#wolf divided

[lothli]

An Unmaking: Masterlist

World is heavily based on the world of Weather Factory's games, Cultist Simulator and Book of Hours, and does not necessarily strive for 100% accuracy.

An Unmaking is an independent work and is not affiliated with Weather Factory Ltd, Secret Histories, or any related official content. It is published under Weather Factory’s Sixth History Community Licence.

Available on AO3 and Spacebattles. Rough drafts are available on my subreddit. Read at your own risk.

There used to be links here, but to be honest, posting serialized works on Tumblr is exhausting. I recommend Ao3 if you want to read.

[engravedlives]

random misc dog wolf werewolf graphics pixels stamps blinkies

[animatedglittergraphics-n-more]

requested by anon - find more here

[romaritimeharbor]

FAMILY, OF SORTS. — in which kafka, blade, and silver wolf are an odd but quite special found family to be a part of.

— trigger & content warnings. mentions of unspecified injury.

— pairings & notes. fluff, found family. kafka & teen!reader, blade & teen!reader, silver wolf & teen!reader. 1.3k words. reader is a stellaron hunter. reader is gender neutral (they/them pronouns used).

— author's notes. the sillies <3 APHE POSTING???? APHELION POSTING REAL AND TRUE????????? i had a request for this on my old blog (from my dear beloved moot @starryshinyskies <3) so i decided to finish it 💪 nd tagging @www-brontide since i know you were excited for this post HEHE anyways how are we feeling about this formatting? if you guys don't like it i'm very open to changing it back. i'm just experimenting with my post format is all 🫶

kafka seems strangely motherly to me. caring and doting in her own unique ways, but also quite strange and odd in those same ways. an enigma of sorts.

she is the kind of person to always send the stellaron hunters' youngest member texts throughout the day; these texts range anywhere from silly and inconsequential to sweet messages letting [name] know that she was thinking about them.

(her doting nature is not dissimilar to how she thinks of and regards the trailblazer... hm.)

KAFKA

My coat got stained again :(

Won't you help me clean it when you get home, little one?

[ 1:22 PM ]

KAFKA

I saw a new movie today.

It made me think of you. It was quite to your tastes.

Perhaps we should go see it together sometime, hm?

Ah, but you're probably asleep by now...

That's fine. You do need it more than the rest of us.

Sleep well, darling.

[ 11:34 PM ]

she thinks of her little one quite frequently and has been known to pick up little trinkets from different planets that reminded her of them. a phone charm, a set of rings, something more practical like a new weapon... she once returned with a nice coat that matches one of hers. her gifts are always unpredictable but nonetheless very thoughtful.

and when or if they get injured, she is the one who treats their wound(s) with a tender hand.

she does chide them, however.

"you are a stellaron hunter, little one," she reminds, pulling the bandages wrapped around their wound a little tighter, making them wince. it is akin to a slap on the wrist—not enough pain to seriously harm them, but enough to force them to take her words to heart. "if it is not a part of the plan, try your best not to get caught or injured, hm? silver wolf doesn't like to see you this way, and it causes a unique stir in bladie. your getting injured causes quite the unrest among us all! do be more careful next time."

if there is ever a night during which they are struggling to sleep, they are more than welcome to seek out kafka's company.

she would be willing to read them to sleep, if that is what they desired.

however... a far easier method that would ensure they would stay asleep? her spirit whisper ability, of course.

they know kafka would not use it to harm them.

kafka finds their earnest trust beyond endearing. the trust of a little one like them is quite an important gift! the least she can do, she thinks, is assist them when her assistance is needed.

and sometimes, that just means lulling them to sleep.

blade is quite a difficult person to read, regardless of whether he intends to be so or not.

some days, he is distant and prefers to keep to himself. others, less so.

this, though, should not be mistaken for a lack of care. in fact, he cares quite deeply. his care is simply very quiet and he desperately, earnestly, truly does not wish to cause [name] harm.

he is also most likely the one who spars with them and trains them in the ways of combat, which... he isn't exactly the gentlest at doing. training sessions can be quite frustrating in that they often emerge sore and with new cuts and bruises (but really, these injuries are small and insignificant; they are confident in saying that blade would never truly hurt them, nobody in their family would). he does mean well in his tough methods, though.

