#but like!! they had white nailpolish! what else was i supposed to do?

[send-me-a-kae-via-subspace]

quinn is so stylish like?? they got the best outfits

[i-am-a-bad-influence-writes]

The Dutchess’ Garden - Part 1

Series Masterlist - Chris Evans Masterlist - Full Masterlist

Pairing: Chris Evans x OC Emma Meijers

Warnings: Strong language, age difference, smut but not really smut

Word count: 1922

‘Good evening gentlemen,‘ a female voice calls from behind the bar, ‘you must be here for Robert and Mark. They’re outside. I’ll be right there to take your order.‘ Chris can’t help but stare for a second. Who is this woman and why has he never seen her before? She looks beautiful. Golden waves brush her shoulders, heart shaped lips painted red, rosy cheeks, and bright blue eyes. While Tom is already standing on the doorstep to outside, Chris hesitates. ‘Chris, are you coming?’

‘Oh, yeah, of course,‘ Chris stutters and tries to pretend he wasn’t staring at the bartender just a second ago. The two venture outside to find a deck atop the green sea in front of them. It could seat a pretty big party if you squeezed, but by the way the seating spaces are spread on the deck you can tell that that’s not what they’re going for. It’s cozy, with string lights everywhere, candles on the tables, celebrities littered throughout the place looking completely at rest. Some are with others chatting away, others are reading, some are simply enjoying the music playing through the outside speakers. ‘Ah, you found it,‘ Robert calls over to the two men walking. They gain a few looks, a few greetings, and walk over to Robert and Mark where they sit down. ‘Welcome to The Dutchess’ Garden,‘ Mark says, raising his glass to the two. Chris looks confused at the shape glas. It stands on a leg like a wine glass, but has an hourglass kind of shape, with the upper part cut in half so that the top bit is wider than the bottom. On the table is a bottle in a wine cooler filled with ice water, but it doesn’t look like it’s wine. ‘So what is this place,‘ Tom asks as both of them take a seat. He doesn’t seem as confused about the glass. ‘It’s a kind of secret bar for celebrities who don’t always want cameras in their face,‘ Mark tells them, ‘Robert took me here the first time we filmed something from Marvel together.‘ ‘And how did you find it,‘ Tom asks Robert.  ‘Robert helped my father find a place to start it,‘ a female voice says and the group sees the bartender from before stand at their table. ‘Gentlemen, meet Emma Meijers,‘ Robert introduces, ‘her dad and I go way back. He helped me out when I was stuck in the Netherlands once and we kept in touch. Anyway, she runs the place now.‘ Chris looks her up and down with starts in his eyes. Emma is not your typical skinny model. She has an hourglass figure with a little more sand that is perfectly accentuated by the copper wrap dress that she wears. Though the dress conveys a mature look, her kiwi socks and white sneakers don’t. They mix the playful with the mature to come out with a sort of teasing image. She has her ears pierced in multiple places and wears golden rings and dangling earrings in them. Around her neck are two different golden necklaces. One a simple chain, the other a chain with a coin hanging from it. She wears a brown hair tie around her wrist and has chipped, red nailpolish. Chris is mesmerized, but that doesn’t mean the others don’t stare. ‘Thank you for the introduction Robert,‘ Emma smiles, ‘I hope you have told your guests about the secrecy of The Dutchess.‘ ‘I have not,‘ Robert turns back to us, ‘The Dutchess is a secret bar like Mark said, but she also asks for her guests to keep the secret. Not all celebrities know about her and she tries to keep her clientele the right crowd by being a members only and invite only bar. So no telling others until The Dutchess decides you can be a member.‘ Emma nods with a smile. ‘Now that we have that out of the way,‘ she says, ‘Mark and Robert are enjoying some jonge jenever, but I can get you anything else. We have several different types of Dutch and Belgian beers, we have gin though I would suggest trying the jenever over gin, and we also have some different kinds of whiskey.‘ She looks at Chris with a wink. ‘Of course we also have ice if you need ot water it down.‘ A laugh erupts from the group. ‘Emma, I think they’ll like the jenever. Can you get us two more glasses and another bottle of water?‘ ‘Of course Robert, I’ll be right back.‘ ‘She’s a feisty one,‘ Chris huffs, crossing his arms in front of his chest. ‘Come on Chris, you can’t seriously tell me a pretty girl made you sulk because she called you a pussy for drinking whiskey on the rocks,‘ Robert laughs. Chris sighs, but Tom is already in the next topic. ‘So it’s The Dutchess is spelled with a T because they’re Dutch? That’s such a fun play on words,‘ he comments, ‘but how do they keep their staff quiet?‘ ‘From what she told me,‘ Robert explains, ‘they ask the staff to sign a contract that requires them to keep The Dutchess secret. Otherwise they get fired and are sued.‘ ‘So they’d never hire you,‘ Chris jokes, trying to take the attention away from him more. But it backfires as Emma reappears with the glasses and the water. ‘But I wouldn’t hire you either,‘ she says, ‘you’re too big and I doubt anyone other than Chivas would want a superhero that drinks whiskey on the rocks.‘ ‘Is this how it’s going to be tonight,‘ Chris asks, trying to sound jokingly. ‘I mean, I could start asking why you consider jellybeans a food or ask you if you can drive,‘ she jabs at him. ‘How do you know all this stuff?‘ ‘Dutchess secret,‘ she teases with a wink as she puts down the glasses. ‘Don’t sell yourself short Emma,‘ Mark smiles, ‘she’s a great hostess and because you can’t get in here without giving a name, she researches people before they come here so they get the best service.‘ ‘And she shames everyone who drinks whiskey on the rocks,‘ Robert adds, ‘she did the same thing when we brought Hiddleston here. He drinks Jameson on the rocks.‘ ‘You’re not supposed to drink whiskey on the rocks,‘ she says in her own defense, ‘it’s a pure product. You should drink it pure. Or if it’s just a temperature thing, you could ask for a cold glass, but-‘ ‘You’re rambling darling,‘ Robert says with a smile. She tucks some hair behind her ear with a small blush forming on her cheeks. ‘So sorry about that,‘ she says, ‘but to ramble on a little longer for our newcomers. The drink you have in font of you is jonge jenever. It’s the drink gin was based of off and it is far superior. I don’t just say this because I am Dutch and it is a Dutch drink. It’s genuinely better. You’re supposed to fill your glass to the brim and drink it cold and pure. Enjoy.‘ She walks off, walking past a few other tables to have a chat and a laugh. Chris watches her go around. ‘She knows a lot about all that,‘ Tom says as Robert pours all of them a glass of jenever. ‘She studied it,‘ Robert tells them, ‘she knows a lot. Wine is her area of expertise. She is not really a sommelier, but she was studying it before she had to take over here.‘ ‘Take over?‘ Tom looks a bit concerned at the word choice Robert had made. It would imply something bad happened. 'We shouldn’t gossip about Emma,’ Mark says, ‘she took over for her dad. That’s all.‘ Chris nods agreeing, but he wants to know more. Not like this though. He wants to hear her tell it. In fact, he wants her to tell him anything. Her voice is wonderful to listen to. Even when she makes fun of him.

‘I hate to be a buzzkill, but I’m doing the last round,‘ Emma says with a kind smile, ‘I don’t mind staying open a little longer, but I do have to move you guys inside if you want to stay.‘ The four men look at her like she spoke gibberish and only now realize that they’re the only ones left. ‘That’s alright Emma, I think Mark and I will be leaving,‘ Robert says and turns to Tom, ‘Tom, do you need a ride into town?‘ ‘Yes, that’d be great.‘ ‘Good, Emma, would you be a doll and tell Marcus we’re ready to leave?‘ ‘Of course,‘ she says and scurries back inside to warn the driver who had been sitting inside the whole evening. Emma had offered him a book of hers when he finished his, which she did more often when drivers had to stay for a long time. ‘Your driver has been here the whole time,‘ Tom asks in amazement. ‘Yes, Emma takes great care of him,‘ Robert tells him, ‘makes him virgin cocktails and coffee or a meal if they want.‘ ‘She really is a great hostess,‘ Mark adds as he gathers his stuff. Marcus walks outside to alert the men that he’s ready to get them home. ‘You’ll be fine, right Chris?‘ ‘Oh yeah, don’t worry about me.‘ The group says goodbye and Chris is left alone, outside, enjoying the view and the quietly played music. Emma walks outside with a beer bottle in hand. She sits down next to Chris to enjoy the view with him. ‘I’m sorry, did you want me out,‘ he asks Emma a bit shocked. ‘No, it’s fine,‘ she says, ‘I’m done inside, so I thought I’d join you for a drink. If you don’t mind, of course.‘ ‘I enjoy the company,‘ he says with a smile. She watches his face with a smile. There’s a slight drunk blush on his cheeks, but nothing too bad. She saw he had drank the least out of all of them, drinking more water to keep himself grounded. ‘Can I pour you another one or are you good?‘ ‘If you’re not going to shame me, I’d like a whiskey on the rocks.‘ She chuckles. ‘What kind?‘ ‘Surprise me.‘ ‘That’s not a kind of whiskey,‘ she teases, but she’s off before he can jab back at her. He watches her walk away. She is truely stunning. He wonders how a business like this keeps existing, but they probably ask more for drinks or something. ‘I played it safe,‘ she says as she hands him a glass, ‘it’s Chivas.‘ He smiles and absentmindedly puts an arm over the back of the bench they’re sitting on, almost brushing her shoulder with his hand. ‘Wow, you’ve been liberal with the ice,‘ he jokes. ‘Whiskey on the rock,‘ she laughs, ‘if you want more, there’s an ice machine behind the bar.‘ ‘You’re just going to let me behind the bar,‘ he smiles a bit confused. ‘I’m off duty. Making you that drink was me being friendly. You gotta get your own stuff now,‘ she teases. He laughs and as the evening gets later, the two get more familiar with each other. But all nights must come to and end and so does this one. Emma lets Chris out the front door and throws him another sweet smile. He starts walking away, but she calls after him. He stops and turns around to find her running after him. She hands him a piece of paper. ‘Just so you know,‘ she smiles shyly, ‘you’re always welcome here. Would be a shame to refuse someone living this closeby.‘ She runs back inside and he watches her. When the door closes he checks the piece of paper he got. It’s a flyer with the opening times of The Dutchess’ Garden, as well as a form to sign up to be a member.

