#fancy has made some strides with the babies and will now accept some affection

[naamahdarling]

.

[hermannsthumb]

As per our convo, Newt getting set up with Hermann via Hermann’s father’s binder full of pre-approved suitors for his son...

(from @k-sci-janitor 👀) easily one of our funniest concepts yet. I was going to end on newt coming over for dinner scenario but I like the ominous open ending. I'm not actually sure when kaiju attacks fall in the PR timeline so excuse my handwaveyness, LOL

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

Hermann’s relationship with his father is what one would call strenuous at best, but—Hermann must admit, to the man’s credit, and in spite of his many flaws—he took the news of Hermann’s sexual orientation as unflinchingly as if Hermann had told him the day’s weather. It was a bit annoying, in fact. Hermann had agonized over the proper way to breach the subject for months, certain it spoke to some sort of personal ruin (whether ostracization from the Gottliebs or being forbade following through on any attraction he may feel whilst still living under the family roof, he wasn't sure), before finally simply announcing it one day at the breakfast table on a whim.

It had been a long-standing tradition that Hermann’s parents compile a binder—effectively of dossiers—on all the most eligible bachelors (for their daughter) and bachelorettes (for their sons) to aid in the choice of the latest Gottlieb mate. It was easiest this way, or so Hermann and his siblings were told. Parental approval was already secured. The histories of each were already secured, which bypassed any nasty shocks that might emerge in the courtship stage. Most of them were children of his father's colleagues or bright minds in their own rights: surgeons, and dentists, and mathematicians. Poets were strictly forbidden.

The occasion of Hermann’s breakfast table announcement had also been the day Hermann’s father presented him with his very first binder of prospective mates—a few days after his eighteenth birthday, and shortly before he was to go off to begin work on his PhD. His father had slid him a hand-written binder of names, no more than a dozen, and all with accompanying photographs. “All are accomplished young women,” he assured Hermann. “We can arrange any meetings of your choice over your winter holidays.”

Hermann glared down at the row of frozen smiles. He stabbed his fork into his cooked tomato wedge. “I don’t want to marry any of these women,” he said, and turned his glare on his father. He still had a rebellious streak in him at that point, something nurtured by a charismatic young man he used to trail after in boarding school, who pierced Hermann’s ear with a sewing needle in the boys’ toilets and listened to songs about setting things on fire. In late this streak had manifested itself in Hermann in nicking packets of cigarettes from his father’s study, one of which was in his pocket now. The weight of it made Hermann feel bolder. “I don’t want to marry any woman,” he continued. “I like men.”

The binder was drawn away in silence, and Hermann was free to eat his toast and tomatoes. The next morning a binder of young men was in its place.

(In a way the acceptance infuriated Hermann. It meant he could not blame his father’s obvious dislike for him on an unfounded, homophobic prejudice; rather, it was a result of Hermann’s own personal failings.)

The binder was placed at Hermann’s breakfast plate every day until he left for his studies. It was placed at his plate when he returned from them five years later. Not even the emergence of the kaiju from the bottom of the ocean shortly after Hermann turned twenty-four dampened his father’s hopes, nor turning all their scientific efforts towards the new jaeger program: some names were removed from the binder (the reasoning Hermann shudders to think at), more still were added, though Hermann is expected only to consider it once a week now on account of his busy schedule. This was one of such days.

“Your brother is very happy with his wife,” Hermann’s father reminds him. “She was one of my first suggestions for him, in fact.”

Hermann is not fond of his sister-in-law. Too rude—too cold. Though perhaps that makes her perfect for Hermann’s brother. “Haven’t we got bigger things to worry about these days than whether or not I’m going to marry?” Hermann says. He adds milk to his tea. “I’m sure they’re all, er, marvelous selections, only—”

“Your sister, too, with her husband,” father says.

Hermann sighs. He hasn’t got much of the rebellious streak he used to in him anymore—too stressed. Not fancying a fight before they’ve even begun today’s coding work, he picks up the binder and begins flipping through it. Sons of engineers working on the jaeger program with them, prominent young chemists, many of whom Hermann has been presented with since he was eighteen. Plenty of them are even handsome. Half of Hermann wonders if he should just pick the least-unappealing one of the bunch and be done with it already. He turns the page over and freezes. “Oh,” he says. “This one is—new.”

“Hm?” father says.

Hermann holds up the binder, tapping at a new entry. “Newton Geiszler.”

“Dr. Geiszler,” father says, nodding. “A child prodigy from Berlin—he’s made tremendous strides in kaiju science in such little time. And,” he adds, “three PhDs. Two of them before he even turned twenty.” The unspoken implication was that Dr. Geiszler far surpassed Hermann in intelligence and Hermann should feel ashamed for not skipping as many grades as Dr. Geiszler.

Hermann feels he ought to resent Dr. Geiszler for it, but he's finding it difficult to summon up any animosity towards him. It's likely because Hermann finds Dr. Geiszler to be strikingly handsome in his photograph: cheeks which haven’t quite lost their baby fat (giving him the appearance of being a scruffy hamster), large, thick glasses, tousled hair, an easy grin. Three PhDs, and German at that. And a child prodigy? “I’m surprised you haven’t mentioned him to me before,” Hermann says. He seems precisely the sort father would. Geiszler’s photograph is black-and-white and a bit grainy, but Hermann swears he could make out the lightest bit of freckles across his cheeks.

“I’d not heard of him until he published an article last week on kaiju biology,” father says. “Besides—he’s moved to America.”

Geiszler has three piercings up the side of his left ear. “I am going to write to him,” Hermann declares.

Father nods, and picks up his newspaper, clearly already disinterested. They speak no more of it that day.

It is not hard to find Dr. Geiszler online (his name is not the most common, and his field of study certainly isn’t), nor is it hard to match his photograph to his faculty page on MIT’s website. From there, Hermann retrieves Dr. Geiszler’s email address. He takes the evening to read over Geiszler’s publications spanning back to 2003 before he gathers up the courage to type out an actual email.

Dear Dr. Geiszler,

You do not know me, but I have recently been made acquaintance with your work and find it—Hermann pauses—scintillating. My father and I are—Hermann backspaces this—I am currently working on the development of the jaeger program…

There’s a response waiting for him the next morning. It’s as enthusiastic as it is brief. Dr. Gottlieb- That’s so awesome!! Believe it or not I’ve been following your work too. I have a million questions for you about the jaegers. If it’s classified info I promise I won’t tell. -Newt

It makes Hermann smile like nothing ever has before.

Hermann’s correspondence with Dr. Geiszler does not transgress beyond the professional until the following January. By that time, Hermann and his father have successfully completed the coding for their first jaeger prototype, and Hermann has been offered his fair share of tenured university positions to pick from as he likes. He finds himself oddly disappointed that none of them are in America with Dr. Geiezler. This, which leads to the realization that he’s grown rather fond of Dr. Geiszler, is perhaps what drives Hermann to uncharacteristic sentimental extremes on January 19th: he orders Dr. Geiszler a birthday present. The first email Dr. Geiszler sends him after that addresses him as Hermann. The first email Hermann sends Dr. Geiszler after that addresses him as Newton. Things move rapidly after that.

“Are you still writing to that young biologist?” Hermann’s father asks him in March. Hermann has spent the last two months devouring every bit of information Newton has seen fit to divulge about his personal life: his dexterity with no less than three different instruments, his favorite loud monster movies, how he’d love to get a kaiju tattooed on him one day. Hermann suspects he might be falling in love with Newton. In hardly five months! These are war times, Hermann supposes, so it would make sense. People are meant to do such extreme things.

“I am,” Hermann says.

“I’ve asked around about him,” Hermann’s father says. His expression is stern—unimpressed. “About his character. I’m not sure it’s wise to continue your correspondence.”

The reasons are this. Dr. Geiszler’s methods are unorthodox. Dr. Geiszler is loud and uncouth, and has little respect for his intellectual superiors. Dr. Geiszler was thrown out of a convention once for storming up on stage and stealing a microphone from an engineer to shout about the destruction coral reefs. Dr. Geiszler was in a distasteful band for several years. Dr. Geiszler was once arrested for egging a politician’s house. Dr. Geiszler has gone on record as describing the kaiju as “kinda cool”. Almost none of this is news to Hermann; in fact, that which is only causes Hermann’s affection for Newton to grow. “I will consider your advice,” Hermann says, knowing he won’t. Besides, it's not as if his father really has Hermann's interests at heart—Hermann knows he merely wishes to preempt any scandal Newton Geiszler could possibly bring upon the Gottlieb name.

In April Newton goes on television and declares that he’s sure the kaiju are extraterrestrial in origin, on account of their great size and his brief examination of a sample from the second kaiju to make landfall. He’s laughed off by his older peers before he can get another word out. The email he writes to Hermann afterwards is furious, capslock-heavy, and expresses that Hermann is the only one who takes him seriously in the whole world. It leaves Hermann certain that he is in love with Newton.

“Dr. Geiszler was interviewed on some American television program,” Hermann’s father says a few days later.

“I know,” Hermann says, proudly. Newton was on television. “I watched it.”

“He made some extraordinary claims,” Hermann’s father says.

But Hermann is thinking only of the outfit Newton wore (skinny jeans and an oversized leather jacket, so out of place compared to the suited other scientists sitting around him), the shade of his eyes (hazel), his short stature (hardly taller than Hermann), and the cadence of his voice (high, but not unappealing). He’d been so confident, and carried himself with a self-assurance that was foreign to Hermann. It was marvelously attractive. “I’m sure they're correct,” Hermann says. "Every single one. Newton is a terribly brilliant scientist." All bold claims are met with derision at first, are they not?

