march22killsmestill-blog

[milflewis]

lesbian.

[kepamount]

part twenty-three - fever dream

blue moon 🌙 - MM19xreader, smau, crack comedy, fluff, angst and smut

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warnings: explicit sex (don’t read the written part if you’re under 18 please!!), oral sex (m receiving), thigh-riding, nipple play, pet names, dirty talk, degradation and praise, choking, exhibitionism, I think that’s it but pls let me know if I missed anything!!

a/n: and here is the twenty-third part of blue moon! this is not proofread so pls forgive any mistakes 😭 lmk what you think and hmu if you wanna be on the taglist! x

taglist 🤍: @masesangel @moneymasnn @kepaarrizabalaga1 @rmvb24 @sad-fridge2323 @masonm19 @shannon-jade-99 @lazysportsfanfornhl @gotbangtanlads @blazingmount @chilwell-21 @user8292​ @japanesekel​ @ofxinnocence​ @heli991113​ @silverlightprincess​ 

‘Seasick?’ Mason’s voice comes from the door, startling me. I look up at him from where I’m lying on one of the sofas, his hair still slightly damp and his grey shorts not sticking to him anymore. Thank God. I might have asked him to fuck me here and now if they were.

‘No, I’m good. I just needed a rest. The sun tires me out,’ I reply with a small smile, and he joins me on the sofa, lifting my head so he can sit, before resting my head on his lap. ‘You’re a brown girl. You’re literally made for the sun.’ ‘Yeah, but I grew up in the UK. I’m used to rain and gloom now,’ I say drily, and he lets out a soft laugh, stroking my hair.

‘Can’t believe you posted that on Instagram,’ he says amusedly, and I grin up at him. ‘It was a very good picture – you deserved to be hyped up. And, anyway, we have to tell our friends at some point about us sleeping together. If they see me posting things like that, it’ll be less of a shock when we tell them. And I’d do anything to make it less of a drama because you know what they’ll be like,’ I say drily, and he chuckles.

‘They’ll never shut up about it. But, to be fair, I’d be surprised if none of them were suspecting it already. With how we’ve been behaving in front of them,’ he says, and I nod in agreement. I’m not quite sure what’s happened to me (maybe it’s the heart-to-heart we had last night) but I’ve been so mushy over him today. I’m trying to be disgusted with myself, but I can’t be. I’m too… happy.

We laid in bed and watched the sunrise this morning, and then I did my makeup, Mason still lying in bed to watch me. I don’t think I’ve ever been asked so many questions in the space of half an hour.

‘Why are you putting green stuff on your face?.’ ‘It’s colour corrector, Mason. Makes your skin tone look even.’

‘Why are you putting that yellow stuff on?’ ‘It’s called banana powder. Mason, don’t eat it!’ ‘…This doesn’t taste like bananas.’

‘What the hell is this? Looks like a torture device.’ ‘It’s an eyelash curler. Can I curl your eyelashes?’ ‘…Seriously?’ ‘Please, Mase.’ ‘Fine.’ ‘Stop moving. Mason, stop fidgeting! You’re gonna end up ripping your eyelashes out!’

‘Wow. How did you do your eyeliner so straight?’ ‘I’m good with my hands.’ ‘Yeah, I am too – you can vouch for that – but it’d be going into your eyebrow if I tried it.’

‘Why are you spraying water on your face? Won’t that just ruin it?’ ‘It’s setting spray. Keeps the makeup set on my face.’ ‘Well, it’s not like your makeup’s gonna melt off, is it?’ ‘No, but like… it helps if my face gets wet or sweaty. It doesn’t budge after you’ve put setting spray on.’ ‘Really? How do you wash it off at the end of the day then?’ ‘…With face wash, Mason.’

Once I was finished with my makeup, we got ready to leave for our yacht day! It’s been so much fun – sunbathing, swimming, eating boujee food and drinking expensive alcohol that doesn’t even taste that good. I’ve been in the best mood all day, meaning that I’ve let Mason do whatever he wants.

As the day’s gone on, he’s gotten more and more touchy-feely – holding my hand, cuddling me, light touches on my waist and back. I’ve seen the others noticing, exchanging glances, but it’s obvious none of them want to say anything, worried we’ll go back to our arguing.

‘What if one of them asks today? Will you tell them?’ he asks, and I shake my head. ‘I don’t wanna take the attention off Steph. We’ll wait ‘til we get back,’ I say firmly. ‘What if someone walks in on us right now?’ ‘They’re all still swimming, aren’t they?’ ‘Yeah, but they’re not gonna stay in the water all day. Any one of them could walk in at any second, and see us like this.’

‘Like what? We’re just lying here innocently. We could be doing much worse for someone to walk in on,’ I say with a small grin, and he tilts his head, smirk playing at his lips. ‘Like what, babe?’ ‘…I could be sucking your dick. Probably the most likely option, considering how I was feeling a little while ago, when your shorts were all wet,’ I whisper, sitting up before throwing one leg over him, settling myself into his lap and snaking my arms around to the back of his neck.

‘You dirty little perv,’ he grins, and I raise a sceptical eyebrow. ‘Don’t act like you didn’t wear grey on purpose,’ I reply with a small smile, and his grin grows even more, giving him away. ‘I knew it. You’re the dirty one.’ ‘Maybe I am. Maybe I wanted you to suck me off on a yacht in Santorini when any of our friends could walk in,’ he murmurs, brushing my hair back from my face softly, and I feel my stomach turning. ‘Maybe I will then,’ I respond, and his eyes darken as he leans forward and presses his lips to mine.

‘You look so good in this bikini, babe,’ he says against my lips, hands pressing into my waist as I slide my hands up his shoulders and down his back, feeling his strong muscles beneath my fingers. He parts my lips with his, tongue sliding across mine, my stomach turning as I let out a whimper, his lips quirking up with amusement. I tangle my hands into his hair, his slightly-wet locks making my fingers damp, and I tug on it gently, a groan escaping his lips.

He slowly gets more and more worked up, his hands pressing into me as they move up and down my body, and he slowly rocks me on his lap, the feeling of his bulge pressing against my clothed core making me let out a soft moan, which only makes him press me down onto him even harder.

The faint scent of salt-water on our skin floods my senses, the taste of him on my tongue and the feeling of his hands on mine making me wetter and wetter by the moment. I pull his lower lip between my teeth before running my tongue over it and he lets out a slightly louder groan, the sound heavenly to my ears. I melt against him, body tingling with pleasure at the feeling of his stubble lightly scratching against my face.

I break apart from him after a moment, climbing off him and watching as he leans back, legs spread and strong thighs on show. I drop to my knees between his legs, a lazy grin on his face as he watches me get into a comfortable position. He’s already hard, the tent in his swimming shorts giving him away, so I don’t waste much time, hands instantly coming to his waistband.

He lifts himself up so I can pull his shorts down, the sight of his dick making my mouth water. He looks just as big as he feels inside me, and he’s got the nicest-looking cock I’ve ever seen, which is an achievement, because they don’t generally tend to look that nice.

A smirk plays at his lips as I lean forward with my tongue poking out from between my lips to kitten-lick the tip, his pre-cum coating my taste buds. I meet his eyes, looking up at him through my lashes as I swallow, relishing the way his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat, the cockiness in his face disappearing briefly. I lean forward again, but this time I press a gentle kiss to the tip, and he lets out a soft breath.

‘God, you’re so fucking cute,’ he chuckles, a little thrill running through me at the praise. He looks amused at my satisfaction, lifting a hand to my face and tapping my lower lip. I get the message, opening my mouth and letting two of his fingers delve past my lips. ‘Suck them like they’re my cock, babe,’ he smirks, and I do as he says with butterflies filling my stomach, swirling my tongue around the digits and coating them in my saliva.

‘Good girl,’ he says softly, the praise making my heart flutter as he slides his fingers out my mouth, gripping himself with the hand covered in my saliva. He runs his hand up and down his cock with an arrogant smirk, amused at how I watch, desperate to have my hands on him instead. ‘Go on, babe,’ he prompts, and I waste no time in taking his heavy length into my palm, wrapping my fingers around his cock and tugging gently, revelling in the way his body tenses at my touch.

I can’t contain myself for much longer and so I place my tongue at the base, licking up to his tip against the vein on the underside of his cock before taking the head into my mouth, swirling my tongue around him and sucking like he’s a lollipop, cheeks caved in. I look up at him as I take him further in, his darkened eyes locked with mine, and a gag forces its way up my throat when his tip hits the back of my mouth, a soft groan falling from between his lips.

I set a gentle pace, slowly bobbing my head up and down, taking him in as far as possible, hand leisurely tugging at what I can’t reach. ‘Like that, y/n, just like that. Feels so fucking good, babe,’ he groans quietly, head thrown back against the sofa, hand fisting into my hair as my eyes begin to water, and I hum around at him at the praise, the sensation making him moan softly.

I can’t help but keep looking over at the door, worried someone’s gonna come in and catch us, and he notices my glances, grinning. ‘Worried about someone coming in? Catching you on your knees for me like a dirty little slut?’ he asks, voice slightly strained, and I moan around him, the vibrations making him let out a soft curse under his breath.

It’s not long before he starts to take control, his hand collecting up my hair so he can move my head, and I grab onto his legs as he begins to thrust slowly. ‘Gonna be a good girl for me, babe? Gonna let me fuck this pretty little mouth?’ he asks in a low voice, and I hum in response, the boy not waiting another moment before his thrusts speed up. I gag repeatedly around him, the sounds only spurring him on, and tears run down my face as he watches me try to take him as far in as possible.

‘Feels so good, babe. You’re so fucking good for me. Such a good girl,’ he moans gently, and I can tell he’s getting closer, thrusts becoming erratic and cock twitching against my tongue. ‘Fuck, I’m gonna cum, y/n. Gonna cum down this pretty little throat. Fuck, fuck, y/n,’ he groans lowly, hitting his high, head thrown back as he continues thrusting, his cum hitting the back of my throat.

His veins are corded tight in his neck and arms, jaw clenched and eyes screwed shut with the effort of keeping himself quiet enough not to be heard. He thrusts into my mouth through his orgasm, hips stuttering, before pulling out slowly, a trail of his release slipping out of my mouth and trickling down my chin.

‘Lemme see,’ he murmurs breathlessly, and I tilt my head back before opening my mouth, letting him see the cum on my tongue. ‘Swallow, babe,’ he prompts, and I do as he says, opening my mouth again to show him. ‘Good girl,’ he whispers, finger collecting up the cum on my chin, slipping past my lips, and I lick it clean, a proud and cocky grin on his face.

‘Come here,’ he says, patting his thigh, and he tucks himself back into his shorts as I stand up from the floor, going to sit on his lap. ‘No. Just this thigh, babe,’ he says softly, and I lower myself onto his thigh, heart pounding with excitement. ‘So good and pretty for me,’ he praises, pulling me forward to kiss me which I make a mental note of. He definitely gets points for kissing me after I sucked his dick because most boys I’ve slept with would never.

‘Ride my thigh,’ he murmurs against my lips, and I let out a shaky breath as I break apart from him. God, he’s so fucking kinky but I can’t say I don’t love it. ‘Come on, babe. Ride my thigh like it’s my cock. I can feel how wet you are through your bikini. So ride my thigh like it’s my cock and get it all dirty for me,’ he whispers with a smirk, my stomach turning and heart stopping at his words. He’s gonna end up killing me one of these days.

I adjust my position slowly, feeling slightly humiliated under his cocky gaze, but before I can even do anything, he bounces his thigh without warning. The sudden stimulation makes me let out a soft whimper, his grin growing at the sound, and he continues bouncing me effortlessly on his thigh.

Whines fall from my lips as my clothed core rubs against his bare thigh, my head lolling back, Mason grabbing my waist to stop me falling off his leg. And then he stops suddenly, making me look at him, my gaze met with a raised eyebrow.

