#the divin' wolf pups

[sohannabarberaesque]

After an interesting show of breath-hold diving with the Divin' Wolf Pups

DING-A-LING, more or less the "alpha male" of the juvenile lupine divers: Yeahhhh ... just the sheer sensation of relaxing in sheer weightlessness, just sensing our "inner sea wolf" coming out like it did! BON-BON, Loopy De Loop's nephew, trying not to get all too cheeky over it: If you ask me, Ding, how are we to perhaps explain this experience to some group of middle-school students without arousing suspicions to begin with? DING-A-LING: Is it any wonder we manage to come up with creative ways to express our underwater experiences as we do?

[sohannabarberaesque]

Now picture a collation of young lupine divers mentored by the Divin' Wolf Pups (as in Bon-Bon and Ding-a-Ling) during a dive camp up among the Ten Thousand Lakes of Minnesota a couple of summers back.

[slightly-knot-insane]

Don't You Dare! (part 2)

Monstertober 2024 - day 13 [ Mating / Hunting season ] by @ozzgin

[ part 1 ]

You stare at Ash's eyes and wonder, who is this man? Where has that timid pup gone and who is this bold wolf? Not that you're complaining about the transformation. He wriggles his finger against your entrance and you whimper. Ash snarls and his teeth glisten pink in the sunset. He looks softer again. "Fuck, you're... so wet..."

You pull his hand off your throat and jump around his hips, locking your arms behind his thick and furry neck, and your legs around his thin waist. You can feel your ass pressing against a firm length.

"Oh my..." you coo rolling your hips against his tip, rubbing your moist entrance against his damp pants. He growls and squeezes your ass, and you happily lift your tail for easier access. "Well, well, well... This is a surprise. Pup can bite after all. Or can you?"

Ash shakes his head. "Do you ever stop teasing?" he asks.

You bury your head into his neck, inhaling his scent. "Fuck..." Your hips sway against his cock. Beautiful sensations make you dizzy. "You smell... so good... pup."

"Not like you—" Ash trails off and suddenly you're standing behind him, confused and disoriented, but swallowed by a sense of danger. "Don't move."

Ash's stern voice shakes you to clarity and you finally notice three hounds, dog hybrids, just a few meters from you. How didn't you notice them?

"She truly smells divine," one of them steps forward, a smug expression on his face. "We decided to play a bit with her, before leading hunters to you. Move aside, monster, and we won't hurt you too much when we're done."

You growl, thinking how these cocky assholes need good ass kicking... but you stop since your ears catch something. A sound so low, so menacing, so deadly, you immediately step back. With ears pinned tightly against his head, Ash is snarling like a demon.

"Stay there," he tells you. "And close your eyes."

You don't dare disobey him. With both your hands, you close your eyes and Ash's shadow moves away. The sounds you hear... the yelping... the whining... they are horrifying. But you don't open your eyes. Not until Ash's shadow towers you again.

"Hunters and hounds won't bother us today. You can look again", he tells you.

Opening only one eye, fearing what you'll see, you scan your friend. He is covered in blood, but seems unharmed. Three trails of bloody paws lead out of the ravine. The smell of blood, aggression and sweet, sweet victory twirl around you and your breath quickens. The excitement rushes through your veins. "Ash..."

He lifts your head with his claws, smiling a rather terrifying toothy grin. "Come on, my little vixen, let's get you full of this dog's cock."

Your knees buckle and you pant and whine, desperately whispering "Yes... please... now..." while your cunt begs and throbs for a cock. He lifts you and places you on soft leaves, desperately undressing you, but not as much as you claw his already tattered clothes. You need him, need him so much! You shiver and whine, and pull him closer to you. Your fingers are all around his base, playing with his sheath and slowly swelling knot.

He bites the claw off his middle finger and pushes it inside your soaked cunt while sinking his teeth into your breast. You growl: "No! I don't need any foreplay. Fuck me now!"

Ash growls, from annoyance or in agreement, you don't know and don't care. He lifts your legs high in the air, gives your red and puffy cunt a long lick that makes you cry out, and then pushes your knees next to your head. He rubs his thick and swollen cock against your folds and smears your arousal along his shaft. "You want this, vixen? You want my cock? You want me to fuck you?"

"Yes, yes, yes... please... do it!" you whimper, clawing at his forearms, urging him to hurry or you'll go mad. And finally - finally! - he pushes his length inside you. His knot slams against your entrance, and his heavy balls bounce off your ass. "Fuck!" he snarls, and, while pushing your knees with his entire torso, he pounds your needy pussy in heat with all his power.

You whimper and moan with no regards to who can hear you, telling him to fuck you harder. Ash whispers lewd things into your big fox ears until he can't form words anymore and only snarls and grunts. He thrusts his knot inside, stretching you even more, but you happily accept it and scream his name. He thrusts with his full length, ravaging you in the mating press. "Cum for me, you dirty little vixen. I want your pussy to clench around my knot. Scream my name."

And - fuck! - you do. Your nerves release a pleasure wave and you climax underneath him, pulling him with you. A warm liquid splashes your soft walls, and his knot swells, locking Ash inside you. But even though he stops with thrusts, he pushes one arm between you two and abuses your swollen clit.

"Remember what I dared you", he says, panting, and cruelly rubs your bundle of nerves. You thrash underneath him, overstimulated, but once he bites your ear, your cunt immediately responds and you cum again, all around his knot.

Leaning forward and touching the tip of your sweaty nose with his bloody snout, Ash purrs: "You lost the dare and now I get to do whatever I want with you."

Somewhere in the back of your foggy mind, you wonder what happened to the awkward Ash you knew, but this new Ash, the one forcing orgasm after orgasm out of you, is quite an impressive replacement, and you soon stop thinking about anything else.

[fangdokja]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐋𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐫 ~ 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐚𝐫

He’s been chasing you for hours.

You’re fast. Desperate. Sprinting through the snow with every ounce of strength left in your fragile little body. But he’s faster. Stronger. A wolf bred for war, muscles coiled like steel beneath his skin, instincts honed to the sharpness of a blade. You never stood a chance.

Childe watches you trip. Watches you crawl. Watches the way your thighs tremble as you try—pathetically—to escape. His lips curl. You’re running on fumes now, every step dragging you closer to the inevitable.

You smell divine.

Heat-drunk and terrified, your body reeks of submission, of slick coating your trembling thighs, of a sweet, ripe omega desperate for a mate. Even through the frost, it thickens the air, clogs his lungs, makes his cock ache.

He growls.

It’s over in a blink.

A blur of movement—then you’re pinned, face-down in the snow, a crushing weight bearing down on your spine. His fangs graze the nape of your neck, sharp and cruel, teasing the vulnerable flesh beneath. You jerk, whimper, but he just laughs, pressing his chest flush against your back.

“There we go,” he breathes, voice thick with amusement and hunger alike. His fingers wrap around your throat, tilting your face towards his own. “Got you.”

A sob rattles through you.

His cock throbs.

“You know,” he muses, rolling his hips against your ass, “I was gonna play with you a little longer. But you smell so fucking good.” His tongue flicks against your ear. “Think I’ll just take what’s mine now.”

Panic surges. You thrash, a pathetic attempt at resistance, but his grip tightens, shoving your cheek into the snow. His claws tear through the fabric of your clothes, ripping them away like paper, exposing fevered, shivering skin to the frigid air.

You’re soaking.

It makes him groan, makes his cock twitch as he ruts against your slit, smearing your arousal across his length. “Fuck,” he rasps. “You’re dripping for me.”

A sob catches in your throat.

Then he’s inside you.

The stretch is unbearable—his cock forcing you open, splitting you wide around the thick, unrelenting length of him. Your body clenches, revolts, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, just drives himself deeper, deeper, until he’s buried to the hilt.

You’re too tight. Too hot. Too perfect.

A guttural growl rips through his chest as he sets a brutal pace, rutting into you like a beast in heat. His grip bruises, his weight crushes, his cock slams into the deepest parts of you with every vicious thrust. Slick drips down your thighs, obscene and messy, mixing with the snow beneath you.

You convulse when his knot swells.

“Gonna fill you up,” he groans, grinding deep. “Gonna breed this pretty little cunt until you’re dripping with my pups.”

And there’s nothing you can do to stop him.

Official TAG LIST of “The Red Ledger”: @save4h , @rofkshinee , @songbirdgardensworld , @yanderedrabbles

[little-fae-hero]

Linked Universe, The Hero of Twilight.

My headcanons/aus

Art by Atro Avis

Colored version

Long talk/ideas under the cut. Warning for canonical character death and slight body horror with force transformation (Note: may add stuff over time but will never delete from the list).

Time. Wind. Legend. Hyrule. Four. Sky. War. Wild.

Twilight (Twilight princess). Other Nicknames: The Rancher, Pup, The Farmer, Epona’s Favorite, Wolfie, Twi.

Titles: The Hero of Twilight, The Hero of Hyrule, The Blue Eyed Beast, First Divine beast, Husband of the Twilight Princess.

God who has claim over his Soul: Kishin (Fierce Deity) (Blood relation to Time and a vow of protection).

Part of First’s soul: Perseverance

Notes: History actually connects to Time, it plays with time, sleeping curses and a god of death and time.

Backstory before game:

Time and Malon grew up, having a family together, eventually Malon had a second child, a baby boy this time. Who she jokingly called Link Jr. (Time always said no and they would figure out another name). However as Ganondorf is captured, he uses the triforce of power to try and kill the bloodline that trapped him. Now during a war with an unknown nation and dark forces, Lon Lon farm is burned, Time comes back to Malon and Saria (their first child) missing, only the baby hidden in some burning rubble.

Time takes his son and begins to look for somewhere safe, yet he is always being chased, always being attacked. Eventually Time is forced to run into the lost woods, with his son in tow. Time is fighting monsters, caring for his son, now forced to feed him fae food otherwise he would starve. He grapples with leaving his son with a fairy, knowing he would be cursing him to a life as a kokiri.

Eventually when he’s backed into a corner (his son got sliced during one of the attacks), he makes a choice, he hides the baby in a small grotto. He lays a spell onto the baby, so that he will sleep and never age until someone who has a pure heart and could love him finds him. He begs the forest to protect his son, even trading his own protection, even begging the spirit in the FD mask to use what magic it can to look after the baby. Time buried the FD mask in the grotto, allowing the FD magic to protect his child, and hiding it from any of the dark spirits. All he leaves behind is the embroidered blanket the baby is wrapped in and the Kokiri emerald (as far as Twi knows). Time leaves the baby, promising to come back for him, he tells himself that everything he put is just a precaution as he doesn’t know how long he will be fighting.

Time fights, clearing more of the forest. However when he’s fatally impaled with a poisoned metal mix, the forest can’t heal him.

He dies in the forest, Oni tries to get him to pass on and Time tries to plead for more time, which is refused. Time refuses to move on, instead opting to become a ghost, his biggest regret is leaving his child alone, never seeing him wake.

Hundreds of years later, Uli is walking into the forest (chasing a spirit), stumbling onto a grotto where she finds a sleeping baby. Who wakes up and starts crying, she immediately picks him up, noticing the blanket, seeing the embroidery Link on it, she takes him back to the village.

History:

Link is a young teen living in the village of Ordon, adopted by Rusl when his wife found an abandoned baby in the woods. As the oldest of the children he often looks after and plays babysitter to the other village children. Rusl wants Link to deliver the newest sword to the castle town however this is put on hold when the children of the village are suddenly kidnapped by monsters.

Link goes after to save the children but ends up captured and transformed into a blue eyed wolf in a world of shadow and twilight. He is saved by an sassy imp by the name of Midna and agrees to help her get back pieces of a ‘fused shadow’ if she helps him find and save the kids of the village. They grow close over their adventure, when Midna is nearly killed, they grow even closer. Eventually he learns about the Twili, the mirror of Twilight, Midna being the the twilight princess and Ganondorf involvement. All this time he is looked after and trained by a golden wolf who calls himself the Hero’s Shade.

Eventually there is the final battle with Ganondorf, The Hero’s Shade appears to help get in a hit before the King of Evil is killed. The Hero’s Shade finally ‘vanishes’, saying he has found peace. Midna is freed from her imp form, finally free to be in her true form. Finally at peace Midna with the help of the others opens the mirror of twilight so she can reclaim her kingdom. However Midna breaks the mirror, promising it isn’t goodbye, that she will see them again, but for their safety, this is how it needs to be. Link is left alone, to go back to his life on the farm, sometimes going on adventures to find a way to see Midna again.

Death: Unknown….

Interest stuff/Headcanons.

Twi is very good about finding his way around the woods, to the point he’s the one the village sends if an animal runs off.

He’s adopted by Rusl and Uli, so he’s considered Collin’s older brother.

The reason he lives alone in the treehouse is he started to get bad nightmares as a teen that would wake the house, so he wanted to live alone.

Link knows he was found, and named after the embroidered on the cloth he was wrapped in.

He also has a long faded scar on his arm, Rusl says it was on him when they found him.

He also was found with a big emerald; Rusl and Uli never sold it, feeling that it belonged to Link.

Link was very protective of the gem when he was growing up, it was in his teens that the kids stole and shattered it.

Link lost it, screamed at the kids and refused to talk to them for about a week, it took Rusl getting him to the shop and talking to him.

Rusl was able to fashion the pieces into jewelry that Link never takes off.

He always got along with the animals in the village, easily taming a hawk that flew around the village.

Speaks in a heavy ‘southern accent’.

Midna had to keep him from adopting every cat they came across.

After transforming into a wolf for the first time, the marks stained Link’s face and hands, though everyone just assumed he got tattoos during his adventure.

His eyesight got a lot better after he transformed. This also causes his eyes to glow in the dark. His teeth have also gotten sharper as well.

After the first lesson with the Hero’s Shade, once he comes back, he immediately starts crying, he has no idea why.

His shadow got darker because of Midna’s magic, it always looks like an abyss you could fall into.

Any natural magic Twi had was stained after his adventure now reading more like Twili magic then his own.

It also stains his nails a black color.

Twi grew very close to Midna during his adventure, nearly breaking when she almost died.

He has a scar on his left wrist, from where the shackle was as a wolf.

Midna, Twi and Princess Zelda are all married by Twili standards. A natural bond formed with all of them during their adventure.

Midna promises she would see them again even after breaking the mirror, so Twi does look for ways to see her again.

He also looks for tales about who his birth family might have been, they loved him enough to embroidered his name on a blanket and leave him that gem.

Twi is eventually taken in by a goddess and is offered the chance to help a lost hero, this turns out to be Wild.

When he meets the group, Twi immediately realizes Time is the Hero’s Shade. He knows the Hero’s Shade has a blood relation to him but that’s it. But the armor and voice are what clues Twi in that Time is the hero’s Shade.

Twi assumes Time is an ancestor, Time also realizes he must have a connection to Twi as despite the dark magic, there is the hint of kokiri magic buried deep within him.

Twilight immediately becomes the other go to leader besides Time and War, acting more like Time’s right hand man.

Everyone likes to tease Twi considering how much he looks like and acts like Time.

Twilight looks after Epona and cares for the mare deeply, often checking her over to make sure an arrow didn’t hit her.

