#so I got a pair of linen cargo trousers

[7yearsofdele]

In a small tangent from F1 shitposting, I got a new pair of trousers and I am going to look banging at work tomorrow.

[navigatrixnarrations]

Sometimes Always, Part 2: Thick As Thieves

The second chapter of a canon divergent kind-of fix-it set after Season 3. In which the past does not stay buried.

Warnings: Profanity, mentions of hanging and violent injuries

Word Count: 2187

Catch up here: Part 1

Vane wakes at dawn to find Margaret already up and about, though he’s not sure she’s slept at all. Her face looks drawn, and in the grey light the dark circles beneath her eyes nearly look as though she’s sporting a pair of shiners. She’s built up the fire and is sitting in front of it, her long fingers wrapped around a mug of tea. She glances over and pours him a mug, which he gulps down. It’s brewed strong and sweet.

He takes the chair across from her and rests his elbow on the table, leaning in to peer at her. “What the fuck are you doing here, Magpie?”

“Charles, are you turning into a philosopher?”

There's a wall there, where there never was before. Not that he can blame her. “You said you fucking hate it here. You could go anywhere. Why do you stay?”

She relents with a heavy sigh. “I’m keeping a promise to my father.” Her voice is curt. He waits for her to elaborate. She doesn’t.

“You could have rejoined him, or gone back to Nassau.”

She stares at him as though she can’t believe how stupid he is, but there’s a wound behind her eyes. “No. I couldn’t.” She stands and paces to the window, which she stares out blankly.

“But why here?”

“Because this is where the ship he put you on was headed.”

Vane remembers very little of what happened after he stepped off the cart. The jolt at the end of the rope. Gunshots and commotion. Falling and being caught. The wound in his leg had started to fester while he was gaoled, and he spent days drifting in and out of consciousness, feverish, his throat too sore from the noose to talk. At the edges of his vision, a dark figure whose face he couldn’t make out — he assumes he hallucinated that. At some point he learned he was on a schooner bound for New York City, and that it was part of Blackbeard’s fleet, one he sometimes used to move cargo without attracting attention.

“Why the fuck didn’t you let me know you were here?”

“Didn’t know what to say to you.” She shrugs. “I wasn’t sure whether the first thing I’d do would be hug you or knee you in the balls.”

“Yet you did neither.”

She narrows her eyes in a way he’s learned means don’t press your luck. “Get your shit from the rooming house. You can stay here while we figure out what the fuck to do next.” She said we.

He returns from the rooming house, his few worldly possessions in an old sea bag slung over his shoulder, to find her gone. The shot of nerves is a gut-punch until he sees the note on the table: “Back in a bit -- M”

And indeed, a short time later, he hears three quick raps on the window pane, an old signal of theirs, and a gust of chill air blows through the garret as it opens. Her voice: “I’m coming in.” She swings herself inside, landing with a loose-limbed ease that’s familiar from so many raids together. Her eyes are the only visible part of her. Everything else is swathed in dark clothing, from the knit cap and scarf hiding her hair and face to the well-worn canvas jacket and trousers hiding her figure.

He raises his eyebrows. “Has the door offended you in some way?” The woman has always known how to make an entrance.

She finishes unwrapping the scarf and pulls off her cap, releasing a weather system of dark hair. Margaret is in the clothes of a working pirate, hair wild and a spark of that old feral joy in her eyes, and the world begins to make sense again. He’s sure she’s got half a dozen knives concealed about her person, even if she’s carrying neither pistols nor cutlass.

She gives him a sly grin. “The Puritan couple downstairs is entirely too interested in saving my unworthy soul. I prefer to avoid them.”

“Mmhmm. You can’t have been rooftopping because you were someplace you shouldn’t have been and you didn’t want to be followed.”

She feigns indignation. “Who, me? An honest widow woman, pure in word, thought, and deed?”

He finds himself grinning back at her. “I appreciate the warning before you came through the window.”

“Well, I recall what happens when you’re startled.” He’d been dozing lightly and he grabbed her arm and threw her, pinning her to the deck with a knife to her throat before he realized who she was. The surprise on her face, the clean strips of linen scattered everywhere. He felt like an utter shit; he’d taken a nasty cutlass slash and she’d only been coming to change his bandages. He couldn’t look her in the eye for days after that. Yet even at her most furious, she never threw it back at him…

”I recall what happens when you’re startled too,” he smirks and quirks his scarred eyebrow melodramatically. He shouldn’t have snuck up on her when she had a marlinspike in her hand.

She smiles ruefully. “I apologized for that.”

“And I said not to worry; it came from a formidable opponent.”

The smile fades from her face. “I’m not your opponent, Charles.” Her voice is quiet, serious, thick with some emotion he can’t quite name. “I never was.”

“No,” he replies, equally quiet, equally serious, “But you are formidable.” How different life would be, if only he’d found the words.

Blocks away, the church bell on Broadway peals out the time. He’s not sure if he’s disappointed or relieved that he has to head to work. The evening passes uneventfully. On his return, she’s already gone to bed.

He is pushing the earth from his body, but it keeps piling on top of him. He can’t dig fast enough, and the manacles rip at his wrists, and a crowd is jeering and he can’t breathe…

Vane hits the rough wooden planks of the floor with a ragged shout. And then she’s at his side, her arms lifting him into a sitting position. They’re a sailor’s arms, sinewy and strong from years of hauling on lines and climbing aloft. Her hand, callused but gentle, pushing his hair from his eyes. Then she simply sits on the floor beside him and threads her fingers through his.

Despite being the Captain’s daughter, Margaret received no special treatment; Charles’s hammock was strung next to hers in the fo'c'sle. He’d flipped himself right out of it, hitting the floor with enough of a thud to wake her. She crouched beside him, an arm around his shoulders, reminding him where he was. “Next time, reach out for my hand,” she ordered. And so the next time a nightmare jolted him awake, he did. Many a night she held his hand in the dark as the ship creaked and swayed around them. None of the crew ever said a word to him about his nightmares, and that, he learned from Sully, was because she used what small influence she had to see to it that they wouldn’t.

“Was it the giant?” She remembers what he said the only time he told her -- told anyone -- what he saw in his nightmares. Of course she does.

“I killed him. I went back to that,” his voice breaks slightly, “place, and I killed him.”

In the dark, her hair brushes his shoulder as she turns her head to look at him. “Does it help, knowing he can never hurt you again?”

“Sometimes. But the fear never fully goes away.” He’s never told anyone else any of this. He’s not sure why he’s telling her, except that she held his hand in the dark. “I fought him first, and he knocked me unconscious. Buried me alive. Had to dig myself out.” Her hand tightens around his, a reminder that he is still alive, still free. He coughs out a broken approximation of a laugh. “Should’ve made sure I was dead before he put me in the fucking ground.”

“And so now you sometimes dream of that.” She pauses and gives him a measuring look. “And the jolt at the end of a rope?”

He nods. He should have expected that she’d guess right.

She frowns for a moment and stares into the middle distance. Then her face softens. ”Giant slayer.”

He leans his shoulder against hers. When he told her about his nightmares, she couldn’t believe he didn’t know the story of Jack the Giant-Slayer. He remembers another night, windy like this one, huddled together on another floor as she told him that tale by the light of a lantern. He can pinpoint it now, the moment when he started believing it was possible to slay a giant himself. Started believing it until a different girl convinced him that he could never.

He shifts so that their linked hands cover his racing heart. “Magpie.”

Her chest rises and falls inside the men’s shirt she’s wearing and she starts to lean closer. Then she stands abruptly, releasing his hand. “I’ll boil the kettle.”

They sip their drinks in silence. It’s not uncomfortable, not exactly, but perhaps he shouldn’t have been so bold. He shouldn’t have expected her to return any of his feelings, not after such a betrayal and so many years apart. He realizes his fingers have gone to the rope scar on the side of his neck, and that she’s watching.

“Does it give you pain?” There’s genuine concern on her face. Perhaps she still cares for him after all. From the moment he woke up on the Revenge, he and Margaret had been thick as thieves, which after all, as Margaret had sensibly pointed out, they were.

“Not usually.” He takes a long pull on his coffee. “Can’t say it improved my voice any.”

She catches his attempt at lightening the mood. “Regardless, you’ve turned into quite the orator.” She stands to open the shutters; by now the sky is lightening in the pre-dawn hush.

“I wasn’t aware I gave any speeches these past two days.”

“I meant your speech at the gallows. It was a bit of a distraction while I was trying to calculate windage and bullet drop.”

Vane snaps his head up to stare at her in shock. “You shot the rope?” She always was a good shot. Deadeye Magpie, picking off foes from the fighting tops.

She deadpans “I’ll admit that I fully understand the urge to kill you, but that doesn’t mean I would allow anyone else the satisfaction.”

He snorts, but feels something long buried within him melt. She’d gone back to Nassau, rescued him once more, at no small risk to herself. Why?

The momentary playfulness leaves her face at the question on his. “Is it truly so hard for you to believe? I took a musket ball for you once.”

That musket ball nearly killed her. Those weeks while Margaret was ashore recovering, she bloomed the way that young women sometimes do. Nearly overnight, it seemed, she’d gone from being a gawky, coltish little thing with the face of a cranky hawk to an aquiline beauty, graceful and utterly poised. His breath caught when he spied her on the jetty, her dark hair blowing loose in the wind and her eyes shining as she watched the Revenge crew come ashore with their latest prize. That hair has threads of silver in it now, but her body is every bit as lithe as he remembers, her face every bit as lovely. And if her eyes are sadder now, harder than they were all those years ago, they’re no less captivating.

He rises and closes the distance between them in three strides and takes her hands in his. “I can’t make it right,” he says quietly to her guarded, upturned face. “This I know. You gave me my freedom and your friendship, many times over, and in return I hurt you.”

She doesn’t pull away. “Did you know that Eleanor tried it on with Sully first? He saw right through her. Told her to fuck off.”

It stings, but he can’t say he’s surprised. They both tried to warn him and he lashed out at them, refused to listen. Told Margaret that she was spoiled and selfish, that she just wanted him at her beck and call...oh, the absolute fucking irony of that. “I’d take it back if I could. What I said. What I did.” Vane is not a man used to apologizing, but for for her, he’s willing.

She slips one hand out of his and places it lightly on the cheekbone that Eleanor had battered with her fists. “Sully never bore you any ill will. None of us did. He didn’t understand why you threw away everyone and everything for her. I didn’t then either, but I think perhaps I do now.” She drops her hand back to her side and starts to turn away. “I’ve got to go see some people about a boat.” Reluctantly, he releases her other hand. Watches her put on her coat and boots. Watches her walk away, again. This time, at least, they don’t part in anger.

[noxexistant]

gamquick; “(but first) let me take a selfie”

fandom; marvel 616, all-new x-factor (2014)

pairing; remy lebeau/pietro maximoff 

word count; 1.9k

rating; g

notes; this is my first time writing 616 and my first time posting a fic to tumblr in god knows how long,, please be nice.  anyway, this is Dumb and Self-Indulgent, and i love gamquick So Much, and i think about canon insta baddie pietro every single goddamn day of my life

ao3 mirror

———

“Are you taking a selfie?” Remy asks, somewhat incredulously.

Pietro hums an affirmation, short and sharp in such a manner that manages to somehow convey the complex sentiment of, ‘Well, obviously, you imbecile.’

Granted, Pietro does look the kind of way that warrants a selfie. His outfit and general aesthetic choices tend to pendulate between the extremes of ‘godly’ and ‘unspeakable’, but his current outfit is definitely the former. It’s a linen suit in a summery shade of periwinkle - and Remy hates that he not only knows those terms but also managed to string them together, but he manages to soothe the knock to whatever ridiculous attachment to traditional ‘manliness’ he’s still coddling with the observation that his boyfriend looks fucking incredible. The suit is fitted perfectly, tapered to his narrow waist, and Remy waits for the next sound of a camera shutter to lean over and grab Pietro’s ass through the delightfully tight, light fabric of the slim-fit trousers.

He likes to imagine that the camera managed to capture Pietro’s face perfectly, but it’s more than likely that the photo turned into a blurred mess because Pietro is turning to swat at Remy before he’s even really had a chance to appreciate the ass grab, which is very unfortunate, because Pietro’s ass is the best.

“Go and pester someone else,” Pietro snips, landing a fairly solid playful backhand to the apple of Remy’s cheek - only playful in that it doesn’t actually shatter Remy’s whole face - as he pretends to still be invested in his sleek smartphone. “Lorna’s in the other room. Why don’t you go and tell her that her green dress is an adventurous choice? Very capricious of her.”

Despite his stinging cheek, Remy laughs easily and falls into Pietro, arms winding around his waist from behind as he glances down at his phone screen, catching sight of the camera app still open and just a glimpse of the previews of previous selfies.

“Don’ upset the lady,” he admonishes, leaning close to his lover’s ear and looking up to meet his eyes through their reflection in the full-length mirror before them. “‘S’not nice to tease your sister, cheri.”

Unsurprisingly, Pietro rolls his eyes.

“If she didn’t want my teasing, she should’ve at least gone with a better shade. The seafoam dress was nicer, but she insisted it reminded her of one of Father’s outfits. God forbid. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the man outside of red and purple.”

Remy can’t say he’s all too familiar with Erik Lehnsherr’s wardrobe.

“‘S’this the latest in you guys’ elaborate familial judgement, then?” he asks, “Fashion?”

He raises an eyebrow, going for an unimpressed look, but his face breaks into a smile when Pietro does The Thing - meets Remy’s eyes in the reflection and lets his own become open and warm for just a moment.

“Believe me,” he says airily, “I’ve been judging my father’s fashion choices for as long as I’ve known him.”

Remy tilts his head in consideration, still smiling.

“Must be those bad genetics that influenced that cargo shorts look a couple weeks ago, then.”

His smile widens when Pietro’s expression becomes once again deeply serious, eyes narrowing.

“How many times must I reiterate that not all tan shorts are cargo shorts? The definition of ‘cargo shorts’ comes from the pockets—“

“—Okay, okay, so no extra pockets,” Remy concedes, releasing Pietro’s waist for only a moment to splay his hands in surrender, “But they were ugly. Luna thought so, too.”

Pietro makes a face that Remy struggles not to classify as a pout.

“Luna hasn’t been educated in proper fashion-practicality balance yet.”

“Ah, right, right. An’ that one suit you like t’wear when we go out to fancy joints - the one with no pockets so I have to hold your phone and wallet all night - that’s fashion-practicality balance?”

There’s a twinkle in Pietro’s eyes as he meets Remy’s gaze again, despite the flatness of his tone.

“You’re fashion-practicality balance.”

The gasp Remy lets out is wounded, apparently convincing enough - despite his huge, stupid grin - that Lucifer comes trotting over to investigate.

“I’m a glorified seasonal accessory,” he weeps. Despite the fact that they’ve spent several seasons together. Many, in fact. And Remy apparently hasn’t gone out of fashion.

Unfortunately, Pietro is too busy giving Lucifer and an approaching Figaro stern looks to respond, shifting his feet as they get closer to nuzzle around his shins. “I swear, if either of you get your claws anywhere near this suit—“

“—They won’t. An’ if they do, ‘s’only ‘cause they love you.”

“I don’t care. They’re menaces. Where’s Oliver?”

“Still asleep on your side of the bed, if I had to guess. ‘S’his favourite place. ‘Cause he loves you. Same as me. You’re their stepdad. Step-cat-dad.”

“How many times must I tell you to stop calling them your children?”

“They’re my babies.”

The sigh Pietro lets out is long-suffering and entirely affectionate. It makes Remy want to smile so hard his face really does shatter, especially as Pietro’s face once again softens as Figaro looks up at him and meows sweetly.

“I love you, y’know?” Remy says, letting his jaw rest against Pietro’s shoulder to speak right against the rapid pulse in his neck. It’s for the intimacy, yes, but it’s also mostly just so he can feel the shudder that runs through his love.

“You may have mentioned it in passing,” Pietro says, the same unimpressed tone, but it stings just a little in the way that it always does, because he doesn’t know. Remy could say it a thousand times over, in English and French and every language that Pietro has expressed similar sentiments in and then taken the time to patiently teach Remy to echo the pronunciation. He never manages to make the words sound quite as pretty as Pietro does, but Pietro always smiles at him when he gets the words right, smiles like they really mean everything, even though he can never quite believe them.

“God. I love you so much. Mon trésor. Mon colibri. Mon bibou.”

That last one, as he knew it would, earns him something that’s almost a laugh, a dusting of pink appearing across the apples of Pietro’s cheeks.

“Stop getting sappy,” he says. “If you adore me, then maybe you’ll brush your hair and finally get a shirt on. We do have places to be.”

“Only place I have any interes’ in bein’ is by your side.”

Pietro retches, but Remy manages to see how he smiles even as he laughs against Pietro’s neck, arms looping tighter around his waist to hold him close.

“If you were anyone else, that woulda worked,” he says, as put-out as he can pretend to be. “You got your standards all backwards, mon ami.”

“Clearly. I should’ve gone for a man who knows how to dress himself in a timely manner.”

“Now, I know we got real different definition of what ‘timely’ means.”

“Right now, I’d say it means that the task should be completed at some point before we’re expected to arrive.”

