The young monk’s voice permeated the air like a hot knife through butter, his distaste for the proposal steely and adamant.
The oni, one that Zenyatta had learned went by the name of Genji, sniffed derisively.
“I have seen the way you look at him, Zenyatta. I can taste the lust that seeps from every single pore.” Stretching, languidly, the demon leaned back in the simple chair, draping himself in an alluring posture, horizontal to the seat’s frontward facing portion and issued an all too tantalized-sounding sigh. “Delicious.”
Zenyatta scowled, unimpressed, the heat of his blush creeping slowly up his neck to tease at his cheeks. Seven weeks and he had been unable to rid himself of this lascivious creature; a creature that had become unusually attached to he, a mere mortal who would better serve the oni as an appetizer than a source of entertainment.
“You only see what you want to.” He retorted, resuming what was supposed to be his quiet contemplation.
And for seven weeks Genji had hounded him, stalking his person through the shadows, waiting for the most opportune moments to break cover and fill Zenyatta’s head with the most unholy of imaginings. Whispers that carried with them an overwhelming power that was not of this world, that picked at the hems of his self control to leave him burning with a need he had never thought possible. Yet rather than allow Zenyatta to act upon that need, at the crucial moment, the oni would vanish, only to begin this demented game of false promises at the next possible interval.
All that had come to a head most recently after an awkward little incident - in the monastery sanctum of all places! - There, where the warmth of the Iris was its most extrusive Genji had been able to roam freely, where Zenyatta had foolishly believed himself to be safest.
Upon soft mediation mats he and his mentor, Mondatta, had been seated full lotus, emptying their minds of all thoughts, feelings and sensations, a truly freeing act of mindfulness that would strengthen and invigorate once they returned to the fore. Yet as the younger monk let his thoughts begin to slip away, opened himself to the welcoming embrace of the Iris, it began.
A trickle of thought, the flash of an image, the loving way in which Mondatta spared his student a glance, that look of adoration and pride that always made Zenyatta’s heart skip a beat. It was that exact sight that he liked to recall, often, in the privacy of his own room. And with it the praise, a good word here and there, the warmth of the other’s hand squeezing his shoulder. He loved Mondatta, Zenyatta had realized a long time ago, and not just in the ways one might love a friend or sibling. His wants, no, his needs, ran far deeper than that.
Just like that, a deluge widened that trickle, transforming the stream into a surging river, his empty mind a vessel to be filled with things so luridly intoxicating, the young monk was overcome.
Warm, gentle, touches became harsher, more demanding and urgent. The words Mondatta uttered to him, far filthier than the likes of what he could have imagined the man to say in his entire lifetime, fed to him one by one like the sweetest and most addictive of fruits. This wasn’t natural, the heat that filled then spread from Zenyatta’s core to lance through his limbs, searing his body until he felt as though he might explode if he did not act.
Meditation, it appeared, had eluded him, and sprung from the trap of his innermost musings, he snapped to attention right there on the sanctum floor, to come face to face with the smug expression of the oni’s features grinning back at him.
The experience, while jarring, had brought to light some interesting notions. Zenyatta had been all too ready to write the thoughts off as little more than whisperings his personal ‘curse’ had been contendedly feeding him as a method to further prolong his torture. Because that was what this was, wasn’t it: A means to an end. An oni playing with its food.
Ready, though he might have been, Zenyatta knew that behind those thoughts there was a kernel of truth, a seed so deeply buried he would not have suspected it’s presence before it had begun to germinate, fuelled by the salacious images and fantasies planted there to fertilize and cultivate. There was no smoke without fire.
And now here Genji sat once again, brazen and filled with hubris, the amber vial he held between clawed thumb and forefinger tilting it from side to side. Inside the iridescent liquid sloshed lazily, it’s viscosity slightly more dense than water, mesmerizing to the untrained eye and perhaps that was with intent.
Just a drop, Genji had told him, voice crooning towards Zenyatta, and the recipient would find themselves awash with need so acrid, that all inhibitions would seem like mere specs on the horizon in comparison.
“Unfortunately that is rather untrue. What I wish to see is for you to cease your stalling.” A little wave of the amber vial, a poignant reminder of what Genji was offering. “A little courage never hurt anyone.”
“I don’t need your ‘help’.” Zenyatta bit back, perhaps a little too sharply, because he could see the corner’s of the oni’s mouth twitch once, twice.
“Then you mean to tell Mondatta about those long nights spent moaning his name into the pillows?”