Newton’s theory is proven correct after the next kaiju attack, when experts other than him get their hands on kaiju samples and validate his claims. The general consensus after that is that the kaiju are not of this world. And Newton was the first to propose the theory! Hermann sends Newton an email full of congratulations, and Newton responds with a heart emoticon in his sign-off. Newton isn't just a brilliant scientist. “Newton is a genius,” Hermann tells his father, dreamily.

The binder reappears on Hermann’s work desk a few months later, Newton’s page torn conspicuously from it. Hermann tips the whole thing straight into his trash can. He has more important things to worry about—arranging a meeting with Newton, perhaps. Hermann ought to have him over for dinner.

[snowbellewells]

A Cottage by the Sea {Part Five}

Here we are at last! After months off (I’m truly sorry for that wait, by the way!) I’m back with the next to last addition to this @cssns20 story - only the final part/epilogue left to go.  I meant to have this up much earlier today, but I had several different things come up that made me later.  I hope you all who are still reading will enjoy... :)

Summary: Princess Emma has always been drawn to the shores of Misthaven, where the sea meets the sand near her parents’ castle. When an unknown boy washes up on the beach, with eyes as fathomless and blue as the waters that brought him to her, he soon becomes Emma’s best friend, her partner in crime, and her other half.  But the tides give and the tides take away, and as her blue-eyed boy sails in her father’s navy and risks all in defense of those who made him family, unexpected danger and challenge will try to tear them apart, and might well show him just where he came from that day he first appeared to her from the sea…

From the beginning on AO3, and here on Tumblr

Part Five

Calypso looked on with a mother’s concern and doting affection, treasuring the chance to see her son happy.  After so many years separated from her children, to have one of them here on her island where she could speak to him each day, brush back the wild dark hair from his face as she had done when he was just a little boy, no longer having to miss him, and knowing he would always be safe. It was nearly inducement enough to put a protective barrier up around her hidden home - an enchantment as she’d had before letting it down to allowing Killian’s princess passage, that would keep others out, and her son and his beloved in.

Yet, tempting as it was, the sea nymph knew better than most that she could do no such thing. Killian might find contentment here, now that Emma was by his side, but she could never force him to stay in such a manner. She would be parting him cruelly from the life he had worked hard to make for himself, and from the people who had taken him in - those who had become hs family when Davy had taken he and Liam from her arms. Having been forced to live with such loss, she would force no such thing on anyone else.

No, she would not make her beloved boy - long since become a man - remain here. She knew he would go, and even as she feared what might await him on his journey back to Misthaven; almost sensing that the threat from the deep was not yet over, she could only treasure this interlude she had been granted, to see Killian again, and to let him know he and his elder brother had always been loved and wanted.

~~***~~

Far below in the depths, fathoms beneath where Calypso watched anxiously, eyes drinking in every second of her son’s presence she could, and where Killian Jones and his royal lady love splashed and frolicked in the tide, another pair of eyes waited and watched, biding his time. True, he used supernatural means to do so - a dark orb of swirling greenish water housed in a gigantic open half shell platform brought the image to his underwater lair - but it was just as effective. Twice his younger son had escaped his clutches - once washed ashore as a youth before he could drag Killian down in his watery hold, and the second time foiled by the righteous nymph who fancied herself saving the whelp’s life. ‘Saving him? Bah!’ Davy’s glowering evil mind recanted. What could be more glorious than receiving his destiny? Sitting at his other side with Liam, ruling over the deep?

All these years, he’d been missing the set, the pair; he had his elder son - the wreck nearly a decade ago had seen to that - but he would not rest until both his sons were with him, his rule and legacy complete.

Of course, though he might hold his firstborn in thrall - unable to escape and return to the land of the living unless Davy released him, not after so long under the sea - that did not mean his eldest remained willingly. A dark glance over his shoulder gave him a view of Liam silently waiting and watching until orders were given him. Brooding, was more accurate, the immortal fiend thought angrily. Unlike the other souls lost and gathered into his unholy crew, Liam still looked much as he had when he had first been pulled below. He was not a mindless shade, hollowed and twisted beyond recognition as many of Davy’s captives for any length of time became. He still stood young, proud, and tall; broad-shouldered and handsome, just the sort of right hand a king of the deep would require, and Davy knew it well; it was just as he had envisioned long ago when he sent the typhoon that had claimed Liam’s young life. Unfortunately, the flaw in his plan was that it was meant to have brought him Killian as well, both his heirs to flank him and support him - his powerful living legacy. Instead his youngest had slipped through his clutches by chance or Fate - or interference from the dratted creature he had once charmed into loving him, who had borne him two strapping lads. To his way of thinking, Calypso had known full well just who he was and the darkness within him, but had then grown a conscience and set herself to oppose him at every turn.

“Liam!” he bellowed. Though he knew his eldest lingered just nearby, rekindled temper made his voice boom and reverberate in the small space, bouncing off the cavernous rock that encased his throne room. “It’s time my boy,” he pronounced, evil fire lighting eyes that had once been as blue and mesmeric as either of his sons’ but were now clouded and dark - foreboding whatever his mood. “Kilian will join us soon, as he should have long ago.”

The elder Jones brother, face steady and resolved, without flicker of emotion to betray his true thoughts came to stand at his father’s side dutifully when beckoned. He nodded at the boastful proclamation without comment, though if one looked closely - as Davy was too absorbed to do - they would have seen the strain in Liam’s every muscle, the tension radiating from his clenched jaw and tightly balled fist. His concern for his long-missed younger sibling would have been evident if one were watching, though he had learned long ago that luckily his power-mad sire noticed only what pleased him and related to his own concerns. He didn’t want Killian with him out of any genuine desire to reunite his family, but through some twisted ideal of dynastic completion.

Though he couldn’t hide all of his concern, Liam schooled his face into a mask of bland curiosity and obedience as he looked to Davy who growled, “You remember the job you are to do?” 

“Aye,” Liam affirmed simply with a curt nod, leaving out that he had every intention of doing the opposite when the moment came.

He left soon after, knowing his keeper - all the moniker his pitiless sire truly deserved - would never suspect him to do anything other than exactly as he decreed. ‘Thank the gods for small mercies on that score,’ Liam thought as he swam from the lair with unnaturally strong, tireless strokes. Such blind tunnel vision was all he really had to count on in his hopes to turn the tide.

~~***~~

Emma was genuinely surprised by Calypso’s warmth and affection as the gracious sea numph accepted her thanks for her aid and guidance in finding Ogygia before drifting lost at sea interminably. Of course this otherworldly being - uncannily graceful and stunning in all respects - was Killian’s mother! Not wonder he had always been able to charm any person he met with a mere smile or twinkle of his eyes! The part that staggered Emma was that the woman would embrace her and bless them as a couple rather than begrudge her pulling Killian away when she had just found him again. Princess trained in regal bearing and dignity she might be, but all the same, Emma could only tightly hug Killian’s mother in return, blubbering an apology about not being able to desert her parents and her people, which Calypso acknowledged with a calm gesture of understanding, and then boarded the ship, trying to quickly wipe away the stray tears that had escaped down her cheeks. She was glad to be able to say she had met his mother, and Killian deserved a moment alone to say his farewells - at least for the moment.

“Your princess is truly a lovely young woman,” Calypso told her son warmly, squeezing his hands in her own, hating to think that soon Killian would once again be out of her reach. “She is as enchanting and kind as her lady mother, Misthaven’s Queen, is reputed to be. I have no doubt that she will rule justly and well when the time comes.”

“Nor do I,” Killian agreed softly, his assurance, and the pride her felt for his beloved clear in word and tone. “But Mother, I…”

“And she loves you,” Calypso continued, cutting him off because she knew she must tell him all before her emotions choked her. “Above all else, she holds you closest to her heart, my son. Right where you deserve to be. It does a mother’s heart good to see it.”

Killian bowed his head, flushing to the tips of his ears, pointed like hers he realized now with pleasure to have a trait in common with this mother he hated to part from. “And I love her,” he replied without hesitation, “But you know that I love you as well… don’t you?” He pressed their joined hands to his chest, just over his heart. “That I do not wish to leave you?  Emma’s people look to her; they need her… and I have responsibilities as well.  Her parents, they took me in…”

“Never fear, Killian,” Calypso soothed her son easily. “I do know. And you will never fully leave me. You will always be my baby boy. You - and she - will always be welcomed here, should you ever wish to return.”

For a long, heavily charged moment mother and son leaned into a lingering embrace - full of comfort, which neither wished to let go. Foreheads touching, Killian tried to breath in her scent, to memorize the sound of her voice - all the things he had forgotten before. 

“I will always be here for you, Son,” she promised as he turned to stride across the sand and into the ship to sail home. “You know where to find me… whenever you need.”

Her son waved one last time before joining his princess at the bow, and soon their little ship was no more than a speck on the horizon, drifting further and further away.

~~***~~

They had been on the water some hours when a gentle bubbling and foaming disturbance of the surface appeared just ahead of their boat. Both Killian and Emma noted it, but were not terribly concerned at first. It was only when the waves around them began to roll and grow choppy, forcing Emma to grasp the sides tight-lipped and white-knuckled and Killian to eye the frothing, churning, and ever-expanding disturbance with worry he did not wish to voice. This was clearly no mere passing dolphin or larger tide as he had first hoped. He remembered too just how malevolently and suddenly the storm which wrecked his vessel and drowned the rest of his crew had blown up. He could not bear to see such a calamity befall Emma.

