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(clip from Kung Fu Brewmaster)

This jolly drunken martial artist was just minding his own business, until he was suddenly struck by planetary machinations that demand... a somewhat passable porn plot. How will his parable unfurl?

Like the many events foretold before the Ancients, this is but one version of a tale unfolding itself.

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[The sobering drunkard] is where you want to Ctrl+F, to skip the L OMEGALUL RE. This work also has some audio embeds; open the links in a new tab if you want to hear it without interrupting your read. For a more streamlined experience (with audio controls), you can read it over at Archive of our Own!

The bitter cold seeps into his furred disposition, like a sopping wet blanket. Even resorting to the most rudimentary of thought-cleansing methods, the clichéd waterfall meditation failed to shake away the sudden neediness from within. This wasn't the first time he'd tried it... why did it fail this time? In bitter disappointment, the brewmaster could only grunt in crestfallen solitude.

Mangix's wayward journey towards White Spire, which doubled as part of a training regimen, wasn't filled with this much internal strife merely days ago. He was damn sure he'd left his lecherous days long after he succeeded the will of Yoy and Oyo. The path towards a prestige as high as "Brewmaster" necessitated for him to leave behind his hedonistic days, both in mind and body. Not once did he ever entertained such matters when it crossed by him. This was of course a feat easily done by the half-Celestial, half-mortal being.

Yet even the gods themselves could not resist the wailings of the Mad Moon. For how peerless his mixed ancestry was, the urges would eventually penetrate through to his core. Slowly but surely, the bipedal red panda had to wrestle against the effects of the Ancients as it starts to take hold. In his case, he was called to the songs of lascivity from his past days.

Turning to the century-old method of sitting under a waterfall, passé as it may seem, was always an option if the terrain itself provided the chance. Luckily as it were, a raging alcove seemed to be uncommon nearby the canopies. Though try as he might, even after half a daylight's duration of harsh waters and piercing winds, all while perched atop a solid rock mound heated by geothermal radiation; the elements failed to pull him back into attunement with the spirits. Even when stripped down to nothing but the brown fur and his fundoshi, his faculties within still remain draped with consternation.

He'd hoped he could at least shake off the sensation before he could resume his training. In the end, Mangix simply had to proceed with his daily drills while under the affliction. 'Perhaps it would do well to train with cognitive weights for once,' he thought to himself. The customary warmup was all he needed to hasten the drying of his fur. A good few minutes of calisthenics later, the giant red panda was ready to don his largely fitting unbuttoned robe and sash his similarly plus-sized black gi trouser. Standing in the open greenery with his rod and ale barrel to his side, the ascetic took only a single deep breath before unleashing a firework of punches and aerial maneuvers.

Belying his sized figure and rattled thoughts, the brewmaster's movements exude such grace that lives up to the name of his legendary title. Even when unarmed, the winds stirred to each strike of his palm. Effortlessly, the large red panda folded his leg upwards to deliver a ground shuddering heel drop, demonstrating his brutal flexibility. Using the warmth from his body heat alone, the martial artist was able to imbue his strikes with bursts of energy. Cyclically, the rotation of strong, fast, and controlled sets encapsulated a near perfect control of the split primalities within

Slowly, he'd regained the spirits attunement once more, and reached out to the staff and casket nearby. A chug and a splash of his sacred brew was all it took for him to feel himself once more. The undulation of powers that stir within propelled his movements to greater ferocity, and at even greater agilities. Between each set of brandishing of his chained staff, Mangix took the time to carefully besot himself with another swig from his casket. The Order of Oyo claimed that inebriation can unlock the hidden potential of oneself. This long line of belief culminated into a sect which has trained many brewmasters under their teachings, deep within the Wailing Mountains. It was perhaps destiny for a half-Celestial candidate to rise up and deliver what is considered to be the most promising brewmaster yet.

As expertly as he tried to hone on to his drunken senses, the spine-tingling sensation rears itself once more like a hangover pang, causing a momentary stumble. Even after regaining his posture once more, he couldn't shake off the withdrawn urge that occupies the hidden space within his psyche. A brewmaster's brand of arts treaded very lightly between one of pleasure and power. Harnessing strength from such fluxing sources is a skill acquired by many years of potentially lethal training, leading it to be mastered by even fewer.

Memories of his austere purpose; to prepare for a prophetic schism, flashes by, yet this brute-forcing of a realignment only served to twirl his thoughts even deeper into disarray. His exercised actions turn sloppier, as he'd even forgotten to keep basic form. Slowly, Mangix's coordination takes a turn for the worse, as his enlightened state begins to bog down with doubt.

He knew it was fruitless at this point to continue. Compelled to take a breather, the sweaty red panda haunched to his toes to unbuckle the barrel-strap beneath his arms before collapsing unto an even more perspirant surface below. The tremoring impact of his tush sent cold shudders throughout. Oh how it nags at him deeply. Embers of desire smolder from within, reminiscent of the time he'd discovered the fiery aspect to his spiritual heritage. However no amount of training could put out such coloration of flames.

