raven familiars for two weeks, no complaints. If you help me get my cat out of Crowley's office."

"Do you not wish to see the others in your first year group?" Rook asked.

"I can catch up with them after, I don't trust Crowley with Grim." You snapped at Rook, before turning to Mammon. "If I direct you can you speed up the travel?"

"How am I s'posed to do that?"

"Dude, you can fly. And you love a dramatic entrance."

"You know which windows his though?"

"Course I do, I used to throw rocks at it when I was feeling particularly angry." You shrugged. "Come on, Mammon. Please!" You begged.

"Alright, alright. Just cuz you asked so nicely of the Great Mammon." He chuckled, smiling proudly.

"Mammon! Now!" You demanded, and he jumped, but nodded, and transformed into his demon form and picked you up.

He took off with ease, holding you like some sort of teddy bear. You guys have done this before, often enough for him to be confident in flying with you in his arms, but not often enough for you to be any less scared about this sensation. It wasn't exactly fun to be flying at high speeds with the only thing securing you being Mammons arms. Granted, he is insanely strong, so it's not that you think he'd drop you, it's just a scary feeling.

You can't exactly yell over the sound of the wind, it's very loud, and it gets hard to breathe when going at high speeds like this, so speaking is kind of inconvenient. Instead of talking to Mammon, to tell him where to go, you pointed. It's a rather effective system, you've found. You directed him through the large buildings on campus, and pointed at one specific window.

You'd seen the school from above before. Ace had always been rather fond of scaring you by doing this, Deuce hot on his trail. And Malleus was always very nice when it came to helping you experience the things the other first years get to do but you can't because of your lack of magic. Not to mention all those times Kalim kidnapped you on his magic carpet, much to Jamil's chagrin.

Mammon, without a moments hesitation, quickly moved one of his hands to cover your head, and rammed into the window of Crowley's office. He was careful in his landing, he always is, but he was extra careful with the glass being on the ground. You spotted Grim, sitting in a corner. You rushed over to hug him, as Mammon looked around the office. He narrowed his eyes, noting the distinct lack of anyone but Grim.

"Where's Crowley?" You asked Grim, voicing Mammon's question.

"He brought me in here and he left. He locked the door behind him. He was wearing his vacation shirt." Grim told you, hugging you back as tight as he could.

"He locked you in here?!" You asked, outraged. Grim nodded. "Dire Crowley, you will pay." You muttered, feeling Satan's influence overcome you. But you took some deep breaths and stood up, turning to Mammon. "Mammon, this is Grim. Grim, this is Mammon. If you want to come with us, we'll both be living with him, and his brothers."

"I'm never leaving you again."

"The feeling is mutual." You smiled at your beloved cat. "So, we've made our dramatic entrance, shall we use the door this time?"

"It's locked." Grim reminded.

"Not for the Great Mammon." You teased. "Right?"

"Right!" Mammon agreed, before ramming into the door. You blinked, looking at the shards of wood on the floor, looking through the hole he made at his proud smiling face.

"I meant, pick the lock." You laughed lightly.

"Oh. I knew that. Obviously. I just thought, I mean, obviously, this was just, quicker."

"Is he dumb?"

"You have no room to talk, Grim." You reminded, reaching through the hole and unlocked the door, pushing it open.

After stepping over the shards of wood, Grim migrated to be laying across your shoulders, and you linked arms with Mammon. You laughed at his request to avoid the strange man from earlier. You didn't say it to him, but you knew that if Rook really wanted to, there would be no stopping him from finding you. After all, he managed to follow Vil all the way to that island just to give him his skincare.

Instead, you figured you should head to find your friends and explain where the hell, pun intended, you've been. You hummed, trying to think about where they were, and how to get all of them together. Ace and Deuce should come first, they'll likely be together, and you know where they probably are. They can then text the others.

Though, the more you thought of it, the more you slightly dreaded the thought. You missed your friends, and you really wanted to see them! But you also knew they attracted trouble like no one else can, and Mammon would only intensify that. So as you silently debated the consequences of this course of action, you made your way to Heartslabyul.

"We have to sneak." You whispered, pulling Mammon behind a bush.

"Why?" Mammon whispered back.

"I don't remember all the rules of Heartslabyul, there's 810. I don't remember if there are any rules about visitors, whether that be times visitors can be here, how many, unannounced, I don't know. Riddle's great, but I don't want to get collared. Though," You looked at Mammon, "I am slightly curious about how his collar would affect you."

"Collar?"

"Yeah, it's his signature spell, it's called 'Off with your head'. It creates a collar around your neck, a rather obvious one," You pointed at a student walking away from the main building, dejected, with a collar around his neck, "that's one. They all look like that. And it seals your magic. But you're technically a magical being of demonic origin."

You shrugged as you looked around to see if you could spot Cater or Trey, or one of the others to bring you in without Riddle knowing. You wanted to see him, but you would like to confirm you wouldn't be breaking any rules first. You didn't, but you'd snuck into Heartslabyul enough to know how to sneak in without Riddle knowing. You gestured for Mammon to follow you, and he did, as you expertly weaved through the rosebushes, pausing every now and then as you saw students that might rat you out to Riddle. You made it into the building, Grim still laying across your shoulders, with Mammon in tow.

"Is this how yer so good at sneaking around the House of Lamentation ?" Mammon hissed as you headed to the kitchen.

"Yes, and also no. It's partly to blame, but not the entire reason." You hissed back.

"You both should shut up!" Grim hissed to both of us. You both looked at Grim before you sighed, nodded, and continued going to the kitchen.

Heartslabyul is a maze on a day that you're welcome, but as you dodged and weaved, avoiding all possible students, it felt like a labyrinth, and you were outrunning Riddle the Minotaur. Of course, this wasn't true. And you knew in the back of your mind that Riddle would likely welcome you, you didn't want to risk it.

You had debated bringing Mammon somewhere else and just asking another person to text your friends, but you knew that Mammon would cause trouble wherever, you'd rather have Trey on-hand than put that responsibility on anyone else. And also you wanted to talk to your friends in person before anyone got the chance to tell them you were back.

"Apparently, someone crashed into Crowley's office, stole Grim and left."

"And it wasn't the two of you?" Trey asked Deuce, who had been talking. You stopped Mammon from walking as you eavesdropped on the conversation in the kitchen.

"Do you see Grim? If we took him he'd be here." Ace reasoned, and you could practically see him rolling his eyes.

"Do you think it has something to do with that flying figure people were talking about earlier?"

"Riddle told you both to stop spreading rumors." Trey gently scolded.

"It's not a rumor! People saw it, there's photos." Deuce defended.

"It's probably just another student on a broom, that accidentally crashed into Headmaster Crowley's office window." Trey tried.

"Broom?" Mammon asked.

"It's a magical conduit, they use it to fly." You explained quietly.

Deciding it would be best to just get this over with, you sighed, and moved to stand in front of the kitchen door. You knocked lightly on the door, getting a quick response from Trey. Pushing the door open, you smiled at the familiar sight, noting how none of them were looking at you, or at Mammon. Trey was the first to notice, nearly dropping the bowl that was in his hands at the sight of you.

Seeing his reaction, both Ace and Deuce turned to the door, their jaws practically hitting the floor. They rushed over, nearly tackling you in the process, hitting each other, trying to hold you longer than the other. Trey just watched fondly as they fought, you in the middle, and all the nostalgia of having seen this interaction happen many times before.

It's likely that none of you would've separated on your own accord, had Mammon not yelped, jumping out from behind the wall, and drawing attention to himself. But, it wasn't him making a loud noise that caught your eye, but the new shiny collar around his neck, which made you laugh. You turned, smiling at Riddle, who had seen the unfamiliar man from afar.

"Yeah," you smiled, nodding to yourself as you looked around, not having seen all your friends yet, but happy nonetheless, "it's good to be back."

Leviathan:

It figures that you'd find Grim in Ignihyde. Idia always did like cats, and though you loved your friend group, you had secretly hoped that he would end up in Ignihyde. Not only because then he would surely be fed, he'd have Ortho, and Idia. And while he may have known more people in, say, Heartslabyul, the dorm Idia led tended to be much more to Grim's liking. This was likely because he's fed not only breakfast, but also second breakfast, lunch, supper, dinner, and snacks between all those, as well as fed at all the Heartslabyul events he's surely invited to. It's also dark, and quiet, which means he gets to sleep all he likes.

You were glad your companion was in a place that really would take good care of him, you trusted Idia with that, Ortho too. Speaking of Ortho, it was actually the technomatic humanoid that found you and Leviathan, almost immediately. You had the sneaking suspicion that Idia was watching the cameras again, and told him to go get you. But you also had no proof, and certainly weren't going to accuse the Ignihyde dormhead of doing that without it.

Ortho had given you a tight squeeze, and was chattering the whole way to Ignihyde as Levi trailed behind you. Once actually in Ignihyde, he clung to your arm, so as not to lose you as he marveled at all the technology in the labyrinth-like dorm. He was quiet as Ortho talked about all that you had missed, and where Grim was. Apparently, he was in Idia's room right now, but once Grim and you reunite, Ortho promised to message your other friends, the other first years. He didn't even question the man attached to your arm, though, to be fair, you acted like this was normal, so he likely didn't want to accidentally offend your new companion.

Upon reaching Idia's dorm door, Ortho knocked, still cheery as ever, and Idia didn't respond. Ah yes, the usual behavior, you thought, knowing he wouldn't want to interact with Leviathan unless he had to. However, when Idia didn't answer, and likely recognizing the knock, Grim did. The door was opened for you, and in you went, immediately, your eyes darted to your feline-like friend, laying on his own regal, and very expensive-looking, cat bed.

Without hesitating, you pulled out of Levi's grip, and dashed towards Grim in excitement, smooshing him into a tight, yet not painful for him, hug.

"Oi! What have I said about," He started to scold, but stopped upon his quick realization that it was you holding him, and not some random Ignihyde student with enough audacity to rival Crowley in Grim's mind. "MC." He said, fondness and excitement seeping into his tone as he hugged you back as tight as his little arms would allow.

"Have you gained weight?" You asked, to which he pushed you back, looking offended. "Not in a bad way, dummy, in like, I can't feel your ribs when I hug you anymore kind of way. In a good way." You reassured. "Hi Idia!" You called, looking at your flaming-haired friend in his gaming chair.

"Hey, MC." He greeted somewhat fondly.

"Is this the otaku friend you have that you told me about?" Levi asked. You nodded.

"Idia is one of the best gamers of both video and board variety in Night Raven College. He also has extensive anime and manga knowledge, as well as other things. His collections of merchandise, manga, video games, and anime is equally as impressive as yours are. He doesn't have a giant aquarium in his room, but his stuffs all state of the art." You explained in Idia's place.

This is something they're both passionate about, but Idia is far more introverted than Leviathan, who is very loud and proud of his interests. You do think that they might get along, of course, there's no guarantee. They're both highly competitive, and to be honest, you don't really want them to play competitive video games against each other, because you fear the consequences.

"As much as I would love for you two to be able to play video games and discuss anime and manga, I also know that Ortho texted the first years the moment I hugged Grim, and Idia does not want them in his room. You'll just have to talk later." You smiled, gently grabbing Levi, Grim still hugged to your chest. "Come on, Levi, I think you understand not wanting a bunch of rowdy freshman in your room, right?" He nodded.

"We need to play video games together later though." Levi was looking at you, but you knew he was talking about Idia.

"Maybe Lilia will let you use his PC to play against Idia until we figure out inter-dimensional communication." You offered, tugging lightly on Levi's sleeve. "Come on, Levi. Bye Idia!"

You smiled at him and he waved as you left, and you could tell he was grateful you were making Levi leave with you. And while he would never voice it, you could also tell he was a little annoyed that you had brought Levi into his dorm at all.

You let Ortho guide you back out, not being nearly familiar enough with the layout after so much time to make it out without getting lost first, and this time Levi was asking Ortho all kinds of questions. Not only about the technology in Ignihyde, but also about the kinds of video games and video game consoles this world has. You had warned Levi beforehand, when talking about Idia and Ortho, to not talk about Ortho being a technomatic humanoid, or an android that looks like a human. No matter how much he wants to.

Once out, you were greeted by the group of first years you consider family. Leviathan, upon seeing Jack and Sebek were taller than him, but the rest were noticeably shorter, almost asked what they were feeding the sixteen year olds in this world, and why did it make those two so tall. That being said, Leviathan couldn't help but be slightly envious when you dashed away from him towards the group, giving each of them a tight hug, Grim standing nearby as he watched you reunite with your friends, but you picked him up quickly after.

After making sure everyone was thoroughly greeted, you beckoned Leviathan closer, a smile on your face as you introduced him as your Lord of Shadows, and your favorite roommate, which quelled his envy quite a bit. You smiled, seeing him, admittedly awkwardly, interact with your friends, Grim even begrudgingly letting him pet him. However, there was one thing that stuck out to you.

"What's this I hear about me letting someone use my PC?" You shrieked as Lilia popped up behind you, startling everyone, with the exception of Sebek, who was used to Lilia's antics by now.

"Lilia!" You scolded, before laughing.

Asmodeus:

You were glad you'd picked Asmodeus to go with you, when you arrived only to immediately be pulled right back into the antics of your friends. It was like you had never left. However, you didn't get to see Grim right away, oh no, no. You saw everyone but Epel and Grim because Crewel had decided Grim should stay in Pomefiore while he was away trying to petition Crowley get removed. They barely noticed Asmodeus' presence, not even really acknowledging his existence, which pissed him off but you quietly begged him to just let it go.

He did, which actually worked in your favor.

The antics you were pulled into were your friends attempting to pull a rescue mission for Epel and Grim, as Vil was overseeing them right now. This means that they're not only dodging Vil, they're dodging Rook, and also half of Pomefiore. You glanced at Asmo as Vil was mentioned, watching his jaw clench.

Ever since you told Asmo what Vil had done in preparation for the VDC/SDC he's been rather keen on meeting him, if only to rip into him for the damage he could've done to you mentally, and the damage he did do financially. You would stop him if he went too far, he knew you would, so he wasn't too worried about getting in trouble. And if he did, he would simply charm his way out.

You all approached Pomefiore with as much stealth as you could muster, for a bunch of sixteen year old boys, plus you, and Asmo, who was wearing heels. You stayed close to your friends, but kept a close eye on Asmodeus.

You were all crouched below the window to the room where Epel and Grim were, as well as Vil, and you think maybe Rook, but you didn't see him. Then again, you rarely do if he doesn't want you to, scarily enough. You watched for a few moments as Vil gave both Epel and Grim a rigorous etiquette lesson, and once he deemed necessary, a break was taken. Once a break was taken, the window was pulled open a little, as it opened outward, and the plan commenced.

"Psst." Ace hissed quietly, which caught Epel's attention.

Epel glanced over and saw Ace, and then you, and nearly gave you all away with the way he almost gasped. He instead, clamped his mouth shut, gently grabbed Grim, and as nonchalantly as he could muster, walked over to the window.

He held Grim out the window and dropped him, right into your awaiting arms, before he hopped out, and closed the window behind him. Vil had not noticed, mission accomplished. Epel gave you an extremely tight hug, with his farm-boy strength nobody realizes he has, and made a quiet promise to catch up with you once you were away from the dorm.

However, none of you took into account the fact that Rook was just not in the room, and that's why you didn't see him, not that he just didn't want to be seen. An arrow, aimed to shoot right by your face, was quickly caught by Asmodeus, shocking everyone, and infuriating him. You simply sighed.

"Rook, you shouldn't shoot arrows on school grounds. It's dangerous." You scolded lightly, knowing the jig was up. He stepped out of the woods bordering Pomefiore, a smile plastered on his face, as it usually was.

"Trickster!"

"Rook." You smiled.

"And your incredibly athletic friend." Rook acknowledged Asmodeus, which he smiled in satisfaction, finally being noticed. You were also very impressed with Asmodeus's display of strength and speed.

You often forget, as you and him mostly gossip and do skincare, makeup, and hair, that Asmodeus is powerful in his own right. Not just in his ability to charm. He's one of the Seven Deadly Sins, one of the leaders of hell. He's strong, it's just easy to forget because he doesn't display it in the same way his brothers do.

You made a mental note to give him some of the skincare Mammon had gifted you from doing a modeling shoot for the company, but you don't use.

"Trying to escape your lessons, Epel?" You looked up at the sharp tone of Vil.

"Hi Vil." You greeted.

"That's Vil?" Asmo asked.

"Be nice, please." You gently asked Asmo, knowing he likely wouldn't.

"Inside, all of you. And don't think this won't be reported to your Housewardens." Vil threatened, and you sighed, holding your friend in your arms, as the group trudged around the building, and through the hallways to get back to the room Vil was in.

You stood between Vil and Asmodeus, being a slight barrier, a little bit of a buffer, for the argument you knew was to soon follow. Asmodeus was opinionated, he's strong-willed, and though he loathes to admit it, he can be just as stubborn as his brothers. You knew that if Asmodeus had his mind set on arguing with Vil, about something you already told him that you forgave Vil for, he would be arguing with Vil before he left.

You hoped he'd start the argument soon. Vil can hold his own against people who were critical against him, he's had to for most of his life. But you also didn't want them to argue in public, that wouldn't be good for anyone. Vil, though patient with most, and often firm in his sentiments, could be provoked if they knew how to push him. And Asmodeus would know how to push him.

"Asmo, this is Vil Schoenheit. Vil, this is Asmodeus. He's one of my current roommates, and the one accompanying me today." You introduced. "Asmo," you looked to your friend, who simply smiled, "don't go too far." You sighed, knowing this was inevitable.

Epel shared confused glances with the other first years as Asmodeus's smile and cheerful facade fell, and his eyes turned to glare at Vil, who looked almost taken aback at the sudden hostility. Though you were standing between them, and Asmodeus would be careful with his words since you were there, you still dreaded this interaction.

Vil raised an eyebrow, looking Asmodeus up and down, Asmodeus doing the same to him, but in a way that was searching for imperfections, more than an overall impression. You almost wanted to go find someone who was more qualified to handle this. Crewel, or maybe Trein if pushed. But, Crewel wasn't here, and Trein was busy. You considered, for a few moments, seeing if you could summon Lucifer, or maybe a different brother, but you knew that wouldn't really stop this, just delay it, so you decided against it.

Glancing slightly behind you, movement catching your eye in your peripherals, you did a double take, fully turning around and walking to the window. You looked at Ace.

"I thought you said Crowley was off-campus."

"He is. Went off on a vacation yesterday morning." Ace rolled his eyes.

"Then what is he doing here? And why is he wearing that?!" You asked, utter disgust seeping into your tone, not only at the sight of your previous tormentor, but also at the sight of what he was wearing.

Dire Crowley, though his usual attire was alright, perhaps it could even be called stylish, but it was professional, and it stood out. You could recognize him quite quickly from his clothes, anyone could. This seems to have put everyone, yourself included, under the false impression that he has a good sense of style. Clearly, that's not right.

He was wearing his usual hat and mask, but everything else was straight out of the "don't" section of one of Asmo's, or even Mammon's, fashion magazines. He wore a bright red, cropped, floral, button-up shirt, the kind you'd see dads wear in cartoons or movies, but it showed off his stomach, and rivaled the color of a fire truck. His shorts, which were extremely bright yellow, looked to be swim trunks, with a corn pattern on it. Below that, white mid-calf height socks, and bright neon green flip flops. The flip-flops practically glowed, nevermind the fact that he was wearing socks with them.

Ace and Deuce rushed up, always ready to mock the headmaster, but what they said didn't invite a stream of insults, simply loud cackling from them both as they nearly toppled over at the sight. Ace, wiping tears from his eyes, claimed he couldn't breathe as he devolved into laughs. Deuce couldn't stop clutching his stomach. Normally one to always respect authority, Deuce had a grudge against the headmaster after everything he'd done to you, so he had no more qualms with laughing at him.