Remy shrugs easily. “Never heard’a bein’ fashionably late, cheri? An’ who are you to talk? You’ve been admirin’ yourself in the mirror for the whole time I was in the bathroom.”

“Failing to give yourself a decent shave.”

“I like havin’ stubble!”

Pietro levels him with another unimpressed look, but it once again softens as he reaches backwards to trace his thumb across Remy’s jaw. Remy smiles and leans forward just enough to kiss his fingertips, just a gentle peck against each one while he appreciates that Pietro’s staying still for once, until Pietro’s holding his jaw again and turning half around in his arms, enough to finally press their lips together. It’s slow and soft, washed warm by the midday sunlight from the bedroom windows, and Remy treasures it for as long as he dares before he peeks his eyes open a little to look at their reflection, make sure he clicks the volume off and gets the angle right.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, when they finally pull back just an inch. “That one looks the best.”

Pietro looks up at him, brows creased in confusion, until Remy holds up the phone he’d easily taken straight from his lover’s hands minutes ago. Pietro scowls, snatching it back in a blur, but whatever ire he holds is immediately forgotten in the face of the photograph on the screen - the two of them, pressed close and kissing, Pietro’s hand against Remy’s neck and one of Remy’s holding Pietro’s waist while the other holds up the phone. It’s not got the best composition - Remy isn’t exactly well-practiced when it comes to taking selfies whilst fully distracted by kissing his boyfriend, but the warm glow of sunlight across them, Pietro’s pretty outfit and artfully messy hair contrasted with Remy’s sleep-rumpled form dressed in nothing but a pair of ugly pyjamas trousers, gives the whole photo a vibe that he treasures. It’s them, solid proof that this is something real, and, judging by that soft look in Pietro’s blue eyes again, he agrees.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says, then mumbles something in a language Remy doesn’t recognise at a speed he could never hope to even comprehend - Pietro’s regular speed. By now, though, Remy’s gotten used to that being Pietro’s equivalent of an ‘I love you’ or something similar, and it makes him grin like an idiot, leaning forwards to press a kiss to that sensitive spot beneath Pietro’s ear.

“Only with you, cheri,” he says, directing a wink at Pietro in the mirror and enjoying the eye roll he gets in response. “Hey, don’ be rude. Just got you our future holiday card photo, didn’t I? Your sisters are gonna love it.”

“I suppose Lorna’s already seen you in most states of undress, but I’d rather not share the sight with Wanda.”

Remy chuckles, hooking his chin over Pietro’s shoulder. “‘S’pose you were takin’ the photos for her anyway, huh?”

“For Wanda?” Pietro asks, then shakes his head casually. “No. They were for my Instagram.”

…“Your what?”

Lorna comes in to chew them out for being late before Remy can get an explanation. He gets dressed about as fast as he ever has whilst Pietro makes entirely unhelpful comments and enjoys his misery, but then his boyfriend brushes his hair and picks a cologne out for him, all intimate and domestic even if it’s made slightly less picturesque by Lorna’s growing frustration.

They all spend the day beneath the warm sun, drinking expensive alcohol and drifting from gazebo to gazebo across a perfectly-kept lawn as they schmooze and chat and act all casually heroic, and Remy almost entirely forgets about the whole Instagram thing.

At least until they’re home and he and Pietro are curled up in bed together, and Pietro drops his phone on Remy’s chest.

Remy picks it up to see Instagram open on a post on what must be Pietro’s account - a collection of photos taken over the course of the day, candid photos of the team and a couple of Pietro’s selfies and, finally, last in the set, the picture of the two of them. There’s no caption, but there are—

“How many likes?!”

[liray-stylespk]

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[onlythreelines]

Clothes to Buy

Courtney says to buy the following essentials.

1.White Tee Shirt (Crew neck and V neck)

Wear V neck under something, Crew neck by itself.

2. Oxford Button Down Shirt  (White and Light Blue)

Can be worn by itself or underneath a blazer. More on the lines if I don’t want to feel underdressed or overdressed.

3. White Button Down Shirt

Fit is important

4. Crew Neck Sweater (Neutral Colors, Solid) 

Looks great with jeans or under something.

5. Chinos (Khaki)

Can dress them up with a blazer if need be, or if the summer time can wear with sneakers and a shirt.

6. Dark Wash Denim (not light wash)

Works well.

7. Leather Belt (Brown or black)

Depending on the shoes, since they have to match.

8. Blazer (Navy)

Got it! Apparently navy is more versatile?

9. Suit (Charcoal)

Perfect fitting suit.

10. White Sneakers

You mr. Clean magic eraser to clean them!

11. Boots

Hotter Climates (Chukka or Chelsea)

Colder (Leather)

12. Dress shoes (Oxford brown)

13. Jacket (Leather, Denim or Bomber)

14. Coat (Topcoat, overcoat or peacoat)

Depends on the climate, the difference between a top and over is the density and fabric. The peacoat is for warmer climates, Texas?

15. A watch

Doing things with my hands I need a more rugged, sitting at a desk all day, something nice to look at!

The next list will be from her list of things that women like on men. Some might overlap, however it will be noted.

1. Perfectly fitted suit (Other list)

2. Button down (Oxford Shirt) (Other list)

Reveals a little about the body, Roll up sleeves

3. T-shirt (White, black and navy) (Other list)

4. Nice sweater (Crew neck or v neck) (Other list)

Tight but NOT TOO TIGHT, can layer too!

6. Sport Coat/ Blazer (Other list)

7. Casual Jacket (Leather, denim or Bomber) (Other list)

8. Dark Denim (Other list)

Keep in mind body type and style

9. Nice shoes (Other list)

Casual - nice pair of sneakers <-

Dress up alot? -Oxford shoes

10. Sunglasses

11. A watch

Now we go onto things that men shouldn’t wear which puts women off.

1. Socks and Sandals. (Slides)

2. Flip flops with jeans

3. Overly accessorizing 

4. Big Flashy logos.

5. Not that much cologne

6. Clothes that doesn't fit

Too tight and too loose are No GOES

7. Worn out clothing

8. Running shoes with jeans.

9. Deep v neck

10.cargo shorts/cargo pants

Now we go onto essentials for men’s summer wardrobe

1. Classic Polo (Neutral colors)

Pair of Chinos,

2. Short sleeve button down 

Pay attention to the fit, not to tight. And stick with natural fibers!

3. Long sleeve linen shirts (White, off-white, olive, and light blue)

Rolled up sleeves, strong, absorbent and quick drying. Wrinkles quite easily

4. Pair of chino shorts (Stick with neutrals, tan, olive, gray and navy)

shorts ending right below the knee: 7 inch and 9 inch

Not too tight, not too loose.

5. Pair of swim trunks

Try to get the ones that look like regular shorts, not too high and not too low (mid thigh)

6. Chino pants (Neutral Colors

Slimmer fit and classic fit so you could roll up when wearing with sneakers. Tapered fit.

7. Loafers (Penny, Boat shoes and Dress loafers)

8. Sneakers (Low top)

No socks or no show socks.

9. Sunglasses

10. Hat

Now we go onto essential accessories!

1. A watch

Fits your personal lifestyle.

2. A wallet

Slim and easy access.

3. Tie and Bowtie (White, black and navy)

-Type depends on how much you weigh, watch Courtney’s vid about it.

4. Pocket Square (White)

5. Tie bar/cuff links (Silver)

6. Dress socks (simple)

7. Belts (Black or Brown

8. Scarf (Neutral Colors)

9. Nice bag/backpack

10. Dress shoes

11. Hat!

12. Sunglasses 

Now we go onto the list for expensive items not worth buying!

1. Gucci Belt

2. Fashion Watches (Daniel Welington)

Simplistic, minimalistic design, Hamilton, timex.

3. Expensive off the rack suit

4. Supreme

5. Fragrance

6. Common Projects (Brand)

White Sneakers are a no go from this brand.

7. Slides

8. Underwear

Lookbook for WHITE SNEAKERS!!!! (Oliver Kabell) (Use affiliate link)

1st look: Sneakers, Dark Wash denim, watch and t shirt.

Casual and looks nice, to go out for drinks, brunch and casual Friday work outfit

2nd look: Sneakers, Khaki chinos (Rolled up), watch and nice button down (sleeves rolled up)

Business Casual, a little nicer. Weekend with your friends.

3rd look: Sneakers, Sweatpants shorts, (marathon) watch and nice shirt.

SUPER CASUAL

4th look: Sneakers, Black chinos (rolled up), nice polo and Rolex 2

5th look: Sneakers, Navy trousers, blazer, white tee shirt and watch.

A summer business casual look.

Now we move on to Fall Wardrobe Essentials!

1. Turtle Neck Sweater (Neutral Colors - Black, Charcoal and Navy)

Great for layering and can wear on your own.

2. Flannel (Red checkered)

Looks great with pair of denim or chinos. Looks great by itself or throw it over something.

3. hoodie (Comfort is biggest factor) - Stick to neutrals

Can go underneath something like jackets

4. Overshirt (Not quite cold enough for jacket)

5. Lights Jackets (Denim or Leather or Bomber) 

If I pick a denim jacket, I can only get chinos or black jeans, options are limited. 

6. Overcoat (neutral, black, navy, charcoal or camel)

7.  Wool/Cotten Trousers

8. Dark Denim

9. Boots

Versace Dylan Blue

Joop! Homme

Calvin Klein One - ehh doesn't perform well

Jean Paul Gaultier Le Male!

[pocket-anon]

The Long Way Home (8/10)

A thousand and one apologies again for being so late to post today. I know some of you may have been waiting up for this as you so kindly did for last week’s update, and I am incredibly sorry that I couldn’t get this out sooner. I’m working one of my 84-hour weeks right now, so real life has been busy, and I also decided to run through this chapter for the fiftieth time, which took forever because my brain is mush and apparently also very hard to satisfy today where words are concerned. But it’s very late now, and I’m finally sliding this out there and carting myself off to bed. I hope you lovely people enjoy. Thanks, as always, for your generous support.

ADDENDUM: Special thanks to @kmomof4 for inspiring a little extra humor that got thrown into this chapter after the original posting.  I’m terrible, guys - I tweak my chapters after they post all the time.  But trust me, IT’S BETTER NOW.

As always, thanks to my beta, @captainstudmuffin, and to @lifeinahole27, @clockadile, and @ladyciaramiggles for their additional feedback.  Additional thanks to my wonderful CSBB artists, @waiting-for-autumn and @giraffes-ride-swordfishes for providing some gorgeous artwork to accompany this fic!  Links to their illustrations of certain scenes (*) will be in the text - go show them some love!

Find it on AO3.  Nautical term glossary here.

Missed a chapter?  Get caught up here.

Summary:  After an unnaturally long life fraught with personal tragedy, Killian Jones has become known throughout the realms as the infamous Captain Hook, an opportunistic ne’er-do-well and one of the most formidable pirates to ride the waves.  When he crosses paths with a mysterious young woman with no memory of who she is or how she arrived there, he recognizes the chance to claim a monetary reward that will constitute his biggest score yet.  But a journey across the world to get her home leads to a series of adventures that reveal that her value lies in far more than gold and jewels.  A Captain Swan Anastasia AU - sort of.  (Captain Swan Enchanted Forest AU.  Romance, Adventure, & Eventual Smut.  Rated E.)

Warning: Brief but graphic depictions of violence, peripheral character death, and smut.

Hook stares. “Wait.  What?”

“It was me,” she repeats.

“You cursed… yourself?”

“It’s a long story.” Emma scoots forward, and he moves off the bed to allow her to swing her legs over the side.  She winces, her bones and muscles creaking and with dissuse.  “It can wait a minute though.  I need to see Alec.”  

Hook tenses, a shadow of grief crossing over his face, and Emma picks up on his sudden shift in mood instantly.  Dread fills her wide eyes.  “What is it?”

“He’s taken a turn for the worse,” Hook says quietly.  “The wound looks terrible, and he’s been feverish for a day.  I told him yesterday that the leg is too far gone, but he begged to wait until we reach port to see what the surgeon thinks.”  He shakes his head, his features grim.  “Roberts says he started having difficulty breathing this afternoon.  I don’t know if he’ll last the night.”

Emma turns ashen before she swallows hard, her jaw set with determination.  “Then there’s no time.”  She grabs his hand, and white smoke engulfs them once more, this time transporting them to the crew quarters.  Her legs nearly give way as it clears, her feet landing on the floor for the first time in days.

“Whoa!”  Hook throws his arms around her before she can sink to the floor and guides her onto the bench next to Alec’s berth.  “Steady, love.”

She clings to him a moment and rewards him with a grateful smile before turning her attention to their dying friend.  

Alec looks much worse than he did when Hook last looked in on him earlier this morning – he’s pale and damp with sweat, his breathing is labored, and he appears a little delirious, his forehead wrinkling and his eyes slightly glazed over as he blinks up at them in confusion.  “Milady?” he wheezes.

Emma reaches forward and layers one of her hands over his.  “Yes, I’m here,” she answers with a strained smile.  “It’s going to be alright.  Do you trust me?”

The way the muscles in his neck tense with every breath makes it difficult to discern his nod, but he grunts.  “Y-yes.”

“Good.”   She positions her free hand a few inches over his heart, and the men watch her bow her head as though drawing on something from deep within.  Brilliant light suddenly bursts forth from the center of her palm.  Alec’s eyes grow huge, and he whimpers as the beam widens into concentric golden rings that shimmer and pulse and appear to absorb into his chest.  His whole body shudders, but despite a few initial gasps and gulps, his breathing slowly eases.  The muscles in Emma’s face twist tighter still, her hand now quaking with effort as she gradually pulls the light down his torso to give his leg the same treatment.  A few long moments later, the magic vanishes and she slumps forward, visibly spent.

Hook drops onto the seat next to her and bears her up, draping his arms around her shoulders. “I’ve got you.”  He cradles her to his chest and turns his head to watch, amazed, as Alec pushes himself up to a sitting position with clear eyes and a rosy undertone to his skin that hasn’t been there in weeks.  “Alright, mate?”

The young man rubs a hand across his breastbone in awe and leans forward to throw off his blanket and untie the bandage.  His jaw drops when the linen falls away to reveal his leg completely healed without so much as a scar to hint at the original injury.  “Bloody hell!”  He gapes at Emma.  “I didn’t know you could do that!”

Emma chuffs with a tired smile.  “Neither did I until a few minutes ago.”

Hook gives her shoulders a squeeze.  “Come, love. Perhaps some food and more rest are in order.”  He tries to help her to her feet, but her legs remain unsure, and at her first wobble, he patiently bends and hoists her into his arms.  

“Go tell Smee to change our heading. We resume course for Misthaven now,“ he informs Alec.  “Roberts can help you find a spare pair of trousers.  I expect you back on duty tomorrow.”

The young man nods eagerly. “Yessir.  And thank you, milady,” he tells Emma, his voice heavy with emotion. “This is a debt I can never repay.”

Emma’s tired eyes twinkle as she winds her arms around the Captain’s neck.  “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

Hook gives his crewman a solemn smile and carries her out the door.

Though it’s a little awkward toting Emma down the narrow corridor, he savors the sensation of having her arms wrapped around his neck and the warmth of her body nestled against him. She’s a gift from the gods, this woman, and he simply can’t reconcile the inequity of the fact that she’s his.  Precious cargo.  That’s what he’d once called her.  Hook smiles wryly as he bears her back to his quarters.  If only he’d known the truth of it then.

Emma lets out a sigh when he deposits her back upon his berth, her fingertips grazing his neck as they pull away.  He shivers, sorely tempted for a moment to follow her into the bed and ravage her with kisses, but as much as he wants to realize the fantasies that have kept him company the last few weeks, one look at her weary expression reminds him that this is not an ideal time for either of them to address that aspect of their relationship. And there are more pressing matters.

He props her back up on the pillows and fetches her more wine and his dinner plate.  “Are you alright?”

She fixes him with another thankful smile and nods, raising the drink to her lips.  “I’m fine.  Healing just takes a lot out of me.”

“You’ve done it before?” He resumes his position on the edge of the bed.

Emma hums.  “Only a few times.  Not many people know I can, and we try to reserve it for times of urgent need.”  She sighs and reaches for a piece of hard tack.  “I’m just glad I remembered that I could do it before it was too late.”

Hook leans forward and kisses her forehead.  “As am I.” He grins, helping himself to some of the food as well.  “Now. If you feel up to it, tell me your story.”

Emma nibbles while she considers how to begin.  “I was kidnapped in January, a few weeks after the winter solstice,” she says finally. She hesitates and eyes him nervously. “By the Dark One.”

The Crocodile.  Bloody hell.  Anger darkens his face, and he nearly forgets to swallow the food in his mouth. “What?”

She cringes the tiniest bit at the hardness of his tone.  “There’s… there’s a dagger.  His power is tied to it.”

Hook nods gravely.  “Aye.  I’ve heard of it,” he replies.  “They say it’s the only thing that can kill him.”

Emma studies his face thoughtfully.  “Yes, well, what’s less well-known is that it was once part of a larger blade.”  She wets her lips.  “The sword, Excalibur.”

“The King’s Steel?” He frowns.

