#even though this same woman claims hes faking some of his symptoms and calls him a variation of the r slur

[shitidoinmysparetime]

Susannah Cahalan’s The Great Pretender is a deep-dive into the most famous work of researcher David L. Rosenhan, a Science article called “On Being Sane in Insane Places.”  For the article, Rosenhan and several other “sane” people faked their way into various mental hospitals in the late 1960s.  Each person would claim to be experiencing mild auditory hallucinations--for example, hearing the words “thud,” “empty,” and “hollow.”  However, once inside the insane asylum, each study participant would immediately drop the act.  The point of the study was to see how long it would take medical workers to notice that none of the study participants was actually crazy.  According to Rosenhan, no study participant was ever “caught.”

Rosenhan’s study helped deal a death blow to the already teetering asylum system, which had been undermined by JFK’s pivot to community-based care.  Rosenhan’s work seemed to demonstrate that psychiatrists in particular were not the methodical scholars that they claimed to be, but were instead easily fooled pseudo-scientists.   

DON’T GO FURTHER IF YOU DON’T WANT SPOILERS.

There was just one problem: Rosenhan made most of it up.

He claimed that something like nine people participated in the study, but Cahalan was only able to identify three--one of whom was thrown out because he reported that actually, the asylum was full of kind and thoughtful professionals who really did help him, even though he was there under false pretenses.  So Cahalan was only able to confirm the existence of two people from this study: Rosenhan himself, and a graduate student.  And it turned out that Rosenhan had left out some very pertinent details about how he got himself committed.  He didn’t just report vague auditory hallucinations: He also reported being suicidal.  As Cahalan points out, the psychiatrist Rosenhan went to had to admit him, or risk being responsible for his death.

So basically, the study was bullshit.  Rosenhan simply tapped into the changing cultural narrative about psychiatry and asylums, which was that shrinks were just making it up as they went along, and that asylums were horror factories that needed to be burned down. 

And it’s complicated, because as Cahalan points out, psychiatry was and is a lot less scientific than other fields of medicine.  It’s getting better, and we may genuinely see some huge breakthroughs in my lifetime, but even with relatively effective measures like SSRIs, we still don’t actually know how they work. 

And with schizophrenia in particular, the story gets even murkier.  Cahalan first became interested in Rosenhan’s work because she had a rare autoimmune disorder that gave her schizophrenia-like symptoms: If she hadn't had good insurance and hadn’t lucked into an expert in the field, she could very well have ended her life in a locked psychiatric ward.  Cahalan writes movingly about her “mirror image,” a young woman she learned about after lecturing a group of psychiatrists.  This young woman was diagnosed with schizophrenia, but after her shrink heard Cahalan lecture, he realized that she might not have a mental illness after all.  Sure enough, testing showed that this woman was physically, not mentally, ill--but her brain had been so badly damaged by the delay in appropriate treatment that she will never be able to live an independent life. 

Her story is haunting, because schizophrenia largely remains a black box to medical professionals.  As this young woman’s story shows, there’s no guarantee that all “schizophrenia” is the same illness.  And the drugs that we’ve developed to treat it are largely just tranquilizers with tons of side effects.  So Rosenhan was able to deal the asylum system what was essentially a death blow because he was tapping into reality: Psychiatrists really didn't (and don’t) know as much as they claimed to, and a lot of their “expertise” didn’t stand up to real scrutiny. 

But as Cahalan makes clear, simply closing the asylums and dumping people out into the streets is no solution.  The old asylums could be absolutely awful, but now so many of the mentally ill are just hungry and homeless and completely uncared for.  How is that better?

Cahalan’s point is that we have to actually start investing money into the community-based care that was supposed to take the place of asylums.  I couldn’t agree more.

[fallout4holmes]

Far Harbor 3

The Children of Atom are based inside an old submarine dock they call the Nucleus. Given the current animosity between the Children of Atom and Acadia, I asked Valentine to stay out of sight as I approached the encampment outside. I thought the guards might react poorly to seeing a prototype synth. It's fortunate Valentine agreed; as I turned the corner, two Children were being 'tested’. Only one of them was going to be let back inside the Nucleus. As one begged the Grand Zealot (his actual title) to see reason, he was killed by his brother with a single shot. Appeased, the Zealot permitted the killer entrance, his sin forgiven.

I stepped forward. Dima had been right, the fact that I was a mainlander granted me mere suspicion rather than hostility. If I was sincere in my desire to join the Children of Atom, I first had to drink from a sacred spring and bring back whatever message or gift Atom provided.

I reported back to Valentine, “If we want to get inside, I have to go on a vision quest.”

“You have to what?!”

“There's a spring this way.”

“A spring?” He frowned, “Holmes, as much as I admire your dedication to playing a role, this is crazy even for you.”

“I can give him whatever story he wants about a vision, but I can't fake the physical symptoms of radiation poisoning. Not with the resources currently at hand.”

“And you think the only way he'll believe you is if you've recently sucked down some rads.”

“Relax, Valentine, one sip won't kill me, and you'll be at hand should I be horribly mistaken.” I handed him a bottle of X-111, Scribe Neriah's radiation cure. He was not reassured.

I should have listened to him. I was fully prepared to be sick from drinking irradiated water. I was not remotely prepared for the sudden vision of a dark shadow of a woman beckoning me to follow her. The world was suddenly encased in a haze of sickly yellow, the ghostly figure shrouded in black smoke urging me onward as we ran across the island. Irradiated creatures stood aside as we passed, as she led me through ‘Atom’s realm,’ until we reached a small building surrounded by ferals. The ferals attacked, rotting, charred, glowing. I fought in a daze as the figure looked on, vaguely aware of a voice calling to me in the distance, another vague shadow of a figure fighting beside me until the ferals lay dead at our feet. I could hardly stand. I stumbled toward the door of the building, an annoying rapid clicking sound piercing my thoughts as someone grabbed me from behind. I struggled, but I… I realize now that I was dying. A bottle was thrust between my lips as Valentine commanded, “Drink, damn it.”

The X-111 poured down my throat, a chill cold convulsing through my body as the radiation poisoning was countered. A needle in my shoulder; a stimpak injection. “Eat,” he commanded, and I ate what he fed me though I can’t remember what it was. I drank what he gave me, shuddering as the hallucination faded from my perception, the sickly yellow haze disappearing to reveal an old storage building decorated with barrels of nuclear waste.

“Don’t ever do something so stupid again,” Valentine scolded.

I coughed, “I’ll try not to. Where are we?”

“Hell if I know. You took your ‘just one sip’ and then took off running like a man possessed.”

“There was… it was vivid. The animals we passed, did they behave… strangely?”

“... yeah. Come to think of it, it was weird how they sort of got out of your way.”

“Were you hurt -”

“Don’t worry about me, I’m fine. You’re the one who almost died.”

We were sitting on the ground. He was holding me tight against him, my back to his chest. I placed a hand over his, “I’m fine, Valentine. You can let go now.”

He remained stern, “I’ll let go when I’m certain you’re not going to get yourself killed, and not a minute sooner.”

“I’m perfectly capable of -”

“Considering what just happened, you don’t get to make that claim.”

“In my defense, I didn’t know it would be that… that.”

“Doesn’t excuse anything.”

“You’re right, it doesn’t.”

“Don’t think that agreeing with me is going to make me stop being furious with you.”

“I wouldn’t dare.” We sat a moment longer. “Thank you for saving my life. Again.”

He sighed, and slowly let go. “Damn it, Holmes, stop trying to get yourself killed.”

“I swear to you I’m not.”

“Yeah, that’s part of what makes it so infuriating.” We stood, “So. You’ve had your vision quest.”

“I think there’s something inside I need.” I went into the building and retrieved a small carved wooden idol of a woman. Somehow I was certain that it would be all I needed.

Valentine was unimpressed. “That’s it? That’s what this whole nonsense was about?”

I shrugged, “We’ll find out.”

The Grand Zealot was not only impressed, but reverent. Apparently, the shadowy figure is a known phenomenon to the Children. They call her Mother of the Fog, and view her as a saint or messenger of Atom, a sort of radioactive guardian angel to the island… and I had just presented them with an idol of her. This meant Atom had clearly chosen me for something special.

I'm certainly not the typical new convert, that much they're right about.

I was welcomed, given a set of robes, and instructed to give the idol to High Confessor Tektus. Valentine followed, earning a suspicious glare. I took inspiration from the Brotherhood, “The synth's with me,” I said. “It's an old model, but has served me well.”

“You will be held responsible for its actions.”

“Understood.”

As we entered, Valentine said in a low voice, “Should I make a beeping noise next time?”

“My dear Valentine, it was the likeliest method of getting you inside.”

“I’m joking, Holmes. You alright?”

“I'm walking through corridors littered with radioactive materials after experiencing a hallucination common enough to have developed its own legend.”

“That's a 'no,’ then.”

I smirked, and gestured for quiet. High Confessor Tektus was addressing his flock.

It was a message of fire and brimstone, the eventual vengeance of an angry deity upon the non-believers of Far Harbor. When he finished, the Children assembled rose and went on about their day to day lives, much like any settlement, with a few remaining on their knees to pray. As we made our way through, we were greeted by a man who instantly stood out as a bit different from the rest. He wore the same attire as the rest of the Zealots, what might be described as the Children of Atom equivalent to Brotherhood Knights. What made him stand out was how obviously distracted he was.

Curious, I said hello. I was encouraged by his greeting. “Yeah? I mean, glory to At... wait. You're new.” The sight of Valentine behind me seemed to bolster him, “You happen to see Brother Devin? Sickly guy praying off by himself?”

“Fella that looks like he’s two steps away from a ghoul with hair by the entrance?” Valentine asked.

“That's him,” the man nodded, and introduced himself as Ware. He explained that he and Brother Devin don't have 'Atom’s gift,’ that bizarre quirk of biology or genetics that enable most of the Children to withstand radiation without harm. Ware himself was a Trapper before his group stumbled upon High Confessor Tektus and some Children on their way to a pilgrimage. It's an old story of practical conversion.  For the promise of three meals a day and never worrying about being eaten in his sleep, who wouldn't choose to ‘join the family?’ Now, he was hoping beyond hope I was as practically minded in my devotion as he was. His friend Devin is a jet addict. The boy was convinced that if he went on a fast and bathed himself in radiation, that he would receive a message from Atom himself to let him overcome his vices or some such nonsense. What he was doing was slowly killing himself. Ware’s plan was to help the vision along. I was the perfect stranger for the job.

“Valentine,” I said, “I'm about to do one of those stupid things you're so fond of.”

He smiled. “Figured. Can't say I object too much to this one.”

Dressed in old rags and possibly emanating a faint glow from radiation exposure, I gave a grand speech to the suffering Brother. I don't even remember what I said, something about his fasting bringing about his own salvation, after all he hadn't touched jet since he started. Whatever I said, it worked. Devin hurried off, overjoyed, and I felt a comforting skeletal hand on my arm.

“Still standing?” Valentine sounded oddly amused, “Come on, Ware said he's got something that should help.”

“What's amusing?”

“It’s funny how much Atom's Messenger sounds like the Silver Shroud.”

I stifled a laugh, and drank down the syrupy brew Ware handed me without question. It felt like a dose of Radaway and three stimpaks at the same time. Ware was grateful for my help, and gave me the recipe in thanks.

“If nothing else, you saved a kid’s life, so this might be worth all the effort,” Valentine said.

We returned to our original purpose. I brought the idol to the High Confessor. He was impressed, though more cautious than his Grand Zealot. According to him, he and Confessor Martin came to the Island from the Capital Wasteland. The people of Far Harbor cast them out, and they and the few followers they had found in town barely escaped with their lives. Given the general hostility the Harbormen and women show newcomers, I can believe it. Of course, sending Children to sabotage the Harbor and preaching damnation isn't going to help matters, but reason rarely makes sense to those who are already certain of their moral high ground. The same goes for Far Harbor, people like Allen Lee in particular who would rather eliminate anything they don't understand than try to coexist.

Dima and the Children existed in peace until Dima gave Far Harbor the Fog condensers. Now Tektus is determined to obtain the memories Dima made them promise to never access. None of his people have been successful. Security around the Control Center housing Dima's memories consisted of a single guard, who warned me not to enter. Everyone who has gone in, hasn't come out. I made some comment about faith shielding me, she scoffed, and let us inside.

As we beheld a tunnel filled with laser tripwires and machine gun turrets, Valentine said with sardonic humor, “Well that looks fun.”

Our progress through was difficult, primarily due to the two assaultrons with stealth capabilities on guard. Fortunately the tunnel was narrow, and I had brought a couple of mines with me. Once we had finally penetrated to the computer banks, all that remained was to use the program Faraday had designed to retrieve the encoded memories.

Dima had said I would have to go inside to retrieve them. As a device lowered for me to put over my head, I half expected something remotely similar to the Memory Den. I couldn’t have been farther from the truth. It was a world of blue blocks and hovering red defense programs, things called indexers looked like pixelated green insects scurrying to carry data to its destination…

When I finally emerged, I groaned, rubbing the sides of my head, “Thank goodness that's done. I've never been so bored.”

Valentine was skeptical, “You were inside the mind of a prototype synth hooked up to computers and it was boring?”

“My fascination with the alien environment I found myself within was quickly overshadowed by the banality of the task in front of me. I'd have thought your brother might have something a bit less repetitive guarding his secrets… but that’s neither here nor there. You need to listen to this.”

I handed him the holotape of one of the memories I’d found. It was the day they escaped. A frightened and confused Nick Valentine demanded answers, asking what sort of a thing Dima was without even realizing he was the same. An argument led to a fight, and Dima walked away, leaving Valentine to wake up in a junkyard alone.

Valentine was shaken. “God… Dima really did help me escape the Institute? I wasn’t just tossed out with the garbage?”

I nodded, “So it seems.”

“I must’ve still been in a haze from the Institute’s experiments. Did I really attack him? Did he really knock the daylights out of me and leave me for dead?” He shook his head, frustrated, “Damn it, why can’t I remember?”

A hand on his shoulder seemed ludicrously inadequate for comfort, but I didn’t know what else to do. “Perhaps Dima is right and over time memories are overwritten, or perhaps the blow he gave you had something to do with it. Perhaps you’re no different than anyone else who suffers a traumatic experience and promptly buries any memory of it happening.”

He sighed, and covered my hand with his. “Yeah. Well, I wanted proof Dima and I had history, and I got it. Now I just gotta figure out what to do.”

“Do you want a brother in your life?”

“And if I did, would I want Dima to be that brother? I don’t know, Holmes. A lot of time has passed. I don’t know anything about him, not really. Maybe that’s the place to start. Try to be a little nicer to the old synth. Make up for lost time…”

My hand fell from his shoulder, a strange tightness in my chest. I want him to be happy, to have at least a chance at reunion with the brother he never knew, but I also knew what Dima’s memories held. “You should know, Dima is hiding something. His memories mention contingency plans, a secret medical facility. I believe the reason he offloaded these memories is because he couldn’t stand to remember… traumatic experiences.”

