#The Flannel Elk Show

[whocaresstillthelouvre]

Harvest Moon

Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI) Pairing: Jackson Joel Miller x Female Reader Word Count: 3,100 Summary: It's Joel's birthday and you're going to make sure he has a good one. Warnings: smut, fluff, dancing in the kitchen to neil young, unprotected p in v, public-ish sex (but under a blanket), talking to neighbors while sitting on joel miller's cock, apocalypse birth control (pulling out), fingering, riding, joel has a filthy mouth, no use of y/n, not beta read.

A/N: I spent most of tonight adding 2,500 words to this barely written piece. Now it's two hours past my bedtime, but HAPPY BIRTHDAY JOEL MILLER!!! This can absolutely be read as a standalone, but, this is yet another singular smut entry for my Elks babies. This was originally going to be posted as a birthday celebration chapter for that, but I really wanted to give Joel his gift on his actual birthday. Happy birthday you gorgeous old man, you. Hope you like the porn I wrote about you. ❤️🥴

Masterlist

🌕🌕🌕🌕

You’ve been looking for the CD since you learned of Joel’s love of the song. Tommy did it, he actually did it. Somehow by some miracle he found the CD. 

“Not a problem,” he gives you that same shy Miller lopsided grin. “Milt had it. Told me to tell you it’s yours to keep… said he owes you since you were his daughter’s favorite teacher ‘n all.”

“Thanks Tommy,” you say, barely being able to contain your excitement, “this is going to be amazing.”

“Of course. Should be thanking you really,” he shrugs. “It’s about time he had a good birthday.”

—

Joel said he’d be helping fix one of the greenhouses today, but you’re still scared to ruin the surprise as you unlock his door. 

“Joel?” you yell out into the quiet, seemingly empty house. 

No answer. Perfect.

Quick steps lead you to his CD player, the same one he first showed you how much he cared for you with. Now, it’s your turn to show him just how much he means to you. The disc tray opens and you place the CD into the system, you can’t wait to surprise him. 

—

“More coffee?” you ask, holding up the percolator.

He nods and smiles, happily sitting at the table full from the steak, potatoes, and cornbread you made him. He had insisted on sharing the meat, but you refused, happy to let him enjoy the first taste of steak in over twenty years.

Your friend Helen got her boyfriend Greg to cut a small filet of steak from the newly butchered cow. She handed it to you with a knowing smile. It’s nice to see everyone accept yours and Joel’s relationship. 

You lean over his lap, and top his coffee cup off. 

“Have I ever told you how much I love seeing you in a dress? Can’t believe you got yourself all dolled up for me.” He surprises you by pulling you onto his lap. 

“Careful!” you shriek, quickly placing the carafe on the table. “Yes, you have… many times. That's why I wore it.”

“Hmph,” he hums happily, burying his face into the crook of your neck, his arms wrapping securely around you. “Thank you for dinner–and everything sweetheart.” He presses a soft kiss to your skin. 

“That’s not all,” you giggle as he nips at a sensitive spot under your chin. 

He chuckles, his breath warm against your skin. “You’re so good to me.” 

You clutch his chin tilting his head up to meet your eyes. “You deserve a happy birthday.” His big brown eyes search yours, like he’s forcing himself to believe it. “Joel, you do.” 

He rests his forehead against yours. “I love you,” he sighs warmly.

“I love you too. Now, I have something else for you,” you slip off his lap and head towards your backpack. “It’s something small, I promise.”

You return with a bundle of fabric held behind your back. 

“Remember when you tore your favorite flannel and you tossed it in the rag bag?”

You place the flannel in his hands.

“Well, a certain girl named Ellie grabbed it for me. I mended it, reinforced the buttons, and sewed up a couple holes. It’s not perfect, but it’s fixed.”

He holds the flannel up and inspects it. “This is–wow–this–I can’t believe it.” He looks up at you, his eyes wide with adoration. “I was wearing this that first day I saw you, y’know? This is so sweet sweetheart, thank you.” 

He likes it, you thank your lucky stars. Your handsome Joel, here with you on his birthday, allowing himself to be taken care of. 

You know the story of his birthday, you’ve retold the tale to yourself every night as you anticipated this day. Afraid to upset him, afraid to cross a line, but all you’ve wanted to do is give him the world he so deserves. 

It wasn’t just you who thought of him today. It’s Tommy finding the CD. It’s Helen getting you the steak. It’s Ellie grabbing the flannel from the rag bag. He deserves all of it. 

“You’re welcome,” you say with a kiss to his forehead. “Now, put it on. I have one more surprise.”

He slips the flannel on as you head to the living room. The CD waits in the stereo. You turn it on.

The soft guitar and brushes of a drum fills the air as you turn the volume up.  

Joel’s huge smile greets you when you walk back into the kitchen.

“You– how?” he asks, unbelieving. 

“Asked Tommy and he found it for me. Milt had his greatest hits. Now,” you reach your hand out to him, “may I have this dance birthday boy?”

He chuckles and takes your hand, pulling you into him. The two of you sway along to the music, his strong arms enveloping you as your cheek rests against his warm chest. You can hear the steady thump of his heart beneath your ear. Your hands slip around his broad back, one of them trailing up to play with the soft curls at the nape of his neck. He sighs deeply before placing a tender kiss against the top of your head. 

“This is my favorite song,” he murmurs.

The sun has long since set, the singular lamp above the sink casts a warm dark amber glow across the kitchen Your shadows dance across the walls as you sway. He smells of coffee and sweet corn bread, like home and comfort. 

He starts to hum then softly sing along. His deep voice reverberates through your ear, pressed against his heart. 

“Because I’m still in love with you,  I wanna see you dance again,  Because I’m still in love with you,  On this harvest moon”

You can hear the contentment in his voice as he holds you closer. Moving in synchronicity with each other, gently stepping across the small kitchen as the harmonica solo plays. If you could stay in this moment forever you would.

You tilt your head up, and his eyes meet yours. The smile he gives lights his face. Lines crinkling at the corner of his eyes, dimple sitting deep on his cheek, mustache curving with his plush upturned lips. He serenades you with the same lyrics as before, looking deep in your eyes. 

“Because I’m still in love with you,  I wanna see you dance again,  Because I’m still in love with you,  On this harvest moon”  

His lips meet yours, thanking you with a gentle kiss. The man you love and adore, feels good on his birthday all because of you. 

The song plays on repeat, the two of you dance together, Joel gently hums and sings along as the harvest moon rises above the mountains. 

You gently pull away, unclasping his arms from around you.

“Come on birthday boy,” you say with a playful smile, “let’s go watch the stars.” 

—

You and Joel sit beneath a large plaid comforter on his porch. The early fall breeze that rolls down the mountainside leaves a chill in the air. The night sky is lit bright with the orange full moon. Most of Jackson is at the Harvest Moon Festival tonight, you can just make out the distant sounds of laughter and music flowing through the air from the main street on his porch. Ellie was especially thrilled about the teen sleepover happening at the Bison tonight, giving you both this rare moment of solitude in his backyard. She told Joel she knew he was in good hands with you for his birthday. 

And he is–or at least you’re in his good hands. 

“Oh, god,” you softly whisper into the night, you’re so tense from keeping yourself quiet. The stars are a little harder to see tonight thanks to the ambient glow of the bright moon, and yet you see stars whenever you squeeze your eyes shut while fighting the urge to moan. Joel’s deft, large thumb rubs circles against your clit while you ride two of his thick fingers. 

He’s driving you crazy like this. His large body and the blanket wrapped around you, overheating all of your senses in this chilly night. You’re completely covered, nobody would know that your legs are spread wide, one draped over his thick thigh while his hand is stuffed up your dress making you quake as he finger fucks you.

“Easy now, easy now,” he says nuzzling against your neck, his large nose charting a course across the sensitive skin. “Gotta remember where we are. You're the sweet, innocent teacher 'n librarian here. Lotta people look up to you, can’t have them knowin’ what my girl really likes when she’s with me.” Your hips slow their movement, he makes up for it by pumping you harder. “See, I can help, just gotta let me know you want it baby.” 

“Want to take–neyugh–care of you,” struggles out of your mouth. 

“You’re taking care of me right now, sweetheart, touching you is my favorite thing to do.” 

“Want to go inside… w-want to–want–to, want to feel you in my mouth,” you grip the straining bulge underneath the fly of his jeans. 

“Not yet,” he sighs deeply when you squeeze harder. “Like seeing your skin glow in the moonlight. What you’re doin’ now is enough, want to enjoy my night with you.”

Your hold tightens around his cock as you fight harder to suppress the urge to scream into the night. His fingers angle up hitting your most sensitive spot and you feel like you could explode. You’ll be the fireworks to celebrate Joel’s birthday. A whimper is fought by biting your lip, it’s so hard to not scream. His brown eyes look almost black in the low light as he watches you struggle and blink rapidly. 

“Shh baby, you’re doing so good, bein’ so quiet, don’t ruin it now. If anybody was out right now they could walk right on by and they’d have no idea what I’m doing to you under here.”

You’ve never done anything like this, so out in the open. Jackson is a peaceful town full of law abiding citizens, and right now you’re sitting on the back of the porch of Joel’s house getting felt up by him. 

“Joel… I–I’m gonna—”

“Cum for me baby.” His hot breath hits your lips before sealing his mouth against yours. Your cunt spasms against his thick fingers, you feel set alight by your orgasm, overheated and burning. Maybe you’re glowing just as bright as the moon. His tongue dances with yours, swallowing all of your gasps and cries. You’re sure at this point, anybody that walked by would know exactly what was happening between the two of you. You don’t care, all you want is to feel Joel’s cock inside you.

“Want you, Joel, want you so bad,” you mew as his fingers rub against your sensitive folds. 

“Okay baby, okay.” His fingers slip from your warmth before he brings his soaked digits to his lips. His eyes flutter shut when he tastes you. 

“Sweeter than birthday cake,” he declares before raising his hips and pulling his jeans down with a grunt. “Come here. Come sit on me.”

Your legs spread wide as you straddle his large lap with your back pressed against the warmth of his chest. He grips himself and moves the half hard heft of his cock against your soaked core, swirling his tip back and forth across your clit. 

“Tell me you want my cock,” he whispers against your neck, licking a line up to your ear. “Tell me baby.”

“I-I want your cock–I need your cock Joel,” you beg. 

“I know you do darling,” he chuckles deeply, lining himself up to your entrance.

The sounds of the festival go silent and the bright orange moon fades as you slowly sink down on his cock. Taking all of him, thick and throbbing into your tight cunt. 

“That’s my good girl,” he grits. “Your sweet pussy is taking me so well, isn’t she?”

Clutching your bottom lip tightly between your teeth, you try to fight the moan his words bring up.

“Oh, you must like that. You’re squeezin’ me so hard sweetheart.” 

You set a pace, riding him gently under the moonlight, his fingers gripping your hips tight. 

His hot breaths hit the back of your neck as your back molds even tighter to his front. His hand snakes down to rub your clit, small circles making your body meld even more against him.. The rhythm of his fingers and cock spearing you pulls another orgasm down from the ethers of space. Shivering, sweating, and stuttering Joel’s name, you’re trying to be good for him, trying to not scream into the night. 

“That’s my girl, grippin’ my cock so good, cummin’ all over me. Getting yourself nice and slippery so I can fuck you real good, huh?” 

“Mmf,” is the only response you can muster. Your cunt flutters around him, and he doesn’t relent, slowly fucking into you while his finger pulses against your clit. 

The sound of two people conversing approaches. Your movements come to a halt, Joel stays still, his finger still resting against your sensitive bundle of nerves and his cock sitting deep inside you. Hank and Billie, the nice couple that lives three houses down from Joel, walk past the porch. Both look over and wave a greeting. Fuck.

“Beautiful moon, isn’t it?” Hank says with a smile. 

“Quite.” Joel responds. The rumble of his loud voice radiates through you.  

“You guys get any barbecue tonight?” Hank asks. “It was really go–”

“We stayed in,” Joel gruffly responds. He subtly knocks his hips into you causing a wave of sensation to hit against your already cock-drunk pussy.

Your nostrils flare with a deep exhale.  

“Oh, well, there will probably be leftovers tomorrow,” Billie offers. “Tell them I sent you and they’ll give you the good stuff.”

“Thanks Billie,” you breathlessly reply, wishing on every star you’ve seen behind your eyelids, they’ll leave. “We appreciate it.”

“Best be getting home,” Hank says, grabbing Billie’s hand. “We both had a bit too much to drink!” 

Oh thank god.

“Enjoy your night,” Joel says plainly as he starts to slowly rock into you once they turn away. 

To the eyes of your neighbors, you and Joel just look like a normal couple enjoying the night sky cuddled together under a blanket… little do they know he’s filling you with his thick cock under the shield. 

“That was close,” he whispers against your ear before nipping it. 

Your giggle is cut off by a moan when he fucks into you harder. 

“Guess we shouldn’t take our time, don’t want to get caught, now do we?” he asks. 

“We can just–nyuh–go inside,” you plead, wanting to be able to moan and scream Joel’s name in the comfort of his home. 

“Gimme one more baby, gimme one more,” he grunts against your neck. “And then I’ll take you into my home and fuck you.”

His hips pound against your body, his thrusts bucking into your core harder. “That’s it baby, you really want me to take you in and lay you down ‘n fuck you, don’t you?” 

“Mmhmm,” you moan, your stomach tightening and thighs trembling as the universe splinters around you. Your orgasm rockets through your body. Color turns to black and white, noise falls silent. All that exists is Joel Miller and his big cock shattering you into a million pieces like your own personal big bang on the back of his porch. 

“Good girl,” he groans, “let’s take this party inside.”

—

The plaid comforter is laid out on the kitchen floor. Your wobbly legs move your still blissed-out body to Joel’s stereo, starting “Harvest Moon” on repeat all over again. 

You lean against the kitchen entrance, admiring Joel as he rests atop the blanket, naked and supporting himself on his elbows. No man over fifty should ever look as good as him. Broad shoulders frame his strong arms, his chest has a smattering of dark hair that trails down to the slight bulge of his stomach. His cock rests in between his legs, still hard and shining with your slick. He’s so gorgeous, and he’s all yours. 

