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eruden-writes · 1 year

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I'd lik to know more about Griar pls - loved that snippet 😍

Ahaha, that one starts off kind of silly. I think it was based on a prompt from a different page, but I can't find it now.

Here's the first part, written in 2020, so my style of writing has probably changed.

If there's interest, I'll post the second bit of what I have written, but after that I'd have to write more.

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Next Part

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“I can smell you. Come out!”

Lapine gasped and ducked back, obscuring herself further from the other person with the tree she hid behind. Chewing on her bottom lip, she contemplated her options.

There was a person hanging, upside down, in a tree not far away from Lapine’s current position. Judging from the backpack that lay beneath their swinging form, they had dropped any means to cut themselves down or even call for help with a cell phone. And they could smell her. So, they were probably not fully human.

Her heart pounded, cursing her friends for bailing on her. And screw herself, too, for thinking it was a good idea to hike alone!

Somewhere between starting out and now, she’d gotten turned around. That, in turn, got her confused as she struggled to find the beaten path, again. By the time she thought to check her cell phone, there was no signal to be had.

Now, she had to admit she was utterly lost. The trail map had been shoved to her backpack, crumpled from frustration.

That was partly why she followed the annoyed grunts and flagrant curse words the moment her ear caught them. Perhaps, she thought, they’d be able to assist her. Never, in a million years, did she expect to find someone hanging upside-down from a tree!

Instantly, her imagination fired up, producing a litany of scenarios. A convoluted scheme to kidnap passerbys. They were setting traps and one triggered on themselves. Some sort of kinky reason. An art school project. A… A....

Her brain spluttered, returning to ‘kinky reason’ and wondering if being suspended upside down enhanced anything.

Before her imagination could push that thought too far, she shook it out of her head. No. Stay focused.

There’s a person in a tree, able to smell her, and she was alone. And possibly lost. Possibly.

She chewed on her bottom lip as she weighed her options. Just leaving seemed a bit callous. What if they were genuinely stuck?

But if it was a ploy to kidnap kind strangers, she’d be screwed.

But who’d set up such a scheme in the middle of the forest, off the trail?

Fuck. Lapine pressed her head into her hands, wishing her friends were here to help.

---

Griar glared at the, from his point of view, upside-down forest. His situation, suspended in the air like a helpless animal, was a bad one. Whoever set the coyote snares he’d been disengaging for the last month had set this one especially for him. They had plans for him. He gnashed his teeth, considering his options.

The ongoing irritation only cracked when a sudden aroma infiltrated his nose. It was faint, but stabbed at an ache in his gut. Potential mates in heat. And he was stuck in a tree. Great.

He could get a noseful, all the way up here, but pursuing anyone wasn’t happening. Another deep-throated growl rumbled into his chest. Why the fuck hadn’t he waited to trigger the snares until tomorrow? Admittedly, his preoccupation with tonight’s humpfest probably played into his distraction.

Considering the trap was strong enough to hoist him, it was likely enchanted. Whoever planted the trap had access to magic. It could have easily been glamored into near invisibility. Since he hadn't passed out, he guessed it was ensorceled to keep his blood from pooling to his head, as well. That meant the people setting these traps wanted him alive and conscious. Griar wasn't sure if that was a good or bad thing, yet.

Despite the danger of the situation, his body reacted to the cloud of pheromones slowly rising from the forest. Parts of him - ahem - were stirring in excitement, completely unaware he was upside-down.

Well, he had refrained from howling, just in case his potential captors were near enough. But, if he roused his pheromones to attract attention, maybe another -thrope would come and assist. As hairbrained of a thought it was, it wasn't as if anyone was going to stumble on him. Whoever he'd scented earlier had disappeared and the trap was located away from all the popular trails.

With mixed feelings of embarrassment and hormonal need, Griar reached for his pant's zipper. Unfastening, he grabbed at his half-mast erection, rubbing his thumb over its throbbing head.

Whatever milquetoast enjoyment he got from jerking himself off was immediately ruined as movement caught his eye. He twisted his body, craning to see the newcomer. The scent from before wafted up from them. A human stood in the clearing beneath him, large eyes on Griar. Well… their eyes were on a part of Griar currently clutched in his hand.

Shit. His body went rigid as he fumbled to cover his cock. Of course, a non-thrope would arrive when he finally gave in to his libido. Of fucking course.

“I-I’m sorry! I didn’t realize-” They babbled, scrambling backward, back to the safety of the underbrush.

“Wait! Come back!” More than a little snarl leaked into Griar’s voice, which he instantly regretted.

“I-It’s OK. Do your thing,” they squeaked, finally turning. They waved their hand over their shoulder as they added, “I-I’ll send a ranger your way to check on you, so finish up soon!”

“This isn’t a kink thing!” Griar howled in explanation of something not even stated, swinging himself forward out of frustration. He growled to himself when no answer returned. With a heaving sigh, he pressed his hands to his face - his erection deflating - and groaned. “Fucking dammit.”