Their laughter caused you to have to stifle your own giggles, but that didn't work when Epel soon joined the duo on the floor, wheezing with laughter, and even Rook let out a snicker. Asmodeus, wanting to not only see Crowley, but also his fashion disaster you'd pointed out, walked to the window at the same pace as Vil, and they reached it at the same time, both nearly gagging in disgust. Asmo didn't because he knew if you heard him, you'd tell his brothers, and he'd never live it down. Vil didn't because it was unbecoming. But the urge was there.

Leaning against Asmo as your laughter calmed down, you smiled at him.

"Save the argument for another day?" You asked gently, and he sighed, but hugged you.

"Oh, alright. But only because you asked so nicely." He teased, making you laugh.

"You're SQUISHING ME." You quickly separated from Asmodeus when Grim yelled out.

"Right! Grim, meet Asmodeus." You held the cat out from under his arms so he could be face-to-face with Asmo. "Asmo, this is Grim. And this is also the rest of my First Year friend group." You gestured around the room at the first years. "Jack and Sebek are the most well behaved." You added quietly, and he nodded.

"He looks like a stoplight!" Ace snorted, causing the other two, who had started to calm down, to descend into mad laughter once more, and the other two even started to chuckle a bit themselves.

"I think my brothers will fit right in here. The others will too." Asmo giggled. You smiled fondly at the thought.

Satan:

It was a pleasant surprise when you heard from some passing Diasomnia students, complaining about the favoritism, that Grim was taken in by Diasomnia. You smiled, realizing that your good friend Hornton had been kind enough to take care of your beloved companion. Sneaking through the halls with Satan was actually relatively easy. While some people did double takes upon seeing your familiar face, no one tried to stop you as you wandered through the halls and towards the Hall of Mirrors.

Upon getting there, beaming, you led Satan through the mirror, much to his apprehension, upon having never seen this means of transportation before. Once through, you beamed, looking up at the castle that was the Diasomnia dorm. You took note of the overcast weather, and the thunder rumbling in the distance, but didn't mention the cause to Satan, who looked at the castle with curiosity.

You talked with Satan, beaming about how excited you were to see Grim, and for them to meet. You also began to tell him about Diasomnia, as you walked up the winding road to the gate. You entered the building with little difficulty, no one questioning your presence, as they were enveloped in their own world. You hummed, trying to figure out where your cat would be in this large dormitory.

"Cakes!" You jumped as you heard someone running towards you, yelling. Satan gently touched your shoulder, ready to defend you at a moments notice, but you recognized the voice. "Cakes! Lilia's making cakes!"

"Oh no." You muttered, a cold chill going down your spine at the warning. Stopping once he reached the room, Sebek didn't look at you, simply yelling out the warning once more.

"Lilia's making cakes!" You laughed lightly, though it was nervous and forced. "MC!" Sebek yelled at a much louder volume, in a much happier tone. Never one for affection, he didn't hug you, but he did beam, and start to pull out his phone.

"Where's Grim? I heard he was here." You quickly asked.

"I believe he is with the Young Master, trying to study."

"Trying... to study? Grim?!" You asked, shocked at the claim.

"I know, I was shocked as well. But he's been very diligent in his studies since you went missing." Sebek told you. "I must text the others."

"Text Lilia too." You added. "Satan here, my escort, my roommate, the person with me today, he's super smart, and I'm sure he would love to learn everything there is to learn from Lilia." You explained.

"While that is true, don't throw me under the bus." Satan asked, sighing.

"You don't understand, Satan." You blinked, grabbing his sweater. "Lilia is just as bad at cooking as Solomon. If Lilia is in the kitchen, we are all in danger."

"I would love to learn everything from this, Lilia person." He quickly rectified.

"See? Ready and willing to learn!" You turned back to Sebek, who was already frantically typing on his phone. Moments later, a familiar voice rang out.

"So you want to learn, do you?" You flinched as Lilia popped up beside you, looking to Satan. Quickly giving you a tight hug, Lilia then turned his full attention to Satan. "Why?"

"Satan's a genius, and he's read basically every book on magic in all of existence where he's from. Who better to learn from than you?" You quickly intercepted, before the demon could tell the fae, that he's a demon.

"Fair enough." Lilia nodded, before turning. "I assume you want to see Grim, MC, so we'll take you there first, yes?" Sebek nodded, still typing on his phone, likely trying to tell Silver to clear out the kitchen and quick.

The small group that had formed, you, Satan, Lilia, and Sebek, walked through the halls of Diasomnia. Satan, ready to keep this man distracted from going back to the kitchen, had started asking Lilia questions. He remembered you mentioning that Lilia was very old, from a conversation a while back, but you didn't say how old, so he asked about history. Luckily, Lilia is that old, and history happens to be his best subject.

As Lilia told Satan of the past, you asked Sebek about what had happened since you left. Apparently, there's been a petition being passed not only around the student body, but around the staff, and the families of students as well, to get Crowley removed from his position as Headmaster. No one knows who started the petition, and no one knows where it is right now, but apparently, the last Sebek heard, it had over 2,000 signatures.

You reached the room in which Malleus and Grim were relatively quickly, and all of you remained silent, as you witnessed the interaction. Grim, struggling to answer the questions that Malleus asked, but Malleus, patient as ever, helped him find the answer, rather than just giving it to him. Based on the number of books around them, they had likely been at this for hours. You were the first to step forward, wrapping your arms around your cat, and lifting him up, giving him a hug.

He struggled for a second, but once he was able to turn around, and see you, he reciprocated the gesture, nearly crying in relief, but refusing to do so in public. Your sweet reunion was interrupted by the sound of a confetti popper popping. Everyone's attention was drawn to Lilia, who had a bright smile on his face. You laughed at his antics, before turning your attention to Malleus.

"Hello, Hornton." You smiled fondly, carefully hugging him and Grim at the same time. "It's good to see you again."

"Child of Man!"

He seemed to snap out of his shock, rising out of his seat, and pulling you into a tight hug. It took a moment, but Grim wormed his way out, gasping for air as he landed on the table, but, he wasn't free for long.

"So this is Grim." Satan asked, picking him up.

"The one and only." You confirmed, still being hugged by Malleus. "And this, tall, horned fellow, is my really good friend, Hornton, or, as he's formally known, Crown Prince Malleus of Briar Valley, or just Malleus." You explained, patting Malleus' back.

"Oh, yeah, that makes sense." Satan nodded, hugging Grim.

"I should also probably formally introduce everyone." You sighed, gently pushing Malleus off of you. "I'll get you some ice cream later, we can eat it together." You promised, still sticking close to the fae who had missed you dearly. "Satan, this is Sebek Zigvolt, knight of Malleus Draconia, and first year of Night Raven College. Silver is around here somewhere, I'm sure, he's another knight, and Lilia's son. Lilia is Malleus' caretaker, and also a royal guard. Everyone, this is Satan."

"What, no spectacular introduction for me?"

"Do you want one?" You asked, almost laughing at Satan's teasing tone. He hummed, shrugging. "Satan is one of my roommates where I live now, along with his six brothers. Satan and his brothers hold high-ranking positions in the government, and Satan himself is extremely knowledgeable on magic, with an extensive library, both physically and mentally." You smiled.

"Wonderful introduction, dear." Lilia clapped, making you laugh. "But with such an extensive library, it makes me wonder what Mc thinks you can learn from me." Lilia pondered aloud, winking at you.

"Well, Lilia, you're rather knowledgeable on many forms of magic and the history of magic in this world, a world Satan has never been to or read about before. Not to mention, you were there when most of it happened." You squinted, trying not to offend the fae. "To be fair though, Satan is much the same, in that regard." They both squinted at eachother.

"Vampire?" Satan asked, making Lilia snicker.

"Maybe." Lilia disappeared, only to reappear beside Satan, upside down. "Maybe not."

"Lilia is a fae." You quickly told Satan, trying not to cause any misunderstandings. "Satan is, an entity. Which is often considered evil. But he is not." You slowly explained, avoiding the word demon.

Demons get a bad rep, even in Twisted Wonderland, which makes you tread lightly. Not that it isn't deserved in a lot of cases, but you also knew that Satan didn't do those things, at least not here. Lilia has never spoke on the subject, so you don't know his opinions, hence why you are being careful.

"Interesting." Lilia smiled, almost eerily.

"Say, Sebek, didn't you text the other first years?" You asked, trying to divert the conversation, as you walked around the table, and gently took Grim from Satan, wary of a possibly argument.

"Ooh! More guests! I shall have to cook a great feast."

"That's not necessary!" Everyone shouted in unison as Lilia finished his sentence, causing his eyes to widen in slight shock, before everyone else started laughing at the sight.

Beelzebub:

"Grim!" You beamed, seeing the cat.

He looked up from his large plate of food, gulping down his bite before racing over, tripping multiple people in the process, which made you laugh. You opened your arms, kneeling down so he could jump into your arms. And the second he did, you closed your arms around him. Tears, happy tears, escaped your eyes, as you finally felt like your best friend was with you again.

No one approached you either, because they didn't want to interrupt such a lovely moment. That, and the massive red-head standing behind you protectively was scaring them off. However, it seemed like not everyone was affected by Beel's intimidating presence, not that the sunshine could really imagine the danger of the man he didn't know was a demon.

"Mc!" You looked up, laughing lightly as Kalim bounded over, quickly taking your hand and helping you up, squeezing you into a short hug, but quickly separating at Grims yowling at being squashed.

"It's good to see you too, Kalim. Oh, this is my roommate and escort for today, Beelzebub, but I just call him Beel." You explained, wiping your tears. "Beel, this is Kalim, and this..." You held Grim up, presenting him proudly. "Is Grim!"

"Hello." He greeted to both Kalim and Grim. "It's good to meet you both."

"Please! Help yourself, we're having a feast tonight!" Kalim invited.

"I don't know if Jamil will be able to keep up with Beel." You worried quietly, though no one seemed to hear as he ushered both of you to seats at the long table.

Never able to resist Jamil's delicious cooking, you did make yourself a plate, Grim bringing his own plate over to sit beside you. Beel, excited to taste the food that you had praised so much, dug right in with little apprehension. Once you finished your plate, you quickly separated from your friend you'd recently reunited with, to go greet Jamil. Grim followed you of his own volition, carrying his plate with him.

You entered the kitchen and stepped to the side, out of the way, as you watched Jamil work. He really did command the kitchen, it reminded you of Barbatos in a way. His efficiency, his calm demeanor, the way he's not afraid to direct people. The similarities were striking, at least in their efficiency. You made a mental note to introduce them. Jamil could use a friend who could relate to him.

You smiled as he turned, holding a soup pot, getting ready to put it in a serving dish when he saw you. His eyes widened, his jaw dropping, and the soup pot nearly going with it, but he regained his composure quickly, setting the soup pot aside. He rushed over, checking you over, making you laugh.

"Nice to see you too, Jamil."

"You can never disappear like that again. Kalim nearly lost his mind."

"I appreciate it." You nodded. "That being said, I came here to warn you, actually. The guest I'm here with, Kalim invited them to the feast,"

"Very Kalim-like. Why warn me?"

"Because he's essentially a bottomless pit, and I didn't want you to be surprised by the amount he can eat." You explained, slightly awkwardly.

"How much?"

"Can he eat? I'm not sure, to be honest. He's always eating. But he's also an athlete. I'd be surprised if you could feed him until he's full, I don't know that anyone's ever managed that."

"Let me put this into a serving dish, and then I'll come meet him."

"Alright. In the meantime, I'm gonna go ask Kalim to borrow his phone, I need to text the other first years before they realize I'm here and think I betrayed them by not immediately informing them." You told him, to which he waved you off, and watched you leave the kitchen.

You did exactly as you said you would, asking Kalim for his phone, which he happily gave and unlocked without a second thought, even without an explanation. You simply shook your head at his slight naivety, looking at Beel, who was eating at a reasonable pace, but an ungodly amount of food sat on his plate. You quickly sent a text to Ace, Deuce, and the others as well, telling them that it was you, you just had Kalim's phone, and you were in Scarabia.

The immediate response was to tell you that they were on their way. Which you said, meet you at Octavinelle instead, you have a bit of a plot. You gave them about fifteen minutes before they got there, if that long. You handed Kalim his phone back, watching as Jamil came out with the serving treys. You were always impressed with the amount he could cook.

Once he had set all the components down, he turned, looking for you, and walking over once he spotted you. You smiled at Beel who had looked up at you as this new person approached, glancing between the two of you, as if to see if he was going to do something.

"Beel, this is Jamil, the person who cooked all this food, and a good friend of mine. Jamil, this is Beelzebub," he raised an eyebrow at the name, seemingly the only person to notice, "and I call him Beel. He's one of my new roommates." He nodded.

"I've heard you eat a lot, Beel." He said cautiously. "How much?"

"I dunno." He shrugged. "Never feel full, so I'm always eating."

"Well don't fill up here. Jamil's food is top notch, no doubt about it, but, I have another place who's ingredient capacity I want you to test. And, I pulled a Mammon, so we don't have to worry about the price." You smiled at him, holding your cat to your chest still, as he contentedly purred.

"You talkin' 'bout Azul's place?" Grim asked sleepily.

"Yep." You beamed maliciously.

"What do you mean, you pulled a Mammon?" Jamil asked.

"I guess technically it's not a Mammon because I have permission to use his card, and Mammon often does not." You said thoughtfully. "But I have Lucifer's card, and Mammon and Levi managed to rig it so it'll work interdimensionally. Neato, huh?"

Yes, Mammon, the man who knows how money works better than anyone, and Leviathan, the most electronically adept demon you've ever met working together. It was a nightmare. But they get results, and the results are in your favor. Granted, you didn't ask them to do this, Lucifer did, but it was still to your benefit.

You didn't want to take Lucifer's card at first, knowing how tempted you would be to try to buy Night Raven College from Crowley, knowing everything has a price with that damned crow. However, the eldest demon brother insisted, telling you that he wanted you to have access to money while there, if only to prove that you didn't need to rely on Crowley anymore.

And, not to put this lightly, Lucifer is rich. Lucifer makes a lot of money doing what he does. He doesn't spend it all at once, and when he does, there's not much he wants. He's got a shit ton of money in his bank account. He insinuated that you could go wild with buying whatever you want, if you really wanted to, to prove your new status as a member of a high-ranking family like you are with them.

That being said, you did warn him that you intended to buy the entirety of Azul's menu, not only to eat as much of it as you could, but also because you wanted to embarrass him by letting Beel eat everything he has. And he seemed ok with this. As long as you were happy.

"His restaurant is decently expensive, do you really want to see just how much he can eat of Azul's food?" Jamil asked.

"I've got a jailbroken debit card that has essentially no limit. If I didn't have Beel here to convince me to only buy food, I'd be buying the school." You warned.

"I could do that." Kalim offered smiling. You gently patted his shoulder.

"Please do not." You asked gently. He frowned, but nodded. "You get a good taste of everything?" You asked Beel.

"It's really good." He complimented Jamil, as he nodded. "I like your blend of spices, and the different spice levels in each. The seasonings are really good, and the flavors are delicious. Everything is cooked really well, as well." Jamil was slightly taken aback by his review of the food, but nodded, and thanked him for his kind words.

"Time to go eat Azul out of house and home." You smiled at Beel. "It was lovely to see you both." You hugged Kalim and then Jamil, separately. "I will be stopping by once more, but," you glanced at the dent Beel had made in the food on the table, "likely with someone who has less of an appetite."

"You're welcome here anytime." Kalim assured. "Bring anyone you like, and please, do come back. It's good to see you." He beamed at you.

"Thanks Kalim, I will. I'll probably be bringing a few of my other friends. And this time," you looked to Jamil, "I promise to come after warning you." He nodded, thankful for your assurance. "Come on Beel, we gotta meet my friends and we have to get you to the Mostro Lounge in order to eat everything you can." You smiled as he rose from his seat, nodding.

"It was nice meeting you both." He nodded to Jamil and Kalim. Kalim, ever the sunshine, waved enthusiastically as you both left, whereas Jamil just watched you leave.

"You know, Grim. From here on out, you won't need to worry about other people feeding you. The House of Lamentation is almost always stocked with food. No more worrying about your next meal." You promised the cat, who was now resting across your shoulders. He laughed happily at the statement as you left Scarabia.

You quickly made your way from Scarabia, to Octavinelle, quickly met with your friend group, who physically tackled you to the ground, happy to be able to see you again. You introduced them to Beel, who intimidated most of them, but actually got into a nice conversation with Epel and Jack about sports, which Deuce quickly joined after catching up with you, as you walked into Octavinelle, before you were once again tackled, but this time by Floyd.

Floyd, who greeted you enthusiastically. You greeted him back, before quickly filling him in on your plan. Ever the chaotic entity, he merely smiled, in a scary ominous way, before bringing all of you to a table in the back, and went to fill Jade, who is in the kitchen of your plan.

You could practically see the terrified look on Azul's face now, which made you smile. Yeah, this is going to be good.

Belphegor:

"Leona!" You yelled as you entered Savanaclaw on a warpath.

You briefly stopped to politely greet Ruggie, who watched in shock as you, and your escort, marched to Leona's room. Your eye twitched as you watched Grim struggle against Leona's sleeping form. Having been in that position before, and knowing how strong his grip could get, you looked at Belphie.

"Can you go get him from whatever dreamscape he's in?"

"I can try."

"Can you wake him?"

"I most certainly can." He agreed, smiling at your insistence that this man must me woken, despite his usual insistence to just let people be when they sleep. He was more amused than anything, which is why he was going along with it.

You gestured for him to go ahead, and he transformed into his demon form with ease, walking over towards Leona. Grim, looking up at him, stopped moving in fear of the man. Belphegor, to his credit, didn't really pay any attention to your cat, more focused on the man holding the one thing you were more certain than anything that you wanted. He easily lifted his tail, and with quite a lot of force, smacked Leona's face with it. You winced in sympathy, but it woke up him up nonetheless.

The second he woke up, Belphegor transformed back to his normal form, before Leona could see him, and Leona easily released Grim, who jumped into your arms. Mission accomplished, Belphegor walked back over to you, draping himself over your shoulders. Once prompted, he gently pat Grim's head, Leona looking on incredulously.

"Um? Herbivore, what the fuck? How are you here? Why are you here? What did you do to me?"

"I don't know. Magic. To get Grim and wreak havoc. And I did nothing, ask Belphegor, he's great at causing damage to the human, or, in this case, beastman, body." You smile. "I mean, I should know better than anyone."

"Oi. You forgave me for that."

"I did." You nodded, acknowledging the statement. "Anyway, Belphie, this is Leona, prince of the Sunset Savanna. Leona, this is Belphegor, one of my new roommates."

"Is he like Diavolo?"

"Not in position or in personality, but he's still a prince." You denied. "Leona, if you come with me as I let Belphegor cause chaos at the dorm leader meeting, I will introduce you to a man who can actually pose a threat to you in chess."

"There's no one like that."

"Oh please. Don't make me drag you out of bed." You threatened, petting Grim as he tried to stifle his sobs in your shirt. You knew he wouldn't want to address it, so you didn't.

"Nah, I'd rather take a nap."

"Dude, if you just keep sleeping because you're depressed, you'll never really feel rested." Belphie warned.

"Take it from him, he's an expert." Belphie glared at you. "On sleep. Weirdo." He scoffed, but let it be. "Come on, Leona. You like to watch people's downfalls, why not watch Crowley's?" He raised an eyebrow, seemingly thinking about it. "I'll let you eat some of the meat where I live now, which I know you've never tried before." You tried to bribe. He pondered. "What do you want, Leona?"