“Come here sweetheart,” his voice is gruffer. “Lay down next to me.”

His dick twitches as you walk to the blanket and settle beside him. 

He moves over you, covering you with his warmth as he engulfs himself in your slick heat. Your legs instinctually wrap around his waist allowing him to take more. 

“Joel,” you moan. The angle allows his cock to push farther in and your walls to tighten harder against him. 

“Ooh, you’re so fucking wet, you hear that?” he asks incredulously. The squelch of your pussy soundtracks along to the song quietly playing in the background. “Sounds so fucking good baby.” 

He gasps when buries himself to the hilt, soaking the curly hairs around the base of him with your wet.

Your body trembles as your hips meet his, his cock sliding in and out of your cunt at a brutal pace. 

He takes no time to own you now behind the walls of his home. Your hands clutch at his wide back, sobs and screams of his name echoing out into the air as Neil Young softly sings in the background. 

You’re so full of him. His body surrounding you, his lips against yours, his cock pounding into your accepting cunt, his name chanting out of your mouth. 

“You want it baby?” he growls against your neck, his cock pumping in and out of your hole at a speed no man over fifty should be able to ever reach. “You want my cum?” 

“C-cum Joel,” you cry, tears sprouting from your eyes as your fourth orgasm launches through you. 

He gasps your name, pulling out of your tremorous pussy and shooting thick white ropes of cum across your pussy and stomach. 

His sweat is slick against your overheated body, you’re a mess of sweat, orgasm, and love. 

He kisses you, his tongue licking against yours before he rolls off you. His chest rising and falling as he catches his breath. “Fuck,” he pants, stretching his limbs out. “Gonna feel this tomorrow.” 

“Well, you are another year older, old man,” you tease, curling up next to him. 

“Yeah,” he turns his head to look at you. “I guess I am,” he sighs. “Thank you for–my birthday and–all of this. I can never put into words how much it all means to me.” 

“So I guess you’re still in love with me?” you tease.

“Always. Especially on this harvest moon,” he returns your smile. 

---

Tagging a couple people who had asked about this piece earlier this month: @almostfoxglove, @sawymredfox, @burntheedges, and @littlemisspascal 🩷🌝

[mochacoffee]

STEAL HIS POST-APOCALYPTIC SWAG: JOEL MILLER

Backpack: Hynes Eagle Retro Designer Canvas Backpack, 28 Liter (in Army Green)

Exact match with the in-game bag, though it looks like they've modified the buckle closure into a snap closure. If anyone can find a more show-accurate version of the bag let me know!

Shirt: Men’s Fjällräven Fjälglim Shirt (in Laurel Green)

Not an exact match but an incredibly similar dupe found by @antikate

Jacket: Flint and Tinder Flannel-Lined Waxed Trucker Jacket (in Forest)

Exact match as confirmed by Esquire

Boots: Elk Tracker Men's 10" Waterproof Leather Boot (Style 861)

Exact match as confirmed by costume director Cynthia Summers

Hotel in Background: Ranchland Inn (Nanton, AB)

Exact match as confirmed by @antikate

Soul-Crushing Fear of Loss: Pedro Pascal

Exact match as confirmed by Pedro via The Wire

[theflannelelk-blog]

(The Flannel Elk Show)

[haruhey]

Point Of View

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Word count: 4.5k

Established Relationship Fluff !! | Smut | Filth February Prompt 1

You’re self-conscious about the weight you’ve gained since coming to Alexandria. Daryl endeavours to change that.

or

i wrote this on my period and was in my feels. i will not apologize for who i am. this is just a warning.

or

I wanna love me  The way that you love me For all of my pretty And all of my ugly too I'd love to see me from your point of view

It’s been a while.

It’s been a while since anything normal, really.

It’s just been survival for all you can remember, but it’s not anymore.

You don’t need to survive anymore. You can live now. There are children running around on the sun-heated concrete, garden plots lined with lettuce heads and vines that hang with ripe red tomatoes. Daryl - your Daryl, with his rough hands that hold you like an expensive china - hunts almost every day, bringing Aaron to fill the silence of buzzing cicadas, and returns with his rope miled long with caught squirrels.

And sometimes, on the off-chance Denise gives in to Daryl’s subtle persuasion, he brings you beneath the expanse of pine and birch, stealing kisses in the peace between the shots you let out from his crossbow. You’re his rabbit’s foot, he’d told you, body leant forward with the effort of carrying a dead hulking elk you’d pinned between the eyes, and the next time you went with him, you did it again.

Lightning never struck the same place twice, but you’re pretty damn lucky, all things considered.

It’s been good. And maybe - just… maybe - it’s even been a little too good.

You’ve got a bed - it makes your heart swell, too, knowing you get to share it with Daryl - hot water, home-cooked food, and you don’t have to be on your feet all the time anymore. You don’t have to risk your life finding supplies, run for miles to escape a hoard or less-than-friendly people, and your body is starting to show it.

It’s been a while since you’d had thoughts like these.

Standing in front of the mirror, you take in the sight of the woman staring back at you. She’s dressed like you are - one of Daryl’s shirts drops loose along her shoulders, her skin shining and shadowing underneath the moonlight - and you watch as she bunches the soft flannel in her hands, lifting it from her body until it exposes the overhang of her belly.

She’s not you. You don’t look like that.

She can’t be.

But she is, because when you drop one of your hands to the flesh there and take it between your fingers, she does it too, and you can see the same lump form in her throat at the warmth of skin which bulges between her thumb and forefinger. Letting go, you swallow down your dejection, spreading your palm over your stomach and sucking in, watching it recede to the state you’re so much more used to seeing it in.

“What’re ya doin’, sunshine? ‘S late.”

Whipping your head to the sleep-slurred voice, you drop the flannel from your grasp, smoothing it over your stomach and wiping your hands on your thighs before easing a smile on your face. Daryl’s standing lent along the doorframe, one arm propped up on it to keep his head from meeting the angular wood, and you can’t help but think of how perfect he looks.

His hair is a mess of hickory - stuck at odd angles from his slumber just moments ago - but his body looks like it was carved by Bernini himself. Why had he chosen you when anyone would have fallen for his wide shoulders and muscular torso? When his lips could be so soft and his work-weathered fingers could be so kind?

“Noth- nothing. Just go back to bed.”

You can’t see the way his eyes narrow at the stutter, but it doesn’t matter as he rubs the sleep from them and walks over to you, his long legs tapering out from the loose boxers that still manage to fit snug around his thick thighs. Daryl stands behind you, sliding his arms around your body to link at the front, and even still a little tired, he doesn’t miss the way you lift slightly to keep his body from resting flush against yours.

“Y’sure nothin’s wrong? ‘Sides, can’t sleep without ya.”

Grabbing his hands, you link your fingers in his, running your thumb over his knuckles before turning around and pressing a kiss to his lips. You feel good - you always do, sweet like he’s never been able to experience before - but he can tell something is off. You’re woven so deep into his being that he could recognize your uncertainty even if he was slurred drunk.

“Yeah. It’s- don’t worry about it.”

When you go to pull away, Daryl only holds you tighter, digging his head into the crook of your neck and kissing lightly, hoping to crumble your built wall of uncertainty with the careful constellation he outlines with his lips. You melt for him, but still, you squirm as his hands rest on your stomach, and when he feels you try to press your palms into his - feels you try to pull focus from the soft give of flesh he loves to feel - that’s when it clicks in his brain.

“Hey, y’know you can tell me anythin’, right? Whatever’s goin’ on, I can tell it ain’t just nothin’. Ya don’t lose sleep over ‘nothin’’.”

And he just sounds so safe to you. Like you could tell him all your deepest secrets, and the only thing he’d do would be absolve you - like he would drink your confessions down and turn them into something that only blossoms into adoration. You hate it, the fact you want to tell him despite you knowing your thoughts lean more towards stupid than not, but his blue eyes are home to you and they’re just so warm as they look at you from the reflection in the mirror.

“Do you- do you think I’m pretty?”

You sound smaller than you expect, but Daryl responds almost immediately, stepping in front of you and blocking you from the sight of the mirror. He hates the way you’re looking at yourself - hates the way your question drops from you as if he would think you were anything but perfect - and he takes your face into his hands, running his thumb along your cheek before speaking.

“I think you’re beautiful, sunshine. Thought you were the prettiest person in the damn world when I first saw ya. An’ I still do.”

Swallowing, you look down from his face, your arm sliding across your torso and bunching the shirt that now fits better than it did when you first took it in your hands, lifting it just under your chest and looking back up at him.

“Even… even with, uh, this? ‘Cause, before, when- when we first met, I know I wasn’t-“

Your words are cut from your throat when he takes your hand and places it against his half-hard cock, making your whole body stutter for a second with the way he rasps out an answer.

“This answer your question?”

The contact isn’t unwelcome. Daryl loves with his whole being: heart, body and soul, and he’s physical - your touch is his heaven as his is yours. It causes a rush of heat to lick up your body, and when he presses your hand harsher against his, you can’t help but go to grab at him, his length hardening in the warmth of your palm.

“Jesus, sunshine. You’re talkin’ like y’ain’t been all I’ve been thinkin’ ‘bout since the prison.”

His hand is still gripped around your wrist as he speaks, and he tugs it slightly as he walks forward, each step backing you into the counter behind you. When your lower back bumps against the granite, it similarly knocks the breath from your lungs despite the contact being so soft.  

“Been all I’ve been thinkin’ ‘bout since we got to Alexandria.”

It knocks the breath from you, and his whisper is almost a pure heat that lights you up. Daryl pushes his hips forward, advancing and advancing until there’s no space separating the heat of your body from his. It knocks the breath from you because he slips his fingers from your palm, and his greedy hands slide underneath your shirt, unbuttoning and throwing it onto the counter before he returns in a desperate search to touch every inch of your body.

“You’re so damn beautiful it hurts sometimes.”

His face dips then, words weighing heavy with their reverence, and yours heats up at his persistent attention. His fingers spread flush against your back and he pulls you into him, your head flustering from the onslaught of feeling as you steady yourself, and your hands clip like magnets to the bare front of his body, the pressure of your momentary hold making him groan.

“Let me show ya.”

Pressing his lips against the column of your neck, Daryl’s voice lingers in your head, his deep gravel dragging deliciously against each and every groove of your brain, and you tilt your head away, giving him more space in a selfish hope he’ll keep lavishing you.

“Ya gon’ let me show ya, huh, sunshine?”

You swallow the lump of lust in your throat just so you can speak, rewarding his efforts of leaving you a love-slick neck with nods of your head, each one more fervent than the last. His desire swells for you - makes other parts of him swell, too - and when you whine your permission in that voice which must be temptation itself, he hooks his hands beneath your thighs, uncaring of the counter’s ledge which roughs against his knuckles like a jealous lover.

He can’t care when he hoists you into the air, making a show of his strength with how little effort it takes for him to hold you as you press your face to the hiding spot of his neck, because he’s too busy basking in the way your arms tighten on either side of his body as he walks you both to bed. The night’s not young - he’ll have to take a nap tomorrow afternoon to make up for the sleep he’ll lose waking up for his usual morning hunt - but it’s all fucking worth it if he gets to spend it with you.

The second his knees hit the wooden bed frame, he leans forward, letting your back hit the dull gray sheets of your shared comforter before he’s clawing at your underwear. There’s a feral look in his eye - a lust so deep you’re scared you’ll drown in it if you watch him for too long - and in a second, he’s pulling off the cotton, the fabric lying limp in his palm as if it knew this was to be its fate, thrown away in a torrent of lust-fueled movements.

“Can I touch ya like this?”

You nod, an instinctual spread of your legs - an invite, extended from you to him only, a declaration of your trust and vulnerability - surging forward without the need of his question.

“Please.”

Just that word is enough to make him need for you, and right now, Daryl’s pretty damn happy his body woke up at the emptiness he’d felt from your side of the bed. Right now, he’s pretty damn happy he’d had half the sense to walk in silent search of you instead of calling your name. Right now, he’s pretty damn happy he’d admired you from the door and watched you lift his shirt, exposing each tantalizingly soft curve of your midsection despite the fact he felt just the littlest bit like a peeping Tom at the way his cock stirred from the sight because you’re letting him touch you.

Beneath the brown of his uncut bangs - you’d have to take some scissors to them soon, since they hide too much of his handsome face from you - he smiles at you, shaking the hair from covering his eyes before holding you apart for him and kneeling at the foot of the bed, his joints cracking at the movement. You giggle at the sound, receiving a playfully annoyed glare from him before you feel your thighs being pulled by his large hands.

Your back drags along your cotton sheets until the edge of the mattress is resting just below your ass, and his beard tickles your skin as his lips map out the length of your legs. Each one of his kisses are so familiar - each one is so comforting and affectionate despite the burn of lust in his eyes - and he slides his hands up the sides of your anticipation-squirming body, his mouth pressing messily against your inner thigh.

“I’m gon’ make ya feel good. Gon’ show ya how much I love your body. Gon’ make sure y’ain’t never doubtin’ how pretty ya are.”

Daryl’s voice rumbles against your skin, deeply-woven determination making you buck your hips up to him in offering, and he takes both your hands, linking his fingers in yours before burying his head between your legs. His tongue spears and laps, flattens against you and laves as it satiates the way he starves for you, and it's too dextrous, too practiced to the preference of your body. You’re sensitive - the overwhelming emotions from feeling wanted making your body cry out for him - and you repeat his name like a prayer, tightening your hold on his hands and clenching around him.

Though his jaw is cramping up and his tongue isn’t long enough to hit that spot he knows makes you gush around him, he doesn’t want to unlace his fingers from yours. Not when you hold him like a tether to reality and you’re soaking down his chin as he tries his best to lap all of you up, but when you whimper for him, begging him to fill the emptiness you’re desperate to not feel anymore, nobody can say Daryl Dixon doesn’t treat you right.