‘I told you to ride my thigh. Not let me fuck you with it. Come on, babe, be a good girl for me, ride my thigh like a good little slut,’ he says softly, more butterflies filling my stomach as I tighten my grip on his shoulders, slowly grinding down onto his strong leg.

I can feel the dense muscle of his thigh through my bikini, built up from hours of running around on the pitch and working hard in the gym. I continue rocking down onto him as he slips his hands beneath my bikini top, rolling my nipples between the pads of his fingers, gentle waves of pleasure washing over me.

I realise after a few moments that I’ve stopped still on his thigh, too distracted by the feeling of his hands on me. He moves his leg again, making me whimper as I literally bounce atop his thigh, gripping onto his shoulders for dear life. He just leans back against the sofa, a smug look on his face as he keeps one arm around my waist, holding me steady.

‘You’re such a little princess, y/n. I told you to ride my thigh and, still, I’m the one doing all the work,’ he murmurs with mock disappointment, his leg stopping, making me fall still on him. ‘I’m not gonna say it again, babe. Ride my thigh,’ he says lowly, his eyes dark and gaze hard, and I instantly comply, dragging my core across his bare thigh.

I gradually increase my pace until I’m grinding uncontrollably, eyes screwed shut as I let out high-pitched whines and take deep breaths, my nails digging into his shoulders. ‘Look at you, needy girl. So desperate that you’re fucking my thigh,’ he murmurs, voice just about breaking through my pleasure-filled reverie, but all I can do is grind down onto his leg and approach the orgasm I’ve been needing all day.

‘Dirty girl. Any of our friends could walk in right now and see you riding my thigh like a desperate little slut, but you don’t even care,’ he teases, but his words only get me further along, making me let out a loud moan of his name. He slips two fingers into my mouth to shut me up, his other hand appearing at my waist, digging into my skin hard enough to leave bruises.

He guides my hips, controlling my movements to have me grinding down onto him harder and faster, and I lose all control, body weakening as I let out pathetic moans around his fingers. It doesn’t take long until I feel myself getting close, my moans and cries coming out as muffled nonsensical babbling, and he lets out a little laugh.

‘My pretty baby. Are you gonna cum, y/n? Gonna dirty my leg up like a needy slut?’ he asks, my eyes rolling back when his hand leaves my waist and tightens at my neck instead, my head going light at the feeling.

He removes his fingers from my mouth, slipping them between my folds before lifting them to his mouth, his tongue darting out to lick his fingers clean. A fresh wave of arousal rushes out from me as I watch him, his thigh glistening.

‘God, you taste so sweet,’ he murmurs, his hand still tight at my throat as he grabs my waist with his other hand, controlling my movements – good thing too, because I’m too far gone, too close to my orgasm to ride his thigh of my own accord. My walls begin clenching erratically, the knot in my stomach tightening, and he grins, raising his thigh to meet my grinding.

‘So good for me, my pretty girl. You’re close, aren’t you? Cum on my thigh, dirty me up, babe,’ he prompts with a smirk, my hips stuttering as I cry out, his hand disappearing from my neck to put his fingers in my mouth, trying to keep me quiet.

‘I’m gonna..’ I trail off, breathing laboured and head full of pleasure, and when Mason flexes his thigh just as he guides my hips down onto him hard, I hit my high. I moan out his name around his fingers, seeing white as he rocks me through my orgasm, my arousal gushing out over his leg.

‘Good girl,’ he murmurs soothingly as I come down, and as soon as my body goes limp, he lifts me off his leg and lays me down on the sofa beside him. I take deep breaths to try and pull myself together as he gets a bunch of napkins from across the room, using them to clean me up before cleaning his own thigh with a grin.

‘You weren’t lying about that WAP,’ he says amusedly, and I let out a soft laugh. ‘What can I say? I’m Cardi B’s muse,’ I reply tiredly, the boy chuckling. ‘I think you should release a cover of it on your EP.’ ‘Oh, yeah. That’d really fit in with all the sadness and depression of the rest of the album,’ I say drily, and he sits down, putting my head into his lap again.

‘It’s not that depressing,’ he says, and I raise an eyebrow, a small smile appearing on his face. ‘Okay, it’s a bit depressing. But in a good way! They’re shouting-angrily-in-the-car-with-your-mates songs.’ ‘Do you shout angrily in the car with your mates to sad songs?’ I ask amusedly, and he nods with a big grin. ‘Yeah, Olivia Rodrigo and Billie Eilish, you know the vibes. You betrayed me and that,’ he says, making me burst into laughter.

‘The songs might be sad and lonely, but they’re good. Your heart is in them. If your heart was sad or lonely when you made them, then you’re being authentic. And there’s nothing wrong with that,’ he murmurs softly, stroking my hair, and I almost burst into tears at his words.

‘Thank you,’ I respond, and he chuckles. ‘What are you thanking me for?’ ‘…My heart isn’t sad and lonely anymore,’ I whisper, nervous about admitting it, and he just stares at me for a moment, as though he can’t believe what I just said. And then a big grin breaks across his face, and he leans down to kiss me.

Just as he presses his lips to mine, the door bursts open, both of us breaking apart with panic on our faces. The yacht owner’s dog jumps onto the sofa beside us, barking like crazy, and I thank God that no one is with her. Our secret… situation lives to see another day without being discovered by our friends.

‘You scared the shit out of us, you insane dog,’ Mason laughs, stroking her, and I burst into laughter when she licks his face in response. ‘Nice,’ Mason says drily, wiping his face with the back of his hand, smiling at my giggles.

‘Come on, you two. Let’s go back outside before people start wondering where we are,’ Mason says, talking to both me and the dog, and I roll my eyes, sitting up. ‘Can’t believe you just lumped me in with the dog.’ ‘You should be honoured. She’s a legend,’ Mason grins, pulling me up from the sofa, and I shoot him a dirty look. ‘And I’m not?’ ‘Babe, you’re not just a legend,’ Mason grins, sliding an arm around my waist and leading me towards the door, ‘you’re the legend.’

[imnotwolverine]

Free writing - Mom And The Mushrooms

Author’s note: Again -- if you’re here for the Henry content you can skip this one. I can’t find any inspiration for Henry stories at the moment, so I thought I’d share one of my ‘free writing’ stories instead. I’m super nervous about sharing this with you, but..ever tried ever failed, right?😅

Mom And The Mushrooms

Warnings: Dystopian, character death, food poisoning, grief

Word count: 3.607 (13 min. reading time) 

--

Phase 1: Denial

They had to be kidding right?

With a shaking jumble the train came to yet another screeching halt. And we weren’t even there yet.

Would they throw me out here? In this suburban, white picketed wilderness? I could see the grass growing thigh high. Trees poking out through the roofs of houses that had once been the wet dream of every newly-wed nuclear family.

If only they had known what would come of the world. 

Leaning into the large glass window, I let my eyes wander. There wasn’t even a platform in sight, the rails tracking for miles ahead before I could make out the silhouette of my hometown in the distance. It was no more but a bluer shade of blue in the crisp sky. Like a fever dream that I so eagerly wanted to wake up from right now. I didn’t want to be here. In this train. Going home. Or whatever was left of home.

I watched as two blue uniformed men passed outside my window. Train crew. Their stubby fingers letting factory rolled cigarettes dance as smoke puffed from their lips, their moustaches curling up with something that might just be a smile. I hadn’t seen people smile for years. So, sure. It was a little weird.

Would they throw me out here? With a speeding heart I watched them, but they walked on. Onward to the nose of the train, their pace glacial as they sauntered on side by side. Why were they so happy? Idiots.

Sighing, I rested back into the coffee stained bench, the old raggedy fabric reminding me of the long years this train had been in service. It was a miracle that it still managed to move out here once a week. In between the mighty storms, floods, hurricanes and what not. It was a miracle that people still dared to go out in this wilderness. Myself included. Though, I obviously didn’t have much of a choice.

Simmering quietly, my attention was drawn to an old broadcaster that crackled to life. The sound resembled something that might have once sounded human. But right now it sounded more like metallic gibberish. Hard to discern and probably also hardly important.

“Kggg--zz running int-----resume in a tsssskk --”

*click*

It was the last stop before we finally arrived in my hometown. Home. Pff. They had to be kidding right?

--

Phase 2: Anger

Home was a town without a name. The sign was long stolen and had never been replaced. RB04 - Midhaven. That’s what it was called. For it was located exactly in the middle of two supercities; 8LU3 - Blue City and R3D - Red City.

It was the only town that still had a few inhabitants for miles to come. And it had a shop too, my feet dragging inside as I tugged my suitcase along. The copper bell by the door tolled loudly and I couldn’t help myself but think: I fucking hate this.

‘Angel?’ A halfling sized man walked out from behind the counter, his head appearing from behind a rack with candied bars past their expiration date. He looked a century older, and perhaps an inch or so smaller. But he was still Bub. He still had that stupid smile on his face. That spiky white hair. A near toothless smile. Why did these people ever smile? What was there to smile about?

‘Bub.’ - I sounded tired.

The man’s furry brows lifted, and for a moment I wondered if he could see me at all.

‘You look terrible.’ - Fair enough, he did.

I shrugged. ‘Much like this town.’

For a moment we just stared at each other as a strange energy crackled in the late afternoon air, the rest of the small shop completely abandoned. Then again; so was most of this town. The bell behind my head ringed again, this time by a gust of autumn wind that washed inside, breaking the silence. Bub cleared his gravelly throat.

‘You’re here for ye mum’s stuff?’

‘I am.’

His brows furrowed even more, before finally he turned his attention to the counter, small feet shuffling back until I could see no more of him but the few white hairs that poked out over the wooden counter. I could see him move to and fro, but I was too tired, upset..and perhaps a touch angry, to be willing to care.

‘Tis been long since last I saw you.’ He spoke from behind the counter. ‘You a grand cuisine cook now?’

I felt my gut drop and face sour. I wish I could say I had. I had promised I would. But I had failed. I was a fucking, miserable failure. I hated myself. I was angry at myself. And had I just been better, smarter, faster...and less of an expensive mushroom stealing mess..I wouldn’t be here. They wouldn’t have cast me out. I could have made my mother proud.

I could still hear her voice: “Don’t forget about us - because we won’t forget about you. And know I’ll always be here for you.”

Well that was a lie. She was proclaimed dead and I was here, alone. Or well, sort of. Bub was still around. And for some odd reason I believed he was one of those immortal beings, ready to even outlive me, the last girl to ever be born in Midhaven. He was like one of those wizard-like creatures that offered you omens and odd jokes. In fact the only thing he missed was a bushy full beard. He sure got the humour right. I think. I mean, society wasn’t about fun. I had learned that the hard way in the last ten years as I worked my way up in the kitchen of The White Hall.

Fuck. I hated myself, for making such a mess of my life. And what in the hell was Bub doing back there?

I peeked over the counter but couldn’t see more than Bub’s spiky white hair. ‘So..how are you Bub?’

He didn’t respond and I decided to just breathe and let my anger fizzle and eyes wander. This shop had been here since I was young. It was all artificial foods. Tasteless crap. Quick, easy, cheap. No animals hurt. No nature hurt. No nature even needed.

I hated that, too; for true beauty, taste and pleasure, a little hurt is needed. That’s what the kitchen taught me. You’ve gotta sear, steam, salt, dry and beat your ingredients if you want to make them taste like anything. Pain. Pleasure. Perfection.

Perhaps that was the silver lining of my return. It sure hurt good.

Bub returned from behind the counter with a key on a keychain, the red colour of the cord faded.

‘No need to bother with the pleasantries.’ Bub finally answered, a little defeated. ‘Miryam died. The boys left for the city. Business is terrible. Do you want anything else?’

I looked down at the small man and felt something that might just be a pang of sympathy. I hadn’t felt sympathy in a long time and it made me uncomfortable to say the least. In my time as a sous-chef, sympathy was the last skill I’d ever need to use. I just had to perform, perform, perform!

I quietly took the keychain and looked back into the dusty old shop, wondering.