"To sleep." You sighed at his answer, used to his stubbornness.

"Fine then, you lazy lion. I'll just leave you here."

"Why are you getting on my case about this when he's dozing off on your shoulder?"

"He has a better excuse than you." You shrugged, not explaining any further. "Regardless, I'll send Satan your way when and if he comes here. You guys will get along."

"Don't bother."

"I don't really think you quite understand." You sighed, shrugging Belphie off and handing Grim to him. "This is Belphegor, he lives with us now, you're coming back with me. I need a moment." Grim nodded, turning to glare at Belphegor. You walked over to Leona. "Leona." You said in a stern tone, grabbing his wrist and making him look you in the eyes. "You have said before that you're in your older brother's shadow, and you want to get out of it. Hell, you want to get out of it so bad you came to NRC, rather than his school of RSA. You're insanely smart, and while you don't do your work now, you could easily graduate if you wanted to, but you don't because you like your position here. Satan was literally created out of his brothers rage, and wants nothing more than to escape who he was created to be, because he believes that if he's anything like what people think he'd be, he will never escape his brothers shadow. He is also, insanely smart. I've witnessed him beat the crown prince of the kingdom we live in in chess. He hates his older brother, and probably more than you hate yours." You explained. "You two would probably get along great, better than you and your brother, and him and his older brother at least."

"I doubt it."

"You'll see, Leona. I promise." You sighed, letting him go. "I can make no guarantees, but I bet you two will get along. What do you think Belphie? You've known your brother longer than I have."

"He's got cat ears."

"I'm a lion beastman! And a prince of the Sunset Savanna!" Leona growled, glaring at Belphie.

"It's true, he's not a cat." You agreed. "And he shouldn't be treated as such, because he's a person. I'll have to make sure Satan doesn't ask any uncomfortable questions about beastmen and beastman culture." You thought aloud before deciding to quickly explain to Leona. "While it's not uncommon in certain forms for people in the kingdom Belphie, his brothers, and I live in, to have similarities to beastmen, but the culture of beastmen, and beastmen in general, are kind of nonexistent. There are rules of etiquette similar, like don't pull the tails, don't touch the wings, or horns, or anything. They're usually very polite about it, actually." You hummed thoughtfully. "That's besides the point. Satan, while scarily perceptive and usually good about not crossing any uncomfortable boundaries, is more than willing to cross those boundaries in the name of getting answers when he's curious about something."

"It's true." Belphie agreed.

"He won't try to pet me, right?!" Grim yelled, looking at you.

"Mayhaps? I told him that you're a cat, which,"

"I'm not!" He vehemently denied.

"I'm aware!" You denied, walking back over to him and taking him from Belphie, allowing him to climb up to your shoulders. Once up there, you gave him head rubs as he started purring. "But the closest describing word to what you are is catlike, or feline, or whatever. If you tell him not to, he'll probably be tempted to still, but he knows better than to touch things without permission, I just went over that with Leona." You explained. "So!" You turned to Belphie. "Ready to cause chaos at the Dorm Leader meeting?"

"Isn't he supposed to be there?"

"Technically, yes, but he's been a dorm leader longer than the rest, so he knows what they're talking about, probably better than Crowley does. Let's leave him be." You sighed, walking out of Leona's room, only to be almost tackled, immediately, by Jack, who was ecstatic to see you.

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seumyo · 2 hours ago

Text

pregnancy cravings with miya atsumu.

Pregnancy cravings never really made sense to Atsumu. Then again, he never got to the part of anatomy and physiology when he was studying physical therapy before he decided to go pro as a volleyball player.

But that doesn’t mean he isn’t supportive; no, he prided himself on being a great husband. And now, with you, his wife, pregnant with your first child, he was determined to be the most supportive, loving, and accommodating partner ever.

Nothing was going to stand in his way—not distance, not logic, and certainly not impossible cravings.

It started simple. Like it always did.

You wanted a specific pastry from a bakery on the other side of Japan? Done. He booked the fastest delivery service he could find, and when that wasn’t an option, he flew there himself, picked it up, and brought it back.

Talk about rich.

Homemade food? Good thing Osamu had drilled the basics of cooking into him, though he still got yelled at by his twin when he accidentally burned rice. But hey, effort counted, right?

Then, the cravings started getting weird.

You’re sitting on the couch with a blanket over your lap when you look up at him with serious eyes. “I want Osamu’s cooking.”

Atsumu blinked. “Alright, I can ask him—”

“But I don’t want to eat it. You eat it.”

He frowned, confused.

“Huh? Ya want me to eat ‘Samu’s cookin’?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Atsumu scratched his head, wondering if this was some kind of test. “And that’s gonna make ya feel better?”

“Yes.”

“… Even if ya don’ eat it?”

“Uh-huh.”

Atsumu blinked. “That doesn’t make no sense.”

“Atsumu, please don’t question me.”

“Yes, Ma’am!” He grabbed his phone and immediately dialed Osamu. “Oi, ‘Samu, I need ya to cook somethin’—no, not for [Name]—for me.” There was silence on the other end before Osamu sighed heavily and reluctantly agreed.

That night, Atsumu sat at the dining table, stuffing his face with his brother’s food while you sat across from him, smiling in satisfaction as you watched. Osamu just did his part as a supportive brother for his twin.

The next day was even worse.

“A seedless mango,” you murmured, rubbing your belly.

...

“A what?”

“A seedless mango. I want it.”

“… [Name], sweetheart, baby, I love ya, but that don’t exist.”

“It does.”

“It doesn’t.”

“I want it.”

Atsumu groaned. “Where am I gonna get a seedless mango?”

“Figure it out, please?”

He spent hours searching online, calling fruit vendors, and even asking Osamu if his suppliers had some secret black market seedless mango (Osamu asked him if a volleyball that was going 120 km/h hit his head).

No luck.

In the end, Atsumu cut up a normal mango, carefully removed every trace of the seed, and handed it to you with a hopeful grin.

You took one look at it and frowned.

“It’s not the same.”

Atsumu wanted to cry.

“I need you to wear a face mask.”

Atsumu blinked at you from your bed. “Huh? Why?”

You huffed quietly, fidgeting with the sheets. “Because your face is annoying.”

Atsumu gasped, hand clutching his chest. “My face?! The one ya love so much?!”

“Yes.”

“The one ya vowed to look at forever in sickness and in health?!”

“Yes.”

“The one ya called ‘beautiful’ when I asked ya if I was hotter than ‘Samu?!”

“I love you, but right now, your face is irritating me.”

Atsumu stared, utterly betrayed, before sighing in defeat. He got up, went to the closet, grabbed one of the disposable masks he’d bought during flu season, and put it on.

“There. Happy now?”

You smiled sweetly. “Very.”

Atsumu flopped onto the bed with a groan, pulling the blanket over himself. As he lay there, sulking, you scooted closer and rested your head on his chest.

“I love you, you know that?” you murmured.

He grumbled. “Ya sure? Feels like ya hate me sometimes.”

You chuckled. “No, I love you. My hormones just don’t.”

He sighed. “Yer so lucky I love ya more than life.”

“I know. Pregnancy is so weird.”

And the worst has yet to come.

Atsumu should be asleep by now, but no, he had to be individually popping popcorn. One kernel at a time, as per your request.

He initially told you, “Yer kiddin’.”

You were not.

And that was how Atsumu found himself in the kitchen at three in the morning, painstakingly popping one kernel at a time in a tiny pan. Every time he accidentally popped more than one, you, who were sitting on a stool with your hands on your belly, would click your tongue disapprovingly.

“You put in two, Atsumu.”

“This is torture,” he grumbled, but he kept going.

“I want ice cream,” you said.

Atsumu perked up. “Oh, easy. What flavor?”

“I don’t know.”

He tilted his head to the side. “Uh… okay. I can get a few different kinds?”

“I need to taste them all.”

Atsumu frowned. “Like… all the flavors?”

“Yes.”

“… Babe, there are like fifty flavors at the ice cream shop.”

You nodded. “And I need to taste all of them before I decide which one I want.”

Atsumu let out a long, suffering sigh, but being the devoted husband he was, he marched straight to the ice cream parlor and ordered a ridiculous amount of sample cups. The poor employee stared at him in disbelief.

“You… want every flavor?”

“Yeah.”

“Every single one?”

“Yeah.”

“Sir, that’s—”

“My wife is pregnant, and if I don’t do this, I might not make it to the end of the week.”

The employee, upon hearing this, immediately started getting to work.

When Atsumu got home, you took one spoonful of each, nodded, and, after going through every single cup, announced:

“I don’t want ice cream anymore.”

Atsumu fell to his knees. Defeated.

“I need you to stand in the corner for a while.”

Atsumu looked up from his phone, confused. “Huh?”

“The corner. Stand there.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I just feel like you should.”

Atsumu squinted. “Babe, are ya makin’ me into a damn decoration?”

You nodded. “Yes.”

Atsumu sighed but did it anyway. He stood in the corner of your living room for a full ten minutes while you sat on the couch, happily watching TV. At some point, Osamu FaceTimed him, took one look at the scene, and hung up.

The next day, you called him while he was at practice, which was rare in itself because you did just leave messages whenever you knew he was practicing.

“Babe,” you said in a tone that made his stomach drop.

“… Yeah?”

“I need you to bring me a cheeseburger.”

He let out a relieved laugh, wiping the sweat off his brow. “That’s easy! I’ll grab ya one on my way ho—“

“But replace the buns with pancakes.”

Atsumu froze. “Come again?”

“You heard me.”

“I dunno if I did, sweetheart.”

“Pancakes. Instead of buns. Oh, and I want honey to go with it.”

Atsumu nearly dropped his phone.

“Yer messin’ with me.”

“I’m really not.”

And you weren’t. That evening, he stood in the kitchen, flipping pancakes with the precision of a professional chef before assembling the most unholy creation he’d ever laid eyes on—a cheeseburger with pancake buns, honey drizzled over the meat.

You took a bite and hummed softly. “Oh my god, this is better than sex.”

Atsumu, who had spent hours perfecting his technique in the bedroom, felt personally offended by that.

“Atsumu,” you murmur. “I need you to switch sides of the bed with me.”

He sighed. “No.”

“Atsumu.”

“[Name], baby, darlin’—I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because my side is closer to the door in case of an intruder.”

You chuckled quietly. “Tsumu, please. I need to sleep on that side.”

Atsumu stared at you, conflicted. He had never—not once—slept on the other side. It was unnatural. Wrong. It went against the very foundations of your marriage.

But you were looking at him with those tired, hormonal, pleading eyes. And he was sure you’d tell him you could barely see your feet now and often experience heartburn, all because of his unborn baby.

With a heavy sigh, Atsumu switched sides with you.

“You’re a good husband,” you whispered, patting his cheek.

Atsumu, lying in the unfamiliar position, staring at the wrong wall, whispered, “I’m a broken man.”

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gtwscratch · 17 hours ago

Note

Here's some fun "what ifs"!

What if Grian was hit by Scar instead of Skizz?

What if Ren looked at the camera instead of Martyn and he found out?

What if Cub saved Scar from being taken?

What if Lizzie was taken before Joel?

What if Gem had Grian's powers?

What if Pearl could fly out of the labs?

What if Etho gave Joel his hammer, saying he doesn't want to use it anymore?

What if Bdubs saw Cleo as a mother figure and wishes she could comfort him again?

What if Tango accidently caused a fire with his super speed?

What if Cleo could get Skizz and Mumbo to free the others?

What if Mumbo got a power?

What if Scar could break through the glass?

What if Impulse could visit Bdubs in their dreams?

What if Sausage found clues of Cubs work?

What if Joel had an argument with Etho after a particularly bad day?

What if Big B was allowed one free day to move wherever he wanted?

What if Jimmy was stuck being invisible?

What if Scott could turn into inanimate objects?

What if Skizz could speak to Impulse?

What if Martyn had a sonic scream instead of hearing?

WOW that’s a lot!! :DDD

1.) Oh, Skizz wasn’t hit by Scar. Skizz died during the scientists’ experiments on him.

2.) Assuming you mean if Martyn would have been taken regardless if he noticed his picture being taken, he would’ve been absolutely furious. Honestly? Might have caused a causality. He would rather be completely alone in the facility than have to suffer alongside Ren.

3.) Cub would have tried way harder to report Ex to the head of Lacuna Labs and the police. He hadn’t realized how serious Ex was, and he’d be damned if his efforts to protect his brother went to waste.

4.) Joel would’ve been just as worried as Lizzie was about him. Maybe he would’ve filed a missing persons report sooner.

5.) I don’t think things would change too much since Gem and Grian are in the same cell.

6.) If you mean if she could fly but was still captive, she’d feel waaay less claustrophobic and less like she was losing her mind. If you mean if she could fly and escape, she might not ever come back. What would people say if she approaches them, maniples and antennae and wings?

7.) Sadly, no one else can use the mace. It dematerializes when other people try to wield it (unless it’s Grian and he’s copying Etho’s power).

8.) Awww.. They certainly grew close in the short time they shared a cell.

9.) Luckily there are fire extinguishers and other items that are readily available to prevent major damage. And it would probably have happened during a test, so Tango would get no punishment or anything since they were testing the limits of his speed.

10.) Then she 100% would. If she could summon them past the walls of her cell, she would have gotten herself and as many people out of the facility as she could.

11.) He actually did before he died!

12.) Oh, he can. Scar is just too afraid of his own strength to utilize it.

13.) I’m not sure. I haven’t put any thought into if Impulse and Bdubs would have much of a relationship in this AU.

14.) Then he’d do everything he could to meet up with Cub and figure out where Pearl went. They’d work together with the others to figure out where they are.

15.) They’d stay pretty quiet, but they wouldn’t stay mad at each other for long. At the end of the day, they both know that the other isn’t actually mad at them.

16.) He would take as much advantage of it as he could. He’d take out security cameras as subtly as possible and hope the others figured out what he’d done.

17.) Oh, he would be so much worse mentally than he currently is. He’s constantly holding onto Lizzie or the thin blanket from his bed so that he can see that he’s touching something—so that he can see that he’s still there.

18.) He probably would have escaped a lot sooner.

19.) If Imoulse could hear him, then Skizz would let him know anything and everything that he saw. He’d let him know the perfect time to make a move, the fastest route to escape, all that jazz. And if they had to wait a while for an escape opportunity, then Skizz is feeding him words of encouragement and urging him to home on just a little bit longer.

20.) Many scientists would have gone deaf early on before they put a power suppression collar on him.

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mylo-space · 3 days ago

Text

How Little I Show

Summary: A look into the relationship between Wukong and Macaque through three different world-ending disasters; a series of pushing buttons and crossing lines and struggling to figure out where they stand with each other after a millennia of distance--both hindered by desperately trying to convince the other that they're indifferent to the situation entirely. (title from 'Paint' by The Paper Kites)

Posted on Ao3: 2025-02-26 Word Count: 20,679

When MK started getting more aggressive with his training, and sharper with his responses upon being asked about it, Wukong had a million different ideas of things to blame. He mulled it over every waking second they weren’t training; perhaps MK was still stressed over the Demon Bull King, or his noodle deliveries, or maybe his favorite arcade game had broken again.

But Wukong couldn’t argue with himself about the symbol on the back of MK’s jacket, magic coloring over the logo in violet shades to sneer at him. An old enemy–an ever older friend, the Six-Eared Macaque.

There weren’t a lot of things that could get Wukong out of Water Curtain Cave, and if Macaque had kept his meddling to a minimum, he might not have even bothered at all. He was a far cry from the impulsive creature he’d been so many centuries ago, the thrill of settling scores an old, tired thing sitting among the cobwebs of Wukong’s mind; he wasn’t keen on giving the fight Macaque clearly wanted, so he resolved to simply keep a closer eye on MK, instead.

Then he felt the seal he’d put on MK’s powers pulsing, the kid struggling to summon magic that wouldn’t come to him. He was quietly thankful, when he finally crash landed onto the scene, that Macaque seemed mostly occupied with scaring MK than doing any real damage–though he’d find out later that he had knocked the breath out of MK with a punch to the stomach before pinning him to the mountain side.

Still, it was the principle of the thing. Macaque may have shouted, sorry, kid, over the roar of magic, nothing personal! and maybe he even meant it. Macaque had a taste for the spotlight, but if he’d really wanted to hurt MK, he wouldn’t have wasted his time with the theatrics. The whole thing left Wukong with a very long list of questions that all began with ‘why’.

Wukong would be the first to admit that he didn’t know Macaque–not anymore, not like he used to–but he was certain the shadow wouldn’t start a fight without a damn good reason, and wouldn't attack someone in Wukong’s care unless it was a calculated risk. Macaque wasn’t stupid enough to make that kind of mistake twice.

When the dust settled from MK’s rather impressive show of strength, Wukong could feel a dull ache in his stone muscles. The fight was short, but it was the most effort he’d put into anything in ages; he might have even appreciated the workout under different circumstances. MK stayed for a little bit, soaking up both the lectures and reassurances that Wukong offered him, and finally scampered off the mountain upon realizing Mei and Pigsy had been blowing up his phone.

And long after MK had left, Wukong remained on the ledge overlooking their battleground. There was a presence behind him somewhere, just to the right, and even if Wukong didn’t know Macaque like he used to, he knew enough to understand, “You wanted my attention?” He glanced over his shoulder to watch Macaque emerge from the shadows. “There are better ways of getting a conversation out of me.”

“What,” Macaque asked, “like I was gonna just waltz on up to Water Curtain Cave?” He flicked a bit of debris off his scarf. “If I’m gonna get hit, it’s going to be on my terms.” And Wukong couldn’t refute that he might have punched Macaque outright for approaching the inner sanctuary of Flower Fruit Mountain, so he kept his teeth clenched about it. “Everyone knows the fastest way to get your attention is a fight.”

“Were the theatrics necessary?” Wukong put a hand on his knee and stood. “MK didn’t deserve what you did to him today.” He turned to Macaque and was met with a raised brow. “You could have tripped him walking down the sidewalk and I would have hunted you down. Why go to all this trouble?”

Macaque hummed, “You know I always aim to impress, Wukong,” he replied easily. “You can’t tell me that wasn’t at least a little fun for you.” His lip curled at the corners, the beginnings of a smile–or a snarl, perhaps, some bared-teeth challenge that had Wukong lashing chains around his primal urge to fight. “When’s the last time you had a real fight, huh?”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Wukong reminded, determined not to let Macaque steer him off-track. “Why did you bring MK into this little tantrum of yours.” Macaque’s brow twitched to furrow–maybe annoyed that Wukong wasn’t rising to his bait, but he masked it well enough by glancing away, rolling his eyes like Wukong was the one being irritating. “If you don’t want to get thrown through the nearest mountain, bud, I suggest you start explaining yourself.”

Tsking, Macaque replied, “Believe it or not, Monkey King, I’m not the worst thing out there.” Wukong straightened, putting aside his frustration for a moment to hear Macaque out, “You made a lot of enemies over the centuries, and most of them aren’t going to be kind enough to train your successor for your attention.”

“You didn’t train him,” Wukong said sharply. “MK said you’ve been sparring with him off and on for almost two weeks now. I’d have smelled you on him if you were actually around.” But the logo on MK’s jacket had been his only clue, which meant, “You trained him with a clone.”

Macaque snorted, “And? You’re telling me you’ve never been tempted to ditch a training session, leave him with a clone for a day?”

Pointedly not answering Macaque’s question, Wukong replied, “We’re not talking about me, we’re talking about you.”

“I,” Macaque drawled, “was multitasking. Had other things to do.” A hand came to scratch at his cheek idly. “Also, I’ve been trying to keep a low profile. Hard to do if I start throwing a ton of magic around, so I had a clone do some physical combat with him.” He shrugged. “Sue me.”

