Chapter Text
"You brought what...?"
"A duck."
The words hung heavy in the air. The kind of silence that made even the wind seem hesitant to pass between them.
Sun Wukong blinked slowly, golden eyes fixed on the peculiar sight before him. Standing at the entrance of their shared quarters was Macaque—cool as ever, arms folded, a serene expression on his face. Cradled in his arms, nestled like something sacred, was a duck.
But not just any duck.
It shimmered faintly under the fading afternoon sun, white feathers tipped in subtle hues of silver and opal, like it had been dusted with moonlight. Its eyes were what threw Wukong off most: almond-shaped, feline, slitted pupils like a cat’s, gleaming with silent mischief. It was surreal—unsettling, even—but beautiful in its own right.
Wukong tilted his head, frowning. “Okay. Why? And where did you even that thing?"
“Found it as an egg in your treasure vault,” Macaque replied casually, stroking the duck’s soft crown. “Didn’t know what it was. Thought it might be magical. Turns out it was just... alive. Was going to cook it."
Wukong’s eyes widened. “You what?”
Macaque chuckled. “Relax. I didn’t. Obviously. Now he’s mine.”
“Quack.”
The duck nuzzled under Macaque’s chin like a spoiled pet, clearly having chosen him as its parent—or worse, its partner. Wukong watched the scene unfold like a man being replaced by his plush version kind of things you see online selling customized voodoo dolls but huggable at least.
“You’re keeping it?” he asked, incredulous.
“Of course. He imprinted on me.”
“That’s not how imprinting works,” Wukong muttered, stepping closer to examine the creature. It blinked at him. Slowly. Mockingly. “What’s its name, then?”
Macaque grinned. “Wukong Jr.”
A pause. A twitch in the corner of Wukong’s mouth.
“I don’t know whether to feel flattered or threatened.”
“It’s a compliment.”
“It sounds like a challenge.”
“It’s love.”
“It’s bird-based identity theft.”
Macaque merely smirked, gently cradling the duck like it was royalty. “Well, too bad. He’s officially Wukong Jr. now. It suits him.”
The duck let out a delicate “wak,” perfectly timed. Wukong narrowed his eyes.
“I really don’t like how expressive that thing is.”
Wukong first thought he could ignore it. He was the Monkey King, after all. He had survived celestial wars, fought armies of demons, outwitted gods. A duck? Harmless. Harmless and small.
But days passed, and the duck became everywhere.
At meals, it sat on Macaque’s lap, occasionally pecking at fruit slices while Mac fed it by hand.
During sparring practice, it waddled in uninvited and watched from the edge, smug and unblinking. Like a self-appointed judge.
During meditation, it perched on Macaque’s shoulder, head tilted, always between them. Always there.
But the final insult came at night.
The first evening Wukong noticed, he had turned over to wrap his arms around Macaque—only to find them already full.
Macaque lay peacefully on his side, eyes closed, lips parted slightly in sleep. And in his arms—pressed tight to his chest—was the duck.
Wukong stared, frozen mid-reach.
It should’ve been him. It used to be him. Macaque always curled into his chest, warm and quiet. But now? Now the duck had taken that sacred place.
He inched backward under the covers, feeling something irrational bubble in his throat. Resentment? Jealousy? What kind of deity was jealous of poultry?
And then... the duck opened one eye.
Cat-like. Sharp. Calculated.
Wukong stared.
The duck blinked once. Slowly. Then shifted just slightly, pressing even closer to Macaque’s neck with deliberate smugness.
It knew.
It knew.
"..."
He wanted to be reasonable. He really did.
But in that moment, he knew deep in his bones—he was officially in a silent, unspoken war with a duck.
The following nights didn’t improve.
Wukong tried reclaiming his spot. Subtle nudges. Extra cuddles. Casual arm draping. But somehow, Wukong Jr. always ended up in the middle, acting as a fluffy, feathery barrier between him and Macaque’s affection.
One morning, Wukong woke up with a single feather stuck to his cheek. The duck, nestled between their pillows, lifted its head, yawned, and gave him the most condescending look he’d ever seen.
He stared back.
"This isn’t over," he whispered.
The duck blinked. Then flopped dramatically onto Macaque’s face, earning a sleepy giggle and a groggy, “Good morning, Sweetie.”
Wukong’s jaw dropped.
Sweetie?
Mac had given it a nickname.
He hadn’t even given Wukong a nickname.
That night, as Macaque settled into bed with the duck beside him, Wukong sat upright, arms crossed, glaring.
“You know, you didn’t even hug me last night,” he grumbled.
Macaque, half-asleep, opened one eye. “Huh?”
“You hugged Junior. Not me. Me, Mac. The one who actually talks back and doesn’t quack.”
Macaque blinked slowly, then leaned over and planted a soft kiss on Wukong’s forehead.
“Don’t be silly,” he murmured. “You're the one I love. He’s just... fluffy.”
The duck quacked in protest.
Wukong smirked in triumph, shot the duck a victorious look, and curled into Macaque’s chest with a content sigh.
As he drifted off, the duck, now squished between their legs, glared into the darkness.
It wasn’t over.
Not yet.