As pointed out by his tenting pants, it was indeed the color of lust. As important as the teachings were to him, he understood that as a brewmaster himself, even the most stringent of rules had to be bent under dire times. Celibacy is an aspect of the order not to be taken lightly. But it had overcame him like a vice, and its grip grow tighter by the second.

"Forgive me, my ancestors. But the spirits move me."

As long as he could remember, drinking was intertwined with all manner of Mangix's deportment. But this was one battle that he feared to undergo with any liquored assistance, for even he has yet to understand the influence of the Ancients, both in hows and whys. For now he can only answer the 'what', by removing the obstruction to his hardening member.

The sobering drunkard stood and casted off his sweat-absorbent gi, revealing a 5 inch chubby. Grassy soil made soft by a healthy climate provided a distractionless seat for his buttocks, allowing him to devote all his attention to gently stroking the hardening mass. With his right arm planted for balance and his left wrapped around his meat, a mix of sweat and precum danced at his fingertips, as he slowly pushed off any remaining guilt left in him. It'd been years since he last actively touched himself, let alone entertain any trailing thoughts of heated debauchery.

Though it still felt somewhat wrong, any remaining inhibitions melted away with each feverish breath as he daintily toyed with his stick. A slick coating of drool was all he needed to get into the groove again. Eager to release his building body heat, Mangix's lips reflexively pursed open, slowly becoming ajar.

The intensity of his drubbing reached a state where it couldn't be supported by his own arm alone. His elbows would occasionaly buckle under his own weight, especially right when it was starting to get good. Not wanting to waste a moment of it, the red panda clumsily jostled his arm outwards to his trustly wine casket that was luckily within reach, and hastily propped his right elbow atop.

To say that the minor annoyance didn't ruin his streak would be a lie, but Mangix wasn't deterred. With the barrel present to provide support, he could focus on reaching that same high once more. Gone now are all his reservations, as all thoughts are consumed by the need to vigorously beat his meat. With an amateurish grip, soft murmurs followed every powerful stroke as he mercilessly slicked his entire length in a drunken haze.

In the following minutes of intense rubbing, his stiffness reached a noticeable peak. But no matter how much he altered his handling method, the only thing that grew is in its soreness and redness. As disappointed as he was, he couldn't give in to frustration that easily. For better or worse, his brewmastery training sealed off his compulsion for such thoughts. Though this doesn't change the fact that there is a dearth in receptivity for his release.

Damn. He was so close. The eleventh hour was upon him, yet the cruel spirits seemingly snatched the clock away from him completely. His aching boner is slowly receding, pulling him down from what little high he could attain. He wasn't ready to lose so easily to the hold of the Dark Moon.

His freed hand still slick with saliva, Mangix pulled out the last trick in his bag; one that he personally never inclined towards. Letting his arm off the barrel, the heavy-set beastman crashed on his back, and stuffed a lone finger deep into his reaches below. With both legs up, his middle finger slowly gained access to an area long untouched since his days of experimenting with the boys.

Mangix bit his lip as he had to overcome the initial sting of reentry, but it was over before he knew it. Jostling about his insides, an accidental brush against his pleasure spot elicited a full body reaction, as it was an instinct he didn't knew he possessed. The entrance to his cream-colored hole tightened on the spot, and his breathing grew even more ragged. In tune to his clenching hole, the masturbator could feel his dick respond, though not in any way he could internalize.

But one thing's for sure; it felt damn good. Wrestling his finger even deeper inside against the tightening cave, Mangix could feel time momentarily stop whenever his prostate was pressed upon. Unbeknowst to himself, his bodily reactions was minute yet obvious. The hiccuped moan, the sudden jolt of his raised legs, and the unseen leak of stringy precum. All that mattered to him at that point was to keep striking that spot. The Mad Moon that sent him on this path was no longer an occupying thought.

Slowly, he turned away from his supine position to his side, and rotated further to his knees while keeping his head down; a full 180 from lying on his back into a prostrated position. All throughout, his finger is still tucked inside his ass, refusing to let go of the newly discovered rush. Even better yet, with his butt now aloft in the air, he could feel the tiny aches disappear as it faces the cool breeze.

With the extra real estate for more uninhibited fingering, Mangix lets himself have it, with nothing held back. He cared not for the dirt gathered upon his face and fur. The endorphins flowed endlessly, as he continually wracked his insides however he could with his nimble digits. Yes; as time passed, one finger turned to two. Fortunate as it were that no eyes were around to see how a prideful brewmaster could turn into a slovenly plaything, groveling in the grass with his rump held high in search of fulfillment, like a rabbit in heat.

In time, the articulation from his own tiny hands could only do so much, even as he lied as face down as possible, and ass maximally up. The rush of pleasure begins to dwindle ever so slightly, unexpectedly panicking the burly martial artist. Try as he may to further jab inwards, his meek squeals could not artificially sustain its initial outpour of endorphins that only minutes ago sent waves across his large figure. In desperation, the proning Mangix's eyes turned to his trusty flail. The shorter end of the chained pair of sticks... its bulbous tail end... the cylindrical iron-balled tip... and the veiny-pink silicone weatherproof cover to top it all off. It almost seemed too perfect of a means to his end. Having to retrieve it from a few steps away, the red panda kicked away his dirtied pants around his ankle, and wasted no time to awkwardly unlatch the top-end of his plated flail. Teetering back towards his planted barrel, the forbearing emptiness within Mangix forced his impatient steps to accelerate further.