[notanacousticsetcal]

girl crush (lrh) - chapter one

request - nope! but my requests are now open.

summary - luke is 19 and 5sos is at the top of their game. daisy harlow is a solo artist becoming more popular by the day. daisy and luke “date” for publicity but some real feelings start to spark during their forced time together. the only problem? luke has a girlfriend.  

warnings - brief mention of an abusive father, not great relationship with her mom either, mentions of lonliness and she’s just kind of in pain? some anxiety.

word count - 1.7k

a/n - i’m planning on making this long so it might permanently move to wattpad for updating but i’ll let y’all know. also, its not clarified in this chapter but daisy’s mom is native hawaiian (polynesian).

My platform boots clack against the hardwood floors as I make my way to the stool perched center stage, a microphone resting expectantly atop it. I mentally curse myself for not touching my manicure up before the show as I stare anxiously down at my chipped nailpolish. I ring my fingers out before grabbing the mic and sitting down. I cross my legs and get comfortable as I wait for the musicians to get situated around me. It’s so quiet, you can hear the quiet chatter among bystanders in the hall. I stare at the ground uncomfortably. No matter how many times I perform, every single time without fail my hands shake and my mind races with the what-ifs. What if I mess up the lyrics and the band can’t follow me? What if I don’t take enough breaths and get all choked up? What if my voice cracks? What if I can’t hit the high notes? But once the melancholy guitar kicks in, I’m whisked away in the same chords I strummed that night on my apartment floor. The notes were a lot more choppy when I was playing them, my teary eyes obstructing my view. 

“Trying not to hold dear to my safety.” 

My hands shake. I think about my father’s face twisting in anger. I wondered what I had done this time. It was always something. That house was never a home. It was sewn together by my screams and my father’s bitter resentment. Things built on fragility crumble quickly.

“Prisoner to my miracles, save me.” 

I’m transported back to those stupid commercials. My mother dragged me all around Hollywood, passing me script after script. ‘Chin up, tamarii,’ she would say. ‘Smile big for the men in suits.’ When she found out I could sing, I was never allowed to close my mouth again. Whatever made her money. Whatever got her away from my father. At whatever cost to me.

“From the roof that I built myself, gave me.”

The day she left, so did I. Do you grieve for someone who is supposed to put you above all else? Whose job it is to keep you safe, but who fails? I left and I didn’t spare a second glance to that rickety old house. The last one on the right with the peeling yellow siding and splintered red door. The one that kept me safe and dry from the storms outside, but never the storms inside me. Or the storms inside my father. 

Everything I have now, I made myself. My mom took every cent she used me for with her, but she couldn’t take my music. And she didn’t take me.

“Only thing that I didn’t want more of was the feeling I couldn’t escape it.”

Physically, I would never have to see them again. So why wouldn’t they leave me alone? Not even my thoughts were safe.

“Waiting tables at a minute complaining that the phone would start ringing.”

Six months ago, I was waiting tables at Rico’s wondering when I could support myself doing what I love. Part of me wishes I could go back to the simplicity. I’ve never felt more alone than I do now. 

“But lately, my soul’s looking for a better way to deal with all the little changes that keep freaking me out. Wouldn’t hurt to figure out a better way of imitating so I don’t let me down. Sitting in the middle of a city with a million strangers and it's getting too loud.”

I let my voice express the emotion I’m feeling. Living in LA on my own has been a lot lonelier and colder than I expected. And what if this whole thing doesn’t work out? What if by tomorrow nobody likes me anymore? But above all, the person I’m most worried about disappointing is myself. Maybe because I’m all I have left. 

“Wouldn't hurt to figure out a better way of imitating so I don’t let me down.

So I don’t let me down.

So I don’t let me down.

Got no time to be overthinking. Can’t let thoughts in my head beat the demons that wanna drive me away for believing in the things that I was so sure of. 

Had to lie, end the fight, be my savior.

Emphasizing the light to my failures ‘cause it's not black or white in its nature.

When the plane lands I’m still looking for a better way to deal with all the little changes that keep freaking me out. 

Wouldn’t hurt to figure out a better way of imitating so I don’t let me down. Sitting in the middle of a city with a million strangers and it's getting too loud.

Wouldn’t hurt to figure out a better way of imitating so I don’t let me down…

Cause I keep thinking when the sun gets better, I’ll be dancing on my fears from yesterday…

And no, I can’t keep thinking when the sun gets better, I’ll be dancing on my fears from yesterday. Cause I’m still looking for a better way to deal with all the little changes that keep freaking me out. 

Wouldn’t hurt to figure out a better way of imitating.

So I don’t let me down.”

The last note carries for a moment more as I open my eyes to the small crowd in front of me. They applaud loudly, turning off the flashlights I didn’t notice they had on. I smile as they cheer, laughing at their unexpected enthusiastic nature. With that, the band begins to pack up and I stand to shake their hands, mine no longer trembling but instead, steady as a rock.

I walk off stage, reveling slightly in this short burst of confidence I get after performing. I’m led to a back room with TVs tuned in to the show. A commercial for OxyClean is playing. I miss Billy Mays. My manager is sitting on the couch with some middle aged man with a scruffy beard and a baseball cap. Once I catch her eye, she waves me over excitedly. “Daisy! Babes, come here. Got some exciting news.” Mariah pats a spot on the sofa next to her and I sit on the plush red material. 

“What’s up?” I ask hesitantly. I love Mariah to death -- the woman treats me like her own -- but she can be a little out there. I’ve had to turn down her extravagant ideas on more than one occasion. Once, she wanted me to perform while hooked into a harness, flying over the fans. Sounds more like something Gaga would do (and rock it), but it's just not me. 

Her signature red velvet lipstick is painted pristinely across her lips, per usual. She smiles warmly at me. “This kind man is Mr. Wilson. He’s the manager of a band called 5 Seconds of Summer! I’m sure you’ve heard of them, right doll?” She blinks at me expectantly and I smile politely. 

“Of course. I’ve heard some of their stuff. They’re great.” Mariah giggles excitedly.

“I’m so glad you think that, Daisy. Jack and I -- excuse me -- Mr. Wilson and I have been talking for a few weeks now about maybe arranging something between you.” Her expression turns nervous.

“What do you mean? Like a collaboration? Well, their stuff tends to have more of a punk edge, but--” Mariah cuts in, waving her hands dismissively. 

“No, no, not a collaboration. Though that might not be a bad idea for the future,” Mariah raises her brows, nudging Mr. Wilson with her shoulder. “We were thinking something more like hanging out with them. Particularly… the lead singer Luke.” She looks apprehensive, like she suspects I might not like this suggestion.

“By hangout… you don’t mean as friends. Do you?” My tone is extremely unamused. I begin to stand, sick of Mariah’s insane ideas. “Mariah, I can’t deal with--” Mariah tugs me back down by my sleeve.

“Daisy, please hear us out,” she pleads. “You won’t have to even see him in private. Everything will be for the paps. For publicity. Both you and the 5sos boys are releasing new music and… well, Mr. Wilson and I have an inkling that this little stunt might be really good for sales.” Mariah nudges me suggestively and places a hand on my knee. “Look, sweetie. I know this isn’t your kind of thing, but you know Mama Riah is always looking out for you. It’ll only be a 2 month thing. A little fling!” I gasp audibly and push Mariah’s hand off my knee.

I shake my head. “2 months? I thought we were talking a few pictures together max! Mariah, I love you but you’re insane.” 

“Daisy, please think about this. 2 months of your life. That’s it. We’ll make it look like you're an item, but short and sweet. We’ll make the break up messy. Lots of news coverage just in time for your new single and the boys’ new album. It's genius!” She grabs both of my shoulders, shaking me with every syllable. I sigh, defeated. She was really fighting for this. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. A few extra sales for a couple months with some random boy. Sounds manageable. 

Mariah could see me mulling it over in my head. Her shoulders tensed, awaiting my response. “Alright, alright. I’ll do it.” She squeals in excitement, throwing her arms around me and pulling me into a tight hug. I struggled to breathe through her poofy curls and choke a little on her intoxicating fruity perfume. She pulls away and takes my face between her hands, careful not to claw me with her long, red nails. “This is gonna be fantastic, Daisy, you just wait.” She gives one more excited squeal and turns to Mr. Wilson. While they chat excitedly, I slump back into the soft, velvet couch, losing myself in the oversized cushions. 

