#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

[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

[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.

[catchthattherian]

☾ ᨒ↟ A ᴡᴏʟғ ᴡʜᴏ ʜᴏᴡʟs ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀʀᴋ ᴀɴᴅ A ғᴇʟɪɴᴇ ᴡʜᴏ ᴘʀᴏᴡʟs ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴇᴀᴋ.. ᨒ↟ ☽

⋆｡˚🧺🌲+ —sʜᴇ/ᴛʜᴇʏ - ʙɪsᴇxᴜᴀʟ - ᴅᴇᴍɪ-ɢɪʀʟ - ᴀʟᴛᴇʀʜᴜ��ᴀɴ - ᴍᴏᴛᴏʀᴄʏᴄʟᴇ, ɴᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄʀʏsᴛᴀʟ ᴇɴᴛʜᴜsɪᴀsᴛ - sᴋᴀᴛᴇʙᴏᴀʀᴅᴇʀ - ᴠᴜʟᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴄᴜʟᴛᴜʀᴇ / ʜɪᴘᴘɪᴇ - ᴄᴀʟʟ ᴍᴇ ʙᴀᴢɪʟ ᴏʀ ᴊᴊ

»: ᴡᴏʟғ ᴀᴍʙɪᴛʜᴇʀɪᴀɴ - ғᴇʟɪɴᴇ ᴄʟᴀᴅᴏᴛʜᴇʀɪᴀɴ - ᴛᴀɴᴜᴋɪ - ᴄᴏʏᴏᴛᴇ - sɪʟᴠᴇʀ ғᴏx - ɴᴏʀᴛʜᴇʀɴ ɢʜᴏsᴛ ʙᴀᴛ - ғʟᴜᴛᴛᴇʀsʜʏ (ᴍʟᴘ - ᴅᴜᴘʟɪᴄᴀᴛᴇs ᴘʟs ᴅɴɪ)

»: Qᴜᴇsᴛɪᴏɴɪɴɢ ɴᴀᴛᴜʀᴇᴋɪɴ, ᴀғʀɪᴄᴀɴ ᴡɪʟᴅ ᴅᴏɢ ᴀɴᴅ ɢʀᴇʏ ғᴏx

ʚ 📜+. —Pronouns.cc page - Alterhuman Pinterest acc - Hyperfixation Blog - Crystal Blog - Main Pinterest Acc

[lunaridae]

— Minecraft Woods Wolf

[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

[voxofthevoid]

New Wednesday, new mefic! Nicknaming this one Demon/Hunter Horror Wednesday #1—you'll be shocked to hear it has demons and demon hunters and horror. It's sukuita+goyuu, but the first several chapters will be solely sukuita. Gojou won't show up till around halfway through.

On top of this being my first (modern) fantasy AU for JJK, I'm taking a stab at tropey horror. It'll shift into erotic horror and assorted fuckery quickly enough, but the first chapter is mostly scene-setting and foreshadowing. I'm trying to get better at creating a sense of place; it's something I enjoy a lot when reading but don't really focus on when writing.

Enjoy? Enjoy!

CWs for creepy churches and blasphemy.

He has the passing thought that Sasaki and Iguchi would have loved this shit, and then he’s pushing the door open, stepping into the church—and freezing, immediately.

“…Creepy.”

It’s not worse than the outside. Mostly because the outside makes this look like the kind of place where some of the weirder, bloodier stuff Yuuji’s seen in all those horror movie churches would actually happen. There’s no blood or bodies—at least not where he can see. But what’s there isn’t much better either.

There’s a long, narrow aisle leading to the altar, lined on both sides with lit candles.

Candle after candle after candle, with flickering flames that cast strange shadows on the walls. There are candles mounted there too, thicker ones with globs of wax both dried and dripping down the sides. They’re the only sources of light in the room, except for the moonlight pouring in through the large, uncovered glass windows behind the altar. And where the candles’ lighting is violently warm, the moonlight is cool and soothing. But their combined effect is just eerie, light and shadow twisting together strangely everywhere Yuuji looks—the walls, the floor, his own arms.

There are rows and rows of wooden pews on each side, all empty.

Yuuji squints at them, checking extra carefully to make sure they actually are empty. He can’t see anyone. And he sure can’t imagine why anyone would want to be here at this hour. This place is just—

“Brat.”

Yuuji yelps, jumping a foot in the air. He backs off the moment his feet touch the ground, except he just rams his back into the half-open front door, shutting it behind him with a resounding crack.

“Shit,” Yuuji gasps, pawing blindly at the wood till his hand finds and clutches metal. “Who the hell’s there?”

“You,” says the same voice as before, coming from a thick layer of darkness near the altar, where neither candlelight nor moonlight penetrates, “came into my church.”

“H-huh?”

A figure melts out of the shadows—a man, tall and broadly built, his face a sharp-angled thing with strange shapes on it.

It takes Yuuji a very long moment to realize that the shapes are tattoos, not just shadows.

The man comes closer—and closer and closer, till he’s filling out the aisle, the hem of his dark, flowing outfit dangerously close to the flickering flames of candles.

Yuuji’s tempted to hold up an arm, ward him off from coming any closer, but he’s just as tempted to throw the door behind him open and book it. He can’t help scanning the man either, assessing his build and the way he holds himself and the space between them, and his own body winds tighter in response, the tension in it changing shapes.  

