#its a really cool campground

[maudiemoods]

Camping at the beach and I am BURNT TO A CRISP!!

[yeyinde]

STRAW HOUSE, STRAW DOG

Baby Trap + Soap x Fem!Reader : or, Johnny finds a wife in the woods and decides to take her home.

18+ | DEAD DOVE, DO NOT EAT: noncon, kidnapping, breeding/baby trapping. somnophilia. implied stalking. obsessive behaviour. forced reliance/dependency. non-con drug use (implied). vulnerable character (injured reader) being preyed upon by an opportunistic scavenger.

Somehow, getting hurt in the remote wilderness of Nahanni National Park without any immediate rescue is the least of your worries when a rugged man shows up and claims he's going to help. Out here, you've been told your biggest fear should be bears, steep canyons, and a swift death with fangs and claws.

But maybe you should have been more concerned about strange men with crowlike smiles and blistering eyes.

ADDITIONAL TAGS: descriptions of injury. implied head trauma. bearded Soap. smut. this is my love letter to NWT and a what not to do in a national park.

BABY TRAP MASTER LIST | AO3 LINK

It happens in an instant. 

The trek up the fjord narrows suddenly. Chossy growing slick from rainfall the night prior. You pace yourself, stepping carefully on the wobbling slate, testing its resilience before you take another step. Climbing higher. Higher.

There's a storm brewing in the distance. Its burgeoning pace grows rapidly, nipping at your heels as cool winds whistle through the steep valley below.

The park wardens at the visitors centre warned you about it when you set out into the rugged wilderness of Nahanni this morning. Brows pinched, wary, when you'd come to them—all alone—and signed your name on the barren ledger collecting dust on the counter. A fact that drew your attention when you flipped through the empty pages. 

Don't get too many visitors around here, the man murmured, eyes cresting in apprehension at your question. Not the most isolated or remote, no. 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.

They added that the weather was unpredictable this time of year. All year, really. Nahanni is known for sudden swells and white-outs, for weather that can turn in an instant, going from calm to cataclysmic within seconds. 

(“Storms,” the man huffs, and you think the sigh was meant to be a laugh. One that falls flat when he takes in your hiking boots (too big, but the sales lady at the sporting goods warehouse assured you it was fine, that you would grow into them), and your cheap Lululemon knock-off tights. Your flimsy rucksack. The tinge of green around your ears; the stench of an overeager novice. “And, uh, it’s urban legends.”)

Valley of the Headless Men, he intones, squinting up at you when you ask about them. Adding: be careful out there when you turn to leave.

Dauntless, you still set out into the park, determined to at least make it to your campground before it set in. But the majesty surrounding you on all sides distracted you from your pace. Eyes caught on the Xanadu of an untempered wilderness slowing your trek to a crawl as you took in the steep, rolling batholiths reaching high into the aether, their sides sloping down in a dizzying, vertiginous drop to a lush valley below of scheele’s green below. It all looked so perfectly symmetrical from the high point in the valley where you stood, breathing in the scents that perfumed the air. With the rugged mountains cupped around a winding white line where the river sawed through. 

A lone moose grazed at the bottom of a rolling fell. The sight of her stopping you in your tracks long enough that the plume of darkened clouds—all a terrifying burnt sage—had time to catch up to you, crackling overhead as thunder rumbled through the canyons. 

Your campground is at the top of this ravine. Three nights spent inside a cabin with nothing but yourself and several paperbacks for company. Into the Wild amongst them—a morbid parting gift from a friend on what not to do—and its inspirational predecessor, On the Road. 

You won't read it. You never do. But it sits, a humourous paperweight, in your rucksack as you clamber up the ravine. An anchoring comfort. A piece of home. Something that reminds you you're not completely alone even though you are. 

The book, your friends, and the encroaching loneliness that you feel prickling behind your eyes, all weigh on your mind. Spooling out before you in loose, loop threads. You follow them eagerly, glad for something to abate the unnatural silence, and—

A sound.

It comes from the left, hidden in the thick tangle of furze. A click. It shatters through the eerie quiet of the sprawling boscage. An animal, maybe. Hopefully. 

It must be, you think, heart hammering thunderously in your chest. There's a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach. You hold your breath. Eyes glued on the thatch of green shrubs lining the base of the dense forest. 

Nothing happens. You blink, shifting on your feet—

A red line pierces through the gap between the leaves, aimed straight at your ankle. It's thin, diaphanous. Slips over the scraggy rock like liquid.

It's so out of place here that it takes you a second to familiarise yourself with its unexpected presence. A laser—

An explosive boom fills the ravine the moment the thought connects. A rifle. Aimed right at you. It happens fast. The world turning over itself, spinning right off its axis. You fall against the ledge in a crumpled, heavy heap, legs so close to dangling off the precipice. 

Gravity is a choking weight on your sternum, pushing you down, down, toward the jagged, rocky shoreline. A fall like that—

You curl into yourself instinctively. 

“Ah, shite—” is all you hear amid the roar in your ears. “Y’alright? ah didnae see ye thare—”

In your tear-stained periphery, a man appears. He stands into the glare of the waning sun, limned in a halo of gold. There's a pinch between his dark, thick brows. A steep ravine.  He's ragged. Wild. Tuffs of black hair hang loose past his ears and nape, curling slightly at the ends. It blends, almost seamlessly, into his thick, scraggly beard. He pushes a hand through the top, grabbing a fistful in his palm.

“Easn't expecting anybody oot 'ere. Nae this far intae th' woods.”

He seems to be speaking to himself more so than he's talking to you. There's anger writ in the fine lines of his face, but this ire isn't turned toward you. It's inward. Self-admonishment. His eyes darken when they flicker down to your ankle, as if reminding you of the hurt there when you'd been so focused on how out of place his accent is in the Northwest Territories.

The ache in your ankle brings you crashing back into reality. The pain seems to vibrate from within your marrow, riveting up your bones. 

You chance a glance—

You swallow down the drum of panic. A trick of the light. It must be. 

A dream. A nightmare. 

But the man appears. His hand falls onto your knee, holding you steady. 

“Ah will hae tae put oan a tourniquet. Will hurt a lot, doe.” 

Absently, you nod. Keep nodding. Can't stop. 

There's a hole cut through your ankle. Tore thro' yer Achilles, he's saying, words water in your ears. He instructs you to wiggle your toes.

"Ah know it hurts, but just dae it fer me, okay?"

You do. You—

Nausea buds in your guts, churning your stomach. The apple you ate earlier is choked out into the bushes dotting along the ravine. Insides purging themselves, replacing everything—food, water, coffee from earlier, bile—until nothing but shaky panic remains. It tastes like iron in the back of your throat. 

“Ah know, doe,” he's saying, fingers knotting into your slick hiking trousers. Lululemon knockoffs from an outdoor warehouse in the city. A pocket knife follows, and cuts a seamless line inches below your hip. 

Sad tae see ‘em go, he murmurs, accent thickening around the words. Saturating them in a drawl that's too liquid for your unpractised ears to catch. He makes a mournful sound when he slides the blade down your leg, adds, “hugged yer arse like a dream, doe.”

Another trick. The mountains do funny things to sound, you know. It must be all in your head. All—

“Don't worry,” he's shushing you now as he peels the fabric off your legs, groaning low in his throat. “Ah have ye. Ah will take care o'ye, tae, doe. Bonny thing, aren't ye? a' alone. Nae anymore, doe. Jus' me 'n' ye now. Jus' us —”

You always thought you'd have your wits about you in a traumatic situation. Be able to think clearly, rationally. Make appropriate decisions that befit the situation unfolding. Life saving ones. Practical. 

To gear up for this trip, you watched survival videos on YouTube. How to make a fire. How to make drinking water. How to build a shelter. Tips on weathering down for a sudden storm. Tucked it all inside your head, and thought, I got this. 

Had to, really, because everything you've read about Nahanni says it's unpredictable. Calm weather, gorgeous views one moment, and then a sudden deluge the next. Snow falling quicker than you keep up with. Animals blend in seamlessly with the landscape. Slips, falls. It's so easy to get lost, someone wrote. 

But as he uses the scrap of your trousers to wrap around the wound on your broken, mangled ankle, you realise all that planning was for nothing. This was one of those moments when you discovered just how much you bit off. That panic made you mute, made you freeze up. 

The pain is almost secondary to the surge of adrenaline. Fear.

You need to go home. You tell him this, slowly. Muttered through numb lips. 

There's something almost like pity in his eyes when he glances up at you. 

There was a mix-up, he says, slowly. Cautiously. You got yourself turned around in the opposite direction. There's no campground on the fjord above. All the lodges and cabins are in the opposite direction. 

Y'got lost, he tells you. Turned the wrong way out. Ye'r in th' backcountry.

“I'll go back,” you press, urgent. Insistent. Panic is acidic in your throat. Corrosive. It burns when you swallow. “Please, just tell me which way to go, and I’ll—”

"Cannae dae tha'."

“Why?”

“Storm,” he points in the distance where a plume of cloud gathers. So dark, they're almost black. Ominous. “Gonnae skelp solid. Na choice but tae git oot."

“I don't have anywhere to go—”

He rakes his hand through his hair. “Ah kin take ye tae mines. Git a cabin in th' woods. Juist ootdoors o' Nahanni Butte.” 

“No, I—”

His hand squeezes tight around your ankle. The pain makes itself known in a visceral, awful throb that travels up your leg, curdling at the base of your spine. Wrong, wrong. Something is wrong. Your body is trying to reject the agony. The breaking of your bone. It's foreign, it doesn't belong. But there's nowhere for it to go. 

Pain pulses in tandem with your heartbeat. 

You don't realise you're screaming until you hear the echoes of it rebound against the limestone walls. And then there's a whisper in your ear. You feel the scratch of his beard against your cheek.

"Shush, bonnie. Cannae let ye go oot oan yer own. Gonnae take ye home, yeah?"

Home. Home. You nod furiously, and it's only when the scraggly black curls covering his chin and jaw catch on damp skin do you realise you're crying. 

He leans away from you, arm stretching toward the rucksack behind him. 

The rifle leans against it. You feel sick all over again. 

“Drink this,” he says, unscrewing the cap. “It'll make ye feel better.” 

He presses the lip to your mouth, a hand slipping over the back of your head, tilting your chin up. “Drink,” he says again, and it's firmer this time. A command. “Ah promise ye'll feel better, doe.” 

It tastes bitter. You swallow it down. Keep swallowing.

“Good,” he rasps, hand sliding down the length of your spine until it rests against your lower back. “Keep drinkin’, sweet thing.”

It pools in your belly, sloshing uncomfortably when you move, but it washes the bitterness from between your teeth. You keep drinking. Swallowing it down. You know you shouldn't, that you might get sick again, but it's a distraction from the mess that is your ankle—bloody, twisted, mangled—

Nausea swells. You choke it down until you can breathe without feeling as though you were going to be sick again. 

“You'll be okay,” he's saying, moving around you with a practised efficiency for something so broad. It's almost graceful. Agile. 

He patches you up as much as he can with the supplies he has, but you refuse to look again at your ankle. It's broken, that much is clear. You can feel your bones grinding, sliding against each other. The sensation is horrific. Wrong. You turn your head to the ledge you were standing on just to distract yourself from the agony of it all. 

You're surprised you're not crying. Screaming. The urge is there, just beneath the surface. But for some odd, unfathomable reason you find you can't. Your chest feels heavy. Lungs sluggish. Slow. 

It must be an adrenaline crash, you think. Why else would you feel so tired, so exhausted. 

“I'm—” you start, but you feel dizzy. “‘m—”

“Shush, doe.” He mutters, and it sounds far away. Garbled. “You need yer rest. Had a traumatic accident. But don't worry. Ye can trust me. A wouldnae let anythin' ill happen tae ye ever again."

“Yeah,” you breathe, nodding. Nodding. You can't stop, can't—

“Lay back. Git some rest. A'm almost done, 'n' then ah will hae ye back home in no time—”

You come to on a groggy whimper, head buried in the messy locks curtained over his nape. There's a soft, pulsing thud in the back of your head when you try to lift it up. It feels heavier than it should. Leadened. You groan again, fighting against the currents dragging you back down to those soporific depths—

Your head is a slurried marsh. Thoughts ephemeral, broken. Fragmented. They slip through your fingers when you reach for them, diaphanous wisps you can't seem to catch. 

“Don't worry, doe—” your world quivers when he speaks. Words vibrating through your chest, catching on the heavy rails of your ribs. The seismic vibrations rumble in your ear, coming to life as a mere echo in your head. “Ah will keep ye safe.”

It's comforting. A raft in squall, something to cling to as the waves make futile attempts to drag you under. Your arms, dangling loosely over his shoulders, sluggishly flatten to his chest, linking over his chest. 

He grunts at your touch, palms slick on your skin. 

“Thank you,” you slur, words thick in your throat. Sluggish. “Thank you for helpin’ me. Fer savin’ me—”

Your body shakes when he trembles. With your forehead against his nape, you hear his thick swallow. The air ghosting out of his lungs in a soundless whisper. 

His hands flex around the backs of your knees. Squeezing tight. The man doesn't say anything for a moment. In the silence, the pursuing somnolence catches up to you. It digs heavy fingers into your eyes, dragging you back down into the sticky, thick tar. 

Sleep finds you in an instant. 

You try to read his words in the quiver of your bones when he speaks. Make sense of the tremble reverberating through the hollow gaps, tangling in the pulpy mess. 

But there's a mistranslation somewhere. A missing decibel. A forgotten wavelength.

It almost sounds like he says—

“Wouldn't leave mah wife alone in th' woods like tha’.”

How funny, you think, and hide a giggle into the hardened ridge of his shoulder blade. 

Cognisance is a transient flicker.

You're not sure how long he matches through the thicket with you on his back, navigating the unending chaparral with an ease that feels innate rather than practised. You stare down at the ground, world hazy around the edges, and think, suddenly, intrusively, that you ought to remember the steps. Every left, every right. 

You get to seven lefts, three rights—a small ravine, a flattened coppice; a gnarled spruce sat alone in a valley of lush green and clumps of topaz podzol—before your eyes are too heavy to keep open. They slip shut. And you think, only for a moment. Just a second, I just need to rest my eyes, and then come to at the sound of a groggy engine growling to life. 

The world morphs from a dense forest intercut with sheer cliffs looming, indomitable, in the grey distance, to the faded beige felt covering the ceiling of an old truck. 

Your blink is a slow crawl, lashes weighed down by anchors dredging over the seafloor. Gritty, raw. It hurts, now, to hold them open. A furious throb jabs at your temple. It aches like a bruise. But it's nothing compared to the nauseating agony that floods your core each time your foot is jostled. Nerves being lit aflame in an endless throe of pain unlike you'd ever experienced before. 

Your mouth feels sealed when you go to speak. Lips glued together. Sluggishly, you squeeze your tongue through the crack between your teeth, licking along the seam. 

A plastic bottle appears in your periphery, nozzle tipped toward your mouth. A hand curls around the body of it. Fingers overlapping. It looks small in this big hand. Tiny. Long wisps of black hair cover their ruddy knuckles, spreading in a dense crop up their forearm, growing thicker at the wrist. 

Their skin is pale, tinged slightly pink. Even through the brume, the lambent light of the sun catches on their skin. Illuminating small scars, cuts. Little scratches from the snagging furze. 

Their hand shakes. The dark veins that branch off from the white-capped peaks of their bent knuckles pulse under the thin skin when they move. 

“Drink, hen,” he murmurs, bringing the bottle to the jut of your lower lip. “Ye’ll need it.” 

A plastic bottle is an odd choice to bring into the backcountry, but as you peer through the translucent skin, you find the water inside is cloudy. Chalky. 

“Donnae worry—” he gives the bottle another shake, disturbing the sediment congealing at the bottom. “It's electrolytes, ken. Nothing fishy.”

Your teeth ache from the cold when he slips the rim between your lips, prying them apart. With your head already tilted back in the seat, the water slips in. A slow trickle. He feeds it to you, humming in appeasement when you swallow. 

“Tha’s a good girl.” 

It carves a jagged tunnel through the murk in your head. The praise slipping in, liquid, until it coats your burgeoning trepidation in a sudden swell of endorphins. With their unpractised, gauche hands, they paint a mockery of Sargent in the gaps of your synapses, stuffing the spaces between with oversaturated hues of teal, white, yellow, orange, and pink. 

Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose. 

But despite the shoddily crafted pastiche, it works. 

Your eyes flutter, bones growing heavier, heavier, as they're forced to carry the weight of your liquified flesh. This molten heat in your chest turns your insides into putty.  

Water dribbles down your chin. He sees it and coos.

“Ah, doe. Right mess ye are now. Ah will hae ye home in no time. Git ye a' cleaned up."

The idea of home melts you further. You sigh in the seat, soft and drawn out, and shake your head slowly when he wriggles the bottle in front of you again. 

“Get some rest, doe,” his hand falls, heavy and warm, on your thigh. Thumb stroking along the curve of your leg, fingers curling into the seam, digging deep. Resting there. 

It's too high to be appropriate. You know this. Went through lesson upon lesson in school of bad touches and what's considered friendly, polite. But when you try to open your mouth to say something about it, you catch the spread of his palm over your flesh. Wide, broad. Masculine. It catches in your throat, and gets tangled in the mush at the base. 

It should be fine, you think, dizzy over the way his hand swallows you whole. He saved you, after all. 

But it burrows. Digs deep. Some sense of wrongness permeates out from the firm grasp he has on you. It feels possessive. The sort of thing you might expect between people who are intimate with each other. A couple. You've known him for—

Hours, maybe? 

Most of it was spent in a pain-induced hypnagogia. 

It curdles in your stomach. Rotten, spoiled milk. 

But—

He saved you. 

You'll choke yourself on it if you keep thinking about it. So, you don't. You push it down. Cover it beneath the sediment, and bury it deep. 

He's just a man. 

Kind. Helpful. 

As you dig a hole for this unease, he keeps his hand fixed on your thigh. The other is pressed against the steering wheel, the ball of his palm under the curve at the top of the wheel. Relaxed. Easy. You try to adopt his nonchalant disposition and glance out at the blurry world around you. 

You feel exhausted. Unsettled. The sort of fatigue that comes with a raging fever. There's sand in your mouth. Your throat is dry. 

You don't ask for water. 

In the lull, he pitches the truck forward with a grave rumble. The silence is broken by the crunch of vegetation and gravel beneath the wheels as he ploughs forward. 

There are public roads to get to Nahanni. The floatplane you entered into the park on was chartered by Parks Canada. And yet—

He commandeers the truck around a flatbed of rock and dirt. Muskeg dots the tops in some places, and he veers expertly to avoid them. 

It's less of a traditional road and more so a forged desire path. You know the highway has to be close by, the link between Fort Liard and Fort Simpson, but as you peer out the window, the world around you looks overgrown. Wild. Alien. 

Sloping hills in lush green stretch out into the distance, meeting with the dense montane forests dotted along the stretch of land. The grassy coppice under his wheels is matted down, and interspersed with clumps of brown, wet muskeg and crushed slate. 

Over the grey peaks of the mountains in the distance, a thick, black cloud looms. The sky turns gunmetal, almost indistinguishable from the monoliths jutting beneath them. 

At some points, he takes his hand off your thigh to navigate winding turns better, but it always ends up back on you. And always a little higher than it was before. 

Your mouth is filled with lead. Tongue thick, malleable. Tensile like mercury. You can't speak. So you just ignore it. Dig your crown into the headrest, and breathe in the woodsy scent of him. Laurel, tree moss. Coumarin. Rotting pine. Sweet acacia. It tickles the back of your throat. Sticks there, glued in the syrupy mess. 

You'd hoped it would get easier to ignore, but it stays there, a constant weight, even as the world outside fades into a hazy twilight. 

In the hush of the cabin, he squeezes your thigh. “Cannae wait tae get ye home, doe.”

Against the staggering backdrop of a black, jagged mountain, a doe stands in the talus. Her fawn fur and tuffs of white spots stick out against the charcoal-coloured cliffs, and you watch, some distance away, as she bends down to fossick through the scree in search of food. 

With the looming clouds of gunmetal and ash gathering around the craggy peaks, her presence here feels dangerously out of place. Jarring. She shouldn't be here. She doesn't belong. 

But the beauty of this moment is breathtaking. Mesmerising. You stare in muted horror, awe, as she grazes in the rubble, slender neck bent in a graceful arch. The sloping handle of fine china. Her wet, black eyes are so open, so kind. Puddles of ignorance, naïvety, as she flicks her tongue out against the desolate rock, a fruitless search for grass in which to mull on. 

Thunder crackles over the snow-capped ridges. Her ears flicker, but she doesn't run. You should warn her. Scare her away. But you can't move. Can't speak. You're a mute spectator, a piece of dross on the ground watching the approaching calamity without a mouth. Horror churns. You want so badly to tell the doe to run—

An impossibility, you know. It's much too late for her to do anything at all. 

Around the doe’s leg is a shackle. 

Your skin rips, tears, as you force your jaws apart, blood pooling in your mouth. If you can make a sound, she’ll—

A boom echoes through the canyon's cradle. 

The scream gurgles in the back of your throat. 

Agony rips through your leg—

—you wake with a gasp. 

Sputtering, choking on the saliva pooled in your mouth. It tastes bitter, brackish. You feel something gritty between your teeth. It sticks to the backs, granular specks that dissolve, sour and chalky, on your tongue when you run it along the ridges of your gums.

You swallow it down, grimacing at the acidic taste. 

“Awake, aye?” His voice chips through the dense fog. You blink the haze away, glancing sideways at him through bleary, heavy eyes. 

His profile is lit by the harsh glare of high noon. The sharp jut of his ball cap. The curve of his nose set in the thick bushel of his scraggly beard and moustache. His broad chest concealed most of the view from the driver's side window. The lax bridge of his arm, knuckles loosely curled around the steering wheel.

He tilts his head toward you. “How're ye feelin’?”

Sluggish. Awful. There's sand in your eyes. Cotton in your head. You feel like you've been left out in the hot sun all day. Dizzy and sunburnt. Feverish. Heatsick. Your throat is dry, but you don't ask for water. You don't answer him at all. Can't. Your tongue is laden. Lips numb. 

It takes you a moment to reorient yourself, squinting through the glare of the sun—

That reels you back. Breaks through the fog. 

You know that the concept of day and night in the summer is different here. Twenty hours of daylight with twilight lasting all night. But even with the skewed perception of time and the heavy molasses thickening around the edges of your cognisance, you know that something is wrong. 

When you left the park, it was close to five in the evening. It should be twilight, not—

Your gaze lists sluggishly to the clock on the dashboard. Through the haze, the unmistakable gleam of one-fifteen stares back at you. 

It was the right time last night. 

“Wha—?”

You're not sure what you're asking. It's not even really a word, but a garbled sound. A noise of distress, confusion, in the back of your throat. 

He seems to understand it all the same. 