The show came back from commercial break and I watch as the next musical guests take the stage. A boy with multicolored fringe straps a guitar over his body while the boy behind him sits himself at the drum kit. Another boy with dark hair walks out with a bass hanging from his shoulders. The last boy to take the stage makes his way up to the mic stand, pulling a pick from it. He slings his guitar comfortably over his shoulders and turns to converse with his bandmates. That blonde is Luke Hemmings. 

Boy, am I in for it because he is gorgeous.

[collapsingintojupiter]

Sunshine and StormClouds: Chapter 12

Catch up:

Chapter 1  Chapter 1.5  Chapter 2  Chapter 3  Chapter 4  Chapter 5  Chapter 6  Chapter 7  Chapter 8  Chapter 9  Chapter 10   Chapter 11

___

*Cough* yeah it’s been awhile.

Characters: Roman, Logan, Virgil, Patton, Remy

Relationships: Analogical, mentioned Romile (Roman x Emile)

Warnings: (Very brief) alcohol mention, a little swearing, and...I don’t think anything else? This one’s pretty fluffy.

___

Remy was, in fact, quite jealous when he saw Virgil’s nails the next day.

“Gurl, where did you get these?” he demanded, grabbing Virgil’s hand and looking at the design with big eyes. “You have to tell me, c’mon!”

“Oh, it’s only from the best-ever stylist in town,” was Virgil’s answer. He sipped at his coffee and laughed at how Remy looked like he was going to implode, enjoying their banter a lot more than usual this time around. Patton tried Logan’s iced tea and made a face, drawing another laugh from him.

“Alright alright, I’ll tell you,” he conceded at last with another chuckle. Remy lit up at once.

“Yeah yeah, go on,” he said.

“So…it turns out our babysitter is also a blooming artist. He painted my nails for me last night, and a few of Patton’s too.”

As if it was his cue, Patton reached towards Remy with grabby-hands, showing off the blue on his left hand. Remy set his coffee down and took the boy, leaving Logan to finish off his iced tea while he processed the information.

“You’re kidding me,” he said after a minute, looking over Virgil’s nails again. “This is amazing, what even…”

“I know, right?”

“Well then,” Remy said as he handed Patton back to his father and finished off his drink. “Looks like I have a babysitter to catch.”

---

Roman wasn’t sure how to react when he found that he wouldn’t be walking home from school that day—Remy waited for him outside In his car, motioning him over as soon as he was out the door.

“How’s Emile?” he asked as soon as Roman opened the door. He blushed at that, climbing in and looking down at his shoes.

“He’s, um, he’s good,” he said quietly. Then he looked up. “Why are you picking me up? Do Virgil and Logan need me?” he frowned. “Is something wrong?”

“No, no!” Remy waved a hand and shook his head, a grin on his face and glitter in his eyes. “Nothing’s wrong, my boy. Aunty Remy just wants to spoil you a little, if you don’t mind?”

“Oh…okay.” Roman grinned. Being spoiled by Aunty Remy wasn’t something he was gonna pass up.

“Also…I have a favor to ask of you.” Roman raised an eyebrow in question at that.

“A favor?”

“Yeah, I hear that this town has a budding artist, is that right?” Roman’s eyes widened.

“You saw—”

“Yup! And I was so impressed, I thought I might ask if you’d be willing to do mine too? I’ll pay you, of course. And I’ll take you out to coffee again, cause Aunty Remy needs his caffeine…does that sound good to you?” Roman couldn’t help the smile that nearly split his face.

“Totally!”

...

Roman wasn’t quite sure why Remy called the drink “pumpkin-spiced seasonal depression,” because as far as he was concerned it was the most amazing thing in the world. Either way, he wasn’t complaining, and he smiled behind his drink while Remy shared with him all of the latest gossip he knew of.

Which there was a lot of, apparently.

“Now,” Remy said, setting down his coffee once he’d finished telling Roman about his old highschool friend Ashely’s divorce, “I know that you do your Chemistry homework with Logan, is that right? What do you say we drop in on him? I’ll order a pizza, and you can have dinner with us.”

“Wait, how’d you know Logan was helping me?” Roman asked, though he still hadn’t managed to banish the grin from his face. Remy winked at him. 

“He helped me through Chemistry too, you know. That big brain of his is the only reason I was able to pass.”

“Really? Virgil said he helped him too…”

“Yup! Ol’ Logan tutored a lot of people, and I personally thought he was a better teacher than all of the paid staff at that dumpster fire they called a school combined.” Roman laughed, and he only shrugged. “Hey, I’m telling it like it is. Now, let’s go give our dear friends a surprise visit, shall we?”

…

“Hello Roman, Remy tells me that you’re in need of further assistance on your Chemistry?”

Roman blinked at Mr.Sanders, while Remy laughed and pushed past him. “Now now, we have to feed the boy first. The pizza dude should be here in a few minutes, and then you can amaze him with your brilliance all you want.”

“You got a curfew at home, kid?” a third voice asked, and Roman glanced up as Virgil came into the hallway, Patton at his hip. Patton smiled happily, reaching for Roman with his little hands when he saw him.

“Ro!” he yelled.

Roman smiled at him, then looked to Virgil. “Uh, sort of, I just gotta be there before my mom goes to bed.”

“When is that, normally?” Logan asked. 

“Uh...around 10 sometimes, though sometimes it’s a lot later.” Roman shrugged. “It depends.”

Logan raised an eyebrow, but Virgil’s eyes held the same unsettling look of understanding they’d always had.

Remy was in the kitchen. 

“You should have seen how jealous he was when he saw my fingernails,” Virgil half-whispered to Roman with a grin. 

“He asked me to do his too,” Roman told him, also grinning.

“Ah, so that explains why I’m getting free pizza tonight. I owe you.”

“Virgil, please tell me you’re not only going to eat pizza.” The group started after Remy, Logan lecturing Virgil on his eating habits while the darker-eyed father half-listened to him with a tired but adoring grin. Roman carefully set his backpack down by the wall, grabbed his nail kit, and ran over to the table. Remy and Virgil were already helping little Patton get strapped into his high chair, and Logan had set out finding something "healthier” for his husband to eat. Remy grinned at Roman as he came in. 

“Ah, it’s our guest of honor!” he called. Virgil chuckled, then went to get something for Patton while Remy sat and Roman started pulling out colors and supplies. 

Lets see, Remy’s classy and fancy… Roman looked over Remy’s outfit, which was fashionable as always: a black trilby hat, sparkly earrings, shades, a gray scarf, and a fancy gray sweater to match with it. 

I have the perfect idea. 

Remy, for once, was quiet as Roman got to work, watching the boy with a look of curiosity and intrigue as he pulled out colors and brushes. He started with Remy’s index finger, painting it black before adding pale pink stripes to it. The next one was pink, with thin black stripes. Then Roman did another black one, this time with pink dots, followed by a pink one with black dots.

When he got to Remy’s thumbs Roman grinned really big, then pulled out the green nail polish. He carefully applied a layer of darker green paint; then, when it had dried, he pulled out the white, painting a tiny logo on top that could only resemble one thing:

“Oh my god it’s Starbucks!” Remy squealed, holding up his hands and gazing at Roman’s work with the biggest smile he’d ever seen. Remy gave Roman an excited thumbs-up, then ran into the living room to show Virgil. 

“Well, you’ve certainly made his day,” Logan mused from over by the counter with a small smile. 

“If you’d like, I can do yours too,” Roman offered automatically, then froze. 

Oh shit--

Logan raised an eyebrow, though instead of declining like he had expected, the teacher nodded after a short hesitation. 

“I suppose I can’t be the only one in this family without nail polish on me, can I?” he asked. To anyone else, his expression was quite unreadable--was that a smile or a frown? But Roman knew it, and he was shocked by it--the blue-tied father’s tone was amused, even happy. 

It made Roman feel warm inside. He smiled back at the teacher, then motioned for Logan to sit. He quickly pulled out several shades of blue, his cheeks burning as he listened to Virgil and Remy arguing in the living room over whose nailpolish was the best. Both were very adamant that is was theirs. Meanwhile, Patton contented himself with several toys that Logan had left with him in his high chair, and as they waited for the pizza Roman started to paint. 

Logan...the picture in his mind, unlike Virgil’s aura of stormclouds and rain, was almost calming in its own way. Logan was smart, but also kind, and when that combined with Patton’s aura of sunbeams and Virgil’s dark skies it painted a unique and beautiful picture that could be found nowhere else.

Roman realized, suddenly...he almost saw these people as family. 

Two fathers, a crazy aunt, and one sunray of a boy were more of a home to him than Roman had ever known before. Of course, he wasn’t homeless, and Roman knew that he was lucky he wasn’t, but his tired house that smelt of booze and hopelessness just wasn’t home in the way Virgil and Logan’s house was...

Roman didn’t know what he thought of that. He put his head down and went back to painting.

“There,” he said after a while, flashing Logan a big smile. “You like it?”

Logan didn’t answer him; he just stared. He held his hand up, then slowly rotated it, looking over the details on every finger with...that couldn’t be...admiration?

“Roman I…” Logan shook his head after a moment. “This is the most aesthetically pleasing thing I’ve ever seen before…”

Roman beamed. 

“You two are being awfully quiet in there,” came Virgil’s voice from the living room, followed by two sets of footsteps as the bickering pair made their way back to the kitchen. 

“oh damn gurl!” Remy shouted when he saw Logan holding up his hands, at the same time Virgil’s eyes widened considerably above the dark eyeshadow. 

“Language,” Logan said automatically, but he still had that quiet, soft smile on his face as Remy grabbed his hand to examine Roman’s work there. 