---

Oncoming dusk crept along the edges of the forest, tailing after the setting sun. A once vibrant blue sky had bled into oranges and purples. The warm day was fading quickly into a cool dusk.

Griar still swung from the enchanted snare. Desire frothed in his loins as the scent of other -thropes in heat worsened. Every so often, he thought he could catch yowls and moans of pleasure, far off in the distance. Perhaps they were rutting in caves, or right beneath the canopies, or even in the fucking trees themselves.

Every time he considered touching himself, the expression of that stranger swam by his expression. And, every time, a cold shame softened his arousal.

A sudden fumbling in the underbrush caught his ear. Craning his head, he caught sight of the wide-eyed stranger from earlier. Annoyance and relief filled his thoughts.

“I’m sorry.” Lapine’s shoulders hunched with embarrassment, heat licking up her face over the angered look the stranger gave her. “I couldn’t find the trail again.”

“Yeah, you’re pretty far off the beaten path.” He couldn’t keep the growl of frustration from his throat. “I could’ve told you that, if you hadn’t taken off.”

Lapine couldn’t meet the dangling stranger’s eyes. “Sorry.”

He heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes. “Just get me down, already.”

“I don’t have a knife,” she replied, voice small. Her imagination braced for derision from this stranger.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t expect you to. You need a rune knife for this kind of trap, anyway.” It was a straightforward tone; no mocking with - perhaps - a slight hint of acquiescence. What casual hiker carried a rune knife, right? He motioned toward his fallen bag. “There’s one in my stuff. Look for a stick doll or something and cut whatever binds it.”

After rifling around in the stranger’s bag, she found a knife with runes carved into the blade. A sense of surreality clipped along her thoughts as she sought the doll the stranger spoke of. Was this normal? Or was this some weird cult thing they’d gotten wrapped up in?

It took some rooting around the immediate vicinity, but - eventually - she found what they described. A crude little doll, made from sticks and grass bound with thread. She sliced the thread, careful as to not nick the poppet.

From behind her, there was loud THUMP and a yelp.

“Oh, shit,” she hissed, under her breath. Immediately, she spun and started for the previously snared stranger. Lapine knelt beside them, guilt and concern needling through her thoughts, as she reached out to them. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

Their hand shot out, catching hers by the wrist. A small whine began at the back of her throat as she jerked slightly back. Long, dirty fingers held firm to her, though. Her gaze swiveled to their face.

Tanned. Scruffy. Dirt on their clothes. Thick dark brown hair. Golden-green eyes. As if the sounds they made earlier wasn’t indicative enough, they were definitely a -thrope of some sort. There was just something particularly animalistic about them that made Lapine’s skin prickle. Not entirely unpleasant but wary.

While Lapine sized Griar up, the favor was returned.

Long dark hair, pulled into a ponytail. Moon-grey eyes, made even larger with a pair of glasses. A tint of skin that spoke of days indoors. Griar’s fingers twitched, suddenly thinking how soft their warm flesh would feel under his fingertips, under himself. Mentally, he booted the thought away. That was heat-brain talking.

"Don't touch me." He released them, ignoring the blunt pain that throbbed along his back. Now that he was released, the swell of heat washed over him. His hindbrain keened, wanting to find a willing participant to sink into. Getting to his feet, Griar put distance between himself and the stranger, going to grab his pack. "It's a heat night."

"What's that mean?" She had a feeling she already knew. After all, she’d found them in a very compromising position earlier.

Picking up his pack, Griar replied nonchalantly over his shoulder. "It's a night when all nearby -thropes get hot and horny. So, y’know, I’m a bit sensitive, at the moment."

"Oh…"

He glanced up at the sky, narrowing his gaze toward the setting sun. "It's too late to get you back on the main trail. You'll have to come home with me."

Lapine paused, nose wrinkled. Her phone’s weight hung in her pocket. If only it worked out here, off-trail. Uncertainty and skepticism made her tone a little harsh as she said, "Uh-huh. This has nothing to do with the heat night?"

Griar sighed and turned to his companion. He couldn’t blame them, could he? Though, it was so irritating to waste time tonight, of all nights. From beneath his shirt, he pulled out a lanyard, flashing an ID. "I work here. You'll be safe at my place."

Lapine narrowed her eyes at the laminated badge, but scuttled closer, staring at the words. Griar Peterson. Forest guard. Lycanthrope. He/him pronouns. The photo seemed to be him, but a few years younger, with a clean-shaven face and an awkward, almost wincing, smile. A smile with some very sharp teeth attached.

She’d heard of these sorts of positions, usually offered to -thropes only. They lived in the forest, helped stray hikers and saved illegally caught animals, and - sometimes - they found missing people or murder victims. They were a sect of unsung heroes that people often forgot about.

"Alright…" She pressed her lips together, still uncertain. He shoved the badge back under his shirt. Shifting on her feet, she realized she should introduce herself. "I'm Lapine, she/her pronouns."

