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nicsnort · 1 day ago

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Part of the Family

NSFW 18+ male orc x female reader

Contains: vaginal sex, fingering, size difference, exhibitionism, groping, implied impregnation, implied group sex, poor use of 1920s slang and style by Orcs

Word Count: 4385

Lore/World-building Prompt

Orcs came to defend your town when demons invaded. Now they've settled in, and after years of teasing them, they've finally had enough. It was time to make you part of the family.

Your sleepy little town had never expected an Orc tribe to move in a few years ago. Granted, you never expected the world to be invaded by demons, either. You remembered the moment that the Orcs rode into town well. They had been riding massive black horses the size of Clydesdales but with fire around their hooves and sharp meat-eating teeth. The Orcs had worn their traditional war paints and openly carried their weapons. Everyone had been terrified. Would they slaughter you all? Enslave the town?

They had called for the “ruler” of the town to speak with them. You vividly remember watching the town mayor approaching, trying to hide his fear. The tribe leader, Chief Gorim - a battle-scared, dark green, seven-foot-tall beast of a humanoid - slid off his horse, towering over the mayor, staring him down.

“You are afraid, human,” the chieftain commented in a low growl. “No need to be afraid. We have come as protection.”

The chief handed the mayor an official-looking parchment—a work contract. The Orcs were aware that rural regions of the human world lacked protection against the demonic hordes as the governments focused on protecting cities. So many of the Orc tribes, well-practiced in fighting demons and monsters, crossed the rift to provide protection. All the Orcs asked for in return were places to set up camp, provisions they could not gather from the land itself, and access to this world’s weapons and healing knowledge. A reasonable offer for people seeing the logic of their world changing rapidly and no way to fight against the demons otherwise.

True to their word, the Orcs protected your town and several others in the area. Unfortunately, their protection came with many more strings attached than originally stated. It was, for lack of a better phrase - a protection racket. Little did the towns know that Orc tribes were similar in structure and philosophy to the Italian Mafia. A rather ironic twist of fate, given that your little town had been the center of some Mafia activity over a century ago during the Prohibition Era. The small museum in town was a historically preserved speakeasy that told the story about the gambling den, a whiskey smuggling route, and a good old-fashioned shoot-out between the Feds and the gangsters along Main Street.

It was even more ironic that your Orcs - attempting to adapt to this “new human world” - decided to forgo their traditional dress and begin copying the Mafia’s style. The 1920s to 1950s Mafia was their preference. Their bows and arrows were replaced with machine guns. Their leather skirts and vests were replaced with cotton suits and fedoras. They began picking up the slang by watching documentaries and old films. The chief insisted that everyone call him “Godfather” and would tell everyone how the lead actor in that famous film looked like an Orc without the tusks.

Sometimes, their obsession was more silly than scary. You overheard an Orc contemplating whether to call her future son the short Orc-like Tony or Al’capone after the “great warrior chief.” And seeing a non-warrior Orc in a flapper dress with the warriors wolf-whistling at the “sight of his gams” was certainly something. Who would have ever guessed that Orcs were into cross-dressing? However, given how Orcish genders seemed to be warrior and non-warrior regardless of sex, maybe it wasn’t cross-dressing. The Orcs had decided that warriors wore suits and non-warriors wore flapper or swing dresses.

Even with the Orcs running this protection racket, the town benefited more than it lost. You had all heard the horror stories of the areas first hit by the demons - towns annihilated, mass slaughter, people forced into slavery - compared to that prospect, paying a tribe of Orcs in tomato sauce, pasta, and historically accurate clothing was nothing. Not to mention that just like the Mafia they modeled themselves after, the Orcs started smuggling goods to and from their home dimension. The state and federal governments did not want any trade of materials that could “corrupt” humans (whatever that meant), but if they wouldn’t protect your town from demons, why bother listening to their ban? Magic potions were amazing.

But that all wrapped around to you. The person running the local speakeasy museum that the warrior Orcs claimed as their primary hangout spot. You were a historian and preservationist. While you had always sold alcohol at the museum’s speakeasy bar for those wanting to try moonshine or the local whiskey, it was never supposed to be a real bar. Yet, you had transformed the speakeasy museum into a functional bar at their large, weapon-carrying insistence. Your job had become more bar tender than museum worker, but to be honest, before the demons, your museum hadn’t ever gotten much business. Luckily, the “person in control of the alcohol” was a position that Orcs respected, and as you were the human who ran the “shrine” to the human “warrior tribes,” that respect was doubled.

“Here we go, boys,” you announced, setting five glasses of whiskey in front of the Orc warriors who had just come in from patrol.

“Ah, you're the bee’s knees, doll,” they replied with relief. You had long overcome the bristle you felt at being called “doll.” The Orcs were copying more of the language of the period they idolized. You had asked them once what they thought it meant - a pretty non-warrior - at least they were calling you pretty.

You headed into the backroom to gather more whiskey. Each Orc typically drank half a bottle when they came here after patrol, so you had to grab a few more to satisfy this group. As you were in the back, you could hear the chatter and laughter of the patrol join that of those already a couple of cups deep.

“Shrine maiden,” an Orc called out before swearing in Orcish, “raudt, doll! Bring another round of Oakengleam!”

You couldn’t help but smile to yourself. Some older Orcs struggled with the new slang when drunk and still fell into their old terms. They swore whenever it happened, but the translator spell refused to translate anything inappropriate, meaning you knew lots of Orcish swears. With your arms full of four bottles of whiskey, you returned to the front. The Orc that had called out to you leaned against the bar, putting full weight on the old polished wood.

“I told you, Ozoch, that was the last of it. You’ll have to wait until the runners return from the Rift.”

“Come on, it’s the chief’s - I mean - the don’s favorite. I know you have to have some.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You are suggesting that I use Godfather’s private supply to satiate your already drunk stomach?”

“Don’t try to use the Don to threaten me, weakling.”

Silence began to fall among the Orcs as they listened in. You lifted your head defiantly. The Orcs valued strength. Not just physical but mental. Backing down now would lose much of the respect they held for you. “I’m in charge of the alcohol. Even if I had Oakengleam, I wouldn’t give it to you for that. Get out and dry out.”

Ozoch slammed his fist on the counter, cracking the wood. “Don’t tell me what to do! You ain’t tribe!”

“That don’t mean she ain’t correct,” a low growling voice said behind Ozoch. The older Orc stiffened. Godfather had just walked in the door.

“Chie--Don Gorim,” Ozoch started as he turned around unsteadily. “I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

Godfather looked to the capo at his side and jerked his head. “Escort Ozoch out, Taugh. Take a walk, old friend, and consider how I said the dame was to be respected. Don’t make me force you to find that respect in concrete shoes.”

Properly cowed, Ozoch let Taugh escort him out. The old Orc likely would have a ground-down tusk the next time you saw him. It was a common mark of shame.

Godfather approached the bar. He silently examined the damage Ozoch did. A scowl crossed his face before he looked at you with a small smile. Reaching across the bar, he put a hand on your shoulder. “I will see this fixed, doll.”

Your heart rate was returning to normal, but you didn’t trust yourself enough to speak, so you nodded. He squeezed your shoulder lightly before releasing you. “Now, a mug of Oakengleam at my table, please.”

You breathed out slowly and returned his smile. “Of course, Godfather.”

Disappearing into the back where you kept Godfather’s private stash, you heard the conversation in the main room slowly return to normal. Alone among the alcohol, you took a moment to gather yourself. This wasn’t the first time you had to assert yourself, but it was the first time that an Orc had been violent towards you. Seeing them rip the wings off an imp with their bare hands was one thing, but knowing that fist would have cracked your head open was another. Allowing a couple of tears to escape your eyes, you quickly dried them. The don was waiting for his drink.

With a smile on your face, you brought Godfather his drink. While you were in the back, Taugh had returned, new abrasions on his knuckles. Godfather also had his advisor, Kormor, at his table. She was speaking quietly to him, ignoring your presence.

The night went on as normal for an hour or so. More and more Orcs came into the speakeasy, nearly all of the warriors. You noticed that Kormor began walking around to the tables, speaking with the Orcs quietly. She would speak, they would take a moment, and then some would put up two fingers. It became apparent they were voting on something. You wondered what was so big of a decision that it required the warriors' input instead of the don's unilateral decision. It was none of your business, though.

The bar's heat rose as the seats and stools reached capacity. It was not a big building, and the speakeasy area could only hold 60 humans or half as many Orcs. Your body was forced to brush against them as you served drinks. As you cleared mugs and glasses, bending over the table, their thick hands reached to steady you. Occasionally, an unknown hand was brave enough to sneak a grope in. Their earthy musk slowly began to make your head swim.

Godfather called for another drink. You ducked into the back, happy for the reprieve. Leaning against the cold brick wall, you felt your pussy throbbing. It was a secret you kept hidden from all those around you. You found the Orcs super hot.

Before the invasion of demons, when all monsters were considered fantasy, monsters had been the subject of your fantasies. When it turned out that all sorts of monsters were real, when the Orcs came to your town, it was a terrifying but exciting moment. Unfortunately, the Orcs didn’t seem interested in humans sexually. Sure, they would occasionally grope you, but it seemed more like a game to them as they never did anything more. You had even started wearing the swing dresses they liked and brushing against them on purpose, trying to encourage them.

There were many times that after a long night of working, you had gone upstairs to your apartment above the museum with your panties soaked. You would take out your monster dildos and fuck yourself, yearning for it to be the Orcs you had just seen.

But now wasn’t the time for that. You didn’t have time to touch yourself. The don needed another mug of his favorite ale. As always, you would suffer through the arousal. As you set down a second mug of Oakengleam for Godfather, the underboss, Sehbuv, arrived. Sehbuv winked at you as he sat down. A faint blush came to your cheeks. He had always been one of the nicest to you and slipped you treats from the smuggled goods. It didn’t hurt that he was definitely one of the most handsome Orcs with forest green skin and alluring magenta eyes.

“Double whiskey, doll,” he ordered, “oh and, for you.”

Sehbuv grabbed your hand and pressed something long, hard, and wet at the bottom into it. Looking down, you saw it was a tusk. An Orc tusk, yellowed with old age and very recently removed. To grind down a tusk of an orc was a mark of shame, to remove one was saying you did not recognize them as an Orc anymore. You looked back up at him, and he gave you another wink. Clenching your hand around the gift, you stuttered a thank you before running off for his drink.

“Stay a moment, have a seat,” Godfather told you when you returned. “We must have words.”

“Of-of course,” you replied, shocked and a bit worried. Your eyes darted around, looking for a chair. Suddenly, Sehbuv pulled you into his lap. You gasped, but along with sounding surprised, there was a clear undertone of sensuality in it. The Orc chuckled but didn’t say anything. You gave Godfather your attention, trying to ignore how your arousal spiked by merely sitting on Sehbuv’s lap. It did not help that one of his hands rested on your lower back to steady you.

“Doll, you’ve been a good associate of ours for a while now. What has it been four years?”

“Nearly, yes.” The Orcs had been here for a little over five years but didn’t discover their obsession until a year after they arrived; the museum became their hang-out a few months later. Come to think of it, Shebuv had been the first Orc to visit the museum.

Godfather nodded. “And even before then, I remember you. You were the only human brave enough to bring the tribute to our camp by yourself. You were the only one interested in learning about us.”

“I am sure I wasn’t the only--”

“You were. The only one to genuinely be interested, at least.” Godfather leaned back in his chair, taking a long sip of ale. As you waited for him to continue, Sehbuv set his drink on the table, his hand going to rest on his lap but finding your thigh instead. You glanced at him, but his attention was on the don.

“Anyway, what I am getting at is that you, doll, have contributed a lot to this family. Big things like this speakeasy and spreading the knowledge of your past warrior families. And little things like adding our favorites to the tap and our images to the shrine of your warriors.” He gestured to the small section where you had put some photos of the Orcs in action and a group photo of the tribe after they had donned their “human” clothing for the first time.

“You have done all of this for us. In some ways, you are already part of the family. But as Ozoch pointed out, you are not family.”

Sehbuv’s fingers found the hem of your skirt and began inching up your thigh. It was becoming increasingly difficult to focus on the don. “Given all that and what happened with Ozoch, I think it is time to give you an Orc.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I don’t think I need a guard. Unless you are suggesting someone to help out around here lifting barrels and…” It was hard to speak coherently. Your head was swimming from the Orc musk and Sehbuv’s playful touch.

Godfather’s eyes connected with Sehbuv’s. Instantly, the younger Orc’s roaming hand was on the table holding his drink. The older Orc’s attention turned back on you. “I don’t think you’re following. I mean uvna Orciani tullu--blasted bluenose witch, censoring the translation spell.”

Kormor touched his shoulder to calm him. “Why don’t you leave that for Sehbuv? Explain how things are changing.”

Godfather sighed and nodded. “Long and short of it. The demons in this area have been pushed back, and the Rift is secured. There is no need for the family to be here to protect your town and the others in this territory. My family is going back to our world.”

Your heart sank. All this time was wasted, and now your chance was lost completely.

“We cannot maintain our territory here and the Old World. The non-warriors, on the other side, need us warriors to return. But we do not want to leave behind the luxuries of your world. My family is leaving, but the Orcs staying behind will form a new family with Sehbuv as the don. We will each work a side of the Rift, streamlining our operation.”

From the depths, your heart soared. There was still a chance. You glanced at Sehbuv; he grinned. “Congratulations. I would have gotten some bubbly for you if I’d known.”

“Thanks, doll, I am sure we can find a way to celebrate.” The hand that had been supporting your back slid down and cupped your ass.

Godfather cleared his throat, forcing your attention back to him. “As I was sayin’, Sehbuv will be the head of the family here. This new family will need to put down roots to grow. Find humans in this world to bring into the family as Orc-kin.”

“And I want the first Orc-kin of my family to be you, doll,” Sehbuv revealed.

Shocked was a tame term for what you felt. There weren’t any Orc-kin the tribe had brought with them, but you had heard of them. You knew becoming Orc-kin, an official member of an Orc tribe, was a massive honor and something not to be taken lightly. They only allowed those who they saw as worthy into the tribe. “I…I am honored…I--sorry, I don’t know what to say.”

“Say yes,” Kormor suggested dryly.

“Yes!” The entire speakeasy, which you just realized had been intensely listening in, cheered.

Godfather let them cheer for a full minute before raising a hand for silence. He was smiling. “Excellent. Usually, we would have a dedicated area for the induction, but I believe this sacred space works…and I don’t think Sehbuv can wait much longer. Let the ceremony begin!”

Another round of cheers. Chairs scrapped on the ground as the Orcs stood. They began moving the furniture to clear space. Sehbuv scooped you up and began carrying you over his shoulder. The Orcs began to separate into two groups: those who would stay with Sehbuv’s new tribe and those who would return to the other world with Godfather.

They spoke in Orcish to each other and began to circle around you. Sehbuv’s hand was solidly on your ass, his thick fingers squeezing your rump. Your arousal was spiking once more. You had to take care of yourself soon, or else you’d be begging an Orc to fuck you, but it wasn’t like you could leave in the middle of something like this.

Suddenly, you were on your back, splayed across a table, with Sehbuv pressing his clothed but very substantial erection between your legs. Through the haze of arousal, it clicked. “Oh, give me an Orc as in--”

“Knock you up, doll,” Sehbuv finished. Not quite what you had thought, but the result was the same. You were finally getting the Orc cock you longed for. Sehbuv slid his hand between your legs. His thick, calloused fingers pushed aside your sodden panties, gliding along your slick pussy. A wanton moan escaped your lips, and your hips tilted up needily.

“Hratz kaara-en olumno,” he said with pleasured surprise. The Orcs around you hooted and stomped their feet in celebration. His fingers began to stroke you slowly as his huge body leaned over yours. “I am going riteh kaar Orciani kaara-en juublern.”

“I have no idea what you just said, but whatever it was - yes! Please!” You rolled your hips, grinding against his fingers. Now that your dreams had become possible, you couldn’t wait any longer. He slipped a thick finger into you. A low moan escaped you; his finger felt as thick as two of yours.

“How long have you wanted this, doll,” he asked, slowly pumping his finger in and out.

“Ever since you rode into town,” you confessed breathlessly.

“That is a long time.” He slipped another finger into your dripping hole and sped up fucking you with his hand. “Is that why you’ve been teasing us? You’ve been trying to get us to fuk you.”