the universe is not kind or gentle. it will never treat them that way. therefore, he does his best to prepare them so that they can effectively handle the universe's cruelty and defend themselves from it.

one of the ways in which his quiet care manifests is through his treatment of the small wounds he gives them during training. kafka has said many times that she can treat them, but blade always insists on doing it himself.

out of all of their coworkers, blade becomes the most restless when they're away. he gets particularly antsy when they've been gone for a long period or when they're out there alone. kafka always giggles and points out to him how utterly restless he becomes when such circumstances occur.

(he should be assured that they can handle themselves, given that he is their mentor—there is surely nobody else who would know their skills as well as he would—but somehow he simply isn't.)

blade is also, generally speaking, the most protective.

should they come back injured... if it is anything other than a shallow scratch on the cheek, a rage hotter than the brightest star burns under his skin. in those moments, he almost does not dare to touch them, for fear that he might harm them unwittingly... but he does. his hands are somewhat rough when he snatches their face and tilts their chin around to get a better look at the blood (is it theirs? he hopes not) and grime dirtying their face. there is a terrifying threat present in his voice when he demands, not asks, "who did this to you?"

(if kafka was not present in these moments, he might worry that his mara would get the best of him. thankfully, kafka is intentional and present in such situations.)

unless the ones responsible for the wound have already been adequately... taken care of, he will do so himself. there is nowhere in the universe that the perpetrators could hide from him.

it's about protecting them, but it is also about sending a message.

something along the lines of "anyone who lays hands on them will suffer a fate worse than death," perhaps.

death is anything but a terrible fate to blade, but he knows that it is the worst imaginable to some. he will be certain to deliver something infinitely worse, something beyond imagination, to those daring to hurt his younger teammate.

silver wolf is perhaps the least enigmatic of their little family. she isn't an open book, per se, but she's easier to read than kafka or blade... at least, for someone like [name], anyway.

she never fails to harrass them to play a few rounds (which tends to spiral into many, many rounds...) of a game or two with her. why them, specifically? she insists that blade isn't good at them and kafka is kafka. really, it may very well just be that she enjoys spending time with them, but she—of course—will not simply say that.

however... she bullies them terribly about how bad they are. it comes from a place of affection!

she is also the type to win them every single prize at carnivals, just because she likes the joy it seems to bring them. when she encounters rigged games, however, she becomes all the more motivated by her unadulterated annoyance to beat them.

what do you mean she of all people can't beat this awful and horrible rigged game? her???? the silver wolf????? seriously????????

unfortunately, it does not always end in her victory, even when she is infinitely motivated by her anger.

...and she really isn't above just taking one of the prizes when the stall's owner isn't looking. she has done so multiple times for [name].

she would definitely try to teach them hacking (keyword: try) if they aren't already familiar with it. since it has come in handy for her, she figures that they might also find use in it. it's her quiet way of looking out for them.

(her more obvious way of looking out for them is often seen when she is on missions with them. most commonly, it manifests as her snatching their arm and pulling them out of the way of an enemy before obliterating said threat.)

silver wolf is totally the sort of person to pinch their cheeks (to different degrees, kafka and blade also do this!). they are very cute to her.

overall they are a weird but very special little family to be a part of <3

please consider supporting your writers by reblogging and leaving a kind tag or comment. it really helps me out!

[sweetmelodygraphics]

[mournfulroses]

Yes, I like being able to hold on to something forever, no matter how small it is.

Christa Wolf, from "They Divided The Sky: A Novel," publ. in 1963

[dedehfazarte]

[t4timberwolf]

took a lot of photos outside with my man caspian and a new guest eve 👀 where i found her is crazy but that’s for a future video mayhaps

[sister-lucifer]

Could you do more Minecraft wolf dividers, please? Your dividers are so cool!

🐺Minecraft Wolf Dividers🐺

you can find more minecraft dividers under my #minecraft tag

please like, reblog, & credit if you use!