She bobs her head again, absently finishing the rest of her biscuit.  “Excalibur was forged to cut immortal ties.  Reuniting the dagger with the rest of the sword – making it whole again – restores its power to kill immortal beings.”

His eyes widen.  “Like the Dark One.”

“Y-yes,” she acquiesces slowly.  “But also the fairies.”  She sighs. “The Dark Ones have been at odds with the fairies for millennia.  This Dark One wants to use the sword to wipe them out.”

His eyes narrow in confusion.  “But what do you have to do with any of this?”

Emma snorts.  “He needed my help.”  She takes another sip and offers him what remains of the wine. “Only one of the rightful rulers of a kingdom can pull Excalibur from its stone,” she explains.  “And the only way to re-forge the blade is with a Promethean flame.”

“A what?”

“A fire lit from the last spark of the fire Prometheus stole from the gods.  The Dark One has the spark, but only someone with light magic can ignite the flame and use it.”

“So you suited his purposes perfectly.”  Hook scowls, draining the glass and setting it aside.

She hums the affirmative. “He ambushed me when I was out riding – took me right off my horse, I think.  I woke up a prisoner in his castle.  He treated me well enough.”  She arcs an eyebrow wryly.  “You know, except for the part where he threatened to hurt my parents if I didn’t help him.”  A glance at Hook causes her to slide her hand into his as though she can see the way his blood is threatening to boil, and she continues hastily.  “Anyway, getting Excalibur was quick work,” she says, clearing her throat, “and I needed more time to come up with a plan, so I pretended to have trouble lighting the flame.”  Hook smirks, slightly consoled, and she gives him a half-hearted grin.  “There wasn’t much to work with, but he did have a potion for a memory curse brewing at the time.  I waited until it was ready before I lit the flame, and when he forced me to reforge the sword, I magicked it somewhere he’d never find it and then took the potion to wipe my memory so I wouldn’t be able to tell him where it was.”  She smiles sadly.  "I didn’t want to have anything else he’d threaten my parents’ lives for.“

Pride surges through Hook’s chest at the thought of Emma outwitting the Demon, and he impulsively leans forward and gathers in her his arms. “You’re bloody brilliant, Swan,” he says, planting a fierce kiss in her hair.  “Amazing.”

Emma chuffs and hugs him back with a little shake of her head.  “Yeah, well, let’s not oversell it.  I didn’t realize how powerful the memory curse was going to be,” she mumbles into his shoulder.  “I thought I’d lose a few days or weeks, and instead I lost everything.  I blacked out, and the next thing I remember is waking up in an alley in Vicarstown.  I assume he sent me there, but I have no idea why.”  She tenses suddenly and raises her head, her green eyes horrified.  “Gods, that was almost three months ago.  My parents must be worried sick.” She darts a look at the small mirror above his washstand, wiggling from his arms and moving to get out of bed yet again.  

He arches an eyebrow and stands.  “What are you doing now?”

“Mirror magic,” she answers simply, letting him help her up and over to the corner.  Her bare feet shuffle haphazardly across the floor.  “I want to see them.”

Hook’s brow furrows at the idea of her doing even more magic when she’s still so tired, but he holds his tongue and watches curiously, hand still in hers, as she focuses on the glass and sucks in a deep breath.  Her eyes fall closed, a wrinkle appearing between them, and suddenly the mirror begins to glow, spilling golden light across the dim cabin.  Their reflection disappears, replaced by the image of a woman standing on a castle balcony.  Her coifed dark hair is streaked with a touch of gray, and her classically beautiful features are despondent as she stares out over the forest below.

Emma looks up, her expression falling as she sees the familiar face.  “Mother…”  she murmurs sadly, reaching out to lay her fingertips on the glass.

They continue to watch as a handsome, middle-aged man with a fine tunic and a weary countenance suddenly appears at the woman’s side and wraps his arm around her shoulders.  She leans her head against him, and he presses a grieved kiss to her temple.

“Papa.”  The image of the King and Queen vanish from the mirror, and Emma bites her lip and whirls, looking distraught.  Her eyes lock on to the windows, and she peers out at the night sky with a distant gaze, her lips moving as though in silent prayer.  

“Emma?”

She blinks out of her reverie.  “When word gets out that I’ve returned home with my memories restored, my family and I will be in danger all over again,” she whispers.

He sighs and tugs on her hand, pulling her gently into his arms.  “Tell me what you need.”  

“You don’t have to come with me.”  She shakes her head, looking forlorn as her hands fiddle with the charms that hang around his neck.

He snorts.  “Like bloody hell I don’t.”  He tips her chin upward and stares into her eyes resolutely. “I love you, Swan, and you’ve got a head full of memories now to prove it.”  He smiles as her sad expression gives way to an awed flush.  “I go where you go, and this ship is at your disposal. As is the rest of the crew, I suspect,” he adds with a chuckle.

Emma gives a quiet laugh and tips her head coquettishly.  “I thought you were through serving a monarch.”

He rolls his eyes.  “I serve at the pleasure of the Lady Swan,” he says, grinning and touching his lips to her forehead.  “I won’t hold it against you that you turned out to be a stuffy royal.”

“Hmph.”  Her dimples flash despite the anxiety that remains in her smile, and she closes the distance between them to press a soft, lingering kiss to his mouth.  “Thank you,” she whispers, lashes still lowered and fingers reaching up to stroke the side of his face.   She exhales and tips her head forward against his. “I think we need help.”

“From whom?”

Emma cranes her neck to look away. “From her.”

Killian follows her line of sight out the window, squinting for a moment until he spies the tiny pinpoint of sapphire-colored light speeding over the darkened waves toward them. His eyes widen as it sweeps in through the open window and swells into a giant glowing ball, the light then dissipating to leave a human-sized fairy in their midst.

Emma hobbles over to her eagerly.  “Blue!”

The fairy, a slight woman with big chocolate eyes, matching ringlets, iridescent wings, and a fancifully wide skirt that looks a bit like a jellyfish embraces her with a happy cry. “Emma!  At last!”  She hugs the Princess and then holds her out at arm’s length.  “I was so relieved to hear your call just now!  We’ve been worried!”

Emma nods regretfully. “I know.  I’m sorry.”

“What are you doing all the way out here?” Blue demands.  She raises a disapproving eyebrow at Hook.  “And in the company of pirates?”

Hook bristles.

Emma colors.  “Blue, this is Captain Killian Jones.”

“Captain Hook,” Blue supplies flatly.  “I know.”

At the fairy’s frown, Emma returns to Hook’s side and makes a show of taking his hand and clinging to his arm.

Astonishment transforms Blue’s pretty features, her mouth growing round.  “Oh.”  She cocks her head, as if reading the energy between the two of them, and blinks. “Really?  True Love?”  One eye pinches as she peers more closely at Hook, examining him up and down, and he does his best to remain stoic, his jaw clenched in defiance despite the unsettling sensation that she’s somehow weighing and measuring his very soul.  At last the delicate lines on her brow fade and she gives an appeased hum.  “That’s going to be an interesting conversation with your parents.”

Emma squeezes his hand. “Yeah, well, that’s the least of our problems,” she says dryly.  “Blue, I was taken by the Dark One.”

The fairy’s attention snaps back to her.  “What?” She watches Hook help Emma into a seat at the table.  “Tell me everything.”

Emma proceeds to relay her tale again, only pausing from time to time to answer pointed questions from her friend.  Blue’s lips disappear into a tight line at the first mention of Excalibur, and her eyes glimmer dangerously when she learns that she and her kind are the targets of the Dark One’s latest plot.  The only break in her quiet outrage is a small smile when Emma details how she spirited the sword away and sacrificed her memories.  “I’m proud of you, Emma,” she comments.  “You’ve done well.”

Emma grins weakly. “But what do I do now?  Can you remove the memory again?”

The fairy shakes her head apologetically.  “Unfortunately, no.  All memory curses stem from dark magic.  I cannot create one.”

“Then we need a new plan,” Emma insists.  “No one I love will be safe as long as I have what he wants.”  

Hook licks his lips. “Perhaps the best strategy is to attack first then.”  He leans forward on the table beside her.  “You have a weapon that can kill immortal beings, love.  Just end the bloody Crocodile once and for all.”

Emma’s face falls. “I… I know you’ve spent most of your life looking for a way to get your revenge against him,” she acknowledges quietly, shooting a nervous look at Blue before fixing him with a pained expression, “But I can’t do that.”

His brow crinkles with disbelief.  “Why not?”

“Because murder and revenge change you,” Blue answers firmly.  “They turn your heart dark.  If you love her, then don’t ask that of her.”

The thought of corrupting Emma causes Hook’s stomach to feel leaden, and guilt rears its head as he remembers how upset she’d been to kill the naval captain, even in his defense. He glances at her, chastised, and swallows, his eyes falling to the table.  “Then let me do it.”  He turns and offers the fairy a sad half-smile.  “I’m already a villain.  My heart’s as dark as they come.  Let me pay the price for killing the Dark One.  Then Emma and her family will be safe.”

“No!” Emma protests, panic creeping into her voice.

To his surprise, Blue eyes him thoughtfully.  “It’s true that your course has been far from straight, Captain,” she says at last, her features stern, “and there has been immense suffering in your wake.”  Her frown lessens.  “But there’s always hope for a person capable of True Love.  Your heart may not be as dark as you think, especially if you’re willing to let Emma’s light guide you now.”  She lifts an eyebrow in challenge.  “Will you do that?  Try to be the man she needs you to be?”

A lump rises in Hook’s throat, and there’s a great weight on his chest as he shares a look with Emma, her eyes emotional and slightly embarrassed.  He nods and reaches for her hand.

The fairy smiles.  “Good.”

Emma blinks the moisture out of her eyes and sniffles loudly, clearing her throat.  “Blue, can’t I just give the sword to you?”

Blue shakes her head again. “That won’t keep the Dark One from coming after you, Emma.  It’ll only leave you without the weapon you may need to defend yourself against him when he does.”  She lays a hand on her shoulder with a kind smile.  “Have hope.  You’ve already bested him once, and you have some of the strongest light magic I have seen in a long time.  Am I right in thinking you did something big several days ago?”

Emma exchanges a stunned glance with Hook.  “You know about that?”

Blue looks pleased to be correct.  “I felt it. All the fairies did.  What happened?”

“She transported the ship out of a hurricane,” Hook says, gazing at Emma with admiration.  “Saved us all by moving us bloody near 90 nautical miles and out of harm’s way.”

Blue’s eyes grow huge. “Truly?”  As Hook sounds the affirmative, she looks to Emma and beams. “You’ve always had a knack for teleporting, but I’m still impressed you were able to send anything that distance, much less a ship this size, Emma.  Little wonder we sensed it, even from so far away.  It gave me hope we’d find you.  We knew you’d gone across the sea.”

“How?” Hook asks.

Blue smiles patiently. “Her parents summoned me a few days after she’d gone missing.  I used a locator charm on one of her hair combs.  We tracked it for a day but lost it when it went into the ocean.  We had to assume she’d gone over the water.  Your parents refused to entertain any other possibilities.”

“That must be when they sent communiqués to their allies,” Hook tells Emma.  “Like the one I found on that ship from Glowerhaven.”

Emma traces his knuckle with her thumb, the corner of her mouth twitching before she sighs again. “Well, we have to think of something.”

The fairy nods with a bounce of her brunette curls.  “We will do everything we can,” she promises.  With a wave of her wand, she takes to the air and winks back down to her normal size.  “I’ll alert your parents, tell them what’s happened.”

Emma turns to Hook. “How long until we get there?” she asks him anxiously.

He inclines his head. “From here with strong winds? Perhaps a week.”

“Then we’ll see you then,” Blue says, swooping toward them in a graceful arc in order to float in front of Emma’s nose, her dragonfly-like wings flapping lazily back and forth.

“Tell my parents I love them,” Emma implores.

“I will.  Be safe, Princess.”  Blue darts over to give Hook one last tiny, but no-less penetrating stare. “Look after the one you love, Captain.”

Hook nods soberly, and they watch as the fairy loops out the window and off into the night.

*             *             *

Emma sighs with deep, penetrating weariness as Blue’s departure makes the cabin grow dimmer once more.

Still standing beside her chair, Hook hums and tugs on her hand.  “Come, love.  Back to bed. I daresay you’ve done enough for one evening.”

She has no words to contradict him as he helps her up and back over to the berth.  “And what about you?” she asks, settling back against the pillows with a little groan.  “You haven’t slept well in three days.”

He chuckles. “Aye.  Now that I know you’re alright, I think I could do with a night’s rest.”

The thought of him leaving her alone in his cabin in order to go sling up a hammock somewhere else makes her frown, and Emma bites her lip, trying to ignore the fact that her parents would most certainly not approve of what she wants to say.  “Would you…”  She swallows. “Would you stay here with me?  To sleep,” she adds, feeling the warmth creep into her face.

Hook ducks his head and scratches behind his ear, trying to wipe the foolish smile off his face.  “I suppose I could manage that,” he says, his tone causing her heart to skip a beat.  Despite the signs of fatigue around them, his blue eyes gleam with mischief when he glances back up.  “I serve at the pleasure of the Lady Swan.”

She blushes even harder and rolls her eyes, scooting over to turn down the lamp above the bed while he pads away to address the others.  The room slips into deeper darkness as the flames are extinguished one by one, leaving his figure outlined only in dim moonlight.  

Hook turns back toward the bed, and Emma watches, intrigued, as he absently reaches for his left arm, jerking the sleeve up to fully expose his brace and reaching for the straps that hold it in place.  He catches her looking, and his hand pauses, his step slowing.  Something flickers across his face, and Emma blinks as she realizes he actually looks self-conscious.

She offers him a gentle smile.  “Need some help?” she asks softly, moving to kneel on the edge of the berth and beckoning with her hand.  “I’m rather good with fastenings.”

Hook folds his lips together, and he hangs his head, hesitating a moment longer before coming toward her and gingerly offering her his left forearm.  “It’s…  It’s not the prettiest thing, love.”

Emma cradles the brace in one hand and follows his gestures to undo the two studded straps that secure it to his arm, holding her breath as she eases the leather shell off and sets it, hook and all, aside.  Her fingers tentatively survey the contours of his stump and the long, shiny scar that runs across the puckered flesh, and she feels him tremble.  “It’s part of you,” she murmurs.  “That’s all I care about.”  To make her point, she sets the arm on the curve of her hip and reaches for his neck to pull him in for a slow, quiet kiss, grinning at the sheen her gesture leaves in his eyes.  “Come on.”

He smiles shyly and takes a second to hang the hook and brace from a little loop of leather tacked up behind the elaborately carved support that overhangs the foot of the bed. Then he’s back in her arms, crawling up on to the berth and plying her mouth with more grateful kisses as they lay down together beneath his blanket.  His movements are quiet and unhurried – his hand gliding up her back, his lips pulling tenderly against hers – and while she sighs blissfully, it seems clear that his touch isn’t driven as much by a physical need for her right now as it is by an emotional one.  There’s something revealing and intimate about this moment – strangely more intimate than if they had simply fallen in bed together in a passionate frenzy, she imagines.  This is real. This is the man without the persona, without the bravado, without the preening, without all the leather and steel - without the Hook - that normally separates him from the rest of the world.  This is a bone-tired man with weaknesses and self-doubt – a man who wants to be with her not just for physical pleasure, but for the comfort of his soul.  

Momentarily sated, he pulls back and drops another pair of kisses on the tip of her nose and then her forehead, his beard tickling her skin while his arm encourages her to snuggle into his side.  Emma tucks her cheek into the hollow just below his shoulder and inhales deeply, savoring the smell and feel of being surrounded by him, and despite now being aware of the danger that awaits her at home, it occurs to her that, for the first time since before she was kidnapped, she feels really and truly safe.  She strokes the space over his heart and lets her hand drift over his left arm, running her palm down his bicep until her thumb rests in the crook of his elbow.  A smile finds her lips as he noses her hair and plants one last kiss on the top of her head.  “Good night, Killian Jones.”

He rumbles against her, his voice thick.  “Good night, my princess.”

In the warmth of his embrace, sleep claims her almost immediately, and the night passes in a dreamless blink of an eye.

Emma awakens the following morning to the indirect glow of the early sun filtering through the cabin and the crisp dawn air whistling through the still-open pane above their heads. The intense heat of the tropics is thankfully behind them, and the weather grows cooler as they sail further and further north.  A  particularly stiff breeze whooshes through, and even clothed and burrowed next to Hook – Killian – under the blanket, she can’t help the shiver that ripples across her skin.

He beneath her, shifting groggily and pulling her closer, and she smiles to herself at the notion of being cuddled by a pirate of his intimidating reputation.  Her eyes meander over his face to study his neutral features – the dark locks draped boyishly over his forehead, the normally expressive eyebrows, the thick lashes, the high cheekbones, the healing cut, and the soft lips framed by his beard.

Formidable and extremely complicated, to be sure, but he’s got himself an honorable streak that would surprise you.

