Chapter Text
The Great Sage, Heaven's Equal, The Prisoner of the Golden Headband, The Manager of Heaven's Stables, The Handsome Monkey King, Buddha Victorious in Strife—Sun Wukong had many names, countless titles that rolled off tongues across realms and dimensions.
He liked it—a lot of names just showed that he was well-known in this stupid, chaotic world and raised his already considerable ego more and more with each whispered legend. Each title was a trophy, a testament to his legendary prowess that echoed through the heavens and hells alike.
But in short, when stripped of all the grandiose appellations and flowery epithets, his name was Sun Wukong—simple, direct, and carrying the weight of ten thousand battles.
Or "Oi, you dumbass monkey," if the speaker had somehow earned the right through blood, sweat, or sheer stubborn persistence.
Today, on this particularly mundane cycle of celestial movement, he drifted aimlessly across the vast expanse of stars, sprawled sideways across his faithful nimbus cloud with the practiced casualness of someone who had conquered heaven itself. His wild, unruly hair tangled and whipped by the endless solar winds, and a half-eaten peach core clenched firmly between his teeth like some kind of cosmic toothpick. He was bored—deeply, irritatingly, bone-crushingly, cloud-punching bored in a way that made his very essence itch for conflict.
No demons to fight and tear limb from limb. No heavenly errands to run with reluctant compliance. No celestial bureaucrats to mock with cutting wit or argue with until they fled in frustration. Just endless, yawning emptiness stretching between constellations, and the suffocating weight of his own legendary name pressing down on his shoulders like a crown.
His nimbus cloud zipped beneath him with its familiar gentle hum, that comforting vibration he'd felt for centuries, cruising lazily over the distant edges of Earth—The Planet where his master, Tang Sanzang, originated from.
It was nothing more than a speck in the grand, sweeping theater of the universe—a tiny marble of blues and greens and browns spinning uselessly in the void. Mortal-run, as all the worst places were. Loud and cacophonous with their endless chatter. Cramped and suffocating with their towering structures. Filthy and reeking with their industrial waste and emotional baggage.
He didn't know why he angled his cloud lower, cutting through the upper atmosphere with idle curiosity.
Didn't know why he drifted slowly and deliberately through layer after layer of thick cloud cover until tall steel towers came into sharp view—unholy, gleaming slabs of metal and artificial light stacked by desperate mortals like children's building blocks, reaching futilely toward heaven.
Didn't know why he slowed his celestial mount when his sharp, predatory eye snagged on a forgotten, shadow-draped alleyway wedged between two towering concrete and steel monuments to human ambition.
Didn't know why he stopped completely, hovering in the stale air.
Until he saw him.
The boy sat curled tightly between two rusted, overflowing dumpsters, knees drawn so tightly to his chest that he looked like he was trying to disappear entirely into himself. His sharp elbows jutted out at awkward, painful angles as he desperately tried to make himself smaller, more invisible than he already seemed to be in this forgotten corner of the world. A ragged, pitifully thin shirt clung to his skeletal frame like a second skin, threadbare and worn enough to show the stark outline of his protruding ribs beneath the fabric.
A pair of oversized, obviously secondhand shoes lay abandoned at his side—useless, hollow things with frayed, dirty laces and soles that flapped open like panting tongues. His black hair hung in uneven, crooked tufts over his downcast eyes, choppy and irregular like it had been hacked at with broken scissors or a dull knife in desperate, inexperienced hands. His skin was pale—not the pale of aristocratic beauty or careful breeding, but the kind of sickly, sunless pallor that was bred by prolonged neglect and malnourishment.
He wasn't crying, which struck Wukong as strange.
That was the most startling, unsettling thing about the entire scene.
Not the dark bruises blooming like poisonous flowers beneath his left eye, spreading in ugly purples and yellows. Not the crusted, dried scabs at his temple that spoke of recent violence. Not even the cracked, bloodless lips that barely seemed to move with each shallow, labored breath.
He was just... sitting there in the refuse and shadows.
Still as stone.
Silent as the grave.
Unmoving in a way that reminded Wukong far too much of corpses scattered across old battlefields, of warriors who had simply given up the fight and accepted their fate.
Wukong hovered uncertainly in the air above, his usual cocky expression shifting into a deep, troubled frown.
He should've flown past without a second glance. Should've chalked it up to typical mortal problems—their endless capacity for cruelty and self-destruction—and moved along like he always did when faced with their petty suffering. What business did the Great Sage, the legendary Monkey King, have meddling in forgotten alleyways and the problems of abandoned children?
But something about the kid, something in his absolute stillness and defeat, twisted something sharp and ancient and uncomfortable in Wukong's gut—a feeling he didn't want to name or examine too closely.
"...Tch." The sound escaped him before he could stop it.
He dropped down from his cloud with practiced grace, landing lightly on bare, calloused feet with a soft huff of displaced air. The narrow alley smelled overwhelmingly of old motor oil, stale urine, and the metallic tang of iron—probably blood. A mangy rat skittered past his toes, squeaking in alarm at his sudden presence.
Still, impossibly, the boy didn't move so much as a muscle.
"Hey," Wukong barked, his voice echoing off the brick walls.
Nothing. Not even a twitch.
He stepped closer, his feet crunching on broken glass and debris. "Oi. I'm talking to you, kid."
The boy flinched—barely, almost imperceptibly. Just a slight twitch of his thin shoulder, like a beaten dog bracing instinctively for another kick from an angry master.
His eyes, when he finally looked up through those uneven bangs, were dark and hollow. Empty in a way that made Wukong's chest tighten. And old—way too old and world-weary for someone that small and fragile.
Wukong rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, suddenly unsure of himself in a way he hadn't felt in centuries. "What the hell are you doing out here, runt?"
The boy stared at him with those ancient, tired eyes.
Seconds crawled by like hours. Maybe a full minute of uncomfortable silence.
Then, so softly Wukong almost missed it:
"I live here."
Wukong blinked in genuine surprise, his mind struggling to process the simple statement.
You live here? In this filthy alley that smelled like death and despair?
What kind of absolute idiot said something like that? What kind of cruel, twisted world forced a child to mean it with such quiet acceptance?
"Pff. You're even more screwed up than you look," Wukong muttered under his breath, the words coming out harsher than he intended. He crouched down on his haunches, muscular arms resting casually on his knees. The kid recoiled slightly at the movement, pressing himself further back against the cold brick wall.
"Easy there," Wukong said, his tone sharper and more impatient than he meant it to be. "If I wanted to hurt you, I'd already have done it. Wouldn't have bothered with all this talking."
That... probably wasn't particularly reassuring, he realized belatedly.
The boy blinked slowly, as if his exhausted mind was trying to process not just Wukong's words, but his very existence. "You're not human."
"No shit, genius."
The blunt response earned the faintest flicker of something in the boy's gaunt face. Not quite fear, though that was certainly there. Not quite amusement, though there was a ghost of that too. Just... weary, bone-deep acknowledgment of yet another impossible thing in an already impossible world.
Wukong could see the whole tragic story written in the kid's posture, even if none of it was spoken aloud. Kids like this weren't born into the world—they were systematically discarded by it, thrown away like garbage. The fresh and faded bruises painting his skin in ugly colors, the sunken cheeks that spoke of chronic hunger, the heavy, oppressive silence that hung around him like a shroud. The careful, automatic flinching at any sudden movement. Like someone who'd been punished far too many times for the simple crime of making noise, of existing, of taking up space in a world that didn't want him.
A kid like this didn't need some shining hero swooping in with grand speeches and impossible promises. He needed practical things—a decent meal that would fill his empty stomach. A warm bed that wasn't concrete and cardboard. A hot bath, probably, to wash away the grime and neglect. And most importantly, someone who wouldn't abandon him the moment things got difficult or inconvenient.
Fuck.
Wukong stood abruptly, his decision made before his conscious mind could talk him out of it. "What's your name, kid?"
The boy looked up again, his cracked lips parting slowly as if speech was a foreign concept.
Then, hoarse and almost shyly, like he wasn't used to anyone caring enough to ask:
"...Kim Dokja."
"Dokja, huh?" Wukong rolled the unfamiliar name around on his tongue, testing its shape and sound. It was Korean, if that was the name of the mortal language. He wasn’t completely familiar to Korean, but through Tang Sanzang, he knew it was from Earth. "Sounds like a bookworm's name if I ever heard one."
The boy—Dokja—blinked again, confusion flickering across his features.
Wukong huffed and turned his back deliberately, presenting a picture of casual indifference. "Come on then, Bookworm. Time to go."
"...What?" The single word was barely a whisper.
"You want to stay here and rot away into nothing, be my guest," Wukong said with studied nonchalance, not looking back. "But if you've got even half a brain rattling around in that skull of yours, get up. I'll feed you something that isn't garbage."
Kim Dokja didn't move, still frozen in his defensive crouch.
Wukong didn't look back, maintaining his facade of indifference even as every instinct screamed at him to turn around. "I ain't gonna coddle you, kid. Get that through your head right now. I'm not your dad, not your mom, not your shining savior come to rescue you from all the world's evils. You're not particularly cute, and I'm definitely not nice. But I got space on my cloud, and I got fruit that's better than anything these mortals have ever tasted. Take it or leave it—makes no difference to me."
More silence stretched between them, heavy and uncertain.
Then: a shuffle of movement. A sharp, pained inhale. The audible creak of joints that had been locked in the same defensive position for far too long.
Kim Dokja stood, unfolding himself slowly like a paper crane.
Bare feet on dirty, oil-stained asphalt. Unsteady and swaying, but upright and defiant in his own quiet way.
Wukong didn't let himself smile at the small victory.
"...Took you long enough," he muttered, hopping back onto his faithful cloud like it was nothing more than stepping onto solid ground. "Hurry up before I change my mind and leave you here to waste away."
Dokja approached the edge of the mystical cloud and paused, staring at it with wide, uncertain eyes.
"...What is it now?" Wukong snapped, though his irritation was mostly feigned.
"I've never... ridden a cloud before." The admission was soft, tinged with wonder despite everything.
"Tch. Mortals and their limitations."
Without ceremony or warning, he grabbed the boy by the scruff of his thin shirt like he was picking up a stray kitten and hauled him up onto the cloud in one smooth motion. The kid weighed less than a pile of old scrolls, all sharp angles and jutting bones.
"Don't you dare puke on it," Wukong warned sternly, settling into a comfortable position. "This cloud is older than your entire civilization."
"I won't," Dokja promised quietly, his voice carrying a sincerity that was somehow touching.
"You better not, or I'll drop you right back in that alley."
They rose into the air, fast and smooth as silk, the sprawling city shrinking rapidly below them until it became nothing more than a glittering circuit board of lights and movement. Individual lights became tiny sparks. Busy streets turned to thin veins carrying the lifeblood of civilization. The noise and chaos faded to a distant hum.
And for the first time in longer than he could remember—possibly ever—Kim Dokja didn't feel crushingly, overwhelmingly small and insignificant.
The wind whipped through his ragged hair, carrying away the stench of the alley and filling his lungs with clean, cold air that tasted like freedom. The city spread out beneath them like a vast tapestry of human ambition and folly, beautiful and terrible in equal measure from this impossible height.
Without conscious thought, driven by some deep, desperate need for warmth and contact, he leaned slightly into Wukong's solid, reassuring side. Just a breath's worth of weight, barely noticeable pressure against the Monkey King's muscled arm.
Wukong grunted—a sound that could have meant anything or nothing.
But significantly, importantly, he didn't move away.
As they climbed higher into the star-filled sky, leaving the mortal world and its cruelties far below, neither of them spoke. There would be time for words later—questions that needed answering, stories that demanded telling, plans that required making.
For now, it was enough that Kim Dokja was no longer alone in that alley, slowly dying by inches. And it was enough that Sun Wukong, the Great Sage who had conquered heaven itself, had found something worth caring about again in the endless, boring expanse of his immortal existence.
Notes:
Yoo Joonghyuk will appear soon, so dont worry :)
Im sorry for the short chapter, but it will get longer soon, i promise ^_^
Chapter 2: Maknae
Summary:
Sun Wukong knows what a normal human child needs, he may be called a dumbass by other constellations, but he sure in hell knows how to tend to mortals. Cough—from taking care of his master, Tan Sanzang, of course, but that wasn’t the point, okay??
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Nimbus clouds weren't made for passengers—not the kind that trembled with every gust of wind, anyway. They were meant for beings who understood the art of flight, who could dance between air currents without a care in the world, not for fragile mortals who looked like they might dissolve into mist at any moment.
Especially not ones who curled in on themselves like they expected to be tossed off at any second, their entire body language screaming of abandonment and mistrust that ran bone-deep.
Sun Wukong side-eyed the kid clinging to the farthest edge of his cloud like a kicked puppy too stubborn to cry, too proud to whimper despite the fear that radiated from his small frame in waves. Kim Dokja sat cross-legged in the most precarious position imaginable, arms hugged tight to his ribs as if he could somehow make himself smaller, more invisible, less of a burden. His face was angled down toward the blur of city lights that continued shrinking beneath them, growing more distant with each passing second until they looked like nothing more than scattered diamonds against black velvet.
The wind up here was harsh, unforgiving in the way that only high-altitude currents could be, cutting through fabric and flesh with equal indifference. It whipped through the boy's dark hair, sending the uneven strands dancing wildly around his pale face, and Wukong couldn't help but notice how the kid didn't even try to brush it away. He just sat there, enduring it like he endured everything else—with a quiet resignation that was far too mature for someone who couldn't be more than twelve or thirteen years old.
His bare feet looked cold, so very cold that Wukong had to resist the urge to wince in sympathy. They were pale as moonlight, almost translucent in their whiteness, with a disturbing blue tinge around the edges that spoke of poor circulation and long exposure to elements that should never touch a child's skin. The sight of those small, vulnerable feet dangling over the edge of the cloud sent an unexpected spike of something uncomfortable through Wukong's chest—something that felt dangerously close to protective instinct.
His too-big shirt flapped violently in the wind like a flag of surrender, the cheap fabric doing absolutely nothing to shield his body from the cold. Every gust exposed even more of that stick-thin chest, ribs clearly visible through skin that looked paper-thin and bruised in places that made Wukong's jaw clench involuntarily. The shirt was several sizes too large, hanging off the boy's narrow shoulders like a hand-me-down that had seen better days, and it was obvious that it had been chosen more for availability than fit.
Wukong clicked his tongue, the sound sharp and disapproving in the rushing wind. "You're gonna fall off if you sit like that," he said, his voice carrying easily despite the noise around them. "Seriously, kid, what's the point of rescuing you if you're just gonna throw yourself off my cloud the first chance you get?"
"I won't," came the quiet response, barely audible above the wind. Dokja's voice was steady, controlled, but there was an underlying thread of something that might have been determination or might have been stubbornness. With this kid, it was hard to tell the difference.
"Says the half-dead twig wobbling in the breeze," Wukong shot back, his tone dry as desert sand. He gestured at the boy's precarious position with one clawed hand, tail lashing behind him in a display of irritation that was only half-feigned. "Seriously, I've seen scarecrows with better balance. At least they're tied to their posts."
Dokja didn't answer, which wasn't particularly surprising. The kid had a talent for selective hearing that would have impressed even the most stubborn of celestial bureaucrats. He just continued staring down at the world below, his dark eyes reflecting nothing but empty space and distant lights.
Wukong muttered under his breath, a string of curses in several different languages that would have made even the most hardened demons blush, and rolled onto his back with deliberate casualness. He pillowed his arms behind his head, letting his golden eyes drift closed as if he didn't have a care in the world. The cloud dipped slightly with the redistribution of weight—just a gentle bob that shouldn't have bothered anyone with proper cloud-traveling experience.
The kid yelped—barely more than a sharp intake of breath, really, but Wukong's sharp ears caught it anyway. Those same ears, enhanced by centuries of battle and survival, picked up the minute rustle of fabric as Dokja instinctively grabbed for a handhold that didn't exist, the slight scrape of fingernails against the cloud's surprisingly solid surface.
He snorted, not bothering to open his eyes. "You think I'd let you fall now?" The question came out rougher than he'd intended, tinged with an exasperation that was becoming all too familiar. "What would be the point of picking you up in the first place, huh? You think the Great Sage Equal to Heaven goes around collecting strays just to watch them splat on the pavement?"
No reply came, which was about what he'd expected. The silence stretched between them, filled only by the whistle of wind and the distant sound of his own breathing. It wasn't comfortable—nothing about this situation was comfortable—but it wasn't entirely unpleasant either.
Of course the kid stayed quiet. Dokja barely talked on the best of days, and this certainly wasn't shaping up to be one of those. He didn't look scared, not exactly—Wukong had seen enough fear to recognize its various flavors, and this wasn't quite that. No, this was something deeper, more ingrained. Resignation, maybe. The kind of quiet acceptance that came from having expectations beaten down so many times that hope itself became a luxury too dangerous to afford.
It was the kind of quiet that wasn't natural for a child, the kind that spoke of lessons learned too young and too harshly. Like someone had taught him that silence was safer than speech, that drawing attention was the surest way to invite pain. The realization sat in Wukong's stomach like a stone, heavy and uncomfortable and entirely unwelcome.
Not my problem, Wukong reminded himself firmly, the mantra he'd been repeating since he'd first laid eyes on the scrawny kid in that alley. Not my responsibility. Not my mess to clean up. He had his own issues to deal with, his own complicated relationship with the world and everyone in it. The last thing he needed was to add a traumatized mortal child to his list of concerns.
The boy wasn't supposed to be his problem, wasn't supposed to be anyone's concern, really. Kids like that—the ones who slipped through the cracks, who learned early that the world had no use for them—they usually figured out how to survive on their own or they didn't survive at all. It was harsh but true, the way things worked in a universe that cared more about power than compassion.
And yet here they were, speeding through the clouds at a height that would make most mortals pass out from oxygen deprivation, heading toward a mountain that no human had set foot on in over a century. It wasn't like Wukong had planned this, hadn't woken up that morning thinking he'd end the day with a passenger. It had just sort of... happened, the way these things sometimes did when fate decided to stick its nose where it didn't belong.
One minute he'd been minding his own business, enjoying a perfectly good rampage through the city's criminal underworld, and the next he'd been staring down at a kid who looked like he was one strong breeze away from dissolving entirely. Something about those dark eyes—too old for the face they belonged to, too knowing for someone who should have been worried about homework and video games—had stopped him cold.
His sanctuary was hidden deep in the dense, ancient forests of 花果山 (Pronounced Huáguóshān, Flower Fruit Mountain, it is the birth-place of Sun Wukong and his home in Chinese Mythology.), nestled among peaks that pierced the sky like stone fingers reaching for enlightenment.
It was a place where his tribe had thrived for millennia, where the old ways still held sway and mortal concerns seemed as distant as forgotten dreams. The mountain itself was a living thing, breathing with the rhythm of seasons and the pulse of magic that ran through every stone and stream.
It was beautiful in a way that most humans couldn't fully comprehend, a beauty that spoke of time measured not in years but in centuries, of stories written in the grain of rock and the flow of water. The trees that covered its slopes were older than most civilizations, their roots running so deep they touched the mountain's heart. Waterfalls cascaded down its faces like liquid silver, their song echoing through valleys that had never known the touch of modern machinery.
The monkeys that called this place home were his children in every way that mattered, descendants of the tribe that had welcomed him when he was nothing more than a clever ape with delusions of grandeur. They had watched him grow from trickster to warrior to something approaching legend, had celebrated his victories and mourned his defeats, had remained loyal even when his pride and anger had led him down paths they couldn't follow.
This was his domain, his responsibility, his haven from a world that had never quite known what to make of him. Bringing an outsider here—especially a mortal child with more baggage than a cosmic bureaucrat—felt like a violation of everything the place represented.
But he was doing it anyway.
When the nimbus finally broke through the last layer of clouds, emerging into the clear air above like a ship breaching the surface of a storm-tossed sea, the golden haze of dusk bathed everything in warm, honeyed light. The sun hung low on the horizon, a burning orb that painted the sky in shades of amber and rose, casting long shadows that stretched across the mountain's face like dark fingers.
The view was breathtaking in the truest sense of the word—the kind of vista that made mortals drop to their knees in awe, that inspired poets to write epics and artists to weep at their own inadequacy. The mountain rose before them like something from a dream, its peaks wreathed in mist and mystery, its slopes covered in vegetation so lush and green it almost hurt to look at.
Dokja blinked up at the view, and for just a moment, his carefully maintained mask of indifference slipped. His eyes widened—just slightly, barely enough to notice unless you were looking for it—and something that might have been wonder flickered across his features before being quickly suppressed. It was gone almost as soon as it appeared, but Wukong caught it anyway, filed it away as evidence that there was still something alive underneath all that resignation.
Wukong pretended not to notice, keeping his expression carefully neutral as he guided the cloud toward the main landing platform. No point in making the kid self-conscious about showing a normal human reaction to something genuinely amazing. The platform itself was a marvel of natural engineering, a broad shelf of stone that jutted out from the mountain's face like a welcoming hand, worn smooth by countless landings over the centuries.
"Tch," he said with studied casualness, his voice carrying just the right amount of dismissive arrogance. "You act like you've never seen a mountain before. What, they don't have those in whatever concrete jungle you crawled out of?"
"I haven't," Dokja replied, and there was something in his voice—not quite sadness, but a kind of quiet acceptance of all the things he'd never had, never seen, never experienced. "Seen a mountain, I mean. Not like this."
The admission hit Wukong harder than it should have, settled in his chest like a weight he couldn't shake. Of course the kid hadn't seen mountains. Kids like him didn't get taken on vacations or scenic drives, didn't have families who thought exposing them to natural beauty was important. They survived in urban sprawl, in the spaces between buildings where dreams went to die.
"Well, congratulations then," Wukong said, his tone deliberately light to mask the unexpected tightness in his throat. "You're officially less boring now. Mountain-viewing is a step up from whatever you were doing before."
Dokja stayed quiet after that, but his gaze remained fixed on the view before them—on the impossible sky that seemed to stretch forever, on the dizzying height that made the world below look like a child's toy, on the glowing peak of the mountain that seemed to pulse with its own inner light. There was something hungry in the way he looked at it all, like he was trying to memorize every detail, to store it away for later when the world inevitably turned gray again.
Wukong steered the cloud toward the main landing platform with the ease of long practice, adjusting for wind currents and air pressure with the kind of unconscious skill that came from centuries of flight. The platform grew larger as they approached, its surface marked with the subtle patterns that indicated a place of power, a nexus where earth and sky met in perfect harmony.
He hopped off the cloud with his usual bounce and tail flick, landing with the effortless grace of someone who had never met a height that intimidated him. His feet touched stone with barely a whisper of sound, and immediately he felt the familiar pulse of the mountain's energy beneath him—welcoming, recognizing, accepting him as it always had.
He turned back to check on his passenger and stopped short.
The kid hadn't moved. Not an inch. He sat there on the cloud like it was a life raft in hostile waters, hands clenched in his lap, eyes fixed on something Wukong couldn't see.
"…What now?" Wukong asked, hands settling on his hips in a pose that was part impatience, part genuine concern. "Cloud's not gonna get any closer to the ground, kid. This is as good as it gets."
