#You knew what you were posting and you knew the response it would get

[enigmeyyy-writes]

I definitely think a lot of this is really interesting now that I'm rewatching the show again to write my fanfictions...

Katara definitely had her faults (and it was kinda wrong of her to tell her older brother that he didn't love their mother as much, especially because he most likely had more memories of her alive in comparison), but she was still a 14-year-old girl thrust into adult responsibility in the middle of a war. She is misunderstood a lot of the time from a fan's perspective because (in all honesty) a lot of us watched the show as kids and either thought she was super cool or super annoying. I even only started to find Katara annoying after I was older--and that was mainly because in times when she did attempt to "solve" things or "fix" something she wasn't mature enough yet to understand how to handle it responsibly. Sokka was a lot like this too, and we see him getting blamed a lot less. Both of them were standing in as leaders in their tribe during the war, and both of them left. Sure, the Avatar showed up, but even Aang was running away from responsibility until he realized he had to face the consequences of his actions!

Past this point is a lot of me talking about how I'm addressing a lot of this in my fan works, so check it out if you're interested!

I think a lot of my thoughts on this topic stem from the fact that I want to explore the emotional and responsibility commitments the characters of ATLA have weighing on them. In the AU I'm writing, for example, the characters (set in canon) are aged up and a lot of them have more people they are attached to. Since this was a Katara-centric post, I'll also include what I have in mind for my Katara fic.

Growing Pains centers around the letters Katara sends home to her and Sokka's childhood friend, Mali. He was the oldest of the boys left behind by the tribe because he just didn't quite make the age cut, and now serves as a hunter and protector for the tribe. He was definitely upset when his friends left him, but he knew that if they were to travel with the Avatar he had to stay and protect their tribe. Katara sends her letters detailing the stories of her adventures to Mali but soon realizes that she left a lot behind at home for what was turning out to be a perilous and risk-filled adventure.

And on the Aang side of things (because let's face it, a twelve-year-old boy having childish immaturity and the weight of the world on their shoulders is NOT the best combination), I wanted to explore more of his energy and experience of learning maturity after hardship in a Book 3 and post-war fic titled Spitfire.

Spitfire centers around one of Zuko's childhood friends (an OC because I think he deserved friends he could actually trust prior to joining the Gaang) named Soru coming to terms with the fact that he never truly was against the Avatar even though he's from the Fire Nation. Escapism at its finest--truly. As Aang has to come to terms with the new reality the world is entering after the defeat of Fire Lord Ozai, he has to learn how to deal with the weight of the political aspect of society the rest of his friends (and former enemies for that matter) were already wrapped up in.

All in all, I really think exploring aspects of the characters of such a beloved show that aren't really addressed is such an interesting thing to do. I applaud all other ATLA writers on the platform (and any platform) for either just sticking to canon or coming to terms with the flaws that are either over-exaggerated or under-represented in fanfiction, but I am not one of you! I want to explore the inklings of depth we get from this fun show, especially since I'm approaching this from a perspective in which the characters are older and arguably have more responsibility on their shoulders.

I'd really appreciate it if anyone would check out my stories (will be posted on here and ao3) or at least show interest in them! I've worked really hard to put all the details together behind the scenes, so any support or showing you enjoy my works/ideas is greatly appreciated!

I just watched Avatar for the first time all the way through, and yeah, it’s great, but the one thing that surprised me was how different Katara was compared to the fandom interpretation I’d seen and internalized before watching.

Like, before you watch Avatar, you’ve seen all these memes about Katara and her mom, and based on those memes, you assume it’s one of those lines you have to get used to hearing at least once every episode. But then you watch the show and realize that she only talks about her mom maybe five or six times per season and you also realize she only brings her up when she’s trying to comfort someone or empathize with them because that’s how she processes her grief and that’s one way she connects with people.

Or you hear the infamous line, “then you didn’t love [our mother] the way I did” and you prepare yourself for one of the worst character assassinations ever only to see the scene after nearly three seasons worth of context and realize she was kinda right. She’s been the mother, the nurturer, the comforter. She’s been patient, gentle, and accommodating where everyone else has gotten to be insensible and reckless and childish, and the one moment where she allows herself to feel her grief, suddenly she’s this evil bitch and not, y’know, a 14 year old girl whose been thrusted into adulthood in a way no other character has. A 14 year old girl who should be allowed immaturity and raw emotion and anger instead of the patience and grace she’s been forced to extend to every character without even the smallest amount of gratitude or even consideration in return.

Or you see all of the clips where Katara puts Aang in the “friendzone” and you expect to have this wishy washy back and forth where Aang is putting his feelings out there only to have Katara neither commit nor express any clear reciprocation or rejection. Then you watch and realize that, as cute as the ship is initially, that there’s never a point where Aang returns any comfort or grace to Katara despite her always doing this for him to the point of coddling. That for as much as Aang says he loves her, he never seems to outgrow his perception of her so he can recognize her as someone who feels grief, anger, and pain as much as she expresses love, kindness, and maturity. And instead of having moments where he learns to see her beyond her strength or compassion, you’re instead given moments where Aang forces his feelings onto her, both romantic and non-romantic, and Katara is expected to just…shoulder those feelings the way she shoulders everyone else’s.

Katara is the most misunderstood character in the show. As much as people recognize the complexities of Zuko, Sokka, and Azula, they struggle to do the same for Katara because they see her struggles as somehow lesser, and therefore, less deserving of sympathy. They can handle her so long as she’s being endlessly patient and loving and kind, but the moment her endless love, patience, and kindness runs out, she’s suddenly this annoying bitch who can’t shut up about her mother or reciprocate Aang’s feelings. But Katara’s trauma does matter as much as anyone else’s. No, she wasn’t banished from her kingdom. No, she didn’t lose her entire community, and no, she isn’t the only one who lost her mother. But the difference between her and everyone else whose experienced loss because of the Fire Nation is that she’s never given time to process her trauma. Aang gets to lean on Katara constantly. Toph gets to express her feelings to Katara, and yeah, Sokka also lost their mother, but unlike Katara, he isn’t put in the position of being a substitute for everyone’s parent. He even admits that he sees his sister as a mother. The only characters who ever comfort Katara or allow her to vent is Zuko and her father and that’s, like, three scenes in a show where the other characters are consistently given opportunities to seek out Katara for unconditional support.

The fandom interpretation of Katara has been so bastardized that even those who haven’t watched the show know her for this fanon version and not for who she is. She’s such an interesting character beyond her fandom limitations, though. She’s brave, hot-headed, and hopeful as well as gentle and caring. She wishes to learn waterbending, not only because she wants to fight in the war, but because she wants to continue her culture’s practices because, and people often forget this, she also lost an entire subculture within her already fractured tribe. And she wants to defeat the Fire Nation both because of her deep love and empathy for other people, but also because she wants to avenge her mother. But because some of the fans have reduced Katara to a bitch who constantly whines about her mother and friendzones Aang, you wouldn’t know any of this, and it sucks because she’s the only character whose been dumbed down to such an extent.

[shuatm]

small moments of intimacy    ⃕ ♡ bang chan, lee minho, seo changbin, & hwang hyunjin. gen reader. heart warming fluff. 921 words.

chan – routine is dropping both his bags and his career at the front door, shoes discarded and worries momentarily forgotten once the smell of your favorite food hits his nose. it’s a bit chilly in the apartment–you’ve probably opened the windows to let some air in again–but he doesn’t mind. he follows the stream of light into the kitchen where he finds you faintly humming the tune of a discarded project (his heart swells with a sudden burst of affection), standing over something hot on the stove. wanting to see you in your element, he waits a moment before letting himself be known.

he purposely buys clothing in a size one too big on him, partly for the comfort of being swaddled, and partly for his shameless liking in pretending not to notice your liking to taking his clothes. you stand in the kitchen, at ease with black hoodie number-whatever just barely brushing past your thighs, but he doesn’t care. it’s the thought that counts, doesn’t it? it’s cause you missed him, didn't you?

routine is seeing your face light up each time you catch him peeking around the archway, grinning in the face of his sheepishness at getting caught over and over again. his arms circle around your waist, his hello faint. warmth was always near with you—even when you remember the open window once you feel him shiver.

minho – fingers tangle with yours in an uncharacteristic show of nerves, face vacant of anything other than cool indifference. hidden underneath the table, away from the prying eyes of the public, you squeeze his hand in hopes to ease his mind about the dinner reservation with your parents—they’ve been wanting to meet you for a while now, you’d told him a way’s back. you were met with a small smile and a minho-esque comment about bringing flowers, laughing as he hounded you for wanting to impress your mother. the flowers sit next to him now, wrapped in parchment paper, but his antsiness persists still.

you don’t blame him for being nervous, even if he’d vehemently deny it up, down, right, and center. meeting the parents was always a big step—and knowing you both would be watched was enough to also want to hide under the table like a small child—but he’d wanted to be there. wanted to make a good impression.

your thumb brushes over the back of his hand in what you hope comes off as a soothing gesture. he meets your gaze for a moment, eyes roaming over your features, and squeezes back gently in response. he brings your intertwined hands up for a kiss against the back of your hand. sharing a smile, unbeknownst to your audience of two watching the two of you in your element with matching fond looks from a few feet away.

changbin – frustration seeps at the edges of your sanity, cold and unwelcoming. deadline after deadline piles upon your shoulders, forcing healthy habit after habit to be pushed further into the darkest corners of your mind to rust. lunch breaks become extra time to squeeze in just a few more letters to reach that word count, and your somewhat feeble attempt at a nighttime routine gives way to the few hours you’re even lucky enough to snag.

you don’t mean to push hangouts or leisure activities away, either. your texts are one-worded or forgotten with a reply unfinished in the bar, calls short with clear exhaustion seeping through your voice alone. he knows you don’t mean it. your space is your space regardless of if you fall back into your old ways.

so he leaves snacks where he knows you’ll see them, water bottles with post-it notes of shakily drawn smiley faces at the ends of words of encouragement or reminders to go outside for ten minutes or something funny jisung said at work he knew would make you laugh. he knows you’re sorry, that work is work and will forever be ever demanding, but he hopes you know he’s here for you through the sticky notes and crudely drawn doodles you now keep in a desk drawer safe and sound.

hyunjin – the cold weather sits as heavy as the piles of snow shoveled to the streets to clear the sidewalks, gusts of wind sharp to the touch against your skin even underneath your hat and thick gloves. you don’t even remember why you let yourself be persuaded to leave bed at this hour–but you certainly couldn’t forget the what. he’d been adamant about leaving your comfortably warm apartment for… for what, exactly? a surprise, he’d quip back with a grin, smile wide enough to make one spread across your lips as well. damn him for being cute enough to forgo a night of well deserved cuddling under the thickest blanket you owned.

hands shoved in his pockets, he squeezes your fingers excitedly, but looks over in concern when your hands begin to shake from the cold. his nose scrunches up in distaste, tinged a bit red from chill himself, and before you even think to open your mouth to poke fun at his sudden rudolph cosplay, he unwraps his scarf and begins to wrap it around your neck. your protests fall upon stubborn ears, and you can’t help but laugh when he glares at your attempt to unravel the little bow at the end.

his gaze softens, even as his shoulders bunch up from the loss of warmth. snow litters the ground in soft flakes, landing on your hat and your coat.

[spencessocks]

bucky AND spencer??!!! are you my brain? my brain has a tumblr? but seriously im so happy you exist.

i was originally coming to say how in ‘through the silence’ the theme and the conversation could be the same (okay maybe just similar) with post prison spencer x reader and how he is trying to get back to reality and leave prison behind

love you xx

a/n: omfg what... im literally going to eat ur face... this sort of got a little longer than i intended and it took me a while because i was busy with work so im sorry!😭😭 but thank u so much omg i was reeling from this ask, ur so sweet and ilysm!!!

what remains

summary: after spencer returns from prison, the trauma he endured drives a wedge between him and the one person who loves him most.

pairing: postprison!spencer reid x reader

wordcount: 6.8k

warnings: sad spencer, sad reader, everyones sad, reader drinks like a sip of wine

the apartment is quiet when spencer walks in. it’s late—again. you don’t know where he goes, but he never offers, and you’ve stopped asking.

he drops his keys onto the counter with a dull clink, his shoulders heavy with exhaustion, and you watch from your place on the couch, heart aching at the sight of him. he looks different now. he's been home for months, but the man who walked through your door after prison isn’t the same one who left.

“hey,” you say gently, closing your book and setting it aside.

he glances at you but doesn’t hold your gaze for long. “hey.”

you swallow down the lump in your throat. “did you eat?”

“i'm not hungry.” his answer is clipped, automatic, the same response he’s given you almost every night since he’s been back.

you knew it wouldn’t be easy. that things would be different and he wouldn’t be the same. you had told yourself that over and over in the days leading up to his return, had braced yourself for the changes.

but you'd had hope—hope that, with time, things would settle. that he would come back to you—not just physically, but in the ways that mattered. that he would find his way back to the man he used to be, the man who used to curl up beside you on the couch, rambling about his latest case or a book he was reading. the man who used to laugh, used to smile, used to pull you into his arms like you were the safest place in the world.

but you had underestimated the impression this whole ordeal would leave on him.

it wasn't just in the way he carried himself, the way exhaustion clung to his frame or how the light in his eyes had dimmed. it was deeper than that. it was in the way he recoiled from touch when he used to seek it, in the way his voice lacked the excitement and curiosity it once held. in the distance that stretched between you, widening a little more each day, despite your best efforts to close it.

prison had carved something out of him, something you weren’t sure could ever be replaced. he had been home for months, but a harsh reality was starting to settle in you—that some wounds don’t heal the way you expect them to. some stay raw, lingering beneath the surface, invisible until they make themselves known in quiet moments—in the silence at the dinner table, in the way he avoids your gaze, in the way he flinches at your touch, in the walls he keeps building no matter how hard you try to tear them down.

he didn’t talk about what happened in there, and you didn’t press—even if sometimes curiosity clawed at you. but every laconic response, every empty stare, every night he disappeared without explanation told you more than words ever could. he was still there, trapped in a place you couldn’t seem to reach, and no matter how badly you wanted to, you weren’t sure you ever would.

you exhale slowly, measuring your words before speaking. "spencer, you know what i'm going to say." your voice is soft, careful, but it still makes him flinch, just barely.

"i'm fine," he mutters, turning away from you.

you hesitate, just for a moment, before the words slip out. a quiet, almost embarrassed whisper in the stillness of the room.