She chuffs inwardly as Maggie’s words resurface in her mind.  The woman did have a talent for judging character.  Emma reaches upward to deftly brush the hair away from his face. She loves him.  She can’t deny it now.  She’s spent her whole life hearing about True Love and dreaming of the day she would find a man who loves her the way her father loves her mother, and now she’s found him.  But how is she going to explain him to her parents?  To the kingdom?  She doesn’t know whether to bless or curse the Fates for throwing her together with Killian Jones, she thinks, dragging her fingers softly from his hairline to his temple and down along his jaw.  Because, gods above, she doesn’t know how to keep him, but she has no intention of letting him go.

Another cold gust needles her, and she winces again, flicking a glare in the direction of the window and raising her arm for a moment to magic it shut with a little twist of her hand.  The vehemence of her command causes the window to close a little more forcefully than she intends, and the resulting thud jolts Killian awake, his arm reflexively tightening around her torso and his breath seizing in his chest while his sleepy eyes fly open.

“Wha—?”

“Sorry!  Sorry.”  Emma grimaces and lays her hand back on his chest soothingly.  “That was me.”  She watches with amusement as pleasant confusion settles over his features.  “I closed the window,” she explains apologetically.  “It was cold.”

He glances at the distance between her and the window and frowns.  “How did you…”  

She raises her hand a few inches off his chest and waves it in a half-hearted flourish.

The lines disappear from his brow as recognition lights his face.  “Ah.  A little early morning magic, I see.”

Emma nods. “Sorry.  It was lazy.  I didn’t feel like getting up.”

A shiver of an entirely different nature zips down her back when Killian hums happily against her and brushes his lips across her crown.  “I can sympathize,” he murmurs into her hair.  “Did you sleep well?”

She chuckles, suddenly feeling a little shy, her fingers wandering up to trace his partly-exposed collarbone.  “Mm-hmm. You?”

“Best night I’ve had in ages.”  He moves a little, and Emma shimmies upward in the bed at his silent bidding so he can drop a kiss first on her forehead and then on her mouth.

His sweet little gesture of affection quickly morphs into something entirely different when she parts her lips for him and invites him to explore.  Killian’s rumble of approval reverberates through his ribs, and he rolls up partway on his side and seals his mouth over hers hungrily, his tongue grazing her teeth and his breathing growing labored.  She moans and does her best to keep up, suckling at his lower lip and sighing with gratification when he changes his angle and comes deeper still. Heat begins to coil in her belly as he thoroughly plunders her mouth, and suddenly all she wants to do is touch and be touched, her hands flying upward to stroke his neck on one side and bury her fingers in his hair on the other.

In her life as a royal, she’s only been kissed – really kissed – by two men.  One was the scruffy stable boy she used to flirt with back when she was too young to know better, the boy who snuck kisses from her when no one else was looking and who broke her heart when he and one of the scullery maids stole some of the silver dinner service and ran away together a year later.  The other was a would-be suitor from the cadre that came seeking her hand last year – an arrogant prince who’d cornered her in the gardens and managed to plant a kiss on her before she returned the favor with a fist to his nose.  But none of those kisses prepared her for this – for this passionate, desperate dance of lips and tongues that Killian is leading her on now, for the rough drag of his beard over her skin, for the way her body seems to vibrate and move of its own accord in response to him, for the way she wants.  She feels on fire with this man, and all she wants to do is burn brighter.  

She tugs him down on top of her and swallows his low groan, feeling deliciously wanton as she enjoys being covered by the solid weight of him.   Propriety and consequences be damned. The future can wait.  This man is her True Love, and right now, she’s awash in the temptation to do exactly what she likes with him.

He kisses his way across her cheek and over to her ear.  “What would you have of me, Swan?” he whispers, nipping at her lobe and then ducking his head to sear kisses beneath her jaw.

She pants, thrashing restlessly beneath him while her hands navigate the planes of his back beneath his half-tucked shirt.  “Everything.”

He pulls back, eyebrows twitching upward, and looks down upon her with heartbreaking adoration, reaching up to thumb her chin.  “Are you sure?  Have you ever…?”

“No.”  She shakes her head and cups his face in her hands. “But I’m sure.  Do I have your heart?”

Killian nods solemnly.

“Then I want the rest, too. Please,” she breathes.  “I want you.”  

He lights with a brilliant smile and lunges forward again, drawing her lips into a slew of aggressive kisses that reduce her to the most primitive of thoughts. His nimble fingers make short work of the buttons on her shirt, the cotton falling open and the two of them wriggling to pull it free.  It flutters unceremoniously to the boards, and he lays his hand on the swath of skin just above her hip, letting it drift over her belly as though memorizing every square inch before moving upward toward her ribs.  

His fingers reach the wide strip of linen she’s been using to bind her breasts in lieu of her corset, and he pauses.  “May I?”

Any nervousness she feels at being revealed to a man for the first time is assuaged by the worshipful way he gazes at her, and she nods wordlessly, reaching for the flat knot at her side and tugging it loose.  Emma bites her lip as Killian pulls the loops of fabric away, her heart pounding when at last they hit the floor next to her shirt.  

He pauses to drink her in, lips parted in awe and eyes darkened as they rake down her bare skin. “Gods, you’re beautiful,” he mutters, leaning forward to capture her lips again.  His hand finds her left breast, caressing and cupping the soft flesh reverently and tweaking her nipple to a rigid peak with his thumb.  

Emma whimpers softly into his mouth, gradually becoming aware of the hard outline of his arousal pressed between them, and when she arches in response to his continued ministrations, the momentary jolt of bliss she gets from grinding against him makes her gasp.  Oh.  She braces a foot on the mattress in order to lever her hips firmly into him again, and they groan in unison at the pressure.

“Swan,” he growls, “you’re not making it easy for a man to take his time.”

She rolls her hips upward again in reply and grins wickedly at the even more choked noise it pulls from him.  

“Minx.”  He grants her one more dizzying kiss before determinedly pulling away to refocus his attention on her breasts, exploring her curves with his mouth while sparks dance across her skin and the warmth between her legs grows more intense.  

Killian blindly looses the buttons on her trousers, and his hand slips delicately beneath the waistband, calluses brushing down over her mound in search of her most sensitive places. She gives a little gasp when his questing fingertips finally glide through her folds.  “Bloody hell.  You’re so wet,” he rasps appreciatively.  He grazes that spot that makes her see stars, and his parted lips smile against her when she keens, his tongue still swirling across her pebbled skin and his warm breath doing little to tame her shivers.  “Good?” he asks, amused.  His fingers find her nub again and begin a slow, steady rhythm that causes waves of pleasure to wash over her and her heart rate to accelerate exponentially.

Emma moans in reply, her lower lip between her teeth. She’s touched herself before, of course, but those curious, hesitant experiences late at night in the privacy of her bedchamber pale in comparison to the sensations coursing through her from the perfect combination of friction and pressure he’s somehow generating now in the slick between her legs.  

Killian strokes her a few exquisite moments longer, and her breath begins to stutter uncontrollably. Then his hand slows.  Emma whines with frustration.

“Steady, love,” he laughs quietly, the knowing smile more than obvious in his voice.  “All good things.”  He pushes off her a bit in order to slip further down her torso, the top of his dark head bobbing back and forth as he kisses a wandering line across her stomach, his mouth hot and his chains cold as they drag across her flesh.  His hand withdraws from her trousers, fingertips folding over the waistband in question.  Emma lifts her hips off the bed and helps him pull, the last of her clothing landing on the floor somewhere behind him with a muffled thump. A guttural moan escapes him as he appreciates her completely nude form, his hand wrapping around the flare of her hip bone and his neck craning downward to resume his path of kisses just below her navel.

Her fingers card anxiously through his hair as she watches him descend, scarcely able to believe he wants to do what he’s doing until his nose dips out of sight and he licks a gentle stripe along her opening.  A little cry rips from Emma’s throat, and he groans at the taste of her.     

“Bloody hell,” he breathes, pressing forward with his mouth again.

She writhes under his heavenly torment.  “Killian…” she pants. “Oh, gods…”  Her eyes clamp shut as he laps and suckles and pushes her back to the brink, every coherent thought gone from her mind except, More… more… more.

He closes his lips around her sex in the most intimate of kisses and hums, the vibration shooting straight to the base of her spine, and she gives a muffled shriek and clenches her fist in his hair to urge him on.  Her sudden roughness causes him to grunt enthusiastically, and he redoubles his efforts, picking up the pace and tonguing her harder and faster until she’s finally overcome by blinding euphoria.  

Emma bucks against him, riding her orgasm out long and hard with a weak, wrecked sob.  Never in her life has she ever even imagined anything close to this, this pure, unadulterated pleasure – warmth and love and hedonism all wrapped into one all-encompassing tidal wave that makes her happy to drown.  And when at last she begins to come down, she falls back against the pillows, her heart thundering like an unforgiving drum and every inch of her buzzing pleasantly. Her chest heaves, and her legs quiver on either side of his shoulders, and Killian chuckles and swipes the moisture from his beard on the inside of her thigh before crawling back up.  

He scatters a few more kisses across her skin as he goes, finally nipping playfully at the corner of her mouth, his eyes crinkled at the corners.  “I daresay you enjoyed that, love.”

Smug bastard.  She chuckles, her dimples appearing as she savors her tang on his lips and the molten sensation of her afterglow.  "Yes.  Thank you, Captain Obvious."

Killian laughs richly at her retort, eyes dancing.  He cups the side of her face and thumbs her cheek.  “Ready for more?”

“Mmm.”  She kisses him again.  “I think so.”  He pulls the chains from around his neck and deposits them on the shelf, and she helps him remove his shirt, thoroughly enamored with the sight of him stripped the waist even as she recalls what she’s heard about coupling from her handmaids.  Her brow wrinkles. “Will it hurt?”

He hesitates, his expression turning somber.  “It may at first,” he admits.  “We don’t have to–”

“No.”  She cradles his head in her hands.  “No, I want this.  I trust you.”

To her surprise, his eyes grow wet, the steel blue shimmering like the ocean.  “I don’t deserve you,” he whispers, nosing her cheek and fusing his lips to hers with a sharp intake of air.  

They fall silent for a bit, the only sounds between them the whispers of skin on skin and the rustle of the sheets beneath them.  His hand moves back down between her legs and begins to pleasure her once more, the swollen flesh still slippery and sensitive to his touch.  Emma arches her back, wrapping her arms around his neck and smoothing her hands over the spot between his shoulder blades.  She gasps when he probes her opening, and he presses slowly inward until it his finger is seated up to the ring, gently working back and forth and curling it against her walls.

“Alright?” he murmurs.

She nods eagerly, relishing the strange feel of him inside her.  

She feels him introduce a second finger, his hand increasingly hesitant as he works to stretch her further and further, pausing at every hint of discomfort in order to let her adjust before proceeding again.    

At last he seems satisfied.   “Ready?”

“Please.”  Emma blinks up at him ardently.  

He flashes her a smile and pulls away to remove his pants, sighing with relief when his rigid length is finally released from the constraints of the heavy leather.  It bobs against her leg as he climbs back aboard, bracing himself on his forearms.  “Hold tight, love.”  

He guides himself to her entrance and pushes forward in increments, groaning as she envelops him bit by bit until he’s buried to the hilt.  “Oh, Swan…”  He brushes a lock of hair from her forehead and gazes down at her, panting rapturously. “Emma…”

“I’m okay,” she hisses, despite the mild discomfort.  He feels enormous, filling her and pressing against places she didn’t know she had, but the look on his face – helpless and wondering and so in love – makes her think she would do this a thousand times if it made him happy.

Killian snakes his hand back down between them and slips back to the apex of her thighs to rub her in firm circles, and she does her best focus on the work of his fingers, gradually relaxing as the pleasure seeps into her blood once more.  

He watches her expression intently, his face hopeful.  “Better?” When she nods, he grins and kisses her hot and sweet.  “I love you,” he murmurs, nuzzling her forehead.  “Stay with me.”

He begins to move, his face becoming a mask of concentration as he works his way from shallow movements to deeper and deeper thrusts.  He grunts and shifts above her to change his angle, and Emma shudders at the new pressure it creates low in her belly and the way he drags along her folds.

“There!” she tells him, her breath hitching in her throat.  “There…”  She tilts her hips up a bit, and Killian picks up speed, sweat glistening on his forehead and his eyes clenched shut as he begins to lose himself in her.

They chase their release together, her whines growing more and more strained, and when she finally falls again with a cry, he’s right behind her, stifling a roar in the side of her neck as he comes.  His hips slow, their movement becoming more erratic with fatigue, until at last he moans and slumps against her.

Emma clutches him to her as they catch their breath and gently cards her fingers through the hair on the back of his head.  “I love you,” she whispers.

Killian sighs, his arms tightening around her.  “Heaven knows why,” he mutters.

She turns her head to place a kiss in his hair.  “Because even after all these years, you’re still capable of good things.”  Her fingers dance across his back soothingly.

He hums.  “Good things,” he echoes soberly.

“You were a hero to all those slaves,” she offers.

Killian chuffs.  “I’m hardly a hero.”

Emma frowns into the side of his head before she turns her eyes upward to search the ceiling.  “Why did you do it?” she asks at last.  “Agree to go after the slavers, I mean.”

He pushes himself up a little to look at her, brow creased in thought, and rolls to settle beside her, his right arm encircling her when she wraps herself around his side.  “I wanted to be a better man for you, I suppose,” he answers, shifting them a bit atop the pillow before she lays her head on his chest.

She bites her lip at his confession, tipping her head forward and curling a hair closer.  

“And then…”

She looks up at him curiously.  “Then?”

He’s quiet for a long moment, his thumb stroking her shoulder restlessly.  “I told you that my father left me and my brother in the service of a ship’s captain,” he starts slowly.  “What I didn’t tell you is that he sold us to him and we spent the next six years as slaves.”

Emma’s breath catches, and she looks up at him wide-eyed.

Killian nods slowly. “We eventually escaped and were given positions in the navy, though the credit for that goes entirely to my brother, and I regret to say I was more burden than help to him back then.”  He swallows thickly.  “Anyway, being on that slave ship brought back memories I thought I’d purged a long time ago.”  He blinks. “There was a boy there who was about the same age we were, and when I saw him, I…”  He licks his lips and stares helplessly at beams above, eyes darting back and forth until at last his chest rises and falls with a heavy sigh. “Suffice it to say it felt good to free them. You were right, love – it was the right thing to do,” he says, his voice growing softer as he places a kiss on her temple.

Her hand slides up to lay over his heart.  “I don’t know.  Sounds to me like you earned a mark in the hero column,” she muses, enjoying the steady beat beneath her fingertips.

“I hope so.”  He sounds unconvinced.

Emma reaches for his face and rubs his jaw affectionately.  “Trust me.”

Killian’s strong arm contracts around her, pulling her up until they’re nose-to-nose.  His eyes shine with emotion, and his lashes flutter closed as he leans forward to capture her lips once more.  “With my life.” (*)

Thanks for reading!  Ready for the next chapter?  Click here!

[notesfromtheidiotbox]

Afternoon

So I entered @docholligay‘s “Pander to me” contest. I didn’t win, but I really didn’t expect to. I decided to follow up on a ficlet she wrote in response to an ask which mashed up Sailor Moon and Overwatch. I also like writing fics where characters who don’t interact much in canon are paired off for conversation. Hence the following. Enjoy!

***

“Explain it to me again,” Mako said, placing the tea on the table in front of her unexpected guest. “Because I'm not sure I understand. You're here for...?”

“Sanctuary,” Michiru replied, sipping from the tea cup. “I'm certain I said that when I arrived.”

Mako frowned. She and Michiru had never really interacted all that much outside of those occasions the world needed saving, but those few times it occurred, it had been... aggravating. It was like dealing with Rei in one of her moods only worse. While Rei usually had a hundred and seventeen different reasons for anything she did, especially when angry, she never actually explained those reasons. But, after a while, those reasons usually became clear in the end.

Michiru, on the other hand, probably had reasons for what she did, but she NEVER explained anything. She just assumed you knew what she was doing or what she meant and too bad if you couldn't figure it out. Just being in the same room with her made Mako feel stupid and awkward.

She hated that feeling.

“Sanctuary,” Mako repeated, frowning. “Sanctuary from what?”

“My own compassion,” Michiru answered. She put the tea back on the table. “Have you ever tried English tea? I believe you would appreciate the flavor profiles.”

Mako resisted the urge to rub her eyes. “Why would you need sanctuary from your own compassion? And why come to me?”

Michiru quirked an eyebrow. “To answer your second question first, I find you to be the most level headed of the others.”

Mako blinked. An outright complement was almost unheard of. “Thanks?”

Michiru's lips curled up in a close lipped smile. “I think you'll agree that Usagi and Rei tend to feel first and think later. Mizuno-san tends to overanalyze. You, Makoto, at least when not around the others, consider things before you act.”

There it was. The backhand to the complement. Now Mako was on more secure ground.

“Okay, yeah, the other girls can be kind of intense,” Mako conceded. “But I'm still not getting what you mean by 'sanctuary.'”

Michiru let out a sigh. Makoto started to roll her eyes, but quickly realized the sigh wasn't of exasperation, but exhaustion.

Michiru looked up at her fellow senshi. “You recall the cruise to the Galapagos Haruka and I recently took?”

“Yeah. Minako said you guys had a great time.”

