#basin street blues

[mishalogic]

The Mills Brothers sing "Basin Street Blues" & "Up a Lazy River" with th...

Song and music for the moment ... Misha

[amygdalae]

"The franchise and the virus work on the same principle: what thrives in one place will thrive in another. You just have to find a sufficiently virulent business plan, condense it into a three-ring binder--its DNA--xerox it, and embed it in the fertile lining of a well-traveled highway, preferably one with a left-turn lane. Then the growth will expand until it runs up against its property lines.

In olden times, you'd wander down to Mom's Cafe for a bite to eat and a cup of joe, and you would feel right at home. It worked just fine if you never left your hometown. But if you went to the next town over, everyone would look up and stare at you when you came in the door, and the Blue Plate special would be something you didn't recognize. If you did enough traveling, you'd never be at home anywhere.

But when a businessman from New Jersey goes to Dubuque, he knows he can walk into a McDonald's and no one will stare at him. He can order without having to look at the menu, and the food will always taste the same. McDonald's is Home, condensed into a three-ring binder and xeroxed. "No surprises" is the motto of the franchise ghetto, its Good Housekeeping seal, subliminally blazoned on every sign and logo that make up the curves and grids of light that outline the Basin.

The people of America, who live in the world's most surprising and terrible country, take comfort in that motto. Follow the loglo outward, to where the growth is enfolded into the valleys and the canyons, and you find the land of the refugees. They have fled from the true America, the America of atomic bombs, scalpings, hip-hop, chaos theory, cement overshoes, snake handlers, spree killers, space walks, buffalo jumps, drive-bys, cruise missiles, Sherman's March, gridlock, motorcycle gangs, and bungee jumping. They have parallel-parked their bimbo boxes in identical computer-designed Burbclave street patterns and secreted themselves in symmetrical sheetrock shitholes with vinyl floors and ill-fitting woodwork and no sidewalks, vast house farms out in the loglo wilderness, a culture medium for a medium culture."

--Neal Stephenson, Snow Crash

[brain-rot-central]

Sonnet of the Lone Cardinal, Ch. 3

A/N: Thank you all for your patience. She's finally here.

Word count: 3.5k Rating: M (nothing sexual; mostly topics that may be uncomfortable) Pairing: Ascended Astarion/Fem!Tav Warnings: 18+; Mentions of murder, violence, death, blood, gore (very minor), blood drinking, sexual acts. Angst, alcohol consumption.

Summary: Tav and Shadowheart finally reunite for a simple lunch date. Their discussion turns toward Astarion, and a particularly unsettling event.

Chapter track: Cry - Cigarettes After Sex

♥ Previous Chapter ♥ Next Chapter ♥ Link to Ao3

Dawn breaks over the horizon. The subtle stirrings of a city coming to life once more fill the streets. Maids and matrons pat down their mats just beyond their front doors. Street vendors begin setting up their carts. A young boy with a satchel carrying copies of the Gazette goes from home to home delivering the day’s latest print.

Tav kneels before her front window, watching the street below. A few days have passed since her meeting with Jaheira. Astarion hasn't been to see her; the longest stretch of time between visits since they began their ordeal. She fully expected a visit last night. However, he never came. She hates admitting it to herself, but she feels a shallow pit in her stomach beginning to form having gone without him for so long.

Standing up, Tav closes the window and brings herself into the washroom to prepare for the day ahead. An old friend has requested a lunch date; she hasn’t seen Shadowheart for many months, and owes her dearest friend an audience.

Tav pours the carafe of water into the wash basin, dipping a cloth into the water before bringing it to her face. Studying the various soaps and creams she has lined along the shelf, she chooses one of nettlebark, smelling of citrus and pine forests. This scent is one of her favorites, and she’s relieved she can still find comfort within the smell. Scents are still a trigger for her nausea at this stage in her pregnancy. The usually tempting smell of breakfast wafting about the air of the city turns her stomach upright, now. Tav has found that if she holds off eating until mid-morning, she's in the clear. 

Yet… odd cravings have begun. 

For instance, she's since gone back to the butcher's, profusely apologetic to poor Gideon. Of course, the kind soul that he is, he was nothing but understanding and even offered her a few rations free of charge. Tav politely declined his offer, yet as she stared into the display cases full of various raw meats, she found herself practically bewitched by the sight. Rich, bloody beef; cut straight from the animal. She recalls how intensely saliva pooled within her mouth staring at the provisions. Tasting the metallic twang of the blood on her tongue, swallowing thickly as Gideon returned with her order.

Patting her face dry with a small towel, Tav returns into the main room and begins rummaging through her dresser for the day's outfit. The midnight blue bottle Jaheira gave her sits atop the dresser. Tav considers the potion every morning, but quickly declines as her heart aches at the thought. 

She believes the weather to be rather warm today, so she settles on an airy, light blue sundress and a wide brimmed hat. The gray scarf she recently bought matches perfectly as she stands before her mirror, assembling the ensemble. 

The ghost of scars catches her eyes as she adjusts the scarf around her neck. They're light enough; most wouldn't notice, though to her, they blare. Permanent gifts from her months-long affair with Astarion during their journey to defeat the Absolute. His bite was always a clean one, never marring her tanned skin. Two faint fang marks are all that remain, Tav taking the index and middle fingers of one hand to press lightly over the imprinted flesh as she lifts her chin.

Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub.

The rhythmic beating of her heart can be felt beneath her fingertips as she pushes slightly into the artery. Accurate, Tav notes, a shiver running down her spine. She makes quick adjustments to the scarf and grabs her hat off the edge of her bed, placing it atop her head. 

Returning to the mirror, Tav smiles approvingly at her reflection as she gives herself a final glance over. The dress is loose enough that it hides the new softness of her body, something she's thankful for. Curiously, she places her hands over her stomach, pushing the fabric of the dress down and under the small swell of her lower abdomen. A pleased laugh escapes her lips while admiring the sight.

Tav turns her body from side to side, tracing the movement with her eyes. Her breasts now fill the top of the garment. The deep plunge of the dress’s neckline displays her new cleavage in a flattering manner. Feeling suddenly bare, Tav unwraps the scarf from around her neck, repositioning it lays across her chest like a bandana. Better. A bit more modest.

The satisfaction doesn’t last very long as she thinks of Shadowheart. How can she tell her? Will she tell her? While Shadowheart has never been anything but supportive, Tav worries how she may respond to news of her pregnancy. Tav is not ready for the backlash and potential lecture her best friend would give her, hearing Shadowheart's scolding voice echo within her mind. 

You cried over him for months! Tav envisions clearly, sour facial expressions and all. How many times did you come to me distraught in the middle of the night? Only to end up like this?

If the conversation doesn’t occur naturally, Tav decides on not discussing it. Not yet.

Swallowing past the sudden lump in her throat, Tav grabs her satchel from behind her main door, throwing it over her shoulder and across her chest. She inspects the contents quickly to ensure everything is present. Slipping her feet into brown sandals, she makes her way down the stairs to face the day ahead.

----------------------------------------------------

The morning is spent strolling around the park not far from her apartment. Tav recalls an altercation with Bhaal’s followers in this very park so many months ago. Today though, people are enjoying the sun and the company of one another. Lovers lay out on the grass, hands interlaced as they speak freely of their devotion to one another. A book club gathers in the middle of the park to discuss their latest obsession. Tav overhears bits and pieces of mixed conversations, finding comfort in the fact that life is slowly returning to normal for the citizens of Baldur's Gate.

The midmorning quickly slips into afternoon, and Tav begins her trek over toward the Elfsong to meet with Shadowheart. A few people nod in recognition as she passes by. “That's our hero!” they shout. “The savior of the city!” Tav smiles and bows graciously toward them, never quite comfortable with everyone suddenly knowing of her existence. Still, she is thankful for their praise and support.

Upon entering the Elfsong, Tav scans the tavern and quickly finds Shadowheart seated at a booth along the wall. Their eyes meet, Shadowheart waving her over with a warm smile on her face. “There you are!” she exclaims as Tav draws closer. “My goodness, I feel as if it's been ages!” The two women exchange a quick embrace, planting chaste kisses upon eachother's cheek.

“Good to see you again, Shadowheart,” Tav says as she settles into the booth. She removes her hat and scarf, placing both items on the cushion to her left.

Shadowheart soon joins her, taking a sip from her glass of wine. “Shall I ask for another glass?” she proposes, nodding to hers. “We could just order a bottle,” she quickly adds with a smirk.

“Oh, no, I'm quite fine,” Tav declines, a sharp twist in her abdomen forms at the thought. “Truth be told, I haven't had the best stomach, as of late.” Bile begins to rise in the back of her throat as a quick wave of nausea passes over her. She quickly swallows it back down.

Taking another sip from her glass, Shadowheart cocks her head to the side. “Truly? Why haven't you been to see me yet?”

“Not to worry,” waving a hand in reassurance. “I've been to a healer. All is well,” Tav replies with a liar’s smile.

All is not well. None of this is well.

Fortunately, Shadowheart takes the bait and quickly switches subjects. Waiting for service, they begin a pleasant conversation about resettling back into their lives. They speak of their new jobs and all other mundane activities of day-to-day life, sharing a few laughs between remarks as they pursue the menus in front of them.

The waitress takes their orders – Shadowheart keeps it light, ordering salad with grilled chicken; Tav orders a rare steak with potatoes and a side of vegetables. “Rare?” Shadowheart comments as soon as the waitress is out of earshot. “You hate all meat, unless it’s well done.”

She's right. Any hint of pink in Tav’s portion would go right back into the fire. “I-I've been trying new things lately,” Tav explains, rubbing her neck coyly. The cravings only seem to grow as the days pass, and she briefly wonders if it's a consequence of having a half-vampiric pregnancy.

Shadowheart raises a brow again, but fortunately does not pry further. The women then delve into a discussion regarding their old companions as they wait for their meals. Tav talks of her efforts to bolster the city watch with Wyll, now the Duke after his father's unfortunate death. Shadowheart speaks of Gale, who she notes has since opened a school of wizardry back in Waterdeep. Neither has heard much regarding the others, though they agree that they're most likely doing well.

Shadowheart wastes little time once their meals arrive, forking salad into her mouth. “So, have you heard from Astarion at all?” she asks casually after swallowing.

A shudder passes over Tav as she begins slicing into her steak. “No,” she feigns with eyes cast downward, “I-I have not.”

Gesturing toward Tav with her fork as she chews, Shadowheart swallows. “I read something interesting in the Gazette a few days ago,” she suggests.

“About him?” Tav questions, bringing a potato wedge to her mouth.

Shadowheart shakes her head in disapproval around a sip of wine. “Not in particular,” she clarifies. “They don't name him explicitly, though it made me think of him.”

Silence befalls the table as Tav awaits her companion to continue. She doesn't trust her voice enough at this point to offer more to their conversation now that Astarion is the topic at hand. Playing idly with the vegetables on her plate, she chooses a small piece of broccoli to bring up to her mouth. The heavy pull of dread is beginning to creep in, her chest tightening.

“They… mentioned an incident that occurred in the sewers but a tenday ago,” explains Shadowheart, a sour expression befitting her face. “Some sort of deal gone wrong.”

Tav looks up to meet Shadowheart's gaze, puzzled. “How exactly does that involve him?” she inquires.

“Well, that's just the thing,” Shadowheart continues, “those first on the scene mentioned five victims in total, all young males.” She interrupts herself to feed another forkful of salad into her mouth, swallowing before resuming, “They were all reported as being exsanguinated, though only three had their throats slashed.”

Tav swallows hard around another piece of steak, silently savoring the rare flavor washing over her tongue as she focuses her attention on Shadowheart. “And the other two?”

Shadowheart looks sheepishly around the bar, discomfort evident. She dips her head. “Tav, I know of your history with Astarion. I don't wish to speak ill of him out of respect for you.”

Tav's fist tightens around the knife in her left hand. The tightness in her chest has traveled up to her throat. Her heart pounds rapidly as she drinks from the glass of water within her right hand. “What of the others?” Tav insists, placing the glass back down on the table with force.

Eyes falling closed, Shadowheart sighs heavily. “The other two…” she begins, voice trailing off. She pulls in a deep breath. “Well, they're reported as having two pin marks on their necks.” She gestures to Tav's throat with a soft nod of her head. “...Not unlike the scars you bear.”