‘Did the farm close down?’ My eye fell on the corner where some fresh produce had  once been displayed; the empty crates looked too dusty for my question to even need answering.

‘A long time ago. Yes. There’s no business to be done in onions and leeks no more.’

‘Shame.’

‘Gotta blame the people.’

Another silence fell and for another moment we just looked at each other. A small smile formed on Bub’s wrinkly little mouth and I sighed. Could you really blame the people when they simply couldn’t even afford good food if they wanted to? I retaliated.

‘You’re right. And eh, give me some of the red stuff.’

Bub nodded and picked one off the long row of identically red labeled cans, his small body wobbling as the contents shifted his center of gravity.

‘This should keep you stuffed for a good week. Anything else?’

‘Nope. That’s all.’ I took the can from him. ‘How much is it?’

His smile grew. ‘One home cooked meal.’

I wasn’t sure if I was going mad by that point, but I swear that man had just asked me to cook for him. And it wasn’t likely to be warming up this red goopy goo. I looked down at the can and then the man, confusion crawling over my tired face.

‘What now?’

‘Your mother taught you to forage, right? I haven’t had a proper good meal in…’ He raised a brow as if thinking. ‘..ages.’

I blinked at him as he walked back to his hiding spot behind the counter, the deal apparently made.

‘I have some pig’s grease stacked away. Not much. But enough. See you tomorrow?’

I knew I should say no. In fact I had almost sworn to never cook again as they had thrown me on this train today. But something deep inside of me sang to Bub’s words. Begged me to consider. Perhaps it were the rich autumn smells in the air. Luscious and fungal. Perhaps it was my grumbling stomach combined with the hopeful glint I saw in Bub’s eyes. In any way. Before I knew it, the word was out.

‘O-okay.’ I breathed.

‘Great. See you tomorrow, Angel.’

--

Phase 3: Bargaining

They had never found my mom’s body. And laying here in my mom’s bed, I could swear she had been here only hours earlier. I could still smell her. That nauseating combination of heady flowery scents. Even now it made me a little sick in the stomach. Honeysuckle, herby, rosy..skunk.

I had despised this smell with a passion, but for the moment it gave me comfort. And perhaps even hope. Perhaps my mom wasn’t really dead. Perhaps she had just met a new man and moved to a new apartment further down town. Perhaps, she had just forgotten to send me an update. I mean. I never sent her updates about my life. So who could blame her? Oh mom. You crazy, crazy woman.

I rolled over in bed and inhaled deeply. Memorizing the dizzying smells combined with the wisp of morning air as it moved in through the cracked open window. It smelled devine. Like wet dirt and sunshine. So very different from the pristine clean smells of the city, which were all chemical and dispassionate.

In nature smells had a goal. To entice. To warn. To taste. To .. love. And my mom had been just that. Always completely and utterly in love. With nature, beasts.. and men. Let’s not forget about men.

Rolling out of bed I trudged into the small apartment, flowery cushions layered with dust and vines moving in through the cracks in the walls. I took a few testy bites of the red goo, but decided that I might as well move out and see if Bub had been right. Whether I could forage at all.

--

The morning was still surprisingly cool, my fingers wrapping urgently around my city-girl coat to keep warm. My practical shoes beat a steady rhythm on the pavements and for long quiet moments I remembered my youth here. There had been more people then. There had still been a school, some bars, jobs, families. But right now they all seemed to have left. Just like my mom had. Away from this overgrown misery. Million dollar misery.

My mom had once told me that these car wrecks by the road had once been driven by the richest of the richest. They’d sit in the back and have drivers drive them to important business meetings in the tops of the highest skyscrapers. They’d wear sleek tuxedo’s and go to fancy balls. They’d go dancing with pretty women. On live music, played on real instruments. And they’d have food. The best that money could buy.

Right now those cars were no more but rusty wreckages. Bugatti. Astin Martin. Ferrari. The city had swallowed them back up, large trees now growing around them, breaking up the cracked tarmac like spindly green fingers.

In the distance I could see some movement. A herd of deer. And though I knew there would be animals, I could still feel my heart race at the sight of their fluffy white butts, nervous cheeks halting their chewing as they noticed my presence. I held my breath and waited, but they fled all the same. Softly their hooves clacked as they jumped through the city jungle. One by one. A great buck following them last, large antlers reaching out like roots from his head.

‘Everything is connected dear. The people, the plants, the trees, the earth and the sky. We’re all connected, living the circle of life. Over and over and over. And that’s not scary. That’s beautiful.’

I could hear my mom as we’d saunter through the wilder parts of the city. Picking herbs to make that watery drink. What was it called again? Ah yes. Tea. My sweetness, I had missed tea. And, I missed mom.

Taking a steadying breath I calmed my escalating thoughts, instead focusing on my journey for today. Today, I was going to cook Bub a meal. And this time I would not have to steal the ingredients. No, I’d find them myself. Thank you very much.

--

‘This is divine!’ Bub exclaimed with a full mouth.

I smiled woefully and looked down at the mushroom stew I had managed to make with the meagre bounty I had gathered. I could have done better probably. But it was good enough for Bub. He was humming and buzzing with every bite.

‘Say Bub..’ I swallowed and looked up at the small man who barely managed to reach out above the table’s edge.

‘Yes Angel?’

‘I never heard how she died.’

Bub stopped chewing and licked his lips. He sighed and slowly shook his head. ‘A broken heart I’m sure. If ever I saw one so passionate about her man, she was it.’

‘And then he left her.’

‘He did.’

‘And you..saw she was dead?’

Bub realised what I was aiming at and huffed softly. ‘Dear. I am so sorry. It must be painful to be back here. All the memories. With your mom especially. I mean. It is difficult with there being no body and all. But she is gone. She is. She was never one to leave without a trace. A sign. A note. A goodbye...’

I didn’t listen as he rambled on. Because as I looked down at my meal I somewhere deep down knew that he was absolutely right.

--

Scene 4: Depression

I probably shouldn’t have pushed my grief away for so long. Back home my body decided it was time for a cleanse. And it sure wasn’t pretty. I sat on the toilet for hours. And for hours I wondered if I perhaps should have put that red goo some place cooler. Did I get food poisoning?

Slow hours passed and I felt dehydrated and exhausted by the time I could lay back down on my mom’s bed again, my dreams after fitful until morning came again.

The next day there was little I could do. I had hoped that I’d see some familiar faces around other than Bub. But the streets were deserted and for hours I’d just wander, reminiscing the old days. I was glad I felt somewhat better. Physically that is. Mentally I was but a shadow of my old, confident self. I had never felt grief before, so I figured I had to just occupy my body until my mind would be too tired to think.

I had nothing left to live for. I had lost my permit to live in the City. My job. My savings. My mom. My ..home. And all I could think of was that it was all my fault. I had left my mom all those years ago. I had made that decision without her. I just went, angry and spiteful of her dreamy daze that got us nowhere.

For long years I didn’t speak or update my mom. But she did update me. The beauty of personal codes was that you couldn’t simply disappear. Updates would always find you when you were in the land of the living.

Should I send my mom an update? See if she’d respond?

I looked down at my feet, their soles no longer touching tarmac but sand, the sediment carried into the streets after centuries of howling winds. And before me there were trees. Not the spindly kind like in my mom’s neighbourhood. But ancient trees, their leaves all fallen down in deep shades of red, purple and yellow, the sun tickling through their bald branches.

And then I could feel rain. Timid at first. Teasing my hair and face as I looked up into the grey sky. I felt the small bullets of truth rain down on me. Torturing me with their cold little kisses. And my eyes started to burn. I knew my mom was dead. I just knew it. I had known it deep in my gut when I had gotten the obituary statement of the legal council. I had known it when Bub had sent word for me - he never did. I had known it when I had waved it away, stating to my colleagues that this was just my mom trying to make me come home.

I hadn’t come home to her then. I hadn’t looked for her. I had stayed. And now I was too late. All I had was the rain as I crumbled and cried beneath the weight. Of defeat. 

I failed you mom.

--

Phase 5:  Acceptance

After my poor night, I figured that the red goo was probably the cause of my digestional problems. And so, after I picked myself up and dried my tears, I scavenged for more food. And I was more successful this time too. The forest I had found offered a great source of roots and herbs. Herbs with which i made my first tea in years. And though the tea tasted alright, it wasn’t as great as when my mom made it. I missed my mom.

Slow days passed like that. Scavenging, foraging, cooking and sleeping. I wondered if this was what my life would be now. Had my mom really died of a broken heart? And if yes; could I? I’d wander and wonder. My feet hitting the streets with a little more confidence each day. And perhaps it was just madness kicking in, but I could swear I heard voices. First far away, making me drift around and search for human life. Then closer by; I realised they came from the earth.

‘Everything is connected.’

My mom had been right. She had once explained that many plants had huge root systems and that there were theories they could sense each other. Even sense each other’s pain. So perhaps, just maybe, they were sensing my pain, too.

The idea was absolutely absurd. I knew it was. But it did bring me some much needed comfort. I had even tried to find Bub and ask him about those roots, but he hadn’t been in his shop. Shop closed, come back later, the little sign on his door had stated. And so I did what any good scientist would do. I started to investigate.

--

The sky was so.. blue. Spreading my hands out over the soft warm moss, I looked through the small glade up at the tall tree branches and away into the eternal skies. I wasn’t quite sure when I had lain down. And if someone had come up and told me I had been laying here for years, then perhaps I would have simply agreed. I could feel those roots beneath me, clawing at me, fusing with me. Dragging me down until my body was but mush.

I could hear them too. Much louder now, especially here in this little sunny glade, a small mound risen like a small bed just for me. I had lain down some minutes, hours, days or years ago, and what a fine bed it was. Mossy, musky and sweet, I let it soothe me as my body started to beg and plead. First quietly, but by now it had become aggravating and paralyzing. I couldn’t as much as lift my fingers by this point now the aches started to grow in strength. It felt as if I was truly falling apart as I rooted into my new existence here at the bottom of these trees.

If you want to make your food taste like anything a little hurt is needed. You gotta sear, steam, salt, dry and beat. Pain. Pleasure. Perfection.

One week ago I lost it all. My house, income, job, future. It lost it all. But now, looking up at the blue sky, voices singing to me, those worries seemed so unimportant. Everything was alright. I was here. Back to my roots. Broken and bruised and hurting all over, I smiled. For the first time in years I smiled. Because as I lay here I realised it no longer mattered. I would never leave again.

‘I’m home mom.’ I muttered, my speech slurred as my body started to seize and shake.

I had made a mistake. That much was clear now. Because as I lay here, writhing and dying, I knew: it hadn’t been the city that would take me down, but the mushrooms. The mushrooms!

The end.

--

Author’s note: I might share some more free writing stories in the future if any of you are interested. But please..! I know you’re here to thirst over Henry (and so am I), so do not feel obligated to like, comment and reblog - though it is of course always most appreciated! Sending you my love dear readers and I hope you’re having a good weekend ❤️

Sources of inspiration: For my short stories I’m diving head first in a lot of interesting articles I’ve archived over the years. For this particular story I’ve delved into the world of the five stages of grieving, as well as the magical world of mushrooms. Did you know that the mushroom you see is but a tiny part of a much larger, growing being? You can somewhat compare mushrooms to apples, as mushrooms are but the fruit that are formed by the much larger mycelium that is found beneath the earth; always prepping to produce more ‘fruit’ when the atmosphere and moisture level is just right. The more you know...

[darksiders-scenarios]

Intimate/ fluff moment with War please??

This has been sitting in my drafts for far too long. Begone! Forgive, as always, the inaccuracies, grammar and everything mistakes.

Scenario goes something like this (?): War and Y/N step into Eden. Y/N collapses from angstsy lil shit syndrome emotional overload or something. Misses fight with War’s shadow. Story starts now.

“On your feet.” The voice was resonant, its rumble like distant thunder, the tone stern but never cruel. It drifted through the murky sludge of your melancholic thoughts like the fresh breeze of daybreak. You obeyed, for it was impossible not to. You reached up with trembling fingers.  