“Yes! Please! I’m going to…” You gripped Sehbuv’s forearms as a powerful orgasm rocked your body. As you rode out the orgasm, he slowed the pumping of his fingers. Chest heaving, you stared up into his lustful eyes. You wanted more.

Seeing your determination, a grin came to his face. “Undress, doll, before we tear that dress off you.”

He pulled back, allowing you to sit up. As his hand removed itself from inside of you, he grabbed your panties and, with a smooth tug, tore them from you. You stared at him with surprise. Lifting your sodden panties up, he sniffed deeply, then gave you a wink. Tucking the panties in his suit pocket, he slipped the jacket off and removed his suspenders.

You kicked off your flats and sat up on the table. Sehbuv’s magenta eyes burned as they stared at you while he unbuttoned his shirt. You stared back, soaking in each inch of dark green skin he revealed. Reaching behind your back, you unzipped your dress. You couldn’t wear a bra with this low cut-off-the-shoulder dress; pulling the dress over your head, you were naked. The Orcs around you grunted and whooped as your body was bared to them.

Sehbuv was only halfway undressed. Your eyes were on him as you ran your hand over your body. Cupping your breasts, you began playing with your nipples. Twisting and tugging at them, releasing little moans as you did. Sehbuv nearly tore his pants in his hurry to remove them. His Orcish member sprang free, causing your pussy to clench at the sight. It was just as you had dreamed. Bright pink glands dripping with precum were proudly framed by the dark green foreskin of his long bulging cock.

He batted your hands away from your breasts, and his hands took their place. His calloused fingers felt even better against your sensitive skin. Your free hands pulled his head down into a kiss. His tusks pressed against your flesh, his large mouth and tongue quickly overwhelming you.

Pulling back, he was handed a cup. “Drink up, doll.”

Taking the potion, you, without hesitation, drank the vivid green contents. It was a bit sour but had no immediate effect. “What was that?”

Sehbuv grinned. “Mostly an endurance potion.”

You had no time to wonder what he meant by mostly. He grabbed your head this time and gave you another dominating kiss. Pressing you down against the table, you felt his bare erection between your legs. He was about the same size as the largest toy you could fit in you, but the heat of it against your flesh had already surpassed your room-temperature silicone replicas.

“Please fuck me,” you gasped as he pressed kisses down your neck. “I need your cock in me.”

Pulling back slightly, Sehbuv held his cock against your slit, running his glands along it. “Mmm, fuck is same word in Orcish. I learned a little English for this. Doll, I am going to fuck your cunt with my cock now.”

The wide head of his cock pressed against your needy hole. You could feel him stretching you. God, this was so much better than silicone. Your hands clung to his shoulders as he slowly slid himself inside of you. “You feel good. Look at you taking me so well.”

You could feel every inch of his hot, hard cock as it entered you. You needed more, though. You needed all of him. “Move, please,” you begged.

“Whatever you say, doll.” Sehbuv began to thrust. You screamed in pleasure as his shaft hilted and hit every sensitive spot within you. His heavy balls slapped against your ass with each thrust. After a few thrusts, you were already approaching another orgasm.

“Fuck, Sehbuv! I’m already…I’m…”

“Tonight is about you, doll, don’t hold back.”

Another orgasm rocked your body, but Sehbuv didn’t lose pace. He kept thrusting into you, extending your pleasure. As your orgasm ended, he began to thrust faster. Each powerful thrust shook your body. Your legs locked around his waist in an attempt to hold on. Sehbuv began to grunt, and his grip on your flesh tightened. He was getting close.

“Are ya ready for me? I’m gonna fill you up,” he announced with a low growl.

“Yes, yes, yes,” you chanted as yet a third orgasm approached. You needed something else to push you over the edge. You need him to cum in you.

Sehbuv’s thrusts became erratic. Then with a roar, you felt his thick cock swell within you. A scream tore from your throat as his hot sticky cum poured into your womb. Your nails dragged across his back as your body writhed from the pleasure. You swore you knew you were pregnant that instant. Fuck, given the magic potion, maybe you were.

“You good, doll,” Sehbuv asked as your straining muscles slowly released him.

“Yes…” You replied. Actually, you were better than fine. As Sehbuv pulled out of you, your body was already buzzing to go again. That was some endurance potion.

“Good. Cause the next part of the ceremony is about to begin.” Sehbuv stepped away from you. You sat up to see where he was gone and saw that all the other Orcs who had joined his side of the family were now naked and aroused as well. They stared at you with lustful eyes.

“Now that the seed of our new family has taken root, it needs fertilizer, doll,” Sehbev explained, “Orcs believe that power from all those who fuck the mother is given to a child. And you’ve been teasing us for years. You’ll make sure we’re satisfied, right?”

Your body buzzed with energy from the endurance potion. You looked around at the variety of Orc cocks and cunts around you. A grin came to your face. “I’ve been waiting five years for this; you all better make sure I am satisfied.”

______________________________________________________

Other Department of Monster Affairs works

After Party - m!Minotaur x f!reader, teratophilia, breeding, overstimulation.

Hello Neighbor - m!werewolf x f!reader, teratophilia, knotting, heat. One-shot.

Sex Therapist - m!Incubus x f!reader, hypnotism, dubious consent, teratophilia, blow jobs. Part 1.

For other works see my masterlist

#did you know we don't know where the word fuck comes from?#I like to think it came from orcs in this world #monster fucker #monster x you #teratophillia #monster smut #monster x reader #monster x human #orc x reader #orc culture #orc x human #orc x you #orc romance #Department of Monster Affairs

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pretentious-blonde · 1 day ago

Text

steady

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: healing is never easy, but steve surprises even himself with his progress

warnings: ptsd, anxiety, therapy sessions, depression

a/n: angst!! robin makes an appearance too. steve is kind of smitten and he loves it <3

series masterlist

Steve slouched in the passenger seat of Robin’s car, sunglasses perched on his nose, hiding the tension marring his features. If you could see him, you’d notice the subtle clench of his jaw, the way his hands rested in tight fists on his thighs.

He kept his eyes shut against the morning light—though the tinted lenses helped, the brightness still drilled into his temples, intensifying the dull, throbbing ache that had settled behind his eyes. The quiet inside the vehicle was unusually deliberate, a courtesy Robin extended with careful consideration.

She was never one to enjoy silence, but she was trying. Like she always did for him.

He shifted, pressing his head a bit further into the seat. The sound of tires on asphalt rolled beneath them like thunder, matching the faint ringing in his ear. It was a small remnant of older injuries—injuries he’d earned through too many head-on collisions with fists and floors.

Still, he felt lucky. After all, pain was a familiar adversary, and these headaches came around far less frequently than they used to.

A glance at her told him all he needed to know: her shoulders stiff with concentration, hands gripping the wheel lightly, eyes skimming across the road. She gave him a little smile, more a twitch than anything. She’d barely spoken a word since he got in, not wanting to rile his migraine. It reminded him of just how fiercely she cared.

They were heading to his weekly appointment, a routine that once felt more like a punishment than a path to healing. He’d spent his first two sessions in complete silence, arms crossed, mouth sealed shut.

Steve Harrington didn't need a therapist. The idea of seeing felt like admitting defeat. But Robin—gentle, but tearful—had practically dragged him back, desperately pleading for her best friend to return to himself.

The memory arose every time he buckled in for these drives, reminding him that sometimes letting people in was the only way to get out of the mess in his head.

“Almost there,” Robin said softly, her voice subdued. A pang of guilt flared inside him; he knew she had better things to do on her Saturday morning than play chauffeur. Yet here she was. She always was when he needed her.

He opened his eyes as the car glided into the parking lot, the movement so careful it barely jolted him. The world outside looked too bright—even through sunglasses—and his headache began to pulse in protest. When she killed the engine, she turned to him, eyes filled with caution.

“You alright with getting in?” she asked. Her voice was as gentle as her driving.

“Yeah.” Drawing in a breath and forcing a small, wry smile. “Pretty sure I remember the way.” He joked through the dull throb in his skull.

She nodded, and he carefully pushed the door open. The sudden rush of cooler air felt refreshing. A stab of pain shot through his temple, and he winced, one hand lifting to shield his eyes from the sun. As he stood, he turned back toward her.

“I just… I wanna say I’m sorry again, for waking you up and making you drive me. I hate—”

“Don’t.” She held up a hand before he could finish. “It’s no problem. Seriously.”

There was reassurance in her tone, and it squeezed his heart. He hated imposing, but her unwavering support was something he grew to accept.

“What you gonna do for the hour?” he asked, a little softer now.

“I’ve got my reading material. I’m all set.” She patted a worn paperback tucked into the side of the driver's door. She waved him off, managing a playful eye-roll. “Now go. You’ll be late.”

He nodded and headed towards the entrance, stepping through the lobby steadily as not to jostle his head around. The walls were painted in cool tones that did nothing to ease the piercing sunlight still dancing at the edges of his vision.

Despite that, he managed a half-smile at the receptionist—he’d been here enough times now to know the woman, though he never quite remembered her name. He headed for Dr Avery’s office, following the familiar hallway until he found the right door.

He knocked once, the sound dull against the wood, and a voice called from within.

“Come in.”

Pushing the door open, he hesitated, sunglasses still shielding his eyes. The elderly doctor glanced up from a small stack of files, his expression softening into a gentle smile.

“Migraine?” he asked, and though his voice was calm, concern wove through it.

“Yeah,” he admitted with a huffed laugh, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him. In response, Dr Avery rose from behind his desk, crossing the room to draw the blinds. Morning sunlight turned softer, and the shift in brightness made his shoulders relax a fraction.

“Better?” Dr Avery said, settling back into his chair.

In one smooth motion, Steve slid his sunglasses off, resting them on his knee as he sank into the chair opposite. He closed his eyes for a second, letting the dimmer light settle over him.

“Much,” he murmured, pressing his fingertips against his temples.

Silence hung in the room. It was gentle in the way Dr Avery seemed to cultivate it in all their sessions.

“So, how has your week been?”

He rubbed the back of his neck and gave a one-shouldered shrug.

“It’s been alright,” he answered, gesturing toward his temple with the hand clutching his glasses. “Apart from, you know…”

“It’s been a while since you’ve had a migraine.” Dr Avery nodded, thoughtful. “Any idea what might’ve triggered it?”

“Not really,” Steve said, mouth tightening into a line. “Didn’t sleep too well last night.”

“Any reason for that?” came the quiet prompt.

He shrugged, gaze drifting away. “Same old dreams.”

There was a pause—a measured moment that the doctor always seemed to use to let Steve choose how much he wanted to reveal.

“Still bad?” He finally asked when he realised he wouldn’t elaborate.

“They’ve died down a bit this week.” He exhaled, brow furrowing. “Guess my mind’s been busy with other stuff.”

A knowing spark crossed Dr Avery’s eyes.

“Drama with the kids?”

A snort of laughter startled from Steve’s chest, a quick bloom of humour in the midst of his fatigue.

“No, not quite,” he said, shaking his head fondly. “Though Lucy still can’t tie her shoes. You’d think she’d have mastered it by now with all my help, but… nope.”

“Is that so?” Dr Avery asked, lips quirking in amusement.

“Yeah,” he replied, rolling his eyes in that trademark exasperation that came from too many hours spent cajoling a stubborn little girl to make bunny ears with the laces. “She should just stick to Velcro. Less drama that way.”

A comfortable chuckle passed between them, the air relaxing for a moment. But he wasn’t surprised when Dr Avery steered them back on track—he’d noticed long ago how adept the therapist was at re-centring him whenever he started wandering off-topic.

Which—in his defence—Steve was especially prone to.

“So,” Dr Avery said gently, leaning forward a bit, “what’s really been on your mind lately?”

Steve’s hand tightened around the armrest of the chair. The lighthearted spark in his eyes dimmed, replaced by something softer. He took a slow breath, like he was trying to gather the right words.

“I... I met someone…” He said slowly, feeling the words out.

His confession hung in the air—three simple words, but they carried a weight that was far greater than the simple sentence.

He held his breath for a moment, as though he were afraid that speaking it out loud might shatter the illusion. He could practically see Dr Avery’s features shift into gentle encouragement, the slight lift of eyebrows and a softness around his eyes.

It was the same look the therapist always gave him whenever Steve cracked open the door to something new, something vulnerable.

Clearing his throat, tried to muster some of that confidence people used to say he had in spades back in high school. It felt a little rusty, but it was there, somewhere beneath the bruises.

“Who is this someone?” Dr Avery asked quietly. Knowing the importance of the question.

Steve couldn’t stop the small grin that crept onto his face. He fiddled with the sunglasses perched on his knee—still mindful of the headache pressing at his temples, but somehow the ache felt muted by a rush of something much sweeter.

“She’s new in town,” he began, voice a little shy, “took over the old bookshop. You know the one down on Oak? Kids needed some books, so I asked if she could deliver them. And she did—personally.” He shook his head in astonished awe. “I mean, talk about customer service, right? Even managed to track down some of my favorite titles on, like, super short notice.”

Dr Avery’s lips curved into a smile. “She sounds nice.”

“You have no idea,” Steve replied, eyes lighting up as memories tumbled through his mind. He had to fight back the grin that threatened to become almost giddy. “When she came by the school, I asked her out for coffee. Honestly, I thought she’d say no—I mean—I barely even know her—she was just doing her job. But she said yes.” He let out an incredulous little chuckle. “Even looked happy I asked.”

“So, you met up with her?”

“Twice,” Steve confirmed, leaning forward in his seat as though admitting a grand secret. “We got coffee both times—nothing serious, but…” He paused, remembering the feeling of those events. In the coffee shop’s atmosphere, he’d felt almost normal, like he could forget the the weight of the last few years.

“She laughed at my jokes,” he continued, voice tinged with a note of disbelief, “and I mean really laughed—not just being polite—she actually thought I was funny.”

He couldn’t quite disguise how much that simple fact thrilled him. For so long, he’d forgotten what it was like to feel that weightless. You didn’t know every part of him yet. And in that ignorance, there was a freedom he hadn’t felt in ages.

Steve glanced down at his sneakers, twisting the sunglasses in his hands as though he couldn’t quite meet Dr Avery’s gaze. After a moment, he exhaled softly and spoke again.

“She, uh… she called me a few nights ago,” he began, running a hand through his hair. “It was late—maybe past ten? I was cleaning up—you know, trying to settle down for the night. Then the phone rang. I kind of panicked for a second before I heard her—I mean, nobody usually calls that late on a school night, unless—”

He paused, eyes flicking up to gauge Dr Avery’s reaction. The therapist merely offered a small, encouraging nod, so Steve continued, his voice growing steadier as he found the story’s thread.

“Turns out she was reworking her finances,” he explained. “Something about spreadsheets and reorganising… stuff—moving money around, I don’t know. Not my thing. She sounded stressed, though. Tired. I could hear it in her voice—even when she tried to laugh it off, there was this… tension, you know?”

“She asked me if I could just… tell her about my day.” His gaze trailed to a spot on the floor, a slight smile creeping onto his face. “Said she needed something to take her mind off the numbers, something that’d make her smile.” He shook his head, as if still in mild disbelief. “And I did—told her anything I could think of. Stupid stuff. But every time she asked me more I—”

A faint flush of color touched his cheeks as he forced himself to stop rambling. He shifted in his chair, the memory clearly stirring emotions he was still getting used to.

“Honestly,” he admitted with a small shrug, “by the end of that call, I was the one feeling better—like, just by giving me a reason to talk. It was… I don’t know.” His smile broadened as he grasped for the right words. “It felt good to be that guy again.”

Dr Avery’s lips curved in a thoughtful smile, and he leaned forward as though to speak. But Steve, caught up in the rush of the memory, beat him to it.

“I guess that’s why I’m so thrown off by how easy it’s been,” he said, voice going soft. “I was worried I wouldn’t know how to do this. But with her… it’s just been simple.”

He let out a slow breath, hands finally coming to rest on his knees, attention lifting to meet the doctor. His eyes held a sheen, a hope that felt fragile but very, very real.

“So, yeah,” Steve finished, voice hushed. “She called me, and I ended up talking her ear off. Turns out we both needed that call.”

Dr Avery, picking up on that far-off look in Steve’s eyes, nodded approvingly.

“I’m really happy for you, Steve,” he said. “Truly. This is a big step.”

His cheeks felt a little warm, and he shrugged as if to downplay it.