"Am I allowed to come down?" The question came out small, uncertain, and it hit Wukong like a physical blow. There was something in those five words that spoke of a lifetime of being told he wasn't welcome, wasn't wanted, wasn't worth the space he occupied.
Wukong stared at him, genuinely taken aback by the question. "The hell kind of question is that?" The words came out sharper than he'd intended, rough with an anger that wasn't directed at the kid but at whatever circumstances had taught him to ask permission for basic human dignity.
"I just thought—" Dokja's voice wavered slightly, the first crack in his armor that Wukong had witnessed. "Sometimes people change their minds. About wanting me around. It's easier if I ask first."
The words hung in the air between them like an accusation, like a indictment of every adult who had ever failed this child, every system that had let him slip through the cracks, every moment of casual cruelty that had taught him his own worth was negotiable.
Wukong looked at him—really looked this time, seeing past the surface resignation to the hurt underneath, the careful way he held himself like someone expecting a blow, the defensive set of his shoulders that spoke of too many disappointments to count.
Then he clicked his tongue again, the sound sharp with decision, and stomped over to the cloud with more force than the situation strictly required.
"Idiot," he grumbled, reaching out to grab the boy by the wrist. The skin under his fingers was cold, too cold, and he could feel the bird-quick pulse of Dokja's heartbeat beneath the surface. The kid flinched at the contact—a full-body recoil that spoke of reflexes honed by necessity—but didn't resist as he was hauled off the cloud with perhaps more gentleness than Wukong's gruff manner suggested.
"You think I waste my time hauling trash up here for fun?" The insult was delivered without heat, almost fondly, like it was meant to be reassuring rather than cutting. "You think the Great Sage Equal to Heaven makes a habit of collecting strays just to dump them on random mountaintops? What kind of reputation do you think that would give me?"
"No…" The response was barely audible, but it was there, and that was something.
"Good. Then shut up and keep up." He released the boy's wrist, noting the way Dokja immediately pulled his arm close to his chest, as if protecting it from further contact. "And try not to gawk at everything like a tourist. It's embarrassing."
The kid stumbled after him on legs that seemed too long for his body, bare feet silent on the stone as they crossed the platform. Despite his earlier words, Wukong found himself unconsciously adjusting his pace to accommodate shorter legs and uncertain steps, making sure the distance between them never grew too large.
The platform itself was larger than it had appeared from the air, easily fifty feet across and carved from the living rock of the mountain.
Vines curled around the rocks that bordered the platform, their leaves a dozen different shades of green, their flowers blooming in defiance of the season. Some of them were species that existed nowhere else in the world, evolutionary branches that had followed their own path in this isolated ecosystem. They moved slightly in the breeze, creating patterns of light and shadow that seemed almost deliberate.
Beyond the platform, a narrow path led deeper into the mountain's embrace, winding between trees so tall their crowns were lost in mist and shadow. The air here was different from the city below—cleaner, older, touched with magic that made every breath feel like a small blessing. It carried the scent of growing things and clean water, of earth that had never known pollution and sky that stretched unbroken to the horizon.
The sound of water was everywhere—not just one waterfall, but dozens, cascading down the mountain's face in a symphony of liquid music. Some were thunderous torrents that carved deep channels in the rock, others mere whispers of moisture that left trails of moss and fern in their wake. The largest and most magnificent fell directly ahead of them, a curtain of silver that caught the dying light and threw it back in rainbow fragments.
Wind howled gently through the peaks above—not the harsh, cutting wind of their flight, but something softer, warmer, touched with the promise of shelter and safety. It sang through the trees with voices that spoke of centuries, of seasons beyond counting, of stories that had been old when the first humans learned to make fire.
It was beautiful in a way that went beyond mere aesthetics, beautiful in a way that spoke to something deeper than the eyes or the mind. It was the kind of beauty that reminded you why people once worshipped mountains, why they built temples on high places and believed the gods lived among the peaks.
Wukong led him through the waterfall with casual confidence, calling back over his shoulder, "Try not to get the important parts of yourself wet. Water's colder than it looks, and I'm not carrying you if you pass out from shock."
The passage behind the waterfall was narrow but well-maintained, carved from the living rock with a skill that spoke of either incredible craftsmanship or natural formation guided by patient magic. The sound of falling water created a constant background hum that seemed to vibrate in their bones, and the air was thick with mist that turned everything soft and dreamlike.
Dokja followed without complaint, though Wukong noticed the way he pressed close to the inner wall, putting as much distance as possible between himself and the thundering cascade. Water droplets caught in his dark hair like tiny diamonds, and his oversized shirt became damp and clung to his thin frame in a way that made his fragility even more apparent.
They emerged into a hidden valley that defied every law of geography Wukong could think of. It was larger than the mountain's outer dimensions should have allowed, a pocket of impossible space where reality bent just enough to accommodate magic. Gardens terraced the valley's sides in graceful curves, heavy with fruit trees and flowering vines, while a crystal-clear stream meandered through the bottom, fed by springs that bubbled up from the earth itself.
Wukong's own dwelling sat at the waterfall's heart, larger than the others but not ostentatiously so, distinguished more by its position than its size. It was a place of warm wood and cool stone, of windows that captured light and scattered it like blessings, of rooms that felt welcoming even when empty.
He led the boy inside, and Wukong couldn't help but notice the way Dokja's eyes widened slightly as warmth soaked into his bones for what was probably the first time in days. The interior was exactly what it appeared to be—a home in the truest sense, lived-in but not cluttered, comfortable but not soft, the kind of place where someone could rest without worry.
"Don't touch anything," Wukong warned, his tone carrying just enough menace to be taken seriously, though the effect was somewhat undermined by the way he was already moving to push open the wooden door to a guest room. "You break it, you clean it. With your tongue. And trust me, some of the stuff in here has been places you don't want to think about."
Dokja nodded silently, the gesture so automatic it was clearly learned behavior. Good kids didn't argue with adults, good kids followed rules, good kids made themselves invisible until they were needed or wanted.
Wukong watched him take in the room that would be his, noting the way those dark eyes cataloged every detail with the intensity of someone who had learned not to assume anything would be permanent. It was a proper guest room, not grand but certainly comfortable—a bed large enough for someone twice Dokja's size, covered with blankets that were clearly high quality even if they were worn soft with age. A low table sat near the window, its surface polished smooth by years of use, while a pile of folded blankets rested on a chest near the door, untouched by dust despite clearly having sat there for decades.
"It's too clean," the boy mumbled after a long moment, his voice barely above a whisper. The words carried a note of distrust, as if cleanliness itself was suspicious, as if comfort was a trap waiting to spring.
The observation hit Wukong in a way he hadn't expected, sharp and sudden like a blade between the ribs. Of course it was too clean. Kids like Dokja didn't get clean rooms, didn't get soft beds and folded blankets and windows that let in actual sunlight. They got whatever space was left over, whatever corners nobody else wanted, whatever shelter they could find or make for themselves.
"Well, sorry for not leaving it full of rats and broken glass like you're used to," Wukong said, his tone dry enough to start fires. The words came out harsher than he'd intended, but he couldn't seem to soften them. "Next time I'll make sure to scatter some garbage around, maybe punch a few holes in the walls. Really make you feel at home."
The sarcasm was a defense mechanism, a way of deflecting the uncomfortable emotions that the kid's quiet acceptance kept stirring up. It was easier to be sharp than sympathetic, easier to maintain distance than to acknowledge the growing knot of protective instinct that was taking root in his chest.
"Bathroom's down the hall," he continued, gesturing vaguely toward the door. "Use it. Hot water's on the left, cold's on the right, and there's soap that actually works instead of whatever industrial sludge they use in public facilities. Try not to flood the place."
"…Thank you." The words were so quiet they were almost lost, barely more than a breath of air shaped into gratitude. But they were sincere in a way that made Wukong's chest tighten unexpectedly.
The Monkey King raised a brow, genuinely surprised by the display of manners. "Huh. You do have some social skills buried in there somewhere. Here I was thinking you'd been raised by particularly antisocial wolves."
Dokja ducked his head in a gesture that was part embarrassment, part instinctive self-protection. "Sometimes it helps," he said, and there was something in those three words that spoke of lessons learned through necessity, of politeness weaponized as a survival tool, of a child who had figured out that saying the right things at the right times could mean the difference between kindness and cruelty.
Something about that admission made Wukong's jaw tighten involuntarily, made his hands curl into fists at his sides. The idea of this kid—this skinny, fragile, obviously traumatized kid—having to perform gratitude and politeness just to earn basic human decency made something hot and angry rise in his throat.
He looked away before he could say something he'd regret, before the fury building behind his ribs could escape in words that would only confuse and frighten an already skittish child.
"Go," he said instead, his voice rougher than usual but not unkind. "Clean yourself up. You smell like damp bread and whatever else you've been sleeping in. There's clean clothes in the dresser—they'll be too big, but they're better than whatever you're wearing now."
He shut the door without waiting for a response, leaning against it for a moment as he tried to process the tangle of emotions that had somehow wrapped itself around his heart. This wasn't supposed to happen. He wasn't supposed to care about some random street kid with trust issues and a tendency to assume the worst of everyone around him.
But he did care, and that was the problem.
Later that night, when the valley had settled into the peaceful quiet that came with full darkness, Wukong sat at the very peak of Flower Fruit Mountain with a perfectly ripe peach in one hand and a jug of wine that was older than most countries in the other. The fruit was one of his own, grown in the sacred groves that dotted the mountain's slopes, sweet enough to make mortals weep with joy and potent enough to extend a human lifespan by decades.
His tail swayed slowly behind him as he gazed out over the endless clouds below, its movement unconscious and hypnotic in the way of all predators at rest. His ears twitched at every sound—the rustle of leaves in the night breeze, the distant splash of water over stone, the soft breathing of his sleeping tribe, the almost inaudible sounds of a traumatized child trying not to exist too loudly even in supposed safety.
The kid had taken a bath. He could smell the soap from here, could detect the clean scent of actually washed hair and scrubbed skin beneath the lingering traces of fear and uncertainty. It was an improvement, certainly, but it also served as a reminder of just how bad things had been before.
He hadn't left the room since cleaning up, hadn't explored or asked questions or shown any of the curiosity that should have been natural for a child in a new and wondrous place. He was probably sitting in that too-clean room, staring at walls that were actually intact, trying to figure out what the catch was, when the other shoe would drop.
Wukong sighed, a sound that seemed to carry all the weight of his considerable years. The wine was excellent—sharp and complex, with notes that spoke of grapes grown in soil blessed by gods and aged in barrels carved from trees that had witnessed the birth of civilizations. Under normal circumstances, he would have savored it, would have let it warm his throat and ease the constant tension that came with being what he was.
Instead, he found himself staring into the jug's depths and wondering what the hell he had done.
This wasn't him. This wasn't who he was supposed to be. He wasn't meant for this kind of responsibility, wasn't equipped to deal with damaged children who looked at kindness like it might explode in their faces. He was the Monkey King, the Great Sage Equal to Heaven, the being who had fought gods and argued with Buddha and told the entire celestial bureaucracy exactly what they could do with their rules and regulations.
He was a creature of action and rebellion, of quick tempers and quicker violence, of solutions that usually involved hitting things until they stopped being problems. He didn't do subtlety or patience or the kind of careful emotional navigation that traumatized children required.
He flipped off heavens as a matter of principle, not because he particularly cared about the politics involved but because authority had always rubbed him the wrong way. Rules were meant to be broken, hierarchies were meant to be challenged, and anyone who thought they could tell him what to do was welcome to try enforcing it with their fists.
Now he was… what? Some kind of babysitter? A foster parent to a kid who looked like he'd been living rough for months, maybe years? The very idea was absurd, would have been laughable if it weren't so terrifying in its implications.
He took a long swig from the jug, letting the alcohol burn away some of the uncertainty that had been building in his chest all evening. The wine was good—better than good, actually, the kind of vintage that mortals would kill for and immortals hoarded like treasure. It should have been enough to distract him from the unusual weight of responsibility that seemed to have settled on his shoulders.
Then he lobbed the peach pit across the forest close to him with more force than strictly necessary, watching it arc through the darkness before bouncing off a boulder and rolling into a pond with a soft splash. The fish scattered briefly before returning to their lazy circles, unperturbed by the intrusion.
"Che," he muttered, the sound carrying all his frustration and confusion in a single syllable.
Still, despite everything—despite the inconvenience and the complications and the way having a mortal child in his sanctuary made everything feel different somehow—he hadn't kicked the kid out. The thought had occurred to him, certainly. It would be easy enough to deposit Dokja somewhere safe, maybe with some money and a stern warning to stay out of trouble. There were organizations that dealt with situations like this, people whose job it was to handle damaged children and find them appropriate placement.
Even now, sitting here in the darkness with wine warming his belly and starlight painting everything silver, he didn't want to. The admission sat heavy in his mind, uncomfortable but undeniable. Whatever instinct had made him pick up the kid in the first place was still there, still insisting that this was right somehow, that this was where Dokja belonged.
He scratched behind one ear, claws catching briefly in the coarse fur that most people never got close enough to notice. The gesture was thoughtful, the kind of unconscious grooming behavior that came out when he was trying to work through a particularly complex problem.
"…Maknae, huh," he muttered after a long moment, trying the Korean word out on his tongue with the careful pronunciation of someone who had heard it only once but possessed perfect recall. The syllables felt strange in his mouth, foreign but not unpleasant, carrying implications he wasn't entirely sure he was ready to accept.
He remembered where he'd heard it—some Korean drama his monkeys had been obsessed with a few years back, gathered around stolen televisions and arguing about character motivations with all the passion of literary scholars. The youngest member of a group, they'd explained when he'd asked. The baby. The one everyone else protected and looked after.
"Guess I've had worse titles than a brother for a maknae," he said to the night air, and tried not to think too hard about what it might mean that the word felt right somehow, that applying it to the too-thin boy sleeping in his guest room didn't seem nearly as ridiculous as it should have.
Notes:
wukong is a little rough to his maknae but he has good intentions he’ll soften up soon :)
Chapter 3: I feel it inside me like a pulse
Summary:
Sun Wukong adapts to having a traumatised little mortal child in his home. It goes strangely well.
Notes:
i caved in and wrote another chapter as i too am also very invested in this fic and i need more content for myself and the small community of people who like kim dokja and sun wukong interactions
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The wind bit his skin as he sat on the edge of the mountain, legs lazily swinging off the cliff like he was a child again—a long, long time ago, before the weight of titles settled on his shoulders like chains, before the glory turned bitter in his mouth, before the heavens spat on his name and made it synonymous with rebellion and chaos. The memory felt distant now, hazy around the edges like something glimpsed through smoke, but it was there nonetheless—the echo of simpler times when the world was vast and full of possibility, when every day brought new discoveries and the future stretched endlessly ahead.
But he wasn't a child anymore, hadn't been for centuries beyond counting. The carefree monkey who had once delighted in simple pleasures—fresh fruit, warm sunshine, the company of his troop—had been buried under layers of experience and expectation, transformed by power and responsibility into something harder, more complex.
He was Sun Wukong, The Great Sage Equal to Heaven, a title that had once filled him with fierce pride and now felt like a burden he couldn't quite shake. The name carried weight in every realm, spoken with reverence by some, fear by others, hatred by those who remembered what he had done to earn it. He was the one who had been shackled under a mountain for five hundred years, crushed beneath the weight of divine judgment for the crime of reaching too high, wanting too much.
He was the one who had emerged from that prison not broken but harder, forged by suffering into something that could stand against celestial armies and laugh in the face of gods. He had been victorious against forces that should have destroyed him utterly, had carved his legend into the very fabric of reality with nothing but his own stubborn will and an iron staff that had never known defeat.
Once, his name had been known across all the realms—whispered in palace corridors and shouted in battlefield rallies, carved into temple stones and written in the stars themselves. Sun Wukong, the Monkey King, the Great Sage Equal to Heaven, the being who had dared to challenge the natural order and somehow lived to tell the tale.
And now?
Now he was sitting on a mountaintop in the pre-dawn darkness, wondering how in all the hells he had ended up babysitting some half-starved mortal brat who looked like a strong breeze would snap him in half.
The irony wasn't lost on him. The rebel against heaven, The Prisoner Of The Golden Headband, the stone monkey who had stolen immortality itself, reduced to worrying about whether a scrawny human child had eaten enough dinner. If his enemies could see him now, they'd probably die laughing—assuming they weren't too busy plotting ways to use this unexpected weakness against him.
He scoffed to himself, the sound harsh in the mountain air, and dragged a clawed finger through the solid rock beneath him as if it were wet clay. The ancient stone, harder than diamond and older than most civilizations, hissed and bubbled under his touch like acid had been poured over it. Steam curled upward in lazy spirals where divine heat met the cold earth, the air shimmering with the kind of power that could reshape landscapes with a careless gesture.
"What the hell did you just do," he muttered to himself, the words carrying all his frustration and bewilderment into the night air. It wasn't really a question—he knew exactly what he'd done, could trace every step that had led him to this moment with painful clarity. That was the problem.
He had taken the boy home. Not to some orphanage or foster family, not to one of the temples that occasionally took in strays, not even to one of the mortal cities where someone else could deal with the mess of a traumatized child.
No, worse than any of those sensible options—he had brought him here, to the mountain. To this place that had been untouched by mortal feet for centuries, where the air itself thrummed with magic old enough to predate written history, where not even the other gods dared to tread unless they had a death wish and excellent life insurance.
This was his sanctuary, his haven, the one place in all the realms where he could exist without pretense or performance. It was where he came to lick his wounds after battles that left scars on his soul, where he retreated when the weight of his reputation became too much to bear, where he could remember what it felt like to simply be rather than constantly becoming.
And now he had contaminated it with mortality, with fragility, with the kind of need that couldn't be solved with violence or clever tricks.
Kim Dokja.
Even thinking the name made something uncomfortable twist in his chest. It felt too fragile on his tongue, too delicate for the harsh consonants of his voice. The syllables seemed to dissolve the moment he spoke them, as if the very air was too rough for something so breakable.
The kid was small—not just young small, but genuinely tiny, as if life had been steadily shrinking him down until there was barely anything left. Scrawny didn't begin to cover it; he was skeletal, all sharp angles and hollow places where flesh should have been. His arms were stick-thin, his legs like twigs that might snap under their own weight. Even his face was gaunt, cheekbones standing out in stark relief against skin that was too pale, too translucent, marked with bruises that told stories Wukong didn't want to read.
"Stupid," Wukong muttered, the word bitter on his tongue. "Stupid thing to do. Interfering with mortals always ends badly. Always complicates things. Always makes everything messier than it needs to be."
He had centuries of evidence to support that conclusion. Mortals were fragile, unpredictable, prone to breaking in ways that couldn't be fixed with power or magic. They lived such brief lives, burned so bright and fast that getting attached was like trying to hold onto smoke. Better to keep his distance, to treat them as curiosities at best, obstacles at worst.
He raked a hand through his hair, fingers catching in the coarse strands that never seemed to lay flat no matter what he did. The breeze pulled at his ripped scarf-cape with insistent fingers, making the fabric snap and flutter like a battle banner. Above him, the stars glimmered with cold light, distant and uncaring, like teeth in a wolf's grin waiting for him to make the wrong move.
The night sky here was different from the one mortals saw in their cities, unpolluted by artificial light and close enough to touch if he bothered to reach up. Each star was a story, a distant sun with its own collection of worlds and wonders, and he had visited more of them than most beings could imagine. The cosmos was vast beyond mortal comprehension, filled with marvels that would drive lesser minds to madness, and yet somehow a single scrawny child had managed to capture more of his attention than entire galaxies.
He hadn't meant to stay long on Earth this time. It was supposed to be just a short visit, a brief indulgence of curiosity about how the mortal world had changed since his last inspection. A century or two could bring remarkable transformations to human society—new technologies, new philosophies, new ways of making the same old mistakes.
The plan had been simple: a quick tour of the major cities, perhaps a brief confrontation with whatever supernatural threats were currently plaguing the realm, maybe a conversation or two with the local spirits to catch up on gossip. Nothing complicated, nothing that would require extended involvement or emotional investment.
And then he saw him.
That kid.
The memory hit him like a physical blow, as clear and sharp as if it were happening all over again. The alley had been narrow and filthy, the kind of forgotten space that existed in the gaps between important places, where society's discards gathered like debris after a storm. The smell had been overwhelming even to his enhanced senses—garbage and despair and the particular stench of human misery left to fester.
Kim Dokja had been hunched in the deepest corner, pressed against brick and mortar as if he could somehow disappear into the wall itself. His bones had been showing through pale skin that looked paper-thin, stretched too tight over a frame that had been denied adequate nutrition for far too long. His eyes had been sunken deep in his skull, dark hollows that held the kind of quiet emptiness only someone who had been systematically abandoned could carry.
It was a look Wukong recognized, had seen in mirrors during his darkest moments. The expression of someone who had stopped expecting rescue, who had learned that hope was just another word for disappointment, who had given up on the possibility that anyone might care whether they lived or died.
He'd seen gods with less sorrow in their eyes, had witnessed the aftermath of cosmic disasters that left fewer scars on the soul than whatever this child had endured. The sheer weight of abandonment that radiated from that small figure had been staggering, a gravity well of pain that seemed to bend reality around it.
He could've walked away.
The smart thing, the safe thing, would have been to keep moving. One mortal child among billions, one small tragedy in an endless ocean of suffering—what was that to the Monkey King? What did the pain of a single human matter to someone who had watched civilizations rise and fall like seasons?
He should've walked away.
Any reasonable immortal would have. The wise course was always non-interference, always maintaining the necessary distance between the eternal and the ephemeral. Getting involved with mortals never ended well; their lives were too brief, too fragile, too prone to complications that could last for centuries after they were dust.
But he didn't walk away.
He couldn't.
Because something deep inside him—something that he'd thought had been burned out of him during those five hundred years under the mountain—had whispered in a voice he barely recognized: You know that look. You had it too, once.
The truth of it had hit him like a boulder to the chest, knocking the breath from his lungs and leaving him staggering under the weight of unwelcome recognition. He did know that look, had worn it himself during the darkest periods of his existence. The expression of someone who had been cast out, rejected, deemed unworthy of basic compassion by those who should have protected them.
"Che. I'm not soft," he grumbled now, the words carrying more desperation than conviction. He needed to believe it, needed to maintain the fiction that this was just a momentary aberration, a temporary weakness that would pass if he ignored it long enough.
No, he wasn't soft. He was the stone monkey born from heaven's wrath, carved from cosmic forces and tempered by trials that would have destroyed lesser beings. He had torn through clouds like tissue paper and challenged constellations from his nebula and not alike to philosophical debates that left them speechless. His reputation was built on strength, on the kind of uncompromising hardness that could weather any storm.
He didn't cradle children. He didn't look at tiny hands gripping blankets and feel his chest twist in strange, unfamiliar ways that made him want to promise things he had no business promising. He didn't stay awake at night wondering if someone was warm enough, fed enough, safe enough.
Yet here he was, perched on the edge of eternity with his heart caught somewhere between rage and guilt, between the desire to protect and the fear of failing in that protection. The contradiction sat in his chest like a stone, heavy and uncomfortable and impossible to ignore.