“Park had a bad storm,” he answers, pitch far too light for the severity of your situation, of what you're feeling. It makes you frown, sharp and sudden. “Washed through th’ river. Where ye were—well. Wouldnae ‘ave made it out, ye see. Would’ve gotten all torn up in th’ storm—”

You read that storms in Nahanni are vicious, sudden. Weather can turn in an instant, going from moderate to devastating in a blink. But—

What he's saying doesn't make sense. You remember bits, pieces, from earlier. He said you got turned around. Wandered too far off the trail, lost in the deep wilderness of Nahanni’s sprawling valley. 

“Where are we?”

“Nearly home.”

You push the wave of nausea down. “I need to go to a hospital.”

“Can't dae tha't'.”

“Why not?”

He doesn't answer for a beat, eyes fixed on the dirt path. Unblinking. 

Finally, he mutters: “had tae leave th' park oan th' opposite side when th' storm came in. No roads take us tae town.”

“I have—” you're not sure where your bag is. You hope he had the wherewithal to snatch it up after you fell. Hope. “I have a satellite phone. I can just call—”

“Sorry, hen. Yer bag flew off th' ledge. Ah coudnae grab it 'n' ye. Ah dinnae hae a phone oot 'ere. Never needed one—”

Hopeless. Hopeless. 

“How—how could you survive out here without one?”

“Nahanni Butte is a few hours awa'. Go intae town when th’ winter road is open. Inaccessible now. Th’ rivers flooded it. Cannae cross it. Can hunt, 'n' ah hae everything a'm needin' oot here.”

“So…” the reality of your situation is beginning to dawn on you. Helpless. Hopeless. “I'm stuck here until—winter?”

“Ah hae a friend flying oot fae Yellowknife. Comes tae drop off supplies 'n' th' lik'. He'll be 'ere in two months—”

“Two months?” This whole situation feels impossible. Wrong. You're so close to people—Fort Liard, Nahanni Butte, Fort Simpson. How could you be stuck here for two months? The idea of it is absurd. “You're not—you can't be serious.”

“Aye. I am.” 

There's a pinch between his brow. You wonder if it's meant to convey the severity of the situation, but as it grows deeper, deeper, you have the sudden sense that it's not an emotional decree of his sincerity. That it's, instead, a sudden twist of anger. 

It scares you. 

“I want to go home.” You mean for it to be forceful, but it comes out in a whimper. 

The man nods. The punch in his brow lessens. “Aye, me tae.” 

“Where are you from?” You pry, needing the distraction from the endless trawl of green and slate and permafrost enclosing in on you. “You're not from around here, are you?” At the gentle raise of his brows, you add, hurried, rushed: “you just. Have an accent, and I—”

“Fae Scotland,” he answers, and there's a quick grin on his face. Roguish. Charming. The sight of it has your start thudding in an uneasy gallop. “Edinburgh."

“Oh. Far from home.”

“Aye—” the grin fades, twisting into something ugly. “Had an—accident,” he spits the word out, brows pinching once more. Anger is writ in the hard clench of his muscles, his jaw. His knuckles blanche around the steering wheel, and you think you should have just kept your mouth shut. “Sent me here.”

There's a multitude of questions you want to ask. Vying for the top is the most obvious—why did this happen? why isn't he letting you go?—but what comes out instead is, “why?”

Just that. Nothing else. 

“Military.” 

He adds nothing, either. 

“Military?”

A nod. “Go’ hurt. Had rehab. Sent me here tae clear ma heid, and well—” his eyes flicker to you. You can't read his expression. “Got a fresh mission, dinnae I?”

“You don't—”

“I cannae leave ye. Both oo' us are stuck 'ere 'til someone comes tae pick us up, 'n' take us home.” 

The idea that somehow he's just as trapped as you are hasn't occurred. Why would it when he has a rifle, a truck, freedom—

But what good is all of that when you're landlocked in a place known for winter roads. Permafrost. The forced shift in perspective doesn't quell the anxiety roiling in your guts, but it lessens it. Somewhat. 

“Two months?”

He nods. “Aye.”

“And you have no cellphone? No satellite?”

“Ye can check it—” he makes a flippant motion toward the glove box in front of you. “Deader than ever.”

You hesitate only briefly. Long enough to level him with a searching look that yields no results before you reach for the compartment, gingerly pulling it open, and—

Sometimes, things get overlooked by their surroundings. Swallowed in the vacuum. Blending seamlessly into the muddle, the commotion. 

This isn't like that. 

It sits on top of a manila folder. Sleek black and cold silver. You're not terribly well-versed in guns—the extent of your knowledge stemming mostly from formulaic crime shows aired late at night; CSI, NCIS, Criminal Minds—but you recognise this one instantly. Some sort of handgun. Police issued, you think. It's bigger than you'd expected. Looks heavier, too. 

Your heart stutters. The air galloping out of your lungs in a stammering rush. 

He makes a noise, soft and nonchalant, as if keeping handguns in the glove box of his old, burnt orange truck is perfectly normal. 

“Fer protection,” he mumbles. You catch the jerk of his chin in your periphery. “Forgot I had it in here. Been usin’ th’ rifle fer huntin’ mostly. Or th’ shotgun.”

Three guns. You swallow. “Why—” your voice comes out in a brittle whisper. You clear your throat. “Why, um, why do you need three?”

“Not fae around here, are ye?” He echoes your words with a wry twist of his mouth, eyes slanting in the sunlight. “Tha’,” he takes his hand off your thigh to jab his finger at the handgun. “Is fer wolverines.” His index finger falls, his thumb juts out. He jerks it over his shoulder. “Tha’ is fer huntin’. The shotgun back home is fer bears.” 

You try to move out of the way when his hand falls back to your thigh, but the pain radiating up your leg immobilizes you. There's not much you can do in this situation but endure.

Military. Wounded in action. Three guns. Touchy. 

You're not sure what to think. It would be easier if you couldn't. 

“What do you hunt?” You ask instead, glancing out the window to the barren landscape rolling out around you. There doesn't seem to be much in the jagged hills, and towering mountains. 

“Gettin’ hungry? Donnae worry, doe. Go’ tha’ pesky hare I was tryin’ tae shoot oan th' ledge fer dinner tonight.” 

It's not much of a comfort. The idea of being injured—by accident, he claims—to such an extent over a rabbit makes you feel a little sick. 

“That's it?”

“I can make a mean steak oot o' anythin'. Stews fer tougher meat. Fish—whitefish, arctic grayling, and lake trout. Learned how tae make a nasty fishfry from th’ locals in Nahanni Butte. Bannock, too. Got berries ‘round ma cabin. Caribou, Moose. Taste better in tacos or burgers. Mountain goat, Dall’s sheep. Been eatin’ better ‘ere than ah did at home.”

“And you're—just allowed to hunt them?” The website advised about a permit through some special outfit needed to hunt when you requested your pass into the park. Said that only aboriginals were allowed to do so. “You're not—”

“Aye,” he cuts you off with a small nod. “No huntin’ in th’ park. But. We're nae in th' park anymore.”

“Where are we?” You ask again, firmer this time. 

“I told ye. Nearly home.”

“And where is home?” 

The way he sucks his teeth makes you recoil slightly. Wet. Irritated. As if he's tired of this conversation already. 

“Close.”

You don't let his flat tone deter you. “Are we—are we still in the Northwest Territories?”

“Thereabouts.” 

It's not an answer. It doesn't reassure you in the slightest. 

You open your mouth to say so, words curling on your tongue when he jerks his chin toward the handgun, brow furrowed. 

“Thought ye wanted tae check oan th' satellite phone.”

His tone is severe. A growl curdling the ends, pitching it down, down. Displeasure, irritation, blooms in the gnarled petals of witch hazel when he narrows them into slits. 

You swallow, wrenching your gaze from the storm brewing over fields of wheat, and set your jaw. Masking your fear for annoyance. Confidence. 

But your hand shakes when you reach for the black box shoved into the corner. Palms slick with sweat. You try not to touch the gun, doing your best to curve around it. It feels—

Real. 

A real gun. In the real world. In a place you came to get away for a weekend, experience something you'd never had before. Freedom. Reliance on nobody but yourself. And now—

Somewhere in the Northwest Territories. Injured. Locked inside of a truck with a man who wavers between warmth—an unending heat, a furnace; a beacon of light—and severity like a swinging pendulum. You feel safe with him. You commit every turn to memory. He's in the military. He's going to take care of you. You think he's lying to you. He'll—

He'll let you go. 

You're sick. You're paranoid. You're taking all of your grievances out on this poor man who is just as trapped as you are, turning him into a monster for no reason at all. At the end of this, when he drops you off at the airport in Yellowknife, you'll have to grovel on your knees for his forgiveness. Sorry I thought you were a bad man. 

It could be worse, you suppose. He hasn't done anything untoward to you—touching your thigh like he's owed the right aside—and you shove it down. A problem to deal with later even though the suspicion tucks itself into your head, folded up against your skull. Metastatic. It eats all of his expressions, turning them over and over again for hidden clues. 

If he does something, you'll run. 

You'll—

“Almost there,” he murmurs, and you hear the rasp of exhaustion glued to the hinge of his jaw. You wonder how long he's been driving for. And why didn't he just go back to Nahanni Butte. Flooded he said. Too deep into the park. Never would have made it. 

If that's the truth, you suppose you should thank him. 

It sits in the back of your throat. You swallow around it, reaching for the phone instead. 

There's a small thread of hope in your chest that it'll work. That he's wrong, doesn't know how to work it, and all you have to do is press a button and it'll crackle to life. Freedom within reach. 

But when you press down on the button, the phone doesn't even whimper. Broke, as he said. Dead. 

“Can you—can you charge it?”

“Tried. Must’ve blown somethin’ inside. Fried it.” 

His words are a prison sentence carrying a punishment of two months. You knew this, of course. He said so himself. But the reality of it breaking over you is different from blind belief. The realisation of your predicament is a jagged knife cutting through tissue, letting corrosive panic entrench you as it spills out. 

This is the sort of thing you’d only read about. Novels, and biographies. Memoirs. Movies. An extraordinary event that could never happen to you. Never. 

And you're aware of it. Optimism bias. The not-me fallacy. But everything in your life thus far had been so unequivocally mundane that the possibility of it not happening seemed to eclipse any chance of it occurring at all. 

The crux of the bias, you suppose. Though it does little to stem the disbelief surrounding it all. Even when you told your friends, and your family, that you were going on this trip, the most mordant of them said you'd get eaten by a bear or end up lost in the wilderness. 

Injured, unable to walk, and stuck with a man you only marginally know (trust) seems like the plot of a lifetime movie. 

But—

Two months. 

You're sure in the meantime, someone will notice your absence. Raise the alarm. Call the police. They'll launch an investigation, and come searching for you. It's just a waiting game. 

And—

(You glance at the man once more, his profile limned in a halo of gold. The rim of his hat casts shadows over his face, eyes concealed in the thickening tenebrous that enshrouds him down to his broad chest, dense with corded muscles. Athletic. Trim. Big.)

—staying alive. 

Survival. 

If only for just two months. 

But the facts are cold, unforgiving. You are alone with a man you don't know. A man with three guns. Military. His experience in this wilderness vastly eclipses your own. 

He's fine. Fine. Touchy, sure. But he hasn't asked for anything. 

—his hand is on your thigh—

You'll be okay. 

It hurts to swallow. “Thank you,” you murmur, hoping the conciliatory lilt eats the panic you feel. “For saving me.” 

His gaze darts to you so sharply that the truck veers slightly to the left, tires crunching over thick beds of furze that line the forged road. The action is sudden—surprised, maybe, by your reedy gratitude. A deviation from the demeanour he'd shown you so far—calm friendliness. Affability. It jars you. Scares you. You grip the seat cushion tight in your fists as he mutters something sharp you can't discern under his breath. 

It only takes him only seconds to correct, rippling his hand away from you to commandeer the truck back into the centre of the beaten path. Even keeled now. Almost as if nothing amiss had happened at all. 

But it's undeniable. Congeals in the air, tense and unignorable. A vacuum that siphons the breath from your lungs. It sits in the whites of his knuckles, arsenic bones jutting from thin, rough skin, demanding to be seen; the terse set to his shoulders. To the grind of his jaw as he clenches his teeth. 

You take him in with bated breath, swallowing whole each microcosm that buds to the surface of his demeanour. Wary. Watchful. Squeezing the satellite phone tight in your hands. But he doesn't meet your wide-eyed stare, choosing instead to keep his gaze fixed on the dirt road. Knuckles popping, brows furrowed. Silent. 

But it's heavy. Oppressive. The same unrelenting chill as outside. You fight back a shiver in the blooming cold, wishing you'd packed more than just a pair of hiking tights (in tatters, now) and a thermal windbreaker for the trip. 

The hum of the engine, and the cracking of rock and muskeg crushed under the wheel, are the only noise that fills the cabin. You stifle your breath. Hold it in your throat. Skewer your eyes to the landscape yawning out around you. The deep, thickening sense of unease grows in the pit of your stomach. Metastasizing. 

Outside is a sprawling taiga forest. Emaciated spruce, balsam fir, jut out from the muskeg, dusted in a sparse layer of sphagnum. You can almost hear the trickle of a stream. The dirt road is wet under the tires now. A creek must be close by. A river. Flat River. South Nahanni. Further out might be Slave River. The Liard. Little Buffalo. Great Slave Lake, even. 

Narrowing it down seems impossible when nearly the entire south corridor of the Northwest Territories is wet marsh and snaking bodies of water. 

It both worries and reassures you at the same time. Getting to Nahanni alone was a challenge. With most of the surrounding area limited to a few year-round highways, there are not many places he could go without reaching dead-ends or winter roads closed for the season, inaccessible in the warmer summer months as the snow melts. 

Though—these highways arch as high as they can. From Yellowknife to Tuktoyaktuk, right on the coast of the Arctic Ocean. 

But he hasn't driven on any stretch of highway since you woke up. The road is unpaved, wild. You're confident you're still south, but the exact location eludes you. Northwest Territories. Yukon. Northern Alberta. It's overwhelming. Daunting. 

You try to commit the geography to memory. Sifting through an endless trawl of nothing to find something familiar. A mountain range. A sign. Anything. Anything—

“Ye mean tha’?”

The sound of his voice draws your attention, raspy. Hoarse from disuse. 

He swallows. There's something raw in his expression, fractured. Yearning, you think. For something. What that something is, however, you can't place. 

It stays on as he slowly slides his tongue out, licking over the bristles of hair covering his lip. 

You offer a shallow nod, unsure why this matters to him suddenly. 

“Yeah, I'd be—” 

You pause, words turning to smoke in your throat. Uninjured, is the first thought. Without him, your leg wouldn't be—

Whatever it is. Ankle broken. Achilles torn. A gunshot wound clean through tendon and tissue. 

But at the same time—

All turned around, he said. Lost. He was hunting, too. You must have somehow wandered outside of the park limits. Must have because the sound of a rifle would have drawn attention from nearby wardens. They'd have come to investigate. 

You swallow down the bloom of unbridled panic. The aftertaste is bitter in your mouth. The thought of being outside of the borders, all on your own—

“I’d be dead if it wasn't for you.” 

The hush that falls is immediate. Your own mortality dangling by a thin thread. Happenstance keeping you alive. 

He clears his throat again. Your fingers tighten around the metal until it hurts. 

“Names Johnny.” He twists in his seat, facing you. “Johnny MacTavish.” 

It's a bit late for introductions, but you take it in all the same. Johnny. Johnny.

(saviour—)

His eyes grow wide when you slowly, haltingly, breathe yours out. Letting it sit in the air where it dissolves into the silence, the weight of it somehow more damning than being alone in the woods. There's power in a name. In knowing it. Military. You're not sure why it matters, but it does. 

You fight another shiver when he says it back after a beat, much too fond, adoring, for the sparse companionship you've barely begun to build. 

“I'll keep ye safe,” he says your name again, accent curling in between the bridges of each letter. There's a heat in his eyes; pyretic. A sickness. “Don't hae tae worry aboot anything.” 

He turns back slowly, angling the wheel around a sudden bend in the thicket. The path is clearer here, looking more like an established dirt road than a sparse coppice. It twists upward, cutting a meandering line through a dense cropping of spruce. The canopy above—as thick as it is—curls over the road, enclosing it in a bed of conifers branching overhead. Concealing it from view. 

The sight fills you with a new bloom of unease. How quickly the wild swallows you whole, shielding you from prying eyes, prickles against the nape of your neck, dripping like hot oil down your spine. 

“Where are we?” It comes out in a whisper. 

He makes a noise in the back of his throat. In your periphery, you see him lift his hand off the wheel, but sit, paralyzed, when he brings it down to your thigh, giving what attempts to be a pacifying squeeze. 

“Home,” he answers, making the turn. 

A log cabin comes into view. It’s situated at the end of the clearing, covered by the same dense tangle of trees as the path. The forest seems to bend around the single-storey home, enclosing in a cradled embrace of intermixing wry jack pine, bold tamarack, dark spruce, and white birch. Trembling aspen peaks above the heads of the other trees, hiding the smoked black spruce roof from view above. 

It might look homey under different circumstances, but the thick, stripped logs—made of varnished white spruce—jutting out half-crescents to form the walls seem brooding. Claustrophobic. It's small—just a storey and a half. A camper's cabin not meant for longtime use. It wears its age in wood rot and peeling varnish. The scent of wet wood clings to the air when he rolls the window down, coming to a stop a few paces away from the single step leading to the porch. 

Firewood stacked high to the awning on both sides of the blue door, encased in metal to keep it dry. Moss-covered concrete foundations lift the house off of the ground, keeping it from melting the permafrost below. The remains of a snuffed, charred campfire is perched to the left of the winding path leading to the door. Felled lumber lays on its side, the top whittled down onto a seat. A wooden rack leans against a tree close by. The hide of an animal is stretched taut across the panels. Leather-making materials sit in a bucket beside it. 

A metal box—bear-proof, you're sure—is half-buried in the soil. Storage, perhaps, for the unusable remains of the animals he hunts. 

It's fairly standard for a cabin up north, you think. But something about this place makes you feel anxious. Trapped. You can't see anything at all through the dense cluster of trees, but you can hear the sound of running water. A river, maybe. A stream. It splashes against the rock, the current too quick for you to even think about swimming in it. 

It only adds to your unease. 

“This is home,” he says, jerking his chin toward the house. 

Home is a cabin nestled somewhere in the unorganised wilderness of the Northwest Territories. Nahanni National Park is several hours in another direction. Too few communities exist on highway seven for you to even stumble onto them—

Assuming, of course, that you could walk there to begin with.

The lingering pain in your ankle, the heavy bandage wrapped around it—it's an immediate certainty that you can't walk. Broken, you know, from the glimpse you'd taken before. Milkwhite against raspberry red—

You don't think about that. 

You don't think about much at all. 

“Right.” You murmur. This place is the furthest thing from home you could imagine. 

He moves in your periphery, reaching for you. You jerk back, driven by instincts. The need for distance, space—

The jostling of your foot makes you hiss in pain, and he offers a conciliatory hum. 

“Ye’ll be alright, bonnie. Lets jus’ get ye inside now.” 

The inside is made of varnished wood. A mix of black and white spruce. It's cosy, you suppose. 

It opens up to a living room immediately upon walking in the door. A mat sits under your feet. A small closet to the right with the door slightly ajar. Along the length of the left wall is a doorway spilling into a small kitchen. From your vantage point, you make out a sink, and then another door to the right. 

Along the back wall beside the arching doorway is a brick fireplace. Soft fur is spread out on the ground in front of it. An old, weathered couch is pushed against the left wall, a shawl tossed over the back. 

There's no television. A stack of books and magazines sit above the couch—used more for an end table than entertainment, you note, spotting the glass of water resting on the pile. A pack of cigarettes beside it. An ashtray on the floor. Bottles of beer sit on the small table shoved under the window. One of the chairs is covered in clothes. 

It's lived in, you note, but lifeless. 

There are no pictures on the wall. No personal artefacts littered around. It's—

Perfunctory. 

He comes home, shucks his boots off by the front door, and drinks warm beer on the couch until he falls asleep. An inference, of course; but as he carries you further into the house (his insistence—ye cannae walk oan tha’, doe, stop bein’ stubborn and lemme carry ye), your notion gains credence. It's sparse. Threadbare. 

There's a single plate in the sink. The old stove, separated from the sink by a small countertop, is covered in a layer of dust. A fridge is pushed against the back wall. 

The door you glimpsed in the kitchen leads to the washroom. It's tight. A shower, a sink, a toilet. No windows. A towel is hung over the curtain rail, still damp from his shower before. A single mat covers most of the tiled floor below. A tube of toothpaste sits in the porcelain basin of the sink. 

Beside the washroom is the master bedroom. The bed is unmade. An untouched glass of water is left on the end table beside a worn leather book and a bible. 

An open closet sits across from the bed. The window is open. The breeze flutters the old, jaundiced curtain. 

He gives you his room and says he'll take the couch. Under normal circumstances, you might have fought it. Insisted that he sleep in his bed. You're a guest. You couldn't put him out like that. But the door has a lock. 

“Thank you,” you murmur, and he seems to tremble at your words before nodding. 

“O' coorse.” 

Johnny places you on the bed before he sets to work rebandaging your ankle. You're all too aware of the fact that you need to know. You need to see what you're dealing with, and how bad the damage is, but the pain that cuts through you when he rests your ankle—as gingerly as he can—on top of an extra pillow makes you yowl in agony. 

It's vicious. Whitehot. The pain rattles through your bones. 

He shushes you as he unwraps the clumsy brace he put on in the park, murmuring incomprehensible things under his breath that you think must be Gaelic. Words of comfort, perhaps. 

You feel none of it except an uneasy dread pooling in the empty pit of your stomach. 

“How bad is it?”

He hums, brow pinching tight. “Th' hare took most o' th' damage,” he says, eyes tracing along the congealing blood on your ankle. Dark cherry red. You swallow down a gag. “Tore yer achilles, though. Clean. Doesn't seem tae be any fragments. Broke your ankle, though. But,” he taps your calf, just above the bend of your foot. It doesn’t hurt. “It’s a clean break. Maybe just a fracture. Shuid heal up in no time.”

“And what about infections?”

“Got some stuff oan hand if that happens,” he leans back, and gives you a wink. It feels out of place considering the severity of your predicament. Garish, almost. “But ah was a good nurse. Patched ye up nicely.” 

You don't ask anything else, and silence trickles in as he refocuses his attention back to cleaning your wound and redressing it. The bed is soft under you. Giving. You lean back, staring up at the log ceiling, and will yourself not to think at all. Each slight jostle of the wet cloth running along your ankle feels like fire licking at your skin. If you had anything at all in your belly left, you might have thrown it up on the side of the bed. 

This pain is consuming. Persistent. 

Your fingers knot into the soft blankets below, gripping tight until your knuckles ache. A futile attempt to exchange this pain for a lesser one. Something you can ignore, forget. 

Through the open window, you can hear the playful caws of a raven searching for food. You want it to distract you, to pull you away from the sickening sensation of your ankle separating from the heel, but it doesn't.