“It’s—yeah, well, it’s not like we’re official or anything,” he joked weakly, but there was a trace of a blush there that gave him away.

“No, Steve, really,” Dr Avery pressed, leaning forward. “Think about you this time last year. You’ve come a long way.”

“Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing aside. “When you put it like that…”

Dr Avery’s expression brightened with approval. “Would you like to talk about what you want to do next?”

Steve’s eyes shot back up, and there was a flash of that old charismatic grin—boyish, genuine.

“Sure,” he said, settling a little more comfortably into the chair. And he meant it, because he knew exactly what he wanted to spend the rest of this session talking about.

Steve wasn’t entirely sure why he was walking toward the bookshop. In fact, he was pretty certain that turning around would be the more logical, less awkward option. But even as the thought crossed his mind, his feet kept moving forward—one in front of the other—carrying him down the quiet street. The evening sun dipped low in the sky, casting the storefronts in long shadows.

He told himself it was a casual visit—you were just on his way home. That was all. After his session this morning and an afternoon spent napping off his migraine, he needed some fresh air. Dr Avery’s words stuck in his head, all that gentle encouragement about letting himself explore how he felt.

So here he was, hoping he didn’t look like some creep for showing up out of the blue.

By the time he reached your door, the shop lights shone softly in the evening dim. He hesitated for a split second before pushing inside, setting off the familiar chime of the overhead bell.

No turning back now.

“Hello?” he called softly, stepping past a stack of books near the entrance.

“Steve?” Your voice echoed from somewhere off to the side, recognising his voice.

“Uh, yeah?” he answered, glancing around the shelves.

“Round here!” you directed.

He followed your voice and turned the corner—and immediately his heart lurched.

You were on a rickety ladder, precariously reaching for a high shelf. Before he could even say a word, the ladder lurched dangerously to one side, and his instincts kicked in, sharp as ever due to his line of work.

He surged forward, grabbing the frame to hold it steady. The sudden jolt of movement made you stumble, and you shot him a sheepish look as you clung to a shelf.

“Whoa—hey,” he said, breath tight in his chest as he stabilised you. “I spend all day trying to avoid broken bones, now I gotta to look out for yours, too?”

You looked down at him, a pang of sympathy stirring at the worry across his face. His hands remained firmly gripping the ladder, but his eyes were filled with concern.

You mumbled a flustered apology, claiming you were nearly finished. But he didn’t buy it.

“Sure you were.” He gave the ladder a cautionary glance. “Please, just…get down? Before you break your neck?”

“Yeah, yeah. Alright.” Rolling your eyes, you began to climb down, one careful step at a time.

Reaching the floor, you rested a hand on his shoulder for balance. It was a small gesture, but warmth prickled across the back of his neck.

He liked being the steady one for a change.

“You need a new ladder,” he said, trying to sound more authoritative than concerned.

“If it lasted this long, it’s fine,” you scoffed, though he could tell you knew how bad it was. He bit back the urge to argue, exhaling a quiet laugh at your stubbornness.

Once you were safely on your own two feet, you turned to face him, dusting off your hands.

“So, back already for new reading material?”

He blinked, suddenly feeling the weight of his spontaneous visit.

“Uh—no, actually.” He cleared his throat, searching for something that sounded casual. “You were just on my way home, and, y’know…felt rude not to say hi.”

His heart tripped over itself as you offered a small smile.

“Hi,” you said softly, your eyes meeting his.

“Hi,” he echoed, a bit breathless. For a moment, neither of you spoke. He coughed to break the silence. “So, um—doing some reorganising ‘round here?”

“Sort of,” you gestured toward two large boxes in the corner. “Got a delivery yesterday. I was putting it away before I nearly met my demise on that death trap.”

His gaze shifted to the boxes. “That’s… quite a few books.”

“Yeah,” you admitted, “my supplier wanted to clear out some stock, so he gave me a really good deal. Now I kinda regret it, because I’m gonna be stuck here all evening.”

His posture straightened. The chance to help—to be useful—sparked a little excitement in him.

“I can stay,” he offered, maybe too quickly. “I mean—I can help. If you want.”

Your eyes widened slightly. “No, you don’t have to do that on your day off. I feel guilty just thinking about it.”

“Seriously,” he shook his head, giving you a reassuring smile. “I’m weirdly good at organising stuff. Used to work at the video store—returns master, right here.” He pointed at himself, a teasing grin playing on his lips.

He had always thought that job would never prepare him for anything, yet here it was—proof that even the worst gigs could have their silver linings. He found himself almost grateful to Keith for all the menial tasks he’d been forced to complete while working there.

You giggled at his proud proclamation, the sound sending a pleasant shiver through him.

“I still feel bad making you work.”

“I got nowhere else to be,” he admitted, shrugging in an attempt at nonchalance, though he couldn't fully hide his eagerness. “Really. Let me help.”

“Fine, fine.” You gave in, lifting your hands in mock defeat. “You take the box on the left. I’ll take the one on the right.”

“Deal,” he said, stepping up to the nearer box. He pried open the cardboard flaps, inhaling the familiar scent of new books and packing paper.

It took you less than an hour to reach the bottom of the boxes, with Steve finishing his first and immediately jumping in to help with yours. He wasn’t exaggerating when he said he was good at alphabetising. Only asking intermittently about which genre section he should place them in.

He sank onto the velvet couch with a satisfied sigh, leaning his head against the backrest. The shop felt cosier now that all the new arrivals were tucked away on the shelves, along with the soft lanterns overhead. He had to give it to you, this place really was charming.

“That was faster than I expected,” you remarked, settling beside him.

“What’d I tell you?” He shot you a playful grin. “Basically a professional.”

"You’re full of surprises," you muse, nudging his knee lightly with yours.

He shrugs, but there’s a hint of something pleased in his expression. It feels good to be praised by you specifically.

You tilt your head, watching him for a moment. "Are you thirsty?"

"A little,” he starts to shake his head. “But honestly, don’t worry—"

“Wait here.” You sprang to your feet, practically bouncing toward the back of the shop and up the stairs that led to your apartment above. He watched you go, a smirk tugging at his lips and his eyelids feeling heavier. The place felt oddly empty without your presence, but he still found it comforting nonetheless.

He felt truly at ease here, already picturing himself marking homework—messy sums and misspelt words scattered across the pages. It would be a relief not to do it under the harsh glare of the classroom lights; maybe it would even help with his headaches.

God, he was getting ahead of himself.

Light footsteps on the stairs made him blink awake. You appeared, carefully balancing two steaming mugs. The soft light from the overhead bulbs illuminated the proud smile on your face.

“Oh?” He sat up straighter, intrigued. “What’s this?”

“Hot chocolate,” you announced proudly, offering him one of the mugs as you begin quote him. “Apparently 'everyone likes it.'”

He took the mug gently, trying not to pay too much attention as your fingertips against his.

“That they do,” he chuckled, voice low. "Thanks."

You looked so pleased—like you were giving him a gift far more precious—and it made his chest tighten. You settled in next to him again, blowing on the surface of your drink. Your gaze flicked over his face.

“Were you falling asleep on me?” you teased.

“Never,” he insisted, taking a sip. Warm sweetness spread across his tongue, making him sigh in contentment. “Just had a long day.”

“Well, now I feel even worse for making you stick around.”

“Hey,” he said, shaking his head and lifting his mug in mock salute, “It’s worth the reward.”

A small smile touched your lips. “Fair enough.”

He cleared his throat, trying not to look too anxious as he ventured.

“So, are you gonna be busy next week?” He kept his eyes on the rising steam so you wouldn’t catch just how much this question mattered to him.

“Not sure.” You gave a casual shrug. “Sometimes this place is packed, other times it’s dead quiet. But I like it—I get to meet new people. It’s one of the best parts of owning a shop, you know? Everyone eventually wanders in.”

“Yeah, that’s true.” He nodded. “Hawkins isn’t huge, so…makes it easier to get familiar with folks.”

“Quality over quantity, right?” you quipped, and Steve swore you shot him a sidelong look that made the tips of his ears burn. He swallowed, unable to stop a smile from creeping onto his face.

He took another sip of cocoa.

“Right,” he echoed. Then, his heart thrumming, unable to stop from himself from blurting out the question. “See me next week?”

“Huh?” You blinked, a bit confused.

Realising how direct that sounded, he fumbled to correct himself.

“I mean—are you free next week? We could…do something. Grab dinner?”

He hoped his recovery was smooth, maybe he was coming on a little strong, but he couldn’t help it. It had been so long since he’d felt hopeful about something, and every time he was around you, the weight on his shoulders seemed to lift.

Call him selfish, but if you’d let him, he wanted to soak up as much of you as he could.

A flicker of surprise crossed your features, followed by a delighted smile. “I can be free on Wednesday, I think.”

“Great.” He nodded, doing his best not to look too excited. “I’ll—I’ll book us a table somewhere. A restaurant.”

He could practically feel the adrenaline in his veins. It’d been way too long since he planned an actual dinner date, and the thought of sharing that with you felt electric.

“Do I need to dress fancy?” You grinned. It was a playful question, but he noticed a little bashfulness in your tone.

“Nah,” he said offhandedly, warmth pooling in his stomach. “You’d look beautiful no matter what you wear.”

He said it so nonchalantly that it caught you off guard and your cheeks warmed with colour, a gentle rose you tried to hide behind the rim of your mug. But he still caught the flush and felt his heart leap, safe in the knowledge that you might also feel the same as he did.

He drained the last of his hot chocolate, the flavour still clinging to his lips as he handed the mug back.

"Thanks," he said as you took his cup.

"I think I should be the one saying that," you corrected.

He rolled his eyes, leading the way to the exit, but before stepping out, he glanced back at you.

"See you Wednesday?"

You chuckled—he always repeated your plans back to you. It was endearing, but deep down, he needed the reassurance. When it came to you, he didn’t want to leave anything to chance.

"See you Wednesday," you echoed.

His grin was immediate and genuine, cheeks warming to match yours. With one last look, he slipped out the door, carrying that sweet moment with him all the way home.

Now, all that was left was to call Robin (obviously) and figure out what restaurant to book. He kicked himself for not asking what kind of food you liked, but he liked to think you trusted him with the choice.

It felt good—being in control again.

taglist: @daisy-is-a-writer @chiliwhore @kvroomi

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington #stranger things #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fluff #stranger things x reader #steve harrington angst #steve harrington fanfic #stranger things imagine #stranger things fic #stranger things series #steve harrington x you

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5targh0st · 3 days ago

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NUMBER ONE GIRL

78. don’t kick his ass (written)

prev // m.list // next

Looking at the ceiling, still feeling something between numbed and overwhelmed, Yeonjun convinces himself that he did what he had to do. It’s just a little break until he manages to get Yuna to stop harassing him. Once she’s out of the picture, all those feelings will go away. Once she’s gone again, he can go back to the life he’s worked so hard for, right? He knows he’s hurting the person he loves most in the world, but it’s all for a good reason. Surely, you will understand. He will explain and you’ll understand. Just not right now. Not when his old wounds are wide open and you can see his pitiful soul covered in blood. He just needs a few days, maybe weeks, and everything will be okay again.

He really wants to believe that, because it’s been just a couple of days and he’s already dying to talk to you and go back to how things were; how they’re supposed to be.

“Can you please calm down?” Dahyun sighs yet again.

Joshua’s been angry and anxious ever since he saw those posts. Just what the fuck is Yeonjun doing.

“I can’t!” He’s beyond exasperated right now. “She literally said nothing’s going on and yet has gone radio silence ever since. I need to know she’s okay, and she won’t talk to anyone. And I can’t go to Seoul ‘cause we’re closing an important deal and those fuckers insist on seeing me.”

“Hansol says he’s going,” she tries to reassure him.

“That’s way worse!” He complains.

As if sensing they were talking about him, Halson walks into the living room. He looks like he’s ready to kill someone.

“I’ll call you as soon as I get there.” He announces while he makes sure he has his passport with him.

“Just don’t kick his ass right away,” Dahyun pleads.

“I’m not making any promises,” Hansol rolls his eyes.

“She’s gonna hate us if you do,” Josh reminds him. “Just make sure to get both sides of the story.”

“We’re literally meddling in her private life, she’s gonna hate us regardless.” Sarcasm drips from his voice. “So I have to at least land a good punch on that fucker.”

Joshua can’t help but sigh again. Contrary to popular belief, Hansol is way more prone to be a lot more overprotective than he is, and that already says a lot. Of, course, Joshua knows he’s intense and kind of abrasive, but he’s never one to resort to violence. Josh admits he’s the bark, and Hansol is the bite. That’s why they make such a good team. And that’s why he didn’t want him to go alone.

“I really hope you guys don’t regret this,” Dahyun says hugging his waist.

“I think we will.”

During the flight, Hansol tries to think about something else. He really, really tries to write a song and even read the book he always carries around which title he’s already forgotten. He can’t. His mind goes back to his little sister and, by extension, to Josh.

He still remembers the day they met, they were both five and trying not to die of boredom at one of the fancy dinners their parents used to host all the time. Joshua’s chubby cheeks and proud grin are still clear in his mind, “I’m gonna be a big brother soon,” he remembers Joshua bragging. That summer, they met every day and Joshua would say he’d be his big brother too. He was bossy, even more than now, but he was fun. Joshua would try to teach him stuff and care for him, he really enjoyed flexing those few months between their birthdays. Hansol has to admit that he was a little jealous of Joshua’s unborn sister, he liked the attention and felt that the little girl would steal Joshua from him.

And then he saw her. So tiny and fragile, she stole his heart. “Can I be a big brother too?” He remembers asking Joshua. And it’s been like that ever since. He was there as much as he could and tried to help here and there. He thought little Yn would interfere with his time with Joshua, but it was Joshua who’d always tried to cut short his time with the little girl. He loved attending her tea parties and letting her and Karina paint his nails. He’s loved her ever since he first saw her, he’d give up his life for his sister. Blood doesn’t matter, that’s his sister. And he’s gonna make sure Yeonjun understands.

That’s what made him lose his mind in the first place. He was the first to welcome Yeonjun to their little family and even encouraged him to finally ask Yn out. He was really grateful for his presence in his sister’s life. He never expected that he would do something like this, especially completely out of nowhere.

“What the hell is going on?” He mutters looking out the window. There’s nothing to see, though, not besides some dark clouds in the distance.

Three days. It’s been three days since Yeonjun said he needed some space. You still can’t make sense out of his words. You tried texting him, calling him. You haven’t shown up to his place, though, you don’t think you could handle such a direct rejection if he refuses to see you even then. Where did it all go wrong? Everything was going great, better than great even. Everything was perfect.

Were you too pushy? Too clingy? Just too much? Or maybe he got scared? This was his first relationship after a really long time, after all. Maybe everything got way too serious way too fast. He did say he wanted to take things slow, see where it goes. But you thought you were on the same page, you thought you both had the same goals and desires. What if he was just trying to please you? What if you were just a means to an end? What if he was just trying to prove that he could be in a relationship?

But he said he loved you? Loved? When did you start to think about him in past tense? Isn’t he your present and future? Fuck. Everything is a little too overwhelming.

“I need to get out,” you say before grabbing your keys and going out.

You walk around for a few hours but turns out that that’s not enough to ease your mind. Your thoughts are still driving you crazy. Your heart still aching. And Yeonjun’s still missing. When did you get so used to him being around? You miss his jokes, his laugh. His yapping, his random stories. Every single part of him became a part of you. How is it possible to love someone that much in such a short time? His little quirks are engraved in your mind. And you miss him.

And then you see the best way to forget about everything. Even if just for a little while. You just want to forget. Life would be easier if you could just disappear until everything is right again.

“Just one drink,” you say before making your way into the bar.