His touch is immediate, rubbing and massaging open your soft thighs which have warmed each side of his head, and they slip into you when you plead him for it, one hand gripping the unruly locks atop his head. He curls them then, thick fingers reducing you to a puddle with the press against those sensitive spots you can’t quite reach with your own.

It’s always him, the only one who can do this to you, and it’s always you, the only one he’s ever wanted to do this to.

Your climax is near, your flexing abdomen is telling you so, and when he pulls away to encourage you, his voice like a liquor you drink yourself drunk with, you hit it full-force, pulling at his hair with your trembling hands. It’s so intense - you can feel the way he pours the depths of what he feels for you into treating you right - and even through it’s lust that lies heavy in the air, affection swirls through his actions, drawing out the sickeningly saccharine feeling of adoration from your chest.

Crying out Daryl’s name, you tug at him again, trying to pull his skillful tongue from the way he laves and laps, but his eyes harden, squinting and obeying you only enough to speak.

“Want me to fuck ya, sunshine?”

The gruff swear of him and how serious he sounds draws out a sharp breath from you, and it makes your body light up again, telling him your answer with a flutter around his fingers before he sees you nodding.

“Please- please, Daryl.”

Your voice is hoarse when it hits his ears, and he takes the hand clasped in his, sliding it down and opening it until your hand rests flush against your tummy. His rests flush on the top of yours, and you can feel the way your body reacts to the slow pump of his fingers. You’re climbing already, still sensitive from your last release and the fact he’d never really let you settle from it, and you can hear him shuffling, knees knocking against your bare floors as he tries to press as close as physically possible despite the wood of the bedframe pressing into his chest.

“Then gimme one more. Wanna see one more from your beautiful body.”

And before you can even processes the first five syllables, you’re rutting up into his face, the force of your climax almost pushing his fingers out of you at the waves of molten fire rolling across your body, but he’s persistent, resting his palm against you when his tongue returns to gather all you have to offer. He groans at the way your hand grips at your stomach for reprieve, a pang of wet hot arousal making his cock throb pathetically in his boxers from the sight of the flesh gathering between your fingers and spilling over, and he wants desperately for his mouth to replace your hands.

He wants to kiss your flexing stomach - he wants to give you enough attention there and more until there’s no doubt in that pretty little mind of yours that you’re nothing less than perfect to him - and when you whine for him to fuck you, he sticks his fingers in his mouth and licks them clean before pushing up onto his feet and kneeling back onto bed. The mattress dips with his weight, and your release-muddled brain only registers that he’s on it when he takes both your hands in his and presses his lips up against both of them.

You want to kiss him - want to taste yourself on him, his touch against even your fingers make your desire tenfold - but Daryl’s moving you up the bed, comforter thrown askew on his side from when he’d awoken to the cold emptiness you were supposed to be occupying, and you maneuver with his urgings, the need to be full of him taking over your thinking.

He gets off the bed for only a second, and as you watch him strip from his boxers, you spread your legs, propping yourself on your elbows and swallowing down your saliva when he takes his cock into his hand, running himself in a stroke and blowing out a breath when your spit and arousal slick thighs shine with the moonlight streaming in through the windows. He loses himself in his staring, admiring your body on display for him, and it takes you calling out to him to break him out of his reverie, softly chucking out a response before he joins you on bed.

“Sorry, sunshine. Was jus’ admirin’ the view. Can’t help it. Looks perfect, y’know that?”

He presses a kiss against one of your knees then, watching the way you fluster from his compliment and your eyes scramble from his, and he bends down, lying heavy on your thigh in order to grab your chin lightly and tilt your face to look at his.

“Think I’d lie to ya?”

You know he doesn’t - Daryl knows you know he doesn’t - and it just makes him… angry at the fact you don’t believe his words. Not at you. No, never at you, but at the world, he supposes. It’s not your fault the it wasn’t kind to you even before all this, and he hates that he can’t make you change your mind about yourself.

But he’d promised to show you how much he loves you - body and all, whether you weighed a buck 25 soaking wet or not - and he’s determined to do so.

“I think you’re gorgeous. An’ I ain’t never gon’ stop thinkin’ that. I’d be an idiot if I did.”

Pressing a sloppy kiss against your lips, he swallows down your whine as his thumb slides over your cheek and other hand notches himself at your entrance. When he pulls away, your hands thread through his hair, holding him to you as your voice pleads for more of him, and he watches your face contort when he pushes.

Inch by inch, he pushes into you, and his gaze never falters from the way your mouth falls agape and your eyes screw shut at the stretch. When his hips rest flush against yours - it was slow, it always is. He doesn’t want to hurt you, and your heart swells with love for him - he slides his hand up your body, and when they make contact with the flesh you were scrutinizing, he slowly starts to massage. You want to go and stop him, that voice of insecurity making you think the action makes Daryl want to grimace, but a little part of you wants him to keep going.

“Open your eyes, sunshine. Want- want ya to see what I’m seein’. Want ya to see how much of a good girl ya are for me.”

He’s moving now, a careful in and out making you writhe against the bedsheets with his words, and he groans at the way you tighten around him, your wet warmth making his brain fall deeper into enamour with you. Pulling his upper body up, Daryl rests your thighs around his waist and bites his lip at the sight of you, sweat-slick and so fucking responsive to each heavy push of him. He’s kneeling - fitting, since you look like a damn goddess spread out for him - and when he looks down at the mess the two of you are where you meet, he swears and bucks forward, a stutter throwing off his rhythm for just a few haphazard thrusts.

You want to see him, too. You want to watch the way his cock disappears into you and see the erotic sight of how you take him into yourself, but when you look down, the flesh of your stomach is moving with each drive of his hips against yours, and you don’t want to see that. He notices - with every sense of himself heightened, how could he not? - and he grabs your chin again, sliding his thumb across your lips in a gentle urge to let your eyes follow his, and when you do, the sight of his desperate shove makes you whimper.

“You’re perfect, sunshine. Don’t ever forget that.”

And despite everything - how lecherous and salacious right now is - your heart wells up in a crashing wave of love, and you claw at his forearm, fingers barely enough to wrap around the muscle lined bone. You nod along to his words because when he says it like that, so reverent in his belief, you can’t help but trust him.

“Can’t- can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout ya, y’know? Can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout- ‘bout this.”

He moves both your hands to your abdomen, his grip spreading your fingers open so you can feel your own body move from each shove of him, and you whine Daryl’s name, you arch your back. Pressing your stomach into your own palm, he groans at the give of your softness, and he’s speaking before he can even think, sliding his thumb across you and firing alight at the way you indent.

“Can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout how- how safe ya are. Eatin’ everyday an’- an’ sleepin’ comfy in my arms.”

There’s a possession in his voice that makes you hazy - an obvious desire for you that clouds your thoughts - and when he brings his hand up to your mouth, pressing his thumb against your open lips, you slide your tongue across it, wetting it with your saliva before he pulls it away and brings it to swirl at where he meets you.

You keen then, bucking your hips up to his and gripping his forearm with both your hands, and he leans down, his thighs flexing in order to keep him stable enough for him to press his face closer to yours while still being able to draw those sloppy circles that make the two of you almost boil over.

“Don’t gotta get hurt no more. Don’t gotta- don’t gotta go on runs if ya don’ wanna. You’re safe, an’- an’ I love it. Safe an’ wit’ me.”

He presses his lips to yours then, kissing you with the greed of a lush downing his third nightcap, and you can feel the heat crawling up your neck, almost asphyxiating you. Daryl’s everywhere - his hands chase your skin, his tongue chases yours - and just one more wet shove of him has you clawing at his back, falling apart with a gasped moan that he can feel spreading down the length of his throat.

He drinks it down and hauls himself away, your legs threatening to trap him in you, but he knows he has to pull out. It’s dangerous - another shake of your body makes him burn - and in a second, he has his cock in his hand, the length of him coated in the remnants of your climax as he tugs to reach the same euphoria you’d reached already. You still clench as you watch him because he’s so frantic with each movement. He’s so hungry for it, and the moan of your name chokes off when he folds forward, covering your abdomen in spurt after spurt of him as his flexes, the amount never seeming to end.

Panting, you both take the time to catch your breaths, sticky skin pressed up against each other when he kisses you with the same awe he did the he first felt your lips, and he caresses your beautiful tummy, smiling into you when your hands just rest at his sides and don’t surge forward to move his.

“This is what ya do to me, y’know that? You’re ruinin’ me ‘cause I jus’ wanna do this all day.”

He whispers against you, lips traveling to your cheek before he tilts his head up and just takes in the sight of you - just adores you.

“So don’t think that shit, alright? Else I gotta bring ya here and remind ya the best I can.”

But you wouldn’t mind that. And neither would he.

You and Daryl both know his release rests on the flesh he'd caught you scrutinizing, but in an odd way, it’s perfect. It’s perfect, and when he presses one more kiss to your collarbone in that well-practiced signal to tell you he’ll clean you up, your hands thread through his hair and you feel like you could cry from the way he’s looking at you when you speak.

“I love you, Daryl. I love you more than I ever thought I could love anyone.”

He blushes then - reds from chest up despite what had just occurred between the sheets of your shared bed - and he dips down to kiss you just one last time. He wants to stay here with you. He wants to worship you with his hands and mouth all over again, but he knows it’ll get uncomfortable, the spend of him on your skin. He always feels an odd sense of pride and guilt when he sees you like this, and despite the fact you always tell him that he doesn’t need to and that you like to feel him like that, he still whispers apologies into your ear, carefully wiping until your skin returns to that perfect shade of you.

It’s been a while since you’d had these types of thoughts, sure, but with your softly snoring Daryl curled around you, both your bodies wiped clean and feeling like jelly, you know it’ll be a while until he’ll ever let them pop up again.

»»———— ⊱

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[goldeneyedgirl]

TwiFicMas2020 Day 1: Anathema

It’s that time of year again - when I bombard you with fic I’ve written over the year and haven’t posted, whether it is an outtake, part of a WIP, or something that ended up going sideways but still had some cool bits I was proud of. 

Everything will be tracked under the ‘TwiFicMas2020′ and ‘FicMas2020′ tags. Most fics are incomplete scenes - “--” is a scene break, “//” means that there’s a cut - it’s probably not yet written. 

--

First up is Anathema, the fourth or fifth attempt at the ‘Alice works in a mortuary/funeral home’ idea that refuses to solidify itself - though I think I’m getting closer. I enjoy the idea that Charlie Swan is in on Forks’ secrets (before Jacob strips in front of him, lol) and I am always here for the supernatural world being more than just vampires and shifters. 

I hope you enjoy and thank you for reading!

The day the Cullens arrive in Forks, two things happen.

The first, I draw both Death, and the Wheel of Fortune. A combination that, frankly, sounds time-consuming. I lie in bed and contemplate them for awhile. The cards are soft, from lifetimes of passing from hand to hand (my dearest and most beloved Great-Aunt Jeanne passed this set to me when she died. At the time, I was too young to understand the true gift in cards that had never before been touched by Brandon hands - before mine.) The cards are illustrated so carefully, so detailed. They smell like dried lavender and the scrap of linen that I wrap them in, and there is something so reassuring about each and every card.

I draw my cards every few days before I get up. I find it calming, the shuffle of them against my fingers, as I let my dreams fade. It’s a quiet time, and one I savour.

Eventually, I do have to get up, though. No rest for the wicked. The cards go back into the wooden jewellery box some young man carved for some young woman in Jeanie’s family long before I was even a glimpse of a thought, and back into my nightstand drawer.

I - we - live on the first floor of the Brandon Funeral Home, a perfectly respectable converted Georgian house at the end of Main Street, where it sweeps around to Cedar Road. It’s a shit place to have a corner, and more than once speed racers have spun out; whoever’s scraped off the road and our front walk usually end up in the freezers in the basement.

But I digress.

Breakfast is mundane. Dulcie is there, hair in curlers, and a frown on her face when she realises I am not dressed. I sit crosslegged across two thrift-store chairs in my camisole and booty shorts, spooning jam onto toast with the precision of a good scientist and ignore her reminding me of my dressing gown (a sturdy pink-flower print flannel that is buried in my closet. My preferred robe, a thin grey kimono, is currently in my laundry pile) and ‘common decency’, as if my elderly great-uncle is looking to leer at the decided lack of anything I have up north or down south.

Dulcie is… Dulcie. No replacement for Aunt Jeanie, but a good woman. I find it funny that Uncle Freddie is an old man now, and he still reels ‘em in. Or he would if Jeanie’s death hadn’t broken, shattered, and wrecked him. Dulcie worked for us for a few years before she set her eyes on the top bedroom and changing ‘Dulcie Dunn-Stanley’ to ‘Dulcie Brandon’.

Oh, that sounds very jaded. It’s mutual, Freddie and Dulcie. Their courtship was glacial and it’s really only recently that Dulcie’s been hinting about heading to the court house. And, honestly, whatever makes Uncle Freddie happy. Dulcie’s kind to me, we mostly get along, and her attempts to mother me are so far inconsistent - but she is usually pretty respectful.

My uncle lingers over his food; he’s got a new book open at his elbow, and no one can pry my uncle away from his books. They’re usually hardcover, non-fiction. Most of the boxes stored in the third floor are my uncles books.

After breakfast, I am banished to get dressed for work, which is in the basement today, where I am to be the hands as we prepare one Lewis Fletcher for his Saturday morning funeral. There’s a sack of bagged organs resting in the chest cavity, from the autopsy (elk or deer attack, the report says), and I get to stitch Lewis back together, get to fill him full of chemicals, seal things with putty, and get to face painting. The Fletchers are a pretty ordinary family locally, and the service will be simple - they were very agreeable when Freddie met with them last week.

I put my music on and hum as I prepare my kit. It’s no secret that an unqualified teenage girl doing this work probably breaks a lot of laws, but Freddie’s hands aren’t as steady as they used to be, and he’s old enough to remember when a family business meant that the younger generation was trained by the older at home, no degrees or certifications necessary.

Sometimes I wonder what Jeanie would have thought, me working down here like this. Would she have understood? Would she have been mad or upset or disappointed?

We’ll never know.