The first time War had clung to you was after crashing down from his Chaosform, disoriented and shivering in pained exhaustion on his knees. Though the gesture might have been instinctual than voluntary, you had nonetheless cradled his head in silent support, feeling the slackness in his muscles and cold sweat soaking through your clothes. You had absently noted the passage of time through his laboured breathing, the cool evaporation of your mingled sweat as the desert sun had past its peak, down to the cramped stiffness of your leg muscles. Until finally - as though reaching a nonvocal agreement - you swore you had sensed an invisible pulse of satisfaction from the horseman. His satisfaction to slowly begin lowering the drawbridge to you from that moment forth - not granting you full entry into the fortress of his mind but still presenting to you a sliver of its opening.    

The moment was now mirrored when War’s warm-chapped palm, riddled with calluses, grasped yours gently. He had removed his gauntlet. He pulled you up from the sacred dust and guided you to his cold breastplate, welcomed in his embrace.

It could have been a moment, or a day or a year when you felt his body curl slightly inwards as War leaned down. His trembles were subdued but they transferred through your skin and into your muscles like a fever. He still hasn’t recovered from his fight with the shadow. “Do you require privacy?” he asked quietly.  

You nodded. A single downward motion that got swamped in the bulk of his armour. But he saw. For War always saw, always heard, always knew what you needed without the necessity for words. Your throat was parched and sere as the sands of the Ashlands and your body ached. You were so very, very tired.  

War lifted you with the care due to the holiest of relics, and you were enveloped in a cloak of warmth. Your eyelids slid half-open and you almost scrunched it shut again when radiant golden sunlight awashed your vision.  

“Lord…” the strength it took to simply formulate those words.

“Child of Eden,” the archangel Azrael whispered, leaning down to cradle your face, wiping away the grime and dried tear tracks from your cheeks with soft fingertips. You almost recoiled in shame. “I am not your lord. I wish nothing but infinite peace and blessings upon you, dearest Y/N. Oh… Oh how my heart bleeds to sense the guilt and shame that scorch your soul that which should never be existent. To know that I assisted in… in this. To have the temerity to presume that I can ask for an atom of your forgiveness all the while my accursed presence sullies the sanctitude of this realm,” his eyes were impossibly sorrowful as he held your gaze. Eden, already tranquil with the hums of ethereal unreality seemed to have quieted further as though in solemnity with the archangel’s hushed confession. “Perhaps… preserving the remains of Eden was a mere self-deception under the guise of atonement,” his pale eyes glistened like the purest crystals, “Only by the grace of the Creator can your pain and grief be alleviated, dearest Y/N.”          

Azrael’s smile was a brittle, broken thing but it lit his face like the damned sun. His magnificence lending to the beatific of Eden as though he was the missing conduit to the realm’s veiled radiance. It was impossible to not feel safe in the archangel’s presence, to not bask in his warmth and light and love. Such naked love. It was little wonder humanity had been revering these entities since the dawn of their creation, erecting statues and creating wondrous art to emulate their perceived soulful nature- until that delusion, that ancient lie of earthen myth was horribly shattered when the murderous, hubristic angels made themselves known at last.

Great Azrael. The truest angel. So utterly beautiful. So utterly broken. As much a pawn as every living soul in this detestable chess game.  

“The Creator,” you spat but the venom was lost in the whispery tone. You drew in a shaky breath. “Abandoned us. Used us…” you clenched your teeth, muscles bunched,“ Played us all as… as pawns-”

“Enough,” War said- ordered. You lapsed into silence, sagging against him.  

“Wait here,” he directed to the archangel. Azrael bowed deeply and moved away, joining the Watcher, but not before you caught the tears that flowed down his cheeks in slow, silver trails. You pressed your face into the hood on War’s shoulder and let him carry you into Eden. Deeper into Paradise.  

An image bred within your mind, of majestic landscaped gardens veined by fragranced basins and tributaries, the perfume of heaven flowing into your olfactory senses, sweet without being dizzying, breath-taking beyond mortal description. The notes in the breeze sang in your bloodstream and its taste was golden honey on your tongue. All the greatest manuscripts and paintings by the most gifted artists would never approach the purity of a speck of Eden’s sacred earth. The paragon of protected serenity.  

You startled when War carefully set you down on a soft bedding of flora of indescribable shades, hues and colour- nameless and undiscovered by mankind. You briefly imagined him clearing the ground for you while you- Had you dozed off?

Your eyes burned when War’s hand fell upon your shoulder in a fraternal gesture, sure and solid. Real. “Do you want me to leave?”

You swallowed, unable to speak for several moments. War waited patiently, not rushing you. Then you nodded. “I am sorry…”  

“Do not be,” he paused and you imagined him watching you, staring down at you with those gentle eyes reserved only for you. “When you are ready, join me. I shan’t be far.“    

Join me. Not we shall leave. Join me. He was telling you to stay. To linger a while… You felt a pull, a tug, a melody from your soul to whatever gestalt consciousness that inhabited this realm, Eden’s mournful cry of longing in the wind chimes soothing your frazzled mind and caressing your broken psyche, calling to you as though welcoming a lost kindred. Every touch, sight, sound, taste and smell was an invitation to release, to let go. To lie down and simply  

be.

You closed your eyes and listened to your friend’s fading boot steps, honouring your wish.

He wasn’t far. You found him sitting amongst the flora with his back to you, hand folded atop the stump of his other arm in his lap. A beautiful turquoise tributary flowed gently in front of him, unspoiled and clean, shimmering like a thousand gems beneath the golden skies. You spared it only fleeting moments of attention.  

War was bare-backed safe for his leg plates, his armour and weapons laid in a neat pile beside him. His shoulders rose and fell with quiet breaths, his snow-white hair gently swaying with its rhythms.  

Your eyes wandered over the geography of scars on his skin, cobwebbing around his arms and ribs, winding over his shoulders and disappearing down the front. Your gaze lingered on the fresh ones, wishing nothing more than to soothe and undo them. For a while, all you did was stare at him, allowing his calming presence to ground you. He was inhumanly beautiful, gleaming gold as though kissed by Eden’s aura, like a god of summer. His presence was far more suited here than yours.      

You couldn’t resist a smile, the trickle of reverent adoration filling your heart, momentarily hushing your melancholy without fully fading.  

“Our missions necessitated a fair amount of travel, moving from conquered world to the next and the next and the next without pause, without delay,” he didn’t turn to you, and you suspected he was talking more to himself than you. “Upon every world we set foot on, be they of starless skies, of harsh deserts or oceanic worlds, my gaze would always travel heavenwards. The action seemed hardwired yet the reason had always eluded me. It eventually became something of a strange dance, one that I began to entertain without conscious thought, fast becoming a thirst that couldn’t be sated in the centuries to come.” His tone was distant yet weighed by emotion, “And every sky was as beautiful as the first.”

“War?”

His words melted into a chuckle and War shook his head. “Forgive me, I ramble. Come. Sit with me.”

You lowered yourself cross-legged on the cool flora bedding, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his skin. It offered more comfort to you than the actual ambiance of this land. Eden. Paradise… Heaven. Jannah. It was real. You closed your eyes, tight enough to pain, and dropped your head into your palms.  

“Too much?” came the gentle rumble above you.

You let your silence answer for him.

“I am sorry that it had turned out this way, young one,” the sympathy in War’s tone made your throat tight. “We can always leave if you wish, but that would mean leaving the only site untouched by violence.”

“I don’t know what to think,” you admitted quietly.

“I understand.”

Your fingers dug into your scalp. “May I lean on you… please?”

A creature of action, War answered you by pulling you close, carefully tucking you to him. His skin was warm as sunlight. You let go against him, boneless and pliant. You heard him murmur something soothing but your mind was unable to shape the words, to process their meaning, but you drifted to the sound of his voice – deep and calming and grounding. His hair was soft on your forehead.    

“Eden. The emergence of mankind and womankind,” you mused, echoing War’s little soliloquy. “And here I am, perhaps marking its epilogue. Quite the honour, eh?” you snickered, stopping short when thick fingers brushed your shoulder. “Perhaps I am indeed the last human alive…” you pulled away and managed a weak smile for your friend. “But in the end, I am glad that I have met you, War.”  

“And I you,” War stared at you in silence. “Your story shall not decay, this I give you my word, Y/N. Azrael will chronicle everything of your people, its wealth of lore, cultures and histories. There are many things I can fault the angel but his honesty is incontrovertible.“ His words were ladened with silent conviction.

You winced. “Lord Azrael… I should not have said those things to him.”

“He bears no ill-judgment of you.”

That did not ease the heaviness in your chest. Perhaps War sensed your unease because his lips quirked at the corners. His was always the barest of smiles, softening his statuesque features, making him unarguably youthful. His smile put you at ease.

"You’re beautiful,” you confessed without thinking, the words easy on your tongue.

He didn’t stir. “We were created to be above such mortal sentiments.”

“I��� I know,” you tensed, cheeks burning. “But the sentiment is sincere.”

"That is why I honour you.”  

You swallowed, toying with the hem of your top. You remembered to breathe again. “I’m sorry I missed your fight with your… that shadow.”      

“There was nothing to miss. You’ve seen me battle many times,” he stroked a silken petal, its hue a gentle contrast against his skin, “I sit here now because I triumphed.”

“You sounded dubious when you said you triumphed”, you remarked, cursing yourself in the same moment for your crassness.

“That’s because I am,” War confessed without hesitation, never one to reel from the truth.  

You held your tongue, your gaze following his lazy patterns with the petal.  

When War spoke again, sorrow inched into his murmured words. “In that instant, I feared I was witnessing my authentic, batin self. Those eyes… I had no idea I was capable of such hate Y/N. My soul blackened with such inveterate rage and hate and malice,” his voice softened almost to a whisper and you knew that he was reliving the fight, reliving those unpleasant moments. “Every iota of repressed fear, desires, every base savagery beyond mortal comprehension, I bore witness to it all, embodied it. There is purity in aggression, if tempered by self-restraint. But this, this was poison polluting my veins, crippling my cognition and judgement. Like a specimen sliced open to see its inner workings, so too were my heart and soul laid bare and vulnerable before me.”    

“Was that the most disturbing thing for you?”

“He was I and I was he. We were in perfect harmony in cognition, temperament and soul. It is not a memory- a truth I recall with any comfort.”  

You rested a hand on his forearm. Warm. “Thank you for your candour, War. That shadow. Your darkest, most abhorrent mirror, if you may. You know that it is simply your unrestrained self let loose. We all carry it, War. It’s one thing to repress our basest urges, but to bear witness to its ugly truths is another level entirely. But they are just that. Truths. Simple, raw unrefined concepts that care nothing for what we desire. Just as you taught me when faced with any truth, it is what you do with it what matters. And as far as urges go, I would imagine such sentiments of the Nephilims to be magnified tenfold to that of a human,” you looked up, meeting his eyes and almost robbed of breath by the warrior’s beauteous features under the ethereal glow of Eden’s skies. His presence was indeed far more suited here than yours.  

“Every soul is a prisoner to fate, Y/N,” War said gently.  

“I know,” you agreed, bitterness burning through you. You suppressed a growl. “But you made a choice. You chose another path, contrary to your innate drive to annihilate without question. All those urges, all those traits that you loathe about yourself- you didn’t just experience them all, no. You fought and struggled and triumphed. Yes, triumphed. You chose this outcome. That can only mean one thing, War. You are you, and, by definition,” you smiled, amending yourself, “your definition, not he.”  

War snorted. “A matter of perspective.”

“As you say.”

He held your gaze, soft mirth glazing his blue eyes. “I jest.”

You nodded. “Thank you for confirming my hypothesis.”  

His laughter was an exhalation of quiet breaths. Even after all these years, his soft laughter remained the most beautiful sound you’ve heard. It was impossible to not join him. “Oh War, if it’s one thing that I shall miss the most when we part would be me tormenting you.”