And there was a terrible moment of vulnerability that bled into Wukong’s anger, slipping through the wall he’d built around his friendship with Macaque to ask, “Is someone tracking you?” And because that might have sounded just a bit too much like concern, he added, “You pinned MK to a mountain and stole his powers so that you couldn’t be traced by someone?”

Tipping his head back, Macaque heaved a guttural sigh, “You know, if I wanted to actually hurt that kid, I would have,” he complained. “Are you gonna be pissy about this forever?”

“Maybe not forever,” Wukong said, “but for the foreseeable future? Yes.” Macaque grumbled, but seemed to understand where he stood on Wukong’s sliding scale of patience and didn’t press. “And I’m gonna be even pissier about this if you don’t start giving me some straight answers.”

Macaque studied Wukong for a moment like one might gauge the needle of a pressure valve, “The same people tracking me,” he explained slowly, like he was deciding as he went how much was too much to reveal, “are also after the kid’s power,” he relented finally, “and the staff, too. If he couldn’t handle what I did to him today, there’s no way he would have survived what’s coming.”

“So,” Wukong scowled, “what, this was all some kind of test?”

“More like a really elaborate lesson plan,” Macaque replied easily. “Couldn’t trust you to prepare him for what’s coming.” Wukong’s lips parted to demand further explanation–he could prepare MK just fine if he knew what was coming, but Macaque interjected, “You’re not getting a name out of me, if that’s what you’re after. I’m trying to keep a low profile, remember? Can’t have you bumbling about in my personal affairs.”

“Your personal affairs,” Wukong hissed, “are, apparently, out to get my successor. You care enough to warn me about it, but expect me to be content without a name?” Macaque raised an amused brow at the steadily rising tension in Wukong’s voice. “Did you lead something to MK?” he demanded. “Did you-”

“I didn’t lead anything, anywhere,” Macaque cut in. “She’d have come, anyway,” the detail didn’t escape Wukong–she; it wasn’t much information, but he’d take it. “I’d say you have until the New Year before you need your guard up,” Macaque continued, “and if you haven’t figured it out by then, I’ll let you give me the third degree.” His tone was something close to playful, even as he began threatening, “Maybe I’ll even kidnap your successor again. Have another little scrap about it,” he suggested teasingly, “huh? For old times’ sake?”

“I don’t think it’s in your best interest to start another scrap with me,” Wukong warned, tail lashing, “about anything. Can’t promise I’ll be so nice about a stunt like this a second time.”

Macaque hummed, “I think we have different definitions of nice, Your Majesty.” Whatever semblance of disappointment Wukong thought he’d heard in Macaque’s voice evaporated with a sickly sweet, “And here I was, warning you about an impending threat.”

“And kidnapping my successor,” Wukong recalled. “I don’t care who’s after his power, you don’t get to act like this,” he lifted his hands and bit out, “lesson,” in quotations, “was a kindness. Because we both know it wasn’t.”

“Would you have prefered I not warned you at all?”

“I would prefer that you stayed as far away from MK as possible,” Wukong snapped, and Macaque made some disinterested noise that had his hackles rising, “I’m serious,” he warned, “you haven’t done me a favor by scaring the shit out of MK and giving me half a warning,” Macaque’s gaze flicked away under Wukong’s pyrite glare, “If you’re not actually gonna make yourself useful, then make yourself scarce.”

Macaque shook his head, bitter amusement spilling out of him, “That’s all it was ever about, eh, Wukong?” the shadow chuckled. “I was never useful enough to you.” Wukong’s fists clenched at his sides, a tense silence stretching between them. “I’ll leave the kid be,” Macaque acquiesced, and his word alone wasn’t really all that reassuring, but Wukong could feel the tension in his shoulders ease minutely, “but if your poor mentoring leaves the kid high and dry, don’t come crying to me.”

“Yeah,” Wukong huffed, “maybe when Hell freezes over.”

There was something amused on the corner of Macaque’s lips, “Yeah,” he said lightly, voice hovering over a barely-concealed laugh, “maybe.” The shadows behind Macaque began condensing before Wukong could ask him what was so funny. “Until then,” Macaque gave a little bow, a theatrical farewell–he always did know how to make an exit, “have fun making the kid do more chores. Sure it’s gonna be a huge help.”

A retort died on Wukong’s tongue, Macaque vanishing into a portal before he could bite it out. It was another five minutes or so before he managed to uncurl his fists and stalk back to Water Curtain Cave, kicking every pebble in his path and desperately trying to banish every single fleeting thought about Macaque from his head.

In the following weeks, MK cracked a joke and didn’t even need to say Macaque’s name to get a withering glance from Wukong and a deadpan, too soon, bud, and it was too soon. If he’d never seen Macaque again it’d have been too soon, but Macaque had a habit of turning up like a bad penny, and it was a coin’s toss how tolerable the shadow would be. He resolved to enjoy the peace and quiet while he could.

With Macaque’s warning fresh in his mind, Wukong had–with very minimal guilt-tripping on his part–managed to keep MK on the mountain for the New Year. He’d spent the better part of the day scanning the treeline and the air and behind every boulder like something might jump out at them, and he was looking forward to spending some downtime with his successor before he went after Macaque for his owed ‘third-degree’ interrogation.

He could have picked up a mountain and thrown it when the fireworks show ground to a halt, anger finding that familiar place in his chest and settling, but there wasn’t time. MK was equal parts surprised and exasperated by Wukong’s desire to help him save the city, seemingly taking, no one ruins my New Year, at face value. But Wukong had a dreadful, heavy feeling that Macaque hadn’t given him a New Year’s deadline for no reason; if there was a commotion in the city, he couldn’t let MK handle it alone.

And if MK got left on the roof of a building, it only marginally had something to do with the kid jumping on his head, and mostly just the realization that Wukong couldn’t bring a panicking, frightened MK right into the heart of Macaque’s personal affairs. If MK hadn’t been able to stomach the spiders crawling the streets, there was no way he could have brought the kid any further into the den of monsters.

There was a rather foolish part of him that assumed Spider Queen was the source of Macaque’s threat, the shadow’s warning was a fleeting thought under the live-wire webs draining him of energy–someone’s after the kid’s power. And he’d had half a mind to be amused when he and Demon Bull King slipped out of her clutches; this, a measly city-wide takeover, was Macaque’s big threat?

He should have known better, really. Macaque may have had a reputation for being a coward, but Wukong had seen him take on far scarier things than a spider; he’d fought side by side with Wukong for some of his worst battles. But even if he should have expected a heavier hitter than than Spider Queen, there was no way to anticipate the Lady.

With the city cleared of any lingering spiders and MK safe as Wukong could make him, he had ventured into the Realms to hunt down any information he could on the Lady. He knew MK was less than pleased about his impromptu ‘vacation’, but Wukong didn’t want his successor anywhere near the situation. Taking on the Demon Bull King and the Spider Queen was one thing, they were manageable threats for someone with MK’s experience, but the Lady was a different monster entirely.

The temple he’d finished raiding had been a dead end–three days of breaking down walls and uncovering buried murals, brushing off his successor and scouring the whole area within a mile radius, only to find nothing. He was hoping to find anything, and came out the other side empty handed. No secret chambers, no war room full of maps and notes detailing the Lady’s plan. Just four stone walls with far too many booby-traps between them.

Wukong might have looked relaxed enough, sitting by a campfire, tired and bruised and barely keeping his eyes open, but he felt like a rock of glowing ember, just waiting for something to ignite him. His search for the information about the Lady hadn’t progressed well–or at all, and the whole thing had set him more on edge than he’d have liked.

“Maybe when Hell freezes over,” he muttered to himself, tossing another log onto his growing fire. Seeing as he couldn’t take his anger out on the Lady, he aired his grievances to the wind–and maybe part of him hoped that Macaque could hear, but he really just wanted to vent the sparking, smoking anger under his skin. “And I bet Macaque thinks he’s so clever.”

Wukong did try his best to meet Macaque’s antagonism with indifference, but tired and sore and huddling around a campfire was a rather inopportune time for Macaque to come slithering out of the shadows. “I do occasionally appreciate my own brilliance.”

“Not in the mood,” Wukong said shortly, refusing to give Macaque a single inch to run with.

Macaque’s eyes glittered, flicking back his scarf dramatically to crouch by the fire, “Duly noted. You underestimate how much I don’t care.” He shifted on the balls of his feet, shoulders wriggling as he settled into the warmth. “This seat taken?” he asked innocently and Wukong set his jaw, his gaze flicking to the blackening logs of the fire. “Great,” Macaque said amicably, like he’d been offered, “I’ll make myself comfortable, then.”

Crackling and crickets filled the space between them for a moment, and Wukong was content to let it sit. He’d half hoped that the silent treatment might have bored Macaque into leaving, but the shadow seemed content to warm his hands, claws hovering a hair’s breadth from the flames. “Careful you don’t set yourself on fire doing that,” Wukong muttered finally, “god forbid you make me laugh.”

“You wound me, Wukong,” Macaque replied, shuffling closer to the fire. Wukong couldn't imagine what he was trying to prove by it; the weather was cool enough to comfortably sit by a fire, but not nearly cold enough to warrant getting wrapped in the flames. “And here I was being helpful again,” Macaque’s passive expression twitched a bit, a barely there furrow of his brow, “for all the good that did me.”

It was well established that Wukong and Macaque had very different definitions of helpful, and suddenly Wukong remembered the last conversation with his successor. MK’s distressed pleas for Wukong’s attention had him sitting ramrod straight. “What did you do,” he demanded.

“I told him a story,” Macaque drawled, and Wukong had to cling to his last shred of willpower to not hurl himself across the firepit. “Would it make you feel better if I told you I didn’t even lay a hand on him this time?”

“No,” Wukong said shortly, because Macaque was clever, and there was most certainly a loophole in there somewhere.

“Really,” Macaque insisted, pulling his hands away from the flames and tucking them into the space between his knees and stomach, “your little successor threw every punch.”

Wukong’s fur bristled into stalactites of anger, “At what,” he pressed.

“Shadows,” Macaque answered, vaguely enough that Wukong knew it couldn’t possibly be as simple as a few Macaque-shaped shadows. “You’re lucky I stepped in when I did,” he mused, “MK’s gonna start getting tired of that whole ‘believe in yourself’ schtick you keep passing off as training.”

The shadow must not have been as indifferent to the situation as he seemed, because when Wukong’s leg shifted–not to stand, just to put it in a more comfortable position–Macaque’s gaze snapped to him warily, guarded and wild like a cornered animal. “What,” Wukong pressed again now that he had Macaque’s undivided attention, “did you do.”

Macaque’s gaze raked over him, eerily still where he perched, then he relented, “I put his friends in the lamp,” and there was more to the sentence, Wukong could see Macaque’s lips parting to further explain himself, but there were lines to this dance of theirs. Macaque should have known better than to admit something that damning after being warned that Wukong was not in the mood.

But Wukong should have known better than to think he’d get the drop on Macaque; in the time it took him to stand, Macaque had kicked a log out of the fire and melted into the shadows while Wukong scrubbed the embers from his eyes. There was a singular moment of blinding panic–the same kind of panic that’d seized him swooping into a spider-infested city, MK’s arms like a vice around his head–and he took a few startled steps back, gasping and cursing at the rush of smoke and sparks.

He wrenched the rush of adrenaline towards something more productive than fear, eyes blazing and gold as he searched for Macaque among the fire-stretched shadows of the clearing. It was a long moment of fleeting glances, every shadow moving suspiciously in the flickering light of the fire, but then he caught his own outline shifting, stretching long until it climbed a tree and peered out at Wukong with glowing, violet amusement.

Wukong wrestled with his impulse control for a moment, debating if punching the tree would be just another way of giving Macaque what he wanted, and eased his stance where it stood poised to strike. “Where’s the lamp,” he demanded through gritted teeth.

“Broken,” Macaque’s voice echoed about the clearing, “his friends are fine. I just wanted to see how long it took for the kid to go looking for them.”

“What happened to telling him a story,” Wukong asked tensely, hands flexing at his sides to ease the anger out of them.

The shadow of Macaque shrugged. “Multitasking,” he replied, and the last of Wukong’s fury was chased away by his exasperation, leaving behind a dull frustration. “Look, the kid was trying to train himself with a videogame for thirty-six hours straight,” Macaque explained, “I had to step in.” A smile stretched wide across Wukong’s warped shadow, “I mean, unless you wanted another gaping hole in your wall, in which case, I’ll just let the kid have at it next time.”

Turning from Macaque’s gaze, Wukong began building the dying fire back up from where it’d been kicked. “You’re insufferable,” he muttered. “I thought I told you to make yourself scarce if you weren’t going to be useful.”

“Oh, ye of little faith,” Macaque cooed, “I am here to make myself useful.” Apparently realizing Wukong had simmered down enough to approach, Macaque once again melted out of the shadows. “I’m afraid it’s good news and bad news, though,” he added, settling back into a crouch by the fire. “Take your pick of the order.”

Not trusting Macaque wouldn’t give him two disastrous choices, Wukong opted to get his disappointment out of the way, “If you’ve actually got any for me,” he sighed, “I could use some good news.”

Macaque snorted, “Yeah, I bet you could, after this dead end.” Wukong shot him a glare, though Macaque didn’t even bother looking up from the flames. “The good news is that I just got my ass handed to me yesterday.” He glanced up at Wukong with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes, laden heavy with bitterness, “Figure that’d put you in a good mood.”

Wukong hummed, pushing a log back into the flames and flicking the ash off his hand, “You know, it does make me feel a bit better about what you did to MK.” Macaque rolled his eyes and resumed warming his hands by the fire. It occurred to him suddenly that Macaque wasn’t actually affected by the weather so much as, “The Lady.” Macaque’s brow furrowed at the name, “Is that the bad news?”

“My little intervention with MK tipped off her lapdog,” Macaque muttered. “He took the lamp, which means she’s one step closer to putting her plans into action.”

“Well, don’t act like it’s the end of the world or anything,” Wukong replied half-heartedly. Macaque was silent, so Wukong prodded, “What were trying to teach MK that was so important, anyway? I thought you were trying to keep a low profile.”

Macaque lips parted to answer, then bit the inside of his cheek in thought, “That kid’s a lot like you,” he said slowly, “you know that, right? It’s almost uncanny.” His gaze drifted for a moment before resolutely narrowing on the fire. “And you’ve trained him well, too; he goes right for the eyes.”

Wukong’s stomach lurched at the accusation–the idea that he’d train MK to be so purposeful and ruthless–but Macaque probably only said it to get a rise out of him, so, “Your point?” he prompted through his tightening vocal cords.

“The kid was getting distant from his friends,” Macaque continued. “He’s not sure what’s coming, but he knows it’s going to be a fight.” Macaque’s arms closed tighter around himself, “The one thing he shouldn’t do while obsessing over this fight is drive away all people who’re gonna help him. He’s gonna need as many people in his corner as he can get.”

“A lot like me,” Wukong remarked dryly, long since used to Macaque’s less than subtle jabs at past choices–and past regrets. “So, the kid gets a little too in his head and you gotta pull out all the stops, huh? Think you’re gonna teach him the importance of ‘listening to his friends’ by kidnapping them?”

“Some learning about ‘friends’ would’ve saved you a lot of trouble, back in the day,” Macaque replied. “Figured it’d be better for MK to learn sooner rather than later, considering what’s at stake.” He gestured around them vaguely, “I kinda like the universe where it is, thanks.”

Scowling, Wukong reminded Macaque, “I’m out here trying to fix this, you know.” Macaque’s brow raised doubtfully. “Don’t shoulder MK with the universe before I even get a shot at preventing what’s coming.”

“It’s in everyone’s best interest to have as many players on the field as possible,” Macaque huffed, “I don’t want to shoulder the kid with anything, but if you’re not gonna come back to the city and teach him like a real mentor-”

“I can’t go back until I know I can take her down,” Wukong interjected. “I don’t want him involved with this unless he has to be, and I definitely don’t want him involved with you.”

“If you’re not gonna go back and help him work this out,” Macaque snapped, “then you don’t get to complain when the Lady decides how involved he is.” His gaze flicked to Wukong, “And if you’re gonna stop me from getting involved,” he added, “then you better take your shot now.”

Wukong hoped his snarl hid the way his stomach fell through the ground, “That’s not funny.”

Macaque held his gaze evenly, “I’m not laughing.”

The fire popped noisily between them, and Wukong reached to feed it another log. “Whatever,” he murmured, “you already got your ass handed to you yesterday, right? Seems like the Lady did my job for me.” Macaque hummed, but didn’t appear to have any more of a response than that, so Wukong took advantage of the silence, “What’s she got on you, anyway? This can’t just be about the lamp.”

“It’s not,” Macaque confirmed, “it’s about me not upholding my end of a deal.” He shuffled again, dangerously close to the fire, “She’d have turned this world into a blank slate a long time ago if I hadn’t left her key in the desert somewhere.” A smile graced his features, something small and notably victorious, “Took that puppet of hers ages to find.”

Wukong whistled, “Deal with the devil, huh?” he asked. “Awfully devious of you to double-cross the Bone Demon, bud.” And stupid, too–although maybe not quite so stupid as making a deal with her in the first place. The Lady Bone Demon wasn’t a very forgiving entity.

“The world got another couple of centuries to exist because of that double-cross,” Macaque pointed out. “You’re welcome.”

For a moment, Wukong let the gentle crackling of the fire break the tension between them. “Why’d you make a deal with her, anyway?” he asked quietly. He and Macaque weren’t big on small talk, if the Lady could qualify as such, but this was the closest to civilized he’d been with Macaque in ages and–sue him!--he was curious, “Must have been one hell of a deal, if the exchange was getting her out of the box.”

Something tired and hysterical tumbled out of Macaque, a wheeze that might have been a laugh with a little more energy behind it, “I mean,” Macaque shrugged, “it’s not like you dragged me back out of the Underworld.”

Knuckles cracking, Wukong’s hands curled into startled fists; it seemed intentional that Macaque would mention it so soon after telling Wukong to take his shot, and if he had said it to get under the king’s skin, he very nearly succeeded. “That,” Wukong hissed, “is not fair.”

“Doesn’t make it any less true,” Macaque replied, voice thin with anger, a hairpin trigger pulled taut. “You’re lucky I’ve even made this much of an attempt to help you. I owe the Lady my life, and I owe you,” he spat, “nothing.”

“What are you even doing here, then?” Wukong challenged.

Macaque shook his head, breath escaping him in a single, bitter scoff, “Great fucking question.” He rose from his crouch, turning on his heel and into a portal before Wukong could squeeze in a last word. Wukong distantly wondered how Macaque always managed that, and how it never failed to get under his skin. The stubbornness might have been endearing, some centuries ago–Wukong might’ve even been elated to have his soft-spoken warrior fighting him for the last word of whatever meaningless argument they’d started.

Throwing himself backwards into the grass, Wukong grumbled–half to himself, and half hoping that Macaque could hear him, wherever he managed to slink off to. It wasn’t often that he’d admit defeat when he was on a mission, but he knew Macaque wasn’t lying about the threat the Lady posed. Scouring her temples wouldn’t give him any more answers than he already had. If there was no way to figure out the Bone Demon’s plans, then Wukong needed to switch gears.

Fortunately, Wukong had always been much better at offense than defense. There weren’t a lot of ways to take down someone as powerful as the Lady, but he’d find a way. He always found a way.

Wukong clenched his jaw around his muttered complaints about Macaque to plot in silence, just in case his shadow was actually listening in on him. Whatever the Lady had planned, Macaque was a part of it–however begrudgingly his loyalty didn’t matter; Wukong couldn’t risk Macaque overhearing where he’d be off to next. His claws dug into the grainy dirt beneath him, anchoring himself to settle the whirlwind of ideas knocking around his scattered mind.

