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In Wukong’s defense, he was really, really bored that day.
It had been a particularly quiet time on Flower Fruit Mountain, as of late. The Brotherhood hadn’t visited for a while, off doing whatever it is they do when they aren’t here, sharing meals and stories and plans. The monkey’s had been content enough without his presence and feeling safe enough to play about, especially since he had reached that sweet spot in influence to keep enemies away lest they deal with him personally, so even random demons who didn’t know of him would hear of him long before entering his domain. Even Macaque, his own shadow in all ways but literal (and even that was iffy) had been busy with his own stuff. And since Macaque was usually his go-to for escaping the even chasing presence of boredom, the Great Monkey King found himself at a loss.
When you really think about it, that sort of makes it Macaque’s fault, in some sense, that he does what he does that day. His partner always was the one who hogged the brain cell meant to be shared between them, and with him off who-knows-where, well…
Again, not really his fault.
So, Wukong finds himself lounging in his room, the smaller, humble abode he’s built for himself, something more intimate than those cave walls or the temple within. He’s found himself on his bed, swirling his staff around with lazy tricks to keep his hands busy as he considers his next move. He could travel out for a bit and see what trouble he can get into, but he promised Macaque he wouldn’t anger anymore demons or gods (on purpose) for a least another month, so that’s a bust. He could wander the island for some inspiration, maybe even run into Macaque and see what’s got his attention, which wouldn’t be him, it seems. Not that he needs the others company all the time, but when you live with someone and share so much of your time together, the absence becomes all the more obvious. Maybe if he just happened to come across Macaque, he could tag along and kill some of this insistent boredom. Maybe, just maybe, if he plays his cards right, Wukong can convince him to another romp in the woods again, or by the beaches. The sand sucks, but he’d take an entire deserts worth of sand in his pants just to get into his partners pants right about now. It feels like forever since the last time they shared each other’s time like that (note: it’s barely been a week) and he’s dying of thirst for it.
‘He could deal with some of that frustration himself’, Wukong muses internally. He doesn’t need Macaque to always be there to deal with his boredom, after all. He’s great at this kind of stuff, solving things and whatnot.
Mind made up, he sits up and scoots over to be propped up by his pillows, reaching for his pants to slide down. With his cock out and hands at the ready, he prepares to get things going… anytime now. Definitely going to masturbate, that’s for sure. Just gotta do it…
Okay, it’s not like he forgot how to masturbate! That’d be stupid, even for him. It just seems so boring, and he’s in the mood to be not-boring here, so he just needs to try something different. The issues there is what to actually trying out. He scratches his head in obvious contemplation, head tilted as he examines his half-mast dick like a puzzle. What to do, what to do...
His claws catch on his ear in a way that dislodges his staff from his ear, falling to the floor with a clatter and making him jump. He picks it up soon after, positioning in to place back in the ear, but then, a thought strikes him.
With slow movements, he holds his staff before him and examines it fully. It’s something he’s have for a long time now in his very long life, like an extension of his own limbs with how well he’s come to wield it. Its base structure is a sturdy stone with a fine polish, colored a vibrant red. The ends are gold with a more bulbous bump at each end, carved designs of intricate swirls like clouds. He knows this magic well, helped form it into what it is, able to withstand all sorts of damage, change shape, size and length at his command, never to be weathered or worn like any other staff would under said conditions.
The part about able to change size and length at his command is what catches his attention, that little voice in his head that always gets over-stepped now once more ignored. ‘Yes, this is a good idea’, he decides, positioning it closer to his behind as he arches just right.’ A great idea, even’.
With precise aim, he catches the rim of his ass with its polished end, the cold metal eliciting a hiss of displeasure. It’s enough to get him to reconsider, only to pull back fully, realizing his obvious mistake. What was he even thinking, putting his own staff up there? He needed lube, obviously.
He had managed to stock up on the stuff for a time, a special blend Macaque made enough of so Wukong wouldn’t have to excuse of making his own. “I don’t care if it doesn’t turn back into hair inside me, Wukong,” Macaque would complain. “It’s the principle of the thing.”
With a generous glob warmed in his hand, he works on his insides with one, then two, and finally three fingers, thrusting the digits in with the intention to stretch out the muscle, panting and groaning all the while. When he deems himself prepped enough, and having put in too much effort to back out now, he takes the staff back into his hold. He considers the golden end again, squinting at the harsher edges to it. With a pulse of intention, he smooths out any rough edges, more like balls stuck on each other than the pointed cut it usually has. He also makes it shrink just enough to make it slip in easier, and with a decisive nod, he gets to business.
