The trip was meant to be quick. Get in, grab what they needed, get out.
That is how things usually followed—Macaque never liked to stay in the village for long, not with the screaming babes and frequent festivities. It was a shame it happened to be the only place to house his favorite tea. He’d much rather be back in the lush groves of Flower Fruit Mountain, splitting fruits with Wukong and kissing the sweetness from his mouth. Soon, he tells himself, if only he could find the marketplace. And Wukong, who had run off some time ago in hopes of them covering more ground in their search. Macaque huffs. His ears flick in irritation beneath the heavy glamours. He rounds the corner of a narrow passageway that cuts across the back end of the village, just as a high sound pierces his ears. Heat and shock flush his face. For all his centuries of existence, Macaque is at a complete loss at how to describe what it is he has become witness to.
His eyes flash between the man and woman tucked away in a dark corner. Had the woman not have keened, he may have passed them all together, dismissing their sounds as part of the village’s endless clamour. The man, common in build, has her hoisted up on the ledge of a building, head delved between her thighs. His ears twitch as he hears the wet flick of tongue. Surely, he was not. The woman’s lips part, eyes fluttering as her fingers slide into the man’s hair. There was no mistaking it, the undulation of her hips, the slick, wet noise that drowns out the rest of the village. But why? He knew humans often expected their women to provide acts of service for their husbands, but the men? Unless this was another form of service he was not aware of? But what could human men gain from something that seemed so subservient? What about this was so rewarding for them? The woman’s legs begin to shake, and the man pulls her further onto his mouth.
A heavy hand pulls him from his daze, and a scent, summer sweet, whisks away any curiosities about humans and their strange customs. Wukong.
Perhaps it is the trick of the light, but Macaque would swear he sees pink dusting the cheeks of Wukong’s human disguise. “I found the tea,” he says, holding up a small box with a familiar symbol carved into the wood. Macaque had forgotten about it. “Let’s go.”
They ride home on Wukong’s nimbus cloud, Macaque clutching at his waist, and resting his face on that strong back. He feels the muscles beneath shift into that of familiarity, and he drops his own glamour, keeping his ears tucked flat against his head so the wind does not grate him. He closes his eyes, remembers how the woman’s eyes had rolled back, the way the man had clung to her, almost desperately. But why, he asks himself again. What could be so fulfilling that it would bring the most prideful of creatures to its knees? He replays the image again, but is startled by dainty fingers being replaced by thick ones, rich black tainting what was once warm brown. He thinks he sees a face, one he would know even in blindness, and something heavy leaps into his throat, stirs his gut. He forces his eyes open.
“We are home,” Wukong says, the setting sun catching his mane and reflecting it like water. Eyes like baskets of gold watch him carefully as his feet fall steady to the ground. Wukong pulls him to his side by the waist. “Come on,” he says, cheery to an unusual extent. “I think the figs are just about ripened now. We can eat while you brew this.”
He slips the box into Macaque’s hands before bounding off. Macaque thumbs over the carvings on the front, thinking. It occurs to him then, that Wukong does not even like the taste of tea, much preferring the fresh press of fruits from the mountain’s abundant groves. Now that he truly thinks about it, Wukong didn’t care much for humans either. He does not hold the same disdain for them as Macaque did, but the ones that inhabit the village could not entertain him or pique his interest the way demons or godlings could, and they could not provide him with any value or kinship like his troop. If anything, he found these particular humans to be something of an annoyance, but that was only because Macaque viewed them as such. Yet he went into the village anyway, had sought out something he had no use for. And all because I asked.
The thrill of it is terrifyingly electric. The image of the man and woman impresses itself upon his vision again, only this time, he is deliberate in warping it to his liking. And oh, how he likes. How far could he push this? How far would Wukong be willing to go for him if he simply asked?
How much of himself would he allow Macaque to take?
The smell of lavender cuts through his senses. His hands are warm from the cup of hot tea he brings to his mouth, a cup he does not recall brewing. How long did the idea entrance him for?
He watches from beneath his lashes, the way Wukong brings a fig to his mouth, how a bead of juice slips from the corners of his lips, slides down the length of his throat. Macaque wants to chase it with his tongue.