Sun Wukong's fingers dug into the rock beneath him, claws leaving deep gouges in stone that had withstood millennia of weather and warfare. The mountain itself seemed to pulse beneath his touch, ancient and patient, offering the kind of wordless comfort that came from connection to something truly permanent.
"…I'm not like them," he whispered into the darkness, the admission torn from somewhere deep in his throat. The words tasted like confession, like absolution, like defiance all rolled into one.
He wasn't like those mortals who'd ignored the boy, who had walked past that alley day after day without seeing the tragedy unfolding in its depths. Not like the ones who passed by human suffering and looked away when they saw bruises, filth, hunger—all the visible signs of a child who had been systematically failed by every system meant to protect him.
He had seen it—really seen it, not just glanced and dismissed—and he had done something about it. That had to count for something, didn't it? That had to mean he was different, better, more worthy of the power he wielded?
But still, the questions haunted him like hungry ghosts. Why him? Why that particular boy out of all the suffering children in the world? What was it about Kim Dokja that had reached through centuries of carefully constructed emotional armor and grabbed hold of something he'd thought was safely buried?
The silence didn't offer answers, never had and never would. It just stretched endlessly around him, filled with nothing but the wind's whisper and the rustle of pine needles and stars overhead that blinked like distant judges weighing his choices and finding them wanting.
The mountain was alive around him in the way that only truly ancient places could be, breathing with rhythms older than memory, pulsing with energies that predated language. Trees that had been saplings when the first humans learned to make fire swayed in breezes that carried the scent of snow and stone and growing things. Somewhere in the distance, water fell in silver streams that caught starlight and scattered it like blessing.
This was his world, his domain, the place where he made sense in ways that the mortal realm never quite allowed. Here, he could be what he was without apology or explanation, could exist in the space between legend and reality without having to choose one or the other.
"I didn't ask for this," he muttered to the uncaring sky, the complaint carrying all his frustration and bewilderment. "I don't know how to raise a kid. I barely figured out how to be a person myself, and that took centuries of trial and error that nobody should have to witness."
The gods knew it was true. His own journey toward something resembling emotional maturity had been messy, violent, filled with mistakes that had cost him dearly and left scars on his psyche that still ached in quiet moments. He had learned empathy through suffering, compassion through loss, wisdom through failures that had nearly destroyed him.
How was he supposed to guide someone else through that process when he was still figuring it out himself? What did he know about nurturing fragile things, about providing the kind of steady, patient care that traumatized children needed? His instincts all ran toward action, toward solving problems through force or cleverness, toward grand gestures that often did more harm than good.
And yet, despite all his doubts and fears and protestations, he couldn't shake the memory of earlier that evening. That tiny, broken voice saying that quiet sentence that had nearly undone him completely:
"Sometimes people change their minds. About wanting me around. It's easier if I ask first."
The words echoed in his mind like a prayer or a curse, carrying weight far beyond their simple syllables. They spoke of a lifetime of abandonment, of being treated as disposable by people who should have treasured him, of learning to expect rejection as the natural order of things.
Sun Wukong let out a slow, ragged breath that seemed to carry some of the tension from his shoulders. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, cradling his head in hands that had once held the power to reshape reality and now felt clumsy and uncertain when faced with one child's need for reassurance.
"No, maknae," he whispered into the cold night air, the words carrying the weight of an oath, a promise, a commitment that terrified him with its implications. "I'm not going to change my mind.”
The admission hung in the darkness between him and the stars, witnessed by ancient trees and patient stone, recorded in the memory of wind and water for as long as the mountain stood. It was a vow made to the night itself, to the universe that had brought them together, to whatever force had decided that the Monkey King needed to learn what it meant to protect something more fragile than himself.
He returned to his home just as the first pale light of dawn began to creep across the eastern peaks, painting the sky in shades of rose and gold that spoke of new beginnings and second chances. He had wandered the mountainside for most of the night, following paths worn smooth by centuries of his own restless pacing, debating with himself in a dozen different languages while the night slowly gave way to day.
The internal argument had been fierce and ongoing, part of him insisting that he should cut his losses now, before he got in any deeper. There were options, after all—safer, more sensible options that wouldn't require him to pretend he knew anything about child-rearing or emotional recovery.
He could leave the kid with one of the mortal families down in the city below, people who understood human needs and human frailty in ways that an immortal monkey never could. There were temples too, monasteries where monks made it their life's work to care for orphaned children, to provide the kind of structured, nurturing environment that someone like Kim Dokja obviously needed.
But every time he seriously considered it, every time he tried to convince himself it was the right thing to do, the thought made his skin crawl with revulsion so intense it was almost physical. The very idea of handing over that fragile, traumatized child to strangers—no matter how well-meaning—felt like betrayal of the deepest kind.
They wouldn't understand, couldn't possibly comprehend what the boy had been through or what he needed to heal from it. They'd see his silence as sullenness, his caution as defiance, his hard-won survival skills as behavioral problems to be corrected. They'd try to force him into their idea of what a normal child should be, would chip away at the careful walls he'd built until there was nothing left but raw vulnerability.
They'd only break him more, and Sun Wukong found that the possibility of Kim Dokja suffering further harm was utterly unacceptable to him. The protective instinct that had sparked in that alley had only grown stronger during the night, fed by the memory of small hands clutching blankets and a voice that asked permission for basic human dignity.
The warm glow of dawn leaked in through a window. The air was warm and still, thick with the scent of wood smoke and something else—something that might have been peace, or at least the absence of immediate threat.
Kim Dokja hadn't moved from the nest of blankets Sun Wukong had piled up the night before, though his position had shifted slightly in sleep. He was curled into a tight ball, knees drawn up to his chest in a defensive posture that probably came as naturally as breathing. His small hands were still clenched around the edge of the thin pillow like anchors, white-knuckled even in unconsciousness, as if he expected someone to try to take even that small comfort away.
One leg twitched occasionally in restless sleep, a nervous movement that suggested dreams were providing no more peace than waking hours had. His breathing was shallow but steady, the kind of careful, quiet respiration that spoke of someone who had learned not to draw attention even while unconscious.
There were still fading bruise marks scattered across his visible skin like ugly flowers blooming in shades of yellow and green. The worst of them decorated the bridge of his nose and the delicate skin under his left eye, old enough to be healing but still dark enough to make Wukong's jaw clench with renewed anger at whoever had put them there.
The sight of those marks, proof of deliberate cruelty visited upon someone so obviously defenseless, made something hot and violent rise in his chest. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, claws digging into his palms hard enough to draw blood, and he had to turn away before the rage could build into something that might wake the sleeping child.
Instead, he forced himself to move toward the back of the hut with careful, measured steps that wouldn't disturb the fragile peace that had settled over his unexpected guest. The space back there was larger than it appeared, carved from wood by patient decades of work, expanded and refined until it served as both sanctuary and stronghold.
Along one wall, several woven baskets sat in neat rows, filled with the kind of provisions that accumulated when you had immortal monkeys constantly bringing tribute. There were fruits that never spoiled, grains blessed by mountain spirits, nuts gathered from trees that grew only in the spaces between worlds. Most of it was offerings, gifts from his tribe and various supernatural entities who sought his favor or simply wished to show respect.
He didn't eat often—immortality had its advantages when it came to avoiding the mundane necessity of regular meals—but when he did, it was usually something quick and simple, fuel for a body that didn't technically need it but found the ritual comforting anyway.
This was different. This required thought, consideration, an understanding of mortal nutritional needs that he'd never bothered to acquire. The boy was obviously malnourished, had probably been living on scraps and whatever he could scrounge for far too long. His system would be delicate, sensitive, unable to handle anything too rich or complex.
Wukong worked in careful silence, hyperaware of every sound that might disturb the child's rest. He selected rice that had been blessed by harvest spirits, grains that glowed with subtle golden light and promised nourishment that went beyond the merely physical. The mortar and pestle he used were carved from a single piece of jade, tools that had been gifts from grateful earth elementals centuries ago.
The grinding was meditative work, requiring patience and steady rhythm to crush the rice into the fine consistency needed for proper congee. Each rotation of the pestle released a faint, sweet fragrance that spoke of growing things and abundance, of fields kissed by beneficial rain and seasons that turned in their proper order.
He added water from the sacred spring that bubbled up from deep within the mountain, liquid so pure it caught and held light like liquid crystal. The water had never known pollution or contamination, had been filtered through miles of blessed stone until it emerged perfect and life-giving.
The mixture went into a pot that was older than most human civilizations, blackened by countless fires but still as sound as the day it was forged. He set it over coals that glowed with steady, even heat, stirring occasionally with a wooden spoon worn smooth by age and use.
It wasn't perfect, wasn't the kind of divine ambrosia that could heal all wounds and grant eternal life. But it was warm, nourishing, made with care and attention to detail that transformed simple ingredients into something approaching comfort food. It was sustenance in the truest sense, the kind of meal that fed more than just the body.
The cooking gave him time to think, to process the enormity of what he'd committed himself to. Every stir of the spoon was a choice, every adjustment of heat a small act of care that bound him more tightly to the sleeping child. He was creating more than just a meal; he was establishing a pattern, setting a precedent that would shape whatever relationship developed between them.
When the 粥 (Pronounced Zhōu, Congee/Chinese Porridge) was ready—thick and creamy, perfectly smooth, warm enough to chase away the lingering chill of night—he poured it carefully into a stone bowl that had been polished to a soft sheen. The ceramic was warm to the touch, holding heat like a promise of comfort, and he found himself examining it critically to make sure it was clean enough, safe enough, worthy of someone so fragile.
He carried it over to where Kim Dokja slept, moving with the kind of careful grace that came from centuries of practice in not disturbing things that might be easily broken. His bare feet made no sound on the stone floor, and he barely stirred the air as he passed.
The boy began to stir as the scent of warm food reached him, his nose scrunching up in unconscious response to the rich, comforting aroma. It was probably the first time in weeks—maybe months—that he'd woken to the smell of something that had been prepared specifically for him, something that spoke of care and consideration rather than desperation or charity.
He blinked slowly, blearily, the movements sluggish and disoriented in the way of someone emerging from deep sleep. His dark eyes were unfocused at first, reflecting the warm glow of morning light like pools of still water, and for a moment he looked even younger than his apparent age—vulnerable in the way that only children could be, stripped of all defensive pretenses by the honesty of sleep.
Then awareness crept back in, and with it the careful wariness that seemed to be his default state. He didn't bolt upright or scramble away, but his entire body went tense, every muscle coiled and ready for flight. His eyes darted around the cave, taking inventory, confirming that he was still where he remembered being, that nothing had changed while he was unconscious and defenseless.
Wukong didn't speak immediately, didn't want to startle him with sudden words or movements. Instead, he simply crouched near the pile of blankets and set the bowl of congee within easy reach, close enough that the boy could take it without having to expose himself by reaching too far.
The silence stretched between them, comfortable on Wukong's part, cautious on the child's. The faint chitters of animals awakening softly in the background, and somewhere outside, early morning birds were beginning their dawn songs, welcoming the new day with voices that had greeted countless sunrises.
"Eat," he finally said, the single word carrying more gentleness than most people would have expected from the legendary Monkey King. It wasn't a command, despite the brevity—more of an invitation, an offering made without strings attached.
The boy blinked up at him with those too-large, too-knowing eyes, and Wukong could practically see the thoughts racing behind them. Suspicion warred with hunger, caution battled against desperate need, learned mistrust fought against the simple human desire for kindness.
"…It's for me?" The question came out small and uncertain, loaded with the kind of disbelief that spoke of a lifetime of being told he didn't deserve basic consideration. There was wonder there too, barely contained, as if the very concept of someone preparing food specifically for him was too good to be true.
Wukong arched a brow, injecting just enough dry humor into his expression to lighten the moment without mocking the boy's genuine confusion. "You see anyone else in this hut, brat?" The nickname was delivered without malice, almost fondly, the kind of gentle teasing that spoke of acceptance rather than rejection.
Kim Dokja looked at the bowl like it might disappear if he touched it, like it was some kind of mirage born from hunger and desperation rather than actual, tangible nourishment. His hands hovered just above the ceramic, fingers trembling slightly with either weakness or emotion—possibly both.
Then, moving with the careful precision of someone who had learned not to take anything for granted, he slowly sat up. The motion was obviously painful—he had to brace himself against the stiffness in his ribs, probably courtesy of those same people who had decorated his face with bruises—but he managed it without complaint.
His small hands closed around the bowl with something approaching reverence, and Wukong had to turn away before the sight could unmake him completely. He pretended to be deeply interested in scraping imaginary soot off the cave wall, but his enhanced hearing picked up every small sound—the soft clink of spoon against ceramic, the barely audible intake of breath, the careful, measured sips of someone who knew better than to eat too quickly after prolonged hunger.
Behind him, there was a small sniffle that might have been from the warm steam or might have been from something else entirely. When Kim Dokja spoke again, his voice was barely above a whisper, so quiet that even Wukong's supernatural senses had to strain to catch it.
"…Thank you again," he said, and the words carried the weight of gratitude far beyond their simple syllables. They spoke of amazement, of disbelief that anyone would show him such kindness, of a desperate hope that this might be real and lasting rather than just another cruel trick.
Wukong felt his heart jerk in his chest, that same uncomfortable twist of emotion that seemed to be becoming a permanent fixture whenever the boy spoke. The simple sincerity of it, the genuine appreciation for what should have been basic human decency, made him want to find everyone who had ever failed this child and introduce them to Ruyi Jingu Bang.
"Tch. Don't get used to it," he muttered, the gruff words meant to maintain some emotional distance, to preserve the fiction that this was a temporary arrangement that meant nothing beyond basic humanitarian impulse.
But even as he said it, he knew the lie tasted bitter in his mouth, knew that he was already planning what to feed the kid tomorrow and the day after that and all the days that would follow. The thought of Kim Dokja going hungry again, of those small hands shaking with weakness, of those dark eyes growing dull with malnutrition—all of it was completely unacceptable to him now.
He was committed, whether he wanted to admit it or not. The Monkey King, scourge of heaven and earth, had been conquered by one scrawny mortal child with trust issues and a tendency to ask permission for things that should have been givens.
And despite all his protests and denials and attempts to maintain emotional distance, he found that he wouldn't have it any other way.
Notes:
ABFD & Uriel are coming next chapter ! :3
Chapter 4: DON’T invite your friends over, especially when they are overprotective, children-loving morons
Summary:
And uriel and ABFD have arrived! the chaotic emo dragon dude and overprotective demon sister are here :3 Let us all cheer! (except for wukong he’s so done with them)
Notes:
note that i imagined sun wukong’s house to be similar to the lego monkie kid’s house but significantly bigger, but its difficult to explain and express it out in words, so the best option is to search it up. the link to see what it looks like is below :)
https://legomonkiekid.fandom.com/wiki/Monkey_King%27s_house?file=AHIB-FFMountain_MKing_Room_A0003_v002_Background-ThuanHuynh.jpg
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The morning after his pre-dawn contemplation on the cliff edge found Sun Wukong in an unexpectedly domestic mood. The weight of his midnight revelations still sat heavy in his chest—the admission that he wasn't going to change his mind, that Kim Dokja was here to stay—but somehow it felt less like a burden and more like... purpose.
He'd barely slept after returning to the hut, spending most of the remaining night hours watching the boy's restless sleep and planning. If he was really going to do this—raise a mortal child, provide the kind of stability that Kim Dokja had never known—then he was going to do it properly.
The morning air on Flower Fruit Mountain was crisp and fresh, carrying the scent of pine and the distant gurgle of streams over stone. Sunlight filtered through the trees and vines, dappling the narrow path that wound toward his hut in patterns of gold and green. It was the kind of morning that made everything seem possible, full of potential and new beginnings.
Kim Dokja was still asleep when Wukong began his preparations, curled in his nest of blankets like a small animal seeking warmth and safety. The boy looked marginally better than he had the day before—the congee had put a bit of color back in his pale cheeks, and a full night's sleep had eased some of the exhaustion that had lined his too-thin face.
Today, Wukong had decided, called for something special. The kid had been living on scraps and desperation for too long; it was time to show him what proper nourishment looked like. Time to prove that this new arrangement wasn't just about basic survival, but about actually caring for his wellbeing.
On the counter sat dough he'd kneaded before dawn, now proofed to a soft, pillowy consistency. The smell of 叉燒 (Pronounced Chārsiū, Cantonese barbecue pork) filling was rich and sweet-salty, and he spooned generous portions into each round of dough, pleating and pinching until he had a neat tray of buns ready to steam.
Next to that was another bamboo steamer stacked with 鸡汤饺子 (Pronounced Jītāng Jiǎozǐ, Chicken Broth Dumplings).
He'd folded each with care; old muscle memory from centuries of cooking for himself and, occasionally, those who had earned it. The chicken filling was plump and fragrant with sesame oil that would make every mortal in the area turn around and drool.
A clay mug of warm soy milk sat to the side, sending up faint curls of steam. Beside it, a plate of lotus seed pastries—pale-gold shells filled with sweet paste, dusted with just enough flour to keep them from sticking.
It was indulgent, yes. But Wukong had caught the way Kim Dokja's eyes had lit up at the simple bowl of congee the day before, the way he'd savored each spoonful like it was ambrosia. The boy deserved to know what it felt like to have someone make a feast just for him, to be the center of care and attention rather than an afterthought or burden.
The Monkey King was halfway through arranging the steamers when he felt it.
Not a sound. Not a smell. But a shift in the air—subtle at first, then sharper. A pressure, like the weight of a storm's eye suddenly pressing down on his heightened senses.
Wukong's head snapped toward the entrance to the open-roofed hollow cave holding his hut, his golden eyes narrowing in recognition and growing dread.
Two.
Two distinct presences, powerful enough to make the air shimmer with barely contained energy. Their statuses pressed against the edges of his perception like blades against skin—fine, sharp, impossible to ignore.
And his stomach dropped like a stone.
Kim Dokja.
After everything the boy had been through, after finally getting him settled and feeling safe, the last thing he needed was exposure to the kind of overwhelming spiritual pressure that these two idiots carried around like calling cards. Mortals didn't take well to that kind of energy. Even the smallest leak could make them dizzy, nauseous—if not outright faint. And these two weren't even trying to hide their power.
But when he glanced back at the sleeping area, expecting to see Kim Dokja curled up in distress or unconsciousness, he found the boy sitting up instead. Tousled hair sticking up at odd angles, eyes still bleary from sleep, but very much awake and apparently unaffected by the approaching supernatural storm.
"Mmm?" Kim Dokja mumbled, rubbing at his cheek with the back of his hand. "What's wrong?"
Wukong stared at him for a moment, genuinely perplexed. The spiritual pressure in the air was thick enough to choke on, yet the kid looked nothing more than normally sleepy. No pallor, no shaking hands, no signs of the nausea or disorientation that should have been hitting him in waves.
What the hell? Wukong thought, taking two quick steps forward to check Kim Dokja's pupils, his breathing, any sign that the overwhelming auras were affecting him. Nothing. The boy was completely fine.
"Should I be worried?" Kim Dokja asked, blinking owlishly up at him.
Before Wukong could answer, the trees rustled ominously outside.
"Oh, great," he groaned, recognizing the signatures immediately. "It's them."
"...Them?" Kim Dokja echoed, now fully awake and looking concerned.
Wukong didn't have time to explain. Instead, he stepped protectively between his hut and the opening, planting himself like a living barrier between whatever chaos was about to unfold and the fragile peace he'd spent all night deciding to protect.
Please let them just be passing through, he thought desperately. Please let them have somewhere else to be. Please—
The trees parted with theatrical flair.
A petite, blonde woman stepped into view first, and Wukong's last hope died a swift and merciless death. Sunlight seemed to gravitate toward her, catching on the gold sheen of her hair and the faint shimmer of wings that flickered in and out of visibility. She radiated warmth and power in equal measure, her presence like standing too close to the sun.
"Sun Wukong!" Uriel called out cheerfully, already striding forward like she owned not just the mountain but the entire province. Her voice carried enough enthusiasm to wake every sleeping creature within miles. "It's been ages! Did you miss me?"
Wukong felt his eye twitch. After the emotional revelation of the previous night, after finally accepting his commitment to Kim Dokja's wellbeing, the last thing he needed was these two turning his carefully ordered morning into a circus.
"Uriel," he said flatly.
"Don't sound so thrilled to see me," she said, though her radiant grin didn't dim even slightly.
Before Wukong could formulate a properly sarcastic response, the shadows at the edge of the trees deepened unnaturally. From the writhing darkness emerged a figure that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it, his presence rolling out like smoke—curling, hungry, and decidedly dramatic.
"Well, well," Abyssal Black Flame Dragon drawled, purple flames flickering in his eyes as his mouth twisted in a familiar smirk. "If it isn't the Great Sage Equal to Heaven playing house on his little mountain."
I should have thrown myself off that cliff last night, Wukong thought grimly. Would have been less painful than whatever's about to happen.
Behind him, he heard the soft sound of bare feet on wooden floorboards. Kim Dokja had emerged from the hut, still in his sleeping clothes, blinking out at the newcomers with bewildered curiosity. The boy's confusion was written plain across his features, but to Wukong's continued amazement, he didn't flinch or sway under their overwhelming statuses.
Uriel noticed Kim Dokja first. Her eyes went impossibly wide, sparkling like captured starlight, and then she was suddenly at the hut's threshold—not walking, not running, but simply there in the way that powerful beings moved when they forgot about mortal concepts like physics.
"Oh my stars and heavens above!" she exclaimed, leaning down to beam at the bewildered teenager. "Who is this precious angel?"
Before Wukong could move, before he could even shout a warning, Uriel had scooped Kim Dokja into an embrace that lifted his feet clean off the ground.
The boy went rigid, his brain clearly short-circuiting as he tried to reconcile legendary archangel from his beloved stories with the very real person currently crushing him against her pristine black dress. His eyes went wide over her shoulder, finding Wukong's gaze in a silent plea that screamed help me and what is happening to my life?
The boy shot Wukong a look over Uriel's shoulder—something between help me and what is happening.
Abyssal Black Flame Dragon sauntered over with deliberately casual steps, leaning against the doorframe with a lazy grin that promised trouble. "This your kid, Wukong? You didn't tell me you had a kid."
"He's not—" Wukong started, his voice strained with the effort of not immediately launching both visitors off his mountain.
"He's mine now!" Uriel declared without loosening her death grip on Kim Dokja, who was starting to turn an interesting shade of red from lack of oxygen. "Look at him! He's absolutely adorable! Those cheeks! That hair! Oh, I could just eat him up!"
Please don't, Wukong thought desperately, taking a step forward. The protective instincts that had kept him awake all night were screaming at him to intervene, to get between Kim Dokja and these well-meaning but overwhelming forces of nature.
"Uriel, put him down before you accidentally crush him," he said aloud.
"I would never hurt a hair on his precious head," she protested, but she did ease her grip slightly. Kim Dokja gasped quietly, grateful for the return of oxygen.
Abyssal Black Flame Dragon's grin widened as he studied the boy with obvious interest. "What's your name, kid?"
"I— Kim Dokja," the boy managed, still trapped in Uriel's embrace but now able to speak.
"Kim Dokja," the dragon repeated, as if testing how it sounded. "I like it. Has a nice ring to it. Tell me, Kim Dokja, do you know how to pick locks?"