The index fingers of his hand were blue with stripes, just like Logan’s tie. Next was a tiny white brain icon on a dark blue background, followed by a delicately-done artwork of circuitry on his ring finger. The pinkies were both indigo-colored with white dots, and on his thumbs Roman had painted a tiny sun on one, and a little stormcloud on the other with backgrounds to match--Virgil and Patton. The sunshine and storm clouds.

“My students will be so jealous,” Logan remarked, and Virgil laughed. 

“Hell yeah they will!” 

Roman’s eyes widened when a $20 bill was slapped into his palms, looking up at Remy in shock. 

“Wh…”

Remy chuckled at his expression. “I promised to pay you, remember? You did a stunning job, my boy.”

“I am...also impressed,” Logan said. Virgil chuckled, nudging his shoulder as the doorbell rang.

“Pick your jaw up off the floor and go get the pizza,” he laughed. 

“Virgil, a human jaw can’t even...oh.’ Logan paused. “A joke. I get it.” He shook his head and started for the door, while the other two adults exchanged looks. 

“He ain’t been that blown over since he first saw your face,” Remy remarked, and Virgil smacked him. 

Logan came back a few minutes later with the pizza, and the four laughed and joked over dinner while Patton got to try his first (and last, Logan swore) piece of pizza. Roman was happy to note that he enjoyed it quite a bit. 

“He’s taking after you, kid,” Virgil said with a chuckle as Roman reached for his third slice. Roman froze, and the older man laughed. 

“Don’t worry, it’s a compliment,” Remy butted in, throwing a carrot at Virgil.

“I, for one, would love to see Patton grow to be as kind and hardworking as you are,” Logan stated, throwing a glare at Remy. 

Don’tcrydon’tcrydon’tcrydon’tcry…

Roman got up and ran into the bathroom.

Dammit.

He cried.

And it was the happiest cry he’d ever had.

[mcrmadness]

Flower asks: Heliotropium and Tropical White Morning Glory. If I'm not mistaken, it should be early morning in Finland when I send this ask, so I hope you have a good day :D

It was something after 4am when you sent the ask - but I’m a night owl so I was still very much awake :D Thank you for the ask!

***

Heliotropium: What helps you calm down when you feel stressed? 

Hmmm. I have anxiety disorders but I actually don’t stress about things that easily? At least I won’t have the normal stress... I usually am very calm and relaxed to begin with and mainly get stressed when I feel like I can’t get a peace of mind or if I know there’s a chance people will write or try to call me. Also things like die ärzte make me stressed when I know something is happening and I want a vacation from all that, that’s why I love nights because that’s usually when nothing happens (except for 1am in Finland because that’s midnight in Germany and they love doing this around midnight on their website...)

So I guess that’s your answer: I stay up at nights. It really helps with stress because nothing is supposed to happen between 1am and 7am usually. Tho, then I might start to stress the daytime and that I miss something because I’m asleep. But I also often do this on purpose because if I sleep at daytime, the time will reach 4-6pm sooner and that means all agencies close so they won’t be calling me that day anymore, and I can start relaxing again. And if I sleep with my phone on mute, I won’t wake up to any calls and messages.

Another thing I do when I’m actually stressed out is escapism. I watch movies, tv series or my personal favourite: play videos games. Skyrim is actually my ultimate escapism game, I ALWAYS go for that when I start to feel that normal life is taking its toll on me and that I need to get away from everything, so I will just start Skyrim and go shoot down some draugrs with arrows and might do this for several days in a row. Perfect!

***

Tropical White Morning Glory: Describe your aesthetic. 

This is so wide as a question it’s hard to say what does this mean? Clothing? People? Houses? Just overall? I’m googling this question now because it’s so wide I actually don’t really understand what is meant with it.

But I think my “aesthetic” is actually a loner, if that makes any sense. I don’t belong to anything or anywhere. I dress up the way I want and what makes me feel comfortable. I’ve never cared about other people’s opinions even tho it also conflicts with the fact I’m often very self-conscious and don’t always show my own true opinions or beliefs to people. I’m socially awkward and social skills are difficult. Usually I either don’t have opinions or they are very strong but neither of these options please other people and I get called out. I also often get called out for not knowing “general knowledge” but I don’t care, because if it doesn’t interest me, then it doesn’t, so just deal with it. I have always had a desire to be different and it’s a both a curse and a gift - I’m proud of not being like everyone else but it also leads to me not fitting in and becoming more lonely. I kinda know what I could or should do to fit in, but I’m just not interested in that. Because I hate fake people and that would not make me genuine and I’d no longer be who I really am.

What comes to aesthetic as a style... well, I like black. I dress only in black and I have been dyeing my hair black since I was almost 20 (after dreaming about it since I was 15). The I-wear-nothing-but-black started originally because I always felt too visible in any other color, especially white, and I felt uneasy, and black clothes made me feel smaller and thinner and more confident. Black jeans happened when my last dark blue jeans broke and I bought black ones and never went back to blue jeans.

I also don’t fall under any specific clothing style genre. It’s just black and a studded belt (that you can’t see because I never have my shirt in my jeans because that makes my stomach area look super annoying) and some bracelets with studs, and black nailpolish. I don’t use makeup and I never really do my hair because I’m lazy, uninterested and have no time ever. I just wake up and hope it doesn’t look that awful today. I pretty much look the same all the time and it turns from “punk-ish” to “metallic” simply by changing from a die ärzte or Apulanta shirt to a Rammstein shirt and that’s it.

The final aesthetic: I want to have a house and live somewhere in the middle of nowhere near a forest and have lots of animals. At least cats. Maybe a few dogs because I’d be scared shitless living in a house all by myself without dogs when I always am afraid of seeing faces behind my apartment windows and I live in the second floor :D I also love horses but not sure if I’d want to own them as I’m not a good rider at all, and driving them all alone sounds bit too scary and dangerous too (I’m a trotter horse groom!).

You had a very wide question, so you also had a very wide answer :D I honestly don’t really understand what does “what is your aesthetic?” even mean, so I hope this was close enough :p

Ask game: Flower Asks.

[takemeawaytocamelot]

Red Jamie and the White Lady - Part 9

I am having SO SO much fun with this AU. It’s crazy. And all of your responses to it have been so encouraging. I can’t wait to see where this goes! As always, my amazing partners in crime @diversemediums and @outlandishchridhe are incredible! DM asks so many important questions that I usually don’t have the answers to. But we work it out!! I love all your theories and hope you all love this chapter!

Catch up on chapter 8 HERE

The drive home for Claire was quiet and slow. She took her time, hardly paying attention to where she was actually going. All she could think of was the conflict Jamie had had. While he’d said repeatedly that he didn’t want to see her again, she was sure it wasn’t true. Not after he’d given her that book. That was a family treasure, something generations of Frasers had used to document their history. Every birth, every death, and every story worth noting in between. He knew she would appreciate and take care of it because of her uncle, but was that the only reason he’d given it to her?

When the road began to blur, Claire pulled over onto the side of the road and fought to control herself. A strange ache began to pulse in her chest, something she hadn’t felt in a very long time. She thought about never seeing Jamie again, never hearing his voice, never seeing his smile. She thought about those hours she’d spent sharing his hospital bed, how content she’d been in those moments. He was right, she still had Frank and her work, even Geillis if she was honest, but in the light of Jamie’s presence in her life, they didn’t feel like enough. She just couldn’t lose him.

Was it possible to love someone you hardly knew? To know, deep down in your soul, that life without that person wasn’t a life worth having?

“It doesn’t matter,” she said to herself, rubbing the tears out of her eyes. “It doesn’t bloody matter.”

Before she did anything else, Claire drove home to deposit the book and clean herself up. After cleaning her face, she stood in front of her mirror, looking into her own eyes.

“It’s time,” she said to herself, thinking of Frank.

They’d lived a comfortable life together, but that wasn’t enough anymore. No matter what happened with Jamie, whether she found him or not, she had something she needed to do.

“I have to tell him.”

Back in her car, she pulled onto the road and drove with purpose to Frank’s flat.

He was home, as she knew he would be. With an early class the next morning, he rarely went out late. For a moment, she thought it might be too hard for her to end things with Frank. Then she compared the thought of never seeing Frank again to never seeing Jamie and she knew the truth. Despite what might happen with Jamie, Frank simply was not her match.

“Claire?” Frank asked, opening his door. “Are you alright?”

“No, actually,” she replied, awkwardly wringing her hands together. “Do you have a few minutes to talk?”

“Of course, come in.”

Carefully dodging his greeting kiss, she walked in and sat on his couch. He raised an eyebrow but sat down beside her, making sure to leave space between them.

“What’s wrong, Claire?”

“Frank, I… I’m not sure how to say this, so I suppose I’ll just say it. I think we should see other people.”

He blinked, brows lifting in surprise.

“What? You want to end things between us?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me why? I think you owe me that much.”

She nodded, knowing she did owe him a real explanation.

“It isn’t that you’re a bad man or that you did anything wrong.”

“Is there… someone else?” he asked delicately.

“I’ve never been unfaithful to you,” she assured him. “Not once. But… It isn’t fair to you. You’re a good man, Frank.”

He nodded slowly, looking down at his hands.

“Just not the one for you.”

Claire let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and shook her head slowly.

“I’m afraid not.”

When he finally met her eyes again, she saw the sadness. But this was for the best, for both of them.

“I understand.”

“I’m sorry, Frank.”