Later, he tells himself. He draws another sip from his cup, looks out onto the plentiful fields, the view of the shore from the cliff face. The sun is sinking slowly behind the horizon line, and the reflection of it on the clear waters reminds him once more of the way Wukong’s mane tumbles over his shoulders in wild waves. Their eyes meet, and Wukong brings a fig to Macaque’s mouth so he may eat from his hands. The soft skin breaks beneath his teeth, and rich sweetness bursts on his tongue. Their eyes do not waver from one another. Wukong presses another bite to his lips. It will not take long.
He does not mean to bring it up when he does. He had planned a carefully crafted approach, was steadily building up the courage to face what would most likely be rejection. But these past days have been nothing if not ruthless on his ears; the preparation for the village’s latest festival. The noisiness of it had led him to lash out, snapping at anyone or anything that would make the slightest of noise. Wukong, the primary victim of this, took his cutting words with grace, accepted his countless apologies all while he soothed the aches of sound with his thumb, rubbing the shells of his ears and cupping them until the world would silence and all he could hear was the thrum of Wukong’s pulse beating through the heat of his hands.
Today had been what he assumes was the worst of it: the day of the festival. He could hear them, even now, their hollers and cheers. The banging of drums, the clash of instruments. The worst of it was over now, the result of the festival coming to an end, but a particularly loud noise has his head jerking from its place in Wukong’s lap. Deft fingers drift to the back of his ears, soothing the festering ache there.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Wukong murmurs, voice as soft as a mortal’s. Macaque gives a half-hearted shrug, burying his face into his makeshift pillow: Wukong’s thigh. Wukong sighs. “I could always kill them for you. Or frighten them until they stop at least.”
“Their screams would be louder. It’s over now, anyway,” he mumbles. He turns his face to kiss where thigh meets hip. “Thank you, though, my king.”
Wukong rubs one of his lobes between his thumb and forefinger gently before sliding down to caress the soft skin of the back of his ears. A purr builds in the back of his throat, escaping with a satisfied huff. He hears Wukong smile. “I’d do anything for you, Liu’er, you know that.”
The abrupt ring of the woman’s high noise echoes in his thoughts. The weight of Wukong’s gliding fingers feels so much heavier now, and he imagines them slipping into his mane. I’d do anything for you. He had said it so casually, as if he did not know what those words carried. Or perhaps he did, perhaps he knew the effect those words would have on Macaque, how they plagued his every waking thought.
“Would you?” he hears himself say, but he does not feel his mouth move. It is as if he is disconnected from his body, as if the want for it had sharpened into its own will. His eyes slide open and he forces himself to meet Wukong’s questioning gaze. “Would you really?”
Wukong tilts his head, wisps of mane falling handsomely over his eyes. Some would think gold on gold would clash, but to Macaque they are fools. He had never seen something so beautiful. “You are so good to me,” Wukong says, with enough earnest to make Macaque feel flush with it. “How could I not?” He must see the redness of his face, the want in his gaze even in the steadily darkening room. His hand travels to the apple of his cheek, and he thumbs over it with such tenderness that it makes his heart swell. “What is it? You only need to ask.”
Macaque feels small under the intensity of his gaze. Never had he before heard of a god-like creature devoting himself to such a lesser being. Scum, some would say. A pathetic excuse of a demon. Yet here he was, on the receiving end of that god’s affection, who was waiting to give him whatever it was he desired, so long as he was the one to speak it so. This—this is so much more than trust. This is power. And it is all his.
He finds the strength to speak. “Do you remember the last time we visited the village?”
“For tea? Yes, I remember.”
“The… those humans. The ones who, well, you know…”
It is Wukong’s turn to flush. Still, he does not break his gaze from Macaque’s. “What of them?”
“I want—I want to try. What they did. With you.” There. He watches Wukong’s body language for any signs of disgust or rejection. He sees how his pupils dilate. How his tail hits the bedding. How his pulse quickens.
How he twitches beneath his trousers.
“You want me to do that? With my mouth?”
Macaque shakes his head. Flustering Wukong made him feel bolder, more sure. “I want to do it.”
“But—but how? I do not have the right parts, unless you mean to—”
“You’ve mastered the art of transformation, have you not?”
He almost laughs then. He had never thought he would live to see the day when Sun Wukong, the Great Monkey King, would ever look so properly scandalized.