"What?" Kim Dokja blinked in confusion.
"Don't answer that!" Uriel said sharply, finally releasing Kim Dokja but keeping her hands possessively on his shoulders. "Don't listen to him, sweetie. He's going to fill your head with terrible ideas."
"They're not terrible," Abyssal Black Flame Dragon protested, placing a dramatic hand over his heart. "They're practical. A young man should know how to get out of sticky situations."
"By breaking and entering?"
"By being resourceful!"
Wukong watched this exchange with the growing horror of someone witnessing a natural disaster in slow motion. After spending the entire night accepting his role as Kim Dokja's protector, the idea of these two chaos incarnates getting their claws into the boy was absolutely terrifying.
"Actually," Kim Dokja said tentatively, and both powerful beings immediately turned their full attention to him like spotlights. He shrank back slightly under their intense gazes. "I was just wondering... are you really...?"
"The Archangel Uriel, Fire Of God, Master of knowledge!” Uriel said proudly, spreading magnificent wings that hadn't been there a moment before. "At your service, darling!"
"And I," Abyssal Black Flame Dragon said, dark flames wreathing his form dramatically, "am the Abyssal Black Flame Dragon, the noble and majestic master of the dark clouds—"
"We get it," Wukong interrupted flatly. "You're both very impressive. Now can we—"
"This is amazing," Kim Dokja breathed, his eyes shining with the kind of wonder that made Wukong's chest do uncomfortable things. "I've read about both of you! In the stories, Uriel was—"
And that was when Wukong realized that his quiet morning of domestic bliss was about to become an absolute disaster.
At least, he thought grimly as Uriel began glowing with delight at being recognized, the kid looks happy.
It was a small consolation for what was undoubtedly going to be the longest day of his very long life.
Within the first hour, Abyssal Black Flame Dragon had convinced Kim Dokja that the proper way to eat breakfast was through "tactical redistribution of resources"—which apparently meant sneaking into kitchens and taking what you wanted.
"It's not stealing," the dragon in the form of a human teenager explained while demonstrating what he called a "shadow step" that involved literally melting into shadows and reappearing behind Wukong's carefully prepared food stores. "It's creative procurement."
"It's theft," Wukong said flatly, grabbing the dragon by the scruff of his shirt and bodily hauling him away from the dim sum that had taken hours to prepare.
"You're so old-fashioned, Wukong," Abyssal Black Flame Dragon said, going limp like a particularly dramatic cat. "The kid needs to learn how to survive in the real world."
He's surviving just fine without learning how to be a common criminal!"
Meanwhile, Uriel had taken it upon herself to give Kim Dokja lessons in "proper moral conduct," apparently deciding that the boy's education was severely lacking in righteousness.
"Now, sweetness," she said, having somehow procured a chalkboard from thin air, "the most important thing to remember is that good posture reflects a righteous heart." She demonstrated by standing impossibly straight, wings spread for emphasis. "Shoulders back, chin up, eyes forward! You must look like someone who would never even think of doing anything remotely questionable!"
Kim Dokja dutifully attempted to mimic her posture, though he looked more like he was being held at gunpoint than embracing righteousness. After a lifetime of trying to make himself as small and unnoticeable as possible, standing tall and proud felt alien and uncomfortable.
"Excellent!" Uriel beamed. "Now, let's practice your dramatic speeches about justice. Every young person should know how to deliver a rousing call to action against the forces of evil!"
"I don't think I need to—"
"Nonsense! Really put your heart into it!"
Kim Dokja shot a pleading look at Wukong, who was still wrestling with Abyssal Black Flame Dragon over a stolen dumpling. The Monkey King felt that familiar twist of protectiveness in his chest—the same instinct that had kept him awake all night, planning how to give this boy the stability he'd never known.
"Ignore the angel," Abyssal Black Flame Dragon called out while dodging Wukong's tail. "She's trying to turn you into a goody-two-shoes! Kim Dokja, come here and let me teach you how to properly intimidate someone!"
"Don't you dare!" Uriel snapped, abandoning the chalkboard to march over. "He doesn't need to learn intimidation! He needs to learn how to be good!”
"Positive Attitudes won't help him if he gets cornered in an alley!"
"He won't get cornered in an alley if he stays on the righteous path!"
"The righteous path is boring!"
"Boring is safe!"
They were now standing nose-to-nose, their combined auras making the air shimmer with heat and light. Kim Dokja stood between them looking like he'd rather be anywhere else in the world, but there was something else in his expression too—a kind of amazed wonder, as if he couldn't quite believe that two legendary beings were arguing over his welfare.
Wukong could relate to the amazement, though his was more horror-flavored.
"ENOUGH!" the Monkey King bellowed, his own golden aura flaring outward. Both beings stepped back, and Kim Dokja let out a relieved breath.
"You," Wukong pointed at Uriel, "stop trying to turn him into a paladin. He's ten, not a crusader."
"Actually," Kim Dokja said quietly, "I'm—"
"And you," Wukong continued, turning to point at Abyssal Black Flame Dragon, "stop trying to corrupt him into a life of crime. Some of us actually want him to reach adulthood without a criminal record."
"I wasn't trying to corrupt him," the dragon protested. "I was trying to educate him!"
"Same thing, in your case."
"You wound me, Wukong. Truly."
Uriel cleared her throat pointedly. "I think what we're all forgetting here is that this sweet boy needs proper guidance from responsible adults—"
"You burned down a city," Abyssal Black Flame Dragon pointed out.
”For Justice!”
"Both of you need therapy," Wukong muttered, but the morning dissolved into chaos anyway.
The situation reached its peak when Uriel, while giving an impassioned lecture about moral fortitude, gestured too enthusiastically and accidentally knocked over Wukong's carefully arranged breakfast with one magnificent wing.
The Monkey King watched his beautiful dumplings and perfectly steamed buns—the feast he'd spent hours preparing to show Kim Dokja what it meant to be truly cared for—scatter across the ground. Some landed in the dirt, others rolled off the porch entirely.
The silence that followed was deafening.
"Oops," Uriel said in a very small voice.
Wukong's eye twitched. After his midnight revelation, after accepting the weight of responsibility for Kim Dokja's wellbeing, after spending the pre-dawn hours crafting the perfect meal to show the boy he was valued—watching it all get destroyed by careless enthusiasm made something dangerous rise in his chest.
But then Kim Dokja stepped forward, and the protective instincts that had been growing stronger by the hour kicked in full force.
"It's okay!" the boy said hastily, positioning himself between Wukong and the two powerful beings like he was trying to prevent bloodshed. "Really! I wasn't that hungry anyway, and—"
"You were looking forward to it," Wukong said quietly, and something in his tone made both Uriel and Abyssal Black Flame Dragon freeze. "I saw your face when you smelled the buns—You were excited."
Kim Dokja's cheeks reddened slightly. "I... well, yes, but it's really not—"
"No," Wukong said, his voice gaining an edge that promised violence. "It's not okay."
But as he looked at Kim Dokja—really looked at him—he realized something that made his anger falter. Despite the chaos, despite the ruined breakfast, despite being overwhelmed by two overpowered supernatural beings, the boy was... happy.
Not just content or resigned, but genuinely happy. There was a light in his eyes that hadn't been there before, a kind of amazed joy that spoke of someone who had never had adults fight over his welfare, never had anyone care enough to argue about his wellbeing.
Oh, Wukong realized with uncomfortable clarity. He likes having them here.
It made sense, in a way that made his chest ache. Kim Dokja had spent his entire life being ignored, passed over, treated as disposable. Now he had an archangel calling him "sweetness" and a dragon treating him like a little brother. Even if they were both completely insane, they were paying attention to him, making him feel important.
The protective rage that had been building in Wukong's chest transformed into something more complex—still fierce, but tempered with understanding. These idiots might be chaos incarnate, but they were making Kim Dokja smile in a way that spoke of healing, of hope, of belonging.
He couldn't throw them off the mountain. Not when they were giving the boy something he'd obviously never had before.
"Right," he said aloud, clapping his hands together with false cheer. "New plan. You two are going to help me make a replacement breakfast, and you're going to do it without destroying anything else, corrupting anyone, or setting anything on fire. Are we clear?"
Uriel and Abyssal Black Flame Dragon exchanged glances.
"Crystal clear!" Uriel said brightly. "I make excellent cookies! They're perfectly round and morally upright!"
"I can help too," the dragon added. "How hard can cooking be?"
"Famous last words," Wukong muttered, already knowing this was going to be a disaster.
But Kim Dokja was practically glowing with happiness at being included, at having a whole family of powerful beings fussing over him, and that made any amount of chaos worth it.
Even if it was going to give Wukong premature gray hairs.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of barely contained mayhem. Uriel's "helpful" cooking involved blessing every ingredient until they glowed with holy light, while Abyssal Black Flame Dragon's contribution resulted in several small fires and one briefly molten cooking pot.
Through it all, Kim Dokja sat safely out of the way, watching the proceedings with fascination and barely suppressed laughter. Every time one of the powerful beings asked for his opinion or included him in their commentary, his face lit up like the sun.
By evening, when both visitors finally departed—Uriel in a swirl of feathers, Abyssal Black Flame Dragon melting back into shadows—Kim Dokja stood in the doorway looking dazed but radiant.
"That was..." he started, then trailed off.
"Exhausting?" Wukong suggested, leaning on the doorway with his tail curled up.
"Amazing," Kim Dokja corrected, turning to face him with shining eyes. "They actually cared about me. They wanted to teach me things and make sure I was okay and..." He stopped, looking suddenly embarrassed. "Sorry. I know they probably drove you crazy."
Wukong studied the boy's face—the lingering happiness, the touch of wonder, the faint disbelief that anyone would make such a fuss over him. After his midnight revelation, after accepting his role as Kim Dokja's protector, seeing that joy was worth every moment of chaos.
"Yeah," he said finally. "They did drive me crazy."
Kim Dokja's face fell slightly.
"Tch… But," Wukong continued, "you seemed to enjoy yourself."
"I did," Kim Dokja admitted. "I've never... no one's ever argued over me before. It was like having..."
"A family?" Wukong suggested gently.
Kim Dokja nodded, his cheeks reddening. "Really weird, overpowered family members who could probably level a mountain if they put their minds to it."
"That sounds about right," Wukong agreed. "And knowing those two, they'll definitely be back."
"Really?" The hope in Kim Dokja's voice was almost painful to hear.
Oh, kid, Wukong thought fondly. You have no idea what you've gotten yourself into.
"Really," he confirmed. "You're stuck with all of us now."
Kim Dokja's smile was possibly the brightest thing Wukong had ever seen, brighter than the dawn light that had started this chaotic day, brighter than all the stars he'd contemplated during his midnight vigil on the cliff.
"I think I'm okay with that," the boy said quietly.
So am I, Wukong realized. Despite everything—the chaos, the destroyed breakfast, the various small fires—seeing Kim Dokja this genuinely happy made it all worthwhile.
He was committed now, had been since his pre-dawn revelation on the mountain's edge. Kim Dokja wasn't just a responsibility anymore; he was family. And if that family happened to include an overzealous archangel and a dramatic dragon, well...
Wukong had survived worse.
Probably.
Notes:
fun fact all the chinese foods mentioned here are more expensive than you think, ive eaten all these foods before and they are usually served together in the menu but they are around 70 dollars (in my country, 64 USD) for that much food only :)
Chapter 5: I won't ask a question, I'll state the truth
Summary:
Sun Wukong is a powerful monkey. A lot of people assume he has a lot of power and no weaknesses, but he does have a few. Don’t tell anyone, got it?
He has stage fright, he has problems fighting underwater (of course, he is a stone monkey, he cannot swim physically), and his eyes are sensitive to light and smoke.
The list does not go on. It had never gone on for centuries.
He never expected to have a new weakness from a mortal child.
Notes:
Thank you all for the kind comments and suggestions! It really made my day :)
Im planning to put YJH somewhere soon in one to three chapters, im just waiting for the right time lol. max chps until our sunfish protagonist comes up would be 5. We all love our monkey duo guys!
KDJ’s backstory will be similar to canon’s except when his mother got sent to prison, he was abandoned on the streets as ‘too much work’
KDJ is fifteen, wukong thinks hes ten due to his small figure and malnourishment.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The morning after Uriel and Abyssal Black Flame Dragon had turned Sun Wukong's quiet mountaintop into a chaotic family reunion, Flower Fruit Mountain seemed almost unnervingly still. The contrast was stark—where yesterday had been filled with the clash of divine auras, dramatic proclamations, and the occasional small explosion from the kitchen, today brought only the gentle whisper of wind through distant groves and the distant murmur of streams over ancient stone.
The air itself felt different, cleaner somehow, as if the mountain had taken a deep breath and slowly exhaled all the residual chaos from the previous day's events. Peach trees swayed gently in the morning breeze, their leaves rustling with the kind of peaceful contentment that came after a storm had passed. The clouds drifted across the horizon at a leisurely pace, as though they too were making up for yesterday's frantic energy with deliberate calm.
Inside the small hut that had become an unlikely sanctuary for both immortal monkey and mortal boy, warmth pooled in the air like honey. The scent of medicinal herbs mingled with the comforting aroma of steamed buns, creating an atmosphere that spoke of care and healing. A clay kettle murmured contentedly on the stove, sending up thin curls of steam that caught the morning light filtering through the single window.
Sun Wukong sat cross-legged at the low wooden table at the porch of his house, the cool morning sun shining gently outside on the roof, not coming in contact with either of them but having a quiet warmth that wasn’t usual in summertime, his posture relaxed but alert in the way of someone accustomed to being ready for action at a moment's notice.
A small ceramic jar sat open beside him, its contents gleaming with the pale green of healing salve made from mountain herbs that had never known pollution or artificial cultivation. A strip of soft cotton lay draped over his thigh, clean and white as fresh snow, waiting to be put to use.
His tail swayed in slow, hypnotic arcs behind him—not the quick, agitated movements that had characterized yesterday's chaos, but the lazy rhythm of someone at peace in his own space. Yet his eyes, sharp as the cliff edges that bordered his domain, remained fixed with unwavering attention on the boy sitting cross-legged on the woven mat before him.
Kim Dokja had his sleeves rolled up past his elbows, revealing arms that were still too thin, marked with the fading evidence of hardships that no child should have endured. His elbows rested on his knees in a pose that might have looked casual to a casual observer, but Wukong could read the tension in the boy's shoulders, the careful way he held himself as if prepared to flee at the first sign of pain or threat.
The kid wasn't complaining about the antiseptic—hadn't made so much as a sound of discomfort despite the way it had to sting against broken skin—but his expression tightened almost imperceptibly every time Wukong's calloused fingers brushed against a particularly tender bruise. The reaction was subtle, controlled, the kind of minute response that spoke of someone who had learned to endure pain without giving those who inflicted it the satisfaction of seeing him break.
Kim Dokja was tough—too tough for someone barely two decades old, with a resilience that had been forged in fires no child should ever have to walk through. And that toughness, that premature hardening of someone who should have been allowed to remain soft and trusting, was precisely what bothered the Monkey King more than any external threat ever could.
There were bruises scattered across the boy's visible skin like ugly flowers blooming in shades of purple and green and sickly yellow. Some were old, faded to the point where they were barely shadows beneath pale skin, while others were fresher, their edges still sharp with recent violence. The pattern they made told a story that Wukong didn't want to read but couldn't ignore—a map of systematic cruelty visited upon someone who had been too small, too vulnerable, too trusting to defend himself adequately.
"Hold still," Wukong muttered, his voice gruff with an emotion he couldn't quite name as he dabbed healing salve over a particularly dark mark near Dokja's shoulder. The bruise was roughly hand-shaped, fingers clearly visible in the discoloration of flesh, and it made something hot and violent rise in the Monkey King's chest.
"I am," Dokja replied, his voice carefully even, painfully polite in the way of someone who had learned that the wrong tone could turn assistance into punishment in the span of a heartbeat.
Wukong's eyes narrowed at that calm, controlled response. He knew that kind of voice—had heard it in the throats of soldiers who had learned that crying out in pain only made their captors hurt them worse, in prisoners who had discovered that silence was the only armor they had left, in gods who had been broken by forces beyond their comprehension and reformed into something harder but infinitely more fragile.
He hated hearing it in a mortal child. Hated the implications, the casual cruelty that must have shaped a young voice into something so carefully neutral, so determined not to give offense or draw unwanted attention. It spoke of a lifetime spent walking on eggshells, of learning to make himself as small and unnoticeable as possible in the desperate hope that invisibility might equal safety.
They worked in relative silence for a while, the only sounds the gentle hiss of the kettle and the distant calls of monkeys playing in the trees that dotted the mountainside. Outside, one of his subjects—a young Rhesus Macaque with golden fur and bright, curious eyes—called once from the branches of an ancient pine before scurrying away, perhaps sensing that this was not a moment for interruption or play.
Wukong finished tending to the shoulder injury and moved on to examine the shallow scrape across Dokja's forearm, cleaning it with the same careful attention he might have given to maintaining his sacred Ruyi Jingu Bang. The wound wasn't deep, but it was long and ragged, as if someone had grabbed the boy's arm and dragged it across rough stone or broken concrete. The edges were slightly inflamed, speaking of dirt and infection that had been allowed to fester before proper care could be administered.
He cleaned it thoroughly, using water that had been blessed by mountain spirits and infused with healing properties that went beyond the merely physical. Each touch was gentle, controlled, his immortal strength carefully modulated so that his hands—which could shatter diamond or reshape landscapes—moved with the delicacy of a master craftsman working on something infinitely precious and irreplaceably fragile.
When he was satisfied that the wound was as clean as mortal flesh could be made, he began wrapping it with a neat bandage, his movements efficient and practiced. He'd tended wounds before—his own, mostly—but this felt different somehow. More important. As if the careful ministration of healing to this one small mortal carried weight far beyond the simple treatment of injured skin.
"You get into fights often?" Wukong asked casually as he secured the bandage, though his gaze remained sharp, watchful for any flicker of reaction that might reveal more than words could convey.
Dokja shrugged, the movement careful and economical. "Not… really. Sometimes."
Sometimes. The word hung in the air between them, loaded with implications and unspoken history. It was the kind of 'sometimes' that covered vast territories of pain and survival, that encompassed everything from playground bullying to something far more systematic and cruel. Wukong could hear the layers in that simple word—the hesitation, the careful consideration of how much truth was safe to reveal, the practiced evasion of someone who had learned that honesty could be weaponized against him.
The Monkey King didn't press—yet. He had learned long ago, through centuries of dealing with broken gods and traumatized mortals, that if you wanted someone to trust you with their truth, you didn't yank the words out like pulling teeth. You waited, you created space for honesty to grow, you let revelations roll forward on their own timeline rather than trying to force confessions that would only make the speaker retreat further into themselves.
Still, his tail twitched once—a small betrayal of the frustration he felt at the obvious gaps in the boy's story, the careful omissions that spoke of horrors he wasn't yet ready to name.
"Yesterday," Wukong said after a moment of contemplative silence, changing tactics slightly, "you didn't flinch when Uriel or that overgrown lizard showed up."
Dokja blinked, confusion replacing some of the careful blankness in his expression. "That… lizard?"
"Abyssal Black Flame Dragon," Wukong clarified with a snort of amusement, his mouth quirking slightly at the memory of yesterday's chaos. "Big fancy title, too much ego stuffed into too few scales, and absolutely no sense of appropriate volume control. You should've felt their spiritual pressure—it's enough to make most mortals throw up their breakfast and pass out on the spot."
He'd seen it happen before, had watched grown adults collapse when faced with even a fraction of the power that had been casually radiating from both visitors. The fact that Kim Dokja had not only remained conscious but had seemed largely unaffected was… unusual. Intriguing. Potentially concerning, depending on what it meant.
"I felt it," Dokja said quietly, his eyes focused downward on the neat white bandage that now covered his forearm. "It wasn't… bad. Just heavy. Like being underwater, maybe, or having someone put a blanket over everything."
Wukong's eyebrows lifted slightly at that description. Heavy was not how most mortals would characterize exposure to divine statuses. Crushing, overwhelming, terrifying—those were the usual responses. But heavy suggested a different kind of resilience, a capacity to bear weight that most humans simply didn't possess.
"Huh," he mused aloud, studying the boy's face with renewed interest. "Not bad, you say? You're either a lot stronger than you look, or you've been through things that make angry gods seem like a mild inconvenience."
Something flickered across Dokja's expression—gone almost before Wukong could identify it, but not quite fast enough to escape his notice entirely. Pain, maybe, or recognition, or the particular kind of weary acceptance that came from having survived things that should have been unsurvivable. The boy's response was a tiny, half-hearted shrug that somehow managed to convey volumes about experiences he wasn't ready to put into words.
That micro-expression, that barely-there reaction, was Wukong's first real crack in the careful wall the boy had built around himself.
He finished securing the bandage with precise, economical movements, then set the ceramic jar of healing salve aside with the kind of deliberate care that suggested the conclusion of a ritual rather than a simple medical procedure. The morning light had shifted slightly, painting new patterns on the floor of the hut, and somewhere outside a bird began to sing—a clear, sweet melody that spoke of hope and new beginnings.
"Alright," Wukong said, leaning back on his hands and fixing Kim Dokja with a direct stare that had made gods confess their deepest secrets. "Your turn to talk. How did a kid like you end up wandering the streets alone before I found you in that alley?"
The question hung in the air between them like a challenge, gentle but implacable. Wukong's tone was deceptively light, almost conversational, but there was steel underneath—the kind of patient determination that suggested he was prepared to wait as long as necessary for an answer.
Dokja's hands tightened almost imperceptibly where they rested on his knees, knuckles going white for just a moment before he consciously relaxed them. He still didn't look up, his gaze fixed on some point between his feet as if the worn wooden floor of the hut contained secrets more compelling than anything in the wider world.
"It's not… much of a story," Dokja said finally, his voice small and careful, like someone testing the ice on a frozen pond to see if it would hold their weight.
"I've got time," Wukong replied, settling more comfortably into his position and letting his tail curl around to rest beside him like a furry comma. "And patience. Centuries of it, in fact. Plus better ears than most people would think—comes with the territory of being a monkey. I can hear lies from a mile away, and I can wait out silence longer than mountains can stand."
The words were spoken lightly, almost teasingly, but they carried an undertone of absolute sincerity. This was not a conversation that Kim Dokja would be able to deflect or avoid indefinitely. Wukong had made his decision—he was committed to this boy's wellbeing, which meant he needed to understand what they were working with, what kind of healing would be required, what demons needed to be faced and defeated.
A long pause stretched between them, filled with the quiet sounds of the mountain morning. The kettle's murmur grew slightly more insistent, steam rising in lazy spirals toward the ceiling. Somewhere in the distance, water tumbled over stone in an endless, soothing rhythm that had been constant since before humans learned to make fire.
When Dokja finally spoke, his voice was slow and halting, almost reluctant—like someone feeling their way through a minefield of memory, testing each word before allowing it to leave his mouth.
"My father…" he began, then stopped, swallowing hard before continuing. "My father drank a lot. All the time, really. Every day, from when he woke up until he passed out at night. He… wasn't very nice when he did. Drinking, I mean."