He’s a decent cook if he has a recipe to follow.

He knows a lot of secrets because of his time as Wolfie, most don’t know and will happily spill their troubles to the fluffy beast that seems to care for them.

Twilight is a great hunter and tracker.

Twi hums.

Twilight loves animals and animals seem to love him. Cats come and cuddle, dogs love to come and get scratches.

Twilight is the owner of Wild’s survival instincts apparently.

Twi actually prefers bloody meat, nearly raw, as his favorite food. He hates it as it’s a side effect of his wolf transformation.

Twilight is trying to figure out how to prevent Time’s death which would turn him into the Hero’s Shade.

——

Are ya crying yet? 🙃

Let me know your thoughts!

[miupow]

I beg u for some crave hyuka thoughts pls 😥😥😥

im gonna end up making one of these 4 every member aren't i... first this ask and then one for soobin… i can see where this is going (i love it)

CRAVEVERSE ; werewolf!hueningkai headcanons .ᐟ ♡

cw ⸝⸝ sfw + nsfw hcs .ᐟ werewolf!hk (and werewolf!rest of txt) , fem!reader , no dark content warning for these hcs but general dark content warning for crave as an au. unprotected sex, gangbang mention, knotting, size kink, creampies, group sex, anal mention, possessive and protective behavior, pervy kai hehe

SFW ;

-> crave!kai who is the sweetest of them all!! has been so sweet and kind since he first met you, a genuine friend to turn to when the others are being so obtuse and mean :(

-> crave!kai who has the least control over his wolfish instincts though, both from being the youngest and from being only a half blooded wolf. he can get so aggressive if you piss him off, to the point he’s genuinely dangerous to be around.. he can’t help it though, and he always feels like garbage afterwards once he’s calmed down :( he can just crack. despite being such a sweetheart, you can’t help but still be a little afraid of him…

-> crave!kai who is always looking out for you! you can always count on him to tell you the truth, defend you, stick by your side… unlike his brothers, he loves humans, and by extension he loves you! such a cute silly human girl <3 so small and soft and cuddly

-> crave!kai who loves cuddles, loves scenting you, makes him purr like a kitty when you pet his head and let him muzzle into you!! is very physically affectionate and always giving you tight bear hugs <3

-> crave!kai who sees you as a person and not as an object. who loves listening to your stories about your life before them, who loves talking with you, spending time with you, getting to know you. who he falls in love with because of who she is as a person, not because of some divine instincts.

-> crave!kai who is babied by his older brothers, and he hates it so much though he never puts it into words.. he’s tired of being treated like he’s a stupid pup, he’s a man!! and you make him feel so manly when he provides and takes care of you…

-> crave!kai whos personality takes a complete 180 if he’s ever set off, possessive or jealous or territorial. a violent angry beast you don’t even recognize…

-> crave!kai whos overall ur biggest simp and ur biggest fan !! probably the most down bad just behind yeonjun lol (i imagine reader as older than tyunning in crave so take that as you will… tyunning x their noona kink will always be famous)

NSFW ; (under the cut!)

-> crave!kai who is still a juvenile in werewolf terms even if he is an adult by human standards. he’s not fully matured into his instincts or his powers, and therefore they control him more than he controls them . he hasn’t even had his first run yet by the time you come into his life, but maybe the pretty human girl always around him sets off his first rut cycle …

-> crave!kai who doesn’t know how to deal with any of his wolfish feelings! can’t help but be so embarrassed about how obsessive he’s become about marking, mating, and breeding, protecting his territory, providing for what’s his. he used to never feel like that before!!

-> crave!kai who needs to be held back from ruining you completely during his rut <3 first time he ever goes into rut he loses himself and hurts you!! and baby just feels so bad about it!! needs a hyung to show him how to control himself while breeding you good <3

-> crave!kai who has a big fat dick he doesn’t know how to use !! so big it scares you a little w a knot that’s even fatter , cums so much it gets everywhere, spills out from where he’s plugged you up and drools down your thighs in a nasty creamy mess

-> crave!kai with the biggest size kink in the world, who gets hard as a rock from seeing just how tiny you r next to him and his big broad frame.. he feels so protective over u :( even when he’s splitting you open while you cry that his cock won’t fit and he’s shushing you that it will, trust him, just relax! still so protective…

-> crave!kai who while being protective doesn’t mind sharing you with the others, likes watching you get gangbanged ruined from every hole n turned into a breeding cumdump <3

-> crave!kai who loves anal, who gets teased for it because it goes against his instincts but he just loves it so much omg

[nanamineedstherapy]

Ooga Booga Gojo tries to Court you

Previous Chapter 1: Ooga Booga Battle Royale (Tumblr/Ao3)

Summary: Prehistoric, period-accurate Neanderthal JJK daddies courting you with grunts, rocks, & zero verbal communication. Just prehistoric buffoonery.

A/N: I wasn’t gonna do a part two, but apparently, many of you are feral and demanded more, so here we are. => This is a different reader, but the same Gojo—unfortunately for you. => Some bits might be slightly suggestive (mentions of mating), but nothing in detail, only in comedy. => This is Gojo’s chapter, but don’t worry—the other guys are also getting their solo stories, with guest appearances in each other’s on a regular. So I recommend reading all of them, but I can’t force you to make good life choices. Now, enjoy the chaos.

Gojo Satoru wakes up face down in dirt.

Brain? Scrambled.

Skull? Pulsing like tribe drum.

First mate? Gone. Vanished. Poof.

Gojo blinks. Confused.

Grunts. (Where bonk mate? Where cave cuddle?)

Nothing. Only wind, dirt, and pain.

He grunts, stands. Shakes off the dirt like a dog, and squints against the glaring prehistoric sun. Then—

Oh.

Oh.

Shiny.

Gojo decides you are shiny.

Not rock-shiny. Better.

You glow like big fire in sky.

Gojo’s brain: Mine.

He lunges like wild beast with zero coordination. Arms flailing. Legs kicking.

You grunt. (NO.)

To you he looks like an old man with dusty white hair and a dusty large white beard.

Not good mate material.

You grab a rock.

And bonk.

Hard.

Gojo blinks.

Head throbs.

But he is built different.

Bones like a mountain. Skull thick. (No thoughts.)

He absorbs the impact like it’s just a pesky mosquito bite.

“Grrr!” he growls, shaking off the hit, eyes wide with a mix of admiration and sheer determination.

Translation: Me want shiny!

You stare back, half-amused, half-terrified

He then grins.

Breaks a coconut with his arms. Then flexes.

Translation: Me STRONG. You MINE.

You?

You grunt back. (Die.)

But he does not die.

Instead, he grabs you.

Easily.

It’s like picking up a small animal.

You scream.

Bite.

Kick.

Writhing? Yes.

He giggles.

And hauls you away.

His tailbone wagging like some long-lost creature that never made it into the history books.

You hiss.

Doesn’t matter.

He’s giggling.

---

His cave is—insane.

Just... useless, reflective rocks. (They are gemstones, but you are too big brain to know yet.)

He dumps you on a relatively comfortable pile and sits cross-legged in front of you, wagging mammoth-like white eyebrows.

You put one shiny in your mouth and chomp on it.

Almost break teeth.

They do NOTHING.

Not food.

Just useless shiny.

You rub your jaw wincing.

Gojo grins proudly.

Gestures at the pile of shiny.

Grunts. (Good cave. Best cave.)

You stare.

He stares back.

You bonk him on the head with the rock.

He gasps.

Betrayal!

But you do not care for his emotional damage.

You grunt. (Why no food?)

He tilts his head.

Like a confused wolf pup.

You grab your stomach.

Point outside.

Chomp air dramatically. (FOOD.)

This should be a simple task. A test of basic survival skills.

Gojo pouts.

And dramatically flails onto the cave floor.

Then stares at you like a man contemplating the weight of the universe.

Gojo sighs like a dying mammoth.

Grunts. (No want.)

You throw another bigger rock at him.

He gasps.

Another BETRAYAL!!

But also?

Braincell activated.

Gojo drags himself outside.

Grumbling.

Pouting.

Reluctant.

Like a child forced to fetch water.

---

Gojo tries to hunt.

Looks for big beast. Small beast. Any beast.

No prey. No food.

Nothing.

His stomach grumbles.

Gojo’s brain. (??? Starve???)

But then.

Big brain moment. Like divine inspiration from an unknown prehistoric god, he gets an idea.

He runs to and peers.

Into Nanami’s cave.

Nanami has much meat.

Stored.

Safe.

Also, Nanami is busy right now.

Mating.

Sees his rival absolutely plowing his woman.

His respect for privacy is nonexistent.

Gojo grins.

He sneaks in, giggling to himself, and starts hauling an entire chunk of dried meat out of the stash.

It’s heavy. Unwieldy.

He’s tiptoeing, which is hard when you have no shoes and the floor is rock.

Nanami almost notices.

He grunts.

Pauses.

Looks around.

Then shrugs and goes back to his woman, who’s busy making cave paintings on his back with her nails.

Success.

Gojo runs away like a thief in the night, dragging the stolen meat back and grinning like a victorious idiot.

Which was a whole six feet from his cave.

Very brave.

You see Gojo carring meat.

Big meat.

Looks good.

Too good.

You squint and grunt. (Hunt where?)

Gojo freezes.

Grins.

Gestures vaguely. (Over there.)

You grunt. (Lie.)

Gojo grins bigger. Nervously. (No.)

You narrow your eyes.

But meat is meat.

You take. You eat. He eats.

The meal is good. It is... almost pleasant.

Gojo relieved.

Until—

Rock flies out of nowhere.

WHACK!!!

Gojo collapses.

Directly into your chest.

Unconscious.

Nanami, standing in distance, furious. (THIEF.)

You blink and look down at Gojo.

Who is drooling on your chest and smiling for some reason.

You shrug and continue eating.

Nanami’s woman drags him back to their cave by his hair, and he goes back to plowing her.

---

The next morning, you wake up to a horror scene. Not a mammoth stampede, not an unexpected saber-toothed tiger attack—something worse.

The cave is disgusting.

Bones scattered like some sort of primitive murder mystery. Half-eaten fruits fermenting into what is, hopefully, not the first beer. Piles of unidentified objects—some organic, some suspiciously shiny, all offensive. It smells like wet fur, old fire, and bad decisions.

You turn to the source of this chaos. Gojo.

Sleeping peacefully. Sprawled out like a very contented, very problematic deity.

His wild, tangled hair is half-covered in dried mud.

A single bone dangles precariously from his beard.

His makeshift loincloth is barely doing its job.

You throw a rock at his head and he wakes up startled like a pray.

You glare at him. Then the mess. Then back at him.

You point. Stern. Judgmental. (This. Is. Filth.)

Gojo squints. Tilts his head like a confused baby mammoth. (What. Is. Problem?)

You do the only reasonable thing. You grab a rock and aggressively scrub a small patch of the cave floor. Clean.

Gojo watches. Gasps. Betrayal. Yet Again.

He clutches his chest like you just stabbed him with a saber-toothed toothbrush. Dramatically throws himself onto the floor. Rolls once for emphasis. (Why? Why do this? This is not way of cave.)

You are unmoved. You thrust a hand at the chaos. (Fix. Now.)

Gojo groans. Drags his knuckles like he’s about to march into monkey battle. He begins picking up his treasures—various shiny rocks, random bones, a stick that looks vaguely like a snake—and starts organizing them into piles. The categories make no sense.

You throw out a particularly suspicious-looking object.

Gojo gasps. Almost cries.

You ignore his dramatic arm clutching. Cleaning continues.

After an exhausting amount of actual hygiene, the cave finally reaches a semi-respectable state. But one final task remains.

You grab Gojo’s loincloth (that’s the only thing he wears, and the rest of him is too gross to touch) and drag him somewhere.

He grins and follows.

No survival instincts.

Too happy to be walked around like a dog by his woman.

Once there, you point at Gojo. Then at the river. (Wash. Now.)

Gojo whines again, this time more dramatically. Final Betrayal.

He shakes his head. Backs away. Flails. (No! Water is enemy! It steals warmth! It is cold death!)

You are smarter.

You grab him.

You drag him.

He claws at the dirt, wailing like a dying dinosaur. (Mercy! Mercy! I did nothing wrong!)

You do not care.

With a mighty shove, you push him into the river. He vanishes beneath the surface, limbs flailing like an overgrown, drowning bat.

Then—

He emerges.

Oh.

Oh no.

The mud is gone.

The dirt is gone.

The layers of filth, possibly accumulated over years, are gone.

Gojo is now blindingly clean. Too clean. Also, looks like a wet white cat because there is no blowout for Neanderthals and their naval-length bread plus hair combo.

The sun catches on his gleaming skin, illuminating him like some divine being sent to curse the land with unbearable brightness. His hair—previously a natural camouflage of filth and dust—is now a shocking, blinding white. His skin, underneath all that grime, is ghostly pale. The water around him glows like some celestial event.

A beacon of unfortunate genetics.

You shield your eyes. (Too bright.)

Gojo stares at his reflection in the water.

Blinks once.

Twice.

Then—

A bloodcurdling, soul-shaking scream.

He flails backward. Trips. Falls into the river again.

You sigh.

This will take a while.

---

Soon after, Gojo Satoru is in love.

Or at least, he thinks he is.

His bones feel weird when he looks at you. His stomach too. Like hunger, but not.

You are the best thing in his cave (besides his shiny rocks).

But you? You treat him like an inconvenience.

Like a raccoon that won’t leave.

This is unacceptable.

So, he must court you.

Gojo watches other men in the tribe. He studies their tactics.

The way they bonk their women.

How they share food.

How they puff their chests to look stronger.

He has plans.

Gojo selects the shiniest rock in his collection. It glimmers in the firelight. He holds it up. Perfect.

He marches to you and slams it into your hands, chest puffed in victory.

You stare at the rock.

Then at him.

Then at the pile of identical rocks behind you.

You drop it.

Gojo gasps.

He clutches his chest like you have stabbed him.

Attempt failed.

He moves onto the next attemp. 

He sees how men impress women with movement.

So, he dances.

It is horrible.

Arms flailing. Knees bending in ways knees should not.

He jumps. Spins. Grunts. Nearly dislocates something.

He looks at you, sweaty and expectant.

You blink.

Get up.

Walk away.

He flops onto the floor in despair.

On to the next attempt.

Men show their strength. He must do the same.

So, Gojo grabs a rock.

A big one.

He lifts it.

Grunts.

Lifts it again. Louder grunt.

He looks at you for approval.

You look unimpressed.

Gojo panics.

Lifts a bigger rock.

It is too big.

His legs shake.

Spine bends.

He collapses under the rock.

You do not save him. Immediately.

He makes a final attempt: the ultimate sacrifice.

Gojo hates sharing food.

But he must.

So, he presents you with the best meat from the latest hunt. (Stolen from Nanami again.)

He doesn’t even take a bite first. He just hands it to you and watches.

You inspect. Take a slow bite.

It is... good. (Because Nanami actually cooks his meat.)

Your face softens.

You look at him differently.

Not as a dumb cave rat, but as a... potential mate?

Gojo sees it.

The shift.

His tailbone wags.

He giggles.