[DIVIDER REQUESTS ARE OPEN!]

DNI: TERFS, endo, proship, pro ana, nazi, MAPs, zoophiles

tag list: @odysseuscore @ghostboneswrites2

[lunaridae]

— Minecraft Spotted Wolf Dividers

[lothli]

VII: Cicatrices Reliquimus

I trudged back home, my body operating more on instinct than with any conscious thought. My heart ached and burned, the blood in my veins seemed to move just a bit slower than before. I sat in my chair, my hands still coated in gore, my head empty. The knife, my knife, sat, cold and keen and pristine, radiating its awful aura, buried deep within my table.

The blood had stopped flowing long ago, coagulating a deep red against my skin. It was not mine. None of it was mine. I stared at it for what seemed like an eternity, the numbness within me only deepening.

The shower was scalding, but I felt nothing. My flesh turned red and raw, and I stared. The warmth should have reminded me of something, yet I remained cold, distant. Unfeeling. My tears fell silently, and my hair and skin were clean. Yet the blood remained, staining not my body, but my soul.

The blade was still there when I emerged. It still had that sharp, disquieting smell, neither blood nor ozone. Something wrathful, something that cursed all of existence.

I passed it by, walking out to my kitchen, only to be stopped by a voice. A familiar voice, if it could even be called that, growling in my ear. It called for division, for anger. It had shown me visions of a dissevered sun and told me that it would bring the same to me, to this city. To the cults. And I would be its fangs, to be wielded against all of existence. It whispered its name: The Wolf Divided.

I turned on my heel. "Why? Why have you chosen me?"

The Wolf did not answer, at least not with words. But it flooded me with its anguish, only satiated with the destruction of the very things it despised most: the Hours and all of their kin, and last, and above all else, itself. It wished to end it all so, finally, it could end its own wretched existence. It saw its hatred within me, my yearning for revenge, my loathing of the cults. It wished for me to be strong. Strong enough to end the Hours and then itself.

The blade called, its edge sharper than I ever thought possible, its keen song the most beautiful music to my ears. It called me. And so, I must answer.

My fate was sealed. The Wolf would not let me go. I would be its fangs. Its instrument, to end its existence. But that did not mean I would not struggle.

"You do not own me. I will not let you take over my body, my soul." My voice shook, my fists clenched tight.

The Wolf did not reply, its anger palpable in the air. I stood, unmoving. I hated to admit it, but our aims aligned. If I complied, I would have the power to end the cults and perhaps even the Hours they worshipped. But at what cost? How many more innocents would I bleed? I would be no better than the very people I despised, an indiscriminate killer under the service of an Hour.

"No," I spat. I would not submit to it. I would carve my own path without the help of the Wolf.

It growled in response, spitting its vile hatred. But within that hatred, I felt a smug certainty. Almost as if it was sure I would return to it. It could wait.

I sat back down in the chair, my knife, its knife, still buried within the table. I picked it up, the metal still as cold as death, the stench of sharpness still in the air. It was no ordinary knife anymore, that was for certain. Steeped in Winter, Edge, and the blood of a Long, it had been remade anew. Now, it was the fang of a wolf. And I would have to carry it, for I had no other weapon. No other choice.

I left it there, staring at it. It shuddered, its anger like a tangible force, but it would wait. It was my tool, and it would be wielded by my will alone. The Wolf was wrong to think that I would ever bend to its whims.

I would use it as a weapon against the cults. Nothing more.

---

The Children were dead. They were gone, and the city had no more to fear from them. But the others were still active, and their cultists walked the streets, scrambling to fill the power vacuum.

I bought myself a second knife, one untouched by Winter, Edge, or blood. Its steel was dull, and its Edge was lacking, but I made do. I was more than enough to make up for my weapon's deficiencies. The Wolf's Fang, as I began to call it, was kept strapped to my leg, where it had always resided. But it would not see any more action. I needed none of the Wolf's vitriolic blessings. Not if I could avoid it.

And so I tracked the cults down. Their members, their cultists, I would cut them down. Even with my dulled knife, it was far too easy. When I wasn't looking, I had become far, far stronger than I'd realized.