The words came out flat, emotionless, as if Kim Dokja had drained all feeling from them in self-defense. But Wukong could hear the careful control it took to maintain that neutral tone, could see the way the boy's shoulders tensed as he forced himself to continue.
Wukong didn't interrupt, didn't offer platitudes or expressions of sympathy that would only serve to break the fragile momentum of confession. His face remained still, attentive but not demanding, though the tip of his tail curled slightly—a small betrayal of the anger that was beginning to build in his chest like gathering storm clouds.
"My mother…" Dokja hesitated, the pause stretching long enough that Wukong wondered if he would continue at all. When he did speak again, his voice had grown even smaller, more fragile. "She tried to keep me out of the way when things got bad. Would lock me in my room, or send me to stay with neighbors, or… she did her best to protect me."
There was something in the way he said those words—she did her best—that spoke of fierce loyalty, of a child's desperate need to believe that at least one parent had loved him enough to try. It was the kind of devotion that survived even the worst circumstances, the kind of faith that could be shattered but never entirely destroyed.
"But one night…" The words seemed to stick in his throat for a moment before he forced them out. "One night it got really bad. There was shouting—louder than usual, angrier. And then… then it was quiet. Too quiet."
He was staring at his hands now, as if the lines on his palms contained maps to navigate through the most painful parts of his history.
"I stayed in my room like she always told me to," he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "Stayed there all night, even when it got cold and I was hungry. I waited for someone to come get me, to tell me it was safe to come out. But nobody came."
The silence stretched again, heavy with the weight of a child's terror, the awful patience of someone too young to understand that sometimes safety never returns, that sometimes the people who are supposed to protect you simply… can't.
"The police came in the morning," Dokja said finally. "Neighbors had called when they heard the screaming stop. They… they found my father in the kitchen. And my mother…"
He swallowed hard, the sound audible in the quiet of the hut.
"They said my mother had stabbed him," he continued, each word carefully measured, as if speaking them too quickly might make their reality unbearable. "Said she was tired of it, I guess. Tired of being hurt, tired of watching me get hurt, tired of being afraid every single day. She didn't say goodbye when they took her away."
The last sentence came out in a rush, as if he needed to get it said before courage failed him entirely. And in those words—she didn't say goodbye—Wukong could hear the echo of a child's most fundamental heartbreak. Not just loss, but abandonment. Not just grief, but the terrible knowledge that even the one person who had tried to protect him had ultimately chosen to leave him behind.
Wukong's jaw flexed once, the only visible sign of the rage that was building inside him like molten gold. He had known violence, had dealt it out with enthusiasm and creativity when the situation called for it. But this—the systematic destruction of a child's trust, the creation of a world where a mother's only escape from cruelty was to commit an act that would separate her from her son forever—this was the kind of injustice that made his hands itch for the weight of his staff.
"And then?" the Monkey King asked quietly, his voice carefully controlled, giving no hint of the violent thoughts churning beneath the surface of his calm.
"After the… after everything happened, I was sent to stay with someone my father knew," Dokja continued, seeming to gain momentum now that the worst part of the story was behind him. "He said he was a friend, but I think maybe my father just owed him money or something. He didn't really want me there."
The boy's hands had gone completely still in his lap, no longer fidgeting or adjusting position. It was the kind of absolute stillness that spoke of someone disappearing into themselves, trying to become invisible enough that pain might pass them by.
"At first it was okay," he said, his voice taking on the hollow quality of someone recounting events that had happened to someone else entirely. "He gave me a place to sleep, food sometimes. But he complained a lot about having to take care of me, about how much I ate, how much space I took up, how expensive everything was."
Wukong could picture it—a child walking on eggshells, trying to make himself smaller and quieter and less of a burden, learning to apologize for existing in spaces where he wasn't wanted. The image made something hot and protective flare in his chest, the same instinct that had driven him to intervene in that alley despite all logic and self-preservation.
"After a few months, he said I was too much work," Dokja continued, his voice growing even flatter, more detached. "Said he couldn't afford to keep feeding me, couldn't handle the responsibility. So one day he didn’t bother to call Child Protective Services, called it too much paperwork to handle, he just gave me some food—just enough for maybe a day—and told me not to come back."
The casual cruelty of it was breathtaking in its simplicity. Not even the pretense of finding alternative care, not even the basic human decency of ensuring the child would be safe. Just… abandonment, pure and simple, dressed up as economic necessity.
"I've been on my own since then," Dokja finished, his voice barely audible now. "That was… maybe two years ago? I stopped keeping track after a while."
Two years. Two years of a ten-year-old, maybe a little older, child surviving on the streets, learning to forage and hide and endure whatever the world threw at him. Two years of sleeping in alleys and doorways, of begging or stealing or going hungry, of developing the kind of hypervigilance that had let him remain calm in the face of divine statuses that would have flattened most adults.
For a moment, the hut was silent except for the soft hiss of the kettle and the distant sound of wind in the trees. The morning light had continued its slow progression across the floor, painting everything in shades of gold and amber that spoke of warmth and safety—things that Kim Dokja was only just beginning to believe might be real, might be permanent.
Wukong sat quietly, processing the weight of what he'd just heard. It explained so much—the boy's careful politeness, his tendency to ask permission for things that should have been givens, his ability to endure spiritual pressure that would crush most mortals. When you'd survived systematic abandonment and two years on the streets, angry gods probably did seem like just another Tuesday.
Without speaking, without offering platitudes that would sound hollow against the magnitude of what the boy had endured, Wukong reached over and placed his hand on top of Kim Dokja's head. His palm was warm and solid, callused from centuries of battle but infinitely gentle as it settled over dark hair that was still too thin, still showing signs of malnutrition despite the care of recent days.
His fingers stayed there for a long moment, not moving, just offering the simple comfort of connection, the basic human reassurance of touch that said you are not alone, you are not unwanted, you are worthy of care. Then, with deliberate tenderness, he ruffled the boy's hair—not roughly, not teasingly, but with the kind of affection that elder siblings showed beloved kin, the kind of casual intimacy that spoke of belonging and acceptance.
"You've survived worse than gods breathing down your neck," Wukong said finally, his voice rough with emotions he couldn't quite name. "No wonder you didn't flinch yesterday when those two idiots showed up making enough spiritual noise to wake the dead."
It was a statement of fact rather than pity, an acknowledgment of strength rather than a lament for suffering. Kim Dokja had endured things that would have broken most people twice his age, and he'd emerged from them still capable of wonder, still able to find joy in small kindnesses, still possessing the fundamental trust necessary to accept help when it was offered.
Dokja didn't reply immediately, but crucially, he didn't pull away from the gentle contact either. For someone who had learned to be wary of touch, who had probably associated physical contact with pain more often than comfort, his stillness under Wukong's hand spoke volumes about the fragile trust that was beginning to develop between them.
The Monkey King let his hand rest there for another moment before finally withdrawing it, the gesture complete but not forgotten. The weight of revelation hung between them now—not heavy or oppressive, but acknowledged, accepted, integrated into the growing understanding of who Kim Dokja was and what he needed to heal.
"Alright," Wukong said, rising to his feet with fluid grace and moving toward the stove where the kettle was beginning to whistle more insistently. "Breakfast time. You can't tell stories like that on an empty stomach without risking complete collapse, and I'm not having a skinny mortal faint on me halfway through the day."
His words were deliberately light, pragmatic, offering a return to normalcy after the intensity of confession. But there was care in them too—the recognition that emotional revelation required physical grounding, that the body needed tending as much as the soul, that healing happened as much through the ritual of shared meals as through the exchange of painful truths.
He busied himself with preparing tea and warming the steamed buns he'd made earlier, his movements efficient and practiced. The familiar routine of food preparation gave both of them space to process what had just been shared, to let the weight of honesty settle into something manageable rather than overwhelming.
Behind him, Kim Dokja sat quietly on the mat for a moment longer, still processing the strange reality of being cared for, of having someone who wanted to hear his story not to judge or pity but simply to understand. The warmth of Wukong's hand lingered on his head like a blessing, and for the first time in longer than he could remember, the future seemed to stretch ahead of him filled with possibility rather than mere survival.
Then, so softly that even Wukong's enhanced hearing almost missed it, so quietly that it seemed to float on the morning air like incense smoke, Kim Dokja spoke a single word that changed everything between them:
"Thank you… hyung."
The last word—hyung—came out like a whisper of wind through leaves, barely audible but carrying the weight of mountains. It was a Korean term of respect and affection, from what Sun Wukong heard from his monkeys watching that korean drama, used by younger people to address older males who occupied positions of care and guidance in their lives. Brothers, cousins, close family friends—people who had earned the right to be trusted, to be looked up to, to be loved.
It was the word of someone who had finally, tentatively, begun to believe that they had found a place where they belonged.
Wukong didn't turn around immediately, but the corner of his mouth lifted in a smile that would have surprised anyone who knew him only by reputation. The fearsome Monkey King, scourge of heaven and earth, undone by a single word from a traumatised child who had somehow found the courage to claim him as family.
Hyung. Such a small word to carry such enormous implications. But in the warm morning light of Flower Fruit Mountain, with the scent of healing herbs and steamed buns filling the air, it sounded like the beginning of something that might, eventually, be called home.
Notes:
we love some brotherly bonding time, dont we folks?
Chapter 6: Walk on 花果山
Summary:
Joonghyuk is finally making an appearance.
Notes:
Just saying i was reading a dokhyuk fic yesterday night and read the comments and there was this long-ass hate comment in a guest account calling the author unemployed at least 3 times and i just thought it was stupid on how tiktok has affected the AO3 community 💔
i am writing this in examination period, so updates will be slower !
also hc wukong to have slightly longer hair in orv just because
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Morning light spilled gently across the slopes of Flower Fruit Mountain, painting the mist a soft gold. The air smelled clean, the kind of crisp coolness that only came after a night of rain.
Droplets still clung to the broad leaves of the ancient trees that dotted the mountainside, catching the early sunlight like scattered diamonds. Kim Dokja sat cross-legged on the wooden step outside Sun Wukong's hut, picking at the loose thread on the hem of his shirt.
The step was worn smooth from years of use, its wood weathered to a pale grey that felt warm beneath him despite the morning chill. He'd been sitting there for nearly an hour now, watching the way the light shifted as the sun climbed higher, painting new patterns across the valley below.
The hut behind him creaked occasionally as Sun Wukong moved about inside, accompanied by the soft clink of ceramic bowls and the gentle whistle of steam from the kettle.
It was quiet here. Not silent — birds were awake, chattering from somewhere high above, and the river down the slope murmured like it had secrets to tell.
A hawk circled lazily overhead, its shadow passing over the clearing in slow, measured sweeps. Somewhere in the distance, trees knocked together in the breeze with hollow, musical sounds. But it was the kind of quiet that didn't press down on him, didn't make his shoulders tense or his breathing shallow.
After years of the city's noise — the constant hum of traffic, the blare of horns, the shouting of vendors and the endless crush of people — and the harsher chaos of the streets where he'd learned to sleep light and wake at the smallest sound, this quiet felt almost unreal.
Kim Dokja had been living on Flower Fruit Mountain for two weeks now. Two weeks since his hyung Sun Wukong had found him half-dead in that alley, too proud and too stubborn to ask for help even when he was barely skin and bones. Two weeks of regular meals and a roof that didn't leak, of sleep that wasn't interrupted by police sirens or the need to guard his few possessions. Two weeks of slowly learning that not every adult who spoke to him had an agenda, that kindness didn't always come with strings attached.
It was still hard to believe sometimes.
The door behind him creaked open, and hyung Sun Wukong stepped out, stretching his arms above his head with a satisfied grunt. His hair was tied back loosely today, a few strands escaping to frame his face. He wore simple clothes — a faded yellow shirt and dark pants — but there was something about the way he moved that spoke of coiled power, like a spring wound tight and ready to release at any moment.
"Morning, kid," Wukong said, settling down beside him on the step. The wood groaned slightly under his weight. "Sleep well?"
Kim Dokja nodded, though the truth was more complicated. He'd slept better here than he had in years, but his dreams were still full of shadows and empty refrigerators and the sound of his mother's voice calling his name from rooms that no longer existed. Some nights he woke up expecting to find himself back in that cramped apartment, or worse, back on the streets with nothing but the clothes on his back.
"Good," Wukong said, as if he could read the hesitation in Kim Dokja's silence. "Dreams take time to catch up with reality. Give them a while longer."
They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, watching a pair of squirrels chase each other up the trunk of a nearby tree. Wukong had been unusually calm that morning, moving about the hut with the ease of someone who'd decided the day didn't require him to smash anything.
Usually there was a restless energy about him, like he was constantly fighting the urge to leap off the mountain and go find something interesting to punch. But today felt different. Settled.
Finally, Wukong stretched again and stood. "We're going out," he announced, dusting off his pants. "Not far. Just to the edge of the mountain."
Kim Dokja looked up at him, surprised. In the two weeks he'd been here, they'd rarely ventured beyond the immediate area around the hut. There had been a few trips down to the river, and once Wukong had taken him to a grove where peach trees grew wild and sweet, but mostly they stayed close to home.
Kim Dokja hadn't minded — after years of constantly moving, constantly looking over his shoulder, there was something deeply comforting about having a place to stay.
When Kim Dokja asked why, Sun Wukong only grinned, that familiar mischievous expression that usually meant he was up to something. "Can't keep you locked up forever, kid. You need to stretch your legs. Besides—" he'd gestured vaguely toward the horizon, where the morning mist was beginning to lift "—there's good air out there. Better than what you'd get in the city."
Kim Dokja felt something loosen in his chest at the words. Not that he'd felt locked up, exactly, but there had been a part of him that wondered if this was just another kind of cage, prettier than the ones he'd known before but still confining.
The thought that Wukong trusted him enough to venture further from home, that he understood Kim Dokja's need for space and freedom, meant more than he could easily put into words.
"Okay," Kim Dokja said, standing and brushing the dust from his clothes. "When do we leave?"
"Now, if you're ready. Bring a jacket — it gets cooler under the trees."
And so they went.
Kim Dokja had expected a short walk, maybe half an hour at most. The mountain didn't seem that large from the hut, and he'd assumed the edge would be close. But as they set off down a narrow path that wound between moss-covered rocks and ancient roots, he began to realise he'd underestimated both the size of Flower Fruit Mountain that he had read in his beloved books and Sun Wukong's definition of "not far."
The walk was longer than Kim Dokja expected. Much longer. The mountain's slopes gave way to forest that thickened with each step, trees twisting overhead to make a ceiling of green so dense that it filtered the sunlight into a soft, underwater glow.
The path itself was barely visible, more of a suggestion than an actual trail, marked by the occasional stone cairn or a tree with bark worn smooth where countless hands had touched it for balance.
Sunlight filtered through in shifting coins of light, warm against his skin whenever he passed through one of the bright patches. The air grew richer as they walked deeper, heavy with the scent of damp earth and growing things. Wildflowers bloomed in unexpected patches — tiny white stars scattered in the moss, brilliant red blooms that looked like drops of blood against the green, delicate purple flowers that seemed to glow in the filtered light.
Wukong didn't speak much, just strode ahead with the lazy alertness of someone who could still catch a falling leaf before it hit the ground. But Kim Dokja could see the way his eyes constantly moved, taking in every sound, every shift in the light, every movement in the underbrush. It wasn't paranoia — it was the deep, instinctive awareness of someone who belonged in this place so completely that he was part of its rhythm.
Kim Dokja found himself falling into that rhythm too, his footsteps naturally matching the soft whisper of wind through leaves, his breathing slowing to match the patient pace of the forest. It was different from the hypervigilance he'd learned on the streets, where every sound could mean danger. This was more like... participation. Like becoming part of something larger than himself.
They passed a stream so clear Kim Dokja could see every pebble on the bottom, could watch tiny fish darting between the rocks like silver shadows. Wukong paused there, cupping his hands to drink, and gestured for Kim Dokja to do the same. The water was shockingly cold and tasted of minerals and snow from high peaks Kim Dokja couldn't see.
"This stream starts at the very top of the mountain," Wukong said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Flows all the way down to the ocean surrounding the mountain. Takes it three days to make the journey."
Kim Dokja knelt by the water's edge, watching the way it curved around the stones, patient and persistent. "Does it ever freeze?"
"In winter, sometimes. But not completely. There's a warmth deep in this mountain that keeps things flowing." Wukong's eyes crinkled slightly at the corners. "Same warmth that keeps old monkeys from getting too stiff in their joints."
It was the first time Kim Dokja had ever heard Wukong refer to his age, and he found himself curious about it. How old was the Monkey King? Dokja knew that from this beloved books about Sun Wukong but never really paid attention to it. But something about the peaceful silence of the forest made questions feel unnecessary. There would be time for questions later.
They continued walking. The path climbed steadily upward, sometimes so steep that Kim Dokja had to grab onto roots and rocks to keep his footing. His breathing grew labored, his legs burning from the exertion. He'd gotten stronger in the months since Wukong had found him, but he was still a long way from his body feeling entirely his own again.
Wukong noticed, of course. He had a way of noticing everything without making a show of it. When they reached a particularly steep section, he simply slowed his pace, pointing out interesting plants or unusual rock formations that gave Kim Dokja a reason to pause and catch his breath without feeling embarrassed about it.
"See that tree there?" Wukong said, gesturing to a massive oak whose trunk was so wide Kim Dokja couldn't have wrapped his arms around it. "That one's older than most human civilizations. Still growing, too."
Kim Dokja pressed his palm against the rough bark, feeling the solid weight of all those years. The tree was warm under his hand, alive in a way that made his own brief existence feel both insignificant and precious.
They walked for nearly two hours before the forest began to thin. The trees grew more scattered, their branches reaching toward open sky instead of weaving together into a green canopy. And then, suddenly, they stepped out of the tree line entirely.
By the time they reached the mountain's edge, Kim Dokja could see where the trees parted to reveal the faint drop-off of a cliff. The sight took his breath away. Below, the land stretched out into a patchwork of valleys and smaller hills, painted in shades of green and gold and brown. Rivers wound through the landscape like silver ribbons, and in the distance, he could see what might have been a city, or at least a large town, its buildings tiny as toys from this height.
The wind up here was different too — stronger, carrying scents from far away. Salt from an ocean he couldn't see, smoke from distant fires, the green smell of rain that had fallen somewhere else and was moving toward them.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Wukong said, settling down on a flat rock near the cliff's edge. "I never get tired of this view."
Kim Dokja joined him, keeping a careful distance from the drop. Heights didn't exactly frighten him, but they commanded respect. "How high up are we?"
"High enough that the air tastes different. Low enough that we can still breathe it easily." Wukong pulled out a piece of fruit from his pocket — one of those sweet mountain peaches — and bit into it, juice running down his chin. "Want to know a secret?"
Kim Dokja nodded.
"This isn't actually the edge of the mountain. Not the real edge. That's another day's walk from here, up where the snow never melts and the air gets so thin you have to work for every breath. But this is far enough for today."
Far enough for today. Kim Dokja liked the sound of that. It suggested there might be other days, other walks, other edges to explore. It suggested a future that stretched beyond the immediate needs of survival.
They sat in comfortable silence for a while, sharing the peach and watching clouds cast moving shadows on the valley below. Kim Dokja felt something ease in his chest, a tension he hadn't even realised he'd been carrying.
For the first time in longer than he could remember, he wasn't thinking about what came next, wasn't scanning for threats or calculating distances to escape routes. He was just... here. Present in this moment, on this mountain, with this strange, kind person who had somehow decided Kim Dokja was worth saving.
"Go on," Sun Wukong said eventually, jerking his head toward the forest that stretched along the cliff's edge. "Wander a bit. Explore. Don't go too far, though. I'll know if you try to run off."
The words were said lightly, almost teasingly, but Kim Dokja heard the underlying seriousness in them. Not a threat, exactly, but a reminder that even this freedom came with boundaries. He found he didn't mind. After weeks of careful trust-building, he understood that Wukong's protectiveness came from caring, not from a desire to control.
Kim Dokja only gave a small shrug in answer. He didn't plan to run — there was nowhere he wanted to go badly enough right now. For the first time in his life, he had a home he didn't want to leave. So he stepped into the trees, feeling the ground soften under his shoes as he left the rocky cliff behind.
It was strange, this kind of freedom. Even if it was only the illusion of it, granted under the watchful eye of someone who could probably leap across the whole mountain if he felt like it. But it felt real enough.
The air smelled faintly of wet moss and decomposing leaves, the rich scent of earth that had been undisturbed for decades.
The leaves whispered overhead in a way that made the forest feel alive, as if the trees were having quiet conversations he could almost understand if he just listened carefully enough.
He let himself wander. Not aimlessly — he kept track of the general direction back to the cliff edge, noting landmarks and the angle of the sun through the leaves — but far enough that the sounds of the river far below and Sun Wukong's faint humming disappeared. The forest here was different from the path they'd taken earlier. Older somehow, more wild. The trees grew closer together, their branches tangled overhead in a way that created hidden spaces and secret clearings.
Kim Dokja found himself moving more quietly, instinctively stepping carefully to avoid disturbing the peace of the place. A rabbit froze in a patch of sunlight, watching him with dark eyes before bounding away into the underbrush. Somewhere above, a bird called with a sound like silver bells.
He followed what might have been a deer path, or might have been nothing more than a gap between the trees that happened to be wide enough for walking. It wound deeper into the forest, curving around massive tree trunks and over fallen logs soft with moss. The air grew cooler as he walked, and more still, as if the very atmosphere was holding its breath.
That was when he saw it.
Half-hidden between the roots of two massive trees was the dark mouth of a cave. Kim Dokja almost missed it entirely — it was tucked back in the shadows, nearly invisible unless you happened to be looking at just the right angle. The entrance wasn't large, but it was enough for a person to walk through if they ducked slightly. The stones framing it were damp with condensation, and faint lines of mineral deposits streaked down their sides like frozen tears.
Kim Dokja hesitated at first, standing at the edge of the small clearing where the cave mouth opened.
Caves could be dangerous. He'd learned that the hard way during his time on the streets, when he'd once taken shelter in what he'd thought was an abandoned tunnel only to discover it was home to things that didn't appreciate visitors.
But something about the stillness coming from inside this cave pulled at him. It wasn't the threatening kind of stillness — not the silence of something waiting to pounce. More the exhausted kind, like the quiet that settled over a hospital room late at night.
The rational part of his mind told him to turn back, to return to Sun Wukong and mention the cave in passing. But curiosity had always been one of Kim Dokja's defining traits, even when it got him into trouble. Especially when it got him into trouble.
He ducked in.
The cool air inside was immediate, brushing against his skin like the touch of a damp cloth. The temperature drop was startling after the warmth of the forest, and he shivered involuntarily. His footsteps sounded soft against the packed earth, muffled by the stone walls that curved around him. The light from outside only reached a few meters in, but it was enough to see that the cave wasn't very deep — maybe ten meters from entrance to back wall.
It was also enough to see the shape curled up against the wall at the back.
It was a boy.
Kim Dokja froze, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light. The boy looked about his own age — maybe fifteen, though it was hard to tell. His hair was dark and fluffy, like wolf’s fur on a head. His clothes were worn but not ragged — a simple worn-out turtleneck shirt and pants that might have been grey once but had faded to an indeterminate black. There was a long, black coat in the boy’s lap, and Dokja could see the rips and tears on it.