Very bad idea.

notes:

please tell me you get the modern family reference 😭

joshua trying to be reasonable is my favorite thing ever

han is a real one

if you don't hate my writing and storytelling, you can help me choose my next story here lol

taglist: open! (3/50)

@estella-novella @poetryforthesad @lisaswifey @angelzforu @ihrtlix @gloriousqueenking @domfikeluva @conwunder @miniature-tragedy @jeonginplsholdmyhand @sh0dor1 @yourenzoo @tkshairband @realrintaro @castingjinx @amara-mars @hwangrfrnd @nujeskz @jisungs-iced-americano @zeizeisjy @va1entinaa @beomgyusluver @to-toad @akindaflora @hoefororeo @mandydxndy @nyanamii @delulu4-life @thatonexcgirl @starsunoo @4lndr17 @nbjch05 @borahae-reads @mrsstayfox @beomieeeeeeeeeeees @mrsminseochoi @velvetmoonlght @night-storm7 @lilbrorufr @hyunjinstolemyheart @mangojellyyy @ihrtantn @lausnotverybright @hwangism143 @wa1kinggh0st @skz-ot8-stay @athens-09xx

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birdofwildness · 1 day ago

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☾An intoxicating conversation

Warnings::Dark!Tom Riddle, possessiveness,1950's,lack of feminism,religious symbolism,alcohol

☾Tom Riddle

Summary::you're drunk,sad. You call Tom.

The pianist lazily tapped the keys, someone laughed at the bar, and cigarette smoke swirled like a faint veil beneath the ceiling fan.

I rested my fingers on the rim of a cocktail glass and watched the man sitting across me. He wasn’t particularly interesting—perhaps a little too aware of his own good looks—but still, there was something about him that made me toy with the idea of walking over.

Then i remembered that sentence. "A lady does not initiate conversation with a man."

Of course. A lady does not initiate. A lady observes, waits, hopes that someone notices her, speaks to her, chooses her. A lady stands in the background, beautifully illuminated, as if she were nothing more than a painting on the wall, a carefully arranged composition. She simply exists, artfully positioned, in the right lighting, like a Monet painting. A scene painted with broad strokes that looks perfect from afar—but step closer, and you’ll see the blurred colors, the chaotic disorder behind the illusion of harmony.

My lips trembled slightly—it wasn’t a smile, more of a fleeting reaction hovering at the edge of a thought. How simple was the world imagined by those who had created this rule. A world where a woman was merely the waiting counterpart to the acting man—a prop, a backdrop, a decorative piece.

A faint lipstick stain remained on the glass rim, a trace of my presence, my touch—yet how easily it could disappear with a single swipe.

The man turned away. I closed my eyes for a moment, letting the pulse of the music run through my skin.

Maybe tonight, I didn’t want to be a painting. Maybe tonight, I would be the one to pick up the brush.

It wasn’t this man that interested me. It was never men like him. There had always been someone else.

Someone beside whom I never had to wait for the right moment. Who never forced me into silence, into polite smiles, into letting myself be chosen. A boy who let me ask, initiate, exist in whatever way I wanted.

Tom Riddle.

The name lingered inside of me like an old melody, forgotten until a single note was enough to bring it back. We hadn’t seen each other in years—perhaps not since we could even call themselves friends anymore. But for a long time, we had been. The best of friends.

But friendship doesn’t protect you from everything. Not from the words spoken. Not from the ones left unsaid.

I straightened my posture, shaking off the memories with the movement. A shadow in the smoke, a feeling from the past that no longer needed to be taken seriously—that was all Tom Riddle was to me now.

My gaze caught on the bar counter, my eyes lingering for a moment on the fingerprints left on the glass rim. The music softened, the smoke thickened, and everything seemed distant… yet there it was, a memory stirring in my mind, pulling me back.

The plans we had dreamed up together, sitting on the benches of Hogwarts. The man I had once called my friend, the one who lived not by rules but by the pursuit of freedom and knowledge, was now…

I have heard from an acquaintance that Riddle, instead of bringing prestige to Hogwarts, had ended up working at Borgin & Burkes. A small, tucked-away shop of dark magic, where the most dangerous spells and forbidden artifacts lay hidden. He was now employed at the very store everyone tried to avoid.

So much for the ambitions of youth.

I raised the glass to my lips again, but this time, I no longer felt the familiar cool refreshment.

My friends were sinking into deeper conversation. As the hours passed, the soft melodies of the piano nearly vanished beneath the noise of the nightclub. The women spoke more and more of husbands, marriages, and their disappointments.

"Why did I ever think that marriage would make everything right?" began Augusta Longbottom, who had always considered herself an idealist, but now sadness reflected in her eyes. "My husband works all day, and when he finally comes home, it's as if I don't even exist. Nothing has changed since the initial magic, but..."

"Exactly! Every little thing we once loved about each other fades over time," said Cedrella Weasley, glancing at the group with a smile that seemed warm but tired. "My husband always used to say he needed nothing but me, but now… now there’s nothing between us. Nothing that breathes life into our relationship."

A hint of bitterness shimmered between the words. I said nothing—I had nothing to say. Simply because I was single. Instead,I started searching for patterns. The women around me shared a slow but certain pain, each speaking about their disappointment in their husbands.

"Why is it always men who decide what matters most?" Augusta continued. "They think we’ll do anything for marriage, but they don’t understand that we also want something—something they don’t give us. It’s all a performance, a game we can never win."

"Well, since we’re talking about men," Cedrella said with a teasing smile, "tell me, who was the first man who truly made your heart race?"

The question stirred a slight tension in the conversation, each woman trying to hide a forgotten piece of her past.

"Oh, my first?" Augusta let out a small, nostalgic laugh. "He was a real charmer, you know—the kind who always won everything. But then I realized I was just part of the game. And, of course, it ended."

Weasley quietly revealed a secret. "Mine... was a professor. But I never told him. I remember he was always there, somewhere in the distance, but I could never reach him."

The group laughed, but in each of their eyes lingered a past not easily forgotten. The laughter slowly faded, and I drifted back into my thoughts.

My first love wasn’t a professor, nor a famous figure. It was Tom Riddle.

"So, he was my first. With him, everything was completely different," I admitted, no longer caring what my friends might think. A faint blush rose to my cheeks, but the words spilled out before I could stop them.

Cedrella, just catching on to the direction of the conversation, shot me a curious look. "Oh, so his name is just ‘he’? Well, that’s very creative. And what happened to him?" she teased.

I hesitated for a moment, a single tear glinting in my eye before I lowered my gaze. "He was always just... there. I haven’t seen him since Hogwarts, but he never expected me to be perfect. We simply… talked."

The room fell silent for a moment, the women exchanging glances as I sank deeper into my thoughts.

"And where is he now?" Augusta asked, a touch of curiosity in her voice.

"He lives in a completely different world now," I replied bitterly.

Cedrella shrugged, attempting to lighten the mood. "Well, this Mr. ‘He’ sounds like a fascinating young man."

I laughed.

I had thought about Tom too much tonight. I had thought about him too much over the years.

And I was too drunk.

If I hadn't admitted it to myself before,I knew it now: he wasn’t just a memory.

Without a word, I stood up, adjusted my dress, and walked toward the bar with steady steps.

A young witch working behind the counter—perhaps an apprentice—was wiping a glass when I spoke up.

"Excuse me, could you tell me where I can find the telephones?"

The woman behind the bar looked at me with slight surprise, then nodded. "Down the back hallway, to the right. There are a few booths for guests."

I nodded in thanks and pushed through the crowd. The smoky air, the laughter, the clinking of glasses all faded into the background as she stepped into the dimly lit hallway. Along the wall stood a row of red telephone booths, their polished brass handles gleaming under the low light.

None of them were occupied. Fate wanted me to do this.

I stepped into one, closed the door behind me, and stared at the telephone for a moment. It was cold under my touch, the weight of the black receiver resting familiarly in my hand. As familiar as a telephone could be to a woman in the 1950s.

I knew the number. It was nothing more than an old memory, something I had last heard years ago. But some things one never forgets.

Slowly, deliberately, I began to dial.

A click. The line came to life. A faint hum sounded in the distance.

One ring.Another.

My fingers tightened around the receiver, my heart pounding harder than it should.

Then—a soft click. Someone had answered.

"Tom?" I asked, suddenly unsure.

"Y/N? Is that you?"

I recognized his voice. Time had done nothing to dull that cool, measured tone that had always been his. But there was something else there now—perhaps a hint of curiosity.

I smiled into the receiver, but when I spoke, even I was surprised by how drunken my voice sounded.

"Hiiiii Toooom."

"Are you all right?" he asked. His voice was as calm as ever, but somehow, it still carried a trace of concern.

I tried to laugh, but it came out as a rough little sigh. My head buzzed from the alcohol, my thoughts were tangled, but somehow, right now, none of it mattered.

Only that Tom Riddle was on the other end of the line.

"Of course. I'm fine."

I paused for a moment before adding, "I just... wanted to call you."

He said nothing.

And suddenly,I felt foolish. I shouldn't have done this. It was stupid.

But the words had already slipped out before I could stop them.

"Do you… um… remember me?"

On the other end of the line, Riddle was silent for a moment. The kind of silence that was typical of him. Not empty, not uncertain—just his mind working, analyzing the situation with precise, deliberate calculation.

Then, finally, he spoke.

"Y/N."

There was no question in his voice. No hesitation. Just my name, spoken in that same old, familiar tone.

I closed my eyes. It was strange how, after all these years, my name still sounded like that on his lips. Not cold, not warm—just… the way he had always said it.

"Of course I remember you."

I let out a quiet laugh. I hadn’t even realized I was expecting something else. Maybe polite indifference, a dismissive "Y/N? No, doesn’t ring a bell." Or perhaps for him to simply hang up. But no. He wasn’t like that. He never forgot anything.

"Good… because… because I remember you too."

Tom was silent again, and somewhere in the background, I heard a faint noise. Something shifting—perhaps he was moving things around in the shop.

"Is that why you called?" he asked. Not accusingly. Just curious.

Suddenly, I didn’t know what to say. Why had I called?

One moment I had been laughing with my friends, and the next, I was here, clutching the telephone as if it were the only thing keeping me grounded.

The silence stretched between us, and I felt the receiver growing heavier in my hand.

"I… heard you work at Borgin & Burkes," I said finally. The words slipped out more easily than expected. "And I’ve always been a big fan of the shop."

A lie. I had never even set foot inside. It was a run-down, wretched place.

I pressed my lips together, wanting to take back the words, but it was too late. Then the man let out a quiet laugh.

He laughed. It wasn’t mocking. It wasn’t cold. Just a small, barely audible, sigh-like chuckle.

"Y/N"

He knew. He knew I was lying.

I cleared my throat, trying to compose myself. "Okay. Maybe I’m not a big fan of it."—"Maybe I’ve never even been there."

"Maybe?" he echoed, and now his voice was unmistakably amused.

I smiled. This was a fun game. "Alright, fine. I’ve never been there," I finally admitted. "But that’s not the point."

"Then what is the point?" Tom’s voice was calm again, patiently waiting for me to say why I really called.

But I wasn’t sure if I could put it into words. Because if I said it out loud, it would become real.

"Alright. Let me tell you something, okay?"

Riddle didn’t respond immediately, but I could almost feel his attention on me ."I liked you at school. A lot."

A brief silence. "Oh. Well, that was quite obvious," he added.

I closed my eyes for a moment. No. He didn’t understand. "No—Tom." His name was barely a whisper on my lips. "I liked you like that. You know..."

My heart pounded in my throat.

On the other end of the line, a short silence, then he spoke again—coolly, precisely, yet somehow entertained.

"Oh… and you don’t have a husband to confess such things to?"

I smiled. Typical Tom. He didn’t get flustered, didn’t get embarrassed—he analyzed from the outside instead.

"I don’t."

He didn’t answer right away, but I could almost hear him weighing his response in his mind. Then, finally, he spoke.

"That’s quite surprising. At your age, you’re practically an old maid."

I let out a shocked laugh. "Oh, really? And you’re the one lecturing me? Let me guess—you’re single too."

On the other end of the line, there was another small pause. I grinned. Gotcha.

I felt like this was getting to be too much.

"Alright, this is getting awkward," I laughed nervously, twisting the phone cord around my fingers. "And I think you’re right, I... am ridiculously drunk."

I took a deep breath, then, more to myself than to him, I added, "And I think it was good to say it. Now I can finally let you go..."

The words had a bittersweet ring to them. "I need to find a husband," I added playfully, but my voice trembled slightly. "Well— I guess I should hang up now."

I was about to put the receiver down when Riddle spoke.

"Wait."

I froze at the command.

"Don't hang up."—"I missed you," he added.

My heart pounded in my throat. Then Tom spoke again, slower this time.

"You don’t have to find a husband."—There was no mockery in his voice. No condescension.

I didn’t interrupt.

"I probably won’t have a wife either," he continued. "So what? Who cares what others think?"

I closed my eyes.

"Sooner or later, you'll see—the world is going to change."

The usual silence. My fingers were still gripping the receiver, but I couldn’t speak. Tom never said things like this. He never talked about the future this way.

"Where are you?"

I hesitated, trying to gather my thoughts, then finally answered, "At the Hog’s Head Inn."

The man froze for a moment, then let out a quiet chuckle. "Well, aren’t you a refined lady?"

"Stay there," he said after a brief pause, making his decision.

A moment of silence passed through the line. Then, without another word, he hung up.

I placed the receiver back down and stood there for a moment, gripping the phone. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t even process his words. What did he mean by 'stay there?'

When I finally moved, I returned to the girls, who were still sitting at the table, laughing softly, some spinning their empty glasses. As I sat down, my friends looked at me—and within seconds, they could read it all over my face. Something had happened.

"What happened? Where were you?" Augusta asked from the other end of the table, watching me curiously. Cedrella was listening too, but I didn’t say anything.

I hesitated for a moment, my eyes slowly scanning the married women in front of me. I took a deep breath—I wanted to say something, but the words didn’t come right away. My friends watched me attentively but remained silent, letting me decide when and how to speak.

"Alright..." I began, my voice slightly hoarse, the words painfully hard to push out. "This is going to be... a bit messy, but I’ll tell you."

I tried to force a small smile, but it didn’t quite work.

"So... you know that Tom and I were always friends. So, yeah… he’s Mr.'He'. And well… when we left Hogwarts, everything changed. A little, you know… maybe life just pulled us apart," I muttered, watching as curiosity grew on my friends' faces with each word.

"And I went to the bartender because I asked where the phones were," I laughed quietly, but the laughter quickly turned into tension. "You know, I just wanted to talk."

Another brief silence followed. The girls waited patiently for me to continue.

"And… in the end, I told him. After too many years, I finally opened my mouth and said that I liked him. And I guess he didn’t feel the same, because he started avoiding the topic."

After a short, almost awkward pause, I continued. "And when it was over, he told me to stay here." I fell silent for a moment.

"But I... I don’t get it," I laughed at myself."Why am I supposed to stay here?"

Cedrella, who was always the one to see things the fastest, spoke up first.

"Y/N, don’t you see?" she asked as if the answer were obvious. "He told you to stay here because he’s probably coming. He just…" she shrugged. "Maybe he thought it was obvious to you. Because it would be—to anyone else."

"Oh, I genuinely thought he meant I should just drown myself in this pile of wine. And then my body would stay here. You know," I muttered, resting my head in my hands.

"Good grief, you are completely unhinged… and morbid," Augusta replied calmly but firmly.

I pushed myself up from the table, and the girls exchanged glances but didn’t say a word.

"I need to get some fresh air," I said, forcing a faint smile before heading for the door. The girls didn’t stop me—they knew that what I needed now wasn’t company.

As I stepped out of the door, the cool night air refreshed me a little, and for a moment, the world around me quieted. The streetlights flickered softly, and there was nothing else to be heard. I tried to absorb the entire night. My heart was still pounding, but now that I was alone, I tried to collect my thoughts.

"Why did I do this?" I muttered to myself. The effects of the alcohol had faded, but the chaos in my mind was still there. Why had it been so important to tell him all of that? And why did I feel like I couldn't leave the conversation unfinished?

I tried to calm my heart when I heard footsteps behind me.A beam of light briefly illuminated the man's figure, and my heart began to race again. It was Tom Riddle.

He looked like a fallen angel—almost unnaturally handsome, but there was something corrupt about him, something carelessly sinful, hinting at unspoken depravity. His face was unforgettable, but at the same time unsettling, a face that could easily be cast for the roles of cruel men, cannibals, or even Lucifer himself.

My heart skipped a beat.

Tom stopped in front of me ,his gaze sweeping over me, and then a faint, almost mocking smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.

"I didn’t want us to meet like this..." he said, a bit of embarrassment in his voice, but there was still a certain intimacy in his eyes. "But here we are."

I didn’t know how to respond. Amidst the swirling feelings in my heart, I finally just said, "That’s true," I replied softly, turning my gaze away for a moment, trying to process everything I had felt since our previous conversation.

