#green mountain rangers

[peachesofteal]

Dad!John Price/female reader The Ocean anthology - previous

You haven’t been inside a bar this crowded since you graduated from university. 

You settle in the corner, avoiding nearly everyone’s eyes, hands cupped around a chipped glass full to the brim with beer. 

You weren’t expecting an island on the brink of a full winter assault to be so… lively.

The room is a party. A party full of people who know one another well enough to call them by first name. There can’t be more than one hundred people living in this town year-round, and you think they might all be inside this dimly light pub, crowded around the waxed cedar bar, laughing and smiling with like they’ve not seen each other in eons. Like they’re long lost, disjointed members of the same family.

Well, all most all of them. 

You don’t see the Ranger. The Caribbean blue eyes, brusque moustache and beard, low brim black beanie, all are missing.

Somehow, it doesn’t surprise you. 

He didn’t seem the socializing type.

Still…

You hadn’t expected such a… clipped welcome. 

And you surely hadn’t expected your ferry buddy, the spunky six-year-old girl who talked to you for most of the ride, to be his daughter.

Somehow, that made his cold, distant nature even worse. 

Here’s a man capable of warmth; his smile said, when he scooped his daughter into his arms. Here’s someone you can trust. Someone who is friendly, genuine.

Just not towards you. He was stiff, uncomfortable, and even though the drive to town was fairly short, he barely spoke to you, answering your questions with the shortest syllables possible. 

He was every bit the Ranger you had heard so little about. Every bit the man turned myth.

And handsome. Rugged.

Older.

Your new friend in the backseat was better company than the man you’d be working with for better part of a year, the Ranger who you’re afraid you can’t do it without. Can’t navigate the island or the tides without him, can’t do half the work you needed to do without a partner. The thing his role is supposed to be, when needed. 

Worse was, the provided housing is a duplex, and he’s on the other side, a fact he gritted through his teeth this afternoon when he dropped you off, gesturing to the right side of the house with a callous wave. His front door was as green as the forest. 

The other was black. 

Your boss did warn you. 

She was tactful, cautious. The island itself carries a reputation; one some may be intimated by, but not you. 

Who are you to fear stewards of the land? They are more akin to you than others, after all.

John though, she lamented with a mournful expression, John was different. 

“John is less than pleased about this placement but assures me it won’t be an issue.”

“Less than pleased?” 

“He’s… protective, but he’ll warm up to you in time, I’m sure. A few days, and he’ll be showing you the ropes. Don’t worry.” 

You keep your nose in your beer. When you’re finished, the next one comes immediately, without prompting, and the bartender swoops low, voice heavy in your ear. 

“On the house.” He winks, and the woman to your left slides closer, curiosity wet on her lips between her drink and the question you know is coming. 

“You’re the scientist?” 

“No, the marine biologist. Cetologist, to be specific.” You cut to the quick and she stares at you, rightfully so. You have the good grace to grimace. “Er, sorry. I’m uh… not great with people.”

“That’s alright. Neither are we, really.” She lifts her drink with a cheers, gesturing to the room, and knocks it back. “So, what’s a cetologist?” 

“I study whales.” She nods knowingly.

“Ah. You’re here for the pod.” 

“Well, I’m interested in the humpbacks too, but yes. I’m mostly here to study the residents.” You were only here to study the pod, but you never said no to a whale, no matter notoriety, or size. You might be getting paid to study the residents, but you were going to soak up every second you could on this island. It’s wilderness was protected and almost pristine, an untamed landscape of mountain and sea too great of a call for you to resist.

The woman stares at you, intrigued, thin veil of amusement dancing in her eyes. “We’re happy to have you. You respect us, we’ll respect you.” The bartender pauses, shining a glass with a hole pocked rag, and glares at her. “Most of us will. Can’t say how John’ll take to ya.” 

“Oh, I work on my own mostly.” You lie, giving her a fake smile that feels awful, and she humphs. 

“Well, it was nice to meet you…” she flounders, and you provide your name, letting it settle in the air, others turning to give you a questioning look, like they’ve been waiting for it too, and she grins, repeating it with a handshake. “Skip the shortcuts through the forest at night.” She adds over her shoulder, hopping off the stool and wading into the crowd without another word, leaving you confused. 

Skip the… skip the what? 

“Ignore her.” The bartender hastily reassures you, but the emotion doesn’t touch his eyes, lingering gazes in the room enough to have you swallowing the rest of your beer in haste and beelining out the door. 

The walk to your rental is short, up the street and take a left, then another, until you reach the only house at the top of the hill, a duplex with a sweeping, wide planked front porch. 

The top step creaks beneath your weight. An ember glows in the dark. 

“Jesus chr-“ Your heart slams against your ribs, pulse thundering between your ears.

He’s silent. The cigar illuminates his face, a flicker of brilliant blue, crystal clear and piercing, pinned onto you like a laser. 

“It’s late.” It’s the admonishment of a father, and indignant rage flourishes down your spine. 

“I’m an adult, thanks.” He’s unmoved by your spite. Settled like the cedars that grow at the heart of this place, tall enough to blot out the sun, wide enough to build houses, boats. 

He pulls. The orange cinder burns red, honeyed smoke and mahogany sweetening the air. 

The smoking is attractive. It's intriguing, dangerous, and draws you closer, other foot coming to rest on the top step, tempting fate.

"You shouldn't be out around here late."

"The entire town is down at the bar." You shoot back, still rising in anger, rattling with it. You’re a grown woman, who is this guy to tell you what you can and can’t do?

His jaw flexes, mouth tightening into a straight line, invisible string pulling him taut before he speaks again.

"They live here, know their way around. It's not always safe." The protest builds, words coming quick, rapid-fire, but before you can speak, you lose your voice to a chorus of howls.

Wolves.

[warrioreowynofrohan]

A bit of a theory that I’ve struck on while rereading the start of FOTR. I think there’s something guarding Rivendell besides the Bruinen. I think Elrond has taken a leaf out of Melian’s book.

There are some hints that the distance to Rivendell varies depending on who you are. Frodo starts approaching the Ford in late afternoon; he is in desperate need of healing, and is brought to Rivendell midway into that same night.

In The Hobbit, in contrast, the dwarves and Bilbo cross the Ford of Bruinen in the morning, and the sun is down by the time they reach Rivendell. There’s lot of references to the journey being longer than Bilbo would expect:

They came on unexpected valleys, narrow with steep sides, that opened suddenly at their feet, and then looked down surprised to see trees below them and running water at the bottom. There were gullies that they could almost leap over, but very deep with waterfalls in them. There were dark ravines that one could neither jump over or climb into. There were bogs, some of them green pleasant places to look at, with flowers growing bright and tall; but a pony that walked there with a pack on its back would never have come out again. It was indeed a mich wider land from the ford to the mountains than you would ever have guessed. Bilbo was astonished.

Then there’s Aragorn’s line when Merry asks him how far it is to Rivendell:

“I don’t know if the Road has ever been measured in miles beyond The Forsaken Inn, a day’s journey east of Bree. Some say it is far, and others say otherwise. It is a strange road, and folk are glad to meet their journey’s end, whether the time is long or short. But I know how long it would take me on my own feet, with fair weather and no ill fortune: twelve days from here to the Ford of Bruinen.”

(By the way, it always amazes me, now I’ve noticed it, that the hobbits manage this journey - which Aragorn says would take him 12 days on the Road, with “fair weather and no ill fortune,” in only 14 days with Frodo severely injured, travelling mainly off the Road, and with some bad weather and wrong directions. Some of that’s due to the extremely fast pace Glorfindel sets for the last twoand a half days, but it’s incredibly impressive.)

If anyone should know the distance from Bree to Rivendell, it should be Aragorn, a Ranger of the North fostered in Rivendell, who has probably covered that journey dozens to hundreds of times. And the Road is fairly straight; it shouldn’t be hard for travellers to keep track of the general distance. And also, Aragorn only gives the distance to the Ford, not to Rivendell itself. What if the distance and difficulty of the Road from the Ford to Rivendell varies, based on how well a guest is known. Frodo is the Ring-bearer, in desperate need; he makes it there fast. Thorin & Company are vouched for by Gandalf, but are largely an unknown quantity; it takes them the better part of a day. Someone with hostile intentions might never find Rivendell at all, even after days of wanderings.

[bullet-prooflove]

Knoxville: Dean Winchester x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @gatefleet @cosmic-psychickitty @shanimallina87 @shadyhologrambanana

Companion piece to:

Gatlinburg - Dean falls in love in a tiny town in Tennessee.

With You - Dean tells you he's going to stay the night.

You, Me & Tennessee - Dean always returns to Tennessee.

On The Mountain - Dean wishes he was back on the Mountain with you.

Feral (NSFW) - Dean gets feral when he sees you with another man.

The blue and pink light from the neon sign behind the bar illuminates your skin as you throw a shot of tequila down your throat. You’re the prettiest damn thing in this place Dean thinks as he slips into the stool beside you, even when you are spitting mad.

You don’t acknowledge his presence, it’s like he doesn’t even exist to you right now and it hurts more than he cares to admit. The thing is he deserves every single ounce of your ire especially after what you’ve just caught him doing in the bathroom.

“I didn’t promise you anything.” He says finally, inclining his head towards you and you don’t say a fucking word as you focus on the empty shot glass. “Look, I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong idea…”

“No you didn’t.” You say as you raise to your feet and slap down a couple of bills for the bartender. “You were perfectly straight with me. I am just another fuck on your journey through the state.”

“Harlow…” He begins but you’re already walking away from him.  

This shit tonight, it’s entirely on him.

Him and Sam were passing through Tennessee on the way to a job in Kentucky. Instead of driving directly to Gatlinburg where you were, Dean had decided they’d spend the night in Knoxville, less than two hours away because he was trying to avoid his feelings for you. He’d resolved to spend the night getting drunk in a vaguely familiar dive bar because it’s making his skin itch being this close and not seeing you, and he needs something to take the edge off. He’s two shots in when the blonde approaches him. Five by the time she leads him into the bathroom and he fucks her, which is what you walk into.

Jeans down by his ankles, balls deep in a stranger.

It’s the look on your face that kills him. He pulls out almost immediately, the blonde protesting profusely.

It’s as he’s tugging his jeans back up over his hips that he realises the reason this bar seems so familiar is because he’s been here before, three months ago with you. You’d been scoping it out for a bachelorette party, your friend Cindy was getting married. The blonde he’s fucking, she’s wearing a silk sash that says bride to be.

You’re in the parking lot when he catches up with you, phone clutched in your hand as you stand in the cold, waiting for an Uber. You’re wearing a forest green playsuit, cinched at the waist with black boots and nothing else. Already the temperature is dropping, he can feel the bite in the air as he strips his jacket from his shoulders and drapes around yours.

“You can’t do this.” You say gesturing at the jacket. “You can’t do boyfriend stuff like this and then tell me that you don’t care.”