Valentine frowned, but nodded, “We have to know what's going on. I'd like to take Dima’s word for it, but we have to see for ourselves.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, no it’s… I’m glad you gave me this. At least I know that much is true, that he cared enough to get me out. As for the rest… we’ll have to find out, won’t we?”

Dima buried a kill switch code for the turbines that power the Fog condensers around Far Harbor. A secret medical facility is apparently housed somewhere inside a soda factory, where something happened that Dima hated himself for. He found the nuclear launch key for the submarine within the Nucleus and promptly removed his memory of its location. 

We are going to be remarkably busy.

[shujins-voice]

▶🔘──────── 01:20:13

🎵🎶Opening musical jingle🎶🎵

🔊 [Risa]: Welcome listeners to Risa's Corner~! Today is April 24th 20XX, here for your weekly Sunday cast.

🔊 [Risa]: Let's talk the news, my dear listeners.

🔊 [Risa]: Here's our first story: It's been all over the news since the story broke this morning, but that cat killer case is really strange.

🔊 [Risa]: First, there's what the guy did--Ayaka Kimura, age [ ], taking stray cats and torturing them. He was found dead in his apartment after it was seemingly broken into with 20 disfigured and deceased cats around his body. He has a broken nose but the autopsy report couldn't figure out the cause of his death. "Cat Killer" was spray painted onto his door.

🔊 [Risa]: Not to run straight to speculation, but is it just me, or does this case resemble the Domino Cases? For new listeners, the Domino Cases are the recent slew of cases solved by Katsura Noriko--the name was created on this cast during one of our live shows, just for us to personally categorizes as we speculate and fact hunt ourselves.

🔊 [Risa]: The Domino Cases have only a few things in common among cases--they all have a sudden burst of psychotic breaks that result in the perpetrator to rampage but either die of an unknown cause or dispose of themselves. The autopsy reports always show no conclusive cause of death. The psychotic and nonsensical break in a person's psyche leads to death--kinda like dominoes, where one thing leads to the next.

🔊 [Risa]: Here at Risa's Corner, we've had a lot of speculation from poison to simple coincidence, but I was doing some research the other day about Tokyo cases 5 years plus ago, cuz you know, there can never be too much information about murder and crime, and stumbled upon the Mental Shutdown cases.

🔊 [Risa]: There were so many occurrences 5 years ago, and many news outlets covered it at the time, but what was called a "mental shutdown" suddenly stopped, so everyone assumed the culprit either died or was captured quietly by police. I'm not saying that the Mental Shutdown cases and the Domino Cases have the same perpetrator, nor that they are even *remotely* the same--the Mental Shutdown cases have different symptoms than the Domino Cases--but they do have something in common.

🔊 [Risa]: They happen to seemingly random people, at random times, for random reasons--and the person affected by them die for some undetermined reason. There's also the Psychotic Breakdown cases that some theorize to be attached, or at least somehow related to, the Mental Shutdown cases--and those were handled by the late detective Akechi Goro, so obviously this situation is more complicated and you can't compare them this easily, but it's weird right?

🔊 [Risa]: We'll have to wait on more conclusive evidence before drawing any conclusions, but even look at the recent case in Shjinjuku of the 24 year old man wielding a bat and attacking random people. After this spree of violence, where he critical injured two people, he suddenly died before police even got on the scene. His autopsy results showed nothing conclusive about what killed him.

🔊 [Risa]: Then there's the case with two college students ramming their car into a jewelry store and making off with money and rings, only to drop dead after running away from the police. Many of the Domino Cases are nonsensical, and the police are often playing catch up when they discovery the bodies after everything goes down.

🔊 [Risa]: Katsura-san has been a vital component to solving this recent outbreak of cases, and has gained a lot of attention for her contributions. You've probably seen her all over TV and in the paper.

🔊 [Risa]: Of course, there has been some criticism of Katsura-san, dismissing her as a trend or just another attention grabber. The label of "Detective Prince" has often been associated with her name as of late, but many detractors call her "Detective Prissy", demeaning her detective work and claiming she's trying to usurp the role other detective princes have filled despite having no talent and originating from a no name place.

🔊 [Risa]: I think this behavior from others is stupid and inane for several reasons: Katsura-san first garnered notoriety due to the Daigoku Corp case she solved when she was 14, but if you look at her personal track record of solved cases, you'll find she's worked harder than many detective currently employed by the police.

🔊 [Risa]: And so what if she does public interviews and TV appearance? Did anyone criticize and lambaste Akechi Goro for trying to appeal to the public? He had valid and strong push back against him, but it was for his opinion, and not in the way people currently treat Katsura-san

🔊 [Risa]: Now I'm not saying that someone who brags and preens their role as a fake detective is the same as the real deal, nor that Akechi-san or Katsura-san are levels above each other, or lesser than each other. It's TRUE that Katsura-san hasn't been as active as she was before she was discovered, but she hasn't stopped working.

🔊 [Risa]: Looping back to the TV appearance thing, hey interviewers? You know she's 17 right? You sure you want to creep on her like that and push her with invasive questions?

🔊 [Risa]: I have a recent article on my site you can read comparing and contrasting the types of questions asked to Akechi Goro in his prime, a male detective, and Katsura Noriko, a female detective. It's no secret or mystery why there's such a stark difference, but if you want to see just how rampant the disrespect towards females in this industry is, that post can give you a taste.

🔊 [Risa]: It's not just Katsura-san either--look at the recent rape accusations made by a local female journalist. The angle many outlets and media organisations have taken and framed this story is not only disgusting but demeaning. It's the same song and dance every time with victims of sexual assault--people victim shame and assume the journalist is accusing out of jealously or trying to tear someone of power down. That's literally not how it works!

🔊 [Risa]: There are people who falsely accuse people of assault, yes, but those are in the minority. Especially in Japan. In 2014 legislators revised a century-old rape law to include serious penalties, but the lengths prosecutors need to go in order to prove it in court hasn't changed.

🔊 [Risa]: You know what determines if a rape is a crime? If the woman tries to fight back. Not if she says "no", not if she can't consent. If she doesn't fight back, it's hard to prove in court, and going through the process of filing charges can be intense and hurtful for the victims.

🔊 [Risa]: Like always, women are treated differently in this country, and throughout the world. Below this cast I have some helpful links for you if you want to read more on this topic, along with my citations, since I know I've gotten pretty heated on this topic, but I do recommend you read further on this. Even if you don't agree with me, there's always something to learn, so educate yourself.

🔊 [Risa]: Ah, but with that depressing rant out of the way, let's move onto the lighter segment of our program, Risa's Recommendations!

🔊 [Risa]: Happy pride week! Here's a reminder that the Tokyo Pride festival is on the 28th and 29th of this week. The parade will start in Shibuya and lead into Harajuku on the 28th. Want to participate? There's a sign up sheet online for groups, or you can go to Yoyogi Park, where the festival will be held, to sign up for free in person.

🔊 [Risa]: Speaking of the festival, the Tokyo Rainbow Pride festival will have more companies sponsoring it than ever before! The festivities will continue into Golden Week, so if you're a busy student don't worry!

🔊 [Risa]: On the 26th there is the pudding festival near DiverCity, boasting over 100 variants of pudding from all across Japan, so it's perfect for anyone with a sweet tooth! I remember going last year and got my hands on some kind of melon flavoured pudding--ahhh that was so yummy~!

🔊 [Risa]: On the 24th, today, is the Hanazono Shrine Antique Market, an small but regular antique fair that has 25-30 stalls. The fair runs from sunrise to sunset, but you should keep in mind most stalls close around 3pm. If you're any kind of collector, you should pop by and see what wares are available!

🔊 [Risa]: And of course, if you're still in the festival mood, all over Tokyo are cherry blossom festivals! If I were to recommend one though, I'd say go for the one in Roppongi. I've heard great things from my friend about it, but I still need to drag him to go with me sometime!

🔊 [Risa]: And that's all the time we have for today! Thank you for listening and like I always say; stay keen, seen, and clean! Take care~

[mst3kproject]

320: The Unearthly

The first word that comes to mind to describe this movie is 'colourless', which gets an immediate reaction of well, duh, because the movie is of course in black and white.  But above and beyond that, The Unearthly is completely lacking in interest, tension, characters, and everything ese that makes a movie entertaining.  It could have had these things, but apparently it just didn't bother.

Mad Scientist Dr. Charles Conway believes he has discovered the secret to immortality – an artificial gland which, when implanted into the patient's brain, will modulate their hormones to keep them young and fit forever!  So far all his test subjects end up deformed, dead, or unresponsive, but he's determined that he'll get it right if he just keeps trying, and has a friend refer mental patients to him so he can continue to experiment on them.  Then fate throws a wrench in the works, in the form of escaped criminal Mark Houston.  Conway takes Houston in with the idea of blackmailing him, but Houston is actually an undercover police officer, here to expose the whole project.

The Unearthly is a difficult movie to write a summary of, actually, because the story is very unfocused and seems to spend a lot of time wandering aimlessly from scene to scene without actually getting anything done.  This is largely because of the way it handles its characters.  Mark Houston is technically our hero, but we don't meet him until we've already spent almost ten minutes getting to know a completely different character in a way that suggests she will be our protagonist.

The movie begins with Grace Thomas, a woman suffering from mental illness, whose psychologist Dr. Wright has brought her to Conway's quiet little halfway house.  Supposedly this is for treatment, but once Grace is out of the room the two doctors' conversation makes it clear that they intend to fake her death and experiment on her.  All this is dealt with in some detail, and in a way that seems to set Grace up as the audience identification character.  Somebody who watched only these first few minutes would probably guess that the rest of the movie is about Grace discovering that something is wrong and trying to get in touch with her father, whom Wright identifies as her only living family.

This is not the case, though.  Grace goes to bed, Wright heads out to throw her purse in the bay and claim she drowned herself, and then we meet Mark.  For the rest of the film, it will be Mark we follow, as he investigates Conway's nefarious experiments while Grace sits around doing and saying nothing much of interest.  In fact, Grace is a singularly bland character, partly because she's written that way and partly because the actress evinces no interest in her lines whatsoever.  Allison Hayes was in two other MST3K features, The Undead and Gunslinger, as well as a number of other classic b-movies like Attack of the 50-Foot Woman and Zombies of Mora Tau, and this is the worst performance I have ever seen her give.  She sounds like she's bored to tears.

In fact, Grace has less personality than any other member of the cast, including Tor Johnson's Lobo.  The other patients at Conway's retreat include Dan, a man prone to fits of anger, and Natalie, a chipper and trusting young woman looking forward to going home. Conway himself is egotistical and obsessive, and his assistant, Dr. Gilchrist, is professional and a little bit motherly.  Mark is nosy but cautious, as befits his investigative role.  I cannot pick out any personality traits like this for Grace.  She just says lines while staring blankly at the wall.

While Mark may be the hero, we are clearly supposed to feel something for Grace.  The last two people Dr. Conway experimented on came to bad ends, and we're supposed to worry that Grace will be next and Mark will not be in time to save her.  She is such a nonentity, though, that it's almost impossible to care.  We're supposed to want to see a romance blossom between her and Mark, but she's totally apathetic.  We're supposed to believe that she trusts Dr. Conway and comes to him with her problems, but the movie tells us this without bothering to establish it properly. Even when she's supposed to be angry with Mark and ordering him to leave her alone, it just doesn't work.  Nothing around Grace is interesting, and since she is the focal point for other characters throughout the narrative, the movie never has a proper center.  That, however, is merely annoying.  If you want to get angry at this movie, let's talk about portrayals of women and mental illness.

Dr. Conway's patients are explicitly mental patients, perhaps because he claims to need perfect physical specimens for his artificial gland to work.  Mental illness in movies is usually not researched very well, and I don't think The Unearthly was an exception to that, even though it tries to be a little more realistic.  At least it doesn't have anybody who talks to hand puppets or a guy who thinks he's Napoleon – what it's got is Dan, a man who is a bit paranoid and suffers from fits of ranting anger, sometimes needing medication to calm down.  He is presented as something of a joke, and the other characters treat him as if they consider him unreasonable rather than ill – but he is at least allowed to be ill and show symptoms.  The same cannot be said of the women.

Grace is described as having suffered a nervous breakdown and being prone to mood swings: she'll be suddenly afraid, or will break down in tears for no reason, but we never see her behave oddly.  In fact, Grace comes across as calm and collected at all times, and we see no difference in her between the scene where she arrives and the one where Dr. Conway tells her she's made excellent progress. Natalie is presented to us as nearly cured and ready to leave the retreat, so it's not surprising if she shows no symptoms, but she is unable to describe her previous illness as anything other than an inability to 'get herself together'.

So what we have here is two cases of acute Fictional Disease: women in movies are allowed to suffer from terrible illnesses, but only as long as these do not render them unattractive or antisocial.  A woman going into the same kind of rant as Dan would come across as bitchy rather than ill, and would be automatically unsympathetic to a male audience who would associate such behaviour with the stereotype of the nitpicking, nagging wife.  We're supposed to like Grace and Natalie, so their health problems can only manifest in ways that make us want to protect and help them, and actual symptoms are kept discreetly off-camera. At the end of the story, I think we're supposed to assume that Grace's problems will be solved not by a licensed practitioner with years of training, but by the power of Twu Wuv. Evidently people in the 50's still accepted the Victorian idea that all women's health issues can be solved by a generous application of dick.

Then there's the way Dr. Conway behaves towards Grace.  At their first appointment, he tells this sick woman who has been committed to his care that she looks lovely, and that “if I were Rembrandt I would paint a portrait of you”.  He claims that many women would envy her and that her looks and charm make her worthy of attention and protection.  Perhaps if Grace is suffering from low self-esteem these are things she needs to hear, but they come across as deeply creepy and unprofessional, and the worst part is that I can't actually tell if the movie wants us to find them so.

There was a similar dynamic, with a mad scientist hitting on his patient while the female assistant became jealous, in Atom Age Vampire, but in that movie it was explicitly manipulative and wrong.  The Unearthly, however, is much more neutral in its presentation of this material.  It just sits back and watches, without placing a value judgment, and Dr. Gilchrist's condemnation of the behaviour is much milder than that of her counterpart in Atom Age Vampire.  Later Dr. Conway laments the fact that Grace has 'turned on him', suggesting that he did in fact have feelings for her... in which case, perhaps we're meant to think he was expressing honest affection?  Whatever the case, it's gross.

The Unearthly's single greatest moment of misogyny, however, comes courtesy of Dr. Wright.  In order to facilitate Grace's disappearance, Dr. Wright throws some of her possessions into the sea in order to suggest she committed suicide in her depression.  Not long after, he finds himself in a similar pickle when another vanished patient's sister turns up on his doorstep – Wright calls Conway to ask what to do, and Conway tells him to simply make out a death certificate for the man, who has been in a coma since the experiment anyway.  Wright, who personally came up with the plan to fake Grace's suicide, is horrified.