The man's footsteps were soft as he stepped closer. He paused for a moment, then, as if following an inner command, carefully touched my face. His touch was cold, yet a shiver ran through me.

There was a strange pain in Riddle’s eyes as he leaned in. My heart pounded faster, but something about the entire situation made him inexplicably unreachable.

"You know well that I was conceived under the effects of Amortentia," Tom said, his voice deep and serious. "I can't give you what you desire. At least, not the way normal people do."

I froze for a moment, the weight of his words suffocating me. Yes, he had told me this before. He had confessed it back in my school years.

"Tom..." I tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. His story was simply too much, too painful.

He stepped closer, his gaze devouring every inch of my face, trying to understand every hidden emotion, searching for what I was truly looking for. His touch felt as if it wanted to break me gently.

"I couldn’t love you that way," he said, his voice sinking even lower as the words left his lips. "My feelings aren’t like that. Not the way you think. Even 'desire' isn’t the right word. What I feel for you is a need. A compulsion. I need you, Y/N. But not the way others do..."

The words were difficult for him to say. But with every moment, the painful truth became clearer.

"My love is like an obsessive hunger. I can't give you what an ordinary man can. My love is dark, insatiable, and it will never be fulfilled. Just like me."

"I want it... I want you," I whispered, still not fully understanding what I was agreeing to. The desire consuming both of us left no room to stop.

Tom’s lips met mine. The kiss turned intense immediately, and the entire world fell silent around us—only we existed. His lips were wild and hungry.

I felt as if I was losing control, as if everything I had thought before suddenly lost its meaning. The sensation he awakened in me wasn’t normal, wasn’t ordinary.

Riddle's hands gripped me firmly—he never wanted to let go. The kiss grew deeper, more desperate, more untamed.

And then, suddenly, he stopped.

The air was thick with tension, and raw yearning mixed with fear and uncertainty.

"Y/N..." he whispered, his voice strained. "There’s no turning back now."

#tom riddle #tom marvolo riddle #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle x you #tom riddle x y/n #tom riddle fanfiction #tom riddle x oc #harry potter

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susannaelders · 1 day ago

Photo

From her hair style to the oval shape of her face, from her rosy cheeks and red lips to her petite plump body, this Susanna is an ideal 1820s beauty. This may as well be an 1820s pinup for how it treats this biblical scene. Indeed, like the pinups of the 1940s and '50s, this Susanna finds herself in an embarrassing situation that happens to show off her body, rather than in a dangerous or distressing situation. Her bright body takes up most of the frame. We get to see a scantly-covered breast with a dainty pink nipple peaking out. The long, unbroken length from shoulder to toes shows her supple curves and the availability of her body. Her expression is just contorted enough to show concern without marring her beauty.

As for the elders themselves, their depiction has more in common with the Muppets Statler and Waldorf than the sexual predators they are. Like the heckling puppets, these elders are separated from their subject by barriers: a thick black column, a waist-high wall, and several bamboo forming a natural fence. Their threat level has been reduced by these obstacles. They are relegated to the background, blending in with the darker tones, part of the scenery, the audience.

One chuckles in surprised delight: a nude beauty in the wild? What a joy! What a treat!

The other's older, balding face is harder to read. Are his raised eyebrows hopeful, pleading? Please miss, might I touch a breast? Is his toothless mouth meant to make him look a hungry beggar?

These are comical perverts, rendered unthreatening by the artist.

Even the exotic details play into the aestheticization of the scene: the bamboo and palm trees and abundant leafy foliage, the peak of a body of water in the distance, the warmth of the golden and red fabrics. The setting is certainly more Mediterranean than Dutch. This is a pretty picture in a pretty setting.

Ultimately, this is another example of a stock scene being chosen for the prospect of painting a nude woman rather than a moral condemnation of a horrid situation.

Who did the artist paint this for? For men with cigars to chuckle at while giving their friends a knowing wink? "Wouldn't mind finding myself there, if you know what I mean!" At a time in history where young European men of means would travel around the continent for education, culture, and worldly pleasures, the dream of stumbling across an exotic bathing beauty in a balmy climate and having your way with her was a tantalizing erotic trope. A respectable young man could have his sexual study abroad before returning home to marry a chaste young lady without sullying his reputation. Indeed, conquest would only enhance his masculinity, not diminish it.

So obviously, why would he condemn the elders when they were living the dream? Of course this painting makes the situation cheeky and playful, and only mildly inconvenient for Susanna. Once the (male) audience has had their way with her, they can return to hearth and home, no less a Christian gentleman. This Susanna is a dalliance on an 1820's man's European tour, not a biblical figure facing assault.

Susanna and the Elders, 1820, Museum of the Netherlands

Suzanna en de ouderlingen. De naakte Suzanna wordt tijdens het baden bespiedt door twee oude mannen die zich achter struikgewas verscholen houden.

http://hdl.handle.net/10934/RM0001.COLLECT.7116

#susanna and the elders

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mossangelll · 22 hours ago

Text

is that hyperpigmentation?

arcane characters x reader

basically what the title says, you draw the arcane characters à la hyperpigmentation 😍 i needed smth silly to work on to get me out of my writing rut, hope you enjoy :p

content: gn!reader, reader is their partner (could be seen as platonic/child reader but i think most of, if not all, the hcs allude or explicitly call reader their partner - sorry!)

Jinx

she LOVES it

as an artist, engineer, overall creator she can really appreciate the more wacky expressions of art

she does a whole art critique (barely a critique tbh) and pretends to be some stuffy piltie talking about the genius and emotion behind the artwork

“ya know, toots, i’m reaaallyyyy enjoying what ya did with that…um, splodge? on my face there. yeah!”

she draws her own version but this time it’s a portrait of you

you swap them and have a cute little date where you colour the pictures in together and add details in the background

by the end, jinx’s workshop is covered in glue and glitter and paint and powder and also for some reason silly string

jinx even makes frames from scratch so they can be hung up - they’re probably the most nicely presentee decoration she has in her place

Ekko

you slide the portrait of him over to his side of the table in silence

he looks down absently and has to do a double take

“this is…me?” he asks hesitantly with his eyes widened like a deer in headlights; a look you rarely ever see from him - you nod and confirm his fears

“we have one tree down here. paper’s expensive. remember that.”

walks away and goes about his duties helping the firelights and though you suspect he might be upset, he did take the picture with him

feels so guilty about his reaction he almost sacks himself into a wall as he rides his hover board

later that night he apologises and makes a show of sticking the picture on his bedroom wall (in the corner he can barely see of course)

she’s been in prison and seen some interesting tattoos but this takes the cake

spends a good ten minutes staring at it whilst rubbing her chin as if that’s gonna make it look better

asks you if this was the rough draft

she’s smooth though so she basically tells you she hates it but in a way that you don’t even realise - you’re too busy being seduced to notice

“i love how wild your imagination is babe 😍”

vi keeps the picture and shows jinx; needless to say, this portrait becomes famous

kids all through the lanes have a challenge where they find all the weird faces jinx spray painted everywhere

vi pretends to act dumb as if she doesn’t know how jinx got ahold of them but you both know what happened LMAO

Caitlyn

she laughs in your face

she probably just had an argument with her mum over being an enforcer so she really needed this to lighten her spirits

teases you over it but accepts it gracefully because she’s a kiramman and those manners have been engrained into her

keeps it in her room as a joke and everything’s seemingly ok

except she can’t stop looking at it

and then looking at her reflection in the mirror

starts to question reality because she knows there’s no way she looks like that but if so, why would you draw it in the first place 😭

then she enters the mad stage and she confronts you about this thing called negging she discovered

it’s a loooooong night but don’t worry it ends in lots of laughter and giggles

she understands it wasn’t serious and was just projecting her stress onto the picture

but then this starts a new tradition where you two draw daily doodles of each other; sometimes with stupid faces, other times as animals, whatever you two are feeling really

Mel

the woman was too stunned to speak

no, she’s literally speechless for a good minute or two as you hold it out for her

she eventually takes the portrait from your hands but does it in a way where you’d think it was going to explode the second she touches it

she tries her best to smile and be graceful about it, years of etiquette training being tested but even this is a bit excessive

she finds a way to dodge actually having to tell you it looks bad but also dodges telling you that it looks good too - she’s a lot of things but she’s not a liar 😭

she’s incredibly diplomatic

the very next day she’s introducing you to an absolutely fabulous painter who just happened to make an impromptu visit but has just enough time to run a session (or multiple) with you!

how serendipitous is this!

never again will she receive a portrait from you like hyperpigmentation

Jayce

“oh wow this is for me?”

you handed this to him in the busy academy building in front of SOOO many people and now his face is red

his teeth are gritted, hand rubbing the back of his neck and if you look closely there’s even beads of sweat dripping down his forehead

you’ve got this man stressed out

takes like 20 minutes trying to tell you that he’s not too sure if this is exactly his style

internally he’s crying for help because he just wants to get out of this situation

he loves you don’t get it wrong but this has never happened to him before and it’s not like they’ve got a guidebook on this stuff

eventually admits defeat and accepts the portrait

it’s probably in the break room and although he isn’t particularly fond of it, he won’t stand for anyone saying mean things about what you made

that is until you tell him it was all a joke in the first place and you never thought he would actually accept it considering how shitty it was

yeah, he allowed everyone a ten minute free for all where they could slander the picture after that

he is gonna give you silent treatment for all of an hour before he can’t stand it anymore and he asks you not to pull pranks like that on him again with tears in his eyes 😭

Viktor

viktor is chronically ill AND chronically overworked

gonna be real, he sees the portrait and doesn’t even think anything of it

like, he’s so sleep deprived that he’s constantly squinting and so to him, it low-key looks like him

you even got his beauty mark right too! most people forget that detail!

it’s only after a good few weeks of having the picture on his bedside table and actually, finally, getting eight hours of sleep that he properly looks at the picture and

who the fuck is that

but at this point it’s too late, it’s already in a frame next to the bed you two share and there’s no way he can discretely get rid of it without you noticing

stages an accident where his cane “accidentally” happens to slip and somehow punt the picture frame right out the window with surprising accuracy

he gives you those puppy dog eyes and tells you how sad he is but that he’ll survive so don’t worry!

can’t even feel guilty about the situation because the moment the portrait is gone he stops having nightmares

Silco

another one who is speechless

if you were anyone else, he would’ve berated you so badly you would want to quit by the end of it

unfortunately you’re someone he loves so he’s stuck between a rock and a hard place

the thing is, he really does appreciate that you went through the effort of drawing a picture of him since it reminds him that perhaps his love isn’t as one-sided as he fears

so he really does want to have it framed and put up on his desk so he can stare at it whenever he misses you

the problem is that even though one of his eyes is fucked up he can still see how butt ugly the drawing is

plus the fact that if he has meetings his business associates are gonna see it and that’s gonna be a tough one to explain

rather not lose out of business because his partner decided to be picasso for a day

silco ends up compromising by having you draw a teeny tiny version he keeps in his wallet instead :3

the bigger version stays in a locked compartment of his desk drawer, he doesn’t want to risk sevika seeing it

Vander

vander does NOT care what it looks like, he loves it

you could literally scribble on a page, say “that’s you” and he’s tearing up at your thoughtfulness

it’s going on the fridge asap and it’s staying there too

he’s gonna show it to everyone with such pride in his voice

sure, he doesn’t know exactly what he’s looking at and maybe you drew his body hair a bit liberally but you made it so that’s good enough for him!

when he shows it off, most people say aww what a cute werewolf and ask how old his kid is

the light leaves their eyes when he tells them, chest puffed out, that his fully grown adult partner did it and that it’s actually a portrait of him

whether you made it as a joke or not, expect all of your friends, your friend’s friends, those friend’s friend’s friends…everyone to have seen it

Sevika

sevika tells you it’s ugly straight away <\3

rolls her eyes as she listens to you explain all the reasons why she should like the drawing

she does nawt care

wants to act unbothered but deep down she’s a bit insulted

however she doesn’t like sein you upset so she kisses you to distract you from the fact she hates the drawing

sevika is an incredibly considerate partner so now she knows you like art, she takes it upon herself to buy colouring books and art journals that you two can fill out together

this is how you find out she’s a god at drawing and you find it sweet how she takes you under her wing

if something’s bad she’ll tell you but it will always be constructive criticism and before you know it your portraits actually look decent

she’s smug knowing she helped you get to that point

little do you know she kept your abhorrent portrait of her and she looks at it every so often to see how far you’ve come

she’s a softie deep down

AU!mylo

he says he likes it but that’s just because he wants to hit

also is a bit pretentious so you could hand him a really bad painting and he’ll try and act like he “gets it” even if there’s nothing to get 😭

this WILL make him doubt his looks constantly

he’s confident for sure, more than he should be at times, but now he’s got that image in the back of his head

aura down and now he’s even WORSE at flirting god save this man

will go around asking random people if he looks like the guy in the portrait because he’s not going down without a fight

he needs to beat the allegations one way or another‼️

AU!claggor

genuinely too nice to decline it or say it looks bad

doesn’t know what exactly it’s meant to be even though you already said it’s a portrait of him

too focused on his plants to worry about it too much, it’s just something that makes him chuckle every now and then

he will conduct a mini interview on why you made it look the way it did

he looks all serious as he nods at your answers

deep down he just wants to understand how your brain works

masterlist

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zeroseuniverse · 13 hours ago

Text

Second Chances

Word Count: 689 Summary:Jisung didn’t chase after you. He let you go. And that, more than anything, hurt the most. Pairing: Jisung X Reader

Navigation

The night you confessed to Jisung, the sky was painted in hues of deep indigo, the stars barely visible against the glow of the streetlights. It had taken weeks—months, even—of debating, of overanalyzing every moment spent together, every glance, every lingering touch that made you think, Maybe he feels the same way.

But you had been wrong.

"I… I don’t feel the same way. I’m sorry."

You had smiled, even as your heart cracked, even as everything inside you screamed at how unfair it was. You nodded like it was fine, like your world wasn’t caving in, and walked away before he could see the tears threatening to spill.

Jisung didn’t chase after you. He let you go.

And that, more than anything, hurt the most.

Years Later

The scent of coffee and warm pastries fills the air, the hum of soft conversation creating a familiar background noise as you sit in the small café, scrolling through emails. It’s just another day, another mindless routine—until a voice you haven’t heard in years cuts through it all.

“you?”

You freeze.

Slowly, you glance up, and the world shifts beneath you.

Park Jisung stands just a few feet away, looking at you like he’s seen a ghost.

He’s taller now, broader, no longer the lanky boy you once knew. His jawline is sharper, his features more defined, but his eyes—the same warm brown that once felt like home—are unmistakable.

A rush of emotions—old heartbreak, nostalgia, resentment—threatens to drown you, but you push it down. You refuse to let him see how much he still affects you.

“Jisung.” You say his name like it’s just another word, like it doesn’t carry the weight of a thousand unspoken memories.

A flicker of something—regret, maybe—crosses his face. “I can’t believe it’s you.”

You glance at your watch, feigning indifference. “Well,it is. I should get going—”

“Wait.” His voice holds a quiet desperation, his hand twitching at his side like he wants to reach for you but knows he has no right. “Can we… talk?”

You should say no.

You should walk away, just like he did all those years ago.

But you don’t.

Instead, you inhale sharply, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “What is there to talk about, Jisung?”

He flinches, like he wasn’t expecting you to call him out so directly. “I—I just… I know it’s been years, but I—” He swallows hard. “I regret what happened. How things ended between us.”

You raise a brow, crossing your arms. “You mean when you rejected me and never spoke to me again?”

He winces, running a hand through his hair. “I was an idiot.”

You scoff. “I could’ve told you that.”

His lips curve into a sad smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I didn’t know what I was feeling back then. I thought I was protecting you. Protecting our friendship.” He lets out a quiet laugh, bitter and self-deprecating. “Turns out, I just ruined everything.”

You watch him for a long moment, your heart warring between anger and something dangerously close to sympathy.

“What do you want, Jisung?” You finally ask, your voice quieter now.

He hesitates, shifting on his feet like he’s debating how honest to be. And then—

“You.”

The single word hangs in the air between you, heavy with years of regret, of missed chances.

Your breath catches. “Jisung…”

“I know I don’t deserve a second chance,” he says, stepping closer, his gaze never leaving yours. “I know I hurt you. And if you tell me to walk away right now, I will.” His voice is softer now, almost pleading. “But if there’s even a small part of you that still cares… I want to make things right.”