All you can think about is the fresh pain. Your flesh ripped apart. Torn achilles, he'd said. You feel it as he moves, washing away the dried blood, the viscera. The break in your tibia. It's a nauseating feeling. Visceral. It screams at you that something is wrong, reverberating through your bones. 

The raven caws again. 

“Gonnae ‘ave tae stitch yer heel up.” 

You make a sound—a pathetic whimper choked in the back of your throat. 

“Fine,” you rasp, tensing. “Just—”

Get it over with. 

Johnny seems to understand, offering a consolatory pat on your shin. “Ye'll be fine. Ah know what am doin’.”

You glance back at him, avoiding whatever is happening below his elbows. Refusing to look. 

He reaches up, fingers stained pink with your blood, and pulls the ballcap off his head, shaking the matted hair loose. His hair is thick, curling at the ends. Dark brown. Soft. You take in his expression, him, as he works, using it to churn your thoughts away from the prickling sensation of him pressing your torn skin back together, readying it for the needle. 

He's intense, focused, as he works. Eyes lidded to half-mast. Long lashes fanning out over the dark circles beneath his eyelids. Bruises that speak of long, sleepless nights. The empty bottles of beer and the full ashtray within arm's reach make a little more sense as you see the extent of his fatigue. 

It doesn't concern you. You rip your gaze away from the thin, twisting rivers of red that snake through the jaundiced whites of his eyes; the possibility of his vulnerability notches something inside your chest you don't want to think about. Can't. 

Your saviour, you think again, veering sharply on the edge of too cruel—

“Might pinch a bit, doe,” he mutters low, soft. His thick, even brows pull together at the centre. You feel the prick of the needle pushing through your skin—

Down his brows. The oblique curve of his nose. Bottled to a point. The thick bed of hair beneath his nostrils. Thin, pink lips jutting from the thatch of black bristles. The wisps curl down the slope of his neck, thinning at the hollow below before thickening back into a dense crop on the scant patch of his skin visible from his unbuttoned shirt. 

Another prick—

A thin, gold chain loops around his neck. Tucked against his sternum is a Latin cross. It's plain. Traditional. Solid gold, maybe. But not purely for decoration. Where the arms meet the body, the surface is smoothed down. Worn. In the reflection, you can see the thin, circular lines of a fingerprint. 

The bible on his dresser makes sense. You glance over at it, taking in the folds and creases on the leather cover. Aged and well-loved. Used. Pages are dog-eared. Waterlogged. Scotch tape holds the spine together. 

The Holy Bible gleams in faded gold lettering. Douay–Rheims is etched into the surface. 

The sight of a worn-down book and thumbed cross shouldn't relax you, but it does. A good ol’ boy, then. You turn back to him, eyes caught on the gleaming gold flush against tanned skin. It's tight to his sternum. Hung delicately around his neck. 

Seeing it now feels a touch voyeuristic. It wasn't intentionally bared to you. Wasn't offered up willingly for you to gawk at, mind looping around thou shalt not kill and do unto others as you yourself would want done unto you, and finding comfort in the ordered morality of its symbolism—however fickle that could end up being. 

You know a man is not as moral as his religion demands of him, but he looks devout. 

A good Catholic boy. 

Still—

You peel your gaze away from his chest as the thread slides through. The sensation is uncomfortable. Ticklish. Forcing your attention back to him, well above the neckline. His nose. Nostrils flaring when your knee jerks. His hands close over your shin. Mouth parting slightly just to say, keep still, doe. Donnae want tae hurt ye. 

His hair is slightly greasy near his scalp. Sweat from earlier dampens his locks, flattening it tongue head. It's longer at the top compared to the sides. An odd, asymmetrical hairstyle that doesn't feel like an aesthetic choice at all. Maybe he had a mullet. Or—

You see it when he tilts his head down, chin angled toward your foot. 

A scar stretches from his temple back, thinning the hair that lines his scalp on the right. The flesh is jagged, uneven. Cratered. It forms a ravine. The canyon walls clumped scar tissue. The nullah in the centre is all pink and raw. 

You think of a shooting star. Meteor showers in the indigo sky. 

You think of his words from earlier—ah know what am doin’—and the depth of his medical knowledge. It stands out now. You suppose he would, wouldn't he?

The thought has shame dripping down your spine like hot, slick oil. Burning. Tarry. You remember what he said in the truck about being wounded in action, the misery in his words, the anger, and choke yourself on the regret that swarms your throat. 

He looks up, then, catching whatever awful amalgamation of self-hatred, shame, and regret makes of your expression, and the words—sorry, I'm so sorry—tear through your throat until it's bloody and raw. Pulp. Unspeakable, now. 

It dampens his brow, but there's no embarrassment in his eyes when he holds them to yours. Nothing except an intense, dizzying sense of curiosity. Of—

Intrigue. 

It doesn't have a place here, and the sight of it is sobering. 

Why is he looking at you like that when you're gawking at his injury? Confusion knots deep. Uncertainty coiling around your ribcage. Maybe he didn't notice. Doesn't care. 

Is too used to it to worry about whatever conclusions you might draw from the jagged skin barely knitted back together. But his eyes flash. Understanding edging out the unfathomable greed lurking in hazel plains, nestled, restive, in the shade that falls over the sloping boscage. 

You almost miss the shadow when it appears. Wrought with Leashed ghosts. Tempered anger. Wild, frenetic. The chains holding it at bay tremble. Shake—

And then it's gone.

Dissolve back into passive cordiality. All ire stayed behind a wall. 

You want to apologize, but the words are ash in your throat. Unspeakable. Johnny doesn't address it. He dips his head down once more, silently refocusing his attention to your ankle, and offering no explanation for the scar on his head. 

You don't ask. Don't pry. It's not your place. But your eyes are still glued to it. 

It's a horrific injury. Survival from such a terrible wound seems like an impossibility. A gunshot, you're sure. Seeing the small chasm carved into skin, narrowly missing his eye socket, fills you with a blistering sense of pity for this man, and you quietly, quickly, peel your eyes away from the jagged surface, letting your gaze run across the room. A meagre sense of privacy, you're sure, but it lets you breathe a little easier when you can't see the way his temple split apart to make room for a bullet—

“Had a mohawk,” he says. “They cut it off when this happened.” 

A mohawk. The asymmetry of his hair makes sense now, and you can almost picture it as you stare at him. The edges shorn, the top long. Unruly. His hair has a slight curl to the ends, but is mostly straight for the first few inches. 

As wild as he looks now—untamed, rugged; the thick tangle of uncharted wilderness—the mohawk must have made him roguish. Boorish. With his broad shoulders, thick biceps, and piercing blue eyes, the mohawk would have added to the playful appeal. Boyishly charming with his cropped hair and puckish grin. The draw of a bad boy, a vandal. 

But as you try and shape this around him, you catch the strain in his shoulders. The terse set to his jaw. 

“You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to.”

“Was shot.” 

It's said without a preamble as if he was waiting for you to ask. But the words are spat out like they're something foul in his mouth; like he's ridding the taste of it between his teeth. The anger, the aggression cows you slightly, but you offer a small, warbling smile you hope is conciliatory. Apologetic. 

“I'm sorry,” you offer around a stuttering exhale. You can't imagine what that must be like. Shot in the head. The idea is unthinkable. Improbable. And yet, the evidence slashes across his temple; a meteor shower carved into his flesh. 

He lifts his chin, staring down at you from the bridge of his nose. “Wasnae yer fault, doe.” 

“I know, I just—” 

Johnny gives a nod in response, ending the bubble of words and apologies building up behind your teeth. It is what it is, he mutters when you blink at him, flummoxed. This sort of reveal seems like it should necessitate a bigger conversation, a deeper one. Questions buoy to the surface—from prying (how did it happen, how did you survive) to intrusive (what did it feel like, does it hurt still)—but you trample them until they sit, a building mass lodged in your throat. 

He seems content, then, to continue with what he was doing, and says nothing more about it. And it's not your place to pry. To chisel into his trauma. 

You let it pass. Let it moulder. 

The raven caws once more. You lean back in his bed, staring through the fluttering curtains, mind reeling at this discovery. 

Stupidly, you feel more at ease in his presence. As if this show of vulnerability somehow negated the distress of your predicament, and the infeasible nature of how you ended up here, in his home. Gazing through the thick canopy of green to the golden sky above. A whole world away from your home. Broken. Injured. But the cross, the thumbed-through bible, and his human fragility seem to curl along the vicious dread curling inside your guts, soothing over the distrust with gentle, sweeping brushes. 

Quelling a frightened child after a nightmare. 

How strange, you think, but let yourself relax in his presence all the same, breathing in the scent of stale smoke, sweat. Coumarin. Tree moss. Fresh pine. It smells like the valley. Soft, waning detergent. Masculine. 

You pretend you're watching for the raven as you sneak small glances at him. Taking in everything with a new perspective. The broadness of his shoulders. The thickness of his waist. There's power in his arms, in his thighs. Sculpted musculature, honed and refined. Despite the thickness of his fingers, he has a delicate touch. Deft and sure, as if he's used to working his bulk around small parts. 

He's unkempt. The ballcap hid most of his dishevelled state, but he's not sloven. It reminds you of the outdoorsy explorers. The hikers you met on your trip out. Roughhewn and unconcerned about their overgrown beards and their tousled hair. 

There's something potently masculine about it, and you can't deny that even with the garish wound on his head, all mangled scar tissue, he's handsome. Rougish. The scar elevating it somehow—a testament, perhaps, to his resiliency. 

He catches your stare on the next glance, holding it as he leans back with a quirk of his lips. It's not quite the grins he aimed at you before, but the shadow of it lingers. 

“Now,” he utters, the severity in his tone makes you flinch. Sobering quickly under the weight of his solemnity. “Th' bad part.”

“Bad part?” You echo, confused. “What could be worse than that?”

He taps two fingers against your swollen ankle, urging you to look. You swallow and force yourself to glance at where he rests his fingers. 

With your split heel stitched up and wrapped in bandages, the sight of your leg doesn't make you want to curl into the fetal position and cry. But it's still horrifying to look at. 

A mass half the side of a baseball juts out from your skin. 

“Ankles dislocated,” he murmurs, sliding his fingers over the mound. “Gotta pop it back into place.” 

“That's not—” you shake your head. “That's impossible.” 

“S’okay, doe. I gotcha.”

“That's not the point. That's not—”

“Look,” his pitch lowers dangerously, firm now. “Gotta do it or you'll have problems later on. Much worse than a bit o’pain.”

“But—”

He inhales sharply. “Can't let it go, doe. Gotta fix it.”

You understand the logic in that. Leaving a dislocated ankle will undoubtedly cause problems later on. But—

“Will it hurt?” 

Your fear quiets the irritation brewing in steeled hazel. “Aye. I won't lie tae ye, doe. It will hurt.” 

You swallow around a whimper. 

“But,” he leans over, his hand sliding over your cheek. Cradling your face in the palm of his hand. “I'll do mah best tae be quick. Ah won't hurt ye, doe.” 

It must be the way he carries himself that puts you at ease, so assured in his abilities; confident in what he can do without any sense of grandiosity. 

“Fine.” The word is juttered out of your chest. “Just—”

His thumb catches the tears that spill over your lashline, swiping them away with a tenderness that makes you shiver. 

“Ah’ll be quick.”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out two chalky white pills. Tylenol, he mutters, catching the furrow of your brow. It abates the unease somewhat, and you let him drop the pills into the flat of your palm, rolling them over with your thumb as he grabs the water on the end table. They're circular with a slit down the middle. 

“It'll take the pain away.” He says, holding the water up to you. “Ready?” It's uttered so severely, so seriously, that your breath hitches in your lungs. Mirth blooming between your teeth. 

“As I'll ever be,” you rasp out before popping the pills into your mouth, cradling them on your tongue protectively as you reach for the glass he holds out. They're bitter. 

You wash it down with a mouthful of stale water before leaning back on the bed, letting the scent of his sheets wash over you once more. 

Outside, the raven trills. 

The pain of popping your ankle back into place leaves you a weeping mess in his sheets, but Johnny doesn't seem to mind the shuddering sobs. He pets down your back, shushing you quietly under his breath as he mutters something in Gaelic that you're sure is meant to be soothing. 

“Ye’ll be fine,” he says, tracing figure-eights down your spine until the Tylenol kicks in, and the agony tapers off into an aching throb. “Jus’ breathe. Ah’ll get ye somethin' tae eat.”

He leaves soon after. You let the numbed, drowsiness of the pain medication lull you into a doze, listening to Johnny move in the kitchen. The squealing slide of unvarnished wood rubbing against old metal. The thud of a knife. The scent of hot oil. Muttered curses. A playful raven's caw. 

You're not sure how long you slip in and out of this dreamless state, but Johnny appears in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest as he leans against the frame. He watches you with hooded eyes, a small, secretive smile tugging on his lips.

Blearily, you yawn, somehow still exhausted despite how long you slept between yesterday evening and today. Trauma, you suppose, and say nothing at all about it when he helps you sit up in the bed. 

Dinner consists of leftover bannock—the fried dough soft in your mouth, the flavour buttery; smokey—and hare stew. He pulls a chair from the living room into the bedroom, eating on the edge of the bed with you. 

He's sloppy about it. Slurps all the meat and potatoes out of the bowl before sopping chunks of bannock into the gravy, shoveling it into his mouth with a grunt. It dribbles down his chin, and dirties his beard. This slovenly display might have churned your stomach before, but you're just as ravenous. 

And it's good. 

The bread leaves grease stains on your fingers, but the toes on your uninjured foot curl when you bite into the crispy surface, teeth sinking into the pillowy dough below. 

“This is bannock, you said?” You ask, dabbing the napkin he offered with a wink when you finish. At his nod, you continue. “It's good.”

“Aye,” he grunts around a mouthful. “S’the best. Make it every mornin’ so ah go’ fresh bannock tae go.” He swipes the back of his hand over his mouth, slurring out: “s’good wit’ jam.” 

“Did the locals teach you how to make it?”

He nods. “Scottish dish, originally. Made wit’ oats. Drier, too. But—fuck. S’good—nae. Better like this. Ol’ couple taught me when ah first came. Paler ‘n’ shite, they said. ‘n didnae ken a fuckin' thing about surviving oot ‘ere. Big man, Jim, taught me ‘ow tae hunt. Where tae fish. An’ ‘ow to cook it. Made this cabin, aye. He, ah, and his son. Offered ‘er up tae me when they realised ah didnae come wit’ shite all but a bad attitude.” 

“That was nice of them.”

“Most folk up ‘ere are. Quiet, ken? People take care’a ‘emselves, most. Take care’a others, too.” 

You mull over his words as he leans back in the chair with a satisfied groan, legs spread wide. His hands folded over his belly. The picture of ease. Contentment. This freedom of motion makes you slightly envious. 

“An’ wha’ about ye?” His eyes are lidded, leonine, and fixed on you. The intensity is always on the side of too much. Too dizzying. Consuming. 

You stamp it down, running your thumb along the inseam of his gingham throw. “What about me?”

“Why’d ye come here?”

His question throws you off balance. “It’s a pretty park,” you offer with a shallow laugh. “Who wouldn't come here?”

“Lots of pretty parks. Why this one?”

“Dunno. It was—”

“‘ave ye ever been tae any other parks? Anything like this?”

“I hiked a bit, and, um—”

He sucks out a piece of meat from between his teeth. “A bit, aye?” 

“Yeah. A bit. Why—”

“Ye came all the way here fer what? A pretty park? With no experience at all? And alone?”

The shift in his posture reads as angry, irate. You blink, bewildered by this sudden change. 

“Well. It was supposed to be an experience.”

“An experience, aye? Survival skills of a lemming.” 

It's derisive, cutting. You bristle through the sting of humiliation, grappling through the slurry of fatigue to cobble together some form of defence against this lambasting of your—admittedly—ill-thought adventure, but he's already moving on. Fingers tapping an off-rhythm beat against his belly as he levels you with a sober look. More serious than you'd ever seen him before. 

“An’ yer family? They just let ye come here oan yer own?”

The mention of your family makes guilt well to the surface, buoying above the indignant anger at his mocking words. Cowed, you shrug. 

“Sure.” 

Something cracks in the severe mein he carries; fracturing through the blatant disapproval. Cutting it like a knife. 

He sighs through his nose before reaching up and scrubbing his hands over his face. “Shite. Ye really needed me, aye?” 

You blink at the odd choice of words, brows drawing together in a tight knot. It's indefensible, of course. In many ways, he's right. If he hadn't found you—

Well. 

You temper that thought before it forms. You're too out of it, spatially unaware and unmoored, to let yourself fall into an existential pit of despair when you know you won't be able to climb out. Thinking of your assured doom out there, all because of a misstep somewhere along the path, makes dread bloom in the pit of your stomach. Nauseous, roiling. It froths over the basin, ready to spill over and drag you under. 

Swallowing around the surge of panic—mortality a fickle thing in a place like this—you offer a despondent shrug in response. Unable to scrape together any sense of a defence that won't make you sound childish and idiotic. 

You ready yourself for more mockery, having become the very thing the park rangers tried to warn you about when you showed, alone, in hiking boots much too big for you. 

But then he's shifting, expression clearing. The anger folded back behind a quick grin. 

“Pretty here, isn't it?” 

You're not sure what to make of his mercurial temperament; emotions cascading by, quicksilver and sudden. The flashes of anger, intensity, curiosity, and this, all happening within such a short period. It's overwhelming. 

It unsettles you. But—

“Yeah,” you mutter, unable to stem the awe from leaking through. 

The change in conversation is freeing. Sometimes it's just easier to let sleeping dogs lie, and that's exactly what you do. Tucking his odd behaviour behind a plexiglass of indifference, pretending it wasn't there, lurking just out of sight. Something to unravel later, when your heart wasn't on the verge of buckling under the strain of your anxiety. When your chest didn't feel like it was slowly being crushed. Your stomach is all twisted up in knots too tight to untie with your bare hands. 

It's easy to let yourself heave through jittering lungs, and pretend you couldn't feel the rot festering on the sides of them. Eating holes through delicate tissue. 

The majesty of this place hasn't quite worn off, and you use that as an excuse to drift. To close the doors on the overwhelming deluge of hysteria creeping up on you. 

You still think of the jutting fjords instead. The steep ravines, the moose in the distance—her colours sharp against the green backdrop—and let the untempered sense of reverence split you down the middle. 

It comes out in a flood, then—as if you've been biting back the words this whole time. 

You tell him about the valley. The waterfall. The white river. The marmot you saw poking its head out. No bears, you sigh; the forlorn lilt to your tone seeped with a touch of relief, an aspect he pokes at with a crooked smirk until you huff, rolling your eyes to the ceiling at his gentle ribbing. Huffily, you admit that as much as you want to see a bear, you're not quite ready to face them in the wild. 

Lots’a bears ‘round ‘ere, he taunts, rolling his knees out further as he sinks deeper into the chair. 

He dodges your next question of where, exactly, is here with a silky grin and a need tae know rolling off his lips before they tug downward in a sudden frown. 

You must be acclimating to the strange ebb and flow of his emotions because the lour grimace on his face doesn't deter you as much as it did moments ago. You pick up the slack when the conversation lulls, telling him about the places you've been and how they compare to Nahanni.

“They just—don’t.” 

It's hard to encapsulate the scale of it all into simple words; digestible pieces someone else can swallow. The park isn't too far from Yellowknife, and yet it feels like a world on its own. The remoteness, the vastitude of it all, is hard to describe, but Johnny seems to understand. 

He listens with a slight quirk to his lips. A smile you'd almost call fond. He gets it, you know. The words you can't say. The ones that feel too lacklustre when you do. 

“That really why ye came?” 

You hesitate for a moment, looping a loose thread around your finger. Contemplating. Mulling it over. You've never told anyone the reason for the trip outside of a new experience for yourself. Testing your mettle. But with Johnny—

There's a sense of kinship, you find. An understanding. 

“It seemed so—” he waits for you to find the words. “Lonely, I guess.” 

“Lonely,” the way he says the word is ruminative. Rolling it around between his teeth; testing the weight of it. “Ah suppose it is.”

“You don't think so?”

“It's—” he pauses, eyes listing to the side as he mulls over what he wants to convey. 

He does this sometimes, you think. Gets lost. Loses himself. Retreats inward. You can't help but wonder if this is a manifestation of his trauma—a head injury such as this would be classified as a traumatic brain injury, wouldn't it? You're not well-versed in this area, and it feels a little mean, cruel, to have this thought, but it blooms as his eyes fog over. As he struggles, almost, to find the words he wants to say, to give voice to what he feels, thinks. 

“Lonely, aye,” he grinds out after a beat, but he looks frustrated about it, and glares down at his lap, silently fuming. Annoyed. “Big.”

The word is ripped out from between his teeth, and you nod, hastily, to both quell the looming anger brimming in the terse set to his shoulders and to let him know you understand. Can read between the lines—if only just. 

“Is that why you came?” 

The shrug he offers is noncommittal but you can see the tension pooling in his brow despite your efforts to quash it. “Couldnae go home after this—” he lifts his hand, tapping his fingers against the scar tissue on his temple. “Wasn't safe. Had tae give up everything after. Maw. Da. Sisters. Cannae ever see them again.”

It doesn't make sense. None of it does. The innate understanding between you is shattered by the impossibility of this moment, and his half-formed words. What you gave up seems paltry in comparison to what he's confessing to. His family. His whole family—

“Might see them one day. Once that fuckin' prick is in th' ground, but 'til then—” he shrugs again, easy. As if the look on his face wasn't cataclysmic in its anger. It's rage. Sorrow. Hatred. You flinch back as if the blackhole of these awful emotions will eat you alive. 

Johnny sees it, and reaches for you, making soothing noises under his breath as his hand wraps around your thigh. “Ah, doe, don’t worry. He wilnae find us—” 

You're not sure what to say to that, but the grip he has on you is firm. Unyielding. There's a scowl etching over his lips, as if the mere thought of such a thing fills him with disgust, fury, and you shake your head slowly. 

“I'm not—I’m not worried.” You don't know how to tell him that this phantom prick from his past isn't what made you reel back, but the intensity of his wrath. The sudden infliction of his ire. So you don't. You give in with what you hope is a conciliatory smile. “I, uh, I trust you.”

It's loose. Shaky. Your conviction wanes around the edges, falling flat and hollow when it trembles out. If Johnny notices the brittleness around it, he doesn't show it. If anything, he seems to take it as a sudden gospel. 

“D’ye—” There's a crack in his voice. He swallows, then. Adam's apple bobbing harshly against the skin of his throat. You wonder if you've upset him. Angered him. But he's leaning down, eyes widening. Feverish. Blue lagoons. “Ye trust me.”

It's not a question, but he poses it as such. You nod slowly and unsure. 

Johnny ducks his head, then. Lifts one hand to rub at the bristles around his chin and upper lip. Lost in thought, maybe—

It's when he reaches around, scrubbing at the nape of his neck, do you see the flush peeking out from beneath the thick bed of hair covering his cheeks. The sight is jarring. Unexpected. 

You're not sure what to make of it. Of this strange reaction. But it passes almost as quickly as it started. The red is replaced by a wide, blinding grin. He squeezes your thigh. 