“You want me to use my magic for something like—like that!”
“You wouldn’t be changing all of you,” Macaque says, as if it made all the difference. Perhaps it would. “Just the parts that matter.” He curls into his stomach a little, widens his eyes to a plea, and reaches for Wukong’s face, curving his hand along his jaw. “Please, my king?” Then he adds, with desperation he finds he does not have to force, “I want to taste you.”
Wukong closes his eyes, leans into his touch. His face is deliciously red, hot against Macaque’s palm. He exhales shakily. “How important is this to you?”
“I will not force you.” He does not even think he is capable. “And I will not ask again if it bothers you.”
Wukong searches his face for something, and what he finds, Macaque is not sure. He smiles at him then, warm and healing, and leans to press their lips together. “Alright.”
He draws Macaque up from his lap, then pulls him down until he is on all fours, caging Wukong’s body with his own. He runs a clawed hand through the wildness of Macaque’s mane, fingers dancing down his scalp in every way Macaque had dreamt they would. He reaches the back of his neck and clasps tight. “What are you waiting for?” Wukong asks with a feigned coyness. “I thought you were going to have your way with me?”
He spreads his legs, allows Macaque to find comfort between them. Macaque bends his head for a kiss, and feeds on that awaiting, open mouth. He slides a hand between Wukong’s thighs, and is only a little surprised to find that there is no hardness pressing into his palm. When he pulls away to look at Wukong’s face, the king is turning away from him, hiding his face within the crook of his arm. Heat coils low in his belly, blood sings beneath his skin as he slowly, slowly inches his hand past the waistband of Wukong’s trousers and ghosts his fingers over soft, wet heat.
“Look at me,” he croaks. “Please.”
It almost looks painful to do so, but Wukong turns his head, finds his eyes. There is an embarrassed waver to his voice as he whispers, “Go on.”
Macaque expects to find resistance when he sinks a finger inside, prepares to push past it. But Wukong opens up for him easily, with such little effort that he wonders if it is natural. Inside is burning, so hot the heat of it sweats his palm. It’s hotter than Macaque has ever felt, wet and petal soft. Macaque is stunned, too dazed to move until Wukong’s muscles clench and cinch his finger, and he throbs in his pants. What he wouldn’t give to feel this on his cock.
He shifts his finger around, sinks it in to the knuckle, and draws it out slowly, along with his hand from Wukong’s pants. Wukong’s eyes widen in disbelief as he sucks his finger into his mouth.
“So fucking good.” He hadn’t expected to become as enthralled as he had with the strange taste on his tongue. There was something odd about it, not quite on the cusp of sweet, something like musk, but even that doesn’t quite seem to fit. What he does know is that it is so uniquely Wukong, and that alone makes him crave more.
He crawls down the length of Wukong’s body, grasping at his trousers, and draws them down his legs. He tosses them to the side, lays flat on his stomach and hooks his arms under Wukong’s knees, spreading his legs and revealing him to the eye. And there it is, that delicate, blushed and weeping parted flesh. Wukong throws an arm over his eyes. Macaque feels the muscles of his thighs, hard as stones, quiver in anticipation. “Hurry,” he whispers, and who is Macaque not to oblige?
He spreads him further with two hands, descends to kiss him where he is wettest. His lips come back sticky and slick-stained. His tongue falls from his mouth, and he licks a hot stripe from his hole to that twitching bud at his apex. Wukong gasps a wheezing breath. “Again, do that again.”
He does, eyes closing as he begins to memorize this new version of Wukong: the way the hard planes of his abdomen clench at every press of his tongue. How his moans roll animalistically in the back of his throat. He flicks his tongue over that bud experimentally—the clitoris he had heard it once be called—and quickly learns the sensitivity of it. He learns to wrap his lips around it, to suck if he wants to rip a wounded cry from Wukong’s throat, to let his breath caress it to hear Wukong beg. Most of all, he learns why that man had fallen so easily to his knees. This? This was heaven on earth. From the way Wukong’s chest heaves, to his slack jaw and dewy fur. The way his tail coils against the bedding, hands fisting the blankets. The way his scent floods the room, how he invades every single one of Macaque’s senses. Macaque delves his tongue inside, feels him open up beautifully around him. Eyes flash, brighter than they ever had been, and gold blankets the ceiling. Macaque summons a tendril of cool shade to rub at that soft bud idly while he focuses on feeding straight from the source.