Glancing to his side, Killian’s heart swelled with admiration and affection for her as she braced herself and remained calm, neither crying nor panicking as many an untested sailor might have done. She was silent and steady - every bit as determined to hold her own as he was to see her home safely. However, he was about to caution her to wrap a length of rope around her oar-lock and then her waist securely, so that if she were tossed overboard he could haul her back in before she was lost, when suddenly their small craft bucked and lurched so strongly that she was thrown to the deck on hands and knees, and he nearly toppled down on her, despite his own more seasoned sea legs.

Before Killian could even reach to help her up, some unknown form broke the surface in the center of the spinning waters, and once it did, the worst of the pitching and rolling calmed. A head, then broad shoulders, emerged seemingly from the deep - as impossible as it should have seemed. However, they did just leave the island of his mother the sea nymph, so neither felt quite as supported by usual logic as they once had been. It was only as the figure glided toward them on the waves, as if they could simply float atop the water weightlessly without the effort of swimming, that Kilian recognized its build and look with a shock of disbelief. As the mysterious arrival raised unmistakably blue eyes to meet their awestruck gazes, the single word fell from his mouth on a harsh, ragged breath. “L- Liam?”

Emma’s head whirled to stare at him, then the aquatic visitor, and back, slack-jawed and goggle-eyed. She wanted to make sure she’d heard him correctly. Liam? The brother who had died when Killian was a child? Who had been lost to the sea at the same time it brought Killian to her? How was that possible? The thoughts cropped up in her mind one after another, but turning to see the intensity and confusion, the pain and the dawning joy on Killian’s face made her hold her tongue.

Tears started in the corners of her own eyes all the same, though he managed to speak again softly, “Brother? ...Is it really you? You- you drowned.” His face almost crumpled, and Emma wanted desperately to take his hand in comfort, but she held back, sensing that the brothers needed this moment - however it was happening. “I thought you were lost.”

Somberly, the shaggy head of hair lighter and curlier than Killian’s nodded to confirm his words. “Aye, it’s me, Little Brother.” He glided closer, out of the water up to his waist, until he was right next to their vessel, facing Killian as he reached out tentatively. “I was drowned… more or less. But I have not really died, not as one normally understands it.  Oh blast, am I buggering this up!”

Emma knew her face must match the look of perplexity covering her sailor’s. The words this man was uttering didn’t make sense. And yet, Killian would not - could not - leave him hanging, regardless of his confusion. He reached forward and met Liam in a tight, frantic hug of reunion after so many years apart, She heard a strangled sob leave the younger Jones, muffled against his elder brother’s shoulder, which was in turn shaking rather markedly with a soundless anguish and relief of its own.

When they finally parted, Liam’s hands were resting on Killian’s shoulders as he peered into his brother’s eyes intently. “I will explain all - as best I can anyway. I swear it, Killian. I am sorry I could not make myself known to you sooner.”

Killian nodded in acceptance of those words, looking almost dazed - as if afraid to even blink or speak for fear his beloved sibling would vanish from him again.

“But first,” the elder Jones continued, “I must tell you how I have reached you now - and warn you to be on your guard.” 

Tremors ran down Emma’s spine at the words themselves, and the tone in which they were spoken. This was not idle chatter, but a true threat, and she could only imagine who, or what, he might warn was coming their way.

Killian gave his older brother a curt nod of understanding, urging Liam on. It was clear how they would have worked impeccably well together - an unstoppable team on any ship - if things had been different, if they had been allowed to sail into adulthood side-by-side. They do not argue or waste time, but instead each obviously trusted the other at their word, without a second’s hesitation, and moved forward without fail toward what must be done - not allowing room for doubt nor fear.

Liam cleared his throat, eyes lowered to avoid quite holding contact with either of their faces when he continued, voice gravel-rough and low. “Of course you know of Davy Jones and his infernal locker…” he began..

Again, Killian nodded in confirmation, “Aye, naturally.”

“What most do not know - what I myself could not have known all those years ago, still just a lad, and would never have believed, is that Davy Jones and the legend surrounding him - his locker, his cursed crew, the Flying Dutchman - all of it is true.”

Neither Killian nor Emma spoke to interrupt him, though it was a near thing, both of them staring frozen and gobsmacked, trying to figure out how they must have misunderstood Liam’s words. Finally, Killian gathered his wits enough to sputter incredulously, “You mean to say that you’ve been held prisoner - a part of that villain’s crew all this time? How - how is that possible?”

Liam shook his head resignedly, answering with little more than a shrug and a low voice. “I do not begin to know the whys and wherefores, Little Brother. Until seeing you here before me, I had genuinely lost all sense of time passing, and much memory of who I once was and what I felt long ago - a sort of suspended animation, if you will.”

Emma had remained quiet throughout their exchange - partially stunned into speechlessness and partially from a desire to allow Killian the time and space to be reunited with the sibling he had mourned as long as she had known him. Yet, with this revelation, she found her curiosity overruling her previous restraint. “What allowed you to come to us now then?” she questioned, tilting her head as she attempted to study his face - familiar, but not as open to her as Killian’s had ever been. She didn’t mean to be mistrustful, but all of this tale was strange - straining belief, in fact - and his arrival to warn them at just the opportune moment seemed almost too much a coincidence.

“A fair question indeed, your Highness,” Liam answered respectfully, with a slight dip of his chin in differential bow. For a moment, his gaze slid back over to Killian with such proud approbation, as if congratulating him in finding such a sharp lass and valuing that about her, that Emma felt herself flush with pleasure.

He granted her a small but transformative smile; in truth, the way it lightened his whole aspect made him seem an entirely different person. Not only that, but the familial similarities between he and the brother she had grown up beside became all the more evident when his expression drew her in just as Killian so easily did. “In answer to your question - as fair warning, as much as it is in my power to offer you - Davy sent me to the surface anyway. He made me have you in my sights, ready to do his bidding at the moment he chooses to strike. I did not know whether I would be able to thwart his intent and show myself or speak to you ahead of when he wished, but it seems I can, and it was worth any effort for me to at least try. I believe he knows my loyalty is not fully his, in whatever degree I am free of his influence, and so he has not told me all. Have no doubt he will attack when you are weakest though, when the moment is most opportune for his victory. Please, both of you, be wary and ready. I will help you in any way I can, but I can never be fully assured how much of my will might be my own.”

Kililan’s brow furrowed in anger and disgust, his concern for the sibling he loved clear as he asked disbelievingly, “He controls you?”

Liam bobbed his head in grudging confirmation, but he wanted them to know as well as possible just what they were up against. “To a large degree, yes. If he wills it, that seems often to be the case, at any rate. Thankfully, he has numerous minions, most much more eager to serve as they are grateful to be - at least in some measure - alive. He is often distracted and not actively ordering me to do anything, and as such, I am often able to do as I will. Not that I have much to see or do here trapped within the ocean. It would have been better for me to have perished outright, but he did not allow that - not when he sent that storm to gather us both to his side.”

The elder Jones shook his head in frustration, gritting his teeth before concluding ominously, “I fear he will never rest until he has captured your soul as well, Brother… And I do not know how much I will be able to aid you or resist his orders when he directly states otherwise.”

Before he could divert his gaze, obviously ashamed that he could be used as a pawn, made to hurt those he most wished to protect, Killian brought his hand quickly to grasp his brother’s forearm, bringing Liam’s stormy gaze up to look on his own, clasping his long lost hero’s hand in a firm, brotherly grip. Killian vowed solemnly. “Understood. We will be on our guard. But do not think for a moment we will hold you to blame for something beyond your control, either.”

Emma stepped closer, looking into the slightly greyer, more muted blue of the brother she had just met’s eyes as well. “Take care of yourself too. See that you weather the storm as well so we can meet again. And thank you… for the warning.”

The shaggy head, which had once been carefully close-cropped and tended light brown curls nodded, seeming to know better - just as his younger brother always had - than to argue with a princess so prepossessed and determined. There was a sheen of unshed tears filming those wise, weary eyes as he hesitated every second he felt able, but in the end he dared not linger further, loath to draw Davy Jones’ attention to the princess and lieutenant if they could by pass his waters undetected.

Unfortunately, the entire sea was the evil being’s domain - and all those upon it a part of his purview. All three of them knew - and Liam from a sickening knowledge of seeing and living the aftermath of when struggle against Davy for survival ultimately failed - it was a battle that would take all they had, with the outcome Emma spoke of anything but assured.  Still, the fact that they knew it was coming, could steel themselves and prepare for the worst, somehow steadied them. Neither Killian nor Emma had ever been people who had backed down from a fight - and they were calling on every bit of that resolve in the moment.

Though Liam was more than reluctant to leave his brother and Killian’s beloved - a princess! And a woman he already found himself feelings  brotherly affection for - he knew he must do so soon. The last thing he wanted was to destroy their one advantage and let Davy know they were aware of his plot. Nor did he wish to lead his predatory sire right to Killian and Emma; let them get as close to their home and safety as they could before the nefarious, supernatural captain caught them up.