A prickling heat spreads across Tav’s face. A tenday ago? she speaks within her mind. Rather close to when she'd last seen Astarion. Tav recalls again how miffed he'd been that night; impatient and direct, wasting little time coaxing her down onto the bed.

She pushes around a chunk of potato on her plate, anxiety mounting. “What makes you think it was Astarion? It could have been a kobold, or a spider, or-”

“They were gone the next day,” interrupts Shadowheart, bluntly.

Tav’s heart nearly freezes. She locks eyes with Shadowheart. “Gone? What do you mean gone?” she asks frantically, furrowing her brow.

“Gone,” Shadowheart reiterates, raising the wine glass to her lips again. “When the investigators returned the following day alongside the medical examiner, only the three with the knife wounds remained.” She pulls a long drink from the glass. “The other two were nowhere to be found. As if they'd simply gotten up and walked away.”

Tav shivers, entire body twitching with the thought. “T-that doesn't mean it's Astarion, Shadowheart. It could be-”

“Could be what? Another vampire?” suggests Shadowheart, sarcastically. “I don't think Astarion would take kindly to someone else moving into his territory.” She sighs, clicking her tongue. “I'm sorry to say it, Tav, but it sounds an awful lot like him.”

The sounds of the tavern flood Tav’s ears. Her vision narrows to a single pinpoint, the edges of her vision growing fuzzy. She leans back in her seat and closes her eyes. “We don't know that,” Tav states, trying desperately to calm the wild beating of her heart. “We don't know what happened.” She shakes her head, slowly opening her eyes. “We won't know until the case is settled.”

“Why do you still defend him?” asks Shadowheart bluntly, mouth pulling into a displeased pout. “Surely you remember how badly he hurt you. Why continue to defend him at all?”

The question echoes in her mind. Why does she defend him? The man is a monster; an abomination, as Jaheira had called his child. Tav knows not who he’s become. Small glimpses of the man he once was shine through now and again, mostly when they argue. The stubborn selfishness of him reveals itself, inevitably bleeding into raw passion once she works at him enough. It almost makes her feel at home in his arms, albeit for a few hours.

“He wouldn't, Shadowheart. It's not like him…” Tav says, quietly. She's unsure if she believes it or if she's lying in an effort to convince herself that it's true. She's suddenly lost her appetite, pushing the plate of food away from her.

Shadowheart is quiet for some time, eyes cast down at the table. “Well,” she says, cutting through the silence, “let's hope he's as innocent as you say.”

Silence stretches across the table before the two women agree to shift the conversation elsewhere. They inevitably tie up their gathering, sharing an embrace and chaste kisses to the cheeks once again. They vow to meet the following week, and head out on their way.

Walking back toward her apartment, Tav's stomach begins to sour as she thinks over her conversation with Shadowheart. Vivid images of Astarion sinking his fangs into the necks of the alleged victims flood her mind's eye. She feels a tingling sensation over her own scars as she imagined how they must have felt. Could he have really done such a thing? The sounds of the city are almost absent from her ears as she ponders the question.

“Wait a minute,” she speaks aloud, freezing in place. Her eyes are cast down to the cobblestone street below as her heart fills with horror. Her mouth dries quickly, choking as she tries to breathe.

The last night she'd seen Astarion coincides almost exactly with the timeline of the murders within the sewers. If the report is true, then Astarion's enthusiasm that night wasn't solely due to want, necessarily. Tav dips into a small alley between two buildings, leaning against the brick wall as her knees grow weak.

No, his insistence was not due to missing her. It was attributed to blood-fueled lust, a state Tav has seen him in a number of times. She clasps a hand over her mouth as a sob suddenly racks her chest. Her whole body shakes as the horrific realization sinks deep into her bones. The puzzle aligns near perfectly as the thought continues to blossom.

Astarion had come to her bed after draining two people dry. He didn't spend time on their typical foreplay because he couldn't. Tav knows the power mortal blood has over him, and she doubts the ascension has changed that. She recalls how it all but possesses his thoughts, his feelings, and his body, enslaved by the sheer power of unbridled desire running through him.

Lurching forward, she begins to dry heave; a million thoughts race across her mind. He couldn't have done this on purpose, could he? He wouldn't. There's simply no way he would. Denial clouds her thoughts as saliva drips freely from her open mouth, gathering it together to spit upon the floor. Holding a hand to her stomach she rises, leaning her temple against the cool brick of the wall next to her. She closes her eyes, trying to calm her excitement with slow, deep breaths.

“No innocents; you have my word.”

Astarion's past promise to her rings loudly in her ears. It was from this promise their almost nightly affair to keep him well-fed began. Tav tries desperately to block out the memories of what would transpire after their sessions; how could she have not noticed? All the signs were there.

Because he didn't drink from me.

Her stomach churns again and she rubs her hand in a circular motion above her navel. Her chest burns as she chokes back tears. What to do, now? Does she wait until his next visit to confront him? When will that be? The anticipation will burn a hole through her soul, she knows. But, what other option does she have? 

A small voice wrestles from within as she wipes her mouth with the back of a hand.

…Do I go to him?

The decision is made before the logical side of her mind can argue a rational point, her feet carrying her toward the Crimson Palace. She second guesses the choice; from some place within, a voice yells for her to reconsider. 

He'll tell me the truth, surely, she argues against her doubt. 

Right?

Aware that she's potentially putting herself in a grave position, Tav cannot rest until he tells her otherwise. She needs to hear from Astarion's own mouth that he didn't murder five people only to share her bed mere hours later. She needs to hear from him that he wouldn't do this, that he still abides by his promise to her, that her blood is all he's ever known.

“Why do I care so much?” Tav questions aloud to herself, practically running now toward the monastery. She shakes her head in an attempt to clear her thoughts; he will eventually drink the blood of others. If he is to create an army of spawn as he'd so claimed after the ritual, that would be the only way to do so.

They're no longer lovers; no longer deeply acquainted. They just sleep together, and she fell pregnant as a result. 

Why does she care so much?

Before long, Tav stands before the immaculate palace. Grand mahogany doors stand proudly at the building's entrance, adorned with intricate carvings along the wood. Black metal knockers depicting the faces of gargoyles signal a way in. Tav’s hand reaches instinctively around the bell of one, pulling up.

Before she can complete the knock, the door creaks open. A faint glow from a distant light source cracks through the opening of the door and Tav releases the handle, stepping back. She freezes in place, fully expecting the door to continue opening. Yet, it halts, remaining only slightly ajar. Stale air greets her nostrils and a shiver passes through her.

Silence suddenly engulfs her, the sounds of the city falling dormant. As she surveys the area around her, Tav notes no other presence out on the street for as far as the eye can see. Her ears pick up the soft sound of someone humming, and she determines its origin lies within the palace. 

An assimon carved into the middle of the marble trim along the heavy doors catches her attention as she looks up. Tav turns her head as she studies the figure; a young woman with long hair, eyes closed and wings outstretched as she holds a lance within one hand.

The humming from within the building turns into a tune and cuts through Tav’s daydream. She shakes her head briefly, regrouping. She can turn away now and forget this entire thing. Forget that this was even a thought that crossed her mind, leave, and no one would ever know she was here.

A quick flash of Astarion’s fangs piercing into skin flits across Tav’s vision. She winces. I simply must know, she reassures herself. Drawing in a deep breath, she steps forward.

Resting the flat of her palm against the door, Tav slowly pushes it open. The old metal and wood fuss loudly as the door gives way under the force of her hand. The faint glow of the light from within now pours out, illuminating the street behind her. With some hesitation, Tav steps over the threshold, disappearing into the palace.

[cipheramnesia]

Part 7: The Tower

a story by @rox-and-prose and @cipheramnesia

Dusk turned the Nevamil sky a flat aquamarine, and made visible the red lights blinking atop the Citadel. It was the tallest building in the capital city, Aureodar, even visible from the far off gridded streets of old houses converted into apartments. The last time Laika had seen it was a field trip for school.

The little blue Kirov was somewhere between the mountains and Genghis Khan and the most anonymous hopper port they'd been able to find in Aureodar. She worried about Sy, seemed ages past she'd been this physically far, though it was hardly more than weeks. Wires and talismans crossed over the streets, bikes and busses swooshed wet pavement, and linecars screeched overhead, all wrapped around her and her backpack and familiar unknown faces of the United Eastquad Block.

Ghosts gathered around her, whispering. You keep coming back here little wolf girl, you'll never get away from this place. Little wolf girl, you know you belong here. Freak. Queer. Sissy. Killer. Monster. You thought you were better than us, you never were. Laika let them needle and claw her. They were her ghosts, not the other way round. Every horrible word only built her up. Luna was with her in that way.

Most of the houses on K Street were mods, from early to late first century post-terraform. They were all retrofited from the original single family modules, but they were tough as nails, old construction built to weather thr storms of atmosphere generation. Number 1132 was where she was headed, lights were still on in the third floor windows.

Laika took a last look around on the front door's stoop. The poles for street lights and warden ropes all had at least three CCTV cameras and arrayed parabolic empathy receivers tuned into psychic conflict between morality and legality. She flashed a tight little smile at the familiar old glass eye of the state before pulling a short crowbar out of her bag and cracking the door open.

The third floor smelled of some sharp, fragrant allium along with sweet woody flavors and cooking meat, enough to rouse her stomach. Deep breath, ignore the ghosts, knock. A woman with her black hair in a bob cut, rolled up sleeves on her billowy dress, a little sweaty and confused, almost a quarter meter shorter than Laika. A wave of gaming sounds, net music, and oven warmth joined them both on the landing.

"Hey Tara," Laika said.

The other woman looked closer. "Laika? Oh tides, it is!" She wrapped Laika up in a big soft hug inside thick arms, crushing her stick body. "I thought you, I don't know, I thought you were dead! I mean, there were rumors?"

"Uff! Uh, hey. Sorry to be like, unannounced. Is it okay if I come in?" Laika hesitantly patted Tara's shoulders until the hug relaxed and her feet were back on the floor.

"You just have to, please. I'm sorry, when did you get back, why didn't you call?"

Unlacing her boots and slipping them off, she said, "I just got back today, um. I've been a bit off the net you know." She dipped her hand in the tiny basin by the door and thumbed a drop of water on the polished river stone at the altar. "But I wanted to see how you'd been, I guess. It just, well it's weird. That smells amazing."

She saw a couple kids blasting through uncreatively humanoid aliens, loudly and luridly across the living room screen, followed Tara into the kitchen and dinette area and watched her stir around sizzling veggies and meat in a wide dish. "Thanks," Tara said. "The spawn over there don't always appreciate it, but you know how... well, how kids can be..." Tara frowned awkwardly.

"Yeah, uh. Yeah." Laika rubbed the back of her neck. "So what all have you heard?"

Tara stuttered with a little embarassment. In the distance Laika could very faintly hear sirens, but she knew they weren't for her. The people who would come for her didn't use sirens or advertise their presence.

Half paying attention to Tara, she added, "Well, uh, some is true. But... you knew it was bad at home. Stuff happened. What about you though? Like, two kids? Wow!"

Tara probably was relieved at the change of topic, and Laika was glad to take a minute, but she couldn't focus all the way. She was waiting.

[maskosis]

SNIPPET OF AN UPCOMING FIC: the "absentee father too busy saving the world and his needy, neglected daughter who was raised on cyber-misogyny and uses the only asset she was told she has to get her father's attention" incest fic no one asked for.

You become aware of it on the cusp of adolescence.

It's nestled in that transitory realm from a little girl, girlhood, to a bratty teenager. Marbled with the stretch marks of puberty and preadolescent angst; an incipient bloom, a budding flower, that stays. Grows roots in rotten, fetid soil. Acidic enough to corrode metal but a basin of filth where this needling sapling flourishes. 

And these feelings inside of you refuses to die through the evolution of innocent child making eyes at Kovu, Aladdin, and Shang with a stupid grin on your face as you sit in his lap (only vaguely aware of how he huffs about work, grumbles under his breath to your mother about how they don't need a separation, it'll be fine, we'll be fine, don't go makin’ any rash decisions now—i can fix this) to burgeoning adolescent shoving clumsy fingers against the gusset of your panties, scrubbing sloppy and uncertain at your flesh until something feels good.

The tether between these two worlds is him. Has always been him. 