There are only two possibilities I can come up with to explain this contradiction.  Either the screenwriter just couldn't keep track of which characters were willing to do what in the name of science – or Dr. Wright is just fine with faking the death of a woman, whose life doesn't matter, but repulsed by the thought of doing it for a man, whose does.  I think it's just shitty writing, but I can't be sure.

The Unearthly really could have been much better than it is, but it did just about everything wrong.  The idea of a mad scientist experimenting on mental patients because he knows anything they say will not be believed is one that could work, but is never explored.  Conway's basement full of possibly-immortal monsters could have been used to much better effect.  Mark's assumed persona of criminal on the run wondering what he's gotten into was far more interesting than his actual role turned out to be.  Grace would have been a way better character if she'd ever done something. Anything.  In the end, the movie simply misses every opportunity it had, and the result is as dull as a bowl of plain oatmeal.  Like I said, colourless.

[caranfindel]

Episode Recap/Review 12.21: "There's Something About Mary" (with bonus episode tag!)

THEN: Kill the hunters. Lucifetus. Mary and Ketch.

NOW: Can we just pretend this didn’t happen? Please?

{sigh}

Okay. A woman is running through a forest. It’s Eileen Leahy. She’s killed by a hellhound, who is under Ketch’s control. Now let’s get drunk and never think about it again.

I mean, seriously, goddammit.

I refused to believe it at first. Because the hellhound didn’t rip her apart; it just shook her and tossed her around. I told myself she was just unconscious, that Ketch was simply using the hellhound to catch her, and that she’d be held captive in the BMoL compound as bait for the Winchesters or something. (Why would Ketch use a hellhound to capture her? I don’t know. Why would he use one to kill her? Either is ridiculous.)

Farewell Eileen, you beautiful little badass. You deserved better.

Title card!

Sam and Dean enter a hotel room, looking for Mary. Sam is perfectly fine, which means that weirdness at the end of the previous episode, with Dean not being able to wake him in the car, was nothing. Thanks a lot, Show.

Seriously, goddammit.

(Sidebar: I started watching the show with half a glass of wine. At this point I got up and poured myself a full glass.)

Carrying on. All of Mary’s stuff is gone and she apparently hasn’t been there for a while. Sam suggests contacting the BMoL, since she’s been staying there as well, but Dean says Mick hasn’t answered a single call since they “sent him to London.” (Which I kind of like as a euphemism for violently murdered him.) He calls Ketch, who pretends not to know who he is (apparently asking “Dean who?”) and then claims to have not seen Mary in over a week. The guys know this is a lie, since Mary called two days ago and said she was on a case with him.

Sam’s phone interrupts this conversation. It’s Jody, calling with the news about Eileen being sent to London. Sam holds it together, but when he describes what happened to Eileen (“mauled by a wild animal in an area that doesn’t have animals that do that”) his voice gets a little shaky and then he turns away and puts his hand over his mouth and damn you, Jared. You got me. Her death is distressing not only because it’s Eileen, but because it’s the second hunter they’ve heard about in the last two weeks. (Honestly? Hunting’s a dangerous job. Two hunters in two weeks doesn’t seem that far off the mark.) Dean agrees with me and says that two hunters doesn’t mean a pattern. “But three would,” Sam points out. “Mom is a hunter, and no one knows where she is.” Duh duh duuuuuhhhh!!!

Sad boys! Worried boys!

And then Jared gets me even worse when we cut to the Winchesters at the morgue, with Eileen’s body. There’s no music, just Sam standing silently over her body. Dean gives him a concerned look, and I like that it’s acknowledged that she was Sam’s friend in particular. He’s clearly on the verge of tears as they discuss Eileen’s wounds and decide it had to be a hellhound. Although we’ve seen hellhound victims, up close and personal, and they weren’t just tossed around. They were clawed open. But okay. Dean doesn’t exhibit any PTSD symptoms that one might expect upon seeing a hellhound victim, possibly because Eileen doesn’t look like one at all, and questions why she left Ireland. Let me remind you that as I pointed out earlier, Ireland’s a lot closer to the BMoL homeland, so, maybe not so safe. (And yet America was obviously not so safe either.)

Sam and his unshed tears are KILLING ME.

Dean now says there have been seven hunter deaths in three weeks, so either they learned more about things that happened before the two-week window they mentioned earlier, or it’s been another week since they heard about Eileen and there have been more deaths. Dean wonders if all the things out there are suddenly working together, and Sam says monsters and demons don’t team up. (Spoiler alert: I wouldn’t be so sure about that, Sam.) But hunters are dying and Cas is AWOL with Lucifer’s baby mama and Mary is missing and Mick is missing and Ketch is lying and Sam says what we’re all thinking: he wants to punch something in the face. “Good,” says Dean. “Hold onto that. Cause it’s looks like we’ve got a hellhound to deal with, which means…”

Before we cut to what this means, let me point out that this is actually a lovely scene. It’s sad, quiet, dark, and intense. The lack of the typical sad piano music as Sam looks down on Eileen’s corpse effectively intensifies the horror of the whole thing. Whatever else Show fucks up tonight, they did a nice job here.

And it should go without saying that it was also very, very pretty.

And now, cut to Crowley, ordering a minion to find Kelly Kline, in case we’ve forgotten he was interested in that. (Yawn.) Next!

Next we see a hunter entering his house. We know he’s a hunter because he drops a bloody machete into an umbrella stand at his front door. So we also know he’s a sloppy hunter who doesn’t take care of his tools, cause that’s nasty. He’s surprised to find Mary Winchester in his living room, and even more surprised when she attacks and kills him (though he does manage to slice her with a broken beer bottle).

Cut to Mary waking up in the BMoL bunker. Was that a dream? Toni Bevell walks in and there’s a lot of talk but I don’t care. The gist of it is that Mary’s being drugged and brainwashed (“realigned” into natural born killer Mary Campbell, according to Toni), that the BMoL know about Mary and Azazel, and Mary finds out what John really did after she died. Mary sees a stitched-up cut on her hand and realizes she actually did kill that hunter.

Meanwhile, Dr. Hess is going through some files when we hear a familiar Limey voice behind her. This bunker has, like, no warding at all, does it? Crowley wants to make sure the arrangement he has with the BMoL in the UK will carry over to the colonies when all the American hunters have been killed. Ah, looks like monsters and demons work together after all. (Because people are monsters, get it?) Hess agrees that as long as Crowley’s demons stick to people who have signed away their souls, and share info as needed, they won’t have a problem. Um, what does that mean for unwilling demon vessels? Anyway, I’m sure none of the Powers That Be give a rat’s ass about this particular detail, but I like that this explains why Crowley was able to pop into Scotland unobstructed, lo these many years ago. We learn that Crowley is the one who provided a hellhound to Ketch, and that he and Hess are equally interested in finding the Lucifetus. Hess tells Crowley she’s not going to spare the Winchesters when it comes to eliminating the American hunters, and he doesn’t respond; he just smiles. Which could mean “absolutely” or could mean “ha, like I’m going to let you destroy my favorites, you silly twit.”

Back in Hell Adjacent, Lucifer’s little buddy is still working on releasing him, and I’m afraid I couldn’t care less. What I do care about is that while this is happening, Crowley is on the phone with Sam, claiming he knows nothing about the hellhound that killed Eileen. Because yay, angry Sam. Though it does seem like this is a call Dean would have made, not Sam, so I’m going to side a bit with you Dean!Girls who feel he’s being marginalized this season.

But still. Angry Sam bitching at Crowley? Come on. This is good stuff.

There’s some Lucifer/Crowley nonsense which I’m going to skip because I really, literally, do not care. Crowley wants to raise the Lucifetus as his own son. Did we already know this? {shrug}

At the BMoL, an unconscious Mary is carried into her room. Toni walks smugly down the hall and brags to Hess about her progress to. Ketch makes fun of her and she flounces out. Hess tells Ketch how proud she is that he’s willing to torture and brainwash Mary when he was sleeping with her just days ago, and that he might end up in charge of the American branch eventually. Or it might be Toni. (How much do I care? Guess.)

Back to “Lebanon,” although this city with a large post office and multi-story buildings is obviously not Lebanon. The Winchesters are picking up their mail, and Dean announces they have a letter from Eileen. She thought her phone and computer were hacked, so she sent snail mail four days ago. According to the letter, she was too scared to stay in Ireland and fled to the U.S. after finding a microphone in her room. Sam reads the letter aloud, his voice cracking when she asks if she can stay with them for a few days. And there’s an awful lot to dislike about this episode, my friends, but the way they’re letting Sam actually grieve Eileen… it’s fantastic. (Compare it to how glib Dean was about Sam being missing, at the beginning of the season, for example.)

I really am a sadist, because I love this.

Dean deduces that if Eileen was convinced the BMoL were after her, they might be the ones who killed her, and next we see the guys searching the bunker for bugs. Dean eventually locates the microphone under the table in the war room, silently signaling his discovery to Sam. They have a conversation about a mythical hunter named Terry who has figured out what’s going on, and set up a fake meeting.

Oh, yay, more Lucifer. His little demon buddy discovers that whatever he’s doing is increasing Lucifer’s power over Crowley as Crowley’s power over Lucifer decreases.

At the BMoL compound, Ketch and Toni are awkwardly training the hellhound. It’s a bit cute that Ketch says he’s not going to say “bad dog,” no matter what the dog does. Ketch tells her Mick’s job is practically his, and she tells him Hess told her the same thing, so now he knows she’s his direct competition. Once again, everyone on this show is so eager to play their hand. I’d have just said “oh, how nice for you,” and then laughed when I got the job. But I guess discretion doesn’t move the plot along, does it? (It’s not just Supernatural. Everyone does this.) One thing we learn is that Toni and Ketch’s relationship occurred while they were at BMoLwarts School for Young Psychopaths, which means it’s not something recent. Which means he could be the father of her son. Hmm.

Ketch is told Mary’s asking for him, so he goes to her cell. She’s affectionate, but he rejects her, saying they made it clear they didn’t have a relationship (Oooh, bet you regret that decision now, Mary). He tells her she doesn’t know the real him and wouldn’t want to, and we’re going to talk about that later. She embraces him anyway, but it’s a ploy to get his gun and try to kill herself. She should have shot him first, because when she puts the gun to her jaw, Ketch grabs it away from her. She then begs him to kill her, because “all I’ve had, all my life, other than my family, is my will, and it’s it going away.” She recognizes she’s putting her sons in danger, and she’d rather die. Ketch promises that this will all be over soon, and leaves.

Next the Impala pulls up at a warehouse, the location of the fake meeting with fake hunter Terry. A different big black car pulls up. Toni stays in the car, but two thugs with her sneak into the warehouse behind the Winchesters. Sam and Dean lock them inside (hee) while Toni watches angrily. She then gets out her little lady gun, but the passenger side window suddenly shatters. As she turns toward it and shoots, her own door opens behind her and Dean yanks her out of the car, causing her to drop her gun. They fight and he seems to lose but then she looks up and sees this.

That’s right, bitch.

Oh, lord, even more Crowley and Lucifer. Lucifer makes Crowley his puppet for a while before Crowley actually catches on, and I guess it’s cute, but I’m just over it. Let’s get the rest of this out of the way right now. Lucifer removes his chains and instead of zapping out, Crowley immediately tries sucking up and then tries to physically run. He’s stopped by Lucifer and gets flung around Hell Adjacent and then stabbed with an angel blade. There’s no flash of light, so we know he’s not dead. We see a mouse approach right before he’s stabbed, and when his “body” is dragged from the room, the mouse follows. Gee, I wonder who’s in that mouse. Will it be next week, or S13, when we get the flashback to Crowley invisibly smoking out and possessing the mouse?

And on to more important things. In the Impala, Sam keeps a gun on Toni and asks why she’s spying on them, and what she knows about Eileen. “Rule of thumb,” she says, “if you think we killed someone, then we probably did.” She’s not afraid of Sam, possibly because she remembers he could have killed her in that farmhouse basement and didn’t. She reminds the Winchesters that attacking a BMoL means they’re subject to punishment, possibly at the hands of their own mother, who is their “permanent guest.” Not just a guest, but one of their best killers. Dean snarks that Mary doesn’t like any of them, including Ketch, and Toni’s all ha ha ha, why is she banging him then? The guys are offended that Ketch said it was “some of the best sex he’d ever had,” so she quickly clarifies that it was definitely the best sex he’d ever had. (Sorry, Toni, I know that was hard for you.) Strangely enough, this doesn’t mollify them. I guess they’d have preferred that Ketch said she was a lousy lay.

The guys are stunned to learn that Mick is “quite dead.” (Sidebar: Toni uses quite the way an American would, to mean very, but I thought Brits used it to mean sort of. Of course, Toni’s dialog was written by Americans, I suppose, although now that I think of it, Eugenie Ross-Leming does sound like a very British name, and let’s just drop this and carry on, shall we?) She explains that Mick was considered too sentimental, too much like every American hunter, and that’s why every American hunter will also soon be quite dead. “Jody Mills, Claire Novak, all of your other flannel-wearing, whiskey-swilling friends. They’re dead.” The way she says that makes it sound like they could already be dead, but I choose to believe she means they are as good as dead. Because if they kill Billie and Eileen AND Jody this season, I’m going to be very, very unhappy. (Claire can go. I’m okay with that one.)

No mother jokes, Toni. They don’t go for that.

The Winchesters herd Toni down the bunker stairs, with Sam’s gun still on her. Dean instructs her to tell Ketch that if he wants to see her alive, he’ll get his “prissy ass” over here, because Dean assumes Ketch wants her kept alive. But Ketch’s prissy ass is already there, with three of his own thugs. Everyone points guns at the Winchesters and the first time I watched this, I thought Dean had his gun out as well and I was all, dammit guys, you KNOW they’re going to kill you, you’ve literally got nothing to lose here, JUST SHOOT THEM. But Sam’s the only one with a gun in his hand. Ketch tells Toni to disarm them and Sam relaxes his stance and I wait angrily for the disarming, but then they exchange a look and all of a sudden they jump into BAMF mode. As Toni reaches for Sam’s gun, he grabs her arm in slow-motion and shoots Thug #1 next to him. Dean grabs his own gun and shoots behind his back, because he’s Dean Fucking Winchester, taking out Thug #2 on his side. He then runs across the room, shooting action-movie style, at Ketch and the remaining thug, as Sam drags Toni and uses her as a human shield. Ketch sends Thug #3 down the hall (why?) but Dean intercepts him, then sneaks up behind Ketch with an awesome little slide and snags his gun.

I’m totally willing to act as Sam’s human shield if it means he’ll crush me against a wall like that. Just putting that out there. (Also, how big of a box do you think Toni is standing on?)

Dean holds a gun to Ketch’s head and demands to know where their mom is, which is of course Mary’s cute to show up, pointing her own gun. The guys are relieved to see her until they realize she’s on the BMoL side. Sam doesn’t fight at all as she relieves him of his gun; I’d elbow her in the face or something. No, I wouldn’t, but he’s Sam Fucking Winchester. He would. But he does, at least, recognize that they’ve done something to Mary, so at least he knows she didn’t turn of her own free will. He’s got experience; he knows what the BMoL can do to someone’s mind.