“It pleases me to know that we can be comfortably candid with one another.”

His statement was accentuated when you both lapsed into comfortable silence, each to their own thoughts, at ease with the other’s company. One bitter thought hammered at the forefront of your cognition, pulsating more strongly with every passing moment.

“Speak your mind,” War encouraged quietly, as though sensing your disquiet. This may be the last time, you translated. You confessed to him as much.

“Perhaps,” he conceded. “I am not a being who gives into the falsehood of luck as you know, but if it may allay your mind, there is an iota of a chance that I may prevail.”

You snorted. “Idealistic. Not bad. Your optimism is getting better.”

He shrugged a bare shoulder. “It gladdens my heart to hear you approve.”

“As is your wit.”

His brows furrowed slightly. “I am not my brother.”  

“I didn’t imply that.”

“Your tone suggested otherwise. As well as the notion that perchance, your statement was intended as a compliment?”

You smiled in reply. “A matter of perspective.”

War didn’t respond; the pensive look that shrouded his features dimmed your fragile jovial streak. "I meant no disrespect, War.”

“No,” he sounded almost distrait. “Forgive me a moment’s distraction, my friend. Talk of my siblings often evokes ruminative musings in me.”

You listened to the susurration of petals grazing the sacred earth beneath his fingers, his mind clearly elsewhere. You waited patiently, not rushing him.

War leaned forward, almost hunching. “The love of my kindred runs deep, of that there is no doubt, accompanied by the inveterate fear for their fates. But they, like me, are creatures of intelligence and predation. They can fend for themselves and weather any trials and tribulations. I dread nonetheless for they are my brothers and sister. You agree it is an innate drive.”  

You said nothing.  

War brushed a hand over his face, didn’t lower it. “For all our kinship, I never fully comprehended the dynamics of the Nephilim collective psyche. Yes, we are psychically bonded by a singular agenda, no, we are never identically minded in that concept.”

You remained silent. Rare were such moments of reminiscence for the horseman.

He continued. “We were noble in some morbid way, I suppose. When one shamed, we all bore that brother or sister’s shame. When a brother or sister fell, we always carried out the mercy stroke, never allowing them the indignity to suffer in helpless humiliation, all the while disregarding the butchering of the realm’s natives for this… act of honour,” he faintly sneered the word, uncharacteristic for the horseman.      

War’s fingers lowered, shivering with the faintest tremors. His eyes were clouded, and you knew that in his mind’s eye he was journeying through the ashen lands of nameless, now forgotten worlds, inhaling their choked funereal air all over again.

War chuckled darkly, as though at a private jest. “Yet for all my talk of our ‘nobility’, the Nephilim was a cancer to reality. It was right to annihilate them.”

“War.”

“We were a brotherhood, yes. A close-knitted brotherhood of mindless, bloodthirsty savages void of free-will, credos, honour…”

“War.”

“Perfect living engines of warfare, excelling at nothing but bestial bloodshed-”

“That’s the shadow talking!”

That rendered him silent. You were close enough to see his chest rising and falling rapidly, his breathing shallow. His fingers still twitched.

“That’s the shadow talking,” you repeated softer. “You are Nephilim yes, but you are also War. My protector and companion. My dearest friend and brother,” you willed him to see the absolute unconcealed sincerity in your eyes. “That is the truth.”

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “The truth is not always absolute, young one.”

You looked away. “It’s exhausting when you keep denying my points.”

“Forgive me. It is not my intention to discomfit you.”

“No, forgive me.”

The slow release of a deep breath rumbling from a mighty chest. “Y/N, I would like to think that my points are also as valid as yours,” though his voice betrayed no irritation or anger, his gently spoken words bore the same sharpness of a blade. The shame scraped your conscious raw.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t ha-” you began.

"I do not deny you, dear Y/N,” War cut in gently. “I am merely reluctant to accept your outlook of me with what…” he closed his eyes. “It is difficult to put into words.”

“I think I know what you’re trying to say, War,” you quietly assured him.  

He opened his eyes, studying you for several heartbeats. The haunted look diminishing slightly, softening. “Your words are heartfelt and for that, I am grateful. There are moments, I feel, that you read me better than I do myself,” he sighed, almost soundless, and the urge to press your shoulder against his was overwhelming. “My mind is… aflamed, dulled by pained dwellings of an ignoble past. You, my companion and friend, see beyond who I am supposed to be, rather as who I am, in your eyes anyway,” his eyes were bright enough to ache. “That is why I honour you.”

“I love you too, War.”

He inclined his head away from you, but his shoulders were shaking. He was laughing.

He was laughing. Your heart warmed. It took you several seconds to stop grinning like a fool.  

Once more, there was a long silence, safe for the gentle gushing of Eden’s water. The breeze caressed your cheeks like a lover’s touch. You reined in your emotions and focused on the large fingers still stroking the flower on the ground. There was a certain reverence in the touch, as soft as the petals he was tracing, but there was also a concealed yearning, the passive hunger of a patient predator, searching and sifting, searching and sifting, through layers and layers of-

“The sky,” you echoed War’s earlier word. The revelation came unbidden to your mind.    

War blinked slowly as though hesitantly tearing his attention from the petal between his thumb and forefinger.

“The sky,” you repeated softly. “Does it remind you of home?” Of a home you can only envision in your dreams- that you did not voice aloud.

War turned his gaze from his ministration to you. His smile was flecked with buried grief that you’ve only now begun to see.  

You winced from the shame that seared your heart.  

His people. His kindred. His family. You were so deeply entrenched in your grief that you forgot that this was a place of sorrow for him too. A nationless race forever trapped in the clutches of fate ever since their miserable creation. The creature in front of you always carried himself with the perfect stoicism of a fortress yet his soul has always been a fresco of guilt, burden and shame, buried so deeply within the protection of his walls and defences. Eden was his tombstone.

You lost count of the times you had ruminated and berated yourself over ill-made decisions. Over hasty and ill decisions that almost always landed in disappointment and frustration, in risks and misery - hasty and ill-advised decisions that you knew would make again and again and again.  

But the moment your friend reciprocated your affection by resting his heavy head on your shoulder, you knew that you were right to be impulsive in your decision. This may be the last time.

“I’m sorry,” you said into his hair, running a hand through the fine strands as you held him. “I’m sorry War.”

“Is that pity I hear in your tone?”

Your smile was pained. “Or perhaps I am simply not without empathy.”

His chuckle rumbled against your shoulder. The sound enriched by melancholy. For an irrational moment, you couldn’t help but imagine that you were embracing a child, willing the ache in his heart to soothe and ebb away, to be the balm to his soul. War, you thought, did you even have a childhood?

War would be welcomed in your home; you had told him this, day in, day out, time and time again. War had always responded in that taciturn way of his; a small smile followed by gentle laughter robbed of any ridicule, laced by amusement and hints of budding affection.

“You know you would be welcomed in my home,” you reminded him, stroking down his nape and back, feeling the powerful shifts of muscles.

War relaxed in the embrace, threads of his hair cascading off his closed eyes, his breathing deepening. Calm. Trustful. Where the purity of rage was intoxicating in his veins, the gift of serenity was almost anathema to his mind’s touch. You loved him most for trusting you, for allowing his ironclad mask to lower in your presence.

As you held him, you marvelled at how times have changed, oh how they have changed indeed. You wished you could stay with him here, forever.  

“…harmonises with mine.”

Your fingers stilled. “What did you say?”

“I said that your thinking harmonises with mine.” His voice was so soft the breeze almost stole it from you. Had you mused this aloud?

War stirred, wrapping one strong arm around you, tightening the hug without hurting you. His voice softened further, “I also said that you already have.”

A beat of silence. You opened your mouth then closed it at once, mind racing as your thundering heart. You drew back slightly, maintaining contact with a hand on his back while you lifted the other to encompass your surroundings. “Sorry for the mess!” You exclaimed brightly, wincing at the hitch in your voice and laughing at the fusion of amusement and dignified shock in your friend’s bright eyes.

“But of course, it should not come to me as a surprise,” War teased, playing along, delighting you. “To treat your gift as such.”

You huffed. “As my gift, surely I can do with it as I will?”  

His brows furrowed, then he smiled. “You make a compelling argument, young one.”

You snorted, and then laughed. When you finished laughing, you drew in a shaky breath and laughed some more, a little hysterical, a little desperate. You laughed and laughed until your eyes watered and stomach ached. At some point, War had hugged you to him again. Like you, he was also catching his breath, but he was recovering far swifter than you.

“Xoron,” he began, startling you, his tone as soft as your touch. His face was tucked in your shoulder and you lightly scratched his scalp.

“Astragr. Ghyssa,” he continued in that same reminiscent tone. “Bhal. Alli. Istis.” You kept your silence as War continued his litany of names. While he spoke on, you had buried your face in his hair again, breathing in the familiar waft of mountain dew and cinder, the cocktail of unknown compounds in his sweat and skin. You smiled with him during moments of fond reminiscence and lent your silent sympathy during moments of sad recollections.

“Thank you,” you whispered to him when he finished. “for trusting me.”

Instead of replying, War pressed you tighter to him. Your eyes burned and the lump in your throat swelled more painfully. You knew that you were stalling, and you knew that he knew that you were stalling. Nothing this precious, this sacred should ever last. Destiny was too cruel in its sense of humour. But that didn’t mean you wouldn’t make the moment worthwhile.

You slowly pulled out of War’s arms, smiling when you felt his reluctance in letting you go. You asked him to wait. You knelt by his armour and rummaged through till your fingers brushed his pouch. You pulled out an empty flask. Then you stood up and strode to the stream, rinsing the glass thoroughly before filling it up.

You turned back to War.

His back was straight, his muscles locked and eyes wide, a cornered beast in anticipation of an attack. He began to speak, to protest, but shortly trailed off when you did not utter a word in defense. Your eyes were closed. When War said nothing else, you opened them again.  

War bowed his head. “Forgive me. It is your gift. You do with it as you will.”

“To share with you,” you amended gently. “War, this is not coercion. It is an offer from me, from a host unto their guest.” He was so stooped that it seemed like he was trying to curl into himself. You gave him pause, waiting patiently. Then you stood before him within three steps.

War slowly raised his head and you saw the silent plea in his eyes. He was making no effort to conceal it. Your heart broke. War never pleads. You ached to reach out to smooth those tight frown lines with your fingertips, to wrap him in your arms and never let go.

You closed the distance, leaning forwards and pressing your lips to his forehead, whispering, “Let me share this gift with you, War. Please. You have given much and sacrificed even more. I love you. I love everything about you, your light and your shadow.” His breaths came out as near-imperceptible stutters. You brought your palms to his temples, as though seeking to ground him.

“From this moment forth-”

“Y/N.”

“-regardless of happens when we leave-”

“Y/N.”

“-I need you to know that-”

“Please.”                          

You kissed his forehead. “Eden is your home too.”

He was silent and still, rigid as marble stone. When the silence stretched on, you pulled away, careful not to make eye contact. You turned around, taking in the lands of your foremost mother and father for the last time, committing as much to memory before leaving.  

“I place myself in your hands.”

Tears spilled down your face and neck. Without a word, you turned back to your friend. The plea had shifted to something softer, deeper, but not fully disappeared. Slowly, very slowly, you raised the flask, willing War to see your intent. But War had already bowed his head, true to his words. Honourable War.

Carefully, reverently, you poured the flask over his head, washing away the dirt and crusted blood from his hair. “This is your home now,” you murmured as the water trickled down his neck, shoulders and back, crystal droplets caressing and cleansing his golden skin easily.

You understood his reluctance to stepping into the stream itself. So you refilled the vial and returned to him again and again. “You will always be welcomed here.” You poured the shimmering water over his arms and feet. The water was so clean and pure that you didn’t need to physically scrub off any stubborn dirt, scabs and blood.

