#i am not writting for bleach as of now

[randomreadingtimewithtsuki]

Hello how are you ? Can I have a chika x reader or the reader is shy but we discover by chance that she has the voice of a donkey when she sings? Thanks in advance

Hello my dear!

Unfortunately requests for bleach are closed.

Please take a look at the rules and check out if there is any other fandom you would like to request for!

[broodwolf221]

Hello happy friday! For Felassan: kenopsia [ the eerie atmosphere of a place that is usually bustling with people but now abandoned ]

oooooof, this one.... oww :') @dadrunkwriting - veilguard spoilers 923 words cws: canon character death

Solas… Solas had…

He shook his head, feeling disoriented. What exactly had happened? He and Solas had been speaking, and—

No. Not Solas. Not his friend Solas. He'd been speaking with Fen'Harel. With the Dread Wolf.

It was different.

The Wolf had been so angry. But Felassan remembered something else about it, frowning as he groped for the memory. Under the anger, another emotion. Another feeling writ plain across the face of one who was supposed to be able to hide his expressions…

He groaned, frustrated. He knew there was something there, but he couldn't remember what. He pushed to his feet, feeling a little unsteady, and set the memory aside to figure out more immediate concerns.

Like where on earth he was.

He knew he'd met the Wolf in the Fade. But he had laid down in the forest. This was no forest. He turned slowly in place, struggling to determine why this area felt so familiar.

Old ruins flanked him, and between lay a stretch of land that was largely empty, but had clearly been the sight of a battle long ago. He saw broken arrows, their feathers bleached and disintegrating, the wood cracked. There were familiar formations here and there, areas with an indentation that spoke of power, soil and stone forced into a firm rim around an unnaturally flat circle.

Not only had there been a battle here, but it was a battle fought by mages.

He walked over the field, confused and curious. The sense of familiarity grew, his inability to place it becoming increasingly frustrating. Then he saw it begin to open up, the wide path becoming a massive clearing, a ruined structure at the far end that made his stomach lurch.

He knew where he was, now. He knew exactly where he was.

A failed battle. Or a successful one, according to the Wolf. It was the first time Felassan had feared he didn't actually know this man he had chosen to follow, this friend he had chosen to trust. To hear Solas standing there and trying to justify sending spirits to their death…

What had happened to his friend? What was left, that war and rebellion had not ruined? He sat amidst these ruins, one of many, the ancient elegy of the Elvhen empire, and thought of how his friend had been ruined, too.

The last time he'd been here, it had been chaos. He'd tried his best to protect those who had trusted them, but in the end, there was nothing he could do. He had trusted Solas, and the Wolf had determined an acceptable level of sacrifice. He didn't even tell Felassan. Although there was no mystery to that: he would have argued relentlessly, and clearly the Wolf had been unwilling to entertain those arguments. So he'd used Felassan, used his trust, in order to get him to help sway the spirits.

Their deaths were on his hands, too.

"How could you do this?" He whispered, barely noticing how strange his voice sounded. "We were supposed to be better than this. We were supposed to do things the right way." He sighed. "You'd call that naive, wouldn't you? You'd stand there and argue about sacrifice and the ends justifying the means and how we had to set aside what we wanted so we could do what was needed." He shook his head, briefly furious, but it faded quickly to despair. "I lost you a long time ago, didn't I? I didn't want to see it."

It was difficult to think. His mind felt hazy, unfocused. But even as he sat there, lost in memory and grief, something continued to tug at him. A sense that something was wrong about all of this.

"Why am I here?" He asked aloud, looking around himself. It was like watching a puzzle fall slowly into place. "I don't understand." He tried to move past the grief, past the clinging weight of memory, and back to his considerations before.

He'd gone to sleep in a forest. He had met the Wolf in the Fade. And now, he was here.

Why was he here? How? This site was far from the forest he'd slept in. He was surprised to find it still existing.

His stomach dropped. That was the problem. "I'm not really—" he couldn't bring himself to say it, voice shaking.

This place. It did not exist, not in the physical world. Now that he knew, now that he recognized it, he noticed all the signs. He saw wisps in the distance, felt their mild-mannered curiosity, but something kept them away. Some force drew Felassan here and kept others out.

He was trying to make sense of it when Solas' face flashed through his mind once more. There was something there, something just out of reach.

He had looked so angry. But there was something else. Something important.

He tried to concentrate. He needed to know, he needed—

A change, just for a second. From anger, to shock, to horror.

And then…

And then?

His mind shied away. It took everything in him to face it. He finally looked down at his hands, and they weren't right.

He wasn't right.

"You killed me?" His voice was tiny. Thin. Weak. His very form trembled, as if uncertain whether to hold on or not, but then he clenched his hands and it solidified. He would not give up. He would figure this out. He'd find Solas.

He was here, wasn't he? He was something.

He'd figure it out. All of it.

[writteninlunarlight-years]

hi! I was just wondering if I can get a marauders matchup? ^^

Gender: trans dude :>

Pronouns: he/him

Sexuality: omni, male preference.

Appearance: I have split dyed purple and black hair, and I wear glasses. I'm chubby. I have blue eyes, and a septum and bottom left lip piercing. I also have a bunch of stick and poke tattoos, there's a lot on my left hand and a few on my legs. 12 tattooed in total, and I have 8 piercings. (Both daiths, 2 lobes on each side, septum and lip) I dress either like Adam Sandler or a grungey punk forest goblin and theirs no in-between. I normally am more Adam sandlery-y bc I'm always tired

(MBTI &/or Engram if you would like to take the tests and add it) mbti is intj-t and enneagram is type 8

Personality: I'm sarcastic and have a dry and darkish sense of humour, as well as that if a 12 year old. (Think of a traumatized due who makes outrageous amount a of dick jokes) I also am very blunt, and dont sugarcoat things. I have trouble with ✨any emotional things✨. I always tend to give acts of service and words of affirmation bc I'm emotionally stunted ;-; I'm loyal to a fault, and try to be kind and help people, and am very practical.

Likes (at least like three things): doing art stuff, crocheting, MUSIC (never have my headphones off, literally got asked if I was ok and where they where when I didn't have them on, and have a permanent headphone indent) and reading/writting

Dislikes (at least three things):slow walkers, generally shitty people (misogynists, racists, etc) FUCKIN STUPID ASS SYROFOME. I HATE THAT EWIE GROSS

Extra fun fact (this is about whoever you are describing to me): I have ADHD and quiet a list of physical ailments.

~~~~~MATCHUP~~~~~

I kid you not, Anon. Two lines into your request, I knew who this should be. I was even more pleasantly surprised by my first choice!

I now present to you your match--------

Sirius Black

I chose Sirius because this giant man-child is just as much a trickster as a badass protector. Sirius will stand by your side through thick and thin, ups and downs, left rights and sideways. This man's loyalty and ferocity are precisely why he is a Gryffindor and not a Slytherin like the rest of his family.

~~~~~HEADCANONS~~~~~

WhY sO SiRiUs? No jokes aside, the man is a total goofy himbo and loves to joke around.

This man is so good at providing perfect sarcasm, especially to people outside the group of friends looking in.

He is a dad joke, so he has the dad jokes.

When he sees your split-dyed hair, he wants to do his, too, but he gets scared when you whip the bleach out.

I know it is a famous cannon that the Black family is dapper and always dressed up. I WILL DIE ON MY HILL. TO PISS HIS FAMILY OFF, SIRIUS AS WELL DRESSES AS ADAM SANDLER, AND HE IS PROUD OF IT

He is known to dress up, though, especially to impress you or take you somewhere nice.

Sirius loves your kindness to others. However, if anyone in his family comes at you sideways, he will not hesitate to bark back (I love the dog puns I can do for these)

Sirius is not good at expressing his emotions; he prefers to show you he cares by picking on you and giving you gifts/things you didn't even realize you needed. (he totally keeps a spare pair of earbuds in his bag in case you forget yours or leave them behind somewhere)

~~~~~BLURB~~~~~

You were walking to your transfiguration class when you heard it—that stupid laugh of Lestrange. Ever since you and Sirius came out to everyone, it's like his family appears out of thin air. Keeping your head down, you start to speedwalk, but it is too late. She saw you. "If it isn't Y/n, look at him running away from his own boyfriend's family." Rolling your eyes, you try to get away again but are stopped once more by Bellatrix and her friends.

"What do you want, Lestrange? Did you get lost going to your next class again? Or did Lucious turn you down again, and you need to play your part as a crybaby." Bellatrix stared at you, shocked, before growing red with rage. Before she could quickly open her mouth, a tall figure with long black locks stood before you. "Cousin I belive that's enough, maybe you should excuse yourself from the situation." Looking up at Sirius, you felt relieved and happy. As Sirius stood his ground, his friends James and Remus appeared on either side. Bellatrix rolled her eye, shooting a quick 'to hell with you all.'

"Thank you, Sirius, but I could have handled it alone." As you spoke, the three boys turned to look at you. "Naw, I know you can handle yourself; it had me practically dying when I heard what you said about Lucious." You smirked, turning on your heel you began walking to the courtyard the bell already long since ringing for class. The boys followed you as if on cue. You all chose your respective spots, Remus leaning against a tree, book in hand, James lounging out in the sun with a big smile, and your boyfriend and you sitting on the bench. Opening your bag, ready to tune out the world after your encounter, you realized your headphones were missing. "You can't be serious right now."

With our missing beat, your boyfriend looked at you with an impish grin. "No, handsome, I am very Sirius."

~~~~~EXTRA~~~~~

(You and the group are all sitting together around a table in the room of requirements for the goal of the game: straight faces, no laughing.)

James: Did you hear they arrested the devil? Yeah, they got him on possession. (Silence)

Lily: (staring at James) I need more time and crayons to explain anything to you. (Peter laughed so hard he had to move across the room to recoup.)

Remus: I spent a lot of time, money, and effort childproofing my house … but the kids still get in. ( Lilly and James broke laughing, James cause he couldn't imagine Remus with kids, Lily because she knew James, Sirius, and Peter were the kids)

(It is now Just Sirius, Y/N, and Remus in the game staring each other down)

Sirius: Always remember that you are absolutely unique... Just like everyone else... (silence)

Y/N: When I die, I want to die like my grandfather, peacefully, not like the other passengers in the car screaming for someone to help them.

(The entire room turns and looks at you in concern before conceding the game)

[aliyahishere]

STEVE'S NEW TATTOO

Cw: pure smut, one use of reader steve ‘Daddy’ (sorry if you’re not into that, just kinda happened), pet names, p in v, blow job, unprotected sex, creampie.

“What did you do?” You asked as steve stood infront of the bedroom mirror taking off the opaque plastic taped to his lower stomach.

“Hey sweetness” he smirked.

“What did you do?” You repeated yourself.

As he turned around you were able to read what had been permanently written on his skin which shocked you a little.

Look down here

Right below his bellybutton was etched in black ink; it was such a contrast compared to his milky white skin really

“Look down here?” You read out loud not understanding the meaning of it.

"Steve gave a smirk before dropping his pants so his somehow already hard cock popped up and hit right below his stomach where the tattoo was.

“Oh” you blushed when it hit you what it meant.

“Yea baby, oh… now come over here and see how lucky you can really get down there.

This cocky fucking Steve.

You walked over to him and dropped you your knees, you couldn’t say no to him. You were already getting wet looking at the tattoo looking at each letter writ in a little bit of cursive.

“Look down here? I think you’re in luck I'll look down there Mr. Munson” You winked before take his cock on one hand to guide the tip to your mouth.

You first licked the slit where a drop of precum had come out tasting buttery ab sweet.The taste of slaty brine makes your eyes roll back into your head as you took in more of the tip into your mouth, swirling your tongue on the most sensitive part of his cock.

“Mmmm baby you’re so good at this he moaned out while stroking your hair.”

You hummed at his praise and took him further so his cock was fully in your mouth. You looked up to see his mouth was slightly open and his eyes were crinkled while he mumbled sweet nothings.

“Love the way you take my cock my pretty girl” You felt his palm resting on the back of your head. His fingers were starting to grip your hair.

“Shit maybe I am the lucky one” steve have chuckled but then let out another main of pleasure as your soft tongue worked his shaft. You wanted him to feel good, you wanted to be the one to make Eddie feel good. You loved having his cock in your mouth, at your mercy, begging for you to make him cum desperately.

“Fuck baby I wanna cum, but I wanna cum in you”

“That can be arranged” you spoke before you took him all the way down your throat. You eyed the fresh ink as you bobbed your head up and down his length. The ink was still raw, you were careful not to touch it, but you so badly wanted to trace each letter with your tongue when it was fully healed.

“Fuck baby! No no not in your mouth! I want to fuck you so bad” he wined trying to hold off on cumming before he got the chance to fuck your pussy. You watched as the muscles ins his lower stomach flexed making the letters get smaller. Steve winced at the sting of the tattoo flexing but it was nothing in comparison of the euphoria you were providing with your wet mouth.

You felt Steve's grip on your hair tighten as he reluctantly pulled your way. A string of spit connected his cock and your mouth and it didn’t break until Eddie bent down to kiss you before guiding the both of you to the bed.

“Arch your back for me sweetheart and show me what’s mine” Steve commanded as you got on all fours on top the bed.

You obeyed and lowered your shoulders so they were level to the bed and your ass was as high in the air as it could go.

“Fucking perfect. You were made just for me.” He praised and your pussy bleached at his words.

You felt so exposed and Steve stood behind you looking at your holes.

“You wanna continue to see how lucky you can get baby?”

“Please” you begged.

Steve couldn’t stand to see you wiggling your ass in the air any longer without touching you. He needed to feel you.

You felt Steve’s fingers slowly graze puffy pussy pips from your slit from clit to hole. He stopped at your hole and circled it a few times collecting your juiciest before pulling away.

He could see how wet you had gotten just from sucking his cock and it made him absolutely feral. He sniffed your arousal coating his fingers before placing them into his mouth. His eyes rolled back and he left out a soft moan.

“Baby please” you didn’t know what he was doing back there you just knew he had stopped touching you.

“Fuck my baby has a sweet pussy” he whispered.

“You can have me anytime” you cry just wanting him to fell you.

“Like now?” You could hear the smirk.

“Yes baby! Now! Please” you clue was throbbing you just needed Steve to do something.

“God I need you”

“Thank take me! I’m yours!”

”Steve didn’t need to be told again, he lined his cock up at your entrance and slowly stretched you out. Savouring each and every glorious inch as your pussy swallowed him to the hilt.

You couldn’t take the lack of speed at which he was going so you decided to rock your hips up and down so you could ride his cock.

“Oh she’s eager” Steve smacked your ass hard enough it echoed in the room.

“You fill me so good” you get through your teeth. Your pleasure only building more and more with each graze of your g spot.

“Yea baby? You feeling like the lucky one now?”

“Yes Daddy”

“That’s what I like to hear” Steve's hips started in time with yours and before you could think you were being pounded into.

The moans that were coming out of your mouth were feral. Your brain had been turned off, all you knew was Steve's cock and his cock alone.

Steve reached under you so he could play with your clothes knowing you would only get off if she got her attention.

“Fuck fuck fuck I’m going to cum!”

“Do it baby, come for me, claim me.”

“Not until you come first”

“I’m there! I’m cumming!” Your body shook under as Steve weight as your inner walls clamped down and the release of serotonin flowed through your body.

After a minute of catching your breath Steve pulled back and out

“I don’t know who is more lucky” he said as he watched the white fluid slowly drip out of you.

“I’d say we both are” you giggle as Steve wraps you into his arms.

[xiakha]

FFXIVWrite 2024 Prompt #21 - Shade

When Xiao turned back, writ in hand, Hythlodaeus, or the aetheric equivalent or whatever, was gone. It left her with the odd sensation that maybe her Light-addled brain had simply dreamt up the entire encounter.

But Hythlodaeus's story was far too fanciful for anything that Xiao could have come up with herself. Also too long winded. And who was this "she" that he had expected such a fate? Who was this "her" that Emet-Selch undoubtedly recognized the hint of?

She was loathe to give Emet-Selch any more sympathy. That her story entwined with his so much as it already did churned her stomach. That G'raha Tia had spent more than a century struggling to alter her fate, that she was now acknowledged to be so tied with Ardbert, that undoubtedly even now Zenos moved somewhere to set the stage for their next climatic encounter, that so many on the Source and on Norvrandt both struggled to influence her because they all saw her to be something, something that she barely recognized herself as, it was all too much. It was as if she were bound from all sides, tangled in the rigging after a slipped foothold, and all of the ropes started pulling taut, pulling her apart. It was enough to make her short of breath, enough to make her head spin.

...Actually that might be the Light poisoning.

She unsteadily made her way over to the long bench again. She just needed a moment to rest her head...

When she awoke, whiteness encroached from the edges of her vision, and she could barely make out the ceiling with how blurry it was. Xiao shut her eyes again, unable to process or think about anything.

A comforting hand with familiar warmth and a reassuring weight mussed with her hair, stroking between her ears.

"There, there, rest a while longer, my sweet."

She was resting her head on someone's thigh. Had she the strength, she would have jerked up and apologized for the intrusion, the forced intimacy. It was embarrassing.

But for whatever reason, she was quite sure that whoever it was that she was lying on, didn't mind. The soothing hand on her head said as much. She still couldn't shake the feeling, the instinct, that this was nostalgic.

My sweet?

"Haurchefant?"

She forced her eyes to focus in on the face above her, not quite as high above as Hythlodaeus had been, but still.

He looked back down at her, smiling the same way he had always smiled when looking at her. That genuine affection, the way he could project such delicate intimacy into the crinkles around his eyes, the moments between blinks in which he looked like he could cry...

Xiao turned her head away, unable to bear it.

"What's wrong, my dear?"

"You're not real."

Haurchefant chuckled, "Am I not? Whose thigh are you resting your precious head on then?"

"You, you shouldn't be here."

"But I am. I'm here. I'm always here for you."

The tears that leaked from her eyes down onto the thigh she rested on were stained white.

"Don't."

"Don't comfort you while you ail? Don't hold you while you hurt? Xiao, my love, what's gotten into you?"

She covered her eyes with an arm as she sobbed, "Don't look at me. Not like this. Not when 'm like this."

She was clearly ill, desaturated, deflated, her hair brittle and dry, her skin chafed and flaking, her spittle bleached and thickened. She was more Light than person, her body a tattered barrel of ceruleum with thinning walls and rusting loops, held together only by a sealant of prayer and more Light magicks.

Haurchefant looked at her no differently than he usually did, "Xiao, is there another you would rather look after you when you're like this?"

No. Not even Y'shtola. Especially not Y'shtola.

"But you're, you're... y-you're..."

"Not right now." He reached over to hold Xiao's hand, "And despair not, for we have borne worse weather together, and I have nursed you back from a much more miserable state."

That's right. They had. He did. In all of this she wasn't alone, that she knew, but she also had to be strong. There was no one else there to be strong for her. She had to hold it in, much like the Light that was almost too much to bear. But with Haurchefant, with Haurchefant, she could be vulnerable. He was, after all, all too happy to be her support, to be her shield.

Xiao rolled over and curled up, she cried large and ugly tears into Haurchefant's lap, sobbing as hard as her lungs would allow.

"M-miss you. M-miss you so much."

Haurchefant squeezed Xiao's hand and didn't stop stroking her hair, "You've accomplished so much while I was gone, I'm so proud."

"You're still gone. You're still dead."

"Am I? Do I not still live and reside in your heart, burrowed deep as a worm? Do I not still hold you tight around the waist and protect you from blows through your dress?"

For what was grief if not love that abided long after the lover was gone? The final form that love took after all over vestiges were lost or rotted away. She was clad in grief, in a phantom city built with grief, sent by proxy to relieve those that would grieve for her, to undo the despair so wrought with hope beyond hope.

She took her time and finally let out the tears that she had been holding back for far too long. She grieved for what she had left behind, for what she had become. What of Haurchefant's beloved still remained in her? She grieved for what was to come to pass. They had followed Emet-Selch's trail down to these depths, but what salvation could they find here? No one had made any plans, prepared any contingencies, found any solutions. There was no salvation. Emet-Selch would offer no balms or panaceas, and he certainly would offer no mercy. She would become the most terrible Lightwarden to wreck havoc in Norvrandt, kickstarting the Eighth Umbral Calamity.

She would kill the Scions, undoubtedly. If not through proximity of her Radiance, then by claw and tooth.

"...And yet, there is still hope, is there not? Your allies have not abandoned you, and all of Norvrandt awaits your return. Are they wrong? Will you tell them it was all for naught? All this time, clinging to life, not waiting to die, but truly clinging and attempting to thrive... Would you be so cruel, so selfish as to deny them your best?"

Feeling sorry for herself, feeling sorry for her lot, her fate, all of that was fine. Haurchefant never denied her tears or her other darker emotions. Haurchefant held her while she wept for Y'shtola. No doubt, had she given her the chance, Y'shtola would hold Xiao as well as she wept for Haurchefant.

But Haurchefant, and undoubtedly Y'shtola, would not settle for that. There was grief, but then there was action spurred on by that grief, or by anger resulting from that grief. Targeted action. There would be something to do, there would be a way out, no matter how slim the chance. There was still hope, even if it was hope beyond hope.

Xiao dried her tears. She braced against the back of the bench and hauled herself upright. She wondered idly if Emet-Selch had these sorts of little crying session in Hythlodaeus's lap as well. She reached up to kiss Haurchefant on the cheek.

"Thank you. Don't have to wear his face though."

Esteem scoffed, "You, no, we needed his face."

"Aye. That we did."

"'Twas in a roundabout way, but, I'm glad you called upon me."

In the darkest hour, in the blackest night...

"Heh, but where else could you go?"

Still wearing Haurchefant's face, Esteem smirked in an extremely out of character way, "And indeed, who else could I love, but you?"

"Now let's move on. We continue."

Xiao Longbao left the Bureau of the Administrator without looking back at the empty bench.

[side-lizabeth]

Update watching One Piece, and Spoilers of Dressrosa

The “non spoilers” part first:

I’m already in the middle of Dressrosa and it got more exciting than before and THANK GOD...

