#also seen in the weekly light newspaper!

[multigrainbreadbread]

been taking some photos recently

[nrcnewspaperclub]

[ Diasomnia Dorm ]

René Umbrielle

neka.cc link here last updated: December 5th 2024 (fixed a typo)

Bio

Japanese: ルネ・アンブリエル

Birthday: October 30 (Scorpio)

Age: 16

Height: 178 cm

Dominant hand: Left

Homeland: Briar Valley

Family

Cassian Umbrielle (father)

Dominique Umbrielle (older brother)

Unnamed Mother (absent)

Voiced by:TBA

Other Name(s)

Chevalier de l'ombre (Rook)

lanternfish (Floyd)

School

Grade: Freshman/First Year

Class: 1-A (Seat No.26)

Club: Newspaper Club

Best Subject: History of Magic

Preferences

Hobbies: gardening

Pet-Peeves: Being lied to

Favorite Food: roasted chestnuts

Least Favorite Food: cheesecake

Talent: storytelling, solving riddles

“ A reporter for NRC Weekly and frequent library visitor. Their closed-off demeanor tends to make people wary, but they’re actually rather polite. ”

Appearance

René is a fair skinned youth who is average in height. They have shoulder-length black hair with middle-parted bangs which frame the sides of their face. Their eyes are bronze in color, and there is a small beauty mark under their right eye.

Due to their Fae parentage, they have slightly pointed ears as well as fangs which can be seen when their mouth is open. They tend to be seen with a neutral expression.

Personality

Out of the two Diasomnia first-years, René is often considered the more approachable one, as they present themself in a calmer, quieter manner than Sebek does.

René prefers to listen rather than speak. When they do speak, they use an even tone and prefer formal wording. Because of their more observant approach to socializing and lack of intonation, they tend to come off as aloof or disinterested in conversation.

René holds great respect for Malleus and Lilia, taking their words into careful consideration. They can’t always tell whether or not those two are joking, though, often asking Silver for help when they’re unsure.

Background

René is the youngest of Cassian Umbrielle’s two children, born and raised in Briar Valley. Their mother left when they were four years old and their brother was six. She hasn’t returned since.

Before attending NRC, René was homeschooled. Their father hired tutors to teach them the basic subjects, teaching them magic and etiquette himself. They would spend their time outside of lessons either tending to their family’s garden or reading books they took from their father’s library.

They got into an argument with their older brother, Dominique, after receiving their NRC acceptance letter. The reason for their argument is unknown at the moment, but it was enough to create a rift between the previously close siblings. Despite René’s best efforts, they haven’t been able to properly talk to their brother since then.

Trivia

René has eisoptrophobia (also called spectrophobia and catoptrophobia), the phobia of mirrors and other reflective surfaces. (No, they did not have a good time during the sorting ceremony.)

René somewhat dislikes the number of accessories on Diasomnia’s uniform, but still wears them because they don’t want to stand out.

René can play the piano. On a Diasomnia student’s birthday, they’ll play one song of the student’s choice.

René habitually carries a pair of sunglasses on their person. This is because they’re sensitive to light, a trait they inherited from their father.

[david-watts]

You want to know why John Tardy is in that Poll? Well I’m here to tell you.

Back in the 60’s there was a Magazine called TV Century 21 it’s original run (and the only one important to this matter) was around 250 issues published weekly. I this magazine was primarily Anderson comic Strips, starting with Lady Penelope (predating her appearance on Tv by many months, Supercar, Fireball XL5, and Stingray. The premise of this magazine was that everything in it happened exactly 100 years after the issue came out, and the at everything was set in the same universe so they had linking material such as the ask 21 feature (which would latter spin of into its own comic) which centred on retired Secret Service Agent 21 asking the readers questions and answering their questions all done as though it was in universe, when he got his own strip it was set 20 years before the main narrative and saw 21 working with Steve Zodiacs Dad, Steve Zodiac Senior.