"will you at least sit with me for a little while?"

you regret the question the second it leaves your mouth, second-guessing yourself as soon as the vulnerability hits you. it sounds so small, so simple—sit with me, like it’s not asking for much, but in a way, it feels like you’re begging. you feel humiliation crawl up your neck.

"we don't have to talk," you add quickly, trying to soften the weight of your words. "we can just—"

"i'm tired," he interrupts, voice hollow. he’s already moving toward the bedroom, like he can't get away fast enough.

you stare blanky at him, his back already turned to you. you don't say anything. you can't. the words get stuck somewhere in your throat, tangled up with the shock and the sting of his dismissal. you just sit there, still as stone, the weight of his words settling over you like a thick, suffocating fog.

it shouldn't surprise you—this response, this distance, the way he shuts you out without a second thought. it’s been happening for weeks now, a slow unraveling of something that once felt unbreakable. and yet, it does surprise you.

because you still hoped—that he would just sit with you. that it couldn't possibly be that bad that your own husband couldn't sit on the the same goddamn couch as you.

you don’t know if your lack of response matters. maybe it does. maybe that’s why he hesitates in the doorway, fingers gripping the frame as if he's weighing his options. for a second, you think he might turn around, might give you something—anything. but then, just as quickly, he lets go and disappears into the darkness of the bedroom.

you sit there, motionless, as the door to the bedroom clicks shut behind him. the sound feels final, sharp.

the interaction plays in your head. "i'm tired."

the look on his face—or the lack of one. there’s nothing there. no fight, no frustration, not even the faintest trace of a desire to make things right.

you blink, once, twice, trying to shake the fog from your brain, but the shock is still there, thick in your chest. it’s like a pulse, steady and unrelenting, buzzing through your veins. you don’t know what to do with it. how to process it.

at this point, you can hardly recognize yourself. the person you used to be—before all this. you would have never let spencer walk away from that. you would’ve confronted him, spoken your truth, demanded that he listen. you were an opinionated person, it wasn't like you to let someone walk over you—spencer liked that about you. you would’ve never felt embarrassed by something so simple, so vulnerable, said to the man you loved.

the anger bubbles up, creeping through the shock like a slow poison, and suddenly, your skin feels tight. it feels wrong. how dare he? how can he just walk away, leave you in this empty room, in this awful, suffocating silence, after everything you’ve been through together?

surely, you wouldn't do this to him. that thought had crossed your mind before, only to be quickly pushed away by the reminder that you couldn't possibly know what he was going through—what he felt in that place.

but now, the thought clung to you, insistent, refusing to be ignored and with it came another. maybe he didn’t know how to let go of you—maybe he was too afraid to say the words, so instead, he kept hurting you without even realizing it. maybe he thought pulling away was easier than facing the truth. if the roles were reversed, you'd seek him out, wanting his comfort, his presence. so why wasn't he doing the same for you? why was he so unwilling to lean on you—when he had done it a million times before?

the pulse in your neck quickens, blood rushing, and you grip the edge of the couch, knuckles white. you don't even realize you're standing now, the instinct to do something, anything, pushing you forward. your breath comes quick and shallow as frustration and disbelief twist inside you like a knot that you can't untangle.

what are you supposed to do with this? what are you supposed to do when your own husband looks at you like you’re nothing—like you’re some kind of inconvenience he just can’t deal with tonight?

your body moves on its own, your legs carrying you to the door as if they have a will of their own—pyjamas and slippers be damned—the front door slams shut behind you with an almost violent finality. the apartment feels suffocating now, the weight of his absence, of his rejection, too much to bear. you need to leave.

you don’t bother to grab your phone. what would be the point? there’s nothing to say to him anymore—if he would even call. not when you’re standing on the edge of something you can’t even explain to yourself, a frustration and sadness mixing into something unrecognizable.

you walk fast, too fast, the cold air biting at your skin, and it helps. the briskness of the night, the sting of it, gives you a sense of purpose, something to focus on other than the gnawing emptiness inside you. you don’t want to sit in that silence any longer, don’t want to stew in your thoughts, trapped in that apartment where the echoes of your broken attempts at connection are suffocating.

jj’s place isn’t far—just a few blocks—but it might as well be a world away. the walk feels like an eternity, but it’s the only thing you can control right now. you don't have to think about spencer. you don’t have to think about him.

you find yourself at jj’s door, your breath coming out in white clouds, and for the first time tonight, you feel a brief flicker of something approaching relief. you knock twice, hard, before pulling back and pressing your forehead against the doorframe, closing your eyes, letting the coolness of it ground you. what the hell am i doing?

when she opens the door, her eyes widen at the sight of you, but she doesn’t ask. she doesn’t need to. she just steps aside, pulling you in with a soft, understanding smile.

“you okay?” she asks gently, though you know she already knows the answer.

you nod, but only because you don't trust your voice not to break if you speak. she doesn’t push, just closes the door behind you and leads you to the couch. you sit without a word, leaning back against the cushions, closing your eyes, and for the first time in what feels like months, you let yourself breathe.

jj moves toward the kitchen without a word, and you hear the familiar sound of glasses clinking, followed by the admittedly soothing pour of wine. she returns with a glass in each hand, her expression knowing. she hands you one and sits down beside you, settling into the cushions with the kind of ease that makes you wish you could do the same.

"talk to me,” she says, her voice quiet, but firm enough to break the silence that’s settled between you. it’s not a question, really—more like a gentle command, the kind that only someone who knows you can give.

you let out a breath, leaning back into the couch, staring at the ceiling for a moment, unsure where to even begin. everything feels like a mess. but her presence, her calm, makes you feel like you might find the strength to sort it out.

“spencer—" you stop yourself, the words catching in your throat. you shake your head, a laugh escaping your lips at the disbelief of your situation. "i don’t even know what to say anymore. i don’t know how we got here. it’s like i don’t even know who he is anymore.”

jj listens, her eyes steady, her hands wrapped around her own glass, but her gaze never wavers. she’s waiting. you know she won’t interrupt.

“i thought... i thought he’d come back to me, you know?” the words slip out before you can stop them, and the sadness that follows hits you harder than anything before. “i thought, with time, things would get better. that i could get him back, the way he was. but... it’s like he’s not even here anymore. i don’t know how to reach him. and when i try, it feels like he just shuts me out more.”

you swallow hard, feeling a sharp sting behind your eyes. it feels pathetic, but you can’t stop it now. you can’t stop the flood of everything that’s been building up, everything you’ve been trying to ignore.

“he’s gone, jj. and i don’t know how to be with someone who’s... not really here,” you say, your voice breaking on the last word.

jj doesn’t say anything at first, just lets you breathe, lets you sit with it for a moment. “i know it doesn’t feel like it right now, but he’s not gone. he’s just... changed. and change is hard. for both of you.”

you scoff softly, shaking your head. “i feel like i'm going crazy."

jj watches you carefully, her gaze unwavering as she processes your words. you feel exhausted—physically, emotionally—like the weight of the past few months has finally settled on your shoulders all at once.

jj studies you for a long moment, her expression unreadable. then, she exhales, setting her wine glass down on the coffee table. “you’re not crazy,” she says simply. “you’re grieving.”

that catches you off guard. you blink at her. “grieving?”

she nods. “yeah. you’re grieving the life you had before. the spencer you had before.” she pauses. “and maybe... the version of yourself that existed before all this.”

you open your mouth, but no words come out. you want to argue, to tell her it’s not that simple, that you’re not mourning spencer like he’s some lost cause, but—god—doesn’t it feel like that sometimes? doesn’t it feel like the person you knew, the person you loved, is slipping further and further away?

jj sighs, leaning forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “i know what it’s like to watch someone you love disappear into themselves. to feel helpless while they struggle with something you can’t fix.” her voice is softer now, careful, like she’s walking a tightrope. “it’s terrifying.”

your fingers tighten around your wine glass. “so what do i do?” the question comes out more fragile than you want it to, barely above a whisper.

she’s quiet for a moment, thinking. “you—" her words are interrupted by an abrupt sound. jj’s phone is ringing, sharp and sudden in the quiet of the room. you flinch, your heart leaping into your throat before you even see the name on the screen. but you already know.

spencer.

panic grips you, fast and unrelenting, and before you can think, the words spill out. “don’t answer it.”

jj hesitates, glancing at the phone on the coffee table. the screen glows with his name, the sound vibrating between you like a living thing. “he’s your husband,” she says gently, but her fingers hover over the screen instead of answering.

“i don’t care,” you whisper, shaking your head. “please, jj. don’t.”

she studies you, eyes flicking over your face like she’s trying to gauge just how serious you are. if she picks up, you’ll have to hear him—his voice, his clipped tone, his inevitable question: where are you? and what then? you don’t have an answer.

jj sighs, silencing the call but not declining it. the ringing stops, but the silence that follows is almost worse.

“you know he’s worried,” she says carefully. “you left without your phone. you think he’s just going to let that go?”

you squeeze your eyes shut, gripping your glass like it’s the only thing tethering you to the moment. “i don’t know,” you admit. “i just—I can’t do this right now. fuck.”

jj shifts closer, her voice calm but firm. “running won’t fix this.”

you let out a short, bitter laugh. “staying hasn't."

she doesn’t have an answer for that.

jj watches you carefully, then sighs. “stay here as long as you need. but at some point, you have to decide—are you going home? or are you walking away?”

your arm is moving suddenly, the wine glass at your lips. her words settle over you like a weight. and for the first time, you realize—you don’t know.

jj's phone buzzes again, and you flinch at the sight of spencer’s name lighting up the screen. the call goes to voicemail, and for a few seconds, there’s nothing but silence.

the phone rings a second time. you can almost hear spencer’s voice in your head, the exact tone he always takes when he doesn’t know what to say.

“I’ll answer it,” jj says softly, but the words feel like a concession rather than a promise. she picks up the phone, and her thumb hovers over the screen.

you don’t stop her, but you wish you could. you wish you could shut everything down, turn it all off.

“spencer?” jj says, her voice calm, controlled.

you close your eyes, hearing his voice crackle through the speaker.

“jj... is she there?” spencer’s voice sounds worn, tight with something just beneath the surface. you can hear the familiar threads of guilt and concern tangled in his words. “i—i don’t know where she went. she just… she left without saying anything.”

jj looks at you, her expression unreadable. you can feel the heat of her stare on you.

“yeah, she's here.” jj finally responds, her words careful. “but she's not ready to talk to you right now, spencer.”

a long pause follows. you can hear spencer’s breath, shallow, like he’s holding something back.

“i just... i just need to know she's okay,” he says, the frustration and desperation clear in his voice. “please.”

you wince at the pleading in his words. it cuts through you in a way you hadn’t expected.

jj looks at you, her expression unreadable, before she glances down at the phone again. you can feel the heat of her stare on you.

“she’s fine,” jj says, with a note of finality. “but I think you need to give her some time. she’s been through a lot, spencer. you both have.”

“time?” Spencer’s voice cracks. “jj, i don’t—“

but she cuts him off. “i’m not getting in the middle of this. just... take care of yourself for now, okay? you’ll talk when she’s ready. she’ll come back when she’s ready.”

the phone goes silent for a moment, and then the faint click of the line disconnecting. jj pulls the phone away from her ear and sets it down on the coffee table with a soft sigh.

jj sits back, her gaze still trained on you, like she’s waiting for something.

the silence in the room feels heavier now. It presses against your chest, and the weight of it makes your thoughts swirl faster than they should. spencer’s voice still echoes in your mind—i just need to know she's okay. you don’t want to admit it, but the desperation in his words cuts deeper than you anticipated. you don’t want to feel guilty. but it settles over you, thick and unavoidable, as you sit on jj’s couch, the comfort of her presence fading into the background.

“he sounded worried,” you murmur, more to yourself than to jj.

she nods, watching you carefully. “of course he’s worried.”

you press your lips together, exhaling slowly. “i didn’t think he’d care that much.” the words taste bitter on your tongue, because the truth is, you had wanted him to care. you had wanted him to call, to ask where you were, to prove—at least to himself—that there was still something left between you worth saving.

and he did.

he did.

but now, sitting here, away from him, away from that apartment, the weight of your actions starts creeping in, cold and insidious.

you left.

you walked out without a word.

you knew what it was like to feel abandoned, to reach for someone and find nothing but empty space. and now you’ve done the same to him.

the realization makes your chest tighten, and suddenly, the fight, the frustration, the resentment—it all feels distant, overshadowed by something heavier. something closer to shame.

jj shifts beside you, her voice quiet but knowing. “you’re thinking about going back.”

you shake your head quickly. “i don’t know.” but it’s a lie. you do know.

you inhale sharply, pressing your palm to your forehead, trying to ground yourself. “god, what am I doing, jj?”

“you’re allowed to feel this, you know,” she says simply. “you’re allowed to be angry. to be hurt. to need space.”

you swallow hard, blinking down at your hands. they feel foreign to you, like they belong to someone else. “i just—” you hesitate, voice cracking slightly. “i just got so mad. he was so dismissive of me, and i couldn't be there anymore.”

“i know.”

you stare down at your lap, your fingers tightening around the fabric of your sweater.

you shake your head, guilt curling in your chest. “but that’s not me, jj. that’s not who I am. i don’t just… walk away. i got angry and i overreacted.”

she sighs. “one moment doesn't define you. things are different now. you've never been in a situation like this before,” she pauses. “sometimes you have to walk away, to get your thoughts in order."

"it would've been worse if you blew up at him." she added.

"i think i still might." you said with a dry laugh.

jj smiled slightly, her gaze softening as she leaned back, “you’ve always been the one to hold things together,” she said, her voice gentle but firm, as if trying to remind you that it was okay to break sometimes. “but you can’t hold it all in forever. and sometimes… sometimes you need space to breathe, to think. you don’t always have to be the strong one.”

you let out a breath, unsure of what to say next. jj was always good at cutting through the noise, but the guilt still sat heavily in your chest. you couldn’t escape the feeling that walking away—no matter how much you needed to—had been the wrong choice.

jj watches you for a moment, then leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “listen, i know it feels like you did something wrong by leaving, but you didn’t. you needed space. that’s not the same as giving up.”

you nod slowly, staring down at your hands, but you don’t respond.

jj sighs, then reaches over and squeezes your arm. "look, if there’s anyone who understands why you did what you did, it’s spencer. he has spent his life studying human behavior—figuring out how they think and why they do what they do. spencer knows exactly why you walked out, even if he won't admit it. he knows it was about needing space, about trying to make sense of everything that’s been building up between you.”

she pauses, giving you a reassuring look. “this isn’t the end. this is just a bump in the road—you'll go back when you're ready, and you'll start working through it all."

spencer knows why you left.

the thought lingers, easing the guilt that’s been clawing at you since you walked out. maybe that’s why he didn’t come after you. maybe, in his own way, he understood that you needed this moment to step back, to breathe, to process.

you hope—no, you need—to believe that he’s coming to his own realization. that in the quiet of your absence, in the stillness of an apartment that no longer holds your presence, he’s starting to understand. that maybe, just maybe, he’s replaying every word, every moment, and seeing where it all went wrong.

you want him to recognize that pushing you away was a mistake. that shutting you out, closing himself off instead of letting you in, only built more distance between you. and most of all, you hope he understands now—truly understands—that love isn’t about shutting doors, but about keeping them open, even when it’s hard.

the irony of the situation dawns on you. sitting here, hoping he comes to the right conclusion on his own, won’t change anything. no matter how hurt or frustrated you are, you know one thing for certain—you aren’t going to push him away the way he did to you.

you glance at jj, her eyes soft with understanding, and suddenly, you don’t feel as lost as you did before.