His voice in your head as you rut your hips into the pillow shoved between your thighs, biting your fist in frustration because it just won't work—

The image in your head changes even if the content they sit you down in front of doesn't. Tarzan's dad. McCready, when your cousin lets you watch the Thing at a sleepover. Older men. Gruff men. Men who pry their thick, grizzled fingers into the soil of the earth and peel it apart with brute force and a snarl. 

(Men who pick that same world they claw apart over you—)

One's who look, who sound, just like your dad.

It just makes sense, you think, fingers twisting into the hem of your panties at night, hours after he sends you to bed with a pinched goodnight, princess. It just—is. Him. Him. Him—

Who else could it possibly be when all you can think of is stay, don't go, when his hand twitches towards the door, when he keeps his phone clenched between those bearish hands you wish would squeeze you just as tight. When he seems relieved to finally get pulled away from clumsily patching himself into some proximation of a man that isn't burdened by the weight of the world and eager to flee this tangled, knotted web of his fracturing family, splintering apart over divorce papers pinned to the refrigerator he said he'd replace four years ago, and a daughter who calls him dad in the same tone she says, hello, how are you? to strangers on the street. 

You say, I love my dad, this stranger in your home who weaves in and out of your life like a migratory bird nesting for the winter—you, this house, dad and daughter, nothing more than a pitstop, a bottleneck, on this grand journey to somewhere better—but it's wrong. Tastes of cyanide. Fills the gaps of your baby teeth like sticky, sweet mercury. 

A tale as old as time—absentee father and the needy, neglected daughter he abandons in pieces; unwilling to rip himself away like a bandaid so he hangs there, tugging on unblemished skin. A constant, bitter ache. A little sting. 

(You love him. But the word dad fits clumsily in your mouth like it doesn't belong—unpractised on your tongue because you can count the number of times you uttered this to him with just one hand.)

Of course he runs. 

And of course you try to follow the only way you know how. 

(Want love? Want affection? Crave a scrap of attention from a man that refuses to give it?

Well—

You have all the power between the meat of your thighs, darling, did you know that?)

It's huddling under the blankets at night, eyes glued to the blue-green glow of your screen as you watch big, brutish men ruin pretty girls. Shoving their thick, too big daddy too big cocks into their cunts, legs thrown over their brawny shoulders. Pov shots of a hairy, soft belly and a wisp of a thing underneath, yowling at the stretch, how good it feels.

At some point, it just becomes normal to want him.

Evolutionary.

But you're not stupid.

These feelings that bud inside your chest—girlhood crushes shaded in rose-pink, pealing giggles demanding daddy's attention, chaste kisses to the apple of your cheeks, a warm, rough hand on the crown of your head, nose tucked into his neck that smells of wet leather and smoke; to damp panties glued to your aching cunt when he brushes his thick fingers over your forehead, brows pinching together as he murmurs don't feel warm t'me, that heavy, scorching hand on your lower back when he walks you from the car to the restaurant as you babble about your day, the rough scratch of his beard when press your cheek to his, wondering how it it would feel against your cunt—are not normal. The furthest thing from it, really.

And you're too aware of it, you think. About how it should disgust you, but doesn't.

You know the word incest before you know the meaning. Read it as it pops up above the videos you like (daddy-daughter; daddy fucks his daughter and cums inside her tight pussy—)

[angryschnauzer]

On Your Knees - Part 2

Summary; The morning after part 1, Sherlock wakes with a hangover, and by his own deducing figures out what he did to you the previous night. The thought of you only drives him further into desire, and he has a need only you can assist with.

Fandom: Henry Cavill, Enola Holmes Movies.

Warnings: NSFW, 18+, Smut, Oral Sex (Male receiving), Blowjob, moody Sherlock, Sassy Maid, outdated terminology for housekeeping staff.

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Female Reader

Word count: 2258

Here is my masterlist and AO3

I do not run a tag list, instead please follow @angryschnauzerwrites​ and put that blog onto notifications, you’ll then get an alert each time i post something new. My AO3 also has my entire back catalogue of stories (going back to 2013).

On Your Knees - Part 2

Sherlock woke to the feeling of a bayonet piercing his skull. Or at least that’s what his hangover felt like as he cursed the shard of sunlight coming in through the curtains. Peering tentatively out of one eye he watched dust dance in the golden rays for a moment before he licked his parched lips and a taste hit him like a carriage out of control on Fleet Street. 

He sat up, bringing his hand to his lips as his tongue darted out to double check and that’s when the scent on his finger hit his nose; he’d definitely had his mouth and hand between the thighs of a woman the night before. His eyes quickly scanned the room, nothing was out of place or stolen, and as he quickly checked his wallet it was still in his pocket. Pulling it out he checked it and it still was sizeably full meaning he hadn’t spent any time at the Adler house of ill repute, and he hadn’t brought a whore home with him. 

He stood and immediately regretted it, falling onto his backside on the chaise lounge and his blue dressing gown landing in a crumpled heap on the floor. Just at that moment he heard footsteps in the hallway outside, his eyes moving to his door and that’s when the memory hit him; the maid.

“Oh no” he sighed as he raked his hand down his face. What was it that Lestrade always said? Oh yes, ‘Never piss in your own backyard’, and it was usually when a cheating Lord was caught bringing a mistress to his home, but likewise it was also for those that had dalliances with the help. With another sigh he stood, albeit slower this time, grabbed the crumpled fabric from the floor, crossed the room to press the bell for breakfast, and made his way to his bathroom.

Running cool water into the sink, Sherlock stripped and washed himself down, ridding his skin of the pipe smoke from the Pub, and the lingering scent of her, as alluring as it was. Standing at the basin he peered into the mirror before deciding he needed a shave, and rather than take a trip to the barber he opted to pull out his straight blade himself. Lathering the soap he smoothed it over his jaw, feeling the bones beneath and noting how they ached a little. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he realised why they may ache, as clearer memories of fucking her with his tongue came back. He felt a faint stirring in his loose pyjama trousers he’d pulled on, glancing down and letting out an appreciative grunt as he saw his member swelling slightly beneath the loose cotton fabric. Pride was a wicked sin, but he knew he was generously endowed and had a learned skill for driving a woman crazy in bed. Shaking his head he pushed any thoughts from his mind as he concentrated on his shave, but his mind continued to stray back to her. He had to admit he’d thought of her many times before the previous night. Watching her rounded bottom as she’d swept the hearth whilst he’d been conducting an experiment, admiring her bosom when she’d been in the hallway without her apron and he’d been able to see her womanly shape. 

With his shave finished he rinsed his face and let the water drain away, dabbing his jawline with a soft towel before he heard a knock at the main door followed by a cheerful greeting;

“Mr Holmes? I have your breakfast Sir”

Pulling his blue dressing gown on he rushed for the bathroom door, quickly stepping out and through his bedroom, meeting the maid, her, in his parlour;

“Good Morning Miss. Thank you”

She smiled her usual smile and nodded, setting the tray down on the cluttered table, before nodding to the fire that was slowly dying away to embers;

“I’ll just get that for you then i’ll be out of your way Sir”

Sherlock let out a huff. It was as if nothing had happened, she was breezing about as if he didn’t make her cum on his tongue and fingers not twelve hours before! He crossed the room, standing at her side with his hands on his hips before she glanced and did a double take;

“Sir?”

“Was I not good?”

“I’m sorry, Sir?”

“Did I not bring you to climax?”

She held the iron poker in her hand before setting it down with a soft sigh, lifting her gaze to meet his as he stood over her;

“Sir, yes you did, and very well at that”

“So is there an issue?”

“The issue Sir, with all due respect, that if i act improper around you Sir, Mrs Hudson would have me kicked out for impropriety”

Sherlock felt the somewhat childish anger dissipate from him like a set of bagpipes left to deflate after a parade;

“Oh”

“And i don’t have anywhere else to go, so as good as you were, i have to pretend you didn’t give me the best fanny lick i’d ever had in my life”

“Oh” he paused; “Have you had many?”

“Just a couple. The lad that delivers the firewood sometimes…”

“Ah” Sherlock paused, a memory coming back to him; “I once overheard him talking about a young maid that’d sucked him off and she’d been the best he’d ever had…” the realisation hit him and he looked down again, noticing a smirk on her face as she tended to the fire before setting the poker down.

Wiping her hands on her apron she pulled up onto her knees and set her hands onto his thighs;

“Mrs Hudson has gone to church” she said matter of factly, to which Sherlock glanced at the clock on the mantel and saw it wasn’t even 11am meaning the Sunday service hadn’t finished yet. Pulling his attention to his wanton little maid on her knees before him, he cocked an eyebrow as she parted his blue robe and palmed his generous length through the soft fabric of his trousers.

“We have at least thirty minutes before she returns” 

“You’ll last thirty minutes?”

“Depends how good you are”

With skilled fingers she untied his trousers and let the soft fabric fall to his ankles, an appreciative noise rumbling from her throat as she took in his thick thighs, adorned with dark hair, before she finally turned her gaze to the magnificent cock hanging between his legs, his sack full and ready behind as they nestled in a dark thatch of hair. The whine that Sherlock let out as her warm hand wrapped around his meat was far from dignified, but as she took his soft cock into her mouth he hardened rapidly, growing thick and hot, his girth stretching her grip and filling her mouth as she opened her jaw wider. 

Letting the saliva pool on her tongue she worked as much of his length into her mouth as she could, the crown bumping against her tonsils as she swallowed against the gag reflex.

“OH! Good Lord” Sherlock cursed, one hand flying out to grip at the marble mantlepiece, the other settling on top of her head. His knees shook a little as he struggled to control himself from the sheer delights she was giving with her tongue, until he couldn’t take it any more for fear he’d collapse from sheer pleasure. Pulling away her mouth made an audible pop as he pulled out, quickly scooping her up into his arms as his mouth found hers and he kissed her with a hunger he hadn’t found before. 

She softened in his grasp, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as she clung to his shoulders and returned his affections, the pair finally parting breathless and flushed;

“You are a wicked young woman, and I definitely wouldn’t last 30 minutes still standing” Sherlock said matter of fact, carefully kicking off his trousers as he walked across the room before sitting in a large leather chair. With a smile on her face she slid down until she was kneeling on the floor between his thick thighs, running her palms over the hot skin before she took him into her mouth again.

In an instant Sherlock was taken to the heights of pleasure. He would never have guessed the innocent looking maid was a wicked temptress with her tongue, but dear lord she could do things with her mouth that even the best paid ladies at the Adler house couldn’t even attempt to do as well. 

When she pulled off his shaft he let out a whimper of loss, until she started to pump him with her fist whilst suckling on his heavy sack;

“Uuuuuugggffhhfhfff” Sherlocks eyes practically rolled back in their sockets, and as his maid gave his balls the same treatment as a whole oyster would be swallowed, he feared he would cum right then until she thankfully released him. His respite was only momentarily lived, as she swallowed his shaft whole, surely taking him deeper into her gullet than was in any way possible, but the restriction of her narrow throat around his wide head, all whilst her tongue worked on the thick tendon that ran the length of the underside it was too much to bear. With a shout and a curse he held her head still as he came, pumping thick ropes of his creamy seed down her throat as she swallowed around him, enticing further roars from his lips as the squeezing of his sensitive flesh pushed him to the point of overstimulation. With a sigh he passed out, his head falling back onto the cushion of the chair.

-

Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand you lifted off of Sherlock and set his swollen but softening cock gently on his thigh. For a moment you just watched him, his chest rising and falling slowly as his mind was no doubt buzzing with the sensations you’d just bestowed upon him. You chuckled quietly, pushing yourself to your feet before crossing the room and pouring him a cup of tea from the pot, adding milk and sugar as you knew he favoured, before crossing back to him and gently tapping his cheek with your hand;

“Mr Holmes… I have your tea, Sir”

Blinking and sitting a little straighter, he looked at you and to the teacup, before nodding and taking the cup in both hands, shaking a little as he lifted it to his lips and sipped quietly. Setting the saucer on the small table beside him, you carefully lifted the sides of his dressing gown and covered him, tying the belt loosely.

“Toast?”

He nodded quietly, his dark curls now unruly on his head, no doubt his mind empty for the first time in a long time. You prepared his toast how you knew he liked it, a layer of marmalade with brown sugar sprinkled on top, and returned to him with a plate;

“You should eat, the sugar will help with your head and stop it from spinning”

“How did you…?”