It’s not just the jacket, it’s the other stuff too. Calling you from the road to check in every so often, driving over twelve hours to comfort you after another ranger was torn apart in front of you, the souvenirs he brings back from his travels because he knows you’ll get a kick out of them.

“I do care.” He responds forcefully, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “And that’s the problem. I care about you so fucking much, I’m going out of my mind not being with you.”  

“Then what the fuck was that?” You ask him, jabbing your finger back at the bar.

“That’s what I do to forget you, I get drunk and then I fuck.” He snaps, his voice wrought with frustration. “And even that doesn’t work because the only thing that gets me there is thinking of you when we’re…”

He gives you a look and you know exactly what he fantasies about when he’s inside other women.

“Dean, I’m tired of this shit.” You say as the black Uber pulls up at the curb. “You either want me or you don’t and until you figure that out I don’t think we should see each other anymore. It only complicates things.”

You slip out of his jacket and Dean can feel his heart breaking as you hand it back to him.

“You know where I am if you want to find me.” You say as you open the car door, climb inside, slamming it shut behind you. He watches as the car pulls away from the curb before he sighs and heads inside for another drink.

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[dairy-farmer]

Wilderness survival/Stranded au (watched a clip from Yellow Jackets the TV show and got this idea))

Maybe Tim by himself and a plane goes down somewhere he’s like super isolated.

Has to survive for ages by himself because no one knows his missing or is going to look for him. (Maybe he’s on his Bruce quest)

This is fine he is more than able to survive in the wilderness. Except he’s pregnant and has no idea. He realise once he’s been there for a while and maybe he was already a few months along when he got stranded. He goes into labour all by himself and he’s so scared. Either way he has the baby early and or its sickly and he tries his best but it dies after a few days :(

He never tells anyone about it went he gets back to :(

maybe one day in the future when he’s under the effects of fear toxin he cries and screams for hours about his baby :( he just wants his baby

tw//cw: pregnancy, child death.

🥺 the fact that tim would've ended up in that situation because he was just so desperate to save bruce. tim chartered the plane so he could avoid using commercial where he'd face delays, be easier to track, risk losing his gear during random searches, waste time because of delays, weather, and general airline bullshit.

but tim, in his rush to get to new clues, rushed through the maintenance check.

he's lucky he gets out of the crash with both limbs in tact. when the engines failed the wind had been in his favor and he'd been able to glide and crash in some thick brush in the mountains. but that's the last lucky thing that happens to tim in awhile.

no one knows where tim is. he didn't tell them, and just before leaving gotham he'd made a stop at a gas station bathroom where he cut out every tracker he'd allowed bruce to inject into him so that no one could show up where he was and shuffle him home by force or try to "talk" him out of it. tim had burned bridges when choosing to look for bruce.

no one was coming.

tim knew how to survive. he'd been trained. he can read the constellations and know approximately where he was and could navigate his way back to civilization. tim isn't as hopelessly lost as any other person would be.

but just because tim survived the crash didn't mean he was unscathed. tim took a bad hit to the head. the concussion is a severe one. when tim went down the sun was out but when he wakes up its dark. so dark he can't even see his hand in front of his face and he's hit with a fear so sharp when for a moment he thinks he's been blinded.

it's only hours later when the sun begins to rise that tim can feel some relief fill him.

tim can only make it a few inches before the dizziness is too much and he vomits. the force of the movement and his body's resulting trembling makes the pain in his head worse. for a few days tim is forced to stay in his downed plane which thankfully hasn't been badly damaged. the wings have been ripped off but the body was good enough to protect tim from the elements.

tim manages to survive with emergency thermal blankets and the rations he'd been carrying with him.

afterwards when he can move around a little more freely is when he decides to find out how badly he's fucked.

tim is in the mountains, likely somewhere remote. tim had been flying over a national park when he'd gotten the engine light flashing and unless he'd been lucky enough to land near a well traveled trail help wasn't coming.

tim gets better but not well enough to begin the trek back to civilization.

so he does his best to survive.

he collects firewood, searches out fresh water.

he gets lucky.

he finds a small forest ranger cabin. he almost misses it, it's so overgrown with green the forest has practically swallowed it. the latch is rusted and tim needs to use a rock to break it which makes his head spin for a few minutes.

the inside is small and dusty. but its warm and dry with a fireplace.

tim manages to find old magazines and cracked books in a trunk along with a few sealed cans of hardtack. the cabin has carvings on the inside with names of old forest rangers and dates which stop after 1940. given the state and how it looked abandoned tim assumed the cabin was probably used up until world war 2. any ranger that had known about the cabin had probably joined the army or been drafted. maybe it'd even been forgotten when all resources and attention were redirected to the war.

either way tim has a cabin full of old camping equipment and a place to recover until he was good enough to make the journey back to civilization. only that doesn't happen. even after the concussions symptoms lesson, tim gets sick.

a mild fever and chills that he uses his limited medical supplies to soothe.

tim has been foraging his food so far. berries, nuts, some mushrooms.

it's not much but its something. he starts setting his sights on bigger game. laying snares with broken fishing wire and traps. he has to.

because it's getting colder.

winter was going to cover the mountains in snow and once that happened it didn't matter if tim knew which star pointed north, he didn't have the gear to trek through the mountains in the winter.

had he not found the cabin he would've been deeply fucked.

so tim is focused on chopping enough wood with a blunt axe and storing as much food as he can.

he's tired all the time, vomiting still from bouts of dizziness. sometimes he throws up his food because he messed up with his mushroom identification.

tim is already sick and feeling bad. he doesn't notice he's pregnant until he's showing.

until his front is rounding out a little more and he realizes that he hasn't had his period for months.

and thats bad. for so many reasons but mostly because tim is in the mountains, alone, miles from help, and about to be snowed into the cabin for the rest of winter.

tim is worried. and scared.

he speeds up his foraging. drying berries, roasting nuts. he gets lucky and catches a deer in a pit he dug. it breaks its leg and tim only feels a little bad when he puts it out of its misery.

he uses its meat for jerky, smokes some of it. uses its intestines for bait to catch fish and then pickles the catch using the glass jars he finds in the cabin.

tim is worried about having enough, about being able to make it through the winter once the baby is born. because the baby is going to be born in that cabin and there's nothing tim can do to stop it.

it's started snowing and tim is out working every day until it gets too hard to move through the snow and with his rounding belly - that's when he starts staying within the cabin.

reading, eating, tending his fire, curling up in the moth eaten blankets and the emergency thermal blankets he sewed together.

he drinks teas made from melted snow, crushed up berries, and some mint he found growing in a wild patch by the south side of the cabin.

tim is trying his best. he's not straining himself anymore, he's resting, eating, staying hydrated, staying warm.

he grows heavier with his baby, marks the days using a knife he found to carve under the names of the cabin's past inhabitants.

he wakes up one morning feeling...odd.

a feeling that does not go away for the entire day. and then- in the middle of the night, it happens.

tim is straining and gasping and whimpering on his knees, hands pressed blindly between his spread legs growing warm with blood and clear fluid. its too soon. far far too soon.

tim's baby is small. very small. worryingly small.

tim does his best, he gathers all the blankets, sits closer to the fire, winces through the pain.

his baby is slow, lethargic, they aren't crying like normal babies. tim tries to feed them, keeps them pressed close to his naked skin.

they're alive for three days before they just stop making any sound at all.

the grief that hits tim is immeasurable.

all the loss he's had. his father, his friends, bruce.

but its his baby that breaks him.

the ground is frozen solid. tim can't even bury them. and even if he did tim was terrified an animal would dig his baby up.

winter made animals desperate.

so tim does the next best thing.

wrapping his baby in his warmest blanket, tim builds a pyre. its a small one.

and tim sits beside it as it burns. he doesn't leave until the flames have consumed everything.

the rest of the winter tim is in a daze.

spring comes and the weather warms and tim takes his pack of prepared supplies and he follows the stars. after a few days he finds a road. he walks along it and 20 minutes later a couple going camping find him and ask if he needs help.

tim knows how he looks. dirty, tired, skinny. and there must be a look on his face because both the driver and passenger get out and approach him slowly, speak gently, and ask if they can drive him to a hospital, a police station.

tim just asks for a ride to town.

the first place he goes is the bank for some money to afford a hotel room using one of his aliases. he showers, gets some new clothes and a first aid kit.

and in the morning he buys a ticket to europe.

bruce was still waiting for him after all.

[alienssstufff]

MISSING PERSONS ARTICLE (5/10/ NULL):

An extract from a local article published by The Weekly Hermit on the 5th of October (Year: NULL). Covered by Pixlriffs [Pen Name] –DISAPPEARING ACT, The Bachelor Who Vanished In Thin Air

[MEMORY : 1/2 ] [MEMORY : 2/2 - HERE]

>[READ ARTICLE?]

They were young and unafraid, Joel [LASTNAME] alongside friend Scar [LASTNAME] would venture on a hiking trip around the mountains only to vanish without a trace.

With the Joel engaged and set to be married to the current head of the Fairy Fort Resort ranger Lizzie [LASTNAME], accounts state that him along with best man Scar were last seen on the 22nd of September in the safety of Hiker’s Checkpoint, a popular camping destination of the Last Life woodlands.

“He said it was supposed to be an ‘act of bravery’. He wanted to prove he was strong to me.” A distraught Lizzie recounts. 

“I knew Scar was acting rather off the last few weeks, but I never expected he would just.. Up and run away like this. Especially with someone as inexperienced to hiking as Joel – I didn’t think they would go this far!” witness and former roommate of Scar, Grian, relays to the press.

Further interviews with the witnesses on the day of the disappearance recount in agreeance to meet the two at the Fairy Fort Reserve, a small group had held an early-morning farewell bachelor party at the Hiker’s Checkpoint, where the two would begin their 3-day trip along the marked Mycelium Trail to the wedding venue on the 25th of October.

Joel was last seen wearing a thick brown sheepskin sweater, brown pants, and worn white-and-green running shoes - with his most noticeable feature being green, dyed highlights in his hair. Scar was last seen donning a brown aviator's jacket above a black, multi-purpose utility jacket and white plaid flannel with blue cargo pants - most noticeable feature being the green bandanna found at the checkpoint.

Prior background given by loved ones and witnesses of the party reveal that the wellbeing of Joel, a novice hiker, would still be under the guidance of friend Scar who is reported to have years of experience of hiking both within and beyond the hiking trails of the woodlands. 

Reports to the authorities of their disappearance were made just 24-hours past the expected date by the Fairy Fort Reserve and the duo would be officially declared missing on the 28th of September. Several smaller search parties made within the FFR, Lizzie admits, were held prior to making the decision on contact around the reserve and the Hiker’s Checkpoint. A larger, more extensive investigation along the Mycelium Trail was held from the 28th onwards as more people volunteered and potential witnesses were questioned.

The Mycelium Trail is a relatively accessible route for both man and off-road vehicles to traverse between various locations in the Last Life woodlands. While recordings of the weather at this time of year had been colder than usual, there had been no signs of snow, rainfall or forest fires that would hinder the mens’ trip. 