They were too weak for me, too slow, and too few to do anything about me. Scrabbling vermin, fleeing before their inescapable end. And with each kill, each life snuffed, I felt the Wolf's approval, its nihilistic delight in death and pain, its desire for an ending to everything it loathed. And so I continued to cut. But each flash of my blade would not be done in the Wolf's name, nor its hate. It would be my hate, my duty, and mine alone.

---

The cultists were dead; their cults were excised. None amongst them had a Long, so they fell with nothing of note. I thought of the Moth Long, who used to dwell in this city, but I could not find him, no matter where I looked. Perhaps he fled upon seeing my power, or perhaps his capriciousness had led him away through no fault of my own. But the cultists were dead, and their plots unraveled.

I was at a loss for what to do next. I had lived for my revenge against the cults, against the people who took everything from me. But the cults had fallen. They were gone, their remnants shattered, and their leaders slaughtered. All that remained was... me.

The Wolf Divided still called. It growled, reminding me that my city was only one of many. It showed me other cults in other cities, snippets of their condemnable actions and their prayers to their Hours.

The Wolf asked me if my hatred was truly satiated.

I knew the answer was 'no', but I still resisted. This was what it wanted, to wield me against all it despised.

But what was left for me if I rejected the Wolf? To grow complacent within my city, satisfied with my meager victory? The other cults remained, far away in their own festering cloisters, and they would need to be cleansed as well. The Divided One's goals and mine were aligned, no matter how much I would wish otherwise. But I was still not the Wolf, and I would never be the Wolf. Never again would my hatred, the edge of my blade, be turned against the innocent. Never again.

I owned few possessions. The clothes on my back, a worn notebook of occult knowledge scavenged from the cults I demolished, and my knives. And now, I was ready to leave. The cults within my city were destroyed. They would not recover for many years. My presence was needed no longer.

A more sentimental person might have lingered, dwelling on some past memory or some fond remembrance. But I had no need for such things as I left without turning back.

[voxofthevoid]

*banging pots and pans together* Goyuu gremlins, come get y'all fucking juice.

I say this as if I'm not inundating you in goyuu every week, but Gojou has been conspicuously absent from my current WIP for...10 chapters and over 70k words. A major character and one half of the endgame ship, and he shows up halfway through the story—JJK has got me making more and more novel (in terms of my writing) narrative choices with each fic.

Gotta say, it feels great to get back into writing Gojou. Last time I tackled him was at the end of September, for the fem!Gojou no-powers oneshot. The necrofic from October beginning has a lot of Gojou, sure, but he's a...well, a corpse. Sinking back into goyuu banter and interactions felt like coming home.

Now, here's Demon/Hunter Horror Wednesday #9, featuring Gojou Sluttoru Satoru in the flesh.

There’s a man on the platform.

It’s the height that startles Yuuji first. He’s freakishly tall. The tallest person Yuuji’s seen—unless he counts Sukuna, which he won’t. Besides, this guy’s all legs, and it’s weirdly fascinating how they move, smooth and graceful under shiny pants reflecting the platform lights. They eat up the platform with long, languid strides, getting closer and closer and—

Yuuji blinks, dragging his eyes from the man’s legs to a face that’s a lot closer than he expects, even though he has to crane his neck to make eye contact—kind of. The man’s wearing sunglasses, those thick black ones that show nothing of what’s underneath, so Yuuji just ends up staring at his own distorted reflection.

His eyes are wide, his mouth a little open. Yuuji closes it, his teeth clicking together.

The height isn’t the only startling thing about the man. His hair is a shock of white, messy strands covering his forehead and even falling over the sunglasses. And Yuuji’s got no leg to stand on when it comes to people with eye-catching coloring, but there’s still something about this man that makes it hard to look away.

“Hi?” he offers warily.

“Hello,” comes the answer, immediate and cheerful. “You a local?”

“Uh, yeah? I guess.”

A tilt of the head. Those snowy strands shift with mesmerizing motions. “That’s not very reassuring.”

“Why…am I reassuring you?”

The man claps, once. “Good point! You’re not a serial killer, are you?”