Now it also included several non Anderson Scripts which were also integrated into this universe, such as Burks Law, and most importantly here, the Dalek! (Exclamation Point included)

No Burks Law was treated as old file reports from the 1960’s and Supercar was seen from the TVC21’s Time Travel Camera, 21’s comic was also seen as file reports from the 2040’s (the main comic happing in the 2060’s)

Now the Daleks were the only non Anderson strip to crossover with the main Anderson narrative regularly. One section saw Lady Penelope interviewing Peter Cushing on his new Propaganda movie created to highlight the threat of the Daleks (which tells exactly what the Daleks Movies are, they are anti Dalek Propaganda), and 21 in his ask 21 strip would often reply readers questions but only about the Daleks and the Anderson sections.

When the Thunderbirds Tv series came out the Lady Penelope Strip was spun of into its own magazine (sadly several issues of this Magazine are un archived and have never been reprinted) which added several narrative to this world but in regards to the Daleks they are of little importance at this point.

The Daleks even made a very brief cameo in the Thunderbirds episode the Man from M.I.5 in which an issue of TVC21 is seen from behind (the page the Daleks! Was printed on) in a place is should have been (it is a newspaper for spies so it would make sense for a spy to have it in his briefcase.)

21 would also go on to cameo in Thunderbirds using one of his aliases.

Eventually TVC21 lost the rights to the Daleks right as they where about to start the invasion of Earth (having just discovered its location)

However this is where things get really interesting.

Over in Lady Penelope Magazine at the same time the Daleks! Gets cancelled the Angles strip starts (these being the angels from captain Scarlet) and in the first strip they are all brought together by a mysterious voice (latter revealed 8 months real world time to be Lieutenant Green) who mentions that a team is needed especially in light of the recent conflict. The conflict goes unnamed but considering that the Daleks will next be named twice in the Ask SPECTRUM feature (which replaced Ask 21) and that Colonel White Mentions that the Daleks Invasion was defeated and SPECTRUM was founded to deal with these kinds of threats. It is clear that the writers very much intended SPECTRUM to have been created because of the Dalek invasion.

But that’s not all going back to 1962 (well before this comic started and even before Doctor Who had started) the Planet Kemble makes its first appearance in Fireball XL5 several Years latter it would show up fully licensed as the main setting of the Daleks Masterplan, looking almost the same (the only change being changes that can easily been been explained by 2000 years of natural causes).

But the story does not end there.

In the Magazine Countdown UFO had a strip alongside Doctor Who proper in the 70’s. Prior to this SID a had already appeared in an episode of Captain Scarlet. But often in the Third Doctor Comics and the UFO comics technology that first appeared being used by UNIT a would end up being used by SHADO and visa-versa.

But wait there is more!

In the 90’s Doctor Who was off screen, sad. As was Anderson, also sad. But in the early 2000’s Doctor Who decided to publishes a novel set in the 2090’s of the captain scarlet world dealing with the fallout of the Mysteron war. Now but this point they could not use the names of the organisation or characters so they changed all the characters names, Colonel White became Colonel Leblanc, the Mysteron became the Myloki, Captain Black became Captain Death you get thew idea, but authorial intent was that this novel (the Indestructible Man) was set in the same Anderson Universe as previously shown.

A similar thing also happened with Blake’s 7 but I won’t get into it.

fascinating! I love how it's not just one thing

[arkholt]

Unexpected Comic Strip Creators - Matt Groening

I've been hesitant to write about this, because I'm not entirely sure how unexpected it is. I prefer to write about creators whose comic strip careers have been completely and entirely shrouded by whatever else they've done. I've always felt like Matt Groening's career prior to The Simpsons was well known, at least among fans of his, so I never felt a need to touch on it. That said, as the years go on, I have seen The Simpsons and Futurama continue to be remembered and referenced while Life In Hell, Groening's newspaper comic, has slightly faded into obscurity. So, I thought I ought to shed a bit more light on it.