Ketch leaves with Mary, but when Toni goes to follow, he points his gun at her and informs her that she’s expendable and she’s not coming with him. Well, that’s one way to get rid of the competition. Awfully dumb of Toni to let him know she actually was the competition. I don’t think she’s very good at her job. Dean tries to get Mary to look at him and break the spell, because Dean knows that everyone who loves him has been able to break through someone else’s control to avoid killing him, but apparently the BMoL brainwashing is stronger than demons, officious controlling angels, and Lucifer himself. Or is it just that Mary is weaker than Bobby, Cas, or Sam? Discuss. Because this time, the power of love does not save the day, and Mary remains unmoved. Ketch tells them he’s locking the bunker from the outside, shutting off the water, and reversing the pumps that supply air, and they have two or three days of oxygen. He leaves with Mary, the red lights come on, and things do not look good at all.

Well. Some things do look very good.

Aftermath! As Ketch drives them back to the BMoL compound, he compliments Toni’s successful “treatment” and promises Mary it will become easier. “Easier to hurt people I love?” Mary asks. So, she knows. She remembers who those boys are, and that she loves them. “Easier to hurt people you don’t remember loving,” he responds. So that part’s going to go away. He asks how she feels, and she robotically says “Fine. I’m fine.”

The last scene is Lucifer standing on a lovely hilltop looking at a sunrise. Or sunset. Either way, he smiles and declares “my sun.” Or “my son.” Probably not much difference in his mind.

So.

The first time I watched this episode, I felt like this.

But on rewatch, it’s… I don’t want to say it’s good. But it’s not horrible, other than Eileen’s death. It does have some very good parts. It’s just hard to care about a lot of it because I’m really not interested in Mary, or the Lucifetus.

Eileen is dead. And obviously I’m crushed. But there are a lot of people calling for the Buckleming’s head(s) over this one, and we really can’t blame them. We can blame them for a lot of things - clunky exposition, annoying retconning, non-con tendencies, etc. But they don’t decide if a recurring character lives or dies. Someone gave them the assignment to kill Eileen, and I’m shocked to say that I’m at least pleased with how it was handled, with the way Sam was able to show his feelings, to actually grieve. Pleased and shocked.

Who is the “real” Arthur Ketch; the one he thinks Mary wouldn’t want to know? And why does he know so much about how she feels right now, after being “realigned?” I think it’s because he was realigned himself. In 12.20, Shifter!Ketch revealed that Ketch doesn’t even actually have a natural British accent. I think at some point, little American Arthur Ketch was picked up by the BMoL, perhaps “rescued” the way Mick Davies was, and realigned into a soulless killing machine with a Brit accent. And that’s why he understands what Mary is going through. Does this mean I’m going to be expected to have sympathy for him in the future? Because I just don’t see that happening.

Sam and Dean are obviously going to be forced to work with Toni, unless they kill her to save oxygen. (And I really, really hope they do that, but I’m not counting on it.) Well, there’s something new and exciting - Sam forced to work with someone who tortured him! Who could have possibly seen that coming? There is only one thing that could make me feel good about this particular development, and that is if they end it like this:

Bonus 12.21 coda!

~~~~~

An hour outside Lebanon, Toni’s headache has finally subsided. Ketch was probably being optimistic when he said there might be three days left of oxygen in the bunker; it took them two days to get out and she’s fairly certain that for most of day two, half of what she was breathing was carbon dioxide.

But that’s all behind them. The Winchesters figured out how to escape, and couldn’t have done it without her - neither of them would have fit in the ductwork she had to shimmy through - and though their alliance sits uneasy in the pit of her stomach, it is what it is. They’re speeding toward the BMoL compound, and they’ve contacted a few surviving American hunters to join them. Once Ketch and his reprobate crew are dispatched, she’ll be in a good position to take care of the remaining Americans, by persuasion or by other means, and claim her rightful spot as the head of the new American Men of Letters.

Sam Winchester turns from the front seat to look at her. He’s no longer wearing the pinched expression, no longer rubbing his forehead, so his headache must have eased as well. Time to make her pitch. “Well,” she smiles. “I suppose we’re even, now that I’ve helped save your lives. Let’s wipe the slate clean then, shall we? Start from scratch, as allies, and figure out how the British Men of Letters can guide you Americans into the future of monster control.”

Sam’s mouth twists into something that’s not quite a smile. He doesn’t reply to her, but taps his brother on the shoulder and points to the left. Dean pulls onto a rutted dirt road that leads to an old farmhouse. It seems abandoned, with peeling paint and overgrown shrubs surrounding it, but there are two cars parked outside. One is marked Sioux Falls Sheriff’s Department, and she sighs with relief. Looks like Jody Mills hasn’t been taken out just yet, which is in her favor if she wants to keep the Winchesters in her back pocket for any length of time. She doesn’t recognize the other car.

Dean pulls up next to the house, and she waits in the car until he opens her door. “The hunters are gathering here?” she asks.

“Yeah. We’ll meet here before we go take care of things.” But instead of taking the steps up to the porch, he steers her toward a cellar door against the foundation. He pulls the heavy door open and motions her down the steps.

“Ah. Secretive, aren’t we?” She hesitates.

Sam rolls his eyes at her and pushes past her to go down the stairs. “Jesus,” he says. “What happened to us being even? Have a little faith.” He pulls the chain dangling from a bare bulb on the ceiling, and she sees the cellar, bare and fairly clean, with a circle of chairs set up in preparation for a meeting of hunters.

“You know we don’t kill people if we can help it,” Dean says. “We’re too sentimental, remember? So come on.” He heads down the stairs himself, and if he’s willing to do that, willing to turn his back on her and leave her the opportunity to run… well, that’s promising. She follows him down.

It’s cool, and musty smelling, and she shudders at a sudden memory of the cellar in that farmhouse where she’d held Sam for questioning. But there is no single chair already fitted with handcuffs here, no icy shower, no table of implements. No reason for her to be afraid.

Until she turns around and sees Sam Winchester across the room, pointing his gun in her direction. Not at her head, or her heart. She throws up a hand and cries “no!” and her right knee explodes in agony. She falls to the ground, screaming. Through a haze of pain and terror, she sees Dean standing over her, pointing his gun at her other knee. “No, God, please,” she sobs.

“Whaddya think, Sammy?” Dean says, never taking his eyes off her face, or his gun off its target.

Sam walks over and stands at his brother’s side. “Nah. One’s good. We’re done.”

The Winchesters turn for the stairs out of the cellar. As Dean goes up, Sam grasps the chain to the light. He turns to her and smiles. “Now we’re even,” he says. As she howls in pain, he puts out the light and heads up the stairs, locking the cellar door behind him.

~~~~~

What did you think of the episode? And please help me remain unspoiled for future episodes!

[ilovemesomekillianjones]

You Make Me Better

BASED ON THIS POST by @bleebug and subsequent comments from @thesschesthair and @seethelovelyintheworld Thanks ladies for this inspirational prompt, I had a great time writing this.  Thanks to @laschatzi and @xhookswenchx for read through and beta services!

Also on ao3 and ffnet

CS Neighbors AU where Emma is a nurse and Killian is her definitely-faking-it hypochondriac neighbor who uses illnesses and injuries as an excuse to talk to her.

*~♥~*

Emma had just put her dinner together and sat down on her couch with a nice glass of red wine, and Netflix ready to go. The upside to working in a small private practice was for the first time since attending college, Emma Swan had a somewhat normal schedule. It allowed her peaceful evenings to herself to do what she pleased. Tonight she’d been home from another long day for a mere half an hour and was beyond ready to relax.

“Swan!”

“I should have turned off the goddamn lights,” she muttered.

“Swaaaan!” the interloper persisted, pounding on her door again.

The downside meant a certain pesky neighbor soliciting free medical advice on the regular. Rolling her eyes, she put the television remote and her glass of wine on the coffee table, knowing he wasn’t going to let up.

It wasn’t that she couldn’t be neighborly, but Killian Jones was a menace. The man was a hypochondriac of the worst kind - a fake hypochondriac - some new illness ailing him weekly. She flung her door open just as he was poised to knock again. The breeze it caused carried in his scent, and Emma was olfactorily assaulted by just one of the real reasons Killian Jones drove her crazy.  The next havoc he wreaked on her was the sight waiting before her. Killian Jones, shirtless… again, gingerly propped up against the frame of her door. Last time he’d shown up shirtless he’d insisted that a tiny mosquito bite on his back was a case of the shingles. She wondered if his shirtless visits were nothing more than a chance for him to flaunt his altogether delicious chest: just the right amount of definition and muscle covered by taut skin that pulled as he gesticulated his every word, all overlaid with beautiful black chest hair that descended into a thin trail disappearing under the waistband of his pajama pants.

“Swan, thank the gods you’re here, lass. I need medical assistance.”

And therein was another assault on her senses, that goddamn accent. She could listen to him all day and all night. Sometimes she did listen to him in the middle of the night, when that bastard invaded her dreams.

Looking into his crystalline blue eyes as he spoke to her through perfectly shaped lips, Emma almost didn’t hear his desperate plea for help. Goddammit, get ahold of yourself!  “What is it this time, Jones?” Emma spoke casually, hoping he wouldn’t see how he affected her.  

“I seem to have to have a lump, right about here,” he said, feeling himself up in her entryway. “Ah, there it is.” He grabbed her hand and placed her fingers right above his nipple, then pressed her hand into his skin.

Well, this was one of the five senses he’d yet to affront. He felt delectable under her palm. Emma rolled her eyes at his smirk, trying to curtail the urge to slide her fingers through his chest hair, and maybe even tug on it a little. “I don’t feel anything, Jones.”

“That’s because you’re not hitting quite the right spot, love.” As per usual his tone alluded to a carnality Emma found to be on her mind more than was probably healthy.  He wrapped his hand around her wrist and slid it up a little further along his pectoral. He followed by placing his hand over hers, and kneading them over his warm flesh.

Emma’s breath hitched at his maneuvering, damn him, she thought. “I still don’t feel anything,” she half accused and half groaned. Why was he doing this to her?

“Are you quite sure, Swan,” he asked cheekily, eyebrow arching toward the heavens.

Two could play games. Emma pushed into his chest, then pinched him, hard.  Ignoring his yelp, she continued to push him back farther. “That’s your pectoralis minor muscle, I’m sure it feels the same on the opposite side.”

“You should check just to be sure. Early detection is key,” he pleaded, turning the pout in those baby blues up a notch.

She could feel a blush creeping up her neck again, she wanted to touch his chest more, she wanted to caress it and lick it and- “Your breasts are fine, if you’re unhappy with my medical opinion you should probably see an oncologist. Good Night, Jones.” She’d pushed him back far enough that she could close the door on his menacing ass.

“Fine Swan, but you’ll regret it if you’re the death of me!” he called through the door.

“Doubtful,” she mumbled, sagging against her door; she could hear her own lie in her response.  He looked, sounded, smelled, and felt perfect. The only frontier left unexplored was taste. Emma stomped her foot against the floor as her lusty mind betrayed her, she felt like flailing her arms about in frustration. Yes, Emma Swan was a highly frustrated young woman. There was always something wrong with them, she thought. Of her more serious relationships, one had been ready to get married a month into dating, one had bailed during a pregnancy scare, and the other just hadn’t done anything for her, good man, just no chemistry.  

After finishing her dinner and cleaning up, Emma turned on Netflix. She became increasingly resentful every time she realized she was thinking about him, and not watching her show. God he was hot though, and that accent did things to her insides.  An uncontrollable shiver ran up her spine when she thought about how that chest hair would feel grazing across her breasts.

Killian had seemed to be the full package when she met him. Realizing she was moving in, he’d offered to help her by taking her few boxes of possessions up to her apartment. He had grinned widely when she pushed the elevator button to his floor. As she stopped to unlock the apartment next door to his he’d said, must be fate. He was intelligent, kind, could carry a conversation, and of course he was drop dead gorgeous.

She soon saw a different side of Killian Jones, the hypochondriac. Within her first month living next door he had insisted he was dying from overdosing on children’s Tylenol, the idiot. Blathering on about being scared, and things he still needed to do in life. He’d wanted her to hold him in his final moments, the man was drama incarnate!  She’d never forget the time he’d claimed a broken rib, coming straight from the park where he’d been playing football with friends; he’d shown up, dirty, sweaty, and looking all kinds of fuckable, and of course shirtless. She snorted when she thought of the time he’d wondered if he could have prostate issues...

“I believe I may have an enlarged prostate,” he whispered.

“Why do you think that,” she whispered back, looking out into the hallway to see if there was someone else around. “What’s with all the cloak and dagger?”

“This is a sensitive matter, Swan, I’d have thought you would understand that.”

“Oh, well yes, of course I understand.”

He stood there looking at her, “Well are you going to invite me in or question me out here in the hallway?”

Opening the door, she swept her arm in a grand motion signaling for him to enter.  

He sat down on her couch, looking around at her apartment. She felt like she was under a microscope, her sparse decor a little embarrassing.

“How is it a lass as pretty as yourself doesn’t surround herself in the same beauty?” he asked.

Emma didn’t know how to respond to that, she’d always sucked at receiving compliments. “Umm, I just haven’t had much time to go out and buy home decor and shit.”

“And shit?” he laughed heartily. “Darling, this is your domain, habitat, abode, your home. It should be everything you desire.” He ran his tongue along his lower lip after practically purring the word desire.

Emma found herself staring at his mouth, wondering what that tongue might feel like running across her lower lip. No, Emma!  Shaking away the errant thought, she went back to the matter at hand. “So what’s going on with your prostate, Jones?”

For a moment he looked as though he hadn’t the slightest clue what she was referring to before answering her. “I don’t know, isn’t that what you’re supposed to figure out?” he smirked.

Emma narrowed her eyes, feeling as though he was issuing a challenge.  “Ok, what symptoms are you having? Some of the most common would be the frequent urge to urinate, slow or impeded flow while urinating, and trouble achieving or maintaining an erection. Are you having trouble getting it up?” she asked point blank, staring at him with wide eyes. She mentally high fived herself. That ought to take him down a notch.

“I assure you I am having no issues achieving or maintaining anything,” he answered in a slightly affronted tone. “The Captain always performs.”

Maybe not, was there anything to take him down a notch? “Are you experiencing pressure? Perhaps you need your prostate milked?” she suggested. “I have gloves, are you allergic to latex?”

“Actually, I am feeling much better. I think I’ll be just fine,” he sputtered. He stood up, preparing to make his exit, she assumed.

“Oh, don’t be afraid,” Emma said sweetly, “it shouldn’t hurt, many men find the sensation arousing.” She couldn’t believe herself. Was she taunting him? Teasing him? Flirting? The look on his face was so worth it though, somewhere between shock and well, she wasn’t quite sure.

“I’ll take your word for it, love.” His hand was up behind his ear, rubbing nervously, and she found the motion endearing. “I think I’ll take my leave now. Good night, Swan.”