Your heart pounds in your chest, your carefully built walls trembling.

Because despite everything, despite the years and the pain, you had never quite stopped wondering—what if?

Maybe this time, it’s his turn to fight for you.

And maybe this time, you’ll let him.

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valacre · 5 hours ago

Text

: ̗̀➛ I Am Here

Sentinel Prime x Reader - Transformers One

“How the hell do you lose a pod you’ve spent… what, millennia inside of?” you ask, walking over raised roots and avoiding holes hidden by crawling moss.

“What do you think I am? A mere machine that connects to other machines?” asked Sentinel, huffing as he walked ahead of you, silently cursing as he pushed low hanging branches aside. “I hate this place. These trees are scuffing my paint.”

“You’re already as scuffed as you can be, a few more won’t hurt you. Besides, it can easily be fixed later.” Too busy with looking down at where you’re treading, you fail to see the surprise that overcomes him as he glances back at you, his genuine astonishment a sight to behold; had you only looked up. Alas, he clears it by the time you do. “What’s the hold up?”

“Nothing.” Speeding ahead of you, he vents in annoyance, trying to recall his steps and looking for damaged trees. His pod shouldn’t be this far away, it must be— “Aah!” Thoughts wiped clean, the world suddenly collapses from beneath him and dirt and moss swallow him whole, the ground giving in as he tries to break his fall.

“I think you—Sentinel?” you stop, having just heard him scream as you look up, seeing him gone. How in the world could a bright blue and golden alien robot just disappear like that? Moving forward, you quickly find a large hole in the ground, and down below, approximately 5 meters deep, you see Sentinel.

You can’t help it. You burst out laughing as you hear him curse in that strange language of his.

“Oh, oh god,” you laugh, holding around your stomach with one hand as you place the other against a tree, giving yourself some extra balance as you lean over to look down at him. “Now, how did you get down there?” you ask between giggles.

“Obviously, I fell, you dimwit,” he curses, shooting you a heated glare, and you laugh even harder.

“No, really? Are you sure you didn’t fly vaguely downwards? Hah!”

“Are you going to help me or are you just going to stay there and laugh at my humiliation?”

“Eh, think I’ll leave you.”

The panic on his face would normally have made you feel bad, but you were too lost in a giggly mood, and it only succeeded in making you wheeze as his wings fluttered erratically, as if trying to take flight to reach you before you could leave him.

“What! No, don’t—” he starts, but you quickly cut him off.

“Oh, don’t get your wings in a twist, of course I’ll help you. Just wait a moment, I think I’ll need a shovel,” you say, leaning back, giggles fading slowly as you realise you have to walk back, dig out a shovel from the barn, and then walk back here again. There was no telling how Sentinel would handle being alone for that long, though he was… very, very old. Surely, he could handle it, even if space madness had made him rather… Well, frightened of certain things.

“What, you’ll just leave me?” he asks, an edge to his tone that threatens to cut your heart a little.

“You want me to dig with my hands? Sorry, princess, I’m not a dog so that won’t do,” you say, leaning away from the hole and out of his sight. “I’ll be back as soon as possible, I promise.” There is no reply, though you take that as your chance to speed your way back home, trying to recall where you’d buried that shovel.

You’ve left him. He tries to call your name but there is no answer. Trying to settle his erratic spark, he looks around, seeing a very familiar blue glow surround him. Energon; here? It’s such a shocking sight it has him momentarily forget his woes of being left alone again, and he stands on unsteady pedes as he approaches a cluster. Loads of it, more than enough to last him a couple of years; maybe even more.

“Energon on such a faraway planet,” he says to himself, huffing a disbelieving laugh. He’s wondering how it got here. Perhaps the Primes had something to do with it, though that could not be for certain. He’d known and learned a lot whilst working beneath them, and something like this had never been mentioned, not even in brief passing.

The thought of them makes him shudder and frown, remembering busy days where he’d never felt appreciated. You didn’t appreciate him either, but then again… why would you? He’d done nothing to earn your respect, done nothing but make you angry or frustrated, and what more, he was already too dependent on you. Too dependent, too broken, a mere shard of who he’d used to be.

The dirt and rock are cold around him. It’s dark despite the ethereal blue glow, and he finds himself shuffling down to curl into a corner, holding his servos against his chest as his mind spirals. He’s alone again, lost in space, believing he’s not so pathetic as to lose his mind to the mercy of the empty darkness, but he had.

He can hear them, see them; see himself walk through Iacon, D-16—No, Megatron pulling him along with a chain. He’d been close to death, close to being torn apart, but as he sees the citizens of Iacon shout and curse at him as they throw whatever they can at his helm and frame, he wishes he’d been killed.

It’d been humiliating, but even that… even that had been preferable to the empty nothingness of space. The quiet that had made him scream and yell. He’d clawed at his frame, curling in on himself as he’d wept like a weakling, and he’d begged. He’d begged for death, had considered tearing his own spark out, but then the blackness had overtaken him, and he’d remember nothing more until you had awoken him.

Not even Primus could have compared to the sight of you, even as he had punched you without thinking. You’d been so close, your warmth brushing him without direct contact, your eyes so bright they’d nearly blinded him. It had shocked him. He hadn’t thought you’d been real.

“Honestly, I leave for twenty minutes, and you go into a trance,” comes your voice, and he blinks as you’re suddenly in front of him, kind face smiling in pity as you try to regain your breath. Your breath. You’d been exerting yourself; running to use as little time as possible. “Oh, Sentinel, space truly hasn’t been kind to you, has it?” you ask, hand reaching out to touch his cheek, wiping away the optical lubricant which trickled down his face plate. And you reach out for him, bringing him into a warm embrace as well as you can despite the awkward position. “It’s okay. I’m not leaving you. I promise.”

You promise.

Shuddering, he returns the embrace, savouring the softness you’ve willingly offered him this time. He allows himself to indulge in it, melting into it, and you do not push him away. You do not mock him, yell at him, curse at him, threaten to kill him. You just hold him, and you say things he can no longer hear, but your voice is soothing, and he wants to feel more of it.

“You keep throwing me around for a loop,” you say, chuckling a little as you stroke the back of his helm. “Either you’re a proud bastard, or you’re a frightened bird,” you say, thoughtful as you look at his wings, seeing them tremble. “Perhaps you’re more wounded than I thought, both of mind and body.” You sigh. “Oh, Sentinel, what happened to you?”

He doesn’t answer, can’t muster up the courage to tell you. He doesn’t regret what he did… He doesn’t… He… Maybe? If only because he doesn’t want to tell you. He can’t tell you. You’ll leave him, call him terrible names—

“As deserved.”

The voice of Megatron rings clear in his processor, and he clutches at your clothes, burying his face plate into your shoulder, rocking you slightly. You wince but quickly recover, so fast he doesn’t have time to notice it.

“Don’t leave me,” he says, sounding so weak. Pathetic.

“Come now, I didn’t run all the way here just to leave you again,” you say, voice light as you lean back, hands coming to cradle his cheeks. “Look at me, birdie.” He does, and you smile, and his spark swells almost painfully. “We’re going to look for that pod of yours a little later. For now, we’re going to go back home, lay down on that nice carpet in my living room, and then talk about our feelings.”

He blinks. “Sounds boring,” he says, voice regaining some of its past life. You laugh, and he can’t help but smile, feeling warm.

“Hell yeah, but boring is better than depressed and lost, isn’t it?”

“Maybe, but I’d also like to refuel, and you have nothing in your home that can sustain me. At least nothing that I dare to try.”

“Chicken,” you say, leaning back and releasing his helm. He already misses the touch, wishing to grasp your hands and place them on his face plate again, but he resists. “Well, is this strange glowing crystal something you like? I’ve certainly never seen it before, and I’m pretty sure it’s not good for me to stay around it.”

“Probably not,” he says, feeling lighter by the second as he glances around. “I’ll need to bring a few clusters with me. I think my pod has the tools I need.”

“For what?”

“To purify the energon.”

“Can’t you just… I don’t know, munch on it as it is?”

He raised an optical ridge at that. “I’ve seen you prepare your… food before you eat it. Think of it as something like that. Purified energon is a hundred times better than raw energon.”

“Sounds complicated.”

“Or maybe you’re just too dim-witted to understand it.”

“Says the fool who fell into a hole.”

“As if I did it on purpose.”

“Hm, you might have. Perhaps it was an excuse for me to come and give you a hug,” you say, chuckling and petting him on the cheek before standing up, missing the flash of adoration that came your way, all too soon gone as you hold out a hand for him. “Come on then, let’s bring back some of these glowing clusters for you. I’d be a terrible host if I allowed you to starve under my watch.”

He let out a snort, smiling a little as he looked at you, tender feelings flooding him as he takes your hand, allowing you to help him up with a great heave, raising both his body and mind up from the cold ground and into your warmth.

Previous / Next Music: Ulk – Tortoise I & Rune Realms – Midnight Snowdrifts

#maccadam #transformers #tfone #sentinel prime #tfone sentinel #sentinel prime x reader #A New Life

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eeerrrrewsd · 1 day ago

Text

Gravity

Clark Kent x Reader – Smallville

Smallville had always been quiet. Predictable. The kind of place where people spent their whole lives running in circles, never leaving, never chasing anything beyond what was right in front of them.

And maybe that was why Clark Kent never thought he’d meet someone like her here.

She wasn’t like the others.

She wasn’t Lana, soft-spoken and sweet, or Chloe, endlessly curious and quick-witted.

She was something else entirely.

A storm. A wildfire.

A gravity strong enough to pull him in without even trying.

“You ever think about leaving this place?” she asked one evening, leaning against the wooden fence on the Kent farm. The golden hues of sunset painted her face, and Clark couldn’t help but watch the way the light touched her.

He turned his gaze back to the fields, trying not to let his thoughts wander too far. “Yeah… sometimes.”

She smirked, eyes flicking toward him. “But?”

Clark sighed. “But my family’s here. The farm. My parents.”

She hummed, thoughtful. “That’s a good reason.” A pause. “But is it your reason?”

He looked at her then, really looked at her, and there was something in her expression—something knowing, something that told him she saw him in a way not many people did.

And it was terrifying.

Because Clark Kent had secrets.

He had walls.

And she—she made him want to break every single one.

The first time he kissed her, it was an accident.

Or maybe it wasn’t.

Maybe it was inevitable.

It had been a long day, one of those Smallville days where things got weird—where meteors and mutants and half-explained phenomena left him exhausted, left him questioning who he was and whether he could ever just be normal.

And then she was there.

Sitting on the porch of the Kent house, waiting for him like she knew he’d need her.

She didn’t ask questions, didn’t pry.

She just was.

And before he could stop himself, before he could think about all the reasons why this was a mistake—he kissed her.

Soft. Hesitant.

Like he was afraid she’d disappear.

But she didn’t.

She kissed him back, fingers curling into his flannel, grounding him.

And for the first time in a long time, Clark Kent wasn’t thinking about who he was supposed to be.

Just who he was.

But it wasn’t simple.

Nothing ever was with him.

Because the closer they got, the more dangerous it became.

He was terrified—not of her, but of himself. Of what he could do, of how easily he could break her if he ever lost control.

And she noticed. Of course, she did.

“Clark.” Her voice was softer than usual, a rare moment of vulnerability. “What are you so scared of?”

He swallowed hard, looking away. “You don’t understand.”

“Then make me understand.”

His hands curled into fists at his sides, muscles tight with the weight of everything he’d been holding back.

“I could hurt you,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Without meaning to. Without even realizing it. And I—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I can’t lose you.”

She was quiet for a moment before stepping closer, placing a hand against his chest.

“Clark.” Her fingers curled slightly in his shirt, grounding him. “I trust you.”

He closed his eyes, inhaling slowly. “You shouldn’t.”

“But I do.”

And just like that, the gravity between them pulled him in again.

And this time, he didn’t fight it.

#fluff #x reader #angst #hurt/comfort #sweet #longing #yearning #clark kent x reader #clark kent #superman #smallville #clark kent x you #dc universe #dcu

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imeriayapping · 2 days ago

Note

an angsty shark n' roses fic about their shift from childhood friends to current rivals? stranger? do whatever dynamic you want for them. Greatly appreciated, also I am in love with your work, you're lowkey carrying this ship on your back, goat.

Pedro misses the sea. He craves its’ comfort.

The dream of stepping into the water and never coming back is always there, lifting up the pressure of living off of him. Right now, that dream also contains Fermin, who is watching him make first step towards the place of no return. Fermin, who he also wants to steal; for them to seat on the beach after long day of training, before they’ll need to return to Pedro's childhood home because his parents are about to become too worried with how long they’ve been gone for.

He misses the sea. The calm and warmth that was there when he looked at the waves while sitting under the evening sun.

Right now, Pedro can't have none of those things.

Instead, he is sitting in his van. Silent, cold and alone. Somehow, this hurts more than any of his previous crashes.

But he knows that it’s the only right thing for him to do. They can't be close anymore. Not like that, at least.

They’re all grown up now and there’s no place for such a childish thing as love between them. It's the only way for them to be.

Pedro can't risk running into Fermin on track and have everything blow up right in his face.

Maybe, it will never stop hurting. Maybe, he will never feel as warm as he did once, sitting next to Fermin on the beach. Maybe, when he comes back to the sea, it won't calm him like it did once.

But it all will be worth it in the end. He is here; he fought for his place. No one will be able to take that away from him.

And Pedro will give anything away, if it means he will be able to chase all of the glory that there is left to get. Pole position was nice, but he knows, for a fact, that podium tastes better. Podiums are very nice too, but he can feel how much more his first win will be.

And, on some nights, he goes to sleep dreaming of the championship. It doesn't matter that the place on his bed beside him is cold.

It doesn't.

But not tonight. Tonight, instead of that, he's just laying in his bed that is simultaneously too small and too empty. He and Fermin spent too many nights cramped together in this place that now it feels cold and empty. It’s still and absolutely soundless, amplifying all of the thoughts in Pedro's head. Which is evidently doing no good for him. Obviously.

Right now, all Pedro can do is curse the whole paddock that made his van the safest and most convenient place to be themselves together.

Because, now, when he needs to hide, to pretend that no feelings were ever involved, it's impossible to do with every centimetre of the van being full to the brim with the memories of them.

And that's the last thing he needs at the moment.

It was hard enough to tell Fermin everything. To see hurt paint his features in real time. To maintain his indifference, not to rush to his side and comfort him.

But it was the right decision. They truly can't continue on like that. Can't keep getting even more intertwined. It will not only be huge risk at the track, but also...

What would happen if it comes to light? Their careers would be ruined without even starting properly.

So, Pedro truly made this decision for both of their sakes. Now, all that is left is to convince his stupid heart that Fermin should no longer occupy any space in it.

It hurts to even think about that, but it needs to happen no matter what.

He can't keep carrying Fermin in his heart like he had for the years before.

To be completely honest, Pedro is cursing himself at this very moment. Because, he should’ve predicted this. Should’ve never even let Fermin anywhere near his own heart. But what can you do, when you are ten and, suddenly, there is someone right in front of your face, whose passion for bikes is on par with your own?

There was no way Pedro could ignore him at the time.

He really should have, though.

With all of this, Pedro wonders: if he could go back in time to warn his old self of what was to come out of that innocent friendship - would he?

Because, even with how much it hurts to ignore Fermin now, he can't imagine going through his life without carrying this love inside of him. Honestly, looking at his life as a whole, he would probably be different person entirely. Love has the power to change people, and it clearly did so before.

So, Pedro needed to cut out the source of love, before it had the chance to influence his riding.

There is nothing more important than his riding.

He should focus on that instead of unnecessary feelings.

The gap in his heart is irrelevant.

#hiiii sorry that i took so long. hope you like it #please give me your thoughts bc i need motivation to finish my other work abt them 😭😭#pedro acosta #fermin aldeguer #sharks n' roses #i had some more ideas to write into this but this already took so much i didn't want to this to sit in my drafts for forever #also huge thanks to my bestie for redacting this before I posted bc this would be unrideable otherwise lmao #i wrote everything but one sentence on paper and it took forever to type back into my phone 😭

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mylo-space · 2 days ago

Text

How Little I Show

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But I didn’t-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Macaque shrugged, “Does it matter?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“At the party?” Wukong asked.