A total of 78 individuals have participated in the search for our runaway bachelor and avid adventure-lover with little succession as damp footprints of the missing, Scar’s green bandanna,  a set of binoculars belonging to Scar, and two discarded lighters and canteens found within the bounds of the Hiker’s Checkpoint. 

Suspect of foul play between the men were brought up in questioning but was avidly rejected by witnesses and investigators for lack of motive even considering Grian’s accounts on Scar’s unusual behavior. Further theories relating to mentions of exploring the nearby Magical Mt were also suspect and a smaller search party made closer to the foot of the mountain was conducted to no avail due to the frigid weather. Urgencies from Lizzie to authorities in further investigation within the mountain were set forth and ultimately rejected due to windy weather and unstable, difficult-to-cross terrain.

As of current release, the status of Joel and Scar remains unknown. For information leading to the safe return of Joel [LASTNAME] and Scar [LASTNAME] please contact [NUMBER REMOVED] at the Fairy Fort Reserve investigation team.

>[ARTICLE ENDS HERE]

[on-the-clear-blue]

Not my usual DpxDc, but have some fun stuff

(Just a random plot bunny about Damian getting sent to the pokemon world.)

Damian knew, deep down that he really shouldn't have gone off alone but honestly what else was he supposed to do? His father had yet to take him seriously, Richard was once again treating him like an infant and Drake wouldn't do the honorable thing and die.

Tood was the only one that took him vaguely seriously and that was solely because of the time he had spent with the League.

Cassandra was out with Brown in Shanghai, and Thomas thankfully had the correct reaction of running in fear when he entered a room!

So really, who could blame him for going out in Gotham alone.

Damian could, Damian very much was blaming himself.

Because he had been out on patrol for not even a few hours when he stumbled upon a man with a strange looking gun, muttering things and he hastily tried to unlock the door to a jewelry store.

It was supposed to be easy, the man was clearly put of his depth, Damian would swoop in, he would apprehend this criminal and then he would finally be looked upon by his father as the true son of the Bat!

Now if only it really went that way, because as Damian was sneaking along the roof of a near by building, his foot slipped, causing him to topple over the edge, landing on the filthy Gotham streets, and by the time he was able to find his footing, Damian was looking up at the criminal, only to see a beam of light hit him straight in the face.

And then there was blackness.

---

Damian woke with a start, shooting up from his position laying on...lumpy uneven forest floor? His head pounded as he stumbled up, eyes open but unseeing.

He sensed movement around him, and his hand gripped the edge of his sword as he forced his eyes to focus.

Looking to the source of the movement, Damian paused, blinking a few times as he saw a bulbous looking insect, with green chitin and a pale tan underbelly, it had massive eyes, golden and almost peering into his soul, it's red antennae wiggled as it looked at him.

It was staring up at him as much as Damian was staring down at it.

Waiting for the insect to make the first move, Damian saw it tilt its head and make a sound "Catta! Caterpie!" It was a soft sound, nervous almost as it sounded confusion.

Damians mind was working on over drive because he just got the very distinct impression that this...insect? Had just asked him a question, it had far to intelligent eyes to be a simple insect.

"I do not...understand your language." He ground out, he had yet to move his hand from his blade, but his grip on it was loosened, "and I do not know...where I am."

---

Professor Oak frowned as he looked down at the screen, there had just been a massive energy spike just around base of the Silver mountains, it was...concerning to say the least.

Sending a worried look to one of his assistants, Samuel hurried out of the lab, heading to his office the older man sat down with a huff, pulling a radio transmitter from his desk, he fiddled with the setting before clicking it on.

"Sierra Oscar 1 calling in to Ranger Dispatch over." Waiting for a response with baited breath, Samuel reread the energy signals hoping they were less dangerous than they could truly be.

"Ranger Dispatch to Sierra Oscar 1 you are coming in clear, over." A rich deep voice sounded back to him.

Letting out a small sigh, Professor Oak held up the reserver closer as he spoke, "Ranger Dispatch, we just saw a massive about of ultra wormhole energy around the Silver mountain range, coordinates to follow, advising a Ranger troupe to search for Ultra beast contact. Over."

[kimberlyannharts]

GREEN RANGER TOMBERLY DAUGHTER I NEED EVERYONE TO SHUT UPPPPPPPPPPP

Olivia Hart I would give my life for you. I would move mountains for you. You are now MY daughter

[emilybeemartin]

Inktober Days 19-21

Day 19: "Plump"

Fat! Bear! Week! It’s perhaps the most beloved modern tradition to come out of a national park, when enthusiasts around the globe tune in to the Katmai webcams to see the results of a summer of brown bears gorging on salmon. We root them on, following their progress as they go from springtime skin and bones to mega-autumn chonk in just a few months. Watching these immense bears prowling Brooks Falls for leaping fish is so captivating that at some parks, during slow moments in the visitor centers, we would switch on the webcam feeds at the information desk. Rangers come from all different backgrounds, with all different affiliations and alma maters, but few things bring us all together like cheering on a wild bear eating wild salmon.

Day 20: "Frost"

One of the privileges of working in northern mountain parks is the early coming of cool weather. Born and raised in South Carolina, few things make me feel more alive than a brush of autumn in August. I remember that first welcome moment in Glacier, when I climbed out of the government truck at Logan Pass for my shift in the high country. There was frost on the mountain slopes and a snap in the air. My breath fogged in front of my face, and the wind whipped through my park green sweater and jacket. Back at home, it was ninety-five degrees and humid, but on that morning, I swapped my flat hat for my fleece cap and spent the day bundled up on the Highline Trail, noting the huckleberries taking on their first tinge of crimson. I remember coming back to the tiny ranger station to find the woodburning stove crackling away, and I thought this must be what paradise was like.

Day 21: "Chains"

My first thought for this prompt was a chain of islands, but as I brushed up on Channel Islands, I realized it fits even better thanks to the chain of life that stretches from sea to land to air. Underwater terrain creates huge upwellings of nutrients that form the base of a food chain in the kelp forests, where vivid orange garibaldi and massive seabass swim among the waving fronds. Seals and sea lions spin and dive before hauling out onto beaches in noisy rookeries. Above them on the headlands, rare island foxes—only found on six of these islands and nowhere else in the world—scamper after mice and insects, occasionally coming to the shoreline for crabs. And in the skies, bald eagles, storm-petrels, and cormorants swoop down to pluck fish and other meals from the sea. And so life goes around and around on this scrappy cluster of islands.

Like these? Want extra illustrations and national park travel tips straight from the ranger's mouth? You can preorder Thirty-One Days of Inktober: The Artbook! It's a limited run--- snag yours now before they're gone!

Incidentally, I'm trying to keep international shipping down by eating a bit of the cost myself, so I hope folks outside the US don't feel left out!

[christian-oc-tournament]

Please vote based on the picture AND the description!

Amelia Liadon [Between the Veil and Crown @secretariatess]

Amelia Liadon is the adopted daughter of the Liadon family (after her mother passed away from an ongoing illness) and has carried on her adoptive mother's work of healer. Her favorite brother is Kylin, who stops by to visit her between Ranger duties, she lives in a cottage by herself in the forest (the exception being her goats and chickens), and has an unfortunate reputation of accidentally committing felonies, such as kidnapping a prince out of panic and making him do work around the cottage- because what else are you supposed to do with a kidnapped prince? Besides that, she's the sweetest thing who wishes Kylin wouldn't call his new horse "Vicious"- it's too cruel of a name, even if the horse has a habit of biting.

Amaranth Brandybuck [Loyalty, Honor, a Willing Heart @as-dreamers-do] - Hobbit OC

Amaranth Brandybuck may be just barely out of her tweens, but she's already traveled the Shire more than might be seemly for the oldest daughter of Brandy Hall. When her less adventurous cousin Bilbo turns down what seems the offer of a lifetime, she volunteers to join a strange band of Dwarves on a quest to steal back their ancestral home from the dragon nesting in its halls. Her love of good stories and longing for adventure are rivaled perhaps only by her quick wits and glib tongue, which she tends to use more often than she'd like to admit in keeping on everyone's good side. She may be leaving behind her family (though Bilbo's last-minute change of heart was very welcome), her rolling green hills, and all semblance of proper pie-baking facilities, but something about the twinkle in a certain dark-haired Dwarf prince's eye and the mountains rising in the distance make her think she's none the poorer for the exchange. (Note: Amaranth's name, age, and all family relations are straight out of the LotR family tree appendix--her youngest sister is Frodo's mother, Primula!)

[dvchvnde]

It appears on several lists of must-see places before you die, usually accompanied by a beautiful picture of the sprawling park—one with towering, gunmetal batholiths and rugged, snow-capped peaks on either side of the frame, almost perfectly mirrored. They plummet into a vertiginous drop down to a lush valley of vivid Scheele’s green below. 

Through the unfathomable gap of these primordial mountains, nestled in the thick of the valley, is a white line of the rushing river that bleeds into what makes this place an absolute must: 

The roaring waterfalls, the gorgeous fjords. 

When you click on the pictures, the magnitude of just how massive this land is, and just how big those gorges are makes it all seem so empyrean. As if the land itself touches the heavens in places, disappearing into the sky. Swallowed by the aether.  

It's dizzying. 

And entirely remote. 

Save for a visitor centre close to one of the bigger falls, this place is far removed from civilisation. A protected land hidden like a glimmering gem in the privacy of the wilderness. It's the sort of place where novices are well-forewarned about the dangers of testing their mettle against a basin of nature that sees less than one hundred people traversing the rugged landscape a year. 

You only have yourself to rely on out here, someone writes. It's not for the faint of heart. 

Simply put: it's perfect. 

Cheap, too. You follow the instructions, requesting a weekend pass in the northern backcountry. Permits approved, credit card accepted. A map is emailed off along with an itinerary of what to bring, what to do (and what not to do—no scents, nothing that isn’t bear-repellent approved, no firearms without pre-approval from park services; same with fishing and hunting), and where to go. Signing in and out is mandatory lest they have to launch a massive, and expensive, search and rescue for you. 

It’s all a little overwhelming (beware of wild animals, do not engage with them, do not feed them; do not leave trash in the outback; do not swim in the rapids and be wary of the vicious undercurrent in the river; do not go where you are not prepared to be) and the laundry list of what not to do seems bigger than you’re prepared for. Trepidation sinks in. 

And then, as if in mockery of your unease, an email pops up in your inbox—

you're in bear country now, it warns, and then proceeds to tell you how to defend yourself against an attack—defensive and predatory—and to always, always, report any sightings you see to the park rangers. Immediately. Instantly. Without hesitation. Anything. Everything. Footprints, feces. It could save someone else's life. 

It’s daunting. you are your own protection, it adds, vicious and cold. Cruel. We share the responsibility, but you are the one who carries the biggest burden. Be smart, be prepared, and be cautious.

