#oh also they definitely have one of those old ornate wardrobes

[honey-dewey]

To Serve the King

Pairing: Din Djarin/Reader

Word Count: 2,870

Warnings: No major ones, Reader gets called a slut once. 

Very few understood what went on behind the Mand’alor’s helmet, but that didn’t mean they didn’t support him. However, leaving someone wrapped in revealing silks and fine jewelry on the throne when he wasn’t around might’ve been one of the odder things they’ve seen. 

Din Djarin was many things, but a confident Mand’alor was not one of them. They called him Mand’alor the Reuniter, officially. That was the name they put in the books and would write for all of history. However, he was well known as the Mudhorn Mand’alor, or the Mand’alor who never removed his helmet. 

He’d been settled as the Mand’alor for a while now, slowly reuniting the people of Mandalore, hence the name he’d been given. It was slow going, and because he was often away on odd jobs, he needed someone he could trust to keep his throne safe while he went away. 

To most, however, an ex-slave wasn’t the first choice. Hell, it might even be the last. 

Yet, that’s who the great Mand’alor trusted with his beskar throne. 

He’d picked you up on Tatooine, after you’d thrown down with Fennec when she’d found you hiding in Jabba’s old palace. You’d been bruised and beaten up, but you’d held your own and seemed to be pretty loyal, so Din had taken you back to Mandalore and offered you a job. You weren’t a complete fool, so you accepted. 

Now, almost six months later, you were comfortable as the throne keeper. Maybe a bit too comfortable, but that was Din’s problem to deal with. Dressed in revealing silk and soft chiffon, you often sat upon the throne when he hunted. When he wasn’t out hunting, you were seated at his right or in his lap, depending on your mood. 

Some, most even, speculated that you were still a slave, considering the only beskar you wore was an ornate collar. But others considered your boldness and wondered if you were truly the pilot and Din was just your puppet. And others still were certain that you and Din were exchanging sexual favors behind the scenes, taking into account the fact that you both slept in the same room. 

None of them were right. 

You were no longer a slave. You wore the collar out of respect for Din, knowing that he had the power to remove it kept you respectful and by his side, but he would absolutely let you go if you asked. You were also not the mastermind. Despite being smart, you had no desire to rule a planet. And as for the sexual favors, well, you admired Din, and thought he was likely handsome under the helmet, but you could never see yourself seducing him, or vice versa. At least, not yet. 

What you were was his advisor and his unofficial right hand man. He’d offered you the job, and you had insisted on the uniform. It kept you unassuming and out of people’s minds. No one suspected a throne warmer to be anything but a bubble headed slut. Which you definitely were not. 

Din had, upon realizing people would likely be after your head, cleared out a bit of his room for you, which was where you were now. Tucked away in a small alcove was your bed, raised up high above your desk and bookshelf. You enjoyed sleeping this close to the ceiling. It gave you a sense of security. 

Also amongst your things was a wardrobe built into the wall. Inside hung most of your day clothes, as your leisure clothes were folded away in the wardrobe’s only drawer. 

The only thing separating you from Din was a thick black curtain that you controlled, often tugging it shut so you could have privacy. 

Now, you were settled at your desk, pouring over papers Din had given you to check. It was slow going, but worth the trouble. You scratched out a mistake and corrected it, adjusting the number of exports to accurately represent Mandalore’s involvement with the galaxy. 

“Hey,” Din said, knocking a bit on the side of the wall before pushing the curtain open. “You good in here?” 

“Yep,” you mumbled, putting the final piece of paper down and smiling. “Just finished looking over the import and export papers. Everything looks good.” 

Din sighed. “Perfect. I’m leaving for two days. I have a meeting with Fett and Skywalker on a planet not too far from here.” 

You nodded, standing and stretching. “I guess I better get ready, hm?” 

Din chuckled lightly. “What will you wear?” 

Opening your wardrobe, you examined your options, eventually deciding on one. “This.” 

The outfit in question was mostly sheer, with strategic patches of fine silk to cover you appropriately. The chiffon fabric was a beautiful royal blue, while the silks were a blue so dark they may as well have been black. You slid into the outfit, adjusting it and smiling. Din may have worn head to toe beskar to protect himself, but this was your armor. Slipping on your silver anklets and sapphire studded jewelry, you walked out onto the main bedroom, seeing Din waiting there for you. 

“My king,” you said formally, a sly grin curling across your lips. 

Din sighed. “Here.” He held out your beskar collar, securing it around your neck. He was the only one with a key to unlock the ornate clasp that kept it in place, but you didn’t mind. You would survive for a few days without removing the collar while you waited for your Mand’alor to return. 

You two headed out to the throne room, where you settled down on the throne, waving to Din as he left. He promised he’d be back by nightfall the next day, and you grinned, teasingly replying that you couldn’t wait for his return. Throwing your legs over one of the arms of the throne, you lounged back. Time to do your job. 

The first people that came in were merchants from a nearby planet. Rug makers who were down on their luck. They didn’t have much to trade, but you promised them that you would take a look at their exports and see what you could do. Some of the council members seemed hesitant to let them go so easily, but you waved your hand and they left without a word. 

Over the day, you had many encounters like that. Small ones you could easily talk over and come to a simple conclusion. In between meetings, you read a book on the throne, entirely engulfed in the story. The council filtered around you, often attempting to talk you down from your decisions. You always responded in the same way. By flicking a book page and sweetly telling them it’s what the Mand’alor would’ve done. 

By the time the sun had set, you were preparing for your final meeting. A scheduled one with the Nite Owls, who had come in with the leader of an assassination attempt for the Mand’alor. 

The assassin in question was dragged behind Bo-Katan and Koska, his hands cuffed and a length of chain linking his ankles. He looked exhausted, kneeling before you with sleepless and pitiful eyes, his shoulders hunched. You examined him further, occasionally asking Bo-Katan a question. His hair was choppy, clearly dirty and in desperate need of a proper trim, although he did have well maintained facial hair. His skin, naturally sun-kissed, was pale with lack of light, and his eyes, which kept drawing you in, were surrounded by sleepless bruises. 

“Oh for the love of Mand’alor, uncuff him,” you instructed. “He’s starved, exhausted, and in no condition to fight anyone. The least you can do is treat him like a human being and not a kriffing animal.” 

Bo-Katan did as asked, uncuffing the assassin. You leaned forward, happy today had gotten some form of excitement. “Do you have a name?” 

The assassin shook his head. You sighed, standing up and stepping down off the dais and standing before the assassin. “A pity. Can you talk?” 

“Yes.” 

You nodded. “Good. I’m sure Bo-Katan treated you well on your journey here. He wasn’t any trouble, was he, Ms. Kryze?” 

Bo-Katan shrugged. “He’s a survivor. Took us months to hunt him down.” 

You knelt down, taking the assassin’s face and slowly turning it from side to side. Noting a bruise that could only have come from a fight, you made up your mind, standing and holding a hand out. “Stand.” 

He did, taking your hand and using it to wobble to his feet. He was taller than you, but you didn’t mind. All you could see in your head was yourself, knelt before the Mand’alor, body aching from a life of fighting, desperate for any kind of out. He’d held your hand just as you did to the assassin, offering you a steady life. 

“Listen well,” you said, still holding the assassin’s hand. “On this planet, there is an honest life to be found. A life of comfort, a life that isn’t ruled by a need to hunt or fight. If you’ll accept, we can give you that life.” 

The assassin’s face went slack, his hand gripping yours tightly. “And why would I want to live like you?” He hissed finally. “A pretty little palace slut. That’s not what I want.” He stepped forward, but you knew better. Using his iron grip on your hand, you tossed him clean over your shoulder, whirling around to press a knee firmly to his sternum, your dominant forearm steady on his throat. 

“Then you give me no choice,” you said, voice as firm as your position. “I’ll be returning you to Bo-Katan, and she can have her way with you.” 

He was wrestled to his feet, Koska grinning as she recuffed him. 

“Ms. Kryze,” you said, moving back to the throne and sitting upon it once more. “Show our guest how we treat those who would attack us.” 

Bo-Katan nodded, hauling the assassin out. You sighed, collapsing into the throne. “You’re all dismissed,” you said loosely, waving away the council members, all of whom had been dead silent for your final meeting. 

They left, leaving you alone on the throne. How Din did this day in and day out was a mystery to you. You were exhausted simply from one final meeting. 

Standing and heading back to your shared room, you slid past Din’s portion and finally shrouded yourself in the familiarness of your room. 

You had a horribly restless sleep that night, and awoke early to the sound of someone entering the room. You feared for all of two seconds before you heard the telltale sounds of beskar armor. Din was home early. 

Sliding out of bed, you tossed on a knee length robe and opened the curtain, seeing Din standing next to his bed. 

“Oh Maker am I glad to see you!” You said, eagerly approaching him. “I had a very long day yesterday.” 

Din huffed, settling on the side of the bed. “Oh yeah? Tell me about it.” 

You sat with him, cross legged and playing absently with the hem of your robe. “Well. It was super simple until the end. Just a bunch of boring meetings and deals, most of which were transcribed for you and I can give you the highlight notes later. But then, Bo-Katan came in with the leader of that would-be assassination group she told us about last month. He was a complete dick! Called me a slut and almost hurt me.” 

“You fought back?” 

“Yeah.” You scooted closer to Din. “Sent him out with Bo-Katan. I’m sure she’s disposed of him by now.” 

Din sighed, leaning back on the bed. “Sounds like you did good.” 

You smiled, the praise warning your chest. “I think I did.” 

You almost fell asleep there with Din, the both of you laying with each other. He’d had a long trip, which he told you about. He’d not slept in his anticipation to return, Grogu coming home with him for a while. The little green child was curled in your lap. You’d met him a few times, and he liked you tremendously. His acceptance of you was part of the reason Din trusted you as much as he did. 

Before you could truly fall asleep, Din nudged you awake, mumbling he had a meeting to attend. You stretched, slowly crawling out of the bed and picking a less revealing and more comfortable pale green outfit. It was still fit for a throne warmer, but wasn’t as scandalous as your previous day’s attire. 

Walking out with Din, you grinned upon seeing Bo-Katan seated at the small, round meeting table. There was no one else in the room. 

Din, as per custom, sat across from Bo-Katan, with you sitting at his right. 

“So,” Din said, starting the meeting officially. “The assassin, you dealt with him?” 

Bo-Katan’s lips curved into a smile. “In a way, yes.” 

Din shifted. “What does that mean?” 

“We got rid of him,” Bo-Katan clarified, leaning back in her chair. “Although I think his encounter with your stand-in was enough to scare him into not messing with us ever again. But, as per the instructions, he was dealt with in an appropriate manner. I doubt we’ll be hearing from the other assassins in the group any time soon.”

“Good,” Din said, relaxing. “Shall we tell them?” 

“I suppose,” Bo-Katan hummed. “It was such fun yesterday to see them fight, but now is as good a time as any.” 

“I’m sorry,” you interrupted, leaning forward and putting a hand on the table. “Are you talking about me?” 

Din nodded. “After seeing what you can do, and how you negotiated yesterday, I think it’s fitting that I ask you to be my interplanetary advisor. This would mean making trips with me, handling most if not all of the papers, which I think you do anyway, and basically doing what you do now on a larger scale.” 

You were stunned. It made sense, all except for one little bit. “But you didn’t see what I did yesterday. You were gone.” 

Din made a small noise that you assumed was a chuckle. “Just because you don’t recognize me doesn’t mean I’m not there,” he pointed out, and you almost asked him what he meant when he slowly took his helmet off, revealing the face of the assassin from yesterday. 