Without delay, the hazed red panda didnt't even bother sitting down properly, instead opting to hover a squat. Only a modicum of slobber was sputtered with his tongue, as his wrinkling tender hole couldn't wait much further to be filled once more. With his right arm comfortably affixed to the wine barrel, Mangix eased the trembling rod in his hand slowly into his tight hole. His fingers did enough of a trick to accustom for the head, until a real challenge exposes itself in the widening process. The unfolding of his entrance as more of the rod kisses his insides is a bittersweet rosy process; a flower with similarly mighty thorns to match its sweetness.

But the big man knew the nature of it all too well. Like finely aged wine, the burn as it goes down is part and parcel with most hedonistic acts. Wincing as the flailhead enters inch by inch, a stupefied look plastered across his browed face underlines the latent buzz he's receiving, as it started to clash against his long dormant inner spot. His inexperienced orifice however offers a painful reminder to slow down every few seconds, as his hunger will need some time to match his appetite. Though not long after, a good few minutes of digging was all it took to completely open up to the broad makeshift shaft.

Twinges of pain be damned, the carpet of pleasure begins to unroll itself as his hands picked up its pace with the insertions, only slowing down occasionally when he needed to catch a breath. He surprised even himself when he could lug the entire length across his tunnel, letting out a choked moan in the process. So impactful was the magnitude of this particular stab that it wobbled Mangix's feet to a point where gravity won over.

Stuffed to the handle, his cheeks traveled a short distance to meet the ground, pushing his tool to plunge deeper into unexplored horizons.

Yet this small mishap did nothing to deter his mastubatorium. True to his fortuitous nature, the daring fall sent waves of endorphins so intense it tremored all the way to his drooping moustache. The currents continued to circulate as Mangix laid bare on his ass, his knees too overwhelmed to even flex properly.

Following a good minute of capitulation, the big man could feel his legs once more. Though the electrifying sensation died down as well, much to his chagrin. Yet the lingering essences of the pleasure conduit provided him with all the drive to see his passion session to a definite closure. With full strength, he raised his left leg to ensure underhanded access to the flail tip, and grant a clear path to become absolutely thrashed.

Gently, his left hand tucked the deeply registered dildo outwards, savoring the tasteful friction as it slides against his insides. In full display of approval, his fat cock stands at attention as it receives what it has craved for so long.

(from @VHKAnsfweer on twitter)

Slicking sounds of his sopping wet panda hole goes almost unnoticed to the owner, as he was too deep in facilitation. But there is no faulting the exorbitant amount of sputum applied, for his ass was just that tight. And it needed all the help it could get to break through with as little discomfort as possible.

Practically a virgin just hours ago, Mangix is able to thunderously clap the rigged rod right up to the rim, leaving virtually no dead time in his moving hands and heaving lungs. Both his chest and anus are very much puffed up at this point, to oblige his hastening pace.

Now the red panda is in full control, freely adjusting between the frequency and depth of his dildoing, using the plentifully dripping precum to further fuel his hormonal charge. In his compromising position, he was more than aware of his naturally hardening penis. Any remaining aspersions of his taboo act are all swept away, all he could ever want now is to get fucked silly.

The mad moon's influence over him became as shaky as his entire conscience. Stabbing against his flaring bum, his hands feel like it has a mind of its own, as it rapidly climbed in intensity. The ceiling to his breaking point grew higher with each aggression against his pucker. The sweat on his trained arm is practically what's keeping the lubrication around his tender tuckus from drying out. His bulging erection on the other hand leaked fiercely with each cyclic thrust, begging for an eventual release.

And when he least expected it, an angling shot of pure white flew ahead of Mangix. Spasms following his climax forced his ass to clamp down even harder against his insertion, triggering neurotic sparks which cascaded to an even harder cumshot. The feedback loop between his handsfree ejaculation and tightening curves continued its back and forth, until there was nothing left in the tank. Not even bothering to whisk his dick out any remaining trapped seme, the brewmaster could feel both his strength and the grasp of the Ancients fade away. All he could do is slowly push out the occupying object from within him, and slump on his sides.

As minutes clocked by, Mangix's heart rate slowly lowers to a rest, but his mind was filled with clarity in a near instant. The red panda lying in nude feel mentally strenghened after the affair, both in mind and heart. Though the moment of sagacity was a double-edged sword, as he was made ascerbically aware of how badly he ravaged his previously pristine backside. Even after a while, he could still feel his walls throbbing as it attempts to close.

A curious clench only served to painfully remind him; perhaps it's better that he attended to his clothes and stained bludgeon after an extended reprieve. He deserved as much at least, since a planetary hold had just left his psyche and all.