Life In Hell was a comic strip that ran from 1980 to 2012, primarily in alternative weekly newspapers. It began life in 1977, as a comic book that Groening photocopied and sent to his friends, with various gags about how horrible it is to live in Los Angeles. He attempted to get some of his comics published in the LA Weekly without success. In 1978, he successfully had it published in the magazine Wet, but it didn't last long there. After working at the LA Reader for a while doing various jobs, he showed some of his comics to the editor, James Vowell. Vowell liked his work, and began publishing the strip in the back of the paper in 1980. After some initial success in the Reader, Groening was able to convince several other newspapers to run the strip as well. While working at the Reader he met Deborah Caplan, who later became his first wife. By his own admission Groening was not very good at self-syndicating, and asked Caplan to assist. Eventually the two of them would start the Acme Syndicate, which initially syndicated not only Life In Hell, but also Lynda Barry's Ernie Pook's Comeek and cartoons drawn by John Callahan. Barry would later decide to syndicate herself, and Callahan would later be syndicated by a former Groening employee, leaving Life In Hell as the only strip at the Acme Syndicate. Larger, more mainstream syndicates expressed interest in the strip as well, though they would generally ask for some of the material to be changed, which Groening refused to do. This did nothing to halt its success, however. Even though at that time you couldn't see it in any mainstream publications, it was in nearly every alternative newspaper you could find.

This popularity within the alternative press is precisely what led to Groening's animation career. Groening was initially approached to do an animated adaptation of Life In Hell, but was apprehensive due to having to give away licensing rights to the strip. Rather than jeopardize any future opportunities to license Life In Hell, he created The Simpsons, which first ran as short animations on the Tracey Ullman Show in 1987 and later became a standalone animated series beginning in 1989.

The Simpsons became very popular fairly quickly, and would of course become one of the most successful animated shows in history. Despite this, Groening continued to produce weekly Life In Hell strips and at that time promised to never give it up, as it was "his foundation." In fact, the success of The Simpsons led to more success for Life In Hell. While major syndicates had previously hesitated to print the strip in its original form, now that his work had been generally accepted among mainstream audiences they were willing to run it without alteration. Groening did make one concession, which was to not use profanity, but the content was otherwise the same, and several mainstream newspapers began running the strip in the mid- to late 90s.

His work on Life In Hell also crossed over with his work on The Simpsons in some ways. Several episodes of the show include references to the strip. In 1993, when Groening started a comic book company to publish comic books based on The Simpsons, among other properties, he named it Bongo Comics after the main character of Life in Hell, Bongo. The strip was clearly very important to him, even as it took a backseat to The Simpsons in most people's minds. When you read Life In Hell, however, you can understand why.

Life In Hell is clearly a very personal strip. While the characters in the strip are fictional, the situations are pulled from Groening's own life. As previously stated, the initial gags were all about his experiences living in LA, but later he would do gags relating to his childhood, being married, and having a child of his own, as well as some of his struggles working in television and in Hollywood. The humor is dark and sometimes depressing, and I personally find it difficult to read. That said, I can imagine that many people can relate to it and that it was therapeutic for him to draw and write. His childhood clearly was very rough, with abusive parents and siblings, and his adult life in many cases seemed very difficult for various reasons. One can understand, then, why he would want to continue doing it despite his success with other media and the dwindling newspaper market. It was a thing that he did for him, that he could control completely, and he wanted to create something of that sort.

Despite this, the strip ultimately came to an end in 2012. At least as early as 2009, Groening had stated that he didn't think the strip would last much longer, due to changes in the alternative press market as well as his ever increasing television and movie workload. Groening had apparently made attempts to publish his strips on the Internet as far back as 1998, but none of those attempts ever bore any fruit. There are fan-made archives of his work on the Internet, however.

For more information:

Life In Hell at Don Markstein's Toonopedia

Matt Groening at Lambiek Comiclopedia

Rob Rodi on Life In Hell from The Comics Journal #114

Matt Groening article in TV Host, from 1989

Excerpts from a Matt Groening interview with Gary Groth, from The Comics Journal #141

Matt Groening interview in Flux Magazine, from September 1995

Matt Groening interview in Mother Jones, from March/April 1999

Matt Groening interview with CNN, from February 2009

USA Today article on the strip ending

Life In Hell references in The Simpsons, up to 2014

[betterbooksandthings]