Freddie fetches us both a cup of tea, and hovers at my shoulder as I piece together Mr Fletcher’s chest cavity.

“Smaller stitches, Alice,” Freddie says, inspecting my work carefully. “Redo that section, stitch closer together, and small stitches.”

I nod, turning around to grab a scalpel from the tray beside me to cut the wonky stitches free and start again, and I freeze as the ice-cold feeling envelopes me. No, no, no it’s been so long…

For a moment, I am unfixed in time and space. I am still in the basement, with the buzzing fluorescent lights, and smooth metal drawers and cupboards, the stink of formaldehyde. But instead of a clean, bare second table, I am lying there. But I’m not dead, and I’m not alone. It’s him. The boy - man? - I’ve been seeing for so long, in visions and dreams. He’s hovering above me, a veritable sculpture of pale flesh as he peels off his shirt, our mouths still fused together, my hands gripping his hips. I am a much less collected figure, with my tights around my knees, one shoe still on and my shirt hiked up over my bra. Vision-Me pulls away to say something, and He laughs, and it’s then the light catches his eyes. Dark gold.

Golden-eyes.

“Oh fuck,” Real-Me says, and somehow Vision-Him knows I’m Seeing and looks right at me, where I’m standing with a scalpel in my hand.

“Alice?” My uncle’s hand on my shoulders brings me right back to the right point in time and space.

It’s at the point I hit the floor, manage to stab myself quite viciously with the scalpel and my uncle starts cussing.

It’s been a while between visions.

//

The Council was basically the reason Freddie and I stayed in Forks. It was a fifty-fifty split between honouring Jeanie’s wishes, and keeping me safe and out of sight - as if my aspirations were towards a Vegas nightclub act or international pop star. I wasn’t entirely clueless.  

Forks was built in a special place. A place where the barriers between the ordinary and the extraordinary were a little thinner, where the supernatural were drawn to. Jeanie had theorised that was why the Quileute were able to tap into their spirit wolves so easily, and why the gene remained so strong, father to son without a constant presence of their enemies. I didn’t know enough of their history to have an opinion, but Forks was definitely a place with an interesting history that very few people knew - even I only knew a fraction of everything that happened, past and present. There were very few written accounts; most of the histories were oral and passed down on a strict need-to-know basis.

The Council were definitely in the know, and had been for generations. There was Billy Black, Sue and Harry Clearwater representing the Quileute tribe, there was Charlie Swan representing Forks and everyone not in the know, and there was Freddie and I. Freddie, was technically Jeanie’s representative, and was the Mediator between the Ordinary and the Others. Jeanie’s family had been Mediators for generations, but she’d never had children, so all of that had somehow fallen onto Freddie - and me.

It was extremely useful to have the Police Chief and a Mortician working the Council - we’d had to fudge more than a few deaths. There was always someone or something passing through the Olympic Peninsula, and we’d negotiated, challenged, threatened, and banished more than a few creatures over the last few years.

Technically, all parties were allowed to bring their apprentice representative, but I was the only one of the next generation who attended. Charlie Swan had made it clear he didn’t want his daughter involved in any of this, and both Billy and the Clearwaters had decided that their kids were too young to know exactly what went on around here. I figured in a decade or so, it would just be me, Seth, and Jacob Black (no way would Leah hang around just for this shit show), drinking beer in the woods and deciding whether to burn or bury.

But tonight’s meeting was Special. Despite the fact I’d been drawing nonsensical cards for days now - the Star, the Tower, and Justice - no visions had appeared beyond a dream about a locket with ‘W’ engraved on it. I’d expected a fairly normal meeting, until Freddie had let me in on the plan - we were, apparently, meeting with the Cullen family. No one had informed me exactly what or who the Cullens were, only that they had a ‘fourth seat’ in the Council that they’d been entitled to since the ‘30s. I’d have to go through Jeanie’s diaries again - there were boxes of them in storage, and Jeanie had useful tidbits dotted throughout.

So that was why I was in the forest with my grandfather, shivering underneath two coats and in my new fleecy boots, standing around a fire pit that didn’t really do much more than illuminate the burning wood; the lanterns we’d brought were more effective.

Some days I really wished Leah or Seth or Jacob Black would attend these meetings; they’d certainly liven up these meetings a bit.

“They’ll be here soon,” Billy Black said grimly. Billy Black had it worse than the rest of us - getting out to this part of the forest was awkward and time-consuming with his wheelchair. Since these meetings were clandestine, we couldn’t build a proper track.

“The terms are staying the same?” Charlie asked, sipping from a paper cup of coffee Sue had pressed on him.

Billy frowned. “We aren’t here to renegotiate, but we will listen to their petition if they have one,” he said finally.

“What are the existing terms?” I asked, nudging a mossy rock with my toe.

“We’ll go over that later on, Alice,” Freddie said, watching the woods carefully.

Fine, obstruct my completely transparent attempt at finding out what was actually going on. I was definitely intrigued by the idea this clan had a ‘seat’ at the Council, but it involve negotiations? The only creature I could think of that would fit that kind of profile would be some kind of shifter.

I was bored.

And then the mysterious Cullens arrived.

They came out of the woods like a mist; slowly but all at once. They kept a respectful distance away from the fire pit, clad in pristine new clothing that was a touch too light for the cold weather but was good quality. There were three of them - a blond man, a brunette woman, and a red-haired boy - all three of them taller than average, and pale as snow. And they were lovely, as if Grecian statues had climbed down from their plinth and wandered off.

“Hello,” the man said, nodding at us politely. “Thank you for welcoming us to this meeting.”

“You’ve a right to be here, as outlined in the treaty,” Billy Black said sternly. “This is the current Council - Charlie Swan for Forks. My self, Billy Black, and Harry and Sue Clearwater for the Quileute tribe. Fred Brandon as Mediator. Carlisle Cullen for the Cullen Coven.”

Coven meant vampires. That dampened my spirits a little; my history with vampires was messy. Plus the few vampires that had ventured into this area had been unpleasant experiences. But as I stared at the Cullen coven, I noticed their eyes.

Golden, like liquid light.

Was He one of them? Was the Cullen coven only these three, or where there more?

��And the young lady?” Carlisle Cullen said, looking in my direction.

“My niece,” Freddie said in a no-nonsense tone. “Shall we begin?”

“I assume Ursula Altis has since passed? My condolences to her family,” Carlisle Cullen said. “I had a great respect for Ursula.”

“Yes. Ursula’s apprentice passed on several years ago, and she named Fred and Alice as her successors,” Harry said.

“I am sorry for your loss,” Carlisle Cullen nodded at Freddie and I. I half-smiled back at him. Jeanie had been gone a long time but I still missed her.

“This is my wife, Esme, and my oldest son Edward,” Carlisle gestured to his two companions.

“Oldest son?” Charlie Swan said sharply.

“Yes - I have three others, but we did not want to overwhelm you,” Carlisle said. “They are here, if you would like to meet them?”

“Yes. We want to know the entirety of your coven,” Harry said bluntly.

Carlisle grimaced and nodded. “Of course. My other children - Rosalie, Emmett, and Jasper.”

Three more Cullens materialised from behind Carlisle Cullen - a tall blonde girl who was utterly breathtaking to look at, had a displeased expression, and was wearing the genuine designer version of my knock-off winter coat. The second was a bear of a man, with the friendliest face, and curly black hair, who winked at me as he wrapped an arm around the blonde girl’s shoulders.

And then a lanky blond boy with a dark expression and wavy blond hair, who hovered in the shadows, his features mostly obscured. All of them had the same golden eyes, the same pallor and dark under-eye circles. But they didn’t look or behave like other nomads that had passed through. They looked… like a nice family.

Maybe in a decade, Jacob, Seth, and I would be joined by Emmett Cullen for the ‘burn or bury’ booze up. He looked like he’d be the most up for livening up these meetings.

“Your family has grown.” Billy’s voice was accusing, and I turned to look at his stern expression.

“My son, Jasper, joined us in 1965,” Carlisle Cullen said politely, “Looking for a different lifestyle. We have abided by your terms, and would not have returned to this area if we were not prepared to continue to do so.”

The Quiluetes weren’t thrilled with that news, and Charlie just looked kind of tired. Freddie was taking notes on his phone, and I was just cold and getting bored again… until I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye.

Jasper was prowling away from the others, closer to me, where I stood at my uncle’s side. Both eyes were on me, like liquid amber, and I finally got a good look at him.

Jasper was Him - the boy hovering over me, half-dressed on the gurney; the boy kissing my scar, and sliding in behind me in the shower. The boy that had hovered at the edges of my visions and dreams since I was young, with adoration in his eyes and gentle touches.

The boy I’d love so fiercely and deeply…

Talk about a terrible time to finally meet.

“Oh fuck,” I said, as I looked at him, eyes wide. All those wretched cliches that terrible books write about happened at that moment. I was enchanted, besotted, and absolutely irrevocably attached to this Jasper Cullen. He was mine.

“Step back!” Harry barked out, but Jasper Cullen ignored him, watching me carefully. I couldn’t help myself; I smiled brightly at him, and he kept moving towards me. Flashes of knowledge were appearing in my head, and for some reasons I kept seeing the Lovers card, still in my deck at home. I could hear people talking, getting angry, but it was like the buzz of insects as Jasper Cullen got closer to me. His hand reached out slowly, to stroke the curve of my cheek, studying me with the strangest look on his face.

And then the pain hit, like someone had shoved an ice pick through my left eye and into my brain. The visions were folding over and over, like origami, before I could decipher them. Choices being made, minds changing, so fast I could keep up. I heard myself cry out as I fell, and then everything was dark.

Then I was seeing things in real time. The way I fell, blood running from my nose, to everyone’s utter horror. My eyes were rolled back in my head, and my body jerked in a seizure a few times before I was still.

But no one could get near me. As soon as I had fallen, Jasper had crouched over my prone form, with a horrified look on his face. Everyone was yelling and trying to get closer, and Jasper let out a snarl that was, frankly, terrifying before refocusing on me, taking my hand and plucking my glove off it, to rest against his own cheek. Whatever that was supposed to achieve did nothing, and whilst everyone else was yelling and bickering, he let out a low whine that was so pathetic, if I’d had any control over my body, I would have sat up and given him a hug.

Then Carlisle Cullen placed his hands up to the Council in a gesture of peace and nodded to Emmett before approaching Jasper.

The conversation would have been too low for anyone else to hear, but not me, in whatever kind of vision this was.

“Jasper, I understand,” Carlisle Cullen said in a low voice. “But she’s got a medical condition, you need to let her people take care of her.”

Jasper growled low, Emmett’s hand on his shoulder.

“Bro, c’mon,” he said. “You’re scaring them,” he nodded over his shoulder. Sue’s face was white with fear, and I was scared that Harry was going to stroke out on the spot.

And I was there, Sleeping Beauty, with a smear of fresh blood on my face.

“I can’t,” Jasper seemed to force out between gritted teeth. “She’s mine.” It was said with determination and desperation, and a deep tenderness.

I was pleased that whatever my embarrassing collapse had been, at least I knew we were on the same page -that we knew each other and we knew each other.

And just like that, like they were magic words, my eyes open and I was back in reality, staring up at the man-boy who was staring at me like I held the secrets to the universe.

“Alice, did he hurt you?” Freddie called out in a strained voice.

“No, that was me. Too much new information,” I said, as I began to sit up, Jasper sliding my glove back on my hand before I realised it was still missing. He held out his hand to help me up, his touch so careful and gentle.

“Okay, good. Come over here,” Freddie motioned for me to move to where the group seemed to have bunched across from the Cullens. Charlie Swan looked murderous. “She’s nothing to you, boy, just let her go.”

I winced when Freddie said that, realising immediately it was like a red flag to a bull, and all of a sudden there was a lot of motion. Jasper growled, attempting to shove me behind him - to protect me? - whilst Emmett and Carlisle Cullen decided it was time to get Jasper physically under control, and pulled him back towards where the rest of the family was standing.

I tripped over a rock and stumbled but righted myself as Jasper was bodily dragged back to where Esme, Rosalie, and Edward Cullen were waiting, looking worried.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” Mrs Cullen asked as I moved back to Freddie’s side, where he quickly clasped me to him, giving me the once over.

“I’m fine,” I said before catching Emmett having bent Jasper’s arms behind  his back at a hideous angle, his knee digging into Jasper’s spine. “Oh, don’t hurt him! Please!” I made a move towards them but Sue grabbed my arm, and Jasper turned to stare at me with what I can only describe as hope.

“I think this meeting is done,” Charlie Swan said finally. “You agree to maintain the existing treaty - that’s all we need. Thank you for coming.”

“Of course, we don’t want to cause any issues,” Mrs Cullen said, and Freddie snorted, shielding me with his body.

I felt like a prisoner being frog-marched back to the car.

“Back at the Brandon’s?” Charlie said, as we arrived at the cars.

“Of course,” Freddie said. “Coffee and debrief.”