“Good night!” she replied in a sing song voice. She had felt a small sense of victory. It was always him making her uncomfortable, with his chest on display, and reasons she needed to touch him. She’d finally managed to get to him. An inkling in the back of her mind asked just what game they were playing, but she stuffed it to the far recesses of thought, trying to bask in her victory.

“Fuck,” she muttered, turning off her show, and slamming the remote next to her. Taking a deep drink of her wine, she wished not for the first time that Killian was not her neighbor, but rather some guy in a bar that she could have her way with, and never see again. One simply did not fuck one’s neighbor though. She was pretty sure she read that in the Miss Manners column... or was it Dear Abby?

*~♥~*

After a restless night’s sleep filled with dreams of a cocky, blue eyed pest, Emma finally resolved herself to the fact that there was no more sleep to be had. Looking at her bedside clock she noted that it was only a quarter past seven. Just one more thing she could blame on him. Fucking sleep disturbing asshole.

She got out of bed, threw her hair into a ponytail, and got dressed to take a jog. Nothing like a brisk morning run to clear her mind, blow off steam, and get those endorphins flowing. Putting in her earbuds she headed for the elevator. Pressing the down arrow and humming the melody pumping into her ears, she began to stretch, reaching her joined hands first skyward, than behind her to open up her chest. The elevator doors opened, Emma hopped in and selected ground level. Placing one hand on the back wall of the elevator, she reached behind her and grabbed her foot to stretch out her hamstring, switching to the other she jumped when the elevator finally lurched to life. Standing tall she rotated her torso stretching her back and shoulders. Finally she bent at the waist reaching for her toes, giving her legs one final stretch.  

When the elevator came to a halt she turned around to exit and walked straight into a wall of man. A fucking cocky blue eyed man. His hands had shot around her waist, steadying her as she stumbled backward. Her eyes narrowed in anger as she focused on his face to see a fully entertained expression.

“That’s quite the routine you have there, darling, care to demonstrate for me? I’d hate to pull a muscle.”

Emma’s mouth dropped open. He was shameless. Slapping at his hands she brushed past him to exit the elevator. “You won’t be laughing when you’re in pain because you didn’t prepare properly,” she huffed as she headed for the building exit.  As soon as she hit the street she set a brisk walking pace, focusing on her music and the simplistic purity of an early morning run.  Before she knew it that show off was breezing by her. That ass had the nerve to turn around and blow her a kiss as he jogged backwards. She scowled at him and silently wished he would trip, but more so she wished he didn’t bring out her inner two year old. He turned back around and picked up his pace.  Normally, Emma would walk the first block to warm up a little, but she was not going to let Jones beat her in a foot race.  Stepping it up she was keeping pace with him in no time.  

“So kind of you to join me, Swan,” he smiled as if he’d won a prize.  

She rolled her eyes as she picked up her pace again, leaving him behind. Smiling to herself, she felt a smug sense of accomplishment. She’d been ahead of him for several minutes now, wondering where he was, she chanced a glance behind her.  “What the-”  He’d disappeared. Perhaps he’d given up; for some untold reason that didn’t sit well with Emma. Before she had a moment more to dwell on it, that bastard popped up 30 feet in front of her, now shirtless. “Goddammit,” she cursed, wiping the sweat that was dripping down her brow.

“What are you doing way back there, love?” he called out as he annoyingly jogged backwards again while waving to her.

Growling, she broke into a semi sprint to catch up to him. “Shortcuts will get you nowhere in life, Jones,” she scolded, noting his soaked t-shirt now hanging from the waistband of his shorts.

He just chuckled at her indignant tone, infuriating her even more.  That was how they found themselves in a full on sprint around the local park and back home. As they reached the entrance to the building Emma began to stretch once more, the last thing she needed was to be cramping up for the rest of the weekend.  She ignored the shiver that shot through her body as he watched her unabashedly.

“Good form, Swan,” he complimented in a reverent tone.

“You should stretch too or you’ll be in pain tomorrow,” she recommended as they stepped into the elevator.

“I’ve been doing this long enough to know what my body can take, I’ll be just fine, but your concern for my safety and well-being is touching.”

Emma was zoned out, temporarily entranced by the way his tongue darted out to lick his bottom lip. The final frontier, tasting Jones. She realized he had ceased talking and was smirking at her again. “Yeah, I mean...umm, what?” she asked.

“I said your concern for my safety and well-being is touching,” he repeated slowly, emphasizing his last word. “Wherever did you go, Swan?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Perhaps I would,” he answered with a tinge of hope in his voice.

The elevator doors opened and Emma quickly exited, needing to get away from this exasperating man. “See you later,” she said as she ducked inside her apartment.

Yep, he was an absolute menace, this run had the opposite result of what she’d hoped for. Envisioning the way the sweat glistened upon his body in the morning sun, and remembering the way his muscles and tendons had worked powerfully under his skin, Emma felt that telltale weightless sensation rush through her lower regions. That sensation that only ever ended with Emma satisfying herself and his name on her lips. She groaned as her nipples hardened and her clit began to ache, her panties were as damp as her sweat laden clothes. “Fuck you,” she muttered to her body’s betrayal.

Walking quickly to her bedroom she stripped all of her clothes off and spread herself out on her bed. She could hear Killian’s shower running through her bedroom wall, and the thought of hot water cascading down his body only served to fuel her desperation. Emma brought her hand down to her entrance and ran her fingers through her wetness, whimpering out of sheer need. Stroking her fingers back up, she gently rubbed small tight circles against her clit. The smooth wet glide and the sounds of flesh against flesh worked her higher, her breathing coming in short pants as she pinched lightly at her nipples with her free hand. That’s when she heard it, or rather heard him. She froze, listening for that long drawn out moan again. Sweet mercy, there it was again, Emma began petting herself, new arousal coating her fingers, and fuck if this wasn’t the hottest thing she could remember in forever.  Just the thought of him, cock in hand stroking furiously had her walls fluttering. She was almost there, when he grunted followed by a small shout, she plunged her fingers inside her slippery channel grinding down on her palm. It took just three little thrusts to bring her off, whispering his name over and over again. She struggled to catch her breath, and her hearing was hollowed in one ear. Goddamn that was good, she mused as bliss continued to thrill through her body.  These were the endorphins she’d hoped to release with this morning’s run. Guess all it took was some self love, she thought. Emma’s body felt boneless as she lay relaxed and sated on her bed deciding if she should shower or just bask in the comfort. She’d had her eyes closed for two or three minutes when there was an incessant knocking at her door. She decided to ignore it, she wasn’t expecting anyone on this now decidedly glorious Saturday morning.  

“Swan, please, please, please, open the door,” Killian pleaded.

“Oh fuck!” Emma panicked jumping off her bed. Scurrying to her bathroom she washed her hands thoroughly, threw on her bathrobe and tried to smooth out her hair.  She splashed some water on her face to try and cool herself off, hoping the flush would fade, like immediately. Fuck he’s going to know what I was doing!

“Love, please,” he called out.

“Okay, okay, I’m coming!” The unintentional pun was not lost on her, and she was sure she’d just pinked to another level. Shit! Will he be able to tell by looking at me?

She opened the door slightly and peeked out at his once again shirtless form.  “What?”

“Lovely to see you too, darling,” he grumbled. “I need your help, please let me in.”

“I can’t right now, I need to shower,” she told him, not opening the door any further.

“I need you to relieve this muscular discomfort I’m experiencing.”

Emma’s eyes widened comically, hadn’t he just relieved his own discomfort? “You can take care of that yourself,” she said as she attempted to close the door.

“Emma, please,” he spoke seriously.

She was shocked to hear her actual name come from his mouth, he never used her name. It was always Swan, or some endearment that would’ve made her cringe if anyone else said it.

“Okay, come in.”

“I can hardly walk, would you mind helping me?”

Before she could answer he threw his arm around her shoulder and balanced his weight between her and his right leg. As they hobbled over to the couch she noticed he was not putting any weight on his left leg.

Emma laughed as she realized that her poor stubborn neighbor had a leg cramp. “Told you to stretch,” she chuckled.

“Now is not the time for ‘I told you so’s’ love. I almost died.”

Emma burst into full on laughter, “Calf cramps don’t kill, you’re such a dork!” She bent over him helping him to sit down on the couch. She tensed when she heard him inhaling deeply at her neck. Oh fuck, will he be able to tell by smelling me?

Killian narrowed his eyes. “It wasn’t the cramp that almost killed me. You see, I was in the shower when suddenly this cramp attacked me, almost causing me to fall. Who knows what could’ve happened had I hit my head, or broken my neck or...”

Oh. Dear. God. Emma didn’t hear another word as she blankly sat down at the foot of the couch. Had she really just masturbated to the sounds of her neighbor’s extremely painful leg cramp? She wanted to hide, be swallowed into the cushions of her couch, dissipate into thin air, something, anything to not be right here, right now.  

“Paging Dr. Swan!”

“Oh, sorry. I ummm, okay what do you want me to do?” she asked out of sheer guilt. Not that he knew... but she knew.

“Oh, plenty darling,” he smirked.

“Be serious!” she chided, slapping his leg.

“Oi! That hurt,” he hissed. “For starters how about you don’t hit the patient. Then, could you please use those magical healing hands of yours to massage this cramp away?” he finished sweetly.

Emma looked down at his calf. It really was a doozy of a cramp, she could see the muscle contracting under his skin.

“I don’t mind you staring at me Swan, but I don’t think it’s going to help. Perhaps you could massage and stare?” he suggested.

Emma huffed out a deep sigh and walked away.

“Alright, just the massage then, lass?”

She returned a moment later with a white tube and a pair of gloves.

“I thought we already agreed that I do not need my prostate milked, are you really so anxious?”

Emma didn’t know whether to laugh or slap him again.  “Shut up,” she said lightly, “it’s Arnicare, it’ll help soothe the ache after it has been massaged in well.” She began to put on the gloves.

“No gloves, I’m allergic to latex.”

“Of course you are,” Emma rolled her eyes. He probably said that to all the girls.

Squeezing a small amount of the gel onto her palms she rubbed it around and then set to work on Killian’s calf. She wondered how many places she would get to touch Killian Jones without touching him where she actually wanted to. Head out of the gutter, Emma! She delicately smoothed along the contracting muscle, she could feel as it started to relax a bit. Then she set to work massaging it away.

He moaned as she worked the area, “Gods that feels amazing, darling” he mumbled.

Her eyes went wide, for Christ’s sake that was the same noise he made in the shower. Pain and pleasure sounded the same when elicited from this man’s mouth. She worked the area for a few minutes more increasing pressure slightly until the knot was no longer present. Getting up from the couch she walked to her kitchen to wash her hands, then dug around in her cupboards for a heating pack.

“Heat this up and apply it to your calf for about twenty minutes. It might hurt over the next couple days because it was pulling quite tightly. Just rotate ice and heat, take Ibuprofen if you need to. For my sake, please read the bottle, I wouldn’t want you to risk overdosing on over the counter pain relievers again.” She giggled at his huff of annoyance, and maybe chagrin. “See you later Jones, I gotta shower.”

“Can I be of assistance to you, Swan, it’s only fair I return the favor you know. Love Thy Neighbor and all that,” he winked as he tossed out his suggestive offer.

“I think I can handle it on my own.” Emma rolled her eyes, escorting him to the door. If she rolled her eyes anymore at this man, they might truly get stuck that way.  

“Oh, I’m quite sure you can handle a great many things all on your own, love,” he said, looking her up and down as he ran that goddamn tongue over his bottom lip.

Emma turned what she could only assume was a Guinness Record breaking shade of red, before she pushed him out the door and slammed it shut. He fucking knew.

*~♥~*

Emma was relieved when she didn’t see Killian for a couple days. She needed some time to pretend that he did not know about her Saturday morning solo delight.

Almost a week had passed when she finally heard from him, it was well into her evening when a knock sounded. She was more excited at the prospect of seeing him than she wanted to be.

“I am freezing cold, feel me.”

“Well put on a goddamn shirt to start with,” she said, rolling her eyes at having to voice the most obvious solution.

“I can’t stop shaking. I feel weak, and I am freezing.” He stepped toward her, grasping her hand and placing it on his cheek. “See, I’m dying aren’t I? What is it? Malaria? The Red Death? The Black Plague?” Killian’s voice became more dramatic as he ticked off his ridiculous diagnoses.

“Easy tiger, unless you’ve been traveling out of the country, time traveling to the 14th century, or you’re a storybook character from the mind of Edgar Allen Poe, I think we can safely rule out all of the above.”  He’s from a book alright, straight off the cover a Harlequin romance novel, she thought. Emma realized her hand was still on his cheek and pulled it back, a slight blush coloring her cheeks. She prayed for him not to notice.

“Swan! I am contagious, you’re flush darling, I’ve already infected you!” He bit his bottom lip in feigned alarm. The bastard knew.

Emma rolled her eyes, and walked back inside her apartment. Heading to her kitchen she grabbed the bottle of Tylenol, then walked back to the door where he was waiting patiently. “Here, take two of these-

“And call you in the morning,” he interrupted cheekily.

She couldn’t stop the giggle before it was out of her mouth. What the fuck! she thought, I am not a babbling schoolgirl, I am a grown ass woman. A doctor for fuck’s sake. “Take two of these and you’ll be good as new. In fact take the bottle, and take two pills every 4 to 6 hours. If your fever doesn’t break after 24 hours you should see a doctor.”

“That’s what I am attempting to do. You are a doctor aren’t you?”

Emma couldn’t argue that logic, she supposed she could write him a script if he had something more serious than the common cold. “Fine, let me know if you don’t feel better.” She couldn’t believe the words as they left her mouth, yet she couldn’t deny him her help.

“Aye, Doctor Swan. Thank you for saving my life yet again,” he told her, grabbing her hand to place a gentle kiss to her knuckles.  

*~♥~*

Later that evening she laid in bed letting her mind wander, somehow she just knew that the medicine was not going to help, he would be back. He always came back. She could still feel the tingling of his manicured-to- perfection beard on the palm of her hand, and she imagined what that tingling would feel like between her thighs.

She desperately needed to figure out what was going on. She already knew he wasn’t really a hypochondriac. Did he just enjoy annoying her? Was he teasing her? Flirting? Emma didn’t do long term, so the very thought of him playing the long game was a little intimidating, but she also didn’t hate his antics. She was confused, that was the only thing that was clear. She decided when he came back, because he was magically not cured, she would address this thing going on between them.

*~♥~*

When he didn’t come back the next day, she was a little disappointed that he hadn’t needed her again, and a lot disappointed that she felt disappointment. No attachments, no roots, look out for yourself and you’ll never get hurt, right? she asked herself. Perhaps he actually did just need the Tylenol, and there was no ulterior motive this time.  By the afternoon of the second day she decided she couldn’t wait anymore, anticipation and nerves were eating at her, she needed to address their situation, or whatever it was.