You knelt before the horseman as you bathed his hand, between his fingers and the plates of his nails. Finally, you laved the naked stump of his other arm, most thoroughly and gentlest of all.

You didn’t move away once finished, unwilling to break the intimacy of the closeness, unwilling to do anything but

be.

Your hand hovered over the stump. You looked up. His wet hair was plastered to his forehead. His ancient eyes, blue as the winter skies sparkled for a moment, almost as though with-

“War.”

“You may touch,” he murmured.

You kissed the golden stump instead, reverently, and pressed your forehead against his cooled skin. His vulnerability. His beautiful, beautiful, vulnerability.

“I’m sorry War,” you said again.

He breathed, slow and deep.

“It is not I who sits homeless on the broken husk of a sacred land.”

“I am sorry that you were wrongly accused of a crime that you did not commit.”

“It is not I who wandered the scorched, barren wasteland of their annihilated home realm, whose bare feet remained drenched with the ashes of their people in the years to come.”

“I am sorry that you no longer have your brothers and sisters with you.”

“It is not I whose kin begged and wept and bled away in senseless eradication.”

You reached up and touched your fingertips to his closed eyes. “For being blind to your loss and sorrow.”

He grasped your wrist in a gentle grip. “For being deaf to your needs.”

You cupped his cheek with your free hand. “For clinging to you.”

His lips were warm against your knuckles. “For being stubborn.”

“I am sorry,” you said as one.        

War stared at you, the depths of his eyes capturing you, absorbing you as they always did. “There may be no coming back, little one,” he offered his last piece of argument.

You stared at him, the depths of your eyes capturing him, absorbing him as they always did. “You are my Eden, War.”

Silence seemed to stretch for an eternity. The barest tremor shivered along the Horseman’s arm and you hugged the stump in a tight grip, feeling the shifts of muscles beneath his golden skin. You heard the gentle clink of clenched teeth. Your eyes slid shut. A teardrop fell onto the back of your hand, mixing with the purest water in existence.

It was not yours.  

Later that day, the archangel Azrael would observe the Rider’s eyes to be tinged a raw pink. He would keep this observation to himself.

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Anonymous asked: Don’t you miss London in any way since you are British? Wouldn’t you love to come back especially after Brexit? Do you think London has changed for the worse that its not worth living there anymore?

Yes, I do miss London. I do want to go back....but not yet. I’m enjoying living and working in Paris. Brexit doesn’t affect me as I also have a Norwegian passport and I qualify for carte de séjour (a sort of residential work permit).

It was the wit Stephen Fry who said “The English language is like London: proudly barbaric yet deeply civilised, too, common yet royal, vulgar yet processional, sacred yet profane.” He captures the essence of London it’s so diverse that anyone can fit in. That is its strength and its weakness compared to other maga cosmopolitan cities like New York in the West or Shanghai in the East as its only rival.

But to my mind London has  more - arguably the same as New York but definitely more than Shanghai - in terms of energy and vibrancy with a very unique English topping of eccentricity. Something you would never find in Paris for instance where things are quite socially stodgy and snobbish. The dinner parties I attend in London are far more down to earth and vibrant as well as eccentric and very fun compared to the ritualised boerdom of super pretentious dinner parties of the Parisian crowds I get roped in - a caveat, most but not all.

London to me is like city state much in the spirit of a medieval Florence. It has no moorings to the rest of the country or the nation. It’s a bubble. or I should say bubbles within a giant bubble. There a diversity of communities each rubbing up against each other. Mostly for the good but some times not so good. Despite urban problems that affict growing mega capitals London for me still remains a wonderful place to live. 

When people ask me about if I enjoyed living in London I have to ask which London? We all live in our concentric social circles in London and people as much as place help define our sense of belonging and happiness. I don’t look at London in an abstract way in terms of favourite places but in terms of the bonds of friendships made and sustained from childhood onwards. 

Samuel Johnson said “When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford.” In my case, it’s because I wanted to expand my life experiences that I left London. I get bored easily and I have restless feet. I left London because it became too small for me. Or rather the world I inhabited became too socially claustrophobic for my tastes. I needed to get out and seek adventure and challenges elsewhere at least for the next chapter of my life.

I do love London and I often go back there for work reasons as well as personal ones when I can. I am a member of a few gentlemen clubs (many allow women in now) and its old genteel atmosphere centres me and paradoxically helps me to see London in slow motion even as London around me is fast moving and changing. I also don’t miss key events that I can only experience in London like the ballet and the theatre which is unrivalled in the world. And of course there are some events on the social season calendar which I can’t miss because of family obligations.

Every city has its unique charms but only a few touch the heart and soul. London - or at least the London of my childhood - is one of them. But for how much longer I don’t know.

London seems to be galloping towards a new and uncertain identity, one that puts ‘stuff’ before substance, and more importantly, money before class (as in good taste). Brexit’s impact on London doesn’t bother me in the slightest as London will adapt as it always does. It will muddle through which has always been the English way to solving any problem: just muddle through.

Still, it’s the little things I notice rather than the obvious macro ones. It niggles me and prey on my mind long after I witness the offence.

So let me give you an example of what I mean.

I did a hard day’s shopping in Knightsbridge and was waiting to meet a dear old friend from boarding school to play catch up. She’s always bringing me up to speed on the gossip in our circles and most of it goes in one ear and out of the other as I’m bored by it but interested and polite enough to listen if only to feel happiness and relief that I actually do live away in Paris.

So there I was waiting for her. She was late as usual. I was sitting in a quintessentially English hotel restaurant in Knightsbridge over Christmas. I watched a young man about the same age as me approach the door. He was dressed in a wool long coat with a velvet collar that looked a little snug, although it was beautiful and had the look of Turnbull and Asser about it.

My heart soared, as he held the door open for an elegantly dressed woman who was on her way out, then approached the restaurant and confirmed he was there and waiting for a guest, a living illustration that manners maketh man.  When he took his coat off it was to reveal what was the uniform of my father’s generation, right down to the waistcoat, bottom button left open, and polished shoes. The suit he was wearing could well have been inherited from his father - probably Savile Row - but the whole was a thing of modest beauty and seemed to fit with the Christmas decorations and season of traditions. This was a well groomed young gentleman who had dressed for the occasion, and the occasion was a treat, an extravagance, something not of the every day.

I ended up at a table diagonally across from him and his companion, probably his wife or partner, excited to be there and also impeccably dressed and I watched as a party of flashy men of indecipherable East European origin arrived five minutes later. They didn’t speak much English and were wearing a selection of very tight floral shirts with white cuffs and collars. Block printed, purple and lime and many other colours unsuitable for December, but there you have it and while my suited object of admiration sat unserved, the party in the middle of the restaurant made up for their lack of fluent English with magnificent finger clicking skills.

You might say this is and always has been the way of the world, the wallets were on the table, money clips clearly visible through the skintight shirts, but one thing was different about this picture, something unpleasant. The restaurant staff fawned on them, and the couple opposite me sat, waiting politely for the two gin and tonics they had ordered.

Meanwhile, gaudy bottles of Ace of Spades Champagne arrived stage centre, possibly the world’s flashiest wine container, gold and shiny and terribly gauche. They were closely followed by four sets of twins, female ones, who sat down at the table amongst the flowery shirts and were each poured a glass of fizz which they silently sipped in minimal clothing.

Meanwhile in the other corner, the unassuming couple who had come in first were still waiting for their drinks, and I watched while the gloss went off their day, and the pall of poor relations settled on them in the corner.

This scene will be familiar to anyone who lives in Central London and it’s sad. The bottom line has always been a vital consideration in the London restaurant scene, there has always been a special table for regular customers, that’s the way of things. Until recently however there has also been that very British recognition that the chap who has saved up all year to take his wife to a special lunch should be treated as if he is also a regular guest and one of equal value at that.

It’s these little acts of tradition and custom that are the life blood of the civic life of a city. Lose this and you slowly erode the pillars of civility.

This obnoxious veneration of money to the exclusion of everything else has reached fever pitch. Restaurants that used to be just that, dining rooms that you could sit and eat lovely food in, providing a bubble away from the day to day stresses that we are all party to, are now restaurants with private clubs upstairs. Meanwhile private clubs that used to be simply  private clubs now have VIP areas – VVIP areas – which is at least a bonus in that you can avoid the more ghastly members as they are all in those bits.

What does this all mean? Does it mean that everything from eating out to where we shop is now Instagrammed or Facebooked, leaving us defined by our purchases and spending habits alone? It is certainly starting to feel like it in London (and worryingly small signs of it Paris too with rich Russians and Arabs buying up most expensive aprtments in the city), where a hundred pounds is the new tenner, and consumption has reached improbable proportions.

Strangely though, no one seems any happier, quite the contrary. Are the new Rich Kids of Instagram really something to aspire to? Is bad taste the new good taste?  Strange times are upon us, when 16 year olds sit in a cordoned off areas of clubs and restaurants flashing their cash and getting on and off jets. I see this first hand as I sometimes get to fly on private jets purely for work reasons at the largesse of my corporate clients. I always thought the Euro trash aristocrats girls at my Swiss boarding school were entitled airheads but the present nouveau riche incarnation don’t even have a sense of ironic self awareness or taste.

Human beings love a boundary, well they have for the whole history of mankind to date, anyway. If in one generation we get rid of all the traditional social conventions, from buying our own homes, saving, working hard, not buying whatever we want whenever we want it, where will we be?  Perhaps instant gratification will lead us all to a new kind of life, a new place where we all live for experiences instead of taking out a mortgage, where nothing we do is our fault and no consequences to our actions.

I have always loved the quote ‘Don’t give up on what you want for what you want now’ and believe that delaying gratification is the defining characteristic of mature adulthood.

Perhaps values, traditions, less is more and simple kindness will make a comeback. In the meantime, restaurants will empty of customers like the well mannered gentleman on the corner table, and I will continue to feel uncomfortable that we are losing something vital not just in London but increasingly elsewhere in great European cities I travel to.

Thanks for your question.

[gibbzer]

To Scotland With Love

There was a gap of several years between the last blog post I wrote and this one. In that time, my dad developed dementia. I’ve written about dementia before - in my BBC film ‘Golden Wedding’ - and am working on two screenplays that deal with it just now. In 2017 the estimated proportion of the general population aged 60 and over with dementia  was between 5 to 8 per 100. 

“I was fifteen months old when I gave my mother a black eye. We were asleep, huddled together, in our wee hole in the wall bed, waiting for my dad to arrive home from East Africa. The knock came. I jumped up, startled, and smacked my mother hard in the eye. She hadn’t seen my dad for a year. The next day they were the talk of the close. The voices were hushed. Stilettos click click clacking on the stone stairs. (In time with their tongues) ‘He’s back a meal hour and look at the state of her face…!’ 

My dad never raised his hand to a soul. Well, not till the dementia took hold and he managed quite a few scraps with That Big Bastard John (his words, not mine) He'd dared to question my dad’s rightful occupancy of the care home bedroom overlooking the Clyde. No, Wee Andy Gibb (as he was affectionately known) was not your stereotypical west of Scotland hard man but a typical west of Scotland hard-working one.

Descriptions like hard-working are loaded, implying a superiority over those who don’t work for a living, but it’s exactly what he was. 'Salt of the earth’ is also overused but he was that too. Without him, our lives would have been devoid of all taste and flavour. My mother was in charge, there was no arguing with that, but he agreed to her having this power. Willingly, without rancour and with good grace.

He liked to look out, my father. Beyond the river he grew up on. The first time he left Greenock it was to join the marines, to do his national service. Duty done, he came home to serve his apprenticeship as an electrician but the bug had bit hard. He was soon on his travels again, this time to Borneo. Within a year he was home, on the point of death from Dengue fever, and no clue as to who or where he was. My nana nursed him back to life, told him he was never to set foot outside Greenock again, then waved him off six months later when the memories of those far flung places had returned to invade his dreams.