“Hah, doe. Ye really know what tae say tae cheer me up—”

You haven't said anything at all, but this, too, goes unacknowledged. And before you can even try to draw attention to it, he breathes in deeply as he sits up in the chair. 

“Ye finished?” He motions to the bowl and plate on the bed. You nod. “Alright. Ah'll put ‘em away. Get ye some tea.”

“Oh, I'm fine—”

“Nah, hen. Tea is good for ye. Will help ye heal.” 

He leaves without another word, carrying away your dirty dishes. The unfinished conversation lingers in the air around you, but beneath the loose strands of everything unsaid, you feel something tangle inside your chest as you replay his words in the back of your head. 

All alone in Nahanni, unable to see his family. You're sure the prick he's referring to is the one who gave him that horrific scar, nearly taking his life. 

Somewhere in the loop, a knot of pity begins to take shape. 

Johnny brings you Labrador tea—a speciality he learned how to make from Ethel and Jim, the couple from Wrigley who took him in. It's good. It tastes sweet, earthy. Honey and pine. You sip at it as he grabs sleep clothes from his dresser, watching him with a muted sense of listlessness. 

You can't imagine the next sixty days that loom before you. Restlessness, claustrophobia—it coalesces into this strange, itchy feeling that sits, uncomfortably, atop your chest; an increasing pressure. You wish you could pick it off like a loose scab. Dig your nail under the hard clot and tug—

Peel it all off until just silken new skin remains. 

Johnny looks antsy when you finish the tea. Eyes bright. Wide. 

As you contemplate the surrealism of your predicament over Labrador tea, he grins like a shark and tells you he only has one toothbrush. 

“Dinnae mind sharin’, doe,” he offers, too jovial, eager, for the notion of lending his toothbrush to a stranger he met less than twenty-four hours ago. Ah ‘ave good hygiene, he adds, as if that might make this any better. 

Putting away the disgust, the idea of sharing a toothbrush feels much too intimate to you. Something befitting a long-term partner, or kin, before a man you know only the bare bones of. 

But like most things lately, what choice do you have? 

Johnny grins brightly at your acquiescence. All teeth. He hands you an old sweater—his favourite football team, he adds with a wink when you blink at it—and then moves toward you with a wicked gleam in his eyes you try to pretend is just overeager hospitality. 

“Wait—” you start, jerking back instinctively as he looms over the bed. “What are you doing?”

A dip forms between his brows, and he cocks his head quizzically at you. “What're ye talkin’ ‘bout, doe? Need'tae brush yer teeth, don't ye?” 

“I—I can walk—”

He snorts. “Oan yer broken ankle? Will only hurt yerself more.” 

Despite the truth in this statement, the flippancy in his voice stings. Prickles under your skin. Your loss of mobility, of being wholly dependent on another person, is a bitter thing to try and swallow. Especially when you're here for the literal antithesis of it. To be free. Self-reliant. 

Not needing anyone at all except the grit in your bones and the determination to see things through. 

Having all of that ripped into pieces in front of you, by a man who says it with such nonchalant disregard—as if your efforts were meaningless, insubstantial for what it got it—is humiliating. 

You can't remember the last time you needed someone for something so simple as walking to the washroom to brush your teeth, to wash up. The loss of this minute freedom makes you want to cry; to break down. Rage. Break things with your bare hands just to show the world you still can. To fight against these shackles locking around your ankles, and run—

Johnny's hand falls on your knee, thumb brushing the torn edge of your tights, grazing the skin beneath the loose threads with each pass. 

“Don't worry. Ah'll take care 'o ye.” 

That's the problem, you think, chest burning. This awful feeling inside is churning. Frothingly acidic, corrosive. You don't want him to. You don't want to need this man at all. Ever. For anything. 

But—

“Thanks,” you choke out. It tastes like iron. Like defeat. 

He carries you to the washroom, cooing the whole time about how ye ‘ave nothin’ tae be embarrassed ‘bout while you blister from mortification, from shame. 

You came here to be self-reliant. To grind your mettle against the wilderness and come out on the other side victorious and better for it. But what you've accomplished so far is getting lost, getting hurt, imposing on a man you barely know—

One who has to sit down on the ledge of the bathtub with you cradled in his lap like a child, injured foot elevated on the lid of the toilet seat. He cups his hand under your mouth as you scrub at your teeth, trying to catch any of the foam from the toothpaste that spills from your mouth. 

It's mortifying. 

You've never felt so vulnerable in your whole life. 

“Sorry,” you choke out around the brush—his brush—as he slowly commanders the weight of you around enough to spit in the sink. 

He waves you off with a noise. “S’alright, doe. Ye can lean oan me all ye like.” 

So he says. But you feel the rapid inhales behind you. The soft pants spilling from his lips, lungs expanding, broadening his chest into your back. Exertion, you think, slightly cowed and humiliated. Desperately trying to hold some of your weight on your uninjured foot. 

“Nah, ah,” he breathes, arm slinking around your middle, tugging you firmly into his lap. “Ye jus’ worry about gettin’ ready tae go tae bed now. Ah got ye.”

He soothes his palm up and down the length of your arm as you finish up in a fruitless effort to calm your nerves, but it doesn't work. Can't. Because you know what's coming next. 

“Can I, um—” your tongue is thick in your mouth. “I need to use the washroom to–to, uh, washup, and stuff—”

His thigh jerks beneath you. When he speaks, his voice is rougher than normal. “Okay.”

But he stays where he is. 

“I think I can do it on my own—”

“And if ye step oan yer leg?” He tuts, arm tightening around you. “Only gonnae hurt yerself more, doe.”

“I'll be careful, but I really have to—” 

“S’okay,” he coos. “S’only me.” 

That's the problem, you think wildly. Hysterical. That's the whole problem, isn't it? 

“No, you don't understand. I need to, um, go.” He makes another noise, soft. Agreeable. Fuck. “I need to pee.” 

It comes out in a hiss. Feral, like a cat. Embarrassment turns you into more animal than man. 

Again, he hums. “I know, doe. Donnae worry, ah’ll hold yer leg.”

“Can't I just keep it, um, on the ledge?” 

“No, no. If ye put weight oan it, doe, ye’ll be in serious trouble. Dislocated. Broken. Jesus, ye cuid slip the bone out of place—”

No. No.

The idea of him holding your ankle as you piss is beyond any measure of shame you've ever felt before. You like your privacy. Crave it, sometimes. You don't think you've ever done this in front of someone since you were a child. 

You need—

A moment.

Time. A pause. 

But he doesn't give you a chance. 

Johnny's other arm loops under your knees, and with a small huff he stands, holding you aloft with an arm anchored across your belly. It's quick. Mercilessly so. He steps back and lifts his foot to toe the lid off the toilet seat, unbothered by the loud clang it makes when it hits the tank. 

“There we go,” he mutters, and sounds almost breathless for it. “Let's get ye ready.” 

It should be awkward. Clumsy. But he moves with a surprising agility that belies the firmness of his muscles, the bulk. He lets your uninjured leg drop to the floor, murmuring for you to put some weight on it as he cradles your shin in his hands, careful not to let your foot move more than it needs to. 

The strange dance ends with him holding your shin in his hands, stretching your thighs out more than they'd ever been before. An image that might have been comical under different circumstances but just makes you flounder at the suggestiveness of the pose. Added, in large part, by the firm hold he has on you. There's not an ounce of give. No threat of falling. 

You gasp when he moves, shuffling backwards to pivot you around until the back of your shin meets the cold porcelain. 

“Alright now, doe,” he motions toward the seat as he slowly bends down to a crouch on the floor, your foot still held in his grasp. 

You follow him down until you meet the seat, trying to avoid his gaze as you clumsily paw at your tattered pants, slipping the down your thighs in a hurry. Your panties follow after a moment of hesitation. 

When his breath catches, you say nothing at all. Pointedly avoid whatever face he might be making as you stare, fixed, at the panels on the wall behind his head. Wallpaper. Probably moisture-resistant. It's peeling in some places. Decades ago, it might have been a soft canary yellow. 

His breathing is shallow. You ball your hands into fists and press the flat of your knuckles against your thighs. 

It's hard to focus when you can feel the scorching heat of his body bleeding into your leg, your knee. Close enough that all he has to do is bend down a little more, and his face would be pressed against your thighs. 

There's no room, no privacy. 

You close your eyes and pretend you can't hear how his breath seems to fill the entirety of the small washroom, ghosting over your skin. Virginia Falls comes to mind—a roaring rush of water—but even in the solitude of your mind, you can't ignore the way his stare drills through your skin. 

You swallow. You can't do it. Can't do this. 

“Can you—” back off, go away. Stop breathing so heavily because you might get the wrong idea, like this whole thing excites him somehow—

His voice is rough when he speaks. Ragged. “Cannae ah what, doe?”

“Turn the tap on? I can't—I can't concentrate.”

“S’only me, bonnie girl,” he murmurs, but does what you ask. Leaning over you, broad torso swallowing you up entirely under his bulk. You can feel the soft give of his belly on your knee as he presses it into you, but it only lasts a second before you meet a wall of solid muscle beneath. He braces a warm, rough palm on your naked thigh, leaning in as he reaches over to the sink above. 

It's barely a fraction of his weight but the drag of it makes you blink in surprise. His skin is burning. Redhot. 

Opening your eyes brings you close to his chest, nose only a hair away from the tanned skin stretched over his collarbones. The metal chain gleams in the flushed light hanging overhead, sitting in a golden contrast to his sunkissed flesh. Its reflection casts beads of glittering lambency over the slope of his neck. 

Pretty, you think, watching as it coruscates in a mesmerising dance each time he moves. 

The faucet turns with a metallic squeak, breaking you from your reverie. Water gurgles up from the pipes, spitting into the basin with a hiss. You pull back, twisting your head to the side as heat floods your chest. 

“Thanks,” you mutter, unable to meet his stare.

His fingers tighten around your flesh. His voice is raw when he mumbles, “anytime.” 

The trickling rush of water reverberates around the room, and it's easy to close your eyes and pretend you're alone.

So that's exactly what you do. 

His palm grows slick on your skin. Damp. But you ignore it, focusing on nothing but the urgency of getting this over with as quickly as you can. It works, marginally—

(Johnny makes another noise in the back of his throat. 

That, too, you ignore.)

“Finished?” His voice is thick, wet. You nod slowly, peeking out from the sliver between your lashes to paw at the wall for the toilet paper roll. “Here, ah’ll help ye out of fer pants—”

Your head feels heavy. Limbs laden. The embarrassment crushes you into a fine powder; malleable, putty. You let Johnny take the lead after. Let him slip your tattered tights down your thighs, and say nothing at all when too much of his palm glides along your skin as he pulls. Needlessly, of course, when just two fingers would do. 

But it's fine. Fine. Maybe he's never taken off tights before. Maybe the material is too thin and he's worried about it catching on the scrapes over your knees, the bandage wrapped up to mid-calf. 

Your shirt, too. When he slips his fingers under the hem, splaying them wide over your belly before dragging them up until it bunches around his wrist. Tugging, tugging. Hands gliding over your skin, fitting along the contours of your body.

He keeps one hand moulded to your neck, fingers brushing your jaw, as he gingerly pulls the shirt over your head. The ragged pants in your ear, the soft groans when you slip into his old shirt—

It's exertion, really. Must be. He's tired from holding you up the whole time you brushed your teeth, washed your face in the sink. It's all fine. He's being gentle. Doesn't want to hurt you.

He's just being nice. 

(And when you notice that your panties are missing from the pile of dirty clothes he shoves into the corner behind the door, that, too, you ignore.)

Exhaustion takes you soon after Johnny tucks you into bed, dragging you under once again. He tells you he'll be on the couch. To holler if you need anything. Sluggishly, you nod. Thank him when he places a glass of water on the bedside table for you. 

(Bite your tongue when he brushes his fingers over your cheek as he bids you goodnight.)

Through the gossamer of sleep, you can hear the floorboards creak in the doorway, but when you look, there's nothing there. Just an empty kitchen. The soft flicker of the fireplace smouldering in the living room. 

Nothing, you think. It's nothing at all—

There's a weight on your chest. 

Warm, searing. It dampens your skin where it sits, heavy, on your breast, cold air ghosting along the sweat building up each time it moves. 

You stir. The pressure takes shape. A hand. A man's hand. Rough, calloused, and hot. In his palm, he holds your breast, thumb brushing along the curve of it. Sliding, sliding—

You come awake with a gasp. 

There's a twinge in your ankle when you move, and the pain grounds you, silences you. His thumb twitches on your nipple, but he, too, stills. Quietens. An impasse. 

And you suppose this would be where you'd scream. Rage. Slap him across the face, rip his hand off your breast. Curse at him for being a creep, and a pervert, and nasty, disgusting man because there's nothing at all that could justify the reason for why the shirt he gave you to wear to bed is tucked up over your chest. The bruising press of something hard digging into your hip negates any excuse he might try to give. This is unmistakable. You should scream, cry, and—

Leave. 

This is what glues your lips together. Keeps you from moving at all, from making a sound. Where would you go? How would you even get there to begin with? 

It's this—the uncertainty, your vulnerability—that paralyzes you. Keeps you still, silent, as his hands brush over your skin, touching, fondling. His palms are rough, calloused. Pyretic. He squeezes, kneading your flesh in his sweat-slicked hand like he's owed the right to touch you. Like he's allowed. 

He pants against your temple, breath warm, humid on your skin. Heaves like a dog in your ear, grunting low as he ruts his hips into your side, smearing something hot, tacky across your skin. Something you try not to think about, to inch away from. But he catches you quick, and stops your meagre protests before they form. 

His thumb and forefinger close over your pebbled nipple, pinching softly at your budded flesh. The shock of pleasure is unwanted. Awful. It churns your stomach, and you fight the urge to weep—

He leans up, ragged exhales growing heavier as he moves until milk-warmed breath shudders over your bare breasts. His excitement throbs against your hip. You swallow down around the sudden wave of disgust, the sickness knotting itself together in your belly. It devours the lingering pity you'd felt earlier. The safety, the comfort, that brimmed inside of you for him. 

(bleeding heart—

he gorges himself on it.)

Stay still, you think. And maybe he'll go away. 

But he doesn't. Of course, he doesn't. 

Johnny leans down, mouth closes over your nipple. It's all searing heat. Wet, soft. A sudden jolt of pleasure shoots down your spine when he sucks in tandem with the soft, rolling pinches he doles out on your tiger nipple, and you hate your treacherous body a little bit more for it. For how good it makes you feel when he flicks his tongue over your hardened peek, laving it sloppily. Messily. Drooling all over you—the big fucking dog—

You wonder how long he's been doing this. Touching you in your sleep. The thought sits like hot oil in your guts; sloshing against the soft lining of your stomach until it aches. Burns. You blame it on that when he grunts against your breast, the vibrations send a shiver down your spine. Have to, don't you? Because the alternative is to admit that you're slick, soft between your thighs already; folds soaked, inner thigh damp. Wet. Blame it on him, and the burden in your chest eases when you feel the stirrings of desire, lust, thicken in your lower belly. Bodily reaction becomes your clutch, your lifeline when he lays his upper body against you, the weight, the heft, of his bulk forcing the air from your lungs. 

Johnny lifts his head suddenly, eyes drilling into yours before you can feign sleep to avoid looking at him. You don't want this. Your body thrums with reluctance, with fear, but you can't drag your gaze away from him. The rapturous look in his eyes, burning in the low simmer of a never-ending twilight, is paralyzing. Electric. You can't remember a time in your life when another person has ever looked at you with such raw want. Desire. Need. It's covetous. Ugly. Marbled with heady streams of hunger, of awe, as if he's not sure whether or not he wants to eat you alive or savour you for aeons. Taking bites, nibbles, when this urge becomes too burdensome to bear; when the ravenous chasm in his guts threatens to devour itself, bones and all, like a man-made black hole. Under this heavy, unrelenting stare you wither. Submit. Your head rolls until your cheek is pressed against the pillow, neck bared. Offered up to him. 

(anything, you think, to run away from the naked want on his face. because with his mouth slack, lips slick, glistening with spit, he looks predatory like this. animal. bathed in gloam and flushed a deep roseate.)

He props himself up on his elbow, watching you. Feasting. Your quiet submission makes him moan; hips juttering at the slow reveal of your vulnerable neck. A paroxysm. As if he just can't help himself to hump against you like a beast in rut. 

He swallows. You watch his throat work from the corner of your eye, Adam's apple bobbing up and down, up and down—

Then:

He lifts himself up higher, angling his body until it's bracketed over you. Sliding between your legs until your slit is pressed against the coarse hair that covers his thighs. He keeps his elbow propped on the pillow, sliding up, up, until his forearm comes to rest beside your face. It boxes you in completely under his weight, and the position forces your legs to spread open to accommodate him. Not given up freely, of course; but your compliance in this is inessential, it seems. He moulds you how he likes, mindful of your injured ankle the whole time. A kindness that makes something molten thicken in your throat, stifling the scream that claws its way up your esophagus. 

You try not to stare when he clambers over you, chest bare against yours. Hips chiselling a gorge between your thighs wide enough for him to fit. To press his fattened length on the insides of your sticky thighs; groins drawing together. Your legs slung loosely around his tapered waist. A dreadful pastiche of lovemaking. Intimacy. 

But even as a mockery—bastardised as it is—it’s embarrassing how easily you open up for him. Legs falling, spreading further apart. Hot, sticky at the apex of your thighs. Wanting. 

Blame it on sleep, on this endless hypnagogia you've been feeling since he leaned over you on the cliff edge, and said, pretty thing, aren't ye? All alone. No’ anymore, doe. Jus’ me an’ ye, now. Jus’ us—

You swallow, fighting the urge to cry. Blinking rapidly against the tears that pebble against your lashline, but you're helpless to stop the flood even though the levee doesn't break, doesn't spill over. It just sits, a sorrowful lagoon with nowhere to go. 

In your attempt to hold back the deluge, you let your gaze wander away from the piercing blue that drills into your face—seemingly unbothered by the tears in your eyes, the ones that clot over your irises, stinging and hot—and stare down at his broad chest. A mistake, maybe, because you catch sight of the gold cross dangling around his neck. Like a pendulum, it swings. The motion is mesmerising. Hypnotic. 

It distracts you for a moment. Or maybe you've just grown accustomed to his touch, to the heat of his hand on your skin. Whatever the reason, it's enough to pull you away from the feverish trail his fingers leave as they make a steady drag downward. It's only when they dance over your belly button do you realise the muted tickle is Johnny, and by then—

“Shush, s’alright, doe,” he's cooing, warm breath ghosting over the plains of your face. It might be comforting if he didn't rest his weight on his elbow, freeing his other hand just to bring it over your mouth, thumb brushing under your eye. A warning maybe. Don't scream. “Ah go’ ye. Ah’ll make ye feel so good—”

There's a fever in his eyes. Wildfires spreading through the yawning boscage, burning everything in sight. The heat is hot enough to char bone; to blacken meat into a dessicated husk. Eating away at everything in its path. 

You know, almost immediately, that Johnny's beyond reason. Or, rather—

He's gone, turned inward; delusional enough to think that this is something he has to do. 

You'd seen all the warnings of the kindling fire before. Something you'd decided to ignore even as the hunger in his eyes surged; as the shape of it morphed into a frothing devotion that felt ill-fitting for two strangers stuck together like this. 

Stupidly, you thought you could outrun it. That he was a good man beneath it all, and wouldn't succumb to touching you in your sleep, to lulling you into a false sense of security—

Except. He hadn't, had he? 

He'd been blunt about it all since the beginning. My wife—

How silly, you thought. 

But the humour fades when he teases over your hips, resting his palm over your mound, middle finger perched above your clit. Just holding. Touching. The possessiveness of the action is unmistakable, unignorable. 

It shouldn't send a shiver down your spine when you'd rather he didn't touch you at all, but it does. There's something about him, you think. Electric. A lightning storm. It crackles in the air around you, humming low in the atmosphere; this unavoidable surge, natural phenomenon. Maybe that's what he is. 

More storm than man. A force you can't outrun, but can only endure—

His eyes flash when he slides his fingers further down your slit and finds your skin soft, hot. Drenched. When he groans your name out, it sounds like a prayer. An orison. 

“So wet, doe,” he's heaving out in a whisper, eyes nearly rolling back into his head as his touch grows bolder, more insistent. As if the softness of your flesh, the wetness that sticks to your inner thighs, is all the consent he needs. “So fuckin’ wet fer me, aye? Been waitin’ fer this, haven't ye?” 

You want to shake your head no but it's futile. He drops his head to look down the chasm between your bodies, watching his hand slide along your skin. Legs spread around his waist, inviting. He curses foul under his breath when he sees how wet his fingers are from just a touch, words mangled in the back of his throat. They sound less coherent as he roams your body, parting your folds and stroking through the slick spilling out of you, dragging it up to your clit. 

His voice is closer now. Lips bruising against the shell of your ear. Butchered English. Gaelic. An amalgamation of low whines, and rasping grunts. He sounds more animal than man. A booming thundercloud groaning above you, as if touching you is enough to please him, too. Siphoning it from your body as he presses his fingers against your clit, circling, stroking. 

It’s good. So good. And that's the problem, you think. It's easy to give in like this when he pets your pussy like the feeling of your fluttering heat on his hand is enough to make him cum. No one has ever touched you like they were starving for it. Needed it as badly as you did. 

The sensation is almost too much. The notion of it getting tangled in the back of your head, looping around the part of you still screaming to run. To go home. To push him away. 

(your arms are laden. your tongue is a puddle of mercury in your mouth—)

But just as the pleasure blooming in your belly raises with each pass of his thumb, he pulls away. Slides down, down—

Circles your hole with the tips of his slick fingers, petting with the same desperation he showed your clit until he deems you soft enough for him. He slowly sinks his finger inside of you to the knuckle, stretching your walls around him as he moans into your ear about how good ye feel around him, all tight. Hot. So fuckin' wet, do. So wet fer me—

He pulls out just as slowly, shushing the soft gasp you make when the ridge of his palm catches on your clit. 

“Ah told ye, didnae ah? Ah’ll take care’a ye.”

He presses two fingers inside of you as he peppers kisses over your cheek, cooing low about how badly you need him. Only him. 

Johnny fucks you slowly on two fingers. Gently. Deeply. Sliding into the last knuckle, petting against your slick walls, like he's owed the privilege and not touching you in your sleep.  

He brings you to the edge, takes you right there, and—

Pulls away. His fingers slide down as your hips flit, lifting to make them catch on your clit again. It's embarrassing how badly you want him to touch you. Shameful. 

He leans up and catches your mouth in a messy kiss. It's all tongue, wet, no finesse. The wild, unkempt tangle of hair abrades your skin, rubbing it raw as he devours you. Scoops out your tongue with his own, enticing it into his mouth. His teeth close on the thick of it, lips pursing. Sucking on the tip. 

His kisses are doglike and obscene. Leaves drool dribbling down your chin, soaking into your neck. He can't seem to decide what he wants to do, so he tries to do it all. Everything. Biting your lips, trying to choke you on his tongue. Slurping up the taste of you until his mouth is stained with it. Beard matted down, drenched. 