She knocked on his door and waited, when he didn’t answer she decided to take a page out of his book and pounded impatiently, calling his name through the door. The sight that greeted her was not at all what she expected. Killian was covered head to toe, including a plaid robe, and a huge fuzzy blanket wrapped around his head and body, all she could see was his face. His eyes were glossy, his nose was swollen and red, and his lips were very pale.

“Killian, what happened? What’s wrong.”

“I did not get better doctor. I was planning to inform you, but I haven’t felt up to leaving my bed.” His voice was hoarse and he grimaced as he brought his hand up to massage his throat. “It hurts a bit to talk, but I must tell you it is like hearing angels sing to hear you say my name,” he whispered.

“What?”

“You’ve never called me by my first name, lass.”

She rolled her eyes, “You never call me by my first name either, but that’s beside the point right now. I told you to go to the doctor if the fever wasn’t gone after 24 hours!”

“I haven’t left my bed, Emma. It is only your voice that made me drag my arse to the door. And I have in fact used your first name if we are debating the topic.”

She blushed at the emphasis he put on her name, as though it were a sacred word.  One moment she was lost in his eyes, not knowing what to say, and the next moment he was swaying before her. She was able to catch him as he faded in and out of consciousness.

“Have you been taking any medicine? Have you been drinking enough fluids?” Emma asked as she put her hand to his forehead. “Oh shit, you’re burning up!” She supported his weight as best she could and guided him to her apartment. She led him to her bed, and pulled the blankets back, helping him to lay down. She was directly over his chest when he wrapped his arms around her.

“This was a plausible excuse for grabbing me, but next time don’t stand on ceremony. You could’ve had me in your bed ages ago, love.”

“You’re delirious, I’ll be right back,” she told him, not waiting for his rebuttal.

Gathering some washcloths, a bowl, a few bottles of water, and Nyquil, Emma headed back to her patient. She was unsurprised to see he was passed out, sprawled across the whole of her bed, mouth open, and snoring as only someone with a stuffy nose can. Sitting on the side of the bed, she took the opportunity to run her fingers through his hair, brushing it back from his forehead.

“Not exactly how I pictured our first time in bed together,” she mumbled.

He stirred a bit, his body restless, she didn’t want to wake him but he needed fluids and something to take the fever down.  “Killian,” she said softly, she shook his arm a bit.

“What?” he whined. “Let me sleep, I am tired, cold, my head is pounding, and I hurt all over.”

“That’s why I need you to get up and take something for the fever, you’ll feel so much better.” She waved the foil package of liquid gel tabs invitingly.

He made for a comical sight still wrapped up like a peasant woman in the winter, as he struggled to sit up. “Fine.” Petulance was cute on Killian Jones.

She handed him a bottle of water, “Drink up.”

“Give me the bloody pills.”

“Uh, just because you feel like shit doesn’t mean you get to forego manners,” she scolded him. “Drink first, you’re dehydrated.

“Am not,” he argued like a two year old before taking a long drink. “Apologies, give me the bloody pills, please.”

She snorted at his crankiness, handing him the Nyquil. “Lay back down, your fever should break soon. You probably want to sleep through that.”

“I would sleep much better if I had someone to cuddle me. Perhaps a massage again. You healed my cramp. I truly do hurt everywhere,” he smirked, waggling those damn eyebrows.

“Cuddle with your blanket, Jones. You poor delirious dork.”

He scoffed at her refusal, but was out moments later. Emma poured one of the water bottles into the bowl and sponged his head with a cool cloth. She freely admired every facet of his face without fear of being caught drooling. After making a quick call to her favorite nurse - August, to ask for a huge favor, she went to the kitchen to make some chicken noodle soup. Emma didn’t like to brag, but she did love to cook, and would have gone to culinary school had healing people not been in her blood.  Once she had everything simmering she went to go check on him.

“My beautiful Swan, there you are!” Killian said merrily when she peeked in on him.

She chuckled at his exuberance, “Someone is feeling better.” She noticed he’d finally un-burrowed himself, having removed his blanket and pants. Why his pants? Too bad the robe is still on, Emma thought.

Patting the bed beside him quite vigorously he nodded her over, “Come on, love. I have discovered what ails me!”

Emma walked over to the bed and had a seat, “What’s your diagnosis, Dr. Jones?”

“Ooh, like Indiana Jones?”

She just laughed at him again, “Okay, what’s your diagnosis, Indiana Jones?”

“Lovesickness! I’m afraid I’ve no immunity to your charms, love.”

Emma’s eyes went wide, pink rising on her cheeks as she looked anywhere but at him. Focusing on her nightstand she suddenly noticed an object that she had not placed there. “What the fuck?” she held up the offending object.

“That’s me rum flask,” he said jovially, reaching for it.

Emma held it out of his reach. “What are you a pirate? And where did this come from?”

He patted the pocket of his robe proudly indicating where he’d been hiding his treasure. “Aye lass, and I’ve come to steal you away. ‘Tis the only cure for my lovesickness,” he said, serious as could be.

“You’re not supposed to drink alcohol with Nyquil.”

“Why on earth not?” he asked indignantly.

Emma narrowed her eyes at his tone, “Because I said so, and because Dextromethorphan and Ethanol don’t mix well, the combination can make you loopy as fuck and say stupid shit!”

“Oooh, because you said so. Bossy little thing, you are,” he teased.

“Be serious, this can be dangerous, how much did you drink?”

“I can’t be serious, love. I am ‘loopy as fuck and saying stupid shit’,” he quoted her, affecting a perfect American accent.

“Goddammit, Killian, how much?”

“Two sips, I promise Dr. Swan,” he said solemnly.

She was midway into a sigh of relief when he burst into song.

“I take two sips in the morning, I take two sips at night, I take two sips in the afternoon, it makes me feel alright, I take two sips in time of peace, and two in time of war, I take two sips before I take two sips, and then I take two more.”

She stared at him, part of her wanted to crack up at his impromptu remake of Sublime’s Smoke Two Joints, the other part wanted to call her nurse back and add syrup of Ipecac to the list, just to torture this idiot a little bit.

“You know Swan, I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I am a full grown man.”

Manchild, Emma thought.

“Every time I’ve come to you it was merely a ploy to garner your attentions, spend time in your vivacious presence.”

His florid words were making her blush again, how could he be so ridiculous one moment, and sweeter than pie the next?

“I do know how much alcohol and Nyquil I can handle, love.”

“You thought you were overdosing on children’s Tylenol-”

“A thinly veiled attempt to speak to my beautiful neighbor,” he cut her off, folding his arms over his chest.

Emma heard the knock on the door that she had been waiting for. “Okay Casanova, you wait here, I’ll be back .”

“Casanova is but a boy. It’s a man you need, Swan.”

Rolling her eyes she went to the door. She’d called her nurse to pick up the things she needed for Killian once she’d realized he might have more than just a common cold.

“Thank you, August, I appreciate you running all this over,” Emma told her nurse, and close friend, August Booth. “I don’t think it’s strep but I want to check, did you grab a test kit?”

“It’s all in there, Emma,” he assured her.

“Alright, thanks again, you’re a lifesaver,” she said, giving him a hug.

“Who is this?” Killian asked, now standing in the hallway.

“I told you I’d be right back,” she sighed. “August, this is my neighbor, Killian. Killian this is-”

“Aye, I’m your neighbor, he’s your August. Perhaps I should be gathering my things. Apologies mate, I didn’t realize-”

“This is August, my colleague,” Emma finished raising her voice above Killian’s.

“Pretty, British, and polite? He’s a keeper, girlfriend,” August winked at Emma. “Dr. Blanchard and Dr. Nolan said they’d split your patients tomorrow. They want you to take the day off, make a long weekend out of it and … I believe they said, play doctor with your hot neighbor.”

Killian’s eyes lit up like Times Square on New Year’s Eve. “So you’ve heard of me?” he asked smugly.

Emma’s eyes went from deer caught in headlights to evil eye as she silently forbade August to admit she’d spilled her hot neighbor stories.

Killian looked between them, one eyebrow raised in question, one side of his bottom lip bit between his teeth, “Come on August, ‘fess up mate.”

August dramatically locked his lips and threw away the key, right before he winked at Killian and nodded his head vigorously.

“I knew it!” Killian claimed in a more than triumphant tone.

Emma gasped in outrage. “We’ve been friends since… like forever, August Booth! You’re on shit detail as soon as I walk into the office Monday morning.”

August bent down as if searching for something, finding his imaginary key he unlocked his lips and asked, “So you’ll take tomorrow off to play doctor then?”

“Ooh, I like him, Swan. Very quick on the uptake.”

Ignoring Killian, Emma put her hands on her hips and scowled at August. “Seriously? Just go, I’ll see you Monday.”

“Yes! Your brother owes me twenty bucks. He said you had no interest in making nice with Tall, Hot, and British over here. Blanchard and I said-”

“Oh my god, August, just go! Now, or I’ll make it two weeks on shit detail!”

“Fine… Mary Margaret was right, you need a good-”

“Don’t fucking say it!” she yelled.

With that August took his leave, hightailing it out the door before Emma literally kicked his ass through it.

“So lass-”

“Go to your room… our roo-, my fucking room, and don’t say another word,” Emma told him without even looking in his direction.

“But what if I’ve mixed too much Ethernet and Dexterwhatsitcalled?”

“You’ll be fine, just go,” she said quietly.

Emma sat down defeatedly at her kitchen table. Outed by her best friend, her willpower and resolve bet against by her sister-in-law. August was surely on his way to rub it in David’s face. Her own brother was going to know she was shacked up with Tall, Hot, and British. Before she could get too worked up her phone chimed with an incoming text.

AB: I did you a favor ♥

ES: Et tu brute

AB: Now who’s the drama queen?

AB: If it makes you feel better, there was no actual bet. It was an attempt to push you in the right direction. You talk about him all the time, you two are like kindergarteners. He may as well pull your pigtails while you kick his shin.

AB: Emma? Did you already run off to take his temperature? Orally or Rectally?

Emma couldn’t help but snort at the text.

ES: Enough, you guys are forgiven. Now leave me alone. I have a patient to treat.

AB: Get it girl!

Emma got up from the table and walked toward her bedroom. She was a grown up and could admit her feelings. He’d admitted his. He might not remember, but maybe he would. When she peeked into her room she was somewhat relieved to see he was asleep again. Since he was snoring open mouthed again, she took the opportunity to swab his throat quickly to run the strep test. As she waited for the results she checked his vitals while he couldn’t tout his innuendos about playing doctor with him. His temperature had come down, and his heart rate and blood pressure were perfect. The test came back negative, so he either had a bitch of a bad cold, or the flu; good thing she’d had her flu shot.

Emma went to get the rest of the supplies from the bag that August had delivered. She put together a tray for him with a bottle Pedialyte, water, cough drops, tylenol, kleenex, and Vick’s rub,  and put it on the nightstand next to him. Grabbing a sticky note she wrote him a quick message to drink the Pedialyte first, then water, and to wake her if he got hungry.  

*~♥~*

Emma woke the next morning to the smell of fresh brewed coffee and the sound of the shower running. Well if he was in the shower, he must feel a little better, right? she mused. She got up off the couch to pour herself a cup of coffee and realized then that it wasn’t the shower but the washing machine running. Wondering what he was washing, she headed to her room. When she opened the door she noticed her bed was stripped bare, and that Killian was nowhere to be found.  She felt her heart squeeze a little, and as she stared at her empty bedroom she mentally berated herself for every hope she’d entertained the night before.  

“Emma-”

“Oh shit!” Emma yelped, clutching her heart. “You scared me to death,” she yelled as she spun  around on Killian. “It’s rude to-” she stopped mid sentence as she took in her truly hot neighbor. His hair was still damp from the shower and hung down over his forehead. He was shirtless as usual, all lean cut muscle, and holy hot hell, all he wore was one of her thin pink towels wrapped around himself. She wanted to reach out and grab him by the waist, caress his hip bones with her thumbs as she clutched onto his sides; follow that thin dark trail of hair with her lips as low as he’d let her.

“To stare?”

“What?” she asked, still in a daze. She could only hope she wasn’t drooling, because she had definitely been caught ogling.

“You were telling me what’s rude, lass.”

“Yeah, what does that have to do with staring?” She felt like she was having a conversation about space time continuum at the moment.

“It’s rude to stare? I’ve no clue where you were going with your sentence,” he explained.

Emma shook her head trying to focus. She was having a hard time thinking about anything other than how much she wanted to be that towel right now.  For fuck’s sake, get ahold of yourself! She blushed as she realized he was making fun of her. “Yes, it is rude to stare, but it is also rude to sneak up on people,” she said softly.

“It was not my intention to sneak up on you, darling. I umm...” his hand shot up to fidget behind his ear. He was cute when he was nervous, and Emma knew he was nervous anytime that hand went to his ear. “I seem to be locked out of my apartment, and I’ve also no clothes as mine are in the wash with the sheets,” he reddened as he spoke. If she wasn’t witnessing this moment herself, Emma would have thought it impossible for Killian Jones to actually experienced bashfulness.

Emma chuckled at the universe’s attempt to even the playing field. “Hold on,” she told him. She walked to the closet and pulled out a duffel bag. “Here. Some of my brother’s clothes are in here. You can borrow whatever you need. There are extra toothbrushes in the bathroom cupboard, too. I’ll call the Super to unlock your place.”

“Don’t you just have another one of those I can borrow?” he asked, gesturing to her pajamas.

Emma looked down and laughed as she imagined Killian in a Jack Sparrow nightie. She walked out leaving him to change. After making the call to get Killian’s apartment unlocked, she grabbed herself another cup of coffee. When she turned around she almost spit out what she’d just sipped. “What the hell are you wearing?”

“You said anything, this lovely number was in the duffel. Not my color?”

“I am fairly certain that belongs to my sister-in-law,” Emma laughed out. “It does bring out the blue in your eyes though,” she flirted. He was a sight to see in Mary Margaret’s paisley halter top, and a pair of David’s sweat pants. “How did you even get that to fit?”

“I am very svelte, Swan. And it is very stretchy,” he said, pulling at the fabric. “I guess I’ll change,” he sighed, walking back to her bedroom. “I’ll just go with this old favorite,” he said as he reemerged… shirtless.

“You are such an exhibitionist,” she joked.

“You’ve no idea, love. Consider yourself lucky I dress at all when I come to your door.”

Her skin burned from the mental image that jumped into her mind. “Does that actually make me lucky?” She couldn’t believe the shameless way the words left her mouth.

He laughed heartily, both eyebrows reaching for the sky, a bit of pink coloring his cheeks again.

“You hungry?” she asked.

“I am starving, lass. I’ve barely eaten anything since I came to your door the other night.”

“No wonder you were so loopy last night,” she rolled her eyes. Going to the fridge she pulled out eggs, bacon, and pancake mix.

“Loopy or not, I meant everything I said last night.”

She turned around to look at him, to gauge the sincerity of his statement.  It did not surprise her to see that there was no sign of deception, no smirk upon his lips. Instead it was just him looking back, waiting for an honest response in return.

“Good.”