Michiru's smile returned. “Indeed we did. We also made the acquaintance of a rather charming British couple... well, one was British. I believe her fiancee was from Scotland.”

“Okay,” Makoto said. “Still not seeing what this has to do with you coming here.”

“Well, as it turned out, the young British lady had planned on using the cruise to propose to her now fiancee. She had planned to ask her by the pool with some cheap champagne, if you can imagine.”

Makoto's eyebrows briefly raised at the revelation that the couple in question were both women, but she quickly recovered. You've been friends... I guess... with Haruka and Michiru for years now. They aren't the only lesbians in the world.

Michiru noted her reaction, but chose to ignore it. “In any event, I assisted her in proposing in a more appropriate location aboard ship. The next day, we were introduced to the fiancee and all was smiles and sunshine, as it were.”

Michiru picked up the tea and sipped again. She looked at Makoto. “What I couldn't forsee was that Haruka and Lena would wind up spending quite a bit of time together during the cruise.”

“Lena?” Makoto asked.

“The young British lady,” Michiru clarified. “Her fiancee is named Emily. Anyway, Haruka and Lena quickly became fast friends. For myself, I found both Lena and Emily quite pleasant company, and despite Lena undermining my attempts to curtail Haruka's attraction to kitsch, we all had a pleasant time and went our separate ways following the cruise.”

Makoto frowned, an idea she didn't like coming to her. “Haruka's not having an affair with this Lena woman, is she?”

Michiru looked at Mako for a long moment, then burst into laughter. “No, no, Makoto, nothing like that. Haruka knows better. No, what I wasn't expecting was Haruka to extend an invitation for them to visit. Even less so, was for them to accept the offer.”

“Okay, so you made some friends on the cruise, Haruka invited them here, and they showed up. I'm still not seeing the problem.”

Now it was Michiru's turn to frown. “No, you don't, do you?”

Mako put her hands on her hips and gave Michiru a look. Michiru ignored her and pulle dher phone out of her purse, bringing up some photos.

“I think you'll understand if I show you.”

Michiru handed her phone to Mako. Mako looked down and let out a snort of laughter. Haruka and short haired brunette, presumably Lena, were standing in front of what looked like a gift shop. Both were wearing cargo shorts, ridiculous straw hats, and the tackiest shirts Mako had ever seen. Lena's was a searing orange and white Hawaiian number, while Haruka's was bright green and dotted with what appeared to be red parrots. To finish off the ensembles, both were wearing oversized sunglasses. Lena's were a fairly standard pair of aviators which somehow seemed slightly too big for her face, while Haruka's were neon green, and exactly the wrong shade to match her shirt.

“What's with the light on Lena's chest?” Mako asked.

“I believe it's a medical device for some sort of disability,” Michiru answered. “I didn't feel it polite to press for details.”

Mako handed the phone back. “Haruka and her new friend have really bad taste. So what?”

Michiru shook her head. “It's not that. Well... it's partly that, to be honest, but not the reason I'm here. Lena and Emily arrived a couple of nights ago, and honestly, it's been pleasant. The problem came this morning.”

“What happened this morning?”

Michiru looked Mako dead in the eyes. “Minako.”

Mako winced. Now she got it. Haruka liked to play it aloof and cool, but when Minako was around, the chaos that tended to follow her was contagious and Haruka became, as Usagi memorably put it one time, “a huge dork.” Bad ideas and choices usually followed.

And if there was a third person with the same tastes as Haruka...

“I have one question,” Mako asked.

“Yes?”

“Why didn't you bring Emily with you?”

Michiru sighed again. This time the exasperation was evident. “Well--”

She was interrupted as the door burst open.

“Mako-chaaaaan! You home?” Minako's voice came into the room. “Got some people for you to meet!”

Michiru put her tea back down and pressed her palm to her forehead. Under her breath she uttered a curse in French.

Then they appeared. All four of them. Haruka, Minako, Lena, and Emily. Minako and Lena were grinning from ear to ear. Haruka looked guilty, and Emily had an expression that wavered between amusement and concern. All four were disheveled, their hair frizzed out and mussed. Minako's hair bow was half untied and hanging off the side of her head. Lena's shirt was missing a sleeve. Emily was barefoot, and Haruka had a decided lack of pants. Mako would have laughed.

Except for the fact that all four of them were dripping what she hoped wasn't motor oil on her carpet.

“Hey, your highness!” Minako said, dashing over and sitting down next to Michiru. Mako winced at the audible “squelch” that came when Minako sat down.

“We wondered where you'd gotten to!” Minako said. “Guess you had the same idea I had.”

“What idea?” Mako asked.

“We... uh... we had a little mishap at the go-kart track,” Haruka began. Lena looked up at Haruka and, much to Mako's surprise, began speaking in fairly good Japanese.

“Haruka, love, aren't you gonna introduce us to your friend?”

“Oh, yeah, sorry,” Haruka said. She looked back at Mako. “Makoto, this is Lena Oxton and her fiancee, Emily.”

“Cheers!” Lena said with a bright smile.

“Um... it... very nice...meeting you,” Emily said in halting Japanese. Mako felt she should respond in English. Unfortunately, she could only remember one phrase.

“Thank you!”

Minako burst out laughing. “Still not the right phrase, Mako.”

Mako grinned sheepishly and put a hand behind her head. “Yeah... wait. Why are you here?”

“Well, after the fire at the go-kart track...”

“And the grease explosion at the fried chicken place...” Haruka added.

“Don't forget about the stray dog pack that chased us!” Lena piped up. Emily said something in English, and Lena spoke again. “Em says she still doesn't know where she lost her shoes or where Haruka lost her trousers, for that matter.”

“Wait, what?” Haruka looked down and turned red. “That explains the looks in the elevator,” she muttered.

“Anyway, after all that, I realized your place was nearby and figured we could clean up here!” Minako said. Her eyes got wide and sparkly. “And maybe you could give some much needed lunch to four lost souls who ran nearly twenty whole blocks to get here?”

Mako sighed, and began heading for the kitchen. “You can use the shower. Fresh towels are in the linen closet. Haruka, you can raid my closet for some pants and I think I have a spare pair of sandals for Emily, too. Sandwiches okay?”

“You're the best as always, Mako!” Minako said. She looked over at Michiru. “Lucky thing you were here too, Squidward. We were wondering what happened to you.”

“Yes, wonderful,” Michiru got up and began walking to the kitchen. “Haruka, would you please take Makoto up on her offer?”

“Right,” Haruka said. She turned to Emily. “Come on, Emily. Mako's bedroom is back here.”

“Mind your manners, Haruka,” Lena smirked. “That's me fiancee you're taking to that bedroom.”

“I know better,” Haruka replied, giving a smirk of her own. She and Emily disappeared into the bedroom. Lena looked over at Minako.

“So, Minako, d'you want to use the shower first?”

“You're the guest, go right ahead. I can wait.”

“Thanks, love!” Lena headed for the bathroom, stopping to grab a towel. Minako leaned back and grabbed the TV remote. She paused, noticing the door of the cabinet under the TV was ajar.

Michiru entered the kitchen. Mako had already gotten out the ingerdients for sandwiches out on the counter. Much to Michiru's surprise, Mako reached into a cupboard and pulled out a bottle of sake. She took out two cups, filled them, and handed one to Michiru.

“What's this for?” Michiru asked.

Mako gave her a small smile, happy that for once she had managed to puzzle Michiru.

“Gonna be a looooong afternoon,” she explained. Michiru stared at her, then smiled and the two clinked glasses.

“Hey, Mako,” came Minako's voice. “Is this your porn stash under the TV?”

They both groaned.

[ftrend]

Top 7 best designers collection from New York fashion week S/S 2019

Top 7 best designers collection from New York fashion week S/S 2019 catwalk team Wed, 09/12/2018 - 06:54

New York fashion week spring-summer 2019 season brings the Nomadic vibes and the emergence of the youth culture.

Oscar De La Renta

Oscar De La Renta

Oscar De La Renta

Oscar De La Renta

Oscar De La Renta

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According to Garcia “It’s a very nomadic collection,” That meant relaxed shapes done up with decorative elements and controlled exotica, fringing, tassels, embroideries and various patterns from florals to geometrics to ikats to an intricately wrought silk print featuring a montage of imagery from their summer stops.

Shapes were indeed languid, incorporating such tropes of non-specific “far away” as sarongs and caftans. There was tailoring, too, delivered with a sportswear attitude — linen blazer over charmeuse top and crochet silk raffia skirt.

Evening factors significantly into the de la Renta lexicon and the designers worked it here with an evolutionary twist. They want to guide their customers toward relaxed ways to dress at night. Thus, they all but ignored ballgowns, preferring genuine separates — silk ikat bustier over trousers; black asymmetric, fringed jacket over fluid white pants — and long dresses with languid lines, including several slit-to-there goddess beauties. 

Day or night, many of the clothes looked appealing, and the designers certainly offered a different variation. However, in fashion speak “nomadic” often means eclectic, and there’s a fine line between eclectic and unfocused. With a tighter edit and fewer subplots, Kim and Garcia’s would have clarified their overall message. 

3.1 Phillip Lim

3.1 Phillip Lim

3.1 Phillip Lim

3.1 Phillip Lim

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The collection was highly designed but ultimately wearable — the bulls-eye in the advanced contemporary market.

Instead of piling up as he did for fall, Lim pared down. “Coming from the previous collection where we unpacked a suitcase, I wanted to shed a little bit but keep that nomadic vibe,” he said backstage.

The elements he chose to work with from each genre were quite clear. He let the spare palette, smooth, undulating curves and abbreviated shapes of Sixties Pop frame the rustic Berber textures — fringe, woven stripes, shearling — with a clean modernity. It made for a collection that was highly designed but ultimately wearable, which is the bulls-eye in the advanced contemporary market.

Silhouettes ranged from short and neat to long and loose, always cut with a purist’s eye. A woven striped vest with fringe trim was worn over a silver metallic bra top with a curvy silver button and clean white trousers. A white tailored blazer was elongated into a maxi coat with layers of fringe inspired by a Berber carpet and worn over a black tank dress with a curved neckline. The precise lines of a silver crochet caftan made it fit for a minimalist Barbarella on vacation.

Boss RTW Spring 2019

Boss S/S2019

Boss S/S2019

Boss S/S2019

Boss S/S2019

Boss S/S2019

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The Boss collection is all about the “grounded in suiting,” it brings a collection for the young customer and so offered up more casual options inspired by Los Angeles as well. Wilts infused the line with a soft and soothing color palette of washed pinks, pale blues and stark white that was mixed by burgundy and navy in relaxed silhouettes to impart “a very light, easygoing feel.” Suits were made from crinkled cotton and paper-touch cloth for the very casual styling, while coats and jackets in a glossy nylon took on a crisp texture.

Surf, an extension of the L.A. inspiration, also influenced the collection and was evident in the details. Pants, blouses and backless dresses were fastened with long drawstrings while a woman’s jumpsuit and men’s short-sleeve tops had long zipper pulls that mimicked those of a wetsuit.

Wilts also offered up his take on board shorts and rash guards in technical nylon. Athletic stripes and a pattern abstracted from L.A. city maps adorned standout knitwear, cropped for men and ultrathin for women, as well as a great short-sleeve women’s leather dress.  

The show closed with a white story of suiting and lightweight dresses that Wilts said offered up “a little more sophistication” but with the same “airy, beautiful and healthy L.A. vibe.” The collection didn’t stray too far from its elegant roots, but Wilts managed to evolve it into one that incorporates the multifaceted lives of the Hugo Boss man and woman.

Longchamp- Nomadic vibes

Longchamp

Longchamp

Longchamp

Longchamp

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Longchamp’s Sophie Delafontaine when speaking backstage about her inspiration for New York fashion week spring-summer 2019 collection was- a woman who was “elegant and chic but had a twist of eccentricity.”

This translated to a lineup with a palette of cobalt blue, chocolate brown and clay reds shown in a mix of layered dresses, tunics and vests. Delafontaine diluted the rich tones with several pieces in a leopard print and some semi-sheer maxidresses in a bright ikat.

The designer highlighted the French house’s history of leather craftsmanship with leather details that popped up throughout the runway. Delafontaine brings an iconic Sixties pieces like fringed halter tops and dresses and suede shorts, pairing many looks with a thigh-high gladiator sandal, many of which were also embellished with fringe.

Handbags are synonymous with the privately owned house; she upgraded her cross-body Amazone bag, introduced in fall; on the runway, it was reimagined in a variety of iterations, some with earthy stone details with lambskin, a few with fur and of course, more fringe. The fringe was heavy-handed and could have been dialed back some, as nearly every look had some sort of fringe accent.

10 cross by Derek Lam- targeting the Millennial consumers

10 cross by Derek Lam

10 cross by Derek Lam

10 cross by Derek Lam

PreviousNext

The biggest story for the season was the modern range of tailoring targeting the Millennial consumers. Pants have been such a strong selling category that it was time to offer jackets to pair them with.

A soft pink linen blazer was a modern proposition for the office, cut boxy and styled with matching jogger pants. Girls will appreciate their relaxed vibe and versatility. There were also short suits (a big trend for the season) in rainbow stripes, and a polished deconstructed blazer mirroring the buttons of the aforementioned dress.

Here, buttons on the back of shirting allowed it to swing either conservative or daring, and ruffles on a pink dress rotated around the sleeves. Even the new sash bag could be taken apart to become a belt and cute little clutch.

Calvin Klien- Jaws and "The Graduate"

Calvin Klien- Jaws and "The Graduate"

Calvin Klien- Jaws and "The Graduate"

Calvin Klien- Jaws and "The Graduate"

Calvin Klien- Jaws and "The Graduate"

PreviousNext

The theme of the season was  "killer instinct", with one beast who devours beachgoers and another who would eat her own young for lunch, only she doesn’t get away with it. The attraction for the designer was Both “Jaws” and “The Graduate,” as Simons’ show notes decoded, “represent transgression, the idea of the predator, and a fundamental questioning of authority — a rebellion that is quintessentially American.”

Simons’ graduates, men, and women wore traditional mortarboards and elegant black coats as robes. As for the bevy of Mrs. Rs — they seduced with high chic rather than sexiness in plentiful takes on a shift dress that nodded beautifully to mid-century couture, the luxe fabrics bunched and “crashed” for heightened surface texture, while big, jeweled broaches added sparkle. Contrasting the haute aura: slouchy sweaters over fluid skirts. In terms of fashion news, that was more or less it.

According to Raf, “The collection explores taboos and temptations, shifts in the culture and community, but ultimately, the overarching theme is love.” Missed that one? Ditto. But so what? If Simons’ outsider musings on American culture sometimes swing pretentious, at least he’s got a thought in his head. Not all deep thoughts translate seamlessly into powerful fashion. Here, Simons allowed storyline to trump clothes, which resulted in a fashion message not fully baked.

​​​​​Michael Kors- Joy and Bliss

​​​​​Michael Kors- Joy and Bliss

​​​​​Michael Kors- Joy and Bliss

​​​​​Michael Kors- Joy and Bliss

​​​​​Michael Kors- Joy and Bliss

PreviousNext

The styles were exuberant with color and pattern a very cheerful floral, beach scenics, stripes, dots, plaids, and mélange knits that were worn in combination.

What didn’t explode with color came in optic white with flowery surface texture — leather lace, eyelet, matelassé. Michael Kors worked to bring up the multiple styles of ruffled dresses, shirtdresses, retro shifts, floppy-hatted hippie fare, fringed skirts, straight skirts, elevated sweats and on and on, a big, breezy, something-for-everybody romp.

For the men, the collection exuded the same sporty attitude as the women in looks featuring surf sweaters, Baja pullovers, cashmere bike shorts, and cargo track pants. A few more dressed-up pieces included a black cotton blazer, a crushed cotton trench and a suit with short-shorts.

Kors promise of spirit, joy, and charm through his collection. Yet one came away thinking that broad diversity on the runway is best limited to the casting — models of various ethnicities, ages, and body types. In that respect, Kors is a leader.

His collection, though, would have benefited from a little less universality. With so many items and silhouettes, it started to feel as if Kors were checking various merch boxes — embellished jeans, check; swimsuit, check. Along the way, the collection sacrificed some of the distinctive tony allure that typically marks Kors’ work

Michael Kors

Blog Category

Catwalk

New York fashion week

The following blog post Top 7 best designers collection from New York fashion week S/S 2019 was originally published to Blog

[jonathanbelloblog]

Mountains Climbed Lions Tamed

The bad thing about starting out on your first great South African off-road driving and safari adventure is that you and your camouflage pants, lug-soled hiking boots, and zebra-trimmed bush hat look unbelievably stupid clomping through the gleaming marble lobby of Cape Town’s prestigious Table Bay Hotel. Hmm. Those childhood “Tarzan” movies might not have been the best source of wardrobe tips.

Once outside, we blend in so much better. Lining the hotel’s circular drive are a row of rugged Land Rover LR3s, one in Zambezi silver and four in Tangiers orange (painted in the livery of the recent G4 global adventure challenge), each accompanied by official instructor/guides dressed in matching uniforms of blue long-sleeved shirts and gray trousers. Behind them is a coterie of Land Rover North America handlers, complete with camera crew ready to record the five-star safari ahead.  