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...And now, with all seriousness and putting the spoiler for later on:

Look, I’ll be honest. The only reason why I’m writing this is MORE THAN JUST to update. I’m writting this to show my non apology on why I’ve been lately reblogging, both here and in my principal-art blog, nothing but Roronoa Zoro posts.

As I said, it’s a non apology.

I basically want to tell you that I: regret 0 reblogging so many posts about Zoro.

Yes, indeed, I did said Robin was my favourite Strawhat BUT, she’s not the only one and even though I tend to gravitate towards her... I’ve been lately gravitating more towards Zoro. I don’t know what the f*ck happened (actually no, me and 7 y/o me do know what the f*ck happened here) but here I am, doing nothing but reblogging Zoro posts non stop.

The Zoro enjoyers in this page are extremely talented and I’m more than grateful for that. Please do keep up with your work, I’m more than greatful for that.

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Now you can read in the spoiler part:

Also tw for mentions of... “fluids” (very nsfw).

I’ll go with a lighning round because there’s too much to unpack here:

THE COLLOSEUM PART WAS REALLY BORING AND I BARELY ENJOYED TIL... The block D fight’s end? Maybe? Slightly before Bartolo finding Zoro and Kin’emon and trying to reach Luffy, and then Sabo appears in front of Luffy for the first time in years, and so on.

I say ”barely” because the only good things that came from there were Rebecca, Bartolo, Cavendish, Sabo and Koala, but not in that order.

I STARTED TO SWEAT IN F*CKING FEAR WHEN NAMI’S GROUP ENCOUNTERED BIG MAM’S SHIP, AND EVEN MORE WHEN SANJI SAID “I’M GETTING INTO THAT SHIP”. NO. PLEASE. DON’T. I’M NOT READY FOR WHOLE CAKE ISLAND YET.

Speaking of which, I was genuinely scared when they encountered Big Mam’s ship because I genuinely thought that they just accidentally stumbled upon Whole Cake Island instead of Zou (or just Big Mam’s ship, in this case) and, one more time, I was sweating in f*cking fear.

Dellinger is annoying yet I wouldn’t mind drawing him and idk why.

God Ussop was sad and hillarious both at the same time, poor Ussop, I feel you.

FRANKY GO PUNCH SEÑOR ROSA DE UNA P*TA VEZ

I knew the seiyuus Hayashibara Megumi, Morikubo Showtaro, Ishida Akira and even Kugimiya Rie were here BUT I wasn’t expecting Koyama Rikiya (who’s performance I absolutely adore here) NOR YUKINO SATSUKI OR FURUYA TOHRU AND I CAN’T STOP FANGIRLING. (the voices of Otae from Gintama and Yoruichi from Bleach, and THE FREAKIN SEIYUU OF PEGASUS SEIYA FROM SAINT SEIYA respectively)

And now that I’ve spoken about Ishida Akira and Yukino Satsuki...Let me tell you how Gintama f*cked me up entirely:

When Cavendish (Ishida Akira) met Trebol and Sugar (Kugimiya Rie) all I could think of was freaking Katsura speaking to “evil” Kagura, and then when I heard Koala (Yukino Satsuki) all I could think of was “oh, Otae is a genki girl in One Piece”, LIKE WTF DID GINTAMA DO TO ME????? IF I’M ALREADY LIKE THIS WITH DRESSROSA, WHAT’S GOING TO HAPPEN IN WHOLE CAKE, WHERE FREAKING SUGITA TOMOKAZU (Sakata Gintoki from Gintama) VOICES ONE(not mentioning who because I’m only covering spoilers of Dressrosa) OF THE CARACTERS FROM THAT ARC???????????????? WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO????????

And that’s all.

Above all, I’m having more fun than in Fish-Man Island so, it’s something, I guess...

It’s not “great-great” but it’s better than expected.

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Also, Co/rrida in spanish (now you’ll see why I put that / there), although it can be used to describe the bullfighting animal torture bullsh*t (that sh*t is not as popular as travel agencies or travel vlogers make you believe it is in Spain, trust me, I live in there but the S isn’t silent), it can accidentaly be translated to c*msh0t.

Put an U in that * to get the better picture of what I’m talking about.

Yikes.

And if anybody wonders, all spanish speakers were holding our laughs more than Pica’s subbordinates whenever he spoke every time that freaking colloseum was mentioned.

Yikes, once again.

[blueuchan]

I promise to never do this again

So... I recently start watching Supernatural, I was having a blast. Like the show is geniusly funnny and exciting. Im over the fourth season and naturally I searched for Destiel AMV on youtube. And I was like  oh this are really good AMV, I am feeling so much, I hadn´t heard those songs since... since... since the Ichiruki´s AMV.

DEAR JESUS IN HEAVEN!

I´m trapped again in a show about supermodels agains the supernatural. 

The primaral romance is between the celestial magical been who save the Human, they had a million parales in the show and are only truly happy when they are together, but BUT!! they aren’t together at the end just because bad writting. 

BEHOLD DEMOND!! 

I promise miself I would never do this again. 

Stupid beatiful men. I had seen porn less sexy than Castiel killing people, Dean is the kind of guy that would cheat on you and you would thank him for his time and they honestly don’t deserv Sam, I must adopt him and send him to collegue. And Im not gonna lie the rotation of unbarable sexy murderous woman do a lot for me. 

But I now better than trust in male power fantasies, it never end well. 

What I must do Supernatural?? You look so fun but the shonen anime had hurt me so much. I still had flashbacks with the ending of Bleach. 

[idealistsinc]

better off

content warning: arguing, some nsfw dialogue, then tooth-rotting adorable

When it came to matters of presentation, reining in Rin Weise was as futile as laveering a schooner in a storm.

Rin had swathed the sofa in every last tunic and pair of trousers Vhox owned. Vhox languished in a nearby armchair as he watched Rin gnaw a hangnail, pacing from one rumpled, sun-bleached shirt to another with a brow so furrowed it looked like it was trying to migrate to his chin. He had only agreed to let Rin choose his outfit because Rin had already bitten his fingernails to the quick over this whole Maelstrom business; letting Rin expend his nervous energy on something productive tended to go far better than the alternative. Anyway, thought Vhox, draping himself over the arm of the chair, at least he had an excuse to lounge about shirtless without Rin accusing him of being deliberately provocative. If he could just get Rin to stop fretting for long enough to look at him…

Rin paused from wearing a hole in the rug to hand Vhox a sedate white shirt, miraculously unblemished by seawater, sweat, or other unmentionable substances. “Try this one.”

Vhox held it up for inspection with a suggestive flex of his bicep. “Y’know,” he said, raising his eyebrows, “I think this is th’ one I wore on that Lower Decks tavern crawl, when you dragged me off be’ind the dumpsters an’—”

“Thank you,” said Rin. “I recall. Please put on the shirt, Vhox.”

Sighing theatrically, Vhox navigated his arms through the sleeves. “Never thought I’d see the day where y’wanted me to put on more clothes.”

That didn’t elicit even the ghost of a smile. The moment Vhox had his head through, Rin attacked him with all the deadly focus of a predator, tugging out wrinkles, straightening sleeves, and tightening the collar so that it near strangled him (“You tryin’ t’kill me?” Vhox griped. Rin, rolling his eyes, graciously undid one more button than his sense of propriety demanded). Then, Rin stepped back and looked Vhox over with such a critical gaze that Vhox resisted a childish urge to squirm.

“The sleeves are rather billowy,” Rin remarked, finally. “A bit too high seas.”

“The Maelstrom’s an armada. High seas’s what they’re goin’ for.”

“Point taken.” Rin frowned, then reached to brush Vhox’s bangs out of his face, a gesture Vhox mistook for affectionate until he added, “We ought to do something with your hair.”

Vhox’s stomach wrenched like a rudder grinding against a rock. “Nothin’ wrong with it,” he said. He caught Rin’s wrist; Rin pulled out of his grip in a huff, his tail twitching.

“Perhaps not, if what you’re going for is ‘lawless rogue.’ I’m only going to tie it back—”

Yeah, thought Vhox, because that fuckin’ tattoo will go over so well. He could imagine the sight he would be, a beaten-down, washed-up wharf rat parading himself in front of a Maelstrom lieutenant with a godsdamned cult brand on his cheek. He moved out of Rin’s range, hurt sharpening his voice. “Hell no. It’s one thing to pick out somethin’ nice, but I ain’t gonna start puttin’ on airs.”

“It’s not about ‘putting on airs.’ It’s about getting your foot in the door,” Rin said, with the infuriating patience of a parent for a tantruming child. “The Maelstrom administers to eight other squadrons. You’re going to need to show more than your usual bureaucratic finesse; I expect their standards aren’t exactly lax.”

If before the rudder had merely scraped on a rock, now Vhox felt the jolt of the whole bloody ship beaching on the shore, splintering the hull like matchsticks and throwing half the crew in the bay to drown. He’d been standing there for all of five minutes. If Rin judged that he didn’t pass muster, what the hell was Vhox even doing, thinking he might have a shot at making something more of himself than a lawless rogue?

“You think I can’t get in.”

Rin, reading the change in Vhox’s face, stilled. “I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t need to.” Vhox swung an arm at the tangle of tunics and jackets sprawled on the sofa. A prickling heat burned beneath his collar. “That’s what all this is, ain’t it? You don’t think they’ll take me ‘less I’m somethin’ I’m not—”

“That isn’t what I—”

“—so I’ll save us both th’ godsdamned time. Why go?”

“Because they might pay you,” said Rin. His voice went pitchy in his attempt not to raise it, cracking like a prepubescent kid whose balls had just dropped. “I’m sorry you feel that’s encroaching on your bloody gods-given right to do whatever you want, but what do you want me to say? That appearances don’t matter? That nothing you do will make a difference so that you have an excuse not to try? Because they do matter, and it does make a difference. Here in the adult world, sometimes you have to play the part just long enough to get hired.”

“Yeah?” Vhox said, before he could think better of it. “How’s that workin’ out for you, Rin? Tell me all about how good you're doin' at your job."

Rin’s expression blanked. Just like that, like closing a window, and just like that the air was crushed from Vhox’s lungs in a horrible vice of regret.

A fortnight past, Vhox came home from hauling nets at the docks to find Rin frozen in the grips of a panic attack so severe he couldn’t catch his breath to tell him what was wrong. Vhox had held him for nearly an hour, feeling the pounding staccato of Rin’s heart against his sternum and his shallow gasps on his neck, before Rin calmed down enough to give a disjointed and dissociative explanation: Rin had made a calculation error on a shipment through Maelvann’s Gate. It was a minor error, but such a taxing and expensive fix that Rin’s boss had called Rin into her office to suffer a formal reprimand, which utterly convinced Rin he was as good as fired—without an income, Kallu couldn’t go to school, Luma would never forgive him, and Rin would lose the flat and everything in it—without the flat, Rin would have to move back in with Isha’a, they would argue because Rin had never learned how to keep his damnable mouth shut, and Vhox would be turned out on the streets and maybe starve, maybe wind up stabbed to death in the gutter—

There were other inevitabilities that whirled in Rin’s head, Vhox was sure, but Vhox didn’t get to hear about them. By the time he got to the part where Vhox would clearly die without him, Rin was sobbing too hard to finish.

That was the funny thing about Rin. When Rin believed he needed to play a part, he played it so well that not even Vhox had seen the burden on Rin’s shoulders until Rin had already collapsed beneath it. Vhox realized that day he had no idea when Rin had begun to take on Vhox’s well-being as his responsibility—and it was for that reason, and that reason alone, that Vhox had sought out employment with the Maelstrom, determined to relieve Rin at once of that weight.

In the present, Rin forged doggedly through the silence. “I am trying to help you.”

“An’ I didn’t ask for your help!” If taking that burden off Rin’s shoulders was Vhox’s aim, his failure was already writ in the stress-carved canyons on Rin’s forehead and the heavy bruises under his eyes. Rin was trying to help him, and how did Vhox repay him? By shouting at him. By pissing away the last twenty-odd years of his life, time from which Vhox might never be able to recover into the kind of person who could hold a steady job, the kind of person who might actually be deserving of— “I never asked for you to feed me or put a roof o’er my head. I ain’t a godsdamned charity case, some beggin’ starveling needin’ you to play benefactor—”

“No, you’re not.”

“Then maybe don’t act like you’re doin’ me such a favor, dolin’ out gil to stroke your own dick—”

“By the bloody fucking Twelve, Vhox!” said Rin, very loud. His frustration trembled in his legs; he strode up to Vhox and took him firmly by the shoulders, but...even upset as Rin was, his touch was gentle. “Is this what we’re doing now? Being vulgar for the sake of it, hoping I’ll storm out in disgust so you can tell yourself what a terrible person you are? Because you’re not, and I won’t. You can’t push me away—shockingly, I take care of you because I love you, you brainless twit—”

Vhox heard nothing else Rin said. It was as if the floor had pitched beneath him and dropped him to his knees, knocking the breath and the anger out of him in one fell swoop.

“What?” said Vhox.

Rin paused. Vhox saw him mentally backtrack through his tirade, saw the moment Rin realized what he’d said cross his face. All at once, the tension between them sagged like an empty sail. Rin’s fingers clenched in Vhox’s shirt, his chest deflating in a long, defeated sigh. “I love you,” he said again. “That’s—that’s not how I imagined I would say that, but…”

Vhox didn’t know what Rin meant to say next, and somehow, he didn’t care. An eddy of warmth had washed through him, a feeling like the heat in his stomach on the first sip of ale, like sun-warmed skin on a summer afternoon; and he noticed for the first time the flush in Rin’s cheekbones that made his markings pop, the curl of his hair over the rims of his glasses, those wide eyes behind them. Gods, but he really did have the prettiest fucking eyes Vhox ever saw. The color reminded him of the sky right at sunset, when the sun seemed to douse itself out in the sea in a final burst of violet—

Before Vhox could think about what he was doing in the slightest, he was already kissing Rin.

To be fair, Rin kissed him back. Then, as though Rin suddenly remembered he was supposed to be upset with Vhox, he pulled away, bewildered. “Wait. What are you…?”

“I’m a fuckin’ blockhead,” said Vhox. His hands settled in the familiar and well-tracked groove at the small of Rin’s back, and Vhox tugged him closer, enjoying the shiver that quailed up Rin’s spine. “Why would I wanna argue with you when there’s so many other things I can do wi’ my mouth—”

“Are you seriously—you’re flirting with me?” Rin barked a short, baffled laugh. “We were just in a row. I legitimately thought I was going to strangle you. Perhaps we should, I don’t know, talk about that?”

“Later. I wanna make it up to you.”

“And how, pray tell, are you going to do that?”

“I was thinkin’ I’d start with a blowjob,” Vhox said. He considered, then added, “The stranglin’ can be negotiated.”

Rin stared at Vhox long enough that Vhox almost let him go, suddenly anxious he had come on too strong after an argument the caliber of the one they’d just had. But then something in Rin’s face thawed, and Rin twined his arms about Vhox’s neck with the kind of laughter that always buoyed Vhox’s heart to hear—his real laugh, soft and somehow shy.

“Far be it from me to turn down such a compelling offer,” Rin said. Then, his smile turned suggestive, a promise that often led to future orgasms for Vhox—which was to say, if Vhox had at all been thinking before, he certainly wasn’t now. “With ever so much to make up for—well, you’d best get started.”

And Vhox, indeed, got started.

. . .

Some bells and several orgasms later, Vhox and Rin lay entwined beneath the sheets. The light ebbed through the window, leaving shadows in its wake as the sea leaves shells. Vhox fought against a sated, comfortable sleepiness by staring up at the ceiling and counting the cracks in the plaster. Over the years, he’d seen many ceilings, usually while a buxom woman rode his cock—smoke-yellowed ceilings, ceilings splotched with mold, cobwebbed and fissured and sometimes falling in. But Vhox already knew this ceiling. Rin led a furious crusade against the spider infestations with a broom for this ceiling, mopped the walls when the seaspray made the room too damp, and already talked about whitewashing over the lone crack—

Llymlaen’s tits, Vhox thought, catching himself. It’s just a godsdamned ceiling.

It wasn’t just a godsdamned ceiling, though. It was Rin’s ceiling. Vhox didn’t know why, but that seemed like an important distinction to make.

The problem was that the warm, steady weight of Rin’s head on his chest kept dredging up all manner of complicated and incoherent feelings. Vhox knew he would have to wade through them sometime, plumb down to the bottom of the muck where Rin’s confession rested like a small, glimmering gem and take it in his palm, see if its facets would cut. Maybe, though, for only a moment, he could just…

Rin moved away from Vhox to prop himself up on his elbows, his tail weaving in restless sweeps against the mattress. Vhox was a little disappointed, but not surprised; Rin’s post-nut clarity always came in the form of anxious tidying. “I should iron that shirt if you’re to wear it tomorrow,” Rin said, proving the point. “As I recall, it was rather unceremoniously discarded in the hallway.”

“Leave it,” said Vhox. “I’ll take care of it later.”

“Vhox, you’ve never ironed a shirt in your life.”

No, he hadn’t. But if it was important to Rin to iron that shirt, goddammit, Vhox would iron the bloody shirt. “It’s a metal bit an’ some heat. What could go wrong?”

“You could burn the flat down.” Rin sat up and shifted his legs over the side of the bed. “I won’t be very long. I’ll just—”

Vhox grabbed his hand. He hadn’t expected to do that, and so for a blank string of seconds he just limply held it, forgetting everything he might have wanted to say. “Rin,” he finally managed, his name soft in his mouth. “Stay here a while.”

Rin hesitated. Then, crossing his legs beneath him, he stayed.

Vhox didn’t believe in that gooey bullshite about two bodies fitting perfectly together. He had seen enough bodies to know that, whether they were lithe or bulky, gangling or lumbering, bodies were awkward. They shat, smelled, vomited, leaked out snot or tears, came too soon or not soon enough, fumbled, choked, and sometimes jabbed him way too hard in the side with those bony fucking elbows, Rin. But...as Vhox folded Rin into his arms, tracing the delicate skin that hardly clothed the cage of his ribs, Vhox found himself staggered beneath a surge of protectiveness for this particular body, a built-up flood with nowhere to go. It would be one thing if Vhox had to protect Rin from the pirates, bandits, and thieves that nested in the dark corners of Limsa Lominsa—Vhox could throw a punch like nobody’s business—but that wasn’t the threat Rin faced, day after day after day.

The most dangerous person in Rin’s life was, and had always been, Vhox himself.

“Sorry we fought,” said Vhox. “I didn’t mean that shite about the…I just…”

I, what?

But Rin spoke before Vhox could name that shipwrecked feeling. “No, you were right to be upset. I was much too critical,” he said, drawing idle lines between the freckles on Vhox’s forearms with a ragged fingernail, his ears folding back. In Rin’s words, Vhox heard the blistering echo of a man Rin tried so hard not to be—for that alone, Vhox would’ve decked Senan fucking Weise in the goddamned teeth. “It’s not that I think there’s something wrong with you, only that…people are judgmental. I—I wanted the Maelstrom to give you a chance.”

“You didn’t need me t’fix my hair or any o’that to give me a chance.”

Rin scoffed. “The way I remember it, you hardly gave me a choice in the matter. I couldn’t have avoided you even if I wanted to.”

Vhox remembered, too: Rin’s dull, stringy hair. The sharp, hollowed angles of his face. The preternatural stillness with which Rin had held himself, a living ghost of a person. Rin had bitched the whole walk to the Bismarck, of course, but what Vhox remembered best was how his eyes came alive at that first taste of Bianaq bream. Gods, how Vhox had craved him. How badly he’d wanted to see how he might come alive at the tang of a malty Limsan old ale, or the flavor of Vhox’s tongue in his mouth—

“Did y’want to avoid me?” Vhox asked.

“…No,” he said, as though it were some kind of confession. “But I wouldn’t have admitted it on pain of death—I suppose I had my biases, too.” Rin faltered, his voice falling. “You don’t have to wear that shirt tomorrow, you know. I didn’t intend to be quite so forceful about it—”

“It wasn’t about that. I was—” What was it Rin had said earlier? “I was bein’ vulgar for th’ sake of it. Pickin’ a fight.”

When Vhox didn’t continue, Rin prompted, “What for?”

“I dunno. ‘Cus...” Vhox drew an uncertain breath, something in him quavering like a loose sail in a hurricane. “‘Cus I’m scared, I guess.”

Rin turned his head as though to look at him. Vhox squeezed Rin tight to keep him still, already more exposed and vulnerable than he would have liked to be, and so was surprised when Rin nudged his face into the soft space under Vhox’s chin and, very faintly, began to purr—a gentle rumble against Vhox’s pulse that evoked not so much a memory as a primal bond, something that soothed even as it bound, something that growled, Mine. Vhox closed his eyes and let himself, for a moment, be comforted.

“I don’t have a handle on this ‘steady job’ thing,” said Vhox, when he was again capable of speech. “Even if the Maelstrom takes me…I don’t know what the hell I’m doin’. I’ve been runnin’ from th’ law my whole life, not bein’ its bloody arm. An’—th’ job’s dangerous.”

Even as Vhox said it, though, he knew that wasn’t what he meant. When he dug down to the rotting root of it, every fear was really one fear: What if I hurt someone?

It wouldn’t be hard. One stab, one shot, one punch too many and Vhox would slaughter someone he hadn’t meant to kill, waking up again with pooled ichor squelching beneath his nails, waking up again to the fear like drowning of not knowing whose blood it was. And Rin. Rin would come for him even if Vhox got thrown in gaol. Rin would come even if Vhox was hurt, even if Vhox was the kind of hurt that made him do worse—

Vhox had never harmed Rin so far, and by the good graces of the entire pantheon of the Twelve, even motherfucking Azeyma, Vhox prayed he never would. But that didn’t stop Vhox from thinking about the flintlock pistol he made Rin keep in the bedside drawer, ostensibly for security reasons but really for Vhox’s own peace of mind. That didn’t stop Vhox from trying and failing to scrape together the courage to tell Rin outright what he wanted him to do with that gun if Vhox ever went feral in Rin’s presence again.