He was thinner than he should have been, but not in the sharp-boned, half-starved way Kim Dokja had been when Wukong first found him. Just... neglected. Like someone who hadn't been eating regularly, or sleeping well, or taking care of himself in the small ways that kept a person healthy.
The boy didn't move at Kim Dokja's entrance. He sat with his back against the cave wall, knees drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped around his shins. His eyes — dark, flat, unreadable — flicked up once when Kim Dokja appeared in the entrance, then away again, as if the effort of maintaining eye contact was too much.
Kim Dokja recognized that look. He'd seen it in his own reflection often enough during the worst times. It was the expression of someone who had used up all their energy just on the basic task of existing, who had nothing left over for the performance of being human.
"…Hi," Kim Dokja said after a moment. His voice sounded too loud in the small space, echoing off the stone walls. "Do you… live here?"
No answer. The boy's shoulders didn't even twitch in acknowledgment that Kim Dokja had spoken.
Kim Dokja shifted his weight, leaning a little against the cave wall. The stone was cool and slightly damp against his shoulder. He tried to think of what Sun Wukong might do in this situation, but came up blank. Wukong had a way with people, a natural charisma that made others want to trust him. Kim Dokja had never possessed that gift.
"I'm Kim Dokja," he tried again. Still nothing. The silence wasn't hostile — it was heavier than that. The kind of silence that said someone had run out of energy to speak at all, had retreated so far inside themselves that words couldn't reach them anymore.
Kim Dokja had been there. He knew what it felt like to be so tired that even the thought of conversation seemed impossible, when the simple act of acknowledging another person's existence felt like more than you could manage.
He took in the faint shadows under the boy's eyes, the way his hands rested loosely on his knees like they'd been there for hours. His clothes were clean, or at least cleaner than they would be if he'd been living rough for long. Someone was taking care of him, at least minimally. But care and caring weren't always the same thing.
"…Are you hungry?" Kim Dokja asked finally. "I don't have food right now, but I can bring some. Proper food. Tomorrow. If you want."
The boy's eyes flicked toward him again, sharper this time, like that word — food — had managed to pierce the fog that seemed to surround him. But he still didn't speak, didn't nod or shake his head or give any other indication that he'd understood.
Kim Dokja offered a small, lopsided smile, the kind he'd perfected during his own worst days when he'd needed to convince social workers and teachers that he was fine, everything was fine, no need to worry about him. "I'll come back," he promised quietly. "And I won't tell anyone you're here. Not unless you want me to."
There was no answer, but the boy didn't look away this time. His gaze was steady, assessing, as if he was trying to decide whether Kim Dokja could be trusted. It was the closest thing to engagement Kim Dokja thought he was going to get.
From somewhere far off, he heard Sun Wukong's voice calling his name, the sound faint but carrying clearly in the still forest air. The call was casual, not urgent, but it was definitely time to go.
Kim Dokja straightened, brushing dust from his clothes. "That's… my hyung, I guess. I have to go." He hesitated before adding, "See you."
The boy didn't move, didn't respond, but his gaze followed Kim Dokja as he backed out of the cave and into the warm light of the forest again. As Kim Dokja turned to head back toward the cliff, he could feel those dark eyes watching him until the trees blocked the cave from view.
When he reached the cliff edge, Sun Wukong was waiting, arms folded across his chest. He was still sitting on the flat rock where Kim Dokja had left him, but his posture was alert now, attentive. His eyes scanned Kim Dokja quickly, as if checking for any signs of injury or distress.
"Find anything interesting?" Wukong asked casually, but there was something in his tone that suggested the question wasn't as idle as it sounded.
Kim Dokja only shrugged, glancing once back toward the trees. His mind was full of dark eyes and tired silence, of the way the boy had looked at him like he was trying to solve a puzzle he didn't have all the pieces for. "…Just trees," he said.
Wukong's sharp eyes lingered on him for a moment longer before he nodded. "Alright. Let's head back. Breakfast's long gone cold, but I can warm it up again."
Kim Dokja followed without another word, but his thoughts stayed in the dim cool of the cave — and on the quiet boy who hadn't said a thing.
The walk back seemed shorter, though Kim Dokja suspected that was just because he was lost in thought. Wukong maintained his easy pace, pointing out the occasional interesting plant or unusual rock formation, but he seemed to sense that Kim Dokja needed space to process whatever he'd encountered in the forest.
By the time they reached the hut, the sun was high overhead, casting sharp shadows across the clearing. The wooden steps were warm under Kim Dokja's feet as he settled back into his familiar spot, but the comfort of routine felt different now. Changed.
Tomorrow, he thought, watching Sun Wukong disappear into the hut to reheat their abandoned breakfast. Tomorrow, I'll bring food.
And maybe, if he was lucky, the boy in the cave would still be there to receive it.
Notes:
fyi in canon sun wukong is 842 years old, some legends say he is 1100, 342 is his age without the 500 years under the mountain that buddha had trapped him underneath
to as how yjh is on flower fruit mountain, that plot is coming up soon in the upcoming chapters. stay tuned for that :D
Chapter 7: Ensure he is cared for by all
Notes:
less swk today, but kdj and yjh are bonding :3 PS: Here is the list of swk’s powers according to mythology because orv really didn’t show how many powers swk really has besides the thunder & out of body cloning
- Immortality
- Size Manipulation
- 72 Transformations (A skill where he can shapeshift into 72 different things)
- Shapeshifting (A branch of 72 Transformations, he can transform into anything, even non-living things)
- Superhuman physical characteristics
- Astral projection (The ability to transform between being a spirit and having his normal body at will, like a hologram but slightly complex)
- Illusion resistance, Minor Poison Resistance (But his eyes are sensitive as stated in previous chapter’s notes)
- Body freezing (With a snap of his fingers, he can freeze his enemies/people in place at will)
- Resurrection
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Kim Dokja woke before dawn, which was unusual for him. Usually he slept until the sun was well up, his body still catching up on months and years of missed rest. But today his mind was already alert, focused on a single thought: the boy in the cave.
He lay still for a few minutes, listening to the familiar sounds of early morning on the mountain. Birds beginning their first tentative songs, the distant murmur of the stream, the soft creak of the hut's wooden frame settling in the cool air. From the other room came Sun Wukong's steady breathing — not quite snoring, but the deep, rhythmic sound of someone who slept without worry.
Kim Dokja slipped out of bed as quietly as possible, his bare feet silent on the wooden floor. He'd gotten good at moving quietly over the past few months, though for different reasons now than when he'd lived on the streets. Then it had been about avoiding detection by people who might cause him harm. Now it was simply about not disturbing the peaceful mornings that had become so precious to him.
He dressed quickly in the pre-dawn darkness, pulling on clothes that still smelled faintly of the mountain herbs Sun Wukong used to wash them. The fabric was soft against his skin, worn comfortable rather than worn thin. Another small luxury he was still getting used to.
The kitchen was barely visible in the gray light filtering through the windows, but Kim Dokja knew it well enough by now to navigate by touch. He moved carefully, avoiding the floorboard that squeaked near the stove, the cabinet door that liked to swing shut with a bang if you didn't hold it. His hands found what he was looking for: two of the buns Sun Wukong had made the day before, still soft despite spending the night wrapped in a clean cloth. A small jar of the honey they collected from wild bees. Some of the dried fruit that hung in neat bundles from the ceiling beams.
It wasn't much, but it was real food. The kind that filled you up and gave you energy, not just the scraps and half-spoiled things he'd learned to be grateful for during the worst times. Kim Dokja wrapped it all carefully in another clean cloth, creating a small bundle he could carry easily.
He was just tying the knot when he heard movement from Sun Wukong's room.
Kim Dokja froze, the bundle clutched in his hands, his heart suddenly racing. He hadn't thought about what he'd say if Wukong caught him. How could he explain sneaking food out of the house without revealing why? Without breaking his promise to the boy in the cave?
But the footsteps that emerged from the bedroom were casual, unhurried. Sun Wukong appeared in the kitchen doorway, hair tousled from sleep, wearing only a pair of loose pants. His eyes were alert despite the early hour, taking in Kim Dokja's fully dressed state and the bundle in his hands without apparent surprise.
"Morning," Wukong said, padding over to the stove. "You're up early."
"Couldn't sleep," Kim Dokja said, which was true enough. He tucked the bundle of food behind his back, hoping the dim light would hide it.
Wukong nodded, beginning the familiar ritual of starting the morning fire. "Happens sometimes. New places can mess with your sleep patterns for months." He glanced over at Kim Dokja, and his expression was knowing in a way that made Kim Dokja's stomach tighten. "Going for a walk?"
The question was casual, but Kim Dokja could hear the careful neutrality in it. Wukong suspected something, that much was obvious. The question was how much, and what he planned to do about it.
"Maybe," Kim Dokja said. "Just... around the clearing. To tire myself out."
"Mmm." Wukong struck a match, the small flame bright in the dark kitchen. "Well, if you do go walking, be careful. Mountains can be tricky in the early morning. Mist makes it hard to see where you're stepping."
"I'll be careful."
"I'm sure you will." Wukong fed kindling to the growing flame, not looking at Kim Dokja directly.
"Thank you," Kim Dokja said quietly.
Wukong waved a hand dismissively, still focused on the fire. "Nothing to thank me for. Just... bring yourself back in one piece, yeah? And if anything is bothering you, you come get me. Some problems are too big to handle alone."
Kim Dokja nodded, even though Wukong couldn't see him in the firelight. "I will."
"Good. Now go, before the sun comes up and makes you feel foolish for sneaking around in the dark."
Kim Dokja went.
The forest in early morning was a different place entirely from the sun-dappled woodland he'd explored the day before. Mist hung low between the trees, creating pockets of visibility that shifted and changed as he walked. The air was thick with moisture, cool against his face and hands. Every surface was beaded with condensation — spider webs transformed into strings of diamonds, leaves heavy with water that dripped steadily onto the forest floor.
His footsteps sounded muffled and strange in the heavy air. The normal sounds of the forest were muted too, as if the mist absorbed noise along with light. It created an otherworldly atmosphere, like walking through a dream or a fairy tale.
Kim Dokja found himself moving more slowly than he had the day before, partly because of the reduced visibility but mostly because he wanted time to think. To prepare himself for what he might find when he reached the cave.
What if the boy wasn't there? What if he'd moved on, or been found by whoever was supposed to be taking care of him? What if Kim Dokja had imagined the whole encounter, his mind conjuring up someone who needed help because he understood that need so intimately himself?
But no, that was impossible. The memory was too clear, too specific. The way the boy's eyes had tracked his movement. The careful stillness of someone who had learned that drawing attention usually meant trouble. Kim Dokja knew those signs too well to have invented them.
The mist began to thin as he climbed higher, the trees spacing out as he approached the area where he'd made his discovery. By the time he reached the small clearing where the cave mouth opened, the sun was beginning to burn through the fog, sending shafts of golden light through the dissipating white.
Kim Dokja paused at the edge of the clearing, suddenly uncertain. Yesterday he'd stumbled upon the cave by accident, driven by curiosity and the simple impulse to explore. Today felt different. More intentional. He was here for a specific purpose, carrying food for a specific person, and somehow that made everything feel more real. More serious.
He took a deep breath and approached the cave entrance.
"Hello?" he called softly, not wanting to startle anyone who might be inside but also not wanting to walk in uninvited. "It's... it's Kim Dokja. From yesterday."
No response. But that didn't necessarily mean anything. Kim Dokja ducked through the entrance, letting his eyes adjust to the dimmer light inside.
The boy was there.
He sat in the same position as the day before, back against the cave wall, knees drawn up. But something was different about him today. His eyes tracked Kim Dokja's movement immediately, alert and wary. He looked like he hadn't slept, or if he had, it hadn't been restful sleep.
"Hi," Kim Dokja said, keeping his voice low and calm. "I said I'd come back."
Still no verbal response, but the boy's gaze dropped to the bundle in Kim Dokja's hands, and there was unmistakable hunger in his expression. Not just physical hunger, though Kim Dokja could see that too in the sharp angles of his face. But hunger for connection, for someone to see him and care enough to follow through on a promise.
Kim Dokja had felt that hunger himself, many times. It was worse than physical emptiness because it couldn't be satisfied by finding scraps behind restaurants or learning which convenience stores threw away food that was still edible.
"I brought breakfast," Kim Dokja said, settling down cross-legged a few feet away from the boy. Close enough to offer companionship, far enough away to avoid feeling threatening. "Nothing fancy, but it's good. And there's honey."
He unwrapped the bundle carefully, setting the contents out on the clean cloth like a small picnic. Two soft buns, still faintly warm from being tucked against his body during the walk. The jar of honey, golden and thick. Dried apricots and pears that Sun Wukong had prepared himself, sweet and chewy. It wasn't much compared to the abundance of the mountain, but it was more food than Kim Dokja had often seen in a single day during the worst periods of his life.
The boy's eyes followed every movement, but he didn't reach for any of it. His hands remained locked around his shins, knuckles white with tension.
"It's okay," Kim Dokja said gently. "I'm not... there's nothing you have to do in exchange. No strings attached. I just thought you might be hungry."
He picked up one of the buns and took a small bite, demonstrating that the food was safe, that this wasn't some kind of trick. The bread was soft and slightly sweet, with the complex flavor of grain that had been grown in good soil and ground with care. Sun Wukong's cooking was simple but excellent, made with ingredients that tasted like they remembered sunshine and rain.
After a moment of internal debate, Kim Dokja set the half-eaten bun down and pushed the whole bundle toward the boy, then scooted backward to give him space.
"I'll just... sit here for a while," Kim Dokja said. "You don't have to talk or anything. I know sometimes that's hard."
He settled back against the cave wall, far enough away that the boy wouldn't feel crowded but close enough that his presence was clearly an offer of companionship. Then he waited.
The minutes stretched out in silence. Kim Dokja found himself listening to the small sounds that filled the cave — water dripping somewhere deeper in the rock, the boy's careful breathing, his own heartbeat loud in his ears. Outside, the mist continued to lift, and shafts of sunlight began to reach into the cave entrance, warming the air and making dust motes dance in golden columns.
Finally, after what felt like an hour but was probably only ten minutes, the boy moved.
It was a small movement at first — just his right hand unclenching from around his shin, fingers flexing as circulation returned. Then, slowly, deliberately, he reached for the bundle of food.
His movements were careful, controlled, as if he expected Kim Dokja to snatch the food away at the last second. But Kim Dokja remained still, barely breathing, afraid that any sudden movement might break the spell.
The boy picked up the bun Kim Dokja had bitten, looked at it for a moment, then took a small, cautious bite. His eyes closed briefly, and Kim Dokja saw something that might have been relief flicker across his features.
He ate slowly, methodically, with the careful attention of someone who had learned not to waste food. Between bites, his eyes darted to Kim Dokja's face, still wary but no longer quite so guarded.
When he'd finished the first bun, he reached for the dried fruit, then the honey. He didn't eat quickly or greedily, the way Kim Dokja remembered eating during his hungriest times. Instead, he ate like someone who was used to being hungry but wasn't desperate, wasn't starving. Someone who had regular access to food but perhaps not to kindness.
"Good?" Kim Dokja asked when the boy had made significant progress through the meal.
The boy paused, looked at him directly for the first time, and gave a single, small nod.
It was the first real communication between them, and Kim Dokja felt something warm unfurl in his chest. Progress.
"I'm glad," he said. "There's more where that came from. I mean, if you want. I could bring food again tomorrow."
Another small nod.
"Do you..." Kim Dokja hesitated, not wanting to push too hard but desperately curious. "Do you live around here? With family?"
This time the boy shook his head, a quick, sharp movement that suggested the topic was painful.
"Okay," Kim Dokja said quickly. "That's okay. You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to."
The boy finished eating in silence, but it was a different quality of silence now. Less empty, more... thoughtful. When he was done, he carefully folded the cloth Kim Dokja had used to wrap the food and set it aside, then looked up expectantly.
"You can keep that," Kim Dokja said. "The cloth. It might be useful."
The boy picked it up again, running his fingers over the soft fabric with something approaching wonder. Like he wasn't used to being given things to keep.
Kim Dokja felt his heart clench. How long had this boy been alone? How long had he been living in this cave, accepting whatever scraps of care came his way without expecting them to continue?
"What's your name?" Kim Dokja asked gently.
For a moment, he thought the boy wouldn't answer. But then, so quietly Kim Dokja almost missed it, came a single word:
"Yoo Joonghyuk."
"Yoo Joonghyuk-ssi," Kim Dokja repeated, testing the name. It was a good name, strong and distinctive. "It's nice to meet you, Yoo Joonghyuk-ssi."
Yoo Joonghyuk — and it felt important to think of him by name now, as a person rather than just 'the boy' — didn't respond verbally, but something in his posture relaxed slightly.
They sat together in comfortable silence for a while longer, watching the light shift and change as the sun climbed higher. Kim Dokja found himself studying Yoo Joonghyuk's profile when he thought the other boy wasn't looking. There was something familiar about him, though Kim Dokja was certain they'd never met before. Something in the set of his shoulders, the way he held his head, that spoke of strength held carefully in check.
"I should probably head back," Kim Dokja said eventually, when the sun was high enough that Sun Wukong would start to wonder where he was. "But I'll come back tomorrow. Same time, if that's okay."
Yoo Joonghyuk nodded again, then surprised Kim Dokja by speaking.
"Thank you." His voice was hoarse from disuse, barely above a whisper, but the words were clear.
"You're welcome," Kim Dokja said, and meant it more than he'd ever meant anything in his life.
He stood, brushing dust from his clothes, and paused at the cave entrance. Yoo Joonghyuk was watching him with those dark, unreadable eyes, but there was something different in his expression now. Still guarded, still wary, but no longer quite so alone.
"Let’s meet again soon, Yoo Joonghyuk-ssi," Kim Dokja said.
And as he walked back through the forest, mist swirling around his feet and sunlight filtering through the leaves, he was already planning what to bring the next day.
The moment Kim Dokja disappeared into the treeline, Sun Wukong grinned so widely his cheeks hurt.
He waited exactly thirty seconds—enough time for the kid to get properly into sneaking mode—before his form shimmered and shifted. Golden light rippled across his skin as he transformed into a small sparrow, the kind so common on the mountain that even Kim Dokja wouldn't think twice about seeing one.
Finally, he thought, ruffling his new feathers with satisfaction as he took to the air. Kid's learning.
He'd been wondering when this would happen. Two weeks of careful behaviour, of asking permission and staying close to home, of being the perfect grateful rescued child. It had been driving Sun Wukong slowly insane. Not because he minded the politeness—it was sweet, really—but because it wasn't natural. Kids were supposed to push boundaries, supposed to sneak around and get into trouble. That's how they learned who they were.
The fact that Kim Dokja had been too traumatised, too careful, too afraid of losing his new home to act like a normal teenager had been breaking Sun Wukong's heart in ways he didn't like to examine too closely.
But this? This secret mission, this careful planning, this sneaking out at dawn with stolen food hidden under his shirt? This was perfect.
Sun Wukong flitted from branch to branch, following Kim Dokja's progress through the forest. The kid was actually pretty good at moving quietly, which was both impressive and concerning. Those were skills learned the hard way, on streets where being heard could mean danger. But he was using them now for something good, something kind, and that made all the difference.
When Kim Dokja reached the cave, Sun Wukong perched on a branch with a perfect view of the entrance and settled in to watch.
He'd known about the other boy, of course. You didn't live on a mountain for centuries without knowing every creature that took shelter there, even temporarily. The kid—Yoo Joonghyuk, Sun Wukong had learned by listening to conversations carried on the wind—had showed up about a week ago, he’d been on a human ship which got stuck in between two volcanoes and the boy was the only one who had survival instincts, if he did say so himself, and jumped out of the ship just before it crashed, floating to the mountain’s shore, tired and angry and hurt in ways that went deeper than physical wounds.
Sun Wukong had been planning to approach him eventually, in his own roundabout way. Maybe leave some food where the boy would find it, maybe "accidentally" encounter him during a morning walk. But Kim Dokja beat him to it, and honestly? Sun Wukong couldn't be happier about it.
Kids helping kids. Kids taking initiative. Kids breaking rules for the right reasons.
That's my maknae, he thought proudly, watching Kim Dokja duck into the cave with his bundle of breakfast. Look at him go.
He transformed again—this time into a small lizard that could creep closer to the cave entrance without being noticed. The conversation inside was too quiet for human ears, but his enhanced hearing caught every word.
The careful way Kim Dokja offered food without demanding anything in return. The patience he showed when the other boy didn't respond immediately. The gentle understanding in his voice when he said "I know sometimes that's hard."
Sun Wukong had to physically bite his tongue to keep from making proud noises. Where had this kid learned to be so kind? So intuitive about what someone in pain needed to hear?
Actually, he knew where. Kim Dokja had learned it by being in pain himself, by knowing exactly what it felt like to be hungry and scared and alone. He was giving Yoo Joonghyuk what he would have wanted someone to give him.
Smart kid, Sun Wukong thought. Empathetic kid. Sneaky, rule-breaking, secretly generous kid.
He'd never been prouder of anything in his very long life.
When Yoo Joonghyuk finally spoke—first his name, then that whispered "thank you"—Sun Wukong had to transform into a rock to avoid doing something embarrassing like crying.
Two kids, he thought, watching Kim Dokja emerge from the cave with that determined expression that meant he was already planning tomorrow's food delivery. Two hurt, healing kids who found each other.
He followed Kim Dokja back through the forest, hopping from transformation to transformation with the giddiness of someone witnessing something wonderful. A beetle, a mouse, a small snake, a butterfly—each form giving him a different perspective on his boy's careful journey home.
Kim Dokja was trying so hard to look casual when he reached the clearing, like he'd just been taking a morning stroll instead of conducting a covert humanitarian mission. The effect was somewhat ruined by the satisfied smile he couldn't quite hide, but Sun Wukong found that even more endearing.
He transformed back to his normal form just as Kim Dokja approached the hut, timing it perfectly so he appeared to be coming out of the kitchen with a cup of tea, as if he'd been there the whole time.
"Good walk?" he asked mildly, taking a sip of tea to hide his grin.
"Yeah," Kim Dokja said, and the happiness in his voice was unmistakable. "Really good."
"Glad to hear it. Breakfast is ready when you are."
As Kim Dokja headed inside to wash up, Sun Wukong allowed himself one moment of pure, unfiltered pride. His maknae—because Kim Dokja was his now, had been from the moment he'd found him half-dead in that alley—was growing up. Taking risks. Making connections. Breaking rules for love instead of following them out of fear.
It was exactly the kind of thing Sun Wukong would do.
Definitely learned from the best, he thought smugly, then went inside to make sure there were extra buns for tomorrow's "morning walk."
"You know," Sun Wukong said conversationally the next day to himself, perched as a eagle in a tree overlooking the cave, "I'm starting to think these kids don't realise how loud they're being."
He'd been following Kim Dokja's food delivery with the dedication of a nature documentarian, and this day brought new developments. Today, Yoo Joonghyuk had actually smiled. Smiled. Just a tiny quirk of the lips, but Sun Wukong had nearly fallen out of his tree with excitement.