You were silent for much too long before finally taking a frustrated swing at Din. He dodged easily, a smile on his face. “Did I do something wrong?” 

You shook your head, your next move a very powerful hug for Din. “I cannot believe you let me take you down yesterday,” you said happily, still holding him. “Oh my kriffing maker, I can’t believe it!” 

Eventually, you pulled away, examining Din’s face. His cheekbone was still bruised, but he looked healthier, like he’d had a proper meal and bath. “Y’know,” you said, tugging at a small curl that was flopped over on Din’s forehead. “I knew you were handsome under that helmet. But this is unexpected.” 

“Good unexpected or bad unexpected?” 

“Oh definitely good unexpected,” you replied. “Was anyone else in on it?” 

Din shook his head. “As far as the council knows, the man from yesterday was legitimately an assassin and is now dead.” 

Over the next few weeks, you shifted in your job, traveling with Din and leaving the council to handle affairs on Mandalore. He was excellent fun on trips, looser and more at ease when it was just the two of you on a ship together. He introduced you as his official right hand man, a title that made you glow with pride. 

And yet, you still dressed the same way. 

Of course, your wardrobe had expanded to include some cold weather outfits, but it was still a mess of chiffons, silks, and expensive furs. You still wore the collar, but Din had insisted on one slight change. You and him visited his armorer, a reserved woman who never removed her helmet, no matter the circumstances, and Din had her make you a pendant for the collar. A beautiful mudhorn signet, just like his. It sat on the dip between your collarbones, the cold metal a constant reminder of your connections to Din. 

“Ready?” He asked, holding his hand out. You were about to step out onto Coruscant to make a deal with several other planet’s leaders. You had draped yourself in embroidered blue silks and chiffon, the collar on display and the hem of the skirt sweeping the floor. It was a fancy occasion that called for fancy clothes. And yet, Din was beside you in his armor, no decorations or anything. 

You nodded. Despite the importance of this meeting and the horrible terror of the various what ifs, you were calm. “Of course. Are you?” 

Din chuckled. He’d put his helmet on, but you could still gauge his facial expressions. “Sure.” 

Stepping off the ship together, you knew people would talk. They always did, exchanging hushed whispers behind their hands. Maybe, if you weren’t dressed as you were, the whispers wouldn’t be as prominent. But you enjoyed your outfits, and didn’t mind the quiet gossip one bit. 

In the end, it was only Din who you sought to please. He was your equal, and yet he was your superior. You desired his smile, his pleased moods, and you would do anything to make him happy. After all, you were there to serve your king.

[searchingwardrobes]

The Early Leaf’s a Flower: 8/11

I’m so excited to share this chapter with you! The wardrobe will finally work its magic again! But . . . well . . . we do have three more chapters to go . . . For those of you who read the original, this contains a pivotal scene from that version, though with some changes. Changes I feel make it even better. I hope ya’ll think so too!

Much thanks as always to the mods of the csrt event at @captainswanbigbang​. Also thanks to @optomisticgirl​​ and @shippingtheswann​ for their beta skills. I especially needed both your help with the battle scene in this, for which I am immensely grateful!

Summary: She saw eyes that were the blue of the forget me not peering at her through the cracked door of the wardrobe. He saw hair as gold as the buttercups. Why does the wardrobe keep bringing them back to one another, if fate keeps tearing them apart? Or maybe fate has her reasons …

Rating: M for eventual sexy times, violence, canonical character death, and attempted rape

Trigger warnings: vague references to child abuse (physical and sexual), violence, and positive Millian

Words: About 4k in this chapter

** Complete and updated every Monday** Also on Ao3

Emma: Age 23

Jackie is in her seventies, or at least looks like she’s in her seventies, and her house is at least a hundred years old. But those are the only two similarities either the woman or the house share with Emma’s beloved Martha. Where Martha’s house was old and a little worse for wear, it was still well loved and kept clean and tidy. Jackie’s house is only a few steps above being condemned, and as for cleanliness, well, Emma almost chokes on the stench. But after weeks on the road in her bug, it’s all Emma can afford.

Jackie isn’t in much better shape than her house, her face drawn and scowling, and a cigarette dangling from her mouth. Where Martha had been soft and gentle, Jackie is all sharp lines and harsh edges. Her voice is rough as sandpaper, her words like vinegar. There definitely is no little box of Bible verses in this woman’s kitchen.

The room Emma is renting is in slightly better shape than the rest of the house; the previous renter had at least known what Pine-Sol was. It’s about as small as her room at Martha’s when she was ten, yet it does have a tiny bathroom attached and the fireplace actually works. In one corner is crammed a miniscule table and chair, and in the other –

Is a wardrobe.

Emma drops her duffel on the scuffed hardwood as her jaw almost comes unhinged. There’s no mistaking it this time: It’s the same one she had in her room at ten and sixteen. She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. Seriously? She berates herself, not for the first time, for her decision to come back to Maine, even if Florida had been a massive mistake. After saving up all that money at Granny’s, she foolishly wasted two years in Tallahassee. She still kicks herself for thinking Neal would actually find her. What did she think this was? A rom-com? It isn’t. Her life is no Hallmark movie, no fairy tale. She glances at the wardrobe.

Even if a dashing slave/cabin boy had come to her through an enchanted wardrobe.

She sighs and pauses before unzipping her duffel, then decides to just slide the bag under the bed. It isn’t quite as large or ornate as her bed at Martha’s, but it’s still a four-poster with ample room underneath.

She purposely ignores the wardrobe the rest of the evening, refusing to give it even a glance as she cooks up a supper of ramen noodles with her hot plate. She stares at the noodles in her bowl, the desire to look over in the opposite corner stronger than she would care to admit. Why did she even come back to Maine? Oh right, because there are people in a town called Storybrooke who said she could come back if Tallahassee didn’t work out. Too bad she needs to earn more money before she can get the rest of the way there. And in the meantime, this wardrobe is mocking her.

She stays in the shower longer than necessary, despite the layers of scum on the avocado colored subway tiles. She comes out in nothing but a towel, grasping it tight with one hand as she fishes in her duffel with the other. Normally, alone in her room, she’d just walk around naked. But she can’t help remembering those blue eyes she saw watching her as a girl. She chuckles wryly at herself and ceases searching her bag. She stands up straight, pushing her wet hair from her eyes, and drills her gaze into the wardrobe. With a huff she stomps over and flings the door open.

A handful of empty wire hangers swing and clang together from the post inside. That’s it. Empty. Emma laughs at herself as she shuts the door. She lets her towel drop to the floor as she returns to her duffel. With two hands, she finds her pajama pants and tank top quickly and slips into them. She’s just crawled into bed and is reaching over to flip off the bedside lamp when she hears a squeak. She pauses, her hand hovering in midair between the bed and the lamp. She turns her head slowly towards the wardrobe.

The door suddenly swings open.

“Emma? I’ve tried this wardrobe a hundred times . . . ”

Her mouth falls open at the sight of the person on the other side. She eases slowly from the bed in shock and steps closer.

“Killian?” she questions softly, wrapping her arms around the post of the four-poster bed. The same blue eyes as always stare back at her, but he has changed so much. Those eyes are now rimmed with dark kohl, and his face has a hardened edge that is brand new. His hair is the same dark shade, but instead of the shoulder length and the boyish lock of hair falling in his eyes, it is now a bit shorter and messy in a dangerous sort of way. Instead of a nightshirt, he wears tight, black leather pants and a long black leather coat over a black shirt and red vest. The buttons of his shirt are undone almost to his navel, revealing thick, dark hair on a hardened, muscular chest. The naïve, hopeful boy she had known has obviously grown into a world-weary man.

And then there’s the hook. A large, shiny steel hook where his left hand used to be.

The harshness of his face softens as he takes in the sight of her, and when he speaks, the roguish smile he gives her and the cocky arch of his brow seem slightly forced. Like a long-practiced act he’s performing for the first time in her presence.

“Actually, love, people have taken to calling me by my more colorful moniker: Hook.” His face falls even as he brandishes the intimidating appendage. “I didn’t think I would ever see you again, lass. It’s been so long.”

Emma shrugs, the corner of her mouth hitching up. “Only seven years. Give or take.”

“Yet so much has happened since then,” he tells her in a voice heavy with almost unbearable sadness.

“For me too,” she admits in barely more than a whisper.

They search one another’s eyes for a silent heartbeat. “I hate to hear that, love,” he finally says, “though I hope the terrors here are less frightening than those in Neverland.”

Emma’s mind reels. He’s been in Neverland. He’s dressed like a pirate. He has a hook. When she speaks, it’s almost hesitant. “You mean . . . you’re Captain Hook?”

His eyes light up and a look of pride fills his face. His voice is full of bravado when he speaks. “Ah, so you’ve heard of me.”

Emma suppresses a laugh. “Well, there’s a book. And movie. Several movies, actually.”

He cocks his head for a moment as he searches her face, a look of slight confusion upon his own. Then some sort of realization seems to wash over him, and he deflates his posturing. “The portrayal was far from flattering, I see. I – I’ll leave you.”

“Wait!” Emma cries out even as he turns to go. Without thinking, she reaches out and grabs his hook to stop him. When he turns, he looks in surprise at where her fingers curve around the steel. So he’s . . . Captain Hook. Is that so much harder to believe than having a friend that walks through an enchanted wardrobe? She smiles up at him. “Stay.”

He seems almost transfixed as she pulls him out of the wardrobe and towards the bed. She sits and gently tugs him down with her, her hand still clutching his hook. It doesn’t scare her, didn’t for one second. And it’s hard to explain, but holding it seems . . . right. Comforting, even. She sets it in her lap and squeezes it as she gazes into his face.

“Tell me what’s happened since I saw you last,” she encourages, as she would to a long lost friend. Because that’s what he is. The only one she has or has ever had, come to think of it.

He clears his throat, still staring at his hook in her lap. “I’m afraid there’s an awful lot to tell.” The slightly embarrassed chuckle and ear scratch that he gives her reveals the boy still inside him.

Emma shifts closer, “Just the highlights, then. It’s not like I have anything important to do.”

So he begins to talk. The accented voice she has always loved rolls over her like a warm embrace, but the story breaks her heart. He tells her about losing his brother Liam and why he became a pirate. His voice breaks as he describes the elder Jones dying in his arms, and Emma tugs his arm up and over her shoulder. A tear tracks down his cheek as he tells her about Milah, about watching Pan crush her heart and being helpless to stop it. He turns his face away as he speaks of the choices he has made, many of them dark, in his pursuit of revenge against Pan. Emma leans closer and rests her head on his shoulder to let him know it doesn’t change anything.

“I’ve been talking on and on about nothing but myself,” he tells her, his lips brushing against the crown of her head. “That’s bad form, love. What about your life? Less tragic than mine, I hope.”

Emma lifts her head to look into his eyes, so intensely blue as they study her. “I’ve had my own share of tragedy.” She lets out a shaky breath and then tells him about Neal and jail, and then . . . she speaks for the first time about the baby she gave away. Confesses for the first time out loud about how giving him up tore her heart in two.

Killian holds her tighter as the tears break free. She turns in his embrace, fisting her hands in his shirt and sobbing into his shoulder. When her tears are spent, there is a dark, wet spot on his shirt. She laughs sardonically as she wipes at it.

“Look what I’ve done to your shirt.”

“Tis nothing, love.”