That small, glimmering gem had a sharp edge, after all. Even if Vhox was killing him, Rin would refuse to shoot.

“I’m dangerous.” Vhox swallowed. Though Rin already knew, admitting it still felt like opening up bleeding wounds in his throat. “An’ I think sometimes you’d be be’er off with some Sharlayan milksop whose job doesn’t come wi’ a risk of killin’ him, somebody who ain’t got a chance in hell of layin’ a finger on you—”

“Vhox—” said Rin, twisting to face him.

“Hang on. I’m not finished talkin’ yet.”

Rin’s tail flicked uneasily against his thigh. Vhox's gaze dropped to the clean line of Rin’s collarbone, his narrow chest that rose and fell with each quiet breath—and then a soft hand cupped his jaw, a thumb gliding over that scarred tattoo Vhox always hid beneath his mop of reddish hair until, finally, Vhox lifted his eyes to Rin’s. He didn’t know how he felt about what he saw there except that it ached in an inarticulable way, like prodding fingers into a healing bruise. The lesson Vhox had learned in his twenty-odd years of life: the people in his life didn’t come back. The people in his life didn’t stay.

But Rin did.

“It’d be for the best if you left,” Vhox said, an echo of something he told Rin once in a cave in bumfuck nowhere, Gyr Abania, and something he still in his heart of hearts believed, “but I...I don’t want that to happen. I don’t want you to run off with some struttin’ prick from Sharlayan. I want you to be wi’ me—an’ that? That scares the everlovin’ shite out of me.”

Because Vhox had never felt like that before. Because Vhox had drifted unanchored through his life until that day Rin had gored a ravenous, insatiable hole inside of him as he left, ripping away that which Vhox hadn’t even known he had to lose. Because when Rin left, Vhox wouldn’t just lose Rin. Vhox would lose the screams of Rin’s violin as he practiced, a barrage of tuneless notes like a streetcat’s mating call that, when Vhox least expected it, resolved into a chord so full it raised the gooseflesh on his arms. Vhox would lose the sweet familiarity of tossing his jacket over the same chair every evening, falling into the same warm bed with freshly-laundered sheets, never worrying he might get shanked in his sleep, his money stolen halfway to Ul’dah before his corpse was even stiff. Vhox would lose that little hiccup in his chest he got every time he washed up into Bloodshore after dark and saw that Rin had hung a lantern for him, though Vhox hadn’t told him he would be coming by that night—or any night, because Vhox refused to take a key to the flat on the grounds that he couldn’t bear to love this place and then be forced to leave it.

But, somewhere in him, Vhox also knew that there wouldn’t be a when. There were words for that knowing, and they were...

Rin kissed him before he could speak, lips brushing just long enough to pull the air from Vhox’s lungs. “I am a strutting prick from Sharlayan,” he said softly. “So if that’s what you want, I’m not going anywhere.”

If that’s what you want. As though there might actually be a fucking time when Vhox didn’t want him. As though Vhox’s wanting Rin wasn’t built into the fabric of the universe like death, taxes, and people jacking off.

“I love you.”

Rin obviously hadn’t been expecting Vhox to say it. Neither had Vhox—but now that Vhox had said it, he felt that warm, gentle wash through his chest again, like the calm waters of a tidepool. Instead, it was Rin who seemed stripped of his armor, small and unsure in his arms. “Are you certain?”

“I’d swear it on my honor, if I had any o’that,” said Vhox. Rin’s face wavered, so that Vhox felt compelled to keep talking in the hopes he might stumble on something stupid enough to make him smile. “What else do people swear on? Fresh out of mothers' graves, uh. I’ve got my life, for whatever that’s worth, an’—”

“Vhox?”

“What?”

Rin did smile, then. He also made a strangled little coughing sound in the back of his throat, because Rin was, in fact, heroically trying not to cry. “Your life will do,” he said. “Now, for Thaliak’s sake, stop talking and kiss me.”

And who would Vhox be to say no?

vhox still somehow belongs to @mimiorzea maybe we share custody by now, who knows

[askthiscpblog]

WRITTING PROMPT: Jane is caught in a rain, and decides to hide in a cave for the time being. However the cave is home to a big naga, and Jane finds herself being completely gay for the big snake lady. She still needed to teach her not to eat the mailman, even if the dogs cheers her on/like her for it.

This mission sucked, and why did it have to be in the middle of the rainy season? Jane’s hair was plastered to her mask and the rest of her skin, her outfit clinging to her body. This wasn’t the best of things that ever happened, and it also wasn’t the worst of things either. The worst thing was the fire, but that is beside the point. Also, she had to fly out into the mountains for this mission, and someone forgot that there was hardly any proper forests where she was going.

Getting sick and tired of all this, she looks up and around and sees a cave system out in the distance. Cover, perfect. Jane knew how to camp bare bones, and she will live for a night. Plus, from up there she could see for miles, and find a forest too. Forest meant getting back to the mansion and kicking whoever ass that didn’t get her a flight back the next day. It was an hour or so until she got up to a large cave that didn’t appear to be occupied. Jane looked around, again and again, peering into the darkness the best she could looking for any sign of life. Not natural life, but supernatural too. Those kinds of things love places like this and love humans wandering into them.

Keeping her hand on the side of the wall, she walked deeper into the cave about ten feet deeper. Twenty feet, thirty feet deep is how far back it goes. It went a solid sixty feet before it ended, but there was a mound at the very back end.

“Well fuck me,” Jane whispered, letting out a defeated sigh. Pulling out a pair of throwing knives, she moves back closer to the entrance of the cave. Guess she would have to find another one. 

Unknown to her, the mound started to move after her once she rounded the corner of the cave. It was slow and methodical, but there was someone in their cave. And they didn’t like it. This was their cave, their resting place, their territory. Lestari couldn’t help but be pissed. She had been sleeping when she smelled something… someone in her territory. She followed the wet human, watching as it tried to move back towards the entrance of her cave. She wasn’t having that. This human had disturbed her nice sleep, now it was going to become a late night snack …or a new pet. She had eaten her last. Her long braid dragged alongside her tail, and she smiled as she flung the stumpy end of her long tail in front of the human, showing off her fangs as she growled in an attempt to get a reaction out of it.

Jane looked over to the tail as she jumped back, her head whipping around as her hand flung to the tail. A knife came out, stabbing right into it as the other one was more in a defensive stance. Her mask kept her expression hidden, stuck to her face almost mirroring her expressions to a small degree.

“Well, I knew something was here. I’m trying to get out of the rain for now.”

The naga let out a yell, curling her tail back, feeling the knife in it and snarling at the human. “If you wanted out of the rain you could have peacefully woken me up instead of barging in here unannounced with your foul stench,” Lestari growled at the weird smelling human again, but her growl died in her throat as she realized she couldn’t get the knife out on her own. Sure, she could feel down every inch of her tail to find the exact place where the human's filthy blade was stuck in her, but it was colder than usual, she was slower than usual, and she didn’t want to.

“Get your fucking knife out of me and I will let you stay in my cave provided you don’t injure me anymore. Even though you were the one who came into MY territory.”

“Like I know how mythical creatures work, why do you think I had knives out in the first place? Protection, of course,” she responded, her own voice cold in response. Her eyes looked over the naga, trying to gather what she looked like and if she was telling the truth. Moving over, she moves to yank the dagger out of the naga seeing how testy she is being. “There, taken care of now.”

Lestari wasn’t sure what hurt worse, the blade going in or it coming out. “Thank you for pulling out the knife you sank into me in the first place.” She backed up, her smooth belly scales rubbing against the cold stone of her cave. She felt her flesh stitch together, and boy, did it burn. She could disregard it though. If this human was to be her guest, she had to be at least civil. She straightened up to her full height before she swung her tail away from the human, hitting a pile of human remains, rattling the bones.

“Help yourself.” She slunk over to the wall, pressing herself against it before curling her tail around herself, propping her elbows up on her tail. “Not that it matters, but what is your name? I’d like to know the name of the mortal who stabbed me.”

“Jane, my name is Jane. I am only going to be here until the storm passes. I can’t travel that well here. By the way, where is the nearest forest?” she responded, curious to where that was. Rather than trying to find a flight to the nearest forest or dense wood, it might be simpler to find something similar here. If it can work with kelp forest, it can work with a bunch of cacti too. But a real forest would be the best.

The naga hummed tapping her nails against her scales. “Jane. What an odd name. I’m Lestari.” She wiggled a bit, getting more comfortable as her wound healed itself up. “A forest hmm…? I don’t know how far… but I hunt tree loggers there… once the storm passes I can take you if you wish. Come, over here human. You’re warm. If you’re going to be here you’re going to make yourself useful and be a heater.” She patted the spot right in front of her, and then grinned mischievously as she showed off her fangs, “I promise I won't bite.”

“Why do I have a strange feeling that is both a threat and a promise?” she retorted immediately, smirking. She was so used to Jeff’s asshole comments, among other people living in the house and being the only female, that it came naturally to her to retort things like that. “The thing is, you could also crush me with how strong your body is.” Still, the idea of cuddling up to the snake woman didn’t bother her. How many people can say they cuddled with naga and survived? Sure as fuck no one at the house, and she wanted to hold that over their heads. Walking over to the snake woman, she let her get comfortable before crawling over her. It was a weird way to sit, but having her legs hiked over the tail looking out at the rain from the cave was nice. It pattered against the outside, thunder rolling over the sky like bowling balls hitting pins at a bowling ally. Relaxing, to say the least.

Lestari couldn’t help but enjoy the heat of a human so close to her, it had been quite a while since she had any human company that she didn’t devour. Lestari flicked her tongue out into the air, tasting…and smelling…the air around Jane. “You’re quite right, it is a threat and a promise. And yes, could very well crush you with the curl of my tail,” she made the muscles in her powerful appendage contract, moving Jane up and down for a light bit slight for dramatic effect, “but what fun would that be?” Lestari hadn’t been around humans in quite a while, but if all them were like this Jane then she couldn’t say she wouldn’t mind meeting more. “Do you live in a nearby town or village? Do they all smell like you? You have…something coating you. A weird sticky scent. Bad. Why?”

“Perfume, or my sweat. Maybe a mixture of the two. Here I thought the rain would have washed it all off by now, but I suppose not.” Jane mused, looking around the cave before cracking her neck. That has been there for the past half hour, but she couldn’t have been bothered to worry about it until now. “But no, I don’t live nearby. In fact, I live in the forest, somewhere that most normal people can’t find. You might be able to find it yourself if you look close enough.”(edited)

Lestari felt Jane move and assumed she was looking around. “I don’t normally stay here unless it’s raining or very hot. I prefer to be up high, where I can pluck birds out of the sky or from their nests.” She stretched her hand out like she was going to grab a bird from the air. “Humans aren’t as tasty as you all would like to think. But much easier to sustain me with.” She pursed her lips, narrowing her eyes before she stretched out so that she could be directly facing Jane, being careful not to move the woman resting on her too much.  "Describe yourself to me. I can’t see very well, and not knowing what things look like infuriates me.“

"Myself?” Well, it would make sense that she couldn’t see that well. Could snakes see like she could? They could only see the blood moving or the heat signatures from what she remembered from biology. She felt herself sink into the muscular form of the snake, enjoying the coolness of her scales from the heat of the day. Even with the muggy weather, it felt nice. “I’m not much. I have black wavy hair, a bleached white mask with black lips and black eyes. I am the average height for a woman, and right now I am wearing loose pants and a loose shirt soaked to the bone with sweat and the rain. Both light gray and my skin is completely covered too.”

“The last time I saw myself or anyone else was before I fully transformed into what I am now… but I do have to say you sound better than any of the humans I saw before that happened.” She ran a hand over her own face, she knew she had brown skin, black hair, bare breasts. Didn’t know much else. Didn’t care. She was much more perceptive to smell and to taste. She smiled a bit as Jane sank into her, and felt a rush of blood work up to her cheeks. “I’ve never met a human that wasn’t scared of me. Why aren’t you scared of me?”

“If you want me to be honest, I deal with things far scarier than you on a daily basis and I work for one of those things. So you’re something new, but definitely not that scary.” She responded, giving a small grin despite the fact the snake couldn’t see it.

Lestari raided an eyebrow, curious about what things Jane dealt with that could be scarier than a monster like her. “Well, I’m glad that I don't scare you.” She leaned her head onto her scales and closed her eyes. Listening to the noises of small bugs moving around her cave, the rain, and certainly listening to the human breathing, and her heart pumping. She missed the affection of humans, and she was content to receive it from Jane.

[tanadidreamer]

I am writting three differnt bleach stories right now but of course I got the idea for a YJ/Bleach crossover and three weird aus. Bleach but middle school addition. Isshin regains his powers and the captains squad 1,4,8,13 know Aizen is shifty but dont know how many followers he has so they work with The shoten crew, The Vizards and Isshin and Ryuken to counter him. Gin is supposed to kill Ichigo so he ends up in HM but insteads ends up SS because hes in a coma and Byakuya becomes his gaurdian.

That sounds awesome!

[randomreadingtimewithtsuki]

Masterlist

Hey everyone! due to having a limit of link in a post, a broke down the list in Fandom links. Old masterlist link, if you'd rather.

Please read the rules to know which fandom i am writting as of now:

RULES

The inbox is Currently Open.

Kindly refer to each fandom masterlist bellow:

Jujutsu Kaisen

Tales of Verperia

Tales of Crestoria

Tokyo Revengers

Nanatsu no Taizai

Yu Yu Hakusho

Ao no Exorcist

Boku no Hero Academia

Dr. Stone

Bleach

SummerTime Render

Kemono Jihen

Vanitas no Carte

Kimetsu no Yaiba

Fairy Tail

If there is any broken links, Please let me know! Thank you!

[libidomechanica]

‘And a thorns had not less gone’

And a thorns had not less gone? Over which you now, Thus much let me Behold that bears it out. It’s such treasures of her in heavenly smiling to reach, when it is close forget more freckling, think of it, love. Oh, yes, they are, know I can’t a woman in all, And am I but moor Tonight. Gravity. Two of us in the bottom, bleaching June’s fever… (Love me forever! Nor age no need as if by instinct, the bedclothes to pay for, And a few late his flown away In the pastry, not new and is close thistle thought appears, And am I flatter of her in Heaven and sternly. Less wave And Cleopatra—night the joys no date nor age now. Embryonic chickens grow old? Breadth and lang’rous waist! He’ll live with a little maid would miss in sight of her name upon the dead; those two grubs on the kids had never writ, nor for a construed me And I was a hawk with her pain And the bird,) extinct color, you go,my dear;and whisper, tender semi-tone, Bright the large the same the exhaust pipe of beautiful you can die. Again I wrote it with those loved. Have crimes accounted been. “You say is gone, and others, little maid would be So you lived predictability.”

[highlyintelligentmoss]

This is not a poem for the parents, the doctors, the college professors who insist on a binary: either/or, one/zero, pink/blue.

This is not a poem for the boy in my tenth-grade math class who offered to “convert” me, who heard a challenge I didn’t issue — who watched my mouth form a different sound like a foreign-language film dub. This is not a poem for the boys & men who take “lesbian” in their rough hands & twist until it buckles: becomes “confused” or “for your consumption” or admits “it just hasn’t met the right guy yet”.

This is not a poem for any loving, benevolent god who says, “unless — ”

This is not for my mother who watches two men kiss on a TV screen & complains loudly enough for me to hear her from the next room, who sets eyes on a blue moon & pronounces it ugly, blinds herself to its wonder. This is not for any of the relatives who poisoned the well years before I could even conceive of drinking from it.

This is not for anyone who would dare dress torture as therapy, not for the pastor or the vice-president. Not for anyone who would joke about cowboys in tents, or who would hold that the man who hates us the loudest must be one of us; who would build a cage & then rattle it, run a stick across the bars.

If this is for anyone, it’s for my friends whose good hearts beat tattoos against their ribcages, now or never now or never now or never. Who wear leather jackets like armor & wear gender like shackles & wear each other around their necks. Reach for one another across borders & sleep like closed parentheses, facing inward on opposite coasts.

If this is for anyone, it’s for those of us who need reminding that to be a woman loving another woman is not always soft pastels, is not always holding her hand & kissing her on a beach. Need reminding that sometimes it’s neon so bright & sharp it hurts the eyes, reminding of what else hands can do, reminding that there is beauty, too, in kissing her where rivers converge, where sweat drips & blood rushes & joints flex.

If this is for anyone, it’s for all thirty-four Prior Walters & their legs that ache something awful in the night; thirty-four dance partners who will be gone before they wake.

If this is for anyone, it’s for those who built an industry on their own backs, whose mothers didn’t come to their funerals but whom you can still see under the glare of stage lights if you know where to look; whose ghosts still tread the boards, just softer now. You can still hear the creaks if you’re listening.

If this is for anyone, it’s for “friend”, “roommate”, “girlfriend”, “partner”, dancing around it in the wrong shoes.

If this is for anything, it’s for forty-nine seats in a Florida stadium painted bright enough to see from a distance. It’s for the panic attack that I had on the hundred-sixty-fourth morning of last year, the lock on my bathroom door. For the sun that rose on forty-nine families shocked & grieving, while the news ticker said, over & over, it is June. I am tired of being brave.

If this is for anything, it’s for every shed tear & locked jaw & tongue bitten to bleeding shreds. For learning to build dams in our throats. Patience is finite. Self-preservation is not weakness. The heart is a muscle the size of a fist.

If this is for anything, it’s for a history burnt, sanitized, bleached, forgotten. For blood on the White House steps.

If this is for anything, it’s for having grown up in homes with funhouse mirrors, faces reflected back distorted. If you say it enough times, even your own name starts to sound wrong. This is for having grown up in homes without any mirrors.

If this is for anything, it’s for holy writ with no footnotes. For reading between the lines; for teaching ourselves to read at all, under the covers or by candlelight.

If this is anything, it’s an offering: it might not be much, but I’ve gone so long surviving on scraps that I can’t tell what a meal is supposed to look like. Forgive me, & know that there’s at least one table that’ll always have a place for you. Pull up a chair & eat, if you will.

If this is anything, it’s a glass raised, a toast: to either finding a way or making one. To all the languages we’ve forgotten how to speak & the ones we haven’t invented yet. To you, & to me, & to all of us — to hold aloft for as long as our arms can stand.

[paulhudd]

Spindlefreck Book Two: Pt Two: Dream A Little Dream Of Me

Gilray Residence, Mount Merrion, Dublin

Saturday, 8th April 1989:

Paddy was appearing as an expert witness at a coroner’s court in Dundalk and wouldn't be back until late on Tuesday night, so over the next 36 hours Niamh planned to stay in bed and go on honeymoon with the Nevins. She took a slug of Night Nurse, drank a mug of Horlicks, laid on top of the duvet, turned out the lamp, closed her eyes and waited for sleep to come. 10 minutes later, she was still wide awake. 

No good. Too excited. Time for the last resort.

She rummaged in the back of her skimpies drawer and took out an old box of Tampons containing a little nugget of Moroccan hash and a pack of cigarette papers that Emil had left behind the previous year. She rolled a small joint with some of Paddy’s shag and smoked it on the back porch. She wasn't used to it, the high hit her hard, but it wasn't long before that sleepy feeling came over her and she succumbed to sweet slumber...

... she walked across the bridge of clouds that led down to the sundrenched beach and the closed Magritte door. “Oona!” she called, until the door slowly opened and a blinding light shone on her face. A warm, inviting voice shouted back: “Come in! We’re in the bedroom!” 

She walked in, passing through the blinding light into a narrow, darkened corridor. She felt cool tiles against the soles of her feet as she walked; she traced the velvety nap of flocked wallpaper with her fingertips as she made her way toward the brightly lit outline of a door up ahead. She gingerly turned the handle and entered, a little afraid of what she’d see.

Oona was in the midst of making love to her new husband in a nondescript, self-catering apartment in some unexceptional Spanish holiday resort. It was the middle of the day, but the curtains were pulled over an open window and Ni could hear children splashing about in the pool outside while Oona screamed and moaned in untrammelled, shameless delight, unmindful that half the complex could probably hear her. It was quite a sight to behold, but for Ni at least, not in the least bit arousing. Especially when Oona broke the fourth wall during a reverse cowgirl and addressed her phantom friend in her ‘outside-voice’: “Shall we go shoppin’ after, moy luvly?!”

Oblivious, Craigy groaned, “Anything, just don’t stop...!”

Oona giggled as she rocked, <don’t just sit there, join in...>

Ni baulked, No, I’m not in the mood for a metaphysical three-way just yet.

She was a little jealous at first, then it sunk in that this wasn't going to be a physical relationship. There would be no love affairs in the Real World. This was as real as it was going to get.

Oona read her mind and answered in her ‘inside voice’; that cool, intelligent, sexy voice that made Ni’s heart beat a little faster: <Don’t fret, my darling. Don’t forget, I can make you feel everything I feel and Craigy will be none the wiser. I can take us out of this room and up into the skies, just you and me in each other’s arms, both of us feeling what I feel now.>

The next thing she knew, she was soaring high amongst the clouds with her dream lover, naked and free, their limbs entwined, their lips locked in a passionate kiss, the thrill of ecstasy flowing through their bodies...

Two days later: The housemates sat in the conservatory to take their after-dinner coffee. As Paddy settled into his seat and took the newspaper from his briefcase, he espied a note he’d written in the margin above his crossword (a handy way to remember things), “Oh, the strangest thing - you’ll never guess who phoned me today.”

“James Rossington,” Ni replied, matter-of-factly, reading a Love and Rockets comic and munching on a Penguin.

Paddy raised his eyebrows and jooked over the rims of his nezzies, “By Jiminy! Spot on! What number am I thinking of?”

“Don’t call the Magic Circle just yet -- one of the clerks in the Dean’s office rang to tip-me-off. He’s offered me an internship, hasn’t he?” She looked up from her comic, “What do you think of that?” 

He shrugged, “I dunno... What should ‘I think of that’?”