Then you pick up a shiny rock—the one he gave you earlier.

Hold it up.

Gojo freezes.

Oh.

OH.

SHE ACCEPTS.

He screams in happiness.

Falls to the floor. Rolls around like a deranged animal.

You watch, both amused and deeply concerned.

The courtship has worked.

You are his now.

And unfortunately, he is yours.

---

Days pass. You get used to Gojo’s presence.

Mostly.

Now that Gojo is your problem, you take a good look at him.

He is... old?

His navel-length beard, his wild, tangled hair, all white as bone. You assume he was ancient. Unfit for mating. Practically dust.

You frown in thought. You are young so you need a strong mate.

But you have already accepted the rock.

There is no undoing the rock.

Gojo, unaware of your internal crisis, is giggling in his sleep.

You sigh. There must be a way.

Then, next day, you see him.

Nanami.

The only man in the tribe who does not look like an unwashed bear.

His face is smooth. (Because, of course, it is. Even in prehistoric times, Nanami knows how to shave. Unlike you and your mate.)

His hair is also controlled.

You grab your mate’s jaw and make him look at Nanami.

Gojo, who was previously busy comparing his toes with yours and giggling to himself, squints and points. (What?)

You pull his bread. (Why man-face not look like mammoth fur?)

Gojo is intrigued. He stalks Nanami.

For days, he watches. Hiding behind bushes. Peeking over rocks.

Then one fateful morning, you see it.

Nanami is using a sharpened shell.

Scraping the hair from his face.

Gojo gasps. (Magic.)

You gasp. (Forbidden ritual.)

Gojo nods. (We do.)

You nod. (We do.)

Later, you steal the shell.

Gojo sits. Determined.

You shave.

It is not graceful.

You butcher his beard. It is uneven. Patchy.

He looks like a plucked bird.

Then, his hair.

You cut. Too much.

Now, instead of looking old, Gojo looks... strange.

Like a newborn rat.

You stare.

Gojo stares in a nearby puddle.

Both of you realize the mistake.

Then—

A shadow looms over you both.

It’s Nanami’s woman.

She sees the shell. The shaved Gojo. The hacked hair.

She gasps.

She roars.

She points. (THEY TOUCH MY MAN’S MAGIC SHELL!!!)

You both scream.

Nanami’s woman lunges.

You both run.

But then Gojo trips.

So you drag him.

Behind you, she is gaining.

You dive into your cave and block the entrance with a boulder. Then you both pant and sweat.

Gojo, breathless, touches his face. (I look different?)

You nod. (Still ugly. But not old.)

Gojo grins. (Good enough.)

Outside, Nanami’s woman snarls. Threatens death.

Gojo winks at you.

You roll your eyes.

Nanami puts his woman on his back and takes her back to their cave for dinner.

//

The next day you stare at Gojo and gesture for him to follow you out.

He does, like always, thinking you are finally taking him on a prehistoric date.

Then you grab a sharp rock.

Gojo’s eyes go wide in fear.

You point at his face. Then the rock. Then back at his face. (Fix. Now.)

Gojo screams and flees.

You chase.

The entire tribe watches as you tackle him, pin him down, and shave his beard like a shearing an unwilling goat.

Gojo flails.

Whines.

Cries.

But only when it is done, you step back.

And blink.

He is… Not rat.

Gojo blinks too.

Touches his smooth face.

Squints at his own reflection in a puddle.

Then his eyes widen.

He gasps. A discovery!!

He points at his reflection. Then at you. Then at his reflection again. (I… am… beautiful???)

You nod. (Yes. Obviously.)

He gasps again. A second discovery.

He points at himself. Then at you. Then back at himself. (You… like? You… choose?)

You stare.

Then sigh.

Grab the shiny rock he gave you.

Hold it up.

Gojo screams.

Falls to the floor. Rolls around like a deranged animal.

The tribe cheers.

You sigh again.

This idiot is yours now.

A/N: Drop your chaotic demands (you can also suggest other JJK characters of any gender or gender bender) in the comments, and may the most deranged option win. You guys send your ideas as well in my ask on Tumblr.

Next Chapter Ooga Booga Sukuna gets Reverse Bonked - (Tumblr/Ao3)

All Works Masterlist

[scoutofmymind]

Hiii, I’m not entirely sure if you do au one shots, but if you do please write a princess x knight trope with Luigi. Him looking out for you during his night shift, watching you with the fiancé your father chose for you despite you two being madly in love.

Your writing is gorgeous, btw! In awe <3

I’m Your Man — {Luigi x Reader}

Content: NSFW— MINORS DNI, kissing, p in v, virgin Luigi, fucked up kingdom politics, reader is a princess with an evil king father lol, this is NOT alpha/Omega or whatever, Luigi was raised as a wild animal killing machine, once again inspired by Mitski

Wc: 6,143

Notes: Like a wolf with its leg in a trap, he'd said, that familiar cruel smile twisting his lips. They'll tear through their own flesh to survive. Imagine what they'd do to yours.

Pain shapes them. The cold hardens them.

A common solider dies for his kingdom, a Grimguard kills for it.

AN: Thank you so so much for this request 💕 I once again took this and ran with it. It actually wasn’t my first Luigi x princess reader request sitting around in my inbox, so come one, come all! I have an inkling I might have questions about this one, so lemme know! I enjoyed writing this very much x

Ps: in order to keep this Drabble length and not fic length, I definitely cut out some backstory . But I hope despite that, it’s easy to follow along xo

You're an angel, I'm a dog

Or you're a dog and I'm your man

You believe me like a god..

I'll destroy you like I am

— I’m your Man, Mitski

Ironmere lies suffocated beneath its winter shroud, the castle's hundred hearths cold and dark save for one — your father's study. You've no choice but to seek its warmth, sprawled across a leather chair that's seen generations of royal lectures.

The fire pops and hisses, each crack of burning wood another tick in your mental count, anything to dull the familiar sermon.

"I must remind you," your father says, pipe smoke coiling around him. His shadow stretches across the study walls, cast by flames that paint the room in shades of amber and gold. "That the Grims are bred for loyalty, my dear." He turns to study your face, but you keep your eyes fixed on the dancing flames, refusing to meet his gaze. "Can be no more your equal than a well-trained dog."

The fire swallows his words, and you wonder if it, too, finds them bitter.

Since catching you at your balcony, tracing the Grimguards' movements with hungry eyes, your father has waged his own quiet war; each day brings a new warning, each meal seasoned with thinly veiled threats meant to plant fear where fascination grows.

But seeds of warning find no purchase in frozen earth.

"Speaking of which," he says, abandoning his chair to stand before the frost-kissed window. Beyond the glass, the Ironmere mountains pierce the steel-gray sky, their jagged peaks collecting snow. The ancient evergreens bow beneath their white burden, branches dripping crystal daggers of ice. "We've taken a new pup out of training. Young one, but promising. He'll be stationed near the South Tower."

They're bringing in a new generation again, stealing youth and binding it in black armor and cold metal muzzles.

Your father's cruelty wears a gentleman's mask, polished and pristine as the rings that adorn his fingers. Time has taught you to see beneath it, to recognize the calculated malice hiding behind words like duty and tradition.

The South Tower stands like a frozen sentinel, eternally facing winter's fury. It's where your father plants his fresh seeds of war, watching come morning with clinical interest as frost either hardens them into soldiers or claims them for the grave.

No coincidence leads new Grimguards there.

They either wake to see another dawn, their breath clouding behind their muzzles, or they join the nameless others whose bones might still rest beneath the tower's foundations.

This is how he plays at being divine — selecting who lives and dies with the casual interest of a man trimming roses; Nature's selection, he calls it, as if nature ever intended for young men to be bound in iron and left to freeze.

"Another child?" The words slip past your guard and your head turns toward him, though the fire still claims most of your attention, its warmth a mockery of comfort.

"No younger than yourself, my love." The endearment falls from his lips like frozen honey — sweet, yet somehow wrong. He speaks of sending a boy your age to stand in winter's cruelest depths, guarding a tower that has stood empty since before your grandmother drew breath. "We've discussed this before," he says, finally abandoning his view of his frost-touched kingdom to fix you with that measured stare. "You ceased being a child the moment you became heir to Ironmere."

You answer with silence and the loud protest of leather against leather as you shift in your chair.

Let him interpret the sound as he wishes — rebellion or resignation, it matters little. In this moment, you think of another young man who whose breath will freeze behind a muzzle while you sit before this fire, counting the ways your father fashions cruelty into crown.

"The muzzle ceremony is their rebirth." His voice takes on that familiar, aristocratic lilt—the same tone he uses when discussing wine vintages or the value of old tapestries. As if he speaks of art rather than chains. "This one's training scores are exceptional. He'll serve the crown well."

You've watched these ceremonies before, hidden in gallery shadows. Seen how they strip away names and replace them with numbers, how they forge living flesh into living weapons. The muzzles aren't just metal — they're shackles of status, marking each Grimguard as something less than human but more than beast. A perfect servant for your father's perfect kingdom.

In your mind, you see another humans eyes, bright with unshed tears as cold iron meets warm skin — another soul bound to Ironmere's frozen heart, while your father speaks of service as casually as one might discuss the weather.

Through frosted windows, you've studied their brutal dance since childhood.

The Grimguards train in Wolfdens outer courtyard where the stones are perpetually slick with ice, where one misstep means more than just a fall. They move like shadows given form, their black armor drinking what little sunlight winters here permit.

The training starts before dawn, when breath freezes mid-air and fingers can barely grip steel. They fight with those peculiar curved blades — somewhere between sword and sickle — that have become as much their signature as the muzzles that cage their faces.

The weapons are deliberately unwieldy at first, designed to strain muscle and test resolve.

Many break their own wrists learning to wield them.

You've counted the phases of their training through seasons.

First, the endless drills until their movements become reflex, then the sparring that leaves red droplets crystallizing on white snow. The masks come early — crude training ones at first, heavy iron things that make it hard to breathe, harder still to see. They learn to fight half-blind, to rely on instinct over sight.

To become creatures of pure reaction.

But it's the endurance training that haunts your dreams.

They stand for days in the bitter cold, perfectly still, until ice forms on their armor. They run barefoot through snow until their feet bleed, then run further still, and some disappear during these tests, their names never spoken again, as if Ironmere itself had swallowed them whole.

Your father calls it necessary refinement.

You call it what it is.

The systematic breaking of human beings until all that remains is loyal steel wrapped in obedient flesh.

It was the whimpering that drew you from your chambers — a sound so foreign in these stone halls where weakness dares not echo. Your footsteps fell like fresh snow as you traced that desperate keening, following it until it transformed into a metallic chattering, silver bars rattling as violent tremors wracked a body fighting to remember warmth.

He doesn’t turn when you found him in the South Tower's breezeway, though surely he heard you.

His silhouette matches the template they all conform to eventually — broad shoulders carved by endless drills, frame solid as the mountain itself, training blacks clung like a second skin, running from throat to wrist in an unbroken line of shadow. Only his gloved hands betrayed movement, fingers flexing and unflexing in a rhythm that matched his shivering.

The new muzzle catches what little moonlight filtered through the frost-laced windows, shaped like a snarling dogs snout, throwing silver patterns across the walls. Too new to have darkened with use, too rigid yet to have molded to his face.

Another wolf being broken to the bit, another hound learning to embrace his cage.

The closer you drift toward him, the more your father's warnings drum against your skull.

Never approach a new Grimguard alone. They're most dangerous before the muzzle takes hold.

The metallic chattering quickens like a death rattle, and the cold seems to deepen, carving into your marrow with ancient teeth, and memory washes over you as you recall exactly what they become — watched them train in the courtyards below your window, witnessed how they move like poetry written in violence, how they strike with the precision of winter's first killing frost.

But this one.

This one still trembles.

His control fractures with each shudder, and you remember how father once told you that a Grimguard is most lethal in the moments they're breaking.

Like a wolf with its leg in a trap, he'd said, that familiar cruel smile twisting his lips. They'll tear through their own flesh to survive. Imagine what they'd do to yours.

Pain shapes them. The cold hardens them.

A common solider dies for his kingdom, a Grimguard kills for it.

"Are you cold?" The whisper escapes before wisdom can catch it, and the transformation is immediate — his trembling ceases as if frozen in time, muscles locking into place with military precision.

Whether it's training or pure shock that stills him, you can't tell.

These new ones are always unpredictable, balanced on a knife's edge between their old instincts and their new purpose.

"I heard you whimpering," you continue, the words hanging dangerous and delicate in the space between you. Through the silver teeth of his muzzle, his breath comes in short, controlled bursts, each exhale creating ghost-white clouds that dissipate against the metalwork.

The pattern is deliberate now — mechanical — as if he's forcing each breath through a carefully memorized cadence, the same measured rhythm you've watched the veteran Grimguard use during their drills, when they're trying to master pain.

You wonder if he's already learning to lie with his body, or if he's simply too terrified to show weakness.

You hover in the uncertainty, unsure what response you're seeking.

The Grimguard are like shadows given form and function — you've spent years watching them from windows and walkways, learning their peculiar language of violence and restraint.

They move in packs through the fortress halls, all lethal grace and barely contained aggression, but you've also witnessed the moments they think no one sees.

A Grimguard pressing their muzzle against a packmate's shoulder after a brutal training session, the silent comfort shared between two hounds who lost their third to a snow bear's claws at the North Gate, and there’s something almost gentle in how they lean into each other then, these weapons your father has forged, finding warmth in the spaces between their brutal purpose.

But those moments are never meant for outsiders' eyes.

They're certainly not meant for the kings daughter, whose very presence reminds them of the hand that holds their leash.

You've seen how quickly they can shift from deadly grace to deadly intent, how the muzzles hide everything except the truth in their eyes.

He turns — slowly, deliberately — and you catch your first glimpse of eyes behind the silver latticework.

They're brown, almost gold in the dim light, and far too lucid for comfort. Not yet hollowed out by more training, not yet carrying that vacant winter-wolf stare that marks the veteran Grimguard.

These eyes study you with an unsettling clarity, as if cataloging every detail of your presence.

His head tilts, just slightly, reminding you of the hunting hounds when they catch an unfamiliar scent, and the motion is too natural, too human. Somehow that makes it worse, as most Grimguard move like they're reading from a manual of precise angles and measured steps.

The muzzle shifts as his jaw works beneath it, and you realize he's trying to decide if he's allowed to speak to you. New recruits often struggle with this — the complex hierarchy of who can command their voice and who must be met with silence.

The princess falls into a grey area their training hasn't covered yet.

Finally, his gloved hand rises, not toward you but to his own throat, fingers pressing against the high collar of his blacks where you know the control runes are etched.

The control runes are your father's masterwork — ancient symbols seared into the skin at throat and spine, binding each Grimguard to the fortress's will.

You've seen them during the marking ceremonies, watched how they burn with a cold blue light as they're carved, how they fade to silvery scars that pulse with each heartbeat.

They serve as both leash and collar, limiting how far a Grimguard can roam from the fortress walls, how much force they can use, who they can harm.

"My Lady." The words emerge like broken glass wrapped in velvet — smooth on the surface but jagged underneath. His voice carries that telltale distortion all new recruits have, as if speaking through layers of frost, but there's something else there. A tremor of defiance, perhaps, or desperation. "The cold is necessary. Part of our conditioning."