//

[bangtancuties]

interview tag ✨

-> the rules are to answer questions and tag 20 blogs you are contractually obligated to know better :)

i was tagged by @kooseokss thanks for tagging me!! Hope you think these answers are cool and you get to know me a little better!! :)

name/nickname: Elke/Bubs pronouns: she/her star sign: Taurus height: 173 cm / 5'7 thats right Im like yoongis height haha time currently: 22:26! when is your birthday: April 24. I turn so old then <_> nationality: Dutch! favorite band/groups: bts, twenty one pilots, glass animals, cage the elephant, dayglow favorite solo artists: k.flay , tame impala song stuck in your head: your love (deja vu) - glass animals last movie you watched: hunchback of the notre dame last show you binged: the mandalorian, and also the muppets show lmao when you created your blog: oof okay so Im an old bitch and this blog has been around since december 2015 or so last thing you googled: “diabolo mechanics” it was for work lmao pls dont judge me other blogs: I do have an older blog floating around here somewhere focused on art reblogging/gaming but I dont use it anymore and have decided people will have to just accept whatever I post why i chose my url: seems pretty obvious 😩 bangtan are 7 cuties. Bangtanboys –> bangtancuties. Yes Ill take my creativity award now thank you how many people are you following: 300 or so but many blogs are inactive now theyre from the ✨old era✨ how many followers do you have: Id rather not say because its sad lmao average hours of sleep: 7-9 , I sleep a lot cuz work will bite me in the ass otherwise and Im an old lady now lucky number: lucky number 7 all the way instruments: I play multiple! Keyboard/piano, guitar and bass guitar. Panflute and ocarina too. And I like to sing but poorly! what i’m currently wearing: flannel shirt with mom jeans and some seriously ugly socks! dream job: I always wanted to be an artist for video games. So its pretty cool that thats what Im doing now. Getting to live my dream every day is a real treat although of course reality is different than the dream. Still worth it! dream trip: Id really like to visit asia again. Visiting China was honestly incredible and Id love to visit it again as well as south korea, japan, taiwan and vietnam, where Ive never been. favorite food: I love lots of things! So a couple favourites: peking duck, kimchi stew, a good old dutch stamppot, ahha favorite song: well fuck me up this is mega difficult and my style and music changes all the time . Ill pick 3, for now: Can’t Sleep - K.Flay Hot Rod - Dayglow Alrighty Aphrodite - Peach Pit top three fictional universes you’d like to live in: Harry Potter, Star Wars , Pokémon!

As for tagging; I dont know all that many people so lets see ! @caiider @transrightsjimin @lifegoesmon @kimdaily @smilingtaehyung yee ok sorry this is all I have I really need more tumblr pals 😩😩 thanks for tagging me though this was fun!

[bishopsorphan]

Justice. Peace. (Epic Ducifer AU fic)

The chill in the crisp air had nothing to do with the coming autumn months. It had everything to do with the Seals.

57 of the 66 had been broken, despite their best efforts. 

57 Seals, and he could feel every last one of them as they cracked. Had felt Dean break in Hell. That had been the hardest. That had been the thing he’d dreaded most. Before he could have saved the hunter, if he’d just gotten to the reaper fast enough, if he’d just played his cards right, played his hand a little better...

He had enough regrets.

Time to keep a promise.

The gate creaked as Lucifer pushed it open, striding toward the house. They were probably about three weeks from the big light show. The angels were losing. The Winchesters were losing. And if his timeline was right, someone else was about to lose big time if he didn’t step in.

He unlocked the front door with a thought and walked into a house that he’d only ever walked out of. But that had been a different time, a different life. A different him, a version of himself that he could no longer even comprehend.

He hated to admit it, but he’d been wrong. And worse, he’d broken a promise. Twisted his own words and meaning.

The face he saw when he looked in the mirror wasn’t his True Vessel’s. It wasn’t even close to his own true face. But he was starting to think of it as such. He owed the man a debt of gratitude. A life for a life. Or two.

“Nick?”

Lucifer shut the door behind him and turned, smiling. “Hey, hun.”

Sarah frowned. “You’re home early. And surprisingly sober.”

“Yeah, some guy’d been drinking since noon, tried to leave, and smashed up a bunch of cars. Bill cut his party short. Once the guys who got hit are done with the cops, Bill said he’d call and we’d move it to a bar or something.” He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and waved it briefly, as if to help explain.

“Ok, well, I just put Teddy down. I was gonna go up and read for a while before turning in.”

“I’ll keep the TV down.”

She smiled at him and headed up the stairs toward their room. “Don’t stay out too late, love.”

“I’ll be safe.”

Lucifer flopped down on the couch and clicked on the TV as Sarah’s footsteps faded up the stairs. Nick was still at the Elks’ getting smashed, he’d checked before stopping by.

It was maybe half an hour before something thumped beside the house and a shadow passed by the window. 

Showtime.

“Nicky?”

Sarah was standing at the top of the stairs, white nightgown flowing around her.

“Sorry, just heading to Bill’s. Sleep tight.”

The woman mumbled some sort of response and wandered back off to bed as the angel wearing her husband’s face slipped out of the house.

He rounded the corner of the yard and found himself face-to-face with a regular-Joe sort who was so, so much more. “Hey, Abe. Long time, no see.”

The demon squinted at him. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

Lucifer flexed his wings. “Oh, I know.”

Abraxas was dead before he knew what hit him.

---

SEVEN YEARS LATER

So this was what forgiveness looked like. 

It looked like Nick Campbell. Felt like Nick Campbell, but stronger. Built for him. Built... special. An actual, honest to Dad, True Vessel.

Holy shit, he’d managed to get himself the Castiel treatment, and it had only taken a trip through time, a complete 180 on his very worldview, and falling into bed with Dean Winchester.

Speak of the Devil....

Dean happened to walk into their room to find Lucifer standing in front of the mirror, stunned at the way he finally fit.

“You...?”

Lucifer smiled. It seemed like an eternity since they’d last seen each other. He’d been ripped from Cas’ body only to be invited into Dean, who kept his Grace in a vice grip until they’d gotten to safety. Which was a good thing. Turns out it’s a whole lot easier to turn yourself into a bomb with an archangel holding you together.

But that hadn’t been necessary, and Chuck had dispelled the excess souls swirling around inside Dean. He’d sent the angel away, too, only to give him back with a shiny new meatsuit.

And then Dean was in his arms and everything was good. Everything was better than good. No more rotting away like he had been before the Leviathan had banished him back to the Cage. No more using Castiel as a vessel. Nothing left to come between them.

“How?”

Lucifer shrugged. “Dad finally made up for all the missed birthdays, got me a gift.”

Dean smiled. It was radiant. “Weird. Your aunt gave me something, too.”

“Yeah?”

Dean took his hand and tugged him from the room. “Yeah. Come on.”

The hunter pulled him down the hall and into the kitchen, where a very confused looking blonde woman in a white nightgown was standing. “Mom? I’d like you to meet my, uh -”

“Nicky?”

For the second time in ten minutes, Lucifer found himself with his arms full of Winchester. “Did you say mom?” Yeah, come to think of it, she did look familiar. Dean kept a photo of her tucked away in his duffel, now in their room.

Wow. Good going, Auntie Amara.

Dean ignored him. “You two know each other?”

Mary frowned, pulling back a bit to eye her son. “He’s my little brother. Your uncle. Where’d you even find him? He ran away after our parents died.”

Lucifer gaped. He turned to Dean, who was also standing with his mouth hanging slack. “Did you know that?” The hunter asked.

“Of course not. What, you think I take a detailed family and medical history for each vessel I take?”

Mary backed fully away, disentangling herself from the angel and narrowing her eyes. “Vessel?”

“Mom, meet Lucifer.”

It was impressive how a fiery death and unexpected resurrection had done absolutely nothing to dim Mary Winchester’s hunting skills. Lucifer hadn’t even seen the knife until it was sticking out of his chest. He didn’t even know where she could have gotten it.

“Mom!”

He wrapped his hand around the knife ad pulled it slowly from his (brand new!) flesh. “You just stabbed your baby brother. That’s cold, lady. You’re cold.” He smiled. “I like it.”

“Give him back.” Mary’s fists were balled up at her sides, her teeth clenched. She was shaking.

“Relax.” The knife disappeared, his shirt repairing itself, blood fading, skin knitting back together. “He’s fine. This is,” Lucifer gestured down at himself, “new. It’s just kinda how I see myself now. Happens when you spend too much time in one vessel.”

“What are you even talking about?” There were tears in her eyes now. And, wow, yeah, it must be a lot to take in at once.

“I can show you,” Lucifer offered, holding two fingers out toward her head, hovering awkwardly in the space between them. “It’s kind of a long story. There’s time travel involved.”

Mary looked to Dean, who nodded. “It’s ok.”

She looked back to the angel. “No tricks.”

He tapped her forehead and gave her a crash course in alternate universe creation. How he time-hopped, found her boys, wormed his way into their lives. How they wormed their way into his very being, changed him at such a base level that he couldn’t even imagine he’d ever considered manipulating them like that.

“Threw in some pop culture knowledge, too,” he said as he drew his hand away. “Didn’t spoil anything too big, though. You’re gonna love The Walking Dead.” He glanced at Dean and grinned. “Can’t wait til she gets to Negan.”

“Thanks for the change of clothes, too,” Mary muttered, looking down at her jeans and flannel combo, a Winchester classic. 

“Can’t go running around in your nightgown. I assume you’d like to see your brother?” He held out his hand to her, and this time there was no hesitation.

They were in Delaware in the blink of an eye, standing in the middle of the Campbell kitchen.

“We can see them, but they can’t see us,” Lucifer explained as Mary surveyed the scene.

Sarah was busy making dinner for the family - mac and cheese by the look of it - while Nick sat with the kids at the table. Their son was getting help on his math homework while their daughter colored a picture in a Frozen coloring book. A perfect nuclear family.

Lucifer couldn’t help but smile seeing it. He’d done that. He’d made it a possibility. He’d done what he’d once said he couldn’t; he’d given Nick his family back, even if the man didn’t even know it. He had his justice. He had his peace.

“I’m an aunt?”

“Teddy and Gwen.”

“They’re beautiful.” She turned to the angel and smiled, tears in her eyes for an entirely different reason now. “Thank you.”

Lucifer shook his head. “No. Thank you.”

He could have sworn, in that moment, that Nick looked up from the table and met his eyes.

[closetspngirl]

Winchester’s Witch (Part 3)

Summary: You lived a normal life in Lawrence, Kansas. After graduating you move across the country to go to college. That’s when you notice that you’re seemingly finding yourself in…weird situations. And they only get weirder from there. Pairings: None, Friends with Sam and Dean, Rowena Word Count: 2782 Warnings: Mild swearing A/N: Last part! Hope you enjoyed it! Series Masterlist

Rowena looked to you, then your hand, then back at you, her red lips curling up. “What’s yer name dear?”

Looking between Sam and Dean and then back to Rowena you answered her, somewhat nervously. “Y/N.”

“No dear, ye’r surname.” Shifting your weight nervously from one foot to the other, “Gilmore.” You heard Sam hum, like he thought this situation was suddenly funny. “My last name funny or something?” You asked him, a little more accusation in your voice than you intended. “No, no. Sorry. It’s just…I’ve always thought it sounded familiar, but I can never figure out why. It’s nothing. Sorry.”

Your attention went back to Rowena. “Well now that that’s been sorted,” Rowena moving her pointed gaze from Sam back to you, she continued. “Gilmore ye say? That would be the Mac’IlleMhòire line, out of a little town in Scotland; Achnascheen. What do ye know about ye’r family dear?”

Now you were really confused. You had no idea that you were even Scottish. You never thought to look up your family history past your great grandparents. “Um, nothing I guess. I just thought my family was from here, well, Lawrence.”

“Wait, you’re from Lawrence? As in Kansas?” Dean asked sounding surprised. It was occurring to all of you that you hadn’t talked about where any of you came from. “Yeah, born and raised. My parents are professors at the University,” you told him.

Rowena kept smiling through the whole exchange. “Ah. Seems ye all missed something in the introductions a few years back, eh?” That pulled all your attentions. “How do you know I’ve been with them that long?”

“Well dear, I guess a’m th’ first tae tell ye.” She stated. “Tell me what exactly…” your eyes narrowing.

“Ye’r a witch my dear.” Once again, she got three sets of stares back at her.

“I hate witches,” you heard Dean say, this time you shot him a warning glare to zip it until you figured this out.

You started pacing, the three of them watching you, back and forth in front of the beds. Sam had tried to speak, but you held a hand up to quiet him, after all you were just told that you were a witch, you needed a moment.  

“Y/N, you keep going at that sweetheart, you’re going to wear a hole in the floor. Sit,” Dean said. You looked up, snapping out of the fog that had settled in your head. As if on autopilot, you moved to the bed closest them and sat.

“Start explaining, Rowena. I have a feeling Y/N is going to lose it in a moment without some sort of logical explanation,” Sam almost growled at her. You only saw him like this when he was trying to pull information out of some wrong doing monster, not that Rowena wasn’t one of them. But that was beside the point, and he wasn’t wrong. You were doing everything you could to stay focused right now.

“Ok, ok. When an’ where did ye get the ring dear?”

“Uh, from my mom. She gave it to me for my eighteenth birthday,” looking down at it, running your finger over one of the deep purple stones. It was an Edwardian style ring, silver filigree, purple stones, flashy, but not gaudy or over the top.

Continuing on as she turned fully to you in the chair she sat in, “Oh dear, that ring is far older. Centuries old, originating from Elspeth Reoch, executed in 1616 for bein’, well, a witch.”

“Still startling her, Rowena,” Dean warned, keeping his eye on you.

Letting out an exasperated sigh, “Well, there’s not much I can do about the history Dean, what’s done is done. Not trying tae scare the poor girl.” Noticing your attention was on the ring, she started with that. “Amethyst. A stone for protection, stress and anxiety.” You looked up at her, confusion on your face, “But I rarely get anxious, or stressed for that matter, even during finals week in college when everyone else was losing their minds over studying, I was fine.”

One of her perfectly manicured pointer fingers went to her nose, “Exactly dear, because of the power inside of you, and the stone. How have yer hunts been, say, the last few years? Noticed anything?”

The boys were thinking back to old cases. “I had the heart issue the year Sammy started back hunting with me. And there was the case with the shtriga that almost killed Sam,” Dean remembered.

“I got abducted by Azazel and sent to that camp, and then died, then brought back. There was that Vamp killer, Gordon Walker, who turned Dean against me. Oh, and that run of bad luck with Bella,” Sam said, listing off some of their other cases.

You looked up in realization. “Nothing more than some cuts and scrapes has come to either of you since I met you, right? I’ve heard stories about your hunts before I showed up. I mean think about the last couple of hunts we did. Things could have gone wrong. Fast. But they didn’t and here we are living to tell the tales.” Did you actually believe what she was telling you? Everything was making sense.

You were sure that smile was permanently attached to Rowena’s face at this point. “Have ye ever noticed th’ ring almost shining…shimmering, even when there’s no sun around? That’s when yer know you’re protecting something.”