The boys were talking now, real conversations. Kim Dokja telling stories about life on Flower Fruit Mountain, Yoo Joonghyuk sharing small details about... whatever situation he'd escaped from. Sun Wukong didn't pry too deeply—some stories needed to be told in the teller's own time—but he gathered it involved absent parents and well-meaning but clueless relatives who didn't understand the first thing about taking care of a traumatized teenager.
Idiots, he thought darkly. Let a kid like that just... float off and live in a cave. Don't deserve him.
"I should probably intervene soon," he told himself, preening his eagle feathers. "Can't let them keep meeting in secret forever. Kid needs a proper place to recover, not a damp cave."
But not yet. Not until Kim Dokja was ready to ask for help instead of trying to handle everything himself. The boy needed to learn that it was okay to reach out, okay to admit when a problem was too big to solve alone.
Patience, Sun Wukong reminded himself. Let him figure it out. Let him be the one to bring his friend home.
Though if they took much longer, he might have to manufacture a convenient rainstorm or something. That cave was really not suitable for long-term habitation, no matter how resourceful teenagers thought they were.
He watched Kim Dokja hand Yoo Joonghyuk a spare shirt—one of Sun Wukong's own, though the kid had probably "borrowed" it without asking—and felt that familiar surge of pride.
That's my boy, he thought fondly. Sneaky, generous, caring, rule-breaking little schemer. Takes after his old man perfectly.
The fact that Kim Dokja would probably be mortified to know Sun Wukong had been watching only made it better. Kids needed to think they were getting away with things sometimes. It was good for their development.
Sun Wukong settled in for another morning of covert surveillance, already planning the "accidental" encounter that would eventually bring both boys home where they belonged.
After all, he hadn't survived this long by being subtle. But he'd learned that sometimes the best way to help was to let people think they were helping themselves.
Even if it meant spending half his mornings transformed into various small animals, cheering silently from the sidelines as his maknae learned to be brave.
Notes:
Plot building is my most hated and beloved thing to do
["Let’s meet again soon, Yoo Joonghyuk-ssi," Kim Dokja said.] yes thats a reference fuck you all i can do what i want with my fucking life
swk is so so proud of his maknae AGHHH
also swk’s 72 animal transformations all have a monkey tail no matter what animal so just imagine a orange-brown-yellow whatever shade that is imagine it as you like there is no confirmed color for the fur of swk, orv called his hair platinum but official art is literally YELLOW so just brown, yellow, or orange any one of these colours and use that color and paint it on any animal and print a white underbelly/underside on the animal bro i dont know
Chapter 8: Protect and fend for him with your life
Summary:
SWK cheers his maknae on from the sidelines, but never in his life would he have thought he would have discovered a threat on his mountain.
Notes:
Theme song for today!
https://open.spotify.com/track/1V9lCLSierc1RFpERt6ak9?si=Xd5QkAQ8QmudnF695Po6Ww
okay so lowkey i was doing some snooping for demons that swk dislikes so we can have a fight but i just realised that he already killed all the demons he dislikes so im gonna just awkwardly stand here and use a monster that he already murdered in original jttw because if i go by original jttw they are all FUCKING DEAD/TAKEN CARE OF BY HEAVEN
the demon is Hu'aqi because i cant think of a better demon okay i suck at finding demons that are a really big threat to mortals but easy enough to be murdered by swk with a flick of a hand okay so i lowkey forgot what hu’aqi looked like so im gonna cry
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The next day, Kim Dokja was halfway back to the hut, mind still warm with the memory of Yoo Joonghyuk actually laughing at something he'd said, when the forest went silent.
Not the peaceful quiet he'd grown used to on Flower Fruit Mountain, but the sharp, unnatural silence that meant every living thing had suddenly decided it needed to hide. Birds stopped singing mid-note. The constant rustle of small creatures in the underbrush ceased. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Kim Dokja froze on the narrow path, every instinct he'd developed during his years on the streets screaming danger. His hand moved automatically to his pocket, an old instinct from years of getting abused by his father, an old instinct to wanting to grab the closest thing next to him and finally one day use it to hit his father back.
The attack came from above.
Something massive crashed through the canopy in an explosion of leaves and broken branches, landing on the path ahead of him with enough force to crack the stone beneath its feet. Kim Dokja stumbled backward, his heart hammering as he tried to process what he was seeing.
It was humanoid in shape but wrong in every detail. Too tall, too broad, with arms that stretched nearly to its knees and hands that ended in claws like rusted iron. Its skin was the color of blood, stretched tight over prominent bones, and its face... its face was almost human except for the eyes that burned like coals and the mouth that split too wide, revealing rows of needle-sharp teeth. A ragged fox tail laid behind the demon, dried bits of blood and sand in the coarse fur.
A demon. Kim Dokja had heard stories, of course, whispered tales from other street kids about the monsters that lurked in dark places. But he'd always assumed they were just stories, the kind of thing desperate people invented to explain why their lives were so hard, but having seen multiple mythological legends come to life in the span of two weeks made his idea of demons change.
The demon smiled, and Kim Dokja's blood turned to ice.
"Well, well," it said, its voice like grinding stone. "The Monkey King's little pet. How convenient."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Oh, but you do." The demon took a step closer, and Kim Dokja could smell it now—sulfur and rotting meat and something else, something that made his nose burn. "You're Sun Wukong's weakness, aren't you? His soft spot. His... what do you humans call it... Achilles’ heel?"
Fear shot through Kim Dokja's chest like a physical thing. Not just fear for himself, but for Sun Wukong. Had he brought danger to the mountain just by being here? Had his presence made the man who'd saved him vulnerable to attack?
"He's not weak," Kim Dokja said, surprised by how steady his voice sounded. "And I'm not his weakness."
The demon laughed, a sound like breaking glass. "Aren't you? Tell me, boy, what do you think he would do if I tore you apart right here? How far do you think the great Sun Wukong would go to avenge his precious little 弟弟 (Pronounced Dìdi, Younger Brother)?"
弟弟. The Chinese word hit Kim Dokja like a physical blow. He had heard it before in one of his mythology books. It slapped him in the face, Not because it was wrong but because it was right. When had that happened? When had Sun Wukong stopped being just his guardian, his savior, and become... family?
"He would destroy you," Kim Dokja said quietly, and knew with absolute certainty that it was true.
"Yes," the demon hissed. "Yes, he would. And in doing so, he would reveal just how much he cares, just how completely you've made him weak. The Monkey King, brought low by attachment to a mortal child."
The demon lunged.
Kim Dokja threw himself to the side, rolling across the forest floor as claws raked through the air where he'd been standing. He came up running, crashing through the underbrush with no thought but getting away, getting back to Sun Wukong, getting help.
But the demon was faster. It bounded after him on all fours, covering ground with impossible speed. Kim Dokja could hear it behind him, could feel the heat of its breath on his neck. A clawed hand swiped at his back, tearing through his shirt and scoring bloody lines across his shoulder blades.
He stumbled, went down hard, tasted blood where he'd bitten his tongue. The demon loomed over him, claws raised for a killing blow.
It never fell.
The world exploded into golden light and the sound of impact, like thunder contained in a small space. When Kim Dokja's vision cleared, Sun Wukong was standing between him and the demon, his staff held casually in one hand despite the fact that it had just cratered the ground where the demon's head used to be.
The demon was getting back up, which should have been impossible given the size of the dent in the stone beneath it. Its face was a ruin of black blood and exposed bone, but it was still moving, still snarling.
Sun Wukong looked... different. His usual easygoing smile was gone, replaced by an expression of cold, bottomless rage that made Kim Dokja's breathing stop. This wasn't the gentle, sometimes silly man who made terrible jokes and cooked him delicious food. This was the Monkey King, the Great Sage Equal to Heaven, the being who had once fought all of paradise to a standstill.
"Hu'aqi," Sun Wukong said, and his voice was conversational, almost friendly. It was somehow more terrifying than any amount of shouting would have been. "I was wondering when you'd show up. It's been, what, two hundred years since I last had to kill you?"
The demon—Hu'aqi—spat black blood. "Not long enough, monkey."
"No," Sun Wukong agreed, spinning his Ruyi Jingu Bang with lazy precision. "Not nearly long enough. Though I have to ask—what brings you to my mountain? Surely you haven't forgotten what happened last time."
"Times change," Hu'aqi snarled. "You've grown soft. Domesticated. Look at you, playing house with a human child."
Sun Wukong's grip on his staff tightened almost imperceptibly. "Answer the question."
"I came to test a theory. To see if the great Sun Wukong really has allowed himself to become vulnerable." Hu’aqi’s ruined face attempted a smile. "And it seems I was right. You would do anything to protect that boy, wouldn't you? Even compromise yourself."
"Compromise myself?" Sun Wukong tilted his head, and Kim Dokja could see the deadly amusement in his expression. "Hu’aqi, you seem to be laboring under a misapprehension. Caring about someone doesn't make me weaker. It makes me significantly more dangerous."
The demon's expression shifted, uncertainty flickering across its features for the first time.
Sun Wukong smiled, and it was the most frightening thing Kim Dokja had ever seen. "You threatened my brother. Did you really think I would let you leave this mountain alive?"
What happened next was less a fight than an execution. Sun Wukong moved with inhuman speed and precision, his staff becoming a blur of golden light that struck again and again with surgical accuracy. The demon tried to fight back, tried to run, tried to beg, but it was useless. Sun Wukong was simply too fast, too strong, too utterly without mercy.
It was over in seconds. Where Hu'aqi had been standing, there was now only a smear of black ichor on the forest floor and the lingering smell of sulfur.
Sun Wukong stood in the sudden silence, breathing hard, his staff still glowing with residual power. For a moment, he looked like a figure from legend, untouchable and terrible and divine.
Then he turned to Kim Dokja, and his expression crumbled into something almost human again.
"Dokja," he said, and his voice was rough with something that might have been fear. "Are you hurt?"
Kim Dokja tried to answer, tried to say he was fine, but all that came out was a choked sob. The adrenaline was leaving his system all at once, leaving him shaky and sick and suddenly, desperately grateful to be alive.
Sun Wukong was beside him in an instant, hands hovering uncertainly as if he was afraid to touch. "Hey, hey, it's okay. You're safe. I've got you."
"I'm sorry," Kim Dokja gasped out. "I'm sorry, this is my fault, I made you vulnerable, I—"
"Stop." Sun Wukong's voice was firm but gentle. "This isn't your fault. Hu'aqi was a fool and a coward who thought he could use you to get to me. He was wrong."
"But he was right, wasn't he?" Kim Dokja looked up at Sun Wukong's face, searching for truth. "You... you called me your brother. Do I really make you weak?"
Sun Wukong was quiet for a long moment, considering the question with the seriousness it deserved. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft but certain.
"Do you know what I was like before you came here, Dokja? I was... empty. Going through the motions of living without any real purpose. I had power, I had immortality, I had this whole mountain to myself, but I didn't have a reason to use any of it for anything that mattered."
He reached out slowly, telegraphing the movement, and when Kim Dokja didn't flinch away, he rested a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"You didn't make me weak. You gave me something to be strong for. There's a difference."
Kim Dokja leaned into the touch, still shaking but starting to feel human again. "The demon knew about me. How?"
"Demons talk. Word gets around when the Monkey King takes in a stray." Sun Wukong's expression hardened slightly. "Don't worry about it. After today's demonstration, I doubt any of them will be stupid enough to try something like this again."
They sat in silence for a few minutes, surrounded by the slowly returning sounds of the forest as the local wildlife decided the danger had passed. Kim Dokja's shoulder blades stung where the demon's claws had caught him, but the cuts weren't deep. He'd live.
"I should check those scratches," Sun Wukong said eventually, noticing the torn fabric of Kim Dokja's shirt. "Make sure they're clean."
"They're not bad," Kim Dokja said, but he didn't protest when Sun Wukong helped him to his feet. His legs were steadier than he'd expected, though he still felt wrung out and exhausted.
As they started walking back toward the hut, Sun Wukong spoke again, his tone carefully casual. "So. Want to tell me about your friend in the cave?"
Kim Dokja stumbled slightly, caught off guard. "How did you—"
"Kid, I've lived on this mountain for centuries. You think I don't know about every creature that takes shelter here?" Sun Wukong's expression was amused but not unkind. "Besides, you've been sneaking out every morning for a week with food wrapped in my good kitchen cloths. I'm observant, not blind."
Heat flooded Kim Dokja's cheeks. "You knew? This whole time?"
"Of course I knew. The question is, why didn't you tell me?"
Kim Dokja was quiet for a moment, trying to organize his thoughts. "I promised him I wouldn't tell anyone. And... I wanted to handle it myself. I wanted to help him without having to ask you to fix everything."
Sun Wukong nodded slowly. "I can understand that. Independence is important. But Dokja... sometimes problems are too big to handle alone. Sometimes asking for help isn't giving up, it's being smart."
"Is this one of those times?"
"Maybe. Tell me about him."
So Kim Dokja did. He told Sun Wukong about finding Yoo Joonghyuk in the cave, about the careful progress they'd made over the past week, about the way the other boy had slowly started to trust him. He didn't share the details Yoo Joonghyuk had told him in confidence, but he painted a picture of someone who was hurt and alone and trying very hard to be strong enough to survive it.
Sun Wukong listened without interrupting, nodding occasionally but mostly just absorbing the information. When Kim Dokja finished, they walked in comfortable silence for several minutes.
"You know," Sun Wukong said finally, "this mountain is pretty big. Plenty of room for another lost kid who needs a place to heal."
Kim Dokja's step faltered. "You would... you'd let him stay?"
"Dokja." Sun Wukong stopped walking and turned to face him fully. "You're my maknae. That means your friends are my friends, and anyone you care enough to help is someone I care about too. Besides—" he grinned, and it was his usual warm expression, no longer terrible and divine "—I've always thought this place was too quiet."
Relief flooded through Kim Dokja so suddenly he felt dizzy with it. He'd been worrying about Yoo Joonghyuk's living situation, about the approaching winter and what would happen when the cave became uninhabitable, but he hadn't dared hope that Sun Wukong might be willing to extend the same kindness he'd shown Kim Dokja to someone else.
"Thank you," he said, and the words felt inadequate for the size of what he was feeling.
"Don't thank me yet. Your friend might not want help from a strange adult, especially one with a reputation like mine. These things take time and patience."
"But you'll try?"
"I'll try. But Dokja?" Sun Wukong's expression grew serious again. "Next time something like this happens—next time you find someone who needs help—you come to me immediately. No more trying to handle everything yourself. We're family now, which means we handle things together. Understood?"
Kim Dokja nodded, and meant it. The events of the morning had shown him just how dangerous his isolation could be, not just for himself but for the people he cared about. If he was going to be Sun Wukong's weakness, then he needed to be smart enough to let Sun Wukong be his strength in return.
"Good," Sun Wukong said. "Now let's get home. I want to clean those scratches properly, and then I think we both deserve some tea and a very long nap."
As they walked the rest of the way back to the hut, Kim Dokja found himself thinking about the word Sun Wukong had used. Maknae. Not son, not ward, not even friend. Maknae.
It meant they were equals, in a way. It meant Sun Wukong saw him as family by choice rather than responsibility. It meant that the bond between them wasn't based on debt or obligation but on mutual care and respect.
Kim Dokja had never had a hyung before. He thought he was going to like it.
Notes:
ps: a sweet thing is that i added was when swk told him to talk about yjh, he already knew all about what happened, he just thought that it would calm kdj down so he let him talk abut yjh
a shorter chapter today, but i think the fluff makes up for it :)
Chapter 9: It's everything I know and all I do
Summary:
Uriel & ABFD are back (by popular demand)!
Notes:
hey guys! just tuning in to check with you guys—ive seen a bookmark on saying that my fic could improve in plot a little (i check bookmarks a shit lot), so im really open to criticism, if anyone of you guys are holding back :3
feel free to comment any questions/ideas/criticism to my fic as well as for my other fics too! dont be shy i dont bite ><
anyways, enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Kim Dokja was sitting on the wooden steps outside the hut, watching the afternoon light filter through the leaves, when the sky suddenly darkened. Not with clouds, but with the shadow of something massive passing overhead.
He looked up to see wings that seemed to blot out half the mountain, scales that gleamed like polished obsidian, and eyes that burned with an inner fire. Abyssal Black Flame Dragon circled once before landing in the clearing with surprising grace for something so enormous, his claws barely disturbing the earth.
A moment later, a second figure descended—not flying, exactly, but moving through the air with the fluid certainty of someone to whom gravity was merely a suggestion. Uriel landed beside the dragon with barely a whisper of sound, her wings folding neatly behind her as she touched down.
Kim Dokja had met them both before, of course, he didn’t have any memory problems as far as he knew and he wouldn’t forget their first visit in a long time, but seeing them here again so soon was still startling.
Abyssal Black Flame Dragon shifted into a more compact form. Still clearly draconic, but small enough to fit through the hut's doorway without demolishing it.
"Dokja!" Uriel said, and her voice held the same warmth Kim Dokja remembered from their first meeting. "You look well!"
"Thank you," Kim Dokja said, standing and brushing dust from his clothes. "It's good to see you both again. Sun Wukong's inside—"
"We know," the 15-year old teenager said, smoke curling from his nostrils in what Kim Dokja had learned was his equivalent of amusement. "We could smell his cooking from three mountains away."
As if summoned by the mention of food, Sun Wukong appeared in the doorway, grinning widely. "Well, well. Look what the wind blew in. Perfect timing—I was just starting dinner."
"We weren't planning to impose, we just wanted to see you and Dokja again," Uriel began, but Sun Wukong waved her off.
"Nonsense. You flew all the way out here to see us, least I can do is feed you. Oi Dragon, think you can fit in the kitchen without setting anything on fire?"
"I make no promises," the Abyssal Black Flame Dragon replied, but he were already moving toward the hut. "Though I suppose I could help. Your knife skills have always been terrible."
"My knife skills are perfectly adequate, thank you very much."
"You once tried to julienne a carrot with your staff."
"That was one time, and it worked, didn't it?"
Kim Dokja found himself smiling as he listened to their familiar banter. There was something comforting about the way they fell back into old rhythms, like a family reuniting after too long apart.
"Come on," Uriel said, settling down on the wooden step beside him. "Let them handle dinner. I'd like to catch up with you."
Through the open door, Kim Dokja could hear Sun Wukong and Abyssal Black Flame Dragon beginning what sounded like a good-natured argument about seasoning techniques. Their voices created a warm backdrop of domestic noise that made the clearing feel even more peaceful than usual.
"How have you been, sweetheart?" Uriel asked, and something in her tone suggested she was asking more than just about his physical health.
"Good," Kim Dokja said, and realized he meant it completely. "Really good. Sun Wukong... he's been wonderful. I never expected..."
“For the mythical arrogant, overpowered and impatient monkey king everyone knows about is actually a monkey who likes to cook food and make jokes?” Uriel suggested.
Kim Dokja nodded, feeling that familiar warmth in his chest when he thought about how thoroughly his life had changed. "I never thought I'd have this. A home, I mean. People who care."
"And now you do. But something's troubling you."
It wasn't a question. Kim Dokja had forgotten how perceptive Uriel was, how she seemed to see straight through to the heart of things. He found himself fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, the same nervous habit he'd had since childhood.
"It's not troubling, exactly," he said carefully. "It's just... complicated."
Uriel waited patiently, her presence calm and accepting in a way that made it easy to talk.
"There's another boy," Kim Dokja said finally. "About my age. I found him living in a cave deeper in the forest. He's... he's alone, and he's hurt, and I've been bringing him food and trying to help, but I don't think it's enough."
"What's his name?"
"Yoo Joonghyuk." The name felt familiar on his tongue now, comfortable in a way that surprised him. "He doesn't talk much. I think whatever happened to him before he came here was pretty bad."
Uriel nodded thoughtfully. "And you want to help him, but you're not sure how."
"Sun Wukong said he could stay here, on the mountain. That there's room for another lost kid who needs a place to heal." Kim Dokja glanced toward the hut, where the sounds of cooking and friendly argument continued. "But I don't know how to convince Yoo Joonghyuk to accept help from adults. He barely trusts me, and I'm just another kid."
"Trust is earned slowly and lost quickly," Uriel said. "Especially for someone who has been hurt by the people who were supposed to protect them. The fact that he trusts you at all is significant."
"But what if it's not enough? What if winter comes and he's still living in that cave, and what if something happens to him because I couldn't figure out how to help properly?"
Kim Dokja's voice was getting tighter, anxiety creeping in as he voiced fears he'd been trying not to think about. The demon attack had shown him how dangerous the world could be, how quickly safety could turn to terror. The thought of Yoo Joonghyuk facing that kind of danger alone, without even the protection of Sun Wukong's mountain, was almost unbearable.
"Dokja," Uriel said gently, and there was something in her voice that reminded him of gentle flame, warm but not burning. "May I tell you something I've learned in my very long existence?"
He nodded.
"You cannot save everyone. You cannot fix every hurt or solve every problem, no matter how much you care or how hard you try. This is not a failing—it is simply the nature of existence. But that doesn't mean your efforts are worthless."
She paused, looking out over the clearing where late afternoon light painted everything golden.
"Sometimes the greatest gift you can give someone is simply seeing them. Acknowledging their existence, their worth, their right to be treated with kindness. You've already given your friend that gift."
"But he's still alone in that cave."
"Is he?" Uriel looked at Kim Dokja directly, and her eyes held depths that spoke of eons of experience. "He has you visiting him every day. He has food he didn't have to fight for, conversations that remind him he's human, the knowledge that someone in this world cares whether he lives or dies. That's not nothing, sweetheart. That's everything."
Kim Dokja felt something ease in his chest, a tension he hadn't realized he'd been carrying. "I just... I want him to be safe. I want him to have what I have."
"I know. And that desire to share your good fortune, to extend the kindness you've received to someone else—that's beautiful. But you can't force healing, any more than you can force trust. All you can do is continue to show up, continue to offer what you can, and let him decide when he's ready to take the next step."
From inside the hut came the sound of something sizzling and Abyssal Black Flame Dragon's satisfied rumble of approval. The smell of garlic and ginger drifted out through the open door, rich and comforting.
"What if he's never ready?" Kim Dokja asked quietly.
"Then you'll have spent however long loving someone who needed to be loved, and that will have mattered. But Dokja?" Uriel smiled, and it transformed her entire face. "I think you'll find that most people, given enough time and patience, are ready for kindness. It's just a matter of finding the right approach."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, for instance—has he ever been to your home? Seen where you live, met Wukong?"
Kim Dokja shook his head. "I promised I wouldn't tell anyone about him without his permission. And he's... he's not good with adults."
"Understandable. But perhaps there's a middle ground. Perhaps, instead of asking him to trust a strange adult sight unseen, you could simply... let him see that you're safe. Let him observe from a distance, form his own opinions."
Kim Dokja frowned, trying to follow her reasoning. "You mean bring him closer to the hut?"
"I mean," Uriel said with a slight smile, "that there are many beautiful places on this mountain where two boys could have a picnic. Places with excellent views of clearings and huts and the daily life of people who mean no harm."
Understanding dawned, and Kim Dokja felt a spark of excitement. "Let him see Wukong from a distance first. Let him watch and realize that I'm safe here, that this place really is what I've been telling him it is."