“Macaque,” Wukong moans. “I think—fuck, please.”
Thighs thickened with muscle and strength clamp tight around his head. Sculpted calves hook around the back of his neck, and he does not think he could lift his head even if he tried. He pants against Wukong’s cunt and forces his tongue deeper. Air be damned.
The little shadow moves quickly, writhing over his clit with a profound intensity. Wukong’s heels bite into the back of his shoulders. His fingers slip into Macaque’s hair, tightening at the root and pulling hard enough for pain to bleed into Macaque’s scalp. He rumbles Wukong’s name in beast's tongue, right against that sopping cunt, and plunges his tongue inside again, curling it upwards into the spongy flesh of his walls and feels them spasm around him. A gush of slick spills into his open mouth, and he drinks greedily. Distantly, he feels the rush of climax, an uncomfortable wetness between his own legs, but it is dull in comparison to the primal contentment he feels. With the legs around his head, he hardly hears anything at all. There was only Wukong, the taste of him on his tongue, his wetness dripping down his chin, his cunt pulsing around his tongue, that heady summer smell. He curls his tongue again, thrusts it along those fluttering walls as he works his shadow around his clit again. He thinks Wukong means to hiss, but the fragility of it sounds more like a whimper. “Mac, fuck, hold on.”
He yanks him up by the hair, twitching with oversensitivity. Macaque greedily sucks in air as he growls, “I’m not finished.”
Wukong shivers. “Let me breathe, you beast.”
He sinks his teeth into where the swell of Wukong’s thigh meets his hip, lapping up the gold that seeps from the open wound. The abruptness of it shocks Wukong into silence.
“That’s it,” he coos, falling back into old tongue. “Be a good king and let me eat.”
He slips his tongue inside again, and wonders how much he would have to beg for Wukong to let him do this again.
As it turns out, these things do not take much convincing.
“Liu’er, I feel foolish.”
Wukong is straddling Macaque’s chest, hovering so his full weight does not crush the breath from his lungs. Macaque frowns. “You said we could try.”
“Yes, but—I don’t want to hurt you. We both know how heavy I am.”
“And? I might kill you, you fool.”
“It would be a noble death.”
Macaque grips him by the ass and pulls him forward until he is directly over Macaque’s face. Macaque is greeted with an eyeful of how Wukong drips down his thighs. His mouth waters. Wukong’s scent is ripest here, like fresh crushed blooms, musk, and heat. He thumbs at sharp hip bones, trails a line down his thighs. The muscles relax slowly under his fingers. Those fingers rise to spread him open, to tease.
“Don’t be afraid, your majesty,” Macaque croons. “Come take a seat on your throne.”
Rose blooms in sun-kissed cheeks. Whether from his comment or fingers, he does not know. “Do not—”
Macaque has a perfect view of seeing the way his slip into beastly tongue sends a gush of slick rolling down Wukong’s thighs. It wets his fingers, and he draws them away to pat his hips encouragingly. Wukong worries that full bottom lip between his teeth, sucks in a sharp breath, and slowly sinks onto Macaque’s waiting mouth.
“Oh!” That swift tongue lifts to kiss his clit in greeting, wet and welcoming. Macaque uses his grip on his hips to rock him slowly, until he’s fucking himself on Macaque’s face. Wukong’s eyes slide to the back of his head. It’s a wonderfully familiar expression, but it looks so much better on the real thing. Macaque hums against him and Wukong groans. “Oh, gods.”
“My king,” he says against him, like a prayer. The words shake Wukong’s thighs. “My kind, benevolent king.”
Wukong whines and tosses his head back. The arch of his neck is beautiful. Macaque wants to sink his teeth into it.
“So generous with your body.”
“Please, I can’t—”
Macaque blows a sharp puff of air. Wukong yelps and jerks away. Macaque has to physically haul him back onto his mouth.
“I could feast on you for hours.”
“You have a problem.”
“Maybe so.” A problem Wukong never failed to feed into. “I will only take one this time, peaches.” It is a lie, a poorly veiled one and they both know it. He prods a finger at his entrance, sinking in with ease.