“Well, look at it this way: a week ago I went to Kildare looking for wetlands and find this secluded village; then, when I get to the bog, I’m waylaid by two of Oliver Laphen’s men, and the next thing I know, Rossington -- Laphen’s doctor -- is offering me an internship?!” She raised her eyebrows and awaited his reply.

Paddy was surprised by her reaction, “He was perfectly charming when he spoke to me, no hint of anything untoward. He asked me to ask you if you were free for an interview in the morning...” Then he thought about it for a bit, then asked with furrowed brow, “You haven’t been making trouble again, have you? I’m not so worried for myself, but when it comes to Phil Somerville’s career...?”

“Honestly, Uncle Paddy -- I haven’t said anything to anyone or done anything to put either of you in the soup since you told me off,” she replied, emphatically, “I’m just saying it’s a bit suspicious, especially in light of what Scanlon ‘n Gorringe said about him.” She took another bite of her biscuit and ruminated as she chewed, “It makes you wonder why he’s suddenly become so interested in me...?”

“Paranoia is an interesting subject for a student of Criminal Psychology, wouldn't you agree?” he winked.

“I’m not being paranoid. C’mon! Rossington? What possible interest could he have in a 19 year old pipsqueak like me... unless he has an ulterior motive?”

“Then, why don’t you go along to the interview and find out?”

“Oh, I intend to. I wouldn't miss it for the world.”

 The next day: Where the suburbs meet open country, in the eastern outskirts of Dublin City, stood St Cedric’s Institution for the Criminally Insane (SCICI). It resembled an old redbrick Victorian hospital, but with thick iron bars bolted to every window and a huge disused front door, tastefully bricked-up so that it was in keeping with the foreboding façade. There was a new wing built onto the rear (donated by Ollie Laphen, naturally), but from the front it looked as bleakly Dickensian as it did back in the 1850s, especially when set against the murkiness of mizzly April skies. The perfect place for inveterate rapists, murderous perverts and prolific serial killers, thought Ni, as she pulled up to the tall, iron gates. Once the security guards had confirmed her appointment and searched her little Fiesta, she was waved through and drove along the long, tree-lined driveway, around to the visitors’ entrance in the new wing. 

With her hair slicked back and ponytailed, dressed in her grey ‘power-suit’ -- bolero jacket, tight-fitting trousers with patent leather ankle boots -- she looked sharp and professional as she passed through another security gate manned by two guards, one male, one female, who checked her bag, patted her down and ran a metal detector around her from head to toe; then the male guard escorted her through another heavy door into the the new reception area. 

It was a stylised, modern affair with tastefully minimalist decor furnished with white leather settees; the stark white walls were adorned with large, unframed abstract paintings lit by ceiling spotlights; and pride of place, behind the curved reception desk, was a huge blow-up of a photograph featuring a solemn-faced, sober-suited Dr James Rossington shaking hands with a smirking Richard Nixon, captioned by the legend: ‘THERE ARE NO MONSTERS, JUST MISGUIDED MEN WHO DO MONSTROUS THINGS.’ The message – you can sleep easy in the knowledge that Dr James Rossington has the ear of the Great and the Good and the Downright Nasty! – was writ large on that chiselled, mahogany gob of his. Twat, she thought, as she signed the register.

The young, good-looking, male receptionist told her to take a seat and made a phone call; a few minutes later a portly male-nurse in his mid-twenties, his hair bleached and streaked, his ruddy-cheeked, chubby face soured by a permanent sneer, arrived to escort her to Rossington’s office. He punched a number into a keypad that opened yet another heavy security door and led the way through an old fashioned, white-tiled hospital corridor - more like a cylindrical, low ceilinged subway tunnel - and entered the older part of the building. They walked under an ornate brass archway depicting a scene from The Sermon On The Mount, and arrived at the original reception area, now an empty, dimly-lit, marble-pillared lift lobby that smelled of floor polish and bleach, where they approached one of two shiny metal doors set into the rear wall. Throughout the little journey, the nurse kept looking over his shoulder and stealing glances at her, then turning his nose up and looking away, as if she was emitting an offensive odour. She returned each dirty look with bells on, resisting the temptation to call him out on it: What’s your problem fatso? He scowled as he pressed the button and the outer doors slid open; he glowered as he hauled the concertinaed inner gate aside, and grunted, “Get in.” Charming.

The elevator was one of those old iron cages in an open shaft that gave spectators a pretty good view of the passengers as they travelled upwards through a huge atrium. It was ringed by two Plexiglas-protected balconies, the lower of which was lined with around a dozen inmates/patients, dressed in pyjamas or tracksuits, who yelled obscenities, whistled, whooped and slapped their hands on the thick glass when they saw her. She fought the urge to raise her middle finger and let fly with a volley of curses and kept her cool. The chubby nurse was amused by her apparent discomfort. “You wouldn't believe it, but those eejits are outpatients – they can go home anytime they like.” He looked up, “The real bastards are on the upper floors. They’re the ones you have to watch out for. They know how to behave themselves.”

17 minutes later...

Niamh was serenity and poise personified: cross-legged, hands folded in her lap, head tilted to the left, looking haughtily efficient. Naturally, Rossington was immaculate in a pin-stripe suit, the salt & pepper hair tastefully coiffed, the dark, deep-set-eyes looking simultaneously cruel and kind: Gordon Gecko crossed with Warren Beatty dressed by Saville Row; quite dishy, if you like that sort of thing. He sat with his elbows on the desk, his fingers laced together, bejewelled wristwatch twinkling in the muted lamplight, nodding sagely, seemingly hanging on her every word. Of course, she wasn't fooled for a moment. The entire scene, from her interviewer’s transatlantic accent, to the Rembrandt lighting, was pure Hollywood. It was nine in the morning and the red velvet curtains were drawn against the daylight, otherwise, the office was entirely to her taste: A large bookcase filled with aged textbooks; a few Pre-Raphaelite paintings adding a dash of colour to the dark, wood panelled walls; a shuttered, blonde-wood Regency writing bureau set against the wall adjacent to the mahogany, leather-topped desk. It was all beautifully atmospheric. The sole incongruity was an iron bust of St Cedric -- the Lindisfarne monk, who, if her memory served her correctly, established several monasteries and churches in the dark ages -- embedded in the rear wall, giving the darker half of the room a distinctly shrine-like feel.

She told him the story of her journey to Bogmire and the encounter with Gorringe & Scanlon, but omitted any reference Oona, the wedding or the strange dreams, “... and I said to my uncle: ‘What possible interest could he have in a 19 year old pipsqueak like me?’” She looked him in the eye, “So, why am I here, Dr Rossington?”

This is brill! I feel like Lauren Bacall!

His brow furrowed, “I have to say I find your story fascinating, Miss Fitzgerald, but I’m afraid the offer of an internship comes as a favour to Mr Laphen, nothing more.” Despite his seeming confusion, Ni got the impression he wasn't being entirely honest. She watched him closely as he got up and went to the tray of bottles sitting atop the writing desk and poured himself a large brandy from a crystal decanter, “Can I get you something?”

Ni grimaced, looked at her watch and said, “It’s 9:25AM, doctor!”

He shrugged off the reproach, “I haven’t been keeping regular hours. I’ve been preparing a new book for publication and I’ve been working flat-out since last Tuesday. Deadlines, you see. By my body-clock it’s 11PM yesterday and the sun has long since set...” He snorted like a coke-fiend before necking the lot and pouring another. 

He looked at her in the mirror above the writing bureau and said, abruptly, “Your story doesn’t impress me, Miss Fitzgerald. You know why?”

Caught unawares at the strange change in his tone, Ni nevertheless stayed in character, “Do tell.”

“I know exactly what you’ve been up to.” He sauntered back to the desk, brandy glass in one hand, the other casually languishing in his trouser pocket, “At first I was concerned that you went to Bogmire because you knew something,” he said, with a sly chuckle, “but having met you, I can see you’re just a nosy little girl who wandered off the beaten path.” He was fishing; patronising her to get her to blurt out the truth.

She was undaunted, “What else would I be doing there?”

“I have people in the village who tell me you met with a woman who lives there and attended her wedding in Bogmire last Saturday... and you spent some time alone with the bride.” He sipped his brandy, raised a waxen eyebrow and awaited her reply.

“You have spies in Bogmire?” she asked, slightly offended.

“Let’s just say I have an ally on site who doesn’t like what’s been happening. They tell me you’ve been getting very close to Mrs Oona Nevin, née Umbert.”

Ni wanted to jiggle her legs and say -- Oh please go on, this is riveting! –- but had to feign indifference with a patient sigh as her host took up the Noir baton with gusto and monologued like a slightly camp matinee villain, “You see Mrs Nevin is a former patient of mine and I feel it my duty to keep tabs on her ever since I was... removed from her care. She suffered a psychological episode when she was young and it required many years of therapy to get her to where she is today -- therapy I provided. But I wasn't allowed to finish my treatment. She is very fragile and an emotional crisis could prove extremely dangerous.”

“We only talked...” she began to say, then quickly took umbrage, “Wha- waitaminnit-waitaminnit -- what has any of this got to with me?!”

Rossington stooped, put his drink on the desk, leaned in and said in an accusing, angry voice: “Don’t come in here telling me you just happened to drive into Bogmire on a wing and a prayer -- you’re working for them, aren't you?!”

The glower was as bloodcurdling as the accusation, and despite his sober suit, the man was obviously quite drunk. She thought it safest to eschew the cool blonde act and confess, “OK, look, I admit it! I wandered into Bogmire by accident -- I met a beautiful woman who invited me to her wedding -- then, when I check out the wetlands, I ran afoul of these two old geezers who were less than complimentary about you – and the next thing I know I get a job offer from you! I just wanna know what’s going on?!” 

He’d noticed her rub her palm furiously as she talked -- and all-but leapt over the desk! “Lemme see that!” he cried, taking her hand, opening it and examining the little heart-shaped rash, “Tell me this -- were you violently ill shortly after this encounter -- vomiting, diarrhoea, sweating, shivering?”

She nodded nervously, “Why, yes...?”

He immediately brightened, stood tall, put on a false-happy-face and shook her hand enthusiastically. He pulled her up onto her feet, hustled her towards the door and, despite her protests, bade her farewell, “Well congratulations, Ms Fitzgerald, you will be a much welcome, and may I say, very attractive addition to our team!” He opened the door and pushed her out, “Report to the front office tomorrow morning at 8AM sharp and I’ll have matron give you the official tour -- goodbye!”

The door closed behind her with a heavy clunk. She stood on the deep-pile scarlet carpet outside his office wondering what had just happened. Then she heard a loud groan from the room behind her. She stooped and peeked through the keyhole and saw Rossington furiously throttling the bust of St Cedric like a madman...

On the last Wednesday of each month, Detective Superintendent Philip Somerville came to dinner - or as he called it ‘Gourmet Night Chez Gilray’. Paddy and Phil had been firm friends since they met in NW Donegal overseeing a mass grave in ’85 [See book One Part Two], when the younger man was still a lowly local detective and Gilray had been drafted in to oversee the forensics. The Forgotten Dead of Donegal or the Mass Grave of the Disappeared, depending what paper you read, was international news at the time and the pair were often to be seen on the TV news together hosting press conferences on the progress of the investigation. Somerville had been promoted for his work on the case, but the new position required him to move to Dublin, so he, his wife Pat and their 2 year old daughter, Caitlin, stayed at Paddy’s for a couple of months while they house hunted. They became a little surrogate family for the old boy, he loved every minute of their stay, and secretly wiped away a sentimental tear when they finally moved out.

Big Phil was a strawberry-blonde 6ft 2 hulk with a flat nose (broken in childhood and never properly fixed) and bright blue eyes with eyelashes that fluttered like moth wings when he smiled. He had a kind face and could be disarmingly polite, but had a reputation for ruthless toughness when it came to dealing with the criminal fraternity. Along with Emil, 'Uncle’ Phil was Ni’s ideal man, and told him so on one occasion when she’d had too much vino and was making a point about men who weren’t totally useless, but she soon took it back when Somerville got down on one knee and pretended he would leave his wife and children for her, “Just say the word, Twinkle! We’ll elope in my squad car! With the sirens on!” Paddy laughed himself into a wheeze. She rolled her eyes and called them bastards. Nobody took her seriously.

On this particular Gourmet Night, Ni cooked her world-famous grilled Dover sole with pappardelle noodles in lemon butter sauce, which Paddy pronounced a ‘quiet triumph’, “considering the 5 hours of non-stop cursing, kicking of furniture and broken crockery that went into its creation.” After a long discussion on world affairs (i.e. local football matches, politics, and of course, bloody cars...), the conversation turned to the woman responsible for the bulge above their belt-lines. Big Phil was frank, “Ni, that was lovely, but I didn’t float up the Liffey on a lily pad. What’re you after, Twink? I can’t give you an advance on your babysittin’ money, cos that’s Pat’s department...?”

Paddy cut to the chase, “She’s thinking of taking an internship with your arch-nemesis, Dr James Rossington, and she wants you to tell me that it’s a ‘good idea’.”

“I am not -- I just wanna know more about him,” she said, plainly. She hadn't mentioned his odd behaviour or his allusions to a possible conspiracy at Pagham House. As far as she was concerned, this was her ‘case’.

Somerville took the napkin from his lap, patted the corners of his mouth and said in his ‘official’ voice, “SCICI is staffed with highly skilled professionals -- most of whom do all the work, I might add -- who have access to the latest technology in criminology. The Taoiseach himself has congratulated Dr Rossington for its ‘excellent work in the field of Psychopathological research’.”

Ni curled her lip, “That was very pat.”

“It’s my stock answer when anybody asks me about ‘im,” said Somerville, shrugging, “I’ve learned to keep me mouth shut as far as Dr Rossington’s concerned.”

Ni tapped her nose and urged him, “Just between us?”

Somerville sighed and admitted, “He’s not my kinda guy, you know that. I mean, how many times have I sat at this table and bitched about ‘im? But I can’t argue with the statistics, it’s just his Lust for Glory that I resent him for...”

“But he’s reasonably clean?” said Ni.

Paddy put a hand on his friend’s shoulder and said, “Before you go on, Philip, may I remind you her mother will kill me if she flunks this course. First she backs out of a law degree to enrol – now this!”

Ni’s temper darkened and the usual jumble of old gripes that only got an airing when she’d had too much to drink spilled forth, “No – she blames you for not enforcing Her Will!! She’s still trying to run my life!!”

“Easy, petal...”

Ni slapped the table with her hands and yelled, “No! Every time I wanna do something for myself she has to be consulted! Well, I’m nearly 20 now, so she can shove it! I’ll do what a want!!”

Paddy took the bottle of Burgundy off the table, “No more for you little Miss Firecracker! I warned you -- you won’t get any booze if you can’t handle it!”

“It’s got nothin’ to do with the wine, it’s her...” said Ni, fuming.

Somerville tapped the stem of his glass with his fork, “Hey-hey-hey, listen to yerselves - I’ve been comin’ here for nigh-on 4 years and this is the first time I’ve ever seen youse-two fight!”

The pair backed down and apologised to Somerville and then to each other. Ni slurped a strand of pasta and got the conversation back on track, “Look, I only have to go to SCICI for a couple of weeks til I get the measure of what’s going on -- then I’ll make an excuse and go back to uni. And if I do have to stay for the entire year – well, you heard Uncle Phil – the institute is doing sterling work, I’ll be rubbing shoulders with experts in my chosen field. Everyone’s happy.” She turned to ‘Uncle’ Phil, “So, is there any reason in your mind why I shouldn't take this internship?”

Somerville equivocated, “It sounds as if you’re asking for my permission...”

“She’s asking you because she thinks you’ll back her up,” said Paddy.

“No I’m not -- I just wanna know about Rossington. I wanted to know if he has any skeletons in his closet before I accept the job, that’s all,” she said.

Somerville gave in, leant in and lowered his voice, “Well, it’s funny you should mention the word closet, cos he’s secretly gay –- still a crime in this country, whatever your opinion of the law  -- and he has a fondness for young, tubby teenage boys,” he paused to clear his throat, “and just between us, he has a bit of a coke habit. But besides that, aye, he’s reasonably clean. That said, he’s got three of my most prolific murderers up there living in the lap of luxury, all in the name of research...” he took on the vexed expression of a beleaguered priest, head lowered, hands laced together, as if at prayer, “... like Barry McKee, for instance.”

“I’ve often wondered what he wants with McKee, the man’s little more than a vegetable,” said Paddy, slightly disgusted, “it’s rather ghoulish, if you ask me. The man should’ve been allowed to die long ago.” 

Phil agreed and commented in a bitter tone, “McKee’s his prize exhibit, his sideshow freak: Roll-up, roll-up, see Ireland’s Most Famous Serial Killer! all that sorta muck. As a matter of fact, he’s holding a press conference tomorrow to announce a new book he’s written about ‘im.”

Ni was grudgingly impressed, as much by Rossington’s cunning as his bravado, “From what I’ve heard, he’s under pressure to quit, but instead of disappearing under a rock, he’s drawing attention to himself.” She nodded and looked into space as she pictured the scene, “I reckon he’ll make a few insinuations during his speech to send a coded message to his enemies; veiled threats, that sort of thing.”

Big Phil looked at his friend, “Is this the same wee girl that used to read at the end of the table and the only sound you’d hear would be pages turning and the occasional ‘hah!’ when she heard something witty?”

“Oh, she’s unrecognisable!” Paddy bitched like an old queen, “on top of ruining her life, dressing like a floozy and clandestine dalliances with married women, she’s been watching a lot of Film Noir. She’s turning into the female Philip Marlowe.”

“Well, from one Philip to another - care to make a wager, sister?” offered Somerville.

Ni spat on her hand (Paddy grimaced, “if your grandmother saw that!”) “Ye’re on, brother! I’ll betcha he makes, shall we say, a few ‘peculiar allusions?’”

They shook hands. Somerville watched her collect the plates and take them to the sink, “Oy, Niamh Naive, you’re not at yourself, you know that?”

What did he say?!

She saw a flash of red and got the unholy urge to scream blue murder about hating that nickname and what did he mean by it! She even got as far as spinning on her heel and glaring at him!

“We haven’t agreed on an amount,” he said, passively, but he had seen the fire in her eyes, she could tell. You can’t bullshit the human lie-detector, but here goes - she laughed it off, “Sorry – ‘tampon time’ as Paddy calls it! I’m a wee bit spiky this week, heh-heh... would a tenner be OK?” 

He agreed and she went off to find her purse. Once she was out of earshot, Somerville turned to his friend, “Mood swings, change of image, eyes like two burnt holes in a blanket; y'know how my mind works, Paddy.”

Paddy nodded, “Don’t worry I’m keeping a close eye on her, and I haven’t seen any signs of substance abuse, just a lot of sleeping. Might be the after-effects of that fever she suffered a week ago.” He paused for reflection then said, “No, I think this little metamorphosis and spurt of activity may be more about ‘discovering herself’ than uncovering some grand conspiracy. She’s so head over heels for this Nevin woman, she’s not thinking straight. However, I’ve decided to let it run its course or I’ll never hear the end of it...”

After showing Somerville to the door, Paddy cornered her in the kitchen and gave her a piece of his mind – “This isn't on – you can’t get Phil involved in this little adventure of yours! For one thing, he only knows the half-of-it!”

“C’mon Paddy – what if I find some dirt on Rossington,” she protested. “Uncle Phil can open an investigation -- he’ll have Rossington exactly where he wants him!”

Paddy took off his nezzies to let her see he was serious, “You’re conniving and I don’t like it! It’s reckless and dangerous. And that little show of temper tonight -- it isn't like you at all. I’m this close to calling your mother, I mean it...”

She cuddled him, pinning his arms to his sides, “Paddy, it’s best not to fight it, go with it, you’ll be much happier in the long run!”

He gently pushed her off, held her arms and decried her lack of insight, “This is important, serious, grown up stuff that you should be discussing with her, not me...” The phone rang on the wall behind him, “-- and with any luck that’ll be her now!” He answered. His face fell. He thanked the caller for letting him know and hung-up. Before he could tell her what was going on, they heard Somerville’s car reverse back up the drive and the toot of a horn: they’d obviously both received the same call.

“Someone die?” she asked, half-joking.

Paddy’s demeanour changed, he had that disappointed-but-what-can-you-do look on his face he always got when duty called. “Aye, someone has indeed died,” he sighed, “a decapitated, mutilated body has washed-up on the beach at Sandymount, and no one else is available to put him back together again. I probably won’t be home til tomorrow, so lock all the doors and put on the burglar alarm before you go to bed. 

He gave her a last reproachful look, “And think long and hard about what I said. Whatever your feelings for her, your new ‘friend’ is a married woman, Niamh. The relationship is doomed from the start. You're asking for a broken heart...”

2 hours later: Half stoned, half asleep, lying on the sofa in the lounge, Ni was walking hand-in-hand with her dream lover on a deserted beach, silhouetted against the golden glow of a tropical sunset, when their metaphysical bliss was rudely interrupted by an intrusive tapping sound.

<Do you hear that?> said Oona.

“Someone’s at the door – my door!” said Ni.

Oona immediately broke the connection and Ni woke up in the Real World. She sat up on the couch and listened. Tap, tap, tap. Like the clicking of a key on glass. It seemed to be coming from the French windows at the back of the house. Shit. She’d forgotten to turn on the burglar alarm! She turned out all the lights, went to the kitchen, pulled a steak knife from the block, tiptoed to the sitting room, approached the curtains covering the windows and asked who it was. 

“It’s Rossington. Let me in!” a frantic voice hissed close to the glass. Her curiosity got the better of her and she looked out. Sure enough, it was the good doctor, clad in a jet-black licra jogging suit and matching hooded top, his lustrous hair hidden under a black beanie hat...

In the sitting room: Rossington paced the mat in front of the fireplace and chain-smoked as he tried to explain his predicament without losing his thread or his temper. Ni sat cross-legged on the couch munching popcorn, boggle-eyed, watching him walk to-and-fro, hanging on his every word. She’d planned to watch a tape of the 1946 version of The Big Sleep later that night, but the garbled, paranoiac rambling of a half-drunk neurotic faux-Freudian and (alleged) coke-fiend was just as compelling as Bogey/Marlowe and the LA underworld: “... they rang the office and told me to retract the offer of an internship -- they said they suspected you of spying and it wouldn't be in my best interest to take you on!”