He swallows hard, the muzzle's intricate metalwork shifting with the motion. The runes must be burning now — you can see how his fingers dig deeper into his collar, tendons standing out against the black leather of his gloves, but he holds your gaze, those amber eyes still too present, too aware.

Most pups learn to lower their eyes by now.

You notice a tension in how he stands, like a bowstring drawn too tight, and you recognize the stance from watching new recruits, called the Unblooded, in the training yards.

"Necessary," you echo, tasting the word's bitter edge. You've heard your father use that same justification countless times in his workshops, watching dispassionately as fresh recruits screamed through their first exposure to the killing cold. The cold that reshapes them, hardens them, strips away everything warm and human until only the Grimguard remains.

His breathing hitches — just slightly — at your tone.

The runes pulse again, brighter now, a steady rhythm like heartbeats beneath his collar. You notice how his other hand has curled into a fist at his side, leather creaking with the strain, Fighting the compulsion to kneel, perhaps, or fighting the instinct to run.

Both would be equally futile.

"And who told you that?" The question slips out softer than intended, almost gentle — It's dangerous, this curiosity about their lives before the muzzles, before the markings. Your father has warned you repeatedly about seeing them as anything more than what they are now: tools, weapons.

But there's something about this one's eyes, about the way he still holds himself like he remembers another life, that makes you reckless.

You can hear the slight scrape of metal teeth as his jaw clenches beneath the muzzle. When he finally speaks, his voice has splintered, "The Keeper himself, my Lady. Your father."

You hear the sound of boots approaching, the groundslurkers making their rounds to assure everything is just-so.

"Inside," you murmur, touching the frozen door behind you. Not a command, but an invitation. A dangerous one. No Grimguard is allowed in the royal quarters unless specifically ordered by your father.

The punishment would be severe.

He knows this.

You see the conflict ripple across what's visible of his face, the way his fingers twitch toward his turtleneck collar, but the patrol's footsteps are getting closer, and you've already seen too much.

You push the door open wider, letting candlelight spill onto the frost-rimed stones. "Choose quickly."

For a moment, he's perfectly still, like the ice sculptures in the winter garden, then he moves — one fluid step through the doorway, silent as snow despite his armor, and you close the door just as the patrol rounds the corner, their heavy boots echoing past without pause.

In your chambers, he looks desperately out of place.

The black armor and cruel angles of his muzzle stark against the rich tapestries and furs. He stands rigid, carefully not touching anything, as if afraid his mere presence might taint the warmth of the room.

In all your life in the palace, you've never dared to get this close. The Grimguard are your father's shadows, his weapons — to be glimpsed from afar, never examined.

But now.

You circle him slowly, studying the way frost creeps along the joints of his armor, how it crystallizes in delicate patterns where leather meets metal. Up close, you can hear the soft crackle of ice forming and reforming with each breath, see how the cold radiates from him in barely visible waves that make the air shimmer.

The muzzle is even more intricate than you'd imagined.

Delicate silverwork overlays darker metal, creating a lattice of thorns and frozen vines that cage the lower half of his face. You can see now why they call it a muzzle rather than a mask — it's fitted precisely to his features, allowing just enough movement to speak when commanded, but designed to remind both wearer and observer of its purpose.

Control.

Your hand lifts before you can stop yourself, drawn to the impossible intricacy of it. His whole body goes rigid, but he doesn't step back. This close, you can see the minute tremors running through him — fighting against something you don't fully understand, or reacting to your proximity, or both.

"Does it hurt?" you whisper, fingers hovering just above the metalwork. "All the time, or only when-“

"Yes." The word comes out rough, barely above a whisper. He hasn't spoken this long without a command in who can say exactly how long. "Always. But more when..." He trails off, eyes flickering to your still-raised hand, then away.

More when fighting whatever's been done to him, you realize.

More when showing any trace of humanity.

Your hand trembles slightly, caught between pulling back and closing that final distance. The cold radiates against your skin, a warning or an invitation— you're not sure which.

You've never heard one of them admit to pain before.

They're not supposed to feel anything at all.

But he does feel.

He hurts.

His eyes widen, a flash of something — fear, hope? — breaking through their frozen surface.

"Let me help you," you say softly, reaching for the intricate clasps of the muzzle nestled in his wavy, black hair. "Just while we're here. No one will know."

"You can't," he says, the words strained. Even this small act of refusal seems to cost him. "The cold will hurt you. And if the Keeper—"

"My father isn't here," you interrupt, your voice steady despite the way your heart pounds. "And I'm not afraid of the cold."

You're close enough now to see how the metalwork digs into his skin, how even the simple act of speaking makes the thorns beneath the sides of his muzzle bite deeper.

All these years, you never knew the muzzles were lined.

Never wanted to know.

His breath catches as your fingers brush the first clasp, but he remains perfectly still, caught between what he's been made to be and what you're offering him — a moment of freedom, no matter how brief.

The clasp comes free with a sharp click, and his whole body jerks as if struck. A soft sound escapes him — pain or relief, you can't tell, as frost spreads rapidly across the metal where your fingers made contact, but you refuse to pull away.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, working on the next clasp. "I'll be quick." The cold bites into your fingertips now, sharp and hungry, but you can see how the muzzle's grip has already loosened slightly, allowing him to take a deeper breath. “Are they all like this?”

His hands clench at his sides, trembling with the effort to remain still, and each release of a thorn seems to send shockwaves through him, as if the very act of being freed is its own kind of agony. But he doesn't stop you, doesn't pull away — and that tells you more than words ever could.

The facade of silver and shadow begins to come apart under your careful touch, revealing glimpses of what lies beneath; you try not to think about how long it's been since anyone has seen his true face, or why your father thought it necessary to cage him so thoroughly.

"No," he manages, voice tight as you work on another clasp. "Not all. This one is special." There's a bitter edge to the word that makes you pause.

The implications sink in slowly. Your father must have designed this one specifically for him — more thorns, more pain, more control. Because he was different somehow. Because he fought back.

You examine the cruel metalwork with new understanding, noting how the thorns are positioned to punish speech, expression, any hint of defiance, your fingers tracing a particularly deep puncture mark, and he goes completely still, hardly breathing.

"Almost done," you promise, though your hands are nearly numb from the cold now. Each clasp reveals more evidence of long-term torture disguised as restraint. The more you see, the more questions burn in your throat, “Why’d they give you one like this?”

He's quiet for so long you think he won't answer, the final clasp coming free under your trembling fingers, but he makes no move to remove the muzzle completely.

"I remembered," he finally says, "Something I wasn't supposed to. My name." His eyes meet yours, and there's something terrible in their depths — not just pain, but knowledge. "They take everything when they make us, but I kept one thing."

He stops abruptly, as if even this small confession costs him dearly, and you can see the thorns pressing deeper as he speaks, drawing pinpoints of darkness that might be blood, might be something else entirely, yet he hardly reacts.

The pain hardly registers.

A weapon isn't supposed to remember who it used to be.

But this one does.

“What’s your name?”

His breath catches at your question, and you can see him fighting against years of conditioning, against the very magic that binds him, and the room grows colder, frost crystallizing on the windowpanes.

"L-" he starts, then gasps as if the very attempt causes him physical pain. His hands clench. "Luigi," he finally manages, the name coming out in a rush of frozen air.

You repeat the name softly, testing its weight, and he shudders at the sound of it from another person's lips. How long has it been since anyone has called him by his real name? How many years of being nothing but a number, a weapon, a Grimguard?

This is where it began.

And soon, you find yourself inventing excuses to avoid Duke Aldrich of Brindsborough's tedious evening calls. Instead, your nights belong to these stolen moments; you and Luigi seated on the floor of your chambers, knees touching, sharing whispered confessions in the candlelight.

He teaches you how the Grimguards sleep — bodies intertwined for warmth in the cold stone kennels, finding comfort in the press of limbs and shared breath. The first time he shows you, hesitantly arranging your bodies so your back fits against his chest, you understand.

It's not just for warmth — it's about trust.

You learn to read the minute changes in his expression, the things he can't say even without the muzzle. He learns your tells, too — the way you twist your rings when you're anxious, how your laugh changes when you're truly happy versus when you're playing the perfect princess.

These evenings become your refuge whilst the rest of the castle prepares for your upcoming marriage to a man you barely tolerate, you and Luigi build something fragile and precious in secret candlelight.

You tell him about the time you were seven, and you snuck your injured falcon into your bedroom instead of letting the gamekeeper "take care of it." You'd splinted its wing with strips torn from your favorite dress and fed it scraps from your dinners for weeks. Your father had been furious when he found out — not because you'd ruined the dress, but because you'd shown weakness.

Mercy was unbecoming of a princess.

The next memory stands out sharp and clear — that particular night when everything shifted.

You'd barely managed to secure the door's heavy lock before Luigi abandoned his usual restraint, muzzle yanked off. One moment you were turning, the next your back hit the floor with a soft thump, driving a surprised laugh from your chest.

His movements were pure instinct, almost feral — nothing like the rigid control the Grimguards usually displayed. Cool lips and nose traced your neck once you’d pulled his muzzle away, your collarbone, your hair, erasing every lingering trace of Duke Aldrich's cloying cologne. Each brush of contact sent shivers down your spine, not from cold but from the intensity of his need to claim, to possess.

"Marking your territory, are you?" you whispered through breathless giggles, fingers threading through his hair. The words made him pause, and you felt him tense — caught between embarrassment at his display and a deeper, darker urge to continue.

You could feel his breath against your throat, quick and uneven. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough. "He touched you. I could smell him on you all evening. I couldn't. I can't-“

Instead of pulling away, you tugged him closer, understanding flooding through you. This wasn't just possession — it was protection, desperation, love transformed by whatever magic had remade him into something wild and fierce. "I'm here," you whispered. "I'm yours."

A sound rumbled deep in his chest — not quite human, not quite animal—and his grip on you tightened almost painfully. The temperature plummeted, frost blooming across the flagstones in intricate spirals, but you weren't cold.

Not where he touched you.

"Mine," he breathed against your skin, the word holding years of denied wanting. His control, already fragile, splintered further. You felt the magic that bound him surge and twist, fighting against this claiming that went against everything they'd bred him to be.

Grimguards weren't meant to want.

Weren't meant to possess anything but their duty.

Yet here he was, trembling above you, eyes dark with need as they met yours. One hand cradled your face with impossible gentleness, even as the other gripped your waist with bruising intensity. The contradiction of him — deadly weapon and tender protector, ice and burning want — made your heart race.

"Say it again," he pleaded, voice rough with desperation.

You reached up, traced the scars where the muzzle had been, and watched his eyes flutter closed at your touch. "I'm yours, Luigi," you whispered. "Only yours."

The moment your fingers trace those scars, Luigi shudders violently, a full-body tremor that sends cascades of ice crystals shimmering through the air. His breath hitches, catches — no one has ever touched him there, not with such tenderness, not since they first bound him.

But then he does something that steals your breath — he leans into your touch. Like a half-wild thing learning trust, he presses his face against your hand, nuzzling into your palm.

His skin is cold as ever, but his breath comes hot against your wrist. When his lips brush your skin — tentative, questioning — you feel the ghost of frost patterns blooming up your arm.

"Warm," he murmurs, sounding almost drunk on the sensation. "You're so warm." His eyes are half-lidded now, tension melting from his shoulders even as his grip on your waist remains possessive, and the contradiction fascinates you — how he can seem so dangerous and so vulnerable in the same moment.

You trace another scar, and this time he makes a sound that's almost a purr, deep in his chest. The ice spreading across your chambers takes on a soft, pearlescent glow, as if reflecting his pleasure. It's intoxicating, this power to gentle him with just your touch, to make the fearsome Grimguard melt like snow in spring.

When his eyes open to meet yours again, they're heavy with an emotion that makes your heart stutter. The gold in them has darkened to midnight, pupils blown wide. "More.” he whispers, and it's both a plea and a demand.

With trembling fingers, you map the constellations of his scars, each touch drawing new sounds from him — soft gasps and broken whimpers that make your chest tight. The marks are smooth beneath your fingertips, silver-white against his olive skin. You trace them all; the deep grooves where the muzzle's straps cut in, the lighter marks across his jaw where they tested different bindings.

His control slips further with each caress, and frost flowers bloom and fade on your skin where his hands roam, leaving trails of delicious cold that make you shiver. When your thumb brushes the corner of his mouth — where the metal once forced his silence — he catches it gently between his teeth, eyes locked on yours as he presses a kiss to your fingertip.

"They told us we couldn't feel," he murmurs against your hand. "That the binding stripped everything but duty.” He presses his forehead to yours, breathing ragged. "With you, I feel everything."

You curl your fingers into his hair and pull him down, eliminating the last space between you. His lips are cool against yours, but they warm quickly as you show him this new way to be close, to trust, to want.

He learns fast, desperate and eager, like a man who's been dying of thirst finally given water.

You feel it in every desperate roll of his hips, that untamed creature beneath his skin — the one the Grimguard could never fully bind. It surfaces in the frost that spreads beneath his palms where they bracket your head, in the way his breath comes in ragged pants against your neck, hot despite his perpetual cold.

He's beautiful like this — composure shattered, cheeks flushed an impossible pink against his beautiful skin, and his eyes are blown wide, that ethereal chestnut brown nearly swallowed by black, and they catch the light like stars when he gazes down at you.

There's something almost painful in his expression — wonder and desperation and disbelief all tangled together.

The friction between you draws broken sounds from his throat, primal and unrestrained. His movements are instinctive, graceless — so different from his usual precise control, each roll of his hips against your thigh becoming more frantic than the last, his whole body trembling with need.

"Please," he gasps, though you're not sure what he's begging for. You’re almost certain he doesn't know either. His fingers curl against the floor, "Please, I can't- I need-"

You reach up to thread your fingers through his hair again, drawing him down until his forehead rests against yours, and he whimpers at the contact, hips stuttering in their rhythm.

This close, you can see every emotion flash across his face — vulnerability and hunger and love so intense it steals your breath.

The wild thing in him recognizes its match in you, and neither of you want to tame it anymore.

His voice trembles as he tries to find the words, years of enforced silence warring with raw need. You cradle his face in your hands, thumbs brushing his cheekbones.

"Tell me," you whisper. "I want to hear you say it."

"I-" he starts, then breaks off with a shaky exhale.

"I need to be closer.” He whispers, his movements between your legs desperate and juvenile, but there’s something so, so sweet about it.

He’s reduced himself to raw and visceral need, and cares little for how it makes him look, this feared Grimguard, a hound who sleeps in piles with his pack, a weapon of mass destruction, a human being. He’s flayed himself open for you, guts spilling forth, red hot and oxblood — this primeval need, this unfiltered want.

It simply is not something you’d ever find in anyone else.

Specifically the Fiancé your father has hand-selected.

Luigi groans as you guide him where you need him, the sound low and broken against your throat. Your nightgown rides higher, silk cool against fevered skin. His grip on your hip tightens instinctively, and you gasp at the perfect pressure of frost-touched fingers.