They send three emails about safety, and advise that you attend a two-hour-long park seminar when you arrive on your first day to warn you about the dangers within the valley, the wildlife and rugged mountains, the steep ravines, and the treacherous rivers. 

The man leading the seminar is dismissive during it, derisive. The park is open to the public, the ranger mumbles, gruff and unkind. His eyes skewer into the meagre rucksack on your back, and the outfit you picked—trousers, a thermal long-sleeve, and hiking boots the sales associate assured you that you would grow into, and huffs, adding: and it’s up to said public to decide if it can survive in here; we post signs and warnings and make all of the dangers as accessible as we can, as apparent as we can, but once you sign in, and head out, you are on your own. 

But in none of these pamphlets, in this abrupt dressing down of your limited experience and their ambivalence on whether or not you can take care of yourself, does anyone ever tell you about the real danger hidden in these woods:

man.

Or rather, a man. 

There's something unmatched about the wilderness, about the innate sense of self-reliance that seems to exude from within, this precocious sense of isolation and inner dependence. Out here, so far away from rescue or civilisation (about seven clicks in the opposite direction, give or take a few additional hours just maneuvering around jagged rock cliffs and steep canyons), you only have yourself for guidance, for salvation. 

Maybe that's part of the reason why it draws you in so much. This idea of alienation. Of loneliness. 

You are as safe as mother nature permits. As the grit in your bones allows. Flash flooding, intense storms. Whiteouts. Avalanches from the highest peaks in the distance. Surges in the river below. Currents. And—

Bears. Wolves. Wolverines. Bison. Moose. Coyote. 

The list of hazards always seems to exceed the majesty of the world around you—haphazard cliffs, towering batholiths, roaring rivers—but only marginally. It's always worth it when you're there. In the heart of it all, staring down at the ink-black water below a massive fjord. The cut of limestone. Water slicing through the valley. It's ancient, primordial. And standing in the basin of its grandeur, a meagre slip of time in the palms of unfathomable aeons, the dangers balance out. Risk, reward. 

This one, though, is probably the loneliest place you've ever been. 

As you stand outside the visitors centre, the park looming large and untamed before you, there's a prickling sense of unease that permeates the air. A fine mist of worry draping over your shoulders. The park is—

Unfathomable. 

The ledger they had you sign in on boasts five names in the last three years. A quick flip through the aged pages is just as barren. Empty. 

“Not the most isolated or remote, no,” one of the wardens says, eyes creasing against the harsh glare of the sun. He offered to accompany you into the park, and you'd eagerly taken him up on the offer. Not quite ready to be on your own. “That's probably higher up. Quttinirpaaq, maybe? Heard from some buddies up there that they had no visitors last year. We do pretty well. About one thousand a year? Usually filmmakers and the like. Adventurous types. Gets kinda lonely up here. Ain't no Banff, that's for sure.” 

You felt that isolation when he'd reached the cut-off heading toward South Nahanni, and waved you along. Sage advice following him as he walked, hand on his holstered gun. 

“Keep yer wits about ya. Strange things happen in these parks, ya know?” 

Strange things, indeed. 

It starts with a noise. 

The rustle in the tussock concealed between heavy, darkened spruce. Snap of twigs underfoot. A shallow grunt when you're clamoring up the steep incline cradling the mouth of a still lake. Footfalls echoing through the valley when you rest in the lush green grass, peeling an apple to satiate the meagre appetite you've dredged up on your climb to get to this spot. 

It can all be chalked up to the wilderness. Sound, you know, is a mirage in a place like this. Deceitful. Screams that sound like it's right next to you are just the trawling echoes of wind whistling in a canyon. It isn't anything to be immediately worried about. This space is vast. Open. You'd see someone if they were there. 

An animal, maybe. 

But that thought does little to quell your sudden nerves. Or abate the spike of anxiety that rivets down your spine. 

It feels like you're being watched. 

This unease lingers as you pack your apple core inside your travelling pack. Nothing left behind, you remember, and pretend that's the only reason for the quick survey you take of the area. Just in case. Just in case—

Nothing.

Just a sprawling valley, an endless sea of green, crawling up jagged monoliths. In the distance, a thunderous plume of fog curls over the sawtooth peaks. Their heads lifted to the heavens as if scenting the looming danger congealing in the distance. Thick gunmetal clouds brew over the mountains. A sudden swell sweeps through the valley, shaking the tussock. Cold enough that your teeth chatter. 

They warned you of an oncoming storm. 

[romvnova]

the most loyal breed

i wrote a thing; i'm definitely rusty and haven't ever written it in second person, present tense before so please be gentle with me. tagging/warnings: consensual but unprotected sex, f!reader x john "soap" mactavish, shifter!soap, breeding kink, swearing, implied ghoap ( if you squint ). part 1 of ??? just pure filth. please read at your own discretion! i am not responsible for minors reading this mature material when you've been clearly warned!

a storm howls as it rages outside your small log cottage concealed high in the forested mountains. the land had belonged to your forebearers and though the trips into town were long and rough in your beat up old 80’s ford ranger, it was worth it for the peace.

usually.

thunder ricocheted above like the crack of a thousand cannons and it was followed by the bursts of light as lightning touched down. it must be close, you can’t feel the heat, but you can hear nature’s electricity sizzle as it scours through the air to the earth.

it makes gooseflesh rise on your arms, fingers once wrapped ‘round your steaming coffee mug as you watch the rain and the wind and the lightening from the comfort of your front porch. or maybe it’s the dark, hulking shape half limping, half lumbering up the gravel drive, from around back of your truck.

for a moment there is a flash of fear, before instinct has you reaching for the shotgun propped against the wall of your home. you’ve never had to actually use it on an animal — or things more sinister — but you had been taught to shoot since before you could walk. coffee mug is set down slowly, carefully to avoid making noise.

shotgun is pressed against your shoulder, finger hovering over the trigger.

“get outta here!” you yell over the storm, moving away from the chairs, away from the wall. last thing you wanted to be was cornered.

the shape lets out a low kneeing whine and continues nearer. your finger tenses over the trigger, pausing only when lightening chases away the shadows: it’s a few seconds. but long enough to realize it’s a dog. the largest belgian malinois you’ve ever seen, sure — about the size of a full grown wolf — but a dog all the same.

the thought that it might be rapid crosses your mind as you lower your weapon and slowly approach the malinois with a tentative hand outstretched.

“hey there, big boy.” you coo, watching as the dog lets out a low whine and butts his muzzle up against your hand. the dynamic immediately changes and you’re coaxing him up the three small steps onto your porch with bits of bacon you’d cooked up to crumble in a pasta dish. he’s weary, hesitant at first. but not of you. he takes the bacon offered to him in a gentle way that makes you confident that he has an owner. or had.

the second confirmation as he stands dripping muddy water all over your freshly cleaned hardwood floors was the wide, dingy army green collar ‘round his neck. faintly, you could make out ‘SARG’ in bold, black stitching.

“sarg?” you ask, the muddy, soaked dog who plops down on his haunches like he’d forgotten he had an injury only to shift his weight with a pained whine. but bless his heart, his tail still wagged furiously behind him.

“where’s your owner, huh?” you ask, making a soft noise in your throat that you hope he understands to make ‘follow’. you aren’t sure what his command words are … but he pads along, nails clicking against the floor.

you give him a bath, using dawn dishsoap in lieu of any sort of dog shampoo, remembering that it was frequently used to clean animals that were covered in oil slick. surely, it could work on mud.

he’s patient and obedient, staring at you with eyes that spoke of an awareness and understanding that felt very un-dog like. but when your heart started to beat faster in your chest, teeth worrying your bottom lip — the thought of him being a skinwalker was almost enough to freeze the blood in your veins — his ears flutter back and he looks at you with eyes the size of saucers, his tail sloshing bathwater too and fro, clicking his teeth and chuffing. beneath the grime, he was not a typical malinois fawn but a dark charcoal color. a mutt, if you had to guess.

it thaws your veins, calms your heart. and you are giggling as you scrub behind his ears, forming the soapy loam into a mohawk atop his head, laughing so hard you had tears as he ���grins’, showing his sharp teeth in a way that could not be described as threatening in any manner. very unusual for a dog.

and you tended his wound: a nice splice of flesh on his left thigh. even and clean. you had some knowledge of tending to dogs: your grandfather had kept plenty of hunting hounds during his life. 

you had felt sure that someone would come looking for him, or ‘LOST DOG’ posters might show up around town. you asked at the local hotspots, even the police station. belgian malinois were working dogs, high energy. destructive when they didn’t get the proper exercise and territorial. you take him with you when you go to town, letting him ride shotgun. he’s highly trained, staying pressed right up against your right thigh the whole time. stepping so that he’s never in danger of being stepped on by you or tripping you.

“well if it ain’t the witch of the woods, come down to grace us with her presence.” drawls one of the locals, loitering outside by your truck at the grocery store. you scowls and put the bags in the truck bed, content to ignore him. sarg’s hackles bristle, upper lip curling from his wicked sharp canines.

“Whats this? got yourself a companion? how sweet.” the condescending tone suggested it was anything but. “you need rescuing from her, huh boy?” harry reaches down to pet him and the very real snap of sarg’s jaws has your teeth clenching, afraid that you would hear those massive teeth crunch through the bones of harry’s hand.

your hand goes to his faded collar — though it was almost laughable. if sarg decided to take off harry’s hand for trying to touch him … there wasn’t anything you were going to be able to do to stop him.

“i’m not keeping him.” though you wonder if you shouldn’t have said that. harry’d always been a bit creepy, though fear of what dwells in woods, old folklore passed down through their generations, kept him at bay. until hunting season. but even then: the time was scheduled and they all stayed clear of your land. and while you’d definitely heard of and believed in the cat distribution system you knew that the dog distribution system wasn’t a thing. 

especially not for a working dog like sarg.

“he’s not mine. he has an owner out there somewhere.” but it’d been weeks and there’s been no attempts to find him. “but i’m taking care of him until they come looking for him.”

sarg snaps his teeth again, feigning a surge forth and harry recoils back with a small whimper. you have to hide your laugh as he mumbles a ‘see ya’ and hurries off, almost sprinting across the parking lot.

“hey harry, didn’t your papa ever teach you not to turn your back on a predator?” sarg starts barking then, salvia flying from his jowls; hamming it up. in a way that once again, fills you with a strange sort of suspicion that he was more than he seemed.

but one month weaves itself into two and no one’s come to claim him. 

and for the first time since he’d shown up on your doorstep, you left him alone. not long. just long enough to run the few errands you needed to get done. the town had gotten less lax on his presence, afraid that his protectiveness over you might get one of them bit.

it was a valid fear, you knew. you hadn’t raised him, weren’t exactly sure how to handle him.

you are surprised and worried when you aren’t immediately greeted by sarg. it doesn’t feel right considering that the dog walked, lived, breathed in your shadow, always pressed against your thigh anytime you so much as twitched a muscle in movement.

absent. but not just absent. absent with no hint of the destruction you might expect form an high energy breed left alone for the first time since he arrived, limping on your door step; attaching himself to your hip from that very breadth of a second.

but you are surprised to hear the shower, to see the warm glow of the bathroom light seeping through the cracks, following the furling steam.

your family is long gone. none ventured out this way, and the doors and windows were all locked: you check them quickly just to be sure; heart in your throat the entire time.

your steps falter, hesitate at the low moaned “fook, fook, fook—!” as you draw nearer.

you grab the shotgun, and open the door, barrel raised, stock against your shoulder.