“Know? Mr Holmes, I may not be that experienced, but i have done that before. And I had to give the lad that brings the firewood a slice of dundee cake to stop his head spinning afterwards. Mrs Hudson thought he was just feeling faint from carrying the logs in”

Sherlock nodded, quietly chewing on the toast as you busied yourself tidying what you could and stoking the fire again. When you’d finished you stood in front of him with your hands clasped behind your back, and just at that moment you heard Mrs Hudson return from church;

“Well, unless there is anything else Sir, i’ll have to be going to help prepare luncheon”

“Oh… yes, no. I suppose nothing i could legitimately keep you here for”

A little smile tugged at Sherlocks mouth before a flash of inspiration crossed his face;

“Does Mrs Hudson still attend her Bridge Club on a Monday evening?”

“Yes she does, Sir”

“I may have need for you then, she’s usually gone all evening so will give us time to discuss an arrangement, if you are so inclined?”

“Yes Sir, she leaves at 7.30pm Sir”

“Fantastic”

“Any special requests Sir?”

“Requests?”

“Yes, perhaps a request for a late supper?”

Sherlock stood and crossed the room, only stopping when he was just inches from you. Hooking his finger beneath your chin he ran his thumb over your lips;

“Well there is something i’d like another taste of… wear your uniform, but no bloomers”

Sucking his thumb into your mouth you nodded as your tongue laved over the thick and calloused pad, before releasing him with a pop;

“Yes Sir”

With a low growl he squeezed your bottom with one hand as his other opened the door for you, just as Mrs Hudson was walking past;

“Thank you for breakfast Miss” he turned to Mrs Hudson; “I require a late supper tomorrow night, i’m finding I have a hunger in the evenings”

Mrs Hudson nodded;

“I’ll be a Bridge Club Mr Holmes, but she’ll be able to assist you with whatever you need Sir”

“Wonderful” he beamed, watching the older housekeeper stalk off down the corridor as his young maid followed, a sway to her hips he hadn’t noticed before.

He closed the door and sighed, he really was treading dangerous waters but was fully prepared to submerge himself fully.

[channiesbedroom]

Surprise!

She's BACK! I wrote this ages ago but only just finished it - I promise I'm going to move on to something new soon (I've seriously been getting into seventeen recently so keep your eyes peeled.)

Genre: Fluff Pairing: Bangchan x reader

No warnings I think! Just fluffy fluffy fluff

You feel like you’re having a luxury spa day, reclined on an armchair with your feet in a basin of warm water, your eyes closed whilst the lady in the salon paints your fingernails. You hear Hannah whisper your name, trying to gauge if you’re asleep, so you reluctantly open your eyes and smile at her. She’s sitting in the same position as you, the next seat along. Her nails are painted a dark blue, with yellow smiley faces dotted over them; yours, in contrast, are a sheer sparkly pink, a colour she picked for you.

“Say yes, ok?” She states, suddenly.

“What?” You reply, perplexed.

“Nothing, just ignore me.” She pauses, then speaks again. “Just say yes. Don’t say anything to me now, but you’ll know when you know, ok?” You’re more confused than you were before at this point, totally lost as you try and work out what on earth she could mean.

“Yeah, ok.” You don’t bother to push it any further, leaning back and closing your eyes again.

“I wish you could stay in Seoul, Han, it’s so nice to actually have someone to talk to.” You swear you can hear her roll her eyes as she replies sarcastically.

“You talk to Chris every day!” You open your eyes again to look at her.

“And no one else” you sigh, pulling your face into the same expression you know Chris makes, like the :] emoticon. You’re happy with your boyfriend, 100%, and you love Seoul, but you miss your friends who live abroad, and you miss the community you had when you lived at home. You’d struggled to make friends since moving, and you longed for the day that your friends would visit.

“I miss you, y/n. I am thinking about moving here for a bit longer, you know.” Your eyes widen.

“Han, you know we always have a spare room for you. As long as you want.” She smiles as the salon staff member finally finishes off your nails and gives you a thumbs up before asking for her payment. You leave the shop grinning, freshly painted nails shining in the spring sun as you stroll along the streets.

Chris’s home-office door is closed and locked when you get home, which is unusual but not unheard of. You know even your presence can be a distraction, so when he desperately needs to work on something, he’ll lock the door in the hopes he’ll finally get it done. He emerges from ‘the cave’, as you like to call it, an hour later, when you and Hannah are curled up half asleep on the couch, watching a random show on Netflix.

“I don’t get how he could hang onto that bar for so long.” She sighs. You reply quietly.

“18 whole minutes. Wow. I still wish the gymnast had beat him though.” Chris wraps his arms around your shoulders from behind the sofa, making you jump.

“I bet I could do that.” He’s confident, but you don’t quite agree, frowning.

“Babe, an Olympic gold-medal winning gymnast, a national ice climber, and a military drill sergeant managed it, I don’t think ‘kpop idol’ is really the right person for the job.” He laughs, squeezing you tighter before letting you go, and joining you both on the soft cushions.

“Right, Hannah.” She tilts her head. “I love you, but it’s time for you to go so that me and my wifey can have our anniversary dinner.” Chris pats her on the head as if she was a puppy. “5 whole years!” You roll your eyes at him.

“We’re not married, Chris, you can’t call me your wife.”

“Yet.” He mutters under his breath, and Hannah laughs as she puts her jacket on, ready to make the short walk to her friend’s house, where she’s staying for the weekend. Before she leaves, she pulls you into a tight hug.

“Yes.” She whispers into your ear. “Please say yes.” The confusion continues as she walks out the door, and Chris takes you by the hands.

“Well Sunshine, you have one whole hour until I take you for our surprise dinner.” You hate surprises, but Chris has been insisting on this one for weeks.

“Can you at least pick my outfit? I don’t want to put something fancy on and then turn up to a barbecue place, yknow.” He nods in response, and motions for you to stay in the living room whilst he picks.

An hour later, you’re applying your last coat of mascara. The dress Chris picked is the same one you wore on your first anniversary – it’s a pale pink midi covered in floral embroidery with impressive puffy sleeves. You haven’t worn it for a while, it always seems too fancy for the places you go. He’s picked your favourite heels, the only pair you can actually walk in, and gold jewellery to match them. Chris opens the door slowly, peeking his head through the small gap. Spotting you by the mirror, he lets out a low whistle.

“Ok y/n we need to find more excuses for you to wear that dress.” He wraps you up tightly in his arm, head on your shoulder. He’s in a well-fitting navy-blue suit. You still have no clue where you’re going for this special dinner, as the both of you don’t tend to frequent restaurants where a suit is necessary.

“Let’s go.”

After a short drive, Chris takes you by the hand, walking into one of the most beautiful restaurants you’ve ever been in. Faux cherry blossom trees line the walls, silk petals draping from the ceiling, surrounding glimmering golden chandeliers. It’s completely empty, save for the few members of staff dotted around, and Chris leads you to the only table in the room that has been laid with cutlery. You feel a blush creeping up your cheeks.

“Chris, what is this?” He passes your coats to a waiter as you both sit down. He’s blushing too, much like he did on your first date.

“It’s a special day, sweetheart, I wanted to do something special.” He holds your hand across the table. There are no menus, and you haven’t even spoken to any staff yet, but the waiter from earlier soon appears with 2 glasses of some sort of sparkling wine, which you don’t have a chance to decline. “Ok, I can’t wait. Now’s the time.” With little warning, he pulls you back to your feet, gripping both of your hands tighter than he ever has before. Before you know it, he has one knee on the floor, and you finally realise what’s happening. You’d talked about getting married plenty of times over the last few months, but Chris had always said that it was too early, that you should both spend more time building your careers, so when Hannah had made cryptic comments earlier, this had never come to your mind.

“Oh my God I’m so stupid.” You giggle. Chris frowns at you, tilting his head. You take his face in your hands, bending down to place a kiss on his forehead. “Keep going.”

“y/n l/n, I have been completely obsessed with you since the day we met. I never want to spend another day apart from you, so now it’s time for me to beg again, just like I did the day I managed to convince you to love me back.” You’ve started tearing up by this point, thinking back to the day you met, when he accidentally poured a full iced americano down the front of your shirt. “Sunshine, will you marry me?” He looks up at you with shining, tear-filled eyes as you nod, pulling him to his feet with your hands cradling his face. You place a sweet kiss to his lips.

“Of course I will.” All of a sudden, the restaurant explodes in to rapturous applause, and you turn to find what feels like every single person you know gathered around. You lift your head closer to his so that your lips are by his ears.

“Some big changes in your life.” You whisper. “You’re finally going to be both a husband and a dad.” His eyes widen.

“What?!”

[a-cat-in-toffee]

song currently stuck in head: basin street blues

skill issue

[bathoarchives]

Exploring Mpho Sebina's Artistic Appreciation of her African and Setswana Roots

By Atang Moalosi and Tefo Kosie

Hailing from the Kgatleng District’s capital Mochudi is Mpho Sebina, a singer-songwriter who has immersed herself in producing and creating the continent's best jazz, soul, and afro-fusion music. A self-proclaimed Pan-Africanist, Mpho's music has been a true reflection of expressing her African and Tswana roots through cognizant use of local rhythmic instrumentation and vocal progressions, to say the least.

The love and use of indigenous elements prevailed notably in her 2015 debut single 'Loves Light' which she explains was inspired by the song Tselane by BLK JKS which is loosely based on a Tswana folktale 'Tselane'. The song, produced by local legendary beatmaker Favi includes elements of the staple beats and claps of traditional folk music production fused with soul. The music video features a cameo of traditional dancers and showcases the landscape of Botswana from the luscious water basins to the barren semi-desert land with the soundtrack playing behind the eye-catching visuals laying a foundation of Mpho’s start to dominance in the music scene.

stills from the 'Tjuele' music video directed by Thina Zibi

It would take a whole two years for Mpho to return and release two songs leading up to the release of her debut EP 'Neo' with very memorable moments such as the song ‘Tjuele’ which is a rendition of another famous setswana folktale with the same name. The song features ATI, another local music giant who sings the chorus repeatedly in the background. This music video in contrast only features Mpho (Tjuele's mother) and a young girl (Tjuele). In the first scene, Mpho is seen caressing the young girl’s hair, both draped in white dresses. Behind them is a famous portrait of a black woman and her son, which is beloved among the black community directly linking to the thematic affectionate scenery painted by the song and the visuals. The song has this continuous click-clack sound, reminiscent of the tune of clapping hands and matlhoa or traditional leg rattles used as a part of uniform for typical traditional dance. Remarkably Tjuele is the only song in the project sung in Setswana.

stills from the 'Slip Away' music video directed by Mpho Sebina and Motheo Moeng

‘Slip Away’ is another beautiful 5-minute song from the Neo EP of Mpho harmonizing over a midtempo beat, the song was also accompanied by a set of visuals that captures the hustle and bustle of the city of Accra in Ghana. The video includes many beautiful shots including Mpho having her hair plaited in the streets, women dressed in beautiful African attire and women carrying their belongings over their heads which is a very common practice amongst African women.