This is why we’d traveled halfway around the world. Automobile Magazine had been invited to join a band of well-heeled American adventurers who’d ponied up $8995 each (not including airfare) for the privilege of being terrified into a state of adventure nirvana for the next six days and nights. They are dressed like me, with the exception of a Bottega Veneto handbag here and a pair of Gucci loafers and Prada sunglasses there.

No, you will not meet beer-swilling, skinny-dipping, Jeep Rubicon- type revelers on the Land Rover trail. Our fellow travelers are retired captains of industry and entrepreneurs in aircraft maintenance and real-estate development. But make no mistake: over the course of the next week, in between the gourmet meals and fine wines of the Western Cape, men and women alike will slip from luxurious 1000-thread-count cocoons to muscle their pricey SUVs over perilous mountain passes, to ford rivers presumably teeming with crocodiles, and to part the dense swamp- grass home of black mambas, puff adders, and spitting cobras. Then drink.

There are a few off-road paradises left in the world, and Land Rover knows where to find them, partly because its stalwart products have already blazed those trails and can still be found merrily rolling along where pack mules fear to tread. If you own a Land Rover, you have the keys to it all, and Land Rover culture encourages you to partake.   Dealerships (called Land Rover Centres) have little on-site mountain test courses to try before you buy. Afterward, you can attend one of three magnificent off-road driving schools—at the Quail Lodge in Carmel Valley, California; at the Biltmore Estate in Asheville, North Carolina; or at Fairmont Le Chateau Montebello in Quebec. The next stop is a full-blown Land Rover Adventure.

South Africa, a country three times the size of Great Britain, is perfect for adventure. It splits the frigid Atlantic from the warm waters of the Indian Ocean at the Cape Point, and depending on which side you’re on, offers subtropical vegetation, rugged mountain ranges, semi-desert, rain forest, scrubby bushveld, and perfectly groomed vineyards.   Its cities are modern, the political climate is fairly stable given its tumultuous past, its little towns are quaint, and the well-marked road system of the Western Cape is in better shape than Michigan’s. All that, and wild elephants in the backyard, too.

  What could be more perfect? That would be our guides, the staff of Kwa-Zulu Natal Land Rover Experience, the world’s first franchised Land Rover off-road training group, led by the irrepressible Rob Timcke, a chain-smoking, Red Bull-slugging firecracker. Timcke is a born raconteur who nevertheless inspires utter confidence in his ability to bring everyone back alive.   Not just a talker, Timcke was raised in a hunting camp in the old Eastern Transvaal on the Mozambique border, where his first language was Zulu. He spent time in the Congo during the really bad years as a South African army intelligence officer and became a professional hunter until 1993, when Communist Party leader Chris Hani was murdered and trophy hunters stayed home. Next, he set up tourist dives to view tiger and great white sharks. Without the cage.  

Timcke then jumped into teaching people the fine art of off-road driving. “I was always a bush person,” he says, “never a sea person. After nine years of getting really seasick, I found some idiot of a bank manager to buy my operation.” His cohorts include his stunning Akrikaaner wife, Carina. (“I slept my way into a job,” she cracks. “Unfortunately, my previous job paid much more.”)   Her brother Pierre Versfeld and top fly-fishing guide Antony Diplock complete the group. Diplock is not a big talker, but then he lives alone on an island near Namibia and, at the age of eighteen, participated in the tribal coming-of-age circumcision ritual with his boyhood Zulu friends. He doesn’t need to talk much.

Handshakes and hellos out of the way, we climb behind right-hand-mounted steering wheels and head south in convoy. To acclimate us to driving on the wrong side of the road, Timcke has sent us down the coast road past the rugged Twelve Apostles mountain chain flanking our left and the beach towns of Camps Bay and Llandudno on our right.   We climb the Chapman’s Peak toll road clinging to seaside cliffs and rumble through the shrubby natural fynbos (“fine bush”) habitat of the Cape of Good Hope nature reserve splashed with the bright spikey blooms of protea.

South Africans are rightfully proud of this, the densest of the world’s six floral kingdoms, counting between 8500 and 9000 species packed in an L-shaped area centered around Cape Town, no more than sixty miles wide. The camera car just misses a turtle in front of us. “Ooh, a fynbos tortoise,” chuckles Timcke. “They’re quite rare.”

The plan for a brief mountainside sojourn in the dirt is scratched due to a hard, fast storm blowing in from the south. This brings fond memories to Timcke: “Carina and I ran a safari in Botswana. We were camping when massive, massive thunderstorms rolled in. You could see lightning for miles.   She was setting the table with white linen, and I noticed the ground was alive. Scorpions and spiders. ‘You take me home and you take me home now!’ she yelled. This other time we were scouting in Zambia, and I sent her out to check the depth of the river crossing. She was chest-deep and turned and yelled, ‘What if there are crocs?’ I told her, ‘Don’t splash.’ ” What a gal.

We carry on to the mountain-ringed Cape Winelands surrounding Paarl, Franschhoek, and Stellenbosch (founded by Dutch and Huguenot settlers in the late 1600s) for a world-class lunch at Bosman’s Restaurant at Grande Roche, Africa’s only Relais Gourmand.   We taste the superb wines of Grand Roche, Boschendal, and Spier. Instructors become chauffeurs. Back in Cape Town, a native choir welcomes us to dinner at the prime minister’s historic residence. It seems that there’ll be no end to the eating and drinking. And drinking.

Real off-roading comes early the next day, and it is very, very good. Our LR3 has a 300-hp V-8 that shifts through a six-speed manu-matic and a hill-descent control system that won’t let the vehicle roll downhill unchecked with your foot off the brake—which is most helpful when it gets dicey. Terrain response allows the perfect tractive selection with the spin of a knob. I select the rock icon to climb into the pines, spotting a mongoose and a few klipspringers, which look like tiny reindeer perched on clothespins.   It looks like Colorado, I think. Baboons run out. Colorado, but with baboons. A sentry male barks and moves toward us, menacing, while the rest of the troop flees. “I raised four baboons,” says Timcke. “They ran loose at our safari lodge. The males are domineering and see humans as other primates. There will be one alpha male and lots of beta males. My mom, they hung on her leg. My dad was the dominant male. At maturity, they challenge the troop. This one, he’d demonstrate his strength to the weaker part of the troop. That would be my sister. He eventually nipped her, drew blood, and I got out the revolver and shot him.” OK, then.

Once through the forest, we dive into a thicket of grass and find that the rain has made a lake of our trail. Knowing that an LR3 can push through water high enough to break over the hood, I press confidently along, completely forgetting I am on highway tires. No problem. We come out in the fynbos, a riotous blast of purple, pink, yellow, and blue spikes, flowers your florist would die for.

Back to Stellenbosch for an open-air Indonesian and Cape Malay buffet with delicacies such as springbok saut and gnu stew. (I made that last one up.) In the city center, there’s a great crafts market, but I’ve decided to not tell you about buying the Congolese mask from the Zairian merchant, whom I somehow bargained up from 280 to 300 rand, about fifty dollars. Rob is suffused with mirth as I climb in with my precious cargo. The guy was sweating. He pleaded. I felt sorry for him. Forget it.

Luggage stowed, we head for an overnight in the coastal town of Knysna. We of course go the longest, most difficult way. There is a dirt trail all the way from Cape Town to Knysna, but we don’t patch into it until we turn off just west of Mossel Bay on Route 327, pass ostrich farms that line the road on both sides, and head into the Centre Valley of the Western Cape, the arid red earth and rocklands of the Little Karoo.

In the distance, two wild ostriches haul tailfeathers across the bleak plain. “Damn quick little buggers,” says Rob. “Sixty kph [37 mph] at full speed.” The road turns to lane, the lane to trail, and soon we are climbing past a sign that reads, ‘Men remove dentures, ladies fasten your bras.’ It’s the oxwagon autobahn, the path of Dutch settlers between 1689 and 1869. If they could do it, so can we.

We see wild Boerperds—native horses—and the most colorful birds imaginable. When we can look. Because now we are creeping downhill. The rocks are loose and have sharp edges, it is scary steep, and in some places the holes are so deep that both rear wheels lift off the ground in a pirouette straight from hell, which gives me shallow breathing. As I crawl from that horror, I loosen my sweaty stranglehold on the wheel, letting it spin free in my hands.

“You mustn’t do that or the ruts in the road will dictate where your tires will be,” Rob corrects me. I forgot he was even there, focusing as I am on the sharp rocks that line the downward slope of this path. I feel six inches too close to everything—the steering wheel, the pedals, the brakes, God. “Take the brake off,” says Rob. Huh?   I have to unhook all ten toes from their death grip on the pedal. I don’t want to. But the LR3 slowly finishes the gradual descent without my feet. We are at Bonniedale, a 1650-hectare guest farm that was named one of the top 4×4 destinations in South Africa for two years.   It’s open to the public for anything from a day’s driving fun to camping and horse trekking. Nico Hesterman, a former conservation officer, and his wife, Danette, have lived in this wilderness for eighteen years and have a traditional outdoor barbecue, or braai, waiting in camp for us. A cold, Namibia-brewed Windhoek lager would have to wait ’til that evening.  

We were sorely ready for the rain forest town of Knysna and its ultraluxurious, ultrachic Pezula Resort. Again we arrive with the camouflage pants, lug-soled hiking boots, and zebra-trimmed bush hats, tromping through someone’s hushed art gallery of a hotel lobby.   But this time, we throw ourselves on the nearest beer bottle, nearly weeping with relief for having made it thus far unscathed. Okay, maybe that really nice lady with the Bottega Veneto bag and Gucci loafers, who rode serenely down that same awful hill, confident in her young son’s ability at the wheel, sipped white wine.  

IFTTT

[jesusvasser]

Mountains Climbed Lions Tamed

The bad thing about starting out on your first great South African off-road driving and safari adventure is that you and your camouflage pants, lug-soled hiking boots, and zebra-trimmed bush hat look unbelievably stupid clomping through the gleaming marble lobby of Cape Town’s prestigious Table Bay Hotel. Hmm. Those childhood “Tarzan” movies might not have been the best source of wardrobe tips.

Once outside, we blend in so much better. Lining the hotel’s circular drive are a row of rugged Land Rover LR3s, one in Zambezi silver and four in Tangiers orange (painted in the livery of the recent G4 global adventure challenge), each accompanied by official instructor/guides dressed in matching uniforms of blue long-sleeved shirts and gray trousers. Behind them is a coterie of Land Rover North America handlers, complete with camera crew ready to record the five-star safari ahead.  

This is why we’d traveled halfway around the world. Automobile Magazine had been invited to join a band of well-heeled American adventurers who’d ponied up $8995 each (not including airfare) for the privilege of being terrified into a state of adventure nirvana for the next six days and nights. They are dressed like me, with the exception of a Bottega Veneto handbag here and a pair of Gucci loafers and Prada sunglasses there.

No, you will not meet beer-swilling, skinny-dipping, Jeep Rubicon- type revelers on the Land Rover trail. Our fellow travelers are retired captains of industry and entrepreneurs in aircraft maintenance and real-estate development. But make no mistake: over the course of the next week, in between the gourmet meals and fine wines of the Western Cape, men and women alike will slip from luxurious 1000-thread-count cocoons to muscle their pricey SUVs over perilous mountain passes, to ford rivers presumably teeming with crocodiles, and to part the dense swamp- grass home of black mambas, puff adders, and spitting cobras. Then drink.

There are a few off-road paradises left in the world, and Land Rover knows where to find them, partly because its stalwart products have already blazed those trails and can still be found merrily rolling along where pack mules fear to tread. If you own a Land Rover, you have the keys to it all, and Land Rover culture encourages you to partake.   Dealerships (called Land Rover Centres) have little on-site mountain test courses to try before you buy. Afterward, you can attend one of three magnificent off-road driving schools—at the Quail Lodge in Carmel Valley, California; at the Biltmore Estate in Asheville, North Carolina; or at Fairmont Le Chateau Montebello in Quebec. The next stop is a full-blown Land Rover Adventure.

South Africa, a country three times the size of Great Britain, is perfect for adventure. It splits the frigid Atlantic from the warm waters of the Indian Ocean at the Cape Point, and depending on which side you’re on, offers subtropical vegetation, rugged mountain ranges, semi-desert, rain forest, scrubby bushveld, and perfectly groomed vineyards.   Its cities are modern, the political climate is fairly stable given its tumultuous past, its little towns are quaint, and the well-marked road system of the Western Cape is in better shape than Michigan’s. All that, and wild elephants in the backyard, too.

  What could be more perfect? That would be our guides, the staff of Kwa-Zulu Natal Land Rover Experience, the world’s first franchised Land Rover off-road training group, led by the irrepressible Rob Timcke, a chain-smoking, Red Bull-slugging firecracker. Timcke is a born raconteur who nevertheless inspires utter confidence in his ability to bring everyone back alive.   Not just a talker, Timcke was raised in a hunting camp in the old Eastern Transvaal on the Mozambique border, where his first language was Zulu. He spent time in the Congo during the really bad years as a South African army intelligence officer and became a professional hunter until 1993, when Communist Party leader Chris Hani was murdered and trophy hunters stayed home. Next, he set up tourist dives to view tiger and great white sharks. Without the cage.  

Timcke then jumped into teaching people the fine art of off-road driving. “I was always a bush person,” he says, “never a sea person. After nine years of getting really seasick, I found some idiot of a bank manager to buy my operation.” His cohorts include his stunning Akrikaaner wife, Carina. (“I slept my way into a job,” she cracks. “Unfortunately, my previous job paid much more.”)   Her brother Pierre Versfeld and top fly-fishing guide Antony Diplock complete the group. Diplock is not a big talker, but then he lives alone on an island near Namibia and, at the age of eighteen, participated in the tribal coming-of-age circumcision ritual with his boyhood Zulu friends. He doesn’t need to talk much.

Handshakes and hellos out of the way, we climb behind right-hand-mounted steering wheels and head south in convoy. To acclimate us to driving on the wrong side of the road, Timcke has sent us down the coast road past the rugged Twelve Apostles mountain chain flanking our left and the beach towns of Camps Bay and Llandudno on our right.   We climb the Chapman’s Peak toll road clinging to seaside cliffs and rumble through the shrubby natural fynbos (“fine bush”) habitat of the Cape of Good Hope nature reserve splashed with the bright spikey blooms of protea.

South Africans are rightfully proud of this, the densest of the world’s six floral kingdoms, counting between 8500 and 9000 species packed in an L-shaped area centered around Cape Town, no more than sixty miles wide. The camera car just misses a turtle in front of us. “Ooh, a fynbos tortoise,” chuckles Timcke. “They’re quite rare.”

The plan for a brief mountainside sojourn in the dirt is scratched due to a hard, fast storm blowing in from the south. This brings fond memories to Timcke: “Carina and I ran a safari in Botswana. We were camping when massive, massive thunderstorms rolled in. You could see lightning for miles.   She was setting the table with white linen, and I noticed the ground was alive. Scorpions and spiders. ‘You take me home and you take me home now!’ she yelled. This other time we were scouting in Zambia, and I sent her out to check the depth of the river crossing. She was chest-deep and turned and yelled, ‘What if there are crocs?’ I told her, ‘Don’t splash.’ ” What a gal.

We carry on to the mountain-ringed Cape Winelands surrounding Paarl, Franschhoek, and Stellenbosch (founded by Dutch and Huguenot settlers in the late 1600s) for a world-class lunch at Bosman’s Restaurant at Grande Roche, Africa’s only Relais Gourmand.   We taste the superb wines of Grand Roche, Boschendal, and Spier. Instructors become chauffeurs. Back in Cape Town, a native choir welcomes us to dinner at the prime minister’s historic residence. It seems that there’ll be no end to the eating and drinking. And drinking.

Real off-roading comes early the next day, and it is very, very good. Our LR3 has a 300-hp V-8 that shifts through a six-speed manu-matic and a hill-descent control system that won’t let the vehicle roll downhill unchecked with your foot off the brake—which is most helpful when it gets dicey. Terrain response allows the perfect tractive selection with the spin of a knob. I select the rock icon to climb into the pines, spotting a mongoose and a few klipspringers, which look like tiny reindeer perched on clothespins.   It looks like Colorado, I think. Baboons run out. Colorado, but with baboons. A sentry male barks and moves toward us, menacing, while the rest of the troop flees. “I raised four baboons,” says Timcke. “They ran loose at our safari lodge. The males are domineering and see humans as other primates. There will be one alpha male and lots of beta males. My mom, they hung on her leg. My dad was the dominant male. At maturity, they challenge the troop. This one, he’d demonstrate his strength to the weaker part of the troop. That would be my sister. He eventually nipped her, drew blood, and I got out the revolver and shot him.” OK, then.

Once through the forest, we dive into a thicket of grass and find that the rain has made a lake of our trail. Knowing that an LR3 can push through water high enough to break over the hood, I press confidently along, completely forgetting I am on highway tires. No problem. We come out in the fynbos, a riotous blast of purple, pink, yellow, and blue spikes, flowers your florist would die for.