Despite it all, he's a good kisser. His pace is fast, breakneck. You can't keep up, but you try. Struggling along as he seems hellbent on eating you alive. But it's sporadic. He pauses just long enough to settle into an easy rhythm that makes you arch into it, silently begging for more as he fucks you on his fingers. Nips your tongue as he slides in a third, swallowing the gasp you let out, savouring your moans between his teeth. 

Johnny ruins you with just a kiss. Leaves you panting, unmoored. Mouth slack, open wide for him to do what he pleases because the taste of him is divine. 

“C’mon,” he urges, spreading his fingers inside of your cunt until you keen, whining his name. “Suck my tongue, bonnie.” 

It's disgusting. You do it, anyway. 

Your quiet acquiescence makes him moan, hips rutting against you. The hard press of his cock into your skin is bruising. It aches. Your inner thighs are tacky with your slick and the smears of pre-cum he leaves behind as he humps against you. 

He sounds mournful when he pulls away, mouth messy with spit, and whispers, “fuck, wish ah could taste ye again, doe—” You don't know what he means until his eyes drop down to his hand, working insistently between your thighs. 

Your stomach drops. Plummets. You thought this started when he was touching your chest, when you woke up to his hand on your breast—

“Ye didnae wake when ah did it before,” he says, as if sounding mournful, sad, over the fact that you didn't wake up to him eating your pussy while you were asleep, was normal. “Must’a had too much tea—”

You wish, so suddenly, so viciously, that he'd stop talking. You can't hear this. Can't bear to listen to him confess to all the needling worries that bloomed in the back of your head, ones you stamped down with a heavy foot and a potent sense of guilt, shame, for condemning a man who was just trying to help. 

It makes you want to cry. 

“Oh, doe, don't cry—” he coos the words out, contrite and conciliatory, but you can feel the way his cock twitches against your thigh. The unmistakable heat mushrooming in his eyes as the sight of tears streaming down your face. 

He seems to take it as misery over not feeling his mouth on your cunt, a plaintive assertion he whispers into your ear (poor thing, jus’ wannae feel ma mouth on you, aye? wannae feel me lick yer sweet pussy again?), and decides to rectify your sorrow by kissing his way down your body. 

His fingers slip out when he moves, resting them on your knee as he kneels back on his haunches. 

You spare a glance toward him, nervous with trepidation, and—

This whole time, his cock had been this phantom sensation against your skin, bruising and hot. Leaving wet smears over your thighs. Hidden from view. But like this, it's the first thing you see as it hangs, heavy and thick, from between his thighs. 

The sight is—

Something. 

You don't want to think about the heat in your belly. The nervous flit of your heartbeat. 

A pearlescent strand dribbles down the weeping, slick head, dropping to the sheets below. The shaft of his cock is similarly drenched, smeared with what seems like a copious amount of precum. It gathers at the base, a startling contrast of thick, black hair and globs of milky white. 

Something about it makes you recoil. Almost instinctively, primal. 

Your flinch just makes his cock twitch, spitting more out. 

The motion seems to unveil more of it to you, adding to the growing unease you feel because his cock is the furthest thing from pretty. 

It's flushed a daunting vermillion and purpling like a bruise around the engorged glands. Thickening at the base. Streaked with dark veins that run the length of it, like rivers intersecting and jutting up from his skin. Blotches of red, pink, purple, and peach make up the colouring of it. Marbled like a black eye. A busted lip. 

It bobs when he moves. Ugly, garish. You don't want it anywhere near you—

But Johnny’s wet hand on your knee keeps you from moving. Holds you in place as he bends down, resting on elbow to bring his face as close to your pussy as he can get. 

Johnny stares—unabashedly—at your bare cunt when he finally settles between your thighs, widening them further to fit the broad stretch of his shoulders. Eyes lit with a heady greed, a hunger, that knocks the air from your lungs. 

“Missed ma mouth, didnae ye?” 

For a moment, you think he's talking to you. Confusion colours the panic you feel, dampening the dread down until it's flattened by sheer bewilderment when you realise his eyes haven't left your slit. 

“Such a bonnie girl,” he purrs, breath ghosting over your cunt. “Been so lonely without me, aye? Poor thing.”

It heats you up from the inside out. The mesmerised, almost unfettered look of pure adoration shaded alongside the raw want on his face twists a sense of desire inside of you. Has anyone looked at you with such naked need on their face? As if the idea of not having a taste was somehow the most agonising thing they could experience? The way Johnny looks at you is enough to make you ache. And with anyone else, having him address your pussy instead of you would be awkward, humiliating, but somehow, him doing it makes you burn white-hot. Makes you want—

“Johnny,” you whisper, paper-thin, and his head shoots up, brows inching high on his brow. You're acutely aware that this is the first thing you've said since this started. Since you woke up to him groping you, touching you, in your sleep. And it's his name. Johnny. 

Not no, don't. Stop. Please. Just—

“Johnny.”

It's not consent. You're not sure you're fully capable of doing so right now, if ever. But it's the closest you think you could come to saying yes. Admitting that you want his mouth on you, even though the situation leading up to this still makes something ugly and awful twist in your guts, is as much as you can give. He seems to see this. To know. 

But Johnny takes it between his teeth as an unequivocal yes despite that, groaning low in his throat, midnight eyes rolling back into his head. The hands on you tremble. Shake. 

He breathes in deeply through his nose, the sound whistling as a great plume of air is forced through small channels, filling his lungs. Perfuming them with the heady scent of you, of sex, clotting in the air. 

“Fuck, doe. Gonnae give ye what ye need.” 

And then he bends his head, eyes lidded still, half rolled, and without any preamble, glues his lips to your drenched slit, forcing it between your soft folds. 

The first touch of his tongue is molten. Soft, tensile, he laves it over the whole of your slit from the sensitive skin beneath your hole, to the crest of your clit. Digs his tongue in, swirling it over and under your folds leaving no part of you untouched. Feasting. Devouring. 

It makes you mewl. Your back arches off the sheets, ankle throbbing in a heady, pulsing pain at the sudden movement, adding to the shrill whine in your voice. 

He notices, and pets your knee once before sliding his bicep under your leg, looping his hand around to secure your thigh in the crook of his below. Locked in tight. Immoveable. The other he pushes down with the flat of his palm, until your joints ache from the stretch. Your knee is almost flush with the mattress. Widening you further for his searing, eager mouth. 

If his kisses are dogish—wet, messy; sloppy with drool—then the way he eats your cunt is foul. Slobbering down his chin, slurping up the mess he makes with a series of chewed-off moans and muffled whines. He paws at you as if he was denied the pleasure of drink for aeons, feasting like a man half-delirious and starved. There's no finesse. No skill to speak of. Just a desperate man lapping at you like a beast. Worshipping you. 

He nuzzles his chin and cheeks against your cunt, drenching himself until his beard is matted to his skin. The feeling of his coarse hair grazing your sensitive flesh is overwhelming. Too much. Too ticklish. But—

It feels good. 

The contrast of his fleshy tongue rolling over your clit, and the rough brush of his hair when he nuzzles you with the point of his chin, cooing softly about how pretty this little pussy is, getting him all wet, is cataclysmic. The heat floods your belly, and you clench around nothing. Achingly empty. Moaning at the feeling of him bringing you right there, right to the brink, with nothing by the hair on his cheek. It's unreal. Inescapable. Your head drops, mouth lax, open wide as you pant and whimper through the madness of Johnny MacTavish trying to find a way to suck your clit and fuck you with his tongue at the same time. An impossible goal, you know, but he doesn't seem to care about logic or reason with his head buried between your thighs, mouth never leaving you once. He merely nods his head up and down, refusing to pull away.

It's divine. It's worship. It's—

He pushes two of his fingers inside of you, lapping at your taut rim to stem the sting of his sudden intrusion, and you think, for a moment, that you see Nirvana behind your eyelids. 

It's embarrassingly how quickly he brings to you the brink, slurping messily as he drills his fingers into your hole, petting against your walls in a mockery of what he'll do to you once he's had his fill. Satiated his hunger with the taste of your pussy. 

Something he can't seem to get enough of.

Your thighs draw together, crushing him between your legs. Arching into his mouth, nearly smothering him as you rut clumsily against his face, moaning at the rough scrape of his beard against your skin. You're not normally so aggressive, but he loses himself in it, eyes rolling as he grabs your hips and pulls you closer to his wanting mouth, encouraging you to use his tongue, his lips, to meet your end as you see fit. Riding his face as much as you can with your leg locked tight between his shoulder and bicep. 

And it's in between his loud grunts, his whines—almost caterwauling into your slit—where you shatter. The sound of his pleasure, the feeling of his mouth on you—it’s all too much. You break when he sucks your clit into his mouth, keening in the back of his throat as he works another finger into you. It feels good. Too good. 

Johnny works you through it. Lets you take, and take as your muscles spasm with the force of your release. Fingers digging into his shoulders, fisting the sheets. He moans along with you, eagerly lapping at your cunt until you whine, begging him to stop. You've had enough. Can't take anymore—

He only pulls away when you melt into the sheets, shuddering with the aftershocks bubbling through your body. Leaning back on his haunches once more, the hair around his mouth slick and wet. The evidence of your pleasure dripping down his chin, droplets still clinging to his beard.

He crawls over you once more, eyes boring into yours. Pits of coal. An endless black hole.

In this strange space, liminal, you lose yourself. Shed pieces of who you were before when he slots his hips between your thighs, cock heavy in his hand, and presses it to your slit. 

This is happening. He's going to fuck you. 

You wish the thought didn't make your knees fall apart a little wider for him. Make your hips flit, lifting slightly into the air. Eager. Hungry for it. For him.

It's loneliness, you think. Desperation. 

Madness is addictive. It feeds itself and infects those around it. Noxious. An all-consuming black hole that eats, and eats. It must have bitten you, too. Dug infectious teeth into your skin, severing flesh to imbed its jowls in your marrow. Clinging. Poisoning you from the inside out. 

There's no other reason for why you reach for him, hands sliding over his sweat-slicked skin as he falls into the open brackets of your arms, grunting when the head of his cock catches on your rim. He's a wall of heat. Firm muscles. Your nails dig into the thick cords of his shoulders just to feel the reluctant give of his skin. 

Nothing about this man is soft. His waist, his thighs, his chest, his arms, the hard ridge of his cock. It's all unyielding muscle. Burning. Searing into your skin when it drags against his. 

“Gonnae fuck ye, doe,” he whispers, words pitching low. Damp wood, felled timber. Rough. You shiver from the heat of it. The warning, the plea; both extremes coalescing together to make truism more potent. Weighty. “Gonnae fuck this pretty pussy, and yer gonnae beg me fer it.” 

Despite the surety in assertion, he doesn't wait for you to plead with him to split you apart, taking the initiative instead to sink the head of his cock into you. The stretch stings already, and only his glands have sunk in, a fact he grunts into your ear as he drives forward another inch. Another—

You don't think you've ever been this unmoored before. Rendered this docile. A mere domicile for him to burrow inside of; to carve a home from the sanctum of your walls wrapped tight around him. And carve he does. Splitting you apart as he grunts with the efforting of forcing his cock into you, feeding it further with blunt jerks of his hips, his hands feverish on your skin. Sweat slicked already even though he's barely halfway inside of you. 

“Feels so good,” he slurs into your ear, face pinching. Twisting up as pleasure blooms over his brow. “So fuckin’ good, doe, fuck—”

It does. Beyond the blunt pressure of him forcing his cock inside of you, the sting of the stretch, there's an intense, dizzying pleasure in the fullness you feel. In the press of him notching against something inside that makes heat bloom in your belly, turns your bones liquid. It might be the previous climax rendering you oversensitive, but the feeling of him splitting you apart is euphoric. 

It's aided by the moans he lets out as you take more and more of him, as if the sound of his pleasure is funnelled into yours. By the look on his face, eyes widened, feverish, as he darts his gaze between your face and your pussy, unable to decide if he wants to watch his cock disappear into you or watch your face, pinched up in pleasure, in flickering pain, as you take him fully. 

This sort of bliss, this pleasure, is addicting. Narrowed down to the sharp nudge of his cock grazing places inside of you that light your nerves on fire, burn through your synapses until your thoughts are muddled, mush. No coherency, no logic—just the fat length of him bludgeoning into your walls; the tap of his heavy, full sack slapping against your ass as he finally, finally, roots deep.

He must feel it, too. This strange, overwhelming pleasure loops around your lower belly, twisting itself into knots because when he pushes the last few inches inside of you, he nearly collapses on top of you, his whole body shuddering. Trembling. Presses his damp face to your cheek, matted, slick hair tickling your skin, and groans from deep within his chest at the feeling of you wrapped around him. The noise shivers through you. His pleasure is enough to make you clench down, tightening up around him. Already on the verge and all he did was slide his cock inside of you. 

A fact he seems to luxuriate in, huffing shakily into your ear as he quenches himself on the soft, fluttering pulses of your walls around him. Content to grind his hips into yours in shallow gyrations that make your eyes roll into the back of your head. The tension in your belly coiling tighter and tighter, the pleasure ameliorating the shame you'd felt before, burning it into cinders. 

As long as he keeps his cock inside of you, as long as he keeps pushing the blunt head into that spot that makes your vision whiteout, you think could cum just like this. Right now—

He doesn't. 

Johnny lifts himself off of your chest, elbow coming to rest beside your head, taking the brunt of his weight. His eyes are bright, burning. He stares down at you, and the look of sheer adoration on his face is daunting, overwhelming. It threatens to eat you alive. Devour you whole. Pure rapture. Devotion. 

You flush, face stinging with embarrassment. Prickling with unease. No one has ever stared at you like this, so hungrily, and the fact that it's him makes your head spin. Looping endlessly in circles of disbelief and fear. 

He might be omnipotent, you think, with the way his lips tug sharply downward, brow bunching together as if he can hear your thoughts, taste your disquiet in the air. 

Johnny rolls his hips back slowly, inching out of you with a hum until just the tip remains. The loss has your hands scrambling down his chest, fingers tangling in the coarse, drenched hairs at the soft incline of his belly. The other sliding around the thick breadth of his ribs, nails digging into the slick skin covering his spine. Pressing. Biting. 

More, you don't say. Please. 

The knot in his brow dissipates. Eases into something almost playful, impish. 

“Want ma cock, doe?” He whispers it waggishly, like a cloy secret, and you pretend the tease in his voice doesn't make your heart lurch in your chest. “Didnae anyone teach ye some manners? Gotta ask politely.” 

You won't. You won't. 

Your reluctance makes him sigh. The chain around his neck swinging when he moves. His hips pull back, and he reaches down with his free hand, and grabs his cock, pulling it out of you, and sliding it against your slit. The head bumps into your clit, and you nearly choke on the gasp that's ripped from your chest. The pleasure is too much, too—

He pulls away, denying you the euphoria of release. 

“No, no, please,” you babble, resolve crumbling into ash. “Please, Johnny, please—”

“That’s more like it,” he coos, and lets his cock dip back inside of your fluttering hole, rim stretched taut around him once more. The sting is lessened now, but still there as the thick glands force you open for him. “Sound so pretty when yer desperate for ma cock.” 

He leans down, catching your mouth in another sloppy kiss as he slams his cock back inside of you hard enough to bruise. To make you see stars. Cockhead bludgeoning into your cervix in a dizzying amalgamation of pleasure and pain that makes you whine, the whimper snatched up between his teeth as he burrows them into your lip with an echoing groan. 

He fucks you hard, working his cock into you at a maddening pace. Bestial, now. All animal. The tenderness from before dissolves into an choppy desperation. An eagerness to seek his own end as you fall to pieces beneath him, shaking from the force of taking him over and over again, each piston, each hard thrust driving the thoughts from your head until all you have left is sensation. An absence of everything except the way he feels above you, inside of you. 

Sweat builds up along your hairline, gathers at the base of your spine, and soaks the sheets below. You feel liquid under him. A ragdoll for him to sink his jowls into, to toss around as he likes. 

Johnny is all sensation and a cacophony of sound. 

He ruts into you clumsily, groaning in your ear. Moaning out how good you feel around him. Pretty pussy made just for him. 

“Oh, fuck, doe—” he moans, arching into the next thrust. Drool dribbles down his chin when he curves his spine, dropping his forehead onto your temple. “Feels so good. Feels like my cock is meltin’ instead ye—”

The lewd squelch of his cock pistoning into you seems to echo through the room, louder somehow than the ragged moans that spill from his mouth. 

“Been so long,” he shudders against you, rooting his cock deep. Burying himself inside of you as his cockhead bullies into your cervix. The flash of pain is whitehot, blinding, but the bloom of pleasure eats it whole before it can pollute the puddle of bliss pooling in your belly. “Been savin’ it all jus’ fer ye—”

His hand slides from your hip, burrowing between your bodies as rubs at your clit. It feels so good that it nips sharply into pain, into agony. Too much, too much—

But he doesn't relent. Fingers toying, circling your clit in time with each jarring thrust, tightening the coil inside of you until it whines from the tension, the pressure—

It snaps when he growls into your ear—cum fer me, doe; wannae feel this pussy squeezin’ ma cock—and releases in a flood, a deluge of molten heat. Back arching, toes curling. You're barely cognisant of the ache in your injured foot, the throbbing pain. It's swallowed by the surge of endorphins roaring through you, ringing in your ears. Blotting everything out except the way you pulse around the thick of him still lodged deep inside of you. 

You barely have time to come down before he starts again, forcing you to take him as he thrusts in harder than before, mindlessly seeking his own end as you gush around him, nails raking across his flesh. 

He's babbling above you, spitting words into your ear about how he's going to take care of you. All of you. Take you back to Scotland with him so you can raise your children—

It slices through the haze, ripping a hole through the fog clouding your mind. 

“No,” you whimper, devastation flooding your chest alongside the vicious pleasure still rolling around inside of you. “No, please—”

Children, he breathes like you hadn't spoken at all. Lots. Lots of them. Brothers and sisters. Two, maybe three, of each. But he's not picky, bonnie, he'll take whatever you give him. And keep fucking you over and over again until he gets what he wants. A whole family to raise. To surround himself with. Been lonely, you think he says. Needed something to keep him busy. 

You don't want this. Can't. But he doesn't stop, doesn't relent. He breathes life into the picture he paints with the soft flutter of your cunt clenching tight around him at words, once again betrayed by your own body. 

Despite the nausea that bleeds to the surface at his words, your eyes roll back into your head once more, driven mad with the thunderous pleasure that rips through you as he forces every last inch of his cock into you. 

Johnny grinds his hips against yours, moaning, loud and untethered, muscles jerking, twitching, as he cums deep inside of you. 

The aftershocks of his pleasure make him tremble, body spasming as he drives himself tight against the seal of your womb. A new heat grows inside of you as Johnny slumps against you, panting in your ear. 

“Ah’ll be so good tae ya,” he promises in a rasping growl, shoving his head into the crook of your neck. Gyves close around you as he nuzzles his mouth into your flesh, licking at the sweat that beads on your skin. 

“All mine. All fuckin’ mine—” The confessional is tainted with the sickness that leaks from the craggy hole chiselled into the side of his head. Obsessive devotion hewing ruinous dogma into the fibrils of your head. Tenderised, softened, by the blunt, unyielding touch of his hand. A slurry that this polluted notion slips inside, tainting your resolve until it's thickened into his whim. His wants. 

You sob into his chest as he wraps you up in his arms, shackled against the man who carved a place inside of you just wide enough for himself to fit. Who spat poison in the hollow crevasses, and called it absolution. Love. 

All you can do is heave through corrupted lungs as he smothers you under the weight of his madness. 

“No’ gonnae let anyone touch ye. Ah'll kill anyone who tries to tae take ye away from me, doe—”

The conviction in his tone is bound in steel. In feverish blue. 

“Ah’ll take care’a ye,” he rasps, voice thick in his throat. “Donnae worry about a thing, doe.”

“Will you let me go?”

He doesn't answer at first. Just digs his nose into your hairline, breathing in deep until the wide breadth of his chest expands across your back. Mulling it over, maybe. Coming up with an excuse for his behaviour. Something to negotiate with on reasons why you shouldn't call the police the moment he does. 

And for a moment, a startling, terrible moment, there's hope. The assurance wells on your tongue. Some unfathomable amalgamation of please and i’ll never tell. Maybe you were going to tell him he was an honest man who did something bad. That there was still good within him. All of those hideous clichès bubble up through the cracks—

But it's all dashed when his hand drops down from its perch beneath your bare breasts, sliding over your skin until it curls possessively over your lower belly. 

He breathes out and the hope inside you is snuffed under the gale of delusion, his obsession. “Why would ah do a thing like that?” He prompts, and the genuine confusion in his voice makes you shiver, as if the idea of it is so outlandish, so absurd, it negates everything he'd done to get to this point. You feel hollow. But not—

Not empty. 

As if he hears the thought thundering in the ruins of your mind, he presses a tender kiss to your temple that you think is meant to be soothing. Shushing you softly when you begin to shake. “After it took me this long to find ye, doe. Am no’ lettin’ ye go fer the world, ken. Yer mine. All mine.”

And then he closes his jowls around your throat. 

Time feels artificial here. 

You wake up several hours later, groggy and disoriented, but the sun doesn't seem like it moved from where it was perched last night at all. Fixed in place. Lost in some strange, eternal twilight zone where the sun is a warden, watching you tirelessly through the window. 

Cardboard cutout hung amongst the stars.

Your ankle aches horribly—an agonising throb. You must have turned in your sleep, jostled it. You're further away from the spot you were last night, too. Rolled over in your sleep, maybe. The burn brings tears to your eyes that you swallow down with a groan. 

As you awkwardly settle your leg in a way that hurts slightly less than it did before, you let cognisance slip back in to keep your mind off of the horrible ache that tremors through your bones. Your neck. 

Between your thighs—

It's then that you hear Johnny. 

He's whistling in the kitchen. You peer out through the crack in the door, catching the broad expanse of his naked back as he works over the stove. Flexing. Muscles bunching. He hums a tune you can't recognise as he scrapes the spatula over the cast iron pan. 

His grey sweats sit low on his hips. The divots above the hem—dimples of Apollo, you recall—are stark against the hollow ravine of his spine. You can't help but stare. Gawk. Limned in the soft light of the morning sun that spills through the open window, he looks almost ethereal. Unreal. Like something out of a magazine and not the middle of nowhere in Canada where the sun doesn't set this time of year. 

He feels surreal. A man too good to be true. All sculpted musculature that looks like it could just as well be handmade by an amalgamation of both David’s by Michelangelo and Gian Lorenzo Bernini. All sharp, angled lines; beautiful in their fluidity. 

It's unfair, you think suddenly. To be stuck with a man you feel nauseous thinking about but can’t seem to take your eyes off of. Some paradoxical madness. Retribution for a time in a past life where you swindled fate and got away unscathed. All of your karmic sins pile down on top of you as the events last night flicker past, drenched in seafoam. Ghosts linger in the cracks; in memories. 