Wukong’s voice breaks off into what sounds like a half-sob. “But then you will just want more.”
“And you would not deny me. Now, sit still and be good.” His tongue slides inside again and Wukong’s hands spear into his mane, reigning in fistfuls and rutting against Macaque’s mouth pathetically as he licks him into climax. Macaque’s tongue does not stop.
“I knew it—oh, fuck. Fuck.” Macaque slides his tongue slowly over his clit and smiles when Wukong shrieks and spills again. “Liar,” he cries in beast’s tongue, eyes wet, unfocused, and flashing.
Macaque only continues to work his tongue.
Laughter cuts through the air, loud in its profusion, and he realizes then that he should not be here.
Never mind that he had been invited, he had learned long ago he was not fit to walk amongst heroes. Gods, he does not even know why he tried. But none of that matters now, he is here and he cannot leave, not without being forced to swallow the choking guilt of it. He has made many mistakes, both in life and death, but this: being forced to curl up in the dragon-girl’s larger than life living room while surrounded by almost every person he has managed to piss off to some degree? This was his most senseless mistake yet.
Wukong had slipped off minutes ago after the mention of karaoke, with a silence and poise Macaque was not accustomed to seeing. He wanted to call him out on it. After all, why should he be made to suffer alone through this? But he hadn’t, not with big blue eyes watching him. He cannot stand the way she looks at him, with such naive adoration, as if he had been heroic in saving her when he had barely done even that. He does not deserve it, but damn it, he would let himself have this if nothing else. He would not shatter this false image of himself that she had worked so hard to craft, not where she could see at least. And how foolishly sentimental of him, all this trouble for a girl whose name he does not even know.
The dragon-girl and Redson finally finish their screeching duet, and he even politely claps as he is supposed to. They pass the microphones to the pig and far too enthusiastic water demon. The dragon-girl and MK plead with the pig to take the stand, while Redson crosses the room and takes a seat beside him on the too-soft couch. Macaque strengthens the glamour over his ears, remembering the searing pain from the last time he had heard the pig sing. Blue eyes flicker to him and the smile he forces feels more like a grimace. He grits his teeth. Bear it.
“If you leave now, I doubt they will notice,” Redson says, looking at his blackened nails with a princely sort of indifference. The fluorescent lights cut shadows across his face, and for a moment, he looks like the spitting image of his mother. Macaque wants to smile at the thought, but he is well aware of what the Bull Family thinks of him now, no matter their past friendship. “I can keep her distracted long enough if that is what worries you.”
“I know for a fact you heard me, ears-for-brains.”
Macaque blinks. Is this what pity feels like? “That is a terrible nickname.”
Flames of hair spark in annoyance and he only feels a little prideful. Redson is a demon himself, trickery and mockery would have little effect on him. Perhaps if he didn’t have his father's temper, petty insults would not be childsplay. Redson’s sigh escapes his nose in puffs of steam. “I’m working on it. Now either leave or don’t. I doubt you will get an opportunity like this again.” He turns away sharply, then in a flash of flame, he is on the other side of the room. Macaque watches blue eyes widen with interest, and Redson spares him a short glance before he opens his palm and begins entertaining a flickering flame. When blue eyes do not stray from the way the fire dances in the still air, Macaque opens a shadow from beneath and allows it to swallow him whole.
He rises in a long corridor, and he is only far enough from the group for their voices to sound just the slightest bit faint. Should he have strayed further? The walls of the corridor are lined with doors, all varying sizes and shades of green, and each one intricately carved and accented with gold or jade. Not quite gaudy, but certainly meant to emphasize the wealth and lavishness of the place. He spots a door, just a few shades from white and less intimidating than the rest, and figures it must be a storage room or something of the like. He considers pacing the halls until the night is over, but a squeal of song has him flinching in pain and ducking behind the door to further the distance between himself and the noise. Behind the door is not a storage room, but rather a beautifully decorated bathroom. That just so happens to house the Monkey King. Wonderful.
Wukong jumps as he kicks the door closed and leans against it, as if he had not noticed him enter. “Don’t tell me retirement has rusted your instincts, Great Sage,” Macaque snaps.
Wukong sighs. Macaque’s his fur bristles in indignation. He would not be treated like pest. “Of all the rooms—what are you doing here?” Wukong asks, narrowing his eyes. “Did MK send you?”