He watched the smoke from his campfire spiral into the air for a while–anywhere between a few hours and an eternity, or at least long enough for rays of light to begin peering over the horizon. Wukong had half a mind to let the sun rise without him, but he only allowed himself a precious few minutes of dew-soaked rest before dragging himself upright. If it had to be a fight with the Lady, then so be it; Wukong was lucky enough to know how he could find a weapon, though he doubted the keeper of its map would hand it over easily.

Shaking his head to clear his doubts, Wukong summoned Nimbus from the sky. He sometimes missed the confidence that he’d had in his youth, the naive sort of arrogance that made him feel like he could take on the world bare-handed. But with time came knowledge, and Wukong was painfully aware that the universe didn’t care for anyone’s pride. There was always something more to take, and he absolutely could not afford to fail.

And they didn’t fail, though it was no thanks to Wukong’s efforts. He came back from his vacation too late, MK’s staff already ripped from his hands, magic completely drained, and–ah, Wukong had just enough time to think, eye twitching angrily at the Lady, a lesson. But his anger had to wait until he had the energy for it, scooping MK into his arms and darting off into the sky in a less than daring escape.

The battlefield had a dance to it that Wukong loved, and the king hadn’t met anyone in his long life that played the game better than Macaque. It was easy to be irritated with Macaque’s theatrics, angry even, but Wukong couldn’t bring himself to be anything more than exasperated. Of course, Macaque couldn’t just let them save the world; of course, Macaque just had to make a hard journey more difficult by attacking Wukong and his friends; of course, he did.

But Wukong’s frustration was humbled by Macaque pushing him into the ship floor, hovering over him with some snide comment about winning sides. And Wukong realized, just barely holding Macaque from descending upon him, that the shadow was giving him another warning. Wukong and MK were powerless, weaponless, helpless against Macaque’s strength and magic. The shadow could have dragged them to the Lady whenever he damn well pleased, but he was feeling out the winning side.

Wukong couldn’t deny the sliver of relief that dug into his chest knowing that Macaque wasn’t quite so crazed that he’d help destroy the world without a bit of resistance. Wukong doubted he and MK would get many chances to prove they could stop the Lady, but it was better than nothing and maybe more than Wukong deserved.

He forced himself not to think about the fragile, razor-thin wire Macaque was walking–letting MK escape in the desert, all the times he was certain Macaque was lurking in a shadow somewhere and not opening a portal beneath their feet–because the Lady was cruel, and Macaque had already betrayed her once. It wasn’t until they were near the end of their journey, pinned down by shards of ice, that he let himself confront what Macaque truly had at stake.

Goading Macaque into an argument might not have been his best idea–Nezha certainly didn’t seem to approve of the tactic–but Wukong was desperate. He teased and insulted, anything he thought might rile Macaque enough to fight him and give them an opening to escape, but the warrior barely spared him a glance, a tired glare.

I couldn’t care less, Macaque had seethed, about what the Lady Bone Demon wants. And Wukong had known that, he’d known the whole journey, from the very first attack Macaque had held him down and did nothing, that it’d never really been about helping the Lady. But it only just occurred to Wukong, as Macaque limped after MK and the Rings, that it was about surviving.

There was a shadow over Macaque’s amber eyes, already half swallowed by the Lady’s parasitic magic- already half dead from the strain it must have put on his core- or what? you’ll make things worse? For MK, for the world, for the already precarious situation they were in–for Macaque.

Perhaps that was why, when Macaque was finally in Wukong’s grasp, dragged back through the portal he tried to escape from, the king couldn’t actually bring himself to do anything. His fist, poised to strike, trembled even before Tang had called to him, because Macaque was tired and scrabbling at the hand around his throat and wrenching his head to the side to protect his one good eye, and how could Wukong be angry if Macaque couldn’t even muster up the energy for a taunt?

Besides, it was probably for the best that he hadn’t punched Macaque. He couldn’t fathom how the kid had managed to get the Macaque’s help fighting the Lady–fighting him–but he doubted the shadow would have been so inclined if Wukong had already dealt him some damage. He’d have been thankful for Macaque’s assistance, if he remembered how to express anything towards the shadow that wasn’t a very worn kind of anger.

When it was all said and done, it was almost a relief how easily Wukong and Macaque started bickering. Their meaningless argument over a bowl of noodles saved Wukong the trouble of figuring out how to express gratitude, and–more importantly–it forced Macaque to scurry off the mountain before Wukong had to make him. The sage had barely mustered up the energy to see the kid and his friends back down the mountain, much less deal with anything regarding Macaque.

There wasn’t a word that Wukong could use to describe his exhaustion after the near-apocalypse, but he couldn’t relax with the static under his skin, the remnants of adrenaline that hadn’t quite left his body. He found himself–maybe a bit deliriously– wishing for the shadow’s presence as he trudged back up Flower Fruit Mountain. He’d have taken an argument over the silence–he’d attempt conversation, an arguably much more intimidating thing, but he was certain that Macaque was miles aways, slipping through the shadows and dropping off the face of the planet.

At least, he’d assumed so, until he spotted a shadow sitting on a ledge near the edge of his territory. Ordinarily, Wukong would have confronted him, but there was something about Macaque that seemed so uncharacteristically slumped and tired and wrong, and he really shouldn’t have cared, but- “What are you doing here,” he asked anyway. “Got another cryptic warning for me?”

For a moment, Macaque said nothing, ear twitching in anticipation like he was waiting for Wukong to make an actual demand. When none came, the shadow hummed, “Just needed a breather.” Macaque’s legs shifted with a barely audible grunt, pressing a hand into his knee to stand. “I’ll go.”

Wukong nearly let him, briefly considered chasing him out with some half-baked jab, but something pained escaped Macaque as he tried to stand that made a long forgotten part of Wukong ache, “Don’t bother,” he said, as indifferently as he could manage, “as long as you’re not making trouble, you can stay.”

“Great,” Macaque mumbled, dropping back to the ground. It was odd, and Wukong couldn’t quite put together why Macaque wasn’t being his usual, taunting self, but he knew questioning it would do him no favors. “Just gonna stand there, or what?”

Wukong huffed out something that might have been a laugh if he weren’t so tired, making his way to the ledge. “You think I’m staying on my feet after a day like this?” He groaned as he sat, and he could almost hear MK comparing him to the old noodle shop owner. “Between Nezha and the Lady, I’m beat.”

“Not used to those back to back fights anymore, huh?” Macaque teased, a genuine playful lilt to his voice that caught Wukong off guard. “Back in the day, you’d already be gearing up for the next battle.”

“Back in the day, our enemies weren’t quite so ruthless,” Wukong pointed out. “I know you had your deal with the Lady or whatever, but would it have killed you to make our jobs just a little easier?”

The shadow’s expression faltered a bit, “Well, yeah,” he said slowly, “probably. The Lady isn’t, uh- fond, of failure, y’know? I was pushing my luck letting you get away as much as I did.” Wukong hummed, turning his gaze back to the setting sun and trying hard not to linger on his misstep in the conversation. “I’m surprised it never occurred to her that I could’ve portaled you right to her doorstep.”

“I did wonder about that,” Wukong mused. He recalled his successor telling him about the encounter with Macaque in the desert, the shadow’s looming threat coaxing the anger and magic back out of MK–or at least enough of it to escape. “I just figured you were getting caught up in your own theatrics and forgot.”

“Those theatrics were your saving grace and you know it,” Macaque rolled his shoulder, and Wukong grimaced at the audible crack it made. “I told you I was picking the winning side; you’re lucky I gave the kid time to prove himself instead of throwing you through a portal the first chance I got.”

“What, you want my gratitude or something?” Wukong deadpanned. “You want a ‘thank you’ for being slightly less mean than you could have been?”

A wheeze tore out of Macaque’s throat, devolving into a cough that made Wukong look over for the first time and give the warrior a proper glance. A weary smile stretched across Macaque’s face, even though his brows furrowed in discomfort. “Gratitude,” he managed, “from you? Wasn’t exactly counting on it.” He sat back up, taking a deep breath and running a hand over his right side. “But you’re welcome, anyway.”

“What’s wrong with you,” Wukong asked. And because that most certainly sounded too much like caring, he added, “If you’re injured, I’m not fixing you.”

“Oh, relax,” Macaque drawled, “I’m not gonna bleed all over your mountain or anything,” He patted his chest absently. “The ribs you cracked just need a couple hours to heal,” Wukong’s own ribs squeezed at his heart, but he ignored the feeling as best he could, “my leg already feels almost good as new.”

Wukong swallowed back something bitter. “The hell happened to your leg?” he asked, because he vaguely remembered a glimpse of the hit that might have broken Macaque’s ribs, but he didn’t remember much of anything else until MK’s voice began drawing his consciousness back to overpower the Lady.

Among the many downsides of possession were the memories tainted by the Lady, like windows panes blurred and fragmented by frost–the view was there, just fuzzy and out of reach. Wukong was fairly certain that if he squinted through the glass, he’d see Macaque’s body ragdolling across the ground, and he decidedly didn’t want to linger on that image.

Snorting, Macaque replied, “You threw me into a mountain at mach speeds, Wukong.” He flexed his leg, swinging it idly over the ledge. “It was a hard landing, that’s all.” His gaze slid to Wukong for a moment. “The Lady didn’t make you do anything irreparable, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m not worried about it,” Wukong replied immediately, a bit more defensively than he meant, and Macaque raised a brow at him, eyes quickly darting down and up again as though studying the sage. “You, I mean, I’m not-” Wukong huffed, “you can take care of yourself, is what I’m saying. And you deserved it, anyhow, just a little bit.”

Macaque hummed, “And after I was so helpful, too,” he drawled. “But heaven forbid you actually give a shit about little ol’ me, right?” He reached out and patted Wukong on the shoulder before the sage could protest. “Don’t worry, Monkey King, I’ll keep saving your ass,” Macaque said, his voice lacking its usual practiced haughty composure, “s’what I do.”

“Sure,” Wukong snorted, though his taunt faltered a bit on a memory of MK dropping though the ground, a feat that could only be achieved via portal, and he was fairly certain that they’d been ditched after the Samadhi Fire incident. “Why did you come back?”

“Because I don’t hate you more than I like living,” Macaque replied dryly. “I prefer the world in one piece, even if that means I gotta help some reckless kid and his even more reckless mentor.”

Wukong nodded, “Right,” he muttered, sounding quite a bit more deflated than he’d meant to–though he couldn’t possibly fathom what he had to be disappointed about, “of course.”

“Don’t sound so disappointed,” Macaque chuckled. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you missed me or something.” Wukong’s heart skipped a beat at the accusation, but the shadow hummed, “Or missed me watching your back, anyway.” The sage didn’t even have time to form a response before Macaque continued, “Know what? You can make it up to me literally right now.”

At that, Wukong recovered a bit of his irritation, “Make it up to-” his brow furrowed, “I don’t owe you anything.”

Macaque flapped a hand at him, “Okay, sure, but consider: I watched your back, now you watch mine?”

“I’m not-” Wukong started, but Macaque shushed him, batting at the king’s cloaked shoulder. “Hey-!”

“Watch my back,” Macaque said again, a little more demanding, his hand grasping Wukong’s shoulder and shaking it in a gentle scold, “quietly. The adrenaline’s wearing off and I have about a month’s worth of sleep to catch up on.”

Some startled, strangled noise escaped Wukong, “You-” there was a retort there, somewhere on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t quite convince himself that Macaque was taunting him, so he heaved a sigh instead, “Alright, I give up trying to figure out your game here.” He reached up slowly, pulling Macaque’s hand from his shoulder. “Did you hit your head or something?”

“You hit my head or something.” Macaque pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes and scrubbed them over his face, “Next time someone’s gotta fight you,” he muttered, “I’m not volunteering.”

“Why didn’t you just portal yourself home when you left everyone earlier?” he asked, his hand halfway to reaching for Macaque’s arm. “You still have that, uh… the dojo thing, right? If you need to sleep that bad, what are you still doing here?”

Macaque hummed, “Can’t portal further than half a mile like this, and I don’t even know if my dojo is still standing after what the Lady did to the city,” and every argument on Wukong’s tongue wilted. It was rare that Macaque’s composure betrayed his flesh body’s limitations, and even rarer that the warrior would admit them out loud. “Would you just- I only need, like, two hours; I’ll leave when I wake up.”

Under normal circumstances, Wukong might have entertained Macaque just to have some peace and quiet, let Macaque slip away again once he’d slept. If asked why he hadn’t, he’d blame his bleeding heart on the fact that he was tired, not thinking straight, and didn’t feel like sitting on the ground for a few hours while Macaque slept, “Or,” he started, clearing his throat when his voice hitched, “uh- do you think you could walk?”

“Probably,” Macaque sighed, “told you, leg’s fine.” A small, tired smile crossed his features, “Why, gonna make me trek down the mountain?” he asked, but there was a glimmer of something in his eyes–not outright hurt, but something close enough, like he was suddenly so certain he was about to be kicked off the mountain and didn’t know how to argue his case.

“No,” Wukong said quickly, “I just- there’s always the house,” his fingers laced together and squeezed, and Wukong hoped that his stammering didn’t betray how nervous he was to make the offer. “The one that- I mean, you know what house I’m talking about, right?”

Nose scrunching, Macaque clarified slowly, “The one with a giant hole in the wall from the kid?” Wukong’s head jerked, a tentative nod. “What about it?” His head tilted curiously, “Are you offering sanctuary for the night?”

Wukong bit the inside of his cheek, fangs digging into the flesh anxiously, “I’m offering a truce.” He glanced over at Macaque, hunched in on himself and staring back at Wukong with a confused little furrow in his brow. “Even if your dojo is still standing, I don’t want you anywhere near MK.” Macaque huffed, confusion eased by his exasperation, but he didn’t protest. “I rarely use the house anymore, so… and it’s not like you’re banned from Flower Fruit Mountain.”

He held his breath, waiting for Macaque’s response. “Truce,” the shadow said finally, softly, like the word itself was so fragile it’d break under any more force than a breath. “I’ll think about it,” another smile tugged on the corner of Macaque’s lip, “not sure I feel like sharing space with you just yet, Wukong.”

“I hardly ever leave Water Curtain Cave, anyway,” Wukong insisted, “I doubt we’d even cross paths,” and he wasn’t even sure why he was fighting so hard to keep Macaque on the mountain. Macaque was tricky, and the thought of having to constantly watch his own shadow was not an appealing one, but Wukong couldn’t help but press, “Look, I just- I really don’t want you near MK, and I’d barely know you were here, anyway.”

Macaque snorted, “You’d barely know I was here even if I was living in the cave with you.” His hand reached up, absently fidgeting with the neck of his scarf, “But, it’s appreciated. The offer, I mean.” He glanced over at Wukong with a small, faltering smile, a faint crinkle at the corner of his eyes. “I’ll take advantage of your generosity for the night, at least. It’d be rude to refuse such a gracious gesture from His Majesty.”

Wukong swallowed, forcing the words, “You’re welcome,” around the tightness in his throat. “I’m not kidding about leaving MK alone, though.”

“I know, I know,” Macaque grunted, shuffling to get his legs under him, “pretty much the last thing on my mind.” He huffed out a laugh, “Kid went for the face again while we were in the desert; at this point, I can’t help but think it’s intentional.” Wukong bit his tongue while Macaque hauled himself up, “Wasn’t planning to give him any more reasons to take a swing at me.”

“Right,” Wukong murmured, brushing off his skirt as he got to his feet, “You, um- you don’t actually think I taught MK to do that, do you?” he asked, grasping at his sleeve–an old nervous habit that didn’t go unnoticed by Macaque, amber eyes flicking to the motion. “Because I wouldn’t,” Wukong continued quickly, smoothing the fabric of his sleeve like that’d disguise the minute crack in his facade, “I didn’t.”

Indifferently brushing off his scarf, Macaque commended, “It’s good tactics,” he picked at his claws absently, “knowing your enemies’ weaknesses and all. Not like I didn’t deserve a punch in the face, anyhow.”

“But I didn’t-”

“Relax,” Macaque assured, “I know you didn’t. Just funny, s’all.” He propped his hands on his hips and scanned the treeline. “Now, how far is that house again? More or less than half a mile?”

“Definitely less.” Wukong studied Macaque for a moment, “You sure you have the magic for that?” He gestured vaguely at Macaque’s chest. “I saw you pulling at your core for our last stand against the Lady.” It wasn’t often that Macaque plunged a hand into his chest, and Wukong was thankful for it, shuddering a bit at the memory, “Still freaks me out when you do that.”

“I got enough energy for a small skip and jump,” Macaque replied shortly, apparently not keen on further discussing the state of his magic, “don’t you worry your giant, heroic head about it.”

Wukong rolled his eyes, “I dunno why I bother with you,” he grumbled, but the words didn’t have quite as much bite behind them as he would have liked, edging too close on the territory of exasperated fondness. “You’re lucky the kid sees something in you that I don’t.”

“Yeah,” Macaque snickered, “getting roped into saving your ass; lucky me.” A portal opened at Macaque’s feet as he continued, “Well, I guess I’ll be seeing you around, then,” his smile turned sharp, just for a moment, and he added, “though I can’t guarantee that you’ll be seeing me.”

Spluttering, Wukong exclaimed, “What do you-” he shouted, an indecipherable outburst of frustration as Macaque disappeared through the ground. “I did not,” he hollered at the empty space, knowing damn well Macaque could still hear him from the house, “invite you to live here so that you could spy on me!” He was met with his own echoing voice, and he dragged a hand over his face in the lingering silence. “Unbelievable,” he muttered. “This is what I get for trying to be nice.”

It was days of watching his own shadow before Wukong could convince himself that Macaque had been teasing about spying on him, but he was still left with an odd sense of unease in his chest. Macaque’s absence was an old wound that had long since scabbed over, but it seemed the shadow’s mere presence was enough to start tearing off the years of carefully placed bandages. It’d been easier to keep Macaque out of mind when he was out of sight, but having the warrior back in his orbit brought a storm of emotions to the forefront of Wukong’s mind that refused to be calmed.

“You haven’t seen Macaque around, have you?” Wukong had asked MK one day. It’d spilled out of him during one of their easier training days, Wukong aimlessly tossing out directions and MK tossing the staff accordingly. “No more mysterious shadow plays at your theater or anything?”

MK, balancing the staff on his forehead precariously, replied, “Yeah, uh… no,” he stumbled a bit to keep the staff from teetering over, “haven’t seen him since you guys fought over my noodles.” His gaze flicked to Wukong curiously, letting the staff drop back into his hand. “Why, you think he’s up to something?”

“No,” Wukong said quickly, “I mean, maybe, I just- we had this deal and-” He cleared his throat, “Don’t worry about it, bud. I just wanted to make sure he was leaving you alone.” Something knowing in MK’s gaze had Wukong’s eyes darting away, scratching at his cheek in a poor imitation of indifference. “Good to have things back to normal,” he managed, “calm and peaceful; Macaque-less.”

The dubious stare MK shot him made heat creep up his neck, and he was thankful for the thick fur there hiding the red sprawl of emotions–something like shame, something like embarrassment, something he couldn’t quite put a name to and didn’t like MK prying at too much. Thankfully, the kid was distracted easily enough with a quick sparring match before going home, leaving Wukong to continue his attempts at wrapping bandages around his turbulent emotions about Macaque, shoving them into the shadows of his heart somewhere; out of sight, out of mind.