“Aye,” he finally managed to choke out harshly. “May we do so.” One more quick bow of his head, reverence in the gesture before he offered a warm, loving smile and then sunk so smoothly beneath the surface of the water that it barely rippled, unlike when he had appeared. Almost as though he had never been there at all; leaving Killian and Emma to turn to each other, vowing to fight through together, to find Liam again, their eyes promised it even if no words were spoken, whatever they were about to face. 

~~***~~

Sure enough, they might have hoped otherwise, Killian and Emma felt Davy Jones’ presence approaching before they reached Misthaven’s shores. The otherworldly menace’s arrival was heralded as much by the change in the wind and the waters around them as the chill of foreboding that made the hair at their napes stand on end. Though he had not yet shown his cursed visage, the way what had simply been a pleasant breeze now picked up to whip at the sails, their hair and clothes, and to howl in their ears, and the way what had been a light blue sky turned a sickening chartreuse full of scudding grey clouds ever-darkening with ominous intent.

For an extended moment, Kilian’s eyes sought Emma’s across the small hull of their rolling vessel, being tossed more and more as the waves crested higher. “If we capsize, Emma,” he spoke slowly, firmly, as if to imprint his words on her memory if he were not still there at her side. “Swim for land in this same direction,” he indicated the way they had been traveling, over her shoulder. “We nearly reached the harbor. A strong swimmer - which you are, Love - might yet make it on their own strength.”

She wanted to ignore his words, to shake her head in wild denial that she might need knowledge he wouldn’t be there to provide. She had no intention of losing him again. And yet, the confrontation they had hoped to avoid was surely coming any minute; they would not outrun the master of those lost to the Deep.  The little vessel that had taken her so far, and had nearly borne them home again was no longer managing any progress forward, merely struggling to remain afloat as it rode wildly up and down on the ever-rising swells.

And then, at long last, with a loud, whooshing roar, it was as if the ocean itself parted, a huge, dark shape, which solidified into the monstrous hulk of a ship surged up from the depths of the open chasm. As it leapt to the surface, righting itself to mount a wall of water, the split in the waves fell closed once more, leaving the blackened, ruinous black ghost of the Flying Dutchman towering before them not more than fifteen feet away - like a shark poised to swallow smaller fish too stunned or too late to flee.

No sooner had Emma been able to swallow hard in a throat suddenly parched with apprehension, her fingers clenched in the material of Killian’s sleeve, above all else determined she wouldn’t let him be taken from her again, when everything around them went horribly, unnaturally still. The waves, the wind, all their surroundings silently seeming to hold their breath before all chaos broke loose. For one last moment, she and her lieutenant fixed their eyes on each other; wordlessly swearing to see each other on the other side, whether or not it was within their power to follow through on such a promise.  Then he turned to face his sire - if one could truly be made to believe that the monstrous captain towering over them at the prow of the other ship could have had any connection to the true and honorable man Killian had become. Intending to remain at his back, to do whatever she could to help him fight and keep them afloat, Emma straightened her shoulders and stiffened her spine as they waited and watched.

Sound and fury returned to the world around them as the accursed captain reached the very helm of his ship, bringing him fully into view as his low, malevolent chuckle at their show of resolve seemed to set the waves crashing and churning once more. “Oh ho, Killian, you’ve brought your intended to our long-awaited reunion, have you? Not particularly well-advised, but she is a pretty wench. I supposed I can see why you’d be loath to leave her behind.”

Killian’s frown deepend, the muscle in his jaw working as he bit down on his anger. Those eyes that she usually likened to the brilliance of a summer sky or the blue of his beloved ocean were instead lit with the pale fire of the hottest of flames at Davy’s callous words. “Hardly,” he clipped in a low growl. “I had no intention of meeting you at all. And I’ll not have you getting anywhere near Emma.”

“Is that so?” Davy snarled, his own temper seeming to erupt at his offspring’s defiance. “We’ll just see about that!”

The waves their little boat floated upon suddenly seemed propelled forward, rising on a towering crest of water as if drawn to Davy’s hand. Skilled a sailor as Killian was, there was no steering them anywhere else when the very elements were turned against them. The air seemed to quiver just as Emma found herself doing, in spite of her best efforts as they came face-to-face with the accursed being. The boards of the vessel beneath their feet groaned and creaked as the frothing sea bearing it seemed ready to dash it to kindling. The air whistled and howled, whipping her hair against her face until she was nearly blinded. And yet, she saw the horrifying shade who faced them, the dark cloud of obsession clouding eyes which might once have been clear and striking as the sons he claimed as his own. He stood taller than the average man, seeming even larger with the wild hair and wide-brimmed, ostentatiously old-fashioned hat atop his head. All his dress was from a more ornate and bygone age, and yet looked gone to ruin rather than impressive, almost mildewed, or perhaps it was a growth of some sort of moss or coral upon his apparel after so long within the sea. Beyond the visible appearance however, the aura of evil power practically radiated from his being, and Emma felt herself draw back before even realizing she had done so.

Pleased with the nightmare impression he never failed to make, Davy Jones chortled in maniacal glee. “Oh yes, I see you there, Princess. Try not to fret overmuch. No matter how brave, they always cower before me in the end.”

She wanted to contradict his words, to call back that Killian wasn’t afraid and that she believed in him, but Emma found her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth, speechless and unable to react other than to stare, frozen, until with one last murderous crow, Davy cackled, “You’re both in my clutches, and no hope to escape. Look your last on the world above.”

Then they were falling, plummeting back to the surface with such speed and force that the boat rolled and cracked in two when it hit the water again. Swept underwater and swirled around dizzyingly, Emma fought to retain any sense of which way was up and to break free of the whirlpool ravenously threatening to suck her further down.

Her lungs burned; her rational mind knowing she would have to draw breath soon - and that it would be nothing but saltwater and spell the beginning of the end. She paddled madly, flailing for some sort of light, when suddenly, a solid arm caught her around the middle and pulled her back toward the air at last.

Certainly she had expected for Killian to have somehow reached her, though she couldn’t begin to account for the strength and speed with which she was fished from the drink. However, upon gulping her first sweet breath of air and catching a glimpse of her savior, she found not Killian, but his brother keeping her afloat. Coughing up the water she had somehow swallowed and attempting to speak her thanks, the words died on her tongue at the seeming blank and unknowing countenance Liam bore, nothing like the warmth with which he had looked at her mere hours ago.

“Liam?” she attempted to gain his recognition, even as an awful feeling stole her breath yet again. “What’s wrong? It’s Emma… don’t you remember me?”

Still he made no response, solidifying the frightened certainty that he was under Davy’s control once more and no longer acting of his own volition. Wriggling and kicking to try to break free, Emma found quickly that her efforts were useless. There was no escaping the iron grip he had on her.

Yet, even as her own panic rose to as crescendo, Emma found herself needing to find Killian, to know if he were better or worse off - and already praying that he had not somehow been swallowed by the vicious waves his sire had conjured to claim them. As her eyes flew across the distance, they came to rest on both a thrilling and blood-curdling scene. Her love stood feet planted on the overturned shell of their boat, splintered oar in hand as the only weapon available to him, and waiting as Davy drew near, magically skimming across the tops of the waves, ready to face him once again and for all.

She struggled anew against Liam’s iron hold, but he barely moved; her efforts to free herself having so little effect they might as well not have happened at all. He didn’t speak, though his expression was tormented, torn as if he were indeed in conflict between what he wished to do himself and the command that decreed his actions otherwise. Yet that did not stop Emma’s trying to reason with him, trying to break through. “Liam, please. You know me. I’m on your side, remember?” she pleaded, even as she continued to try to escape his hold. “We want the same thing. Let me go and we’ll help Killian, alright? Look, he needs us.” She flung her arm out desperately, hoping to make him see the real place they should be focused.

Liam’s gaze did move to his younger sibling for a moment, and Emma’s heartbeat quickened at the longing she saw in the elder brother’s countenance; the aching need to stand shoulder-to-shoulder and fight together for something good and true once more. But then he jerked his gaze from the scene of impending conflict once more, muttering to himself as if to drive home a point he would not have himself forget. “Not yet, not yet,” his lips were moving as he repeated it almost like a mantra. “Must wait for the opportune moment…”

Puzzled, Emma worried that she had heard him say that very phrase before, when cautioning them that Davy would choose the opportune moment to strike. All she could take from that was the fact that he woudln’t release her and hadn’t yet gone to his brother’s aid was that his father did have him under his command. Yet, Liam also looked far from peacefully mindless; he might be under duress, but he was aware and hating every second of it. Even as she was in danger from him, even as every fiber of her being clawed to get to Killian’s side and help him any way she could, her heart still broke for Liam.

“You can beat this, Liam,” she murmured fervently, trying to catch his gaze and ceasing in her struggles to rest her hand over his much larger one in solidarity. “You’ve fought him this long, hang in there a little longer.”

Something sparked in his gaze at her words, something Emma didn’t fully understand - and yet, it gave her hope. It was conscious and alive, and truly him, not Davy holding his mind captive. Had she gotten through? Had he already broken free? Then what was he waiting for?

Both of their attention snapped back to the battle sides drawn before them once more at the taunting voice of Davy Jones. “Come now, boy. You had to know you would lose to me. A mere mortal - and with something so precious to lose. Join me, part of the ship and crew that sails forever, scourge of the sea. You’ll have power, your birthright, your brother with you again. Plus, as you can see, Liam holds my ace in the hole. We’ll see your princess safely to shore if you join us. Refuse and fight, and she becomes one of us as well.”