As if sensing it, the man’s face twists into a sneer; there’s ink under his mouth too, dark lines that slope along his jaw to end in crescent curves under his eyes.

“Who are you?” Yuuji asks, more mystified than anything now.

“Are you stupid?” the man asks, giving Yuuji a look that makes it clear what he thinks the answer is. “You’re in a church, brat. What do you think I am?”

Yuuji blinks at him. Then he looks, really looks, taking in everything he tuned out in his shock earlier. The man’s clothes are dark all over—black, for sure. The upper half is practically molded to his torso, showing off shoulders and pecs that threaten to burst out of the restraining fabric. There’s a high collar too, covering his neck almost entirely. But the lower half is loose like a skirt, the hem almost touching the floor, and Yuuji doesn’t know what this thing is called, but he definitely recognizes it.

“I didn’t know priests could have tattoos,” he says dubiously. “Or swear. Is that allowed?”

The man’s mouth curls up at one corner, the expression anything but pleasant. “And if it’s not? Who the fuck are you gonna complain to?”

“God?” Yuuji ventures.

“You see any god here, brat?”

“It’s a church.”

“And?”

Yuuji opens his mouth and closes it. What the hell can he say to that? Plus, the guy’s right in the most literal sense too. He can’t actually see anything…godly around. There’s an altar, sure, but there are no paintings or carvings anywhere near it. The windows behind it are plain glass, without any colorful images of Jesus or whoever. And Yuuji’s familiarity with the insides of churches is also limited to stuff he’s seen in movies or manga, so this could be normal for all he knows.

But it’s still a house of god, isn’t it?  

“You’re the new boy,” the man says suddenly. “I was wondering when you’d have the balls to show up.”

“The hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“You tell me.”

Yuuji scowls and takes a step toward the man, finding they’re already closer than they were when the man stopped moving. Yuuji doesn’t know when he unflattened himself from the door and moved forward, but there’s only a few feet of space between them now, and he can see the man’s features much more clearly.

And his hair is a dark peach in the dull golden light of the candles, but Yuuji’s seen himself in that kind of dim lighting enough times to know what it does to bright-pink hair.

It’s a stupid little detail to notice given…everything else, but somehow, it’s the most unsettling part of this whole thing. Yuuji’s never met anyone else with pink hair, except for very vague memories of his dad back when he was alive. Even the pictures of his grandfather from before his hair turned grey showed a head full of thick red hair, clearly related to Yuuji’s coloring but not really the same.

And it’s just coincidence, plus the priest might be sporting a different shade of pink—but Yuuji has pretty good eyes, even in the dark. He knows that color. And he doesn’t like it.

“I…should go,” he hears himself say.

The priest doesn’t move, but Yuuji can feel his attention sharpen. It’s there in the air, like little knives.

“Leaving so soon?” the priest says softly; his voice grates Yuuji’s spine. “That’s not right. Especially after you came inside without permission.”

The hairs on Yuuji’s nape prickle, and he trusts his gut too much not to understand it as the warning it is.

But while Yuuji might run from some horror movie bullshit, he’s not fleeing from a creepy priest.

“You’re not really doing much to keep me here,” Yuuji tells him. “This place looks like something out of a shitty horror movie. What kind of a church is this?”

“Mine,” comes the reply, predictable somehow. “You’re here anyway.”

Yuuji can’t really deny that, but he doesn’t know what compels him to say, “Not my fault I had creepy dreams about it.”

A slow tilt of the head, a narrowing of the eyes. “Did you now.”

It doesn’t really sound like a question, but Yuuji still says, “Since I saw this place. Like it was calling me or something. Figured it’d go away if I just came here.”

“Calling you,” the priest echoes, his voice dipping further into something that turns every syllable obscene. “Who, brat? God?”

Yuuji waves it off irritably. The words are easy to dismiss, but the man’s voice clings to the inside of his skin. “I know it’s stupid, but I just needed to see.”

The priest huffs; the amusement brightening his expression only makes him look more cruel. He moves closer to Yuuji, his robes flirting with the candle flames, and more than once, Yuuji’s convinced that the hem will catch fire, but it never does, and the man comes to a gliding stop barely a foot away from Yuuji, looming over him with that cruel smirk.

This close, his eyes are a dull, deep red.

It must be the light.

Yuuji hopes it’s the light.

“A bold dreamer,” the priest says, his voice low and strangely rough—raspy, like it’s scraping up his throat. “Have you seen what you came to see?”

Yuuji wouldn’t know where to even begin to answer that.

He says, “I’m leaving.”

The priest says nothing, and when Yuuji takes a stumbling step back, he does nothing to stop him, only watching with eyes that gleam red around the candles reflected in them. Yuuji finds himself backing away without turning around or taking his eyes off the man, but those unblinking eyes and crooked mouth might just be worse than any unseen blow would be.

He finds the doorknob with the small of his back, hissing in surprise.

Call it pride or stupidity, but Yuuji can’t bring himself to open the door while facing the priest. Somehow, he just knows it’d amuse the bastard, and Yuuji refuses—a little too late but still—to give him the satisfaction.

He whips around and yanks the door open, stepping back—into a solid body that yields neither flesh nor space.

Yuuji freezes.

“Go on,” murmurs the priest. “Leave.”