Emma suddenly realizes that both her hands are splayed against his chest, and she can feel the steady beat of his heart beneath her palm. She lifts her head and sees his face so close to hers. Her eyes flicker from his bright eyes to his lips, and her thoughts tumble backwards in time to their first kiss when his lips were so soft and welcoming, and how the feel of them on hers made her heart soar. They both lean towards each other, and then their lips are brushing. They sort of melt against one another as they deepen the kiss, and it’s simultaneously just like when they were sixteen and vastly different. The softness, the tenderness, and the heart swelling rush are all still there. But there’s fire and passion wrought of pain and loss that sparks and sets them both on fire.

What comes next happens in a sort of haze, as if Killian is a drug she can’t resist. Hands and lips feverishly exploring, and clothes peeled back and cast aside with a mixture of frenzy and reverence. When Emma removes his brace, he stiffens and closes his eyes in shame. She lifts his left arm and runs her fingers across the scars there, then kisses it tenderly. He tells her around an obvious lump in his throat that no one has seen or touched it since Milah. She presses it to her breast and pulls him close for a hungry kiss. She wants him to know he isn’t disabled or broken, not to her.

Then they’re falling as they come together, Killian practically worshipping every inch of her as if she’s an angel he doesn’t quite deserve. And Emma is almost overwhelmed with the intensity of it, and she wonders why she ever thought she loved Neal.

Because it was never like this.

They are still breathing heavily, yet sated and slightly drowsy in each other’s arms when the light pours out of the open door of the wardrobe. Emma cups Killian’s face and runs her thumb along the scar on his cheek.

“Emma.” His voice is almost a groan. “For years, I told myself that if I ever found my way back here, I would stay. With you.”

He’s searching her face, and the look in his eyes is begging her to understand. “But you can’t, can you?” she whispers.

Killian brushes her lips against hers, feather light. “I just received an urgent message from some friends. We were making haste to Neverland when I saw a light in the wardrobe. I have to help them if I can.”

Emma grasps his shoulders tight even as she nods in understanding. He presses his forehead to hers, his eyes closed, and they breathe one another in for just one more heartbeat. Then he slips from the bed and begins to gather his clothes. As he steps into his leather pants, the light of the moon sends a shaft of light across his back, illuminating the criss-cross pattern of scars she had traced earlier with her fingers. She remembers the trembling slave boy of ten, and the hesitantly hopeful cabin boy of sixteen, and she wonders if the scars were there even then.

Killian finishes dressing with a click of his hook into his brace. The sound of it echoes in the quiet room, and she sees his jaw tense with shame. Giving him her body clearly wasn’t enough to wash that away, and it breaks her heart.

“Emma,” he says, voice thick with emotion, “I’m not the boy you once knew. I know I wasn’t worthy to share your bed tonight, but know one thing.” He lifts his gaze finally to hers, and the moonlight brightens them. They are swimming with more emotion than anyone has ever bestowed upon her. “I have always loved you. That has never changed.”

She sits up, clutching the sheets to her bare chest as she watches him walk to the wardrobe. She wants to tell him she loves him too, but she can’t get the words past her throat. He steps into the wardrobe, and a slight panic seizes her that she can’t speak. He turns to look at her, giving her a tender smile.

“Can I come back tomorrow night?”

Her heart soars at his question, tears filling her eyes. “Yes.”

He gives a simple nod, pulls the wardrobe closed, and the light is gone. He is gone. A strangled sound comes from Emma’s throat as she curls in on herself. Every time she and Killian have spent a night together, her world comes crashing down. First Martha’s stroke, then being betrayed by what she thought was her family.

Whatever tomorrow brings, she doubts it will be Killian.

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

When Killian comes back through the wardrobe, the early light of dawn is just beginning to spill through the windows of his cabin. He sinks to his bunk, his heart still struggling to recover from the night he had shared with Emma. He can still see that otherworldly light seeping through the cracks of the wardrobe door, and he’s tempted to go back through and simply stay with Emma. He clenches his jaw as he reaches over with his hook and pierces the small slip of paper that had arrived via bird from Tink and Tiger Lily less than twenty four hours ago.

Pan has him.

Three simple words that he can’t ignore. So he lets the light fade away, rises to his feet, and strides above deck, crushing the missive in his hand.

“What is our position, Starkey?” he cries to his first mate.

“We’ll be making landfall in less than half an hour, sir.”

Killian nods as he joins the other young man at the captain’s wheel. Starkey’s gaze keeps cutting his way, but Killian is in no mood to talk. His emotions are a tumult of golden hair, light green eyes, and heated skin mixed in with the fear of reaching the island too late. Somehow, for reasons he can’t fathom, his night with Emma feels intertwined with the boy he has to save. Has to. He tells himself this overwhelming urge comes from his own memories of a shattered childhood, but somehow he knows it is deeper than that. His nerve endings feel exposed, brushing up against a mystery just out of reach.

When they anchor the ship in the cove near Mermaid’s Lagoon, Hawkins tells him in hushed tones that the island is much too quiet. It has nothing to do with the empty lagoon or the stillness of the dark waters nearest to the shore. The mermaids abandoned this place long ago, when magic first began to die. Tink speaks dreamily of their songs, but it’s a pleasure that has never reached his ears.

No, this quiet is filled with a heavier foreboding. Hook normally visits the home beneath the ground on his own, not wanting to expose Wendy to his uncouth crew, but this time he takes those he trusts most along with him: Starkey, Hawkins, and Slightly. Mason begs to come along, but there’s too much unknown to risk it.

They find the place just as quiet as the rest of the island. Wendy’s sewing basket is sitting abandoned by the hearth, the fireplace cold. Hook frowns when he sees a tiny cup sitting upon the kitchen table, filled to the brim with a brown liquid. He shakes his head.

“Wendy always makes sure Michael takes his medicine.”

It’s awful stuff, and the boy pitches a fit every time, but the concoction brewed by Tiger Lily is a supposed inoculation for dreamshade. Killian’s skeptical of the home remedy - it’s never made a bit of difference for his crew - but it makes Wendy feel better to make her brother take it.

Yet here it sits.

Starkey pulls a dagger from his belt. “Something strange is afoot, Cap’n.”

“Aye.”

“Their brother John came for them.”

They spin at the sound, weapons aloft, but it is only Tiger Lily. Killian deflates and re-sheaths his sword.

“Brother?”

“Half brother,” Tiger Lily sighs, depositing a quiver of arrows upon the table and rolling her shoulders. “He’s already a man. A man who made a deal with Pan, apparently. You weren’t the only one searching for the boy, Hook.”

“You don’t mean -”

“Yes, Pan has him. I’ve tracked them to Skull Rock. Tink is there keeping watch, but I’m not sure what we can do.”

“And Wendy and Michael -”

“Gone. I don’t know how, but Pan gave John an antidote for the water of Rainbow Falls as well as passage to another realm.”

“Home,” Killian whispers, “a land without magic, Wendy said.”

Tiger Lily nods. “John was a desperate man, Killian. He didn’t want to turn the child over; had grown attached to him even, but Wendy is 15 now, and . . . “

She trails off, her shoulders hunched. She isn’t like Tink with chatter spilling out of her. Tiger Lily is clearly shaken. Killian sinks onto one of the kitchen chairs and rubs his hand over his face.

“He wanted to save his sister and brother, I get that,” Killian fumes “but turning over a tiny lad that way . . . “ He slams his fist into the table in frustration.

“We must attack, Captain,” Hawkins says grimly, “before Pan kills the boy.”

Killian looks at the three determined men before him. He knows they’re right. Emma, he thinks to himself, please understand if I don’t make it back to you.

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

“Pan has to do the ritual here,” Tiger Lily whispers from their hiding place in Skull Rock. “This is the heart of Neverland. All the island’s magic originates here.”

Killian peers over the rock with Tiger Lily at his side. The child stands trembling with Pan beside him. An enormous hourglass looms over them both, the sand within like gold dust. Whatever it is measuring, time is almost up.

“I’ve never seen that hourglass before,” Killian says to Tiger Lily.

“Pan’s had a protection spell around it until recently. It measures Pan’s boyhood. He will never grow up, but he isn’t immortal.”

He isn’t immortal. A slow smile fills Killian’s face. “Pan is the reason magic is dying in Neverland.”

Tiger Lily’s gaze meets his, her brown eyes widening brightly. “Of course! Peter Pan’s magic is unnatural; it consumes. Get rid of Pan -”

“Restore Neverland to glory,” Killian finishes for her.

Killian looks back at the child once again, yet another source of magic for Peter Pan to consume for his own “play.” Even from this place he can hear the boy’s weeping. The Lost Boys surround him and their leader, weapons forming a tight circle that will be difficult to penetrate. Nevertheless, Killian takes note of one important detail.

“They are in an offensive position to keep the boy in,” he whispers. “Not defensive to keep attackers out.”

“We still need a plan,” the fairy whispers back.

He smirks at Tiger Lily. “What do you think I have a crew for?”

She rolls her eyes. “You don’t mean to tell me you’ll risk that child for a full on assault?”

“Hey,” he gives her a wink, ‘trust me for once.”

He slips away, further into the cave, and he bites back a chuckle at the way Tiger Lily is grumbling. His crew has used these caves often to store bits of treasure for a rainy day, so he’s familiar with its labyrinth of tunnels. He hurries along one with light, quiet steps. It leads him to a precipice just over where Pan is giving a rousing speech to his Lost Boys.

Killian is surprised that the child isn’t restrained in any way, but he’s so small, and his eyes so large with fright, that it’s likely unnecessary. Killian eases his way to the very edge of the precipice, lying flat on his stomach so he’s hidden from sight.

Pan is saying something about saving Neverland’s magic, grasping the trembling boy by the arm. Killian thinks back to Mason and then Michael and the lack of a mark that saved them from this cruel rite. He can’t see it from here, but he assumes that this child does bear the mark.

Killian knows that time is short. He scans the large main cavern of Skull Rock, his eyes finding the members of his crew. All are in position, so he takes a deep breath before calling out:

“Flee! Flee!”

He adjusts the timbre of his voice, deepening it ominously. The Lost Boys freeze and Pan narrows his eyes as he drops the little boy’s arm. Now that he has their attention, he continues.

“You heard me. Flee, I tell you! The spirit of Skull Rock has spoken!”

To his right, still crouched behind the rock where he left her, Tiger Lily is glaring at him. She makes gestures with her hands that clearly say what the hell are you doing? He tosses her a wink which says Hey, it’s me! Which she ought to be used to by now, really. Below them, his words have had the desired effect on the Lost Boys.

“It’s a ghost!”

“A ghost who wants revenge!”

“This place is haunted!”

“Quiet, you idiots!” Peter shouts. “Someone’s here alright, but it’s not a ghost.”

“I am the ghost of vengeance,” Killian cries out again in a deepened voice.

He’s enjoying this far too much, truth be told. Peter’s face can’t seem to settle on anger or fear, and Killian’s lips curl into a grin. The imp pulls out his dagger as he inches closer to the stone walls of the cave, and the Lost Boys gather at his back. The pixie dust is too scarce now for the demon boy to take flight, a fact that Killian relishes.

In the shadows, Killian spies Hawkins taking advantage of Pan’s distraction. He grabs the little boy, clamping a hand over his mouth to muffle any cries. Mason is at his back, and the two teenagers hurry the child to a waiting rowboat, Tink at the oars.

Once the youngest members of his crew have succeeded in rescuing the lad, Killian slinks back down the tunnel to join the rest of the pirates. Tiger Lily scowls at him as she follows.

“So you were never going to clue me into your plan?” she whispers.

“What would be the fun in that?” he quips back under his breath.