Yuuji’s so confused. “No?”

“Hmm, you don’t sound very sure about that either.” The man leans closer, which involves a lot of bending. Yuuji blinks at his reflection in the glasses, which blinks right back. “Nah, you’re too cute to be a serial killer.”

“Thanks, I think. Who are you?”

“Gojou Satoru!” The man declares, straightening up and sticking out an arm. “And who are you, my young, uncertain friend?”

Yuuji takes the proffered hand. It’s big, almost swallowing his whole hand when it closes around it. There’s warmth too, seeping boldly into his flesh.

“Itadori Yuuji,” he introduces himself. “I��m very confused.”

“I did get that impression.”

“No, I mean, you’re—” Yuuji shakes his head. “Never mind. Why are you asking weird questions?”

“Hey now,” the man says, his lips pressing into a pout. They’re very shiny. And pink. “Those were very sensible questions. There’s no point asking for directions from a non-local, is there? And it’d be very unwise of me to put myself in the maw of a murderer.”

“Well,” Yuuji says, slightly less confused, “I’m not a murderer. And I do live here. Moved here a few months back. Pretty sure I can give you directions. To where?”

“A recent transplant. I see,” Gojou murmurs, his head still tilted slightly down. Despite the opaque glasses, Yuuji has the distinct sense of being looked at. “Would you happen to know the way to the Fushiguro household, Itadori Yuuji-kun?”

“Fushiguro?” Yuuji repeats. “You know him? Or are you here for Tōji-san?”

“Both,” Gojou says, his smile widening. The glossy gleam of his lips doesn’t hide how sharp the expression is, and for the first time, Yuuji really takes in the rest of his face—the chiseled jaw, the straight nose, the prominent cheekbones. A sharp face, but pretty too. Like Fushiguro’s, except that while Fushiguro’s soft around the edges, this man looks like he’ll cut if touched. “—to me?”

Yuuji blinks back to himself, trying and failing to make sense of what Gojou just said. “Huh?”

That smile grows even bigger, flashing a hint of very white teeth. “I asked if you’re listening to me?”

“Oh. No,” Yuuji admits. “Sorry?”

Gojou hums, tilting his head like a curious cat. “I don’t think you are. But I’ll forgive it if you’re a good boy and take me to the Fushiguros.”

Yuuji swallows, his throat very dry. “I could, but…”

“But?”

“How do I know you’re not a serial killer, Gojou-san?”

Gojou snorts. It’s an ugly sound, rough and nasal. Something inside Yuuji unclenches, like that’s the proof he needed that this guy is human and not some abnormally pretty dream he conjured up. It’d be a kinder dream than usual, but Yuuji can’t trust his imagination anymore.

“I’m too handsome for that, don’t you think?” Gojou asks, his grin grown lopsided.

“Yeah, but—” Yuuji makes a sweeping gesture with his free arm, covering Gojou as well as the rest of the platform. “I don’t think that’s how it works.”

“So there is a brain under all that pink fluff,” Gojou says, his tone weirdly approving.

“I don’t think you get to talk about anyone’s hair,” Yuuji points out, eyeing Gojou’s snow-white strands again.

But Gojou just tosses his hair like he’s in a shampoo commercial. “It’s all natural.”

“So is mine,” Yuuji says drily. “Not the point.”

“Oh? What is your point then?”

“Serial killing. I think.” Yuuji shakes his head. “Whatever. Yeah, I’ll take you to the Fushiguros’ place. Do anything weird and I’ll punch you.”

“Careful,” Gojou purrs. “I might be into that.”

Yuuji just looks at him for a moment, before taking in the rest of the platform with half a mind to foist this guy off on someone else. There’s no one, obviously. It’s not like this place is bustling even during what was the rush hour back at Sendai. Nanami and Yuuji were alone the entire time they waited, and he’s pretty sure no one but Gojou got off from the train.

Plus, he probably shouldn’t inflict this guy on anyone else. Yuuji doesn’t think he’s a bad person or anything, but he’s kinda weird. And Yuuji’s pretty immune to stranger danger.

Except when he walks into cursed churches.

