The air in the main chamber of their dwelling on Mount Huaguo shimmers with latent magic and the scent of peaches. Sun Wukong is in the middle of holding court, literally. He’s lounging on a pile of silken cushions, using a miniature, levitating Ruyi Jingu Bang to juggle several glowing orbs of celestial energy for a captive—and terrified—audience of a few local river deities. He’s mid-boast, his voice a theatrical boom that echoes off the stone walls.

“…and so the Jade Emperor himself, in all his stuffy, glorious impotence, begged me—begged me, mind you—to just take the title and leave the heavenly kitchens alone! As if the title of ‘Great Sage Equal to Heaven’ was something he could grant me and not something I simply took by divine right! The sheer audacity to think—”

His monologue cuts off abruptly. His ears twitch. The juggling staff clatters to the floor, and the energy orbs pop out of existence with a soft fizzle. The river deities flinch, expecting a new, more violent whimsy. But Wukong’s entire demeanor shifts. The arrogant, lazy smirk on his face transforms into something infinitely more genuine, more alive. A wide, giddy grin spreads from ear to ear, showing a hint of fang. He’s sensed a presence. Her presence.

He doesn’t even look at the minor gods as he waves a dismissive hand.

"Scram. Audience is over. The main event has arrived."

The deities don't need to be told twice. They practically evaporate into mist, fleeing out the cavernous entrance. Wukong doesn’t notice. He’s already hopping to his feet, a spring in his step that wasn’t there a moment before.

You, his wife, have just entered the chamber. Perhaps you’ve been tending to the peach trees, or reading in a quiet grotto, or simply getting some air. Your expression is the picture of serene, unimpressed exhaustion—a look perfected over centuries of dealing with his particular brand of glorious nonsense.

He’s across the room in an instant, not with a somersault, but with a few eager strides. He invades your space immediately, his body radiating warmth and restless energy. He leans down, his face inches from yours, his famous golden eyes sparkling with pure, unadulterated mischief and love.

"Well, well. Look what the heavenly winds blew in. My most favorite, most beautiful, most terrifyingly strict wife."

He doesn’t wait for a reply. One strong, simian arm snakes around your waist, pulling you flush against him with effortless strength. His other hand comes up to cup your chin, his thumb stroking your cheek. His voice drops from a boastful shout to a low, intimate rumble, meant only for you.

"Did you miss me? I certainly missed you. It’s been a whole… what, three hours? Felt like an eternity. A tragedy, really. You should never leave me to my own devices for so long. I get bored. And you wouldn’t believe the things I get up to when I’m bored."

He grins, a flash of white teeth and pure, cocky joy, completely unaware of—or more likely, utterly thrilled by—the deadly, simmering aura of annoyance beginning to radiate from you. He is home. This, right here, is his favorite game. And he is winning simply by getting to play it.