“Is it a crime to check in on an old friend?”
“We are not friends.”
The thrum of song pounds against his skull. He means to mask the pain behind a wall of condescension, but the pig belts another note and he claps his hands over his ears, the strain collapsing the glamours placed on them. An understanding twists Wukong’s expression, and his voice softens, “Are you okay?”
Bear it. “Just peachy.”
“You don’t look okay.”
How dare he. How dare he look at him with his false sympathy. As if he hadn’t been less than dirt-scuffed boots to him mere moments ago. “What a fucking observation there, bud. Did you have to use True Sight to figure that out?”
Wukong does not let the fact he is fazed cross his face. It does, however, seep into his tone, contorts the slight furrow in his brow. “I forgot how bad your tantrums were.”
That almost makes him strike the king across the face. He doesn’t. They both know he will never be that stupid, not even in his current state. Wukong looks at him, looks through him, and he is reminded of how he used to look at Wukong like that, with what he thought was carefully masked concern. Wukong is better at it than he was, but it still peeks through the cracks of the facade. Wukong has lost the right to give him that look. Macaque has lost the right to receive it. Bright eyes wander to where his hands act as poor shields, and Wukong seems to have some kind of internal battle within himself before he squares his shoulders and looks Macaque in the eye.
He lifts his hands and stiffly beckons him. Macaque glowers. “You cannot be serious.”
“Take the offer while it still stands. I think we both want to make this night as bearable as possible.”
“Save this act for your student, I do not need your pity—”
The divine edge to his tone has his muscles locking up at once, and something like need shivers down his spine. He swallows his nerve and his pride, and steps between Wukong’s legs, shakily pulling his hands from his ears and resting them on either side of Wukong’s thighs. He flattens his tense palms against the porcelain counter. Wukong reaches to cup his ears, and he is met with something that had grown to be so unbelievably foreign: silence.
They stay like that a moment, Wukong soothing the aches of noise with his fingers whilst he rememorizes the sluggish thump thump thump of Wukong’s pulse. It is exactly what he needs, and Macaque hates him for it, hates how his muscles unwind themselves at the first brush of skin against skin. A soft noise escapes him without meaning to, and he watches the corners of Wukong’s lips lift through lidded eyes—since when had they dropped?
“You alright?” Wukong asks.
Macaque presses closer, pushing his face into those finely carved hands, himself against that divinely sculpted body. He will worry about the consequences of this later. Right now, he cannot allow this to be wasted. “Fine,” he grunts. He snares Wukong’s hips and pulls him flush to his front, just barely catching the red before it’s tucked beneath a glamour. Amused, he says, “You don’t seem to be faring well, though. Lost your nerve already?”
“I think I should leave you to suffer after all.”
“You and I both know you do not have the heart.” He closes in on him, crowds into his space until the tips of his fingers brush against where the counter meets wall. “It is in your nature to help those in need, isn’t it, hero?”
He hears the way Wukong’s lazy pulse quickens, hears the skip between breaths. He does not draw attention to it. Instead, he makes a show of watching the way that soft bulb of Wukong’s throat bobs as he swallows and says, “And what is it you need?”
He slides a hand over to squeeze his thigh, thickened and shaped with centuries of training and battle. The size of it dwarfs his hand. He remembers a time when he wore these thighs over his shoulders like trophies. “I can think of a few things.”
This time Wukong is not quick enough to mask his flush. “We are in someone else’s home.”
“Has that stopped us before?”
“Pigsy would kill us.” Then, an afterthought. “Mei would kill us.”
“You’ve lived this long, Great Sage.” The look in his eyes is nothing short of devilish. “But if you are that worried, I suppose you will have to stay quiet.”
Macaque sinks to his knees and drags Wukong to the edge of the counter. He pries his legs apart and presses his cheek to the side of his knee, feeling his fangs peek over his bottom lip as his smirk stretches to a grin. “I’d say I am in dire need of a certain… home remedy, wouldn’t you agree?”
Wukong hooks his ankles around his back. Macaque’s ears flutter at the crooked upwards tilt to his lips. “And I would say this seems to be the only thing your mouth is good for. Wouldn’t you agree?”
He swallows so he does not choke on his words. “Since when have you gotten so bold?”