Nodding again, he stood and walked to the table where his keys sat. He picked them up and, seeing what he was doing, Claire fished her own keys out of her purse. After a moment he returned to her, handing over his copy of the key to her flat. She held his out for him to take, grateful that their parting had been amicable. Their relationship may not have been True Love, but at least there had been a foundation of mutual respect.

“Goodbye, Frank.”

“Goodbye, Claire.”

She let herself out, feeling a strange sense of freedom. In her car once more, she thought about her options. Perhaps Jamie didn’t feel about her the way she felt about him. Even so, she had to tell him that she’d started to feel something, even if she didn’t know just what that was. Rather than go home, she drove to Jamie’s flat.

When she arrived, she’d half expected Jamie to be waiting at the door. A psychic was supposed to know the future, and he’d seemed to always know when she’d be popping by for a visit. But this time, he didn’t answer the door. Neither did Murtagh. She turned the knob and it swung open on silent hinges and her heart sank.

Furniture was still scattered in the rooms, but the personal items were gone: Murtagh’s tea set, the photos on the walls, the collections of books. It wasn’t possible. They couldn’t have disappeared that quickly, could they?

“Jamie?” she called, knowing full well the entire building was empty. “Murtagh? It’s Claire. Claire Beauchamp?”

Her heart started beating again, surging with agony. The last time she’d seen his face couldn’t be the last time. Charging through the flat, she searched every room. Eventually, she would have to accept that Jamie was gone.

“No,” she said, half to herself, half to the missing Fraser men. “If he’d meant what he said, he wouldn’t have given me that bloody book. That’s not how you give closure.”

Digging the cell phone from her pocket, she dialed his number. All she got in return was a recorded message saying the number had been disconnected. Closing her eyes, Claire tried to calm her rising panic. Two men couldn’t just vanish at the drop of a hat. The sort of preparations Murtagh had set up here took time, and there was no way he’d keep two flats. That meant they’d have to hide out somewhere until a new place could be arranged.

But if the military hadn’t been able to find him, what hope did she have? Then it dawned on her. She had something the military didn’t have. Information. She had the full Fraser clan history, specifically Jamie’s story. Murtagh had told her Jamie’s sister Jenny was still alive, living with her husband at…

Desperate to recall the name of the place, Claire paced up and down the hall. Broch. It had had broch in the name. But what was it? Half of Scotland had ‘broch’ in the name somewhere.

“Lallybroch!” she yelped suddenly, the name flashing through her mind. “Now where the hell is Lallybroch?”

Determined to reach the end of this mystery, Claire drove home with the intent to do research. Geillis was home, painting her toenails with a deep emerald color.

“Hello there,” she said sweetly before blowing on the wet paint. “And where have you been all afternoon?”

She’d been lying to Geillis for so long about Jamie to help keep him safe, but what was she supposed to say now?

“I, um… Well, I broke things off with Frank.”

“Thank GOD! I thought you’d be stuck with him forever! Oh! We should go out to the pub tonight!”

Claire’s eyes rolled hard.

“No, Geillis. I’m not going out ‘hunting’ tonight. I have some things I need to do.”

Eyes the same color as the nailpolish watched Claire disappear into her room. Pulling her laptop out of it’s bag, Claire opened up Google and started typing. She didn’t care if it took her all night. She would find Lallybroch.

When all variations on ‘Lallybroch’ didn’t turn up very much information, Claire decided to try calling one of the tourism companies in Scotland.

“Hello, thank ye for calling Heart of Scotland Tours. My name is Cynthia, how can I help ye?”

“Hello Cynthia. I’m trying to find a place in Scotland, but I’m afraid my internet searching hasn’t been very fruitful. I’m not looking to book a tour, but I’m hoping you can help me.”

Claire heard a few clicks on a keyboard.

“Och of course! What is it ye’re lookin’ for then, Claire?”

“The only name I have is a place called Lallybroch. I don’t know more than that.”

She knew the Fraser family had been attached to Lallybroch for generations, but Claire was reluctant to give that information up.

“Oh aye! That estate is up near Broch Morda, ken? It’s a verra old place, but I’m afraid they dinna allow tours of the place. I’ve tried to talk them into it, but they willna allow it. It has so much history, it would be a lovely place to have tours, but…”

“Broch… Morda,” Claire said quietly, scribbling the name down on a piece of paper. “Thank you very much, Cynthia.”

“Aye, anytime lass.”

Claire hung up and began searching for Broch Morda.

***

Dougal turned off the radio in his car. So that was where the lad had run. Finally, his patience was being rewarded.

***

Claire went to work the next day, desperate for distraction. Despite everything in her personal life breaking into chaos, work was the one thing she could count on to be consistent. Well… sort of.

“Claire, I need your help in room 7 please!”

Jogging down the hall, she pushed into the room and got to work helping Joe Abernathy. They worked side by side like a well oiled machine. With their job done and their patient breathing easily, Joe smiled at her.

“Wanna grab a cup of coffee, LJ?”

But she didn’t hear him. Her mind was filled with images of Lallybroch, the little red pin on the map on her computer screen.

“What’s up, Lady Jane,” Joe asked again, nudging her shoulder.

“I don’t know what to do,” she breathed.

Steering her to the break room, he sat her down and put a cup of coffee in front of her.

“What to do about what?” he asked softly.

She stared down at the dark liquid. One finger traced the rim of the cup over and over, her mind drifting.

Jamie had said he didn’t want to see her ever again. But then he’d given her the Fraser history book. His actions and his words were in conflict.

“Claire, if you don’t tell me what’s got steam comin’ out your ears, I’m gonna have to dump that coffee in your lap.”

“Joe, what if I’ve made a mistake? What if-”

“Start at the beginning, LJ, or this won’t make a lick of sense.”

So she did, telling him as much as she dared about Jamie. Joe slammed his empty coffee cup down on the table when she finished with the standing stones.

“That bastard had the balls to say that to you?”

“What if he was trying to protect me? Doing what he thought was right?”

“What if he was? Does that change anything?”

Did it? She didn’t know how to answer him.

“Do you know where he is?”

“No. I went back to his flat but it was empty.”

“Here’s the important question. Do you want to find him again? Or just leave things as they are?”

When she’d thought about it, she knew she had to see Jamie again. Living without him was too painful to bear. She’d done all the research to find Lallybroch, the only connection to Jamie she had left, save the book. Then again…

Too many people that she’d loved had been taken from her. Those holes in her heart would never heal, not fully. To admit to herself that she’d developed feelings for Jamie opened her up to that kind of pain again. She wasn’t sure she could survive it another time.

“Is it even worth it, Joe?”

“You didn’t know me before I married Gail,” he said, smiling at the thought of his wife. “But I was a bit like you, gunshy. I wouldn’t trade her for the world, or any of the experiences we’ve had. It’s not always easy, but it’s always worth the risk.”

Looking up at him, she met his warm brown eyes.

“So… I should find him?”

“I can’t answer that for you, LJ. But I think you already know what you want.”

A moment ago, she’d felt on the verge of crying, her throat feeling tight. Now, she had the urge to leap to her feet and whoop.

“Gail’s a lucky woman,” she said, finally taking a sip of her coffee.

“That she is. And it’s been an awfully long time since I’ve seen that spark in your eye. You go and get him, Lady Jane.”

Trying to keep the smile from her lips, she continued drinking her coffee.

***

When Murtagh Fitzgibbons Fraser had told Jamie that he had a ‘temporary place for us to hide out’, Jamie hadn’t thought it was the cave on the edge of the Lallybroch property. Yet here he was, sitting on a mat in the recesses of the earth.

Having no one to talk to, nothing to distract him, his mind wandered. The last thing he wanted was to let it go free, but he had little choice. He knew what he would see when he closed his eyes - the look on Claire’s face when he’d told her he didn’t want to see her anymore. Christ, that had felt like tearing out his own heart.

If he focused hard enough, he could still feel her body molded against his, warm and soft in all the right places. Before he knew it, tears were sliding down his cheeks.

“Are ye decent?”

Jamie jumped, not expecting any visitors in his isolation.

“Aye.”

Then his older sister Jenny appeared from the hidden opening of the cave. This was the first time he’d seen her in over two years and she looked happy.

“God, Jenny,” he choked out before falling into her arms and hugging her tight.

She was crying too, he could feel the moisture soaking through his shirt, but he wouldn’t let go.

“I could hear ye thinkin’ halfway down the hill,” she whispered. “Jamie, what have ye done now?”

“I had to, Jenny. I couldna let her come to harm.”

He’d learned a long time ago how to have a half conversation with her. With a Gift like hers, he almost didn’t need to speak at all, but he couldn’t hear thoughts like she could. Speaking was still at least a little necessary.

“Aye, I ken, brother. Come and tell me about her, aye?”

“Jenny, ye kent what I was thinking before ye even got in here.”

She shrugged and sat down on the mat he’d gotten up from.

“Aye, that’s true. But I like to hear ye talk. It’s been so long.”

Reluctantly, he eased himself down beside her. Jenny wasn’t as big as he was, she’d taken after their father more. She gave him a few moments to collect himself before nudging him in the side, right where he was ticklish.

“Her name is Claire Beauchamp,” he started.

By the time he’d finished, she’d gotten the whole story out of him, even if he hadn’t spoken all of it out loud. With her, he didn’t have to be anything other than who he was. Jenny never expected anything from him but the truth, and she always stood by his side. He’d missed her terribly in the last two years.