“i have to go back,” you murmur, the words feeling right the moment they leave your lips.

jj studies you for a moment before nodding. “yeah, i figured.” there’s no judgment in her voice, only quiet support.

you stand, but before you can say anything, jj speaks again. “i’m driving you.”

you blink at her. “jj, i can—”

"it’s late, and it’s cold,” she interrupts, crossing her arms. “and i know you. you’ll spend the entire walk overthinking, or worse, you’ll turn around and come right back here.”

you open your mouth to argue, but she raises an eyebrow, daring you to fight her on this. you sigh, giving in. “fine. i'll still overthink in the car though.”

jj smirks as she grabs her keys. "yeah, but at least this way, you’ll be overthinking with heated seats and no risk of getting hit by a rogue cyclist."

you roll your eyes, but there's a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. "alright, alright. guess I’ll overthink in comfort then." you step outside, the weight of everything that’s about to unfold on your back.

the ride back is quiet, the streets nearly empty as jj navigates the familiar roads. you stare out the window, your finger spinning your wedding band, mind racing with all the possibilities of what comes next.

you wonder how it will be when you walk through that door. will he be surprised to see you? will he be angry? will he apologize? the questions swirl in your mind, but you push them aside—you'll find out in a few minutes either way.

jj pulls up in front of the apartment building and turns to you, her expression gentle. “you don’t have to fix everything tonight,” she reminds you. “just… put all your cards on the table. don't sugarcoat anything.”

you nod, feeling a mix of gratitude and nervous anticipation. "thank you, jj," you say softly, giving her a small smile. "i don’t know what i would’ve done without you tonight."

she smiles back, her eyes warm with understanding. "you’ll be fine. just be honest, that’s all you can do."

with a final nod, you push the door open, the cold air immediately hitting you as you step out onto the sidewalk. your heart is pounding in your chest, each step towards the apartment feeling heavier than the last.

you twist the handle, it's unlocked, but you hesitate before pushing the door open, gathering your courage in the silent hallway. when you finally step inside, the apartment is quiet—but not empty. a single lamp illuminates the living room, casting long shadows across the walls.

and there's spencer, sitting on the couch hunched over with his elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

he looks up at the sound of the door, and for a brief moment, his face is completely unguarded. relief washes over his features, followed quickly by something that looks almost like fear. he stands immediately, his movements stiff and uncertain.

"you came back," he says, his voice hoarse.

you close the door behind you, still standing near the threshold. "i started feeling guilty." you sighed, jj's voice in the back of your head—just be honest.

spencer swallows, his gaze flickering to the floor for a moment before meeting yours again. "guilty?" he repeats, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

spencer exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. “you shouldn't feel guilty," he murmurs, then shakes his head. "i mean, it makes sense,” he says quickly, his words picking up speed.

“studies show that guilt is often a response to perceived moral transgressions rather than actual wrongdoing. it’s the brain’s way of enforcing social cohesion—an evolutionary mechanism designed to maintain interpersonal relationships by making us feel responsible for potential harm, even when no actual harm has been inflicted.”

you couldn’t help but feel a strange mix of disbelief and amusement as he rambled on. it was as if, in the middle of all this, the man you once knew had momentarily resurfaced. even if what he was saying wasn’t at all what you needed to hear right now, a part of you couldn't help but recognize the familiarity in it—the way he always got lost in his thoughts, trying to explain things when he didn’t quite know how to connect.

he shifts on his feet, his words picking up speed. “and in this case, your reaction makes perfect sense. you removed yourself from a heightened emotional situation in order to regulate your response, which, psychologically speaking, is a far healthier alternative to reactive conflict. but then, the cognitive dissonance sets in—the part where your brain tells you that leaving contradicts your usual patterns of behavior, and that discrepancy triggers guilt, even if logically—”

“spencer,” you interrupt gently.

his mouth snaps shut, and for a second, there’s just silence. a flicker of something vulnerable crosses his face, and you realize—he’s rambling because he doesn’t know what else to say. because this is easier for him than actually talking about what matters.

you step forward, closing a bit of the distance between you. “i don’t need an analysis,” you tell him gently. "i just want you to tell me what's going on."

spencer’s gaze flickers for a moment, like he’s trying to find the words, trying to make sense of the situation. "i never wanted you to feel like you needed to leave," he says, his voice quieter now, more vulnerable. “but i didn’t exactly make it easy for you to stay.”

you lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, the weight of everything you haven’t said pressing heavily on your chest. "no, you didn’t," you admit, your voice just above a whisper.

his expression tightens, a flash of something—guilt, maybe—crossing his face before he looks away.

"i've been trying," he says quietly. "i have."

"have you?" the question comes out sharper than you intended, but you don't soften it. "because from where i'm standing, it feels like you've been doing everything possible to push me away."

spencer's gaze snaps back to you, a hint of defensiveness in his eyes. "that's not fair."

"isn't it?" you take another step forward, emboldened by the surge of emotions you've held back for too long. "you won't talk to me. you won't look at me. you won't even sit next to me on the couch. what am i supposed to think, spencer?"

he runs a hand through his hair, frustration evident in every movement. "it's not that simple," he says, his voice strained. "i want to be the person you remember, but i don't know if i can be that man anymore."

the admission hits you like a physical blow. "i'm not asking you to be exactly who you were before," you say softly. "i know that's not possible. i just... i need you to be present. to talk to me. to not shut me out completely."

spencer is quiet for a long moment, his gaze fixed on some point beyond you. when he finally speaks, his voice is barely audible. "i don't know how to explain what it was like in there."

your breath catches. this is the closest he's come to talking about prison since he's been home. you don't know if you should say something. you hold your breath, afraid that if you move or speak, he'll retreat again.

his eyes are distant, far away, and for a moment, you wonder if he’s even aware of how much you’re hanging on his every word. finally, he exhales slowly, his gaze dropping to the floor as if the weight of it all is too much to bear.

“being in there… it broke something inside of me,” he says, voice low and strained. “i kept thinking about what it would be like to come back, to be here, with you. and then i just—" he paused for a moment. "i had to do something really bad. i had to do things in there that… things i never thought i would do."

"i hate myself for it. every second of it." his voice breaks on the last word, he shakes his head, hands shaking slightly as he runs them through his hair, frustration and guilt radiating from him.

"i wasn't just a victim in there—i became someone i don't even recognize anymore. i did things that went against everything i ever believed in, everything i told myself i would never do."

he looks at you now, and you can see the turmoil in his eyes—the deep-rooted shame and the self-loathing that’s consumed him. "and now i’m back here, with you, and i don’t even know who i am anymore. i’ve become this person who did unforgivable things. you don't deserve someone like me, someone who’s capable of—of that." he gestures vaguely, as if trying to encompass everything that’s happened to him.

"is that why you've been pushing me away?" you ask softly. "because you think i won't love who you are now?"

he doesn't answer, but the way he avoids your gaze tells you everything.

"baby," you whisper, shifting closer to him. "nothing could change how I see you."

you take a slow, unsteady breath, searching for the right words—any words—but everything feels inadequate. how do you explain something that goes beyond language?

"god, spencer," you exhale, shaking your head. "i wish i was better at this. i wish i had the right words, i wish i was some kind of poet, and that i could say the right things to make you understand, but i'm not."

you finally close the gap between you two and take his hands, gripping them tightly, pressing them against your chest as if somehow, if he just feels the way your heart beats for him, he’ll finally understand.

"it’s frustrating," you continue, voice thick with emotion. "because what i feel for you—it’s bigger than me. it’s bigger than words. i can’t explain it, and i hate that, because i need you to know. i need you to understand that this isn’t something breakable, something you can ruin, something you can chase away just because you think you should."

he swallows hard, his fingers curling around yours, but he doesn’t speak. maybe he can’t.

"i swear, spencer, if there was a way to pull this feeling out of me and give it to you, i would. if i could make you see yourself the way i see you, make you understand that what you did—what you had to do—doesn’t make you unworthy of love, i would do it in a heartbeat." your voice breaks slightly, tears now lining your eyes. "because i don’t just love you. it’s not that simple. it’s not just some feeling, some thing i could ever put into words. it’s more. it doesn’t begin or end with what you’ve done, or what’s happened to you, or who you think you’ve become. it just is."

he lets out a shaky breath, his eye are now wet, shining under the dim apartment light, his lips parted slightly like he wants to argue but can’t find the strength to. because maybe, just maybe, for the first time—he’s starting to believe you.

"i just wish—i wish you could feel it," you murmur, voice breaking. "i wish you could step into my skin, into my heart, and know how much i love you."

you don’t realize you’re crying until he reaches up, hesitantly, brushing his fingers against your cheek like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he touches you. his hand is shaking, but he doesn’t pull away.

spencer’s expression falters, something breaking inside of him, and when he finally—finally—pulls you into his arms, it’s not desperate or frantic. his arms wrap around you slowly, almost reverently, as though he's trying to let the feeling of your love wash over him, to understand it the way you do.

at first, it’s just the slightest tremble in his shoulders, so faint you almost miss it. but then you feel it—the shaky exhale against your neck, the way his fingers clutch at the fabric of your shirt like he’s afraid to let go. and then, slowly, silently, he starts to break.

his breath hitches, and before he can stop it, a quiet sob escapes him, muffled against your shoulder. his body shakes, all the pain and guilt unraveling all at once, and all you can do is hold him through it. his hands grasp at you like you’re the only thing tethering him to the present, like if he lets go, he’ll disappear into everything he’s been trying so hard to contain.

you don’t say anything. you don’t tell him it’s okay, because you know he wouldn’t believe it. or maybe because it isn't. but it will be. you'll make sure of that.

your fingers thread through his hair, your lips press against his temple, and you whisper the same words over and over, a promise and a lifeline: "i love you. i love you. i love you."

you stay like that for a while, wrapped in each other, the weight of everything that’s happened still lingering in the air between you. but it’s different now. lighter, somehow. not because everything is fixed—there are still conversations to have, wounds to tend to, pieces of him he hasn’t shown you yet.

but for the first time in a long while, you feel like you’re on the same side again. you’re not standing in separate corners, silently blaming each other for things you can’t control.

the weight in your chest, the anxiety that has gnawed at you since that day you got the call about him being detained, begins to fade. you don’t need to fix everything tonight. you don’t need to have all the answers.

his breathing begins to steady, the tears slowing, but he doesn’t pull away. instead, he rests his forehead against yours, his voice a raw whisper as he says the only thing he can in this moment. “i’m sorry.”

you close your eyes for a moment, exhaling softly. “i know,” you whisper.

there's a beat of silence. "i've been having nightmares," he says, his voice so low you have to strain to hear him. "almost every night. that's where i go sometimes—i walk before going to bed. i walk so that i'm exhausted enough that my mind shuts down."

the sudden admission breaks your heart—but there's also a part of you that feels relief. relief that he wasn't turning to something worse or someone else to numb the pain.

"spencer, you could have told me." you said, fingers rubbings patterns into his back.

"i didn't want to burden you more than i already have," he says, shaking his head. "you've already been through so much because of me."

"that's not how this works," you say, squeezing his hand. "just forget all of that, okay? things will be different now. you not talking to me hurts more than that ever could."

he leans into you, his eyes closing for a brief moment. "i'm sorry," he whispers. "for pushing you away. for making you feel like you weren't enough. you've always been enough."

you lift a hand to his face, your thumb brushing against his cheek as you take in the exhaustion lining his features—the weight he’s been carrying alone for too long. slowly, carefully, you lean in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. just a warm, quiet reassurance that you’re here, that you’re staying.

when you finally pull away, his forehead rests against yours, and he lets out a quiet sigh, his breath warm against your skin. he looks at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of hope and uncertainty. "do you want to go to bed?" he asks, voice low.

you pause for a moment, you hadn’t realized just how exhausted you were until his mention of sleep. your shoulders feel heavy, and your body aches from the emotional toll it’s taken.

a deep, almost instinctual sigh escapes your lips, and you nod softly, “yeah."

spencer squeezes your hand gently and leads you toward the bedroom. the moment the covers are pulled back, you slip under the soft sheets, the cool fabric against your skin offering the smallest comfort after everything you've been through. spencer follows you in, his body warm and reassuring as he settles beside you.

he moves closer, carefully wrapping his arms around you, pulling you into him with a tenderness that makes your chest tighten. you rest your head on his chest, the steady beat of his heart grounding you. his presence, steady and constant, washes over you like a balm, soothing the frantic, scattered thoughts in your mind.

his hand moves slowly up and down your back, the rhythm soothing, and you realize just how much you've missed this—missed him.

you close your eyes, letting the weight of everything melt away as you drift closer to sleep. spencer’s voice is soft, a comforting murmur as he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

"i love you."

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Do you think leona ever asked his parents why he was even born? When he wasn't even destined to rule a kingdom and only exist in the background as a "prince", whose title meant nothing anymore when cheka was born.

(I want me some angst)

-anon

Possibly? I think that Leona probably had to come to terms with a lot of not-so-nice truths about the world and his place in it as he was growing up. He's a smart guy, he'd put two and two together eventually.

Coincidentally, Leona asks a similar question (“How can I become king?”) to a butler in the second volume of the light novel (during his post-OB flashback sequence). The butler becomes deeply uncomfortable and cannot seem to muster a response. In that moment, Leona states that he knew it was considered inappropriate for him to covet the throne. And then he praises himself for being such a clever child LMAO—

Maybe there was no particular reason for his birth. On royal money, they can have as many children as they want and still have the means to support them. Family planning isn't as necessary. If you really want to go the angst route though, maybe the Kingscholar parents had a second child as a "failsafe" in case something happened to Falena or he wasn't able to sire an heir. If that's the case, the parents probably weren't thinking about how this might affect Leona's mental or emotional wellbeing; they were preoccupied with cementing their rule into the next generation and might have figured Leona would be happy serving in some other governmental position instead of taking up the throne (which now belongs to Cheka by birthright).