Peter calls out into the dark recesses of Skull Rock, “Ghost, demon, or man, whoever you are, make yourself known!”

Hook’s lips curl up into a satisfying smirk. The noose has been tightened; his crew has The Lost Boy’s surrounded.

“Boo!” he shouts, arching one brow mockingly.

The look on Pan’s face when he turns and sees a crew of pirate’s behind him, armed to the teeth, is one that Killian Jones will never forget. His crew falls upon the Lost Boys, but Hook keeps his eyes locked on Peter Pan. Hook isn’t sure if it’s cowardice or desperation, but Pan runs away from the battle towards the hourglass. Then a look of confusion washes over Peter’s face, and Killian grins knowing exactly what his enemy has just realized.

“Looking for something?” he shouts over the din, swinging his hook to dispatch the Lost Boys who are in his way.

“Where is the boy?” Pan shrieks in a blind rage. He lunges at Hook, but his form

is sluggish.

“Gone,” Killian snarls.

“It’s you or me this time, Hook!” Pan bellows as he launches himself at Killian.

Hook’s cutlass flies from his hand; by all accounts the boy has taken him completely by surprise. Never has Peter Pan fought more like a demon than he does now, scratching and biting and kicking. Killian rolls with him, slashing occasionally with his hook enough to draw blood. Peter’s rage is an almost palpable thing, and though Hook could succumb to his own in equal measure, he holds himself back.

Instead, he laughs. The sound sends Pan over the edge and he begins to choke the pirate. Still, the man grins.

“What’s so funny?” Pan demands, fury making those two red spots appear in his eyes.

“This is,” another voice answers, and Pan loosens his grip on his enemy’s throat to follow the source of it. Tiger Lily stands before the hourglass, Killian’s cutlass in her hands. She swings the weapon at the glass with all of her strength.

“Nooo!!” Pan screeches.

The hour glass shatters, the remaining sand pouring out upon the ground. Peter Pan curls in on himself, screaming in agony. Hook feels not an ounce of compassion, however, and he looms over his enemy with a snarl upon his lips.

“You didn’t really think I would drop my weapon so easily, did you?”

Pan doesn’t answer. He throws his head back, clawing at his skin as he continues to scream. The battle between the pirates and the Lost Boys has ceased, and everyone looks on in horror as the boy who never grows up shrivels and wrinkles before their eyes, his bones weakening and contorting. With one final wail, his face seems to melt, then his entire body turns to dust.

For a moment, there is an eerie silence. Former enemies glance at one another, unsure what to do next. Then a violent wind rushes through skull rock, picking up the ashes that were once Peter Pan. A dark shadow flies in behind it, and the ashes whirl it, faster and faster and faster. The vortex sends everyone to their knees, shielding their eyes from the dust and wind. Then there’s a bright pulse of light that sends them all sprawling on their backs.

Killian’s head collides with the rocky floor and pain shoots across his forehead, his focus blurring at the edges. He thinks he sees a flurry of purple and green - wings? He blinks, but then his vision begins to dim as someone calls his name.

Emma, I’m sorry. It’s the last thought he has before he succumbs to the darkness.

Tagging: @snowbellewells​​  @kmomof4​​ @whimsicallyenchantedrose​​ @teamhook​​ @bethacaciakay​​ @let-it-raines​​ @welllpthisishappening​​ @wellhellotragic​​ @winterbaby89​​ @xhookswenchx​​ @courtorderedcake​​ @branlovestowrite​​ @hollyethecurious​​ @vvbooklady1256​​ @profdanglaisstuff​​ @carpedzem​​ @ekr032-blog-blog​​ @jennjenn615​​ @tiganasummertree​​ @lfh1226-linda​​​ @ultraluckycatnd​​ @spartanguard​​ @shireness-says​​ @scientificapricot​​​ @stahlop​​​ @resident-of-storybrooke​​​ @superchocovian​​​ @sherlockianwhovian​​​ @snidgetsafan​​​ @ohmakemeahercules​​​ @thislassishooked​​​ @ilovemesomekillianjones​​​ @nikkiemms​​​@delirious-latenight-laughs​

[edelwoodsouls]

maybe in another universe - ch. 2 [fic]

Jon isn’t expecting anything good when he’s evacuated to the countryside. Living with his crush rival he can just about handle. The secret magical world in the upstairs wardrobe, on the other hand, might just break him.

AKA: Narnia AU

Word Count: 3,570 | Also on Ao3 | Chapters: 1,

chapter two: in the land of the watcher

It's raining.

No, that's not really a good word for it. The skies have split open and are casting down an ocean, and usually Martin would thrive, curl up with a collection of Keats or Wordsworth and have melancholy thoughts as he stares at the grey clouds above.

But no such luck. He's been forced out of his room by Ms Perry, the iron-fisted housekeeper - all four of the teenagers have been relegated to the library, where they can supposedly do as little harm as possible.

It's a tense affair. Basira is curled on one of the sofas with an Ancient Greek to English dictionary and a battered book that looks like it's been set on fire several times. Melanie has managed to pry one of the ceremonial swords off the wall, and is practicing swinging it at precarious angles.

Jon is most definitely not reading the crumbling tome clutched in his hands, though he's trying very hard to pretend. Martin can feel the eyes boring into him, sat where he is in the middle of the room, legs crossed in front of a large, malfunctioning radio.

He's been trying to get it fixed for what feels like hours now, to cling to the pulse of information that has been snatched away in this remote and antiquated house. He can feel Jon getting closer and closer to the end of his very thin patience with every jump of static.

After what feels like the millionth time of almost, when he can feel Jon's irritation about to froth at his lips, Martin finally throws his screwdriver on the ground. The silence in the room is overbearing. "Let's play a game."

"Yes," Melanie says immediately, accentuating the word with an alarming jab of her sword in his direction. "What're you thinking?"

"Hide and seek," Basira chimes in, looking up from her book with a smirk. "This house looks brilliant for it."

"I second that," Melanie nods. "Martin?"

"Yeah," he nods. "Sounds like fun."

"Three votes for hide and seek. It's decided then."

"Don't I get a vote?" Jon mutters, not looking up from where he's gripping his book very tightly.

"No, Jon, you don't, because you're a spoilsport and you'll suggest something like re-alphabetising the library or being good little so and sos. And even if you did, majority rules. So-" Melanie thrusts her sword an inch from Jon's face, "buck up and join in, or fuck off."

Jon looks about ready to attempt murder with his bare hands, but before he can get a word out, Melanie throws her sword dramatically onto the floor with a loud clatter, and closes her eyes. "ONE... TWO... THREE..."

Martin grins as he pulls himself off the floor and flees for the door. It's been a long time since he's felt young enough to play games, let alone had the friends to play them with. There's something so childish, so delightful, about running in a place not meant for running, folding himself into somewhere hidden and waiting with baited breath to be found.

Being hunted, without the consequence of failure.

Jon barrels past him, arms flailing. Martin's never seen him run but god, he's fast. He shoots down the corridor and vanishes behind a flurry of curtains.

Martin continues on until he reaches a closed door. Behind him he can hear Melanie's counting, yelled at the top of her lungs - no doubt the housekeeper will kill them later for disturbing the professor. She's nearly finished, and the adrenaline pounding in Martin's veins is reaching heights it hasn't in weeks, and he needs a hiding place now.

There's a spider's web strung in the corner of the doorway, a tiny house spider nestled at it's centre. Almost invisible, if not for Martin's keen eyes, his bone-deep expectation that he'll find at least one no matter where he goes.

It's just a spider, he tells himself, and the thought sounds hollow even to him.

But he throws open the bolt of the door anyway and tumbles into the room, slamming it haphazardly closed.

It takes him a moment to catch his breath, leaning against the door, and that's why it takes him so long to notice the ornate wardrobe at the other end of the room. There's nothing else here, as if this space was designed solely to house a single piece of furniture.

And it's beautiful, deep maroon wood carved with all sorts of imagery Martin can't make sense of - eyes staring out unblinking from one door, webs strung across the other, both surrounded and wreathed in flames.

Some nameless thing in his gut calls him forward.

The click of those carved doors opening sounds too loud, like the snap of fingers right beside his ear. A breeze dances across his cheeks, though the doors and windows are closed, and the collection of coats inside are still.

Without thinking, he delves in.

<linebreak>

He should be surprised by the winter wonderland at the back of the wardrobe.

Somehow, he isn't.

The world in the wardrobe seems to go on forever. He's been wandering for miles, he's certain of it - the chill is beginning to set into his fingers, kept at bay only by the adrenaline still humming through his body at the sheer magic of it all.

Suddenly, ever pretending that magic wasn't real seems like such a childish thing to do. It's right here, in front of him. The snow soaks through his shoes, collects in his hair. His breath puffs in little clouds before his face.

Just an hour ago, he was staring at a dreary English afternoon.

He's definitely not in England anymore.

Still, even with all this magical strangeness, he's not expecting the lamp post. Stood proudly alone in a clearing, as if the other trees have shrunk away from its alien material. It's lit, casting a faint glow on the snow, and he can hear the burn of gas inside the glass.

He stops short. "What."

He hovers at the edge of the clearing, unwilling to disturb the perfect snow circling this strange spectacle. It feels reverent, deferential - something that shouldn't be here, even with all its magic. It feels wrong.

"You're not from around here."

Martin yelps, attempting to spin around too fast to look behind him. Instead he trips over his own feet and goes tumbling into the snow, sending eruptions of white powder up into air.

The voice that startled him laughs, a low and dry sound. "Sorry, friend. Didn't mean to startle you."

Martin's view is obscured by his damp curls and the snow beginning to drip into his eyes, but he just about makes out the hand gloved in fingerless black leather thrust into his face. Each joint is marked with ink, and Martin could swear every symbol is a wide, unblinking eye.

He accepts the proffered hand instinctively, hauled up with surprising strength into standing on his feet.

"Thanks," Martin says, cheeks bright pink not just from the cold.

The figure laughs again, shifts into the pool of light under the lamp post - and Martin gets his first real look at the man. Long, inky hair falling into his eyes. His clothes are a mismatch of leather and dark-dyed fabric that look old, in a way that defies a specific era of fashion but gives a distinctly archaic feel.

The guy brushes his hair behind his ear, revealing his face - five o'clock shadow curving along his sharp jawline, and the longest eyelashes Martin's ever seen, and bright, dark eyes.

For a moment, Martin short-circuits.

"Do you have a habit of falling head over heels for strangers?" the man grins. From deep in his pockets he procurs a metal lighter and a pipe. He leans easily against the lamp post, as if it's totally meant to be there, and takes a drag. The smoke that reaches Martin is strangely sweet and spiced, like cinnamon and cloves.

"Uh, no," Martin says, brushing the snow off his clothes distractedly. "You just startled me."

"I'm very sorry," the guy says. He sounds more amused than anything. "Where are my manners? I'm Gerry."

"Martin."

"Nice to meet you, Martin. You're not from around here, are you?"

"No," Martin frowns. "How did you know?"

"Well, for one thing, you're human."

"I'm- sorry?"

"Human. Homosapien. Son of Adam. Take your pic, really, there are so very many labels."

"I guess? Are you-"

Martin cuts himself off as Gerry shifts his weight and the folds of his clothes settle differently, revealing his legs. Unlike the rest of his ensemble, they're clothed in fur that looks like it was originally some ochre shade, and has been dyed rather shoddily black.

Except they're not clothed...

"You're a goat," Martin blurts out, nonplussed, the filter between mouth and brain paper thin.