Looking down you saw a faint hint of light from the ring, when there was only the dim motel lighting. “What about now? We’re not in a situation where I would have to protect them,” you asked. “Ah, but deep down ye know ye’r not completely comfortable with what’s happening, ye’r on edge. And not just because of ye’r hunting instincts. That’s the magic in ye’r.”

Rowena turned to the boys, “Have ye tried tae give her an anti possession tattoo yet?”

They looked at each other, Rowena already knowing the answer before they could vocalize it.

“Of course it wouldn’t work, she has a witch’s mark. Where is ye’rs dear?” turning back to you.

You looked at the boys. All of you knew what mark she was talking about.

You decided to join the boys after that night at the bar. You weren’t sure what it was about them, but you were drawn to them. They let you get settled into the bunker for a week or so before starting any training. One day Dean told you to get changed and meet him in the gym, which you did, walking in in a pair of leggings and a tank top. He started giving you the basics of fighting, letting you warm up. You had tried a couple of moves from a head on scenario, switching to coming from behind. Dean grabbed you, waiting for you to work your way out of his hold when he noticed the mark on your back. Your tank top had shifted slightly from the movement between your bodies, uncovering the mark on your shoulder blade.

“What is that? A birthmark?” Dean asked you once he saw it. “What are you talking about?” you asked him, after he released you. “Here,” putting his finger on it, “It’s like a, an antler…not sure. Some sort of symbol,” he said, taking out his phone to take a picture. “Huh, I’ve never noticed that before. You’d think I would have noticed by now, right?”

“Y/N?” Sam asked you, “You ok?” Looking up you realized that you had been walking down memory lane. “We were going to look into it, Dean, you took the picture of it, but we never did anything. Shit hit the fan pretty quickly what with the whole Mark of Cain thing and what not. I guess it kind of just got swept under the rug.”

“Well dear, where is it?” Rowena asked again. You unbuttoned your flannel and lowered the sleeve on your left shoulder, pulled your hair to the right side and turned so she could see it.

“Yes. The Algiz, or elk rune; the rune of protection. When did ye notice it dear?”

“That would have been…when I turned twenty-five?” You told her, eliciting a hum from her, like she was confirming something to herself. “The mark shows after the ring is given, depending on how you…present yourself.

“Presenting as in…” you trailed off in question. “As in protecting. Them.” Rowena pointed to Sam and Dean.

You thought about all the times you had seen the guys. “So all of those run ins with them when I was in college? Helping them when I was in Seattle?” you asked. She responded with a sly nod.

“Ok, I have a question. How is all of this possible if I had no idea that I’m a witch? My parents have never said anything, and they’re both European history professors. You’d think they’d mention some century old family secret, right?”

Rowena laughed through her lips, almost humming. “There are three types of witches dear. The borrowers, the naturals,” she said motioning towards you, “and the students. You are obviously and quite literally, a natural. Ye’r don’t need tae be taught because it’s already in ye. There are extraordinary cases to each of these, and ye dear, happen to be one of them. Protectors are strong, very rarely ever learn from a book or mentor, and never use their magic for the sides of good or evil.”

Confused, once again, you asked, “But isn’t some of what we do…maybe not considered good?”

A hearty laugh came from the red head now. “Oh of course! Ye three are no saints, that’s for sure.” Dean rolled his eyes. “But there’s a second bit to this extraordinary case that you happen to be. Every few hundred years or so, they come up, where a witch such as yourself finds the one, or in this case ones, that she is supposed to protect. So, ye’r not protecting for the sake of good and evil, ye’r protecting them from anything that wants to cause them harm. Ye’r more powerful than you know, between your bloodline, the mark and the ring, no major harm will come to ye or the boys.”

You looked between the boys, both of which were looking at you. “Huh, so that happened,” letting out an airy laugh, still getting over the shock of the situation.

“I’m a witch.” It was more of a statement than a question, but directed to Rowena either way.

“Ye’r a witch dear.”

Looking right at Dean, pointedly, “I hope you can make an exception,” a smirk resting on your lips. He laughed, “For you, of course I can.”

“Well, now that all of that has been settled, the help I needed. There’s a vampire nest not far from here. One of them has been after me for the better part of a century, I’d like him dead. I don’t care what ye do with the rest, but ye may as well kill them while ye’r at it. I know ye boys can handle a nest; especially with Y/N,” she looked at you, giving you a wink.

---

“Ok, everyone clear on what we’re supposed to be doing?” Dean asked from the front seat, the Impala parked just down the road from the old barn that the nest was in. “Go in, find the guy, kill them all, get the hell out,” you and Sam took turns repeating each part back to Dean just as you had practiced. “And,” Dean said, turning his gaze to you. “And act like nothing is different in light of recent information,” you finished.

He wasn’t wrong. You couldn’t go in with machetes drawn giving any thought to what you had recently found out from Rowena. All you had to do was make sure you wore your ring, like you always did, and kill the vampires, like you’ve done before.

The three of you stalk towards the barn along the line of trees when Dean turned to Sam, “How many vamps do we think are in here?” All of you stopped walking, Sam looking between the two of you. “Well in everything that I read about them, it should be about five or six?” Dean wasn’t amused. “Should? What the hell is that supposed to mean?” “I, uh, think it means there should be five or six, but he’s not sure,” you quipped, getting an eyeroll from the elder brother.

“This seems too easy. I don’t like it when it seems easy. Why would Rowena send us to a kill that would be easy enough that we could do with or without Y/N, without breaking a sweat?” Dean was questioning. “Well, I guess we prepare for worst case scenario?” you responded, answering his questions as best you could, which really wasn’t an answer in anyway at all.

So that’s exactly what you did, well as best as you could while you were practically on the front step of the door to the nest. When you got in, surprisingly unheard by the prey in question, you looked at each other then back to the rest of the barn. And the fourteen vampires that were mingling around.

Just as you planned, you fought like you normally did; not giving thought to the ring, or the fact that you now knew that you were a witch. The kills were surprisingly easy for you since any vampire that ended up standing in front of you froze, out of fear, making cutting their head off quite simple. When the three of you finished, you looked around at the mess that the ‘fight’ had caused.

“Uhh, guys, I only count thirteen bodies,” Sam mentioned. “Where’s the last one, he was here, I counted fourteen when we walked in, twice,” you responded.

There was a rustling of hay on the ground from one of the darkened corners of the barn, announcing the shadowed figure coming out. “Looking for me?” he said, acting like this wasn’t his last day. “Sure am. You Dante?” you asked, the vampire ignoring the guys and heading, slowly, right for you. While his attention was on you, Sam and Dean were quietly making they’re way up behind him. You noticed your heart rate was staying calm you, you know, for having a vampire with its eyes set on you within arms reach.

“Maybe, maybe not. Who wants to know?” The smug son of a bitch was still thinking he was going to get away from this. He stopped, maybe 5 feet in front of you, enough space that you could take him down, if you put enough power into your swing. You wanted him closer though. “Let’s call her…a mutual friend,” you gave him, not entirely sure what he’d do at the mention of Rowena’s name. Chuckling, more to himself than anything, he took two more steps towards you, and froze. “No,” he whispered.

What he didn’t see was the ever so slight glance that you had given Dean a few seconds before, telling him to take him down when he had the chance. And now that Dante was in front of you, frozen from whatever invisible force was coming off of you, he had the chance. Well, all three of you did, but there was something about the way Dean finished off a vamp that was entertaining. In the dramatic sense, not the ‘I love chopping the heads of half human half creatures off’ sense; he was always making a show of the last one.

“That was still too easy. I don’t like easy,” Dean huffed, not completely out of breath, but more because the fight was over. “I know, no one likes it; but it’s done. We did was she said, and we’re all coming out unscathed. Which I guess just proves everything Rowena told us, me,” you said, not really to either of them.

You looked at Sam first, him offering you a smile. “So, a witch.” You shrugged in response, “Guess so?” You looked at Dean next, “Still ok with this?” He seemed to be thinking about it, which should have spiked your heart rate a little, knowing what he was capable of doing to someone. A smile found its way back to his face, “Yeah. I’m still ok with this. You are the only witch that I will ever be ok with. I guess as long as you stick around. But judging by our history, it wouldn’t be long before we ended up together again. So, still want to keep hanging out with us, Y/N?”

“I would love that,” you said, a big smile on all of your faces. “Let’s go home.”

[a---a--aeon-flex--x---x]

• I found this scarf on the side of the road, in a ditch, along the Pat Bay Highway~ in between Mt. Newton and Island View Rd. It became my banner for the MMIW's as I marched into Victoria. On my way there, as I was just reaching, Elk Lake, a young Aboriginal Mother of whom was driving the opposite direction saw me walking; turned around; and chased me down to offer me a ride. Before she even knew what my cause was, she was willing to give me a ride into town~ out of general concern for my personal safety. I told her that, although, I appreciated her kind gesture~ I was actually doing this march as a protest in commemoration of the, MMIW's, and that I was trying to bring awareness to their cause; as well as, Systemic Racism and Firstnations Awareness. As soon as I mentioned this to her, she broke down in tears. It turns out that not too long ago, she, "herself," had been a victim of kidnapping; along with two of her friends. She mentioned, that: although, she, "herself," was able to escape~ her friends are STILL considered, "missing," to this day. She was absolutely elated that someone had finally taken notice of HER plight, and was actually trying to do something about it. Though, I declined her offer to take me the rest of the way into, Victoria, she insisted that she escort me the rest of the way, until I reached a safer destination. Later, as I was just about to reach, Elk Lake Dr, another woman stopped ahead of me, to offer me another ride. Once again, I explained to her, politely, that what I was doing was in commemoration of the MMIW's; but this time I was greeted with an enormous smile. It turns out, about 5-6 years ago, she had also tried to make her own statement in plight of the MMIW's by pinning up RED DRESSES and other red fabric materials that would stand out along the side of the highway, between the Tsawout Reserve and Island View Rd, such as: "Red Flannel Scarfs." Do you believe in coincidences? It just goes to show that you never know whose life you're going to touch.

There is a 450 mile stretch of road on Highway 16, between Prince George and Prince Rupert in British Columbia, Canada. This remote road has become known as “The Highway of Tears” due to the fact that 40+ young women have disappeared there in the past 30 years; many believe the work of multiple serial killers. 19 bodies, ranging in age from 12 to 33, have been been discovered on the road - many had been raped, beaten to death, or strangled, and many disappeared while hitch-hiking. The majority of the women are aboriginal, leading many to believe that this is why the police force on the task lack enthusiasm or interest in solving it.

[yeet-me-dad-dy]

Soft asks to get to know me

What song makes you feel better? That’s a hard question. :O I guess it depends. On exactly what mood I’m in that I need to feel better from. I usually turn to Breaking Benjamin if I’m feeling angsty, or my chill playlist if I’m sad, which just has a load of random calm songs on it.

What’s your feel-good movie? It’s not a movie, but I always come back to Moonlight, the show about a vampire detective starring Alex O’Loughlin. It’s my favorite. Either that or Dracula Untold. Maybe Van Helsing.

What’s your favorite candle scent? Duuuuuude anything warm. Shortbread, pecan pie, vanilla cookies. I love it all.

What flower would you like to be given? Lilies are my favorite, but I’m never able to have any because they’re poisonous to cats. Blue stargazer lilies and wizard lilies, or white lilies.

Who do you feel most you around? I’m lucky to have a few people that I can be myself around. My mom and my alter are at the top of the list, but I also have great friends and an awesome partner.

Say three nice things about yourself. Three physical and three non physical. Uhhhhhhh I’m kinda attractive, I have kind eyes, and my arms are good for hugs. I’m smart, talented, and kind... mostly kind.

What color brings you peace? Pale blue. c:

Tag someone, or multiple people, who make you feel good. I don’t wanna bother them, so no tag, but @moriimae, @lizzietheizzie, @dark-whispers, @astridstark13

What calms you down? Allister, my alter ego. He’s very good at helping me out of anxiety or panic attacks, anger and frustration, self-loathing, etc.

What’s something that you’re excited for? Movin’ my partner in with me! Dunno when it’ll happen, but I’m excited for it!

What’s your ideal date? That depends! I love the idea of taking them somewhere fun, like to the planetarium, paired with dinner and then driving out to look at real stars. But I’m also fond of the idea of cooking them a nice dinner at home and then curling up on the couch together to watch movies.

How are you? I am DELIGHTFUL.

What’s your comfort food? Burgers and fries or sushi.

Favorite feel-good show? Moonlight again. :D

Compliment the person who send you this number. @moriimae, you gremlin, you wanted me to do all of these, so you DON’T GET ANY COMPLIMENTS... cutie.

Fairy lights or LEDs? Fairy lights. I have some hanging in my closet. :D

Do you still love stuffed animals? Yes! I have a few that I talk to.

Most important thing in your life? My mom. I don’t know what I’d do without her. She’s closely followed by my alter, my pets, my partner, and my friends.

What do you want most in the world right now? My partner in my arms. c:

If you could tell your past self one thing, what would it be? Suck it up and do it. You’re gonna be in the same place you are right now if you don’t.

What would you say to your future self? I’m so sorry.

Favorite piece of clothing? My 2019 Natewantstobattle long sleeve shirt. :D

What’s something you do to de-stress? Sit in the bottom of my shower and let the hot water wash over me. :O

What’s the best personal gift someone could give you? Literally anything handmade. I don’t care what it is. If you make it with your own hands, I will love it.

What movie would you want to live in? Fuck, I dunno. One of those ones where things aren’t gone to shit like the world we live in right now.

Which character would you want to be? The mysterious witch that lives in the woods that will either curse you or grant you a boon depending on what your intentions for seeking them out are.

Hugs or hand holding? HUGS. Lemme wrap my arms around u and hold u close!

Morning, afternoon, or night? Night night night night night night night night night.

What reminds you of home? Mountains, windy open plains, deep forests, rocky crags. Farm animals like horses and cows. Pronghorn, wolves, bears, mountain lions, elk. Wind. Flannel, jeans, and boots. (Can you guess where I live?)

[seaglassandeelgrass]

Taking advantage of @focsle‘s implied tagging; anyone else should feel free to do so on my behalf as well

what’s your favourite song(s) to sing/hum?