‘LORA’

'Lora' album cover designed by Tebogo Cranwell and Neo Rakgajane

‘Lora’ is Mpho Sebina's debut album, released in 2020 five years after introducing the world to her very enigmatic sound. The album cover itself is quite a striking piece. With its shade of blue background, it only highlights certain parts of Mpho's half-bodily features. The first thing noticeable is the pink highlighted corn rows, her lips and some African beads which include cowrie shells deemed very valuable in most African cultures. This album is easily Mpho's most definitive record, both sonically and visually as it sets her among the most highly decorated singers the continent boasts.

stills from the 'Pula' music video directed by Yannis Sainte-rose

The lead single 'Pula' is taken from the setswana song 'Pula Nkgodisa' which translates to ‘Rain, help me grow’ and the “Rain Rain Go Away” song. She uses rain as a metaphor for pain and shows struggle with the lyrics 'Rain Rain Go Away, I wanna go out and Play’. Later in the song she employs rain as a metaphor for growth posing a divergent perspective with lyrics 'Pula Nkgodise, Pula Mphodisa'. This song reflects on times of struggle and hope as it was released in 2020 when the world was heavily gripped by the coronavirus pandemic and a worldwide lockdown. The music video includes shots of Mpho wearing an African print headwrap and cardigan along with her Bantu knots. The conscious use of Setswana lyrics and visual nuances further displays Mpho's love for making music that centers her heritage as a Motswana.

stills from the Melodi music video directed by Yannis Sainte-rose

The song ‘Melodi's’ music video features Mpho Sebina in a few shots where she is covered by cloth and some other noteworthy scenes with her in front of the backdrop of the abstract painting which matches the colour of her African headwrap. The constant use of African clothing and artefacts in and around her visual presentations accompanying the already Afrocentric sonics just solidify the passion behind the endemic standard she has set for herself.

stills from the Dumelang music video directed by Mpho Sebina

‘Dumelang’ is a very warm and welcoming song that pretty much highlights a very important aspect of Botswana's culture-the standard gesture of greeting. The song hosts a confident Mpho giving the listeners a brief tour of the beautiful country and her own experiences within the context of the song. It also boasts visual excellence, a highly decorated facet of Mpho Sebina as an artist by showcasing parts of Botswana's culture, including scenes of her dressed in clothing sourced from local brands, also sweeping with a traditional broom/ ‘lefeelo la ditlhokwa’ close to a three-legged pot which is quite reminiscent of a traditional home in a village. Other shots include local art persons cameos including Dato Seiko, Nature Inger along with Mboko Basiami the founder of Glotto, a pan-African clothing brand from Botswana. Notably, Mpho is also seen wearing Zulu female head attire called “isicholo”, and the Basotho hat known as “lekorotlo”. Throughout the video, Mpho is dressed in clothing sourced from local brands.

‘Ntsha Nkgo’ is another rendition of a traditional song with the same title, which is often sung during ceremonies. The song touches on aspects of typical traditional celebratory ceremonies, including the culture of sharing traditional beer among family and friends especially older men hence the line ''Ntsha Nkgo re kgaritlheng le bannabagolo''. The sacred events normally include the slaughtering of an animal to be feasted during the ceremony ''Ko Boseja go tlhabilwe Kolobe hoki''

Renditions of traditional folk songs remain a constant theme in Mpho's music as she also reworks 'Sananapo' a song from a well-known folktale in 'Sananapo's Interlude'. Folktales and songs are essential in traditional culture as they are often used as a form of entertainment and an opportunity for the elderly to pass on and teach the younger generation about customs and values which are indigenous to us. Mpho's modern twist to these songs helps revive the connection between Batswana and their culture especially in modern times where most of the older generation believes that our culture is being eroded.

As we await the release of Mpho's sophomore album, It is well evident that Mpho will always centre her African heritage on her music. Alkebulan, which is the name of the next album, is quite an interesting name as it is believed to be the original name for Africa according to the oldest nubian and kinetic texts. In her interview with Drum Magazine, Mpho reveals that her album will feature female artists from different parts of Africa to celebrate the women and their africaness. She also stated that she was influenced by the various sounds of African music. 

[rumbelleshowdown]

-

Author: Avalanumbres

Group: C

Prompts: A new hobby. Lady Belle, Peasant!Rumple. Another kid.

-

Stone Seekers: Waters of Avonlea

Something wet dripped down Gideon’s face as he ran through the streets of his seaport home. When the moisture hit his lips he licked them and tasted salt. Not blood then, that relieved him. His father would kill him if he injured himself. Assuming the angry pirates chasing after him didn't do it first.

“Street rat!” One shouted. “Stop, thief!”

Gideon had one advantage over the larger men. He knew these roads. Fast as lightning, he darted through a crowd, turned left into a narrow alley, and came out in the market. There he resumed a normal gait, pretended to study a few random items on vendors’ carts, and listened as the angry sailors passed him by.

“Hot day today,” he told the costermonger while wiping his brow. 

The woman humphed.

“Papa would like two of these, please.”

The seller glanced at the small golden pears in Gideon's hand. “One copper.”

Gideon handed over the coin and strode off toward his home.

Rumplestiltskin and his son lived in a single-room shack with a sagging roof and a packed dirt floor. The space was filled by three objects: a bed, a small washtub for dying wool, and a spinning wheel. Everything else existed in their lives by either coincidence or through the process of creating items to sell. They had little, yet their lives were filled with love and joy. 

It was lonely at times, moreso for Gideon’s father, who pined endlessly for the woman he’d fallen in love with more than ten years ago. Belle was Gideon's mother, but wasn't a part of their lives. She lived in the castle beyond the walled part of the city. On occasion, she left her father’s protection to wander the markets. On those rare days she always sought out the spinner’s stall. The family’s reunions were brief and both parents clung to the hope that they would see each other again soon. Gideon, on the other hand, felt little for his mother beyond the knowledge that she made his father’s heart sing. Rumplestiltskin’s happiness meant everything to his son and so he’d adopted his father’s dream of a permanent reunion. In fact, that was the very reason he was in this mess right now.

“Hello, Papa,” Gideon shoved the door back into its frame and held out the pears. “I got us something sweet to end our dinner.”

At the wheel, Rumplestiltskin took his foot from the treadle and looked up, eyes skimming past the fruit to a small bag Gideon clutched to his chest. “My favorite. Thank you. They look delicious.”

The boy sighed as he squeezed his slender frame between the wheel and the wash basin, then dropped to the bed. “You only like them because they are yellow and mother always wears a golden dress to come see you.”

The assumption brought an image of Belle to Rumplestiltskin’s mind, one of warm light caressing a satin gown. From where they had hidden for their lovemaking, a ray from the sun reached out to touch Belle’s tousled hair and made the blue in her eyes sparkle. She told him about the baby that day and their lives had changed forever. 

“The fact that they remind me of your mum has little to do with why I like them.” Rumplestiltskin returned to spinning for a moment, then stopped the wheel to turn a knowing frown toward his son. “And what else did you acquire while you were meant to be at your lessons?”

“I went to my lessons, “ Gideon protested.

“For how much of the day?”

Now that his father's full attention was on him, Gideon felt compelled to tell the truth. “Half,’ he grumbled.

“Son, the money I make from dying and spinning pays for that education.” Rumplestiltskin reached for his walking stick and used it to pull himself to his feet. “I wish you wouldn't throw it away so easily.”

“I’m not throwing it away, Papa. Not this time.” Gideon’s eyes lit up as they tracked his father’s movements. “I met another kid on the way to classes today and I learned of a way we can leave this life behind us!”

“By starting a new hobby of thievery?” Rumplestiltskin leaned heavily on his walking stick. He could only blame himself for his son’s behavior, though it’s origin baffled him. He eyed the bag again. “Magical endings always come at a great price.” 

“This isn't like your story,” his son insisted, oblivious to the price his parents paid for the magic that kept him a secret. “This is different. If we can help gather these stones we can save the land from a horrible evil. You can be a hero and earn the right to ask for Mother’s hand! No more pining for her at your wheel or daydreaming while you dye the wool. No more secret meetings in the market! You could be married! We could all be together. Forever.”

“And just what do we have to do to earn this great gift?”

Gideon rose from the bed and stepped into the light by the window. With hesitation he began to untie the strings of his leather satchel. “We need to find the rest of these before-”

A terrible crashing erupted from the world beyond, followed by blood-curdling shrieks that grew closer with great rapidity. The noise triggered Gideon’s reflexes, making him draw the string taut and clutch the treasure back against his chest.

“Something’s happening.” Rumplestiltskin rushed to the door and flung it open, took two stumbling steps and then froze. There, directly in front of him, was Belle, golden skirts hiked up as high as she could manage and eyes wide with terror.

“Belle!” The fear that struck him wasn’t for himself, but for the woman he could never live without. “Belle!”

She ran to his side and reached out to help him find balance. “Giant Calixclaws have entered the city from the sea,” she told him. “They’re headed this way.”

“You have to get behind the walls,” Rumple insisted.

Belle shook her head, then turned her gaze to some point down the road. “There’s no time.”

Gideon drew a dagger from his belt and strode forward. “You run, I’ll stay and protect our home.”

“You can’t do that, son. Better to find safety.”

Gideon shook his head. “I can do this. It’s me they want anyway.”

“You?” Belle whimpered. “Gideon… Why?”

He turned, gave her his most triumphant smile, and adjusted his grip on the bag he’d carried from the sea. “I have the Water Stone.”

“Magic,” Rumplestiltskin spat. “Leave that behind and run. Now. Please, son.”

Their boy was about to protest again, but instead he fell silent and tipped his head to one side. The ruckus from down the lane was changing. The sounds of splitting wood and shattering glass had been replaced with something more akin to the crunch of a breaking seashell. “Do you hear that?”

Both parents nodded, but neither could speak. Their attention was on the giant claw reaching up from behind the milner’s home. It rose into the air, then slammed down, splintering the tiny structure into bits that covered the street. The empty space was then replaced by their enemy.

“Giant crabs,” Gideon whispered, swallowing hard. After taking a deep breath he squared his shoulders and stretched himself to his full height. “I’ll have them for dinner.”

“Gideon!” Both parents reached for him, but he slipped away. After just two strides he stood under the creature’s belly and stabbed upward, using all of his strength. He heard a crack and stared up at the orange-pink carapace. The tip of his blade was wedged in the belly of the beast but would go no further. It would also not come out.

Belle tried rushing to Gideon’s side, but Rumplestiltskin held her back, begging her not to leave him. While he pleaded, a cloaked form appeared behind the legs of the Calixclaw. Small and powerful, this newcomer yielded a sword with such precision that each swing sliced a leg of the crab. The beast shrieked again and again, then finally stumbled.

The warrior waved Gideon back, screaming. “Get out of the way!”

He did as he was told, scrambling through his retreat with just enough time to spare. Following one more swing from the sword, their maritime foe thrashed mightily, then collapsed to the ground, dead.

“Gotta aim for the weak points,” the newcomer told him, lowering her cloak’s hood to reveal her wavy, golden hair. She turned to Rumplestiltskin and gave him a wide grin. “A staff fighter, huh? Good. We’ll need all the help we can get. Come on.” With that she took off, expecting the others to follow.

“Who was that?” Belle squinted after the girl, even as her son urged her along.

“Alice,” Gideon said. “And she’ll help me explain everything once you are safe.”

-

[skelavender]

absurd bits of research we did for X-File #02291996:

mulder can take the metro to work in 1996. he takes the yellow line and gets on around the braddock rd station, and gets off at archives-navy memorial. i even found a photo of a metro map from 1996!! as someone with an interest in archivism and a love for the dc metro, i got soooo excited

the diner the go to is lincoln’s waffle shop, which is across from the ford theatre (where lincoln was shot). the bathrooms are in a creepy basement and i once got locked in one without my phone. i thought i was going to die. they’ve been open since 1990.

THE SEX WALKS SIGN EXISTS. like literally right where i said it was. it’s visible on google street view.

the “judicial races turn lively” headline is a real headline from the washington post on february 29th 1996, but i’m not sure if it was on the front page.

pedal boats have been at the tidal basin since the 1930s! technically they're not open until late march because, shocker, it's kind of cold in february in dc and not great boating weather. i’m not sure about swan shaped ones specifically at the tidal basin because they also have basic blue ones and i think dragons now (?), but the concept of a swan pedal boat has been around since the late 1800s and originated in boston. thank you boston.

[theredhavendelegate]

Iss. 3:

Mysteries Beneath The Rubble!

Census workers from the mayor's office continue to aid in rescue and recovery efforts following The Great Transit, cataloguing the losses and tearfully reuniting the survivors.

The work is difficult, and while it has been getting physically easier as the days go on, the emotional toll only grows higher by the hour.

Most of the casualties have been due to crushing, blood loss, and sudden trauma, but unusual cases have gradually begun to bubble up. Though the offices of the mortician and mayor have refused to make statements on the matter, an anonymous Blue Coalition volunteer has come forward with a startling report... ---

The red bricks and colorful awnings, the copper roofs and cobbled roads, smashed and shattered and tossed and mixed, have combined to form a dusty, deathly grey, a beach with no waterline: an ossuary.

Alessa's soft nose and thin lips are covered with a hand-sewn mask. She and half-a-dozen others, each with a band of blue fabric on their upper arms, crawl over the debris with shovels and picks.

One of them calls out, voice echoing over the ruins: "Found one!"

There is a pause, tinted painfully with hope. The voice calls again, slightly grey now: "They're gone."