Even at a distance, Emma could see the rage in Killian’s eyes at the demon’s words - the threat to himself already known, but unwilling to stand for the threat to her. He glanced their way only briefly, but it was enough for Emma to see Liam give the tiniest jerk of his head to the side, an unspoken denial to whatever Killian had asked with his look. “Opportune moment,” she heard him vow in a whisper once more as he held his younger brother’s stare for a resolute second longer.

Then Killian whipped back to face their sire once more with a defiant glare and what could only be called a battle cry. “Never!” he snarled, fire in his eye and retribution in his bearing. Though Emma could do nothing but watch, and though the dire situation seemed completely unchanged, she was galvanized by her love’s certainty, believing that he would prevail. Whatever had passed between he and his brother, it had been the final push he had needed.

With a roar of vengeance, the taker of imperiled souls surged forward, Emma’s gasp swallowed by the howling, churning elements at his command swelling along with his ire. As certain as she had been mere moments ago that Killian could stand firm, she was terrified that she was about to see him consumed, and the rest of them with him. Still, just as Davy’s huge bulk and accompanying wave towered over her sailor, ready to cascade over his head and bury him in the rolling depths, Killian released another feral howl and charged forward himself, meeting his villainous father head on. Boldly welding the broken spar of the boat before him, he stabbed with a force Davy could not have reckoned on, sinking the jagged tip of the wooden stake into the monster’s chest.

For a horrible beat of time, their foe appeared unfazed, and then it was as if he began to deflate, then shrink - as if no one had managed to strike such a blow before, and his defenses were not actually equal to the task. Lurching with outstretched hand to grasp either Killian or his weapon in a final strike, there was suddenly an explosion so loud it seemedd to shake the very atmosphere. A blinding flash of light radiated from where man and monster grappled to the death, then darkness fell - equally blinding - and Emma was suddenly adrift. No longer held, unable to place anything in the black night that had suddenly engulfed her, she paddled to stay afloat, and seemingly alone. Lost and completely at sea.

Bobbing aimlessly on the surface, it was hard to tell how much time had gone by, or how far she had been carried by the waves. The huge crests and white caps had receded, leaving it a gentle rise and fall that Emma was in no danger from, yet she could not feel that all was well until she understood what had happened, where she was - and where Killian was as well. Trying she might to strain and peer through the darkness however, she couldn’t make out any recognizable landmarks; nothing but the waves surrounding her and buoying her up. It was as if she had gone from the center of battle to being the only person left on Earth or sea, the silence and dark felt so immense.

Eventually, the repetitive motion of the gently rolling swells soothed her into a doze, her eyelids fluttering closed. Despite her concern for her beloved lieutenant and her occasional unconscious paddle to stay upright, after all she had been through, Emma succumbed to a restless sleep.

~~***~~

Her eyes didn’t open again until her feet drug across rough stones, having finally been carried into the shallows and touching the rough bottom not yet become sand. She jerked back into awareness with a gasp; alarmed and not at all sure where she was. Blessedly, when she looked around herself, Emma could see once more - the endless horizon stretched out before her streaked with peaches, yellows, and pinks as hte sun rose over the ocean. Even more relieving, at her back she could see rocky, deserted coastline. Devoid of people or buildings, but land all the same.

She struck out for the shore, gladly swimming toward the land that was nearer than she could have guessed. Was this Misthaven yet? Had she been carried elsewhere as she drifted and slept? There was no way to know, and she found she didn’t even care in comparison to simply getting out safely. If only she knew where Killian was…  

She had barely scrabbled out upon the rough, sandy beach, feeling water-logged and half alive and at a lost for what to do, when she heard her name called over the water. “Swan!” the moniker that only he had ever used, an affectionate shorthand between the two of them, hit her ears with the welcome impact of beautiful music.

Turning, her mouth fell open in awe at the sight of him rising out of the water with otherworldly grace - as if right in his element (which, in truth, he must be). There was an ethereal glow about him, gleaming from his dark hair and the tips of his rather pointed ears, outlining his strong arms and slender waist as he emerged from the deep, sent back to her on the tide once more. “Emma” he repeated, voice low and ragged with emotion though relief and joy showed across his face. “We made it, Love. He’s gone and we’re still here!”

Unable to hold back any longer, as impossible as it was to believe, when he opened his glowing arms in welcome, standing in the ankle deep water, she felt tears of joy spilling over as she cried out his name on a sob and ran to meet him. 

Feet splashing through the shallows, the slap of her skin against the near-velvet texture of the wet sand as the water splashed up with each steps, Emma was laughing and crying all at once as she gained speed. The exhaustion and defeat that had dogged her mere moemtns before completely gone at the sight of his smile. She hit his arms in a flat out run, bowling them both over and into the water again, witha  yelp of surprise from Killian, a laughing tangle of limbs.

She was kissing across his cheeks, his forehead, his chin, anxious to press her lips to every bit of his skin, having feared that he had finally disappeared where she couldn’t follow. Pulling back fro only a second as he tangled his fingers in her wet hair and cradled the back of her head in his palm, she tried ot splutter out enough words to make sense. “H- how is this possible? How did you - How are you here?”

Killian chuckled, a low, comforting rumble that vibrated from his chest to her palm where it rested over his heart. He licked those gorgeous lips, parting them to answer her, and suddenly she couldn’t stand not to be kissing them for even a moment longer. The explanation could wait.

Surging forward, she captured that luscious mouth with her own, just barely murmuring, “Never mind… it doesn’t matter. I’m just glad you’re here.”

Killian might have been taken aback by her enthusiasm at frist, but he recovered admirably. Pushing back, his tongue entered the fray in a delicious bid for control of the kiss, which she ceded, humming in pleasant abandon as he rolled her to her back in the sand and surf, breaking lightly and pleasantly against their bodies. Hovering over her, his eyes sparkled in enchanting glee, and he had the audacity to lick his lips as though she were a delicacy laid out before him. “Emma, my love,” he breathed hoarsely, lowering his ips to graze along her collarbone, licking and nipping in a way that made her squirm with blissful anticipation. “We’ve made it home.”

“Mmm,” she tried to answer, but the wordless sound was all the confirmation she could muster with her body humming pleasantly from his attentions.

“We should go to your parents, Love,” Killian suggested, though half heartedly at best. “Let them know we’re alive.”

She nodded, but made no move to go anywhere, merely sinking her fingers into the muscles of his forearms, gasping and arching toward him in supplication as his nose pushed aside her wet and slightly askew bodice and that wicked mouth latched onto the flesh it had been covering. 

“Later,” she finally managed breathily, having all she could do to hold on for dear life to him. “We have all the time in the world.”

Tagging: @cssns @kmomof4 @jennjenn615 @searchingwardrobes @laschatzi @whimsicallyenchantedrose @teamhook @revanmeetra87 @spartanguard @therooksshiningknight @optomisticgirl @tiganasummertree @thislassishooked @winterbaby89 @jrob64 @stahlop @elizabeethan @donteattheappleshook @drowned-dreamer @shireness-says @thisonesatellite @lfh1226-linda @ultraluckycatnd @gingerchangeling​ @xsajx​

[kapmarvin]

When the Angels are Admired...

The door opened, and in walked a young woman of some height and build, black hair, pale make-up, piercings, black clothes and boots, taking long, but wary, strides. She would not have caught my eye if not for the evident interest of the friend I was with.

The young woman took a seat at a table behind me where I would have forgotten her if not for Peter’s constant spying. Eventually she was joined by a friend, but the friend abandoned her very soon after. Alone once more, she seemed quite lost and was becoming something of a cynosure in the pub as she made conversation with seemingly anyone at hand. I was trying to forestall the inevitable when Peter played some music on his phone – loud; ostensibly for me, but clearly more to the taste of the young woman, who identified the band immediately. She turned out to be Australian, at which point I knew I had met my fate; my friend being a recent and extreme convert to Australophilia. They proceeded to have a long and deepening conversation over my head while my back was still turned towards the young woman. Finally the absurdity of their courtship became too Victorian for me to bear and I invited the solitary reveller to join us.

What I had failed to consider was that rather than sit on the sofa beside her suitor, she might simply take the invite at face value and sit next to me. She did. What I had also failed to imagine was that Peter’s phone would just then start ringing, and as he took it to suckle at the breast of his ear, the duty of conversation fell on me. It got worse: we liked all the same bands. Trust an Australian to make my courtesy fly back in my face.

Even after Peter’s phonecall, the young woman, Holly, baby-birdesque, would not return to her true parent, believing the poor ersatz fool who had deigned to pick her up in good faith to be her true caregiver.

Not long after, Lee turned up, and with his arrival I fancied for a moment of insanity that I could merely get up, go and sit with Peter, and leave Lee and Holly to it. But the sheer nakedness of such a gesture left me paralysed, and I watched helplessly as my one break for freedom was filled by an Oriental rump.

Lee, Peter and I had not been in the same room for nearly five years. As if now being together again would not be strange enough, there was this to deal with. Understandably then, conversation flowed like desperately corked wine, and as Peter and Lee caught up on their hemisphere, and I was left with the charge of Peter’s ephemeral lust, he and Lee took on the aspect of a distant city seen from the window of a speeding train at night. All that was left to do was to turn and accept my fellow passenger.

And what a passenger.

“Can I kiss you?” she asked.

“I have a girlfriend,” I said.

“Oh,” she deflated.

At her expense I actually felt quite inflated; proud and relaxed now I had set my boundaries. I slumped down in my seat and released a deep breath. Holly took solace in her phone, and Lee, Peter and I were able to catch up a little at last.