You Should Be So Lucky by Cat Sebastian

You Should Be So Lucky by Cat Sebastian looks at how we can muster up the courage to try again. It’s the reassurance that after a bad spell, there is something that comes after, and although it’s not perfect, it’s something. It’s 1960 in New York City and the reporter Mark Bailey and the baseball player Eddie O’Leary are in the midst of a sting of no good very bad days. Mark has been doing his best to not just haunt the 4th floor of the newspaper building and take his pampered dog for walks in the wake of his partner’s unexpected death. When his boss and close friend ask him to write the weekly diary of a rookie who hasn’t hit a single ball since he got called up from the minors, he reluctantly says yes. The young, kind, and hard-working Eddie defies Mark’s expectations. In doing so, a hit piece about an obnoxious baseball player transforms into the kindest underdog story of Mark’s career. This book is so kind and gentle even as it forcefully drags difficult topics into the light. What does it mean to be gay during a period of gay criminalization? How do you deal with grief for a partner, especially when it’s a partner no one knows about? Is it even possible to try when every time you do you fail? I cannot stress enough that this also manages to be a very fun book. Both characters are incredibly charming and well-constructed with built-out personal and professional lives. I did not care about baseball in New York City in the 1960s but if you offered me a ticket to Eddie’s game, I would drop everything else and go see the Robins with my own hand-written sign. Also, not to spoil anyone but I have never seen a more romantic gesture than having orange juice on hand and buying a bad book at an airport so they can be petty about it together. I cannot wait till Cat Sebastian drops the mini holiday chapter for them. It will be glorious. That is all to say you really should preorder You Should Be So Lucky by Cat Sebastian set to release May 7, 2024. I received an arc from Avon books in exchange for an honest review.

[theweeklynews]

How regional newsrooms can use AI to protect the ‘lifeblood of local journalism’

Regional journalism experts appear optimistic generative AI can help their snowed-under newsrooms.

By João Santos for Press Gazette 

A WAN-IFRA survey has found that half of newsrooms are already deploying generative AI in some form or another.

Large language models quickly garnered the attention of Reach, Buzzfeed, Conde Nast and other publishers across the globe over the past six months for its potential to streamline editorial processes.

In particular the free-to-access ChatGPT has fast shown its potential to reinvent the way content is produced and journalism is done. But in local news outlets hard-pressed for time and staff, is the adoption of AI likely to be an opportunity or a threat?

AI vs the humans in local journalism

A number of UK regional news publishers have already realised that AI-generated news stories could free up journalists to concentrate on more meaningful reporting.

Duncan Williams, the managing director and proprietor of Pulman’s Weekly News in south east Devon, said: “AI has got huge advantages to help journalists, particularly in the regional sector, but it’s not yet at a level where it’s going to be able to write nitty-gritty stories.”

Rather, he said he believes the more in-depth stories produced by human journalists will carry increased significance. He wrote an op-ed in his newspaper last month emphasising the importance of human bylines for trust.

“As an editor, I would not dream of publishing a story by someone I did know the name of or who was not a trusted and credible human source,” he said. “Bylines not only protect my readers, but they also hold journalists accountable for their work.”

Dr Joy Jenkins, an assistant professor of Journalism at the University of Tennessee in Knoxville, has worked extensively on how new technologies can be sustainably introduced into local industries.

She said: “AI can be used on more basic types of reporting in order to free up journalists to do the more investigative, in-depth types of stories they’d like to do but don’t always have the time and resources to produce.”

Eliz Mizon, a media writer and communications lead at Bristol Cable, believes AI could help local journalists carry out important “institutional accountability and community cohesion” roles, potentially reversing a trend that has seen around 300 local newspaper title closures since 2005 and left others hanging by a thread.

Will AI help or hurt regional journalist numbers?

A recurring worry that crops up in discussions of AI and news is whether the technology will end up replacing journalists, particularly in light of the economic headwinds that have encouraged many publishers to lay off staff in the past year.

Jody Doherty-Cove, Newsquest‘s special projects editor, is currently at the forefront of developing, coding and implementing AI tools for over 180 newsrooms across the UK, having just helped the Gannett-owned publisher establish its first AI reporter positions.