"I'm a satyr," Gerry frowns in mock admonishment. "Hint two that you're not from around here - that's incredibly rude of you."

"Oh! Uh, sorry."

"I'm messing with you, Martin," Gery grins, a glint-toothed expression that makes Martin slightly dizzy. "But yes, I'm not human. No one born under the eye of the Ceaseless Watcher is."

"I'm sorry, the...?"

"Ceaseless Watcher." Gerry's easy grin flickers, his eyes darting towards the trees. Martin follows him instinctively, but sees nothing except the vanishing darkness of the trees. "The god of Magnus."

"And Magnus is...?" Martin feels very far behind in this conversation.

"This land. Everything you can see in this winter world, from sea to mountains to sky- that's Magnus."

"Right... so I got here how?"

Gerry shrugs. "Who can say, really. The magic here is- unpredictable. Has a mind of its own."

"Magic," Martin repeats. Unsure how to feel about this word being thrown out like they're talking about gravity, or the alphabet - institutional. Factual.

"Magic," Gerry agrees, smirking at Martin's bemused expression.

He should really be getting back. The thought appears distantly, lethargically. He's getting cold, and the others will no doubt be getting worried about him. Or Melanie will, at least. He can imagine Jon rolling his eyes. He's probably gotten stuck somewhere and can't get out. He'll come wandering in eventually.

But Martin doesn't really want to leave. He wants to continue on this adventure, explore this world that believes in magic like it believes in the sunrise each morning.

He wants to keep talking to this mysterious, incredibly pretty man. Goat. Satyr.

"You look cold," Gerry notes, offering Martin a drag of his pipe. Martin accepts more out of instinct than anything, cringeing as the fumes make him choke. "Come back to mine for tea? I just got some amazing jasmin tea from a dryad who owed me a favour, and I promise it's worth the walk."

Martin hesitates, for just a moment. Considers the risks of wandering off with a strange man he met in the woods.

"Just as long as it's not oolong," he says eventually, with a shudder. "I'd love to."

Gerry loops their arms together and begins leading him into the woods. "No oolong, I promise."

<linebreak>

Gerry, as it turns out, lives in a cave.

It's a very nice cave, Martin has to admit. The walls are lined with bookshelves packed to bursting - tomes titled in some language he can't read that, as he stares at the letters, suddenly begin to make sense. The floor is covered up by rugs, vibrantly coloured and filled with detail. He feels almost guilty stepping onto them with his wet shoes, walking over intricately stitched faces and landscapes.

He turns to see Gerry tapping the snow off his hooves with a cute little dance, before shrugging off his long leather coat, revealing a waistcoat - and nothing else - beneath. Martin can see now, without a doubt, the thickly haired legs beneath his long grey skirt. There are burn scars crawling across his bare arms - across most available skin.

There are more eye tattoos, too, starkly black against his pale skin. When Martin stares for too long, he's convinced he can see some of them blink.

"Take a seat," Gerry says, nodding towards a pair of invitingly soft arm chairs positioned next to a fireplace.

As Martin sinks thankfully into the chair - he hasn't had to walk that far, possible ever - he watches, transfixed, as Gerry flicks his hand in the direction of the fireplace.

It bursts to life instantly.

"How did you do that?" he asks, eyes wide.

"What?" Gerry blinks momentarily. "Oh, that- magic. A gift from the Lightless Flame."

"The Lightless Flame?"

"One of the gods of Magnus."

"I thought you said the- the Ceaseless Watcher was the god of Magnus?"

Gerry lets out a laugh, low and bitter. "The only one that matters. All the others have... not faded, exactly. Retreated, you could say. Bowed down. The Ceaseless Watcher rules these lands. All others pay subservience."

"Right." The dark tone in Gerry's voice is beginning to unnerve him.

"Doesn't mean there aren't those of us who don't give a shit," Gerry shrugs, that easy demeanour plastering over the top of whatever just slipped out - though now Martin has seen it, the mask doesn't quite seem to fit. "We pay what we have to, to stay alive."

Martin nods wordlessly. He can understand that.

"I'll just make some tea," Gerry continues, darting up some steps towards what Martin assumes must be a kitchen. "Make yourself comfortable!"

Martin adjusts in his seat. Breathes in the quiet, broken only by the steady crackling of the fire beside him. He can feel it, already, beginning to scare the chill from his fingers, beginning to lull any of his hesitations.

A strange rush of adrenaline floods him suddenly at the thought. He sits up, threads his fingers together, eyes darting around the space.

He's forgotten what it is to be comfortable, he realises. This feeling lowering him gently into calm is unnatural, alien - and not to be trusted.

Before he can begin to think about that too deeply, Gerry reappears, two steaming cups in hand. Martin accepts it gratefully, trying to shelve his discomfort for another day's mental spiral.

He'd hate to ruin the first nice thing to happen to him in a while.

"Is it always so cold here?" he asks, taking a careful sip and sighing as it warms him almost instantly. "Where I came from, it was summer. I mean, it was a horribly rainy summer, but still."

Gerry lets out a small laugh. "It's always winter here."

"Always? Like, never anything else?"

"That is the definition of always. But yes, that's the general idea. Summer is too- positive, for Magnus. Winter is hopeless and dreary and lonely. There is far more to fear in a winter's night."

"That's not at all ominous."

"The lack of change is terrible, too," Gerry continues. His eyes are fixed on the fire, the flames casting strange shadows across his skin. "We don't even get Christmas to look forward to."

"You have Christmas?" Martin frowns. "In Magnus? As a concept, at least? I thought that was a particular religious holiday in my world."

Gerry shrugs noncommittally. "There are many winter traditions that overlap. Some things bleed from one world to another. Maybe it started here, for all you know."

Martin opens his mouth to argue about the improbability of all this, but quickly shuts it again. He's only just been introduced to magic and other worlds - and he's pretty sure logic isn't going to enter the equation any time soon.

"What's it like in your world?" Gerry asks suddenly, fixing Martin with a curious, almost hungry look. "Much better than here, I'd suppose."

"I wouldn't count on it," Martin laughs sharply. "There's a huge war going on. Thousands die on the battlefield. Thousands more die back home as the world sets itself on fire. It's- a nightmare."

Martin curls his hands close around his cup, letting the heat burn his hands. The pain sharpens his senses, grounds him in this moment, before memories of smoke and flame can consume him.

"I'm sorrry," Gerry says softly. "That sounds awful."

"Heh," Martin tries for a weak, concillatory smile, though he's sure it falls short. He covers it up with another sip of tea.

Gerry starts talking again, but Martin can barely hear the words. There's a sudden distance to the world, for all that he clings harder to his scalding mug, for all he tries to keep his eyes wide. The sound is muffled, and his vision of the room is beginning to blur.

He has just enough time to look at his cup of tea, at the earthy sediment he can just about make out swirling at the bottom, before understanding, and horror, and a hundred other things crash into him.

But he's asleep before his cup hits the floor.

<linebreak>

He wakes slumped in the armchair, and for a moment can't remember where he is. The fire has been snuffed out, leaving only smoking remains, and the chill is beginning to leach back into Martin's bones.

The cave is dark. Martin shifts, groggy- and regains his senses with a suddenly sharpness as he catches movement on the other side of the room.

Gerry is hunched on the stairs towards the kitchen, staring vacantly at his hands, at the eyes on his knuckles. He doesn't seem to notice Martin at all.

"Gerry?" Martin says softly, standing up carefully. His cup lies in shards on the floor, a pool of stone-cold tea leaking from the ruins. He can't remember dropping it.

He can't remember falling asleep.

"I'm sorry," Gerry whispers, so quietly it's barely more than a snatch of air.

"Why?" A chill trickles down Martin's spine; it's nothing to do with the cold of the room. "What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry," he repeats. "I didn't- I don't want-"

"Gerry," Martin says, and there's an edge of steel in his voice that doesn't leave room for debate. "Tell me what's happening."

The satyr looks up finally, and somehow Martin isn't surprised that his eyes are glowing bright green, like lanterns in the dark.

"We pay what we have to, to stay alive."

The chill in Martin's veins solidifies to ice. "What did you pay? What do you have to do?"

He already knows the answer, in the hummingbird beat of his heart, in the shortness of his own breath. And still, it feels like a hammer blow, like the slam of a coffin lid, when Gerry speaks.

"You."

"Me?"

"Humans," Gerry says, voice rough and shaking, like he's barely holding himself together. "They aren't native to these lands. They don't exist here. If they ever come, if there's enough of them, they say the end of the Ceaseless Watcher will be near. The world will finally change."

"I'm just one person, though."

"Not for long," Gerry shakes his head emphatically. "Where there's one, more will always follow. So- he kills them."

"Who kills them?" Martin demands. "Stop being so fucking cryptic and explain things to me."

"The pupil of the eye."

Martin is just about ready to hit this guy.

"We're supposed to give him any humans we find," Gerry rushes to explain. "I'm supposed to send you to him."

"But you're not going to, right?" Martin says slowly, inching towards the poker by the fire. It's an impromptu weapon, but it just might buy him a few seconds. "Because I dazzled you so much with my company that you've decided to have a change of heart?"

For a moment, the silence stretches, and Martin is certain he's about to have to fight for his life.

Even with all the unexplained magic in his life, he doesn't like his chances.

Something changes in Gerry's face. He sets his jaw, balls his fists. He blinks, and his eyes return to their normal, unfathomably dark shade.

"No," he says. "I'm not going to. Come on."

Before Martin has a chance to register anything, Gerry seizes his hand and drags him out into the snow.

They run. For what feels like hours, rushing past a blur of trees and ice and rock so fast Martin is sure it must be some type of magic. Gerry's grip is vice-like, but Martin only clings harder.

He imagines bombs falling behind him. A world of darkness and debris, too hot for the season as fires burn through its skyline.

Has he really just traded one daydream-turned-nightmare for another?

When they reach the lamp post's clearing, Gerry skids to a sudden stop, kicking up snow in a shower. He turns to Martin, wild-eyed with a feverish adrenaline.

"You know your way frrom here?" he demands, gripping Martin's arms and searching his face for the answer before he has a chance to speak.

"Uh- yeah- I think so," Martin stutters.

"Good. You need to run. Don't stop, don't talk to anyone - or anything, not even yourself. The trees might hear you."

"The trees?"

"There are eyes everywhere."

Somehow, Martin gets the feeling Gerry isn't being figurative.

"What about you?" he asks. "If the- pupil of the eye, what if he finds out you didn't turn me over?"

Gerry gives him a pained smile. "Run, Martin. While you still have the chance."

"But-"

"I'm so glad to have met you." The way Gerry says this, so softly, so sincerely, brings Martin up short. "Now go."

He doesn't need telling again. With one final, memorising glance at Gerry, a dark figure among a landscape of snow-

Martin flees into the dying night.

[amphtaminedreams]

S/S 2020 Fashion Month: A Basic, Uneducated Fashion Heaux’s A-Z of Everything Noteworthy (Part 2/3)

Hi to anyone reading,

Back at it again with the giving my unsolicited opinion on 2020′s spring/summer offering, I’m gonna hop straight into part 2 of my fashion month review!

Sorry to start with an underwhelming few but my compulsive tendencies are making it really hard to break out of this alphabetical structure (cry laughs whilst thinking about how long it took me to face up at my retail job last night because it would give me vaguely homicidal urges and make my fingers tingle every time a customer moved something slightly out of line), so I’m gonna whizz through a handful of collections. First up, Halpern:

Not much to say but I’m envious of the heavy liner (my hooded eyes could never) and I like the colour scheme. As for the 80s style metallic pink dress?