"Exactly. Trust is built in stages, not all at once. Right now, he trusts you. The next stage might be trusting your judgment about other people."
It was brilliant in its simplicity. Kim Dokja had been thinking about the problem in terms of a single large decision—stay in the cave or move to the mountain. But Uriel was right. There were smaller steps, gradual progressions that might feel less overwhelming.
"There's a ridge about halfway between the cave and here," he said slowly, working through the idea. "You can see the clearing from there, but you'd be hidden in the trees. If I suggested we eat there tomorrow..."
"He might be curious enough to observe," Uriel agreed. "And once he sees how you live, how Wukong treats you, he might begin to believe that safety is possible for him too."
The sound of footsteps on wooden floors announced Sun Wukong and Dragon emerging from the kitchen, both looking pleased with themselves and carrying dishes that smelled incredible.
"Dinner's ready," Sun Wukong announced. "Hope you're hungry."
As they all settled down to eat—Abyssal Black Flame Dragon having thoughtfully provided a small controlled flame to keep the food warm—Kim Dokja found himself watching the easy camaraderie between his three companions. The way Sun Wukong made sure everyone had enough, the way Abyssal Black Flame Dragon and Uriel shared their own stories, the way all of them included him naturally in the conversation as if he'd always belonged.
This was what he wanted for Yoo Joonghyuk. Not just food and shelter, but family. People who would see his worth and care about his wellbeing without expecting anything in return.
"You look thoughtful," Sun Wukong observed, passing Kim Dokja another helping of rice.
"Just... planning," Kim Dokja said. "Uriel gave me some good advice about Yoo Joonghyuk."
"Oh?" Sun Wukong's expression was carefully neutral, but Kim Dokja could see the interest in his eyes.
"She suggested letting him see this place from a distance first. Let him observe and decide for himself whether it's safe."
Sun Wukong nodded slowly. "Smart. Kid's got to feel like he has some control over the situation."
"That's what I thought. There's a good spot about halfway between here and the cave, up on the ridge. Perfect for a picnic with a view."
"Picnic, hm?" Abyssal Black Flame Dragon looked amused. "And if this picnic happened to be timed for when certain monkey kings were doing particularly domestic and non-threatening activities..."
"Pure coincidence," Kim Dokja said solemnly, though he couldn't quite hide his smile.
"Of course," Uriel agreed. "Though I do recall Sun Wukong being particularly skilled at appearing harmless when the situation calls for it."
"Are you suggesting I put on a performance?" Sun Wukong asked, looking mock-offended.
"I'm suggesting," Uriel said with dignity, "that you be yourself. Just... perhaps the version of yourself that tends the garden rather than the version that reduces demons to puddles."
Sun Wukong laughed. "I can manage that. Though I make no promises about staying dignified if Abyssal Black Flame Dragon starts critiquing my vegetable-growing techniques again."
"Your carrots are pitiful," the Abyssal Black Flame Dragon said without hesitation. "Scraggly and undersized."
"My carrots are perfect!"
"I've seen better root vegetables in human grocery stores."
As the familiar banter resumed, Kim Dokja felt a deep sense of contentment settle over him. Tomorrow, he would take Yoo Joonghyuk to the ridge and let him see this—the warmth, the safety, the gentle teasing that spoke of deep affection. He would let Yoo Joonghyuk see that there were adults in the world who could be trusted, places where healing was possible, families that formed through choice rather than blood.
And maybe, if he was very lucky, Yoo Joonghyuk would decide he wanted to be part of it.
After dinner, as Abyssal Black Flame Dragon and Uriel prepared to leave, Uriel pulled Kim Dokja aside one more time.
"Remember," she said quietly, "healing isn't linear. There may be setbacks, moments when he seems to retreat just when you think progress is being made. Don't take it personally, and don't give up. Some wounds take a very long time to close."
"I won't give up," Kim Dokja promised. "He's... he's important. I can't explain why, but he is."
Uriel smiled. "Some connections transcend explanation. Trust your instincts, Kim Dokja. They've served you well so far. Stay safe, okay? We’ll be back soon. Love you, Namdongsaeng (Korean for little brother, yeah its a mouthful.).”
As his unexpected guests departed—the Abyssal Black Flame Dragon launching into the air with powerful wingbeats, Uriel simply stepping into the sky as if it were solid ground—Kim Dokja waved until they disappeared from sight.
"Good visit?" Sun Wukong asked, joining him in the clearing.
"Very good. I think... I think I know what to do about Yoo Joonghyuk now."
"And what's that?"
Kim Dokja turned to look at his hyung—and the word felt natural now, comfortable in his mind—and smiled. "Let him see that love is possible."
Sun Wukong's answering smile was warm and proud, nothing like the monkey king from the legends. "Sounds like a good plan to me."
As they headed back to the hut, Kim Dokja was already planning tomorrow's picnic. He would pack extra food, choose the perfect spot on the ridge, and hope that Yoo Joonghyuk would be curious enough to look toward the clearing.
And maybe, just maybe, he would see something there that would make him believe in the possibility of home.
Notes:
i really do enjoy doing uriel & kdj interactions they make my heart boom
swk really has the habit of cooking is that what i would assume because on jttw tan sanzang couldn’t eat whatever swk ate so he used to cook vegetables for tan sanzang to eat as tan sanzang is a monk and cant eat meat so he cooked to spice up the food a little
i like to think uriel only uses korean titles for kim dokja specifically because he’s korean and it would mean more to him than if it was in english (to the readers of course, they are speaking korean canonically but translated into a book)
Chapter 10: Side by side (You keep me safe from their static getting through)
Summary:
Picnic! + SWK being a proud hyung and watching from a distance :) (in 72 transformations of course)
*And some hurt/comfort that we don’t get a lot in canon ORV
Notes:
for those who havent read Journey to the west (except for the orv arc of JTTW.), i found a easy to read graphic novel of JTTW, the link is below as originally, JTTW is 100 chapters long if i remember and 2300 pages long and slow readers will find it tedious to read, so here it is!
https://batcave.biz/28653-the-monkey-king-the-complete-odyssey-2023.html
may have snuck in a few of my headcanons of swk here 😓
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The morning sun painted the forest in shades of gold and green as Kim Dokja made his way toward Yoo Joonghyuk's cave, a wicker basket bouncing gently against his hip with each step. He'd packed extra today—rice balls filled with salmon, strips of dried meat that Sun Wukong had somehow made taste like the finest delicacy, some Dim Sum (点心), fresh fruit that practically glowed with health, and even a small jar of honey for sweetening and some extra foods like simple bread and milk.
More importantly, he'd chosen his route carefully. The ridge Uriel had suggested before she left was perfect: high enough to offer a clear view of the clearing around Sun Wukong's hut, but sheltered by a grove of ancient pines that would provide cover for anyone who preferred to remain unseen.
He found Yoo Joonghyuk sitting at the mouth of his cave as usual, dark eyes tracking Kim Dokja's approach with the wariness that never quite faded. But there was something different today—a subtle shift in his posture that suggested curiosity rather than mere tolerance.
"Good morning," Kim Dokja said, settling down beside him and beginning to unpack the food. "I brought extra again. I was thinking... there's a really beautiful spot I know, about halfway between here and my home. Perfect for eating outside, and the view is incredible."
Yoo Joonghyuk's eyes sharpened slightly. "View of what?"
"The whole mountain. You can see for miles from up there." Kim Dokja kept his voice casual, as if the suggestion was purely for aesthetic reasons. "It gets great morning light, and there's this old pine grove that makes everything smell like resin and sunshine."
For a long moment, Yoo Joonghyuk said nothing. Kim Dokja had learned to read the subtle signs of his internal debates—the way his jaw tightened when he was considering something, the slight tilt of his head that meant he was weighing risks and benefits with the careful precision of someone who'd learned that the wrong choice could be fatal.
"How far?" Yoo Joonghyuk asked finally.
"Maybe twenty minutes' walk. Not far from here, but... different scenery."
Another pause. Then, almost surprising himself, Yoo Joonghyuk stood. "Show me."
The hike to the ridge was quiet but comfortable. Kim Dokja pointed out interesting plants and rock formations along the way, filling the silence with gentle observations that required no response. He noticed Yoo Joonghyuk listening, though—the way his attention focused on Kim Dokja's voice, the quick glances he stole at the things Kim Dokja mentioned.
When they reached the grove, Kim Dokja felt a surge of satisfaction. It was perfect—exactly as beautiful as he'd remembered, with dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy and a carpet of soft grass that would make comfortable seating. And most importantly, through the trees, the clearing around Sun Wukong's hut was clearly visible.
"Here," Kim Dokja said, spreading out the blanket he'd brought. "What do you think?"
As he worked, Kim Dokja caught a flutter of movement in his peripheral vision—a small sparrow landing on a nearby branch. A furry tail could been seen replacing a normal sparrow’s tail. Something about the way it perched there, head tilted at a distinctly familiar angle, made Kim Dokja bite back a smile.
Sun Wukong's 72 transformations really were incredible.
Yoo Joonghyuk's gaze swept over the grove, taking in the strategic advantages almost automatically—good sight lines, multiple escape routes, elevated position. But when his eyes found the view through the trees, they lingered on the peaceful clearing below.
"It's..." he paused, as if searching for words. "Nice."
From Yoo Joonghyuk, that was practically poetry.
They settled on the blanket, and Kim Dokja began unpacking the food with practiced efficiency. The little sparrow hopped closer, apparently interested in the proceedings, and Kim Dokja had to resist the urge to offer it a crumb—Sun Wukong would never let him hear the end of it.
"The clearing down there," Kim Dokja said, gesturing toward the view, "that's where I live now. With my hyung, Sun Wukong."
Yoo Joonghyuk's entire body went still. “The... the Monkey King?"
"You know the stories?" Kim Dokja asked, though he wasn't surprised. Everyone knew the legends of Journey to the West.
"Everyone knows the stories." Yoo Joonghyuk's voice was carefully neutral, but Kim Dokja could hear the tension underneath. "The Great Sage, Equal to Heaven. The one who..." he paused, choosing his words carefully. "The one who killed without mercy. Who destroyed everything in his path."
A small notification flickered in the corner of Kim Dokja's vision, visible only to him:
[Prisoner of the Golden Headband is feeling very self-conscious about his reputation!]
Kim Dokja had to work to keep his expression serious. The sparrow on the branch had ruffled its feathers slightly, which he suspected was the avian equivalent of indignation.
"The stories aren't wrong, exactly," Kim Dokja said carefully. "But they're not complete either. They talk about the fighting and the rebellion, but they don't mention that he was protecting something. That he fought because the people he cared about were being hurt."
"Protecting?" Yoo Joonghyuk's voice held skepticism, but also a thread of curiosity.
"His family. The monkeys on Flower Fruit Mountain. When Heaven threatened them, when demons attacked them and used them as slaves..." Kim Dokja unwrapped a rice ball and offered it to Yoo Joonghyuk. "What would you do, if someone threatened the only family you'd ever known?"
Yoo Joonghyuk took the rice ball but didn't eat it immediately, clearly thinking. "The stories say he was arrogant. That he challenged Heaven because he thought himself above the gods."
"Maybe he was arrogant," Kim Dokja conceded. "But he was also desperate to get immortality and protect his tribe. And because he was supposed to protect them."
The sparrow had hopped even closer, now perched on the edge of their blanket. Its bright yellow eyes seemed to be following the conversation with unusual intelligence.
"When I first met him," Kim Dokja continued, "I was terrified. All I could think about were the stories—the violence, the destruction. But then he made me tea. And he was just... kind."
Another notification appeared:
[Prisoner of the Golden Headband thinks his Maknae is the sweetest kid in existence!]
"Kind?" Yoo Joonghyuk's tone suggested he found this difficult to believe.
"He cooks every day, even though he doesn't need to eat. Says food tastes better when you share it." Kim Dokja smiled at the memory, and swore he saw Joonghyuk’s eyes perk with interest at the mention of cooking. "He teaches me things—not fighting techniques or magical powers, just... life things. How to take care of yourself, how to fix things when they break. How to make a place feel like home."
"But the legends—"
"Are about someone who was pushed too far and fought back the only way he knew how." Kim Dokja's voice grew softer. "The stories don't talk much about what happened after. How he spent the Journey To the West learning that there were other ways to solve problems. That strength doesn't always have to mean violence."
Yoo Joonghyuk was quiet for a long time, absently tearing his rice ball into small pieces. The sparrow watched hopefully, though it maintained its distance.
"People can change?" Yoo Joonghyuk asked finally, and there was something vulnerable in the question.
"People can change," Kim Dokja confirmed. "Even when everyone expects them to stay the same. Even when the whole world thinks they know who you are based on the worst things you've ever done."
[Prisoner of the Golden Headband is getting emotional!]
The sparrow preened its wing, which Kim Dokja suspected was cover for wiping away tears. If sparrows could cry, anyway.
"He found you when you had nowhere to go," Yoo Joonghyuk said slowly, clearly trying to piece together Kim Dokja's story.
"He saved my life. Not in some dramatic, heroic way—just by seeing that I existed. That I mattered." Kim Dokja looked out over the peaceful clearing visible through the trees. "He gave me a room in his house and never once asked me to leave. Never made me feel like I was a burden or an inconvenience."
"And now you're his family."
"Now I'm his family," Kim Dokja agreed. "And he's mine. Not because we're related by blood, but because we chose each other."
The sparrow had moved even closer, now sitting directly beside Kim Dokja's knee. When a small ant wandered too close to their food, the bird's head snapped toward it with predatory focus—then seemed to remember its peaceful disguise and returned to casual preening.
"The stories make him sound like a monster," Yoo Joonghyuk said quietly.
"The stories were written by people who needed him to be a monster so they could justify what they did to his family." Kim Dokja offered Yoo Joonghyuk a piece of fruit. "But monsters don't spend their mornings cooking and talking to birds. Monsters don't take in lost kids and teach them that they're worth loving."
"He really talks to birds?"
Kim Dokja glanced at the sparrow beside his knee, which was doing an admirable job of looking like an ordinary bird despite its obviously enhanced intelligence. "All the time. He says they're better conversationalists than most people."
[Prisoner of the Golden Headband thinks birds are excellent company and very good listeners!]
"What if..." Yoo Joonghyuk's voice was barely above a whisper. "What if someone had done terrible things? Hurt people, even if they didn't mean to? Would he still...?"
"Everyone has done things they regret," Kim Dokja said gently. "The question isn't whether you're perfect—it's whether you want to be better. Whether you're willing to choose kindness, even when it's hard."
Yoo Joonghyuk was quiet for a long time, staring down at his hands. When he finally looked up, there were tears gathering at the corners of his eyes.
"I..." his voice caught.
The sparrow hopped closer, close enough that Yoo Joonghyuk could have reached out and touched it. It tilted its head and made a soft, questioning sound—almost like it was offering comfort.
"You're not alone now," Kim Dokja said softly. "Not if you don't want to be."
Yoo Joonghyuk turned to look at him, and for the first time since they'd met, he smiled. It was barely there—just the slightest upward curve of his lips—but it transformed his entire face. Suddenly he looked like what he was: a boy who had been carrying too much weight for far too long, finally allowing himself to believe that rest might be possible.
"Thank you," Yoo Joonghyuk whispered, and the words carried the weight of everything he couldn't say. Thank you for seeing me. Thank you for caring. Thank you for showing me that safety exists.
[Prisoner of the Golden Headband believes his maknae has the best heart in any world!]
The sparrow ruffled its feathers in what Kim Dokja recognized as Sun Wukong's signature pleased expression (which he used usually when he managed to cook something perfect or he managed to ragebait ABFD successfully), then hopped forward and gently chirped.
Yoo Joonghyuk startled slightly, then looked down at the small bird with wonder. "It's not afraid of me."
"Animals are good judges of character," Kim Dokja said, shooting the sparrow a meaningful look. "They can sense when someone has a good heart, even if that person has forgotten it themselves."
As they packed up their picnic, Yoo Joonghyuk lingered for a moment, looking down at the peaceful clearing visible through the trees.
"Tomorrow," he said quietly. "Would... would tomorrow be okay? To meet him properly?"
Kim Dokja had to swallow hard before he could speak. "Tomorrow would be perfect."
The sparrow gave a tiny chirp that sounded suspiciously like approval before taking flight, disappearing into the canopy above.
[Prisoner of the Golden Headband is proud of his maknae.]
As they made their way back down the mountain, Kim Dokja caught glimpses of the little sparrow following them through the trees, keeping watch until Yoo Joonghyuk was safely back to his cave.
Kim Dokja would have been lying if he wasn’t happy.
Notes:
i love thinking about the fact that they managed to convince yjh in original orv to be pigsy in the JTTW arc and i still giggle to it to this day. i truly love swk
not so fun fact i was in a bus to my tuition and my sworn little brother mentioned swk and i had a full on physical tweaking out that a lady thought i was on drugs
ive been a fan of swk since i was 6 and still am
i am on every single version of swk and i know more than 23 different versions of him and im going to TWEAK OUT MY HYPERFIXATION AHHHHH
also picked up on this webtoon called The Monkey King’s Journey to The Murim for JTTW fans it is soo good you guys need to read it
i have a lot of sun wukong themed shows/characters/books etc to recommend so im gonna give one more here because i have been yapping alot
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=yLSwW6PMgsU
THE ANIMATION IS SO GOOD AHHHH he is so brat coded i love him so so much
Pages Navigation
astarell on Chapter 1 Fri 08 Aug 2025 08:01AM UTC
Comment Actions
bristlefrostsbbg on Chapter 1 Fri 08 Aug 2025 08:26AM UTC
Comment Actions
Daemon_Kaedes on Chapter 1 Fri 08 Aug 2025 09:30AM UTC
Comment Actions
bristlefrostsbbg on Chapter 1 Fri 08 Aug 2025 10:05AM UTC
Comment Actions
Daemon_Kaedes on Chapter 1 Fri 08 Aug 2025 10:44AM UTC
Comment Actions
bristlefrostsbbg on Chapter 1 Fri 08 Aug 2025 10:58AM UTC
Comment Actions
Zombie_Wombie on Chapter 1 Sun 10 Aug 2025 10:38PM UTC
Comment Actions
bristlefrostsbbg on Chapter 1 Mon 11 Aug 2025 05:25AM UTC
Comment Actions
Suwashii on Chapter 1 Wed 13 Aug 2025 05:23PM UTC
Comment Actions
bristlefrostsbbg on Chapter 1 Thu 14 Aug 2025 12:50AM UTC
Comment Actions
Constellation_embodimentofchaos on Chapter 1 Sat 16 Aug 2025 12:43PM UTC
Comment Actions
bristlefrostsbbg on Chapter 1 Sun 17 Aug 2025 12:20AM UTC
Comment Actions
Shimmerunicorn on Chapter 1 Mon 18 Aug 2025 08:44AM UTC
Comment Actions
bristlefrostsbbg on Chapter 1 Mon 18 Aug 2025 08:51AM UTC
Comment Actions
无名 (Guest) on Chapter 1 Mon 18 Aug 2025 01:29PM UTC
Comment Actions
bristlefrostsbbg on Chapter 1 Mon 18 Aug 2025 02:53PM UTC
Comment Actions
cygneture on Chapter 1 Tue 19 Aug 2025 08:35PM UTC
Comment Actions
bristlefrostsbbg on Chapter 1 Tue 19 Aug 2025 10:48PM UTC
Comment Actions
lights_in_the_mist (Guest) on Chapter 2 Sun 10 Aug 2025 06:23AM UTC
Comment Actions
bristlefrostsbbg on Chapter 2 Mon 11 Aug 2025 05:22AM UTC
Comment Actions
Zombie_Wombie on Chapter 2 Sun 10 Aug 2025 11:33PM UTC
Comment Actions
bristlefrostsbbg on Chapter 2 Mon 11 Aug 2025 05:25AM UTC
Comment Actions
Constellation_embodimentofchaos on Chapter 2 Sat 16 Aug 2025 01:45PM UTC
Comment Actions
bristlefrostsbbg on Chapter 2 Sun 17 Aug 2025 12:17AM UTC
Comment Actions
Constellation_embodimentofchaos on Chapter 2 Tue 19 Aug 2025 01:49PM UTC
Comment Actions
Constellation_embodimentofchaos on Chapter 2 Tue 19 Aug 2025 01:50PM UTC
Comment Actions
bristlefrostsbbg on Chapter 2 Tue 19 Aug 2025 02:02PM UTC
Comment Actions
Constellation_embodimentofchaos on Chapter 2 Tue 19 Aug 2025 02:07PM UTC
Comment Actions
Daemon_Kaedes on Chapter 3 Fri 08 Aug 2025 06:17PM UTC
Comment Actions
bristlefrostsbbg on Chapter 3 Sat 09 Aug 2025 02:03AM UTC
Comment Actions
Daemon_Kaedes on Chapter 3 Sat 09 Aug 2025 02:14AM UTC
Comment Actions
Iloveducks&bread (Guest) on Chapter 3 Sat 09 Aug 2025 09:40AM UTC
Comment Actions
bristlefrostsbbg on Chapter 3 Sun 10 Aug 2025 12:23AM UTC
Comment Actions
melonana on Chapter 3 Fri 15 Aug 2025 03:54PM UTC
Comment Actions
bristlefrostsbbg on Chapter 3 Sat 16 Aug 2025 02:07AM UTC
Comment Actions
Constellation_embodimentofchaos on Chapter 3 Sat 16 Aug 2025 02:00PM UTC
Comment Actions
bristlefrostsbbg on Chapter 3 Sun 17 Aug 2025 12:17AM UTC
Comment Actions
Constellation_embodimentofchaos on Chapter 3 Tue 19 Aug 2025 01:51PM UTC
Comment Actions
Daemon_Kaedes on Chapter 4 Sun 10 Aug 2025 03:43AM UTC
Comment Actions
bristlefrostsbbg (Guest) on Chapter 4 Sun 10 Aug 2025 11:13AM UTC
Comment Actions
Daemon_Kaedes on Chapter 4 Sun 10 Aug 2025 06:36PM UTC
Comment Actions
bristlefrostsbbg on Chapter 4 Mon 11 Aug 2025 05:26AM UTC
Comment Actions
Zombie_Wombie on Chapter 4 Mon 11 Aug 2025 02:02AM UTC
Comment Actions
bristlefrostsbbg on Chapter 4 Mon 11 Aug 2025 05:24AM UTC
Comment Actions
Reikosama7716 on Chapter 4 Mon 11 Aug 2025 02:49AM UTC
Comment Actions
bristlefrostsbbg on Chapter 4 Mon 11 Aug 2025 05:24AM UTC
Comment Actions
orionic on Chapter 4 Mon 11 Aug 2025 09:35PM UTC
Comment Actions
bristlefrostsbbg on Chapter 4 Tue 12 Aug 2025 07:45AM UTC
Comment Actions
Constellation_embodimentofchaos on Chapter 4 Sat 16 Aug 2025 02:12PM UTC
Comment Actions
bristlefrostsbbg on Chapter 4 Sun 17 Aug 2025 12:16AM UTC
Comment Actions
Constellation_embodimentofchaos on Chapter 4 Tue 19 Aug 2025 01:52PM UTC
Comment Actions
Pages Navigation