“I ken why ye felt ye had to, Jamie, but… Ye need her Gift.”

“Aye, I ken. But I canna… Jenny, would ye want Ian to stay wi’ ye because he feared ye’d die otherwise? That’s what it would be if I asked Claire to say and be a healer for me. I canna ask that of her.”

Jenny sighed and rested her head on his shoulder. It was something she’d done since he’d gotten taller than her and she continued to do it whenever he was back.

“I have to ask,” she said quietly.

“No. I still canna see yours or Ian’s futures. Or any bairns ye might have.”

“I thought not. It’s nice at the house, wi’ just him. We can talk and no’ hide anything. I dinna have to pretend that I didna ken the punchline of his jokes because I truly dinna ken. It’s damned annoying, sometimes.”

Jamie snorted.

“Ian’s no’ that funny.”

“Aye, he isna. But he likes when I laugh at his jokes. And I like when he smiles.”

“I’m happy for ye, Jenny. He’s a good man for ye. I’m glad ye have someone here to watch ye since I canna do it. I feel better when I ken you’re safe.”

Jenny shot him a flat look and smacked the back of his head.

“Oh, I can fend for myself. Dinna forget that, brother,” she said with a familiar edge.

Jamie laughed.

“That ye can. But it’s nice no’ to have to go it alone, aye?”

She nodded and sighed.

“Aye, it is. I should get back to him or he’ll be worriet sick. Murtagh wasna sure how long it would take before he could get ye moved somewhere else. I’m sorry Jamie. I’ll try to come up again tomorrow night and make sure ye dinna need anything.”

“Thank ye, Jenny. I ken this is dangerous for ye as well. Tell Ian I said thanks.”

“Aye, I will. I’ll make sure to leave food for ye in the kitchen. If ye come down to the house and ye need to hide quick, remember the priest’s hole. I’ll no’ have my only brother carted off never to be seen again.”

Jamie hugged her again, tightly.

Then Jenny got up and disappeared through the cave entrance. Talking with her about Claire had helped ease his mind a little, but his chest still felt like it had a hole in it. When his eyes closed, he almost began drawing on his power to See Claire, just once more. No. He had to let her go, let her be with Frank and forget about him. Maybe someday that thought wouldn’t hurt so much.

Continue to Part 10

[mydrunkpoet]

After the Storm

I. A thunderstorm occurs when a mass of air grows unstable enough to overturn violently. This happens when the upper layers of air are cooler than the lower layers. There is no fixed time period within which this process occurs.

My lover and I sit on opposite sides of the boat. The water, initially choppy, is leveling to a calm. But not before it throws a few more beads of salt into our hair.

She is looking out into the horizon. Occasionally she looks my way. But she is not thinking of me. I know the shape her face takes when I am on her mind. Today, she is unrecognisable.

This is the face of your lover, as she thinks about someone else.

Memorise it, I tell myself. And each time you think “maybe”, close your eyes and re-call it like an image burned onto the insides of your lids.

We are approaching the Tioman. We have come here to break up. Two water signs parting in the ocean. Five days of limbo for the purpose of closure. Don't leave me, I want to plead. But I don't.

The calm before the storm, she says, as the boatman slows and gestures to the water. Until now, I have thought that this was just an idiom. She tells me that warm air has accumulated as a prelude to raging sky. The sea-kites prevalent to the area have ceased flying. Animals always know when something is about to hit. I search for them among clouds like charcoal speech bubbles. I wonder what the sky is saying.

My writing mentor is reading this and telling me that I should not hide emotion behind nature. No raging winds nor hearts like fire. Too easy to use elements as metaphor. Too easy to call love the sky sand forest trees clouds desert ocean mountain flood earthquake storm.

But I am not creating metaphors. I am making the storm. I sit in its eye. I grow thick with thunder. I am expanding to two, three, ten times my size. She tells me she has fallen in love with someone else. Compares it to having all her fuses blow. Such a romantic excuse for such bad behaviour. I wish to turn her switches off one by one.

Mention details instead, my mentor says. The mundane things you remember.

The weight of your hand on the small of my back. Endearment crinkling the corners of your eyes. You pulling the covers over my feet early morning as if I were something precious.

Better now than later, a friend of mine says. At least it was only three months.

***

Three weeks after our first date, she gives me the key to her apartment. Keys are scary business. I take it anyway.

I come over earlier than expected one evening and let myself in. I find her on the edge of the bed, naked. She has just come out of a shower that has taken her three times longer than it should have; she fractured her sacrum the fortnight before, falling off her bike. She looks distraught.

What's wrong? Pause. I was having a conversation with myself in the shower. Pause. I see. What did the two of you talk about? Pause. I wanted to cook you dinner . . . but I don't think my back can take it.

She begins to cry.

Stop. Wait. What's wrong? You don't have to cook me dinner!

Pause.

I know. That's the thing. You like me anyway.

The mathematics rarely adds up and at the end of three months, I know too much. The arch of her back and the length of her stride. The dip of her waist and the sound of her voice. How her mouth slackens when she falls fully asleep and the taste of her tongue in the morning. I know her posture as she reads The Economist, electric toothbrush in her mouth. Her eyes as they scan her wardrobe, screen her calls, observe my body. She dances as she cooks, cries when she talks about her grandmother. And when she is about to come, tongue against teeth, she is quiet, lips moving ever so slightly, as if whispering prayers underneath her breath.

It takes two seconds to pull a trigger; one and half to say I do. In a blink, a high impact crash might re-align your vertebrae so that you never walk again. A decade ago, as we whiled away Christmas, nature killed thousands and stranded millions, with the energy of 23,000 atomic bombs, in only a handful of hours.

The first night we went out, it took three hours for her to take my hand and three seconds for me to decide.

Come home with me, she said, kissing my palm.

We asked for the bill, and left.

***

II. Three things are required for a thunderstorm to take place: Moisture, heat and an unstable air mass.

She is leaving me for someone else. She does not know that I know. Perhaps she does not know it herself. They never expect my premonitions. Me falling upon their thoughts like rain.

Let me tell you how I know: I can smell it on her. Like chemicals bubbling to evaporation. Like moisture condensing on skin. Like uncovered leftovers. Like a memory.

It's been following us for a fortnight. I smell it on the sheets, in her hair, coming off on my own skin. It's in her voice, diminished attention, staccattoed messages that reek of compensation. She is clinging to me in thin threads. I am afraid to move, in case we break.

Reminders to herself become reminders to me. Have you ever spoken too loudly to fill a silence too big? Swaggered into a space full of people, terrified you might trip? Used kindness to make up for your lack of charm, charm to make up for feeling unintelligent, intelligence to make up for not fitting in?

Text message: Have I told you how much I really, really like you?

Text message: Did I remember to tell you how beautiful you looked last night?

I am the silence she has to fill. The crowd she needs to impress. But I am detective to our love and I will find her out.

Text message: I love waking up to you in the morning.

Terms of endearment falling like confetti all around me. She's turning pain into a party; we're supposed to be drunk on this lie. Except I am perfectly sober. Except I have unstitched her words syllable by syllable. Except I am watching everything fall; pieces into place like hearts into love:

She is leaving me, and there is nothing I can do.

***

III. The average thunderstorm releases the energy equivalent of a 20 kiloton nuclear weapon, or a small nuclear power plant.

Take me out tonight. I am a storm itching to brew. I am a cloud clenching its fists in wait of someone to drench. I am full on want, feeding on your appetite for trouble, growing fat on expired questions desire previously didn't deem fit to guide from gut to mouth.

Take me down tonight. Abuse the fact that I won't fight back. Make all my decisions. Forget I am strong. Let my name slip your mind once it falls out your mouth. Be my arms, my legs, my voice, my longing, the root of my charm, my sense of belonging. Hollow me out and fill me with you; create echoes in all the empty spaces.

Take me back tonight. Let me occupy your body like a ghost without a home. Let me race against time, good sense, your lover; let me outrun all three with the pace of my pulse. Let me steal your heart like a kiss and hold it under my tongue: Let me flutter your arteries with the chattering of my teeth.

Metaphors, the mentor sighs, shaking his head and smiling. Words should reveal, not conceal.

Fine, I say, putting my coffee down. Let me tell you instead, how we fuck. In the morning, she told me she was in love with someone else. In the evening, I went over in my heels. Trashy, snake-skin party shoes and nothing underneath my skirt. She was in the chair, wearing only a shirt. Buttons undone and legs spread. My shoes squeaked against tiles as I got down on my knees. The sound made us laugh. The laughter was short-lived.

I have gone over like this so many times before. Pantsless, primed, dressed for a fucking. She texts me while I am in the cab. Tells me I'd better be wet on arrival. I gloss my lips when I walk into the lift. I straighten my hair and push up my tits.

My lover has a thing for my zip-up stilettoes. She calls them my fuck-me heels. They arch my calves, propel my chest forward, thrust my hips towards her when I'm up against the wall. They stay on when everything else has come off and in them, I don't have a name. In them, I am four inches closer to where she is. My lover, the tower, the skyscraper. My lover, her head in the thundering clouds.

One particular night, she dressed for me too. Ted Baker lightning white, crisp like clean air. I come out of the lift. She's by the door, lights dimmed, cuffs out. She is so beautiful I could cry. I down the shot she's made me in order to dispel the nervousness. She's human that way, beneath the code names, play things, safe words. Beneath the hard surface soft sheets hard on soft skin hard core soft porn dirty talk.