“what the fuck—?”

“dannae shoot! dannae shoot! i can explain i —” the man in your shower is clearly struggling to keep his composure, with his hand fisted tightly ‘round his thick, heavy, hard cock. you press the barrel of the shotgun to his temple; watching as his eyes squeeze close.

from fear or the ecstasy as it tips him over the edge to his zenith you couldn’t be sure.

“fookin’ hell.” he raspily pants around the words; voice low, honeyed ( your toes curl and heat pools in your abdomen, stomach swooping and then there’s your outrage, your fear that, that could elicit such a response from you when a strange man was in your shower ! ). he’s haunching in on himself, hips hips bucking up against his hand, thick ropes and virile streams of his seed mess on the shower wall, door and all over his hand.

“what the fuck?” you whisper again, this time quieter, meant for yourself as he pumps his hand a few times, somehow, impossibly, coaxing out more pearlescent spend.

“where the fuck is my dog?!” so many questions vying for their time in the spotlight, burning against your tongue which has grown thick as he scrambles for a towel. your towel, using it to cover himself as if you hadn’t just given a front row seat to his exhibition. you are disgusted and angry and afraid and your nostrils are flaring, taking in the thick scent of musk and your vanilla bean barsoap.

oh gods, he used your soap!

you think of the man versus bear debate and understand why you’d choose the bear as you grit your teeth so tightly they begin to ache.

so, why can’t you shoot?

“it’s — i’m …” he pants as he steps out of the shower, broad freckled shoulders gleaming with water. “lil fox it’s me.” the words tear themselves from his throat in thick scottish brogue as if they physically pained him to say.

he’s bigger than you thought: thick thighed and large. he takes up so much space in your small bathroom; towering over you like a fjord carved titan.

“what?” you ask dumbly, heart still sprinting like a rabbit giving chase.

“ack,” he makes a hurried, almost impatient noise in the back of his throat, one hand clutching the towel to his front as if in the name of decency, and the other running through the short shorn hair atop his head. “it’s me.” he repeats, desperation nesting in his tone, making it’s home. “sergeant. sergeant john “soap” mactavish.” 

“sarg.” you whisper, a miasma of emotions surging through you as you stare at him, trying to decide which one you should allow to make its home within your chest, which feels like it’s being constricted; quite painfully.

“aye,” he murmurs morosely, shoulders loosening some now that he was not in danger of his head being blown off, for the shotgun barrel has tipped low in your shock, in your struggle to wrap your mind around what should be impossible.

“you — i —! you. you watched me shower! you —” your cheeks grow heated, breath coming out in rapid and shallow gasps as you careened closer to hyperventilation, glimpsing at the thigh that you had tended to, to find a scar matching sarg’s. accusations stain your teeth. it was a startling confirmation that leaves you feeling a bit out of body. you’d heard the stories of shape shifters. lore was heavy in these mountains, among the people that called it and the town nearby home and though you’d believed enough to make you suspicious you hadn’t thought —

john snatches the shotgun from your numb hands then. you let him.

“you humped my pillow.” you eek out the words, almost tumbling over them. john at least has the decency to look ashamed at that, cheeks flushing; sloe-eyed as he looks anywhere but at you.

“aye,” he swallows thickly. “ye were in heat. i cannae… it’s … in dog form it’s a lot more primal.” he explains, rubbing the back of his neck.

“humans don’t go into heat.” you tell him numbly.

“ye do,” he counters with a heavy look that leaves gooseflesh along your arms. “once every month right before yer eh, y’know. ‘s when yer most fertile. humans cannae smell it but animals can. i can.”

why does that send another rush of heat to your abdomen? as if snapping out of a daze you do the quick mental math and let out a small noise.

 “i can smell it on yer skin, on yer hair.” he murmurs, voice pitching low. a whiskey croon that has your lips parting as his voice slides over your skin like a caress. the heat radiating off him, works to suffocate you and he’s so close but not close enough. saliva pools in your mouth and you swallow and his eyes, intense and focused follow the action with a low growl in his chest. hungry. needy.

“you need to leave.” your words lack the conviction you are aware they should have. a pocketful of lies.

“i cannae leave,” he murmurs heatedly, lips hovering. “i’m yers lil fox.” there is a deeper meaning to those words beyond their face value, his breath twining in your hair, reverberating in your bones. his nose brushes your cheek and you shiver, lashes fluttering as you look down at the strong curve of his collarbone.

“if you were able to change… why didn’t you…?”

“yer consent,” he says it as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world and you were silly for not thinking about it. “and i was weak at first,”

“and then?”

“and then ye were comfortable with the dog form. i didnae wanna scare ye. dinnae wanttae break yer trust.”

his heat is intoxicating, his scent like a siren song coaxing her in now that she was so close. on the precipice of falling into the dark abyss looming below. what beasts awaited her, she could not see. but she knew they were there. and yet, he is like the gravity of a planet and she a solitary moon caught in his orbit. 

“and now?” you ask softer still.

of course his supernatural hearing picks it up.

“now, i want tae taste your lips, eat tha’ deliciously sweet cunt until ye be but an incoherent mess and balm the ache with my cock. and stuff ye fit tae burstin’ over and over again with my seed until yer womb quickens with child.”

your mouth is dry; cottony. your fingers aching to touch: yourself or him you couldn’t be sure. both, you think.

if you touch him, you know whatever is left of your veil thin resolve will be rendered useless. torn away so effortlessly by him. by the sirens lilt of his voice, by the burn of those oceanic blues, by those lips parted. your flush grows feverish as you imagine them everywhere, kissing and sucking and those sharp canines marking your flesh.

something very real and palpable tethered you to him, what your grandmother had called a mating bond you think. you’re not sure how you know it so deeply in your soul, in the marrow of your bones but you reach out with tentative fingers to touch his left forearm, tracing the vein from wrist to elbow.

it is you giving consent. john lets out a low growl that immediately melts into your skin, warming you until your clenching your thighs together. the towel is discarded and he is kneeling down, large calloused fingers tugging down your shorts, your panties and shoving his face against your cunt.

a high pitched keening noise leaves your lips, grasping the sink for support, your other fingers finding purchase in the damp hair of his mohawk as he kisses and licks and slurps. one hand holds your thigh tightly, fingers digging into your supple flesh to keep you still, as one finger curls inside and then another when he thinks you are ready, joined soon after by his tongue.

the sloppy noises as he eats you out like a man starving are some of the most filthy, unholy noises you think you’ve ever heard, but you’re moaning and keening and mewling, legs quivering from his ministrations, from the gaelic he purls against your cunt, the praises in english until you are coming all over his tongue, his fingers.

and he’s looking above you like an old god, half forgotten but still very much thrumming with life, lifting you up, hard cock straining against your thigh as he plops you on the small vanity; mindful of his girth as his cock fills the ache of your swollen cunt.

“that’s it… that’s it. fook,” he pants ‘round the word, pushing deeper inside, stilling as he sinks to the hilt as your legs wrap ‘round his waist. his lips are on yours, tongue pushing inside your mouth as he thrusts slowly at first but pace quickens until he’s rutting up and into you, the slap of sweat slicked skin, the breathy and panting kisses: to your lips, your neck, your collarbone where he bites down.

he is surprisingly unvocal now, hand wrapping lightly ‘round your pretty throat as he ruts and rocks into you, staying deep and your breath drags itself from your lips in heavy, desperate pants, hands clinging to his shoulders as the pressure of something foreign both causes pain and equal amounts of pleasure as you can feel him begin to throb within you.

“i ken lil fox,” he croons, thrusts growing shallow but harder; a groan pushing past his lips as he knots tightly within,, balls and cock throbbing against your flesh, within your cunt which fills you with spend with each thrumming throb of his cock. again and again. “nae a drop can spill.” he murmurs against your lips, thumb rolling your swollen clit as he empties himself within you. “that’s my good girl.” he growls against the shell of your ear, licking the side of your sweat slicked face.

it would become your norm, this. johnny, a fixture in your life, your husband. preferring human form but always slipping into dog form when you went into town.

two years later, your toddler, a girl named wren clings to johnny’s leg squealing with undiluted joy during playtime as you make pancakes, a hand rubbing your swelling baby bump.

time freezes when a pounding sounds at the door; an oncoming storm that has finally reached their shores. johnny stills, face paling. violet whines, tugging at his jeans, not understanding before he scoops her into his arms; stiff backed and tense.

“ssh baby bird,” you watch him as he coos to her, opening up the door. the kitchen blocks your view of who’s at the door but you hear his voice meld into your bones like the fires of hell. you picture cerberus, slavering jaws and vicious teeth and cloaked in shadows. “hello johnny.”

“ghost —” your husband’s voice is strained; a low warning threaded in that single syllable. you twist off the stove and move ‘round the kitchen’s island, hand cradling your abdomen, to see the grim reaper at your door cloaked in abysmal shadows and a skull face mask.

[bullet-prooflove]

That latest prompt list you shared is so fire 😎 maybe "How you're lookin' at me, yeah, I know what that means" for Dean Winchester? 😏💕

Tagging: @kmc1989 @gatefleet @deanobssessedgirl @cosmic-psychickitty @shanimallina87

Companion piece to:

Gatlinburg - Dean falls in love in a tiny town in Tennessee.

With You - Dean tells you he's going to stay the night.

You, Me & Tennessee - Dean always returns to Tennessee.

On The Mountain - Dean wishes he was back on the Mountain with you.

Feral (NSFW) - Dean gets feral when he sees you with another man.

You don’t tell the people you work with about Dean Winchester. This thing between the two of you is transient, something that happens whenever he rolls into town because he’s chasing a monster in the woods.

When he steps into the ranger station today, you don’t expect him. You never do and in a way that’s part of his charm. Your life is far from boring with all the shit that happens up on the mountain, but Dean Winchester adds an extra thrill everytime he makes an appearance.

“Ranger.” He greets you, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

He’s wearing red flannel today, something he knows you have a weakness for. His forest green eyes sparkle with mischief as the edges of his mouth tip up at the sight of you. He has a thing for you in unform, you think it makes you look dowdy but Dean likes the shirt with a few buttons open so he can lace of your bra as he fucks you, he also likes it when you wear the hat.

“You here for a hunting permit Mr Winchester?” You ask pointedly as you shuffle the weekend reports into a neat pile.

“Not this time.” He says, his voice husky as his arm comes to rest on the counter and he leans in close. “This time I’m here for you.”

Love Dean? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[littlejuicebox]

I want to hold your hand.