Back to Stellenbosch for an open-air Indonesian and Cape Malay buffet with delicacies such as springbok saut and gnu stew. (I made that last one up.) In the city center, there’s a great crafts market, but I’ve decided to not tell you about buying the Congolese mask from the Zairian merchant, whom I somehow bargained up from 280 to 300 rand, about fifty dollars. Rob is suffused with mirth as I climb in with my precious cargo. The guy was sweating. He pleaded. I felt sorry for him. Forget it.

Luggage stowed, we head for an overnight in the coastal town of Knysna. We of course go the longest, most difficult way. There is a dirt trail all the way from Cape Town to Knysna, but we don’t patch into it until we turn off just west of Mossel Bay on Route 327, pass ostrich farms that line the road on both sides, and head into the Centre Valley of the Western Cape, the arid red earth and rocklands of the Little Karoo.

In the distance, two wild ostriches haul tailfeathers across the bleak plain. “Damn quick little buggers,” says Rob. “Sixty kph [37 mph] at full speed.” The road turns to lane, the lane to trail, and soon we are climbing past a sign that reads, ‘Men remove dentures, ladies fasten your bras.’ It’s the oxwagon autobahn, the path of Dutch settlers between 1689 and 1869. If they could do it, so can we.

We see wild Boerperds—native horses—and the most colorful birds imaginable. When we can look. Because now we are creeping downhill. The rocks are loose and have sharp edges, it is scary steep, and in some places the holes are so deep that both rear wheels lift off the ground in a pirouette straight from hell, which gives me shallow breathing. As I crawl from that horror, I loosen my sweaty stranglehold on the wheel, letting it spin free in my hands.

“You mustn’t do that or the ruts in the road will dictate where your tires will be,” Rob corrects me. I forgot he was even there, focusing as I am on the sharp rocks that line the downward slope of this path. I feel six inches too close to everything—the steering wheel, the pedals, the brakes, God. “Take the brake off,” says Rob. Huh?   I have to unhook all ten toes from their death grip on the pedal. I don’t want to. But the LR3 slowly finishes the gradual descent without my feet. We are at Bonniedale, a 1650-hectare guest farm that was named one of the top 4×4 destinations in South Africa for two years.   It’s open to the public for anything from a day’s driving fun to camping and horse trekking. Nico Hesterman, a former conservation officer, and his wife, Danette, have lived in this wilderness for eighteen years and have a traditional outdoor barbecue, or braai, waiting in camp for us. A cold, Namibia-brewed Windhoek lager would have to wait ’til that evening.  

We were sorely ready for the rain forest town of Knysna and its ultraluxurious, ultrachic Pezula Resort. Again we arrive with the camouflage pants, lug-soled hiking boots, and zebra-trimmed bush hats, tromping through someone’s hushed art gallery of a hotel lobby.   But this time, we throw ourselves on the nearest beer bottle, nearly weeping with relief for having made it thus far unscathed. Okay, maybe that really nice lady with the Bottega Veneto bag and Gucci loafers, who rode serenely down that same awful hill, confident in her young son’s ability at the wheel, sipped white wine.  

IFTTT

[eddiejpoplar]

Mountains Climbed Lions Tamed

The bad thing about starting out on your first great South African off-road driving and safari adventure is that you and your camouflage pants, lug-soled hiking boots, and zebra-trimmed bush hat look unbelievably stupid clomping through the gleaming marble lobby of Cape Town’s prestigious Table Bay Hotel. Hmm. Those childhood “Tarzan” movies might not have been the best source of wardrobe tips.

Once outside, we blend in so much better. Lining the hotel’s circular drive are a row of rugged Land Rover LR3s, one in Zambezi silver and four in Tangiers orange (painted in the livery of the recent G4 global adventure challenge), each accompanied by official instructor/guides dressed in matching uniforms of blue long-sleeved shirts and gray trousers. Behind them is a coterie of Land Rover North America handlers, complete with camera crew ready to record the five-star safari ahead.  

This is why we’d traveled halfway around the world. Automobile Magazine had been invited to join a band of well-heeled American adventurers who’d ponied up $8995 each (not including airfare) for the privilege of being terrified into a state of adventure nirvana for the next six days and nights. They are dressed like me, with the exception of a Bottega Veneto handbag here and a pair of Gucci loafers and Prada sunglasses there.

No, you will not meet beer-swilling, skinny-dipping, Jeep Rubicon- type revelers on the Land Rover trail. Our fellow travelers are retired captains of industry and entrepreneurs in aircraft maintenance and real-estate development. But make no mistake: over the course of the next week, in between the gourmet meals and fine wines of the Western Cape, men and women alike will slip from luxurious 1000-thread-count cocoons to muscle their pricey SUVs over perilous mountain passes, to ford rivers presumably teeming with crocodiles, and to part the dense swamp- grass home of black mambas, puff adders, and spitting cobras. Then drink.

There are a few off-road paradises left in the world, and Land Rover knows where to find them, partly because its stalwart products have already blazed those trails and can still be found merrily rolling along where pack mules fear to tread. If you own a Land Rover, you have the keys to it all, and Land Rover culture encourages you to partake.   Dealerships (called Land Rover Centres) have little on-site mountain test courses to try before you buy. Afterward, you can attend one of three magnificent off-road driving schools—at the Quail Lodge in Carmel Valley, California; at the Biltmore Estate in Asheville, North Carolina; or at Fairmont Le Chateau Montebello in Quebec. The next stop is a full-blown Land Rover Adventure.

South Africa, a country three times the size of Great Britain, is perfect for adventure. It splits the frigid Atlantic from the warm waters of the Indian Ocean at the Cape Point, and depending on which side you’re on, offers subtropical vegetation, rugged mountain ranges, semi-desert, rain forest, scrubby bushveld, and perfectly groomed vineyards.   Its cities are modern, the political climate is fairly stable given its tumultuous past, its little towns are quaint, and the well-marked road system of the Western Cape is in better shape than Michigan’s. All that, and wild elephants in the backyard, too.

  What could be more perfect? That would be our guides, the staff of Kwa-Zulu Natal Land Rover Experience, the world’s first franchised Land Rover off-road training group, led by the irrepressible Rob Timcke, a chain-smoking, Red Bull-slugging firecracker. Timcke is a born raconteur who nevertheless inspires utter confidence in his ability to bring everyone back alive.   Not just a talker, Timcke was raised in a hunting camp in the old Eastern Transvaal on the Mozambique border, where his first language was Zulu. He spent time in the Congo during the really bad years as a South African army intelligence officer and became a professional hunter until 1993, when Communist Party leader Chris Hani was murdered and trophy hunters stayed home. Next, he set up tourist dives to view tiger and great white sharks. Without the cage.  

Timcke then jumped into teaching people the fine art of off-road driving. “I was always a bush person,” he says, “never a sea person. After nine years of getting really seasick, I found some idiot of a bank manager to buy my operation.” His cohorts include his stunning Akrikaaner wife, Carina. (“I slept my way into a job,” she cracks. “Unfortunately, my previous job paid much more.”)   Her brother Pierre Versfeld and top fly-fishing guide Antony Diplock complete the group. Diplock is not a big talker, but then he lives alone on an island near Namibia and, at the age of eighteen, participated in the tribal coming-of-age circumcision ritual with his boyhood Zulu friends. He doesn’t need to talk much.

Handshakes and hellos out of the way, we climb behind right-hand-mounted steering wheels and head south in convoy. To acclimate us to driving on the wrong side of the road, Timcke has sent us down the coast road past the rugged Twelve Apostles mountain chain flanking our left and the beach towns of Camps Bay and Llandudno on our right.   We climb the Chapman’s Peak toll road clinging to seaside cliffs and rumble through the shrubby natural fynbos (“fine bush”) habitat of the Cape of Good Hope nature reserve splashed with the bright spikey blooms of protea.

South Africans are rightfully proud of this, the densest of the world’s six floral kingdoms, counting between 8500 and 9000 species packed in an L-shaped area centered around Cape Town, no more than sixty miles wide. The camera car just misses a turtle in front of us. “Ooh, a fynbos tortoise,” chuckles Timcke. “They’re quite rare.”

The plan for a brief mountainside sojourn in the dirt is scratched due to a hard, fast storm blowing in from the south. This brings fond memories to Timcke: “Carina and I ran a safari in Botswana. We were camping when massive, massive thunderstorms rolled in. You could see lightning for miles.   She was setting the table with white linen, and I noticed the ground was alive. Scorpions and spiders. ‘You take me home and you take me home now!’ she yelled. This other time we were scouting in Zambia, and I sent her out to check the depth of the river crossing. She was chest-deep and turned and yelled, ‘What if there are crocs?’ I told her, ‘Don’t splash.’ ” What a gal.

We carry on to the mountain-ringed Cape Winelands surrounding Paarl, Franschhoek, and Stellenbosch (founded by Dutch and Huguenot settlers in the late 1600s) for a world-class lunch at Bosman’s Restaurant at Grande Roche, Africa’s only Relais Gourmand.   We taste the superb wines of Grand Roche, Boschendal, and Spier. Instructors become chauffeurs. Back in Cape Town, a native choir welcomes us to dinner at the prime minister’s historic residence. It seems that there’ll be no end to the eating and drinking. And drinking.

Real off-roading comes early the next day, and it is very, very good. Our LR3 has a 300-hp V-8 that shifts through a six-speed manu-matic and a hill-descent control system that won’t let the vehicle roll downhill unchecked with your foot off the brake—which is most helpful when it gets dicey. Terrain response allows the perfect tractive selection with the spin of a knob. I select the rock icon to climb into the pines, spotting a mongoose and a few klipspringers, which look like tiny reindeer perched on clothespins.   It looks like Colorado, I think. Baboons run out. Colorado, but with baboons. A sentry male barks and moves toward us, menacing, while the rest of the troop flees. “I raised four baboons,” says Timcke. “They ran loose at our safari lodge. The males are domineering and see humans as other primates. There will be one alpha male and lots of beta males. My mom, they hung on her leg. My dad was the dominant male. At maturity, they challenge the troop. This one, he’d demonstrate his strength to the weaker part of the troop. That would be my sister. He eventually nipped her, drew blood, and I got out the revolver and shot him.” OK, then.

Once through the forest, we dive into a thicket of grass and find that the rain has made a lake of our trail. Knowing that an LR3 can push through water high enough to break over the hood, I press confidently along, completely forgetting I am on highway tires. No problem. We come out in the fynbos, a riotous blast of purple, pink, yellow, and blue spikes, flowers your florist would die for.

Back to Stellenbosch for an open-air Indonesian and Cape Malay buffet with delicacies such as springbok saut and gnu stew. (I made that last one up.) In the city center, there’s a great crafts market, but I’ve decided to not tell you about buying the Congolese mask from the Zairian merchant, whom I somehow bargained up from 280 to 300 rand, about fifty dollars. Rob is suffused with mirth as I climb in with my precious cargo. The guy was sweating. He pleaded. I felt sorry for him. Forget it.

Luggage stowed, we head for an overnight in the coastal town of Knysna. We of course go the longest, most difficult way. There is a dirt trail all the way from Cape Town to Knysna, but we don’t patch into it until we turn off just west of Mossel Bay on Route 327, pass ostrich farms that line the road on both sides, and head into the Centre Valley of the Western Cape, the arid red earth and rocklands of the Little Karoo.

In the distance, two wild ostriches haul tailfeathers across the bleak plain. “Damn quick little buggers,” says Rob. “Sixty kph [37 mph] at full speed.” The road turns to lane, the lane to trail, and soon we are climbing past a sign that reads, ‘Men remove dentures, ladies fasten your bras.’ It’s the oxwagon autobahn, the path of Dutch settlers between 1689 and 1869. If they could do it, so can we.

We see wild Boerperds—native horses—and the most colorful birds imaginable. When we can look. Because now we are creeping downhill. The rocks are loose and have sharp edges, it is scary steep, and in some places the holes are so deep that both rear wheels lift off the ground in a pirouette straight from hell, which gives me shallow breathing. As I crawl from that horror, I loosen my sweaty stranglehold on the wheel, letting it spin free in my hands.

“You mustn’t do that or the ruts in the road will dictate where your tires will be,” Rob corrects me. I forgot he was even there, focusing as I am on the sharp rocks that line the downward slope of this path. I feel six inches too close to everything—the steering wheel, the pedals, the brakes, God. “Take the brake off,” says Rob. Huh?   I have to unhook all ten toes from their death grip on the pedal. I don’t want to. But the LR3 slowly finishes the gradual descent without my feet. We are at Bonniedale, a 1650-hectare guest farm that was named one of the top 4×4 destinations in South Africa for two years.   It’s open to the public for anything from a day’s driving fun to camping and horse trekking. Nico Hesterman, a former conservation officer, and his wife, Danette, have lived in this wilderness for eighteen years and have a traditional outdoor barbecue, or braai, waiting in camp for us. A cold, Namibia-brewed Windhoek lager would have to wait ’til that evening.  

We were sorely ready for the rain forest town of Knysna and its ultraluxurious, ultrachic Pezula Resort. Again we arrive with the camouflage pants, lug-soled hiking boots, and zebra-trimmed bush hats, tromping through someone’s hushed art gallery of a hotel lobby.   But this time, we throw ourselves on the nearest beer bottle, nearly weeping with relief for having made it thus far unscathed. Okay, maybe that really nice lady with the Bottega Veneto bag and Gucci loafers, who rode serenely down that same awful hill, confident in her young son’s ability at the wheel, sipped white wine.  

IFTTT

[eddiejpoplar]

AUTOMOBiLE Flashback: Mountains Climbed Lions Tamed

The bad thing about starting out on your first great South African off-road driving and safari adventure is that you and your camouflage pants, lug-soled hiking boots, and zebra-trimmed bush hat look unbelievably stupid clomping through the gleaming marble lobby of Cape Town’s prestigious Table Bay Hotel. Hmm. Those childhood “Tarzan” movies might not have been the best source of wardrobe tips.

Once outside, we blend in so much better. Lining the hotel’s circular drive are a row of rugged Land Rover LR3s, one in Zambezi silver and four in Tangiers orange (painted in the livery of the recent G4 global adventure challenge), each accompanied by official instructor/guides dressed in matching uniforms of blue long-sleeved shirts and gray trousers. Behind them is a coterie of Land Rover North America handlers, complete with camera crew ready to record the five-star safari ahead.  

This is why we’d traveled halfway around the world. Automobile Magazine had been invited to join a band of well-heeled American adventurers who’d ponied up $8995 each (not including airfare) for the privilege of being terrified into a state of adventure nirvana for the next six days and nights. They are dressed like me, with the exception of a Bottega Veneto handbag here and a pair of Gucci loafers and Prada sunglasses there.

No, you will not meet beer-swilling, skinny-dipping, Jeep Rubicon- type revelers on the Land Rover trail. Our fellow travelers are retired captains of industry and entrepreneurs in aircraft maintenance and real-estate development. But make no mistake: over the course of the next week, in between the gourmet meals and fine wines of the Western Cape, men and women alike will slip from luxurious 1000-thread-count cocoons to muscle their pricey SUVs over perilous mountain passes, to ford rivers presumably teeming with crocodiles, and to part the dense swamp- grass home of black mambas, puff adders, and spitting cobras. Then drink.

There are a few off-road paradises left in the world, and Land Rover knows where to find them, partly because its stalwart products have already blazed those trails and can still be found merrily rolling along where pack mules fear to tread. If you own a Land Rover, you have the keys to it all, and Land Rover culture encourages you to partake.   Dealerships (called Land Rover Centres) have little on-site mountain test courses to try before you buy. Afterward, you can attend one of three magnificent off-road driving schools—at the Quail Lodge in Carmel Valley, California; at the Biltmore Estate in Asheville, North Carolina; or at Fairmont Le Chateau Montebello in Quebec. The next stop is a full-blown Land Rover Adventure.

South Africa, a country three times the size of Great Britain, is perfect for adventure. It splits the frigid Atlantic from the warm waters of the Indian Ocean at the Cape Point, and depending on which side you’re on, offers subtropical vegetation, rugged mountain ranges, semi-desert, rain forest, scrubby bushveld, and perfectly groomed vineyards.   Its cities are modern, the political climate is fairly stable given its tumultuous past, its little towns are quaint, and the well-marked road system of the Western Cape is in better shape than Michigan’s. All that, and wild elephants in the backyard, too.

  What could be more perfect? That would be our guides, the staff of Kwa-Zulu Natal Land Rover Experience, the world’s first franchised Land Rover off-road training group, led by the irrepressible Rob Timcke, a chain-smoking, Red Bull-slugging firecracker. Timcke is a born raconteur who nevertheless inspires utter confidence in his ability to bring everyone back alive.   Not just a talker, Timcke was raised in a hunting camp in the old Eastern Transvaal on the Mozambique border, where his first language was Zulu. He spent time in the Congo during the really bad years as a South African army intelligence officer and became a professional hunter until 1993, when Communist Party leader Chris Hani was murdered and trophy hunters stayed home. Next, he set up tourist dives to view tiger and great white sharks. Without the cage.  