That is, until Holly began playing up; throwing her phone, retrieving it, and throwing it again. When we inquired as to the cause of her distress, it turned out she was positively pining after the affections of an elusive gentleman who was fond of her body but not her cooking. As her laments mounted, Lee made a rather pertinent inquiry.

“If he treats you so bad...” etc.

“Well, he has a rather large...”

I could not help wondering, if this chap’s attributes were so easily compartmentalised, and if she had all these cooking ingredients going to waste, surely among them she could locate one of similar dimensions…

Peter, and especially Lee, being connoisseurs of the relevant insecurity, made celebration enough of this gentleman’s “topic” that dear sweet Holly offered to show them some photojournalism of the thing. Readily offering up her phone for inspection, we were each treated to a veritable Louvre of Weegee-esque images of Holly and her squire in flagrante delicto. In the midst of what had now descended into a hyenas birthday party, I could not help wondering how Holly’s absent knight in glistening amour would feel about his… art… being displayed so fervently without his consent; I struggled to imagine it being so morally black and white vice versa. But this is a party, so let’s try and have some fun...  

When the intoxication of Lee and Peter finally waned, it was time for a brief question and answer session.

“Aren’t you embarrassed showing those photos to three guys you’ve just met?” asked Peter.

“Not really. Maybe a little,” she answered ambivalently.

“That’s amazing! I’ve never met a girl like you before!”

I was sure he had...

“Well actually, I kind of do it for a living...”

...or maybe not!

“Do what for a living?”

“Porn.”

“You’re a Porn Star??”

“Well, I wouldn’t say ‘Star’.”

I thought we were in for another birthday party when Lee had a sudden change of heart.

“How can you do that? Don’t you find it degrading?” said the man who had just seemed happy as a pie while looking at her photos.

“No, it’s empowering.”

“How is it empowering?”

“I’m the centre of attention.”

“So is a person being lynched,” I interjected.

“It pays for my flat. It pays for my travels. I’ve travelled all over the world thanks to it.”

Maybe it’s not the same as being lynched...

“Surely there are other ways of making money!”

“None that pay so much or give so much freedom.”

“Freedom!”

“Lee, ever the moralist,” I said.

“What? Do you think it’s right?” he snapped.

“I think it’s none of my business.”

I had to admire him, though; I wished I could be so outspoken with my opinions. Thank God for Peter to put us all back on the right track.

“What kind of porn do you do?” he asked.

“Oh God,” someone said.

“S&M.”

“Oh please,” came the same disembodied voice.

Peter was having a one-hyena Christmas Eve.

“I don’t know what you’re laughing about,” she rounded on me suddenly, “there’s nothing I’d like more than to slap your co-”

“Ok, Lee, come on, we’re smoking RIGHT NOW, I NEED A FAG!!” I took his hand and dragged him out, but on the cusp of leaving, turned back to the table without looking at anyone but the floor and said quietly, “I never thought in my life I would have to explain to another living soul that I would not enjoy what you just proposed!”

Outside, Lee and I prolonged our cigarettes in the cold, hoping beyond hope that when we returned the two would have emigrated to Australia. At the very least, Lee offered to take my seat to give my testicles an opportunity to descend.

Back inside, things seemed to calm down for a while. Holly even began to drift to other tables, leaving us to finally catch up as we had intended. But she was never out of sight or earshot. Wherever she went, she was making waves; upsetting conjugal equilibriums, shaking up social structures. She even managed to arbitrate a grassroots form of table-service never before seen or heard of in the fifteen year history of our patronising this pub. But for all her affect, I developed an increasingly foul taste in my mouth as I observed her sidling up to men, squeezing her breasts and making little girl eyes to get what she wanted. More bitter still was the efficacy of her method, furthering her hollow sense of power.

I had known for some time that Lee and Peter had to leave for a short while to do something before returning. But so bad was there communication – still, after all these years! - that they would buy a fresh round and place it on the table, only to lament that they could not leave yet, “...because of all these drinks, man!” Finally, exasperated, I told them to go while I looked after their drinks.

“But you’ll be alone?” Lee said with evident distress.

“I’M THIRTY-FOUR YEARS OLD!!”

Problem solved, even if Lee looked a little bruised that his molly-coddling wasn’t being cherished.

They departed and I got a book out of my bag. But I didn’t get far when I felt a splash on the sofa beside me.

“Hello, Holly.”

“Where’d they go?”

“Elsewhere.”

“So I have you to myself?”

“And Swinburne.”

“Sorry I freaked you out before.”

“You didn’t freak me out.”

“Yes I did,” she said, getting all sexy/scary.

“I think you like to think you did.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, I suppose. It’s just it’s an illusion.”

“What isn’t an illusion?”

“I don’t know. Knowing that everything is?”

“This conversations getting too deep.”

“What would you like to talk about?”

“Why you won’t kiss me.”

“We’ve discussed that.”

“Yeah, yeah, because you don’t want to tarnish your perfect, stupid reputation!”

“What on Earth are you talking about?”

“You have a girlfriend, so you don’t want to do anything with me because you’re scared of it getting back to her.”

“You think I won’t kiss you for her sake? I won’t kiss you for my sake. Because that’s not who I want to be.”

“That’s stupid!”

“Why?”

“You’re just being a sheep!”

“You keep assuming I am motivated by one or another kind of social more. I’m not. You have to get it into your head that not everyone is like these guys who you have under your thumb because you condescend to tickle their lowest instincts, whose girlfriends you cause pain just so you can feel good about yourself for a few seconds. And what about you? You want to talk about empowerment; take away all the fawning guys and the binge drinking and Goth clothes and Goth talk and S&M crap, and what’s left? Who are you without all these accoutrements? Where is this empowerment you speak of? Where’s the rebellion? It seems to me your empowerment is entirely dependent on society, and of the lowest kind, too. Like you said, you’re the ‘centre of attention’. But if you were really powerful, you could be invisible, and silent, and it wouldn’t make you frightened or uncomfortable. But I think not being seen or heard frightens the hell out of you. So you make a big noise and a spectacle and when goons respond you mistake it for success. But you’re wrong. They use you and throw you away, and they never think of you again other than in shame. You’re talking about having power over others; I’m talking about having power over myself.”

All the while she had been gazing deeply into my eyes, I didn’t know if she was listening or just trying to be seductive. I noticed her lips looked like those of someone I used to be close to, and I felt a strange carnal dissociation; like we are never really as close as we believe, and our intimacy is fraught with a desperation to connect in a way that as a culture we have forgotten, and yet exploit. So we throw ourselves at each other, hoping beyond hope that violence can ever suffice for life.

“So what can we talk about, sir?”

“We are talking. This is talking.”

“But what do you want to talk about?”

“You. I want to talk about you, who you are behind all these masks.”

“Who’s behind your mask?”

“I don’t know. Probably all the good and evil in the world,” I laughed. “I think maybe you could answer that better than I could.”

“Me?”

“Yeah.”

“How?”

“Well, tell me something – tell me, if you could do anything right now, just for yourself, not as a spectacle for anyone else, but just for how it would make you feel inside, what would you do?”

“Apart from ki-”

“Of course. Something consensual!”

“Honestly?”

“No. Please lie to me!”

“Honestly. Ok; see that girl over there?” she pointed out a girl I had seen before, a local; skinny, black-clad, long platinum blonde hair, black lip stick...

“Yeah?”

“I think she is so beautiful! And I would just love to talk to her!”

“So. Go talk to her.”

“I can’t!”

“Why not? You just showed your guts to three strange men!”

“Because she’s probably straight.”

“No one is asking you to wear her bum as a hat. You’re just complimenting her. Remember, a nice thing? Remember nice things? Remember the time when we could do nice things and not tremble with fear that it would result in being chased out of the village with torches and pitchforks! Go and do a nice thing. For nostalgia, and for her and for your self. Go on!”

She thought for a while. Then her expression became suffused with resolution and excitement, and she got up and bounded over to the girl.

I got back to Swinburne.

Before our lives divide for ever,

While time is with us and hands are free,

(Time, swift to fasten and swift to sever

Hand from hand, as we stand by the sea)

I will say no word that a man might say

Whose whole life’s love goes down in a day;

For this could never have been; and never,

Though the gods and the years relent, shall be…

Looking up at one point I saw the two girls talking. They were smiling, gently holding hands, and I got a warm feeling at the sight of their sisterhood, free from the compromising presence of men. Contented, I got back to Swinburne.

I must have slipped into a gentle reverie when I felt a familiar splash on the sofa beside me. Holly was beaming.

“That looked like it went well.”

“Did you see?”

“Of course.”

“She’s so lovely.”

“See, it wasn’t so bad after all.

“Thank you!”    

“It was all you.” Her eyes became watery. I added, “You looked really good together.”

She looked shocked.

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me!”

“Really? You mustn’t be hanging around with the right people!”

“I’m sorry, I feel emotional.”

“It’s ok.”

“Can I have a hug please? No funny business, I promise.”

I relented and gave her a hug. Looking over her shoulder I was aware of myself scanning for familiar faces. I had to remind myself to practise what I preach.

Just then, Lee and Peter returned in a state of jubilation.

“’Ello ‘ello, wha’da we’ave ‘ere then!” said Lee, doing his best Peter Cook.

“A hug. Lee.” I couldn’t hide my stress.

With their return we all fell back into a bathetic state, and I for one was relieved to return to the periphery of attention.

“SHOTS!”