Pairing: Astarion x Original Female Character/Ranger AKA AstarionxWren

Chapter number: Ten

Rating/Warnings: PG-13 / All fluff no smut in this one / Act 1 Spoilers / Angst / Anxiety / Feelings Realization / Violence / Gore / Past trauma / Alcohol / Swear words / Lae'zel being a butthole again (I promise I actually really love her character but, come on, the behavior in this chapter pretty in character for her.) Word count: 2.8K Masterlist: Click here. Song inspiration: "I Want to Hold Your Hand" - The Beatles (But really, more so the version in Across the Universe because the yearning is palpable in that version.) Notes: LMK if you'd like to be added to the tag list for this series in a message. :)

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Astarion took a long time gathering enough gumption to finally exit the Druid’s bedchambers. By the time he made his way toward the center of the grove, all the stars were gleaming in the sky, and more than one campfire had been lit. It appeared everyone already ate dinner, made evident by the empty tables full of used crockery and roasts picked nearly to the bone. He heard faint notes of music and an increasing amount of chatter as he made his way up the stone steps to the camp… it sounded like a party.

His other traveling companions were already there, and their tents had all been pitched. He spied Karlach kindly putting his tent up, and Astarion walked over to help her finish the job. Typically, he would've just left the tiefling to the grunt work and walked off to flirt with Wren or merely lounge about, but since Wren had stormed away from him earlier in the evening after their little tiff… he had nothing better to do.

Apart from Wren, Karlach was probably the vampire's favorite companion. Her easy-going nature made it so he didn’t have to perform too terribly hard around her, and he appreciated their rare moments together. Shadowheart was good for some quick banter, of course, but now the cleric’s preoccupation with Lae’zel made that relationship less ideal and he'd found himself avoiding the cleric whenever her green guard dog was around.

The silver-haired elf took one of the tent ties from Karlach and scanned the crowd for Wren. He spotted her sitting by an attentive Halsin. The unexpected sight created a dull ache in his chest, right around where his undead heart sat stock-still. Gods, he had to find a way to fix things before she found herself enamored with someone that was clearly a better alternative and he wasted all his time and effort for… what exactly? What was this thing between them?

The Archdruid towered over the little bird, especially when she was in a seated position. But despite the size difference, the mountain of a man held her arm in a remarkably gentle grip. The vampire tried to ignore the new duo as he thanked Karlach and then meandered toward the pile of booze. Maybe if he just… loosened himself up a bit, he’d be able to talk to Wren about what he was feeling instead of putting his foot in his mouth again. But what was he feeling, exactly? Astarion didn't have the words. Perhaps that wasn’t the point. Perhaps the point was that whatever role she wanted him to perform, he would do it, if it meant he would stay in her good graces. Surely that was a fair price to pay to be rid of the ache in his chest.

As much as the rogue tried to ignore the scene that was making his insides churn, his eyes kept roaming back to the two of them. The vampire watched as Halsin thoroughly, too thoroughly, spread some kind of salve on Wren’s forearm while she occupied herself with chugging whatever she had in her cup. Astarion had a fleeting thought that it should be him applying that salve on Wren's arm, not the big bear. If not him, then surely Shadowheart. Who the hell was this druid, anyway?

Wren had changed from the chemise he’d given her a few days back and into an entirely different, and significantly more revealing outfit. Where the hells had she even found a set of leather trousers? And was she truly just wearing the bodice she wore under her armor on her torso?

After Halsin was done playing doctor with the little bird, the pale elf was sure the sickening rendezvous would end. But then Wren was digging through her bag and revealing the pipe she’d stolen from Halsin with a guilty grin. The Archdruid seemed very entertained by this; he threw his head back as he laughed in pure delight. Halsin said something with a lifted eyebrow and then smiled and returned the pipe back to the little bird.

Gods, Astarion wished he could hear what they were saying from here. He had the strange sensation of being left out, and he bristled at the thought. ‘They are getting along far too well.’

The vampire reluctantly dragged his eyes away from the scene and snatched a bottle of wine from the booze pile. He was in no mood for this little party, but he supposed he would play this part if he had to.

-----

Wren was tired of performing. The whole self-sufficient, strong ranger woman act was getting exhausting. What was the point? She kept making mistakes, anyway… first losing her own eye, then blowing their cover with Minthara, and then the absolute dragonshitshow of a conversation she’d just had with one of her strongest and most versatile campmates. The campmate that she’d bedded the day before, effectively ending her entirely too long streak of voluntary abstinence. But… had her time with Astarion really been a mistake? She couldn't be sure.

Truly, Wren just wanted someone to hold her. And maybe Halsin wouldn’t hold her, but he’d hold her arm with his warm, comforting hand… and slather some sticky, honey-based salve on her charred skin while she chugged whatever Alfira had just poured into her cup. She liked Halsin. He was nice. He was mature, kind, and held an attractive air of relaxed confidence. It was easy to be drawn to his comforting energy; she saw why the grove trusted him.

Before long, the Archdruid wrapped her arm in a bandage, refused the return of his pipe with an explanation that he had several more, and told her that he didn’t know how to remove the parasites, but he had some ideas they could discuss tomorrow. He cut the conversation short and pushed her into the party, insisting she go and have some fun before returning to business-as-usual tomorrow morning.

Wren wasn’t in any mood for this party, but she begrudgingly obliged. After downing whatever was left in her cup, she found herself roped into a few dances with some of the tieflings and one with Gale. By the third cup of — what was it, wine? — she and Karlach tried to dance without touching, mostly just shimmying and spinning around one another like lunatics before falling on the ground laughing at the stupidity of it all. She needed that laugh, and if she could’ve hugged the tiefling woman then, she would’ve.

After the chortling was over, and the ranger's ribs hurt beyond belief, the two women wandered back to the libations. Karlach flicked her gaze over toward Astarion, who appeared to be brooding and trying to hide the fact that he was brooding, and then she looked back to a buzzed Wren. She filled two more cups with some cherry-scented liquid as she addressed the half-elf. “What’s going on with you and Fangs, anyway, soldier? Normally you two are attached at the hip… or the lip.”

“Karlach!” Wren yelped, her eyes widening as she quickly glanced around to see if anyone else had heard the Barbarian. Her already alcohol-flushed face began to trail the rosy blush up her ears and down her neck.

“Oh, come off!” Karlach exclaimed with a chuckle, rolling her eyes at the ranger. “First of all, you’re a grown woman, so you can do whatever and whoever you’d like. Second of all… it’s not really a secret, Wren. We all know. You should’ve seen the absolute state Astarion was in for those few days you were knocked out after that Gur encounter. I doubt he’s like that for just anyone.”

Wren didn’t know what to say in response to Karlach’s revelation. Her fingers moved up to nervously touch her lip scar and then she shrugged, “I guess… I didn’t know how he felt. I… don’t know how he feels.”

“Well… did you ever really ask him?” Karlach responded with a shrug, as if the answer were quite simple to her, cocking her head just slightly at the ranger before shoving the filled cup into her hand.

Wren almost laughed as she lifted the cup to her lips for a drink. She didn’t ever ask him; she’d been too preoccupied by the parasite, and then losing her eye. She didn't stop to speak to him at all, really. The archer soaked in the irony of her own words from her earlier encounter with Astarion swinging like a boomerang right back to her. The substance in her cup tasted better than the previous drinks she’d been given, and the brunette woman eagerly took another sip as she considered her friend’s words with a soft hum. “Alright. I'll ask him."

-----

Astarion watched Wren dance with more than one partner. Should he ask her to dance? Would that smooth things over? He knew how to, of course. But then, if she was so angry with him that she rejected him in front of everyone… well the rogue’s pride truly couldn’t stand for that to happen.

The vampire sat frozen in indecision, sipping from his bottle as his eyes tracked the little bird around the camp. She and Karlach had a bit of conversation by the booze table — it must’ve been about him, because Karlach looked his way more than once. Annoyingly, he couldn’t pick up what they said from this distance over the clamor of other conversations and Alfira’s music. The knowledge that he was being discussed made him uneasy, and he huffed, suddenly scanning the party for a distraction. Just as he was about to throw a line at some tiefling in a futile attempt to stroke his own ego, he heard Wren’s enraged voice thundering through the party.

“What the hell did you just say, Lae’zel?” The little bird was standing face to face with the Githyanki, hands clenched into tight fists.

“You heard what I said. I do not need to repeat it.” Lae’zel responded coolly, stepping even closer to the ranger, answering their group leader’s challenge.

The entire crowd had fallen silent, watching the scene unfold. Wren quickly hooked her right arm, and Astarion stared in a ridiculously juxtaposed mixture of horror and delight as it connected with a solid pow on the other woman’s eye socket. Lae’zel, to her credit, took the punch with barely any reaction and then returned it with one of her own. It landed on the ranger’s nose with a sickening crack.

Astarion rushed forward, along with Karlach and Shadowheart, just as Lae’zel was about to withdraw her blade. But Astarion was faster than the alien and he pressed the edge of his dagger against the Githyanki’s neck in warning.

“Now, now, I think not, little viper. You’re clearly drunk. Go lay down with mommy Shadowheart and take a nap before we all do things we will surely regret in the morning.” His voice warned, tone measured but scarlet eyes heated as they glared into Lae’zel’s.

Shadowheart had hold of Lae’zel’s forearm, staying her blade, while Karlach stood a few paces behind the half-elf. Wren was holding her nose, which was now pouring thin streams of crimson. Astarion couldn’t see the blood from where his face was pressed so closely to the alien, but he could easily smell it. Oh, how his fingers positively ached with the desire to slice into Lae’zel’s neck and repay the debt.

Shadowheart spoke, trying with all her might to remain calm and be the voice of reason. “Come on, Lae’zel. You’re drunk… you didn’t truly mean it. Come with me, let’s go lay down.”

The Githyanki relented, inhaling deeply and stepping back, away from Astarion’s blade. The cleric offered an apologetic look to her other campmates before grabbing her lover’s hand and pulling her away from the party, towards their tent.

“Sorry about that, folks! You know how it goes among family!” Karlach shouted, and soon everyone shrugged off the dispute and resumed their conversations, followed by another swell of music.

After Astarion stowed his blade, he turned to check on Wren. She’d already walked towards her own tent and hidden herself inside the little nest. He followed after her, swiftly ducking himself into the canvas shelter before kneeling down to face the little bird. She’d held a cloth over her nose and fixed her closed eyes toward the ceiling, hoping to slow the bleeding.

“I heard it break. Can’t you heal it yourself?” He murmured, cocking his head slightly as he lifted his hand toward her face, removing the cloth for a moment to examine the damage.

“I tried. But it seems I’m out of spellcasting power. I used it all up at the goblin camp. I’m obviously not going to Shadowheart for help, Halsin already helped me with my arm, and fuck Nettie. So… here I am.”

“Hold on.” Astarion murmured, exiting the tent with no further explanation. Wren’s brows furrowed in confusion as she watched him exit, but that caused a sharp pain in her nose, so she groaned and looked back at the ceiling.