But the universe liked to pay Wukong back for his cheated immortality in rather creative ways, pain that his stone skin couldn’t save him from, and it didn’t seem keen on letting him close that Macaque-shaped wound in his soul once it’d been reopened. MK might have been content to let the subject slide for Wukong’s comfortability, but the Scroll of Memory had no such qualms about preserving a stubborn king’s ego, and if Wukong thought that plucking a scab on his and Macaque’s relationship was hard, it was nothing compared to the scars the Scroll carved open for him.

The Scroll of Memory was a cruel warden by design, and no amount of immortality could save Wukong from the ink-black memories wearing him out, beating him down, bleeding him dry as he cowered behind a stalactite. The stories wouldn’t stop their onslaught, and it was all Wukong could do to tear his way through them, breaking his stone hands against the walls of his own memories until there was nothing left to rip apart, just him and a cliff and the golden silhouettes of his mistakes.

Sitting on the edge of a precipice, Wukong almost hadn’t noticed Macaque standing behind MK. The kid did a pretty good job of grasping his attention and dragging it back to more productive lines of thinking. He could almost ignore Macaque’s presence, almost had to, for his own sanity’s sake, but Macaque had his gaze again with just a few bold steps. There was a still distance and MK between them, but Macaque’s lithe frame still felt looming.

MK was earnest, quoting Wukong’s advice back to him about leaving things better than they found it, and Wukong couldn’t have stopped his gaze from drifting to Macaque if he tried. Amber eyes pinned Wukong where he sat among his crumbling memories, and he wasn’t sure what he’d wanted to find in Macaque’s somber gaze, but he found that he couldn’t decipher what he found, anyway. And it didn’t matter, because the solemn, unreadable expression was gently eased by the barest trace of a smile.

Wukong wasn’t known for his honesty, he’d claim to be a humble creature and he’d be a liar for it, but more than proud or dishonest, Wukong’s most fatal flaw was his avarice. Greed was almost second nature to the Monkey King and his gaze had fallen upon Macaque’s smile. It was so small and tentative and so real that Wukong could hardly remember what he’d been brooding about in the first place; he couldn’t fathom letting Azure destroy the universe with such a precious treasure still in it for him to chase.

So blinding were the stars in Wukong’s eyes, that it somehow never crossed his mind that Macaque might not be on the same page, or even in the same book, when it came to the state of their relationship. Long after MK and his friends had made their way back down the mountain, with promises of a beach day somewhere in their near future, Wukong scoured the mountain–mostly to scavenge anything worth bringing back to Water Curtain Cave, but also to see if Macaque would slip back out of the shadows with some taunt about having to train MK again.

“Training with a videogame,” Wukong murmured aloud, for no real reason than to fill the aching silence, “s’lot safer than your other lessons, that’s for sure,” and he wasn’t even sure if Macaque could hear him, but Wukong would pretend for his own sake. “I suppose I should thank you for helping MK get me out of that scroll,” he mused, “shame you’re so hard to track down.”

He hadn’t really expected the promise of a ‘thank you’ to work, and it didn’t. No amount of gentle coaxing or teasing summoned Macaque from wherever he’d slipped off to, and Wukong resolved that he’d just have to wait until the next time the world was almost destroyed to see his shadow again. The house Wukong had offered him as sanctuary wasn’t even standing anyway, it wasn’t as though Macaque had any reason to stick around.

Water Curtain Cave was dark and full of sleeping subjects when Wukong arrived, and he might have stumbled blindly into a puddle of white fur somewhere if it weren’t for the two lanterns sitting just inside the waterfall, far enough away that the spray couldn’t douse the soft light but close enough that Wukong couldn’t have possibly overlooked them.

For a moment, he stared uncomprehendingly, blinking at the lanterns and their torn red and purple shades. His lanterns, he realized distantly, from the house that Azure destroyed.

The lanterns were barely noticeable pieces of decor that he and Macaque had picked together a millennia ago, but they suddenly felt like beacons to Wukong as he crouched to be nearer to their light. Wukong picked up the round, red lantern and trailed a hand absently over the small tears in the paper and ran his fingers through the tassel. He didn’t dare move the purple lantern, the thin bar of wood keeping its cylinder shape cracked, impossible to hang without tearing, so he left it where it’d been carefully placed.

There was a part of Wukong that wanted to think that it meant nothing, that the memories pulled from the wreckage of Wukong’s house were somehow an empty gesture. The lanterns could have just as easily been scavenged by one of his own subjects, Wukong scolded himself before he could lose himself to fantasy, settling the red lantern next to its counterpart; he had know way of truly knowing Macaque had recovered the lanterns and returned them to him.

But he was mostly certain, and that was enough to keep his gaze trained on the flickering lights until his vision blurred, banishing the dark from every corner of the cave and warming some long-forgotten crack in Wukong’s heart.

A questioning call from one of his subjects jolted Wukong from his thoughts, sleep. His entire body suddenly ached at the reminder, eyelids drooping over his tired eyes as he mumbled out a confirmation, an assurance that he was on his way. The lanterns were delicate, not something Wukong could linger on with exhaustion dragging at his thoughts, and almost as delicate as the damaged wood and paper and tassels was Macaque, and Wukong couldn’t touch that festering wound, either, not without sleep and a clearer head.

And with rest came clarity, Wukong prying his eyes open sometime in the late morning, covered in a warm blanket of tangled limbs and tails. He couldn’t hunt Macaque, even if he tried; when he and Macaque talked or argued or fought, it was on Macaque’s terms, had to be, and the shadow seemed content to keep it that way. Macaque shoved pure light at Wukong, the lanterns, a smile, and then he slipped back off into the darkness where Wukong couldn’t find him.

Macaque’s terms, Wukong determined solemnly as he propelled himself up, out of the disgruntled pile of subjects protesting their interrupted slumber. If the lanterns meant anything–and Wukong had to believe that they did–then Macaque was grasping at the same straws Wukong was. Their centuries-long battlefield had turned into a no-man’s land, and they were both trying to figure out where they stood, but Macaque was too reserved to do anything on terms that weren’t his own.

Luckily, all those things Wukong was known for, his proud, dishonest, greed-driven habits, made him an excellent cheat. Wrangling a conversation out of Macaque had to happen on the warrior’s terms, but that didn’t mean a king couldn’t skew his chances. So, when MK drove his tuk-tuk up the mountain with a noodle lunch delivery, beach day already on the tip of his tongue, Wukong readily suggested a place. His beach, on Flower Fruit Mountain, next to Macaque’s gnarled tree–their tree, but most memories Wukong had of it were laced with Macaque, bandages and peaches and Macaque.

It wasn’t a ploy that would work unless Macaque wanted it to, but Wukong had his lanterns and his suspicions–and if he snagged an extra popsicle before he laid back in his beach chair, then it was no one’s business but his. And if he never bothered moving that umbrella from where Macaque had placed it, that was between him and the sun. And if he promised something with a ‘we’ in it and Macaque didn’t protest, no one else was around to hear it, anyway.

In the grand scheme of things, nothing had changed much. Wukong found the time to carefully patch up his lanterns and, every so often, his subjects chattered happily about sharing a branch with a shadow by the ocean, but nothing changed. Wukong very firmly shoved the urge to go spying. Not only would it probably shatter any hope of Macaque staying on Flower Fruit Mountain, but Wukong wouldn’t be able to sneak up on the six-eared celestial primate anyway, not even in his sleep.

Nothing had changed, and the kid never really even questioned why Wukong tried making a hair-clone of his house, except to give him a half-hearted apology that sounded an awful lot like, “Did you really think that would work?” Wukong had brushed it off. It wasn’t as though he used the house for anything other than watching ‘Monkey Cop’ reruns. He rarely left the trees around Water Curtain Cave if he could help it, or if he was training MK. And Macaque didn’t appear interested in it, anyway; the beach must have been pretty comfortable to be staying there almost every night.

Sometimes, though, Wukong wished that something had changed. Nothing drastic, nothing big, Wukong didn’t need the grandeur of a rekindled friendship, but he felt–after everything they’d been through, all the time they spent dancing around each other–that something had to give. It didn’t have to be friendship, it didn’t even have to be cordial, but it needed to be something.

Even when Macaque was helpful–really helpful, trying to find more information on the coming storm–it seemed as though not much had changed. Macaque caught the tail end of MK deflecting another of Wukong’s concerns and teased about how the conversation went well, like there weren’t lanterns in Water Curtain Cave, like Macaque’s sharp smile hadn’t been something softer in that scroll, like Macaque hadn’t gnawed on the wooden stick of a peach popsicle long after it’d been eaten.

And Wukong responded like he hadn’t allowed Macaque by his fire; he demanded to know if Macaque was seriously lurking, like he hadn’t offered the shadow a house. Macaque must not have seen the point in reminding Wukong of their olive branch, and instead made some flippant remark about the mountain being just as much his home as it was the king’s.

It was a less nerve-wracking talk than Wukong was used to, but neither one of them had quite grasped how to hold conversation without the tension. Macaque pressed about Wukong's old enemies, about not being ready, and Wukong stuck his royal foot in his mouth asking why Macaque came back–not how, he knew how, but why; Macaque had plenty of opportunities to disappear after the Lady, why would Macaque come back for Wukong?

He couldn’t even lift his gaze to meet Macaque’s when the shadow whirled on him with bared teeth and a frustrated growl; not the time for such questions, a mistake and he knew it. Luckily, Macaque seemed just as hesitant to start an argument, even when he had the right to, because he took a breath and continued their conversation with only marginally more tension in his voice.

But despite both their best efforts, the conversation turned south, arguing over each other about nonsense Wukong barely remembered. They were fortunate that MK started hollering for Wukong before either of them remembered how to throw a punch. Macaque slipped off again with advice Wukong tried not to take to heart: do better. Like Wukong hadn’t been trying desperately to do right by MK; like nothing had changed.

Macaque, apparently, wasn’t the only one who seemed to think that Wukong needed some wrangling. He couldn’t say that he was surprised when the Ten Kings came knocking, but he was rather startled that MK and Macaque had gotten dragged with him. His crimes were many, the deities he’d fought for information about the Lady, the map he’d stolen from Nezha’s care, but MK was only guilty of saving the world, and Wukong really tried not to think about Macaque being in the Underworld at all, much less what the Kings might want with him.

Wukong had forgotten how easy the well of pity was to fall in, until his head was once again adorned with gold. Wukong hadn’t meant the comment to be a slight, just a complaint, a way of venting his frustration about the situation since he couldn’t escape it–something about always taking the punishment while Macaque moped, but his unease over the circlet had perhaps blinded him a bit to the shadow’s own struggle.

Maybe going to jail wasn’t on my agenda for tonight, Macaque had bit out, glaring pointedly at a pair of chains. And Wukong could feel that familiar, red-hot emotion crawling up his neck again–something like shame, something like embarrassment; he barely managed some lame retort before turning away and gnawing at his lip in an effort to keep his mouth shut. When Li Jing summoned that circlet, Macaque had been shouting in protest somewhere behind him before Wukong even realized what was happening, and Wukong had just taken the first opportunity he could to throw a jab. Like nothing had changed.

Pity and bickering wouldn’t get any of them anywhere, and they both seemed to reach an understanding when Nezha stood before their prison cell and opened the door. They both wanted out of the Underworld, away from Li Jing, and to help MK save the world; any emotions that happened outside of those three things could wait until after everyone was safe, then they could argue about whatever to their hearts’ content.

Second to fighting, Wukong was most adept at escaping. Whatever he couldn’t talk his way out of, he could scheme his way out, and when all else failed there was always the option of clearing a path with his fists. It probably helped some to have Macaque, despite their mutual bitterness over being imprisoned. No one else could have formed a plan with him with just a knowing glance, kept pace with him tearing through the Kings’ palace, destroyed a small army in the time it took to swing a sword; he probably could have escaped with just him and MK, but it would have been harder, and a lot less entertaining without Macaque shrieking his name as they tumbled off a bridge to freefall through the air.

He felt a century old again, his stone body light with laughter that felt almost hysteric and hands that itched to grasp forbidden fruit. It was a high rivaled only by the crushing reminder of his leash, chained to Li Jing by a bright, blinding band of pain with no escape and no hope of convincing MK to leave him behind. He was ashamed to admit that among his frantic, racing thoughts, he hadn’t even given the shadow in the corner of his blurring vision much thought when he first saw it.

Then it streaked past him, knocking Li Jing’s hand from the air and disrupting the sigil. Wukong gasped for air at the sudden lack of pressure, but the effects lingered, ears ringing–Macaque had said something, he was certain, but he could barely even hear MK, could barely hear his own breathless, no- desperately trying to claw his way back out of the portal Macaque dropped him into, Macaque-!

Wukong wondered–briefly, because he couldn’t linger on it too long for his own sanity’s sake–if Macaque ever felt this helpless watching his retreating back when they were younger. He wondered, landing in the back of a van like the stone weight he was, how many times Macaque had wanted to wrench the monk’s hand away like he’d stopped Li Jing. And when MK began quietly reassuring himself, or Wukong, maybe both, that Macaque would get away, right? he always gets away. Wukong couldn’t quite bring himself to answer, because Macaque didn’t, not always, and Wukong knew that MK had already seen the scarred-over proof under the shadow’s glamor.

It was the only moment he allowed himself to wonder, because saving the universe had a deadline, and Wukong only knew for certain how to find one of the stones they needed to save the world. There would be a time to think about Macaque, Wukong assured himself–had been assuring himself; after the Lady, after Azure, after they’d escaped the Ten Kings, surely, but the universe, crumbling though it was, didn’t seem to care much about the when, and decided Li Jing’s pagoda would do just fine.

Of all the enemies they could have encountered, Wukong thought dazedly, of course, they’d run into the one that could flay open the memory of a wound and make him bleed out the hurt. He couldn’t have stopped himself anymore than he could have the first time, asleep with his eyes open, like every worst nightmare he’d ever had suddenly turned waking.

Perhaps it shouldn't have surprised him when Macaque broke the Hundred-Eyed Demon’s hold–after the Lady, after Azure, after Li Jing, but it did. And what surprised him more was Macaque’s flippance about it, the almost disappointed drawl about Wukong wasting his very noble sacrifice.

And Wukong wanted to ask, grab the warrior by the shoulders and demand to know if Macaque had jumped into the pagoda under the assumption that no one was coming for him. Had Macaque really been willing to risk that–for Wukong? for the world? why? And a thousand other questions that they had no time to linger on, so Wukong grasped his sleeve instead and bit his tongue. There’d be time, Wukong told himself firmly, he’d make time if he had to, for Macaque–after.

After, he swore, they’d talk about Macaque tearing himself from Xianglu’s hold to save MK; after, he thought, they’d talk about Macaque overexerting his magic–had his core even healed after the Lady? did Wukong want to know?--to give everyone else a chance to escape, to fight, to let Wukong try his hand at talking down MK; after, he convinced himself, until there was no after.

He’d only just pulled himself together again with MK safe in his arms, head pounding with red-rimmed eyes. He’d only just gotten the missing piece of his world back on the right side of living, and the universe dissolved, anyway. His chest hurt with fear–mortality had never quite sat right with him, and there was enough adrenaline in his veins to take on the Jade Emperor all over again, but there was nothing to fight. The end of the world was a spiraling freefall with nothing to hold onto, and Wukong’s claws twitched uselessly with the ever-insatiable urge to grasp at something–anything.

Macaque, he remembered suddenly; there wouldn’t be an after. Wukong turned to see the shadow standing some unfathomable distance away, gazing with such a raw, open expression that he was almost certain Macaque never meant for him to see it. He looked surprised that anyone had even bothered to find his gaze, and stared disbelievingly when Wukong offered him an outstretched hand. It was the absolute very least Wukong could do, after everything, but Macaque stared like he’d been offered the whole crumbling world.

The universe, Wukong thought, was awfully lucky to have MK to save it, absolutely last second and with a flair the great Monkey King couldn’t have taught him in a thousand years. And Xianglu was awfully lucky to have escaped into the Pillar when he did; Wukong had killed for far lesser crimes than taking Macaque’s reaching hand from him.

Wukong had braced himself for Macaque’s leaving before he’d even left. He wasn’t even sure when Macaque had slipped off, but he’d looked around at some point and forced air into his lungs upon noticing the loss. After seeing the kid and his friends safely back to their noodle shop, Wukong had summoned a nimbus to take him home. It wasn’t often that Wukong spent the night anywhere but Water Curtain Cave, but he’d been asleep in his house when the Ten Kings had stolen him away and, gods be damned, Wukong was going to sleep in his own home, even if it was just for one night.

MK would get plenty of use out of it, Wukong was certain, with ‘Monkey Cop’ reruns and videogame parties and any other excuse he could think of to visit, but the king couldn’t help but want a quiet night anywhere that wasn’t Water Curtain Cave and his warrior’s looming absence.

If he’d been paying any more attention, he’d have noticed the faint light through the windows when he touched down and dismissed the cloud. As it were, Wukong barely had the energy to find the stairs, much less be on his guard. He all but stumbled into the house, cursing something fierce as tripped on the threshold and nearly face-planted. Wukong kicked at the door to nudge it closed, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes and taking a slow breath.

His claws dragged his eyelids open again, palms running tiredly over his face, and he nearly hit his head against the door behind him reeling as Macaque appeared in his line of sight, “You-” he gasped, hand pressing into the wood behind him before he could hit it, “I mean, uh…” Macaque blinked at him from the couch, crowded on the side furthest from the door and looking like he’d rather be anywhere else, “hey,” Wukong finished lamely.

Cautiously, Macaque replied, “Hey,” letting it hang in the air awkwardly for only a moment before adding, “didn’t mean to startle you, I just-”

“You didn’t,” Wukong lied in reflex, clearing his throat and picking at his cape self-consciously. “You didn’t startle me, I just… wasn’t expecting company, so-”

Legs swinging off the couch, Macaque began standing, “I can-”

“No, no!” Wukong placated frantically, before Macaque could say leave, “It’s not- you can stay! I mean,” his boot scuffed the floor, “I offered, didn’t I? This house is just as much yours as it is mine.”

Macaque settled back into the couch slowly. “Alright,” he replied hesitantly, “if you’re sure.”

“Super sure,” Wukong agreed, “I’m just- I’ll take the hammock, yeah? If you’re gonna crash on the couch.” Macaque nodded, and Wukong took that as an invitation, skirting the wall and clambering into the swinging net in the corner. Not quite as good as sleeping on a cloud, Wukong mused to himself, but good enough.

The sounds of mountain nightlife slowly filtered through the silence, and Wukong watched Macaque gradually relax, sinking into the couch cushions and tucking himself into a stray blanket that’d been sprawled across the back of it. “Tired?”

Wukong snorted, “Oh, unbelievably.” He sighed and rolled over, mindful to keep the hammock’s balance, “But I don’t think sleep is gonna be finding me any time soon.” He chanced a glance up, studying Macaque’s twitching ear and flicking tail, “What about you?”

“Exhausted,” Macaque sympathized, “and probably not sleeping any time soon.”

Humming, Wukong’s eyes trailed to the soft light cast over the room. “Did you-” his brow furrowed thoughtfully, “when did you put the lamps in here?”

“Been there,” Macaque answered plainly. “Since the kid showed you the house. Snuck them in there before our, uh… chat.” He huffed out a laugh, “You didn’t notice?”

“I don’t know,” Wukong admitted, “I’m so used to seeing them in the cave, they probably just slipped right past me.”

“The little ones told me you’d fixed them up,” Macaque noted, a smile in his voice–Wukong almost wished Macaque would turn some so that he could see it, “getting sentimental in your old age, Wukong?” He had the audacity to outright laugh at Wukong’s offended scoff–old age, “Anyway,” the shadow continued, “just thought you’d like them in your new house, was all.”