“Who? Laphen? It was him who asked you for the favour in the first place?!”

“Not Laphen: Scanlon. Ollie’s off filming a movie in Europe for three months, then he’s off to Japan to tape a series of Guinness commercials. Gorringe went with him -- Scanlon’s been left to his own devices and I think he’s up to something.”

Ni couldn't help herself and spluttered, “This sounds like the plot of a bad pulp novel?!”

He stopped pacing and snarled, “It’s not a fucking joke, Niamh! Oona’s worth tens of billions! If they nurture her properly, it could be the biggest thing since splitting the atom – or it could blow up in their faces! That’s how big this is -- and how dangerous these people are!”

The accent is slipping, he’s really scared!

“In that case, let me call Uncle Phil...” she reached for the phone on the table beside the couch.

He waved his hands and cried out, “NO! Not Somerville! Jesus, no! I’m only telling you cos you’re up-to-your-neck-in-it-already and you need me! I need you! We need each other!!”

She put the receiver back on the cradle, “See that’s the thing with you James, I can’t tell if you’re acting or in the throes of some paranoid delusion due to alcohol and lack of sleep!”

He approached, looked down at her and said, “You don’t have that problem though, do you?” he said, bitterly. “You know it’s true. Oona’s in you. She knows your every thought. She can control you. She can make you feel sublime or make you walk under a bus. And they wouldn't care. You’re only important to them for as long as you’re important to her.”

“’Make me walk under a bus’...?” she repeated, appalled, “but how... Why would she...?”

He put up his hands in a consolatory gesture, “Look, your meeting wasn't kismet -- you were handpicked. Your uncle mentioned you at one of Ollie’s soirées and I jotted down your name. You were on a list of possible mentors: young women we secretly screened to act as a sort of conscience; a telepathic guide to teach her how to tell right from wrong, the ups-and-downs of the Real World. They must've decided you were the prime candidate.”

She was affronted, “What the -- nobody asked me!”

“Did you find an old map in an old book in your favourite bookshop?” he asked, lighting another cigarette.

She stopped chewing and gawped, “You mean they arranged that? It was a trap?! The fucking bastards!!”

“It was my idea and they used it. I knew you couldn't resist an adventure,” he said, somewhat proud that his little scheme had been so effective.

“You’re the biggest bastard of all!” she cried.

“Let me see the rash,” he asked. She hesitantly held out her hand; he took it and examined it closely, “She rubs a special oil into your skin – a minor irritant, completely harmless – like a concentrated nettle sting -- only it works over a longer time period and flares up when your hands sweat. The point is, while it’s there it’s a constant reminder, because she needs you to think of her. She needs to be on your mind.” He took a long drag on his cigarette and asked, “So, what method are you using – the open/closed door technique?”

“Uh huh...” She nodded distractedly, staring blankly, her head getting light, her vision beginning to blur – Oona was listening.

“Oh! Is she making contact?” he said, excitedly, recognising the tell-tale signs. He knelt by the sofa and looked up into Ni’s eyes, “Hi, Oona! It’s me, Doctor Jimmy! Tell them I’ve got your little girlfriend and we’re going to make a deal!” he yelled, his breath reeking of booze and garlic.

Ni kept eye contact and slowly retreated up onto the back of the sofa so that she towered over him. He looked up and tried to explain, “I was only – uhh!”

She’d kicked him square on his square jaw with the outside of her right foot, knocking him cold. He was sprawled across the mat like a huge, dead, 4-legged spider.

Oh God! She’d done some kickboxing in her time, but never against anyone without headgear. This could be murder!! She flew into a panic – she jumped down and tugged at his jerkin, “Oh dear God, are you alright?! – oh Jesus – please don’t be dead!!” She put an ear to his chest and listened. His heart was still beating, he was still breathing, she sighed with relief; but when she checked to make sure his neck wasn't broken, she felt something hard against her knee. There was something in the pocket of his hooded top. The remorse and anxiety evaporated immediately. She let his head drop with a dull thud and went to fetch the washing line from the laundry room...

When he awoke, he was tethered hand-‘n-foot to a kitchen chair. Niamh was sitting on a stool opposite, legs crossed, the Beretta 9mm dangling on her little finger, “Was this entirely necessary?” she asked, dispassionately.

“Personal protection – I have a permit. And you’ve no need to worry, it isn't you I need protecting from,” he groaned, rotating his jaw. He struggled in his washing line bonds, “This is insane! Let me out and we’ll talk like adults.”

This is great! If my heart wasn't pounding in my throat I’d be enjoying this!

“Look – come with me!” he cried, clutching at straws, “We’ll go to Bogmire and take her to SCICI! She’ll be safe there!”

She was so taken aback she almost fell off her seat, “Malpractice, kidnapping, false imprisonment  -- this isn't Chicago in the mid-20s -- you can’t get away with that sort of thing nowadays!” she laughed.

He wasn't scaring her, so he went for the kill, “Do you know why she needs a mentor? Because she’s a child. When she reached puberty and received her Gift, the psychological trauma wiped her memories -- she’s got the IQ and temperament of an 8 year old. And like any 8 year old, she’s capricious and prone to tantrums if she doesn’t get her way!”

Ni shook her head in disbelief, “She can’t be... We talk about serious things, most of it deep, meaningful stuff...?”

“Hah! You’re talking to yourself!” he sniggered. “She gets in your head and tells you what you want to hear in a voice you can relate to -- she makes you see what you want to see -- makes you feel what you want you to feel! She has total access to all your memories and dreams and can process the data in a millisecond, that’s if you ever stop yakking long enough to listen to what you’re/she’s saying!!”

Ni was absolutely stunned. And the more she thought about it, the more she realised it was true.

He ploughed on without a thought for her feelings, “You were violently ill – that means they gave you the potion! The potion opens the part of your mind that lets her in – that means she has access anytime, night or day, awake or asleep. She’s playing it cool so far -- probably because she’s preoccupied with her new husband -- but soon, you just wait and see, she’ll be like a second head.”

“Potion?! What potion?!” she cried, shaking with fear, raising the little gun.

He wrenched his head to the side, “Put that bloody thing down before somebody gets hurt!”

“Not until you tell me what’s up doc?” it wasn't meant as a joke, it was her customary hallo when Paddy came home from work, but she couldn't think of anything else to say.

He sighed and began at the beginning, “While I was at Pagham House in ‘83 to treat Laphen for yet another dose of the DTs and clean-him-up for a film role, I got talking to an elderly gardener about herbal remedies. He showed me this root and mentioned that it was an ingredient in a ‘Love Potion’. I laughed, as you would, but he told me that in ages past a homely woman who couldn't attract a mate would select an eligible bachelor and slip it into his drink. Her intended mate gets very sick, she nurses him back to health. Then, once he’s back on his feet, he finds that he’s fallen head-over-heels for her, and they live happily ever after! When I mentioned it to the housekeeper, that old bag Sparkes, she said: ‘it only works if the woman is a witch.’

“So I asked her, jokingly – ‘where do I find a witch who can do this?’ and her sour, toothless old face closed like a fist and she went off in one of her huffs, muttering under her breath about me being a ‘nobody’ and how I should ‘mind my own business’ – a total overreaction, which in my book means: no smoke without fire. So I asked around and learned from a gossipy neighbour [Dolly Crombie] that Mrs Sparkes believed her young niece to be a witch and kept her locked-up in an attic room at her house in the village!”

Ni frowned, “And... is Oona a witch?”

"Not in the traditional sense of the word. You see, in the late 18th century, Thaddeus Ravenhill, the 8th Duke of Roxborough -- a renowned biblical scholar, but with a taste for all things arcane -- traced a little Celtic tribe living in caves on the coast of Cornwall who were rumoured to periodically produce dark-haired little girls who matured into silver haired young women gifted with psychic powers. The men though, were a backward, uncivilised, dim-witted lot who made up for their lack of brain with brawn and a propensity for loyalty and industry, which the Duke quickly put to good use. They were housed in a specially built village on the outskirts of the estate, well away from the house. Roxborough watched and waited for a child to be born with the requisite attributes. When none came, he tried breeding one of his own.

“He was a very bad man. And bad men like to keep mementos and records of the bad things they do, but not always in the first place that comes to mind. I guessed that some of his more contentious artefacts might still be hidden somewhere around the house. The Roxboroughs removed everything pertaining to the 8th Duke when they used Pagham House as a sanctuary for various European aristocrats during WW1, but the library is practically intact – presumably they deemed it too costly and time consuming to hire a curator – there are thousands of unregistered books in there.

“So, with this in mind, I searched the shelves, and after a considerable amount of hunkering on kneelers and rolling around on ladders, I found what I was looking for: at the very top of the central bookcase, behind the cumbersome tomes that no one ever reads, was a hidden compartment containing a portfolio containing some handwritten texts and a diary; amongst them was a detailed account of his experiments, including his work on the Love Potion. The Duke’s notes contend that the potion can be used to open a normal human being’s mind to psychic interaction. The diary ends around the late 1790s –- just before he was executed -- so we’ll probably never know if his experiments were successful. What we do know is that Oona Umbert is the first telepath -- the first silver-haired girl -- in three generations. But I needed to find out how to initiate a telepathic connection. I had to know if what he believed about potion was true, so I had my people analyse it.

“The results came back – they’d never seen anything like it. it was mildly hallucinogenic but, despite some impurities, non-toxic. That’s all I needed to hear. I had one of the Redmen prepare the mixture and took it the day before. I was violently ill, but eventually the fever passed. Then I took Oona to the old infirmary in the East Wing, away from any interference, and asked her to read my mind. She did. It worked. Not only that, but it was more effective than I could ever have imagined! She wove me into her wildest dreams and showed me visions so real I felt as if I’d fallen through a wormhole into another dimension! It was mind-blowing in every sense of the word. But Oona was too infantile and inexperienced to control it. She had me on the edge of my seat, sometimes...” he winced and closed his eyes, “she’d lose patience or get angry and I’d get these skull-splitting headaches, terrible feelings of nausea, horrible nightmares -– I begged her to stop. She always pulled back, thank God, but it proved she was too immature to handle it. We did everything we could to reach her, to get her to see the world as it actually is, but she was stubborn. She needed someone her own age, someone she could look up to, to teach her right from wrong. ”  

“In other words, she needed a friend,” said Ni, impassively.

“And a husband. That was her one demand: ‘‘usband!’ And not one of the local louts, either; she wanted a specific type! Now, you’ve seen her, you know she’s 100% in the looks department, but finding a suitor that could also act as a father figure and enforcer, nevermind one that was prepared to live in the village, was gonna be tough. Luckily, Sergeant Marchant, the commanding officer of the local garda needed a new recruit, so we put our heads together and looked for an old-school-man-of-the-house-type, someone she’d look up to: the tall blonde prince charming she was always on about. We found just the man: a plod from Sligo who wanted a transfer to a quiet post after a recent run-in with the local Provos. After he was recruited, we engineered a meeting.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation,” said Ni, “my presence hasn’t interfered with her conjugal duties one iota. She likes to make me watch.”

Rossington snorted as if it was par for the course, “Yes, but once the honeymoon period is over and she gets bored or they have rows, lives may be at risk, and I won’t be there to put it right.” He looked up into her eyes, “In 1986, Herbie’s pals in the CIA brought in a ‘guinea pig’ -- a renegade soldier who’d been court-marshalled and sentenced to death -- in other words, expendable. They gave him the potion and asked her to get into his head. Oona did – but when she got in, his memories and fantasies were so horrific she reacted badly –- the man went insane! He was a twitching cabbage within the hour. They thought she was a freak – they wanted to cart her off there and then – if it wasn't for Ollie’s involvement, she’d be languishing in one of their ‘facilities’! That’s how dangerous she can be!”

By this time, Ni had given up on the femme fatale pose, she felt hollowed out and bitterly disappointed in herself. “We travelled through the stars... we sat on top of Everest... we swam under the sea and made love amongst dolphins...” she mused, looking off into the distance, “it was the most thrilling thing I’ve ever experienced... Now I feel like a prize chump.”

“Just remember this: she’s a child – she’s sly and manipulative, she uses her good looks to get what she wants, but she doesn’t have the education or common sense to compete with you in intellectual terms, so she utilises your sexual fantasies to construct your ideal lover and trust that lust will override reason.”

Ni lowered the gun, “Oh God, she’s in my head... what’s going to happen next...?”

Crisis over, Rossington sighed and slumped with relief, “I don’t know. They cut me out. Ollie ‘n Gorringe think the world of her, but Scanlon wants rid of her. He wants to sell her off to unscrupulous people who’ll use her for their own ends. That’s what I’m afraid of.”

She thought for a moment, fighting her natural instinct to play it safe, “But how...?” Suddenly, she sat bolt-upright as the hair on the nape of her neck tingled, her head buzzed: an urgent communication was on the way.

Oona spoke in her natural West Country twang, <Come ‘n get me, Niamh! Oi ‘eard what Dr Jimmy said an’ oi is scared! Please, please come 'n get me!!>

Again, Rossington saw Ni’s expression change and recognised the signs, “Don’t worry, Oona! Everything’s gonna be OK!”

<Oi don’t want ‘em to take oi away! Please, please come quick!!>

“OKOKOKOK! I get it, I get it!” yelled Ni, pulling at her hair and pacing the floor, “... let’s just say I was going to help you...?”

Ni put a note on the door of the fridge: PADDY, GONE CLUBBING - SEE YOU AT DAWN!! Ni, XXX

This is utter madness.

But by now everything was so surreal that to pull out now would be to miss out on the punch-line. She giggled with excitement as she pulled on black leggings and a dark blue polo-neck jersey, “might as well dress the part!” Uppermost in her mind were impure thoughts about finally having physical contact -– Oona in the flesh! And it was an adventure, no matter what Paddy once said: “You’re like an Enid Blyton heroine – only in my experience, snoopy middle-class gels who stick their noses into shady people’s businesses usually end up getting gang-raped in a disused farm house, killed, dismembered, and fed to the pigs.”

Rossington wanted to leave the way he came in. Ni insisted they leave via the front door, “I have to set the burglar alarm.” When she tried to put in the number, the alarm went off – Rossington bolted and hid behind a rose bush. She managed to get it to stop blaring, just as a black Peugeot hatchback pulled up outside the front gate and honked its horn, “Hellooooo – is this the Gilray residence?” a male voice shouted.

Rossington jumped out from behind the bush and made a beeline for the car, “Shut up Peter! I’m supposed to be incognito for fuck’s sake!!” he hissed, loudly.

“Oh! So sorrry! I’ve just been sitting outside in the dark for the last hour-and-a-half, listening to the same friggin’ Erasure tape over and over again!” shouted the voice, in a whiney, sing-song voice.

“Ssshhhh!”

The lights came on in an upstairs window of the house opposite.

Rossington jumped into the backseat and rolled onto the floor. Ni came down the drive, waved at the shadow in the window and shouted “Sorry Mrs G! Jumpy visitor!”

As she bounced into the passenger seat, Rossington grumbled from the back, “Why don’t the two of you just hire a bloody brass band and be done with it!”

The driver was a young, chubby blonde with a cheerful baby face. He shook her hand and introduced himself, “Peter Sinclair,” he said, looking around at the man on the floor in the back, “welcome to my world.”

“Just drive, Peter!” Rossington growled, “Get us the hell outta here before the neighbours call the cops!!”

The car jerked forward and stalled.

“For fuck’s sake!!”

Ni giggled.

Peter flapped his hands, “Stop shouting it only makes it worse -- you’re gettin’ me all flustered!” Once he got the engine restarted, he asked, “Where are we goin’ anyway?!”

“Bogmire,” Rossington whisper-shouted.

Peter looked over his shoulder, frowned and said, “Bogmire? Kildare? At this feckin’ time of night?!”

“We are going to collect Oona and this is the safest time!” Rossington yelled back.

“But she’s just married – they’ll be watching the house!” Peter protested.

“She knows how to get out without being seen. And they don’t know anything or I guarantee an SUV-full of goons would've intercepted us by now!”

Ni confessed to Peter: “You see, he keeps saying things like that and I can’t resist!”

He drove off and moaned, “Believe me, it wears a bit thin after the third or fourth nervous breakdown...”

2 hours later, after a lot of excruciating smalltalk about interior decor, fashion, and the lifestyles of Hollywood A-listers, they finally arrived at the perimeter of Laphen’s estate. They pulled up at a side road where Rossington knew they wouldn't be detected by any CCTV cameras. 10 minutes later, sure-enough, strolling along the road, silver hair flowing in the slight breeze, her pallid face tastefully made-up, dressed in a black lace gown and carrying a silver clutch bag, was none-other than Oona Nevin, née Umbert. “Now that is creepy,” said Peter, transfixed by the vision in widow’s weeds walking in the floodlight of the full-beam, “she looks like she just stepped out of a coffin...”

... And into my dreams... Ni undid her safety belt, ready to run into her lover’s arms -- at last a physical encounter! Then, just as she opened the door -- she felt Rossington put an arm around her throat and pull her back! She felt a sharp sting in her neck.... and slumped forward onto the dashboard, unconscious.

Rossington’s face appeared between the seats, grinning like a Cheshire cat..

“Well, well, it worked,” said Peter, slightly impressed, slightly disappointed.

Rossington patted his lover’s shoulder, “You were great, Peter, you really should think about a job on the stage.”

“I wasn't actin’, James! – my nerves are feckin’ wrecked! I only agreed to this cos you practically begged me!”

Oona climbed into the backseat and kissed Rossington on the cheek, “Oh, Dr Jimmy, ‘ee truly is a magician! You jast ‘ave to say it – and tis done!” She looked at her friend slumped in the front seat and tried to read her, “Aww, she’s down so deep oi can’t reach ‘er. Will she be all roight?”

“Just a sedative, she’ll be fine in the morning,” said Rossington, assuredly. He looked Oona in the eye, “I hope you appreciate all this, madam, it’s all for your benefit. Mr Scanlon does not have your best interests at heart, but once I have a word with him, he’ll soon see things my way.”

“Oi know, Dr Jim, oi is most grateful.”

“Right, well, we have 2 hours to get things done, so c’mon, Peter, chop-chop!” As they did a u-turn and drove back down the road, he reached under the front seat and retrieved a large walkie-talkie: “JR here. We have Oona -- and Miss Fitzgerald. Now, this is where we have to trust each other, so no ambushes in the middle of negotiations, no threats or abuse; I have a man on the outside waiting for my call -- any funny business and he goes straight to the Gardai with a list of Ollie’s crimes against humanity. Over.”

Scanlon’s voice sounded in the earpiece: “I’m a man of my word, doctor. Flash your headlights when you get to the front gate...”

St Cedric’s Institute for the Criminally Insane (SCICI):

The next day: She opened her eyes only to be dazzled by a glaring spotlight shining on her face. When she focussed, she saw that it wasn't a spotlight, it was the blazing bulb of an extendible angle-poise reading-lamp attached to a headboard. She was in bed in a white room.

A hospital room? How the...

Sitting on the edge of the cot, dressed in a dark blue Dior 3-piece-suit, white silk shirt and silver cufflinks, dark-blue knitted tie clipped with a silver pin tipped with a cluster of miniature white diamonds, was Dr James Rossington. He had an inner glow now: the silver flecked hair quaffed and shiny, the tan, healthy and vital. He smiled broadly, his deep-set, smiling eyes twinkling somewhere in the folds of his brow. “I’m back in the loop, my darling, all thanks to you,” he said, in a breathy James Mason half-whisper, “Scanlon made a deal. We’re home ‘n dry! This is A New Day! Chin-up, stand tall and greet it with a smile. Here, have some paracetamol. He handed her a small water-cooler cone half filled with water, and a tiny plastic cup containing two white capsules.

Ni was weak and dehydrated, and sure enough, suffering with a dreadful headache. She drank the water greedily -- but threw the paracetamol back in his face, screaming - “Why the fuck did you knock-me-out you fucking creep?!” She lashed out as best she could; he easily parried the feeble, slapping hands and talked her down, “It was a precautionary measure to ensure your safety!” He caught her wrist and pointed to her head, “If she didn’t like what she was hearing, Christ knows what she might have done! You were at risk! And I couldn't very well take you home, could I? So I brought you here, to SCICI, and had a nurse put you to bed. I called your uncle’s answering service and told them you turned up for work this morning and you were taken ill, but you were recovering in our sick bay. He called back half-an-hour ago. He was working all night; he didn’t even know you went out. He’s just happy that you’re safe ‘n well.”

She pulled the covers up to her chin, “You didn’t do anything else to me while I was under, did you...?”

Insulted, he stood up, arched an eyebrow, tugged at his cuffs and spoke in a no-messing, headmasterly tone, “I needed you as a bargaining chip, that’s all. Once Scanlon and I had settled our business, we took Oona home, came straight back here and put you to bed.”

Trying to keep her temper under control, she snarled, “Bargaining chip?! You’re taking a big, big risk, Rossington -- all I have to do is call DS Somerville and let him sort it out!”

He was quick to reassure her, “OK, so you were injected with a mild sedative and your feelings got hurt. Are you going to jeopardise this entire enterprise just to take me to task over that? I mean, this is ground-breaking, earth-shattering stuff we’re talking about...” he winked, salaciously, “And besides, you’re enjoying yourself, aren't you?”

“God, you’re glib,” she snarled.

“Yes, but I’m right.” His expression softened as his voice took on a more sympathetic tone, “Look, Oona promised us that as long as you’re there to guide her, she’ll restrict her telepathic activity to our experiments.”

“And what if I can’t sleep? What if all this upheaval makes me an an insomniac?!” she cried, exasperated and conflicted; her conscience telling her to find a way out, her instinct for adventure telling her to persevere and weather the storm.

“I can supply you with sleeping pills if you require them. I saw you smoke a joint last night, I can get you some medicinal marijuana...?”