During his lifetime, he visited every continent bar South America. He plied his trade in eleven different countries, including his own. But he always seemed most proud of the jobs he’d done in Scotland. He never tired of telling us he’d rewired the big fire station in Greenock. My mother would raise one perfectly painted-on eyebrow, ‘Well. If you’re going to start a fire, I suppose a fire station’s the best place for it.’ It was water off my dad’s back, though he did have a temper when riled. Red hair, you see. But outburst over, it was soon forgotten. He never held a grudge. My mother, on the other hand, never forgot a trick. Especially if it was played on her.  

He lived the last few years of his life in the place he was born. Not far from the Greenock fire station that had miraculously survived his workmanship. He spent his time, looking out beyond the river once more, from his small care home room. The fact he thought he was in Africa comforted me. I hoped he was not truly confined by those tiny walls but still travelling in what was left of his mind. The truth was, wherever he lived, my dad took Scotland with him. I've lost count of the number of Caledonian societies my folks belonged to. Everywhere they went, he and my mother found their kin. They organised highland gatherings in the sweltering heat of Jakarta and celebrated St Andrew’s Day in Lagos in kilts and sashes. Some might find this expat patriotism cloying. Or worse still, insulting. My nineteen year old self was mortified by it. But, make no mistake, there’s a hierarchy among ex-pats too. It all depends on whether you’re diplomatic or managerial. Or neither. Married. Or single. Then there’s the size of company car. Or where your house is. Or how many bedrooms it has. And how many locals are employed to work in it. It’s a dislocating experience for a working class family to be transported to another world, where Nigerians or Indonesians are paid to cook your tea. My mum responded by teaching every one of the men or women who graced her kitchen, how to cook mince, stovies and a decent lentil soup. She, in her turn, learnt how to make the best West African curry I have ever tasted.  

My dad was never high up in the ex-pat hierarchy but it didn’t bother him. Because he was confident in who he was and where he came from. He worked alongside men of all nationalities and colour and was close to many of them. Once in Northern Nigeria, during the Biafran war, he was called out in the middle of the night to identify his foreman, Gabriel. Gabriel had been beheaded by Federal soldiers. He wasn’t even from Nigeria. He’d come from the Cameroons to find work to keep his family. The exact same reason my father had left his own country. All my dad could do was make sure Gabriel’s family were looked after but he never forgot his foreman or what he’d sacrificed to provide for his own. In my dad’s view, it was the mark of the man. The story of 'Dear Frankie' grew out of my long distance relationship with this absent father, because the first eight years of my life were spent communicating with him by letter. My mother point-blank refused to leave Scotland and my father could not stay. Who was the selfish one? Her for staying? Or him for going? Neither. It’s what suited them both.

I revelled in having a father who lived abroad. Our tenement flat was full of exotic treasures. We had a huge tiger skin rug in front of our fire, head and teeth included. (I'm ashamed when I think about it now.) But then I used to lie on it, pretend it could fly and go on adventures as far away as my dad’s were. I always had the best birthday cakes, because they were delivered in a box, sent by him. My Deputy Dawg cake was the talk of Primary Two. I told everyone it had come all the way from Pakistan even though, in all probability, it had been knocked up in Aulds the bakers, just down the road.

Then one day, out of the blue, my mother decided it was time we went with him and we were all shipped to the west coast of Africa. The first time I saw a black person was when the deck passengers alighted at Sierra Leone. My brother and I stood on deck, shoulders all pink and blistered, fascinated by the women with their babies on their backs. I was still feeling the wrench of  being separated from my silver cross doll's pram and it confused me. Where were all the prams? My dad explained they didn’t use prams because babies preferred to be carried close to their mums. I never put a doll in a pram again.

My dad was a Labour man but he was not a radical thinker. Far from it. He and I agreed to disagree on many political issues but we almost had a catastrophic falling out in the 80’s because my folks were thinking of emigrating to South Africa. I was beside myself. How could he even consider it. His answer was simple, he needed to work. In the end, they didn’t go and our relationship remained intact.

I’ve been thinking about him a lot recently. It’s been prompted by many things, including the Clutha tragedy. Partly because he worked on the oil rigs in Indonesia for a few years, and travelled to and fro by helicopter. (Our hearts were always in our mouths when he took off for his fortnightly shifts.) And because the emotional coming together of the Scottish diaspora, in response to what happened in Glasgow, reminded me of how viscerally he reacted to any tragedy back home.

Perhaps it's easy to feel sentimental about a country when you're miles away, but why do men and women like my father remain so connected to a place they've chosen not to live in? Why do they cling to their national identity with such ferocity? Because it is who they are. It is them. My dad didn't travel half way round the world in search of somewhere to belong. He was striking out, in the sure and certain knowledge, that he'd already found it. And he always respected other people and their culture because his culture, his ‘Scottishness’ was everything to him.

The last six dementia years aside, Wee Andy had a great life. Rich in experience, full of adventure. For a man of his class and generation, he was extraordinarily lucky to have lived it. And I was equally lucky to have lived some of it with him. “

[newmusickarl]

Album & EP Recommendations

Hello My Beautiful World by Holy Holy

If you are not familiar with Australian outfit Holy Holy, the brainchild of singer-songwriter Timothy Carroll and guitarist/composer Oscar Dawson, then you have truly been missing out. Having debuted with the impressive, rock-centric When The Storms Would Come, the band developed their sound further on sophomore effort Paint, before then freely experimenting on their last album, My Own Pool of Light. However, all that has simply been building up to this fourth album, which for my money is easily their strongest, most accomplished work to date.

With this new record, Holy Holy sound completely confident and firmly in control as they expand their already adventurous sound into exciting and utterly majestic new directions. Across the 14 tracks here, there are three glorious musical centrepieces in particular, that even come complete with epic, instrumental Codas (The Aftergone, I.C.U. and So Tired). There is also the band’s first foray into hip hop on the Queen P. featuring track Port Rd, as well as the beautiful spoken word piece that marks the album’s title track, something you can listen to above. The musicianship on display here is just amazing, with each track harbouring a sumptuous melody that is backdropped by stunning strings, soaring guitars, and mesmerising electronica.

I really can’t stress enough how much I was blown away by this album. Best thing I can do is simply recommend that you press play on opener Believe Anything (with its catchy chorus of “La, La, Las”, big bassline, wonderfully buzzy guitars and gorgeous strings) and then just enjoy the sonic journey from there – you won’t be disappointed. I know I have already said this about a lot of albums this year, but I think this is another strong favourite.

Listen here

Infinite Granite by Deafheaven

I said a few weeks back that my anticipation for this record had reached fever pitch, so I am glad to firstly report that this album fully delivers on the hype. Now I know there was also a lot of talk in the build-up to this album, from myself included, about how this record is shaping up to be a huge departure in sound for post-metal outfit Deafheaven. The preview singles rightly suggested they were ramping up the clean vocals and moving away from their “blackgaze” roots towards a more distinctive alternative rock sound. However, having now listened to the record several times over this week, I’m not entirely sure that the change is that radical at all.

Like many, Sunbather was the album that introduced me to the mesmerising sound of Deafheaven, that wonderful mix of beauty and horror captivating me straight away on what remains one of my favourite metal albums of the last 10 years. However even on that record, which was predominantly black metal, there was still passages of melodic guitar textures and dreamy shoegaze just like there is here. All Deafheaven have really done is push the metal back and brought those elements further forward, something they were already starting to do to on their last album Ordinary Corrupt Human Love. This definitely isn’t a criticism though, as I’ve always loved that side to their sound. The good news is as well for those that were still hoping the metal elements and scream vocals hadn’t been completely abandoned, the thunderous climax to Villain and second half of eight-minute closer Mombasa should still satisfy old school fans.

For the album itself, this is undoubtedly another masterful work from Deafheaven, which although slightly different is up there with both Sunbather and New Bermuda. It also contains a lot of their best work to date, with recent single In Blur still standing out amongst the pack with its near-anthemic chorus of “What does daylight look like in this chaos of cold?” and it’s really scintillating guitar work.

The Gnashing is another standout - built around a vocal not a million miles away from Interpol’s Paul Banks at times, the song wonderfully builds towards a crescendo of, as the title suggests, some seriously biting guitar riffs. That said though, lead single Great Mass of Color remains one of my favourite tracks of the year so far, with its completely hypnotic guitar melody and distant vocals that gently glide across your ears before eventually erupting into a swarm of heavy guitars and screamy vocals for the triumphant finale. If anything, it’s the perfect combination of Deafheaven’s old and new sound.

Just like Holy Holy, this is an incredible body of work and another Q3 contender for my annual Albums of the Year list.

Listen here

After Midnight by Lola Young

Just a couple of weekends ago, I was introduced to soul singer Lola Young through watching her sensational performance at 110 Above Festival. With her incredible voice and natural charisma, it seems obvious to me that the 20-year-old is destined for big things in the future. This instinct was further solidified this week through listening to her brilliant new 4 track EP, probably one of my favourite short-plays of the year so far.

Across the four tracks, Young navigates the emotion and heartbreak that comes connected with a familiar late-night hook-up, cataloguing the events from the drunken walk back home after a night out to the haze of the sun coming up at 5am the next morning. It’s tightly packaged but at the same time incredibly raw, with Young laying out her vulnerability across some sparse live production, centred around her powerful voice and a simple piano backing. It all makes for quite a stunning and resonant 15 minutes, showing that Lola Young is most definitely a superstar in the making.

Listen here

Solar Power by Lorde

Although Deafheaven might have been my most anticipated record of the week, I think it’s safe to say the world has been awaiting this new album from Lorde ever since the end of the Melodrama cycle. Like many, I thoroughly enjoyed that record however I must say the lead single to this new album hadn’t really captured me in the same way Green Light had in 2017.

With that being the case, I wasn’t sure if this album was going to be for me or not. That doubt soon disappeared though the moment the strum of the folky guitars on opener The Path kicked in, putting my mind immediately at ease. With talent the calibre of Phoebe Bridgers and Clairo providing the background vocals, it is a truly magnificent start and easily my favourite track on the entire record. From there plenty of highlights keep coming, with the bluesy riffs of Fallen Fruit and the sun-soaked meanderings of closer Oceanic Feeling also standing out.

Although beyond The Path I can’t see me returning to this album as much as I did Melodrama, I think the intriguing change of sound Lorde goes for here makes it still worthy of a recommendation.

Listen here

Saturday Night, Sunday Morning by Jake Bugg

Being from Nottingham, I also couldn’t overlook the new album from singer-songwriter Jake Bugg this week, who has once again found his form on this his fifth studio album. Featuring some noticeably glossier production and a bit more of a pop feel, this is Jake’s most consistent record for a while, one I found myself quite enjoying from start-to-finish. To pick just a couple of highlights, dancefloor-ready single Lost with its disco flair and suitably catchy chorus, along with the piano-driven, string-tinged lament of Downtown stand out the most.

Listen here

Tomorrow’s People by Shire T

Elsewhere, Chris Davids - one half of electronic duo Maribou State - released his first solo album this week. Continuing exactly where the band left off with their incredible sophomore album Kingdoms In Colour, the record is an enchanting mix of more traditional sounds, styles and influences from across the globe, juxtaposed nicely against modern synths and beats. It is a great listen and, in many ways, the perfect companion piece to that Kingdoms In Colour record. If you’re a fan of that album, I guarantee you’ll love this one too!

Listen here

Tracks of the Week

Life Is Not The Same by James Blake

The second taste of James Blake’s forthcoming fifth album is a haunting, at times uncomfortable tale of heartbreak, with some fascinating production and a stunning, emotive vocal performance from Blake himself.

Listen here

Carbon Mono by Boston Manor

Coming quickly off the back of their 2020 third album Glue, Blackpool rockers Boston Manor made their seismic return this week with arguably their most anthemic single to date, built on buzzy guitar riffs, glitchy synths and polished production.