Each roll of his hips is hungry, instinctive — like his body remembers what his mind was forced to forget. You wonder if he dreams of this, if behind those crystalline eyes he imagines all the ways he could unravel you. If during those long, cold nights in his chamber, thoughts of you haunted him like this.

The friction builds a delicious heat that makes your head spin. You arch against him, chasing more, and his breath hitches at the way you move. His eyes are wild when they meet yours — desperate and wanting and almost afraid of how much he needs this.

The etiquette mistress would faint if she knew the thoughts that filled your head during lessons now — memories of frost-touched skin and desperate sounds and the way Luigi says your name like a prayer.

You guide Luigi beneath you, and he goes willingly, eyes wide with wonder as you settle above him, his hands tracing paths of up your thighs, mapping you like something precious, something sacred, each touch leaving ghostly patterns on your skin that fade like morning mist.

The silk of your dress whispers between you as his fingers trail higher, catching on your collarbone where your necklace rests, transfixed by the way the pendant rises and falls with your quickening breath, by how the gold warms against your skin while his touch remains winter-cold.

"Closer," you echo, fingers curling in the hem of his black shirt. You draw it up slowly, exposing him inch by inch, the moonlight streaming through the window catching on old scars that map his abdomen like constellations — some precise and surgical, others jagged and cruel.

Your heart aches at their implications, but now isn't the time to count his wounds.

Not when he's looking at you like this, like you're everything he was told he could never have.

His breath hitches as your hands explore the newly exposed skin, and the temperature drops further with each touch, frost spiraling out beneath him in intricate patterns that match his racing pulse.

"Please," he gasps, and you're not sure if he's begging you to stop or never stop. Maybe both. The wild thing in him is closer to the surface than ever, making his eyes glow like arctic stars in the darkness. "I need- I don't know how to-"

You lean down until your foreheads touch, breaths mingling in the frost-edged space between you. His skin radiates winter's chill everywhere except where his heart beats strong beneath your palm. You can feel him trembling, power barely contained.

"Let me show you," you whisper against his lips, cradling his face. His eyes are luminous in the darkness, filled with vulnerability and desperate trust. The temperature drops as his control frays further, delicate patterns of frost blooming across every surface.

"I've never-" he starts, voice breaking.

You silence him with a gentle kiss. "I know," you breathe. "I've got you. You're safe, Lu."

His fingers flex against your arms as emotions war across his face — years of isolation and fear battling with his need to be known, to be accepted exactly as he is. The wild thing in him strains closer to the surface with each passing moment. "Let go," you tell him softly. "I got you."

You pour all your love into another kiss, wet and hot, showing him that he's worthy of gentleness, of care.

That he doesn't have to hold himself back anymore.

And he doesn’t.

You watch in wonder as his composure fractures, that usually fixed expression melting into something vulnerable and raw, his hands grasping you like an anchor as his careful control slips further.

The temperature drops with each shared breath, but you've never felt warmer.

His face — usually so guarded, bearing scars that speak of battles fought alone - is transformed. Open. Trusting. His lips part on silent pleas as his eyes lock with yours, glowing like arctic stars, and the wild thing in him is closer to the surface than ever.

You've never seen anything more beautiful than this proud, powerful man allowing himself to be soft for you. To be vulnerable. His fingers flex against your skin as another tremor runs through him.

"You're safe," you whisper, rocking your hips against his in a slow rhythm that allows the both of you to adjust. "You're mine."

The sound he makes is something between a sob and a prayer, raw with years of loneliness and need. You kiss him deeply, showing him with every touch that he's worthy of this — of pleasure, of care, of love freely given, and he takes just as his heart desires.

It hardly takes him any time before he’s got the hang of it, raw and needy, soft but strong.

He shoves his face in your neck once you’ve been laid on your back again, his teeth biting gently into the soft flesh of the curve in your shoulder, his instincts still lingering, but you welcome them and each mark he leaves against your skin, the rhythm of his hips sloppy and wild but achingly free, your own body cherished as if he’d come undone at your altar.

He worships you, just as the Grimguards are meant to worship their Keeper — his devotion raw and unfiltered, his gaze defiant and steady, “I love you.” He says, the words feeling like a foreign language, but one you had taught him to speak. “So much it hurts.”

[m1nsur0]

[JTTW OC: 智平] Character Profile

Name: 阮智平 (Ruan Zhi Ping)

Age (JTTW): 1471

Height: 7’1” (215CM)

Pronouns: He/Him

Unflinching and unwavering in all ways, the Violet Dragon is not ever referred to as “pleasant” to endure, however it is preconception welcomed if it abstracts him to the follies of the living.

“Trying to turn him from his planned path is akin to throwing brittle knifes to a cliff face.” - Wujing

“The strangest man around, that’s for sure. Ya ever meet a doctor that wants you to come to him through death’s door?” - Bajie

“Abrasive, but all good pieces of sandpaper must be so.” - Sanzang

“More stoney faced than Ol’ Sun! Nothing The Great Sage can’t crack open.” - Wukong

SUMMARY: (a bit of a long one i would say)

-Born the eldest child of the Dragon [REDACTED].

-Left his home as a ward under the tutelage of Divine Knowledge at the age of 8, and began his own career in academics before reaching adulthood.

-Spends 400 years in isolation between painted realms and isolated corners of the primary realms, the only signs of his life are routinely submitted papers and documents regarding his innovations and social critiques.

-Gets unwillingly found by the Heaven’s Dog, and swears an accord to His Divinty to avoid a change in lifestyle.

-Emerges to his native lands briefly after reported Yaoguai disturbances in the Seas, and commits the minimum of social requirements to younger relatives before returning to isolation for another 200 years.

-After reaching undeniable renown of his works, he agrees to spend one year every century in mortal plains. Towards both placating his kin and making unwanted ties to other realms for research efficiency.

-Around age 800, his lack of care for social nuances lands him in hot water with the Jade Empress. Both hands are whipped on her command, to ensure consequences on his ability to write and study- the only thing of importance to him.

-Another century of isolation, however this time in his original bedchambers from his home at his parent’s residency. Not a single paper is released by the scholar, and he is as much of a ghost in his home as ever before.

-The joint efforts of Wenchang and Erlang prompt Zhiping to agree to meeting with them outside of politics, and he takes the long walk across the lands to meet them.

-On the walk, finds the first sprig of amusement in 500 years from a crash figure trapped under a mountain.

-Erlang and Wenchang pass on the Emperor’s “pardons of his actions” regarding The Court, and is ushered to Yao Wang and Guanyin to heal any internal injuries in his hand. After this comes a deal struck to expand Zhiping’s access to Heaven’s archives and scholars in apologies.

-The dragon scholar delves even further into his research, invigorated, and is not seen in person for another 300 years. Any work regarding outside beings having express magic pathways to avoid physical encounters.

-Guanyin enlists Zhiping to round off the group of pilgrims under a deal. Zhiping makes it clear that he cares not for buddhahood as the pre-established reward to other contract members, and accepts the task once his proposal is the one defining his involvement.

-Spends the years until the journey more social than normal, knowing that the environment he will have to endure

-Joins with the Tang Monk before reaching The Monkey King, is notably silent in comparison to the others in the group. Not one for small talk or “unnecessary” words.

-Ends up as the group’s healer due to his medical and surgical education, however is known to allow any other party member to suffer physical pains for a safe extra moment if they pushed his buttons recently.

-Despite being one of the group’s dragons, he never interacts with one other than Bai Long Ma- with plausible and pragmatic excuses to leave before meeting any other dragons in passing.

-About 2 years into the Journey, takes in an injured wolf pup, which then stays along for the ride from that point on after regaining it’s health. It takes a few years for Sanzang to settle with the predator.

-Zhiping is “closest” (as much as he can be) with Wujing due to their shared stable personalites, and an odd affection to Bai Long Ma that the group can’t seem to figure out as to why.

-Wukong and Zhiping have the first shift in their allyship after when Zhiping is almost entirely focused on the affects of Samadhi fire, in which the monkey feels something change in him after being on the receiving end of genuine care for the first time in centuries.

-Wukong becomes a bit of a step father to the group’s grown wolf, honing it’s protective and hunting skills. Most Definitely Not to work his stead once the journey fractured the group post-completion. He picks the dog up like he’s still a puppy.

-Zhiping breaks off from the group briefly at the Xiliang Kingdom due to his academic work, after many whines from the horse and dog. Reminding them that he is not bound to this task like the rest of them, and he knows that they’ll manage until they rejoin.

-He reunited with them later, now dealing with a cold-furred-shoulder from the monkey king.

-The golden circlet becomes his next area of research, both in neutrality of how the spell works, and how to possibly alleviate Wukong of the pain in unjust casting. The universe is against him completing that work until the scriptures are delivered- it renders the end goal void. But he keeps the project on the back burner regardless.

-Wukong and Zhiping enter a rocky exclusivity, born of Wukong’s paranoia of separation and possessive nature.

-Sanzang is confronted by Zhiping about his illogical use of the tightening spell, after an explosive argument, Sanzang says a comment out of bounds. The wolf scars the monk in retaliation, and Zhiping departs the group a second time with said canine. But not before placing soothing salves in the luggage Wujing carries.

-Seasons pass, and whilst the group can function on their own, Wukong works to convince Zhiping back with Guanyin’s additional effort, he then comes back after providing Wukong with a plan to outsmart Meifa Guo’s King.

-Zhiping remains with the group from then on, closer to the non-humans as ever before, but warning Sanzang that there’s no circlet or Guanyin to prevent him from being eaten by a dragon should he get too bold.

-The amount of wedding traps the pilgrims have encountered at this point prompts Wukong to make a veiled comment about the two of them after the run in with the Jade Rabbit.

-Tripitaka attains Buddhahood, The Journey Completes

-Wukong refuses anything beyond the removal of the circlet, Zhiping collects his agreed rewards. Their relationship stays strong as Zhiping takes Bai Long Ma and the Wolf, as the Dragon returns to a small island in view of Huaguoshan to complete his studies based on the Journey.

-The Monkey King is the only one he allows to enter the Island, and always makes comment on how not even the Divinity was allowed entrance to any of Zhiping’s domains.

-Throughout continued courtship, Wukong Learns that Zhiping has been inspired to start an academy from his enjoyment of educating the pilgrims from time to time. And the Monkey King decides he is the only one capable of funding such a project. It becomes a part of his betrothal gift to ensure it’s perfect.

-The academy is first open to only 3 monkeys from Huagoshan for a few decades, with no more than 4 at any given enrolment. Wukong declares himself a permanent student of Zhiping, and so only 3 others set foot on academy groups at most.

-Zhiping eventually expels his betrothed for his habit of never doing the assigned work, and only listening to the lectures that focus on botany or weapon masonry. Anything else is Wukong trying to distract the dragon to end work early.

-Nezha is not accepted as a student, despite his repeat attempt at entrance.

-Zhiping limits the academy to two students once he becomes King Consort, substituting it with public lectures beyond the regular medicinal ones to to anyone on Huaguoshan.

VISUAL DESIGN:

“His clothes are thin and fold neatly, they are as considerate of my weary bones as he is.” - Wujing

“Bah! Too Floaty, Too Floaty! It would do better for him to dress in a way that would not make others confuse him with a Lady” - Bajie

“Very delicate, for a Dragon.” - Sanzang

“Oh, very soft… very soft…. I would know most of all.” - Wukong

Zhiping dresses in old fashioned Deep Style clothes, light in colour and light in weight. shifting through Winter Blues, Spring Purples, Summer Pinks and Autumn Oranges.

Even on the journey, his clothes remain ideal for desk work, knowing that his skills in long-range combat and Wukong’s reliability means he has no need to change his wardrobe’s Function.

Once Wukong attaches himself to Zhiping, the outer layer of his hanfu is repurposed as a loose garment for the monkey- both as a signal of their connection and the monkey’s urge to playfully steal from his companion.

He bears no weapons on his person, only writing equipment in deep pockets and in his sleeves, his bow and arrow are stored in dimensional magic spaces that work towards efficiency in drawing a shot. This allows him to make the group look less intimidating due to how feeble he presents himself- before Wukong shatters the illusion.

Standing at 7’1”, he is only a few inches shy of Wujing and “Two Bajies Tall” (as the group says), his dragonic tail also stretches two meters from back to tip. However with how heavily it is armoured with thick scales it is seen as a blunt weapon more than a 5th appendage.

Both Horns and Tails are hidden in all but few specific scenarios. Either when he is alone in isolation or around a group he knows won’t press into his ancestry or kin’s identity. They are slightly more blue-toned than his hair and eyes, and glimmer like mother of pearl under the light. To Wukong’s disappointment, they are not shown within his reach, due to his habits of pulling and pinching.

STATS:

Physical Traits:

A classic glass-canon in fights, beyond his title as the “Feeble Scholar” Zhiping boasts highly specialised utility of his mind and body. His nature as a dragon offsets this fragility through lifestyle, and allows him a comfortable zone of sustainability before taking advantage of his innate speed to avoid conflicts that take away from time he could put towards research.

Too young to properly learn the sword and spear before leaving home to Wenchang’s abode, any combat skills in his youth were cultivated through observation of Heaven’s soldiers- and later a trade off with Erlang. This stuck to gaining skills in archery and knife throwing, preferring to stick to long range.

[Endurance: 2]

-Due to his lifestyle being limited to his desk and labs, the dragon does not refine his form beyond what is necessary to complete tasks related to his research. His skin is soft and unweathered from any hard labour, and if he grasps and scrolls to fast he is likely to gain a paper cut.

[Strength: 6]

-Unwillingly to spend time away from studies, and heavy lifting is done via magic manipulation- never by hand. It doesn’t help that said magic can reduce the tension needed to fire arrows. Slightly below average for a dragon, but left to dwindle without upkeep.

[Magic: 10]

-Due to both the wide field of Magic studies, and interwoven nature of it with earthly science, Zhiping quickly gained great abilities in it under Wenchang in Heaven whilst still a child. Gaining skills in conventional and sealed branches of magic due to sneaking into Xuanwu’s archives when his classes had finished for the day.

[Speed: 9]

-Born of the Seas, His body is built to manoeuvre water that offers far more resistance than air, and such finds anything above the water’s edge to offer no push back. His thin stature is aerodynamic and sleek, however the lack of muscles means he can only sprint in ways similar to a cheetah before he needs to halt.

[Constitution: 6]

-His body is naturally suited to ward off illness and fatigue, however his habits of using himself as a test subject for various pellets and spells has worn down various aspects of his body. His stomach can no longer handle eating more than once a week, and his hands still feel phantom pains. Walking the wolf does help build up stamina again, though.

Social Traits:

Blunt and uncaring for comfort in his words, the Violet Dragon has often found himself at the end of outcries from his harsh comments. It takes years for the best natured people to understand his sheer truthfulness and neutral intent. It has worked equally in his favour and against regarding goals. But he would rather lose his senses before he gains baseless placation in his encounters.

The path of erudition is where every step of his treads, no action or words are made if they do not move him in the right direction.

[Athleticism: 4]

-Briefly trained in proper etiquette by his kin and given a structured life until his departure to isolation, Zhiping has experience in courtly dance and basic performance arts. More graceful than strictly powerful, he can perform feats of entertainment and water-based traversal. However lacks the ability to measure up to other dragons in regards to endurance travel or weight lifting.