Helmut Lang:

And Hermes:

Of these 3 collections, Hermes is definitely the most interesting. I like the colour scheme and the utilitarian shapes and the tan coloured jackets are an absolute shoot. This is how you make safari look fresh, D&G take note.

Isabel Marant was okay. It’s cute, sure, reminds me of something Mary-Kate and Ashley would’ve come out with/worn in the 2000s, and there’s definitely some things I would wear, but I wouldn’t say it looks all that luxury. Pricey, sure, but like, Free People pricey, not designer pricey. As a collection, it’s not all that conceptual, unless the concept is L.A girl does a Starbucks run after her bikram yoga class. What I will say though is that some of the S/S 2020 commercial trends are becoming clear: white cheesecloth pieces, peasant blouses, cowboy boots, scrappy sandals, neutral tones, and bandana print. 

Now onto the darling of high fashion Twitter: Jacquemus.

As far as presentation goes, this has to be one of my favourite set-ups of the season; a hot pink runway running through a lavender meadow is as canny and serene as those who sing the praises of Simon Porte Jacquemus would have you expect, and the clothes were easy, breezy and beautiful, even if there is an element of getting dressed in the dark going on with the styling which put me off including a few otherwise gorgeous pieces. It might not be 100% my style but you can tell this is a brand of the future which is only going to go from strength to strength.

And everything was beautifully and purposefully crafted on the runway with J.W Anderson this year. The pieces are graceful and timeless whilst still easy to envision as something a modern woman would throw on to (very fashionably) run some errands in the city. This was also one of the handful of shows (IIRC! This might be a case of extreme deja-vu!) where we saw the sandal straps tied over the trousers, I’m guessing to accentuate the ankles, and...I’m surprisingly here for it? Though in a sense it kinda resembles when I accidentally get my work trousers tucked into my slipper socks, it’s an interesting touch and adds a bit of a shape to otherwise billowing bottom halves.

Following Jacquemus’ lead (or vice versa, I’m way too deep into this fashion month haze to work out who went first at this point), Lacoste also put on a co-ed show. Otherwise crisp and preppy as per, the neckerchiefs (even if seeing them all next to one another does give off a bit of a Disneyland Main Street barbershop quartet vibe) and vinyl/wet-look/PVC/I’m still not sure what differentiates the 3 coats were an out of the box touch for them and I really liked it. It’s athleisure, but more like something Hayley Bieber would’ve worn as part of her Princess Diana inspired shoot than anything I’d wear to the gym.

LMAO, as if I go the gym. But you get my point. Next, Loewe:

Delicate, feminine and all around delightful, the S/S 2020 Loewe collection is up there with Chloe and Brock when it comes to most spring appropriate. More chiffon, lace and doily-like detailing, please, the old woman in me lives for this kinda thing made fashionable. Like with J.W Anderson, you can tell the design team wanted to do something different without just throwing shit onto their pieces for the sake of being wacky, and so we end up with these dramatic, slightly geometric waistlines and almost angelic Victorian nightgown inspired dresses that kinda make me wished that 1). ghosts existed and that 2). I lived back in that era so I could die some tragic death wearing any one of the dresses on the left in the top 3 rows and then haunt the shit out of everyone. That would really be an iconic fashion moment. Also wonderful, imo, was Louis Vuitton:

The mix between 60s and Edwardian I never knew I needed, as opposed to Gucci’s forward thinking take on the former decade, Louis Vuitton takes it back even further and throws in late 19th/early 20th century structures and references. I adore the what seems to be a mix between brocade and paisley print and the exaggerated collars are a very cute touch. The jacket on the top left is a highlight, a more neutral version of the similar catsuit seen at the Longchamp show (I couldn’t personally pick enough highlights from that to include it), and I now more than ever really want to try and pull off a sweater vest. The shoes might not be the most exciting thing ever but they’re also a personal favourite, from the knee high boots to the loafers with the LV moniker.

Maison Margiela was very cool and again, I’m in love with the shoes and just the accessories in general, ESPECIALLY those hats. I don’t know if I’m way off base here but this show is almost a modernised, fashionable version of a 1940s period drama about WW2 pilots and evacuees. Yes, maybe I am just getting that solely from the trench coats and the naval influences and the exaggerated collars but I think with that list I made quite a case for that perspective, right? Right.

And completing this holy trinity (appropriating the term I usually reserve for Emma Watson, Emma Stone and Emma Roberts is not without careful consideration) is Marc Jacobs. One of my ultimate favourites of this season, this collection is absolutely EVERYTHING: kitschy, dream-like, whimsical, over-the-top, and totally appropriate for your slightly eccentric aunt who always drinks too much wine and talks a lot of shit every time she comes over for dinner. I really feel like I walked into wonderland looking at this collection, and in the best way possible, it gives me a female Russell Brand in the 2000s’ wardrobe on crack. On the one hand we have these insanely beautiful and ethereal chiffon floral dresses but then we also have fricken top hats. Basically, it’s everything I love about fashion and I don’t know if anything can top it. Periodt (and I type that with a totally straight face). 

Next, onto another personal fave, Marchesa:

Which is as always, beautiful. I was going to write that if Disney princesses came to life and lived in the modern world (so, in other words, Elle Fanning), they would be wearing Marchesa and then I remembered that the film Enchanted exists and had a lightbulb moment and thought OH MY GOD IF THEY REMADE THAT IN 2019, THE DRESS ON THE RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE ROW WOULD BE A PERFECT LEVELLING UP OF THE CURTAIN DRESS.

Anyways, favourites of the favourites are the bottom row; I would die for that feather trim. 

BUT where Marchesa is everything opulent, overly ornate and err-ing on “fussy”, Margaret Howell’s S/S 2020 collection is completely stripped back and just as effective, if not as to my taste. Very cool, very current, and altogether effortless (in a good way!), with this show Margaret Howell made mid-20th century utilitarianism relevant. I never thought I’d be praising the combination of bermuda shorts, crew socks and a beanie and yet here I am. Character development.

Next is Marine Serre:

Which I really like! The bottom row isn’t really to my personal taste but I can acknowledge that if I saw somebody wearing any one of those outfits I’d think they looked sick, and as for the first two rows, those mesh tops and the slightly chintzy florals are right up my alley.

Marques Almeida put out a really strong collection, imo. The blending of luxurious silhouettes and fabrics with street wear inspired prints and styling is a really interesting and unique contrast and if Billie Eilish ever decided to stop wearing those tweenie clothes and wanted to actually seduce somebody’s dad (I LOVE BILLIE EILISH AND I KNOW WHY SHE DRESSES THE WAY SHE DOES, IT’S A JOKE, PLS DON’T HATE ME), I’d love to see her wearing something like this. It’s a blend of punk, urban, and 2019 e-girl and has the kind of edge that Topshop has lost over the past couple of years that used to make it so aspirational to my 13 year old self. Of all the shows, it also probably has the most personally wearable accessories, and a shit tonne of cool make up looks I’d love to try if it weren’t for my lack of visible eyelid, lol.

Make up looks were a highlight of the Max Mara show too, for me anyway.

I otherwise wasn’t hugely keen on the collection, it being a little too matronly/Miss.Trunchbull-esque for my liking (wild card fashion inspiration of 2019, apparently?). The light paisley print dresses are very dreamy, though, and I can never resist a good suit. 

As for Michael Kors, dare I say it, but the basic bitch in me loved it. I know as a designer he’s not held in very high regard by the fashion community and I'm not saying it’s at all original but it did what it set out to do well; I mean, it’s quite fitting that he cameo-d in an episode of Gossip Girl because every outfit would be perfect for the Constance attending incarnation of Blair Waldorf, which is probably why I like the collection. Like yeah, it’s a bit of a Polo Ralph Lauren/Lacoste rip off but it’s daintier and more feminine and so I’m not gonna lie, I’m on board with it. 

Next, Miu Miu.

One of the collections I was most excited for, I was a little disappointed. Don’t get me wrong, I really like the collection, but I have never once disliked anything Miu Miu and I usually love it. There are things I love about this line too: the cream, floral lace-up boots, the off-the-shoulder cardigans, the houndstooth oversized coats and of course the fur-lined gilets. My mum used to buy me similar ones when I was a little girl and so they give me childhood nostalgia in the best way possible. I mean, the collection is as girly and eccentric as ever. I think it’s just a little too on the primary school librarian side for me, this time round. Sorry Miu Miu xoxo

Now I’m just gonna speed through a couple, starting with MM6 Maison Margiela, the younger sister to the more expensive regular Maison Margiela line:

And Monique Lhuillier:

So that I can get to one of my other ultimate favourite collections for S/S 2020: Moschino.

Oh my god, where to even start. Firstly, I might be reaching, but if this show is even remotely to thank for art nouveau mesh tops showing up in the Urban Outfitters new in section, then a very sarcastic thank you to Jeremy Scott. You just made ethical shopping a lot harder. HOW am I supposed to not buy an Alphonse Mucha top? HOW!? I mean, I’m sure I’ll manage (I’m on month 3 without a shopping spree I can’t actually afford now and yes, I am very much patting myself on the back), but HOW!?

But on a serious level, if renaissance was the print of 2019, which I’m still very much into BTW, bring on modern art as its 2020 replacement. The Pablo Picasso inspired show not only livened up a generally pretty predictable fashion month but it’s also got me searching up other times art has met fashion on the runway and thrown me down a particularly aesthetically pleasing wormhole I’m not sure I ever want to escape from (https://frontrowmagazine.ca/art-inspired-looks-were-all-over-the-runways-of-fashion-week-a74e8bc7ff0d and https://www.vogue.com/article/spring-2017-ready-to-wear-fine-arts-trends are good starting points!).

Mugler was also up there with the best of them, imo:

See, if the Moschino collection was all about dabbling in art class, Mugler’s S/S 2020 collection is its more mathematically inclined sister, all about sharp lines and deconstructed silhouettes and symmetry all whilst looking hot as fuck. So very Mugler, basically. 

Now, this reference might be slightly off because I haven’t actually SEEN Ex-Machina yet but I imagine if Kim Kardashian were to channel that movie for a costume party she’d end up wearing something from this collection. That sounds like a roast because Kim has worn some questionable outfits but I blame Kanye for most of that and I’m referring to her on a good fashion day, alright!?

As for Off-White, it’s obviously a lot more commercial than most of the lines I’ve reviewed so far. Like, I can see a lot of these outfits on a mannequin in Urban Outfitters (no, I am not being paid to namedrop them, about 3 people in total read this Tumblr so any kind of sponsorship money would be severely wasted on me). That’s not necessarily a bad thing, and I love all of these looks; it just seems unfair to compare them to the the Mugler or Moschino collections, for example. 

The stand outs for me are all on the bottom row: I would buy the utility vest, leather blazer and the all mesh turtleneck under washed-out tie-dye on the spot if I saw them in a high street store. Unfortunately, I feel like that’s kinda where they belong. You just expect collections to be a bit more conceptual, and this one is a little watered down, as much as it’s my style.

Oscar de la Renta was beautiful, of course. Not like I’m shook by how beautiful it is but kinda just what you’d expect from a brand with a name as poetic and fun to say as Oscar de la Renta. The silhouettes are dreamy and the details are as fit for a fairy princess (lmao) as ever. Plus can I just say how happy I am to see butterflies on dresses for adult women again!? And dresses worn by Blanca Padilla nonetheless!? Very here for it.

Next up is another on one of my fashion month highlights: Paco Rabanne.

LOOK AT THIS SHIT!