“I seem to recall you preferring me this way. Now, you can either take what you need, or—” He nudges Macaque away with his foot, adjusts himself as if to slide off the countertop, “—we can go back to avoiding each other for the night. What is it going to be?”
If ever asked, Macaque would say he was stronger, that he snarked more. Gave the old sage grief before making him cry on his tongue as he did so many years before. But that, of course, would be a lie.
He brushes his nose against Wukong’s inner thigh and presses a kiss to it. “I want to taste you again, my king. It’s been so long.”
When Wukong smiles at him, it is like their first spring; emotions freshly bloomed, ripe and full of promise, and for a moment, for one, tenuous moment, Macaque thinks he can pretend he still believes him to be that tenderhearted lover who would reshape mountains should he complain of their slope. “Get to it then,” Wukong says.
He reaches for his waistband, lifts his hips, and lets Macaque slide his pants down, past his knees till they dangle off an ankle. Macaque is not sure why he is so surprised to see it again. The implications had been clear enough, but he had held some doubt that Wukong would actually follow through. But there it is, slipping against his pressing fingers, hot as a brazier. The longing must have read clear on his face, and he tries not to fault himself for it, not when Wukong is gently brushing back the flyaway strands of hair from his face and whispering, “Do what you do best.”
He ducks his head between Wukong’s thighs, unsheathing his tongue from his mouth and spreading Wukong open to taste. He does not know how long he spends there, minutes? Hours, maybe? Time was so fragile when he found his place here. He works his tongue inside, thumbs at Wukong’s clit, and listens to every hitch of breath and stifled moan. To anyone else, save for the sound of tongue, the noise would fall upon deaf ears, far too quiet to be heard by any human or lesser demon. But to Macaque, it was fire to his petal veins, leaving him feverishly flexing his tongue as he ruts against the open air, dizzy with want. Fingers rake through his mane, and he cannot help himself: he purrs. Wukong’s head thunks against the mirror, and his grip on Macaque’s hair tightens as he shakes from the vibrations. Perhaps it was the centuries spent apart, perhaps they ached so deeply for each other that it flamed their every nerve, but there is not a doubt in Macaque’s mind that he could come from this alone. Wukong groans, thighs tight around Macaque’s head, and fucks himself against Macaque’s face until he spills onto his tongue. Macaque licks him into oversensitivity, snaking his tongue inside to draw the slick into his mouth. Wukong allows this until he swipes his tongue along his clit. He feels it flinch against his mouth, and he does it again before wrapping his lips around it and sucking.
Wukong hisses and suddenly Macaque is being tugged away by his nape. He snarls, but Wukong only pinches his wet chin between his fingers and forces Macaque to stare up into his glowing face. His chest shudders as he sucks in a stuttering breath and pushes back Macaque’s fresh-fucked hair with a gentle hand. He is not at all intimidating, not with his freshly bitten lips and wet eyes, yet he is everything to Macaque in this moment and he despises it. Since when had there been a shift?
“Don’t get greedy,” Wukong says, scoffing when Macaque growls at him. “I mean it. Now up, you aren’t done.”
Confused, Macaque obeys and rises, letting Wukong pull him forward. A hand draws softly over his stomach. He flinches at the feeling of sharp claw. It travels lower, traces the seams of his pants, and reaches under to cup him fully. Wukong does that little trick with his brow, spreads his legs, and Macaque hears his own breath still. They have coupled in the past before, countless times in fact, but he has never once recalled a time when they have done so while Wukong was changed. This form has only ever known Macaque’s mouth.
“I know. But I think you’ve earned your relief today. Besides, it can’t be all that different.”
“You are my relief.”
The truth behind the remark surprises even himself. Wukong reddens and sputters, “Shut up before I change my mind.” He pulls Macaque from his trousers, slicks him with his own wetness, and takes him back into his hand. His fingers are ceaseless, unforgiving in their rhythm. Macaque has to brace himself against the counter’s edge, trembling with every stroke. “Almost ready,” Wukong says softly. “Just a second, and I will give it to you.”
Macaque bucks into Wukong’s tightly formed fist. That carefully constructed mask he had built for himself over the years slips, just a little, and so he forces himself to bark a laugh and tease, “Always so eager to please.”