It's sad to think about little Leona working so hard in order to get recognized. He must have been so full of hope and joy back then, before he realized his efforts were futile and he would never get what he wanted most of all. Not just the crown, but the love and admiration that comes with having your skill and merit recognized. I wonder if Leona got his UM before or after he had his dreams crushed...? If it's before, it feels like a bad omen and a reason for others to hate him. If it's after, it only feels like confirming what people believe about him... That he's only capable of taking and destroying, never building or growing. That has got to do some damage to your psyche.

Leona may not have even asked his parents The Question directly, honestly. His mother is scarcely mentioned and his father is ill... and Falena is busy ruling in their father's place, which makes me think that it was mostly Kifaji raising and taking care of Leona. Maybe Leona pipes up one day and asks the Grand Chamberlain why was he born if he has no purpose? And that startles Kifaji, who tries to reassure him, only for Leona to grow increasingly frustrated and accuse him of being evasive or lying to avoid telling him the ugly truth. If they're playing chess at the time, I can picture little Leona knocking all the pieces off the board with an arm and then storming off somewhere to sulk.

We still don't have the origins of his scar. Leona talks about it very casually in his Dorm Uniform voice lines, stating that scars are seen as marks of bravery in his home country, but never explaining how he got his. It could be that there's no grand story or meaning behind it--but I've also seen fan theories that the scar was the result of Leona doing something dangerous at a young age in a desperate attempt to be seen and praised by others. That detail could fit very well into this angst hypothetical.

[aealzx]

_______________________

Update Post

Prologue | AO3

Previous

_______________________

“DANNY!”

The moment Danny arrived with Jason at the meeting site Jazz and Danielle were immediately wrapping him in a hug. Which was only somewhat unexpected. But after a moment of being surprised Danny found himself holding his sisters tightly, lowering his head between both of theirs’.

“I’m okay. Just… had to blow off some steam,” he assured quietly, taking in their scent and reminding himself that they were still there. He did feel a lot better than yesterday. But there was also an uncertainty if his reprieve would be short lived. And as he lifted his gaze to his friends, and caught sight of their uncertain expressions, he let his mask fade so they could see the half smile he gave them.

That tiny smile was enough to motivate Sam to speak. “...Danny, I-”

 “They have a really good burger joint here,” Danny interrupted. “We should go some time.” He knew what she wanted to say, but he didn’t think he could handle hearing it just then. He didn’t want apologies. Couldn’t handle sympathies. Let him just focus on what he wanted to do at the moment.

It was a simple pair of sentences, but it held just enough behind it that Sam and Tucker’s shoulders both drooped in some relief. Their friend was okay for now, and wasn’t upset with them. And even still wanted to hang out with them. It was more than they could ask for, but they would accept it all the same.

“Sure dude,” Tucker accepted.

“Only if they have vegetarian,” Sam half agreed. Her usual response.

None of them were okay. But they were hanging in there.

“You didn’t puke from it?” Danielle half joked, trying to make the mood lighter now that there was some faint semblance of normalcy among the group.

“No. I’m fine,” Danny half snickered, reaching up to squish his hands against her round cheeks. “Let’s just get you taken care of so we don’t end up having a repeat of this past mess. And then I can take you to go get a burger too. Okay?”

He already seemed to have a plan. Already falling into his forced role leading the people from Amity. Bruce’s frown under his cowl grew, but he didn’t comment. There were more of them there than necessary for the proposed task. They all knew from Jason’s texts that something wasn’t quite right. But they didn’t have enough information to motivate any of them to do more than watch. So watch they did as Raven stepped forward.

“...I’m sorry for your loss,” Raven began politely, also uncertain how to address the mixture of emotions she was picking up. “I had no idea-”

“Let’s save talking about that for later, yeah?” Danny requested, interrupting the girl before she could stir too much of the hurt back up from where he had it buried. He knew it wasn’t healthy, but he told himself it was just temporary.

“...Sure,” Raven relented, figuring she didn’t need to delay any longer in getting to the task she’d been asked to do. “I’ll start with showing you how I accessed the Liminal Realm while walking you through the process. Just watch and listen for now, and we can discuss any questions you have after. Okay? Also, don’t be surprised if it doesn’t work.”

Danny nodded easily, eager to watch how this had been done. They had already warned him there was a chance the ritual would fail this time. But there was also a chance that it would be more stable with him there. Raven had mentioned that he appeared to have a stronger connection with the Realm then even Danielle did, and at this point he was hoping it was true. He needed a good thing in his life right then.

As Raven started her demonstration the rest of the group moved back to give them some space. It was a little smaller scale than before, with the ritual area being isolated to just Raven and Danny. Each motion she made she explained the reason for. As well as any non visual elements that Danny wouldn’t be able to pick up on. Focus of intent, recital of inscriptions in her mind, directing certain energies in which manner, and which energies specifically.

Honestly Danny hadn’t been expecting to understand any of it. He was used to science, not magic, and even then science was a struggle. Or perhaps not, if Tim was still correct. But as the portal between realms was gradually pieced together Danny found he seemed to understand more at a subconscious level than he’d thought he would. He knew that energy. He knew this feeling. He knew this pattern. He knew these demands. This was his realm. And without his home realm to vie for half possession of him it was even more prominent now as a small rift opened in the space in front of Raven, barely visible from where Danny was standing mostly behind her.

This. Was. His. Realm.

And it owed him.

He was right.

“That’s enough Raven, I’ll take it from here,” Danny spoke up suddenly, an unexpected confidence lacing his tone as he reached out to grab Raven’s shoulder and pull her back. She sputtered slightly not only in confusion, but also because pulling her out of the central point caused the tiny connection she’d built to the Liminal Realm to flicker. At first Raven thought that the realm was irritated about the ritual being disrupted. But as Danny became the central focus for that tear to see, for whoever was beyond that tear to see only him, Raven noticed a distinct sense of uneasy anticipation. Everyone that was there could feel the air shift from the same  absent eeriness from before to feeling like they had millions of eyes actively staring through them. Eyes from people, from things they didn’t know had turned on them, watching as Danny took Raven’s place and gently shoved her away.

There was something watching all of them that seemed borderline angry, but Danny didn’t seem to care. He’d thought it would take longer than one afternoon for him to get the connection to the Infinite Realms that he needed. But this was enough. And both sides knew it.

And it was good it was angry, because Danny was too.

Reaching his fist back Danny ignored the others’ cries for him to hold on and smashed his hand through the tiny gateway, shattering it and the surrounding area of this realm in a crashing cascade of glass. The others felt their realm lurch around them, breaking away and tilting just enough to feel wrong and disorient their sense of balance as they were dumped into the connecting space between realms. There were short cries and curses from the crowd brought to the weightless realm that Jazz and the others from Amity immediately recognized, expressions going slack as they realized what happened.

Danny had brute forced his way into taking over the ritual, bending the intent to his own and ripping open a gateway whether it wanted him to or not. Because he knew it couldn’t tell him no. He may not be the Ghost King, but he was something else. He was their connection between realms. Their servant- their slave - their soldier, their hero, their icon. Kept obedient and easily manipulated through ignorance that no longer applied. He would not be kept out of his realm. And he’d even selected the specific place he’d wanted them to be brought to.

As soon as Danny’s hand had passed through the barrier between realms he’d opened his fingers just long enough to grab a fistful of fabric before he could even see who it belonged to. It was only when the barrier fully broke away, a moment of blinding white and residual glimpses of the other realm’s sky lingering in their sight, that the owner of the purple cloak was visible. And said owner seemed incredibly unconcerned with Danny holding him in a borderline chokehold.

“...There you are, Danny,” Clockwork chose as a greeting.

“Clockwork?!”

“Danny! What are you doing?!”

“Who?”

“Oh this is bad!”

Despite the commotion of those, admittedly accidentally, brought to Clockwork’s tower with him, Danny just narrowed his eyes at the ghost he’d grabbed. “Put. Them. Back,” he demanded, not bothering to elaborate since he knew Clockwork had already seen everything that had happened.

“I can’t do that,” Clockwork denied easily.

“Yes you can! Turn back time! Send me back alone! Just do something!” Danny protested, his irate front breaking slightly into desperation and causing him to have to force his grip to tighten.

“And why should I?” Clockwork asked, prodding.

“BECAUSE YOU OWE ME!” Danny burst, bringing his other hand to also grip the fabric at Clockwork’s throat and shaking him slightly. “All the damn errands I’ve run for you! Every mess I’ve helped you clean up! Every damn mistake you’ve forced me to correct- even when it wasn’t my fault! I took out Pariah for you! Vortex! Undergrowth! Myself! I helped you rewrite the future so you didn’t have to deal with me! You. OWE. Me!”

“You speak as though the tasks given to you aren’t outweighed by your own mishaps we’ve had to clean up,” Clockwork pointed out, knowing that Danny had personally caused his fair share of trouble with the Infinite Realms.

“YOU STARTED THIS IN DEBT TO ME!” Danny roared, eyes flaring bright with a flash of ice.

Despite the outburst, Clockwork seemed almost pleased with the accusation, a strange glint in his eye despite his smile from the beginning having never faltered. “...That’s a rather bold claim,” he pointed out, eyes shifting momentarily away to look at someone who wasn’t there. “Care to elaborate?”

Despite his anger, Danny still caught Clockwork’s motion, and understood what he was getting at. They were being watched. And while the watchers knew what Danny meant, apparently he had to say it. Had to show them he knew they had broken their own rules. That they had stolen his right to choose. He drew a breath to steady himself, but his voice still shook with borderline rage when he answered. “You told me before that I always have a choice. When I tried to change the past to save my friends. And again when I beat Pariah- you told me then that the Infinite Realms run on people being able to make their own choices. That it’s a law here, and that they couldn’t force me to take the crown if I didn’t want it.”

“Yes. I did. What’s your point?” Clockwork confirmed, prodding again.

“And you can confirm that those choices are honored. For example: my decision to not accept the title of Ghost King is still in place.”

“Correct,” Clockwork confirmed, then repeated his previous prompt. “What’s your point?”

“You broke that law when I became half ghost,” Danny finally exposed. He didn’t mean Clockwork specifically at this point, but he wasn’t sure exactly who were all involved in this matter, his gaze momentarily scanning the space around them. He’d only ever dealt with Clockwork, who always seemed stuck in the middle of whatever disastrous mishap was going on.

“I’m not sure I follow,” Clockwork prodded once more, a slight smirk betraying that he did know, but once again needed Danny to say it. 

The response wasn’t specific enough. And while it was frustrating to have to play this game Danny had learned by now that Clockwork was only playing this game to lead him into saying what he needed to say. “I became half ghost by opening the portal to the Ghost Zone - to here- that was in my parents basement. And I learned in that realm we ended up in that it was only possible because this realm requires payment. Payment that was taken on that day.”

“Yes. Your parents paid the price of succeeding in opening a permanent portal to the Infinite Realms in the form of losing their only son. Despite years of failure, they made the choice to continue to pursue the portal, even though there was a risk of catastrophic failure,” Clockwork confirmed, giving him a break by filling in one of the facts for him.

“They chose to continue their research, but I didn’t choose to DIE!” Danny snapped, unable to keep himself calmer. “They paid a price, but I also paid for a debt I didn’t owe. You took my choice away!”

“You walked into the gateway.” Clockwork pointed out.

“I fought Pariah!” Danny countered.

“You didn’t know defeating him would allow you to take the crown.”

“I didn’t know walking into a hunk of metal that hadn’t worked in ten years was going to kill me!” Danny shouted, shaking Clockwork again.

“People die from danger they’re unaware of everyday, Daniel.”

“But how many of them are from a direct action from the Infinite Realms?” Danny hissed, pulling Clockwork close. “I know now that someone else was there, on this side of the portal, to offer me a sacrifice to open the portal and keep it open. I know that someone chose me as a pawn, and didn’t give me a chance to accept or not. I know that someone here broke the law at my expense, and I know that The Observants are involved despite claiming they never act. And therefore I demand that my family, friends, and anyone else I care about be allowed to live long, healthy, fulfilling lives. Or else you’ll have to deal with something worse than Dan.”

There wasn’t a response this time. At least, not from Clockwork. The age shifting ghost simply allowed Danny to maintain a hold of him, letting his words ring into the aether and allowing those watching to consider their actions. Consider the consequences to the events they had allowed to happen. That they may or may not have manipulated into reality. And after a horrid stretch of stagnant time the very environment seemed to shift. The anger that permeated the Realm faltered, then faded. Sliding away into what could more accurately be described as frustrated, and somewhat shameful acceptance.

It made Clockwork laugh.

Which in turn made Danny falter slightly, his grip on Clockwork’s cloak loosening enough to allow the ghost to pull his hands away. “So, you figured it out,” Clockwork eventually chuckled, resting a hand on Danny’s shoulder. “You are correct. There are many in the Realm who owe you recompense for taking away your right to choose the life you have now. So let’s see if we can figure out how to meet your demands without using up your little pool of debt, or breaking the other realms, shall we?”

It was enough. That was finally enough for the relevant people to understand that Danny knew exactly what was going on. What had happened. There was a glimmer of proof that Danny’s idea from the night before on the couch might actually work. That he could force The Observants, and any other necessary party, to bring his realm back because they owed him more than he could probably cash in on. To break such a fundamental law of their realm put them in his debt, and they were only safe because he hadn’t known until now.

He hadn’t known until a certain ghost of time made sure he ended up in a realm where someone would be there to tell him.

Breathing out a shaky sigh, Danny let his head sag forward to thump against Clockwork’s chest, fingers loosely gripping his friend’s cloak. “...Thank you,” he breathed, ignoring the mild shake in his tone.

----------------

Hhhhhhhhh I got excited and ended up drawing this one real fast because I realized there was a lil trick I could try (that I'm really hoping worked) with the image @ v @ People on dark mode won't get to see the trick because dark mode spoils it, but people in light mode click the picture (or drag or open in a new tab) to see something extra.

Also I'm so excited for this part because I actually had the part with Clockwork typed out since around the part with Raven telling them what Danny was. There's a lot about Ghost King Danny, or new Ancient Danny, but what if Hero of the infinite realms was already something more than those?

And shout out to Rainbow_Sneks on AO3 for being the only person to comment guessing The Observants were involved 8'DDD Well done!