Like before, he has it reach his rim and clenches his teeth with a hiss at the cold, having to warm it with his slick hands before he can get himself to actually push it in. When he manages to warm the metal enough, it goes much smoother than expected, sinking in inch by inch until Wukong feels the slightest brush against that spongy part deep inside him. The foreign feeling of himself cold and potently magical against that part of him punches out a sudden moan, arching into the pressure. He stills at an angle to let himself settle, before dragging the staff out enough to catch the bulbous end of the metal at his rim before pushing back in. Picking up speed, Wukong finds a rhythm, sending pulses to the staff to make it ever so slightly thicker, until it get’s too hard to move without hurting, so he shrinks it back down, only to start back up.
His hands let go of the staff with his tail coils tightly over its center, jerking it in and out as his hands wander over himself, feeling up the barer parts of his skin and musing his fur, shirt pushed up above his collarbone. He keeps that arched posed all the while, thriving off the pressure to his prostate. As hot as it is to come from just this, he also won’t deny himself nor his dick the needed stimulation, so he grasps one hand on the shaft and, hand still stick with lube, strokes frantically.
It all comes to a head when he shifts himself just right to get the angle he needs, thighs quivering and twitching as his balls tighten up. Wukong quickens his strokes, chasing that high as he finally gives with a drawn-out moan, arched impossibly so that would snap any mortal’s neck. He splatters on his chest, but can’t find himself minding the mess at the moment. He ends up boneless seconds after the wave leaves him, falling to his back with the staff still deep inside.
It stays in place even after his dick softens, deep enough inside him to where he can’t easily bend up or maneuver his waist without an obstructing ache. So, he stays splayed out on his back, one hand holding the staff still while his arm keeps a leg propped up behind the knee, the other arm scratching at his chest fur, getting a slight tingle whenever his arm grazes over his erect nipples. The haze that comes after a good orgasm has him lulled in a false sense of security, which is why what happens next happens at all, even after his master control of the staff up until now.
He's never claimed to be perfect (he totally has) but even he can admit (not aloud) this was a stupid time to let his guard down.
With a deep exhale, he adjusts his position, gripping the staff with little thought of what to do with it. This lack of thought seems to confuse the staff and its magic, as it reacts the only way it knows how. With a warning chime, it glows, and Wukong can thank his long life of reacting quickly to dangerous situations for how quickly he grasps the staff with both hands, keeping it from shooting up deeper in his ass and clear through his skull, just barely.
With that gory consequence averted, he’s now faced with a different consequence; with the staff still extending at a rapid rate, instead of shooting into him, it shoots him out in his entirely, becoming the actual worst ride of his life. In seconds, Wukong crashes through his room’s walls, then outside the entire cabin, streaking across the cave in a blur of gold and shame as he screams to the high heavens. He’s sure this catches others attention, but finds himself distracted by the fact that instead of cratering a cave wall and staying stuck, he’s bounced around like a ball until he ends up angled just right to soar out of the cave entirely, the water falls parting just enough to allow him a dry exit.
Like a meteor, he crash lands not too far from the cave, splintering a few trees on the way, until he’s left a dirtied, sweaty mess on the upheaved dirt. He’s panting hard at the adrenaline of all of those few seconds, immortal enough to have survived fine, but not immortal enough not to know he’s gonna feel it tomorrow. He opens his eyes slowly, squinting at the sun above him, before he starts to make out his surroundings.
And oh Buddha, did he wish he hadn’t. Because leaning above him, with an armful of fruit and monkeys on his shoulders and head, is possibly the worst (or best, in a certain context) demon to be looking down on him now.
“I don’t even know where to start,” Macaque says distantly, more confused than disappointed, but still very disappointed.
Wukong gapes up, like an idiot, and feeling like one too. In seconds of clarity, he takes stock of his situation. He’s outside, with Macaque clearly judging him, and even his monkeys are judging him, not that they fully understand the complicated situation they bear witness to but still! He aware he’s only half naked, but naked in a way that he should do something about it, as of right now.
The moment he twitches in place, though, he’s made horribly aware of another thing: the staff is still inside him. Oh gods, the staff is still inside him. Does he take it out? Would it be worse if he kept it in? Maybe he should activate it and explode his head so he doesn’t have to deal with this now, but that’s the coward’s way out, and he’s now a coward (he really wishes he was).
“I can explain?” Wukong finally says, voice tinny and unsure, more like a question. Macaque raises a single brow, and Wukong realizes with horror that Macaque’s actually going to wait to hear him out when he has no idea what to actually say to make any of this okay.
So, he says the first excuse he can think of. “I was bored?” Again, it sounds like a question, but really, the real question is how he’s going to make it out of this with even a scrap of dignity.