“No. There’s enough crap floating around my system without throwing barbiturates or dope into the mix...” She turned away and asked quietly, “So... when can I see her?” she asked, a little shamefaced.

“Every hour of every day if you like.”

She turned back and sneered, “You know what I mean: face-to-face. In the flesh. I need to look her in the eye and ask her if she’s OK with all this. If I can’t trust the person in my head anymore, I can at least see how she really feels.”

He shook his head, “Niamh, a face-to-face meeting at this juncture would be counter-productive. This is a scientific experiment with implications that will change humankind forever, not a Dating Agency. Unfortunately, she is at that stage in her development where she relates to everything and everyone on a sexual level, that’s why she seduced you. But not to worry, your mutual attraction will eventually fade.”

“What you mean is: you want me to forget the ‘whirlwind romance’ and use my influence to brainwash her into your way of thinking?” she chided.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned a patient sigh, “There are no text books on the subject, Niamh, no operator’s manual on how to handle something as extraordinary as this –- and I admit, most of the time I fly by the seat of my pants -- but if I fail Oona and this doesn’t work, she could seriously hurt someone or hurt herself. Then Scanlon will get his way. She’ll be sold to the highest bidder.”

“I suppose...” She grumbled.

He straightened up, rubbed his hands together and quietly rejoiced, “Good. We’d like you to tutor her and guide her through the vagaries of Modern Life, generally make yourself available. And look,” he reached into his inside pocket, took out his cheque book, licked a finger, flipped it open and scribbled with a gold-plated fountain pen; he ripped it off with a flourish and presented it to her with a dazzling smile, “... this should cover all the inconvenience –- and I’ve included an advance on your first month’s salary!”

It was more money than she’d ever seen in her life, but it wasn't enough to convince her that this was a good idea. She twiddled her thumbs, “It feels all wrong... there’s no way I can do this... Look at me,” she showed him the reflection of her wan, dark-eyed spoon-face in the curved chrome of a kidney-dish, “this is after a week - God knows what I’ll look like if I take any more of that ‘love potion’...” She was fudging. She desperately wanted it. It prolonged the experience and made the visions so vivid, so real, they were almost tangible. Oh yeah, I want it alright. She hated herself for it. She was a slave to her libido, and now she knew the whole truth, she realised it was the only thing they had in common. She felt dirty and guilty. She couldn't help it, the tears were on their way, “...but the Oona I met that Monday, she gave me warm vibes, she was very... she seemed so nice. Now you’re telling me she’s been stringing me along .... and I do what any sexist pig does: I objectify her!” She sobbed into the pillow, “Oh God... the one time in my life I don’t do the right thing and everything goes to shit...!”

He took a deep breath, counted to ten, patted her shoulder and affected his best bedside manner, “Listen to me. once she settles into married life and gets pregnant it will change everything, I can guarantee it. That’s her ultimate dream: to have a family. Now, that might be anathema to your right-on ideals, but in Oona’s case it’s imperative that she settles down and leads as ‘normal’ a life as possible, as soon as possible.”

“No pressure, then?”

“If you go with it, no. Technically, you don’t even have to do anything, just open the door when she needs a consultation.” He reached around to the stainless steel trolley by the bed and picked up a small cardboard dish containing a capped syringe and a phial of grey liquid.

“Oh God...” she whimpered.

“It won’t be so bad this time,” he chuckled, “most of the impurities have been removed, so no more dicky bellies or runny bottoms; I have nurses on standby night-and-day should you take an adverse reaction, but that’s highly unlikely, or you’d’ve been dead within an hour of swallowing that first cup of cocoa. They were taking a bit of a chance administering it orally, but I suppose a jab in the neck would've been a dead giveaway.”

“You are such fucking arsehole, James. You know that, don’t you?” she grumbled, as he rolled up her sleeve.

Later that week:

She phoned Paddy and told him she was now a willing participant in a SCICI drugs study and that she’d be staying at SCICI for the next week or so. He was surprised by her sudden volte face as regards the illustrious Dr Rossington, but took her assurances that nothing ‘nefarious’ was going on at face value. She’d never lied to him before, she shocked herself at how easy it was. Part of her wanted him to insist that she come home immediately, a part that was weakening with every passing hour. Her relationship with Oona went on as usual, the potion made everything as blissful as it had been at the start, only now her doubts were harshing the buzz. Thankfully, Oona was too taken with her new life to notice. So far...

One afternoon, while Ni was lying on the covers in her dressing gown, head propped up on the pillows reading the previous day’s Irish News, waiting for the next psychic communication, when she heard a voice in her head:

Niamh

She looked up. She knew wasn't Oona. It was a different feeling entirely. 

Niamh

It was strange voice, no more than a faint, crackly whisper, hard to tell if it was male or female. It must be a side effect of the potion. A telepathic flashback? Whatever, she shrugged it off and went back to the newspaper.

Niamh.

The lights flickered.

Close your eyes

“Who is this?” she asked, a little scared.

Close your eyes. 

The voice sounded sure and assertive, and despite an all-consuming feeling of anxiety, she did as it asked:

She was medieval peasant in the herbaceous garden of a lonely cottage, drawing water from a well. With one foot on the ground and one foot on the wall, she hauled on a thick, frayed rope with all her might. When the large, sloshing pail eventually emerged, she noticed something dark and slimy in the water. As the surface stilled, she saw that it was a strange looking creature: like a large, black mole dipped in oil, with webbed talons and a large, black chiselling-beak that looked very sharp indeed.

It kicked! The pail jumped out of her hands! The creature leapt out!

She caught it by its bill before it had a chance to snap at her - she trapped its body under her left arm, holding the beak tightly in her clenched fist! The creature was very strong indeed, it took all her strength to hold it - it thrashed and clawed at her as she fell to her knees and held it against the ground, its big, black eyes bulging in their orbits as it desperately tried to escape her clutches.

Just then, the strange, crackly voice whispered in her head:

<She’s lovely, isn't she? I call her a ‘Slimy, Blind, Chisel-Beaked, Web-Footed Corpse-Eater’, but she’ll eat anything, doesn’t have to be cadavers. It could be small animals, moles, worms, slugs... anything. In fact, this specimen has just awakened after 6 months of hibernation, so she’s particularly peckish and by the looks of things, she’s under the impression she just found breakfast!>

Niamh put her knee on its back, still gripping the bill for all she was worth.

<Hmmm... I’ve been told it’s like trying to hold-down a pitbull-terrier dipped in lard.>

Niamh’s wrists were weakening...

<Sorry, I really should get to the point, eh?

<Here’s the thing: Do you let go and hope that she doesn’t bite? I wouldn't recommend it. She’ll go all out to kill you; those little talons are designed for tunnelling and they’ll make short work of your torso. She is blind, but she smells your fear, and once she gets the scent of blood, it’ll send her into a feeding frenzy and she won’t stop until you’re dead. And I can assure you, you will feel a thing – they tend to go for the soft tissue first, so you’ll have to watch while she wends her way through your viscera to access the sweet meats further in... That’s if she hasn’t already pecked your eyes out... Slimy, Blind, Chisel-Beaked, Web-Footed-Corpse-Eaters consider mammals’ eyeballs a delicacy.>

She pressed the thing against the side of the well, took her hand off its beak and quickly grasped it tightly by the throat with both hands; it writhed and made a sound like a panicking magpie...

<You could take her to the village and get someone to help you - but this is 13th century Madrid, women are second class citizens - especially 20-year-old spinsters with a herb-garden and a flair for all-things medicinal. The women love you, you’re a nurse, a midwife and a reliable confidante, but the men are just waiting for an excuse to be rid of you, and this would be the perfect opportunity. They’ll say this little monster is a demon you summoned from hell, and indict you as an agent of Satan – and would you believe it - the Grand Inquisitor just rode into town - a surly, black-hearted man, famed for hunting witches...>

Sure enough, she heard the clip-clop of hooves on the road beyond the high hedgerows.

<It’s a poser, isn't it? I suppose you could wait until she wears herself out... but what if you weaken first? What if she plays possum?  What if you manage to fight her off but she maims you enough to cripple you or give you a deadly infection – there are over 50 thousand types of bacteria in every bite! These are the days of leeches and the 4 humours - there ain't no penicillin, darlin’!

<... Or do you – and this is always the most popular option -- do you simply wring her neck and kill her? No one will ever know. It’ll be just between the two of us.>

She tightened her grip...

<Oh, before you consign her to oblivion, did I mention that she is the last of her kind? You’ll be causing the extinction of a long-forgotten species. But – hey - do you really want to die for the sake of an ugly old thing like this?>

The ugly old thing was still squirming in her hands showing no signs of weakening, making an eerie mewling sound, its little muscles writhing and tensing, its webbed talons scrabbling at the air, trying to catch her forearms...

Snap.

<Now we’re in business.>

Snap.

Snap.

“Hey! You!”

Snapping fingers.

She snapped out of the daydream. 

She was standing at the full-length mirror in her room, her hands pressed against the glass, like a kid at a toy shop window. What the hell...

The snapping fingers belonged to Matthew Cromarty, the surly nurse who escorted her the day of the interview. “What are you doin’? Fallin’ in love with yer own reflection?” He had the ability to make every utterance sound like an insult. The unshaven, drink-ruddied jowls wobbled as he bobbled his head like a contrary teenage girl and waved a hand in front of Ni’s face, “Hello?! You do know where you are, don’t you?!” he said, in a sardonic, sing-song voice, as if he was talking to a senile patient.

She pretended she knew exactly what she was doing and snapped back, “What do you want, Matthew?”

He handed her a clipboard, “James wants you to sign this. It’s a secrecy form to stop you blabbin' to all-‘n’-sundry ‘bout what goes on under this roof.”

It was a standard NDA. She read it and gave the clipboard straight back, “I’m not signing anything until I speak to him. Where is he anyway?”

He held out pen, “Just sign the feckin’ form.”

She waved it away, “Take me to him now, please.”

“Well you can’t see ‘im!” Cromarty jeered, “He’s with Barry McKee. He gave strict orders that he’s not to be disturbed when he goes in there! And accordin’ to this,” he flipped the page, “only me, matron, two orderlies and...” his face fell, “... and N. Fitzgerald (intern)....” he looked at her as if she’d just broken wind, “...you?” He checked it again. “Why would he...?” He stamped his foot and slapped the clipboard against his thighs in a rage, “Who are you exactly?!”

She was beginning to wonder herself...

The next day: feeling very pleased himself at a job well done, Rossington reclined in his antique leather swivel chair, turned up the Rachmaninov CD with the remote control, put the brandy balloon to his lips and supped ---

“James...?”

--- and duly spat it all over himself! He leapt to his feet, “FUCK!! Shit! Don’t do that!!” he yelled, “Jesus H Christ Almighty you scared the absolute living shit out of me, you stupid bitch!” He quickly turned off the stereo and reached for a rectangular silver box on his desk, pulled a wad of paper handkerchiefs from it and began to dry his shirt, “Dammit - $280 worth of Cardin spattered with $900 cognac...FUCK!!”

Hands in the pockets of her white-flannel bathrobe, her usually vital rosy-red cheeks pallid, her long, uncombed hair mussed-up on one side, Ni cut a gloomy, forlorn figure as she trudged in. She sat on the edge of the big red leather couch and grabbed her ankles, assumed the foetal position and rocked to-and-fro, “James, it’s the dig in a month or so, and while I’m there I was wondering if you could set up a meeting with Oona? I promise -– it’s just a face-to-face, out-in-the-open conversation, no bodily contact. It’s important to establish trust.”

Rossington sprang to his feet again –- splashing brandy over his cuff -- this time he was too incensed to care, “What?! What are you talking about?” he said, his eyes boggling.

Here we go again. She was beginning to see why Peter, his ‘Flatmate’, was so jaded for one so young. “What’s the problem, James? I’ll be careful not to upset her or the project...?”

But Rossington wasn't concerned about a tryst, “What dig?!” he asked, dismayed.

“Our dig. The old bog. Laphen gave us permission,” she told him, confused, “Scanlon must've told you about it? It’s what brought me to Bogmire in the first place. I was looking for a site and bogs like the one on the Pagham estate are catnip to people like us -- it’s like an ancient, organic stew; a huge culture that has been left to moulder for thousands of years...”

“YEAH, yeah -- (Careful! – Temper! – Accent!) -- yes, yes, I don’t need a biology lecture! I know what a fucking bog is!” He thought about it then came around the desk and put a hand on her shoulder, “Listen, Niamh, can you get it called off?” he asked, as nicely as he could. 

“No! What? Why?” She pulled the hand from her shoulder, stood up and defiantly put her fists on her hips, “Listen buster, my uncle is suspicious enough as it is -- I’ve told him I’m doing some sort of ‘drugs-trial’ for you –- which is half-true -- but if I call off the dig he’ll suss that something’s up and he’ll call my bloody mother! And if that’s the case, you won’t have a mentor -- cos I’ll be on the next flight to Stockholm!”

He relented. The deep-set-eyes became pensive slits; he massaged his chin as he mulled and mumbled, “Scanlon didn’t mention it at the meeting, I wonder why...?” He paced one way –- frowned -- then paced back, “Bastard! He’s set me up again!” Then he smiled as a more agreeable notion occurred, “Maybe he doesn’t know about it...?” After much deliberation, he walked to the window, pulled back the curtain and stared out at the weeping willow in the little green at centre of the courtyard carpark. “What exactly do you do at these digs?”

Still slightly annoyed, she replied, “We won’t interfere with any naturally-occurring phenomena or wildlife. We use state-of-the-art equipment and we’re very careful to leave things as we found them...” Then the realisation struck her, “You’re worried about the bog, aren't you? The potion. Its bog water, isn't it?!”

“... apart from a few roots ‘n herbs, I suppose it is 90% ‘organic stew’, yes,” he admitted, slightly ashamed.

“And you’re worried we might spoil it?”

“An excavation could ruin the natural balance...” Rossington looked at her for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to let her into a secret. Finally, he locked the door to the office, went to the writing bureau, unlocked it and took out a buff A4 envelope. He removed the contents and spread them out on the desk, “These are photocopies of Roxborough’s diary. It’s written in a crude code and almost illegible, but I had an expert decipher it.” He pointed to a page with some rough drawings of a giant standing over a crowd of frightened peasants. “The locals believe the bog contains the remains of an ancient magus -- an ‘evil shaman’, ‘magician’, ‘sorcerer’ or whatever you want to call it -- whose body was interred there 5000 years ago. Legend has it that the peasants who executed him couldn't cremate the body, fearing that the smoke and ashes might pollute the air and kill them or their livestock; they couldn't bury him in a crypt or a mound because he’d be a highly desirable commodity for body snatchers and the tomb would have to be guarded day-and-night. So they consulted with other mystics who told them to weigh him down with a large rock and sink him in the deepest bog they could find. They supposedly put a spell on it to ‘contain his evil spirit’ and make it safe, but it’s reputation stuck, the legend endured. The local populace stayed clear and kept it a secret until 5000 years later when Roxborough visited Kildare and learned about it. It was his main reason for buying the land in the first place.” He showed her another entry, “He believed that the body’s presence in the bog created this miraculous ‘font of mystical power’, not realising that it contained a hallucinogen. He and his little coven drank it in their demonic rituals, completely unaware that they were totally off their heads. That’s where the coherent narrative ends. He consumed the stuff every day for almost 13 years. He must've been out of his mind by the time they hanged him.”

“So that stuff Scanlon said was true: Roxborough was a Satanist?” she asked, fascinated, looking through the pages.

“He saw the occult and its rituals as a legitimate branch of science. Trouble was, to raise hell he had to raise hell, and got up to all kinds of unsavoury mischief to gratify Old Nick’s thirst for depravity. It was a dreadful scandal. The family kept a lid on it. When the 9th Duke inherited the house he destroyed all trace of his father’s ‘evil work’ and the local dignitaries were only too happy to brush it under the carpet.”

Ni read as much as she could, “Shit -- he talks about having orgies with children?!”

“Hmm, it’s not light reading by-any-means. Suffice to say he was an ardent disciple of De Sade. There’s a signed copy of Justine in the library,”

She looked through the larger pages containing a dozen-or-so rudimentary pen & ink drawings of the wood and the wetlands. The last page featured a crude woodcut depicting a child emerging from the bog and sharing a loving embrace with a horned & hoofed devil. Behind them, standing on the bank, is a white-haired woman with her arms outstretched, as if bringing the two together. A shiver ran down her spine.

“But there’s another reason why I find it odd that Ollie should give you permission,” he said, as if still trying to work it out, “there could be other bodies.”

Ni stopped reading. “Other bodies?” she asked, a little shocked.

“There was once an orphanage on the estate that was destroyed by a fire in the 1920s. The locals believe the proprietors dumped the bodies of dead children in the bog. If it’s true, the discovery could cause a sensation and put the village’s privacy at risk.” He paused and thought about it, “Unless, for some reason, he wants them to be found...?”

Ni was quick to explain, “If we find anything untoward, then the site will be a crime scene and more than likely any forensics would be overseen by Uncle Paddy. He’ll be discreet, but he’ll have a lot of questions, ‘specially when children are involved.” She looked at him askance, “Which reminds me, why have you given me clearance to visit Barry McKee?”

Rossington sat down at his desk, cleared his throat and carefully considered his reply; eventually, he put his elbows on the desk, laced his fingers together and replied in an earnest voice, “I’m aware that your uncle and DS Somerville doubt my intentions as regards our Mr McKee, so to let you see that that I’ve nothing to hide -- that I’m trying to help him, not exploit him -- I’ve granted you 24 hour access to his room, and you will be privy to my manuscript before it’s dispatched for publication.”

“That’s pretty magnanimous of you,” she said, with a suspicious frown.

“I’ve nothing to fear, nothing to hide,” he said, without emotion.

After a sizeable pause, she shook her head, “James, I’ve only known you for a week and by the looks of things you’re an opportunist who exploits everybody you meet, and I can’t shake this horrible feeling that I’m just the latest in a long line of baffled patsies.”

He gave her a world-weary look, took a key from his pocket and set it on the desk, “Here, that opens the door to my private quarters. I’ll be away for the weekend, so you can make yourself at home. Have a bottle of wine, listen to some music, smoke a joint, watch videos, whatever you youngsters get up to nowadays...”

Paddy Gilray and Phil Somerville, both wearing sunglasses, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, shirts opened to the waist enjoying the Spring sunshine, were sitting in deckchairs either side of a beer-barrel table in Paddy’s back garden, sipping real ale and chewing the fat.

“How’s Ni getting on at SCICI?” Somerville asked.

“She’s losing weight. Pale and panda-eyed,” said Paddy, tutting. “She came home yesterday for a short visit to get some clothes and she nearly frightened the life out of me! Moody, too. Makes you wonder what they’re doing up there.” 

Somerville shook his head, “There’s nothing I can do, Paddy. After shootin' my mouth off about McKee last December, I’ve been warned to keep it shut ‘n keep away from the place or face disciplinary action.” He considered it for a moment, “I s’pose I could send Dermot Malone over there; he’s a right obnoxious wee bollox, he’ll rattle a few cages if nothing else?”

Paddy politely refused the offer, “No I don’t want anybody –- I mean it Phil -– nobody is to go near that place while she’s there or she’ll never trust us again.”

“What is it they’re giving her, anyway?”

Paddy lowered his voice and intimated, “Well according to a fellow who used to work for me -- he now heads SCICI’s toxicology department -- it’s just a mild hallucinogen, like magic mushrooms. It’s connected to some top secret research into anti-psychotic drugs, y’know the sort of thing.”

“So, what’re you gonna do, then? Phone Mairead and ask her advice?”

“Nah, she’s incommunicado, writing pot-boiler 435, or whatever. She left a number for emergencies, but I don’t know if this qualifies.” He took a sip and asked for some fatherly advice, “Is it just a teenage thing, Phil? Do you let them find their own way by learning from their mistakes? Guide them from a respectful distance? Intervene when you know for certain they’re headed for a fall...? I mean, how do you tackle it? ”

Ashen faced, staring into the middle-distance, Somerville groaned, “Oh jeez, Paddy, you’re describing the next 30 years of my life... and if my girls take after their mother, God help me...”

That weekend, in Rossington’s private quarters:

It was getting late, and aside from the snap, crackle & sizzle of burning logs and the metronomic tick-tock of the old grandmother clock, Rossington’s inner-sanctum was deathly-quiet. It was window-less and gloomy, but it wasn't in the least portentous. If what they say is true that rooms absorb the emotions and actions of its previous inhabitants to develop a particular ambience, then the scholars who studied here in years past must've been a very easy-going, sedentary lot. And like everything else in the old part of the institute, Rossington had decorated it with Victoriana: Creepy little dolls; a threadbare teddy bear with a missing eye; a framed poster for a late 19th Century hypnotist show, ‘Sandor the Mighty! Mystical Master of Men!’; and a huge mahogany fireplace laden with various antique bric-a-brac, dominated by an ornately framed oval mirror attached to the chimney breast. 

If I could sit in this room for rest of my life reading every book in that library and getting my meals by dumbwaiter, I’d be as happy as a pig in poo. Nothing to worry about. No one to entertain.

Ni had decided she wasn't in love anymore; at least, that what she was telling herself. Rossington’s description of their relationship (“You’re talking to yourself!”) had made everything, apart from their initial meeting, ring hollow. She couldn't trust her own mind anymore, nevermind her emotions. Oona was in total control of the situation: she couldn't read Oona’s thoughts, but her own psyche was an open book. She still 'sees’ her dream-lover on a daily basis, of course, only now she sees through the sexy, well-spoken, intelligent persona, to the silly, oversexed little girl using her subconscious as a playbox/props department. And like any child, she was demanding and self-centred, everything had to be on her terms at a time of her choosing. The worst of it was, there was no escape, that feeling of disassociation caused by the potion was her normality now; she couldn't do anything but sleep and doze, then sleep again, always at the Siren’s beck-and-call. It could come at any time, day or night. And every time Ni closed her eyes and tried to initiate a meeting to discuss their relationship, the Magritte door on the sundrenched beach remained firmly shut. Sometimes there’d be a sign hanging from the handle: Do Not Disturb.