The phantom weight of something slung over your waist, knotted tight between your breasts. Scorching heat glued to your spine. A heavy hand cradling your lower belly. Words whispered into your nape—

He turns, then. Catches your eye like he knew it was there the whole time. Stands there like the picture of ease, of a satiated man puttering around a small space while his sweetheart lounged in the bed, lazing the day away. 

Like this wasn’t illegal. Immoral. He treats you like a lover even though you’d only met less than a day ago—

And already his cum was drying on your inner thighs, thick and sticky. His madness pooling in your head, words uttered into your ear about this cabin he has back home, back in Scotland. He’ll take you there, he said. It’s time he came home, he thinks. His head is on straight again, and he finally feels like he can breathe without shattering into a million pieces—

(He put your hands on his head last night, palm cradling the ugly scar on his temple, and whispered, fervent and insane, ye keep ma head together, doe. Ye make me feel whole again—)

Knows a man, he told you. A good bloke who’d help him get you home, too. 

His smile is bright. Blinding.

“Mornin’, doe. Ah made breakfast.” 

[chntfessions]

OKAY I WAS WORKING ON THAT FAN EPISODE, AND UHH I WANNA KNOW WHAT YOU THINK.

this is only a draft, feel free to give constructive criticism

some quick background, this would probably be like episode 5-7 ish in s2. elijah has not been seen again yet btw.

[CLICK]

[DING!]

SYDNEY

“Good morning everyone and everything! The time is 8:67, and the sky is a cardboard brown. Now, if yesterday you missed the giant gaping hole that opened up on the west side of camp because you were with councilors Soren and Fennel. Well, you do now! But because I was so caught up in reporting this mysterious pit, I forgot to share some of the paintings the people in cabin ladybug made! My third favorite here is by Gramm Backside. Their painting was a self portrait of themself, it looks just like them! The same teeth, eyes, and that blackened face where you can only see the eyes and teeth! Great job Gramm! Second, we have this painting by Floor Handle. Her work had a boy in the middle of the fields. As the eternal doom of the sky and the land is swarming behind him, and it feels as if its all going to crumble down on top of him. Pretty neat! And for my personal favorite, drumroll..!”

[drumroll noises]

“Marty McMark! His painting had me in a trance. The blood stained leaves on the forest ground, realistic eyes popping out of the sky - Rowan wouldn’t like that. The sky weirdly being blue too, odd. And the creature behind the bushes with a skinny neck, and an uncanny smile. What a cool painting! Marty when you get home, you better frame that! Alright so, for our breakfast. Matthew made us some lobster biscuits with metal chunks! Yknow, if I had the very slim chance to even see a lobster house, I would feel so bad for the little lobster in those tanks. To be picked up from that cramped place into a boiling pot. Don’t worry, Matthew assured me these lobsters were already dead before cooking! For the vegans you can eat the chunks of metal! Just don’t get around any magnets! For the activities today, we have rituals to bring the demons and devils up here from whatever they were doing!”

[CLICK]

[CLICK]

[DING!]

SYDNEY

“The time is 12:412. And the sky is a dirt color. Look, I am very happy that you guys did bring some of those demons and devils onto campgrounds, but I wasn’t expecting this… if you weren’t here last year, then you wouldn’t know some of the stories I told. There were a couple of times when I talked about up and Adam. Or at least how he introduced himself. Adam is a demon, apparently, makes sense. But he would show up in my dreams. Offer me things, and talk. I’m not going to name who, but I think we all know who is the trouble maker here. They set up their ritual, and it worked! But now… Adam’s here and we don’t know how to really react to this. It seems like he’s been waiting for this, and doesn’t want to go back. He’s in my office, not in this room, but in the building. We don’t want you kids into this, so us councilors will be working on this! Anywhos, today's lunch is crab crunch! ‘Eat with the shells!’ And activities are eating sand! Councilors Mila and Juno will be looking after you all, keep safe!!”

[audible steps]

ADAM

“What a nice cabin you have here!”

SYDNEY

“Wha- Adam you’re supposed to be on the cot!”

ADAM

“Mm, but that’s boring, not a good way to treat guests.”

SYDNEY

“We weren’t expecting you- Adam, I wasn’t even expecting you to be real so please just stay patient with me. On the cot. Oh shoot. Really quick, kids, Salem is asking you all - please stop throwing stuff into the hole. We have no idea where it goes!”

[CLICK]

yeahhh :DD

i will be posting this to ao3

YEAHHH THIS IS AWSOME

[wasteclan]

Introducing my clangen clan, WASTECLAN!! I've always loved messing around with clangen and the stories it creates, but I've never really done anything with my cats. So, here I am, starting a blog that I don't even really know how to run... ^_^ Image quality... so scuffed :(

I've already gotten about 20~ moons into Wasteclan, but won't be going any further until I post about the older ones on here. Until then, I suppose I'll have some foresight into the future for these cats...

First part is here

...

Wasteclan lives on the outskirts of a swamp. Years of industrialization in the area have turned the surrounding area into a chemical dumping ground. Wasteclan, once Reedclan, suffered a massive wave of sickness throughout its ranks.. This nearly wiped out the entire clan.

The remaining Reedclan warriors banded together, standing their ground and remaining in their original campgrounds that was now filthy and trashed. Scorchstar, taking position of leader, deemed this small group of survivors a new clan, Wasteclan.

...

Below are closeups from each cat shown above + a little bit of a bio I've collected with the little time I've already spent with them >:)

But before I start, I'd like to give a HUUGE shoutout to both Fallenclan and Cryptidclaw for inspiring me to start this blog. Check them out, so cool!

Scorchstar! (She/her)

I would barely call what Scorchstar practices as "leadership." In all of its forms, what Scorchstar does to lead her clan amounts to about.. nothing. She scolds cats all day and never does any real responsibilities, much rather taking to berating her clanmates more than anything. It seems she's always itching for a fight, wanting to sink her claws into the next person that questions her leadership tactics. Starclan knows how she scored the position of leader.

Flinthaze! (She/her)

Flint is the deputy of Wasteclan under Scorchstar's, ahem, "leadership." At this point, it's miracle that Flint hasn't dropped dead from pure stress. She seems about 10 seconds away from a nervous breakdown at any given moment. Juggling both leadership and deputy duties, she's always busy around camp and on patrol, barely allowing her a wink of sleep. But it's okay, she says she doesn't need help. She's fine. She says she's fine!

Redlight (She/her)

It seems that out of the three leadership roles of Wasteclan, the medicine cat, Redlight, is the most competent. While awkward and charming in her own way, Red is a generally laid-back and free spirit. She knows what's best for the clan and will always put duties first. While extremely scared of confrontation, she tries her best to put Scorchstar in her place and help Flinthaze in any way she can. However, in the back of her mind, Red always fears that another wave of sickness will rattle the ranks of Wasteclan.

Dreamymoon! (He/him)

A complete hopeless romantic, Dreamy seems to have an allure for just about every one of his fellow warriors. He loves winding stories and tales much taller than he is, making him seem more.. desirable than he thinks he is. Poor guy needs to work on his self-confidence.

Olivewillow! (He/him)

Seemingly having dodged all of the weird and wacky traits of the Wasteclan genepool, Olive's humble, loyal, protective, and a bit sarcastic at times. Timid of Scorchstar's leadership at first, he's quickly grown into the groove of things and found himself looking forward to the future!

Gorgeclash! (He/him)

Shy and introverted, Gorge is a new-ish warrior of Wasteclan. Finding it easier to adjust to the new leadership and clan life than most, he's finding a lot of fun with his grandfather around, Whimsybuzz. While he feels he's yet to prove his worth, he's always working towards proving to Scorchstar that he's fit for the job.

Goldenpaw! (She/her)

Resident teenager, Goldenpaw is a typical standoffish adolescent who doesn't like taking orders from her mentor, Dreamymoon. She's an extremely aloof and brooding apprentice, rather staying in her den and writing Reedclan fanfiction than doing her duties. Scoff, whatever!

Whimsybuzz! (He/him)

Local clan grandpa, Whimsy still has some spunk left in him from his younger days. Loving to play small pranks on his younger clanmates, he gets up to a lot of trouble for his age. He dearly loves his grandson, Gorgeclash. The two of them wind stories and share history with the kits together!

Moorkit (He/him) & Gullkit (He/him)!

Newest additions to Wasteclan, the two half-brothers Moorkit and Gullkit get up to just about much trouble you'd expect them to. Sharing the same father, who is now, ahem, out of the picture... Moor and Gull always seem to be bickering over one thing or another.

[modelbus]

CONGRATULATIONS ON 500 FOLLOWERS !!! WHOOP WHOOP ! You deserve it :DD

May I please request a MTommyinnit x M reader? (TOMMYINNIT; CHILDHOOD FRIENDS TO LOVERS; SOULMATES?)

Where Tommy distinctly remembers meeting a foreign Mreader as a child during one of his family's camping trip, but he can't really be too sure because he was so young and he doesn't have any pictures with said Mreader. Meanwhile, Mreader doesn't understand why he's so attached to the framed picture of him and a young blonde kid from a camping trip he went on years ago. Flashforward to now, they go back to the camping grounds from their childhood to maybe try to find each other again? Except when they arrive with their respective families, a goose literally attacks them (Tommy and Mreader) and chases them until they run into each other.

P.S yes the geese are soulmate geese who bother their person until they run into their soulmate lmao

PPS I love your works so much, I look forward to your updates all the time :')) Keep up the amazing work fr

THANK YOU SO MUCH! Also, I find soulmate geese so funny, definitely one of the best soulmate AU’s

Pairing: CC!Tommy x Male!Reader

Childhood Friends to Lovers - Soulmate AU

“Well, is it like you remembered?” Your mom asks, but you don’t respond.

You’re too busy looking around the campground, searching for a certain boy. The last time your family came here, years ago, you made an instant best friend with a boy named Tommy. Your mom must’ve taken a photo of you two because the framed photo has sat on your desk ever since.

But now you were here, ten years to the day, for another camping trip. You were absolutely determined to find this kid and figure out why kid you was so damn attached.

Obviously your plan had a few flaws. The biggest one? You have no fucking clue what he looks like. In the photo he was blond and tall, taller than you, but that was ten years ago. For all you know he could’ve dyed his hair and stopped growing!

“Why don’t you walk around? There’s a lake you could probably get some cool photos at for your friends or something.” Your mom suggests. She lowers her voice. “Your dad’s struggling with the tent, just give him a bit.”

You turn around to see the entire tent collapse on your dad. Anything is better than being roped into that mess, even trying to hunt down the mystery guy.

“Yeah, alright. Text me if you need me!” With that, you make your escape.

The campground is actually really full. It is prime vacation time though, so it makes sense. You aren't quite sure if that makes your job easier or harder. It meant a higher likelihood of the guy being here but made it harder to actually find him.

Somehow you instinctively make your way down near the water, where a few geese are scattered around. Cute, but you know they can and will bite you if you get any closer. Luckily you aren't seeing any goslings. You raise your phone, opening the camera app to take a photo. Who doesn't appreciate photos of geese?

Of course, the second your eyes are off the geese, one decides it fucking hates you. The goose charges at you, all fluffed up feathers and angry honking noises.

"Woah, hey!" You exclaim, backing away slowly.

It doesn't seem to be slowing down though, still advancing. You actually like not having to get a rabies shot--can geese get rabies? You don't want to find out--so you turn tail and run. Apparently that was also the wrong move, as it chases you.

There's just no winning with this stupid goose.

"I'm dead, I'm so fucking dead." You pant, racing through unfamiliar tents.

As you disrupt everyone's camping experience, they stop to stare at you. You must look like a madman, running from a goose like this. But they bite! And you have a will to live!

Risking a glance back, you stare at the goose. You'd think it looked almost majestic if it wasn't actively trying to kill you. Wings spread wide, it was showcasing its beauty. Unfortunately, it was still chasing you.

"Leave me alone, you fucker!" Someone shouts.

You turn your head away from the goose and to the noise, still running, only to crash into something. You barely see a flash of red before you land hard on your ass. The goose is definitely going to kill you.

"Oh God, I'm going to die to a fucking goose." You groan.

"My friends are never letting me live it down if I die to one of these fuckers."

Whipping your head around, you realize the thing you crashed into wasn't actually a "thing." It was a person. A blond boy was also sprawled out on the grass next to you, in a red shirt. He looks strangely familiar, but you don't really have time to think about that right now.

There're two geese now, both honking at you two. At least they seem to be getting some amusement out of your inevitable death.

"You were getting chased by one too?" The boy guesses.

"Yeah, thing just charged at me!"

"Me too!"

He grins at you, and for a second you forget about the geese. There was something so agonizingly familiar about that smile.

"I think they're not angry anymore?" He stands up, and you realize the geese stopped making noises. Now they're just staring at you two. If you didn't know better, you would've thought they seemed impatient.

He offers you a hand to help you up, and you take it.

"Now that we survived a goose attack together, I feel like we're practically best friends." You joke.

"Those who fight off savage geese together stay together, as I always say." He agrees, nodding. "I'm Tommy, by the way."

The name strikes something in you, and you suddenly realize why he seems so familiar. Blond hair, tall as fuck. You had completely forgotten the name Tommy, but hearing it now you remember. What were the chances a random goose actually chased you into meeting the kid you met ten years ago?

"Weird question, but you wouldn't have happened to come here ten years ago, would you?"

Tommy's face changes from amusement to shock, jaw dropping. The expression change tells you everything you need to know, the answer to your question.

"No fucking way." He gasps.

"Fucking way."

One of the geese lets out a honk, making you both jump and turn toward it. The geese waddle away, considerably calmer than when they were trying to attack you both.

"This is fucking crazy." Tommy laughs, running a hand through his hair.

"You're telling me! A goose chased me from the other side of the campground to here!" You exclaim. "It's like it knew what it was doing!"

"They were conspiring against us!"

You laugh at his words, and he almost seems to glow at it.

"Hey, could I get your number? So I don't have to go ten years wondering about you again." He asks, forming it into another joke.

"Of course." He hands you his phone, and you quickly put in your number and save your contact. "There. This time we can't disappear on each other."

"Hey! That was your fault!"

"How was it my fault?! You were the one who left!"

"You're the one who isn't English! Who the fuck isn't English?!"

As you joke with each other like no time has passed, something weird happens. It's like a piece of you has slotted into place, a piece you didn't even know was missing.

Weird.

[jow99]

Vannes to Carnac

We have really enjoyed our time in Vannes. This morning we went for a walk starting on a path that runs beside the campground that we hadn’t yet been on. It was a lovely walk and a lovely morning weather wise.

Back to Tessi for breakfast and then it was time to get ourselves packed up to depart. Today was another short drive, about 40 minutes. First we stopped off at Decathlon (which it turned out was having a sale so was packed) to get a couple of things, which inevitably turned into 6 🙄.

Today we drove to Carnac which is known for its prehistoric monuments. With more than 3,000 monumental stones, it’s the largest collection in the world. We arrived around lunchtime and after a bit of to and froing found a parking spot.

Jose had booked us in for an English tour so we had a quick lunch in town and then walked to the Megaliths museum. It was absolutely fascinating. The monuments have been carbon dated to having been erected between 5000 - 3000 BC and are therefore Neolithic, so our ancestors erected them. No one understands the meaning of the constructions but it was interesting to hear the various theories.

Where we are parked is next to St Michel’s Tumulus. Which is a burial tomb covered by a mound of soil. Unlike the other combined tombs, this huge construction (circa 4700 BC) was for one individual. Within the chambers they found artefacts that must have come from Turkey (800km away) and Andalucía (1000km away). Aside from the alarming fact of the distance these things had travelled was the similarity to the whole pharaohs, pyramids thing.

After the tour we were somewhat weary so headed into town for a, dare I say it, well deserved drink. We then headed back to Tessi. Tonight we are staying in a car park with about 6 other motorhomes. Not at all unpleasant, we have some grass and a cool breeze.

A relaxing evening before more prehistoric investigations tomorrow.

[feverinfeveroutfic]

”pebble beach”

The escarpment of the Sierra Nevada Mountains hung within my sidelong view as we made our way along the watershed towards Mono Lake. It had been forever and a day since I had come up this way, especially whenever I came up to Yosemite with my parents and my brother, it was on the other side of the valley coming in from the Central Valley. I leaned back in the faded leather backseat with one arm up on the top, and I let my curls dangle down over my shoulder like one of the waterfalls over in the other valley. Eric and Lou were huddled down in the front seats as if they were a couple of bobsleigh pilots, even though it was a beautiful day there in the eastern Sierras.

“Have you even been on this road before?” Lou asked him at one point.

“What, Tioga Road?” Eric replied. “Yeah, a couple of times before. It’s a a rare occurrence, though, because it’s closed ten months out of the year.”

I hadn’t been on there since I was a kid, and back then, from what I recalled, things were pushing it. The middle of June and there were still pockets of snow around the cliffs, and Sonora was still closed to top it off as well.

All I told Lou was to not look down once we neared the peak of the pass. And it made better sense to me to be behind Eric all the way up. I was so relieved to be in that car with them, although I knew I would have to go back with Chuck as well as Joey

It was the middle of the day, with the sun beating down on my head and shoulders, and yet I could feel the cold of the mountains right before us like this gigantic wall of iron.

The highway wound down to a tight bend and we found ourselves in the small town of Lee Vining, complete with a view of Mono Lake: all I recalled of that lake was Mark Twain had written about it and I had no desire to head on down to the shoreline after that.

Eric took to the next left turn and we were headed up Tioga Road. Those cold mountains stared down at us as if we were facing some kind of gods who were about to judge us; the brick lodge right after the turn-off felt like the last bit of comfort for a while.

The trees were thick and lush, and the hills guided us up along that road as if we were ascending into the sky above. I swore that I was the one climbing and not Eric, and it was times like that I wished that I was better at photography. We were passing by the Ansel Adams Wilderness in all its rugged glory: how I wished to look beyond the high spires of peaks and down into the glassy lake and that vast valley as well. Everything about that initial stint of the road only made me want to explore more.

Explore more, and of myself as well.

We made our way upwards, and all I could think about was what we could do once we got into Yosemite. All I knew was those three boys who called themselves Green Day were supposed to meet us there at the campground for the next week. I hoped that I wouldn’t have to sleep in the same tent with Chuck because I was enjoying the sun on my face and the views before me. Everything was so rugged and rough as if it had been left untouched this whole entire time.

I gazed out to the drop below the other side of the railing and I spotted the glassy lake at the very bottom. Even with the royalty in place and with the ring on my finger, I vowed to always be as soft as that water. As soft and tender as that glassy water.

My ears popped and Chuck from Florida burst into my mind. I wished he was there in the backseat with me and we could relish in the view together. Indeed, I peered over to the seat next to me and I pictured him there, those thick lush curls sprawled around his shoulders as if he had dunked his head into those lake waters down below and let the cool mountain air dry him off. Those eyes, as blue as the granite walls that surrounded us as we continued to ascend into the heavens.

I really believed that we were headed straight for another world, one that chilled down with each passing mile. Lou peered out the window to the cliffs on the other side of the road: I saw him visually swallow, and I knew that we must have been high up.

I shivered at the sight of everything outside of the car; Lou breathed on the window and made a peace sign in the condensation.

“Jesus,” Eric muttered as he switched on the heater. Our sweatshirts were packed in the trunk given it was warm down in the valley before we left, and yet something told me that I was going to be cuddled down in the safety of my own for the entire trip. I hunkered down in the seat: how I wished to be held close in a warm blanket right then.

The road kept going up into the mountains, and something ran through my mind that told me we were about to drive off the edge of the road at any given moment.

Now I understood as to why the pass was closed out of most of the year.

I peered out the window to the view down below us, the final glimpse out to the valley before we ducked away into the mountains themselves, the last glimpse back to that glassy oasis down below and the final moment of paradise before we persisted into the craggy mountains before us.

I rubbed my upper arms with my hands. If nothing else, I hoped that Eric would have a horse blanket there in the backseat, not just for myself but for him and Lou, too, and the three of us could huddle down together.

Eric himself glimpsed into the rear-view mirror for a look at me.

“You warm enough back there, Alex?” he called back to me.

“I have got this persistent chill up my spine right now,” I told him.

“Yeah, we do, too. I hope we level out here soon—”

We rounded a bend and beheld the view of the vast canyon, still capped with snow from the blizzards of the winter before. The trees decorated the landscape as if they were made of chocolate and powdered sugar; on my side of the road was a steep drop into the abyss. My head spun and my ears popped; I turned my attention to Eric right as he rubbed his temple with one hand.

We passed a sign that read eleven thousand feet, and I could feel my fingers and toes tingling. Lou ran his fingers through his hair and breathed a bit harder than usual. I peered out the window to the towering peak on the right side of the road.

The road peaked at a crest and then dipped down a bit: I spotted what appeared to be a toll booth for the entrance fee into Yosemite up ahead, complete with three other cars in line there. I was just eager to be on the other side of the pass down in the valley again. We must have reached the top at some point if we hadn’t already. The mountain peaks surrounded us like a series of meringue peaks: for a moment, I believed that we had entered the land of all things sweet and decadent.

When we reached the booth, I took off my sunglasses and rubbed my eyes.

“Ninety-nine hundred feet, just shy of the century-century mark,” Lou remarked. “And I swore we were there just a few minutes ago.”

“I feel it,” Eric told him as he continuously massaged his temple.

“Yeah, I do, too,” I added; my head would not stop spinning. “Helps that we’re basically coming up from sea level.” All I wanted to do was lay down and cuddle, and it didn’t help matters that the line seemed to inch along the pavement. I leaned forward and rested my elbows on either top of the seat before me; Eric leaned over the rim of the steering wheel and kept his fingers on his temple. He peered over his sunglasses at me.

“I can’t remember the last time I had vertigo like this,” I confessed.

“My head is just pounding,” he told me.

“You know, I’ve heard Viagra helps with altitude sickness,” Lou informed us, who looked to be the only one not affected by it, but his skin had washed out to the same color as a sheet. He let out a low whistle, and he turned his attention back to the road before us.

“I’ve heard that, too,” I said with a few quick breaths. “Let’s ask the ranger about it.”

We inched ahead and Eric rolled down the window: the cold swept over us, and all I wanted was my sweater and a blanket. I held still as I tried to not think about my head spinning. The first thing I would do, once we reached the valley floor, was find something to eat and then feel the spray from the waterfall on my face.

We inched ahead to the toll booth where we were greeted by the ranger, an older gentleman with these big black leather gloves much like the ones Lou wore sometimes for his drumming.

“Do you have anything for altitude sickness?” Eric asked him as he paid the fee; it was right then I noticed he sounded more out of breath than usual. “All three of us aren’t doing too well.”

“Uh, yeah! I’ve got some pain pills in here with me, and things to help with blood pressure. I’ll suggest drinking more water and eating more, too, especially if you’re going to come back this way or hang around the mountain peaks here for a while.”

“Can do,” I said with a shake of my head, and my head spun even more.

“Keep the window rolled up until you reach the valley floor, too,” he advised us. “Staying warm will keep your blood flowing. But if you boys are desperate—” And he turned back into the booth for something.