I passed while the other three made merry. Holly departed on another one of her tours, and the boys made their comments. I didn’t try hard to dissuade their imaginations.

As the night wore on, the three of us alone again, Holly on her rounds appeared to be taking a turn. It almost seemed uncannily like her recent candour was now causing an emotional backlash of sorts; when the angels are admired, the demons grow vengeful. The three of us were aghast at the volume of alcohol she was imbibing. She was still standing, but only just, cementing herself as persona non grata of the whole pub. Even her black-clad sister’s expression could be seen to have overtones of disgust at the sight of her. It went on for such an excruciating time, during which the atmosphere inside the pub had begun to revolve in a sluggish and deflated orbit around her. Holly the empowered. Holly the cynosure. All of a sudden it made real the kinds of places this young woman must have been, what things must have been done to her, captured and released into the world for all to see and none to undo; fragments of her soul irretrievably thrown to wolf and wind. Something sank in my solar plexus and dribbled miserably out through my feet, mingling with the sticky, beer-sodden floor. And it was not semen.

When she returned I found myself closed off. Worse still, Lee and Peter were also. Things must have been bad for all three of us for once to be in complete sympathy. And Holly must have sensed it; she was back to throwing and retrieving her phone.

“People just use me for my body!” she screamed, blurry eyed through running make up and sweat-sticky clumps of black-dyed hair, falling haphazardly, her flesh jiggling in clusters from the loss of poise and composure. We sank into our seats. I wanted to disappear.

One more time she threw her phone. And going to retrieve it, she fell, then huddled herself up against a wall on the floor and buried her head in her hands. I mustered the very last of my compulsion to go over to her aid.

“Are you ok?”

“Not really.”

“I think you should get a cab.”

“I’m going to get the train.”

“I really think that is a terrible idea.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve gotten home in this state a million times.”

How? I thought. She can’t stand! Does she slither?

I slithered back to my seat with the spirit of a man who has just delivered his own child into the hands of Fagin.

“Please don’t tell me she’s going home alone like that!” exploded Lee.

“You’re welcome to escort her, Lee.”

“Well no, but.”

“Well nothing then.”

She made it back to the table and handed me her phone, managing a wink.

“Let’s stay in touch!”

I had no desire to meet this train wreck again. But saying as much, even in its kindest form, I thought would push her over the edge. I looked to the other two who promptly looked away. I stared at the phone. Eventually I started pressing numbers, saved it under my name. At least now if she tried to call me, the licensed cab office would come to her.

I handed back the phone, and we all made our harrowed farewells. And just like that, she was gone.

The three of us didn’t last long after that. We were too worried, too ashamed, too bereft. We left and made our goodbyes like mourners.

I rushed towards home, letting the breeze carry the world off my shoulders like dust, as my feet propelled me away, away, away.

As I climbed the stairs to home, I felt the promise at hand. Key in door, door opening onto a silent, darkened flat. I stepped inside and shut the door quietly.

Ahhh, fresh air!

I put my keys on the side. Then I crept quietly into the bedroom, towards the sleeping form beneath the sheets. I sat down gently on the side of the bed to get a better look. My eyes adjusted to the darkness, illuminated only by the neighbours light as it filtered through the window.

She was sound asleep. Her eyelids like a baby’s. Her cheeks puffy with slumber. Her breath came and went so softly, and with the slightest hint of a snore. Its gentle rhythms soothed me. I closed my eyes and sighed with relief. With her soft curls undisturbed beneath the careful caresses of my fingertips, I knew with all of my being that I was where I belong.

[kapmarvin]

When the Angels are Admired, a tragicomedy on pornography

The door opened, and in walked a young woman of some height and build, black hair, pale make-up, piercings, black clothes and boots, taking long, but wary, strides. She would not have caught my eye if not for the evident interest of the friend I was with.

The young woman took a seat at a table behind me where I would have forgotten her if not for Peter’s constant spying. Eventually she was joined by a friend, but the friend abandoned her very soon after. Alone once more, she seemed quite lost and was becoming something of a cynosure in the pub as she made conversation with seemingly anyone at hand. I was trying to forestall the inevitable when Peter played some music on his phone – loud; ostensibly for me, but clearly more to the taste of the young woman, who identified the band immediately. She turned out to be Australian, at which point I knew I had met my fate; my friend being a recent and extreme convert to Australophilia. They proceeded to have a long and deepening conversation over my head while my back was still turned towards the young woman. Finally the absurdity of their courtship became too Victorian for me to bear and I invited the solitary reveller to join us.

What I had failed to consider was that rather than sit on the sofa beside her suitor, she might simply take the invite at face value and sit next to me. She did. What I had also failed to imagine was that Peter’s phone would just then start ringing, and as he took it to suckle at the breast of his ear, the duty of conversation fell on me. It got worse: we liked all the same bands. Trust an Australian to make my courtesy fly back in my face.

Even after Peter’s phonecall, the young woman, Holly, baby-birdesque, would not return to her true parent, believing the poor ersatz fool who had deigned to pick her up in good faith to be her true caregiver.

Not long after, Lee turned up, and with his arrival I fancied for a moment of insanity that I could merely get up, go and sit with Peter, and leave Lee and Holly to it. But the sheer nakedness of such a gesture left me paralysed, and I watched helplessly as my one break for freedom was filled by an Oriental rump.

Lee, Peter and I had not been in the same room for nearly five years. As if now being together again would not be strange enough, there was this to deal with. Understandably then, conversation flowed like desperately corked wine, and as Peter and Lee caught up on their hemisphere, and I was left with the charge of Peter’s ephemeral lust, he and Lee took on the aspect of a distant city seen from the window of a speeding train at night. All that was left to do was to turn and accept my fellow passenger.

And what a passenger.

“Can I kiss you?” she asked.

“I have a girlfriend,” I said.

“Oh,” she deflated.

At her expense I actually felt quite inflated; proud and relaxed now I had set my boundaries. I slumped down in my seat and released a deep breath. Holly took solace in her phone, and Lee, Peter and I were able to catch up a little at last.

That is, until Holly began playing up; throwing her phone, retrieving it, and throwing it again. When we inquired as to the cause of her distress, it turned out she was positively pining after the affections of an elusive gentleman who was fond of her body but not her cooking. As her laments mounted, Lee made a rather pertinent inquiry.

“If he treats you so bad...” etc.

“Well, he has a rather large...”

I could not help wondering, if this chap’s attributes were so easily compartmentalised, and if she had all these cooking ingredients going to waste, surely among them she could locate one of similar dimensions…

Peter, and especially Lee, being connoisseurs of the relevant insecurity, made celebration enough of this gentleman’s “topic” that dear sweet Holly offered to show them some photojournalism of the thing. Readily offering up her phone for inspection, we were each treated to a veritable Louvre of Weegee-esque images of Holly and her squire in flagrante delicto. In the midst of what had now descended into a hyenas birthday party, I could not help wondering how Holly’s absent knight in glistening amour would feel about his… art… being displayed so fervently without his consent; I struggled to imagine it being so morally black and white vice versa. But this is a party, so let’s try and have some fun...  

When the intoxication of Lee and Peter finally waned, it was time for a brief question and answer session.

“Aren’t you embarrassed showing those photos to three guys you’ve just met?” asked Peter.

“Not really. Maybe a little,” she answered ambivalently.

“That’s amazing! I’ve never met a girl like you before!”

I was sure he had...

“Well actually, I kind of do it for a living...”

...or maybe not!

“Do what for a living?”

“Porn.”

“You’re a Porn Star??”

“Well, I wouldn’t say ‘Star’.”

I thought we were in for another birthday party when Lee had a sudden change of heart.

“How can you do that? Don’t you find it degrading?” said the man who had just seemed happy as a pie while looking at her photos.

“No, it’s empowering.”

“How is it empowering?”

“I’m the centre of attention.”

“So is a person being lynched,” I interjected.

“It pays for my flat. It pays for my travels. I’ve travelled all over the world thanks to it.”

Maybe it’s not the same as being lynched...

“Surely there are other ways of making money!”

“None that pay so much or give so much freedom.”

“Freedom!”

“Lee, ever the moralist,” I said.

“What? Do you think it’s right?” he snapped.

“I think it’s none of my business.”

I had to admire him, though; I wished I could be so outspoken with my opinions. Thank God for Peter to put us all back on the right track.

“What kind of porn do you do?” he asked.

“Oh God,” someone said.

“S&M.”

“Oh please,” came the same disembodied voice.

Peter was having a one-hyena Christmas Eve.

“I don’t know what you’re laughing about,” she rounded on me suddenly, “there’s nothing I’d like more than to slap your co-”

“Ok, Lee, come on, we’re smoking RIGHT NOW, I NEED A FAG!!” I took his hand and dragged him out, but on the cusp of leaving, turned back to the table without looking at anyone but the floor and said quietly, “I never thought in my life I would have to explain to another living soul that I would not enjoy what you just proposed!”

Outside, Lee and I prolonged our cigarettes in the cold, hoping beyond hope that when we returned the two would have emigrated to Australia. At the very least, Lee offered to take my seat to give my testicles an opportunity to descend.

Back inside, things seemed to calm down for a while. Holly even began to drift to other tables, leaving us to finally catch up as we had intended. But she was never out of sight or earshot. Wherever she went, she was making waves; upsetting conjugal equilibriums, shaking up social structures. She even managed to arbitrate a grassroots form of table-service never before seen or heard of in the fifteen year history of our patronising this pub. But for all her affect, I developed an increasingly foul taste in my mouth as I observed her sidling up to men, squeezing her breasts and making little girl eyes to get what she wanted. More bitter still was the efficacy of her method, furthering her hollow sense of power.