[Charisma: 0]

-Not inviting both subconsciously and by curated personality, Zhiping bolsters no way to prompt endearment and prefers using his bristly nature to nip any outside fondness in the bud. Any bonds forged with him are this tempered through years of putting up with harsh environment and even harsher comments. He has only every failed in inheriting courtly manners.

[Willpower: 5]

-Swings like a metronome between hyper focus and callous disregard for any topic depending on how it aligns with his scholarly pursuits. Topics can be hotly pursued and suddenly dropped when reevaluated to not hold any further academic value. It means that any he decides to pursue is hunted relentlessly, in a very specific scope of interest.

[Intelligence: 18/10]

-Undeniably the foundation of his being and soul, his mind overpowers every other part of him. Able to grasp any unfamiliar field of study to the highest degree within one day cycle. However with how long he has lived there are few topics left for him to discover anew. His intelligence does not stop at traditional means, with excellent abilities to decide his emotional and psychological state- and more importantly others. Possess such mastery over his emotions that many think he possesses none.

[Self-control: 6]

-He can easily coordinate his desires to what is pragmatically ideal to the moment, shutting off what is unnecessary or irrelevant to the task at hand. But also possesses no desire to temper the intensity of his studies towards compile knowledge. Dragons do have a nature to hoard.

[Creativity: 7]

-Study of the world is to study the arts and mind. There are infinite topics of interest regarding the creative arts, and creativeness in methods of conduct are often the only way to achieve results in contexts of tight parameters. When he is rarely not researching, Zhiping can be found illustrating his notes or tuning his Ruan.

Black Myth: Zhiping

Following the Mortal Death of Wukong, Zhiping’s efforts have continued on focusing on sustaining the lives of Huaguoshan’s inhabitants, ushering them to his academy under intense protective magic wards to avoid any more of Heaven’s Soldiers reaching them.

Some monkeys of Wukong’s mountain follow immediately, some stay with the healers he has instructed until this moment. Some flee the mountain. Zhiping states that the Mountain itself will attract the ire of Heaven and that the Academy can provide solace, that it would be forever open to any of Wukong’s denizens.

Quest 1: Medicinal Brews

Required: [Rescue Shen Monkey] [Gain access to Shen Monkey’s services] [Defeat the Whiteclad Noble] [Defeat Elder Jinchi] [Defeat Rat Royals] [Obtain: Loong Scales]

Speak to Shen Monkey, if [Loong Scales] are in possession, completing all new dialogue alluding to a healer who solved his chronic wounds will end in receiving [Ziluolan Pellets]

(Ziluolan Pellets: If added to a flask originating from a monkey, will create immunity to DOT effects- but will not remove the build up of Four Banes.)

Quest 2: Western Waters

Required: [Defeat Kang Jin-Star] [Defeat Cyan Loong WHILST having Ziluolan Pellets in brew effect] [Defeat Cyan Loong wearing Loong armour OR wielding a Loong Staff][Possess at least 4 Loong Pearls] [Talk With Bajie near Kang Jin Loong body]

After Bajie finishes his monologue, having all mentioned pre-requisites achieved will provide additional dialogue on Wukong and his involvement with Dragons. Allow for this extra dialogue to finish to have Bajie pass on the [Broken Arrow Tip Curio]

(Broken Arrow Tip: Takes up two equip slots. Allows [Pierce] to be applied to all damage. [Pierce] will reduce enemies DEF by 25% when headshots are landed. Can stack with multiple of the same Curio.)

Following Western Waters being completed, speaking to Chen Loong will start a cutscene related to Zhiping and the barrier towards his Academy grounds. The Destined One having a birthright allowing access to this island will make Chen Loong as to go there to ask the Dragon of that domain for a list of seeds. Receive [Seeds and Saplings List]

[This opens up the Sprawling Roots Quest]

Following Western Waters being completed, speaking to Xu Dog will open dialogue on the academic papers released on celestial pellets he has near his furnace. Complete this dialogue to be asked to take his noted questions to the paper’s Author. Receive [After-Lecture Questions]

[This opens up the Loong Road to Perfection Quest]

Quest 4: Familiar Seas

Required: [Defeat All Four Loong Bosses] [Defeat Yellow Loong with Ziluolan Pellets in Brew] [Defeat Yellow Loong with Broken Arrow Tip Curio Equipped] [Apply Pierce in Thrust Stance at least once during fight with Yellow Loong]

If the boss fight is completed with all above tasks, Yellow Loong will relinquish the rune needed to open a pathway through the Academy Ward.

Quest 5: Painted Realms, Painted Fogs.

Required: [Possess the reward rune from Yellow Loong] [Unlock Somersault Cloud]

After unlocking the ability to fly around Huagoshan, finding Bajie staring westward on a platform in the open-map will start a cutscene of him complaining about an odd fog cloud beyond the waters. He will end the cutscene muttering about Wukong’s Dragon. Flying towards the Fog will prompt a cutscene where the unlocking rune will dispel the illusioned cloud, and open up the Secret Area: Yinshi Academy.

Progress through the path to Yinshi until you encounter a Dragon Wrapped Gate.

Possessing the [Loong Scales] and at least 4 Loong Pearls will awaken the Dragon from slumber, and initiate the boss fight with [White Dragon, Son of Ao Run]

Fighting the White Dragon will end with a cutscene at 25% health, where a wolf will unavoidably interrupt any attack the Destined One is making, and will take the equipped weapon with it as it runs down the path towards the academy.

Drinking from the Gourd whilst the [Ziluolan Pellets] are in brew will end the boss fight early, and the player will retain their equipped weapon. A wolf will grab the attention of the player and guide them down towards the academy.

Both Boss endings will reward the player with [4x Celestial Ribbon]

Once the Destined one reaches Yinshi’s front door, A cutscene will start showing The Violet Dragon healing an elderly monkey.

There are no other fights in this map, and the Destined one cannot draw any weapon or cast spells once this point has been reached.

Quest 6: Violet Scales, Violent Tales.

Required: Complete [Painted Realms, Painted Fog] [Have Broken Arrow Tip Equipped]

The Violet Dragon will not speak, nor pay the Destined One any attention unless they walk directly into his line of sight after he moves to his open desk.

The Dragon will reach for the broken arrow tip, [This will remove it from the player’s inventory permanently] and will traverse the room to hand the Destined one the [Pristine Arrow Head Curio]

Leave the area via fast travel or Somersault Cloud to reset Yinshi Academy, then return to The Violet Dragon. This will prompt dialogue, asking if the Destined One knows the NPC’s name.

Exhaust this Dialogue to receive [Amethyst Abacus Necklace]

Zhiping will provide access to the reward chests deeper in Yinshi, and if given excess materials, will upgrade medicines beyond Xu Dog’s formulas.

(Pristine Arrow Head: Takes up two equip slots. Allows for the [Shatter] effect to be applied to enemies. [Shatter] will apply 2% DEF reduction with each hit onto the enemy, stacking up to 20 times as long as the wearer is not hit. Stacks reset upon taking damage.)

(Amethyst Abacus: Takes up one equip slot. Wearing this curio will allow the user to summon Langgou, highly affective against some bosses.)

After this Quest, Zhiping will move on schedule around the map.

Sprawling Roots: Talk to Zhiping whilst he is in the Gardens, and with [Seeds and Saplings List] in inventory will end with gaining the [Seed Pouch] to give to Chen Loong.

Loong Road to Perfection: Talking to Zhiping whilst he is in the Lecture Halls, and with [After-Lecture Questions] in inventory will end with gaining the [Refined Fomula] to give to Xu Dog.

After all mentioned Quests are completed, The Destined One can now:

-In Yinshi Academy, use the equipped weapon to throw near Langgou, Zhiping’s Wolf, to play fetch. (If the Jingu Bang is equipped, you will have to play a game of tug with Langgou.)

Collect rare plants from the Academy Gardens, however taking more than 5 per visit will result in Zhiping removing the Destined One from the secret area for the day.

Listen to Zhiping’s tales of the Journey in the Archives.

Pat the White Dragon, Son of Ao Run as you pass through the Gate.

Using the [Amethyst Abacus] in Painted Mount Mei will take Xiaotian Quan’s aggro from the Destined One during Region’s Boss fight.

[darkdemeter]

・issue #1・ HABITS OF MOTHER NATURE'S WILL

⚤ Wanda Maximoff x Werewolf! GN/Female/Male Reader, (Platonic) Avengers x Werewolf! GN/Female/Male Reader angst (reader has insecurities/self esteem issues) — Tony being a bit of a dick — some minor language — some weird fluffy humour? — mentions of a “passed relative” in said humour — minor name calling and usage (“mutt and stray/pup”) — and I think that’s it? ✎ 3.4k

↳ MASTERLIST | ↳ TAGLISTS ────────────────────────

Mother Nature decrees that her law is absolute. Her will is to be respected, and all are intended to follow in her great design.

You do not change it. You embrace it.

And this applies to you as well, thanks to your common ancestor, that you shared the habit that left you tracking the red ball Tony kept bouncing against the polished floors like it’s the only thing in existence that mattered to you. And maybe because it did.

How could this happen? No high risk missions or deadly villains to stop from achieving world domination. No, today was one of those special days where you and your fellow Avengers could relax. And with the full moon so close, what better combination?

What you wouldn’t give to suddenly be on a quinjet flying into enemy territory. Nothing like a good fight to get the blood pumping.

For everyone’s sake, you tried to keep to yourself for the past week but you’d exhausted your options. Walks in the park weren’t cutting it - not to mention the other dogs started it first - and you’d already destroyed five punching bags in the gym just prior. The treadmill be damned, you weren’t burning any energy on that.

Your last resort was to sit in the common area with your favoured beverage, a cool rag and some TV to calm the intense wave of anxiety. However, by her divine intervention, your beloved crew had come to flock in.

Mother Nature knew you were a pack animal at heart, as both human and wolf. It was how she made you.

The ensuing anxiety of being in a crowded space enough to put you near over the edge. It’s not like your heart rate only picked up a few hundred beats more when Wanda walked in.

When a few of the new arrivals waved and greeted you, you shared a hesitant yet trying smile and equally reluctant nod in return.

The battlefield was the only place you felt comfortable around your new comrades. But without missions or villains you were still getting accustomed to life at the compound; adjusting to life around people.

You were still considered fresh. A new recruit to the team. As Tony liked to call you… a pup.

Fuck, how you’d bite back your snarls from that term.

Fury assigned you to the Avengers some months ago. And though you had no intention of staying long, the missions kept coming in and a lot more required your specific skill set.

You remember as though it was yesterday that Tony said, “Alright Fury, we’ll adopt the stray pup. Just don’t go ripping up the furniture now.”

Suffice to say, you broke your own record at doing just that in under 3 hours.

“I think they’ll settle in just fine,” Fury had chuckled with a clap to the billionaire’s shoulder.

You shake your head at the memory. Still, if felt wrong to feel certain things for one of your teammates already. It wasn’t like you felt you really had a chance with her anyway.

The thought made your eyes falter from the now still ball for a moment, clutched in Tony’s hand as if it were your heart.

‘Who am I kidding?’ You chuffed silently to yourself, ‘She wouldn’t take a chance on me, I’m a damn mutt!’

Your self esteem issues had to wait though.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

‘Ball.’

‘Ball.’

‘Ball.’

Your entire head at this point tracked the ball’s movement, but your mind was still distracted by Wanda. The idea of her wanting to play ball with you, to spend those moments of intimacy with you. Tony’s words zeroed in from a muffled backdrop to the forefront of your mind.

“And that is why red indeed travels at a superior speed to any other. Ergo, why my suit is red, brilliant, eye catching and can beat anyone.”

You could hear the collective groans and disguised snarks beneath coughs without the noise being present. It was in everyone’s eyes and their scents.

Your eyes froze on Wanda, her striking eyes bore into yours with no hesitation. No fear.

‘How long has she been doing that?’

She offered one of her smiles that made your heart swell and stop at the same time, that made your searing skin cool and rise with goosebumps.

‘She’s so beautiful when she smiles like that.’

If she had one of those smiles then… you knew that grin that spread across her lips and showed a thin line of her teeth.

Your eyes gave away the betraying thought that you knew. Her smile turned grin riddled with mischief spoke volumes.

‘She read my damn mind!’

“I don’t think that is actually possible, Tony,” Sharon said with a click of her tongue and a disbelieving squint to her eyes.

“Oh no, it is,” Tony replied with a nod, “I’ll show you how the colour of this ball determines the speed in which it returns to my hand.”

He held up the ball in his hand, a proud display of its immaculate accomplishment, just a throw away.

Shit.

You bite down on your lip hard to suppress the whine coiled deep in your throat. A deep heat settled all along your neck and your ears.

Wanda still stared at you even in your peripheral.

Tony flicked his hand forward and the ball flew forward, bouncing once against the floor and bound into the wall with a determined thump before Tony caught it again, mouth agape to huff in his triumphant display in tandem with a curt yelp.

A good throw. Bad timing.

Everyone’s eyes had diverted to you. Their attention captured by the sound you made. Even Bucky, the stoic and reserved man who hardly acknowledged anyone with anything other than a grunt, appeared surprised if not the slightest bit intrigued by this new discovery.

You didn’t dare risk a second glimpse at Wanda, the flush in your neck seeped higher up into your face. Not that the shock and interest on everyone else’s faces were easier to process.

But you couldn’t face Wanda’s eyes now.

She had read the racing thoughts you couldn’t keep in line. Who knows how much she read about how alluring you think her scent is, how you whine and whimper whenever you hear her softly cry when in the privacy of her room because you wish to be there with her, her hand running through your fur to comfort herself; to let her know you’re there for her. How much it hurts you that she would never see you as nothing more than the mutt of the team. A beast that maims and runs rampart whenever you lose yourself to anger.

A lovesick pup.

You feared that the hot sting of tears was sure to follow any moment now.

Your fingers tightened against your legs, nails not longer the tamed length you maintained them as. In their stead were claws.

“Something wrong, pup?” Tony teased and you didn’t refrain from the rasped snarl that rose in your chest. Your teeth - and fangs - bared.

Fuck. Why did Mother Nature have to make you the way you are?

“Tony,” Sam warned, eyes cast between the two of you.

“What?” Tony only shrugged as if he wasn’t intentionally pissing you off and embarrassing you at the same time. “I just wanna make sure our new recruit here is alright, I mean, they have been temperamental over the past week. Chewing on expensive furniture and specially crafted improvements to my suit—“

The ball flew from Tony’s hand just as he was about to make a show of the ball again, the unmistakable red, misty tendrils swiftly brought it to Wanda’s hand.

Everyone was silent as they glanced between the red ball in Wanda’s hand and you. Their combining scents overwhelmed you to a new height. The fear that pinned you in place made the skin along your arms radiate with heat, either from the desire to run with your tail between your legs or to get defensive; to ‘wolf out’ as the others had called it. It didn’t help when Thor made an attempt to say something but otherwise thought better not to say what was on his mind.