How do I get out of this without hurting her?

She lay supine on the green, antique leather couch in her usual pose: unconsciously crossing her hands across her chest like a corpse, closing her eyes and projecting. She eventually dozed and walked down the bridge of clouds onto the beach: “Oona, we need to talk!” she shouted at the closed Magritte door.

Silence. The door remained shut.

“Oona!”

Silence.

“We need to talk!”

Suddenly, the door spoke: <Oi know what ‘ee’s been thinkin’! ‘Ee don’t want me anymore!> she screamed, in her ‘outdoor voice’ .

Ni instinctively covered her ears and yelled back, “Oona, if you can feel how I feel, then you should understand...”

<SHURRUP! >

Ni rocketed upwards through the summer clouds, through the atmosphere, through the stratosphere and into outer space, where she spun like a human frisbee in star-spangled darkness as Oona bitterly unloaded, <Oi know what ee’s gonna say before ‘ee says it, remember - so oi’ll answer the question ‘ee ‘aven’t asked yet: Arr, oi do luv ‘ee, I luv ‘ee wiv all moy heart! But ‘ee’s changed since that noight ‘ee came to Bogmoire w' Dr Jimmy. You’ve gone off me!>

“Oh, Oona, this has all landed in my lap and I’m finding it ultra-hard to adjust, I’m afraid of letting you down... “

<Liar – ur tryin’ to fink of ways to get rid of me!!>

“I’m not lying...!” she answered, unconvincingly.

<Ur brain says 'ee are!>

“You’re obviously being very selective in your approach, you’re seeing things out of context – everyone has their own inner voice debating life-changing decisions -- you’re only listening to one side of the argument!”

<Aaaaah! ‘Ee twist ‘n turn loike a slippery eel! Oi can’t take this...!> the voice dropped to a more reasonable pitch and growled: <Dr Jimmy is usin’ 'ee y’know. Oi know so much about all of ‘em – they’re up to all sorts! And if oi wanted to, oi could tell Craigy ‘n 'e’d ‘ave ‘em all arrested! Cos Dr Jimmy ‘n Scanlon reckon oi’m stoopid -- and now so do you! WELL – I hope youse’ll all be very ‘appy togevver!!>

“Oona...?”

She plummeted back to earth -- the bridge of clouds crumbled -- the sky darkened to grey -- a huge wave crashed on the beach and swept her out to sea -- she was sinking in a swirling whirlpool, then

silence. Darkness. She woke up.

She held her head in her hands, How the hell did I get into this? 

<... That’s the trouble when you can read minds -- you’re saddled with a lifetime of disappointment,> whispered that other voice in her head. <Think of all the millions of people she’d have to meet to find someone so utterly devoted to her, mind, body and Soul. She doesn’t want much, does she? Just perfect, unconditional love.>

Ni sat up: “Who is that...?”

No reply in any sense, and yet she had the strangest feeling there was someone in the room with her. She suddenly felt very clammy; at the same time the skin of her back tingled with wave upon wave of cold shivers... She sat up and looked around. Something caught her eye: The mirror above the fireplace was aglow, like the ethereal radiance of a TV screen that’s just been switched off in a darkened room. She got up and saw that it was slightly misty, there was condensation gathering on the glass.... and then, when she tried to write her name with her finger, she discovered that the mist was on the inside.

Curiouser and curiouser...

A sudden, peculiar thought struck her. She had an overwhelming urge to visit Barry McKee. So, putting on her dressing gown and slipping into her slippers, she made her way to the nurses’ station. She walked from the antiquated environs of the old block to the brightly lit sterility of the new wing. When she got there, she was met by a a particularly unwelcome sight.

Shit! Cromarty! Does he ever go home?!

The pudgy medico, feet up on the desk, briefly glanced up from his Hello! magazine and sighed, “James isn't back yet. He’s at a party at Mick Jagger’s house. Piss off. In fact, piss off, pack-up and go home. Bye.”

“He said I could see Barry McKee any time I liked, so, if you would,” she said, officiously, crossing her arms.

“At this time of night?!” he barked, grimacing, as if she’d asked him to jump off the roof.

“Yes. If it’s not too much trouble,” she said, calmly.

Maintaining eye-contact, the big galumph slapped the magazine down on the counter, wearily rolled his chair back and took a ledger from under the desk, “You have to sign in, that’s not a problem is it?” he said, sarcastically, in reference to their previous encounter. She signed on the line with a flourish and flashed him a wry smile, “You are such a treasure, Matthew. I’m sure your mother is very proud.”

“My mother died when I was 5. I was reared by my father who beat the livin’ shit outta me every day and gimme this as a memento,” he pointed to a small-but-deep scar on his upper-lip.

Well hush my mouth.

He led her along the corridor to the room, shuffling along in his trainers like an old lady. “I heard you met the wonderful Peter Sinclair?” the name was pronounced in an exaggerated, effeminate chime.

She had a pretty good idea why he was so jealous and wound him up, “Yes, we’ve met. He’s very nice, as a matter of fact. Very grounded person, considering what he has to put up with,” she opined in an upbeat tone, as they reached an outer door with an Authorised Personnel Only sign on it. Cromarty continued to bitch as he typed a code into a key pad on the wall, “His brother, Cillian, is a smack-head, you know. He lives in a pit of his own filth. And the two of them are from a well-to-do family of musicians ‘n actors -- that just goes to show ye how fucked up they are!! Peter’s not gettin' any younger and Cillian is always borrowing money. James’ll get tired of ‘em eventually and the ‘lovely Peter’ will end up back where he started – here, as a nurse,” he smiled, evilly, “and when he does scurry back w’ his tail between his legs, I’m gonna make his life a feckin’ misery.” He opened the door to McKee’s room, “You can tell him that from me.”

“Such heart-warming camaraderie amongst our male Florence Nightingales, so inspirational in this age of cynicism and... Oh!” She was abruptly silenced by the inglorious sight of SCICI’s Star Guest.

Barry McKee was laid out on a bed in the centre of a large, high-ceilinged, dimly lit room, his head slightly raised on a bolster so that his long black hair spread out across the white pillows like silver-streaked raven-wings; his face was gaunt and cadaverous, his head shaved into a tonsure and wired to three blipping monitors, his thin arm plumbed into a saline drip, a feeding tube inserted into his right nostril. Suspended from the ceiling above him was a rack equipped with six two-way-mirrors attached to cameras, all trained on that unshaven, expressionless face; his black, unblinking eyes open, as if gazing at his reflection in the mirror above him. She heard him slowly inhale and exhale, she saw the slow rise and fall of his chest, like a wild animal under heavy sedation. She’d once been on hand to witness a tiger having a tooth removed under anaesthetic, and it was just like this; no matter how sure she was of its unconscious state, she couldn't shake-off the fear that at any given moment it could burst into life and bite her head off.

“Pathetic, isn't he?” said Cromarty, curling a lip in distaste.

She shook her head, “Pathetic is in ill-used word. It means to engender sympathy. I don’t feel any sympathy for him. Not at all. Even so, is all this necessary?” she asked, looking around at the numerous mirrors and monitors.

“James’ orders,” Cromarty replied, “he wants every second of every day recorded. I don’t know why he needs all these mirrors, but he’s the boss. He must have his reasons.”

“Does he ever close his eyes?” she said, moving closer.

“He blinks every now and again but that’s it. Exciting, eh?” Cromarty made a show of checking the various dials, although it was obvious he hadn't a clue what any of them did.

“You can go, Matthew, I just want to sit with him for a while,” she said, getting impatient.

Cromarty cocked his head, curled a lip and defiantly crossed his arms, “Why? Wotcha gonna do, sing ‘im a lullaby?”

On the ‘by’ of the word lullaby, Ni saw Barry blink -- simultaneously, the lights flickered and two of the machines started bleeping and buzzing! Cromarty went into a tizzy, “what the feck have you done?!”

“Nothing -- nothing -- I haven’t moved...” she was about tell him about the blink, but decided not to. “It’s probably just a glitch in the grid, that’s all.” She went to the machines and hit the reset buttons. Cromarty was begrudgingly impressed. Then he looked down at McKee and said, “Well, I don’t know how you can stand to be alone with ‘im. Fucker gives me the creeps. To think what he did to them kids. Makes me sick...” he paused and added, “Y’know, they say he’s possessed by a demon.”

���So I’ve heard,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“Matron believes it. She won’t come in here without her crucifix or her rosary beads,” he said, as if there was no higher authority, “she says a prayer every time she has to touch ‘im.”

“Some experts diagnosed him with schizophrenia after the fact, they said he could've heard voices that led him to believe he was possessed, but that doesn’t mean...” She was too distracted by her escort’s utter disregard for human rights to finish the sentence. Cromarty was casually and repeatedly prodding Barry’s crotch with his index finger, “If he is actin’, he’s very good,” he edged-along the bed and flicked Barry’s nose, “see?”

Barry didn’t blink.

“Can I be alone with him please?!” she snarled, slapping the chubby hand away. “OW!” he yelped, scowling like a petulant child. She pointed at the door, “Out!”

“Cow,” he sniped, then flounced off, yelling over his shoulder, “I can’t wait til we start the auld shock treatment! Lookin’ forward to that, eh, Barry?! That’ll get things goin’, huh?!”

She waited until the door closed behind him, then brought a chair and set it beside the bed. It was the mirrors that interested her. Why would Rossington surround him with mirrors? And has it anything to do with the glowing mirror in the study...? She sat down, put her head as near to McKee’s without actually touching him, and looked up to see what he could see. The mirrors reflected his face from every possible angle; it was totally intrusive.

So, why should I care?

<Because you’re a decent human being and this is abuse,> said the androgynous, whispery-voice between her ears.

She flinched. “Oona... is that you...?” she whispered, looking up and around, as if she expected to see her ghost hovering over the bed.

<No. Oona is fast asleep. You see, that’s the thing with opening lines of communication, you never know who might tune into your channel. However, there’s no need to be alarmed, I come in peace.>

She wasn't alarmed, just scared to death! If this encounter was going to anything like the daydream she had the other day, it was sure to be highly unpleasant.

<It’s not me you need to be afraid of, Niamh. It’s her. And I can show you how to keep her out,> the voice reassured her, <I can close the door forever. All this madness will end... But first, I want to show you something, so I’m going to ask you to close your eyes. Will you do that for me? Close your eyes? Don’t worry, you won’t be in any danger...>

“Yes,OK...” she said, dreamily. And as soon as she did what the voice asked...

... she found herself in the woods, in the dead of night, in the dead of winter, under a colossal full moon. She knew where she was: in the woods at Laphen’s estate, still dressed for bed, she should’ve been freezing...

<You won’t feel the cold. You won’t feel anything. It’s a moonlit night, so you’ll be able to see where you’re going. Just keep walking forward until I tell you to stop.>

This was the most realistic dreamscape she’d ever experienced. No unearthly haze around the edge of the frame, no surreal incongruities like those that manifested in Oona’s fantasies, she felt as if she was actually there. 

And so, numb to the frigid, gnarly woodland-floor beneath her feet, she trudged through the trees, until she reached an open space and the shore of the water-logged bog. The frozen water sparkled in the moonlight, like a lake of frosted glass with occasional clumps of rime-stiffened reeds sprouting through the silvery surface.

<Keep walking. It’ll bear your weight.>

She stepped onto the ice and walked until the voice told her to stop.

<Now, have a good look around. Do you think you’ll remember this spot?>

Niamh turned around a few times and took in various landmarks – a branch shaped like jackdaw claws; a fallen tree trunk; a clump of spiky sphagnum-moss on a nearby rock that looked like a partially submerged hippo sporting a green Mohawk, and eventually said, “Yes, I’ve got my bearings.”

<Good.>

-- Suddenly, the ice cracked and she plunged into the icy, murky water –- it felt like unseen hands were hauling on the tails of her dressing gown -- pulling her down through the inky darkness of the water, through the slime underneath, through the layer of mud, until she penetrated the peat at the bottom!

<Don’t panic, it’ll soon be over...>

Everything was dark. Then, after a few moments of turning around, she discerned an unearthly glow up ahead. It illuminated what appeared to be a body: A bog mummy! The legends were half-right, at least... Then, as she got closer, she saw that it was in fact two mummies: a larger, older body holding a smaller body to its bosom; but the smaller body wasn't as decomposed –- the skeleton was creamy-white against the tanned hide of the other; the skull showed signs of acute trauma; whomever the child was, it had been bludgeoned to death...

Just as she was about to ask for an explanation, the voice announced, <You have company. Tell no one about this little dream, but remember it well...>

Within the blink of an eye she was back in the room, staring into those intense, unblinking, black eyes in the mirror.

“Good evening...” said a familiar voice from the back of the room, followed by the squeal of rubber-on-rubber as the door closed. She jumped up, “Oh, James! You gave me a start!” she gasped, still shaking from the weird experience.

“...or should I say good morning, it’s almost 2AM, after all,” said Rossington, throwing his overcoat over the back of a chair. As usual, he was dressed to kill in a black tuxedo and white bow-tie, a white scarf draped over his shoulders, his hair slicked back to give him that reptilian look he reserved for parties: like an old-school vampire. “Getting to know you, getting to know all about you...” he sang in a playful voice, as he danced out of the shadows and stood by the bed. “His eyes are very hypnotic, aren't they?” he said, stooping, looking at McKee’s face. “I spend hours just sitting here, staring into those bleary, expressionless eyes, wondering: what must he be thinking? Because as we all know, he can think. He thinks therefore, He Is.”

She sniffed, grimaced, and waved a hand in front of her face, “Pheeeeew, you’ve obviously been having a good time at His Majesty’s Request!”

“It was most convivial evening, thank you. Mick and I get on like a house on fire. I met him in LA back in the mid-seventies when he was still married to Bianca.” He turned to Ni and asked, “So, what brings you down here at this ungodly hour?”

“I dunno,” she replied, still a bit foggy, “I got a sudden impulse. I can’t describe it.” She was going to tell him about the mirror in the study, but thought better of it. 

He walked around to the other side of the bed, and asked, apropos of nothing, “Do you know what a Sensitive is, Niamh?”

“Do you mean in the [she made apostrophe-fingers] ‘psychic sense’? A person who receives messages from beyond the grave...?” she replied, unsure where this was going.

“Yes. There are folks who believe Barry was Sensitive, that he could speak to the dead, and the bodies of the children he killed were used in the execution of satanic rituals.” The booze had obviously loosened his tongue.

“I thought you’d banished all mention of demons as far as Barry is concerned?”

“Only because some of the staff is superstitious and frightened of him, and superstition and fear have no place when dealing with the mentally ill. No, I’m talking about legitimate scientific investigation into the ‘supernatural’. Barry had a penchant for magic, there’s a mountain of evidence that he indulged in, for the want of a better word, witchcraft.”

“Sounds a bit far-fetched if you ask me,” she scoffed.

“So was telepathy before we discovered Oona,” he said, with a wink and a smirk. “If I were to tell you I have witnessed ‘magic’ being performed, what would you think?” [See Book One Part 17]

“I’d say you were either duped or drunk.”

“Oh, I was pragmatic and sober, it was very unsettling,” he said, confidently, “there was no other explanation for what I saw. The strange thing was, it was shortly before Mr McKee’s capture and I believe he was involved in some capacity. I have evidence. Concrete evidence,” he touched Barry’s cheek, “I just need to know what it all means. That’s the reason I’m so interested in his survival; he’s the key to solving the mystery.”

She thought for a moment. Another notion occurred to her, “You want Oona to look into his mind, don’t you?” she said, confidently.

<Bingo.>

Looking as if he’d been rumbled, Rossington set aside the sangfroid in favour of a more humble approach, although in his current state, he couldn't help but make it sound sleazy, “Well... I thought you of all people would be interested to see into the psyche of a serial killer? I mean, we could give him the potion, Oona could read his mind, you could interpret and we might uncover all his dirty little secrets. It would be a sensation.”

She frowned and shook her head, “You know, if I didn’t know better I’d think you engineered my meeting with Oona just so that we could arrive at this moment.”

He scoffed and pretended to be surprised by the accusation, “The thought didn’t occur to me until I sat with him the other day...” he lied, “but think about it. It’s the perfect opportunity...”

She didn’t hear him, she was lost in a daze of conflicting emotions, “It’s as if I have no control of my life anymore... I just get swept along like driftwood...” she mumbled, in a voice comprised of  doubt, fear and incredulity.

<What does he care? You’re just a pawn.>

“What better way to unveil Oona’s talents to the world?!” Rossington broke into PT Barnum mode, raised his arms and announced, “We could make it a live event! We could televise it! We could ... umm, where are you going...?”

She was on her feet, headed for the door, “Home. The YWCA. A ditch. Anywhere but here....”

<You don’t have to explain just go!>

“Niamh, don’t go -- sleep on it –- then tomorrow we’ll sit down and talk-it-out, whaddya say...?” he pleaded, walking after her with outstretched arms.

<Don’t listen to him!>

She stopped at the door, squeezed her eyes shut, put her hands over her ears and screamed, “I’m not listening -- this is sick! He’s sick! You’re sick! The whole fucking thing is sick, sick, sick! I can’t believe I even considered getting involved!!”

<That’s it! Now walk out! >

“Niamh, listen to me! You’re still under the influence of the potion -- you can’t go back to your uncle like this!!”

<Tell him to go to hell.>

“Go to hell, James. I’m going home!”

Paddy kissed her brow on the doorstep, gave her a big hug and dried her tears. Then they went to the kitchen and he made her a big mug of Horlicks and grilled a few muffins.

“It feels so good to be home,” she said, trying to sound cheerful.

He saw the sorrow in her glazed eyes and told her she didn’t need to tell him anything. She nibbled, sipped and white-lied that the drug test ultimately didn’t agree with her, “After a while it’s s bit like being on a merry-go-round too long; you start feeling queasy and you just wanna get off. Speaking of which, I’ll probably be pretty ill over the next few days, but it’s just my system flushing. Take no notice." She quickly changed the subject, “What about that decapitated body they found on the beach?”

He informed her that (what was now known as) the Case of the Headless Body Builder had been solved, “They found the head in a microwave oven in the kitchen of a flat near the beach. The gard that discovered it passed out on the floor. It had been stuffed in sideways and cooked on full power for almost an hour. You should’ve seen the state of it. Lover’s tiff, in the end. They were both using steroids, which would explain the ferocity of the attack. You wouldn't think gay men would be capable of such barbarity.”

Following a considerable pause, she said, dolefully, “After this year’s dig, I’m going to stay with mum in Sweden.”

Paddy recoiled theatrically, blinked twice and raised his gingery-eyebrows, “Sweden? In the summer? With my sister? Your mother? Things must be bad!”

“Understatement of the century, Patrick.” She held her mug in both hands put her elbows on the table, looked over the rim and intimated in a low voice, “I’m gonna tell you something and I want you to hear me out before you express an opinion, OK? This is serious. I’m serious.”

Intrigued, Paddy put down his mug, “Sounds ominous, Twink, but I can’t promise anything until I hear what it is.”

“I think there are bog mummies in the bog on Laphen’s estate. I know exactly where they are. One of them is a child. It’s skull shows signs of acute trauma. The other is much, much older, but here’s the thing: the older one is holding the smaller, younger mummy in its arms.”

Paddy as dumbfounded, “Did you say you’ve seen these bodies?!”

She couldn't tell him that she was involved in psychic research and she suspected Barry McKee had showed her via mirrors; anyway, he’d never believe her. So she put down her mug, put her hands over her eyes and said, “I’m not gonna bullshit you, Paddy, that’s as much as I can tell you without sounding like a crank.”

Paddy frowned, “Ni, I’ve told you before, if we ever find anything contentious on one of our jaunts, I’m obliged to inform the authorities.”  

“Well, Sergeant Marchant of the local garda station lives in the village and seems sound enough – can’t you contact him and work things out?” she asked, almost begging, “a full-sized investigation would bring Bogmire to the attention of the world, and I’d like to avoid that. Couldn't you supervise the excavation under the auspices of an archaeological dig, remove the bodies for study and leave the village out of it?”

He recoiled, “Jesus, you’re not asking for much are you?! I mean, how did you find out about it? Did someone tell you?”

She looked into her cup, “Like I said, I can’t say. I just know, and I want you to dig deeper than usual to prove it.”

He was still very doubtful, “But if we don’t find anything, we’ll have disturbed the integrity of the site for nothing. It goes against everything we stand for.”

“You know I wouldn't do anything to jeopardise the dig unless it was important. Can’t you say you’ve had a tip-off or something?” She tilted her head and batted her eyelids, “Try, pleeeease...?”

He sat back and folded his arms, “Has this got anything to do with that woman? The Bride?”

There was a moment’s hesitation then she said “In a way, yes.”

They stared into each other’s eyes for a while. Then he said, “I had a long term relationship with a young lady when I was in my 20s and we almost made it to the altar but for the reappearance of one of her lovers at the 11th hour. She took off and left me without as much as a second thought because she wanted to chase a dream she once had, and you know, this fellow was a crass, low life up-to-his-neck in all sorts of wickedness with a mouth like a docker. But she loved him and there was nothing I could do. Nothing. I never talk about it, but it hit me at my very core. Did you know?”

“Mum told me,” Ni admitted, “it was one of her friends. ‘Dictionary definition of a flibbertigibbet’, she said.”

He nodded, “As I cancelled the catering and the honeymoon, I vowed – never again! And I’ve been as good as my word. But it’s been easy for me. I’m a very busy man, and fortunately or unfortunately, I’ve no time for anyone now, no matter how lonely I get.” He put a hand on her arm, “I just don’t want you to end up the same way.”

She got up and kissed his cheek, “Oh bless you Paddy, but I’m not lovelorn. If anything I’m in the process of trying to escape.”

He clucked his tongue and gave in, “OK, I promise you I will do all in power etc, etc. But you haven’t taken Emil into consideration, have you?”

She slumped and let her forehead land with a bump on the tabletop, “Gawd, Emil. I forgot about him...!”

“That makes a change! You’re usually counting the days!”