The smile that spread across his face, crinkling his eyes at the edges triggered her own happy smile. “You want to make the pancakes or the eggs and bacon?” As they cooked together Emma marveled again at how easy and natural it was to be around him.   

“Since you’re making confessions, how about you tell me which times were made up, and which were real?”

“And just what do I get in return if I spill my nefarious ways?” he asked, suggestively tapping his finger to his lips.

Emma scoffed, “You wish.”

“Aye, love, I do, but if we do not have an accord, perhaps just a confession of your own?”

Emma figured he would ask how she felt about him, and she had already decided she wanted to explore this thing further, so what did she have to lose. “Deal.”

Emma put her hand in Killian’s when he stuck it out to shake on their agreement.  “Alright Jones, ‘fess up.”

“The overdose on children’s Tylenol, fake, my best mate’s son’s medicine, left behind after I watched the little hellion. I didn’t realize that’s what I’d grabbed, I meant to grab at least an adult medicine.”

Emma couldn’t help but laugh at that. And the thought of him willing to watch a friend’s son warmed her heart.  

“Possible broken ribs, fake. Nothing more than an excuse to show up at your door shirtless. Prostate, definitely fake, and an unfortunate choice in illnesses on my part. Although you did put quite the image in my head with your offer to treat me, Swan.” He ducked his head chuckling softly.

“Well, regarding your prostate, I must confess, I did not say anything that is not true,” she grinned devilishly. She relished the way his head shot up, a tinge of blush coloring his cheeks again. “Oh, is your fever coming back Jones? You’re awfully flushed,” she teased him. Emma got up and began clearing away the dishes, and Killian followed suit.  

“You darling, are a little minx. Where was I before you distracted me? Ah, yes, next was my leg cramp after our jog, mostly real, sick with the flu, very real, lovesickness… the realest of them all. My turn!” He had rambled the last few illnesses off at lightning speed.

Emma whirled around in her place where she was depositing the dishes into the sink. “Wait, wait, wait. Mostly real? I felt the cramp. What do you me-”

“Uh-uh, love, my turn. I spilled, now it’s your turn,” Killian said as he sauntered up to her. Reaching around her with both hands, he placed his dishes inside the sink.

God, he smells good. It took sheer force of will to keep from snaking her arms around him to pull him closer, as he crowded her space. She couldn’t help but admire his chest, and torso, and those goddamn hip bones jutting out, calling to her to suck on them. She could feel her insides pulling as the desire to touch and maybe finally taste him coursed through her.

“Swan, where have you gone again, love?”

“I’m right here,” she said, sounding much breathier than she liked. “So what’s your question?” He was like an inferno, still in her space, and he’d rested both hands against the counter on either side of her. Surrounding her.

“What were you doing before I came to your door with my leg cramp?” The bastard had that smirk on his face, and that bottom lip was sucked into his mouth as he softly bit into it, his anticipation was palpable.

She felt dizzy, and hot, and breathless as she debated her choices.  Fuck, this was so not what she expected his question to be.  Her eyes darted nervously between his lips and the floor, and oh my god, what do I say? she panicked internally. “Okay, a kiss then?” she asked, hoping he was open to her negotiation. Before she could even process her next line of defense, his lips were on hers.  

After a moment’s hesitation she was kissing him back. She pulled him flush against her, and as he wrapped his arms around her waist, she threaded her fingers into his hair. She wanted to explore every inch, touch, rub, and hold everything Killian had on display.  There was no sound save for the meeting of their lips, until he moaned… that moan. A sizzling heat flashed through her, and she was pure driven desire. She opened her mouth to him and lightly flicked her tongue against his lips, before licking along the seam. She groaned her approval when he allowed her in. Finally, the last frontier, tasting Jones. And what a delectable treat it was. He lifted her to sit on the edge of the sink, and her legs automatically wrapped around him. It seemed he wanted to explore as much as she did, his hands were caressing her frame, then squeezing her thighs before settling under her nightie, massaging along the heated skin of her back.

Breaking apart to breathe, Emma couldn’t resist asking, “If you can massage this well, why did you need me to massage your leg cramp?”

“Do you really want to play Q&A with me again?” he smiled tauntingly, “I don’t lose.”

“I didn’t even have to try when I renegotiated the terms of our agreement just now,” she bragged as she let her hands wander the expanse of his chest.  

“Did you stop to consider that your reaction was enough to answer my question?” He waggled his eyebrows at her, and a cocky grin took over his ravished lips. “The kiss was an added bonus,” he said huskily, a burning intensity simmered in his eyes as he stared at her, daring her to disagree that he already knew her truth.

“Goddammit,” she muttered, burying her face in the crook of his neck, too mortified to maintain eye contact.

Taking his hands out of her shirt, he brought them both to her cheeks and lifted her head to look at him. “Open your eyes, love.” When she didn’t open her eyes, he kissed her delicately, before bringing his mouth to her ear. He sucked her lobe into his mouth and bit down softly, causing her to moan again. “Would it help, Emma, if I told you I was doing the same thing?” He chuckled at her sharp intake of breath, and the way her eyes popped open.

Emma nodded her head silently, her pupils dilated and she waited for him to continue.

“I couldn’t help myself, love. When I got into the shower all I kept imagining was you jogging, your breasts bouncing, and pert ass on display. Mmmm, the flush of your body, and your ragged breath. I wanted to be the reason you were hot and sweaty, and fuck I was so hard.”

Emma’s breath picked up as she listened to Killian, “Tell me more,” she whispered, flexing her legs around him, pulling him in just that little bit more.

“I knew you were a dirty little thing, Emma Swan,” he murmured, lifting her off the counter he walked them over to the couch.

Emma had to bite down on her lip to keep from crying out when he picked her up, his firmness pressing against her in just the right spot.

Turning around, Killian backed up till his calves hit the couch, then he tapped her thighs, signaling her to put her feet down on the cushions. He sat down then pulled her on top of him to straddle his lap. “Do you want me to tell you how I took myself in hand, wishing it was you?”

The ache between Emma’s thighs was real, and having her legs spread was not helping, there was no friction to be had. Emma busied her hands at his chest, refusing her urge to relieve her own ache.

He was palming her ass, squeezing it, and god if he would just pull my ass to him a little bit I’d be able to grind against him. Fuck even her inner monologue sounded desperate. With what he already knew, she didn’t understand why she was feeling too shy to just rut against him like there was no tomorrow.

“How I couldn’t even keep quiet as I stroked myself to thoughts of you. Thoughts that brought me to completion disappointingly quickly.” He rested his forehead to hers, his voice barely more than a hoarse whisper, his breathing heavy.

Fuck it, she thought as she pushed against him, taking her pleasure.

He grunted as she grinded her hot core over him. “How tense my body was as I came harder than I ever have. Is that what you want me to tell you, Emma?” his voice was deep, thick with want, and he practically growled her name. He grabbed onto her thighs guiding her over his cock.

“Yes,” she sighed, riding him a little faster. She leaned in and caught his lips with hers, sucking hard at his bottom lip. Dipping her tongue inside his mouth, she flicked it against his in tempo with her hips. The feel of his fingertips digging into her thighs was just on the pleasurable side of painful.

“Gods you are gorgeous. You were gorgeous that morning, mussed hair, and that little robe. I could smell your sweet arousal when you helped me to sit down, and that beautiful flush ran all the way down between your breasts as you leaned over me. I wanted to take you right there.”

“I would have let you,” she panted.

Killian threw his head back at her words, just the thought of being inside Emma was enough to propel him to the edge. “You’re going to make me come like this Emma. Like a fucking adolescent, and I don’t even care. Tell me you’re going to come for me.”

“Yes, Killian, for you,” she told him looking into his hooded eyes, “I came for you that morning too, I could hear you in the shower. When I heard you moaning all I could think about was you touching yourself as the hot water rolled down your body. Just the thought of you jerking off had me impossibly wet. When I heard you shout out, I came for you right then.”

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, “that’s it love, let go.”

And just like that Emma fell apart for him, his name on her lips just as it had been with every orgasm since the day she’d met him.

Hearing his name fall from her lips he couldn’t hold out a moment longer, he came hard, groaning out her name.

Emma slumped against him, “God, I needed that.”

“Killian will do,” he laughed.

“Shut up, Jones.” She sat up to kiss him again, “Thank you.”

“For what? That amazing orgasm?”

Emma slapped his chest, “For telling me about… you know,” she trailed off, looking down at her hands splayed over his chest.

“Emma, we just came together, fully clothed, while telling each other about masturbating to thoughts of each other. Why would you get shy now?” He brushed her hair back behind her ears, then tilted her head up. “There is no reason to ever be shy around me.” He slid his hand up from her chin, smoothing his thumb over her cheek, then he pulled her in for another kiss.

Listening to him talk so casually about such intimate things Emma couldn’t help but be enamored. “When you put it that way, yes, it would be pretty stupid for me to be shy about anything. I do have a question though.”

“Ask away, love.”

“How did you fake that cramp? I saw it, I felt it.”

It was Killian’s turn to be embarrassed, as his hand shot up behind his ear and he grinned nervously.

“Oh, look who’s shy now,” she teased.

“Fuck it,” he muttered, “the cramp was real darling. My body tensed up so hard when I came that I actually gave myself a charlie horse.”

Emma giggled, a light cheery thing as she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly. He was so right, with what they’d said and done today there wasn’t any reason to ever be embarrassed, about anything. Standing up she held her hand out to him and dragged him off the couch and then down the hall.  Once they were in her bedroom she turned to face him and grabbed both his hands in hers. “In our endeavor to never be embarrassed, and be comfortable and proud about our feelings, I really want to feel you inside me,” she practically purred.

Killian’s response was physical as he hauled her flush against him, wrapping their joined hands behind her back, he kissed her soundly.

The way he pinned her hands behind her back and bucked his hips had her desperate. “Someone’s ready to go,” she murmured, feeling his length against her belly.

“I am always hard for you Emma,” he told her between kisses.

“Maybe I can help you with that.” She pulled her hands from his hold and untied the drawstring on his sweatpants letting them drop to the floor. Stepping back to admire the full picture, she hummed appreciatively at the sight before her, “I see now my fantasies pale in comparison.” His hair was still awry from where she’d raked her fingers through it, giving it a roguish ‘just been ravished’ look. His shoulders were broad, framing a toned torso; as she followed his happy trail she noticed that even his belly button was cute, in fact she wanted to kiss every inch of his taut belly.

“I know I am devilishly handsome, but I am getting quite lonely waiting for you to finish your perusal of my goods. Perhaps it’s my turn?”

Emma raised both hands in the air, giving Killian easy access to strip her bare. “Peruse away.”

Killian lowered her hands placing one on each of his shoulders, “Perhaps I wish to savor the moment as well, love.” Placing his hands on her hips he trailed them up each side of her lean frame. He watched her nipples pebble through her thin nightie as his thumbs stroked the underside of her breasts. Each time he passed his thumbs over her he reached a little higher, teasing her, making her crave the touch she knew was coming. When he finally grazed her nipples she whimpered at the sensation causing his cock to jerk. “I do like it when you make noise,” he told her.

Emma slid her hands down his chest and copied his motions running her thumbs across his nipples, “Does that feel good for a man?” she asked.

“Aye, what you’re doing feels very good,” he told her.

“I need more, Killian, please,” she whispered, then she leaned forward to kiss him, plunging her tongue into his mouth, while continuing to play with his nipples. She could feel new wetness coating her panties as he groaned into her mouth.

“You’re making it difficult for me to take my time, darling.”

“Then don’t.” She reached for his hand and placed it between her thighs, “See what you do to me?”

“You are soaked,” he breathed out as he pressed his hand to her panty covered core. Her answering cry spurred him to action. Grabbing the hem of her nightie he pulled it up and over her head in one fluid motion. “Bloody hell, lass,” he murmured as he took all of her in. He led her to the bed where he laid her out, and climbed over her. He kissed her chastely on the lips, “I’ll be right back.”

“What, where are you going?” she half whined.

Killian kissed a trail along her jaw, and down her throat, stopping to suck on her pulse point.

Emma turned her head to the side for him as he worried her flesh with his teeth. His mouth was magic, sending pulses of heat straight to her core. He continued to move down her body, and when he finally reached her breasts, her nipples were straining for his touch. He suckled one, the warmth and wetness of his mouth making Emma cry out, while he rolled her other expertly between his thumb and middle finger. She held his head to her, not wanting him to release her, but she could feel her arousal coating her thighs, and she couldn’t stand it anymore, she needed to be touched. Reaching her hand down she spread her folds with her fingers and slid her middle finger through her wetness, then ran it back up to her clit. She drew slow circles not needing to get off, just needing a soothing touch. She moaned as the sensation of each of her pleasure points being loved took over her body.

Killian looked up to watch Emma when he heard her, she was a vision, eyes closed, lips parted and panting as she pleasured herself. “As much as I love the sight of you spreading those swollen folds, I want to be the one to take care of you right now.”

Emma jumped, not expecting to hear his voice. She opened her eyes looking a bit chagrined, “I told you I need you,” she told him, still rubbing herself gently.

He pulled her hand to his mouth, sucking her middle finger into his mouth and humming appreciatively. “I have dreamed of tasting you,” he told her as he settled his shoulders between her thighs. Splaying her legs wide, he spread her folds and licked along her core.

“Oh, thank you,” Emma gasped. She placed her hand on the back of his head, grabbing a fistful of hair and tried not to buck too forcefully or push too hard. She didn’t want to smother the poor guy before she’d even experienced his glorious dick, which by all accounts was in need of her worship, if his hips rutting into her mattress were any indication. When she felt his finger circling her entrance she shamelessly canted her hips.

He chuckled at her impatience, then quickly pushed into her, not wanting to tease her too much. He paused when he felt her adjusting to just his digit. He clamped his eyes shut, willing himself to stay calm, because if she felt this tight right now, he couldn’t even fathom how amazing she would feel squeezing his cock. Adding a second finger he picked up his ministrations if for no other reason than his now burning hot desire to bury himself in her balls deep. He pumped his fingers up into her making sure to hit that spot that had her panting praises, all the while steadily caressing her clit with his tongue. He could tell she was getting close as her grip tightened in his hair.

Emma pinched at her nipples with her free hand while she clutched at his hair with the other. She couldn’t help the sounds that she was making, he had her on the edge of bliss. He pulled her right over the edge when he covered her clit with his mouth and sucked with such precision she saw stars. Or maybe it was just those little white spots you see in your vision when you start to black out. Either way it was intense and she was having a hard time catching her breath.

Killian crawled back up to her looking into her dazed eyes, “Told you I’d be right back, darling.” Leaning down he sucked her bottom lip into his mouth, pulling on it. He growled when she attacked, plunging her tongue deep inside his mouth, like she couldn’t get enough of him.

Emma reached around him and grabbed his ass squeezing it, then pushing him down to her center, she guided his shaft through her folds, moaning at the feel of his tip as it passed over her clit. She snaked one hand down between them and gripped him in her warm hand, “Fuck, I can’t wait to feel you Killian.”  