He explained: “A common misconception in the public discourse is the notion that AI, like some malevolent force, is poised to supplant human journalists in a ruthless bid to cut costs.

“Local journalism is a craft that requires investigation, relationship building, and nuanced understanding – elements that no machine, no matter how sophisticated, can truly replicate.”

Dr Jenkins agreed, explaining that AI should be seen as a “really affordable and helpful” tool which, if used properly, can be an “extremely effective way for local journalism to maximise its resources”.

Pulman’s owner Williams added: “It would streamline both the numbers of staff required to run our titles in an economic fashion and also the actual revenue streams that are the lifeblood of local journalism.”

This is the approach that Kallum Gethins, managing director at Dorset News and editor at View From Weymouth, has taken when incorporating AI into the running of both publications.

“If we find a story, we gather the facts, make a short sentence and then bring that into the AI software which produces a three to four-paragraph article, we proofread it and publish it,” he said. “The whole process takes about ten minutes.”

Much like the advent of social media and citizen journalism, AI could therefore lower the barrier of entry into the industry, making quality and consistency more affordable.

Gethins said: “I think that all organisations should implement AI because it could help their business massively, especially if the organisation is brand new and can’t afford journalists. For instance, we probably won’t be using AI-originated content in the long term and will look for potential journalists to join our franchise.”

The challenges ahead for AI in local journalism

As automation seeps into the media industry, the utility of AI in local journalism could be as far-reaching as the industry demands.

As well as editorial tasks, Dorset News’ Gethins has begun using different AI software engines for administrative work, for example producing email templates suited to potential investors and creating budget plans.

Automation could magnify the results of advertising campaigns and help integrate local papers more fully into social media, something which, Dr Jenkins explained, has been a historical struggle for many publications.

However there are considerable challenges to overcome before AI can be fully integrated into journalism in a way that is both ethical and practical.

Doherty-Cove said: “We must ensure that AI-generated content does not escape the watchful eyes of human editors who, with human oversight and rigorous fact-checking, can ensure AI-generated content meets their exacting requirements.”

Chatbots such as ChatGPT rely on what the user feeds into it, as the data on which they were trained is in some cases out-of-date. This means the fundamental newsgathering framework which leads to a fully-fledged story is, for the moment, outside the purview of generative AI programmes.

But as Dr David Ryfe, a professor and director at the School of Journalism and Media at the University of Texas at Austin, put it: “Clay Shirky wrote over a decade ago that it is much faster to lose something than to build something else to stand in its place. That is what is happening to local journalism.”

[pulmansweekly]

How regional newsrooms can use AI to protect the ‘lifeblood of local journalism’

Regional journalism experts appear optimistic generative AI can help their snowed-under newsrooms.

By João Santos for Press Gazette

A WAN-IFRA survey has found that half of newsrooms are already deploying generative AI in some form or another.

Large language models quickly garnered the attention of Reach, Buzzfeed, Conde Nast and other publishers across the globe over the past six months for its potential to streamline editorial processes.

In particular the free-to-access ChatGPT has fast shown its potential to reinvent the way content is produced and journalism is done. But in local news outlets hard-pressed for time and staff, is the adoption of AI likely to be an opportunity or a threat?

AI vs the humans in local journalism

A number of UK regional news publishers have already realised that AI-generated news stories could free up journalists to concentrate on more meaningful reporting.

Duncan Williams, the managing director and proprietor of Pulman’s Weekly News in south east Devon, said: “AI has got huge advantages to help journalists, particularly in the regional sector, but it’s not yet at a level where it’s going to be able to write nitty-gritty stories.”

Rather, he said he believes the more in-depth stories produced by human journalists will carry increased significance. He wrote an op-ed in his newspaper last month emphasising the importance of human bylines for trust.

“As an editor, I would not dream of publishing a story by someone I did know the name of or who was not a trusted and credible human source,” he said. “Bylines not only protect my readers, but they also hold journalists accountable for their work.”

Dr Joy Jenkins, an assistant professor of Journalism at the University of Tennessee in Knoxville, has worked extensively on how new technologies can be sustainably introduced into local industries.