___________

Tag list: @galaxy-sharks-and-bottled-ships, @starscreamlover, @nerdynonnativenarnian, @dragongoblet, @megacharizardx99

@bellathecatastrophe, @cj-ghostemoji-destielpie, @asexual-insomniac, @wolfeyedwitch, @tkiesai, 

@fanaroff, @raven1508, @nebulainajar, @serasvictoria02, @oliocelottafanfics,

@honeysuckletook, @omniithe-deer, @wolf-under-the-stars, @gingernutcalo, @that-random-fangirl,

@op-sys-chaos, @kirasigncomics, @ehobep, @paranoid-ira, @nomaru666

[mulderscully]

Momentarily breaking my hiatus to further discuss the issue with the new collector edition of RWRB and why Casey's response (or lack therof) is disappointing.

Here is a link to the post I made detailing what is going on. Please read if if you are unaware.

Now, a direct quote from RWRB,

"And I'm not white like she is, can't even pass for it. People are always gonna come down harder on me."

Casey wrote these lines in the book so if they ever made a film/tv show they did not cast a white passing person to play Alex. This statement is in the annotated version of RWRB that you can look up online.

I want to discuss what being white passing means. I am a white passing latina. I have direct family members who are not white passing. My DNA just worked in a way where you see my Spanish ancestry more than my African or Native, but I have all three. Because of this, I benefit from white privilege.

However, it is important to keep in mind that passing as white now sometimes does not mean what it did historically. White passing means you can pass as white so that racist white people will not deny you certain opportunities based on your ethnicity or race. It was and sometimes still is something POC choose to do. For example, Oscar Isaac uses a passing stage name. Choose to pass. It is a denial of part of who you are to further your endeavors in a world built of oppression. Now it also means someone may look at you simply assume you are white, but that is NOT all that it means.

And even I, with my pale skin, sometimes say "I know I'm white passing." and immediately have (usually white) people say something like "No, you're not. I immediately knew you were latina when I saw you."

Now, I take people recognizing me as latine as a positive. It makes me happy because I am proud of my identity. But there is the other aspect of me not being as passing as I think I am, even though my skin tone is really light. A racist "real" white person would still descrimate against me because my blood is not "pure."

I'm mentioning this because I have seen multiple people say that the art inside this edition is fine, because Taylor Zakhar Perez is white passing.

Taylor is not white passing.

He has talked multiple times his difficultly in getting roles, the moment in the movie where he discusses prejudice against latinos is from personal experience between him and Matthew. I want you to understand that it is not only about Taylor being brown or not brown enough to play Alex, it's about his name, it's about his facial feature — his warm skin tone, but also the shape of his beautiful nose amongst other things — that make it clear that he is a man of color. Looking at Taylor, it is clear that he is a latino man with middle eastern and mediterranean ancestry as well.

But this isn't even about Taylor because we are talking about the book.

In the political world a character like Alex would never ever be mistaken for white. Alex probably never is unaware that he isn't fully white. That is what "can't even pass for it." means. It means since his mother became president, everyone knows her kid is Mexican, is brown, is not what is considered "white." by US American standards.

Remember, latino is not a race. Colorism is rampant. And since Alex is half white he is probably lighter than other latinos, esp afrolatinos, as we see on the original pink cover of RWRB. He's clearly darker than Henry there, though!

In the two arts Casey approved and endorsed not only is his skin tone various shades lighter than TZP's in the one that used his likeness, but he is given european features in the other as well. They chose to sell a book — for $80 — where Alex is drawn as white/white passing when the entire reason they wrote that line was to avoid something like this happening.

For over a week now fans (mainly latinos) have been imploring Casey to say something about this, because it's very unlike them to do this — but they haven't. This is upsetting because Casey is not latine. Not white latine either. Not latine AT ALL. If you are writing a character that is part of a community you are not a part of you have to show up for that community to the best of your ability.

At a time like this, Casey's behavior is really disappointing and the only person to blame is Casey for that. Not Taylor's casting. Casey for approving this edition and promoting it on their Instagram.

I think it was probably a fuck up, and now they're frozen and unsure how to handle it. I like Casey, I LOVE their books and think they seem like a good person. But this has opened some discussions that I think are being mishandled in various ways.

I'm logging off again for a bit, but I wanted to share my feelings on this a week out. Take care everyone 🩷

[callme-holly]

dallas x reader where reader is sick and dallas takes care of them ‼️ i love your writing sm your my favorite writer

𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐒𝐢𝐜𝐤 [𝐃𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐬 𝐖𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫]

a/n: sorry for not posting y'all. im back tho !!

The room felt too hot and stuffy, despite the open window just beside your bed and the breeze coming in cool from outside, the curtains swaying gently from side to side. Your cover had been kicked to the floor after much battle, and despite the oppressive heat that washed over you whenever you wrapped it around you, without it you were trembling with cold, your whole body prickling with goosebumps. 

You had been drifting in and out of sleep all morning, and despite your parents' protests, you'd convinced them to go to work and that you'd be fine. Your nose was stuffy, your throat raw and burning, your limbs heavy as lead. You felt miserable; there was no other way to put it. You felt down right miserable. 

You were so exhausted that you weren't even aware of the boy climbing in through your window, not until he landed on the floor with a soft thump followed by a resounding groan. It took a lot of effort to lift your head, to force your eyes open, and for a few seconds, his face was blurred and unfocused.

“Dal?” You mumbled, voice barely audible, scratchy and dry.

“Man, you look rough, doll.” 

You felt your whole body sag in relief, all the pain melting away for a second as he stepped towards you, hovering by the edge of your bed uncomfortably. He wasn’t good at this sort of thing: taking care of people when they needed it most. It just wasn’t his forte, but to see you like this, clearly suffering, it created a strange mix of emotion within him.

“Thanks…” You rasped, letting your head fall back against the pillow, and he merelyhummed in response, pressing the back of his hand to your clammy forehead.

“No problem,” he smirked, watching you for a few seconds. “D’you want anything?” The offer was sweet in a way that was so uniquely him, spoken in a way that, to anyone who didn’t know him, would come across as blunt and heartless… But to you, you knew he cared and that he wanted  to help you.

You shake your head, swallowing thickly and forcing your eyes open once more. Your vision was hazy, swimming with nausea. “Just you.” 

Dallas scoffs quietly, chuckling to himself, but he kicks off his shoes nonetheless, shrugging off his jacket and throwing it over the back of your chair. “You know, you should have called if you felt this bad.”

You fix him with a pointed look, though it is weak and pitiful. “I did call. You didn’t pick up.” 

“Oh, well…” You watched with a semi-amused expression as he struggles to say something that wasn’t an apology. “I’m a busy guy.”

That earns a small, chesty laugh from you, the action drawing a pitiful little cough from you, and you settle into his side with a tired huff. struggled

“Sure…” You sniffle lightly, closing your eyes and letting your body melt. “I hate feeling sick…” 

Dallas hums in a way that sounds almost sincere for him, rubbing your back gently; you’re surprised he’s here, surprised he knew something was wrong. “Yeah. I know. Ain’t nobody like bein’ sick.”

He presses a kiss to the side of your neck, tender and lingering, and you gasp dramatically, pulling away so quick that your head spins.

"Dal! I've got germs, remember!"

He only rolls his eyes in response, giving you a weird look. "what? On your neck? Ain't like I'm kissing ya properly."

"So? You can still catch whatever this is!" You sound almost exaspered, like a tired mother, your voice hoarse and grating, the mere act of talking making your throat burn like hell.

"Calm down, doll. I'm already sick." And with that he gets comfortable, laying down next to you and reaching for the blanket thrown haphazardly over your legs, cocooning yourself inside its warmth. 

You frown, confusion washing over you. "What? You're sick?" 

"Yeah." He drawls, tracing patterns against your skin. "Love sick." 

[blissfullylankartz]

the oddworld fandom don’t really want to interact with you because you don’t care about oddworld. compared to other fandoms we’re tiny and the games don’t get enough love anyway so it feels borderline disrespectful. if it’s not your thing why are you even making ocs for it?

I literally made a post saying not to pull this shit, I said I would be taking anon asks as long as people were kind. Yet once again I'm being met with being pushed out of a community I was wanting to get to know about. Being told I don't care when I'm literally still new and learning things. So people apparently can only partake in a community if they only know every little detail about it?

Look if you have an issue with me I'd rather you not be hiding behind anon, it feels incredibly uncomfortable and disrespectful that you would cross a boundary I set in place. The anon asks was to allow people to send asks comfortably, but you keep ruining it for everyone with me needing to turn them off because you don't have the balls to come out and say stuff without hiding behind anon. You make me believe the community is unkind and unwelcoming, when I don't want to believe that because some of the people I have interacted with have been wonderful.

You don't get to dictate what I take interest in and how I enjoy those things. So just leave me alone or at least stop hiding behind anon, it isn't fair on anyone else that you keep doing this. I won't be switching anon off because I put it on to allow people to be comfortable. I didn't put it on to allow you to feel comfortable being unwelcoming, if your going to stand up for what you love then stop hiding. Or are you afraid that if people knew who was doing it that they wouldn't like you as much anymore, since it's a small community alot of people seem to know each other. I doubt it would be fun to find out that someone was going out of Thier way to shun people from a community they apparently care about.

If you love something wouldn't you rather want to share it and talk about it, not being hateful and pushing people away from it.

I'm tired of this, this was a shitty thing to just wake up to.

Edit: anon has apologised for their behaviour however decided not to post a response to that because I don't want to give them more attention than necessary. This will be the last thing I'll be adding to this situation. I've blocked them from being able to send anon asks anymore, this is because they broke a couple of boundaries and have done things that I'm really not comfortable with. Also just didn't enjoy the vibes being brought to the table. Just hope a lesson has been learnt here.

Thank you for all the kindness that everyone has shown to me, I was a little surprised by the amount of responses, but I'm glad the community seems to take these things seriously. Don't worry I'm not going anywhere and my asks are still open and yous are free to send asks as anons. Just be kind and respectful<3 eventually I may make a post with all the ocs on it that are available for asks once I've brushed up more on lore. I look forward to doing more with yous <3

[1800-fight-me]

Begin Again

Rick Grimes x Female!Reader

Rating: M (Mature- As always- MINORS DO NOT INTERACT)

Warnings: Angst, canon level violence, cursing, yearning

Word count: Almost 4k

Synopsis: You have feelings for Rick that you're convinced are unrequited and it's made you irritable with your group. But what if you were wrong?

Author’s note: This is set sometime after the jail but sometime before Alexandria, but I took liberties with the timeline as well. I hope you enjoy!

P.S. I do not have a taglist! Instead if you would like to be notified when I post new fics follow my side blog @jo-writes-fanfic and turn your post notifications on! Comments and reblogs make my day! Main Masterlist

“I need five minutes away from you and your incessant talkin’,” you grumbled as you sheathed your hatchet and walked away from Eugene. 

Of course it was your luck you got paired with the rambling coward in the group’s efforts to clear out the building for a safe place to sleep for the night. 

“Wait! But I-” 

“Don’t wanna hear it,” you snapped as you walked away. You’d already cleared out your designated area and the others would finish soon, you weren’t leaving Eugene in any danger. You just needed some air. 

It wasn’t his fault you were so irritable. It was your own fault for developing unrequited feelings for the leader of your group and then getting your feelings hurt every time he showed zero interest towards you.

You walked out the back of the abandoned warehouse and sat on the steps right outside the door. You took deep breaths as you looked up at the stars. 

It was ridiculous and embarrassing, you knew that. There were far more important things to worry about, to get worked up over- like surviving each day. Killing walkers and any who threatened your group- that was essential, not your stupid crush. 

And Rick, he had so many responsibilities on him- two children (one of whom is a baby), the safety and wellbeing of the entire group (which had been particularly difficult lately), and constant pressure to make life or death decisions (you had admit, he was pretty good at that). You couldn’t, and shouldn’t expect him to notice you or care about your emotions beyond the others in the group. 

But, God - you wish he would. You wish he wanted to be around you. You wished he trusted your capabilities more. But no, he never wanted you right by his side in dangerous situations. That honor was always given to Daryl, or Glen, or Michonne. People he had more trust in. 

You’d been there since the beginning- since the quarry camp and you’d come a long way in terms of fighting, just like so many others. But it seemed like all Rick saw was the scared young woman he’d first met. 

He always grouped you with others in the group he also didn’t trust as much- like Eugene or Gabriel. It was infuriating. 

You also knew that Rick was a man of few words, but you couldn't help but notice that he had even less to say to you than others he was closer with. Despite the fact that you volunteered to help take care of Judith more than anyone else in the group. 

Your feelings for Rick- of affection, of love, of lust, were turning sour and rotten inside of you and twisting into something closer to jealousy and resentment. 

Getting worked up was pointless, Rick would never look at you the way you look at him you realized as you wiped the tears from your eyes and took deep breaths. 

But maybe a few extra minutes alone wouldn't hurt. 

You leaned against the handrail on the side of the stairs and tried to think about anything but Rick. The gorgeous curls of his grey streaked hair, his beard that looked way too good even when coated in blood, his intense blue eyes, the low timbre of his voice, his protectiveness for those he cares about…

You hadn’t even realized you drifted off to sleep until the sound of growling and snarling woke you. The hatchet was in your hand immediately as you jumped up and took a defensive stance. Four walkers were close, one of which nearly grabbed you, but you side stepped it and buried your hatchet in its forehead. 

Its dead weight pitched forward, it was a man twice your size, and landed on top of you. 

“Shit!” you yelled as your head hit the concrete and your vision went momentarily fuzzy. You held tight to your hatchet and swung it with a groan as another walker launched itself and landed on top of the dead one on top of you. 

You heard a deep voice yell your name. 

“Here!” you gasped out as blood sprayed in your face as the second walker died- its dead weight crushed the air out of your lungs. Two more were reaching for you but they couldn’t quite reach you and you couldn’t quite reach them. 

You heard the disgusting sound of a blade slicing into the brains of the walkers before the bodies of the others were hauled off you. 

“Thanks.” 

You took gasping breaths as you sat up and your eyes met Rick’s blazing blue gaze. 

“Are you alright?” he asked- concern evident in his voice and in the tension of his body as he knelt beside you.

He placed his large hand on your shoulder and you looked up at him in surprise.

“Just peachy,” you replied, “not a bite or a scratch on me, I promise.” 

He hung his head in relief as he let out a deep breath and his fingers tightened slightly on your shoulder. 

“What the hell were you thinkin’ bein’ out here alone?” he hissed through gritted teeth. 

You sighed deeply. 

“I didn’t mean to doze off. You stuck me with Eugene again and I needed some alone time,” you grumbled. 