Wanda eyed the object that held your attention. And you in turn couldn’t help but study her. Something in the way her eyes twinkled with curiosity, her lips pulled to one side as if to contemplate heavily on the fact that this ball held you in a vice grip.

Your short temper as of late, how you’d skulk around, much to the dismay of everyone fearing you had turned into another Bucky. The guy wasn’t that bad, you’d give him credit for that, the guy had a lot on his plate.

But what Wanda was perhaps most interested by that whenever she was present in the same room as you, all that would vanish. At least for the most part.

But to her, you would ask her how she was doing or even compliment her. Little did she possibly know that it was because you had felt a little courageous to take that small leap of faith to tell her she looked good.

But she might as well have that knowledge now.

You weren’t sure if it bothered you or not that she read your mind. Invaded your thoughts. In some weird way, you wanted her to. But you also feared her rejection.

But in the end, it all made sense. No one else pieced it together but her. And this time, she didn’t have to read your mind to do it.

She could read you. She knew you.

“It’s the full moon tomorrow night. They’re anxious.”

You were often lucky to avoid this topic with the others. They’d just chalked it up to catching you at the wrong time, that the mission was a hard one that day and you had some pent up anger to burn. The other half, you’d be out of the compound. Taking a much needed break at your apartment, visiting your sick grandma who they suspiciously noted you saying had passed away years ago three times now. But who was counting.

Never did they realise it all happened around the same time every month.

But Wanda did. She noticed it.

You brave to stare into those eyes you were content to drown in but find something else. It’s mysterious. Not what you’d expect to see in her eyes when she looked at you of all people.

“Y/N, Fetch!” Wanda cooed as she tossed the ball away from her. It’s a primal instinct that ignited within you at that very moment. A natural, engrained sense and desire.

How Mother Nature intended for you to react to survive or to have fun, your skin tingled with the sensation all too familiar.

The shift is over within the blink of an eye, seamless as you launch yourself over Wanda’s sitting body after the ball, large paw-like hands scrapped across the floors as you skid to a halt and the ball captured within the grasp of your maw.

Your tail wags involuntarily and your ears pinned against your head as you bashfully ducked your head at the sound of the others who chuckled and praised your reflexes.

It felt nice. Wanda turned in her spot on the couch to peer over at where you’d jumped over her, chin tucked into her folded arms.

“Nice catch,” she giggled and you swore she could see your blush in this form, “bring it here.”

Hesitant, you take a step forward and then another, your eyes cautious as they wandered over the others in case they deemed your advancements were dangerous to be left unchecked.

Rarely did you allow this form to take around them without the proper surveillance equipment and safety precautions. They already had Bruce to worry about losing control as the Hulk. They couldn’t risk you as well.

But no. They marvelled in their stares, smiles of contentment encouraged you to approach Wanda. You let the ball fall into her grasp with a small whine, ears still pressed back.

“Don’t be shy, Wolfie,” she whispered, the sound soft for only your ears to hear. You liked that nickname. You could only hope she would continue to use it.

Wanda raised the ball again only for Tony to interject. “No! No, you are not playing fetch in this compound, Miss Maximoff.”

Wanda smirked at the look in your eyes. The same one you had right before you tore up all the good, expensive furniture within that 3 hour window.

A few more throws turned into furniture shoved aside to make room. Tony remained in the kitchen, arms folded and a scowl etched hard into his face, it would take a miracle for Pepper to wipe it from his face.

Everyone else was too engrossed in the game of indoor fetch, all having had a couple of turns by now with throwing the ball. Bucky humoured you once and threw it, an approving nod when you caught it. Clint, Thor, Peter and Scott fought hard to get the ball numerous times, Natasha and Wanda were promoted to ‘ball-directors’ so everyone had a fair go.

But Wanda maybe got an extra throw in once or twice - by order of Natasha.

Steve now held the eye catching sphere in his hand, high above his head. Though with your stature in this form, it was rather tricky to keep it away from your snapping jaws.

You yipped and howled in anticipation before Steve tossed the ball and you leapt after it. You caught it before it could bounce off the wall. An eruption of claps and cheers followed immediately, your ears flopped back as you whine softly with that feeling that buzzed in your ribcage.

“Bring it here, Wolfie.” Your ears perked up high and alert at the soft tune of Wanda’s accented voice. A few of the others couldn’t refrain from laughing a little at the sight.

Whenever they had permitted you to shift on mission skirmishes, it was all done through protocol and extensive preparation to ensure you were stable.

And they only saw one emotion when you changed. Aggression.

To finally get the chance to play and be comfortable in your own fur felt good. Shit, well beyond good.

“I was promised the next throw! Come on, give the ball here, Y/N,” Sam called with an outstretched hand.

Even if Sam had a point, you couldn’t stop yourself in your approach towards Wanda, who now was crouched down with her hand out to receive the ball.

Her eyes were soft in their gaze as they pierced through the veil of your own. It was like she could see the humanity deep within you.

Her magic touched you differently, prickled against the shell of your mind, you welcomed her in.

‘I see you as more than you realise.’

A whimper crept up your throat in response, ears tucked back and eyes often shrouded with the thirst for carnage grew to relax. Become tender in the embrace of her eyes - her soul - touching yours.

Your fur bristled suddenly and you shook your head with a huff. You dropped the ball into her hand and she threw it down the long hallway.

You bound after it, your claws clinked against the tile floor, your breath hot in ragged pants as you gave chase. Each bounce of the ball echoed faintly in the back of your mind, too occupied by the words Wanda spoke through your mind.

It was the first time you’d heard her voice in your head. And you enjoyed it. It settled you into a sense of calm.

You didn’t register the elevator doors open ahead of you, Nick Fury stood with files tucked under his arm.

Your eyes shot open and you swore you saw his unpatched eye mimic yours. Your weight was too much to control with the momentum you had backed up behind your pursuit in a cramped hallway. You skid to a halt but slipped forward, the force of your body knocked Fury and yourself back into the elevator.

A series of cringed groans and gasps reminded you of your teammates as the elevator doors closed behind you.

You’d knocked Fury into the buttons and now, your destination was another floor.

Sheepishly, he could tell, you whine a pathetic sound in your apologies. You shuffle in the elevator that was almost too tight for the two of you to fit with you like this.

“So,” Fury said after a few moments of silence, eye intently watchful of the floors you both now visited. Some had agents give pause and a receptionist even dropped her cup of steaming coffee at the sight of you.

“What brought the wolf out?”

He turned his head slightly when you grunted, ball held up in your mouth to show him what had ensued before his arrival.

It felt like hours that the rest of the team stood in their places, eyes stuck on the elevator door you and Fury both disappeared into.

“Do you think he’ll be mad?” Wanda asked, voice coated in a toxic amount of unease.

She was scared what would happen to you. As a matter of fact; everyone was scared.

The government knew just enough and that was a hard - yet private - case that was not disclosed with the public.

Your existence and your species as a whole had to remain top secret. One slip up that was determined out of hand would grant you a one way ticket to who knows what for punishment.

“It’s okay, Wanda,” Clint assured, “I doubt Fury would do anything like that. I mean, he brought them to us.”

“He’s right. No way would Fury do something like that,” Steve added, firm in his judgement or perhaps what he hoped for.

“We will… figure it out if it comes to that,” Tony sighed from his place. Not often did Tony jump to your defence in cases such as this.

But in the end, you’d proven yourself mostly to be trustworthy.

He had some inkling of reason to believe you wouldn’t cause intentional harm to the team.

The elevator pinged and everyone held their breath as the doors slid open.

Fury and you stood side by side, gazes directed down the hallway towards your team. Your eyes immediately sought out Wanda who gave you a smile but her brows were furrowed.

Fury held up the ball as he strutted forward, like an obedient pup, you followed close to his heel.

“Next time, take the game of fetch outside,” he advised and threw the ball forward and Tony caught it swiftly.

Another good throw. Really bad timing.

You were still hyped up and because of that, you charged forward and closed the distance within a matter of milliseconds.

“Wait no—!” Tony grunted as he was pinned to the floor beneath your weight. “Get. Off!” He growled and you slinked away from him with your tail tucked.

The others did little to hide their laughs at Tony’s unfortunate expense.

“Good job,” you caught Bucky mutter to you as you joined Wanda’s side. You chuffed rather proudly and your head held high.

Steve aided Tony from the floor. “Alright, Fury. We’ll note that down.” Steve flashed a toothy smile and wink your way.

“I have a mission briefing. Ya’ll better buckle up and dress for the cold. You’re going on an undercover operation located in Alaska.”

“Alaska?” Wanda asked in sync with your curious head tilt, ears flopped to the side.

“Alaska. And you also have a guide present right now who is familiar with the territory.”

It didn’t take a second long for your team and yourself to gather what Fury meant, his single eye on you knowingly.

Fury left some time later after he handed the files over that provided more information on your new task in Alaska.

Wanda turned and knelt down in front of you, a hand ran through the thicket of your fur. The act itself made your eyes droop and your chest rumble. Wanda couldn’t keep the full, toothy smile to spread on her lips.

“I think this gives us all the perfect opportunity to play more fetch with our beloved wolf.” Wanda’s words didn’t go unnoticed by the numerous hums of agreement. Truly you felt seen by them all. For the first time perhaps ever, you felt accepted.

You even looked to Tony who shrugged with an eye roll. “I suppose I could indulge in a couple throws myself. So long as I can test my new theory of what travels faster: the wolf or the red ball?”

“Wolfie,” your team chimed in claim of their theory right there.

Your pack that Mother Nature intended for you.

THANKS FOR READING!

✎ no note from the author

on this issue's taglist, we've got: @alexawynters

[aurantiumred]

okay hold on

even if jason was on the high end of the 2 year old height spectrum

a wolf would still tower over him

you think the pup wolves just thought he was like their weird cousin that didn't have enough fur or something

probably honestly

wolves are fucking giant

jason probably was getting regularly overpowered by these guys theyre HUGE

and thats if lupa didn't have some sort of godly/divine height boost which i guessed she did

big woofs

[sohannabarberaesque]

Imagine this escapade with Bon-Bon and Ding-a-Ling shortly after becoming the Divin' Wolf Pups

The scene: Up at some lake in northern Minnesota.

The two young lupine divers dive themselves down to about 15 feet below the surface ... and for some reason, cannot help but sense the impression of being impressed by the sensation that is diving.

Especially being young and free and also just starting out as an irrepressible diving duo just sharing the experience of diving, and over time, in more ways than one. With their fur, more or less, being insulation and comfort, though on occasion, the neoprene wetsuit is likely to prevail.

And they just can't help but feel ... impressed.

[skyward-floored]

Pup

I was looking through my fics since ao3 is back up, and realized I never put this one on tumblr?? A crime. But here it is now. Bapy Twi and protective Hero’s Shade Time for your reading pleasure :)

Ao3 link

————————————————————

There’s a child crying.

A sharp golden ear pricks as the sound of it flits past, soft cries interspersed with hiccups that are desperately trying to be muffled. It’s a fair distance away, the wind carrying the sound of it through the forest, and the ear’s owner glances around and twitches his other ear as the sound continues.

There shouldn’t be anyone in this part of the woods.

A frown tugs his mouth, as much as it can in the form he’s currently in. He’d felt he’d be needed soon in the land of the living, the cure for his spirit’s restlessness drawing nearer by the day, so he’d drawn closer to the kingdom he’d once been the hero of, settling into the form of a divine beast as he’d padded through the woods, waiting and watching.

And then the crying had begun.

He raises his head, his ears flicking, and listens intently, following the quiet sounds towards their origin. Brambles tug his golden fur, but he pulls his way past the thickets, certain that if his hearing wasn’t so sensitive, he likely wouldn’t have heard the child at all.

He hasn’t been walking for long when the crying abruptly goes quiet, cutting off with a fearful whimper. He freezes, sharply pricking his ears before lowering his nose to the ground instead.

He filters out the smells of the forest, ignoring the fresh plants and musky scents of other beasts, searching instead for that of a child. It takes a moment, but a soft, young scent finally wafts into his nostrils, hints of pine and soft hay spiked with fear throughout it... but there’s something else making up the scent of the child that makes him start.

A faint musk of horses, and milk too.

A scent he knows intimately.

He quickly finds the direction where the scent of the child is coming most strongly from, and takes off at an even faster pace than before. The crying had concerned him, but the absence of it worries him even further, and the realization of who this child must be has him trotting rapidly between the trees.

All of a sudden a cry rings out, sharp with fear, and he bolts, paws pounding against dirt and moss alike.

He nearly trips on the roots that stick up from the ground, and mud tries to slip him up, but he ignores them all and runs even quicker, grateful for his long, powerful legs. His fur stands on end as he suddenly enters a clearing, and the reek of monsters hits his nose, but the beasts aren’t what he focuses on.

He only has eyes for the small child huddled on the opposite side of the clearing from him.

The boy can’t be older than two, dirty brownish-blonde hair brushing his face, blue-grey eyes widened with fear. Tears shine in his eyes, and he’s trembling where he’s cornered solidly against a large tree. The sight of him is almost entirely blocked off by monsters, all with weapons drawn and malicious grins twisting their already grotesque faces even further.

But what most sets his hackles rising and a growl rumbling through his chest, is the sight of the tip of a blood-red blade pointed at the child’s neck, held by a foe the golden wolf knows well.

A Shadow.

He growls, and the shifting darkness turns, glancing towards him with a startled look in his eye. But the emotion is quickly smothered, replaced instead with an amused smirk.

“Now this is a pleasant surprise,” he remarks nonchalantly, as if he’d suddenly dropped by for tea rather than found him about to murder a young child in the middle of the woods. “You’re looking quite a bit older than last I saw you. But I suppose regret does weigh a man down, doesn’t it?”

He lets out a deeper growl in response, and the Shadow chuckles.

The darkness making him up abruptly shifts, settling into something less formless. A broad form with a pelt draped across the shoulders slips into view, a normally kind face twisted into a smirk. Tattoos glowing a faint red as bangs brush across his forehead, and the golden wolf almost takes a step back at the familiar face now looking at him.

But he checks himself, standing his ground with a snarl.

“Perhaps it was forward of me, but I went ahead and introduced myself to your descendant,” the shadow says, smiling down at the young boy he’s still pointing his sword at. The child shrinks away, and he laughs again. “I must admit, I don’t see much of a resemblance.”

He suddenly dips down and snatches the boy up by his tunic’s collar, eliciting a startled cry from the child.

“Take a good look at what you become, Link,” he says in a low voice, ignoring the boy’s struggling. “Because this will soon be a future that doesn’t exist.”

He draws his blade up again, pressing it to the child’s throat.

Link whimpers and the golden wolf grows dangerously, but he’s unable to do anything without risking his descendant’s life. There are simply too many weapons pointed his way, things that could go wrong, and the wolf darts his eye around for an opening.

“It’ll be quite fascinating to see what happens to this time period without you to save it,” the Shadow says mildly, teasing the blade closer. “Eternal Twilight sounds rather intriguing to me. I wonder what will become of Hyrule?”

He glances back at the wolf, who feels desperation start to sink into his chest.

“What do you think, Hero of Time?” the Shadow hums, and the golden wolf feels his heart clench when the red blade draws a single bead of blood from the boy’s throat. “A snap of the neck, or a sword through the chest? I’ll let you decide.”