I had known for some time that Lee and Peter had to leave for a short while to do something before returning. But so bad was there communication – still, after all these years! - that they would buy a fresh round and place it on the table, only to lament that they could not leave yet, “...because of all these drinks, man!” Finally, exasperated, I told them to go while I looked after their drinks.

“But you’ll be alone?” Lee said with evident distress.

“I’M THIRTY-TWO YEARS OLD!!”

Problem solved, even if Lee looked a little bruised that his molly-coddling wasn’t being cherished.

They departed and I got a book out of my bag. But I didn’t get far when I felt a splash on the sofa beside me.

“Hello, Holly.”

“Where’d they go?”

“Elsewhere.”

“So I have you to myself?”

“And Swinburne.”

“Sorry I freaked you out before.”

“You didn’t freak me out.”

“Yes I did,” she said, getting all sexy/scary.

“I think you like to think you did.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, I suppose. It’s just it’s an illusion.”

“What isn’t an illusion?”

“I don’t know. Knowing that everything is?”

“This conversations getting too deep.”

“What would you like to talk about?”

“Why you won’t kiss me.”

“We’ve discussed that.”

“Yeah, yeah, because you don’t want to tarnish your perfect, stupid reputation!”

“What on Earth are you talking about?”

“You have a girlfriend, so you don’t want to do anything with me because you’re scared of it getting back to her.”

“You think I won’t kiss you for her sake? I won’t kiss you for my sake. Because that’s not who I want to be.”

“That’s stupid!”

“Why?”

“You’re just being a sheep!”

“You keep assuming I am motivated by one or another kind of social more. I’m not. You have to get it into your head that not everyone is like these guys who you have under your thumb because you condescend to tickle their lowest instincts, whose girlfriends you cause pain just so you can feel good about yourself for a few seconds. And what about you? You want to talk about empowerment; take away all the fawning guys and the binge drinking and Goth clothes and Goth talk and S&M crap, and what’s left? Who are you without all these accoutrements? Where is this empowerment you speak of? Where’s the rebellion? It seems to me your empowerment is entirely dependent on society, and of the lowest kind, too. Like you said, you’re the ‘centre of attention’. But if you were really powerful, you could be invisible, and silent, and it wouldn’t make you frightened or uncomfortable. But I think not being seen or heard frightens the hell out of you. So you make a big noise and a spectacle and when goons respond you mistake it for success. But you’re wrong. They use you and throw you away, and they never think of you again other than in shame. You’re talking about having power over others; I’m talking about having power over myself.”

All the while she had been gazing deeply into my eyes, I didn’t know if she was listening or just trying to be seductive. I noticed her lips looked like those of someone I used to be close to, and I felt a strange carnal dissociation; like we are never really as close as we believe, and our intimacy is fraught with a desperation to connect in a way that as a culture we have forgotten, and yet exploit. So we throw ourselves at each other, hoping beyond hope that violence can ever suffice for life.

“So what can we talk about, sir?”

“We are talking. This is talking.”

“But what do you want to talk about?”

“You. I want to talk about you, who you are behind all these masks.”

“Who’s behind your mask?”

“I don’t know. Probably all the good and evil in the world,” I laughed. “I think maybe you could answer that better than I could.”

“Me?”

“Yeah.”

“How?”

“Well, tell me something – tell me, if you could do anything right now just, for yourself, not as a spectacle for anyone else, but just for how it would make you feel inside, what would you do?”

“Apart from ki-”

“Of course. Something consensual!”

“Honestly?”

“No. Please lie to me!”

“Honestly. Ok; see that girl over there?” she pointed out a girl I had seen before, a local, skinny, black clad, long platinum blonde hair, black lip stick.

“Yeah?”

“I think she is so beautiful! And I would just love to talk to her!”

“So. Go talk to her.”

“I can’t!”

“Why not? You just showed your guts to three strange men!”

“Because she’s probably straight.”

“No one is asking you to wear her bum as a hat. You’re just complimenting her. Remember, a nice thing? Remember nice things? Remember the time when we could do nice things and not tremble with fear that it would result in being chased out of the village with torches and pitchforks! Go and do a nice thing. For nostalgia, and for her and for your self. Go on!”

She thought for a while. Then her expression became suffused with resolution and excitement, and she got up and bounded over to the girl.

I got back to Swinburne.

Before our lives divide for ever,

While time is with us and hands are free,

(Time, swift to fasten and swift to sever

Hand from hand, as we stand by the sea)

I will say no word that a man might say

Whose whole life’s love goes down in a day;

For this could never have been; and never,

Though the gods and the years relent, shall be…

Looking up at one point I saw the two girls talking. They were smiling, gently holding hands, and I got a warm feeling at the sight of their sisterhood, free from the compromising presence of men. Contented, I got back to Swinburne.

I must have slipped into a gentle reverie when I felt a familiar splash on the sofa beside me. Holly was beaming.

“That looked like it went well.”

“Did you see?”

“Of course.”

“She’s so lovely.”

“See, it wasn’t so bad after all.

“Thank you!”    

“It was all you.” Her eyes became watery. I added, “You looked really good together.”

She looked shocked.

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me!”

“Really? You mustn’t be hanging around with the right people!”

“I’m sorry, I feel emotional.”

“It’s ok.”

“Can I have a hug please? No funny business, I promise.”

I relented and gave her a hug. Looking over her shoulder I was aware of myself scanning for familiar faces. I had to remind myself to practise what I preach.

Just then, Lee and Peter returned in a state of jubilation.

“’Ello ‘ello, wha’da we’ave ‘ere then!” said Lee, doing his best Peter Cook.

“A hug. Lee.” I couldn’t hide my stress.

With their return we all fell back into a bathetic state, and I for one was relieved to return to the periphery of attention.

“SHOTS!”

I passed while the other three made merry. Holly departed on another one of her tours, and the boys made their comments. I didn’t try hard to dissuade their imaginations.

As the night wore on, the three of us alone again, Holly on her rounds appeared to be taking a turn. It almost seemed uncannily like her recent candour was now causing an emotional backlash of sorts; when the angels are admired, the demons grow vengeful. The three of us were aghast at the volume of alcohol she was imbibing. She was still standing, but only just, cementing herself as persona non grata of the whole pub. Even her black-clad sister’s expression could be seen to have overtones of disgust at the sight of her. It went on for such an excruciating time, during which the atmosphere inside the pub had begun to revolve in a sluggish and deflated orbit around her. Holly the empowered. Holly the cynosure. All of a sudden it made real the kinds of places this young woman must have been, what things must have been done to her, captured and released into the world for all to see and none to undo; fragments of her soul irretrievably thrown to wolf and wind. Something sank in my solar plexus and dribbled miserably out through my feet, mingling with the sticky, beer-sodden floor. And it was not semen.

When she returned I found myself closed off. Worse still, Lee and Peter were also. Things must have been bad for all three of us for once to be in complete sympathy. And Holly must have sensed it; she was back to throwing and retrieving her phone.

“People just use me for my body!” she screamed, blurry eyed through running make up and sweat-sticky clumps of black-dyed hair, falling haphazardly, her flesh jiggling in clusters from the loss of poise and composure. We sank into our seats. I wanted to disappear.

One more time she threw her phone. And going to retrieve it, she fell, then huddled herself up against a wall on the floor and buried her head in her hands. I mustered the very last of my compulsion to go over to her aid.

“Are you ok?”

“Not really.”

“I think you should get a cab.”

“I’m going to get the train.”

“I really think that is a terrible idea.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve gotten home in this state a million times.”

How? I thought. She can’t stand! Does she slither?

I slithered back to my seat with the spirit of a man who has just delivered his own child into the hands of Fagin.

“Please don’t tell me she’s going home alone like that!” exploded Lee.

“You’re welcome to escort her, Lee.”

“Well no, but.”

“Well nothing then.”

She made it back to the table and handed me her phone, managing a wink.

“Let’s stay in touch!”

I had no desire to meet this train wreck again. But saying as much, even in its kindest form, I thought would push her over the edge. I looked to the other two who promptly looked away. I stared at the phone. Eventually I started pressing numbers, saved it under my name. At least now if she tried to call me, the licensed cab office would come to her!

I handed back the phone, and we all made our harrowed farewells. And just like that, she was gone.

The three of us didn’t last long after that. We were too worried, too ashamed, too bereft. We left and made our goodbyes like mourners.

I rushed towards home, letting the breeze carry the world off my shoulders like dust, as my feet propelled me away, away, away.

As I climbed the stairs to home, I felt the promise at hand. Key in door, door opening onto a silent, darkened flat. I stepped inside and shut the door quietly.

Ahhh, fresh air!

I put my keys on the side. Then I crept quietly into the bedroom, towards the sleeping form beneath the sheets. I sat down gently on the side of the bed to get a better look. My eyes adjusted to the darkness, illuminated only by the neighbours light as it filtered through the window.

She was sound asleep. Her eyelids like a baby’s. Her cheeks puffy with slumber. Her breath came and went so softly, and with the slightest hint of a snore. Its gentle rhythms soothed me. I closed my eyes and sighed with relief. With her soft curls undisturbed beneath the careful caresses of my fingertips, I knew with all of my being that I was where I belong.