Another volunteer shuffles over with tools and a canvas bag.

Alessa carries on, clears the doorway to a house whose roof has collapsed, knocks in the window to a shop, shouts, "Hello? We're here to help, just make a sound, anything!" Her tone is not frightened or desperate. It isn't even protective per se. It is purposeful and sure, unfazed as a lighthouse amidst a storm.

Despite the softness of her features, her hands are calloused and scarred and her body subtly muscled. She breaks off ahead of her group, leaving blue fabric flags on any building that's held together well enough to have preserved those inside, until she spots the hole.

It's vast, an entire block seemingly sucked into the ground. It runs a hundred feet across and fifty feet at its deepest. Steep walls rise on every side and water, gas, and sewer lines jut out of them like rough, toothy needles.

"Sinkhole, maybe?" Alessa wonders, then something catches her eye. All around the edge of the hole are red signs, marked with the feather of Redhaven and the phrase 'Danger, Do Not Enter!'

Alessa glower's at the nearest one, daring it to stop her, then glances back down into the chasm. There are all the components of the street within: bent and curling lampposts, shattered windows, cobbles and curbs. No victims, though.

She waits a minute longer and, just as she goes to heft her tool bag back onto her shoulder, there is a sound: a scrape, then another, then a series of rasping coughs. A man tumbles out from beneath a shaded overhang and crumples to the floor, where he lies, wheezing.

Alessa drops her tools into the hole, down the shallowest of the slopes, then navigates herself down as well. Despite the desperate condition of her target, she moves comfortably, testing each step with almost half of her body weight before taking it fully, knocking away loose ground and rubble with kicks and nudges as she goes.

Her feet hit the basin floor and she scoops up her bag, preemptively fishing for the first aid kit as she makes her way over, though she stops searching for it once the man comes clearer into sight.

He is disheveled, dusty, bloody, and his breathing is shallow. There is a splinter, reflective, like blue-ish glass, sticking out of his neck. Several more protrude from his head. Each is six or seven inches long and noticeably barbed. He rolls over as Alessa approaches, and he gurgles, "...Others...help...", even as his eyes grow glassy and still.

Alessa stares at him for a moment, her soft brown eyes growing slightly dim and her brows sinking just a hair.

She glances up and away, beneath the overhang and into a terrible darkness that lies behind the man. There is an open doorway made of cut stone, the entrance to a basement or underground utility tunnel that slopes away gently and into the earth.

Alessa takes a look back up at the red warning signs, watching her from way above like curious angels, waiting, hoping, judging.

She shakes her head, hangs a blue flag by the doorway, and enters, lighting up an large, clunky flashlight. Its flickering yellow beam barely cuts through the gloom and the buzz it emits seems to barely cover an audible aura about the place.

Alessa proceeds down the tunnel, only slightly bothered by the atmosphere. She follows a trail of blood, barely present this far in but growing thicker. More glassy barbs appear, some stuck into walls, cut right into the stone, others discarded on the floor and stained partly red.

The tunnel goes on for too long, and without any of the usual furniture of a cellar. No barrels, no shelves, just more damage and evenly spaced, unlit bulbs of a newer style. There are holes in the walls and floor at odd intervals, a foot or two in diameter and organically shaped like ant burrows. Many are scorched, sprayed with black soot and reeking of kerosene.

The tunnel turns into a hall quite suddenly, lined with steel, linoleum, and occasionally, human bodies. Each is dressed like anyone might be, in vests, suspenders, shirts, blouses, skirts and slacks. A few wear long white coats that display unfamiliar insignia. Some are gnawed, filled with spines, or missing chunks. Some bear stranger afflictions still.

Alessa closes in on one that's huddled the corner of an intersection, a middle aged woman with strawberry blond hair tied back in a bun. Half of her face and skull has turned mostly transparent and hard, like smoked glass, to reveal her brain and optical nerves. The hair on that side of the head has fallen cleanly out and onto the floor. Her expression is locked, forever more, with eyes wide and mouth agape.

For the first time this week, Alessa recoils, though she recovers herself quickly.

In the grim quiet, a sound starts to echo out, ringing down one of the corridors and bounding through the crossroads. It is heavy, thunking and shifting. Alessa darts down another hall and rounds a corner, then extinguishes her light. She is cast in total darkness.

The sound draws near at an anxious, uneven pace. It pauses. There is muffled conversation and then clanking, a heavy click, then a thick wooshing sound. Bright light carries itself down the hallway and around the corner, then comes a wave of heat, and finally, the smell, sour and sharp like rotten eggs and vomit, and kerosene too.

Alessa reaches into her shirt, lays a palm on the handle of a revolver, and leaves it there.

The thunking movement begins again, draws close to the intersection behind the dimness of flashlights. The source of the sound grows visible now, two figures dressed from head to toe in thick white suits, like enormous anthropomorphic marshmallows. Alessa cracks a slight grin.

One of them is wearing a heavy tank on their back and carrying a sort of pump connected to it via hose. A little candle of a flame glows near its tip. The other wields a pump action shotgun, something sturdy and reliable, and clearly well used. Both have lamps mounted to the shoulders of their suits.

Alessa pulls herself back around the corner. One of the men begins to speak, voice muffled, yet still clear enough to read as uncertain. "That's it for this section. Let's get out of here and seal off the northern tunnel."

The other nods affirmatively and takes half a step, then stops. He tilts his gun up and into the darkness.

A sound begins. Clicking and chirping, harsh and organic, insectoid, like from summer cicadas. Darker though, harder.

Closer.

The man pulls the trigger.

The sound is deafening. Alessa's ears ring. The flash is what matters more though, as the whole space lights up for just a fraction of a second. The hallway she'd originally come from is now filled with chitinous things. Many armed and legged, constructed like armored, pincered ponies, slick and clinging to the walls and ceiling and packed in as if a single mass.

The man with the flamethrower lets loose, the man with the shotgun racks another round, and both start screaming in sync. A racket of scraping, cackling, clattering chitin fills the air. Alessa turns on her flashlight again and bolts away from the action. The hallways are all nearly identical, some are lined with doors, some turn off into narrow, dead-end alleys, while others feature thick, valved pipes and wall access panels of unknown purpose.

Even as the frenzied sounds fade away, absorbed by tile and steel and stone, twisted and choked by the labyrinth, Alessa runs. She pounds the ground with her boot-clad feet until she's blue in the face and her lungs ache, until she rounds a corner into another long, straight hall that slopes mercifully upwards.

She crashes against the wall, slumping into it and breathing heavily. Her knuckles hurt. She pulls her hand, finally, out of her shirt, fingers white and bloodless, joints aching to return to the shape of the revolver's grip. She stretches out her hand and starts up the slope.

There's daylight at the end, misty and grey, and relief floods the volunteer like cold water. As her senses return, a gaze burns into the her neck, a presence. She doesn't face it. She only whispers, "If you want to kill me, you'd better do it now, while I'm too tired to fight back."

Nothing attacks her, and as she reaches the end of the hall, which is set into the mouth of a cave in the semi-familiar outskirts of the city, she glances back. Only darkness stares back.

Only darkness.

---

First Prev Next

[cinenthusiast]

another batch of new-to-me albums, 2024

criola - denis mpunga & paul k. (2017) estudando o samba - tom zé (1976) peace rock - nimbudala (2022) i survived, it's over - rich ruth (2022) bird & diz - charlie parker and dizzy gillespie (1950/1952) sonny side up - sonny rollins (1957/1959) ella & louis - ella fitzgerald and louis armstrong (1956) ellington uptown - duke ellington (1953) endlessness - nala sinephro (2024) in a silent way - miles davis (1969) afro - dizzy gillespie (1954) caravan - art blakey and the jazz messengers (1963) gillespiana - dizzy gillespie (1960) blues-ette - curtis fuller quintet (1959) money jungle - ellington, mingus, roach (1963) in the land of hi-fi - sarah vaughan (1955) soul of things - tomasz stańko quartet (2001) time of the last persecution - bill fay (1970) slapp happy - slapp happy (1974) clifford brown and max roach at basin street - clifford brown-max roach quintet (1956) sea shells - peggy lee (1958) let freedom ring - jackie mclean (1963) jazz giant - bud powell (1950) wild god - nick cave and the bad seeds (2024) first narrows - loscil (2004) here in the pity - jessica pratt (2024) perceive its beauty, acknowledge its grace - shabaka (2024) good morning kisses - michael farneti (1976) clifford brown & max roach - the clifford brown-max roach quintet (1954) a night in tunisia - art blakey & the jazz messengers (1958) royal flush - donald byrd (1962)

[ginorom-blog]

Basin street blues

[iamprchung]

The Spider and the FBI: Part 7 "Paradise Syndrome"

Synopsis by guest writer Jose Chung (written prior to his apparent death at the hands of the Nostradamus Nutball):

Now, grab your Stetsons, conspiracy cowboys, 'cause we're moseying on over to Elmo, Wyoming. Here, amidst the questionable barbeque and dazzling fireworks of the 4th of July festivities, we find Agent Scully embroiled in a situation more perplexing than a malfunctioning weather balloon.

In strides Sheriff Lawrence Durokoff, a man carved from the same government-issue granite as Assistant Director Skinner, only with a grin brighter than a chrome bumper on a brand-new pickup truck. Was it a case of cloning gone wrong? Or perhaps long-lost twins separated by, well, let's just say a misplaced birth certificate (we can delve into government conspiracies all day, but identical twins are a stretch even for this jaded scribe).

The truth, as always, is stranger than the wildest fan fiction. The undeniable spark between Scully and Sheriff Durokoff has tongues wagging about a future filled with calico dresses and prairie sunburns instead of chasing shadows in the bureaucratic labyrinth.  Is our favorite redhead about to trade her badge for a butter churn? Only time, and perhaps a strategically placed horseshoe (it's a small town, after all) will tell!

Notes: Yes, I sure did title this after a Star Trek episode.

"Paradise Syndrome"

Part VIII of "The Spider and the FBI"

by PR Chung

Preface/Notes:

Just reading through this, even after all these years, I recognize exactly where one of my very best friends and amazing author assisted with this story. I know her work is still out there somewhere as she was one of the originals in the X-Files fiction fandom, authoring stories that are still amazing. None other than the very talented Paula B. Her ability to turn a phrase cannot be surpassed, and it’s a joy to read passages I know she helped on.

*************************

Elmo, Wyoming July 4th

By the time she hung up the phone from her conversation with Mulder, Scully's hair was nearly dry from her shower. She got up from the bed and went to the window, drawing back the curtains of her hotel room to look out on the street below.

Nothing much had changed except for the layer of increasing smoke drifting up through the trees from the square. How many barbecues were going? She wondered. And what were they cooking? Burgers and hot dogs? Roasting corn snugly rolled in foil? Brisket and ribs, too?

Her stomach gurgled.

Trying to remember the last meal she'd eaten she turned to go check on her blouse. It was hanging to dry in the bathroom after a lame attempt to clean it in the porcelain basin. It was a very nice bathroom, just not very functional.

The entire room was very nice, as was the whole hotel. Small and quaint, just a few rooms sitting atop a gift shop and cafe. Heavy in small town charm and light on the amenities; a bed, chest of drawers, mirror, and nightstand. No television, no radio, and the phone had to be brought up specially for her room, as had the one taken into Skinner's room down the hall.

His would undoubtedly be of heavier use than hers she presumed as she touched the still damp fabric of her blue blouse. He wasn't pleased in the least about either the situation or the location, and he apparently wanted out as fast as humanly possible.

He had been on the phone at the Sheriff's station the entire time it took to get Bernstein squared away in the holding cell. There was nothing but skeleton crews of federal workers manning the phones in Denver and Salt Lake City. Calling Washington hadn't been much help either; apparently all he had gotten was an ear full of instructions to get Bernstein back there for trial- come hell or high water.

Sure, they could get a flight out of Laramie or Cheyenne in the morning or even tonight if they were lucky enough that the agents from the Casper field operation should show up. But things were looking ugly up there, suspicion of terrorism and arrests sparking upset among the jingoistic masses. It was just another unpleasant federal incident in the making.

Aside from becoming another bout of bad press for the bureau, this whole Casper thing had gummed up the works, delaying agents that Mulder had needed, and now, still, those she and Skinner needed.