He let out a huff of what might’ve been a laugh as he placed a finger on your chin and tilted it upwards so you would meet his eyes again. 

“I thought you liked Eugene, you’re always laughin’ at him.” 

You blinked in surprise and your mouth opened slightly. 

“Like him? He’s an idiot… that’s why I laugh,” you said with your eyebrows furrowed. 

“Hm. Well I also pair you with him and Gabriel since you’re one of our best fighters and teachers and I was hopin’ they’d learn somethin’,” he hummed as he turned your face back and forth just to double check that you were unharmed. 

“Wait, what? That’s what you think of me?” you blurted out. 

He raised a brow at you and a small smile played on his lips. 

“Of course, what did ya think?” 

You shrugged and looked down as your face flushed with heat. “Thought you stuck me with ‘em cause you thought I was the same as them.” 

This time he did truly chuckle. 

“Wow. I thought you’d think better of my leadership. It wouldn’t make much sense to put the weakest links together, they’d die. Ya wanna put the strongest with the weakest so they learn to be stronger,” he explained while nodding his head. 

“Oh. Yeah. That does make more sense,” you muttered. 

He smirked at you and you swore your heart skipped a beat. 

“Promise me you won’t go sleepin’ outside on your own again and I’ll give you a break from Eugene,” Rick said fervently. 

“Deal,” you agreed all too quickly which caused a rough chuckle to slip past his lips again. 

“C’mon darlin’, let’s go back inside with the others- you can nap in there where it’s safer,” he encouraged as he stood and offered you his hand. 

Your heart fluttered at the affectionate nickname. You slid your hand into his much larger calloused hand and you had to actively stop your mind from wandering down a path of wondering how those hands would feel on the rest of your body. 

You followed him back into the warehouse and then into the big open room everyone had begun to make camp in. He placed a hand on your back as he led you to sit next to him. 

“You hungry?” he asked as he pulled granola bars out of a backpack and started to pass them out to everybody. 

“Yeah, thanks,” you mumbled and his fingers brushed against yours for far longer than necessary  as you took the snack that would count as everyone’s meal for the night from him. It was better than the group’s dinner last night of absolutely nothing. 

Today’s scavenging was more successful, thank God. Your group still needed to find a more permanent living situation, and this warehouse did not seem like the solution. But you weren’t in the habit of borrowing tomorrow’s worries. No, you were just glad you made it through another day alive and without losing anyone you cared about. 

Maggie handed Judith to Rick and he placed a kiss on her forehead before settling her on his lap. She giggled at you as you made silly faces at her. 

Your name was called in a very nervous voice and you looked over as Eugene approached you. 

“I would be remiss if-” 

“I’m sorry Eugene,” you cut him off. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I was an ass.” 

“While I do appreciate that, I also understand that I have a tendency to over-articulate in a way that can be grating on the nerves at times. So, I do apologize for becoming a pain in your rear end lately,” he said with a nod of his head that shook his ridiculous mullet. 

You let out a soft laugh. “It’s fine, dude. We’re good,” you reassured him. 

He nodded again then went back to his spot near Abraham and Rosita. 

You looked over and realized Rick was watching you with raised brows. 

“What?” you asked. 

“I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you be that nice before,” he said in a teasing tone and a playfulness in his light blue eyes. 

You opened your mouth to reply but he said, “To anyone but the kids at least.” 

“I’m plenty nice,” you snapped, “to everyone but you.” 

He laughed and you muttered, “Shut up” as you began to adjust your backpack so you could lay your head on it. 

You quickly turned your body away from him as you laid down so he couldn’t see the smile that adorned your lips. 

You woke the next morning after nearly a full night’s sleep, which was a miracle in the post-apocalyptic world you lived in, to a jacket with a woollen collar laid atop you. You weren’t quite as successful at hiding your smile this time. 

You yawned as you sat up and stretched and the jacket slid to your lap. It was clear you were one of the last to wake as most everyone was quietly moving around as they prepared for the day. 

“You’re up! Finally! Dad said I had to let you sleep, but Judith has been wanting you,” Carl said from across the room. 

You smiled, “I’ll take the little princess.” You reached your hands out and Carl crossed the room and placed Judith in your waiting arms. She giggled at your teasing as you spoke to her in a high voice and tickled her. 

You noticed the granola bar carefully left next to your backpack and your heart warmed before you tore into it and devoured it in a few bites. 

A few minutes later everyone seemed almost packed up and ready to go, you included. You’d gotten good at multitasking- holding and caring for Judith while taking care of other tasks (including sometimes killing walkers) had become a breeze for you. Rick came back inside the building as he holstered his gun and surveyed everyone’s progress. 

“Let’s move out in five. We’ve got a lotta ground to cover today,” he ordered and everyone either nodded or made sounds of agreement. 

He crossed the room as he came towards you and knelt down next to where you sat. He gently held Judith’s hand and the fondness in his gaze as he greeted her made your heart clench. As did the fact that he still had a soft look in his eyes when he looked up from where Judith sat in your arms and said, “Mornin’”. 

“Hey,” you replied with a small smile. “Thanks for letting me sleep in. I feel much less grumpy.” 

“Anythin’ for you, darlin’,” he said with a wink before he stood up and offered you his hand. You allowed him to help you stand and struggled to hide how flustered he made you, especially when he squeezed your hand before letting go. You handed him his jacket back, which he took and promptly put on.

“It’ll also help the overall morale of the group if you’re not snappin’ at everybody,” he teased. 

You scoffed and shoved your shoulder into his as you walked past him, but once again couldn’t stop yourself from smiling. You glared at Maggie when she wiggled her eyebrows at you which only caused her to laugh. 

The day continued on with your group once again hiking under the hot sun in an attempt to find more supplies and better shelter. The routine had become somewhat monotonous, but the constant life threatening situations made it feel a bit less so. 

Today, the group stumbled upon an abandoned superstore. Rick ordered everyone to split up in pairs to explore and scavenge. 

He asked Carl to stay outside with Judith and for Carol to protect them both. 

When he called your name, you expected as usual to be grouped with one of the less combat inclined of your traveling companions but couldn’t stop your expression of surprise as he said, “You’re with me. Alright everyone, be quick and quiet and grab anything that could be potentially useful. Let’s go.” 

The group split into their designated pairs and began to enter the store. Enough scouting had already been done that it seemed abandoned by walkers as well, but still it was always important to be cautious. 

You followed Rick as he made his way to the back of the store to explore your assigned area. Hatchets in hand, you both made your way through the aisles without speaking in order to ensure you didn’t draw any of the dead in case they were hidden out of sight. 

Finally, when everything seemed all clear Rick pulled off his backpack and you helped him to fill it with supplies. 

You quietly searched the shelves and shoved aside anything useless. You tossed a bottle of ibuprofen at Rick- which he caught and dropped in his pack before he turned to search the shelf across from you. 

Your gasp caused him to whip back around towards you with his hatchet raised. 

“Look what I found!” you said excitedly, still cautious enough to keep your voice low. 

Rick sighed deeply as he returned his hatchet to his belt and gave you an annoyed look as he glanced between your face and the unopened bag of mini chocolate donuts. They were most likely still good considering they’re chock full of preservatives. 

You didn’t even know how long it had been since you had chocolate and your mouth was already watering at the thought. 

“What?” you asked. “Y’don’t want any?”

He rolled his eyes and went back to searching for supplies. 

“Fine, suit yourself. I was willin’ to share with you, but I’m not sharin’ with anybody else,” you grumbled as you shoved the donuts into your own backpack. 

You heard him laugh softly and you smirked triumphantly. Your ability to dissuade the grumpiness and bring amusement to one another filled your heart with a light you hadn’t felt in a long time. 

“We should check that back storage room in case there’s extra stuff back there that they never had the chance to put out on the floor,” you whispered after the two of you had cleared several aisles having only found a couple of necessities. 

“Good idea,” he replied and led the way. 

You followed his lead as you kept your hand on your hatchet. 

There didn’t seem to be any walkers in the back, but it was dark. You held a flashlight while Rick ripped open boxes. You looked around the dark room, searching for any kind of movement in the dark as a sinking feeling plagued you.

He looked back at you with a grin on his lips and a twinkle in his eye as he held up a protein bar. 

“I think you might be a genius, this whole box is full of ‘em,” he said as he gestured to the large cardboard box before him. 

Your eyes widened in a look of horror. His brow furrowed but before he could even open his mouth to ask, you threw a knife at him. 

It flew so close to his head that his curls rustled in the wind it created before it buried itself in the forehead of the walker whose teeth were inches away from Rick’s shoulder. 

A look of shock overtook his expression as he looked between you and the walker, but you weren’t done. You yanked out your hatchet and stalked past him and took out the two walkers who were rounding the corner and heading towards the two of you. 

Rick came up behind you with his hatchet in hand as well, but all seemed to be clear. 

You took heaving breaths to calm the adrenaline that ran through your body. 

You both holstered your weapons, including yanking the knife out of the walker’s forehead and wiping it clean, and Rick's hand encircled your wrist as he pulled you to turn to face him. 

His eyes were still wide with surprise. 

“Thanks.” 

You shrugged. “Don’t mention it.” 

“No, I’m gonna. You just saved my ass,” he said fervently as he stepped closer to you. 

It was like he’d just had this realization that you always supported him, always helped him, always had his back.

“Isn’t that what we do for each other? We’ve got each other's backs. That’s why our group works,” you replied. 

He nodded but continued to look at you with such intensity that it made you take a step backwards and your back bumped into the wall behind you. 

“Do you look at Daryl like this when he saves your ass?” 

He shook his head and in a low gravelly tone said, “No.” 

He looked ready to devour you as he took another step closer. Your breath caught in your throat. 

“Rick?”

“Fuck it,” he muttered under his breath. 

He practically lunged forward, one hand landed on the wall next to your head and the other spanned the side of your face to the back of your neck as he tilted your head up. His body pressed against yours, effectively trapping you between his heat and the wall. 

Before you could even breathe, his lips were on yours. The brush of his beard was harsh against your skin as his lips firmly pressed against yours.

Your hands reached up to grip the curls at the base of his head, threading your fingers through the surprisingly soft hair. He took that as encouragement and deepened the kiss. 

With a groan his lips pried yours open and his tongue pillaged your mouth with an intensity that left you whimpering. The heat of him, the taste of him, the fierceness of him was overwhelming and you kissed him back with all the passion he gave you. 

It could’ve gone on for minutes, or maybe hours, you didn’t know but you never wanted it to end. You were ready to give him everything he wanted and more, but the sound of footsteps behind Rick had him yanking back from you. He whipped around, his gun already raised and cocked as he held a hand behind him to protect you and keep you safe behind his back. 

Your lips still tingled from his affection, and as you peered around his shoulder you huffed in annoyance. 

“S-sorry. I was elected to determine the whereabouts of both of you but as I have observed with my own two eyes, your safety is not currently in question. Therefore, I will take my leave, but you should know should this rendezvous continue on that the whole group is ready to move on out and is waiting on your approval and presence to do so. Yours truly will take leave now and report to the others that the waiting will continue for a little while longer,” Eugene rambled. 

Rick sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose as he lowered his weapon. He still didn’t move an inch so you continued to be stuck between him and the wall. It honestly wasn’t a bad place to be, you weren’t complaining. 

“Jesus, Eugene, it’s fine, just tell everyone to come help us carry these supplies,” Rick ordered. 

“Yes sir,” Eugene replied quickly and turned around and left just as quickly. 

You laughed quietly and Rick turned back around- still not giving you an inch of space- and placed both hands on the wall on either side of your head and leaned down so his face was incredibly close to yours. 

“I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” he murmured before he kissed you again. This kiss was slow, gentle, and full of warmth. The kind of kiss that might’ve been your first kiss if you weren’t living in a time of death and desperation for survival. 

His lips lingered on yours long enough that you worried others would stumble upon the two of you again. You weren’t keen on having an audience, particularly not Eugene- you’d heard a rumor that he was into voyeurism of his friends which you certainly didn’t want to have anything to do with. 

“Then what took you so long?” you asked in a teasing voice as Rick’s lips finally separated from yours and he took a step back as he ran a hand though his grey streaked curls. 

“Well at first I thought you had a thing for Eugene, not me,” he replied. 

You rolled your eyes. “Thought you were smart,” you muttered. 

He grabbed your shirt and yanked you into his body. “Don’t be a smartass,” he reprimanded, but his lips found yours again in a brief kiss that negated all the harshness in his tone. 

“I worried, I worried about too many things. But yesterday almost losin’ you and today with you saving me… I realized all those worries were ridiculous when none of us are guaranteed tomorrow. I couldn’t even think about losing you, especially not without you knowin’ how I feel about you,” he said with such fervency. 

His confession left you breathless. 

“I- I worried too much too. Worried that you’d never feel the same way I did. Worried that if I ever told you I’d lose you,” you said, your voice so quiet it was practically a whisper. 

All of the reasons you’d both withheld yourselves seemed frivolous now as light filtered through the murky window on the other side of the room and bathed Rick in the brightness of new opportunity and fresh start. A chance for new love despite the horrors of the world. 

So you kissed him once more, this kiss but a brief touch of lips, a taste of something more that was to come, a sweetness only utter devotion could bring. 

All too soon, he stepped back far enough that as many in your group came through the swinging doors it would not appear that anything had changed between the two of you. 

To everyone else, finding the stock of food in the back of that abandoned grocery store was the only life altering thing that had occurred. But when you met Rick’s ocean blue eyes you realized you could drown in the affection you found in his gaze. 

All the former awkwardness and miscommunication between the two of you was completely forgotten as you smiled at him and he smiled back- eyes crinkling- and the whole world felt anew with possibility. 

