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Wukong frowns. He swears he left his favourite lazy day shirt in this particular drawer, right where he always puts it, but the faded burgundy tee is nowhere in sight.
He shuffles a few of his other shirts around, closes that drawer and opens the one above and below it, flipping through a few more shirts before sighing in frustration. He glares at the chest and blinks, allowing his true sight to peer through the contents of the drawers, but the shirt isn’t there.
With a huff, he throws on a dark green robe and meanders into the living room before face planting into his couch. The frame groans under his weight, and he turns his head to face the TV, already on and playing reruns of Monkey King with the volume barely audible.
He’s not really watching, but the background noise is nice, and if he closes his eyes, he can pretend for a second that the voices arguing are really Bajie and Wujing bickering about nothing to pass the time.
The hair on the back of his neck stands up, and Wukong opens his eyes slowly. The feeling of being watched has been growing more and more frequent over the past few days, and he can say with absolute certainty that it’s starting to grate on his nerves.
His clothes disappearing has really been the last straw, and he hefts himself onto his elbows before rolling off the couch and onto the floor with a thud.
A small snicker echoes from the rafters, and Wukong flips over before leaping towards the sound, but as he catches hold of the exposed wood, he sees nothing but shadows.
He lounges there in the rafters for a second, one foot and hand hanging in free space above his living room, keeping his eyes and ears peeled for any other movement, but whatever - or whoever - was watching him seems to have fled.
It takes every ounce of self-control he has to not let go and directly plummet onto his poor couch, but he manages to direct himself to the floor, landing in a crouch just to the left of his furniture.
As he slinks back to the couch, a new episode starts, and before the intro a warning flashes across the screen
‘This Episode of Monkey King is not suitable for Children under the age of 10, as it contains frightening images and cartoon violence. Please be advised.’
A second warning follows the first, and he almost swallows his tongue as he realizes exactly which episode is about to play.
‘We have received several calls from our viewers about the historical inaccuracies depicted in the following episode, and we would like to apologize for any inconsistencies and the inconveniences it may cause.’
He might not remember a lot of those phone calls, but his call history has over 200 documented calls to a showrunner who will remain unnamed.
The episode title blinks across the screen and he scrambles for the remote, flinging couch cushions over his shoulders with reckless abandon until the couch is bare and he’s still remoteless.
Dramatic and sinister music starts, and Wukong flinches before burying his fist through the TV. The device sparks and wheezes before he removes his hand, and his eyebrow twitches as he looks at the ruined screen.
“I’m going back to bed.” He mutters to an empty room, and yanks the TV off the stand before walking with it to his window and tossing the device out into the dirt, where it lands next to two others.
His bed welcomes him, and he curls up on top of his mess of blankets and closes his eyes, surrendering to the urge to waste away the day.
When he wakes next, he comes around slowly, trying to center himself in the absence of light.
Wukong takes a breath and feels a resistance on his chest, a weight barely noticeable until he looks down, and then it feels like ten thousand stones are on his lungs.
He can’t help the heat that flames in his cheeks as he stares down his nose as a sleeping Macaque. This isn’t the first time the demon has slipped into his room before, but usually he has more of an inkling it’s going to happen; shadows giggling in the halls, a coolness that never seems to leave his palm, all his furniture being moved two inches to the right.
It’s not the fact Macaque has entwined himself so closely in his embrace that has a blush creeping down his face, although it certainly isn’t helping either, no. It’s the fact that Macaque is in one of his oversized tee-shirts that he wears around the house when he knows no one is due for a visit. The very burgundy shirt he’d been looking for earlier.
The kind of shirt that slips over shoulders and is hopelessly thin, something ratty and that goes down to Macaque’s thighs.
The demon intruder in question sighs in his sleep and cuddles impossibly closer, nuzzling his face into Wukong’s collarbone.
Wukong flexes his hands into fists at his sides, gripping his sheets tightly in lieu of dark fur.
Should he say something? Ruin this peaceful moment?
Macaque mutters something, and it sounds like his name, and Wukong decides to sit in purgatory, this not quite sweltering heat boiling under his skin, as he stares at his ceiling fan spinning lazily in the dark.
The dull hum of the fan sinks into his bones, and it perpetuates the feeling that everything is turning into a staticky cotton that fizzes in his veins and fluffs his head full of nothing but where Macaque is pressed close.
Seconds sink by like honey in warm summer days, and Wukong swears he lays there for days instead of minutes before Macaque turns his head and noses along his neck, pressing warm, sleepy, open-mouthed kisses upon the column of his throat.
Fangs scrape over his pulse point, and Wukong makes a noise, something small and filled with longing, but Macaque pauses, his teeth hovering over where they’d traced before the demon bites down softly, slowly, and the pinch has Wukong groaning lowly.
He looks at Macaque again, and hazy amber eyes peer back at him, half lidded and full of mischief.
Wukong moves then, rolling over and tugging Macaque up underneath him, so the two of them are nose to nose as he cages the demon to the bed with his limbs.
“Stealing my clothes?” the god whispers as he presses a kiss to the edge of Macaque’s jaw.
“I missed you.” The demon shrugs and threads a hand into Wukong’s hair.
“You could have just asked.” Wukong kisses the corner of Macaque’s mouth. The demon frowns as he turns his head, trying and failing to catch Wukong’s mouth as the god hovers over him.
“Where’s the fun in that?” Macaque hums, still frowning. “Will you just kiss me already?”
“I am kissing you.” Wukong grins as he pecks Macaque’s nose.
“No, I mean-” a kiss to his cheek, “like, properly, on-” another to his other cheek, “my- my mouth, damn it! Wukong!” as a press of lips graces the demon’s chin, and the god chuckles.
“C’mon, Peaches.” Macaque bites the inside of his cheek, and Wukong softens, leaning forward and finally letting their mouths meet.