She said: “AI can be used on more basic types of reporting in order to free up journalists to do the more investigative, in-depth types of stories they’d like to do but don’t always have the time and resources to produce.”

Eliz Mizon, a media writer and communications lead at Bristol Cable, believes AI could help local journalists carry out important “institutional accountability and community cohesion” roles, potentially reversing a trend that has seen around 300 local newspaper title closures since 2005 and left others hanging by a thread.

Will AI help or hurt regional journalist numbers?

A recurring worry that crops up in discussions of AI and news is whether the technology will end up replacing journalists, particularly in light of the economic headwinds that have encouraged many publishers to lay off staff in the past year.

Jody Doherty-Cove, Newsquest‘s special projects editor, is currently at the forefront of developing, coding and implementing AI tools for over 180 newsrooms across the UK, having just helped the Gannett-owned publisher establish its first AI reporter positions.

He explained: “A common misconception in the public discourse is the notion that AI, like some malevolent force, is poised to supplant human journalists in a ruthless bid to cut costs.

“Local journalism is a craft that requires investigation, relationship building, and nuanced understanding – elements that no machine, no matter how sophisticated, can truly replicate.”

Dr Jenkins agreed, explaining that AI should be seen as a “really affordable and helpful” tool which, if used properly, can be an “extremely effective way for local journalism to maximise its resources”.

Pulman’s owner Williams added: “It would streamline both the numbers of staff required to run our titles in an economic fashion and also the actual revenue streams that are the lifeblood of local journalism.”

This is the approach that Kallum Gethins, managing director at Dorset News and editor at View From Weymouth, has taken when incorporating AI into the running of both publications.

“If we find a story, we gather the facts, make a short sentence and then bring that into the AI software which produces a three to four-paragraph article, we proofread it and publish it,” he said. “The whole process takes about ten minutes.”

Much like the advent of social media and citizen journalism, AI could therefore lower the barrier of entry into the industry, making quality and consistency more affordable.

Gethins said: “I think that all organisations should implement AI because it could help their business massively, especially if the organisation is brand new and can’t afford journalists. For instance, we probably won’t be using AI-originated content in the long term and will look for potential journalists to join our franchise.”

The challenges ahead for AI in local journalism

As automation seeps into the media industry, the utility of AI in local journalism could be as far-reaching as the industry demands.

As well as editorial tasks, Dorset News’ Gethins has begun using different AI software engines for administrative work, for example producing email templates suited to potential investors and creating budget plans.

Automation could magnify the results of advertising campaigns and help integrate local papers more fully into social media, something which, Dr Jenkins explained, has been a historical struggle for many publications.

However there are considerable challenges to overcome before AI can be fully integrated into journalism in a way that is both ethical and practical.

Doherty-Cove said: “We must ensure that AI-generated content does not escape the watchful eyes of human editors who, with human oversight and rigorous fact-checking, can ensure AI-generated content meets their exacting requirements.”

Chatbots such as ChatGPT rely on what the user feeds into it, as the data on which they were trained is in some cases out-of-date. This means the fundamental newsgathering framework which leads to a fully-fledged story is, for the moment, outside the purview of generative AI programmes.

But as Dr David Ryfe, a professor and director at the School of Journalism and Media at the University of Texas at Austin, put it: “Clay Shirky wrote over a decade ago that it is much faster to lose something than to build something else to stand in its place. That is what is happening to local journalism.”

[ficsilike-reblogged]

Snow In The City

Summary: Peter Parker has been the bane of J. Jonah Jameson's existence since he started as a photographer at The Daily Bugle. But, as snow starts to fall over the city, Peter realizes it might not be so bad.

A/N: This includes canonically Jewish Peter Parker but it also has a few mentions of Christmas trees and lights. It is just a soft little thing for the softest boy. This takes place about seven years after TASM2 so Peter is about 25. I hope you all have a happy holiday or just a nice, long weekend. This fic is NOT spoiler-free for Spider-Man: Far From Home.