I mean, don’t get me wrong, something about this collection (I’m pretty sure it’s the knee high coloured socks) is giving me primary school teacher vibes, but I'm not mad about it. It’d be the kind of teacher who’s actually really good at their job and has loads of cool hobbies and a really hot boyfriend or girlfriend or wife or husband who you secretly want to be then you grow up/and or have a huge crush on. 

Like with Marc Jacobs, there’s obvious flower child elements here, and whilst on the whole the former took my breath away slightly more, this is a lot more wearable. My favourites are the paisley print dress and cape on the left in the very bottom row and all the chainmail pieces (which remind me of the dress Naomi Smalls wore in that whole club ninety-sixxxxx skit on drag race), plus that floral cut out dress with the trailing flute sleeves, which is absolute PERFECTION. 

The 70s influence was clear in Peter Pilotto’s S/S 2020 collection too from the abundance of tie-dye to the knit v-neck dress, zany colour and print being the very on-brand focus. That being said, this is definitely more of a street-style inspired collection than usual and whilst the floral suits and dresses on the 3rd row down are very typical Peter Pilotto, the tie-dye corset and combat trousers on the far right, second row from the bottom, are very Jaded London. As for the reoccurrence of the bucket hat, I’ve remained steadfastly against them for several years now (even when our Lord and Saviour Miss Robyn Rihanna Fenty started wearing them) but the way they’re done in this collection even I could definitely get behind; all in all, the show surpassed my expectations.

The same goes for Ports 1961, which was a lot more eccentric than I gathered is the norm from a few google searches. Honestly, I hadn’t really heard of the brand which, upon reading up on it, I feel very dumb for considering it has been around since (in the shock twist of the century) 1961.

Yes, I know how that sounds! But forgive me, I’m still learning:)

Anyway, the fishnet detailing alone pretty much sold the looks I picked out. Seriously, I got a pair of those bloody tights, like, 2 years ago when they became a thing again and now any outfit where I have my legs out feels incomplete without them. 

Next is Prabal Gurung, which, as far as presentation goes, was fucking STUNNING:

I mean, you could say that I’m easily impressed and that the presence of the bouquets won me over (and you’d definitely have a point there), but it’s also this year’s Givenchy haute couture-esque feathers, the trailing pearl necklaces, the exaggerated shoulders, the dreamy colouring, the everything looking like it could’ve grown off a very fashionably-inclined tree. Like, there’s a lot to love here, from the naturalistic elements, to the context behind the show, an ode to American fashion history and those cast out of it (and the notion of “being American” in general) for so long. 

Going from a high to a (personal) low, however, next we have Prada:

I don’t know, I get that it’s supposed to be simple and stripped back and dignified and whatever and I like the looks I picked but it’s just a bit blah for me. The bonnets that kept cropping up just didn’t do it for me and almost ruined what is an otherwise nice skirt suit (top right). Nonetheless, I like the silhouette of the sheer black dress and the the brocade print suit is really luxurious looking, even if the pattern is a *little* Wetherspoons carpet. 

Anyways, here’s a quick overview of Rag and Bone:

So that I can stop moaning and get onto a collection I REALLY liked: 

I am of course talking about Ralph and Russo. See, this is kinda what I expected from, like, Chanel and yet it’s Ralph and Russo that delivered. Also, it gives me Alessandra Rich vibes which is very much a compliment considering how much I love her designs. I mean, if Valley of the Dolls were to get another film remake in 2019, this is exactly what I’d like to see the female leads wearing, from the pastel suits to the satin kaftan style dresses. The yellow feather trimmed dress is practically a copy of something Marchesa has already done but it’s cute all the same. In my top 10 collections of the season, for sure.

Rick Owens was another strong collection; it goes without saying that it’s not the most wearable but that’s not really what Rick Owens is known for, so I wouldn’t expect anything else. If you want fashion on an alien planet, or something Lady Gaga would’ve worn in 2010, he's your man.

Next, Rodarte:

Obviously the dresses are beautiful and the set is magnificent, BUT...I’m really not a fan of the whole celebrities filling in for high fashion models thing. I like Lili Reinhart and I adore Kirsten Dunst, she’s been in a load of my favourite films, but in a similar vein to Dolce and Gabbana’s influencer show, it’s just distracting from the actual garments, if even worse because I don’t WANT to be distracted here (the same can’t be said for the D&G show, lol).  If anybody has read this far, let me know your thoughts! 

Roland Mouret was nice, and I always like a coed show, especially when a designer isn’t afraid to blur the lines of masculine and feminine. It’s fresh, lightweight and luxurious looking, Cannes film festival street style eat your heart out, and I love the colour palette.

Similarly, colour was my favourite thing about Sally LaPointe’s S/S 2020 collection. 

I would never think that teal and burnt orange would work together, let alone in some kind of faux leather, and yet here we are. Orange is in itself always an interesting colour choice, perfect for the summer with a tan, and I really love monochrome outfits, even though they’re something that ends up being quite pricey to put together; slight differences in tone are okay but if you just randomly throw together a few things and they’re too off, it really doesn’t work and you’d have been better off wearing contrasting colours. For that reason, I’m just gonna admire that all-pink outfit from a distance. 

As for Schiaparelli, it’s one I always look forwards to for the sheer weirdness. RTW isn’t quite as kooky as haute couture but still, the interesting choices are still there; what at first glance appears to be flame print is actually coils of hair, and paired with a water print suit is a sequinned jacket emblazoned with a paradisiacal mirage. Ornament-like facial decorations as seen in the over-exaggerated glasses worn with the pony hair suit are also one of my favourite new things to happen in the high fashion scene in the past couple of months and I can’t wait to see how they get watered down to become more approachable for us...regular, non-structurally blessed folks who can’t pull off anything and everything.

Simone Rocha was STUNNING. Romantic and ethereal, it’s druid goddess crossed with upper class Victorian woman of leisure, equal parts delicate and grungy, like a modern, fashion version of Lady Gaga’s Scathach in the Roanoke season of American Horror Story. You know, in the flashbacks, not in present day when she was all gross and like...scalping people and shit. Each dress is so ornate and has such an interesting structure, and the fabric choices give off an organic kinda vibe that create a handmade feel; the collection is, imo, really worthy of being shown under a haute couture heading. When it comes to my favourite element of the show, I’m torn between the petticoats and the hair accessories. I’m just gonna give a cop-out answer and say both. 

Stella McCartney on the other hand, is very much a clear ready-to-wear collection. 

It’s pretty, for sure. The pastel blazers paired with delicate white mesh tops underneath are a gorgeous combination for spring and I like the reoccurrence of the chain glasses (Gucci, right?). But I mean, when you go from Simone Rocha to this, it’s a bit anticlimactic. Plus, if I’m honest, kaftans are always going to remind me of Honey Mahogany from season 5 of Drag Race. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure she’s a lovely person but her runway looks aren’t really ones I look back fondly on, and you’re lying if you say you enjoyed them for anything other than meme purposes.

Temperley is equally meh, though the return of the Erdem-style boating hats is getting me excited that high street retailers might actually pick up on the trend and bring out some cheap ones for me to embarrass myself by wearing. 

I also love a good 70s suit, the neckerchiefs are cute and there are some really delightful prints here that are a more unique approach to florals for spring.

Coming towards the end now, next is Thom Browne:

I LOVE this. Like, don’t get me wrong Rick Owens was cool but I adore how on the nose the concept is here; time to bring back all the Marie Antoinette puns I didn’t get to use in my Versailles Instagram post. I don’t know if it’s the history buff in me or the Sofia Coppola Stan but I will always be willing to sign any kind of treaty for anything related to the excesses of the 18th century French monarchy, and this is that turned up to 1000 infused with a dash of the Teletubbies, which sounds like a nightmarish concept, I know, but as high fashion it WORKS.

Tory Burch was very commercial, seemingly half inspired by Monterey yoga moms and the other half by Hamptons socialites. 

And then there was Valentino, which was fucking exquisite, imo. LIKE, CALLING DOCLE & GABBANA: THIS IS HOW YOU MAKE TROPICAL PRINT INTERESTING. YOU MAKE THE VELVET MONKEY’S ARM THE FRICKEN WAISTBAND. 

Seriously, though, I am enamoured with this colour palette; all the whites and golds are angelic and fr, I didn’t know until now that you could make neons this elegant. I’m also getting an almost clerical feel from a lot of these looks, with the plaited waistband on the black dress that’s 7th row down in the middle, the stunning red cape and the multitude of exaggerated neck ruffs. I think I’ve mentioned before but I always love religious references in clothing-I don’t think I’ll ever get over the 2018 Met Gala-and so whether I’m reading too much into it or not, this collection really did it for me.

Whilst it’s probably as far removed a collection from Valentino’s S/S 2020 contribution you can get, I also loved Vera Wang this season. It might purely (I PROMISE THIS IS MY LAST GOSSIP GIRL REFERENCE) be because it gives me Jenny Humphrey vibes and *controversial* she did have my favourite style of any of the main characters, but sue me, this is just the right amount of late 90s/early 2000s grunge. Deconstructed trashy goth it girl is an interesting concept to see on the runway and I completely support it. 

Versace on the other hand was very hit or miss. The looks I picked out I really loved but ultimately, for one of the household name brands, a lot of the actual garments were a bit pedestrian. I will say though that for me, it’s a case of the whole being greater than the sum of its parts. The slicked back mermaid hair and the pops of colour in the makeup and the interesting necklines meant that when it was good, it was GOOD. However, overall, still a bit too 80s Miami businesswoman, and please GOD, can we leave that hideous J-Lo dress in the past, it should really not be the climax of the show in 20-fucking-19!

As for Victoria Beckham, I liked it, but it’s a bit of a Gucci copy, no? And no way near as interesting?

And on that note, I’m gonna have to cut this off. Super annoying but with only 5 collections left that I want to talk about, Tumblr is being a little bitch and will not let me add anything more to this post. So, see you in 5 for the final post!

Lauren x

[fieryfantasybooklover]

If Happy Ever After Did Exist - An Anna x Mabel fic for the Mabel podcast

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The sunlight was streaming through the windows, and the birds chirped outside. It was the start of a new day, and there were two not quite human girls asleep in a bed. The curtains, white and gauzy, waved slowly in the breeze. There were trinkets strewn across the desk, and a beautiful ornate wardrobe stood in the corner. It was an image from a book, it was a movie scene, it was both of those and better, it was more precious than the rarest diamond. Soon, one of the girls stirred - the one with the hand of bone who had descended like Orpheus into hell. She rose into a sitting position, surveying the world around her with a soft expression. Her life in the recent past had been more of a rollercoaster than she could have imagined. Anna Limon had triumphed and lost, but it seemed that in the end everything had smoothed itself out. Her eyes continued to travel the room, and they found Mabel Martin. She was asleep, and she was beautiful. She looked like a saint, a visage of Mother Nature, glorious in her calmest moments, and Anna’s heart swelled with love.

Mabel awoke then, stretching and blinking the sleep from her eyes and locating Anna. “Good morning.” she said, yawning and smiling. “Good morning.” Anna replied, rising from the bed and looking out the window. “How did you sleep?”

“I slept fantastically, thank you for asking. How was your rest? Did you discover a new species of plant, or did you just stick to the boring ones like being able to fly.” Mabel said, also standing up.

“I would like to point out that being able to fly would be much less boring than discovering a new species of plant.”

“I do not think so, but there’s a small chance I’m just a little bit biased.” Mabel said, an angelic expression on her face.