Wall. Couch. Table. Bed. I want you inside me around me above below me. Do whatever you want to me. I don't even care if I come.

This is the only place in which we are equal. Where I don't have to worry about catching up. With your proper clothes, high-end job, perfect cooking, expansive vocabulary. With the fact that you're older, smarter, sharper, so much better

looking in a suit. Here, being improper is an envied virtue. Here, being imperfect is what you like. Here, me having no words makes up for all the stupid things I usually say: Forgive my love of good bargains, my badly cut hair and chipping nailpolish. Forgive my loathing of children, spiders, public events and social situations. Forget the near-fight we had over money and the fact that my bedroom looks like it belongs to a sixteen-year-old. Forgive it all. Forget it all. I want to watch you touch yourself.

Our first night together, we are soft with one another. I skip into the living room upon seeing all her books. The kissing starts at Gloria Steinem. My hand up her top by Margaret Reynolds. She has trouble with my dress. Does it go up or down? She is more familiar with undoing belts, unbuttoning jeans, not getting lipstick on her neck. By the time we get to the bedroom, we've left clothes like breadcrumbs. By the time she's going down on me, I tell her how I can't wait to fuck her.

The night before we leave, we will end the way we began. Except this time, we are not new to each other. These are maps we have explored before. We'll laugh like children. We'll cry like adults. We'll wrestle in bed and you'll ask why I bother fighting back.

This is the edge of desire from which I fall. I want to take everything that has ever hurt me and place it between your body and mine. I want to disappear into this

creature that is us. The next day, my wrist, the colour of plums where you pinned me down with your knee.

That last night, I wanted you to take me against my will; to do to my body what you'd done to my heart.

Don't tell me this doesn't turn you on.

I can't. It does. Please stop. Please don't.

Sometimes even the best sex, isn't about the sex.

Do to my body what you do to my heart.

Break. Touch. Steal. Play with. Heat up. Let down. Feed on. Drown.

***

IV. A thunderstorm is fueled by water vapour fed from a lower atmosphere. The air, as it is warmed, is pumped up to twelve miles in the sky, and once used up, changes into rainfall.

Gut the apartment. I wish to slit it open with my stare and disembowel it of me. Toiletries. Pushed with one hand from cupboard to bag. Toothbrush I will leave; isn't mine anyway. I believe she keeps many spare. Had I time, I would burn it.

Give me back my shoes. The fun shoes, aptly named by your ex. In your drawer, next to the pumps you wore the day you wed. Give back my friend's DVDs. Return everything. Tanktop. Underwear. Tupperware. Make-up. Let me cab to work like a department store turned on its head.

But why stop there? I should comb each and every inch of your bed for hair. No DNA of mine to be left for you. No skin shed like inhibitions. Detox the memory of me from your balcony, eating chocolate and watching birds. Grab the resident gecko that spies on us and feed it to the nearest stray. I should extract every tear I have cried into pillow, bolster, shirt and sheet and wear them round my neck like pearls. And from every corner where we have wept together, unbraid your pain from mine.

Make sure I am forgotton. Length of showers. Weight on mattress. Smell of perfume. Manner of speech. You have no right to any of it. Remove all trace of me from walls, objects, furniture, food. I never walked your floor, wore your pajamas, read your books, ate your meals. Tell your mirrors to forget how I look drawing in my eyebrows, pinning up my dress, kissing you. Disentangle my words from our coversations and let them become another lost language. And when you recount all that has been said, know that you were talking to yourself.

But that's not how it happened, did it?

Let me tell you how it happened:

We left for work. I got out of the cab because I'd left my teaching materials upstairs. Abrupt shuffle. You were in a rush and I let you go reluctantly. I had wanted to leave with you so I would not have to be alone in your apartment.

Upstairs, I am a robot. I scan all rooms with with my mechanical eyes. My databases tell me it is easier to remove myself now. I take my things. I leave a note where my clothes were. I look out the window, into the trees. This is a space best left to past tense, I tell myself. Am I being too hasty? The room still smells like sex.

I fold your pajamas and wash the dishes. I re-arrange your cushions. Push in the chair. Check that I have not left anything in the study. Shut the door quietly before I leave for class.

I come home. Dump my bag in the living room. I go to my fridge to get a drink. It has not been stocked for a week. Standing solitary on the second shelf, a carton of milk. I don't touch the stuff and you have it with your muesli. Your muesli mixed with banana, yoghurt and milk. Donkey breakfast, you like to call it. Perhaps this is why you are being an ass.

Women like me get with women like you because we're never good enough.

Women like me get with women like you because you always leave.

I stare at the milk. I reach in to take it out. It is due to expire in two days. The carton is almost full and who is going to drink it, now?

***

V. In the centre of the hurricane from which the storm rotates, air sinks, clouds erode and all things are calm. This centre is known as the eye of the storm.

You and I in bed. Eating dinners. Taking walks. Watching films. You tell me the last time you were this turned on holding hands in a cinema, was when you were with your first boyfriend.

I am trying on the jacket you wore to your wedding. I am trying not to blush each time you throw me a wink. I am trying the word 'girlfriend' on for size, despite my own resistance.

My lover, she wants to take care of me. She wants me in her space. She tells me I have taken her unexpectedly. That I have curled up next to her heart.

I held you to sleep that very first night. No question, no discomfort, no need to ask. You took my hand, held it close to your chest, locked your fingers in mine, and dozed.

Three hours later, you had to get up. A 6am run to beat the sun. You tell me to sleep in. You'll be back in awhile. But by the time you're out of the kitchen, I am fully-clothed.

Could that really be me, so unflinching, getting dressed in a fluster and ready to flee? Leave nothing behind, I told myself firmly. You might not get it back.

My lover says she wants to protect me. I laugh, saying I can protect myself. How do I let her protect me when she is what I need protection from?

She writes me into her calendar. Places my shoes in her drawer. Sends me snail mail the morning of my exhibition. Turns up for the opening in her best shirt.

She is surprised when I bring her flowers. Says she's usually the half who buys them. She looks at the box of fruit I've brought. Says that no one has peeled mandarins for her since she was a child.

She is not in love with me. And makes sure to remind me. She thinks I might be seduced by romance. I should have told her the night she bought that champagne, that I would have been happy eating crackers on the couch. As long as she was sitting next to me. As long as she was there.

The night I fell in love with you, I was preparing for a show. 3am, the moon was full and I was covered in spraymount. Ruler, penknife, paper, foam. Suddenly these objects made no sense. Suddenly my bedroom made no sense. Suddenly I was in the shower, in a cab, at your door. In your apartment, in you room, in your bed. Keys, as I mentioned, are dangerous business. I whispered your name into your ear.

It was not the weekend you spoiled me stupid. Not the sms-es sent from across the sea. Not the fact that you had read my writing. Or knew all the right things to say.

It was because you like to tell stories. Identified the bulbul that flew into my yard. Because you sleep-talk in different languages. Converse with animals in Dutch.

Because you knew the difference between a hedgehog and a porcupine. Noticed my red ankle socks. Assembled your bookcases single-handedly. Colour-code your files.

Because you hold my hand in public.

A week after we've parted, I will wake to weather so angry it slams doors. Outside, an eagle will dip against the white. And I will remember how we watched sea-kites soar lines into the sky; your bird-books, hand-illustrated, older than I am; your gentle heart that longs to take flight.

I will stand by the window and watch a solitary bird cut through the storm. And that is how I will feel right then: Like my heart keeps taking off in the rain. Keeps taking off and never stops leaving.

***

VI. Sometimes, as a storm pulls wind into its lungs, a resulting vacuum occurs.

You and I had agreed that this would not be forever...but did it really have to end like this? My distrust has turned you into a stranger. What is this place and who have I come with?

We dock at the pier. A young woman in a green dress greets us. Two men take our luggage to our room. Gemini and Libra get out of the boat. Stripped of baggage, we take each other's hands.

To tell you the truth, I have not written this chapter. I am sitting at a café and drinking my coffee. My mentor is reading my first five segments. I tell him I am having trouble with the ending.

Decide how you wish to own this memory. That is how it will end.

Our last night together, we read to each other in bed; she from Douglas Adams, me from Jeanette Winterson. We were supposed to be sharing funny excerpts. But as she drifted into sleep, I flipped to the opening page:

Why is the measure of love loss?

I do this often, you know. Talk to my lovers while they sleep. About the things I can't speak of while they are awake. I know they hear me because the body can't help but listen. I know you hear me because I hear you too. Some mornings, before I am awake. You turning to watch me as I sleep. Sometimes walking to my side of the bed, pondering my shut eyes, morning hair, limp body. Leftover mascara from the night before.

At the airport, we get reception once again. We sit side by side, in silence.

Remember that face, I tell myself, as she texts a woman who is not me. That is the face of your lover, thinking about someone else.

Love is not the fury that shorts the fuses. That particular desire is too loud to be named. I have felt it too, creature ignited by things unseen. It tramples the heart, leaps out from the ruins, runs manic circles around itself, does not take no for an answer.

After lingering above the same area of ocean for too long, a storm tends to dissipate. The surface water, used and re-used, loses heat. And without that heat, no storm survives.

Love is the difference between desire and decision. Will I care for you once the winds have calmed? Lean my head on your shoulder once the noise has died? Desire you still, with the same urgency, initially propelled by thunder and heat?

Love is what happens after the storm. When we are left in silence, wrecked upon shore. The fact that I would have stayed had you asked; kissed you by the broken pieces of what we were.