Traditional ballads, including, but not limited to: murder ballads, child ballads, appalachian ballads, lumberjack shanty ballads, forebitters, border ballads, and more...

what are your favourite flower/tree/plant (all 3 or whatever you have an answer to)

Tree: Paper Birch or Eastern Hemlock

favourite colour(s)?

Orange.

what do you always doodle (if you ever do)?

Uh, horseshoe crabs and sail-plans and anchors and skulls? Although I generally just absentmindedly fidget with my pen instead.

how do you take your coffee/tea? If you don’t like those what’s your fav warm drink?

Yorkshire or Typhoo, steeped stewed until I remember it 10-15 minutes later, two heaping teaspoonfuls of sugar, and just enough milk to make it opaque.

favourite candle scent?

Balsam, but only if it smells convincingly of pine.

sunrise or sunset?

Sunrise, although rare is the morning I (of my own volition) see one.

what perfume do you wear if any?

None. I’m weird about scents and I simply can’t stand having a smell follow me around incessantly, unless it’s like. Woodsmoke. Even scented chapstick is too much. I just smell like Soap. And Woodsmoke if it’s summer.

what’s your go to dance move when you’re alone?

Shimmying around the kitchen whilst waving a spatula. Or waltzing with an invisible partner.

favourite quote?

idk?

favourite self care thing(s) or routine(s)?

Having a cuppa tea. Biking really fast until my legs feel like jello. Doing a crossword. Watching a show from my list of Feel-Good/Pick-Me-Up shows.

what colour are your eyes?

Indeterminate blue-grey-green.

what’s your favourite eye colour on others?

I don’t know that I have a favourite

favourite season? why?

Autumn/Fall- The air’s crisp and the light looks as though a lens has been brought into sharper focus and the breeze smells like dead leaves and slightly dusty decay and the night sky’s getting higher but the stars aren’t quite as cold as winter’s and there’s pick-your-own apples and flannel shirts are once again appropriate attire.

cheek, neck or nose kisses

Cheek, I s’pose? Or temple. I have limited experience in the kissing department.

what does your happy place look like?

Inside: books and tea and an overstuffed armchair and possibly a cat or two. Outside: tall pine trees and drifting woodsmoke and slanting golden evening sun and birdsong that turns the woods to a cathedral

favourite breed of dog?

the Saskatchewan Elk-Stalking Hound

do you ever want to be married? If so what colours would you pick for your wedding theme?

I don’t have any particular aspirations in that direction, but also no definite opposition to the concept thereof? No theme, but I’d take the opportunity to have a really nice bespoke suit made for me. Not that I’d need the excuse

favourite weather?

Thunderstorms; the bigger and louder the better. Or the thick coastal fog that blankets the shoreline on a summer morning and muffles lobsterboat engines and seagulls’ shrieks alike in a great grey shroud of anonymity.

[theflannelelk-blog]

(The Flannel Elk Show)

[hillbillyhippiemusicreview]

Post #45—Interview with Addison Lea Thompson

Hey all you hillbillies and hippies! I hope you’re doing well out there in Quarantine-Land. If you’re anything like me, I imagine you’re getting antsy for some live music to soothe your soul. Thankfully, during this time, a lot of artists have been putting out new tunes for us to enjoy and alleviate the blues. Speaking of new tunes, one of our favorite HHMR alums—Addison Lea Thompson—joins us today to discuss life and music during the shutdown and what the future holds.

L: Well, hey there King of Honky Tonk Loud Nation! How’s this quarantine been treating you with no bars to play on?

ALT: It has been a blessing and a curse. Any one that knows me, knows I live for road life and touring. My friends and family are probably going nuts being around me, having not been on the road for a while. However the upside is I am able to get back to my original love and help out on the family ranch, I have also been able to do a lot more writing recently as well as put a lot of effort into a new album that we have in the works. So, overall I’m doing well, but damn am I ready to be back on the road.

L: I love the road myself, so I can imagine you’re as stir-crazy as I am! How do you keep busy when you’re off the road?

ALT: I love the ranch life so you can usually find me perched on a tractor or fixing fence or one of the thousands of other things you need to get done on a cattle operation. When I am not doing either of those things I absolutely love to hunt and fish. I have been an outdoorsman my whole life, and I do my best to take time out of my schedule to go drop some flies on a river or go chase some Elk in the mountains.

L: So, you’ve been rather vocal on social media about your need to honky-tonk during this time of economic shutdown. Finally, it appears the music scene is opening back up. What was your first show post-quarantine like? Was it anything like you expected? Any remnants of days gone by left?

ALT: It was absolutely great to be back! There were some odd things that I am still getting used to, such as the social distancing guidelines in the venues and all. I’ll also admit that I was rusty as hell the first three songs, but man oh man I got into the groove on a “Dixieland Delight” cover around song number four and it was like being back on a horse you love to ride. I was back in the groove and back to doing what I love. I personally think we will be back to normal in the future.

L: Hopefully you are right and the scene will be hoppin’ again before long! When you’re able to tour regularly again, where would you like to play?

ALT: All over! Hahaha, in all honesty thats the answer. I have toyed with the idea of doing the western United States route I love doing so much, but I have also been super bummed that we had to cancel so many Midwest dates, and I really want to make those up as soon as possible because the folks out there have always been so amazing to me over the years. I also want to be able to share the stage with as many of my friends in this business as I can. I think some gigs with The Comancheros, Billy Don, Jeff Hopson, ole Uncle Dallas and so many more will be a well needed cure. Our plan is once its possible to set up a tour we are just going to hit as much of the U.S. as we can as quick as we can.

L: Most artists have their favorite venues to play whilst on the road and have that “Mecca” of a location they aspire to play. Where’s your favorite place to play and your dream venue?

ALT: I honestly don’t have a favorite, because there have been so many over the years that I have come to know and frequent. I will say the Moose Bar in Dillon, MT will always have a special place in my heart, because it is where I got my start, and it will always be my home bar. That was where it all started. My dream venue without a doubt is Billy Bobs Texas. I make a point to go grab a beer there every trip I make to Fort Worth. I’ll sit there and stare at that stage for damn near an hour and just keep saying “One day, Addison.” I know that sounds cheesy as all get out, but it’s sort of my cheesy moment I can always look at on a rough day.

L: That’s certainly a great—and reachable—goal, and I admire you for respecting your roots. What made you decide to start playing and writing music?

ALT: Music has always been a part of my life, I started piano at a very young age, I was in my school band, I was in the church handbell choir, church vocal choir, and the list goes on forever. I was the weird kid in high school wearing band tee’s and flannel, blasting classic country and rock through my headphones between classes. I was sort of just doomed from the get go. I’ve always written as well since grade school: short stories, comic books—I’ve got stacks of novels I never finished writing, poetry, again you name it! So, basically the two just came together somewhere in high school.

L: I can relate to the notion of being doomed from the start! The lyric “Way back on the radio dial, a fire got lit inside a bright eyed child” is my truth. When I started writing, I always made it a point to incorporate my life experiences. Can you elaborate on how your experience as a cowboy influences your writing and the stories you tell.

ALT: It’s my world. I have covered a lot of miles and met some amazing folks in my short life, all because of being a cowboy. It’s a unique world with its own culture, and that culture is so much of who I am and where I come from (Not to accidentally quote my own song there haha). You write what you know and I know the cattle ranching world and rodeo world. I always have felt if I tried to be anything other than myself and what I know in my music, people would know in an instant moment that it was fake.

L: It’s apparent from your music and lifestyle that you are very real—your music alludes to all things cowboy and western. So, what does the phrase “Heavy and Western” mean to you?

ALT: To me it means that I’m hanging out with my buddies “The Comancheros" and there will be a lot of talk about classic rock and Star Wars happening hahaha.

L: That’s a solid answer! Love those Comancheros! When I reviewed your most recent release, Western Sky, I focused a bit extra on two songs full of western imagery, yet with quite heavy undertones: “Towards the Light” and “Single Barrel Hell.” I was particularly drawn to the stories woven throughout the lyrics and I related deeply given my past with mental illness and suicide attempts. You mentioned I was the first to get the meaning behind them that didn’t know what they were about. Can you expand on your inspirations behind the songs?

ALT: For sure! Suicide awareness/prevention is a cause near and dear to my heart. I have lost several friends to it, I have my own personal experience with it, and I think there is a need to shine a light on what I personally think is a very “needed to be discussed subject”. I never went into the writing of either of those songs with the mindset of “oh, I’m going to make this big point about the subject”. I just wanted to tell both of these stories. One is the story of a combat veteran friend of mine, and the other is a collection of stories that are about a lot of people that have been through the same situation.

L: It’s a great cause to highlight and every bit helps to end the stigma. Where can your fans see you play those songs next? Also, where can they connect with you on social media?

ALT: Right now due to the current situation with Covid-19 we don’t have the normal solid schedule I like having, I will be trying to do more Facebook live feeds, and as soon as we get live shows booked everyone else will be the first one to know as soon as I know. You can catch me on the inter webs at Addison Lea Thompson on Facebook, @addisonleathompsonmusic on Instagram, and @AddisonLeaMT on Twitter. Or you can of course go to www.addisonleathompson.com

L: Speaking of social media, what’s your viewpoint on it and the effect it has on the music industry?

ALT: You know it is a blessing and a curse. It is a blessing because unlike back in the day, you can access a large crowd very quickly and find your market very quickly. It makes it easy for people that enjoy your music to stay up to date on whats going on. You can get the word out about shows, a new record, new merchandise—you name it. The only downside is you don’t want to get carried away using it as a platform for things that might not really effect your music. I make it a pretty solid rule to not post about touchy topics, because at the end of the day, people should be able to believe in what they want to believe in and it has no effect on me.

L: I can get behind that. It’s been a blessing to stay connected with new music lately. I’ve heard through the grapevine, namely via you, that there are new tunes on the way. What can you tell me about this project?

ALT: It will be sonically unlike anything I have ever put out, but also reminiscent of both of the previous records. I wanted to go different than what we have done historically on this record, and we have made that point key in the process. We are drawing on a lot of influences and ideas I have always had, but never pulled out of the bag. It has been an absolute blast working on the project and it will feature some awesome co-writers on some of the songs, all who are good friends of mine. In my personal opinion lyrically, this album is the best songwriting I have done to date.

L: I’m excited to hear it! Now, time for some lighthearted questions to get to know you better. You’re obviously quite talented in the music realm, but what would you consider your most useless talent?

ALT: I know a lot of good dad jokes, and I am excellent at being one of the most technologically impaired people on the planet.

L: Dad jokes are quite nerdy, but other than that talent what is the nerdiest thing about you that fans may not know?

ALT: I am a HUGE American Civil War history buff. I can’t tell you how many damn books, documentaries, and artifacts I own from the era. When I was 13 my folks let ME pick a vacation destination for the summer, big mistake on their part because I totally picked three days touring the Gettysburg Battlefield.

L: That’s awesome! It’s one of my favorite eras in history, too. So, it’s time for the final question—think hard. We at HHMR love to ask artists is what they perceive their spirit animal to be. So, what is yours? And why?

ALT: North American Bison, the main reason I say that is that it is an animal I am obsessed with. The necklace people always see me wearing is a Bison necklace. They are an incredible animal that just enamor me so I am personally going to say Bison. Ask my family and friends they’ll probably tell you an old mule, since I’m so stubborn.

Well there ya have it folks—the man behind the music is quite the interesting feller! But, I think I may be able to outdo him on the dad jokes...

What did the buffalo say to his son when he left for college? Bison!

On that note, I gotta go, buffalo. Y’all be sure to stay connected with all things Addison Lea Thompson via his social media. In the meantime, brush up on your puns so you can challenge him to a Dad Joke Duel and tune into the Facebook live shows until we can meet again in person. Stay safe and healthy. I’ll see y’all down the road.

Peace, love, & music

—Lyssa

[sixstringnation]

It doesn't get more Cobalt than this.⁣ ⁣ September 2006 - the end of our first summer with the guitar, before it had been named Voyageur. To fuse that connection with the silver on the first fret and the town we visit every summer to visit family, the Classic Theatre mounted a show that brought out a ton of talent to perform as a kind of homecoming for the guitar. For the finale, arguably Cobalt's most famous resident, former Grievous Angel and NDP MP Charlie Angus lead the cast in a rendition of the town song.⁣ ⁣ The Cobalt Song⁣ ⁣ [CHORUS]⁣ For we'll sing a little song of Cobalt⁣ If you don't live there it's your own fault⁣ Oh you Cobalt⁣ Where the wintry breezes blow.⁣ Where all the silver comes from⁣ And you live a life and then some⁣ Oh you Colbalt⁣ You're the best old town I know.⁣ ⁣ You may talk about your cities⁣ And all the towns you know⁣ With trolley cars and pavements hard⁣ And theatres where you go.⁣ You can have your little auto⁣ And carriages so fine⁣ But it's hobnail boots and a flannel shirt⁣ In Cobalt town for mine.⁣ ⁣ Old Porcupine is a muskeg⁣ Elk Lake a fire trap⁣ New Liskeard's just a country town⁣ And Haileybury's just come back.⁣ You can buy the whole of Latchford⁣ For a nickel or a dime⁣ But it's hobnail boots and a flannel shirt⁣ In Cobalt town for mine.⁣ ⁣ We've got the only Lang Street⁣ There's blind pigs everywhere⁣ Old Cobalt Lake's a dirty place⁣ There's mud all over the square.⁣ We've got the darndest railroad⁣ That never runs on time⁣ But it's hobnail boots and a flannel shirt⁣ In Cobalt town for mine.⁣ ⁣ We've bet our dough on hockey⁣ And swore till the air was blue⁣ The Cobalt stocks have emptied our socks⁣ With the dividends cut in two.⁣ They don't get any of our money⁣ In darned old Porcupine⁣ But it's hobnail boots and a flannel shirt⁣ In Cobalt town for mine. via Instagram http://bit.ly/307NVgw

[taylorwritesnonstop-blog]

Music Memoir - III. Minuet

We were embarking on the bildungsroman of trips—after graduating high school, we were headed to Seattle for the week of my 19th birthday. Together, Maddie, Jeffry, and I had all saved up the money we needed for a round trip ticket from Denver to Seattle, several nights in Airbnbs and hostels, and enough to feed ourselves for a week. In this regard, we couldn’t help but splurge on coffee and meals at undeniably hipster/millennial restaurants. We walked all over the city, backpacks weighing down our shoulders and hips, marking ourselves distinctly as tourists. We intrepidly navigated the metro and bus system late into the night.