“Come on then,” Yuuji says. “It’s getting late, and Tōji-san usually turns in early.”

Gojou’s lips and cheeks do something very weird. “Fushiguro Tōji has a bedtime.”

“Uh, not exactly—”

Yuuji’s cut off by demented laughter—full-on cackling, filling up the open air of the empty platform. All he can do is watch, nonplussed, until Gojou calms down, and even that’s startlingly abrupt, the noise stopping so suddenly that the resulting silence seems to boom.

“Sorry, sorry,” Gojou says, not sounding all that sincere. “That was just too funny. Guess the single dad life suits him.”

Yuuji thinks of what Fushiguro sounds like every time he has to talk about his dad. “I…wouldn’t say that. Anyway, you coming?”

“Sure,” Gojou says easily. “You going to let me go first, or are we holding hands the whole way?”

“What’re you—”

Yuuji realizes the answer before he even finishes the question, blinking down at his own hand—still clasped firmly around Gojou’s bigger one. He lets go quickly, snatching it back. For a moment, he doesn’t know what to do with it. Wiping it on his pants would be rude. And it’s not like Gojou’s palm was sweaty or anything. It was just warm, and Yuuji’s whole hand sparks like it’s stolen that heat for itself. He settles for folding his arms across his chest. 

Gojou looks entirely too amused. “Pity.”

“Don’t tease me,” Yuuji grumbles, hoping the heat on his face doesn’t actually show on the skin; he knows his odds though, and they’re not good. He’s about to march off, leaving Gojou to choose whether to follow, when something occurs to him. “Wait, are you…”

“Yes?” Gojou prods after a moment, that curling grin still in place.

Yuuji squints up at him, specifically the sunglasses. He doesn’t think Gojou’s blind. People wear sunglasses all the time, though he’s rarely seen ones so dark. And Gojou navigated the platform pretty easily earlier, no cane or anything. Still, the thought won’t leave his head, and Yuuji’s mind refuses to accept the vague sense of being watched as enough proof, so he asks, “Are you blind?”

“How blunt,” is Gojou’s response. “I like that in people.”

“That’s not—”

—an answer, Yuuji doesn’t say because Gojou proceeds to give him an answer, raising one long-fingered hand to pluck his sunglasses off.

A maelstrom of blue slams into Yuuji.

He’s seen blue eyes more than a few times. People he knew, people he passed in the street. Bright ones, dark ones. Then there’s Fushiguro, whose eyes act like some deep-sea trench, shifting from dark green to depthless blue based on the lighting and his mood.

But he’s never seen eyes like these.

It’s not just one shade of blue, but every blue, all at once. Thin threads of shuddering color, spreading out from pupils that swallow all light. It’s breathtakingly bright, like the colors are reaching out of the eyes to claw at the air. Or maybe they’re just swirling inside, chasing each other inside the confines of those irises.

A part of Yuuji knows that he’s imagining it, that Gojou’s eyes aren’t actually nuclear ghosts. But that logic doesn’t quite penetrate the blue haze in his head.

Gojou blinks, cutting off that stream of color, and Yuuji sucks in a breath like a drowning man.

[mmadeinheavenn]

I'm not sure if this technically counts as a request but for your duo fang divider, could you make that a single divider? Thank you.

here you go!!! I hope these are good :D

[sunnimals]

The Coastal Sea Wolf - for Anon

[firefly-graphics]

Witcher School Dividers

Please like and reblog if you use or save.

Requested by​​​ @mochibunne​

Dividers List

[thesummerstorms]

... Low key I want to see Annabeth 's perspective of fighting alongside her mother in Blood of Olympus. It's the first time they've seen one another face to face since the whole Arachne thing or since the disastrous meeting with Minerva.

Like, yes, their first priority would have been the battle itself, but they aren't shown as talking afterwards even. And Annabeth had to have So Many Emotions.

(To be clear. I'm not saying this wouldn't have been a distraction/digression from the ongoing narrative or that it should have been in the book. Even though I felt Blood of Olympus and especially the last two battles were terribly anticlimactic and boring. But I do still want the scene for myself.)