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

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

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

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

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

There was a moment that Macaque caught Wukong’s gaze, half-lidded and tired like he hadn’t slept since that night they’d shared, and he smiled. No sharp edges or mean show of teeth, just a barely-there curl of his lips that might have melted Wukong entirely were he not made of stone.

They didn’t speak the whole night, not when Wukong came back with the blindfolded MK, not when Macaque began helping Tang hang lanterns, not when Pigsy began passing around take-out boxes full of warm food, not even when they’d helped search for Sandy’s missing matches before remembering that Mei and Redson could light fireworks just fine without them. It didn’t feel like avoiding each other, just minding their space; they had whenever to talk, and didn't need to disrupt MK’s night to do it.

After Mei and Redson’s fifth round of fireworks and all the snacks Pigsy packed had been eaten, MK started nodding off on Wukong’s shoulder to the sound of whatever Tang had playing on the van’s radio. It wasn’t terribly late, certainly not the latest Wukong had ever partied, but after what MK had been through, he was amazed the poor kid managed as long as he did.

He brushed off any offers to help clean up, all but pushing MK and his friends into their van and rolling them down the mountain. Mei had insisted on one more group selfie gathered around one very sleepy Harbinger, and nobody–not even Redson–had the fortitude to dissuade her. Wukong smiled to himself as they drove out of sight, wondering if he could pester Mei into giving him a printed copy. It’d make a nice addition to the collection he had adorning the walls of the house.

“So,” and Wukong barely flinched at the sudden voice, his head whipping around to the noise, but Macaque chuckled anyway, “now that the kids are gone.” A small portal opened for Macaque to stick his arm through, and pulled it back out with two bottles in his hand.

Wukong’s tail flicked happily at the prospect of alcohol, but he did feel the need to point out, “Every single person here was an adult, you know.” He took a bottle and bit the cork, tugging it out and spitting it somewhere. It wasn’t as though he’d be capping it again before it was empty. “I oughta tell them you were holding out.”

Macaque pulled the cork from his own bottle with a lot more grace, “You oughta keep your trap shut about it,” he warned teasingly, “or I’m never doing anything nice for you again.” Wukong hummed around a swig, fruity and sweet, sharp and warm in the back of his throat–some kind of wine. Not as good as peach wine, but it’d do. “Speaking of nice,” Macaque continued, raising his own bottle to his lips, “I believe I owe you a conversation.”

“Oh, is that why you’re getting me drunk?” Wukong asked, “So you can talk circles around me all night?”

“I got alcohol so there’s something to blame if you say anything stupid,” Macaque corrected easily. “I know you’re a lightweight, but I didn’t anticipate getting you drunk with one bottle.”

Pursing his lips and blowing air through the space, Wukong mumbled, “You’re a mean, mean soul, you know that?” He summoned a cloud from the sky to rest on, his old, stone bones tired of sitting on the cave floor. “I don’t remember you being this mean.”

“You don’t?” Macaque asked, brow raised, “What, you killed me for being super, extra nice or somethin’?” Wukong choked on the word ‘killed’ and coughed the rest of the way through Macaque’s sentence. The shadow seemed nonplussed, amused, even, at the reaction, “Careful, Wukong,” he chided lightly, “gonna lose one of your immortalities hacking up a lung.”

“What-” Wukong nearly fell off the nimbus sitting up, glaring at Macaque with rising incredulity, “what the hell is your problem?” Not to say it hadn’t ever crossed his mind, their fight, the last and only real brawl he ever had with Macaque, but he certainly hadn’t expected the shadow to toss it out so casually, like small talk, like the city’s perfect weather or the who the actual mayor was.

Macaque blinked, “Oh. Too far, huh?” He pinched the bridge of his nose and scrubbed the pads of his fingers across his eyes. “S’my bad. I’ve, uh… had a few things on my mind lately. Trying to sort some stuff out.”

“Did going to the Underworld fuck with your head or something?” Wukong asked, and he didn’t mean to sound quite as hostile as he did, but Macaque didn’t appear to care, or perhaps acknowledged that it was deserved after his comment. “I’m allowed to ask why you went investigating now, right? Not gonna be dodgy or nothin’?”

“No dodging,” Macaque said, holding up his bottle, “that’s also what the alcohol’s for. Keeping my head on straight.”

Wukong snorted, “Don’t think anyone’s ever gotten tipsy to keep their head on straight.”

“Well, being sober didn’t get me any closer to figuring this out,” Macaque sighed, tipping back another swing of his wine. “Between these last few days and that little fireworks show, my head’s going to explode.” Wukong winced in sympathy–he had noticed that Macaque had stuck to the back of the cave for most of the celebration, perched atop Sandy’s van. “And if I can’t escape the headache anyway, might as well have it at the bottom of a bottle.”

Tsking, Wukong teased, “And you pride yourself on being the sensible one.” He allowed himself one more sip before doubling down on his need for answers. “Seriously, though. What’s got your tail in a knot these days, huh? You said something about Xianglu not sitting right with you.”

“Couple things,” Macaque replied, “like, when he claimed to know you.”

Wukong’s brow furrowed, struggling to recall the moment Macaque spoke of. It was fleeting and distant, a mere blip in the conversation compared to everything else that’d been happening around them. “Something about being old friends,” he remembered, “and old enemies.” He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter, I don’t remember him.” Macaque bit the inside of his cheek, looking contemplative. “Unless you think it does matter.”

“He said something to me, too,” Macaque explained. “Asked about my powers, where I got them,” his lips twisted into a scowl, “who I made a deal with.”

“For the shadows?” Wukong clarified, shifting to sit up properly on his cloud–carefully, with the mostly full bottle still in his hand. “I thought you always had that, the… the thing in your chest, that you can reach into.”

Macaque huffed, leaning against the nearest cave wall and sliding down, “I don’t think that’s what he was talking about.” He swirled his bottle of wine absently, “I could fight him, er- resist him, I guess, that magic of his.” Twin shudders raced down their spines; they didn’t acknowledge it. “But I never made a deal for any power. Or I don’t remember making one, anyway.”

“And I don’t remember ever being his enemy,” Wukong said slowly, “or his friend, for that matter.”

“Eh,” Macaque shrugged, raising the wine to his lips, “what’s the difference.” He either didn’t notice or didn’t care for Wukong’s withering glare, “Makes me wonder what else we don’t remember,” he added once he’d pulled the bottle away from his face.

The implication hadn’t occurred to Wukong, content to let Xianglu and all his off-putting comments fall by the wayside, but now that Macaque had brought it to the forefront of his mind, it was a thought that disturbed him more than he’d like to admit, “And you thought you’d find some answers in the Underworld…” Wukong started cautiously, “why?”

For a moment, Macaque said nothing, glaring at his bottle of wine like he could shatter it with his eyes, “Xianglu had been masquerading as one of the Ten Kings for years–eons, maybe. If I’ve got a magic similar enough to his to rival it, the Underworld would be the only connection we have.” He took another drink, three long gulps, like he was trying to down liquid courage, “What do you remember about the day I died?”

Wukong stared for a moment, trying to decipher the intention behind Macaque’s question, “You’re serious?” he asked. “Your plan for tonight was to party with the kid, get me drunk, and make us relive the worst day of our lives?” When Macaque didn’t refute the accusation, Wukong closed his eyes and tipped his head back, “This your idea of a good time? You just enjoy making me squirm, or what?”

“Yeah,” Macaque drawled, “I’m absolutely itching to have this conversation.” He lifted his wine, already more than half gone, as a show of exactly how thrilled he was. “You know I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t have to,” and Wukong did understand that Macaque’s death was a much more sensitive topic for the shadow than it was for the king–he didn’t have much to complain about, all things considered, but that didn’t make him any less receptive to the conversation. “Humor me,” Macaque shuffled to sit up straighter, though he still leaned against the cave wall like he’d fall over without it, “what do you remember?”

There was a long moment of Macaque staring at him expectantly that made Wukong want to shrivel up and hide in the nimbus, “M’uncomfortable,” he managed finally–with the conversation, with Macaque’s eyes on him, in a cave surrounded by stone, “let’s go back to the house,” he offered, lifting his bottle to take another drink–he’d need it to even approach the conversation Macaque wanted to have.

“Not portaling,” Macaque grunted, downing his own generous sip of wine. “And we still have to clean up.”

Wukong made a disgruntled noise around the rim of the bottle, abandoning the wine mid-drink to reply, “I’ll do it tomorrow.” Patting the space next to him, Wukong offered, “C’mon, plenty of room on Nimbus.”

Macaque snorted, “Your cloud is picky about its passengers, remember? I don’t think it’s gonna hold me.”

“I’ll hold you,” Wukong replied before he could give it much thought. “Just- get on the cloud.” Macaque grumbled something about having just gotten comfortable, but stood. The hand not holding the bottle of wine pressed against the cloud’s surface tentatively; he didn’t fall through, but Wukong held his arm, anyway, letting Macaque lean on him like he needed the support.

Drunk and tired and not particularly looking forward to the landing, Wukong slowly steered the wisp beneath them to the house. Macaque’s tail flicked idly behind him, rumpling Wukong’s cape every few swipes, “You’re taller now,” Macaque said suddenly, “you know that? You used to be this scrappy little guy, running around, causing mischief. No one could believe you were the great and powerful Monkey King until you proved it.”

“I’m broader, too,” Wukong noted, “MK calls it a ‘dad bod’. Mei said it was fitting that a stone monkey would be built like, uh… a brick shithouse. Or whatever.” He shouldered Macaque, “Surprised they haven’t made any comments about you, huh? You’re a stereotype: tall, dark, and handsome.” He made an unsure sound, “Well, not tall, but you know what I mean. You’re tall-er.”

“Was.” Macaque head lolled a bit, eyes sliding closed–perhaps feeling the alcohol a bit now that it’d had time to settle. “Not anymore. Noticed it on your Journey.”

Pointedly keeping his gaze trained on the horizon, Wukong asked, “For the Rings?”

“No,” Macaque replied quietly. He let the wind rush past their ears for a moment before continuing, “I guess if those Pilgrims were good for anything, it was making sure you ate at least two meals a day.” Wukong could feel Macaque’s laugh more than hear it, a puff of air lost on the breeze, “Always did wonder if your exclusively peach-themed diet was stunting your growth.”

“And you’re not-” Wukong’s claws tightened around his wine, “you haven’t grown at all?”

Macaque hummed, “Don’t think I ever will again.” His eyes cracked open a bit, staring listlessly at the space in front of him, “Tested it. Don’t gain weight, can’t lose it, definitely haven’t grown at all.” A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I don’t even bleed so good anymore, s’probably on account of the, uh- heart thing.”

“Heart thing?” Wukong asked, voice strained, the little alcohol he’d drunk sitting uncomfortably in his stomach. “Do I even wanna know?”

“A non-issue. It still beats,” Macaque assured him–a fragile reassurance, all things considered, but Macaque seemed to think, “s’fine,” so Wukong didn’t comment. He steered the cloud towards the ground upon spotting the house, and Macaque’s eyes flicked open a little more at the abrupt change of direction. “You in a rush or somethin’?”

“I wish you were in a rush to pick a different topic,” Wukong admitted, lowering their ride until it hovered just a few inches off the ground. “I’m still not totally convinced you aren’t doing this as some… some plot, to mess with me.”

Taking Wukong’s offered hand, Macaque slid off the cloud, “Ah, you got me; my dastardly plan all along was to make you participate in uncomfortable conversation.” He bumped shoulders with Wukong as they trudged up the steps of the house. “Just drink your wine. You’ll feel better.”

Wukong shouldered the door open and held it for Macaque, “Look, after the Hundred-Eyed Demon, this whole situation is already pretty raw,” he admitted. “You can’t blame me for being reluctant.”

Macaque gave him an odd look from the threshold, “Is that what he showed you?” he asked curiously, genuine surprise laced into his words.

“I mean,” Wukong’s gaze flitted away, “yeah. That last fight, it’s- it was easily the worst day of my life, so…”

“Oh,” Macaque’s brow furrowed for a moment, “okay.” He slipped in the open door and started for the couch, “Alright, time to talk.”

Sighing, Wukong closed the door and followed Macaque, sitting on the couch opposite of where Macaque had made his claim, “You really think talking about this will help you figure out what Xianglu said?” Macaque shrugged, setting his bottle on the floor and staring at Wukong expectantly. “And you’re not asking me about this just to fuck with me?”

“I understand that you’re not trying to be an asshole right now,” Macaque said coolly, “but the implication that this conversation is going fuck with you and not me is laughable.” And Wukong understood that Macaque was trying to be gentle, but the alcohol did quite a number on both their filters. “So, what do you remember about the day I died?”

Wukong pressed the bottle in his hands to his forehead, letting the cool glass soothe his frazzled mind for a moment before managing, “I remember us brawling our way out of Buddha’s home,” he recalled sullenly, “and I remember that my master, he-” He grit his teeth for a moment, chewing on the words for a moment before realizing there was no kinder way of saying, “restrained you.” Macaque hummed. “The same spell we used for the Lady Bone Demon.”

“Blue chains,” Macaque remembered, “not a good time for me.”

“You did knock him unconscious,” Wukong defended the monk fiercely, though his voice was weak, “and stole our supplies. And threatened the pilgrimage. You understand how he thought that spell was necessary, right?”

Macaque nodded, “I understand why the monk thought it was needed,” he agreed easily. “But I’m not angry with the monk.”

Snorting, Wukong grumbled, “Could’ve fooled me.” Macaque raised an eyebrow at him, and he shook his head. “Whatever. So, I- you, the Demon Bull King, and Camel Ridge were all still technically wanted for treason against the Jade Emperor.” His grip tightened around the bottle, “I don’t think you deserved to get put in a box for… petty revenge. I was only going to let the monk contain you until the end of the Journey, and only because I couldn’t guarantee that the Celestial Realm wouldn’t make me do worse.”

“So… you were saving me,” Macaque supplied, a small disbelieving laugh spilling out of him, and Wukong couldn’t blame him. Much like most of Wukong’s plans over the years, it wasn’t until he was forced to voice his thoughts out loud that he realized how ridiculous it sounded. “That was your logic?”

“I never claimed it was a smart idea,” Wukong admitted, “I think turning my back on you that day was the worst decision I ever made.” His eyes opened just enough to glare at the bottle still resting against his forehead. “That’s why I told you to leave when you got free. I didn’t think you’d-”

“Stop,” Macaque interjected firmly. He didn’t sound angry, but the sound was sharp enough that Wukong lifted his head to meet Macaque’s gaze. “Say that again.”

Wukong huffed out a breath and took a drink, trying desperately to pretend that Macaque’s amber gaze wasn’t burning a hole in the side of his head. “Your magic went haywire. Damn near swallowed you whole,” he elaborated. “Looked like it was trying to rip you out of the chains, and it- I guess it did. The spell turned corrupted and red and spat you out.” He swallowed back a bitterness, trying to focus on the burn of alcohol in his throat. “And then I told you to leave, before we had to imprison you again.” He chewed on his lip until it broke the skin, then released it, letting the wound zip itself shut again, “And then you tried to… Macaque, you know, don’t make me-”

“Do you have any idea how much energy it took to break that spell?” Macaque asked. “We’d already fought each other all over the Realms; my magic went haywire because I overworked it–way worse than what I did to escape Xianglu. I blacked out breaking those chains,” he extended a hand to the open space between the TV and the couch, two shadows playing across the floor, “I woke up to this-”

There were many reasons to admire the Six-Eared Macaque, despite what got written in the book, but Wukong had always been particularly fond of Macaque’s knack for theater. He was sat on the literal edge of his seat, scooting up on the couch to watch the small display. He was certain it’d have been much more elaborate if Macaque weren’t inebriated, or had more time, but Wukong was more than capable of deciphering the two outlines before him.

Wukong watched the wispy chains snap and a shape collapse. The outline of Macaque dragged itself up, head tilted up at the second shadow and its glowing circlet–and Wukong remembered the moment, Macaque staring up, eyes wide and tired and disbelieving and scared as Wukong beared down on him. But it’d happened long into a hard-fought battle, begging Macaque to back down before Wukong had to do something he regretted; it hadn’t happened like this, but-

He didn’t want to think too hard about the implications, what must have been going through Macaque’s mind, blinking himself awake and looking up to see Wukong preparing to deliver a killing blow. The two shadowy figures collided and dissipated, the intent behind it clear–the last, decisive blow of their fight, Wukong barely remembered, not the first, “We fought,” Wukong told himself, firmly, like he had to convince himself. Then louder, “You tried killing the monk and laughed.” He turned to Macaque, his thoughts frantically trying–and failing–to piece together anything other than, “We fought.”