[kestrel-of-herran]

long severance post ahead but it's worth reading bc i think i'm actually onto something.

you guys remember the lexington letter?

there might be actual clues about what lumon is doing is there. if peggy's innie finished refining something, then lumon staged a car accident ("exploding probes"), perhaps the finished room for that file could now be tested on one of the people in the car accident, the accident being a cover for lumon to kidnap them same as they did for gemma. since this connection between refining and a car accident is made in an official companion text, there has to be something actually important about it.

petey also said something along the lines of, what if you spend all day there killing people?

maybe sometimes mdr refines rooms for subjects who are already caught and experimented on, and others preparing more rooms for people they have their eye on and are just waiting to kidnap.

but why car accidents? besides removing the person from the lives of their friends and family seemingly permanently so no one tries to get them out, it instills deep trauma in the test subjects, allowing lumon to keep refining the chip's effectiveness in blocking extreme negative emotion.

it's possible lumon already knew who they wanted to put in lexington and how they'd stage the car accident, and the refining was a process to get that experience perfected.

oh actually. i had another epiphany now.

why is peggy the narrator of the lexington letter?

the most significant thing we know about her is that she was in a car accident. is it possible that the rooms she was refining were based on her own trauma, e.g. the numbers on the screen represent her own memories of the car accident and how she feels about them intuitively, which intuition she has bc these are her own feelings supressed by the chip. she sorts the feelings in boxes to remove feeling from the memory, wiping the trauma -- but maybe what's valuable to lumon isn't the cleaned file, it's the dust bin numbers.

maybe they're using the data stored there to determine which memories were most traumatic or evoked strongest emotion so they can supress them. if i remember correctly, the kier posters on walls say that you need to clean your body from tempers -- does that mean all emotions? is eradicating, refining, cleaning the human condition of tempers the purpose of the cult?

remember, the numbers in the files have already been sorted (mentioned in the first eps), to the extent that the programme can detect when something is sorted incorrectly (this is also in the lexington letter). which might indeed mean that we're talking about memories of the refiner that have been derived from their own chip.

so mark is refining gemma's rooms bc they have similar trauma. they have similar life experiences and lumon can use his intuitive responses to his memories to create negative experiences for her.

but everyone at lumon would be refining their own "files" -- the unique disk set up on their computer when they started out, like it was for helly -- bc these are their own memories that they're sorting the emotions out of so lumon can use those to perfect the endurance of the chip to suppress intense emotion in their test subjects belowstairs. maybe the files "expire" bc the memory becomes dimmer with time.

maybe lumon generally seeks out people with trauma so they can access their memories and use their own ability to sense out the emotions the chip is suppressing in the visual representation of their memories for the creation of more traumatic experiences to test on subjects they hijack through accidents until they can eradicate all emotion?

[bun-z-bakery]

Drunken Daze

Pairing. Nanami Kento x GN!Reader Warnings/Tags. Co-Workers to lovers, fluff, drinking/alcohol, suggestive, Drunken confessions

Words. 1,377

A/N. Helloooo!! i've been wanting to write something for kento for a while so I hope you enjoy! Also! This was posted earlier on my Ko-fi so check that out if you want! :3

Various Menu | Works Menu | Ao3 | Kofi

You and Kento have been friends for a while now. It was strange getting to know the man. At first, you thought he hated you. He was silent, always with his nose deep into his work, never one for work parties or get-togethers. Your mutual friend Gojo would often need to drag him out of his shell, but his demeanor would change as soon as you entered the room. 

Which is why setting foot into his home and sitting next to him, drinking the wine you had brought, felt so strange. This was a scenario you could only daydream of. 

Your conversation and drinking went on well into the night. He wasn't one for drinking such cheap alcohol. It was all you had on hand, yet, for some reason, he had agreed to it. 

"Man, this sucks. I'm sorry, Nanami." He lets out a low chuckle, swirling the wine before taking another sip. 

"No worries. I'm just glad you brought yourself along. Also, just call me Kento." He takes another sip. You stare at him with a raised brow, drinking in his features. You notice a blush adorned on his cheeks. He was drunk. 

"Kento, should we call it a night?" You were about to put your glass down, but he poured some more wine into your cup and his. Sloppily, he placed the bottle down before he spoke. 

"I don't want this night to end." Was this even the same man you spoke to an hour ago? 

"Kento—" he cuts you off. 

"You're so perfect in my eyes. How can anyone be so perfect? Maybe you're just a dream. Maybe this is all a dream. I'll drink myself to death if it is." 

"Kento, I think we've had enough for the night." Carefully, you take the glass from his hand and place it on the coffee table. Before you can sit properly, he catches your hand and holds it up to his lips, kissing your knuckles. 

You weren't sure what was going through his head, but you had been longing for the blond for oh so long. You weren't even sure if it was a dream yourself. Kento was a heavy drinker—one of the two needed to cut back on the drinks. Even with less alcohol than him in your system, you couldn't help but wonder if the reason why he was so distant in the first place was due to his feelings for you. 

"No. I've adored you from afar for too long." Even through his glasses, you could tell his hazel eyes were glossy. You knew alcohol had such effects on people, yet you never thought you'd see the day you'd have a drunken man confess to you in his own home. 

He raises a hand and ghosts your cheek. You can feel the warmth radiating from his hand; you want to melt into his palm. "May I?" you nod in response. 

"Words, darling." A blush creeps onto your face as you glance down at your hands, unable to make eye contact. 

"Yes, you may." 

With your confirmation, he touches your cheek, stroking it with his thumb, then down to your lips. 

"Kiss me." You were sure of your decision. However, he still asked,

"Are you sure? We can stop this now if you wish." 

"I'm positive, Kento." 

Without another word, his lips crash into yours. You can taste the sweet wine on his tongue as you melt into the kiss. His hands never touch your body. Instead, you move his hands to your shoulders, giving him silent approval for his hands to roam your body. With your approval, he slowly began to explore your body, mindful never to go to areas that might make you uncomfortable. 

Kento breaks the kiss and holds you close. 

"Stay," he whispers. 

"You're too drunk to drive. I'll sleep on the couch." 

You didn't want to argue with the drunk man, so you agreed. He was right. You were too drunk to even see straight. 

Before you knew it, you were hovering over the couch in Kento's arms. Carefully and wobbly, he carried you to his bed and gently placed you down, but he collapsed next to you. 

"Ken?" soft snoring was your response. You could feel his warm breath on your neck as he held onto you. You chuckled and stroked his hair. It didn't take long to drift off to his soft snores. 

In the morning, you find yourself wrapped in not one but two blankets, surrounded by pillows. You figured Kento must have been worried about your comfort and went overboard with the pillows. 

Your nose is hit with the smell of something delicious. Rising out of Kento's bed and making your way to the kitchen with a yawn, you see him in shorts and a wrinkled white T-shirt. 

"Good morning, darling. I made us breakfast." Your head begins to sting, and you are very hungover. Kento seemed to catch on.

"Drink that, and you'll feel as good as new," Kento says, gesturing to a cup filled with what you assume is a hangover remedy. Taking a deep breath, you approach the counter, bracing yourself for the taste. As you gulp it down, you cringe at the flavor and cough. 

"Oh, that's disgusting." 

"That's how you know it works," he points to you with the spatula before plating food for you and him. 

At the table, breakfast was silent. It wasn't until he spoke up that the air became tense. 

Your heart wanted to leap out of its chest. 

"I know we've already slept in the same bed." he cleared his throat, thinning his lips at his actions before he continued. 

"But I would like to take you on a date. If that's alright?" It sounded more like a demand than a question. Kento had his sights set on you. It was more evident now than ever. 

"I would love that, Ken." A slight red tint adorned his face at the mention of the nickname. He smiled and said, "Tomorrow, be ready by 8, and don't forget to wear your gift." 

He whips out his phone. You assume he's bought you something to wear. 

You weren't even official, and the man was already spoiling you. As breakfast came to an end, a comfortable silence filled the room. Kento's gaze lingered on you, and you couldn't help but smile at what tomorrow would bring.

Just as the clock turned 8, a knock was on your door. "Coming!" you shouted, ensuring you looked decent in the outfit Kento had gifted you. 

You open the door, revealing a well-put-together Kento standing with flowers and a slim black box with a beautiful gold ribbon in his hands. "Look at you! I knew you'd look absolutely stunning in that." Your cheeks heat up as you step aside, letting him into your home. You take the flowers and set them in a cup of water on the counter. They were a stunning red with smaller white ones and smelled wonderful. 

"Ready for your other surprise?" 

He holds out the slim black box. 

"Ken, you don't need to do all this for me." 

You kiss his cheek, 

"You're right. I didn't have to do this, but I want to. Every day, you will feel loved and cherished, know that." Little did you know he was serious about this, serious about you. He would do anything and everything to prove it. He didn't plan on losing you, not after secretly pining after you for so long. 

He opens the box, revealing a gold necklace that is too fancy to wear on a regular day yet matches the outfit perfectly. He must've been planning this from the start. You laugh quietly to yourself as you turn around, letting him out the necklace on you. His hands are warm and gentle. 

Once he's finished, carefully hold the gem between your fingers. "It's beautiful, Ken," you say, taking his hand and giving it a slight squeeze, earning a smile from him.

"I'm thrilled that you like it. We should get going now. You'll love what I have planned." 

His gaze lingers on you as you speak. 

"I'm excited to see what you have planned." 

Right then and there, he knew you were already his.

A/N. Thanks for reading! I love Kento so much he's just iwbiwbrbvi okay bye bye!

[ratyts]

would it be weird

(leon x gn!reader)

masterlist

continuation of this from leon’s perspective. leon escapes the friendzone. also its 4am sorry for any typos i need to post this now!!!

warnings: friends to lovers, romantic tension, resolved romantic tension

word count: 2.5k

Leon blinked. His arms loosened around you, slipping down your torso. His breath stilled, lips pressed tightly together. What was it you'd said to him? He was your… best friend? Right. He could get on board with that. You were definitely his best friend as much as he was yours. His best friend whose skin was brushing against his lips, seated on his lap, holding onto him like a lifeline. His best friend who he could hardly stand to keep his hands off of, who would pick up his calls at all odd hours of the night, who consumed just about every one of his waking thoughts. He let the silence linger too long after you spoke. Leon couldn’t admit it now that his plan had failed, but thirty seconds ago, he thought he’d finally found the perfect time to casually confess his love for you. He would have to reconvene with himself later. 

Leon had never really had a best friend before you. He had no frame of reference for how it was supposed to feel. He knew he felt differently, more intensely, about you than he did his other friends. He also knew that your relationship was different from every romantic relationship he’d had in the past. But that was a given, because you weren’t his partner and you weren’t just a normal friend. You were everything to him. There wasn’t an appropriate category for you in his mind, your relationship was liminal, but he at the very least knew “best friend” wasn’t enough. The thought of only being that to you– forever, it made his heart clench. Even more so when you whispered it right into his ear like a love confession. Worst birthday gift ever.

He chuckled, refocusing himself in the moment, “I know, you’re my best friend too.” Your breath seemed to tremble at his response, and he wondered if you also knew that wasn’t enough. 

The two of you stayed like that for a moment longer before he pulled away, looking up at you with a wry smile. Past the twitch in his eye he could feel brewing, Leon could see some humor in his situation. He was in the friendzone. At the rate he was going, he’d find himself in the “you’re like a brother to me” zone before he knew it. He’d done it to himself, really. It had taken him far too long to admit to himself that he loved you as a friend, and by the time he was ready to say that, he already loved you much more and in a much different way. You weren’t to blame, he decided. Leon had marched his way into the friendzone, and it was his responsibility to claw his way out. 

That night ended as peacefully and normally as it could’ve, considering the occasional twitch of Leon’s eye and his sudden insistence to leave you alone even less than usual. He’d coaxed you into his bed (even though you always shared the bed when you came over), and latched onto you as he slept (he was always a wild sleeper), and was very proud of himself in the morning. 

In a moment of retrospection the next morning, as he watched you dig through his cupboards, completely disheveled and barely awake, he realized he had been subconsciously acting on his feelings for a long time. He thought back to the time you walked in on him changing. How it was the reddest his face had ever been, and how he embarrassingly made an effort to wear more tank tops around you– and sometimes skip the shirt completely, in the aftermath. You seemed pretty unaffected at the time, laughing it off much easier than Leon did. 

He thought back to a time even before that, the time he’d held you– really held you, for the first time. His memory of the night was blurred, he must have had one drink too many, but he remembered how it ended. It was the only time he’d cried in front of you, the only time he’d cried in front of anyone in the better part of ten years. It wasn’t over anything in particular, but you didn't ask. You just slid closer to him, wordlessly wrapping an arm around his back. Neither of you moved for a minute, then Leon raised his head and his teary eyes met yours. He wasn’t sure which one of you moved first, but before the next tear rolled down his cheek, the two of you had connected like a puzzle piece. Thinking back on it, he thought he should've known by then that you were always going to be the most important person in his life.

In his kitchen, you whipped around, empty handed. “Where’s all the food?”

“Top left,” Leon gestured towards the cabinet, the corners of his lips upturning as you returned to your search. He abandoned his position by the entrance, slowly moving closer to you. It would be so easy, so normal to close the distance. He wanted to kiss you.

“Pancake mix?” You said, stretching your arm out to grab the box, “When was the last time you went to the store?”

“A while ago,” he chuckled, walking up behind you, his chest inches from your back. “Wanna go with me?” 

Your head turned towards him, eyes widening slightly (because of his proximity, he hoped), “Uh, yeah.” You elbowed him, creating some space between the two of you, “You- you go get ready.”

He nodded, turning around to do as you said, wondering if he could’ve grabbed you. What would’ve happened if he had leaned in a little closer. He brushed it off. Leon couldn’t even disobey an offhand remark you made.

You were always so collected. It was wishful thinking, assuming you had ever been remotely flustered by him, he thought. Leon hopped around his room, slipping on a pair of jeans and a fresh t-shirt he hadn’t sweat through during the night. He could be stoic, broody even, that much Leon could admit– at least to himself. He wasn’t affectionate, he wasn’t emotional, never vulnerable. Except with you. Around you, Leon was embarrassingly honest, in his mind, at least.

He passed you as he left his bedroom, you grumbling something about needing ten minutes to get ready and that he should “make some coffee or something.” He looked over his shoulder as you shuffled away, shutting the door behind you. Again, he took your suggestion. Moving on autopilot, Leon emptied his bag of coffee grounds into the machine and flipped the on switch. The machine grumbled, shaking on the countertop as the coffee streamed into the pot. His gaze drifted towards the clock, then his bedroom door, then back to the pot. He sighed, pulling two mugs out of the cabinet– both gifts from you– as the stream became drips then finally stopped. He poured your cup first.

“Hey.” He jumped, coffee spilling onto the countertop as he spun around to see you standing only inches away from him. 

“Jesus,” Leon said with an exhale, setting the pot down then running a hand over his face. 

“Weren’t you just bragging about your super fine tuned reflexes?” Your expression was mocking, lovingly mocking, as you looked up at him. You bent sideways, glancing at the coffee dripping from the countertop to the floor then back at him with a raised brow. “You’re jumpy today.”

He rolled his eyes, painfully aware of your proximity, “I have no rebuttal.” He lifted a hand to pinch your cheek, wiping the smugness off your face, “You win, let’s go.”