Killian pumped into her hand savoring the wet glide now that she’d coated his cock. “Show me where you want to feel me, love.”

“Right here,” she whispered, lining him up.

“You don’t even know how long I’ve waited for this.”

“Probably for as long as I have. Since I met you,” she told him unabashedly.

He chuckled at her candor, “Aye, you do know then.” He slowly pushed into her just his tip, marveling at her tightness. Killian held back when he heard her hiss, “Does it hurt?”

“Only in the best way.”

Resting his forehead to hers he began to slide in again, “You are so warm, and wet, and fucking tight, gods you are perfect.”

Emma cried out as he drove deeper than she’d ever felt, she reveled in the stretch as she adjusted to his size. Her temporary discomfort subsided as he kissed her through it, and continued to attend to her breasts. Resuming her grip on his ass, she urged him to move. “Show me what you’ve got, Jones.”

His resolve to take things slowly slipped a bit when she prodded him. Pulling out almost completely he lovingly drove home again, testing her readiness. She didn’t wince or tense up this time, and he smiled at her devilishly. He pulled her legs up higher around his waist, then leaned forward and pushed her hair back from her forehead, he wanted to see every expression as he made love to her for the first time.  

Emma praised the impossibly long stroke of each pass as he more than filled her up, telling him how good he felt. She’d never had someone watch her, look into her eyes, the intensity sent a chill through her body. She clutched his biceps as they rolled and flexed with his every thrust. “Harder.” He grunted as he slammed home, grinding against her each time he was fully sheathed. “Yes, just like that, Killian,” she gasped.

The slap of skin, the wet sounds of flesh on flesh, and their small pants, and moans were all that surrounded them. They focused on giving and taking their pleasure and nothing else. He pumped into her harder and faster, willing her to climb that hill with him again. “Fuck Killian, I’m gonna come again. Don’t stop.”

“Yes Emma, let me feel you come all over my cock,” he ground out through gritted teeth.

His words were her undoing, her stomach tensed and her thighs constricted around his waist holding him to her as she worked her clit against him a final time.  The spark of all consuming release that had been building flared hot as quiver after quiver of ecstasy stole through her body. Emma didn’t recognize the low moan spilling from her lips as her body experienced the deepest completion she’d ever been brought to.

The constriction he felt wrapping around his cock was more than he could take, he fucked into her, torn between wanting to draw out this rapture and needing gratification.  

“Come, Killian,” she whispered hoarsely. She threaded one hand into the hair on his chest, and placed the other on his cheek. She watched the pleasure take over his face, meeting him thrust for thrust, wanting to give as good as she’d gotten.

Those two little words set him off, he thrust his hips powerfully, burying deep into her as his release shook his body. “Seven fucking Hells, lass, that was…” he trailed off, unable to verbalize a word worthy enough of the orgasm he’d just had.  He rested his head against her chest, trying to catch his breath. He tried to keep some of his weight off of her, not wanting to crush her, but he was reluctant to move from the haven of her thighs.

“Yeah it was,” she breathed out, knowing exactly what he meant. She cradled his head between her breasts and pushed his matted hair from his forehead. “Lay,” she told him. She inhaled sharply when their combined release spilled from within her as he pulled out, sending a late jolt of pleasure through her lower belly.

Killian acquiesced laying against her, indulging in their post-coital bliss, together. It was not lost on him that she was holding him, taking care of him as she had every time he’d come to her for help, be it real or made up. “Fuck,” he muttered, pushing up and looking at her. “I’m so sorry, love. How could I be so careless.”

Emma pushed herself up on her elbows, clueless as to his sudden mood swing. “What is it?”

“I didn’t... I didn’t use a condom. I’m so sorry, Emma.”

“Killian calm down,” she said, gently running a hand through his hair. She grabbed his arm and wrapped her leg around his to roll him to his back, then straddled his waist. “Listen, I’m on the pill, and I trust you. Plus, I only have latex condoms, and I really don’t want your dick falling off. I can just imagine you at my door crying about penile anaphylactic shock.” She burst out laughing at the offended look on his face. “It’s okay Jones, I’ll take care of you no matter what fake illness you bring to my door.”

“First off, I have never come up with anything that asinine, Swan. And secondly,” he continued no longer sounding insulted, “I have another confession.”

“Oh yeah, and what is that?”

“I’m not allergic to latex.”

“You prick! I knew that was just a line. So long as I’m the only girl you’ve ever used it on, I’ll let it go.”

“Aye, love, I’ve never used that line on anyone else. I just wanted to feel your skin on mine while you massaged me, especially after smelling your heavenly scent that morning.”

Emma leaned down and rubbed her nose to his, “So sweet and dirty all at the same time, I like it.”

Killian looked into her eyes, “Dr. Swan, I do seem to have one more issue,” he said huskily, squeezing her behind.

She smiled at him sweetly, cocking her head, “Tell me all about it,” she murmured.

“Well doctor, I seem to have some swelling, can you help?”

Still straddling his hips, she squeezed her thighs around him playfully. “Where is this swelling?”

Killian canted his hips up and his hardened cock poked her backside.

She chuckled, “Lucky for you I know just the cure.” Pinning his hands above his head and sliding down his body just a little, Emma Swan set about curing her ailing neighbor once more.

*~♥~*

“You know love, it is my turn to ask you a question again,” he mentioned as they sat eating chicken noodle soup.

“I don’t know if I can handle anymore Q&A.”

“I promise darling, this is a simple yes or no question.”

Emma nodded her head for him to go ahead and ask.

“Would you allow me to take you out on a proper date, Emma Swan?”

She laughed loudly, a truly happy laughter. “It’s about fucking time! That’s more along the lines of what I thought you were going to ask the first time.”

“Is that a yes?” he asked with more boyish hope than swagger in his voice.

“Of course! I’m in this for the long haul,” she told him. She felt as if a weight had been lifted as she took that leap of faith.

“Nice to have you along for the ride, Swan,” he winked at her, “the long haul will be so much more fulfilling to traverse with you.

Emma blushed at the sweetness in his words. “Take me to dinner, Jones, I want to hear all about why you thought faking illnesses was a better approach than just talking to me.”

End

Tagging some shipmates who might be interested @like-waves-on-the-beach @ultraluckycatnd @the-captains-ayebrows @spartanguard @galadriel26 @amagicalship @ahsagitarius @flipperbrain @blowmiakisscolin @xemmaloveskillianx @captainswanismyendgame @deathbycaptainswan @xpumpkindumplingx @flslp87 @yeahiliketheredleatherjacket @hooklineandswan @lizzyc807shipscaptainswan @trueloveandleather @villains-happy-ending @wordsmith-storyweaver @ive-always-been-a-pirate @roseyflush @lifeinahole27 @optomisticgirl @marajade4s @onceintimesforgotten @edenofalltrades @princessjoneswan @kdanna03 @this-too-too-sullied-flesh  @hookedmom @hookaddict @ahookedhero 

If you do not wish to be tagged in the future please let me know, I will not be offended ☺

[southaustinlocation]

Sexscapes: The Internet Gives a Voice to the Perverts of the World

Ever since it reached a level of general western-world ubiquity sometime in the 2000s, it has been widely accepted that the internet is one of humanity’s most ingenious inventions. The ways humans interact and connect with one another world-wide has been changed so fundamentally that to describe them would seem futuristic and absurd to twenty-year old incarnations of my now aged grandparents. Sites like Wikipedia, Google, and YouTube have not only entered the lexicon, but have also become invaluable research tools for the average individual curious to discover more about the world at large. Soon, it seems, it will be difficult even to find a cellular phone plan that doesn’t require paying for round-the-clock internet access as part of the basic contract.

For the first time in the history of our species, information and knowledge have become more or less democratized [though it can be argued that inherent class discrepancies lead to the fact that those who are unable to afford internet access, i.e. the bottom rung of the socioeconomic strata, now face more obstacles than ever when attempting upward social and economic mobility], and it would seem the average internet user has few excuses not to continue their education far past their formative school years.

But the human capacity for perversion should never be underestimated.

According to some not-so-groundbreaking research (mine), the internet, along with being one of the final bastions and troves of limitless, easily accessible knowledge available to an increasingly apathetic and dumbed-down populace, is used primarily for two main purposes: “trolling” (the sending of inflammatory or provocative messages purposefully crafted with the expectation that this initial message will elicit equally negative responses, or, if the troll is particularly lucky or adept, the commencement of an all out “flame-war”); and, of course, the viewing of pornography. Both of these purposes being symptoms of the altogether larger first-world problems of boredom and a general and ever growing inability to empathize with other sapient beings.

However stark and socially pertinent, none of this should come as particularly surprising or new information. Since pretty much its first widespread public use, the internet and perversion go together like cops and child molesters in prison (the metaphor, of course, falling short at the fact that, unlike prison, where police officers and pederasts meet up in protective custody—the smaller, secluded group of the prison at large—the perverts of the internet are the general population). Hell, one of my first experiences with the internet was when I was twelve and I didn’t have it, but my next door neighbor did, so every afternoon I’d go over to his house and, sitting in the side room of the garage where his family computer was kept, we’d burn through his AOL hours disc by logging onto AOL Instant Messenger and asking strangers if they “got pics?” Then, after inevitably getting bored with this game, searching for naked pictures of the girl from Seventh Heaven (no, not Jessica Biel, who actually had semi-nude photos published in Gear magazine around this time, but the slightly more homely Beverley Mitchell, for some reason).

But that was back in the Wild West frontier days of World Wide Web-based perversion and sexual curiosity. These days, perverts are no longer cloistered away to obscene chat sites. Instead, with the inception of so-called “porn 2.0”—tube sites such as Youjizz, YouPorn, PornoTube, PornTube (distinct from “PornoTube”—common mistake), FuckTube and BookpornTube (compelling name, I must admit, though surprisingly unliterary in the final analysis)—the perverted majority of the internet finally have a way to truly interconnect with one another: rubbing them out to the same videos as thousands of other horny people.

Someone, however, decided the perverts of the interweb weren’t connected enough by these shared masturbatory stimuli. Somewhere down the line, apparently, the question was asked at a pornographic video tube site board meeting: what happens when the trolls of the internet are given a medium with which they can broadcast far and wide to other trolls and pervert-trolls, just how they, as an individual and lonely troll caught in the vastness and potentially infinite wisdom of cyberspace, feel about a particular pornographic video? This led to the somewhat alarming decision to begin including “comments” sections for each video on many of the more popular tube sites.

In an effort to try and better understand the perverts of the internet (myself included), I decided, at great risk to my personal sanity and computer security, to browse through a varying array of these comment sections to see what I could glean from the pervert-trolls of the internet. Interestingly, the results actually managed to be profoundly disturbing in ways that superseded my already sordid expectations. With the hopes of not encouraging additional traffic to any of the sites, many of which are hosted in foreign countries, thus allowing the sites to avoid prosecution for the hosting of copyrighted material and in turn denying profit to the hardworking men and women of the pornographic industry (yes, that previous sentence was completely serious), I will be withholding the names of the sites in question, though I will be providing my notoriously stringent editor with URLs for all of the videos in question. Videos will be chosen the same way I choose which Wikipedia articles I’m going to read to kill time: I will start at the homepage and see what looks interesting until I’m inevitably led down a wormhole sticky with wasted-time and shame and regret.

##

Video One: “Retail Store Creampie”

The Video:

I’ll start first with what appears to be a short excerpt taken from a longer film. The video has seven comments and an overall rating of 88.50% with 554 “Good” votes, and 72 “Bad” votes. The video is four minutes and six seconds long and depicts a young woman in a green shirt getting plowed by a guy with a shitty tattoo on his ribs. Throughout the video she makes some fake moany noises and says things like “fuck me.” Also, she’s getting banged in a store on a clearance rack for some reason. Pretty standard porn territory.

The Comments:

Comments range from the coherent, if subject-ambiguous, “nice cock. Love his pussy pounding, wish it was me,” to people being pissed about false advertising in the title of the video, “not a creampie stupid,” and, “THAT WAS NOT A CREAMPIE MOTHERFUCKERS!!!” Then there is the somewhat baffling, “can’t stand those fake moans, quiet moans are hot, but not those fake-ass American-hoe ones. FUCK YOU AMERICAN ASSHOLES. WHITEPOWER!!!”

(Reader, take note that this last comment, left 07/31/2010 at 1:12 am, is a classic example of trolling. Notice how the comment doesn’t make sense, but implores others to reply defensively.)

What I learned:

The art of trolling is alive and well in porn comments. Also, if your video promises a creampie (sex act—you can look it up your damn self), you’d better deliver. Otherwise, people will call you names like “stooped.”

Video Two: “Barely Legal Casting”

The Video:

With a total of twenty-four comments, this video has 1,484 votes with an 86% positive rating and 1,714,761 views. It was added to this particular site eight months ago which means that this video is watched roughly 7,030 times per day. The video is part of the “Backroom Casting Couch” series of videos. It is a “reality” porn series, where a middle-aged dude, face always blurred out, has unprotected sex with women, many of them girls who appear to be amateurs and in their late teens. In this video the man asks a girl who claims to be eighteen, but could pass for fifteen, a whole bunch of awkward questions about sex, which she answers in a way that either highlights a strong history of character acting, or simply belies her actual sexual greenness. The man then proceeds to have her strip in front of the camera, ostensibly as part of a casting process. After sexing her up against a wall, he ejaculates on her face in a close-up that is really just creepy and left me feeling not aroused, as porn should, but rather cold inside.

The Comments:

Highlights include the somewhat racist, “have you ever done any black chicks? Or are you afraid that they’ll find out & shoot you? LOL” by someone named Bonezz_11 (his profile picture shows a shirtless dude with sunglasses and a visor blowing out some sort of smoke, and under “more info” he is listed as a twenty-two year old male who has been actively using this particular site for over two years and has watched 2,224 videos, giving him an average of three porn videos per day); the perverted, “daddys girl exploited, love it,” and, the misogynistic, “she looks hot with a dick in her mouth, but other than that, not so cute. too tiny,” by Freaknasty831, whose profile picture is an erect penis.

What I learned: (Besides how many porn videos Zach Bonezz_11 watches per day.)

That the American public education system is profoundly failing to teach its youngsters that riddling your text with comma splices makes you look like a total dumbass.

But, my porn comment research did lead me in an educational direction. Additional research into the authenticity of the Backroom Casting Couch series revealed that the male “star” of the videos is an Arizona man named Eric Whitaker, and that he totally has Herpes Simplex Virus Type I (he released proof through his Twitter account for some reason). The girls in the video are paid a flat fee up front, and are fully aware that they are entering Whitaker’s sleazy as hell Scottsdale office to have sex on camera, though apparently Whitaker has no qualms about knowingly spreading his Herpes, an offense which in the state of Arizona could possibly be considered aggravated assault.

Since June 2011, the greasy fuck Whitaker has been on the radar of sex crime detectives.

Next month Anderson continues to probe the porno-troll world and stumbles across a sex scandal involving a senator’s daughter.

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