Pairing: TASM!Peter Parker/F!Reader (no Y/N but there is a nickname)

Rating: G! A soft holiday fic with only a touch of angst

Word Count: 4.8k (this might be the shortest thing I have written all year)

Or read on Ao3 here!

The Daily Bugle had opened over one hundred years ago and hadn’t changed much in all of that time. They hadn’t moved an imposing brick and mortar building in Midtown and had, over the decades, made sure to buy up the entire building. A print newspaper turned into a successful news broadcast as well. And the pay was fairly decent, allowing Peter to keep his (tiny) studio apartment in Queens and still keep his night patrols, too.

But it was blatantly obvious that the owner and publisher of the paper and broadcast studio, J. Jonah Jameson, had it out for Spider-Man and anyone associated with him. And that included the man Jameson had hired to take pictures of him. And this time, Jameson decided to show his distaste for Parker by not having his weekly check at the front desk with Betty.

“I’m so sorry, Parker,” Betty said, pushing her glasses up her nose with her knuckle. She was looking exceptionally frazzled and her cheeks bloomed a vibrant red when Peter had asked where his promised check was located and she had to admit that it had been sent downstairs. “I sent an email down to the mailroom clerk but she never answers me-”

“You guys don’t even have my address on file,” Peter said, a touch of annoyance pressing into his tone. “Where was he trying to send it?”

Betty could only shrug and then told him he might have a chance of intercepting it if he went down to the mailroom himself. And that was how he found himself going down into the sub-basement of this ancient building, further down than he had ever been before. The elevators door opened and the sound of 60’s rock blared over blown speakers as a handful of people stood at their stations, sorting through the comically large stacks of envelopes and packages and everything else, all bundled up against the cold temperature of the room. There didn’t seem to be any insulation or heating and the cold early December air from outside had filtered into the room without obstacle.

Peter pulled his jacket a little tighter as he stepped inside and walked up to the first man he saw. “Hey man, I’m sorry to bother you, but Betty from upstairs said that my check got sent down here by accident?”

The man, a grizzled mall Santa if he’d ever seen one, huffed as he looked up from his crumpled package with illegible addressee. “Ya got talk to m’jewel, kid. She’ll sort ya out.”

“…Jewel?”

The angry Santa looked up at him, his lips set in a thin line beneath his unkempt mustache. “Yeah. Jewel.”

“He means me,” came a laughing voice from behind the angry man.

Peter leaned to the side to see…you.

You waved him back with a smile, setting aside the haphazard stack of mail you were sorting to lean on the rusted table that was your station. “How can I help you?”

Peter opened his mouth to open but no sound came out. Nothing. You were beautiful. Even with the ridiculous earmuffs that were the color of cartoon grapes covering your ears. “Ah, your charms have made the poor kid speechless, My Jewel! Another one bites the dust!” One of the other mail room attendants cackled behind his grey, knitted scarf.

You took a package from your station and hurled it at his head. He dodged and it definitely sounded like something broke but no one seemed to care.

“Is…is your name Jewel?” Nailed it.

But you shook your head with another smile, uncaring of the continued comments from all the other people in the room, and tapped your nametag-it did not read Jewel. “Just a nickname. Everybody down here calls me MJ. Well, almost everyone.”

“For…My Jewel.” His throat continued to tighten over the syllables.

“And he’s smart, too!”

“Shut up, Charles! I’m not gonna knit you another scarf if you don’t leave him alone.” You turned back to Peter with another soft smile, as if you hadn’t just screamed at yet another man. For what it was worth, Charles seemed to find the entire exchange funny. “Whaddya need?”

“My check,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “Betty said it was sent down here by accident?”

Your brow furrowed. “It would have arrived in the mail—probably by tomorrow.”

Peter shook his head. “My address isn’t on file and I just… My Aunt May really liked these gloves and they’re on sale—finally—but the sale ends tonight and I really wanted to get them for her for Hanukkah and she-”

You waved a hand. “Got it. Need the money. What would the name be?”

“Peter. Peter Parker.”

Your smile widened. “You take all those super amazing shots of Spider-Man? You’re so talented!”