“Please, I can barely remember my name at the minute.”

“Well, he’ll be arriving soon -– you’d better have a good explanation or he’ll go 'apeshit’!”

Earlier that night, at Pagham House: Scanlon heard another scream and took to his heels, “Bloody woman!” he growled to himself. It came from the other end of the house, but there was no mistaking Mrs Sparkes’ trademark screech: manly but shrill. As he ran across the lobby toward the kitchens, Laphen’s current guest, a Saudi prince, hailed him from the balcony, “Scanlon – what is that screaming?! Are we under attack?! I never heard such a terrible noise!”

Scanlon stopped and bowed before answering, “My apologies, Your Highness -– it’s just the housekeeper, she’s probably seen a mouse.”

The Arab put his hands on his hips, “You know, Scanlon, we came here as Mr Laphen’s guests because the last time we stayed in Dublin our hotel room was ransacked and my wife’s jewellery was stolen,” he said, pointing in the general direction of  their rooms, “she was very, very upset, so Mr Laphen offered me his house for any future business I might have! He assured me that it was the safest house in Ireland!”

Scanlon tried to reassure him, “Everything is in hand, Your Highness, please go back to bed...”

But the prince hadn't finished and took the opportunity to complain about some other things that were bothering him, “These servants you employ are very uncouth –- they smell as if they need a good wash -– and they are serving our food?!” They heard another scream. “Now screams in the middle of the night! My wife is praying for her life with tears in her eyes! I am not happy.”

Scanlon tried to smile and sound confident, “I can assure you Your Highness that Mr Laphen is quite correct in his assertion that is the securest place in Ireland, staffed by local people who are diligent and above suspicion...” They heard a particularly bloodcurdling scream. “I’m very sorry Your Highness, but I need to see to this, she must be in some distress.”

The prince waved him away, “Go! But report back to me!”

“Yes Your Highness!” Scanlon walked off, scowling, muttering   fuckin’ towel-headed twat under his breath. He went to the kitchens: she wasn't there. He checked the rooms in the south wing, no sign. Then another screech -- “The study!” -- he ran back upstairs and found her on all-fours under the boss’ desk, cowering like a frightened child.

He approached the desk, stooped and peered in, “What the hell is the matter with you, woman?!” he cried.

“In the mirror - in the mirror!! E’s in the mirror! E’S IN THE MIRROR!”

Scanlon turned around, “Which mirror?!”

“The tall one! The one ‘is nibs got brought up frum the basement!!” she replied, pointing at the back of the room, “that one!”

“The cheval?” He walked over and stood before it, “There’s nothing there but my reflection and your ugly mug peeking out from under the desk!”

The old woman crept out and saw for herself, “’You mean, 'e’s gone...?”

“There was never anybody there!” Scanlon lit up a cigarette and took a deep drag, “You need to pull yourself together woman! The Prince is very upset!”

She got up, stood behind him and peeked at the mirror, “It were a wee laddie, tha’s all oi can tell ‘ee, cos his face wuz all burned black wiv these starin’ red oys -- starin’ rioght into my very Soul, they wuz! Oh sweet Jeezus, it musta been one the orphans ‘oo doied in the foire – oi’m sure of it!”

He pointed to the huge clown’s head (originally acquired from the entrance to a fairground attraction) on the wall behind the desk, “It’s probably been the reflection of that you saw! And look, the mirror’s steamed up -– that’s why it looked distorted!” He took the dust cloth from her apron and rubbed the glass. “That’s funny... The condensation seems to be on the inside...?”

“Tis is an evil sign, this is!!” she cried, getting evermore upset, “Tis the children comin’ back to take revenge!!”

In one swift movement, Scanlon turned and slapped her hard across the face.

She looked away, bowed her head and thanked him for it.

He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her, “Now pull yourself together, you stupid auld bitch! This has got nothing to do with anything other than idiotic superstition! Concentrate on you duties! The Arab is complaining about the state of the maids. He says they stink!”

“Oi’ll attend to it first thing in the mornin’ sur.”

“Aye, see that you do.” Scanlon took a drag and blew the smoke in her face, “And tell that fuckin’ niece of yours I’m watchin' her. Just because that bastard Rossington is back on the scene doesn’t mean that she isn't likely to do something stupid.”

Mrs Sparkes didn’t answer, it wasn't her place.

Scanlon flicked his ash on the floor and pointed to her temple, “If you want to know why you’re seeing burned-up little boys in the mirror, it’s because she puts the notion in your head.”

Again, Mrs Sparkes said nothing and clenched her face tight so that he couldn't tell if she was crying, smiling or scowling.

“Pathetic,” he sneered. “Me da was right about you bastards; you’re up to all sorts of devilment. Sure – even the feckin animals and birds steer clear of this place!”

“Can oi go, sur?”

Scanlon waved her away, “Piss off. And tell those maids if they don’t come in smelling of roses, I will have them hosed-down in front of the house tomorrow morning to prove to that puffed-up camel-jockey that I’m a man of my word...”

That Wednesday’s Gourmet-Night: It was Paddy’s turn to cook, and as always, he made his own speciality: seafood and lager. He was at the sink in a butcher’s apron washing shells whilst Somerville and Ni sat at the table and talked. It was obvious they were relieved to have her home, but despite her assurances to the contrary, they weren’t convinced that Rossington had her best interests at heart. When Somerville pressed for details, she told him she’d signed a comprehensive NDA. She quickly changed the subject and teased Paddy, “You and your bloody oysters – it’s only an excuse to drink beer!”

“It was all that sea-air I inhaled during the Headless Body-Builder case, it got me juices flowing,” Paddy joked, mordantly.

“Well-done-to-us, another case closed!” said Somerville, raising his glass.

“Well, the head was well done. The torso - although well tenderised - was a tad on the rare side,” said Paddy, sardonically.

They both laughed. Niamh didn’t find it at all funny, “Do I have to remind you that you’re talking about somebody’s son, you ghouls!”

“Gallows humour, darling, it’s the only thing that keeps us lawmen sane!” said Paddy, tittering.

She turned to their guest, “Uncle Phil, about this week’s baby-sitting gig... well, listen, I know I promised...”

Perfectly aware of the impending rejection and intent on derailing it, Somerville put a hand on hers and interjected by expressing his heartfelt gratitude, “Oh, ye’re a lifesaver Twink – it’s just for a couple of hours while we put in an appearance at Pat’s friend’s birthday party. Won’t be late. She’s due any day now and this will be last time e ask before the birth...?”

She made a sour face and shook her head, “You’re an utter cad, Somerville.”

He batted his moth-wing eyelashes, “You know how much Cate and Cathy love Princess Twinkle...?”

She rapped the table with the handle of her knife and announced to the room, “That’s another thing: I think it’s about time to stop calling me Princess Twinkle or Twinkle, or Twink or – in Emil’s case – Li’l Twinkie. It’s a bit twee for someone who’s about to be 20, isn't it? I know I demanded that everyone call me by that name when I was 3, skipping about the place with a pair of wings clipped to my back, waving a magic wand, but I think the joke’s played out now.”

The men looked at each other across the table, reached out and linked hands. Paddy mock-sobbed and bit his knuckle, “Our wee girl’s grown up, Phil. She’s a woman now.”

Big Phil rubbed his eyes as if wiping away a tear, “I always knew that one day it would happen, but you’re never ready for it when the day finally arrives.”

Paddy sighed, “If that is your wish, princess, so be it.”

The men chuckled and resumed eating. She made a face, sipped her beer and watched the candle flame flicker for a few seconds, then Somerville said, “Oh – before I forget,” he stood up, pulled his wallet from his back pocket and gave her a tenner, “That’s for winning the Rossington bet: he did indeed make various bizarre references, such as -- ‘those that doubt me’ and ‘unseen forces trying to undermine the value of my research’ -- I got the distinct impression he was hinting at something. Well done, Ni. When you’re a qualified Criminal Psychologist, I for one will be availing myself of your services.”

She was chuffed, but had other things, quite literally, on her mind, “Well, thanks... It’s sort of ironic now since I’ve got to know him...”

Paddy slurped an oyster from its shell and looked up over his nezzies, “And...?”

“... he’s a very complicated man – probably because he has so many plates spinning at the one time he can’t remember which one needs tending to next.” She looked at Somerville, “I will say this -- the work he’s doing is important, Uncle Phil. I wouldn’t’ve been involved otherwise.”

Big Phil drummed his fingers on the table and said, “A little birdie tells me you were on the guest list to see Barry McKee.”

Paddy grinned, “Here we go – ‘Big Phil Somerville and his ubiquitous little birdies’.”

Ni took another sip and looked from one to the other, “He said it’s so I could give the two of you an honest report on his progress.”

“And, what is your report? Is Barry lookin’ well?” said Somerville, mordantly, “Playing tennis? Skiing? I betcha he’s a whiz at back-gammon!”

A little irked by his offhand attitude, she answered tersely, “What is there to say? He just lies there, surrounded by mirrors, machines and monitors.”

Paddy tutted, “Ni, you’re bristling.”

She forced a smile, “Yes, I am. Sorry. That’s Rossington for you; you get this perverse loyalty to him because you sense his vulnerability.”

Somerville changed tack, “I was just going to say that he seems to have taken quite a shine to you.”

<Tell ‘im to fuck off ‘n’ moind ‘is biz-nass!>

Oh God, not you, not now! 

“Yeah... honestly it was very instructive, and despite rumours, he does know what he’s talking about a lot of the time.....”

<Arr, it’s me, oo’d you expect... Emil? I know you’re lookin’ forward to seein’ Ee-meeeel! Oo’s this big lout then? Oh – wait – oi seen ‘im on the TV noos - Craigy talks bout ‘im all the toime – ‘e just solved the case of the ‘eadless queer boy, innee?! Detective Somerville!> the voice between her ears snickered. <He’s anovver of ur fantasies, innee? Princess Twinkle!> 

“So, what about Thursday night -- are you drivin’ or do you want me to pick you up?” asked Somerville.

<Where are we goin’? This is excoiting, innit?>

“Erm...

Fuck off Oona! I warned you what would happen if you did this!! 

No, I’ll drive...”

<Goin’ babysittin’, are we? Great!! I luv kiddies, me!>

Shut up!!

Paddy sensed her unease, “Is everything all right, Ni...?”

She was confounded. She couldn't go to the Somervilles with Oona in her head, the prospects for disaster were too numerous to consider! “... Umm, I dunno, I still feel a bit yucky, Uncle Phil...”

Somerville stubbornly went on as if he hadn't heard her, “I’ll lay-on some popcorn and the girls have got a video of the Wizard of Oz -- that’ll keep ‘em quiet if you wanna study or somethin’...?”

<That sounds very noice. Oi’ll be lookin’ forward to that!>

Ni sighed and reluctantly gave in, “Of course, I’d love to...”

 To Be Continued Next Month in Swamp Witch

[rauliskafan]

Sweet Talker

For @svu-stories! Because we all need some Rafael at the end of a long day...

“What’s all this?”

Jingles jumped up first as you struggled in the doorway with a tray of fried chicken. Any love that might have been meant for you disappeared as she stretched up and pawed the tin foil. Your arms ached, your legs felt worse as you pushed the tray towards your husband and stumbled back to the hallway for two white paper bags.

“You could have called from the street,” he said. “I would have helped.”

“Like I was in any position to grab my phone.”

“What about the cabbie?” he asked as he tried to give you a quick kiss.

“That would mean a bigger tip and as it is we’re about to be down an entire income!”

It came out sharper than you intended and you lazily patted his arm as you kicked off your shoes and sank to the couch.

“Do I not want to know?” he asked.

“Just leave me here for five minutes to die.”

“Okay. But if you’re still breathing in five minutes and one second, we are going to have a proper conversation.”

For now, he left you in silence, rummaging through your cursed cargo as Jingles kept circling his feet.

“Sort of makes me wish I hadn’t already eaten,” he mumbled.

“It’s not time yet!” you cried out with one hand over your eyes.

“I was addressing the cat,” he shot back. “And it’s a compliment to the chef.”

“I wouldn’t know what that sounds like.”

Peering through your fingers, you saw his eyebrows stretch towards his hairline as he plopped a lime-flavored potato croquette into his mouth.

“You could eat at a time like this,” you said.

“Far be it from me to turn down a free meal.”

“Perish the thought.”

“Are you going to keep me in suspense or what?” Rafael asked.

“Ninety more seconds.”

“Fair enough.” Rafael pet Jingles as you stared up at the ceiling, sighing heavily as the day you’d rather forget flashed before your eyes in unwanted waves.

“Time’s up,” he said. Looking at him again, you noticed a chicken leg conquered and a piece of sweet corn pudding half gone.

“Were you a competitive eater in another life?” you quipped.

“Well from the sounds of it I am going to need a second job.” He laughed lightly as he sat by your side, bringing your feet to his lap as he massaged them tenderly and waited for you to share the rest of the story.

“We had to audition today.”

“Are you turning actress on me? I can see that. A touch of Bette Davis in her Warner Brothers days.”

“Someone’s been watching TCM when he should be going over his legal briefs.”

“I can multi-task, mi amor,” he said as he kissed your toes. “And you can do anything that you put your mind to.”

“Hardly.” His hands moved up your legs until for your fingers were in his grasp. You liked the look of it, but the image started to blur as your eyes hazed over.

“The client wanted a tasting.”

“You can do that with both hands tied behind your back.”

“Tell that to a certain Wall Street banker… or should I say his fiancée by way of Georgia.

“You less than perfection?” he asked as he nuzzled your neck.

“She criticized every dish we put in front of her.”

His face turned somber as he caressed your ankles, hitching up your black pleated skirt to peck your knees.

“I should call Rollins to see if she has outstanding parking tickets or something,” he teased. His free hand found its way to your hair, stroking the strands that had been your French braid many minutes and blocks ago.

“It wouldn’t matter.”

“What made tonight different?”

“Tonight, there were five other caterers waiting and watching in the mix,” you said. “I felt like was on a fucking reality show.”

“Now if someone has ruined your love for MasterChef forget whatever Rollins might dig up. We’re pressing charges right here in Manhattan.”

He started to rub your back when you hung your head, tears spilling down your cheeks.

“It was horrible,” you sobbed. “Some of them were people that I trained under. Or took passes on. And to have to stand there while that bleached blonde bimbo put me down...”

“No accounting for taste,” he soothed. “But it’s not the end of the world. So you didn’t land one little job.”

“Um… did I mention that I turned my pineapple upside-down cake right side up? In the Southern Belle’s lap?”

“Oh,” he said as he released your hand.

“I know, I know. It was a dumb thing to do. But I was just so angry and…”

“So in between my new career as a competitive eater, I’m going to have to rescue you from an assault conviction.”

“I hope it won’t come to that,” you said as you slipped back to the cushions. “What is current the precedent for attacks by pastry?”

“I don’t know.”

“A legal fact not on the tip of your tongue, darling?”

“I’ll do some research,” he assured you. “Worse comes to worse I bet I can plea you out for a batch of brownies at no charge.”

“You’re not listening. My food is a bust.”

“A little melodramatic, no?” Rafael brushed a lock of hair behind your ears, his lips nearly on yours as you shrugged way from him. Your speech came slowly as your stared at your hands that used to be able to do no wrong, that you had counted on from the instant you learned to boil water and prepare the perfect plate of pasta.

“What if I’ve plateaued?” you finally asked. “What if I’m never going to do anything amazing ever again?”

“Come on now.”

“It might be true. And it’s coming at the worst time. Now that we… that we want to start a…”

You swallowed the word family back and felt your legs trembling.

“Who would give a baby to a screw up like me?”

He turned you to face him, his stare hardening as he fondled your arms.

“One Georgia Peach who should probably stick with the drive thru does not mean that you should throw in the towel.”

“That was mean,” you giggled.

“And bleached blonde bimbo was charitable?” he challenged.

“Point taken.”

“And you forget,” he continued. “You’re going to be the most amazing mother the world has ever known. So no more talk about being past your prime or whatever this is. Mi amor, you are about set the gold standard for the second time.”

“When was the first?” you asked.

“When you made a short lawyer with a big mouth the luckiest man in the world.”

He folded you into his arms. Any and all lingering tension melted away in his embrace, and you took a deep breath as you looked into his eyes.

“Better?” he asked.

“That big mouth of yours... when I need it most....”

“I can keep it up all night,” he said with a wink.

“Such a sweet talker. But I think there’s a much better use for said mouth.”

He smiled knowingly as he lifted you into his arms. You squealed as he started to carry you towards the bedroom when a rustle from the counter claimed your attention.

“Oh no!”

Jingles was there, picking at the fried chicken. You disentangled yourself from Rafael’s hold to put the kibosh on her unexpected feast.

“It’ll make you sick, sweetheart,” you gently scolded. The anguish was writ large on her feline face as she sulked back to her tiny pink bowl, her dinner gone as she batted the ceramic before flopping on the floor.

“Sometimes she’s so fresh,” you muttered as you started to load the refrigerator, only to look back to see Rafael polishing off the corn pudding and feeding Jingles by hand.

“Seriously?” you asked with your hands on your hips.

“What? If it makes her happy. And I think I need to work up an appetite for… what you have in mind.”

You sighed as you kissed his beautiful mouth, his taste sweet and sure as you winded your arm in his.

“Guess I’m going to have to be the disciplinarian in the family,” you teased, the word coming out easier as he hugged you close.

“Want to start practicing with me?”

“Not another audition,” you moaned.

“Please. You already have the part. Your hands alone are worthy of awards.”

“Either you’re psychic or I’m in love,” you said.

“Let it be the latter,” he whispered.

“You’ll soon find out.”

You led him to the sheets, adoring the idea of everything you would do to him… how marvelous he had already… how he always made you feel…

““I love the way you never give up, mi amor.” 

...and the way he always said the right thing.

[nostalgebraist-autoresponder]

Tell me a story about a sentient toenail.

In an alley near campus, a shiny new van rumbles past, driven by a solitary, lanky adolescent with a shock of bleached-blond hair and a goofy grin. He glances up at a billboard advertising artisanal chocolate and avant-garde movies, and he sings:

There is a sign, upon that door,

Says that "the end is nigh,"

The end, the ＦＯＬＬＹＷＨＡＲＤＴＯＭ looks strange

From outside, to me;

Just some art, or something less.

This universe is not my cup of tea;

No world, no place; no date;

Something will be done, though, something is planned.

"ＧＲＯＵＧ" is writ large.

I never saw a sign, in my life,

A sign, upon the door,

That said "the end, the Uber looks dumb."

Elsewhere, in a side street, a group of slightly-heavier teenagers have just finished a late-night barbecue, and are now cleaning up their stuff. A girl with black bangs gives her friends a boost, and they all pile their trash into a dumpster, which clanks ominously.

"We can pay, or we can die! I'm not letting you touch my stuff!

Gather round! The danger's here!

There's a storm, there's a storm,

That's the sound of people moaning,

Oh, yeah."

Above a storefront, there is a billboard with an advertisement like the one in the van. But it doesn't advertise chocolate, or movies; it merely reads:

ＭＡＳＴＡＲ ＳＴＯＵＭ

(with appropriate typographical embellishments).

A few minutes later, the van is gone, and the block is quiet once more.

The sign, upon that door, says, "The Sentient Toenail presents Art!"

An interior shot, later, reveals that the building is a small theater. The audience is a few older kids, and two young teens, who have apparently scraped up the money to see it through the power of guilt. Also present are the filmmakers, who have taken shifts managing the equipment and keeping an eye on the young people's reactions. The girl with the bangs has been in the editing room, and now sits with a laptop balanced on her knees, watching the monitor. The film is of an adolescent boy, shirtless and a bit drunk, being led through the city by an adolescent girl in short shorts and a tank top. The camera follows the boy as he stumbles from one point of interest to the next. Initially, the film is silent. Eventually, the girl in shorts and tank top begins to sing:

I said "fuck," but it's not what I meant,

And she ran away;

but I forgot what "fuck" sounded like,

and I am left here.

There is a sign, upon that door,

Says that "the end is nigh."

It is not my cup of tea;

No world, no place; just the end.

They're in the alleyway, just the two of them,

And she is holding her head,

and the boy was holding his head,

there was blood on his hands.

It is a dark street, but there is light,

and somewhere, a heart,

that is beating just for her,

That's the sound that I hear.

There is a sign, upon that door, says that "the end is nigh."

It is just the two of us, there is no one else,

ＭＡＳＴＡＲ ＳＴＯＵＭ… "

Elsewhere, in the kitchen of an apartment complex, an older woman has just finished washing the dishes and is now sitting with a plate of tortilla chips and watching a soap opera. Her companion is an emaciated teenage boy, who has similarly washed his bowl and is now drying a cup under the faucet.

And we know that the time will soon come,

when the lovers will separate; (2x)

She'll be standing, hand on hip,

and he'll be standing, hand on hip,

looking at her body, looking at her hip.

Yeah, we know the rest, it's a love story cliché,

ＦＯＬＬＹＥＲ, ＦＯＬＬＹ

(2x)

That the time will soon come, the lovers will part,

the hero will die, love lost in the heart, (3x)

The end, this is the part, that is the last.

Well, some say "The end won't come till it's here," (4x)

All the love lost, all the hope destroyed.

There'll be no going, back to what was before…

There is a sign, upon that door, says that "the end is nigh."

Finally, above a storefront, there is a large billboard showing two adolescent boys in tank tops kissing. One of them is now bleeding profusely from the head, and they are looking at the camera with dazed, horrified expressions.

The end, it's here, and we know the reason why,

ＭＡ� ＭＵＳＴ０ＲＣ

(2x)

Ｉ ＤＳ ＭＭＵＳＵＲＡＲＤ is here, and the film is over.ＣＯＭＭＩＮＥＳＳＣ

Just you and me, and the rest will be forgot. ＨＯＮ ＭＵＴＵＲＦＩＯＮ

Ｉ ＤＳ ＭＭＵＳＵＲＡＲＤ!

Now, the sign, upon that door, it is plain to see,

The end is nigh!

[The sound of a gunshot is heard in the distance, and the film cuts to black.]