Timcke then jumped into teaching people the fine art of off-road driving. “I was always a bush person,” he says, “never a sea person. After nine years of getting really seasick, I found some idiot of a bank manager to buy my operation.” His cohorts include his stunning Akrikaaner wife, Carina. (“I slept my way into a job,” she cracks. “Unfortunately, my previous job paid much more.”)   Her brother Pierre Versfeld and top fly-fishing guide Antony Diplock complete the group. Diplock is not a big talker, but then he lives alone on an island near Namibia and, at the age of eighteen, participated in the tribal coming-of-age circumcision ritual with his boyhood Zulu friends. He doesn’t need to talk much.

Handshakes and hellos out of the way, we climb behind right-hand-mounted steering wheels and head south in convoy. To acclimate us to driving on the wrong side of the road, Timcke has sent us down the coast road past the rugged Twelve Apostles mountain chain flanking our left and the beach towns of Camps Bay and Llandudno on our right.   We climb the Chapman’s Peak toll road clinging to seaside cliffs and rumble through the shrubby natural fynbos (“fine bush”) habitat of the Cape of Good Hope nature reserve splashed with the bright spikey blooms of protea.

South Africans are rightfully proud of this, the densest of the world’s six floral kingdoms, counting between 8500 and 9000 species packed in an L-shaped area centered around Cape Town, no more than sixty miles wide. The camera car just misses a turtle in front of us. “Ooh, a fynbos tortoise,” chuckles Timcke. “They’re quite rare.”

The plan for a brief mountainside sojourn in the dirt is scratched due to a hard, fast storm blowing in from the south. This brings fond memories to Timcke: “Carina and I ran a safari in Botswana. We were camping when massive, massive thunderstorms rolled in. You could see lightning for miles.   She was setting the table with white linen, and I noticed the ground was alive. Scorpions and spiders. ‘You take me home and you take me home now!’ she yelled. This other time we were scouting in Zambia, and I sent her out to check the depth of the river crossing. She was chest-deep and turned and yelled, ‘What if there are crocs?’ I told her, ‘Don’t splash.’ ” What a gal.

We carry on to the mountain-ringed Cape Winelands surrounding Paarl, Franschhoek, and Stellenbosch (founded by Dutch and Huguenot settlers in the late 1600s) for a world-class lunch at Bosman’s Restaurant at Grande Roche, Africa’s only Relais Gourmand.   We taste the superb wines of Grand Roche, Boschendal, and Spier. Instructors become chauffeurs. Back in Cape Town, a native choir welcomes us to dinner at the prime minister’s historic residence. It seems that there’ll be no end to the eating and drinking. And drinking.

Real off-roading comes early the next day, and it is very, very good. Our LR3 has a 300-hp V-8 that shifts through a six-speed manu-matic and a hill-descent control system that won’t let the vehicle roll downhill unchecked with your foot off the brake—which is most helpful when it gets dicey. Terrain response allows the perfect tractive selection with the spin of a knob. I select the rock icon to climb into the pines, spotting a mongoose and a few klipspringers, which look like tiny reindeer perched on clothespins.   It looks like Colorado, I think. Baboons run out. Colorado, but with baboons. A sentry male barks and moves toward us, menacing, while the rest of the troop flees. “I raised four baboons,” says Timcke. “They ran loose at our safari lodge. The males are domineering and see humans as other primates. There will be one alpha male and lots of beta males. My mom, they hung on her leg. My dad was the dominant male. At maturity, they challenge the troop. This one, he’d demonstrate his strength to the weaker part of the troop. That would be my sister. He eventually nipped her, drew blood, and I got out the revolver and shot him.” OK, then.

Once through the forest, we dive into a thicket of grass and find that the rain has made a lake of our trail. Knowing that an LR3 can push through water high enough to break over the hood, I press confidently along, completely forgetting I am on highway tires. No problem. We come out in the fynbos, a riotous blast of purple, pink, yellow, and blue spikes, flowers your florist would die for.

Back to Stellenbosch for an open-air Indonesian and Cape Malay buffet with delicacies such as springbok saut and gnu stew. (I made that last one up.) In the city center, there’s a great crafts market, but I’ve decided to not tell you about buying the Congolese mask from the Zairian merchant, whom I somehow bargained up from 280 to 300 rand, about fifty dollars. Rob is suffused with mirth as I climb in with my precious cargo. The guy was sweating. He pleaded. I felt sorry for him. Forget it.

Luggage stowed, we head for an overnight in the coastal town of Knysna. We of course go the longest, most difficult way. There is a dirt trail all the way from Cape Town to Knysna, but we don’t patch into it until we turn off just west of Mossel Bay on Route 327, pass ostrich farms that line the road on both sides, and head into the Centre Valley of the Western Cape, the arid red earth and rocklands of the Little Karoo.

In the distance, two wild ostriches haul tailfeathers across the bleak plain. “Damn quick little buggers,” says Rob. “Sixty kph [37 mph] at full speed.” The road turns to lane, the lane to trail, and soon we are climbing past a sign that reads, ‘Men remove dentures, ladies fasten your bras.’ It’s the oxwagon autobahn, the path of Dutch settlers between 1689 and 1869. If they could do it, so can we.

We see wild Boerperds—native horses—and the most colorful birds imaginable. When we can look. Because now we are creeping downhill. The rocks are loose and have sharp edges, it is scary steep, and in some places the holes are so deep that both rear wheels lift off the ground in a pirouette straight from hell, which gives me shallow breathing. As I crawl from that horror, I loosen my sweaty stranglehold on the wheel, letting it spin free in my hands.

“You mustn’t do that or the ruts in the road will dictate where your tires will be,” Rob corrects me. I forgot he was even there, focusing as I am on the sharp rocks that line the downward slope of this path. I feel six inches too close to everything—the steering wheel, the pedals, the brakes, God. “Take the brake off,” says Rob. Huh?   I have to unhook all ten toes from their death grip on the pedal. I don’t want to. But the LR3 slowly finishes the gradual descent without my feet. We are at Bonniedale, a 1650-hectare guest farm that was named one of the top 4×4 destinations in South Africa for two years.   It’s open to the public for anything from a day’s driving fun to camping and horse trekking. Nico Hesterman, a former conservation officer, and his wife, Danette, have lived in this wilderness for eighteen years and have a traditional outdoor barbecue, or braai, waiting in camp for us. A cold, Namibia-brewed Windhoek lager would have to wait ’til that evening.  

We were sorely ready for the rain forest town of Knysna and its ultraluxurious, ultrachic Pezula Resort. Again we arrive with the camouflage pants, lug-soled hiking boots, and zebra-trimmed bush hats, tromping through someone’s hushed art gallery of a hotel lobby.   But this time, we throw ourselves on the nearest beer bottle, nearly weeping with relief for having made it thus far unscathed. Okay, maybe that really nice lady with the Bottega Veneto bag and Gucci loafers, who rode serenely down that same awful hill, confident in her young son’s ability at the wheel, sipped white wine.  

IFTTT

[jonathanbelloblog]

AUTOMOBiLE Flashback: Mountains Climbed Lions Tamed

The bad thing about starting out on your first great South African off-road driving and safari adventure is that you and your camouflage pants, lug-soled hiking boots, and zebra-trimmed bush hat look unbelievably stupid clomping through the gleaming marble lobby of Cape Town’s prestigious Table Bay Hotel. Hmm. Those childhood “Tarzan” movies might not have been the best source of wardrobe tips.

Once outside, we blend in so much better. Lining the hotel’s circular drive are a row of rugged Land Rover LR3s, one in Zambezi silver and four in Tangiers orange (painted in the livery of the recent G4 global adventure challenge), each accompanied by official instructor/guides dressed in matching uniforms of blue long-sleeved shirts and gray trousers. Behind them is a coterie of Land Rover North America handlers, complete with camera crew ready to record the five-star safari ahead.  

This is why we’d traveled halfway around the world. Automobile Magazine had been invited to join a band of well-heeled American adventurers who’d ponied up $8995 each (not including airfare) for the privilege of being terrified into a state of adventure nirvana for the next six days and nights. They are dressed like me, with the exception of a Bottega Veneto handbag here and a pair of Gucci loafers and Prada sunglasses there.

No, you will not meet beer-swilling, skinny-dipping, Jeep Rubicon- type revelers on the Land Rover trail. Our fellow travelers are retired captains of industry and entrepreneurs in aircraft maintenance and real-estate development. But make no mistake: over the course of the next week, in between the gourmet meals and fine wines of the Western Cape, men and women alike will slip from luxurious 1000-thread-count cocoons to muscle their pricey SUVs over perilous mountain passes, to ford rivers presumably teeming with crocodiles, and to part the dense swamp- grass home of black mambas, puff adders, and spitting cobras. Then drink.

There are a few off-road paradises left in the world, and Land Rover knows where to find them, partly because its stalwart products have already blazed those trails and can still be found merrily rolling along where pack mules fear to tread. If you own a Land Rover, you have the keys to it all, and Land Rover culture encourages you to partake.   Dealerships (called Land Rover Centres) have little on-site mountain test courses to try before you buy. Afterward, you can attend one of three magnificent off-road driving schools—at the Quail Lodge in Carmel Valley, California; at the Biltmore Estate in Asheville, North Carolina; or at Fairmont Le Chateau Montebello in Quebec. The next stop is a full-blown Land Rover Adventure.

South Africa, a country three times the size of Great Britain, is perfect for adventure. It splits the frigid Atlantic from the warm waters of the Indian Ocean at the Cape Point, and depending on which side you’re on, offers subtropical vegetation, rugged mountain ranges, semi-desert, rain forest, scrubby bushveld, and perfectly groomed vineyards.   Its cities are modern, the political climate is fairly stable given its tumultuous past, its little towns are quaint, and the well-marked road system of the Western Cape is in better shape than Michigan’s. All that, and wild elephants in the backyard, too.

  What could be more perfect? That would be our guides, the staff of Kwa-Zulu Natal Land Rover Experience, the world’s first franchised Land Rover off-road training group, led by the irrepressible Rob Timcke, a chain-smoking, Red Bull-slugging firecracker. Timcke is a born raconteur who nevertheless inspires utter confidence in his ability to bring everyone back alive.   Not just a talker, Timcke was raised in a hunting camp in the old Eastern Transvaal on the Mozambique border, where his first language was Zulu. He spent time in the Congo during the really bad years as a South African army intelligence officer and became a professional hunter until 1993, when Communist Party leader Chris Hani was murdered and trophy hunters stayed home. Next, he set up tourist dives to view tiger and great white sharks. Without the cage.  

Timcke then jumped into teaching people the fine art of off-road driving. “I was always a bush person,” he says, “never a sea person. After nine years of getting really seasick, I found some idiot of a bank manager to buy my operation.” His cohorts include his stunning Akrikaaner wife, Carina. (“I slept my way into a job,” she cracks. “Unfortunately, my previous job paid much more.”)   Her brother Pierre Versfeld and top fly-fishing guide Antony Diplock complete the group. Diplock is not a big talker, but then he lives alone on an island near Namibia and, at the age of eighteen, participated in the tribal coming-of-age circumcision ritual with his boyhood Zulu friends. He doesn’t need to talk much.

Handshakes and hellos out of the way, we climb behind right-hand-mounted steering wheels and head south in convoy. To acclimate us to driving on the wrong side of the road, Timcke has sent us down the coast road past the rugged Twelve Apostles mountain chain flanking our left and the beach towns of Camps Bay and Llandudno on our right.   We climb the Chapman’s Peak toll road clinging to seaside cliffs and rumble through the shrubby natural fynbos (“fine bush”) habitat of the Cape of Good Hope nature reserve splashed with the bright spikey blooms of protea.

South Africans are rightfully proud of this, the densest of the world’s six floral kingdoms, counting between 8500 and 9000 species packed in an L-shaped area centered around Cape Town, no more than sixty miles wide. The camera car just misses a turtle in front of us. “Ooh, a fynbos tortoise,” chuckles Timcke. “They’re quite rare.”

The plan for a brief mountainside sojourn in the dirt is scratched due to a hard, fast storm blowing in from the south. This brings fond memories to Timcke: “Carina and I ran a safari in Botswana. We were camping when massive, massive thunderstorms rolled in. You could see lightning for miles.   She was setting the table with white linen, and I noticed the ground was alive. Scorpions and spiders. ‘You take me home and you take me home now!’ she yelled. This other time we were scouting in Zambia, and I sent her out to check the depth of the river crossing. She was chest-deep and turned and yelled, ‘What if there are crocs?’ I told her, ‘Don’t splash.’ ” What a gal.

We carry on to the mountain-ringed Cape Winelands surrounding Paarl, Franschhoek, and Stellenbosch (founded by Dutch and Huguenot settlers in the late 1600s) for a world-class lunch at Bosman’s Restaurant at Grande Roche, Africa’s only Relais Gourmand.   We taste the superb wines of Grand Roche, Boschendal, and Spier. Instructors become chauffeurs. Back in Cape Town, a native choir welcomes us to dinner at the prime minister’s historic residence. It seems that there’ll be no end to the eating and drinking. And drinking.

Real off-roading comes early the next day, and it is very, very good. Our LR3 has a 300-hp V-8 that shifts through a six-speed manu-matic and a hill-descent control system that won’t let the vehicle roll downhill unchecked with your foot off the brake—which is most helpful when it gets dicey. Terrain response allows the perfect tractive selection with the spin of a knob. I select the rock icon to climb into the pines, spotting a mongoose and a few klipspringers, which look like tiny reindeer perched on clothespins.   It looks like Colorado, I think. Baboons run out. Colorado, but with baboons. A sentry male barks and moves toward us, menacing, while the rest of the troop flees. “I raised four baboons,” says Timcke. “They ran loose at our safari lodge. The males are domineering and see humans as other primates. There will be one alpha male and lots of beta males. My mom, they hung on her leg. My dad was the dominant male. At maturity, they challenge the troop. This one, he’d demonstrate his strength to the weaker part of the troop. That would be my sister. He eventually nipped her, drew blood, and I got out the revolver and shot him.” OK, then.

Once through the forest, we dive into a thicket of grass and find that the rain has made a lake of our trail. Knowing that an LR3 can push through water high enough to break over the hood, I press confidently along, completely forgetting I am on highway tires. No problem. We come out in the fynbos, a riotous blast of purple, pink, yellow, and blue spikes, flowers your florist would die for.

Back to Stellenbosch for an open-air Indonesian and Cape Malay buffet with delicacies such as springbok saut and gnu stew. (I made that last one up.) In the city center, there’s a great crafts market, but I’ve decided to not tell you about buying the Congolese mask from the Zairian merchant, whom I somehow bargained up from 280 to 300 rand, about fifty dollars. Rob is suffused with mirth as I climb in with my precious cargo. The guy was sweating. He pleaded. I felt sorry for him. Forget it.

Luggage stowed, we head for an overnight in the coastal town of Knysna. We of course go the longest, most difficult way. There is a dirt trail all the way from Cape Town to Knysna, but we don’t patch into it until we turn off just west of Mossel Bay on Route 327, pass ostrich farms that line the road on both sides, and head into the Centre Valley of the Western Cape, the arid red earth and rocklands of the Little Karoo.

In the distance, two wild ostriches haul tailfeathers across the bleak plain. “Damn quick little buggers,” says Rob. “Sixty kph [37 mph] at full speed.” The road turns to lane, the lane to trail, and soon we are climbing past a sign that reads, ‘Men remove dentures, ladies fasten your bras.’ It’s the oxwagon autobahn, the path of Dutch settlers between 1689 and 1869. If they could do it, so can we.

We see wild Boerperds—native horses—and the most colorful birds imaginable. When we can look. Because now we are creeping downhill. The rocks are loose and have sharp edges, it is scary steep, and in some places the holes are so deep that both rear wheels lift off the ground in a pirouette straight from hell, which gives me shallow breathing. As I crawl from that horror, I loosen my sweaty stranglehold on the wheel, letting it spin free in my hands.

“You mustn’t do that or the ruts in the road will dictate where your tires will be,” Rob corrects me. I forgot he was even there, focusing as I am on the sharp rocks that line the downward slope of this path. I feel six inches too close to everything—the steering wheel, the pedals, the brakes, God. “Take the brake off,” says Rob. Huh?   I have to unhook all ten toes from their death grip on the pedal. I don’t want to. But the LR3 slowly finishes the gradual descent without my feet. We are at Bonniedale, a 1650-hectare guest farm that was named one of the top 4×4 destinations in South Africa for two years.   It’s open to the public for anything from a day’s driving fun to camping and horse trekking. Nico Hesterman, a former conservation officer, and his wife, Danette, have lived in this wilderness for eighteen years and have a traditional outdoor barbecue, or braai, waiting in camp for us. A cold, Namibia-brewed Windhoek lager would have to wait ’til that evening.  

We were sorely ready for the rain forest town of Knysna and its ultraluxurious, ultrachic Pezula Resort. Again we arrive with the camouflage pants, lug-soled hiking boots, and zebra-trimmed bush hats, tromping through someone’s hushed art gallery of a hotel lobby.   But this time, we throw ourselves on the nearest beer bottle, nearly weeping with relief for having made it thus far unscathed. Okay, maybe that really nice lady with the Bottega Veneto bag and Gucci loafers, who rode serenely down that same awful hill, confident in her young son’s ability at the wheel, sipped white wine.  

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