“Killing the-” Macaque sat up straighter on the couch, “Dude, I was already pushing my luck impersonating you and the Pilgrims; why would I go killing Buddha’s precious little errand boy?” He gestured at Wukong, “I saw what happened to the last guy who pissed off Buddha, remember? You think I’d sign myself up for five-hundred years under a mountain?”

“You think I would kill you for escaping?” Wukong fired back, a snarl on the corner of his lips that wilted at Macaque’s expression, claws dug into the arm of the chair and amber eyes glaring pointedly at anything but Wukong, “No, you-” realization crashed into Wukong like a wave, “you did. This whole time, you thought-”

“You said the seal turned corrupted when I escaped,” Macaque pressed, ignoring Wukong’s revelation. “What’d it look like?”

For a moment, Wukong couldn’t pry his gaze from Macaque’s face. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, and Macaque refused to meet his eyes, anyway, “I only caught a glimpse,” he said, turning his attention to his wine, which, all things considered, he hadn’t drank nearly enough of. “The seal was blue until your shadows got ahold of it. It turned corrupted and-” his breath hitched for a moment, catching another stray thought and shoving into the mess of puzzle pieces, “and red.” He ran a hand through his hair, “But it wasn’t- your magic was still purple when we fought, like your normal shadows, but the spell-”

“Turned red,” Macaque supplied. He downed the last of his wine and extended his hand again. “Did it look anything like this?”

Wukong nearly recoiled at the wisp of crimson that rose from Macaque’s palm, but he settled for tightening his grip around the neck of his wine. It somehow seemed like the answer to all of Wukong’s questions, if only he could decipher it. “So…” the sage started carefully, “what does this mean?”

“I don’t know,” Macaque said quietly. “But it’s… I guess it changes some things.”

“Changes-” Wukong stood to start pacing the room, the sudden rush of adrenaline running wild and cold in his veins, “We’ve been at each other’s throats for centuries over that fight,” he pointed an accusing finger at the crimson flame curling around Macaque’s fingers, “and you’re telling me it’s all because of that?”

Macaque sighed, “I don’t know,” he reiterated firmly. “Apparently, I don’t even remember dying right. At this point, you have more information than I do.” Suddenly eager to not be in his right mind, Wukong cursed and started draining his bottle of wine. “Not any closer to learning about this magic, but that’s one hell of a revelation.”

“What are you-” Wukong whirled on him incredulously. “Seriously? You’re taking this at face value?” He pressed a hand against his chest, “I’m the Monkey King, remember? Trickster god! What if I’m lying to you about the fight, huh?” He wasn’t, but it seemed hasty on Macaque’s part, to believe him so easily, “How can you just- you can’t just believe me.”

“I can, actually, because you’re a terrible liar,” Macaque replied easily, “I’d know if you weren’t telling me the truth,” He raised an eyebrow, “I, on the other hand, am a great liar,” his head tilted curiously, “so, why do you believe me?”

“Because I-” Wukong faltered, his head struggling to form a complete sentence through his whirling thoughts and the alcohol fuzzing the edge of his vision. “I don’t know, I just- I do.” Energy drained, Wukong sat back down on the couch, tossing aside his empty bottle and pressing his face into his hands.

He couldn’t put a number to how many times he’d turned that last fight with Macaque over in his head, trying to pinpoint when his best friend had become someone he didn’t recognize, someone willing to kill and laugh himself into hysterics about it. It’d been the worst fight of Wukong’s life, and it was incomprehensible to him that he and Macaque could have ever been pushed to a place where one would have to kill the other, and yet-

“I spent so long thinking you’d turned into some kind of monster,” Wukong admitted quietly. “I couldn’t tell you how many years I spent in denial, trying to think of any conceivable way that wasn’t you. And there wasn’t one. I needed an explanation, and there was just- there was nothing. My soft-spoken, sensible, loyal friend went on a murderous rampage, and I-” he curled in on himself, “and I killed you.”

Macaque was quiet for a moment, and Wukong had to dig his claws into the palms of his hands to keep himself tethered to the house. “I was going to disappear,” he murmured finally. “I remember blacking out after that spell and thinking… if I could just escape, I’d go find a hole to crawl in and stay there, you know?”

“Why?” Wukong asked.

“Dunno,” Macaque replied honestly, “I thought maybe it’d serve you right, if you came back from your grand adventure and I wasn’t home waiting for you, like I’d always been.” Wukong dragged his hands away from his eyes just enough to peer over at Macaque. The shadow had slumped against the arm of the chair, his gaze distant and staring through the walls. “Or maybe I just wanted to see if you would have come looking.” Macaque shook his head, “Wasn’t thinking very clearly, obviously, after overexerting my core like that, but-”

“And then I killed you,” Wukong reiterated helplessly.

Groaning, Macaque’s head tipped back. “Just keep saying it over and over again, Wukong,” he sighed, “I’m sure it’ll make you feel better, eventually.”

“You saved me,” Wukong realized suddenly, his attention wrenching away from the bloodied fists of centuries past and forcing him to remember the Lady, the Scroll, Li Jing, the end of the world, “You spent centuries thinking I’d killed you in cold blood, and you just kept coming back.” Macaque didn’t bother lifting his head from where it lay staring at the ceiling. “Why?”

Macaque ran a hand over his face, his expression contemplative, “I don’t know,” he said thoughtfully, “maybe I just spent a lot of time trying to figure out why you did what you did, and no explanation satisfied me. You couldn't possibly have done it. But you did.” He huffed out a laugh. “I wasn’t exactly happy to accept that you were the kind of person who killed his best friend for the next best thing.”

“Macaque-” Wukong choked out.

“I think I’m just relieved that I got an explanation,” Macaque finished. “Or something like an explanation, anyway. Still know jackshit about this magic, but… that fight makes a little more sense, I guess.” He turned to Wukong with a faltering smile curling the corner of his lips, “Maybe saving your ass hasn’t been a total waste of time then, huh?”

It couldn’t possibly be this easily, Wukong thought distantly, staring blankly at Macaque’s attempt at humor, banter, amidst the absolute whirlwind of information they’d uncovered. Wukong had an enemy he couldn’t remember, and Macaque had powers he couldn’t remember getting, and they both remembered two very different versions of the fight that’d ripped them away from each other–and they didn’t know why. And it almost didn’t even matter, because Wukong was bottle-deep in wine and just inebriated enough to admit, “I missed you.”

The already tentative smile on Macaque’s face turned confused, “You what?”

“I missed you,” Wukong took a ragged breath, a futile attempt at steadying his fracturing voice, and Macaque sat up with a furrow in his brow that almost looked like concern. “I- maybe the alcohol was a mistake,” because he wanted to grab Macaque and yank him close, like he could bridge the millennia of distance between them in a single night. His fingers twitched with it, the urge to grasp and sink his claws into something and steal it away.

“Oh, not a fan of wine, suddenly?” Macaque asked, a playful taunt lilting his voice, “Thought you liked having your inhibitions lowered.” He chuckled a bit, “Or was it the flavor? I can get you a peach one next time.”

Wukong shook his head, “Just makes me honest,” he admitted; made him want things, made his hands itch. “Makes me- I want… I don’t know.”

Macaque snorted, “Since when are you shy about the things you want?” His grin became a bit more genuine, softer, “Or do you have to wait until the end of the world now,” he asked teasingly, “to ask for something so small?” Wukong blinked as Macaque extended a hand to him, staring at the space between them uncomprehendingly. “C’mon, Wukong, I don’t bite.”

“Yes, you do,” Wukong argued, almost second-nature, but he reached, anyway, grazing the pads of Macaque’s fingers.

“Well,” Macaque hummed, turning his hand over and letting Wukong trace the shape of his knuckles idly, “I won’t bite much,” he amended.

He’d blame the alcohol, Wukong decided, if ever asked why he’d grabbed Macaque’s hand and pulled, he’d blame the storm of emotions and the sweet wine sitting warm in his stomach and throat. Macaque made some strangled sound as he was yanked gracelessly across the couch, but Wukong crushed it into his chest, “Wukong-”

“Shut up,” Wukong interjected weakly, wrangling Macaque impossibly closer. The shadow could have slipped away from him and they both knew it, Wukong’s clumsy hands rendered almost useless with emotion and alcohol, but he stayed.

Wukong twisted to get his legs on the couch and under Macaque, letting the warrior sit high with auburn fur tucked under his chin. Macaque’s breath came in unsure gasps, a near-imperceptible tremble in Wukong’s arms, but he stayed–probably out of sheer stubbornness, just to prove he could let Wukong hold him without a fight between them. Wukong couldn’t say he cared much about the actual reason, not when he had the familiar weight of Macaque back in his arms after centuries of going without.

“Maybe the alcohol was a mistake,” Macaque said unsteadily, a hesitant laugh on his words. Wukong had half a mind to let go, some sharp ache of worry burrowing into his chest–it was the most physical contact they’d had in ages, and by far the kindest, but perhaps too much, too soon–but he melted at the feeling of claws running careful lines through his fur, untangling the strands and smoothing the curls back into place. “Forgot how clingy you can get.”

Humming, Wukong pressed his face into Macaque’s scarf to hear the heartbeat. It’d always been a comfort, of sorts; a lifetime ago, Wukong had tangled himself around Macaque any time he could, just to feel the shadow breathing. The heartbeat was a balm to that centuries old Macaque-shaped wound in his heart, and his eyes slipped closed, hoping to hear it steady itself as the warrior calmed.

Except that it was steady. Wukong pressed his hands into Macaque back with a frown, feeling the shadow tense under him, and yet- “Does your heart always do that?” he asked quietly.

“What,” Macaque asked, voice strained and breathless, “beat?” Wukong turned to press his face into Macaque’s hanfu, and the hands in his hair followed the motion easily, steady in their carding even with Macaque’s uncertainty. “I told you it beats.”

“You’re freaking out,” Wukong mumbled, ignoring Macaque’s scoff, “but it’s slow. Your heartbeat, it’s… but it shouldn’t-” His frazzled, buzzing mind thought back to their conversation on the cloud. “Is that the heart thing you were talking about?”

Macaque made a vague noise of confirmation, “S’kinda nice sometimes,” he said absently. “Makes training easier, in any case. I still get tired, but my heart just,” Wukong could feel him shrug, “beats. It’s all like that now. I can eat, but I’m not hungry; my heart beats, but it won’t race.” Wukong’s eyes slid closed again at Macaque’s chuckle, “It’s also pretty great for when you’re throwing me around,” he added, “told you, I don’t bleed so good.”

If Wukong were in a more stable frame of mind, he might’ve been embarrassed about the sound that escaped him, growling like a wounded dog and winding his arms tighter around Macaque, “Don’t,” he pleaded quietly.

Lithe hands slid under his cape to drag up and down his back, “Okay,” Macaque replied, “we’ll save the teasing for another time.” Wukong mumbled… something. A response of some kind, he was sure, but if Macaque’s resounding laugh was anything to go by, it wasn’t a particularly coherent one. “You’re hopeless.”

“I’m tired,” Wukong corrected. The alcohol in his system was making itself known, and their conversation was a distant thought, all the tension and emotion and adrenaline draining out of him. “I wanna lay down,” he decided.

“Gotta let me up, then,” Macaque shifted as if to move, pry himself away from Wukong, and the Stone Monkey was grateful that he didn’t have to be particularly lucid to make that difficult, simply locking all his joints in place and letting Macaque struggle against the statue he’d become. “Wukong. Dude, come on,” he pressed his hands to Wukong’s shoulders and pushed, “lemme up. Go lay in your hammock so I can head down to the beach and-”

Wukong grunted his displeasure at the idea and rolled them, shoving Macaque into the back of the couch and curling around him. He was glad Macaque brought the alcohol, he thought blearily, he might not have had the stones to hold Macaque otherwise.

“Are you-” Macaque wriggled a bit, trying to make himself comfortable where Wukong had him pinned to the couch, “you’re kidding me.” Wukong tried not to focus too much on how much smaller Macaque was. The shadow had never been fragile, Wukong felt like the slender frame in his arms might break or fracture or disappear or- “I’m punching you about this in the morning,”

“M’kay,” Wukong said agreeably, wrapping his arms around Macaque and burrowing his face into soft, raven fur, “best punch of my life.” He let himself be lulled by the scent of incense and petrichor and resolved to deal with his more embarrassing emotions when the sun rose. “Missed this.”

Macaque sighed, letting his head rest against Wukong’s chest in defeat, “Can’t wait to hear how much you regret this tomorrow,” he said, “when we wake up sore from laying like this, I don’t wanna hear anything from you.” Wukong hummed in agreement, “And if you get all huffy and embarrassed about the cuddling, don’t blame me,” he added, “I tried getting you into your hammock.”

Wukong shushed Macaque, batting aimlessly at his scarf. “Embarrassed about nothin’,” he said, “finally got you right where I want you.” He yawned, jaw cracking with the force of it, “Besides, we agreed to blame the alcohol.”

“Yeah, well, I’m still gonna blame you,” Macaque scrubbed his face into Wukong’s chest, “I’m allowed. You killed me, remember? I get to blame you for whatever I want.”

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Wukong grouched. “This- that’s not a ‘funny haha’ joke, Mac, and you don’t get to make it.” Macaque gave an amused, knowing grunt, like he knew that Wukong knew there was no real way of stopping him, “At least give it… I don’t know, two weeks or somethin’. Time to process. It’ll be easier to hear it.”

“Sure, Wukong,” Macaque yawned. It was familiar, Wukong thought distantly, almost like nothing had changed at all. Or everything had. Wukong was too tired and too content to think about it too hard, “Whatever you say.”

They were both losing their battles with consciousness and Wukong wanted to at least beat Macaque if he couldn’t win against his drooping eyelids. And he wanted the last word, for once, even if the thoughts behind it weren’t particularly put together. “Not like that,” he scolded Macaque, “don’t want this like that.” He shook his head at Macaque’s questioning hum. “I don’t want a… whatever you say,” he tried to elaborate, “I want it however we say.” A bit more sobering, he added, “I want you to get a say.”

Macaque hummed, letting his head fall back against Wukong’s chest, mumbling something that sounded like agreement. Maybe contentment. Maybe Macaque was just too tired to argue with him about it anymore. Maybe they were two tired old celestials that needed sleep, and Wukong didn’t need to think about it too hard–and couldn’t, finally letting his eyelids slip closed.

He imagined they’d both be a lot grumpier in the morning, Macaque especially, with his sensitive hearing, grousing over a cup of coffee and nursing a small hangover, and it’d probably be the best morning Wukong ever woke up to. It’d be everything he ever wanted, waking up on Flower Fruit Mountain with Macaque by his side–he’d wake up next to a grouch every day if it meant waking up to something real.

It wasn’t quite the picture of forever Wukong had painted all those centuries ago–they still had more questions than answers and years and years and years’ worth of issues to sort through–but it was more realistic, Wukong supposed, more tangible than the empty, picturesque promises he’d made to an agreeable, loyal warrior. A grumpy Macaque was one he could hold, at least, a suspicious Macaque was one he could grasp with both hands and never let go of, Macaque was Macaque, no matter what form he took.

He almost didn’t want to let sleep take him, just to savor the moment a little while longer. Tipsy and tired and standing at the beginnings of a brand new forever, Wukong couldn’t think of anything he’d wanted less than to fall asleep and miss a single moment he could be spending with Macaque.

But sleep took him, anyway, while he was distracted thinking about something or another–things changing and leaving and staying. The world was ever-evolving, but it still spun round and round and empires rose and fell and the tidal wave of the universe always, always brought back the things that were meant to be there; Macaque was back in his arms, almost like nothing had changed at all–almost, except for most things, but almost nothing, in the grand scheme of things.

The most important things always seemed to make their way back to him eventually, and Wukong supposed if he’d already waited a millennia to have Macaque back, then just waiting until morning couldn’t be all that bad.

#mylo's lmk stories #cross posted on ao3 #lego monkie kid #lmk sun wukong #lego monkie kid sun wukong #lmk macaque #lego monkie kid macaque #shadowpeach #lmk fanfiction

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