“Oh come on you, let's go get breakfast.” Anna said, laughing and moving down the hall.

It was a glorious day and the kitchen looked like a dream. Old newspapers were piled on the table, the dates definitely not matching but it was a negligible detail. The myriad of potted and hanging plants on every surface were lush and alive, and the windows refracted the morning light into a rainbow.

“Look, Anna, I found us!” Mabel said, pointing at the rainbow and practically running into the kitchen. She plunked down onto a stool and turned to face Anna, grinning. “Oh haha, very original and funny. I can’t imagine that you could’ve ever made a similar joke before.” Anna shot back, but it was light and there was amusement in her face as she turned on the sink. “Oh come on, you know you love my sense of humor.” Mabel protested, opening a cabinet and pulling out bowls. “I do love it, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be confused on whether that love is to my detriment or enhancement.”

“I would suggest you choose the second option.” Mabel said, chuckling. “I think it would truly add enrichment.”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear you.”

After several more jokes, a whirlwind of dishes, and about a half hour, breakfast was completed and the day lay open ahead. “Whatever shall we do today.” Anna queried, putting the last of the plates in the sink. “That is an excellent question. This is all looking very picturesque, and we looked through the rest of the attic stuff yesterday, so I may have a suggestion.” Mabel answered. “I’m all ears, let’s hear it.” Anna replied, turning around with her eyebrows raised. Mabel moved to the center of the kitchen, haloed in the golden light. “I suggest we have a dance. It’s only us, we have all the time we need, and it’s a good option as any. There’s plenty of space and everything. So, I must ask. Would you have this dance, Saint Anna?” Mabel asked as she extended a hand. “You know what, King Mabel? I think I would love that.” Anna answered, taking Mabel’s hand and kissing it gently.

They spun around the kitchen, sunlight in their hair as they smiled and danced. There was music coming from nowhere, but it was not so threatening now. Now, nothing could be dangerous and nothing could be evil. Anna grabbed Mabel’s hand and Mabel twirled, the flowers and nature embracing her turning her into a vortex of color and life. Mabel dipped Anna dramatically, pulling her back up before spinning her around again. Laughing, they stopped to catch their breath and steady themselves as they grabbed the counters and each other for support. “I feel like I’m trapped on a page of a storybook.” Anna managed to say, straightening up again. “Nah, storybooks are always confined to an end. I do not see a similar issue here. We will both be here forever, here or under the hill. I like that much better.”

“Always so poetic, my love.” Anna grinned. “I have to admit that you’re right. We have all the time in the world.” and with that, they danced again.

It was a slow dance this time, something akin to a waltz, and they slowly moved around the kitchen. “Would you like to know something, Mabel Martin?” Anna asked, as she rested her head on Mabel’s shoulder. “I think I would find myself enlightened, Miss Limon.” Mabel answered, brushing a strand of hair out of Anna’s face. “This, all of this - these past few weeks, months, all the way back to when I met you - has been the happiest I can remember being. Of course there are still some parts of my old life that I miss, but I miss them less and less every day. You are the person I love most in this world, and I will never leave you. I would choose this over and over again until the sun blows out.” Anna said, pulling back to be able to observe the entirety of Mabel’s face. “I just want you to know that.”

“Anna, I… I still don’t know what I did to deserve you in my life. You are my happy ending, Anna Limon, and I do not believe in happy endings. You are my paradise, and I do not believe that such a thing can exist in this world or beyond it. Given this, it is strange how quickly I was able to believe in you. The rest of the world is unimportant when compared to you, and I think it is my job to remind you of that as much as it may be needed.” Mabel finished, widened eyes staring into Anna’s. Anna stared right back, seeming to be overwhelmed by emotions. Several moments passed, and then Anna spoke. “I love you so much Mabel, and I always will. I love you with the force to shatter reality, and I wouldn’t trade it for the world.”

“I love you as well, Anna Limon. I love you so much, I would make you a crown of stars and I’d endure any evil in the world if it meant you would be safe. ”

They kissed then, full of love and happiness and the soul deep realization that this was real and happening and worth everything they had to fight to get to it. It was magic and it was glory and it was an infinitely small gesture, but one that mattered more than anything. More than anything, it mattered because they had the love for it, and they always would.

[cinephiled-com]

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Interview: Costume Designer Paul Tazewell Brings History to Life in the Powerful ‘Harriet’

Based on the thrilling and inspirational life of an iconic American freedom fighter, Kasi Lemmons’ riveting Harriet tells the extraordinary tale of Harriet Tubman’s escape from slavery and transformation into one of America’s greatest heroes. Her courage, ingenuity, and tenacity freed hundreds of slaves and changed the course of history. Harriet stars Cynthia Erivo in the title role and features Leslie Odom Jr. and Janelle Monáe.

Paul Tazewell, the great Broadway costume designer, designed the wardrobe for this powerful film. Tazewell, a six-time Tony nominee, won the Tony for Hamilton along with an Emmy for his work on The Wiz! Live. His stunning costumes for Harriet trace Tubman’s path from fugitive slave to tenacious freedom fighter.

Just as with Hamilton, Tazewell’s costumes are anchored in extensive research. It helped that the Civil War era marked the advent of photography with the famed Daguerreotypes giving Tazewell a trove of inspiration. That informed, for instance, the velvet dress worn by Marie Buchanan (Janelle Monáe), who owns the Philadelphia boarding house that figures prominently in the plot—ornate but tasteful, representative of the life that, to a former slave, is only imaginable in the free North. When Harriet, bedraggled and exhausted after her incredible solo run to freedom, arrives at Marie’s tasteful, well-appointed home in Philadelphia, her crisp silk dresses and delicate shawls practically shimmer.

There are Daguerreotypes of Tubman but obviously none of her very dangerous work leading slaves out of bondage. Reflective of her important, terrifying work, Tazewell and his team created different “stages” of the same costume, such as a red petticoat from her slave dress or a green dress she wears after she returns to the South from her freedom in the north escorting “passengers” along the railroad. Her first incredible escape shows in her wardrobe, progressively more ruined, through mud, blood, and bog water, across each leg of Tubman’s journey. Her clothes literally break down as she tears away the figments of her old life.

As Tubman becomes more comfortable with her new role, she embraces her Joan of Arc like persona, not to mention her male alter ego, Moses. Her wardrobe echoes her new confidence—Union blue pants and jacket with brass buttons and cap or even a top hat on occasion become her uniform and indeed she leads a troop of Buffalo Soldiers into battle in a pale blue coat brandishing a trusty rifle. Even one incredibly detailed navy blue gown, stiff with crinoline petticoats and intricate tight ruffles at the bodice, is as much a statement as the rousing speech she gives to her fellow “conductors” on the Underground Railroad. It is a long way from the plain, blue workaday dress she wears on her initial escape, underscoring how far she has come.

I talked to Paul Tazewell about his remarkable work on this film.

Danny Miller: So nice to talk with you, Paul, I’ve admired your work in the theater for years and was thrilled to see your work in this film. Was doing the research for this film different than for some of your other projects?

Paul Tazewell: Well, I definitely felt that it was important to be really grounded in history since Harriet Tubman was a real person and quite an icon. I spent a lot of time at the Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture in New York and, of course, studies the Daguerreotypes from the period. Lucky for us, this was the first era in American history where people started documenting everyday life so I was able to examine portraits of slaves on the plantations as well as free African Americans and the white people of the era.

I’m thinking of that one famous photo of Harriet Tubman we’ve all seen. Are there many others?

Actually, no, there really aren’t, so that was a challenge. I had to pull together as much research as possible and then make plausible decisions about what Harriet might have worn. But one of the things that I found very inspiring was a newly found photograph of a younger Harriet than we’re used to seeing that’s now at the Smithsonian. It’s a beautiful photograph, there’s a softness to it and an acknowledgment of the fashion of the period that I tried to make sure was a part of her visual story in the film.

She goes through so many personal and physical transitions in the story.

Absolutely. To begin with, if her clothes were not handed down from family members, they were certainly very old. I had to always keep that in mind. And the dress she escapes in had to show an enormous amount of wear and tear to the point where it’s deteriorating off of her body. It’s just not able to hold together after jumping off a bridge, being swept through the rapids, everything she went through. By the time she reaches freedom, it’s pretty much falling off of her.

Janelle Monáe as Marie Buchanan

And then she makes it to Philadelphia and meets Marie Buchanan who looks unlike any Black woman Harriet has ever seen. You can see the wonder in her eyes when she first sees Marie.  

Yes, and Marie becomes a great influence on Harriet including what she wears. As a designer, it was very fun to create the different looks for Harriet when she became a master of disguise in the Underground Railroad. She was trying to stay under the radar of the slave catchers who initially thought she was a man but Harriet adopted many different looks that allowed aspects of her personality to come through, some female, some male like when she dresses like some of the Black sailors of the time.

I love it because you see her clothes reflect her emotional journey and empowerment throughout the film. Was it hard to research the proper color palette to use since the Daguerreotypes are obviously not in color?

We have a lot of knowledge from clothes that have survived and from paintings about what colors and fabrics were available at that time. We knew the fiber content that we needed to work with and we actually used a significant number of genuine period costumes in the film, mostly for secondary characters, including a couple of pieces that we copied for Harriet’s look. Janelle Monáe, who played Marie, wore one dress that was a beautiful silk stripe from the period.

Wow, it’s a miracle that any of those survived.

Yes, it’s pretty remarkable. Of course ,these were dresses that were completely hand-sewn. And when you see the intensity and richness of the colors, that gave us license to use those colors in the costumes we created. Some of the authentic period clothes helped support where I wanted to go emotionally with the different characters.

Paul Tazewell adjusting Leslie Odom Jr.’s costume

With all the hardships these characters were going through, I imagine that the layering of dirt and grime was especially important. I assume that you were the one art directing the filth and the deterioration of the clothing?

Oh yes, that’s my job. We’d start by carefully going through the script and determining how many times we’d see Harriet in a dress on her journey from Point A to Point B and then I would take everything that’s happened to her into consideration and start imagining what the different levels of distress would be.

You must have had to make so many versions of some of those outfits.

Yes, I remember with some we had about eight versions at varying levels of decay, plus at least four more for Cynthia’s stunt double. The reality is that the dress she was wearing during her escape would already be quite distressed the first time we see it, so that was the baseline for all the copies, and then we had to go from there to make the condition of the dress worse and worse.

Fascinating. Before I go, as a classic movie lover, I have to ask you about the project you just completed, Steven Spielberg’s new take on West Side Story.

Oh, it was a really exciting summer. We filmed mostly in New York with a little bit in Patterson, New Jersey. We stuck to the time period of when the original was created, the 1950s, and it was such a delight working with Spielberg. I think it’s going to be a stunning film.

But was it a little nerve-wracking that you all knew that many of us have every frame of the original film memorized?

I hope that we’ve been able to create a parallel version of West Side Story that people will grow to love. The cast is out of this world — they’re all young and so full of life. And we have Rita Moreno in our cast, too, so that’s also a big plus and a connection to the original film. It was a great group all around. There’s no question that the original film is beloved and I hope our film just adds to that experience in the same way seeing a new stage production of West Side Story does, which we’re actually going to be treated to very soon.

Frankly, knowing that Rita Moreno was the only actual Puerto Rican actor in the original cast makes me excited about seeing a more diverse group in the new movie. 

Absolutely, you’re going to see a lot of diversity in our cast.

Well, thanks so much for the chat, I really hope that people are flocking to Harriet because I think it’s a very important film. And good luck with West Side Story.

We can talk more about that next year!