Mulder could have gone forever, and would have, if she hadn't interrupted his denunciation of every federal employee he had dealt with during the last twenty-four hours. She could tell he hadn't slept by just the shear amount of information he was trying to pack into a single conversation followed by a spate of questions.

She was sure there would be more questions when he finally arrived in a few hours. After muttering something about manic helicopter pilots, he had said was going to drive to Elmo, which concerned her if he hadn't slept, but once Mulder was set on doing something there was generally no swaying him from it.

A sudden resonant sound of a band practicing drew her attention back to the street below her hotel window, where she caught sight of Sheriff Durokoff.

Self-consciously she took a step back from the window not wanting to be discovered in just her bra. At a careful distance from the window, she watched him across the street and stop there in the shade, talking pleasantly with others.

The sound started up again, a guitar... being tested on an amplifier. Curious, she searched through the trees trying to see, hearing the strong chords of a bluesy country-rock song she couldn't name being played by fits and starts.

The trees were just too thick. She couldn't see a thing and gave up and turned back to look at more interesting things— He was gone. The people he'd been talking to were still there, mulling around and talking, but Durokoff was gone.

Crap. She'd see more of him later, but it was unlikely she would get another chance to covertly study him at length, to examine the similarities between him and Skinner.

His cousin, she concerned. How bizarre, she thought and smiled. Of all the towns they should end up in, after all they had gone through, they just happen to hit the one tiny patch of earth containing another Skinner- or rather a Durokoff. Their mothers were sisters undoubtedly, or perhaps a remarriage had caused the difference in names. She analyzed the possible branches of genealogy.

Like an impression of the sun Durokoff's smile was emblazoned on her retinas. He wasn't the consummate small town, no non-sense Sheriff, all bluster, and intimidation when it came to federal involvement.

He didn't like Bernstein, and he had been to the point with the man, swiftly locking him away in the blunt bowels of the Elmo holding cells, but during the entire time at the Sheriff's station he had still managed to be cheerful and lighthearted. She thought she'd even seen him give her a quick wink at one point.

The un-Skinner, she thought and nearly laughed out loud.

Not completely, though, the similarities remained, and were so great in certain respects that she had found herself deferring to Durokoff the same as if he were Skinner. A certain turn of a phrase, a look, a motion, everything about him stirred an almost constant sense of surprise and amusement in her.

Two Skinner's could be a rather daunting concept for some, but it didn't seem like such a bad idea to her.

A solid knocking sounded at the door of her room yanked her out of that thought, audibly startling her.

"Agent Scully?" a muffled voice called through the door, concerns seeping through the woodgrain.

"Just a minute," she called, rushing to grab her top.

Lawrence Durokoff stood in the hall listening to the muffled scurrying sounds beyond the door, arched his brows. Perhaps she wasn't alone in there, he thought and glanced down the hall toward his cousin's room which he'd discovered was empty only a moment before he tried her room.

"Is there a problem?" Durokoff turned at the sound of Skinner's voice. He was coming down the hall from the stairs, his eyes pinched and his jaw set.

"No. No problem here." He answered taking a step back from the door to address Skinner. Well, he wasn't in there. So, what's going on?

The door jerked open suddenly, a flush faced Scully looked back at the two men. Her eyes darted back and forth between the two of them, questions pooling.

"Uh, hi." She greeted the two of them, holding the hem of her blouse out and away from herself, it was still damp and almost transparent when it contacted her body. "Is something wrong?" She finally asked when neither one of them spoke.

“You two sure are shellshocked.” He commented, glancing amusedly between the two of them. “Nothing wrong,” he told her, and glanced at Skinner, “and no problems.”

Durokoff held out a small satchel to Scully. "I had one of the deputies gather some things together for you," he explained as she took.

"Thank you," Scully said glancing inside it to see what appeared at first glance to be a tee shirt still in the plastic packaging, a hairbrush, and a few basic items of make-up.

Skinner averted his gaze from the scene shifting the plastic bag he was carrying from one hand to the other. Durokoff glanced back at his cousin holding out another bag, a half-sized duffel. "I got some clothes for you and some shaving stuff."

Skinner's hand went to his face, feeling the growth of beard stubble. What a pig he must have looked like, he ruefully thought and glanced at Scully. "Thanks."

The sound of music drifted into the hall through Scully's room from outside; a hearty rendition of Bad Moon Rising being played in the square.

"Well, uh," Durokoff muttered planting his hands on his hips, looking between the two of them. "I guess you've figured out there's a little party starting outside. There's plenty of food and music," he made a brief gesture toward the sound of the music past Scully's shoulder. "I've come to extend the official Elmo invitation for you both to join us."

Scully's stomach gurgled urging her to accept the invitation.

* "... I see the bad moon a rising. I see trouble on the way..." *

Skinner spoke before she could. "Food sounds great, but I don't think we should get distracted. We're still on duty here."

"No distractions," Durokoff said and grinned. "Just good food. I've got plenty of people keeping an eye on that Bernstein joker, so you can stop worrying about him. Just come on down to the square when you're ready and make yourselves at home."

* "... I see bad times on their way..."*

"I may just rest some." Skinner said quietly.

Speak for yourself, Scully thought. "I'd be happy to sample the local flavor. I can't remember my last real meal."

* "I know the end is coming soon..." *

"Great," Durokoff blurted, zealously slapping his hands together. "I'll see you down there, Agent Scully." He said and turned to go, saying to his cousin as he went, "I hope you'll come down, too, once you get some rest, Walter."

* "...don't go 'round tonight... It's bound to take your life..." *

"Here," Skinner said, unceremoniously extending a plastic bag to Scully.

She blinked pulling her gaze off his departing cousin. "What's this?" She asked, taking the bag.

"A toothbrush and paste." He answered already halfway to his room down the hall.

"Thank you..." she leaned out the door calling back to him, but his door had already shut, leaving her alone in the hall.

Back inside her room, she picked through the duffel finding a new tee-shirt, boasting a silk screen print that read 'Second Annual 4th of July Celebration, Elmo, Wyoming'. She frowned reading it.

Only their second? She wondered and moved on to inspect the rest of the items. The mascara would work fine and the lipstick too if she only dabbed it on, it was just a little too dark for her taste, but the blush would have to go, it was far too red.

Grateful for necessities, she snatched up the brush and plastic bag, heading to the bathroom. Her hair was frightful. Could she get it to behave even if she did re-wet it and brush it straight out? No beauty contest is going on that I know of right now, she told herself, yanking first paste from the plastic bag, then the toothbrush— and stopped.

She looked at it, confused at first by what she saw. Turning the brush over in she found a small decal stamped on the handle; a little stagecoach in motion with a name drifting behind it like dust from the wheels. The name wasn't Dana, though... It was Kate.

She looked at that a second before she realized and glanced back, her thoughts on the room down the hall. Dana wasn’t a common name emblazoned on any gift shop trinket. She looked down at the toothbrush.

He’d gotten the next closest.

*****************************

The when the music began Skinner opened his eyes, hearing the chords that were undeniably familiar aside from the performers’ ad-libbing. Before finally getting up to go to the window, he laid on the bed listening to the guitar playing down in the square wrenching out Sleepwalk.

It wasn't great, but it was close, he critiqued pulling back the gossamer curtains to look out. Anyway, the slower, more sedate sounds were a nice break from the honky tonkin,’ rambunctious stuff they'd been playing for the last hour.

He would have liked to have blamed his inability to sleep on the music, but he doubted he could have slept if he were in a soundproof room with no windows. There was just too much weighing on his mind to allow sleep to come easily. There was still no call from the special agent in charge up in Casper, no word on when they could expect more agents. At least Mulder was on his way, that fact, in the strangest of ways helped ease his concerns in some.

Once he got there, they could continue on to Laramie, get Bernstein drugged to the hilt and on a plane and back to DC by Monday at the latest. That would still give them a day before the arraignment hearing and get the federal prosecutor and Attorney General out of his hair.

Skinner chuckled to himself. If ever there was a figure of speech...

A glimpse of red drew his attention to the street below. There walked one of his other concerns: Scully was heading across to the town square.

Damn.

From out of the cover of the trees came Lawrence, a huge smile plastered across his face.

And there came the next concern.

Of all the damn places to end up in why the hell did they have to end up here? Eighteen years of peace shattered in a single day. Peace, yes, but not complete disconnection. There had always been word floating through the family about who was doing what and where they were.

He had known when Lawrence finally made Sheriff here, he'd actually been invited to a party to celebrate the event. He knew it hurt Aunt Anne and Bulah when he didn't respond. He had been busy, and just didn't feel like dealing with it again.

Skinner watched as two boys scurried between Scully and Lawrence, almost bumping into her as they went. He watched Scully laugh about it and talk cheerfully as Lawrence guided her into the park, disappearing beyond the thick canopy of tree branches.

His heart sank almost in time with the lamenting cry of the guitar playing. Too much time had passed, he thought, but things hadn't changed much...

*****************************

Norwalk, Ohio December 1st, 1963

There just wasn’t a whole lot to do, and all the adults were still shuffling around, overwhelmed by the news out of Dallas a little over a week before. It felt like the world, at least their part of it had come to stand still after the news of the president’s assassination.

Heavy and silent, the day pressed in around two small figures scuffing through turned leaves. It was Sunday after Thanksgiving, not much to do between the time Church was done and time for supper, except track around in the woods, down by trestle and maybe, if luck were good, a train would pass on its way into Cedar Point.

But come tomorrow, Monday was going to be the start of a whole new experience...

"Will there be a lot of girls there?"

"Sure will. Who do you think we're gonna dance with, Walter, each other?"

Walter pulled the collar of his red plaid coat up closer to his neck, shivering against the sudden cold breeze. "But a lot of them?" he asked, concerned.

"I don't know," Lawrence looked at him closely, "why, are you scared?"

Walter shrugged and stuffed his hands deep in the warmth of his Tuff-Skin pockets. "No. I was just wondering."

"I think you're scared. You're scared of the girls." Lawrence began to laugh. Walter blushed making his cousin laugh even harder. "Cubby's afraid of the girls."

"I'm not. And stop calling me that stupid name."

"Cubby, Cubby, Cubby." He chanted, jogging in a circle around Walter.

"I don't even look like that kid, knock it off!" Walter hauled off and shoved Lawrence knocking him off balance.

"You got the ears."

"So, what if I have mouse ears? You've got that stupid coonskin hat, and I know your cat gave it fleas cause you're always scratching your head when you wear it!"

"I don't scratch my head!" Lawrence proclaimed, his voice cracking hard. "And I wasn't talkin'bout your dumb Mickey Mouse ears. I meant your ears!"

"So! You scratch your head so much you're gonna scratch all your hair off and then see how many girls you dance with."

"You're dumb." Lawrence spat shoving Walter.

"You're stupid." Walter spat back, regaining his balance.

"You're fat."

The comment fell on deaf ears, Walter wasn't listening to his cousin, something else had caught his attention, a rustling sound close by. Lawrence tried shoving him again, but Walter didn't budge, he remained steady and fixed on the sound. "Cut it out... Listen..." he said, adjusting his glasses.

Lawrence listened, hearing the sound he frowned. "What is that?"

Walter shook his head and started forward, following the rustling.

They walked carefully though the brittle layer of leaves covering the ground, listening intently, checking the bare trees around them for some sign of what the sound was.

"There," Lawrence blurted, his arm shooting straight out from his body as he pointed toward the trees ahead of them. "It's a kite!"

"It was a kite," Walter corrected his cousin who had started for the tree the tattered kite was caught in.

"Oh, wow, look," Lawrence excitedly called out when he peered up at the object. "It's not torn or nothing, look, Walter. Look."

Walter stepped up next to him, peering up. "Nope. It's not torn or nothing."

"Wow."

"But it's also up a tree."

Without a word Lawrence reached up and grabbed a low branch in each hand.

"What are you doing?" Walter sounded more accusatory than he did inquiring.

"I'm gonna get it."

"It's just junk, Lawrence." He told him and shook his head when he saw that he wasn't being listened to.

Lawrence struggled up through the bare branches, losing purchase several times as deader ones broke off under his weight, but somehow managing to only go higher rather than fall back down. It wouldn't be long though...

"You're gonna fall. You better not go any higher!" Walter yelled; his neck bent back until it hurt now to see his cousin. How high was he going go before he would see that kite was just junk, all busted up and worthless?