Bonded through the experience of creating symphonic works of art, music was inevitably something we discussed; revering and despising works in equal measure. When it was your turn to DJ, you stepped up to the plate and presented something that was edgy, beautiful, hilarious, masterful, groovy. Discovering great new albums or talented new voices was one of benefits of our close knit friendship. The aux cord was like the winding plastic veins of an IV drip that gave us life. We sang along to the farcical, falsetto la las (a la rock and roll records of the ‘60s, best laid out in Elton John’s Crocodile Rock) of a gem we had found from a weird indie band.

“Under the night lights You’re looking for some place to go (For some place to go)…

nah-nah nah-nah, la-la la-Laaaa nah-nah nah-nah, la-la la-Laaaa nah-nah nah-nah, la-la la-Laaaa nah-nah nah-nah, la-la la-Laaaa” -San Cisco, “Lyall”

One of the best birthdays, or days in general, was the day I spent in Seattle with my two best friends from high school. We splurged on an Uber to take us to the Japanese Garden that was on the edge of the city, and were rewarded with a curated yet organic maze of botanical paradise. We wandered, unhurried, through the paths in the 3.5-acre garden, soaking in the zen and natural glory of flourishing trees and flowers. We crossed bridges and stones over the running water was cutting its own paths through the landscape, filling the air with a gentle babble. We took photos in a bed of hydrangeas with globes as big as our face. We didn’t know the path ahead of us, other than the fact that it would be beautiful; we just meandered, completely present in the moment.

The next day, we took a bus to a train to a ferry to Lopez Island, 30 square miles of slow paced life just off the Washington coastline. Lopez is the “Friendly Isle”, where it’s customary to wave at passing cars. We rode my great aunt and uncle’s Jeep to their secluded little cabin. We pulled over to pick some of the plentiful blackberries that grew on thorny bushes on the side of the road, each of us filling bags with plump, glistening little purple-black gems of tart sweetness. We visited gorgeous beaches. One was covered with smooth, colorful stones that clicked gently over each other as the waves broke over them. Another was littered with innumerable shells, many of which were still intact, which we pocketed and wrapped carefully in our luggage. Lastly, a tranquil cove that was perfect for swimming even though the August waters were still chilly, with sandy shores covered with gnarled driftwood logs bleached by the salt and sun.

We met up with my cousin the next day, and he took us for a ride on his sailboat, where we drank straight from a bottle of wine he had stowed in the cabin. He brought us along to meet his friends who met every week for “Music Night”. Serendipitously, my instrument—a French horn—was waiting in the Island Library, which I checked out for the occasion. Not sure what to expect, we pulled up to a friend’s “farm” and were met with a scene that was more eclectic than I could have imagined. In the front of the farm, there were multiple school busses and VWs that were in the process of being refurbished into tiny homes. My cousin’s friend who identifies as a “hippie cowboy” led us around a tiny, bizarre village of outbuildings, a shingled barn, corrugated sheet metal outhouse, a large greenhouse for growing the green stuff, and a yurt like structure where he and his partner slept, which was hung with countless chandeliers of found deer and elk antlers. Mason jars fill of bud sat on every shelf. The hippie cowboy held a stem of marijuana between his lips, chewing on the end like a TV show rancher would on a piece of hay. He had some of the most formidable dreadlocks I’ve ever seen on a white person and wore an oversized flannel paired with a leather cowboy hat and boots. They brought us out back to a pen which housed around two dozen goats for a “goatie frolic”. We nervously laughed as we pet the goats, unexpectedly intimidating animals (who leaped nimbly onto rails a meter off the ground), with their marble like amber eyes, stocky bodies, and curved horns. As the last light of the day was quickly fading, we walked along a cow pen and were inspected by the farm cats who brushed up against our shins.

Finally, it was time for the long awaited Music night. We crowded into an outbuilding with my cousin, the farmers, and a collection of their “band mates”. This structure was like a cave, a low ceilinged hut constructed with stones of varied sizes, glass bottles, and other random artifacts all held together with loose mortar. The mortar was sculpted into humanoid forms in the corners of the tiny room. There was a binder of chord progressions and lyrics for songs by indie rock bands and a bottle opener masquerading as a little statue of a nun. A wood burning stove warmed the gathering, a motley ensemble of an accordion, a violin, guitars, a mandolin, a triangle, my French horn, and off-key singers. 

“And it's one, two, three On the wrong side of the lee What were you meant for What were you meant for And it's seven, eight, nine You gave your shuffle back in line And if you ever make it to ten, you won't make it again And if you ever make it to ten, you won't make it again” -The Decemberists, “Rox In The Box”

Even though the group couldn’t keep a steady tempo or stay on pitch in the vocal department, the sense of fun filled the air like the pot smoke. 

In the following days, Jeffrey, Maddie, and I chopped our own wood to make campfires, went to the farmer’s market, and made a Dutch oven cobbler with the blackberries. We threw rocks and swirled branches off a dock at night, bioluminescence lighting up the water at the movement. It was the perfect conclusion to an era of my life, after high school and before college, innocent and optimistic kids on the precipice of adulthood.

[junglesinparis]

Q&A: Photographer Matt Hamon on Montana, Authenticity, and Problems of the ‘Exotic’

Matt Hamon stumbled upon the Buffalo Bridge Project by accident—he was researching tips on butchering elk—but this group of primitive-skills devotees eventually became the subjects of his stunning photo series The Gleaners.

Collaboration is the group’s normal method: they spend six weeks every year assisting the Native American hunters in an annual buffalo hunt in southern Montana. Hamon (a northern California native who teaches fine art at the University of Montana) persuaded the Buffalo Bridgers to work with him, too. He is quick to point out that this work is not photojournalism. Hamon’s process—which often includes a strobe, to achieve the effect of a more formal portrait—requires cooperation and time.

The resulting photos are haunting yet comforting, timeless yet anachronistic, suffused with a sense of peaceful purpose and yet shot through with tremendous tension. The photos have an “iconographic sensibility,” Hamon says, and ring with the echoes of evocative antecedents in both frontier mythology and Western art. (The title is lifted from a famous 1857 work by from Jean-Francois Millet, which depicted three peasant women stooping to collect stray stalks of wheat left after the harvest.)

Hamon’s sensational yet deeply human images seem to encapsulate the history of the American West, in all its beauty and complexity, its contradictions and underlying tensions around questions of authenticity, integrity, and ownership that burn as strong as ever today.

Below is a condensed and edited version of my video chat with Hamon in April 2017.

-Tim Sohn

Tim Sohn: How did you discover the Buffalo Bridge Project?

Matt Hamon: When I moved from northern California, I was fascinated by the visibility of hunting here in Montana, of driving down the road during hunting season and seeing elk draped over the tops of cars. So I began tagging along with some of my colleagues. They taught me to shoot and hunt, and now the primary source of meat in my house for my wife and two children is wild game that we hunt. So I was looking for some advice online about butchering elk when I ran into a post from one of the Buffalo Bridge folks. I thought it was interesting, so I made email contact and started developing a relationship from there. And now I’ve joined them for the past two hunts.

TS: How long did you spend there this year, 2017?

MH: About ten days. I usually make two trips, and I live in camp and I pitch in. I think this is another reason I have the relationship and access—if I show up and people are shoveling, I pick up a shovel. So I’m typically there about ten days, living in camp and photographing. And then I make a return visit to show them the edits and give them prints.

All photos by Matt Hamon. Click here for the Jungles in Paris slideshow and Tim Sohn’s story about frontier revivalists in Montana.

TS: What’s their camp like?

MH: There’s a landowner there who used to run a little tepee campsite. He has some pasture and paddocks and a barn and they lease it for their time there. It’s right across the road from this grid work of public lands and National Park lands, so there are a few corridors there that the buffalo migrate through. But they move kind of at random, so it can be a lot of waiting.

TS: You’re not the only person who’s approached them about a project like this, right?

MH: Right. One of the unfortunate aspects is that they have been approached relentlessly by reality TV production companies. So there was the potential for them to take the money and make their project larger. But they’ve really tried to maintain the integrity of what they’re doing. Their style and aesthetic are authentic to them, as a group of people committed to living and working outside the standards of production and consumption. They face the world with a utilitarian outlook. And they’re also sensitive to the fact that it’s complicated when you have the Native American aspect. The Natives are the hunters. Buffalo Bridge is mostly white people interacting with that culture.

TS: Would you say that they’re, in a way, already acting out a role?

MH: They would object to that. One writer at CNN made reference to their aesthetic: beards and flannel, ‘hipster’ or whatever, like they seemed fashionable. My response was, well, that may be an appropriate reference to make for your audience, but the reality is it grows out of their commitment to this life and this outlook. And it comes back, again, to utilitarianism. They’ll say, ‘OK, we need thread, I’m going to figure out how to make thread from bison, fibers, plant fibers or whatever.’ In regard to their philosophy, it seems authentic.

“I’m guilty of the historic problem of photography: the exploitation of the exotic. My answer is to admit to the problem and present it in an interesting way.”

TS: It’s still complex—lots of layers there.

MH: With much of my subject matter, I’m guilty of the historic problem of photography, which is the exploitation of the exotic. I think I’m aware of that, and hopefully in these images there’s ultimately greater depth than the pure sensationalism of the image.  The only answer I’ve found is to admit to the problem of photography as a medium, and to present it in an interesting way. But I guess I’m so committed to the process that I’m not willing to [completely] surrender to that problem.

TS: And it seems that for you, part of getting at that is by approaching it as image-making rather than photojournalism.

MH: My entry point and interest in the medium is closer to fine art, in which you’re creating, rather than doing objective observation—as absurd as it is to suggest that photography ever functions objectively. So when I first approached them, I described myself as a portrait photographer, as someone interested in the intimacy you can achieve by standing immediately close to someone, a type of intimacy reserved for family members and lovers. You can really study someone in a carefully crafted photograph…that was my initial impulse.

TS: It must take a lot of time, achieving that intimacy.

MH: That’s part of my process. I need to be there, and it takes a while. I don’t even take my camera out. After a while they’re like, ‘Dude, where’s your camera?’ Eventually I’ll bring it out, shoot casually, observationally, until once in awhile I see a backdrop or a presentation that has an iconographic sensibility. Another way that I often navigate these relationships with anyone that I shoot is that I give something back. So I make archival prints for everyone I photograph and mail them to them.

“I’m interested in the intimacy you can achieve by standing immediately close to someone, an intimacy reserved for family members and lovers.”

TS: The title of the series alludes to this painterly idea of more formal, composed scenes.

MH: I shoot digitally, with a medium format digital back, but my process is slow and selective. And I usually bring in a light to get an aesthetic separation of subject and background. But it’s not rigidly posed—it’s more of a pause. I’m interested in that gray area between staged editorial portraiture and reality, to bring that reverent light and attention to common situations and people. And I think the old genre paintings like “The Gleaners,” by Millet, was sort of doing that too: reverently addressing normal people, rather than aristocracy. So philosophically and conceptually, that’s where I start. But when it gets down to brass tacks, it’s about the beauty and the intimacy.

TS: And then there are the facial expressions—not a lot of smiling.

MH: A lot of my portrait projects start out with people smiling. I intentionally coach that out of them, because a smile to me kills the complexity of an image—there’s such an immediate sense of awareness on the viewer’s part, of this person knowingly being photographed.

TS: Do you see this as an ongoing project?

MH: Well, now some of them will stop and stay at my house on the way to the hunt, so I consider a lot of them friends, which is unexpected. But it has motivated me to continue to revisit the hunt every year.  I think it would be nice to expand to the other cultures surrounding it: the tribal hunters, game management, and the ranching community.

TS: What are your thoughts on photographing the tribal hunters?

MH: The first year I intentionally avoided shooting any of them, because I understand how Native Americans in our country have been exoticized and all that. But in the second year, you’ll start to see some of the tribal hunters appear, because I started to communicate with them and get their permission, and share images of the hunt. I mean, ideally I think it would be someone from the tribes photographing them. Having worked with a magazine in Germany, I see there can be this assumption the Germans had that Native Americans would be in buckskins and headdresses. But you look at the images and it’s the gleaners who are dressed that way! The Native hunters are dressed in Gore-tex and camo.

TS: And how have the Buffalo Bridge folks responded to the project?

MH: There was a really rough patch after I initially shot them and the CNN piece came out. I was close to being voted off the island. I also started sharing some of my profits with them. The success of those images is partially due to my interest and technical skill, but really it’s because they’re investing time and energy and considerable expense to manage that camp. So two-thirds of every payment I get goes to them.  

TS: If you were a photojournalist, this would bring up some ethical questions.

MH: Many of the journalism students who take my fine-art photo class here at the university are appalled. I can understand that on the one hand, but that wasn’t the initial premise on which I approached them to make images. Of course I’m not the only photographer who has attended the camp. But I’m certainly the only one who says, ‘Hey, I’m getting paid. Do you want your cut?’ It’s complicated. For journalism around more political issues, the subjects are in theory gaining from having their story told. But in this case they don’t really have anything to gain.

TS: How do they deal with other producers and photographers now?

MH: I think they’ve actually become more careful about who they interact with and how. There are a lot of different views in the group, but the prevailing one is they’re interested in preservation of primitive skills, education around those aspects, and the ecology and preservation of buffalo. That’s really how they’ve started to vet serious media inquiries, to look at it though that lens and think in terms of who it will benefit, whether it will protect the buffalo. They’re not willing to sell out. And they’re really aware that there’s a sensationalism that wouldn’t get at the real issues they’d like to discuss.