“Yeah, I worry especially because I’m driving,” Eric told him, and the man handed him a small bottle of aspirin and a little white box, and I could already see those little blue pills inside.

“You fellas be safe up here for us all, okay?”

“Always,” Lou assured him.

“Yeah, thank you,” I called out to him.

“Thank you so much,” Eric added as he held the bottle and the box in his lap: he darted ahead to the first bend in the road just so we could take our medicine.

“Alex, you got any water?” he asked me as he rolled up the window; almost immediately, it warmed up again in there.

“Plenty.”

Eric opened the box for us, although I had a feeling that the pain pills would help us just as easy. But the next thing I knew, I was taking a blue pill. Eric and Lou did as well.

We drank our water down, and then Eric ran his fingers through his jet-black hair.

“Okay, where’s our campground at?” he asked us.

“It’s coming up here, isn’t it?” Lou recalled, still out of breath.

“I wrote it down…” Eric reached over to the glove box for something, and I peered back into the very back of the car for anything to keep myself warm.

“Yeah, Tuolomne Meadows,” he informed us. “I think it’s coming up here in a few minutes.” He closed the door, and I caught the sound of hesitation up there in the front seat. “What’re you looking for, brother?”

“Me?” I asked him as I turned back around, and my head spun some more. “Do you have a blanket in here or something?”

“In the trunk, yeah. Would you like it?”

“Please. I am just freezing back here.”

Eric kindly picked out the big heavy horse blanket for me, to which I wrapped it around my body once we got moving again. The spinning in my head persisted a bit as we made our way along the road more towards the meadow in question. The trees were so thick and lush, and most of them still blanketed with snow. I spotted the hulking silhouette of Half Dome off in the distance, and I knew that once we got down into the valley floor, our heads wouldn’t be hammering so much.

I thought about what the ranger had told us in that we had to eat more to keep the feeling of the altitude in check. Indeed, I was feeling hungry as the road dipped down and gently meandered with the coldest-looking river I had ever seen in my life. In fact, something told me that I could eat enough for three people right then.

I wanted to eat once we reached our campsite, and I hoped that those three boys had beat us to the punchline there because it was all I could think about. I had no idea if it was the altitude or not but for a moment, I believed I was seeing things. The fact the mountains resembled to meringue, the chocolate look of the trees, the fact that I was hungry… this was a far more potent high than any joint that I had ever touched in seventh grade.

The trees thinned out and we were met with the vast meadow in question, with the thick, lush grass interspersed with such cold, glassy waters. The sun shone down on us without a cloud to obscure anything: even with it being cold, the sunshine made everything so bright and crystal clear.

Billie Joe, Mike, and Tré had already checked into their reservation and pitched a tent for themselves at a spot, one nestled between the trees and near a small waterfall. I peered behind us to the towering mountain which bestowed the waterfall: my head proceeded to spin once again, but at least I had something to balance me.

The spray from the waterfall touched me on the side of the face: it made me think of all the heat waves over the Bay Area as a kid, and I would stand in front of a swamp cooler; this was the damp feeling of that on steroids.

The smell of pine surrounded the three of us like a veil, and I tilted my head back to feel the afternoon sun and the spray of the falls on my face. All I knew was we had to return to camp soon enough to put up our tents and then eat a bunch of food to keep the sickness away, that is if we saw those three boys up at the top of the waterfall.

And then I realized we had taken Viagra once we had entered the park.

“Alex?” Eric breathed right into my ear over the noise of the waterfall. I turned to face him and the hooded look to his eyes. I really believed that I was hallucinating right then, hallucinating from the hunger, the altitude, and the rush of blood straight to my head.

“You wanna take a walk with me?” he offered me. “Take a walk and look for something to eat?”

“Isn’t there a pie stand or two right on the other side of the trees here?” I asked him.

“There’s a pie stand and a market,” he added as he nudged a lock of hair behind my ear. “We’ll come back and surprise those three dudes with all the goods we’ve picked up.”

“Let’s get two blackberry, two pecan, two apple, three cherry, three blueberry, a chocolate, a lemon, and a peach,” I suggested. “I dunno about you but I could literally eat a pie and a cake right now.”

“A pie and a cake, and you wouldn’t be able to fit into the sleeping bag,” he quipped as he ran his hand down my belly. I peered up to the scraggly dogwood trees and pearly white birches that surrounded us: I had no memory of how we got there to that particular spot in the trees, right by the river and the waterfall, but he was touching me, and he was coming close to me, and I was leaning my back to the birch behind me.

“Eric… are you feeling what I’m feeling right now?” I asked him with a rubbing of my forehead with my temples. It reminded me of the times I would get high and I had the strangest euphoria every time the paper hit my tongue.

“Headache and vertigo from being so high up and intense hunger from that and the fact we haven’t eaten since we left this morning? You bet your booty that’s what it is.”

“No, I mean… the fact the ranger gave us Viagra for the altitude.”

He showed me his tongue before he crammed it into my mouth.

We were hallucinating and horny, and I had no idea about him but I had no restraint whatsoever. I put my arms up over my head as he reached down my pants to feel me. I could feel that I was already hard, harder than I had ever been, as hard as the cold stony mountains all around us.

“Eric—” I gasped from the feeling. “Eric—what if they hear us?”

“They won’t hear us,” he assured me with a breath of a whisper right into my ear. “They won’t hear us here down by the waterfall.”

“What if they see us?” I choked out again.

“We’re way down here, and they’re way up there,” he assured me again, that time with a grasp onto my fat one. He held onto me for a brief moment before he rubbed up against me. He was as big as I had ever felt before, and I had nothing to hold me back, either.

We were doing it outside, and I had not a care in the world about it. We were doing it outside, and I could feel everything. I could feel everything even with my head lost in the realm of the altitude. We were going to have a bunch of pie and curl up under the blanket and the sleeping bag afterwards, but we had the blue pills to take care of at first. Blue pills like little pebbles that led us to that nook in the trees.

I ran my fingers through his black hair, and I treated him to a tongue lashing and a groan right into his ear. His lips on my neck. His tongue in my ear. Our flesh against itself. One of us was going to come first.

The spray from the waterfall and the veil of the birches protected us from any onlookers. I leaned my head back against the tree trunk again as he sank in deep, as deep as he could go with me. I realized he was getting me right in the prostate as well as grinding up against me.

I parted my lips and let out a low moan, one that buried itself under the roar of the waterfall. Those three boys were going to be in for a treat of sorts should they descend from the towers behind us. But Eric twirled his fingers around the locks of hair at the back of my head and slithered his tongue into my mouth to finish the job.

“Let’s get down to it again when we get the tent set up,” I whispered into his ear right then.

“You got it, big boy,” Eric whispered to me; he reached down and touched me again, and he showed me a little smirk. “You wanna get down with Lou, too?”

“May as well,” I said in a broken voice. “You’re still hard as stone, too.”

[storytime-reviews]

Slasher TV Series Review

Slasher is an anthology slasher horror television series. Each season is centered on a masked killer with an unknown motive for killing their victims. The first season, retroactively subtitled The Executioner, centered on a mysterious figure who terrorizes the fictional town of Waterbury, Canada. The second season, subtitled Guilty Party, follows a group of former summer camp counselors who return to an isolated campground in order to retrieve the body of a murder they committed, before being targeted, one by one, by an unknown killer. The third season, Solstice, is centered on a group of neighbors who are targeted during the summer solstice period due to their complicity in not saving a murder victim who was killed one year earlier in front of their apartment complex.

I recently binged the first three seasons of Slasher, and was surprised by how much I loved it. I’m not a huge horror aficionado, however I do enjoy a good horror movie and thought this might pass the time. I was easily drawn in by the characters and narratives, and I thought it was really cool that quite a few cast members are used in multiple seasons, playing different characters.

Each season starts similarly – an unknown killer starts murdering people left and right, but there is often some kind of pattern to it. In season 1, Katie McGrath’s character returns to her home town, where her parents were murdered, and a new killer dons the mask of that killer and bases his murders on the seven deadly sins. In season 2, former friends who killed someone five years ago are targeted, whilst in season 3 residents of a certain apartment building are targeted a year after the death of one of their own.

I absolutely loved trying to figure out the patterns and who would be next – as well as the identity of the killer. There are always a handful of clues, but there are also some pretty incredible twists and reveals that keep things particularly interesting. The narrative works so well precisely because you cannot help but keep asking these questions, whilst the characters themselves are compelling enough to hold your interest until those questions are ultimately answered. Each season reveals the killer at least one episode before the end, allowing for some time to delve into the killer’s motives. I wasn’t just engrossed by trying to put the puzzle pieces together, I was genuinely invested in each story and its characters.

A warning – the kills can get quite gory, and season 3 in particular is quite graphic. So if you’re easily grossed out by blood and gore, and especially theatrical and gruesome murders, then I’d give this show a miss. If you enjoy slasher type horror, I would recommend it.

[fleurcareil]

BC: West Kootenay

Once back down Mount Revelstoke, I picked up a delicious poke bowl from a food truck to eat while waiting for the ferry across Upper Arrow lake... which instead of 30-50 minutes turned out into a 1h20 wait due to delays, mechanical problems etc. A bit of a shame, especially as due to the smoke there was not much to see! 😒

I had been recommended that this would be a good place to paddle which I can imagine on a clear day but I wouldn't venture on the water in these conditions... I might not find my way back! 😅 On the ferry we were laughing that the scenery was so extremely pretty, at least in our imagination 😝

After the ferry landed on the east side of the lake, I had one of the best experiences so far in my entire time in Canada; soaking in the hot springs of Halfway River! 😍❤ It's a bit of a trek to get there, first on a rough stoney road & then 100s of stairs down to the valley floor but it's absolutely worth it! There's 3 man-made pools of different temperatures (the hottest was way too warm), a few natural pools a little bit further and then the river to cool you down. I understand why people I spoke to have been returning for years on end, I could stay here forever ☺... there's no better feeling than to get really hot and then plunge head down into the cold water! Most people tend to only sit in the cold water not submerging their head, so I taught a girl & a few ladies the real magic of going all-in with the hot & cold cycle 🤩 (which they loved after the first shock)

Unfortunately I did need to say goodbye to the hot springs as I had another hour to drive to New Denver (next time, I'll stay at the on-site campground!), where I stayed at a hotel run by a friendly Chinese family, so had yummy Chinese food but the room was stuffy and hot 🔥, probably better off camping despite the smoke.

Over dinner, I had a great conversation with an older couple who has travelled the world including Scotland and Colombia so it was fun to exchange notes. It did also make me realize that although I very much enjoy traveling to explore new places, I get my real energy from living in a different country, building a new life there and getting a deeper understanding of the culture (like I did in Canada 😍)... I see my road trip as a farewell to this amazing country that I call home, and although it seems distant at this moment, I'm looking forward to starting a new life in Chile, so together with the worsening fires in BC it felt I was coming to an end to my travels soon. I still had 6 more nights in the Okanagan booked that I was excited about but perhaps after that it would be good to start my return. Fast forward 2 days (as per one of my previous posts); after having had terrible smoke in Nelson and more areas being evacuated I did cancel the bookings and returned east, not even making it to the Okanagan 😔

For now however, the next morning was slightly better and it made me happy to see some snow-covered mountains and semi-blue sky from my window! 😀 I was told that New Denver is a hidden gem so I walked around the old downtown and bought delicious orangy cake from the farmers market. Thereafter, I visited the Nikkei memorial centre at the location of a Japanese Canadian WW2 internment camp which had ofcourse shocking displays and a pretty Japanese garden (I've had my fill now of internment info though; I better hope Canada will never have a war with the Dutch or the French 😅). There was another Japanese meditation garden on the lake but by then the wind had kicked up a frenzy, signalling it was time to leave!

Driving across the mountains to Kootenay Lake, I stopped by in Sandon, which is billed as a ghost town but I didn't get a good idea of its history (I'm guessing mining ?)... currently, it's more of a repository of old trucks, train wagons and a whole collection of electric trolley busses (incl. one from Hamilton!) that are waiting to be restored and put back into use (questionable given their current state). The iced coffee was delicious! 😁

In Kaslo, I visited the SS Moyie Sternwheeler which had functioned as the only local transportation for the villages along the 105km long Kootenay lake until the road was built. The ship is beautifully restored and I can imagine this was pure luxury at the time!

After a well-deserved icecream and a chat with dear Priyanka 😍, I had quick stops at a strangely rounded covered bridge and some falls (of which I've also reached my limit now) and then on to Nelson. My tent site was a bit different on a deck high above the rest of the campground... put in extra stones to make sure I wouldn't roll off in the middle of the night. 😅 Delicious Italian food & local wine on a patio with live music capped off a good day ☺

Next morning though, the smoke was double heavy although it had cooled down 10 degrees overnight, and the bad news of fire evacuations kept rolling in so pulled the plug and canceled my existing reservations (they would have been nulled by the end of the day anyway because of the travel restrictions put in place for tourists), and booked new ones in East Kootenay on the way back to the Rockies. Feeling drab, I spent some time inside at the visitor centre and a restaurant but the smoke was everywhere...it did not only physically feel bad but also mentally it wore me down like a heavy blanket trying to suffocate.😔

I had driven by the Ainsworth hotsprings the previous day so went back and had some good time there... they also have a "cave" in which you can swim which was different... didn't beat the forest hot springs but the warm water was soothing anyway!

In the evening, I went to an Oppenheimer party at the cinema with live music & drinks before the movie, something completely different! 😀 I briefly met an interesting couple who live happily in Nelson & had met many years ago, after she had decided to grow roots in Nelson "because it felt home" after a summer job... gave me hope I'll have the same home feeling when I'll set foot in Chile!

Despite not having been able to truly experience West Kootenay as I had wanted to, I feel that this is an amazing region so will hopefully come back here another time, just not in August.

Wildlife: 2 turkeys, 1 bald eagle, 2 deer, 1 salamander

SUPs: none

Hikes: none

Hot springs: two 🤗

[thetyger]

i was just thinking about how often i dream about impossibly steep hills

usually they're paved roads - like the one that i went up in the backseat of a car, looking through the back window and wondering when the car would finally overcorrect for the angle and tip backwards, but it never does (at the top, we drove through a cave that led to a very cool campground. i've had this dream a few times)

sometimes i'm going downhill, like the one where i was in a suburban neighborhood wearing rollerskates and debating how i was going to get down a hill that sloped nearly vertical. i ended up trying to go down mostly on my butt, but knew i was wrong for doing so

a few times its been a skiing or sledding hill that i was afraid to go down; sometimes with a cool ski lift/zipline hybird going overhead

once it was a mostly-abandoned waterpark with a steep slide

i've even seen it where we were driving on a highway, and the road suddenly juts up 100 feet vertically, then just as suddenly drops back to the ground. we drove this road on the way to a theme park

i remember when i was really little, i had a recurring dream where there was a city with a steep road that led to an airport. i drew my version of that city a few times; i wish i had kept those drawings somewhere

i'm not going anywhere with this in particular, just wanted to write it all down to think about later

[chntfessions]

HELLO ITS THE UHHHH

the person who is writing that fan episode

ooookay so I finished most of the main part, just time for ghost recorder!!!

Context: Elijah has not been seen yet, and this would probably be like 4-6 episodes in

[CLICK]

[DING!]

SYDNEY

“Good morning everyone and everything! The time is 8:67, and the sky is a cardboard brown. Now, if yesterday you missed the giant gaping hole that opened up on the west side of camp because you were with councilors Soren and Fennel. Well, you do now! But because I was so caught up in reporting this mysterious pit, I forgot to share some of the paintings the people in cabin ladybug made! My third favorite here is by Gramm Backside. Their painting was a self portrait of themself, it looks just like them! The same teeth, eyes, and that blackened face where you can only see the eyes and teeth! Great job Gramm! Second, we have this painting by Floor Handle. Her work had a boy in the middle of the fields. As the eternal doom of the sky and the land is swarming behind him, and it feels as if its all going to crumble down on top of him. Pretty neat! And for my personal favorite, drumroll..!”

[drumroll noises]

“Marty McMark! His painting had me in a trance. The blood stained leaves on the forest ground, realistic eyes popping out of the sky - Rowan wouldn’t like that. The sky weirdly being blue too, odd. And the creature behind the bushes with a skinny neck, and an uncanny smile. What a cool painting! Marty when you get home, you better frame that! Alright so, for our breakfast. Matthew made us some lobster biscuits with metal chunks! Yknow, if I had the very slim chance to even see a lobster house, I would feel so bad for the little lobster in those tanks. To be picked up from that cramped place into a boiling pot. Don’t worry, Matthew assured me these lobsters were already dead before cooking! For the vegans you can eat the chunks of metal! Just don’t get around any magnets! For the activities today, we have rituals to bring the demons and devils up here from whatever they were doing!”

[CLICK]

[CLICK]

[DING!]

SYDNEY

“The time is 12:412. And the sky is a dirt color. Look, I am very happy that you guys did bring some of those demons and devils onto campgrounds, but I wasn’t expecting this… if you weren’t here last year, then you wouldn’t know some of the stories I told. There were a couple of times when I talked about up and Adam. Or at least how he introduced himself. Adam is a demon, apparently, makes sense. But he would show up in my dreams. Offer me things, and talk. I’m not going to name who, but I think we all know who is the trouble maker here. They set up their ritual, and it worked! But now… Adam’s here and we don’t know how to really react to this. It seems like he’s been waiting for this, and doesn’t want to go back. He’s in my office, not in this room, but in the building. We don’t want you kids into this, so us councilors will be working on this! Anywhos, today's lunch is crab crunch! ‘Eat with the shells!’ And activities are eating sand! Councilors Mila and Juno will be looking after you all, keep safe!!”

[audible steps]

ADAM

“What a nice cabin you have here!”

SYDNEY 

“Wha- Adam you’re supposed to be on the cot!”

ADAM

“Mm, but that’s boring, not a good way to treat guests.”

SYDNEY

“We weren’t expecting you- Adam, I wasn’t even expecting you to be real so please just stay patient with me. On the cot. Oh shoot. Really quick, kids, Salem is asking you all - please stop throwing stuff into the hole. We have no idea where it goes!”

[CLICK]

[CLICK]

[DING!]

SYDNEY

“Unsuccessful. That was the worst getting-a-demon-back-to-where-they-belong, EVER! He was just so interested with the camp, we try to get him over any ritual places he would just walk away to stare at something in the woods! We’ve been trying for the past- who knows how long! Currently, Juniper decided to volunteer to give a camp tour to the guy considering how cerious Adam is about it. For Mila and Juno, I am very disappointed in you campers. This was supposed to be a fun, simple activity! When I heard some of yall were going to swim, while still eating sand, I wasn’t too mad, and Mila and Juno confirmed this was okay! While we were setting up traps for Adam so we could catch him, you guys awoke an ancient beast in the bottom of the lake! And Mila and Juno had to get the harpoon guns and get it back to the bottom! Do you know how angry I am that they had to hurt that- THING! I do not like animal cruelty in this camp, unless it's for food, which is just only natural to kill animals for food. I swear this is just so, ughhh…”

[Door opens with footsteps]

ADAM

“Magnificent, beautiful camp you have here! Interesting flowers and such if I do say.”

JUNIPER

“Ah, well it’s not always as beautiful. Acid rains, monsters and all…”

ADAM

“Well Sydney, you’re good friend here is quite the man!”

SYDNEY

“That was quicker than I expected.”

JUNIPER

“Showed him the cabins, introduced him to some of the councilors so they won’t be scared, a bit of the forest, and the lake!”

SYDNEY

“Oh well, is that all you wanted to see?”

ADAM

“Yes yes, pretty much, but… where’s the guy… Jedidiah..?”

SYDNEY

“Oh! He’s been working on a new project!”

ADAM 

“And what is that project exactly..?”

SYDNEY

“uhm, i think it had something to do with clocks, or maybe he’s building something…”

ADAM

“Exactly..! You don’t know! There we go!”

SYDNEY

“Adam, can we not talk about this in front of the kids… he’d promise he was trying to get better with this stuff.”

ADAM

“Oh right, oh right! My apologies!”

JUNIPER

“While we were walking, we thought it would be nice if Adam introduced himself to the kids!”

SYDNEY

“That would be alright! Yeah, go ahead.”

ADAM

“With the microphone?”

SYDNEY

“Mhm.”

ADAM

“AHEM. My name is as you all know, Adam. I’ve bet you’ve all heard those silly dreams of Sydney’s. I myself is hard to explain, an Italian vampire demon, heheh. Bet you’ve never heard that before! Mmm, catholic though. I know, I know, a catholic demon, well they exist, and I’m proof! Is that good?”

SYDNEY

“Yeah yeah.”

[SITS AT THE MICROPHONE]

“Adam for you all! Eheheh.”

ADAM

“Do you guys have any snacks, trail mix by chance?”

SYDNEY

“Uhmmmm… I only have my ‘top secret’ candy stash! Might be something in the mess hall. Don’t really go in there that much because y’know… I can’t really eat much, you already know why, I presume. Talked a lot with you in those dreams!”

ADAM

“Alright… met the chef - Matthew earlier! Weird one, in a good way! Oh he is a funny one..!”

SYDNEY 

“Oh, the kids might be in the mess hall right now waiting for… DINNER- OH MY GOD KIDS YOU GUYS PROBABLY ALREADY DISHED UP AND EATING. SOME OF YOU ARE PROBABLY BACK IN YOUR CABINS! I didn’t even say the time, nor the sky color! Arrghhhh!!!”

ADAM

“Sydney, Sydney, I bet they're all waiting, so just say what you need to now and stop dwelling on the fact you didn’t!”

SYDNEY

“You're right, okay. Sorry about that, kids! The time is 17:60, and the sky is much more home carpet yellow brown. Anyways, I bet you can all tell what’s for dinner tonight already! It’s shrimp cobbler! Wow sounds so… yummy..! I can’t even eat that and it sounds delicious. Jedidiah always had something against shrimps, like me with centipedes! Mine is probably worse! I bet you’re already oh-so full from eating sand all day, unless you need more after awakening an ancient beast! So now you’ll need that energy for tonight’s activity! Throwing rocks into the lake, NOT waking up another ancient creature in the water! Whoever doesn’t, wins!”

[CLICK]

SORRY THIS IS SO LONG HOPEFULLY YOU HAD FUN READING I HAD FUN WRITING :D

WOOOO THIS IS SO GOOD!!! :D

[pandiongames]

Hello all! I hope everyone had a wonderful holiday.

First, a big thanks to everyone who has followed us on this Dungeon Year Design Journal journey. As of this writing, the free digital version has been downloaded 2,700 times and people are starting to post pictures of their journals printed off in their three ring binder. It is so exciting to see what you’re all making - keep them coming!

We are excited to announce that we will launch a crowdfunding campaign on January 3rd, 2023 to get the journals printed!

And today we finalized the details to offer the journals worldwide.

The digital version will remain free, but we wanted to get physical journals in the hands of those who want them. They will be wire-o bound so they lay flat. Inside is 70lb uncoated paper for a solid feel that won’t let ink or colors bleed through to the other side.