With a sigh so deep and drawn out, Macaque looks to Wukong like the idiot he is (something Wukong would normally argue against, but well) and seems to steel himself for the next steps he sets to make. With an authoritative hissy growl, he dismisses the monkey’s on and around him, who all scurry away, some with more reluctance than others. He sets aside the fruit in his hands to the few that linger, arms now free. He looks at Wukong a little longer, like he’s contemplating leaving Wukong to his open shame, but just huffs to himself as he summons a shadow portal under both of them, plopping them on the nest Wukong had just minutes before rocketed himself out of. Macaque sees said gaping hole in the rooms wall and outer ceiling and dutifully ignores it, focus on his withering king, much like a salted snail with the way he’s stared at in judgmental silence.
“So, you were bored?” Macaque says after enough of a tense silence, tone more inquisitive than Wukong expected. Wukong nods, stilted. “So bored, you decided the only logical thing to do was stick your potently magic, one-of-a-kind weapons in your…?” He trails off at the end, motioning his hand in a way of saying ‘finish the sentence’ which Wukong really doesn’t want to do.
“I mean, this thing’s been stuck in some pretty weird places before,” Wukong tries to reason, much to Macaque’s hidden amusement. “Like, demon brains and guts, or up that one giant monsters’ nose, you remember?”
Macaque smiles, head tilted as he looks at Wukong with a teasing glint. “Can you describe all the weird, unsanitary places you had your staff in after you take it out of your ass?”
Sputtering at the reminder, Wukong sits up fully only to instantly regret it (story of his life) and fall back down on the covers, groaning in misery. Macaque laughs, this time openly mean, as Wukong shudders in place.
“Hold on, ya big baby,” Macaque teases, crawling over to be between Wukong’s legs, the staff long enough it goes past Macaques swaying tail. One hand settles on Wukong’s hip, keeping him up as the other grabs the staff firmly just under Wukong’s groin. With slow and careful precision, he pulls the staff out, the gold end slick with lube. All the while, Wukong groans, a moan drawn out of him at the slow slide, especially sensitive after the beating he received. When the staff’s more bulbous end catches, Wukong gasps, Macaque freezing at the sound. The moment stretches, neither making a sound, until Wukong feels the staff ever so slightly sink back in. Wukong groans louder, tail whapping on the mattress at the sensation as he sighs out, “Oh Gods.” This seems to snap Macaque out of whatever impulse possessed him, because he more urgently pulls the staff out again until it comes out with a wet pop, muttering to himself, “Time and place, time and place,” all the while.
With that, Macaque throws the staff aside, clattering on the floor noisily, Wukong regaining some sanity at the absence of pressure and fullness inside him. The shame still lingers, but when he peeks his head up to see Macaque’s blushing face, some of that confidence comes back to him.
“Did that do anything for you, plums?” Wukong taunts all sweet-like, Macaque turning away but unable to hide his thumping tail, only grabbing at it when he too hears its insistent sound. Wukong grins wider, sitting up fully to lean into Macaque’s space. “Ah, come on, you know you kinda liked it. Not my worst idea, huh?”
Macaque snorts. “You can’t be all smug after blasting yourself out of your own home because you put your staff in places you shouldn’t have.”
“Oh hush,” Wukong dismisses, tapping Macaque’s lips but unwilling to hold them there, knowing he just may lose it. “You’re just jealous that you wouldn’t know what it’s like to use your magic for masturbating.”
Of all the reactions he expected out of the other, Wukong would not have expected an even darker shad of red overtaking his face, like he was the one caught in the embarrassing act as Wukong had.
“Oh my gods,” Wukong whispers, eyes growing wide at the realization.
“It’s what you think-”
“Oh my gods.”
“It is not the same thing, Wukong!”
“It is, though! It really, really is! You know, I really should have guessed,” Wukong drawls flirtatiously, laying against Macaque’s burning side, the tables officially turned. “You sly monkey, so discreet, so secretive, having your shadows all to yourself in the late, lonely nights while I’m off to war-”
“Shove it, ya dirty ape,” Macaque growls, pushing Wukong away only for the other to pull his arm with him, tugging him into his lap and getting his dirty fingers all up in his hair.
“Oh, I know where I could shove it, if you’d let me,” Wukong purrs, the low seductive tone mixed with his purposeful scratches on the others scalp forcing Macaque to soften beneath his touch. A minute of this has him melting further until he’s near boneless, so malleable, so easy to convince.
With careful movements, Wukong stretches his tail out to sneakily curl around his fallen staff, tugging it over into his grasp. With that same seductive tone, he whispers into Macaque’s ears, voice husky and sly.
“You know, the day’s still young, and if you’d like-”
“You put that staff anywhere near my ass, and I’ll beat every scrap of immortality out of your hide.”
Wukong hums, considering. “Is that a promise- ack! Wait, no, I’m sorry. Just wai- not the face not the face!”