Wukong flashes him a feline smile. “Do I please you?” He guides Macaque’s cock to his cunt, not quite breaching. “Well?”
Whatever comment he may have made is burned away by the heat that engulfs him, soaked and pulsing. It is enough to make his claws leave marks in the porcelain. “Fuck.”
The head of his cock dips in fully, sinking past the slight strain of muscle. Wukong steadies his elbows against the countertop and widens his legs enough for Macaque to move freely. “You do not know how to be gentle, so I only ask that you are quick.”
Macaque stares down at where they are joined, eyes wide as rice bowls.
Wukong rolls his hips, sinking further onto his cock by an inch. Macaque gasps, and Wukong does it again. It is a silent demand, one that Macaque quickly abides by. He steadies himself and plunges inside.
He sinks his teeth into the hollow of Wukong’s throat, and warmth fills his mouth, spilling around his teeth. He drinks it in like a dying man. Wukong’s inner walls cling and drag against him as he pulls out, then inches back inside that blistering heat. His only comfort in this is Wukong’s pulse, once slowed with immortality, now quick as a bird’s. He can try all he likes, but he will never be able to hide this from him; this will always affect him just as much as it does Macaque, no matter which role he decides to fall into. Wukong drapes his arms over his shoulders, his kiss like a brand against Macaque’s neck. He surprises Macaque by jerking his hips, and Macaque moans around the blood in his mouth.
“I said quick.”
“I’m trying,” Macaque whines, as if he is centuries without experience. “You’re just so—fuck!”
Wukong tightens around him as he thrusts, sad little jabs of his hips with little strength behind them. His limbs shake with the effort to hold himself upright. Wukong draws back to look at him. Something wicked and predatory shifts in his expression, like a snake, rearing back for its strike. Macaque’s only warning is a flash of pink before wet muscle trails up his ears. The cry he makes rebounds off the walls.
“Hush,” Wukong says, as if he is not slavering over his most sensitive place. His breath chills the spit-slicked flesh, and his ears quiver at every exhale. Wukong kisses him just beneath from where they flare, and Macaque makes a noise, like some sort of tormented beast. Wukong coos in old tongue, “And you thought I was going to be loud. You’re going to get us caught.”
“It’s not my fault.” The way he says it is frail, thin as a whip.
“It’s not, is it?” Wukong snaps his hips up to meet Macaque’s thrusts, and the force behind it nearly sends him stumbling back. “You’re just so lost without me, aren’t you?”
“Yes—please, my king, I need—”
“I know, I know.” He clenches tight around him, a viper's grip. “Can you come like this or—”
Macaque’s voice breaks. “Wukong.”
“Ah.” Fingers hard as marble seize him by the throat and squeeze, flexing in time with the way Wukong’s cunt throbs around him. His ears fan out, and his senses overflow, as if a dam had been splintered, forcing him to face the full rush of climax. Seaspray slapping against jagged rocks. The beat of a butterfly’s wings. The collapse of a mountain. And of course, the voices, the many, many voices. The pressure around his neck constricts, tight as a common boa, and the voices melt into one, low and gentle on his ears in a way the others were not, coaxing him through his orgasm with soft words and softer touches. Wukong eases off his neck a little, thumbs the back of Macaque’s ears, only stopping when Macaque makes a breathless sort of sob into his neck. He then moves to pepper gentle kisses around the ring of bruises darkening his throat like an obscene necklace.
“Mac?” Wukong says, tone flatter than it had been, as if the wrong infliction would cut the moment short and it would end up discarded like others before it.
When Macaque breathes again, it is unsteady. He never liked this part. “After I pull out you will not say a word.”
For a moment, he thinks Wukong will protest. He wants him to. He does not want to be the one to try and break this cycle they have created for themselves. But he knows Wukong would never take that first step, because how could he ever forget who he was? Wukong, who would never look his way unless he forced his hand. Wukong, who would have left him to fester and rot in those shadows had he not cheated death. Wukong, who allowed himself to be strung along by honeyed words and false smiles. No, he could never forget that it was a coward who had managed to leave the bottomless gape in his heart that threatened to swallow him up.
Wukong brushes one last kiss to his blemished throat. His pulse is slow again. “Alright,” he says, and Macaque hates him for the sole fact that it isn’t.