He stared at your face in the moments before you pushed his hand away. Leon’s ability to read your expressions was nowhere near consistent. He could read you like a book anytime you weren't looking at him. The second you directed a look at him, it was his best (or worse, really) guess. He squinted, eyes following the back of your head as you stalked to the front door, slipping some shoes on. 

Leon sometimes thought he was a horrible friend to you. He was constantly crossing lines, pushing boundaries, going a bit further than rationality should’ve allowed. Usually, you didn’t push back. In fact, you almost always accepted anything he had to offer with willing and open arms. Except a confession. He hoped that one had been an accidental misstep.

You shuffled alongside Leon, bundled up in one of his sweaters, wincing each time a burst of chilling wind hit your face. It took him about thirty seconds to goad a reluctant yes out of you to walk the few blocks with him to the grocery store rather than drive. Leon looped an arm around you once you were outside, spinning you around to walk on his other side, away from the curb. He said something about the wind, but kept his arm around your shoulder even after you had been repositioned. It was his pesky desire to be as close as possible, to protect you from, what? The empty neighborhood street? That much he couldn’t even rationalize to himself.

Leon liked to position himself as your protector. Although you had never needed his help before, he was half sure that was because of his preemptive protective measures. There’s a fine line between possessiveness and protectiveness, he had come to learn. Leon toed it frequently. He didn’t think of possession in the usual sense– despite the places his jealousy would occasionally lead him. You weren’t an object, not something to be owned. You weren’t a doll either, you didn’t need him, not in that sense at least. But, to a certain extent, he couldn’t help it. As the two of you walked side by side, he could barely take his eyes off you to look in front of him. He tripped once in the produce aisle and somehow flat tired you twice in the deli then once in canned goods, but he couldn’t stop. 

You pulled him backwards by the collar of his sweater, stopping him at the checkout line. His eyes snapped back to you, refocusing on the task at hand. He gave a lazy smile and a shrug in response to your furrowed brow. 

“You okay?” You asked, releasing his collar, looking for an answer in his expression. He blinked, nodding, likely too obviously hoping you wouldn’t find one. You were quiet for a beat before relaxing your face, wordlessly nudging him towards the cashier.  

The walk home was colder. The bag dug into the palm of Leon’s hand, and even though you kept asking if you could carry it, Leon insisted. He kept close, your shoulders brushing with every step, even as the weight of the bag threw off his rhythmic steps. You glanced over at him every few seconds, checking for silent communication. Leon was still thinking about his failed confession. Wondering how much longer he had before someone else swept you up and away. How much longer he could hold onto you like you were his. His eye twitched again. 

By the time the two of you got back inside, he was sure his face was flushed entirely red. He kept his eyes on you as he dropped the bag in the kitchen, doubting how much of the redness was from the cold.

“Finally,” you shivered, kicking off your shoes and collapsing onto the couch. You rubbed your hands together, looking over your shoulder to see Leon standing feet away, hesitating. Before your confusion could grow, he quickly followed your suit, settling down next to you. You turned away, satisfied, turning on the TV and flipping through the channels. Leon was sitting close enough that his knee brushed against yours, his hand brushed against the side of your thigh. He looked at you with a pensive expression, eyes continuously flickering back down to your lips. He wasn’t sure when it started, but it felt familiar, like he’d been staring all day. He swallowed, hard. Then before he could think, his lips parted.

“I want to kiss you,” he blinked, eyes wide as if his words surprised himself. Leon kept his voice steady, betrayed only by the blush on his cheeks. 

You were silent for a moment before you paused your ministrations on the remote and turned your head towards him, brows furrowed, “Huh?” 

“You heard me.”

“No-” You blinked, shaking your head, losing the remote in the crevice of his couch, “No, what? Say it again.”

He sighed, embarrassment creeping up and the looming fear of rejection hanging above his head, “Remember when I said I love you? Last night?” 

You nod, your face painted with confusion and something else Leon couldn’t decipher. 

“Well,” he cleared his throat, shifting to rest his arm along the top of the couch, “I… Damn it. Can I kiss you or not?”

Your mouth fell open, then shut quickly. Processing for a moment, you begin a slow nod, your eyes boring into his, “...You can kiss me.”

Leon freezes, and you don’t move either. He’s not sure who leaned in first, but a moment later your faces are inches apart and his half lidded eyes snap open as he sees yours flutter shut. He inhales sharply and grabs the back of your neck, bringing your lips together. You recoiled, pulling away as quickly as it had happened, a hand shooting up to cover your mouth and Leon swears the cloud of rejection is floating above him again.

“Holy shit,” you said, your words muffled by your hand.

Leon nods, hesitantly, heart threatening to beat out of his chest, “Yeah.”

“You love me?” You swallow, voice small.

He nods again, certain his cool facade has melted into something pathetic and desperate by now. He moves to release his hold on your nape and your hand grabs his forearms before he can, keeping him in place. In a less than graceful maneuver, you use his hand to pull you closer. Then, inches apart again, you raise your hands to cup his cheeks and lean in. By the time Leon realizes you haven’t slapped him and stormed out, you’ve already peppered kisses across every inch of his face you could reach. 

Oh, God, he thinks. He’s so stupid.

His hands regain purpose, and he pulls you in with a new force, pressing his mouth against yours without hesitation. Leon’s free hand found itself at your waist, pulling you in until you were chest to chest. Your arms wrapped around his neck, falling on top of him. You gasped, and he took advantage of the opening, deepening the kiss, holding onto you like you were the last tether he had to earth. A shiver ran down his spine as you pulled away, chest heaving, eyes locked onto his. He placed a chaste kiss on the corner of your mouth then pulled you back down into an embrace, tucking your face into the crook of his neck. He couldn’t wipe the stupid smile off his face, so he just chuckled and held onto you tighter.

“Leon,” you began, breath hot on his skin, “I feel so stupid.”

He laughed a little harder, feeling your smile against his neck, “You have no idea.”

[mylo-space]

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.

[quietwingsinthesky]

Have you watched dead boy detectives yet? I think you’d like it. Canon gay ships!

I’m gonna be real with you, man. Absolutely fucking nothing I heard about that show made it sound even remotely interesting to me before, and now, the idea of even interacting with stuff tangentially attached to Gaiman makes me feel physically ill. I’m not watching that.

[pirates-and-posies]

I have never been so flabbergasted by a post until now and I am not going to be as nice as the above folks. There is so much wrong with this kind of mentality and I am very much going to nitpick most of it.

You are not being forced to like any ships. What you are implying with this post is that people are wrong for even so much as using canon material to justify their ships or using it at all. That is, to put it simply, childish at best and straight up cruel to fandom culture overall.

"Leave canon alone" your blog is filled to the brim with both canon and fanon content, you saying that makes you hypocritical. Any form of headcanons or character usage take directly from canon or are inspired by canon because it is the blueprint in the first place. By asking the fandom to "leave canon alone" you are saying there shouldn't be a fandom at all.

"It pushes people away from the community" @/lietpolski said a lot of good points! Especially about that kind of behavior not happening in the recent years, since earlier fandom was definitely hostile about ship wars and it was an unwelcoming environment. You rarely see that anymore.

In fact, do you want to know what drives people away from Hetalia nowadays and keeps them fearful of ridicule? POSTS LIKE THIS. By publicly shaming people for even so much as using canon as inspiration you are barring them from the freedom of expression. By mentioning popular ships and deeming them as problematic you are demonizing the ships from any other interpretation and generalizing shippers.

I'm not even going to entertain what was said about UsUk and Spamano because those shippers have heard enough accusations as is, not every shipper enjoys the problematic aspects behind those ships and typically DO separate from canon just like you say they should. You would know that if you interacted with a majority of those shippers or even looked in the tags.. but instead, you have taken canon material and a hypothetical situation that may or may not have happened and assumed. I have not seen anybody say something so bold on main in YEARS about that kind of Spamano or UsUk content unless you count a small fraction of fics on AO3 and maybe a once in a blue moon post on here. So you're just turning gears at this point. I've seen more hate over Spamano and UsUk being "problematic" than I have actual problematic content from shippers. It's been that way since 2020 since people keep hopping on the hate train.

Funny enough, Spamano is indirectly canon just as much as SuFin or CzechSlovak (those ships aren't fully canon either and are more implied). Spain proposed to Romano and Romano said as long as he gets taken care of he's fine with it. Spain however took it as a rejection. So there's canon. I hope you follow it as much as you say others should.

Hetalia canon isn't some saint, either. I shouldn't even have to explain the implications that both Spain and France are sh/tacons. Himaruya isn't some idol, and neither are his works. By treating canon as some virtuous content you are ignoring a lot of his mistakes and a lot of his misinformation. Are you going to fight those strips? Or just accept them? I don't think you should fight him over it. (Sarcasm).

If you really had nothing against shippers or headcanons you wouldn't have made this post and worded it in such a way that implies people are doing wrong for using canon to create content they enjoy. You are a blog who recently became very popular with polls and fandom engagement. You are very aware of your reach and influence. By posting disheartening shit like this for everybody to see you are collectively affecting people.

We're in 2023. Why the fuck are posts like this still floating around and being used to shame and berate people for doing what they want. You've been in this fandom longer than I have, and yet you lack respect for other people's interpretations and what they do. If it is that much of a problem use your big adult block button. Mute tags. This is an absurd take I'd expect to see from a young teen on TikTok, not a full grown adult. Y'all have got to stop shaming people over HETALIA in 2023. You are pointing one finger at others while 4 more are pointing back at yourself.

Just voicing my opinion here

Something that has always bothered me is when people force their ships into cannon and make up things that are taken out of context or just never happened. I feel this was for all media in general. Not just hetalia but I’m using Hetalia as prime example because I’m a hetalia blog.

Now I’m not saying I don’t like when people ship that is fine and people can of course do whatever they want. I’m talking when they take a screen shot of 2 characters together on screen and say something like “omg they looked at each other they are so in love” like you don’t have to do that. Make up your own storylines leave cannon alone. I especially don’t like it when it’s two characters who clearly dislike each other and it is forced to ‘be so’ if you get what I’m saying. Like if someone says they hate that person maybe just understand that they hate them in cannon but it may not be so in your fannon. It might stem from being Ace but when I enter a fandom and there are already pre established ships that everyone must agree on or face wrath it’s just never good. I have only just started having a ship in hetalia after being in the fandom for almost 10 years and it’s something I have always hated. Not to mention it pushes people away from a community. It’s like we should enjoy the show at face value and then in our fan works do whatever we want. If the creator says ‘you’re reading too much into it it’s just not there.’ then just accept that.

Hetalia for example the only confirmed relationships we have are Sweden & Finland, Austria & Hungary and Czech and Slovakia. Everything other than that is just searching for things that are not there. Like you can say Germany and Italy are in love all you want. But it does not change that in cannon they are just friends. How do I know this? Because the creator said so. But it doesn’t change we can make our own fan works to make it that way. We should leave his material alone there.

Another one I truly cannot stand and have never understood and will never understand and just don’t want to is when people use the source to justify ships like America and England or Spain and Romano. Like if we use the source what we have are Spain and England Raising them from little babies. Like that just gives me the ick and major grooming vibes. I got nothing against these ships in practice but once you start screenshooting a baby America hugging England and saying they are in love. I do not like that. Same with Romano when he literally pisses the bed and runs to ask Spain for help and people say that they’re in love it’s just yucky disgusting. Like how about it’s a little boy who just pissed the bed and we leave it right there. And just do whatever you want outside of cannon but when you use these tools to push your narrative it’s not good like at all. But I’m just saying leave cannon be. We don’t have to search for things in the source material. I personally respect Himas work and when he says “no sorry they’re only friends” I don’t think you can fight him on that. He created it he knows what he’s decided for the characters. But if you want to make your own fictions on the side the sky is of course the limit.

I hope this came across how I wanted it. Again I have nothing against head cannons or shipping in general.

[ask-the-rag-dolly]

edit : i'm sorry but this post is messy i don't like how this is the ramble that got the most attention shhffs please check out the addendum in the reblogs if you want a more clearer analysis

-

FIRST OF ALL the thing about the paint huffing - Other than that it's funny - is that we were getting ragatha at her most honest . she's more reflective and reveals her mind more which is a Lot considering that she has shown herself to be a people pleaser trying to avoid conflict . this is Literally The Last thing she wants

and honestly it would be fun to see the fallout of this in episode 5 when she would inevitably sober up and be Mortified about that fact considering she said This to gangle here

like . interesting ragatha . is that why you Do Not Stop Jax when he goes to bully gangle . other than not wanting him to hate you you also prefer it if gangle is in her tragedy state . is that it . Is That It -

also you guys don't know how much i fucking screamed at these scenes okay . there's nothing i love more than nice characters that show their less than desirable traits . my favorite thing about ragatha is not that she's a sweetheart but that she's Dishonest . even to the point that gangle mentions it in her talk with pomni

like my ongoing theory right now for the ' evil ragatha ' comment gooseworx made for episode 5 is that ragatha's going to say or do the Most Morally Ambiguous thing possible that will send the entire fandom on fire . like we're talking Arguments on whether she's in the right or wrong Even though this is a show that invites nuance instead of black and white views , and it'll be so fucking marvelous to witness

NOW . i really don't think she's faking being nice ! i believe with all my heart that ragatha's inherently Good and i will throw hands at anyone who thinks otherwise . it's just that she's just Repressing What She Thinks About The Others because , again , Avoiding Conflict ! which is shown by how annoyed she got with pomni talking to gummigoo ( gayass ) , what she said to gangle , and what she said to zooble

yes i screamed about the toybox interaction i knew that ragatha was going to not like zooble's grouchiness But I Digress .

all of this is interesting because . again , ragatha's a people pleaser trying to avoid conflict . i think her reasons for being nice and helpful are both selfless and selfish . selfless - she doesn't want anyone to go through the stress and pain of feeling alone , and selfish - she doesn't want anyone to hate her . they're like a smoothie , she's not one or the other . it's just that the latter reason ... has a lot more influences on her thought processes than she'd like to admit .

and that's showcased if you look at episode 2 with her conversation with kinger . she was worried about pomni going through something traumatizing , yes , but she added that she thinks pomni doesn't like her that much . which . it's a small piece of dialogue but it really shows how much ragatha's Gripping That Fucking Fawn Response . yes , her concern is everyone's wellbeing , but she also Would Not Like It If Anyone Hates Her , to the point that it'll stick to her . and she'll try So Hard to compensate for it .

like . she is really a nice person but she's dishonest because she doesn't want to be hated which is very much a selfish reason . she's falling into that pitfall of ' a friend to all is a friend to none ' . argh . why is she so complicated god i'm going to put her in that deepfryer again