Wukong, picking his battles, let the comment about his age lie, “I do like them,” he settled on, and Macaque hummed in reply. “No, seriously,” Wukong sat up, and the hammock’s creak made Macaque turn a bit, just enough to hold Wukong’s gaze with the corner of his eye, “I appreciate it. All of it, the… you know, with Li Jing and everything.”

Shoulders hunching, and so unlike the snarking shadow he’d come to know over the last year or so, Macaque mumbled something along the lines of, “Told you I’d keep saving your ass.” Then he sat up, turning to drape himself over the back of the couch and face Wukong properly. “So,” he started, “if we’re just gonna keep each other up all night,” he peered through his drooping eyelids, “what are we gonna do about the kid?”

“We?” Wukong clarified. “Promoted yourself to full-time mentor, have you? Or is there another apocalypse you’re secretly trying to prepare him for?” Macaque raised an expectant brow rather than answer, and Wukong huffed out a breath, “I don’t know. I’ve been lost since the Lady, honestly, he just- he’s become so much more than I thought he would.”

Macaque head listed, resting on his folded arms. “Think the Celestial Court had something similar to say about you, back in the day.” He chuckled and, in a poor imitation of a deep, haughty voice, drawled, “It’s just a monkey with laser eyes, it’s not like he’ll grow up to wreak havoc in Heaven.”

Grabbing a pillow out of the hammock, Wukong aimed for–and missed–Macaque face, “Shut up,” he complained, grumbling when the shadow merely blinked as the pillow bounced harmlessly off the back of the couch and hit the floor. “Give that back.”

“Nah,” Macaque replied easily. “If you wanted it, you shouldn’t have thrown it.” Still, a portal opened in the floor, and Wukong had just enough time to look up at the faint, swirling sound of shadows above him when the pillow dropped through. “You think maybe we oughta lay off the training for a while? His work-life balance hasn’t exactly been stellar, as of late.”

Wukong hummed, “I think we need to throw him a damn party or something. Another beach day, fireworks, whatever, just get the poor kid out of his head. Gods know he’s gonna need it, after that Pillar.” At that, Macaque fell uncharacteristically quiet, amber eyes blank and staring at something far behind the house’s four walls. “Are you-” and he swallows back an okay, because he couldn’t possibly expect anyone involved with the end of the world to be okay, “how’s your core?”

“It’s seen better days,” Macaque mumbled, “think that little pillow portal is gonna be all I can manage, for the moment.” Something like a smile graced Macaque’s features, something soft that just barely touched his eyes. “Just don’t throw anything bigger than a cushion until I get some sleep, yeah? Save the fighting for another day.”

“Or for no other day,” Wukong suggested before he could think better of it. “I mean, we- it’d be hard to make the whole co-mentor thing work if we’re at each other’s throats, right?” Macaque’s eyes sharpened a bit, trailing closer to Wukong, but not quite meeting his gaze. “So, maybe the fighting becomes… like, not a thing. Maybe.”

An amused puff of air escaped Macaque’s nose, “Not even a good-natured rivalry?”

“Is that what you want?” Wukong asked tentatively.

Macaque shrugged, “Does it matter?”

Wukong tucked his arms under him to sit up a little, “I wouldn’t be asking if it didn’t matter.” Macaque grunted, head twisting, scrubbing his face tiredly into the crook of his elbow. “Look, I can’t- you gotta give me something, alright? We can’t do this dance forever.”

“Can’t we?” came Macaque’s muffled reply. “It’s your favorite dance.”

“We could,” Wukong amended, “but is that what you want?”

The silence between them stretched long enough that Wukong began to wonder if Macaque had fallen asleep there on the couch. “Since when do you care about what I want?” he asked finally, not bothering to lift his head. “What are you gonna do, Wukong? That’s the real question, because you’re gonna do whatever you want no matter what I say.”

“Everything has been on your terms since you came back,” Wukong protested. “I can’t- and I don’t blame you for wanting it that way, and we could do this forever, but I don’t want to.” His jaw set, suddenly realizing that Macaque hadn’t been speaking poorly of his character, just stating a fact, “And I’m not going to,” even if that was what Macaque wanted, Wukong wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

Macaque’s head turned a bit, just enough to peer Wukong through his lashes, “Yeah,” he hummed, resigned–not bitterly, just knowing, like he’d always known Wukong’s answer; or he’d at least known that his own choice wouldn’t matter much. Wukong didn’t feel very good about either option. “So, what are you gonna do?”

Wukong took a breath, “I think I’m gonna go scheme with MK’s friends tomorrow, find a way to throw him that party,” he said slowly. “And I’m gonna invite you. Properly, this time, not like the beach day. Consider this your official invitation.” Macaque’s brow raised a bit at that, surprise rounding the slits of his eyes. “And you?” Wukong deflected, turning the question on Macaque, “What are you gonna do?”

“I’m gonna go check the state of the Underworld, now that the Ten Kings are out of commission,” Macaque replied. “Something Xianglu said isn’t sitting right with me.” He slipped off the back of the couch, laying down and making himself comfortable. “But I’ll make time for the party.”

Already anticipating Macaque’s reservation, Wukong tried, “Do I get to know about this ‘something’ before or after it turns into another apocalypse?”

“Make you a deal,” Macaque grumbled, pulling a blanket around himself, “drop it for the night so we can sleep, and I’ll let you ask me about it the next time you see me.”

“At the party?” Wukong asked.

“Whenever you see me,” Macaque yawned. “Now shut up, or the deal’s off.”

Wukong huffed, but rolled over and trained his gaze on the wall, trailing the wood grain and resisting the urge to close his eyes. Perhaps a bit selfishly, Wukong wanted to enjoy the peace between them before the morning light revealed Macaque had slipped off again. He fought sleep just long enough to remember that Macaque could probably hear his heartbeat, his breathing, knew that he was just lying there awake, and finally let his eyes rest.

He tried not to be too disappointed when his eyes opened again to sunlight and an empty couch–Macaque was going to make time. They’d talk, whenever, and it was more than he’d gotten in centuries, so he could stand to be patient about it. Wukong threw himself into planning MK a gathering of friends. He had a heartfelt conversation with MK on the roof of the noodle shop. He helped pick out fireworks while Mei dragged Redson into the party planning, he helped Tang pick out ingredients for Pigsy to cook, and he helped Sandy haul their supplies to the van and up the mountain to a quaint little cave.

It was nice, shedding the almost nonstop needling anxiety he’d been carrying around since Macaque’s first arrival. For the first time in a long time, the world wasn’t in immediate danger–or, at least, Wukong wasn’t afraid that it might be. Things were hectic in the city, and all around the world, with the Colored Stones’ magic being redistributed throughout the universe, but it didn’t feel dangerous. It didn’t feel like Wukong needed to be looking over his shoulder for the next threat.

The cool rush of shadows didn’t even phase him. If he felt anything at all about Macaque’s arrival, it was relief, which was a nice change of pace. He turned to see Macaque greeting Mei, dropping a box of lanterns with the rest of the party supplies and asking if there was anything he could help with.

There was a moment that Macaque caught Wukong’s gaze, half-lidded and tired like he hadn’t slept since that night they’d shared, and he smiled. No sharp edges or mean show of teeth, just a barely-there curl of his lips that might have melted Wukong entirely were he not made of stone.

They didn’t speak the whole night, not when Wukong came back with the blindfolded MK, not when Macaque began helping Tang hang lanterns, not when Pigsy began passing around take-out boxes full of warm food, not even when they’d helped search for Sandy’s missing matches before remembering that Mei and Redson could light fireworks just fine without them. It didn’t feel like avoiding each other, just minding their space; they had whenever to talk, and didn't need to disrupt MK’s night to do it.

After Mei and Redson’s fifth round of fireworks and all the snacks Pigsy packed had been eaten, MK started nodding off on Wukong’s shoulder to the sound of whatever Tang had playing on the van’s radio. It wasn’t terribly late, certainly not the latest Wukong had ever partied, but after what MK had been through, he was amazed the poor kid managed as long as he did.

He brushed off any offers to help clean up, all but pushing MK and his friends into their van and rolling them down the mountain. Mei had insisted on one more group selfie gathered around one very sleepy Harbinger, and nobody–not even Redson–had the fortitude to dissuade her. Wukong smiled to himself as they drove out of sight, wondering if he could pester Mei into giving him a printed copy. It’d make a nice addition to the collection he had adorning the walls of the house.

“So,” and Wukong barely flinched at the sudden voice, his head whipping around to the noise, but Macaque chuckled anyway, “now that the kids are gone.” A small portal opened for Macaque to stick his arm through, and pulled it back out with two bottles in his hand.

Wukong’s tail flicked happily at the prospect of alcohol, but he did feel the need to point out, “Every single person here was an adult, you know.” He took a bottle and bit the cork, tugging it out and spitting it somewhere. It wasn’t as though he’d be capping it again before it was empty. “I oughta tell them you were holding out.”

Macaque pulled the cork from his own bottle with a lot more grace, “You oughta keep your trap shut about it,” he warned teasingly, “or I’m never doing anything nice for you again.” Wukong hummed around a swig, fruity and sweet, sharp and warm in the back of his throat–some kind of wine. Not as good as peach wine, but it’d do. “Speaking of nice,” Macaque continued, raising his own bottle to his lips, “I believe I owe you a conversation.”

“Oh, is that why you’re getting me drunk?” Wukong asked, “So you can talk circles around me all night?”

“I got alcohol so there’s something to blame if you say anything stupid,” Macaque corrected easily. “I know you’re a lightweight, but I didn’t anticipate getting you drunk with one bottle.”

Pursing his lips and blowing air through the space, Wukong mumbled, “You’re a mean, mean soul, you know that?” He summoned a cloud from the sky to rest on, his old, stone bones tired of sitting on the cave floor. “I don’t remember you being this mean.”

“You don’t?” Macaque asked, brow raised, “What, you killed me for being super, extra nice or somethin’?” Wukong choked on the word ‘killed’ and coughed the rest of the way through Macaque’s sentence. The shadow seemed nonplussed, amused, even, at the reaction, “Careful, Wukong,” he chided lightly, “gonna lose one of your immortalities hacking up a lung.”

“What-” Wukong nearly fell off the nimbus sitting up, glaring at Macaque with rising incredulity, “what the hell is your problem?” Not to say it hadn’t ever crossed his mind, their fight, the last and only real brawl he ever had with Macaque, but he certainly hadn’t expected the shadow to toss it out so casually, like small talk, like the city’s perfect weather or the who the actual mayor was.

Macaque blinked, “Oh. Too far, huh?” He pinched the bridge of his nose and scrubbed the pads of his fingers across his eyes. “S’my bad. I’ve, uh… had a few things on my mind lately. Trying to sort some stuff out.”

“Did going to the Underworld fuck with your head or something?” Wukong asked, and he didn’t mean to sound quite as hostile as he did, but Macaque didn’t appear to care, or perhaps acknowledged that it was deserved after his comment. “I’m allowed to ask why you went investigating now, right? Not gonna be dodgy or nothin’?”

“No dodging,” Macaque said, holding up his bottle, “that’s also what the alcohol’s for. Keeping my head on straight.”

Wukong snorted, “Don’t think anyone’s ever gotten tipsy to keep their head on straight.”

“Well, being sober didn’t get me any closer to figuring this out,” Macaque sighed, tipping back another swing of his wine. “Between these last few days and that little fireworks show, my head’s going to explode.” Wukong winced in sympathy–he had noticed that Macaque had stuck to the back of the cave for most of the celebration, perched atop Sandy’s van. “And if I can’t escape the headache anyway, might as well have it at the bottom of a bottle.”

Tsking, Wukong teased, “And you pride yourself on being the sensible one.” He allowed himself one more sip before doubling down on his need for answers. “Seriously, though. What’s got your tail in a knot these days, huh? You said something about Xianglu not sitting right with you.”

“Couple things,” Macaque replied, “like, when he claimed to know you.”

Wukong’s brow furrowed, struggling to recall the moment Macaque spoke of. It was fleeting and distant, a mere blip in the conversation compared to everything else that’d been happening around them. “Something about being old friends,” he remembered, “and old enemies.” He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter, I don’t remember him.” Macaque bit the inside of his cheek, looking contemplative. “Unless you think it does matter.”

“He said something to me, too,” Macaque explained. “Asked about my powers, where I got them,” his lips twisted into a scowl, “who I made a deal with.”

“For the shadows?” Wukong clarified, shifting to sit up properly on his cloud–carefully, with the mostly full bottle still in his hand. “I thought you always had that, the… the thing in your chest, that you can reach into.”

Macaque huffed, leaning against the nearest cave wall and sliding down, “I don’t think that’s what he was talking about.” He swirled his bottle of wine absently, “I could fight him, er- resist him, I guess, that magic of his.” Twin shudders raced down their spines; they didn’t acknowledge it. “But I never made a deal for any power. Or I don’t remember making one, anyway.”

“And I don’t remember ever being his enemy,” Wukong said slowly, “or his friend, for that matter.”

“Eh,” Macaque shrugged, raising the wine to his lips, “what’s the difference.” He either didn’t notice or didn’t care for Wukong’s withering glare, “Makes me wonder what else we don’t remember,” he added once he’d pulled the bottle away from his face.

The implication hadn’t occurred to Wukong, content to let Xianglu and all his off-putting comments fall by the wayside, but now that Macaque had brought it to the forefront of his mind, it was a thought that disturbed him more than he’d like to admit, “And you thought you’d find some answers in the Underworld…” Wukong started cautiously, “why?”

For a moment, Macaque said nothing, glaring at his bottle of wine like he could shatter it with his eyes, “Xianglu had been masquerading as one of the Ten Kings for years–eons, maybe. If I’ve got a magic similar enough to his to rival it, the Underworld would be the only connection we have.” He took another drink, three long gulps, like he was trying to down liquid courage, “What do you remember about the day I died?”

Wukong stared for a moment, trying to decipher the intention behind Macaque’s question, “You’re serious?” he asked. “Your plan for tonight was to party with the kid, get me drunk, and make us relive the worst day of our lives?” When Macaque didn’t refute the accusation, Wukong closed his eyes and tipped his head back, “This your idea of a good time? You just enjoy making me squirm, or what?”

“Yeah,” Macaque drawled, “I’m absolutely itching to have this conversation.” He lifted his wine, already more than half gone, as a show of exactly how thrilled he was. “You know I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t have to,” and Wukong did understand that Macaque’s death was a much more sensitive topic for the shadow than it was for the king–he didn’t have much to complain about, all things considered, but that didn’t make him any less receptive to the conversation. “Humor me,” Macaque shuffled to sit up straighter, though he still leaned against the cave wall like he’d fall over without it, “what do you remember?”

There was a long moment of Macaque staring at him expectantly that made Wukong want to shrivel up and hide in the nimbus, “M’uncomfortable,” he managed finally–with the conversation, with Macaque’s eyes on him, in a cave surrounded by stone, “let’s go back to the house,” he offered, lifting his bottle to take another drink–he’d need it to even approach the conversation Macaque wanted to have.

“Not portaling,” Macaque grunted, downing his own generous sip of wine. “And we still have to clean up.”

Wukong made a disgruntled noise around the rim of the bottle, abandoning the wine mid-drink to reply, “I’ll do it tomorrow.” Patting the space next to him, Wukong offered, “C’mon, plenty of room on Nimbus.”

Macaque snorted, “Your cloud is picky about its passengers, remember? I don’t think it’s gonna hold me.”

“I’ll hold you,” Wukong replied before he could give it much thought. “Just- get on the cloud.” Macaque grumbled something about having just gotten comfortable, but stood. The hand not holding the bottle of wine pressed against the cloud’s surface tentatively; he didn’t fall through, but Wukong held his arm, anyway, letting Macaque lean on him like he needed the support.

Drunk and tired and not particularly looking forward to the landing, Wukong slowly steered the wisp beneath them to the house. Macaque’s tail flicked idly behind him, rumpling Wukong’s cape every few swipes, “You’re taller now,” Macaque said suddenly, “you know that? You used to be this scrappy little guy, running around, causing mischief. No one could believe you were the great and powerful Monkey King until you proved it.”

“I’m broader, too,” Wukong noted, “MK calls it a ‘dad bod’. Mei said it was fitting that a stone monkey would be built like, uh… a brick shithouse. Or whatever.” He shouldered Macaque, “Surprised they haven’t made any comments about you, huh? You’re a stereotype: tall, dark, and handsome.” He made an unsure sound, “Well, not tall, but you know what I mean. You’re tall-er.”

“Was.” Macaque head lolled a bit, eyes sliding closed–perhaps feeling the alcohol a bit now that it’d had time to settle. “Not anymore. Noticed it on your Journey.”

Pointedly keeping his gaze trained on the horizon, Wukong asked, “For the Rings?”

“No,” Macaque replied quietly. He let the wind rush past their ears for a moment before continuing, “I guess if those Pilgrims were good for anything, it was making sure you ate at least two meals a day.” Wukong could feel Macaque’s laugh more than hear it, a puff of air lost on the breeze, “Always did wonder if your exclusively peach-themed diet was stunting your growth.”

“And you’re not-” Wukong’s claws tightened around his wine, “you haven’t grown at all?”

Macaque hummed, “Don’t think I ever will again.” His eyes cracked open a bit, staring listlessly at the space in front of him, “Tested it. Don’t gain weight, can’t lose it, definitely haven’t grown at all.” A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I don’t even bleed so good anymore, s’probably on account of the, uh- heart thing.”

“Heart thing?” Wukong asked, voice strained, the little alcohol he’d drunk sitting uncomfortably in his stomach. “Do I even wanna know?”

“A non-issue. It still beats,” Macaque assured him–a fragile reassurance, all things considered, but Macaque seemed to think, “s’fine,” so Wukong didn’t comment. He steered the cloud towards the ground upon spotting the house, and Macaque’s eyes flicked open a little more at the abrupt change of direction. “You in a rush or somethin’?”

“I wish you were in a rush to pick a different topic,” Wukong admitted, lowering their ride until it hovered just a few inches off the ground. “I’m still not totally convinced you aren’t doing this as some… some plot, to mess with me.”

Taking Wukong’s offered hand, Macaque slid off the cloud, “Ah, you got me; my dastardly plan all along was to make you participate in uncomfortable conversation.” He bumped shoulders with Wukong as they trudged up the steps of the house. “Just drink your wine. You’ll feel better.”

Wukong shouldered the door open and held it for Macaque, “Look, after the Hundred-Eyed Demon, this whole situation is already pretty raw,” he admitted. “You can’t blame me for being reluctant.”

Macaque gave him an odd look from the threshold, “Is that what he showed you?” he asked curiously, genuine surprise laced into his words.

“I mean,” Wukong’s gaze flitted away, “yeah. That last fight, it’s- it was easily the worst day of my life, so…”

“Oh,” Macaque’s brow furrowed for a moment, “okay.” He slipped in the open door and started for the couch, “Alright, time to talk.”

Sighing, Wukong closed the door and followed Macaque, sitting on the couch opposite of where Macaque had made his claim, “You really think talking about this will help you figure out what Xianglu said?” Macaque shrugged, setting his bottle on the floor and staring at Wukong expectantly. “And you’re not asking me about this just to fuck with me?”

“I understand that you’re not trying to be an asshole right now,” Macaque said coolly, “but the implication that this conversation is going fuck with you and not me is laughable.” And Wukong understood that Macaque was trying to be gentle, but the alcohol did quite a number on both their filters. “So, what do you remember about the day I died?”

Wukong pressed the bottle in his hands to his forehead, letting the cool glass soothe his frazzled mind for a moment before managing, “I remember us brawling our way out of Buddha’s home,” he recalled sullenly, “and I remember that my master, he-” He grit his teeth for a moment, chewing on the words for a moment before realizing there was no kinder way of saying, “restrained you.” Macaque hummed. “The same spell we used for the Lady Bone Demon.”