The vampire returned a few minutes later, wearing a large amulet with a jade-colored stone that Wren didn’t recognize and carrying his own backpack. He sat back down and moved his slender hands forward, bidding the little bird to lower the blood-soaked cloth. Long, lithe fingers pressed to the woman’s nose and then Astarion uttered a healing incantation.

Wren blinked in surprise as she felt the familiar warmth of a healing spell seep through her skin and into the fragile bones along the center of her face. Soon enough, her nose felt practically back to normal. Astarion seemed to be watching her for an indication that his efforts worked before lowering his hands. She nodded subtly.

The rogue quietly removed his hands and quickly undid the clasp of the heavy amulet, stowing the piece of jewelry back in his pack. Then he rustled around, withdrawing a small bottle of water and a small scrap of cloth. After dampening the cloth, he lifted it to Wren’s nose and began tenderly cleaning the dried blood off her face. He saw the question in her eyes and answered it without her prompting.

“I found it among Counsellor Florrick’s things, when I found your chemise. Seemed worth keeping, but it’s awfully noisy when I move so I don't wear it all the time.” He says in a hushed voice, pausing for a moment when Wren winced as he pressed too firmly to her still-tender nose. He looks at her for a beat and then continues, “Figured I would hold onto it, just in case...”

'Just in case I end up on my own and I don't have Shadowheart or you to heal me.'

A bit of quiet fell between the two as the elf focused on his task, and the woman focused on one of her pillows instead of the rogue. Astarion noticed this, because she normally watched him so intently with those two-toned eyes of hers. It stung, her lack of attention on him, but he kept working, hoping somehow this was a step in the right direction. At least she hadn’t pushed him away. It was clear that in the thick silence of the tent, which was such a sharp contrast to the raging party outside, that the two of them felt the weight of things unsaid hanging between them.

“What did she say?” Astarion questioned in a low murmur, scarlet orbs wandering from Wren's upturned nose to her distant stare, pulling her attention back to him.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Wren huffed, beginning to bristle in response and starting to pull away from the vampire, but his other hand clasped onto her forearm and kept her in place.

The rogue paused for a moment, squinting his eyes at the ranger. Wren could see the subtle prickles of annoyance on his face; her eyes took in the scrunch of his nose and the clenching of his jaw. His tone was stiff, curt, as if he were trying to maintain hold over his emotions. “You said you would tell me anything if I bothered to ask. So, here I am, asking.”

Wren fell silent, as she felt the sting of her own words flipped against her for the second time that night. She moved to thumb her lip scar, and Astarion’s eyes followed her finger for a moment before returning to holding her own eyes in an unyielding stare.

“She…” The little bird looked up at the tent and sighed. Hells, it was going to sound so ridiculous when it came out.

“She overheard Karlach asking what happened to Kol, and I told Karlach that Kol had died. I told her what I told you about the ambush. And then Lae’zel said that I have a type… elves with silver hair and red eyes. And that my history of poor leadership would probably get you killed, just like it had the first one.”

Wren’s mouth hardened into a line, and her voice crackled at the end. Fuck Lae’zel for knowing exactly how to cut into her with words and lay bare one of her biggest fears. Wren didn’t want to be the leader… she didn’t fucking want it! So why did Lae’zel or anyone else have to make it so hard? Didn’t they know she was already beating herself to a pulp for every misstep along the way?

Astarion watched as the little bird rolled her gaze up to the ceiling where she stayed intently focused on the canvas of the tent, trying to conceal her tears. He had half a mind to storm across the camp and cut out the Githyanki’s tongue. Maybe they would all be better off for it; her pessimistic nature wasn’t doing the group any favors, after all. But instead, he sighed, grabbed Wren’s hand, grabbed his own pack, and then stood up, pulling her with him.

“Come on, darling. Let’s get away from this party. The wine is shit and the only company really worth keeping is in this tent, anyway.” He grumbled before walking out of the canvas shelter and heading away from the crowd, toward the grove exit. He kept his fingers wrapped around hers as he led her along.

Wren followed without much of a thought. She spent so much time being a leader, she supposed she basked in the few moments when she got to be a follower. She didn’t know where they were going; she didn’t care. She just wanted Astarion to keep holding her hand for as long as possible.

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Taglist: Hiii @mancsunite

[alienssstufff]

LAST LIFE APOCALYPSE AU MASTERLIST

A very intensely written Life Series au by ME!

All general updates questions and lore can be found in the #last life apocalypse au tag! This post in particular will act as a masterlist regarding the timeline, worldbuilding and lore of the au. I wish to (hopefully) keep updating this post as more characters and arcs are revealed. 

IMPORTANT YOU VISIT THIS LINK FIRST BEFORE ENTERING (It’s pretty): > Last Life Apocalypse AU Intro (Talks about the mechanics)

Now without further ado - lets begin:

TIMELINE (Summarised)

The timeline of the AU is defined by two major arcs:

The past PROLOGUE 3RD LIFE that is the childhood of majority of the cast (location: their childhood town)

LAST LIFE PRESENT day that takes place in the woods (the main event - when the Apocalypse starts)

These are arcs that involve most if not all of the cast members from their respective seasons.

[BETWEEN ARCS] Between these arcs occur smaller events - big to some but not on a scale to affect everyone. This is the transition period after the cast graduate from Middle School and go their separate ways before reuniting (by fate) in the Last Life Woods. Events that happen in the between arcs take inspiration from the CC’s other respective series beyond the Life Series.

Some current inspirations: Evo SMP, Hermitcraft (various seasons), Scar’s TCD series, Bdubs’ SOTF. More about their involvement as updates progress.

[SCU SPIN-OFF] Consider this as an epilogue describing the state of the planet decades after the main cast has died. Not considered a ‘major arc’ as it is not focused on the main cast but exists solely for worldbuilding purposes (because I like it :] ).

WORLDBUILDING

Setting of Last Life takes place in the woods, think of American national parks or camping grounds on a road trip, or the Walking Dead (the telltale game not the show)

CLIMATE: Generic American woodlands climate but with a less generic winter weather. As the situations for the player’s get more dire, so does the environment around with forecasts for an oncoming snow blizzard from Magic Mountain as the world fades to white.

It is also during this time of year and climate where a creature known as the Wither is rumoured to roam the lands. It is a cryptid that unlike most woodland creatures, the Wither wakes from hibernation only during the Winter when it is cold enough and feasts on a very specific carnivorous diet. In reality this is known as the Patient 0 of the Bogeydisease, born and mutated within the labs of the Research Facility, leading to the downfall desolation of what is now known as the Abandoned Observatory.

MAIN LOCATIONS:

SOUTHLANDS (Camp Southlands) - Were once a popular camping hotspot before the apocalypse. The people who survived there were once camp counselors (Grian, Impulse, Mambo, Martyn, Jimmy). The grounds acted as both a family resort and a summer camp for kids  where they are divided into one of the five factions supervised by each counselor: -MARTYN Counsellor of Athletics and house of the GREEN CATS -IMPULSE Counsellor of Cooking and house of the YELLOW SUN BEARS -JIMMY Counsellor of Safety and house of the BLUE DOGS (formerly blue canaries) -MUMBO Counsellor of Crafts (shop) and house of the BLACK MOTHS -GRIAN Counsellor of (shenanigans) Arts and house of the RED BIRDS

FAIRY FORT (Fairy Fort Reserve FFR) - A geographically enclosed area dedicated to protecting the land and the endangered animals that are shelter there. Ownership of the Fairy Fort was passed along the generations of Lizzie’s family tree. The people who survived there are park rangers with Lizzie as their lead. They have current beef with the Southlanders as there are many things they disagree with and compete against.

ICE FORT (Shade-E-E’s Gas) - As it’s located near the center of the map, the ethubs ‘Ice Fort’ is one of the only ounces of urban infrastructure out in the woods. Upon arrival of the Apocalypse, it is a fortified Shade-E-E’s gas station barricaded by the only employees Bdubs and Etho (the manager). It once acted as a pitstop to drivers and travelers alike and is the only place in the woods that has a working cellphone tower and final connection to the outside world dubbed as “Etho’s Tree”.

TEAM BEST HIDEOUT / ROCKTAPUS (Abandoned Observatory/Research Centre) - An abandoned observatory squatted on by Skizz that doubled as a bunker that was originally built in preparation for a nuclear fallout. Upstairs the observatory contains secret government documents regarding information about the Bogeydisease and the Wither cryptid - Indecipherable to all except for Tango who understands them. Downstairs the bunker’s monitors are linked to several surveillance cameras in the woods.

GASLIGHT GIRLBOSS GATEKEEP (Scottage Club) - A retreat saved for the rich and elite. While the Scottage Club has its HQ here, holiday properties of its patrons are scattered all across the map (the secret green lives hideouts).

MAGIC MOUNTAIN - Kept off limits just for how dangerous the place is, no one ever goes there. Rumor has it the mountain has magic capabilities that can drive a man insane. The last human sightings near Magic Mountain were two lone hikers who by arrogance wished to conquer and come back surviving the woodland’s most treacherous point. And while they were never seen again, they say if you look very closely with a spyglass, you can catch glimpses of a small, broken up hut at the top.

THE NETHER (NETHERLANDS not-the-country): The NETHER is the closest town over from the Last Life woodlands and is home to facilities such as a Fortress Dept Store and a camping & fishing shop known as The Bastion. While hypothetically the cast could escape the woodlands to live in the Nether, it is because of the high value resources that can be found in these stores that attract both surviving scavengers and zombies alike - making the town very dangerous to defend.

The ‘nether portals’ in this au are the vehicles each team has on them to travel between locations. The Nether may be the closest town there is, but even walking there on foot is extremely dangerous - especially considering the apocalypse and the harsh elements.

BOGEYDISEASE

For legal reasons, I dropped biology in highschool as soon as I could - I do not know shit about diseases and how people develop medicine. This is a fictional disease. TLDR; I am talking out of my ass.

[Origins of the Bogeydisease and the L.I.F.E antidotes pending (secret!)]

Transfer of the disease in its early stages of evolution could only be transferred if bacteria had direct contact with the host’s bloodstream. At best (?) in small amounts the host would experience a fever and shivering. At worst the host would feel extreme fatigue, most likely dying of starvation/dehydration due to it being unaware of their hunger (and fatigue - the disease manipulates the brain into thinking the host is not fatigued). 

Nature of the disease (well.. virus) as it continues is designed to adapt with the changing environment. While most samples were not able to survive its effects, some victims of the Wither’s bite would survive and exhibit a second stage of the disease’s effects. If the host were to survive the initial stages of the disease, once the disease has fully adapted to the body of its host it would evolve in order to prolong its survival. This is evident by physical alterations of the host’s appearance.

Not just physical changes but behavioural as well. The host would act more akin to serving its natural instincts, more inclined to the hunt and the tendency to keep itself alive. 