We are keeping the campaign low risk, so no stretch goals, but we are offering two journal formats: The full-sized journal and a condensed weekly journal.

We will make an announcement here when the campaign launches, but we also recommend signing up on the campaign page to make sure you get all the updates we post there.

Check out the Campaign!

Recently, we stumbled upon a Dungeon23 Helper Project on itchio by Hexed Press, and we think it’s really cool, so definitely check it out.

What’s next after the Journal?

The Dungeon Year Design Journal is our first steps into crowdfunding, but it was also a surprise project for us. We have two other projects in the works as we speak:

In February, we are partnering with Milk Toast Studio to launch a crowdfunding campaign as part of Zine Month to make letterpressed GMless player aid cards. A high-quality pack of 12 cards that helps players drive the story in GMless games such as Wanderhome, Sleepaway, and even Banda’s Grove. We are finalizing the artwork for the cards now and can’t wait to start showing off more details.

Then, we are still working on getting final touches on Banda’s Grove complete, including building a legacy campaign book that can sit in the middle of your table. This supplement can house all the details of your adventures in the Grove all in one place that everyone contributes to - a living legacy of the adventures you have together. We are targeting a launch in April/May.

With Banda’s Grove, we are also doing our own Dungeon Year project! A Mega Grove: A massive convergence of campgrounds from across the universe. 52 planar fragments, each with 7 unique details: encounters, NPCs, buildings, creatures, and more. We will release the Mega Grove slowly over time for free. If you’d like to help us make the Mega Grove, or just watch its creation first hand, join our discord server where we’ll work with the community to bring it to life.

We wish you all a happy New Year, and thanks again for all your support!

[msookyspooky]

Diwali is known as the festival of lights, and lamps or as we like to call them 'Diya' in plural form 'Diye' tells that every home, even though don't have money for any electricity (yeah, we are a pretty poor country and this happens alot..) but there is light everywhere in Diwali, a week before people will start putting light strings all around there houses, everywhere there are lights it's a beautiful sight, there are carnivals. Schools do special and fun even where Everyone customizes there diya.plus we get to buy new clothes and wear things like

It's a beautiful thing.. How is Halloween traditionally made? Do you guys go trick or treating?

It really is beautiful with a beautiful meaning as well 🖤🖤🖤 And the outfits you get to wear are so pretty!!

Halloween has really gotten away from the traditional pagan way it was celebrated so now its mainly celebrated almost exactly how you see on Tv.

Originally, Hallows Eve / Samhain had carved turnips and gourds out with candles to scare away evil spirits, Irish decent would hold dumb suppers for your ancestors where you would lay out a plate of food as an offering for them and eat in silence to honor them, candles were lit especially at crossroads to help the dead in limbo find their way. Now we took some of those traditions and twisted them a bit with modernization. However, a lot of pagan witches still celebrate it the way it was intended from honoring your ancestors to always keeping a candle lit until midnight to even contacting the dead. Building fires as well for the same reason as the camdles.

We definitely go trick r treating. Usually children under 12 are the ones that go and it's 'frowned upon' if anyone 13 and up goes BUT it's become more lenient in recent years. I got glares being 5'8 tall and trick r treating at 13 but my 4'11 34 year old cousin with me got zero glares 12 years ago bc obviously they thought she was a kid and I was an adult 😐. I was shocked when I dressed up again at 22 right before covid hit and walked around handing out candy to kids and had other adults insisting on giving ME candy 😅 (I took it kept some but most got distributed to kids)

We carve pumpkins, we dress up, adults go to bars and adult parties dressed up (I don't bc I don't drink) kids and young teens go trick r treating, adults and older kids passout candy, we decorate houses with lights and anything from cute pumpkins to gross zombies and fake blood depending on what the person decorating likes, we can go pumpkin picking in a field or go through a corn maze or haunted house but it's definitely not a must.

Halloween is a super carefree holiday here in the US. Some people go all out with decorations and Halloween parties and others don't. It depends on where you live too!! I live in rural area so obviously not much Halloween here but thankfully I live 30 minutes from a campgrounds that has a HUGE Halloween bash! Like Hocus Pocus? That's what we have thank god! And we have a Pumkpin Festival in a nearby town that has pumpkin flavored everything and parades. But I've heard from many ppl that if you go to warmer weather states (I live in Appalachian area it's cold) while us colder states do? I think because we have such drastic change that puts us in the mood for it with changing leaves and cool air.

And if you want to just stay home, not decorate and eat candy while watching horror movies or cute Halloween shows; you can.

If you watch Hocus Pocus, that's how most cooler states are in general and Salem Massachusetts definitely goes all out. Honestly most Halloween movies are pretty accurate on how it's celebrated here.

[animal-lover-forever]

And Then There Were Five.

Chapter Nine: Beta-103

It had been a week since the incident at the Nexus hotel. Kai had been extra quiet and had eaten less during the week. Even if Draxum wasn’t here, he still felt as if he was being punished. Maybe Draxum was right; maybe he didn’t belong here.

“Hey guys, Todd just called; he needs some maintenance done.” Donnie said as he entered the living room where everyone else was.

“Hey, you know what we should do? We should go camping!” Mikey chirped.

“We should what now?” Kai asked, looking at Mikey.

“You don’t know what camping is?” Leo asked.

“No. Should I?”

“Well, camping is when you spend a night– or however long you want– out in nature! Lots of people camp out in the woods. It’s really fun!” Mikey said excitedly.

“You know what, we should go camping! Give Kai here a first experience and all that.” Raph said.

…

….

……

Before Kai knew it, he was being shoved into the turtle tank, and they were driving into the woods. Kai only managed to grab his gear and equip it because his brothers had to grab some supplies for the trip and tell Splinter that they were going to be gone for a while.

“Who wants some lemonade!?” Todd had asked with a cheery tone.

“Yes!”

“Oh, I do!”

“Ooo! Ooo! Me! Me!”

“I’ll have a glass, sure.”

Kai’s brothers all took a cup and started to drink happily.

“What about you, Kai? Would you like some of my homemade lemonade?” Todd asked as he offered Kai the drink.

“No thanks, I’m ok.”

“Well, suit yourself.”

“While Donnie is doing maintenance here, we should go set up our campground.” Mikey suggested.

“Sounds like a plan.” Raph agreed.

The four turtles made their way to their campground, which was a few miles away from Todd's place. While they were setting up their camp, a shadow decided to make itself known.

“Min!” Mikey said excitedly as he hugged them. “What are you doing here?”

“I live around here.” Min said as he returned the hug to Mikey.

“Wait, you live in these woods?” Leo asked, and Mikey finally released Min from the hug.

“Indeed I do, at least when I come to New York. I have places to stay all over the world.”

“Woah. That’s so cool!” Mikey chirped.

“So, how far away are ya from our campsite?” Raph asked.

“My cave is about ten miles deeper into the forest.

“You live in a cave?” Leo asked.

“Yes, I prefer caves, as they can give me a dark place to be, whether it’s night or day.”

“Makes sense.”

“I’m back with the sticks.” Kai said as he showed back up at the campground. He and the sticks he had had a faint white glow around them as the sticks floated alongside him.

“Perfect!” Mikey praised as he went over to Kai to grab the sticks. Kai released the sticks when Mikey grabbed them.

“Min.” Kai said as he looked at Min.

“Kai. That quite the trick you got there.”

“What? With the sticks? It’s just a simple spell.” The ruins on Kai’s scythe started to glow, and then it began to orbit around him. “Objects are the easiest, and it’s even easier if they have the spell ruins on them, like my scythe here, but living beings are a different story. I can do it to a living being, but it’s much harder to do and takes up a lot more energy than objects.”

“Mmmmm. Makes sense.”

“Hey, question. How likely are we to see a human out here?” Kai asked as his scythe stopped its orbit around him to return to its spot on his back.

“This far into the forest? It’s not impossible, but it is highly unlikely.” Min answered for them.

“So we should be fine, but I should still keep my guard up just in case.”

“Kai, remember what we talked about?” Mikey asked.

“‘Not all humans are bad; some are actually really friendly, and I am not to attack a human unless they are not a bed person, and even then I am not to use lethal force.’” Kai recited with a sigh.

“That’s right.”

“Killing is not my first option; I prefer to just knock them unconscious at worst. But that’s not to say that I haven’t killed before.” Min said, and they all looked at him

“You’ve killed people before?” Leo was the first to ask the question.

“I indeed have a few kills on my hands. I have enough to know the most optimal way to kill a human.”

“The throat. The throat is always the way to go.” Kai said as if that was a normal thing to say.

“Not always. Some may show a disadvantage, and it’s just as easy to go for that, but yes, the throat is a good way to go. The carotid arteries and the jugular veins are in the neck; cut those, and they’ll bleed out pretty quickly.”

“Ohmigosh! Guys! This is not a normal conversation!” Mikey yelled.

“Actually, This is a pretty average conversation for me.” Kai said

“Maybe we should change the topic.” Raph suggested.

“Hey, why don’t we see if we can catch some fish for dinner?” Mikey suggested.

“What, Hunting? I can do that. My gear is waterproof, too, so I won’t have to worry about that.” Kai said, already heading toward the lake.

“Great! While Kai is doing that, I’ll set up the fire!”

“And while you guys are doing that, I’m going to swim!” Leo said, following after Kai. “Raph, you want to join us in the water?”

“Sure! Raph’ll come with ya.”

While Raph and Leo were playing in the water, Kai was hunting for fish in the water. Every time Kai caught a fish, he would bring it to Mikey. Min stayed on land with Mikey.

“You going to go to the lake with the others?” Mikey asked Min.

“No. I never learned how to swim when I was still human, and I never tried to test my luck with swimming with my new form.”

“Really? Well, that’s okay. I’m not as big of a swimmer as my brothers are either.”

Kai had gotten more than enough fish for everyone, and Mikey got to work to work on cooking the fish. Donnie had gotten back just in time for dinner. The five turtles ate dinner and chatted amongst themselves with the shadow. Eventually, the turtles finished their dinner, and they said their goodbyes to Min before heading to bed for the night.

…

….

……

A noise woke Kai up; at first, he thought it was just his imagination, but then he heard this loud yowl. “Guys, wake up!” He yelled loud enough to be heard but stayed quiet enough that whatever was outside couldn’t hear him.

“Wha~? What’s going on?” Leo asked sleepily as the four turtles started to wake up.

“Something is outside.”

“Kai, we’re in the woods, of course–” Another loud yowl interrupted Raph.

“That doesn’t sound like any animal I’ve ever heard.” Mikey said, a bit of fear leaking into his voice.

Unlike his brothers, Kai had gone to sleep in his gear. He went invisible and then poked his head out of the tent. When he saw the intruder, he dropped his invisibility and gave off a low growl. “Hey!” He yelled to the intruder. They looked at him before hissing and bolting off, and Kai darted after them, soon followed by his brothers.

“Woah, wait up, Kai!” Raph yelled from behind. But that wasn’t an option. The intruder was fast, and if Kai slowed down, they would definitely lose them, and they weren't going to lose them, not again. They ran a few miles away from their campsite before Kai finally tackled the intruder.

The intruder hissed at Kai. “Bb-aaaaa-ddd!”

“What the heck!” Mikey looked over and saw… another turtle?

Kai growled in threat before biting the turtle; the turtle shrieked before clawing Kai. Before the fight could go any further, Min showed up and picked up the two fighting turtles.

“Let me go!” Kai snarled.

“Hey, what is going on?” Min asked, still holding the two turtles in question.

The other turtle hissed at Kai, trying to swipe at him. “Mmmm-iiiiiiiiii-nnn!”

“What is happening!?” Mikey asked. “Where did this other turtle come from?”

“That is Beta-103!” Kai said with a dangerous snarl, and Beta-103 yowled.

Min set Kai down but kept a hold of B-103. “Mmmm. So why attack?”

“B-103 should have been dead a long time ago! But I failed to kill her and let her escape.”

“Wait! Beta-103 comes from Draxum?” Mikey asked. “Do we have another sibling!?”

“What? No! Beta-103 is a failed experiment. She’s the closest Draxum got to creating a working subject before us.”

“All this time, B-103 has been on the surface!”

B-103 hissed at Kai once more before going limp in Min’s hold, starting to nom on him.

“Well, the young one does have a habit of causing trouble, but she is relatively tame.” Min didn’t seem bothered in the slightest by B-103 trying to ‘eat’ them.

“So, how do you two know each other?” Mikey asked. “We know that she and Kai know each other through Draxum, but what about you?”

“Mmmm. She often wanders into the woods. When I first encountered her, she viewed me as a threat, which isn’t surprising; I can seem pretty scary. But once I made it known that I wasn’t going to hurt her, she became quite docile.”

“Mmm-iiiiii-nnn!” B-103 cooed.

“We should take her in!” Mikey chirped and offered B-203 his hand. She hissed at him.

“It is okay, young one; Mikey will not hurt you.”

B-103 looked at Mikey, who offered his hand again. She sniffed his hand before she cooed.

“She needs a proper name!” Mikey chirped.

Beta-103 hacked up a dead bird and cooed at Mikey. Raph, Donnie, Leo, and Mikey all voiced their disgust at the bird that B-103 threw up.

“I’m thinking… Cobalt!” Mikey said firmly.

“Cobalt? Like the metal? Why Cobalt?” Donnie asked.

“I don’t know; it just feels right.”

“You guys can’t be serious!” Kai asked with a quiet growl.

“We took you in, didn’t we? And us turtles have to stick together!”

“There is a difference, Mikey! One, I’m actually your brother; two, we are not failed experiments; and three, I actually have a brain unlike her, who’s as dumb as a bag of rocks!”

“Kai!” Mikey said in a scolding tone.

Beta-103 Cobalt hissed before she jumped out of Min’s grasp and tackled Kai. They landed on the ground with Cobalt on top of Kai. She shrieked at him before she snapped at him. Kai hissed and growled a warning before he kicked her off and went invisible.

Cobalt screeched before spitting acid right where Kai was. Min picked her back up and started to calm down. She hissed and started to rattle her spikes. “Bbbb-aaaaa-dd!”

“Hey, It is okay, young one.”

“You see what I mean!?” Kai asked with a snarl. He was still invisible, but his voice sounded like it was near Raph.

“She’s smarter than you might think, Kai. I doubt that she would have attacked you if you didn’t talk down to her. I will admit that there are times when violence is needed in certain situations, but this is not one of those situations. Violence is not needed here.”

“She shouldn’t even be here, whether or not I had succeeded in killing her in the pit. Draxum had told me that he still had a plan for it had I failed to kill Beta-103.”

“And you’re not with Draxum anymore, Kai. We do things differently here.” Mikey said. His brothers all took a step back as they heard Mikey’s voice start to change into that of Dr. Delicate Touch. “And you will adjust to society like the rest of us, or so help me, Kai–” Kai dropped his invisibility and gave off a small whine as he sunk to the ground, and Mikey took a deep breath. “You know what? We’ll talk about this later.”

Kai’s tail wrapped around his own ankle, and he stayed quiet.

“Mmmmm. Maybe don’t traumatize him too much, Mikey. While it is possible to let go of the past, it can be hard.”

“I know. I’m sorry I yelled at you, Kai.”

“It’s alright; it’s not nothing I’m not already used to.”

“Great! Now that we have things somewhat settled now, can we go back to bed? I’m tired.” Leo complained.

“Yeah, Leo has a point; we should figure the rest of this out in the mornin’.” Raph said with a yawn, and Donnie nodded his head in silent agreement.

“Mmmm-kkkk-eeee!” Cobalt squealed and blipped at the box turtle, who chirped in response.

“Oh, How can we leave her behind!?” Mikey asked as he petted her. She cooed in response.

“In the morning, Mikey!” Donnie yelled.

“Alright, alright.” Mikey huffed, turning back to his brothers.

Min gave off a soft chuckle before they let Cobalt down. She immediately walked closer to Mikey, bumping into him and blipping.

“Awwww. Right, let’s head back to camp.”

“She’s going to follow us, isn’t she?” Kai asked as he got up. Cobalt hissed at him just before he went invisible again.

“I guess that’s up to her.” Raph said.

Kai groaned before starting to walk away from the group and back to their campsite. “I’m going to sleep in a tree.”

Noticing that Kai’s voice was getting further away, the four brothers followed after him with an extra turtle following them.

When they made it back to their camp, they heard the rustling of leaves and saw the branches shaking; guess Kai wasn’t lying. He was still invisible, too.

“Good night, Kai.” Mikey said before he got into the tent with Cobalt following him. Kai didn’t respond.

Mikey’s brothers had fallen asleep pretty quickly, but Mikey had stayed up a little longer, cooing at Cobalt.

…

….

……

When they got up and left the tent, they saw Kai still in the tree.

“Morning Kai!” Mikey chirped.

Kai huffed, waving a hand at him, his eyes still closed.

“Are you still mad about Cobalt?”

Kai opened his eyes to look at Mikey before he hopped down from the tree. Cobalt hissed at him, and Kai returned a warning growl to her but didn’t attack. “It doesn’t matter. I’m sure she’s going to be coming with us anyway.”

“It’ll be alright, Kai. Raph is sure that you two will become good friends in no time.”

“We should eat breakfast. What do you say, Cobalt? Are you hungry?” Cobalt cooed at Mikey, bumping into him, bliping. Mikey giggled in response. “I’ll take that as a yes. We brought food with us, and I don’t want to get sick eating fish the entire time we’re here. So I’ll make us something to eat with the food we have on hand.”

“Sounds good, Mikey.” Raph said.

“Right. Well, after breakfast, I’m going to head back to Todd as I couldn’t finish my work yesterday.” Donnie said.

“Oh! I’ll come with you!” Leo said with a stupid grin on his face.

“Why?”

“Because I want some of Todd’s lemonade. Is that a crime?”

“Knowing you, Yes.”

“What? How?”

“Because I know that’s not why you’re going, Nardo!”

Leo gasped and put his hand on his head to be extra dramatic. “What crime are you accusing me of, Don-Tron?”

“Annoying me.”

Leo gasped again, tears filling his eyes. “My own twin! How could you accuse me of such a thing?”

“Leo, you are literally doing that right now.”

While Donnie and Leo were squabbling, Mikey got to work on making breakfast.

“Fff-oooooo-ddd!” Cobalt chittered, trying to get to the food that Mikey was cooking.

“No, it’s not done yet, you silly goose.” Mikey said as he moved Cobalt’s paw away from the cooking food.

Cobalt squealed before she bapped Mikey a couple of times on the head. She then huffed and walked away to go dig a hole.

“I’m going to take a walk, check out the perimeter and all that. I’ll be back in a bit.” Kai said, already starting to walk off deeper into the forest.

“Okay, Just be careful, Kai.” Raph shouted after him. Kai waved his hand to show Raph that he had heard him.

Donnie’s and Leo’s squabbling had turned into a real fight at some point, so Raph had to pick them up and put them into air jail.

“Let me go!” Donnie hissed, still trying to attack Leo.

“He started it!” Leo said as he pointed a finger at Donnie. Donnie snapped at Leo’s finger, causing the slider to recoil his finger and hold onto his hand protectively.

“Raph doesn’t care who started it! And Donnie, you know better than to bite!” The snapper scolded.

“Hiss! Hisss! Hisssss!” The softshell only said ‘hiss’ in response, still trying to get Leo.

“This is going to be a long day, isn’t it.” Raph sighed as he held his two younger brothers further apart so they couldn’t kill each other. “I’ll let you two bozos go when you calm down and can apologize.”

Eventually, Leo and Donnie calmed down, and Raph let them go to apologize to each other. Kai had returned from his ‘perimeter check,’ and Mikey had declared that breakfast was ready. Cobalt, who was busy digging a hole, had perked up at the call of food. So she abandoned her hole and immediately went to steal eat some food.

“Waoh, you sure did get muddy, Cobalt.” Mikey pointed out.

The muddy turtle squealed before she grabbed some of the food to nom on. “Ffff-oooooo-ddd gg-oooooo-dd!” Mikey beamed at the compliment. Cobalt chirped and chittered, eating more of the food.

The six turtles ate breakfast, talking about what they were going to do. After they finished eating, Donnie and Leo left the group to head to Todd. Raph hung out at the lake, Kai did his best to stay away from Cobalt, and Mikey played with Cobalt, digging more holes with her until Leo and Donnie came back for dinner.

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[asprinterandamarathon]

BOTR - Day 43 - July 27, 2024

It was chilly this morning when we got up. That and the sun didn’t come up until after 7am down at the bottom of the valley where our campground sat. When we did get up, we ate our usual breakfast and packed to head out.

The road beyond the campground continued until a dead end about 2 miles down. Along the way were several buildings of interest (old church, old farmhouse, old schoolhouse, etc.). There were also meadows which opened the possibility of more elk sightings. So we drove down the road looking for wildlife and a hike.

Meadow at the end of the road.

Outbuilding along the road.

At the end of the road we found a nice flat hike along a dirt road that lead to an old homestead and beyond. It paralleled a creek and included several log bridge crossings. We walked about 3 miles round trip. That was just enough to burn off some breakfast.

Homestead mid-hike.

The creek we hiked along.

In the woods.

One of three similar bridges.

On the way back down the road, we spotted a wild turkey near a farm outbuilding. We pulled over so Diane could get a good look. It was her first wild turkey and it hung around long enough for us to see it well.

Wild turkey!

With that victory, we decided to get out of the valley. That left us two choices… return on yesterday’s route or take a longer gravel road that might have been better.

Not the way to go…

Optimistically, I picked the new route. It looked pretty good for the first two miles then it turned to crap. The road was steep, narrow, rutted, and rocky. We came to an intersection and turned around. It made more sense to take the road we already knew, even with its issues.

Once we were back over the hill, we needed to decide on our next move. We picked a nearby campground, Balsam Mountain Campground, also in the National Park. The campground sits at over 5000’. This time, no gravel roads! We even got to drive on the Blue Ridge Parkway for a few miles!

We had a relatively easy drive through the valley looking up at the Appalachians. There were broad vistas once we were at elevation. You can see why they call them the Smokies. A mist lingers through the valleys.

Balsam Mountain Campground sits on a wooded ridge. You can’t see the views but you know you’re high up. When you look down through the trees you see that Smoky mist below you. There are no electric or water hookups so big RVs stay away. Most other campers were in tents, vans, or pop ups. It was quiet and cool (mid-60s). It enticed Diane to take a nap and me to soak up the sun’s heat from our picnic bench. It was another opportunity to capture thoughts of this trip.

Dinner was a pan grilled pork chop with carrots and couscous. Diane made her signature salad (cukes, tomatoes, orange bell peppers) sans olives and roasted red peppers. Our supplies are dwindling as we near home.

Scrabble was a defensive match with few really good words. We enjoyed a cocktail as we played. When I first tallied the score my math gave me the advantage. But on double checking, Diane had me 277 to 270. It was almost 10pm when we finished.

We had the van closed up to keep toasty. The down comforter was necessary. The darkness was eerie in that there was light from somewhere but it was shrouded in mist. Who knows the moon phase.

Sleep was good.