“Blue chains,” Macaque remembered, “not a good time for me.”

“You did knock him unconscious,” Wukong defended the monk fiercely, though his voice was weak, “and stole our supplies. And threatened the pilgrimage. You understand how he thought that spell was necessary, right?”

Macaque nodded, “I understand why the monk thought it was needed,” he agreed easily. “But I’m not angry with the monk.”

Snorting, Wukong grumbled, “Could’ve fooled me.” Macaque raised an eyebrow at him, and he shook his head. “Whatever. So, I- you, the Demon Bull King, and Camel Ridge were all still technically wanted for treason against the Jade Emperor.” His grip tightened around the bottle, “I don’t think you deserved to get put in a box for… petty revenge. I was only going to let the monk contain you until the end of the Journey, and only because I couldn’t guarantee that the Celestial Realm wouldn’t make me do worse.”

“So… you were saving me,” Macaque supplied, a small disbelieving laugh spilling out of him, and Wukong couldn’t blame him. Much like most of Wukong’s plans over the years, it wasn’t until he was forced to voice his thoughts out loud that he realized how ridiculous it sounded. “That was your logic?”

“I never claimed it was a smart idea,” Wukong admitted, “I think turning my back on you that day was the worst decision I ever made.” His eyes opened just enough to glare at the bottle still resting against his forehead. “That’s why I told you to leave when you got free. I didn’t think you’d-”

“Stop,” Macaque interjected firmly. He didn’t sound angry, but the sound was sharp enough that Wukong lifted his head to meet Macaque’s gaze. “Say that again.”

Wukong huffed out a breath and took a drink, trying desperately to pretend that Macaque’s amber gaze wasn’t burning a hole in the side of his head. “Your magic went haywire. Damn near swallowed you whole,” he elaborated. “Looked like it was trying to rip you out of the chains, and it- I guess it did. The spell turned corrupted and red and spat you out.” He swallowed back a bitterness, trying to focus on the burn of alcohol in his throat. “And then I told you to leave, before we had to imprison you again.” He chewed on his lip until it broke the skin, then released it, letting the wound zip itself shut again, “And then you tried to… Macaque, you know, don’t make me-”

“Do you have any idea how much energy it took to break that spell?” Macaque asked. “We’d already fought each other all over the Realms; my magic went haywire because I overworked it–way worse than what I did to escape Xianglu. I blacked out breaking those chains,” he extended a hand to the open space between the TV and the couch, two shadows playing across the floor, “I woke up to this-”

There were many reasons to admire the Six-Eared Macaque, despite what got written in the book, but Wukong had always been particularly fond of Macaque’s knack for theater. He was sat on the literal edge of his seat, scooting up on the couch to watch the small display. He was certain it’d have been much more elaborate if Macaque weren’t inebriated, or had more time, but Wukong was more than capable of deciphering the two outlines before him.

Wukong watched the wispy chains snap and a shape collapse. The outline of Macaque dragged itself up, head tilted up at the second shadow and its glowing circlet–and Wukong remembered the moment, Macaque staring up, eyes wide and tired and disbelieving and scared as Wukong beared down on him. But it’d happened long into a hard-fought battle, begging Macaque to back down before Wukong had to do something he regretted; it hadn’t happened like this, but-

He didn’t want to think too hard about the implications, what must have been going through Macaque’s mind, blinking himself awake and looking up to see Wukong preparing to deliver a killing blow. The two shadowy figures collided and dissipated, the intent behind it clear–the last, decisive blow of their fight, Wukong barely remembered, not the first, “We fought,” Wukong told himself, firmly, like he had to convince himself. Then louder, “You tried killing the monk and laughed.” He turned to Macaque, his thoughts frantically trying–and failing–to piece together anything other than, “We fought.”

“Killing the-” Macaque sat up straighter on the couch, “Dude, I was already pushing my luck impersonating you and the Pilgrims; why would I go killing Buddha’s precious little errand boy?” He gestured at Wukong, “I saw what happened to the last guy who pissed off Buddha, remember? You think I’d sign myself up for five-hundred years under a mountain?”

“You think I would kill you for escaping?” Wukong fired back, a snarl on the corner of his lips that wilted at Macaque’s expression, claws dug into the arm of the chair and amber eyes glaring pointedly at anything but Wukong, “No, you-” realization crashed into Wukong like a wave, “you did. This whole time, you thought-”

“You said the seal turned corrupted when I escaped,” Macaque pressed, ignoring Wukong’s revelation. “What’d it look like?”

For a moment, Wukong couldn’t pry his gaze from Macaque’s face. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, and Macaque refused to meet his eyes, anyway, “I only caught a glimpse,” he said, turning his attention to his wine, which, all things considered, he hadn’t drank nearly enough of. “The seal was blue until your shadows got ahold of it. It turned corrupted and-” his breath hitched for a moment, catching another stray thought and shoving into the mess of puzzle pieces, “and red.” He ran a hand through his hair, “But it wasn’t- your magic was still purple when we fought, like your normal shadows, but the spell-”

“Turned red,” Macaque supplied. He downed the last of his wine and extended his hand again. “Did it look anything like this?”

Wukong nearly recoiled at the wisp of crimson that rose from Macaque’s palm, but he settled for tightening his grip around the neck of his wine. It somehow seemed like the answer to all of Wukong’s questions, if only he could decipher it. “So…” the sage started carefully, “what does this mean?”

“I don’t know,” Macaque said quietly. “But it’s… I guess it changes some things.”

“Changes-” Wukong stood to start pacing the room, the sudden rush of adrenaline running wild and cold in his veins, “We’ve been at each other’s throats for centuries over that fight,” he pointed an accusing finger at the crimson flame curling around Macaque’s fingers, “and you’re telling me it’s all because of that?”

Macaque sighed, “I don’t know,” he reiterated firmly. “Apparently, I don’t even remember dying right. At this point, you have more information than I do.” Suddenly eager to not be in his right mind, Wukong cursed and started draining his bottle of wine. “Not any closer to learning about this magic, but that’s one hell of a revelation.”

“What are you-” Wukong whirled on him incredulously. “Seriously? You’re taking this at face value?” He pressed a hand against his chest, “I’m the Monkey King, remember? Trickster god! What if I’m lying to you about the fight, huh?” He wasn’t, but it seemed hasty on Macaque’s part, to believe him so easily, “How can you just- you can’t just believe me.”

“I can, actually, because you’re a terrible liar,” Macaque replied easily, “I’d know if you weren’t telling me the truth,” He raised an eyebrow, “I, on the other hand, am a great liar,” his head tilted curiously, “so, why do you believe me?”

“Because I-” Wukong faltered, his head struggling to form a complete sentence through his whirling thoughts and the alcohol fuzzing the edge of his vision. “I don’t know, I just- I do.” Energy drained, Wukong sat back down on the couch, tossing aside his empty bottle and pressing his face into his hands.

He couldn’t put a number to how many times he’d turned that last fight with Macaque over in his head, trying to pinpoint when his best friend had become someone he didn’t recognize, someone willing to kill and laugh himself into hysterics about it. It’d been the worst fight of Wukong’s life, and it was incomprehensible to him that he and Macaque could have ever been pushed to a place where one would have to kill the other, and yet-

“I spent so long thinking you’d turned into some kind of monster,” Wukong admitted quietly. “I couldn’t tell you how many years I spent in denial, trying to think of any conceivable way that wasn’t you. And there wasn’t one. I needed an explanation, and there was just- there was nothing. My soft-spoken, sensible, loyal friend went on a murderous rampage, and I-” he curled in on himself, “and I killed you.”

Macaque was quiet for a moment, and Wukong had to dig his claws into the palms of his hands to keep himself tethered to the house. “I was going to disappear,” he murmured finally. “I remember blacking out after that spell and thinking… if I could just escape, I’d go find a hole to crawl in and stay there, you know?”

“Why?” Wukong asked.

“Dunno,” Macaque replied honestly, “I thought maybe it’d serve you right, if you came back from your grand adventure and I wasn’t home waiting for you, like I’d always been.” Wukong dragged his hands away from his eyes just enough to peer over at Macaque. The shadow had slumped against the arm of the chair, his gaze distant and staring through the walls. “Or maybe I just wanted to see if you would have come looking.” Macaque shook his head, “Wasn’t thinking very clearly, obviously, after overexerting my core like that, but-”

“And then I killed you,” Wukong reiterated helplessly.

Groaning, Macaque’s head tipped back. “Just keep saying it over and over again, Wukong,” he sighed, “I’m sure it’ll make you feel better, eventually.”

“You saved me,” Wukong realized suddenly, his attention wrenching away from the bloodied fists of centuries past and forcing him to remember the Lady, the Scroll, Li Jing, the end of the world, “You spent centuries thinking I’d killed you in cold blood, and you just kept coming back.” Macaque didn’t bother lifting his head from where it lay staring at the ceiling. “Why?”

Macaque ran a hand over his face, his expression contemplative, “I don’t know,” he said thoughtfully, “maybe I just spent a lot of time trying to figure out why you did what you did, and no explanation satisfied me. You couldn't possibly have done it. But you did.” He huffed out a laugh. “I wasn’t exactly happy to accept that you were the kind of person who killed his best friend for the next best thing.”

“Macaque-” Wukong choked out.

“I think I’m just relieved that I got an explanation,” Macaque finished. “Or something like an explanation, anyway. Still know jackshit about this magic, but… that fight makes a little more sense, I guess.” He turned to Wukong with a faltering smile curling the corner of his lips, “Maybe saving your ass hasn’t been a total waste of time then, huh?”

It couldn’t possibly be this easily, Wukong thought distantly, staring blankly at Macaque’s attempt at humor, banter, amidst the absolute whirlwind of information they’d uncovered. Wukong had an enemy he couldn’t remember, and Macaque had powers he couldn’t remember getting, and they both remembered two very different versions of the fight that’d ripped them away from each other–and they didn’t know why. And it almost didn’t even matter, because Wukong was bottle-deep in wine and just inebriated enough to admit, “I missed you.”

The already tentative smile on Macaque’s face turned confused, “You what?”

“I missed you,” Wukong took a ragged breath, a futile attempt at steadying his fracturing voice, and Macaque sat up with a furrow in his brow that almost looked like concern. “I- maybe the alcohol was a mistake,” because he wanted to grab Macaque and yank him close, like he could bridge the millennia of distance between them in a single night. His fingers twitched with it, the urge to grasp and sink his claws into something and steal it away.

“Oh, not a fan of wine, suddenly?” Macaque asked, a playful taunt lilting his voice, “Thought you liked having your inhibitions lowered.” He chuckled a bit, “Or was it the flavor? I can get you a peach one next time.”

Wukong shook his head, “Just makes me honest,” he admitted; made him want things, made his hands itch. “Makes me- I want… I don’t know.”

Macaque snorted, “Since when are you shy about the things you want?” His grin became a bit more genuine, softer, “Or do you have to wait until the end of the world now,” he asked teasingly, “to ask for something so small?” Wukong blinked as Macaque extended a hand to him, staring at the space between them uncomprehendingly. “C’mon, Wukong, I don’t bite.”

“Yes, you do,” Wukong argued, almost second-nature, but he reached, anyway, grazing the pads of Macaque’s fingers.

“Well,” Macaque hummed, turning his hand over and letting Wukong trace the shape of his knuckles idly, “I won’t bite much,” he amended.

He’d blame the alcohol, Wukong decided, if ever asked why he’d grabbed Macaque’s hand and pulled, he’d blame the storm of emotions and the sweet wine sitting warm in his stomach and throat. Macaque made some strangled sound as he was yanked gracelessly across the couch, but Wukong crushed it into his chest, “Wukong-”

“Shut up,” Wukong interjected weakly, wrangling Macaque impossibly closer. The shadow could have slipped away from him and they both knew it, Wukong’s clumsy hands rendered almost useless with emotion and alcohol, but he stayed.

Wukong twisted to get his legs on the couch and under Macaque, letting the warrior sit high with auburn fur tucked under his chin. Macaque’s breath came in unsure gasps, a near-imperceptible tremble in Wukong’s arms, but he stayed–probably out of sheer stubbornness, just to prove he could let Wukong hold him without a fight between them. Wukong couldn’t say he cared much about the actual reason, not when he had the familiar weight of Macaque back in his arms after centuries of going without.

“Maybe the alcohol was a mistake,” Macaque said unsteadily, a hesitant laugh on his words. Wukong had half a mind to let go, some sharp ache of worry burrowing into his chest–it was the most physical contact they’d had in ages, and by far the kindest, but perhaps too much, too soon–but he melted at the feeling of claws running careful lines through his fur, untangling the strands and smoothing the curls back into place. “Forgot how clingy you can get.”

Humming, Wukong pressed his face into Macaque’s scarf to hear the heartbeat. It’d always been a comfort, of sorts; a lifetime ago, Wukong had tangled himself around Macaque any time he could, just to feel the shadow breathing. The heartbeat was a balm to that centuries old Macaque-shaped wound in his heart, and his eyes slipped closed, hoping to hear it steady itself as the warrior calmed.

Except that it was steady. Wukong pressed his hands into Macaque back with a frown, feeling the shadow tense under him, and yet- “Does your heart always do that?” he asked quietly.

“What,” Macaque asked, voice strained and breathless, “beat?” Wukong turned to press his face into Macaque’s hanfu, and the hands in his hair followed the motion easily, steady in their carding even with Macaque’s uncertainty. “I told you it beats.”

“You’re freaking out,” Wukong mumbled, ignoring Macaque’s scoff, “but it’s slow. Your heartbeat, it’s… but it shouldn’t-” His frazzled, buzzing mind thought back to their conversation on the cloud. “Is that the heart thing you were talking about?”

Macaque made a vague noise of confirmation, “S’kinda nice sometimes,” he said absently. “Makes training easier, in any case. I still get tired, but my heart just,” Wukong could feel him shrug, “beats. It’s all like that now. I can eat, but I’m not hungry; my heart beats, but it won’t race.” Wukong’s eyes slid closed again at Macaque’s chuckle, “It’s also pretty great for when you’re throwing me around,” he added, “told you, I don’t bleed so good.”

If Wukong were in a more stable frame of mind, he might’ve been embarrassed about the sound that escaped him, growling like a wounded dog and winding his arms tighter around Macaque, “Don’t,” he pleaded quietly.

Lithe hands slid under his cape to drag up and down his back, “Okay,” Macaque replied, “we’ll save the teasing for another time.” Wukong mumbled… something. A response of some kind, he was sure, but if Macaque’s resounding laugh was anything to go by, it wasn’t a particularly coherent one. “You’re hopeless.”

“I’m tired,” Wukong corrected. The alcohol in his system was making itself known, and their conversation was a distant thought, all the tension and emotion and adrenaline draining out of him. “I wanna lay down,” he decided.

“Gotta let me up, then,” Macaque shifted as if to move, pry himself away from Wukong, and the Stone Monkey was grateful that he didn’t have to be particularly lucid to make that difficult, simply locking all his joints in place and letting Macaque struggle against the statue he’d become. “Wukong. Dude, come on,” he pressed his hands to Wukong’s shoulders and pushed, “lemme up. Go lay in your hammock so I can head down to the beach and-”

Wukong grunted his displeasure at the idea and rolled them, shoving Macaque into the back of the couch and curling around him. He was glad Macaque brought the alcohol, he thought blearily, he might not have had the stones to hold Macaque otherwise.

“Are you-” Macaque wriggled a bit, trying to make himself comfortable where Wukong had him pinned to the couch, “you’re kidding me.” Wukong tried not to focus too much on how much smaller Macaque was. The shadow had never been fragile, Wukong felt like the slender frame in his arms might break or fracture or disappear or- “I’m punching you about this in the morning,”

“M’kay,” Wukong said agreeably, wrapping his arms around Macaque and burrowing his face into soft, raven fur, “best punch of my life.” He let himself be lulled by the scent of incense and petrichor and resolved to deal with his more embarrassing emotions when the sun rose. “Missed this.”

Macaque sighed, letting his head rest against Wukong’s chest in defeat, “Can’t wait to hear how much you regret this tomorrow,” he said, “when we wake up sore from laying like this, I don’t wanna hear anything from you.” Wukong hummed in agreement, “And if you get all huffy and embarrassed about the cuddling, don’t blame me,” he added, “I tried getting you into your hammock.”

Wukong shushed Macaque, batting aimlessly at his scarf. “Embarrassed about nothin’,” he said, “finally got you right where I want you.” He yawned, jaw cracking with the force of it, “Besides, we agreed to blame the alcohol.”

“Yeah, well, I’m still gonna blame you,” Macaque scrubbed his face into Wukong’s chest, “I’m allowed. You killed me, remember? I get to blame you for whatever I want.”

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Wukong grouched. “This- that’s not a ‘funny haha’ joke, Mac, and you don’t get to make it.” Macaque gave an amused, knowing grunt, like he knew that Wukong knew there was no real way of stopping him, “At least give it… I don’t know, two weeks or somethin’. Time to process. It’ll be easier to hear it.”

“Sure, Wukong,” Macaque yawned. It was familiar, Wukong thought distantly, almost like nothing had changed at all. Or everything had. Wukong was too tired and too content to think about it too hard, “Whatever you say.”

They were both losing their battles with consciousness and Wukong wanted to at least beat Macaque if he couldn’t win against his drooping eyelids. And he wanted the last word, for once, even if the thoughts behind it weren’t particularly put together. “Not like that,” he scolded Macaque, “don’t want this like that.” He shook his head at Macaque’s questioning hum. “I don’t want a… whatever you say,” he tried to elaborate, “I want it however we say.” A bit more sobering, he added, “I want you to get a say.”

Macaque hummed, letting his head fall back against Wukong’s chest, mumbling something that sounded like agreement. Maybe contentment. Maybe Macaque was just too tired to argue with him about it anymore. Maybe they were two tired old celestials that needed sleep, and Wukong didn’t need to think about it too hard–and couldn’t, finally letting his eyelids slip closed.

He imagined they’d both be a lot grumpier in the morning, Macaque especially, with his sensitive hearing, grousing over a cup of coffee and nursing a small hangover, and it’d probably be the best morning Wukong ever woke up to. It’d be everything he ever wanted, waking up on Flower Fruit Mountain with Macaque by his side–he’d wake up next to a grouch every day if it meant waking up to something real.

It wasn’t quite the picture of forever Wukong had painted all those centuries ago–they still had more questions than answers and years and years and years’ worth of issues to sort through–but it was more realistic, Wukong supposed, more tangible than the empty, picturesque promises he’d made to an agreeable, loyal warrior. A grumpy Macaque was one he could hold, at least, a suspicious Macaque was one he could grasp with both hands and never let go of, Macaque was Macaque, no matter what form he took.

He almost didn’t want to let sleep take him, just to savor the moment a little while longer. Tipsy and tired and standing at the beginnings of a brand new forever, Wukong couldn’t think of anything he’d wanted less than to fall asleep and miss a single moment he could be spending with Macaque.

But sleep took him, anyway, while he was distracted thinking about something or another–things changing and leaving and staying. The world was ever-evolving, but it still spun round and round and empires rose and fell and the tidal wave of the universe always, always brought back the things that were meant to be there; Macaque was back in his arms, almost like nothing had changed at all–almost, except for most things, but almost nothing, in the grand scheme of things.

The most important things always seemed to make their way back to him eventually, and Wukong supposed if he’d already waited a millennia to have Macaque back, then just waiting until morning couldn’t be all that bad.

#mylo's lmk stories #cross posted on ao3 #lego monkie kid #lmk sun wukong #lego monkie kid sun wukong #lmk macaque #lego monkie kid macaque #shadowpeach #lmk fanfiction

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