Griar snorted, casting her a sidelong glance and a smirk. "Well, can't say your parents mis-named you, timid rabbit."

She glared at him, ready to give a bitter reply, before he began tromping off in the woods.

“Keep up. As soon as you’re settled at my place, I’m heading out to join the festivities.” He called over his shoulder, a bit more bounce in his step. How quickly a person’s dour mood could lift, if there was the promise of sex on the horizon. Lapine sighed, a sense of awkwardness blanketing over her.

She didn’t have much choice, though. There was no way she was spending a night in the darkening forest. Quickly, she followed after Griar, biting at the inside of her cheek as she wondered about -thropes and heat and what, exactly, she’d be hearing all night.

#answered #exo writing #exophilia #lycanthrope #werewolf #monster x human #lycan #monster fucker #monster lover #griar #lapine #idk what to call this #The Inconvenient Lost Hiker #lol #Heat Night

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pcttrailsidereader · 6 months

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Trail of the Lost

This new book by Andrea Lankford is reviewed by Claire Shang. Here is an excerpt of her review. The book is yet another interesting twist on the Pacific Crest Trail.

How do you find someone who goes missing is the vastness of the Pacific Crest Trail? Andrea Lankford, who led search-and-rescue operations as a National Park Service ranger for 12 years, has a better understanding than most. She knows, for instance, that it's quite difficult to truly disappear: 97% of lost hikers -- alive or dead -- are located within 24 hours, and half of adult hikers are found less than two miles from where they were last seen.

Her attention was therefore caught by a trio of recent lost-hiker cases that has gone cold. Chris Sylvia, Kris Fowler, and David O'Sullivan -- all young unmarried men who disappeared in consecutive years beginning in 2015 -- were among the rare cases of PCT thru-hikers whose bodies were not found. Lankford catalogs the many attempts that she and other have made to resolve these cases. But anyone expecting the straightforward unfolding of a mystery should look elsewhere. Lankford gives us instead the story of a group of searchers "obsessed, each in our own way, until our dogged pursuit for answers jeopardized our livelihoods, our mental stamina, and our health."

Even as she sought the help of law enforcement, Lankford, who retired as a ranger two decades ago, knew to expect bureaucratic obstinance. Missing-person cases complicate the issue of jurisdiction, officers are slow to act on tips and when the subject is an adult male, "law enforcement typically concludes that the guy doesn't want to be found." Further, when hikers go missing in national forests, the responsibility for conducting a search falls on local sheriffs who have little incentive to sink resources into finding presumably dead hikers from other states or countries. (O'Sullivan was an Irish national, and it was months before a local police department claimed his case.)

The three searches, separate but often intertwined, take on a spirit of hardy vigilantism. Facebook groups buzz with leads -- when an image surfaces from a Brazil hospital of an unconscious man who looks like Kris Fowler, a Brazilian thru-hiker volunteers to drive eight hours to see if the patient has Kris's back tattoo. He doesn't, but he is revealed to be a Canadian missing person. Volunteers squint at thousands of drone photographs, flagging backpacks and bones that turn out to be shadows.

In David O'Sullivan's case, Lankford joins the efforts of others, including a former drugstore manager whose thru-hiking aspirations were thwarted by injury. Lankford, whose love of the outdoors was forever tarnish[ed]" by her ranger years, finds the idealism of volunteer searchers heartening. But the very determination displayed by amateurs to bring closure to O'Sullivan's parents at times introduces new setbacks. One self-proclaimed expert brandishes academic credentials and claims his soon-to-be patented dowsing device will locate O'Sullivan through his DNA frequencies. At another point, an "intrusive investigator" offers aid -- but the psychic is unable to identify which boulder is the one from her vision.

Even the searchers unclouded by 'magical thinking' worry whether their efforts are more hurtful than helpful to the families. Lankford herself can't account for the intensity of her commitment. As we learn, each thru-hikers sets off for a different reason. The new, frequently underprepared hikers see the trail "as less a test and more a cure," writes Lankford. Those who search for the missing might also be modeling their behavior on misleading narratives. As one grief counselor notes: "Hollywood movies tell [families] persistence pays off."

Trail of the Lost stumbles along its journey. Lankford has a propensity to overuse the adjective 'cute', and one of the sources she cites is an undergraduate thesis. But one accepts the author's idiosyncrasies because it is hard to imagine who else could have produced a work like this. Her book is a sprawling portrait of an area whose fantastical features practically necessitate the use of metaphor. Above all, this is a profile of two subcultures: hikers and their searchers, who share inconceivable tenacity and sometimes a similar desperation.

We have included stories of missing hikers in the Pacific Crest Trailside Reader: California (2011) and in Crossing Paths (2022). Particularly noteworthy is Ryan Forsythe's story of hiker John Joseph Donovan who was lost in the San Jacintos in 2005 is a fascinating read. Donovan disappearance ultimately saves the lives of Gina Allen and Brandon Day.

#search and rescue #lost hikers #death on the trail #Trail of the Lost

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