Better now than later, a friend of mine says. At least it was only three months.

I am sitting on the beach, alone. I am writing about us and I am writing about love. And somewhere in here, I am writing about you: The gust of wind that blew through my heart, leaving behind this vacuum.

She and I. We sit on the boat. We have come here to break up.

This is the face of your lover, as she thinks about someone else.

[camillacarusi]

Character ID

Name: Claire Wardle  Gender: Female Age: 9-15-19-28 Place of Birth: Cambridge, England Location: Cambridge-Cambridge-Milan-London Casting: Elif Karakoc

What does she stand for: La confusione e l’incertezza verso la vita, la “noia”, il tedio; paura all’idea di accettarsi, che poi diventa quasi una sorta di pigrizia e attaccamento alla propria daily life What is her glass of water: Claire vuole riuscire a capirsi, ha passato l’intera vita a cercare di “vederci chiaro” su se stessa.

The Proust Questionnairre

Al momento in inglese, ma poi si vedrà Claire sat down, smoothing the creases on her long, flowery skirt. Uncomfortable. The whole situation was uncomfortable. The way her boots squeaked when she walked into the room, the way the chair she was sitting on squeaked, the feeling of the lacey panties she was wearing (she had to thank Mars for that, and her silly idea of "sexy") Really, really, uncomfortable. "Hello, Claire. How do you feel?" "I feel fine." Smile, tilt your head, and say you are fine. Rinse and repeat for every day of your life, that's was what her mother taught her.The interviewer (definitely not a psychologist) stared at her behind his thick glasses. "Today I will ask you some questions out of an interview Proust received. Are you familiar with Proust?" "Yes," she bit back a snarky remark about him being her acquaintance, "of course. Alright." She stopped fidgeting on the chair .She needed to answer now, and the best way to focus was to forget about everything else entirely “What do you think is the principal aspect of your personality?” Claire blinked. Her personality was a mess. Bitter sarcasm and snarky remarks, probably. “I am… tempered, I suppose. I like to think before I act out on stuff, and, uh, I… I don’t like confrontation, or to stand out. So I’d say… is “being a wallflower” a good enough answer?” “There is no such a thing as a “good enough” answer.” Bloody right there wasn’t. He wouldn’t get paid otherwise. “What is the quality that you desire in a man?” The lack of a penis. “Uh, a good brain, and the ability to understand me.” “And in a woman?” She froze, bitten nails scrapping the surface of the arm rests as if she were picking on it. Pick pick pick. “I suppose… what do you- what do you mean? I am not interested in women. So, uh, the question is… the question doesn’t need an answer, right?” “See it in a platonic way. A platonic relationship, is that alright with you? What do you look for in a friend?” Pick pick pick. “Adventure. Being able to speak her mind. To just get her stuff and go for a travel and drag me on with her.” Like Mars. “You want somebody that can push you out of your routine?” Pick pick- Pause. “Yes. Yes, I s’ppose… I suppose that is right.” “What do you appreciate the most about your friends?” Friends. Claire pondered on the word, licking her chapped lips. (Mars gave her a coconut flavoured chapstick, but she absolutely loathed coconut. Even more than she hated having chapped lips). What was a friend anyway? Did she really have someone she could consider a friend? She had a friendly enough relationship with her classmates in college. And there was always Mars. Were they friends? “The fact that they can put up with…” my shit, “the way I act sometimes.” “Let's get this started, shall we? What’s your main fault? Your favorite occupation?” “My favourite,” she marked the word with her very own british accent, “occupation would be knitting. I also like swmming- although I guess that's more than like. It’s something that I’ve been doing for so long, that I sort of… got used to it. It calms me down. My main fault is probably the fact I am sort of a loner.” Probably, yes. If she wanted to dig a bit more into herself (which she definitely didn’t want, thank you very much) she could say that she was a pushover. The sort of person that will do pretty much anything in order to not get bothered and pestered by people. She could say that, well, maybe growing up with a mother that swept every problem under the rug could have some consequences. That a mindless father still treating her like an eleven year old she hadn't been in nine years often took a toll on her psyche. But she wasn’t going to tell. So, Claire smiled, shrugging helplessly “Yes, I suppose that I’m too much of a loner, heheh.” The psychologist looked at her with an imperscrutable gaze, writing something down on his block. She wanted to take a peek, but she doubted it was an option. Bloody doctors and ethics. “What would be your greatest misfortune, Miss Wardle?” “To disappoint my parents.” She answered quickly, hardly doubtful about it. Her parents were everything to her. Every chance, every opportunity she had in her life (Swimming lesson, going abroad to study, school itself) all was thank to them. … Maybe she didn’t want to be caged in a life she didn’t feel like living, but that was... … She would cross that bridge when she’d come to it, if ever. “And what should you like to be?” Claire was feeling hot. Her head was spinning a bit, she felt dizzy. The cotton of her sweater was itchy and she wanted nothing more than to peel it off and scratch, scratch, scratch at her bare arms. She shouldn’t, though. She smiled again, discretely scratching her cheek. Crossing and uncrossing her legs. “I’m not sure…? Ah, not famous. Not even that much of accomplished in life, that’s… I suppose…” The words were molding together in her brain, the air was too stuffy. “Calm down, Miss Wardle.” Easier said than done, old man. “Happy.” She whispered with as little voice as possible. “Happy?” He raised his bushy white eyebrows. “Yes. Just waking up one day, the smell of lavander surrounding me from the blankets, and just thinking… ah, I’m happy like this.” “Are you not happy right now, Miss Wardle?” “Is this one of your questions?” “No, but—” “Then can you… can you please just… can you not?” She snapped a little, surprising even herself at her harsh tone. “… Very well. Then let’s get to some basic, easier questions. What country would you like to live in?” “I like England, but if I have to pick one… Scotland, I like the folklore. Or Italy, maybe. Italy was good.” Italy was good. “Favorite color?” “My favourite colour,” she puntuated the words again, narrowing her big, chocolatey eyes, “is teal. It’s calming.” The teal coloured nailpolish on her nails was starting to rub off, though, thanks to her habit of picking at it. “Favourite” the doctor humoured her, actually smiling a little, “flower?” “Dahlia.” Short and easy. She liked those kind of questions much more than the previous ones. “What about birds?” “I… I don’t know that.” She blinked, clearly puzzled by the answer. “I don’t think about my favourite birds on a daily basis. I mean, ‘dunno, uh… robins? They are small and cute and pretty common…? I honestly have no clue.” She moved her hand around, in a motion that clearly meant: “Please, let us go ahead, I am just giving you a random answer.” The doctor nodded, rubbing a chubby hand along his bearded chin, thinking. Well, maybe it was a pretty random question. “Favourite author?” “Prose or poetry?” “Both.” “Oh!” Her eyes lit in delight  as soon as she got the chance to talk about literature. She could literally spend the entire day conversing about it. Narrowing down her favourite authors to just a couple of people, though, was hard… “Jane Austin and Oscar Wilde for prose and for poetry… Catullus and Horace, I guess. I mean, I loved Wilde’s ballad but- no, I shan’t, if I start talking about it I’d never finish in time, so… also, Emily Dickinson was an icon and- no, no, I’ll stop here, I apologise.” The doctor nodded along again, smiling amiably. “I wouldn’t mind listening to you, but we only have a couple of questions left.” “Alright.” Claire took a deep breath, feeling better than some minutes ago. Her panties were still painfully stretched, though, and she was aware of the way her tanktop was glued to her sweaty back, like a second skin under the black sweater. “What are your heroes? In fiction, if you don’t feel like giving an actual person as an answer.” Oh, she could definitely name a couple of people on top of her head who were a life changing meeting for her, but… yeah, fictional was better. Although, wasn’t she supposed to be there to talk about life and all that bullocks? Well, whatever, that was just her fourth meeting, she’d figure it out soon enough. “If you want a female name, than that would clearly be Elizabeth Bennet from Pride and Prejudice. I never really thought of any male fictional hero… they are all so mainstream, you know?” She felt heat dusting her cheeks pink, and gave a half hearted shrug. “Maybe Odysseus, or Faust. They are tragically beautiful. Also Hector, in the Iliad... I wouldn’t mind having that kind of man close to me.” But she wouldn’t like it, either, to be fair. “Are we done yet? I think we are done. The time is running off, and I actually have an important meeting after this, so. Uhm, I will see you next Wednesday? I think?” She rambled, scrambling up in a nervous way, chair creaking as her legs hit it in her haste. The time was up, and she was /otally done with it. Not that she didn’t enjoy it. The time sort of flew, but she couldn’t afford to be late to her date. “One last thing, Miss Wardle. The last question is—” “Yes?” She interrupted him, quite rudely, too, barely containing her urge to bounce from foot to foot. “Favourite composer?” “Chopin, totally. Can I go now, please?”

The doctor stood up as well, taking his sweet time in doing so (at least, in Claire’s eyes) and offered her a hand. Claire glared at his stretched out hand, but gingerly took it in hers, mindful to give a “hard squeeze to show self assurance (her father words)”, but “not too hard, to not look to threatening (her mother’s)”. He gave her a warm, almost paternal smile, and not for the first time in meeting him, she felt a bit choked up. She wasn't good at dealing with men. “Of course. I’ll see you next Wednesday, Miss Wardle.” “Yea- yes, of course- I.. Uh.. I'll go now, good bye and thank you!” She scurried off, barely avoiding knocking down a vase in the process.

The door closed with a click.