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[star-trekkin-across-theuniverse]

Fallen Valkyrie, pt21

Word Count: 2413 Tags: @outside-the-government @distinguishedqueenofbooks, @anyakinamidala @dirajunara @anotherotter @youdonebeengarthed @auduna-druitt @samaxraph99 @rayleyanns @sistasarah-sallysaidso @feelmyroarrrr @kitchenwitchsuperwhovian @little-study-bug @graysonmalfoy @rampant-salamander @goodnightwife @ha-tep @fantiomaticsupertolkienlover

Eira felt lighter somehow, like a burden had been lifted from her, or she had gotten away with some great caper. She wasn’t sure what exactly she was expecting, but Odin hadn’t appeared at the moment of her and Thor’s joining, to cast her from the Valkyries. Ragnarok did not come, the realms did not crash around their feet. It was almost as though she had a secret delight that no one else knew about.

She lingered on Midgard, collecting plants for near an hour before calling Heimdall to open the Bifrost and bring her home. She realized that she had not yet heard the Bifrost open for Thor as the familiar thrum enclosed her and pulled her home.

Eira made her way to Valkyrjahús to check in after her absence from Valhalla. She was not sure how to explain herself, but hoped there would not be many questions. She wanted to have something special and secret to keep to herself. She drew up to the longhouse, pulled her armour and saddlebags down and carried her things into the armour room. She hung her armour on her armour tree and made her way into the main room, digging in her saddlebags the whole while. She handed a thick bundle of long stems to Brynhildr.

“Is this a bribe?” Bryn arched an eyebrow.

“No, silverweed. To ease the pain of your courses. You complained last month, and I think they fast approach,” Eira laughed as she sat. Bryn took the bundle and smelled them.

“How does it work?” Bryn asked.

“Brew it into a tea. It doesn’t smell very nice, so you might want to add honey, in case it tastes bad,” Eira offered.

“You mean you haven’t tried it yourself? Am I to be your victim in experimentation?” Bryn laughed. Eira joined her, shaking her head.

“Not at all! The healers I’ve spoken with on Midgard all swear it helps,” she promised. Bryn narrowed her eyes.

“Is that where you were last night?” Bryn inquired, with a smirk. Eira couldn’t stop the colour from rushing to her face.

“I was on Midgard, yes,” she admitted.

“You sly thing!” Kara squealed. “A Midgardian lover? I thought you were content with Thor?”

Eira felt herself growing more red, if it were possible. She looked down at her feet and said nothing.

“I think perhaps not a Midgardian,” Bryn commented wryly.

“I think perhaps we needn’t discuss this,” Eira muttered.

“Perhaps you should have been in Valhalla instead, if you wanted to keep your daliances secret. Who were you with, Eira?” Bryn laughed. Eira looked up at her friend sharply.

“Who do you think I was with?” She snapped. Kara let out a whoop of triumph and shoved Bryn in the shoulder.

“I told you she was with Thor! I told you!” She crowed and looked over at Eira. “I bet Bryn a new bone comb that was who you were with!”

“And Asgard yet stands. Mayhap you’ll get your cake and eat it too,” Bryn smirked. Eira laughed and hid her face in her hands.

“You tease me too much!” She protested. Bryn laughed and rubbed her hand along Eira’s back.

“No, sister. We tease just enough. You have some duties today, since you were too busy to join us last night. I’m not sure if you are well-rested enough though. No matter. The stables need shoveling.” Brynhildr laid out the consequence for Eira’s absense. Eira nodded in acceptance and went to change into a work tunic and trousers.

Eira fell into her bed, exhausted. She’d been fatigued to her breaking point for weeks, and on those days that the Valkyries rode to war, she could barely keep her eyes open by the time they made it to Valhalla. Winter had come to Midgard, and she couldn’t shake the chill that seeped into her bones when they rode across snow covered battlefields, gleaning the dead.

She was ill with something, sneezing frequently, and coughing, sometimes until she threw up. And interminably nauseated. And bloated, like nothing she ate agreed with her.

Halla crept into her room, and sat on the edge of her bed. She ran her hand along Eira’s arm, holding her hand at Eira’s wrist for a moment. She moved her hand up and held her wrist against Eira’s forehead. She sighed heavily and shook her head.

“This cold is beyond my skills to treat, sweetling. You need rest. Soup. Sleep. I will send word to Frigga and see if she may have the time to come and see you. Perhaps there is a spell.” Halla pulled the blankets up over Eira’s shoulders. Eira fell into a fitful sleep, too tired to protest that all she needed was a nap. She wakened when a cool hand ran across her forehead.

“She burns with a fever.” Eira forced herself to look to the source of the words. Frigga had come, and was sitting on the bedside, leaning over Eira. She placed her hand back on Eira’s forehead and Eira felt the gentle pulse of Frigga’s healing magic wash through her. She closed her eyes and relaxed, but did not sleep.

“What ails her, Your Majesty?” Halla asked, her voice brimming with concern. Eira heard Frigga sigh.

“It is difficult for me to tell. Eira’s body is unique. Valkyries cannot die, but they can certainly sicken, and weaken. And untreated, their illnesses can last much longer because of their immortality. I wish that Loki were here. His magic has a way of penetrating even the strangest of mysteries,” Frigga admitted.

“Can he be sent for?” Halla asked. There was a long silence, and Eira slipped back to sleep again before she could protest that the women were unnecessarily concerned.

When she wakened again, before Halla could attend to her, she washed herself and went out into the garden with a manuscript. She could feel her strength returning with every ray of sun that hit her. She was leaning against the fountain, legs outstretched before her, when Loki bolted through the garden gate toward her. He was paler than usual, and his brow was furrowed with concern and uncertainty. He stopped in his tracks a few feet from her, and gaped.

“You don’t look sick,” he stated, the pinched look around his eyes disappearing.

“I have been fatigued. Tis a cold. My mother worries overmuch,” Eira dismissed.

“Well, my mother does not. And she had me summoned from Svartalfheim.” He took a few steps closer and stooped over to feel her forehead. She swatted his hand away and went back to her book.

“Tis nothing, Loki,” She snapped. The fatigue was taking its toll on her good nature. She felt worn, spread thin, and her temper was quicker to ignite. Loki raised an eyebrow.

“Such fire, Eira. Who knew a healer would be such a terrible patient? You weren’t like this when you were run through.” He sat beside her and narrowed his eyes. “You will let me look you over, Eira. My mother has commanded it.”

“I was unconscious when I was run through,” Eira sighed and turned to face him, crossing her legs and putting her book off to one side.

“That book appears heavy enough. Would you like me to strike you with it and render you unconscious again?” Loki teased, but his tone was stern.

“If I let you assess me, will you leave this alone?” She asked, irritable. Loki nodded. “Fine.”

Loki laid his wrist across her forehead for a moment, and then pulled it back and laid it across his own.

“Mother said you had a fever. It seems to have broken.”

“Because this is merely a cold, Loki,” Eira snapped. Loki pursed his lips and made to continue his assessment. Eira sighed and rolled her eyes. He placed his hand across her chest, his index finger and thumb running along her collarbone. She felt a small pull as his magic slipped into her and she found herself watching his face, unable to look away. His eyes were closed, and he nodded to himself as though he were marking a list in his mind as the magic flowed through her. His lips moved silently, repeating the incantation that was allowing him to see inside her. His strength was not healing magic, but he had an uncanny way of twisting his magic to do his bidding regardless of what he asked of it.

Eira could follow the course of magic as it wove through her chest, and spread across her shoulders and down her arms. It crept past her heart and slid toward her legs, leaving her feeling warm. Once her whole body was filled with the languid glow of Loki’s spell, his lips stopped moving, and his head moved as though he were actually looking around. With a shock that was enough to push him away from her, and arc tiny sparks from his fingers, he pulled away, his eyes flying open. The colour left his face, and Eira could see that he was struggling to catch his breath.

“What have you seen, Loki?” Eira reached for his hand. He pulled it back, and stared at it in disbelief.

“The vestigial magic you haven’t trained. It shut me out of your body. I was unable to see all that I sought,” Loki admitted, still looking shaken.

“Were you able to see anything?” Eira asked. Loki’s eyes flashed, and he looked away, shaking his head.

“You are not unwell, Eira.” He finally looked back to her, meeting her eye. Eira released the breath she didn’t realize she was holding. “You were right. Tis fatigue, and nothing more. I should go. I’m still needed in Svartalfheim.”

Loki rose effortlessly. Eira scrambled to her feet beside him.

“Must you? You’ve been gone so long, Loki. I miss our lessons.” She tried to entice him to stay for longer, to visit, and laugh over tales of his misdeeds.

“I have been teaching you at my father’s request, Eira. I am a prince, not a nanny for unruly Valkyries.” His tone was severe. Eira recoiled as though he’d struck her, tears immediately springing to her eyes.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it. I miss you, Loki. You’ve become my dearest friend.” Eira’s words were slow, and quiet. She looked away, and wiped the tears with the corner of her sleeve. Loki placed his hand on her shoulder.

“I am sorry. I am tired and overworked. I spoke out of turn. I value your friendship similarly, Eira. Please don’t be cross with me,” he apologized. Eira pulled her shoulder away from him, angry with herself for being petulant, and angry with Loki for making her so.

“Go then,” she mumbled. Loki sighed and sat on the rim of the fountain.

“I would know I haven’t hurt your heart first.” His posture was forced, as though he was making himself appear relaxed, when he really wasn’t. Eira narrowed her eyes.

“What did you see when you wove your spell?” She demanded. Loki looked away, sighed again, and looked back.

“I saw nothing. I told you, the latent magic you’ve never worked pushed me out. It was protecting you,” he admitted. Eira thought it sounded plausible, despite not understanding the breadth and depth of the magic ability she possessed.

“So I am not ill.”

“You are in perfect health for a woman in your,” he stumbled over his words, “of your age.”

“A woman of my age? You make me out as though I am a crone!” She exclaimed with a laugh. Loki flinched.

“You are in perfect health, Eira,” he assured her, his smile forced. Eira wondered how that could be if she was so unnaturally tired, and said as much to Loki. He shrugged.

“The cold symptoms, the sneezing, it could be a reaction to something you’ve brought back from Midgard. You’ve collected many plants into your garden,” he suggested. Eira looked at the healer’s garden she had been planting from the transplants from Midgard. It made sense.

“That would account for the fatigue too,” she murmured. Loki rose from his place at the fountain, and stepped close, pushing Eira’s hair off her shoulder. They were closer than Eira knew she should be comfortable standing, but she made no move to make space between them, instead placing a hand over his heart. There was something so familiar, so comforting about the feel of him. Something about the cool comfort of his touch, and the sweet tangy scent he shared with his brother. Eira supposed it was partly that connection with Thor that made her feel so at ease with him. She met his gaze and smiled, matching the tired bags under his eyes with her own.

“Eira, please know. I would never do anything to deliberately harm you. I am only a man, and a flawed one at that. But know my heart now, you are the dearest thing I have in this world, and my closest friend. I am sorry to have aggrieved you. Please forgive me. I am sure, that as a fool, I will do many things more that will hurt you, but you must understand that will never be my intention. I am much better at mischief than I am as a friend.” He kissed her forehead. Eira wrapped her arms around his waist, and laid her head on his chest.

“You were merely a little sharp, Loki. You needn’t be so effusive,” Eira laughed lightly, her good mood restored. Loki rubbed his hands down her back before releasing you.

“Well, it stands. I am sure I will do something daft and hurt you again, no matter how minor or how great the wound,” he laughed. “I really must go though, Eira. Before I am missed.”

“How would you be missed? Heimdall knows your whereabouts!” Eira exclaimed. Loki shook his head.

“There are secret paths between the worlds that even Heimdall does not monitor. Frigga asked me to be discrete in my visit, lest the Elves think we put the welfare of a single Asgardian above the importance of their peace treaty. Even the Allfather does not know I am here.” Loki bowed with a wink and made his way out of the garden courtyard. Eira lingered in the garden a while longer, but the fatigue she’d held at bay while Loki was visiting came crushing down on her, and she retired to her room for a nap.