People who are in the second stages and beyond of contracting the Bogeydisease are considered Red Lives. It is possible to cure Red Lives out of the Bogeydisease as long as the disease has not evolved to its later stages. WHEN a person is cured using a L.I.F.E antidote they may experience side-effects [explained in the INTRO]. In some instances, ex-hosts may retain some of the traits afflicted when they were Bogey.

Later stages of disease evolution. The disease and its hosts show strong similarities to how rabies can be passed between hosts. And based on how a host reacts to the disease, hosts of the disease are classified into two types:

Host is overwhelmed by the effects of the disease and dies early. If the body and surrounding scene are left untreated, the disease will continue to live on in the decomposing body and grow a special fungus that feeds off the remains. The fungus and its disease reproduces by its spores which allow the disease to not only infect the environment around but also proves the possibility in contracting an airborne variant of the disease.

Host grows accustomed to the effects of the disease exhibiting the aforementioned loss of higher brain functions above (incapable of reason and rational thought). Movements grow erratic, constantly moving as a means of maintaining fixed body temperature. For colder climates the diet of hosts relies on feasting on warm bodies. Failure to do so will induce drowsiness in the host, placing them in a slumber in order to regain energy and try again. Hosts also show signs of excessive salivation and occasional bleeding. Direct exposure to any of the host’s bodily fluids is another method in contracting the disease.

[ REMINDER THIS IS AN ONGOING AU , MORE TO BE UPDATED ]

[ratsoh-writes]

Hey y’all! Say hello to

Ebott~

Or at least the first wip of the ebott map! I have all the main (above ground) locations so far!

For those who are wondering, dark brown is rocky hilly land/cliff sides, rusty brown is mountain ranges, khaki is grassland, green is forest, and light tan is beaches obviously lol. I don’t think I need to say what the blue areas represent.

I’ll add descriptions of each landmark below the next picture.

Alright starting from left to right:

Atlantis: home of the hadal monsters, the majority of this city is underwater, but some of it is accessible through the cliffs of bluefin island as well as floating buildings anchored to the shallower ocean around the island. The majority of Atlantis city houses its people in the curved section of the ocean trench by bluefin island. The buildings are carved into the rock.

Seashore: ebotts second largest beach town, seashore is a beautiful place where the majority of ebotts fishing trade takes place. It’s a popular vacation spot more for ebotts residents, but it does get some tourism too during holiday season.

Echo hills: the southernmost city of ebott, echo hills is a small city surrounded by grassy farmland. Due to the location, the place is raining more than not, and is perfect for crops that need lots of water! Echo hills is best known for its rice, producing just enough to sustain ebott.

Remembrance: located to the west on wells island, remembrance town houses one of the maintained entrances to the connected underground’s. It is also the point where the famine monsters were found and rescued. Here the royals placed the memorial of those left behind. Massive stone statues carved all over with the names of family who died underground or were left behind in the crash surround the caves entrance. A small town of monsters maintain the area, and some livestock are raised there as well.

The great dam: exactly what the name suggests, it’s just ebotts biggest dam. It’s part of the national forest so only a handful of maintenance workers and rangers actually live there. The dam is connected to waterfall lake.

The national forest entrance: this is the official way to see the national park, and access the maintained trails. Most of the park rangers live near here as well. There’s a small tourist trap too selling gift items, and farther up is a hunting lodge that opens during open season.

The Temple: located right in the middle of ebott, the actual temple building sits on top of three large mountains near kidney lake. The temple houses ebotts history and is a popular tourist spot. It also houses one of the maintained entrances to the underground, connected to some of the upper levels of waterfall.

NEW EBOTT: the largest city of ebott, and the capital of the county. New ebott has it all! The education, entertainment, shopping and jobs! And of course all the important big government buildings are here as well as most of the royals! New ebott is the only city connected to all the railroads and has the largest airport.

Rails Way: a city surrounding an important train stop, rails way is the in between rest stop between Portland and new ebott. Besides the trains passing through, it also is where trucks in ebott are made and fixed for the most part. There’s a few other factories in the city as well, like a few metal processing plants.

Metta Land: north to new ebott, this is basically a theme park, mega mall, and Hollywood all rolled into one spot. Metta land is so big that there’s even a few villages around it where its employees live. It also houses the only man/monster made entrance to the underground, going straight to hotland of course. What happens in metta land stays in metta land

Portland: this is the second biggest city of ebott located on the east. Almost all trade ships stop here. Portland is a bustling business city full of factories, and has a few houses of education too! It also houses most of ebotts navy and has the second largest airport.

Cape resort: located on the southern rocky cliffs, cape resort is in fact not a resort. It’s rocky, cold and generally horrible to live in if you’re not an aquatic monster lol. However it has an oil rig. Lots of hadal and sea monsters live there maintaining that oil rig.

New hope: new hope is a beautiful mountain town housing the entrance to snowdin, the largest entrance to the underground. It gets the largest amount of tourists year round and is a popular ski location during the winters as well. The parts of new hope that aren’t for tourists are mostly farmland or forests put aside for logging. Plenty of vineyards are in this area

Ridgeside factory: Ridgeside factory is ebotts main power plant and is directly connected to the core in hotland as well. It’s surrounded by a few villages too where more outdoorsy monsters live. Those who don’t work at the factory are either from hotland or are miners. The mountains in the area are littered with natural caverns being used as mine entrances

Golden valley city: the golden valley refers to the surrounding farmland, but in the very middle of it is the golden valley city. It is a rural type of place, is where the majority of ebotts produce passes through before being sold, and is a huge art center of the country. Just about everything above ground is grown in the valley surrounding the city.

Steeler city, the third largest city of ebott, steeler is where golden valley ships their produce to be preserved and spread around the rest of the country. Steeler is full of factories and restaurants. The most famous eating places of ebott are located here!

Crimson gate bridge: it’s a massive bridge named after the Golden Gate Bridge in California. This bridge is actually a sunny gold color, but they named it crimson in fear of being called copycats

Corncopia: a third farming community located between the split between white water river, ebotts biggest river. Corncopia is absolutely gorgeous but space is limited so it’s a fight to get any land there. The prime spots are taken by the rich for their homes or by the big wig farmers who cemented their place when the country was first forming

Not listed on the map is the underground! Ebott still has all the underground chambers from when the monsters were sealed away. New entrances to the underground are being discovered each day, and still plenty of monsters live there, preferring the comfort of a home they knew from before. Since there no longer trapped inside, the underground has become pretty comfortable. At least the discovered parts are ;)

I’ll describe the three main areas from smallest to largest

Hotland: hotland is really only a small thin chunk of the underground. A long but thin lake of lava surrounded by rocky chambers makes up the areas of hotland. The most popular spot of course is hotland city, connected to metta land, it’s pretty much the Vegas of ebott these days. The less visited spot, core, is a small town housing the core, connected to Ridgeside factory, and housing several research centers.

Snowdin. Snowdin is actual just the name of the small quaint town close to the underground entrance in new hope. They have year round skiing, and a pretty boat ride through waterfall straight to hotland for tourists. The outskirts of snowdin however have several villages filled with farmers growing magical crops that thrive in the cold temperatures.

Waterfall: it’s estimated that nearly 80% of the underground chambers are waterfall lands. Humid, cool but not frigid, and filled with varying levels of fresh and salt water, waterfall is underneath the majority of ebott, and even extends into the ocean some. Almost all of ebotts magical crops are grown down in the lived in parts of waterfall. It’s because of this area that ebott is self sufficient in feeding its people. Waterfall also houses the fourth and fifth largest cities of ebott; New Shell and Lily pad Fields.

Whew! That was a lot! I’ll probably add more to the map later on, but I think this is good for now

[ohbo-ohno]

 This is a bit dark, feel free not to respond to this. But I'm thinking of a world where Werewolf!Simon meets Johnny in the middle of the woods.

Like, picture this:

Johnny recently got hired to work in Canada as a fire lookout. In the wilderness, it reminds him of back home: mountains rise and fall, covered in trees and rivers and whatever else crawls around under the cover of darkness.

It's a peaceful yet lonely job, where he gets to sketch out whatever he finds most interesting that day, plays games on the handheld console he brought with him, and doomscrolls online. Mundane. But the daily chatter with fellow lookout, Kyle, and the nearby ranger station, Price, held over the radio make It enjoyable.

One day, though, Kyle tells him of a story he heard from Price, of the monsters of myth walking the earth. of how, sometimes, the Rangers will encounter something they simply can't describe: a little girl walking backwards, floating ethereal lights, and the constant howling of a lone wolf, the size of which has been described as simply monstrous.

Johnny didn't think too much about it of course, he's heard enough tales in Scotland to scoff at what Kyle tells him. But then Price, usually serious, corroborates the stories. Tells him Rangers have a special guide to deal with things like that.

If you see the girl, toss her a coin and she'll leave. If you see the lights, turn away. And if you see the wolf, you should hold your head low, bow, and hope he leaves ou alone.

Johnny still thinks it's a joke, an elaborate ale to freak out the newbies. 

Then, in the middle of the night, he wakes from the loud howl ringing through the forest. That's not what's strange: the wolf always howls. The problem is that the howl is nearly deafening from so close.

He rises from his bed, and crouches out of sight, paranoid that the wolf is watching him from the windows. He's too high up, he knows it makes no sense, and yet Kyle has successfully freaked him out. He crawls towards the door and makes sure it's locked, before peaking out.

It's too dark, he can't see anything. The howling has stopped though, which freaks him out to duck back down.

He makes his way to the main desk, opens the PC, and checks the camera feed on the bottom of the tower.

He can't see anything: the night is too dark, especially since there's no moon out tonight. 

He debates turning in the flood lights, but for some reason, he doesn't want to scare it away, at least not now.

He wants to know what it is, first. Maybe it's just a regular old wolf, and he doesn't want to scare it half to death for simply howling too close to Johnny- how would it know there's a scared human up the metal tower?

So, he clicks the little switch to turn on night vision. The screen freezes for a second, and then the green hued images flood him.

It's a man.

Tall, compared to the tree he's standing besides, further away into the foliage. 

His arms are preportionally longer than they should be, hairy and muscled. His feet are covered by some bushes, but from he Furr crawling up his legs, Johnny can guess he's standing on a beasts hind legs.

His face is that of a wolf. 

Slowly, the man leans his head to the sky and a howl echoes through the woods.

Johnny quietly barracads his door with tables and chairs and whatever else, he locks the windows, puts the blinds down on them, and is attached to his feed.

It's horrifying, but he has to keep watching the creature- man (?) As he stalks the towers, sniffs around.

He almost dozes off when he first head it: the scrape of something sharp on metal. Scrape. Scrape. It's rithmic. Like steps.

Johnny jolts, and switches cameras.

It's walking up the stairs.

To Johnny.

Oh god.

(And then Ghost finds him and bursts through and then ghost turns back into a human and then fuks the sweet-smelling man he found)

I ran out of brain juice sorry 🗑️

trash you NEED an ao3 or a blog to just post this in the ghoap tag omgggg i LOVE IT