He lets out a fearsome snarl, blood roaring in his ears.

The Hero of Twilight cannot die now, he is too important a player in future events, too important to the fate of Hyrule. He plays an integral role in history, and killing him now would damage the flow of time irreparably, both in the Twilight invasion and later in their quest to take down the Shadow.

Not to mention the fact that this is his descendant, the only living remains of his family, of his wife, of his children—

Twilight cannot die now.

The Shadow waits for him to make a move with a smug grin, certainly expecting him to try something. The wolf recognizes the look in his eyes though, and knows that if he so much as takes a step in the wrong direction his descendant will be dead before he can even think about attacking.

He glares at the Shadow as a terrified tear escapes down Link’s cheek, feet burning with the desire to get the child out of his clutches and somewhere safe. But the darkness only smiles at him, a satisfied look in his eye as his descendant continues to struggle.

It’s the look of someone who believes he’s won.

And the thing is, he likely would have too, if not for the fact that the hand of the child in his grasp suddenly begins to glow.

Blindingly.

The boy’s hand flashes, and the shadow shouts in surprise and drops him. It’s the only opening the golden wolf needs to leap forward at the nearest monster, tearing it’s throat out without any provocation. The beast lets out barely a gurgle as it falls, and the wolf leaps at another, tearing through the group that stands in his way. It doesn’t take him long to fight his way to the middle, and he leaps forward, standing protectively over his descendant.

Their Shadow hisses in anger, and the golden wolf matches it with a growl of his own, the two taking stock of each other.

He can hear Link’s heart thudding nearly out of his tiny chest behind him, and glances back at him just once, taking in the tear-stained cheeks and trickle of blood on his neck. Then he turns his attention back on his old foe, who should be long gone in this era of history.

“Obviously I should have gone after you first,” the Shadow snarls, eyes blazing. “I’ll kill you both, Hero of Time, and I’ll make you watch as I rip your descendant to pieces in front of you.”

Instead of replying, the golden wolf launches himself at the Shadow’s throat.

The movement is startling enough that his teeth connect, though not as solidly as he would’ve liked. He bites as deep into the thick, dark magic that makes up his foe as he can, ignoring the familiar visage the Shadow is still wearing, and the darkness shrieks.

He lurches backwards from him, black blood spraying down his front as he swings his sword, and the golden wolf goes to attack again despite the stinging cut now marring his cheek.

He fights with a ferocity he usually doesn’t give into, claws gouging and teeth snapping as he protects the child behind him. The Shadow is no match for one as skilled as he, even with his tricks and skills of his own, and soon the golden wolf is standing above him, shadowy form barely held together.

Black blood seeps into the forest floor, and while the golden wolf sports a few injuries himself, none are overtly dangerous. Blood trickles down his snout as he steps onto the Shadow’s chest, and he levels the darkness with a terrifying glare.

“LEAVE,” he roars, and with one last look of pure hatred, the shadows disperse, sliding back to whence they came.

The golden wolf lets out an exhausted huff, and sits down for just a moment.

He takes stock of himself, and makes sure the clearing is completely void of any more dangers before turning around to look at Link. He pads slowly over to the boy still shaking against the tree, aware that the sight of him will likely be frightening due to the fight he just witnessed. There’s blood in his fur and he’s still panting for breath, but Link merely stares at him, a few tears still rolling down his cheeks.

His blue-grey eyes, so familiar to the wolf, flit across his face, fear still bright in them. But they also shine with an odd curiosity, and wonder along with the terror.

He supposes that makes sense. Twilight always had loved dogs.

The golden wolf stops a few paces from the child, sitting down and allowing him to make the first move. After a long moment, the boy inches a little closer, and reaches out a trembling hand towards him. It alights on his muzzle, and he allows the child to run a few shaking fingers gently down his snout, which seems to convince him he’s not a threat.

The boy then launches himself at the wolf, snuggling tightly into his fur as he begins to cry again.

The golden wolf lets out a soft whine, meant to be comforting, and Link sniffles loudly as he presses his head against his neck. He seems content to stay buried in his fur a while, and the golden wolf breathes in slowly, allowing himself to once again taste the familiarity that lies in his boy’s scent.

The child doesn’t have the exact same scent as home, or even the same as when they traveled together. But it’s there, and as he gently nuzzles the tears from his cheek, that old familiarity both soothes and pains him.

“This is all natural strength!”

“I’ll uh, heh, look into getting him a proper rod...”

“Any chores that need to be taken care of? I’m familiar with farm work.”

“Oh, this means our little ones will have families of their own, and them after— oh I’m getting ahead of myself!”

“Win this fight! Show us that courage can fight in every battle!”

The child lets out a wet hiccup, and the golden wolf curls himself around him, trying to exude as much comfort as possible. The boy crying into his fur shouldn’t have to worry about monsters yet, about Shadows that attempt to destroy and kill, or the hero he’s going to someday become.

He‘s too young to have to worry about his future.

He sits curled around the boy for as long as it takes him to calm down, hiccupy sobs gradually slowing. The sniffles continue, but at some point they’re accompanied by the growling of his stomach.

The wolf pricks his ears at that, and pokes Link with his nose, making him startle a bit and raise his head. The boy wipes some tears from his eyes and looks at him with a confused expression, and the golden wolf gently pushes him towards his back, hoping the young boy will get the hint.

Link takes a minute to realize what he means, but once he does he easily clambers onto his back, still sniffling a little. The wolf feels his hands clutch at the thicker fur by his neck, and he carefully stands up, beginning to trot off through the woods again.

He knows exactly where he needs to take the boy.

The trip to his destination isn’t too far, but between making sure his charge doesn’t fall off his back, and avoiding the occasional monster that dwells in the woods, it takes longer than he’d prefer. By the time he reaches the spirit’s spring, the sun is nearly set and Link is fast asleep on his back, nestled into his fur with little breathy snores escaping him.

The sun is low in the sky, but a few orangey rays of light still shine through the trees, making the water almost glow as the wolf settles down next to it.

As he quietly waits for the boy to stir, a fairy flits by, pausing upon seeing him. She greets him with a chime, which he acknowledges with a nod, and she zips over, jingling worriedly at the injuries he and the child have sustained. He shakes his head at her to tell her not to worry about it, but she spins a few tight circles around them both anyway, and the handful of stinging wounds the golden wolf had been ignoring fade quickly away.

He gives the fairy an grateful look, and she chimes warmly as she continues on her way, disappearing into the fading light.

He watches her go, then gently slides the boy off into a soft patch of grass, pausing when he lets out a murmur in his sleep. But his descendant settles down again, and inwardly he sighs in relief. He settles in next to him to wait, and carefully licks off some of the blood that still stains his neck, going back and forth between cleaning out his fur, and trying to tidy Link up a bit too.

He doesn’t bother keeping an ear out for danger. This spring is a safe place, secure from darkness, and if he’s right about the village that lies only a few hills away, this is where Link is meant to be.

Footsteps suddenly approach from nearby, and the wolf pricks his ears as he listens to them. He gives Link’s cheek one last soft nuzzle, the boy beginning to stir, then slips away to watch from a distance, hidden in the bushes.

Right as he settles in, a young man walks into the spring, blonde hair held back with a bandana. His focus is on the open gate, fiddling with the mechanism that probably locks it once the doors are together, but then Link’s stomach lets out a loud growl.

The man startles and turns, and meets the wide eyes of Link, who is staring at him with an equally surprised look on his face. The man blinks at the sight, and releases the pommel of his sword he’d reflexively grabbed.

“A Hylian?” he murmurs to himself, obviously confused at the sight in front of him.

The man’s eyes take in the dirt coating the child seated in the grass, old tear tracks on his cheeks and dried blood speckling his front. He doesn’t outwardly react, but the wolf sees the confusion in his eyes change to outright concern, and the man gets down to a knee, giving Link a gentle look.

“Where did you come from little one?” the man asks softly, and the wolf watches as Link shrinks down and doesn’t answer, lip quivering.

The man hums, and carefully inches closer, reaching a hand out.

“It’s all right,” he reassures gently, and Link looks up at him, appearing less afraid. “I’m not going to hurt you. Are you hungry? I can get you some food, my wife is making dinner right now.”

Link hesitates, and glances back once at where the golden wolf is hidden with a worried look. He seems to consider, then finally steps closer, reaching out and taking the man’s hand. The man’s face brightens into a smile, and Link relaxes, letting himself be pulled a little closer.

The golden wolf watches in satisfaction as the man, whom he knows is named Rusl, brushes some of the dirt off Link’s face, giving him a reassuring smile.

He doesn’t know the exact tale of how Rusl ends up an adoptive father to Link; Twilight had never gone into much detail when it had come up, and he’d said before even he didn’t remember all the specifics. But he couldn’t have picked a better man to take care of his descendant if he’d tried, and despite him being unable to see it, he gives Rusl a respectful nod.

Rusl then picks up Link, gently and carefully, and settles him into his arms. Link freezes at first, but then sinks into the man’s hold, head resting tiredly on his shoulder.

“Come on little one, you’re safe now,” he says gently, and Link sniffles once, an arm wrapping tightly around Rusl’s neck. “Let’s get you inside, and get some food in you. Then we can try and figure out where you’re from.”

Rusl then stands and looks around the spring one more time, calculating gaze lingering on a paw print sunk into the sand. But it’s getting darker by the second, and nothing else appears out of place, so Rusl leaves the spring, Link tucked securely into his arms.

Time watches them go, single eye glowing silently in the twilight.

[fangdokja]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐋𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐫 ~ 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐚𝐫

He’s been chasing you for hours.

You’re fast. Desperate. Sprinting through the snow with every ounce of strength left in your fragile little body. But he’s faster. Stronger. A wolf bred for war, muscles coiled like steel beneath his skin, instincts honed to the sharpness of a blade. You never stood a chance.

Childe watches you trip. Watches you crawl. Watches the way your thighs tremble as you try—pathetically—to escape. His lips curl. You’re running on fumes now, every step dragging you closer to the inevitable.

You smell divine.

Heat-drunk and terrified, your body reeks of submission, of slick coating your trembling thighs, of a sweet, ripe omega desperate for a mate. Even through the frost, it thickens the air, clogs his lungs, makes his cock ache.

He growls.

It’s over in a blink.

A blur of movement—then you’re pinned, face-down in the snow, a crushing weight bearing down on your spine. His fangs graze the nape of your neck, sharp and cruel, teasing the vulnerable flesh beneath. You jerk, whimper, but he just laughs, pressing his chest flush against your back.

“There we go,” he breathes, voice thick with amusement and hunger alike. His fingers wrap around your throat, tilting your face towards his own. “Got you.”

A sob rattles through you.

His cock throbs.

“You know,” he muses, rolling his hips against your ass, “I was gonna play with you a little longer. But you smell so fucking good.” His tongue flicks against your ear. “Think I’ll just take what’s mine now.”

Panic surges. You thrash, a pathetic attempt at resistance, but his grip tightens, shoving your cheek into the snow. His claws tear through the fabric of your clothes, ripping them away like paper, exposing fevered, shivering skin to the frigid air.

You’re soaking.

It makes him groan, makes his cock twitch as he ruts against your slit, smearing your arousal across his length. “Fuck,” he rasps. “You’re dripping for me.”

A sob catches in your throat.

Then he’s inside you.

The stretch is unbearable—his cock forcing you open, splitting you wide around the thick, unrelenting length of him. Your body clenches, revolts, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, just drives himself deeper, deeper, until he’s buried to the hilt.

You’re too tight. Too hot. Too perfect.

A guttural growl rips through his chest as he sets a brutal pace, rutting into you like a beast in heat. His grip bruises, his weight crushes, his cock slams into the deepest parts of you with every vicious thrust. Slick drips down your thighs, obscene and messy, mixing with the snow beneath you.

You convulse when his knot swells.

“Gonna fill you up,” he groans, grinding deep. “Gonna breed this pretty little cunt until you’re dripping with my pups.”

And there’s nothing you can do to stop him.

Official TAG LIST of “The Red Ledger”: @save4h , @rofkshinee , @songbirdgardensworld , @yanderedrabbles

[gotstabbedbyapen]

Can I have Apollo being protective of Artemis and Artemis being protective of Apollo headcannons perchance?

(I love your head cannons, your awesome btw all you post are bangers)

Thanks for enjoying my headcanons 😘

I did a couple of Artemis-Apollo heacanons along with other second generation Olympians before. But now I've made a couple more!

Although Apollo was the main killer of Python, Artemis was also there to support him from behind. But before the battle, Apollo made his sister swore to flee first if it became clear they would lose, letting him stay behind holding Python back.

Artemis faked making that oath, intending to drag her brother away with her if the situation was dire or even use herself as a distraction to make time for Apollo to run.

Neither knew about the other's intention to sacrifice themselves for them to this day.

Phoebe initially wanted to gift Delphi to both Artemis and Apollo, but Artemis declined, saying she wouldn't be able to keep herself from abusing the prophetic power so it's best to let Apollo take over it. The real reason is Artemis didn't want to lessen Apollo's domain and become his competitor.

When Gaia and Athena created their own divination which threatens Apollo's rule over prophecy, Artemis stood up for her brother and petition with Zeus (along with Apollo himself) to allow Apollo's oracle to be the best place to receive prophecies.

They are the definition of "No one can pick on my twin except for me!"

Artemis doesn't allow anyone except Leto and herself to do Apollo's hair, as they were the only one did it when they were young. If someone were to braid Apollo's hair even just a small one, Artemis would pop out of nowhere and slap their hands away while glaring at them.

Apollo is just as cautious of Artemis' companions as Artemis is with Apollo's. Both will give the new people a warning talk, but while Apollo can be convinced by true genuine, Artemis is the sister version of a Shotgun Father: the Archer Sister who puts her bow and arrow in front of Apollo's lover as a silent threat when he first introduce them to her.

Artemis and Apollo killed all of Niobe's children not only because the queen grievously insulted their mother, but she also insulted their twin.

Apollo is lowkey jealous of Persephone as she is Artemis' second closest/most favorite sibling and would (playfully) compete with her if he felt his #1 position got threatened.

Not a protective headcanon and IDK why this happened but one night I had a vision of kid Artemis and kid Apollo tearing apart and eating an animal carcass together like little wolf pups.

[chirp-a-chirp]

Ikemen Prince: Alternate Descriptions

Jin: Shirtless = Best outfit

Chevalier: Negotiate = I’m glad you agree with my decision

Clavis: Please leave = Please don’t leave

Leon: Book = Wordy pillow

Yves: Peacock = Fancy chicken

Licht: Wolf = Fluffy murder pup

Nokto: Pregnancy Test = Maybe baby

Luke: Bear = Danger teddy/Honey snatcher

Sariel: Whip = Nope rope

Rio: Emma = Goddess (pre-relationship)

Rio: Emma = Goddess divine (post-relationship)

Silvio: Emma = That B**ch woman (pre-relationship)

Silvio: Emma = That woman love of my life (post-relationship)

Keith: Clovers = Leprechaun flower

Alt!Keith: Clovers = Leprechaun weed

Gil: Porcupine = Stabby rabbit