Genji watched as Zenyatta’s shoulders bunched delightfully, tension betraying his irritance and embarrassment both. Oh yes, he had been watching that tempting little show. No inhibitions blocked the young monk’s thoughts then, nor the lazy cant of his hips, rolling in a steady rhythm into the cool, white, sheets. Moonlight from the window had illuminated the scene, it’s cold pale light lighting up the faintest glint of moisture upon the very tip of Zenyatta’s achingly hard cock. But Genji had kept to the shadows and, for once, silenced the whispers he could have used to perpetuate the scene. That had been all Zenyatta, an image he would take back to the spirit realm with him when he’d drunk his fill. But there was one far more attractive prospect he believed he could bring to fruition, if Zenyatta, here, would only accept his ‘selfless’ help.
“How do you - ?” As if the monk had to ask, how did Genji manage to haunt his every step as it was? It stood to reason he would have witnessed this and more, unbidden.
“I will tell him how I feel. It’s only fair.” He said. “I will tell him later, after the evening call to meditation.”
The oni sat bolt upright, kicking off the armrest of the simple chair like he’d just received the greatest news. Dexterously twirling the vial between his long fingers, he pocketed it again, decision made. Splendid.
And as quickly as the monk could blink, Genji was gone.
*****
The oni was under no illusions. Just as before, Zenyatta would abandon his intentions and remain mute to the edging desires that plagued the small hours of his evening. He would, also as usual, sit with his mentor and have their evening tea, a chance to unwind and contemplate the following day’s work or lessons. Mondatta would wax lyrical about the world at large, how best to bring their message of peace to others, and Zenyatta would sit by, dutiful and obedient, offering his opinions thusly.
How utterly boring.
Upon the table sat the piping hot tea. It’s handleless cup, contents left to cool and vent steam while Mondatta waited for Zenyatta to finish fetching a spare from the adjacent room. The former had made Zenyatta his cup in his stead, knowing it’s recipient would be back in a moment, long enough for him to fetch that itinerary of his next trip - he did hope that Zenyatta would like to come along, he’d been unusually stressed these last few weeks and a change might do him good.
Genji watched, keen eyes invisible, from the shadows as Mondatta padded around the room, picking up various items and scripts he meant to deposit on the table for inspection later, leaving Zenyatta’s tea unguarded. He needed only a moment with which to strike, and could remain unseen for just long enough to do what he’d planned all along. He’d get his way, Genji always did and no small-minded monk was going to stand in his way. He’d get his way, and Zenyatta would get his.
Poignantly fingering the vial, still held tightly in one hand, the oni had become tired of waiting for his opportunity.
A flick of the wrist sent something in the far corner of the room clattering to the ground, loud and brash enough that the older monk whirled on one foot, the hems of his Kasaya swirling about his ankles, to see the antique singing bowl hit the floor from the shelf above. Naturally puzzled, he walked towards it to recover it. The perfect opportunity.
From the shadows he sprung, soundlessly gliding across the floor, thumb already working at wriggling the vial’s cork plug free. Succeeding, and in a single, gracefully-fluid movement, he poured the entire contents of the glass tube into the tea vessel below.
There was no time to stir or disguise, but he would not need to, it’s slightly heavier formula would make it sink fast, diffusing it’s contents sip by sip and by that time, it would be far too late for Zenyatta.
Slipping back into the shadows, he heard the footfalls of the returning monk, that deceitful little wretch who sought to short change him, knowing not what awaited him when he returned. All eyes were on that door, waiting, with baited breath, the pulse of anticipation thudding in his point-tipped ears.
But, as Zenyatta appeared, something was awry.
Between his hands he carried another small, bowl-like, cup, steam drifting up from its interior, which he sipped at prior to affording his master a slight dip of the head in greeting.
Mondatta turned back to face his student, having replaced the singing bowl back in its rightful place.
“Ah, I see you found some tea. You won’t mind if I drink this one?” A casual nod to the cup still resting upon the table.
Zenyatta shook his head, no.
“Master Fon made me some, I thought it would save time.”
The older Monk nodded, sagely, slipping a hand around the remaining cup and picking it up to take a long, soothing sip of his own. With the other, he gestured to the itinerary he’d placed down before.
“I have something I would like to ask you, Zenyatta. And I do hope you will accept.” Mondatta began, watching as the puzzlement in his student’s eyes turned to something akin to hopeful excitement. This was promising.
He took another sip, noting how Zenyatta preferred the sweeter tasting tea compared to how he liked his own. Different, but certainly not unpleasant and with an aftertaste that reminded him, faintly, of oranges. It was certainly moreish. He would have to ask his student where he had acquired it, but that could wait for now.
“I am all ears, Master.”
Zenyatta leaned forward in the seat he had since settled in, and Mondatta felt a flush of warmth pool inside his belly.
Oh he liked it when Zenyatta called him that...