"I got it!" Lawrence shouted triumphantly.

Walter watched as he waved the ragged kite before him like some trophy for endurance and strength.

It was about then a loud crack sounded.

Clear and loud, like bones cracking, the branch Lawrence was resting his butt on breaking cut through the chilly air.

Walter saw the look in Lawrence's eyes when he realized things had gone very bad- black and huge with fear. He shrieked and Walter thought he sounded like a girl in the instant before his cousin plummeted through the branches and crashed to the ground on his side.

He lay there on his side; his back curved like a hula-hoop and his legs turned in crazy angles that didn't look right at all. His mouth was moving but there was no sound, he was sucking air in, and his eyes were squeezed shut so hard Walter couldn't see his eyelashes when he got up close.

"Holy smokes! Are you all right? Are you all right?"

Finally, and with an intensity like Walter had never heard in his life, a horrible noise came out of Lawrence's mouth: a ragged scream that degenerated into a gut-wrenching bawling. "My legs," he screamed, blood and snot trickling from his nose. "It hurts! It hurts! Walter, help me! Oh, God it hurts!"

"I told you!" Walter screamed, his breath beginning to hitch with frightened sobs. "I told you! Why didn't you listen to me?"

"Please- it hurts!"

Freezing air ripping at his lungs Walter tore through the woods, crashing toward Lawrence's house.

Walter Skinner didn't believe he had ever run harder or faster in his life than he had that afternoon.

******************************

Elmo, Wyoming 4th of July 1999

"Here you go," Durokoff declared, sounding a little breathless as he reappeared from the crowd, waving a handful of napkins.

Scully almost laughed at the inordinate amount of napkins he'd brought back to the table.

"I know I wasn't that messy," she said as he sat back down opposite her at the picnic table.

He watched her take a napkin from the pile and begin to wipe the barbecue sauce from her chin, noticing the dab she'd dropped on her tee shirt. "I don't know," he said grinning at her, "maybe I should have brought back a bib, too."

Scully looked down, gasping at the blotch of red sauce on herself. "I can't believe I've turned into such a mess."

"Ribs are messy business," he said handing her another fist full of napkins.

She laughed, feeling embarrassed. She had been half starved but attempted good manners, yet good manners went out the window when it came to barbecued ribs. She knew she should have stuck with the hot dogs.

"Barbecue in general is a messy business," she commented, demurely dabbing at her shirt.

"That's what makes it fun." Scully looked at him, struck by the strong and cheerful sound of his familiar voice. He looked back at her with kind brown eyes she thought she knew and had to remind herself that she didn’t know this man at all. "I think you missed a little..." He told her, gesturing first at her face then his own, brushing at his own upper lip.

Scully wiped at her mouth again, another wave of chagrin passing over her.

"Uh, it's..." he stammered a little again gesturing at her mouth and beginning to sound frustrated. "It's still..." Scully frowned, growing annoyed by her inability to find this stray smear of barbecue sauce he kept pointing at. "Uh, here," he said leaning over the table enough to hesitantly wipe her lip with another napkin. He stopped, pulling his hand back to look at her quizzically before he confusedly said, "it's not coming off?"

"Huh?" Then she realized and her hand flew to her mouth. "Oh... Well, it's not going to be coming off, either, not without laser surgery, unfortunately." Durokoff's expression was beginning to take on that cast that Skinner more than often got when he didn't quite get something. "It's a mole," she explained and went back to pick at the ribs on her paper plate.

"Unfortunately?" He questioned her choice of words. "Don't you like it?"

"No," she said emphasizing the word by pursing her lips. "I usually cover it up."

"It's darling," he declared. She raised her eyes to give him a dubious look. He wasn't making it any better and she hoped her expression communicated the fact. "Why would you cover it up?"

Apparently her expression did not phase the man. "I've never liked it," she answered and shrugged. "Since I was a little girl, I hated it."

"Why don't you have it cut off?" he bluntly asked.

She cringed, managing to stop her hands before the ribs touched her mouth. "I don't know," she sighed putting the rib back on the plate and pushing it away. "I guess because it's still a part of me."

"Attached to it, huh?" He was being deliberately idiotic now.

Scully blew her breath out, laughing hard in spite of herself. He laughed along with her appearing to do so with his whole body; he seemed to shudder, his eyes pinched with glee, his mouth a full broad smile.

She liked him. She liked his laugh- full on bass and warm- she liked the way he looked and carried him self- formidable confidence blended with deft grace. She'd even become a little fond of the propensity he had for repeatedly adjusting his hat when he spoke. A nervous quirk, Scully had considered, or merely a motion to ease the press of the cap against his bare scalp. She had seen he was just as balding as Skinner the few times his hat had come far enough away from his head.

Although, his skull appeared smoother than Skinner's that was subtly pitted and pocked with peculiar dings and curious indentations. Occasionally, while seated before her superior's desk with Mulder explaining himself at her side, her mind would drift curiously over that uneven back-lit scalp, indexing the probable causes of those marks and wondering if there something more to phrenology.

When their laughter tapered down to scant chuckling they found themselves looking at one another, a certain level of wariness passing between their gazes. The echo of live music rebounded around them, people mulled about laughing and cheering, but it all seemed suddenly very far away.

After a moment, affected, Durokoff cleared his throat shifting his eyes left and right, anywhere but on her. He got up from the table and motioned for her to follow. "Come on, I think that sauce is getting to you."

"Getting to me?"

He laughed one last breathy laugh, re-adjusting the cap on his head. "That sauce has probably got more booze in it than the bar over there."

She gawked at the plate of ribs she'd torn through. There might have been a good amount of liquor in the sauce but surely not enough to make her tipsy. "I couldn't taste liquor in it."

"Likely story, missy," he teased, "come on along with me."

"Am I under arrest for public intoxication?" She went with it, allowing him to take her by the arm and lead her through the crowd.

"Public intoxication, lewd and disorderly conduct, not to mention bad table manners..."

She didn't know where he was taking her but happily trotted along enjoying the feel of Durokoff's firm grasp.

Why couldn't Skinner be more like this, she mused as they wound their way through the crowded park. There was that one brief instant, she recalled his inciting of the Gilligan's Island theme while they were marooned in the middle of the lake, but she had assumed that was just the champagne.

She'd seen him smile just once, that same night, and the simple gesture had softened his features and lent light to his eyes. It was a long time before she had rid herself of the hope of ever seeing him smile like that again, at least for her. Again, she chalked it up to the alcohol he'd consumed and let it go.

Anything between them was not meant to be despite her moments of weakness, times when she was ready to throw everything away and tell him how she felt. He would probably give her one of those incredulous looks he so effortlessly doled out on a regular basis, saying something like "you've obviously made a mistake." Yeah, a mistake, all right. A big one, too. Don't go falling for your superior unless you're ready to suffer the knicks and scratches of unrequited... The sound of Durokoff's walkie-talkie interrupted her dejected introspective.

He excused himself by stepping away from her. A few moments later she was accepting his request to join him on a call, promising it would be interesting. And interesting it did turn out to be.

A rather typical domestic disagreement but with rather distinctive circumstances; at the far-off fringe of Carbon County where the Elmo Sheriff's department authority just about ran out. Two men of wise age, one would assume at first sight, sitting around all morning with nothing better to do than drink themselves into a stupor, decided the fireworks show was too far off to wait any longer. So, they started their own show a little early by setting off sticks of dynamite in their front yard.

The first blast had taken out a car belonging to one man who promptly set off a second stick that demolished the car belonging to the man who had set off the first explosion.

With their cars burning and the yard and house torn up and looking like a scene from a war, the men continued to argue and fight, each threatening to blow the other up.

Judging by the familiarity that the deputies on the scene as well as Durokoff treated the men, Scully figured that these two had a long history of such behavior.

An hour or more had passed when the county fire trucks were finally showing up on the scene and the two men had been talked down and on their way to Elmo where their view of the fireworks show would be quite good from their cells.

Stating that he was certain nothing he could show her now would top what they'd just seen, Durokoff set off anyway to give Scully a brief tour of the area, introducing her to locals less radical than the last and reciting regional history and lore making her feel quite comfortable with his attentiveness and polite gestures of respect.

She found in his behavior an old-fashioned charm replacing cautious political correctness that punctuated the cities she'd lived in most her life. Still, he showed respect to her, as the fellow agent of law enforcement she was, asking her opinion on issues of concern in the area and wanting to know her feelings about recent negative attitudes directed toward federal agencies.

But in defiance of their almost deliberate trade discussions, there was an underlying tension building between them. She could feel the air becoming charged as they traveled together and quite by themselves in the four-wheeler. Talk was becoming less and less as they drove through the mountainous roads, replaced by the frequent exchange of glances and shared smiles in the increasingly awkward silence.

Scully was beginning to feel as though she were on a first date when the radio gratefully crackled for attention, the dispatcher announcing she had a message from the Albany Country Sheriff's department. Scully was quick to stop any information from going out over the radio, making Durokoff aware of that being one feasible way Gryzwac had been tracing them with the use of a scanner.

Remarking how he hoped everyone was being as alert as she was he instructed the call be put through to them on his cell phone, and moments later Scully was talking to a ragged out sounding Mulder. He was traveling with an Albany Country deputy to get a rental car and didn't believe he'd be arriving until nightfall.

"Why doesn't he just get Boyd to have him flown over here," Durokoff asked Scully who relayed the question to Mulder.

"The helicopter is temporarily out of commission," she relayed back, listening to something else Mulder said, then, "besides, he's not thrilled about the idea if it were working."

Durokoff laughed. "I don't blame him in the least."

By the time they got back to town he'd shared his own tale of his experiences with Ronnie Stewart, the rock’n’rolling hot shot of the Albany County Air Patrol. It seemed the man had never quite put aside his days as a stunt show pilot, still managing to get a little acrobatic flying in every once in a while to show off and sometimes scare what he liked to call his "virgin" passengers.

***********************

Lariat Car Rentals Rock Springs, Wyoming

What was the deal?

Was there no respect left in this country for the urgency of federal business?

Mulder mulled these and a multifarious amount of other questions over as he watched the rental car agency employee languidly collect agreements from various pigeonholes along the wall of the storefront agency. Tired beyond measure he leaned against the chest high counter, believing if he stared hard enough at the back of the man's head, willing him to move faster.

"Please do not lean on the counter," he suddenly announced without turning.

Rolling his eyes, Mulder straightened and checked the time on the wall clock. Jesus, it was nearly four o'clock. Where had the damn day gone? "Could we hurry this up some, I'm really tired and I'm in a hurry to get to where I'm going."

"Perhaps you shouldn't be in such a hurry if you're so tired, sir." The man said, turning back to him with a smug lift to his eyebrow, his bushy mustache twitching like a nervous ferret had nested under his nose.

An abrupt and unsolicited laugh escaped Mulder. "Uh," he forced his eyes closed against the sight of the man. "I'm taking the full insurance on the car." He finally managed to assure the funny little man, who was now frowning at him.

"Of course you are after what happened to your last vehicle." He said planting the paperwork on the counter in front of Mulder. "Never in the history of Lariat Rental has there ever been such an act of complete disregard and..."

"I'm really sorry about the other rental car," Mulder bemoaned both what had become of the car he'd left on the side of the road the previous day and the fact that Lariat Rental seemed to have a monopoly on the rental car business throughout the area. Who would have thought there was a vandalism problem in such an area of the country? "Circumstances beyond my control kept me from calling..."

"Yes, yes. So, you've said. Still, I certainly hope this isn't the normal mode of operation among all representatives of the Federal Bureau of Investigation." He remarked pointedly as he handed Mulder a pen.

"As a matter of fact, it is," Mulder, aggravated to a point now, began signing papers with a whimsical flourish of his wrist, dispatching the signed copies toward the man with abandon. "It's a new policy that all federal employees must abide by totally, seek out and destroy as much property as humanly possible within the private sector." He emphasized his final word with such zeal he ripped right though the tissue thin top copy of the rental agreement with the ballpoint of the pen.

"Wonderful," the man declared throwing his hands up, "more destruction. I just never- now, we'll have to start over again."

"What!" Mulder spat as the man snatched up all the papers and started for the pigeonholes again for fresh copies. "Haven't you ever heard of scotch tape?"

************************

Continued in part 8