Before Peter could respond or even think to cover his fire-red blush, you had spun on your heel and marched toward a large, cloth bin at the bottom of a metal chute near the back wall. He glanced around at the other mail clerks, all of them older men who seemed to find the entire situation hilarious, and then slowly followed you as he skirted around the tables. You were bent over, nearly submerged in the cart filled with letters and packages sent in from other floors to be sent out, the tips of your toes sliding across the surprisingly clean floor as you continued to dig. Just as Peter was about to ask if you needed help, you pulled back, a rumpled white envelope in your hand. Your earmuffs were slightly askew but you didn’t seem to mind as you handed over the bit of paper.

“This it?”

Peter fumbled with the envelope, tearing it open, and heaved a sigh as he saw the promised check. “Yeah. Yeah, thank you so much. I-”

You waved him off again. “Don’t mention it.”

Peter nodded but you reached out and wrapped your fingers around his wrist, they were a touch too cold but something zipped up his spine at the contact and he could only stared at how you were touching him. “I mean it. I have a reputation. Tell no one.” But then you winked and told him to go buy the gloves. “Have a Happy Hanukkah, Parker.”

And then, as if the universe itself was trying to force you into his life, you appeared again. Your drink of choice was chocolate milk, Peter found. The milk cartons with the bendy straws you could get at any corner bodega were your favorite. You hadn’t looked embarrassed at all when you ran into him with an armful of the treat a few days before Christmas at the bodega down the street from his apartment.

“Did she like the gloves?” You asked, dropping the pile of cartons onto the counter.

Peter noticed one strawberry milk carton amongst the pile. “Yeah. Aunt May loved them. Thank you, again.”

“You’re buying me out of all my stock, MJ,” Phil, the tried-and-true cashier said, fighting a smile as he bagged her prize.

“Every Sunday, Phil. I need my fix.” You smiled at him as you paid, dropping the change into the plastic cup by the register. “See you, Parker.”

Peter watched you go, his throat still tight, but he managed a squeaky, “see you,” just as you walked out the door and into the grey and black sludge of the half-melted snow.

“She’s a good one,” Phil said, pulling Peter’s attention. “Be good to her.”

“We’re not even-”

“Do you want your sandwich or not?”

And Peter thought he had been so careful. So purposeful in his avoidance of you. But that had quickly been nipped in the bud. Because not more than five days later, another few inches of snow had fallen over the city before the New Year and Jameson had once again sent Peter’s check ‘to be mailed.’ When the elevator doors opened in the sub-basement, it was a little quieter than last time and you seemed to be the only one down in the mail room. Your earmuffs were a cheery teal this time and had embroidered snowmen on each puff.

Your head popped up at the sound of the elevator doors closing and you smiled as you spotted him. “Hey, Parker. I was wondering when you were gonna come see me again.” Before he could even explain that he was down here for his money again, you pulled another crumpled envelope from your stack and handed it to him with a smile. It was his check.

He felt his cheeks burn a bit as he hastily tucked it away and glanced around at the empty room. “Where is everyone?”

“Oh, they’re all off for the New Year.” You pushed a neat stack of envelopes into a bin labeled USPS and then dropped a small package into a container with the FedEx logo.

“You’re all alone?”

“Well, you’re here,” you said with a wink. “But yes, all the guys wanted the holiday off and I get paid time-and-a-half to stay. This time of year is usually slow down here anyway. I don’t mind.”

But Peter saw the way your lip didn’t quite curl to meet your eyes with your next smile and something in his chest hurt. “Do you need help?” He asked, already taking off his backpack.

But, again, you waved him off. “No, no. I’m okay. I should be able to clock out around three and that’s all that matters. Go, say hi to Spider-Man for me.”

“You sure?” He asked, not ready to leave just yet. His backpack remained at his feet—he needed to be positive. And he didn’t like the way you wouldn’t look at him, your beautiful eyes now trained on the scribbled name on the envelope in front of you.

“Yeah. Happy New Year, Peter.”

And then…maybe, just maybe, Peter was letting himself smile again when he thought of you.

“A record snowfall for this time of year,” the meteorologist droned on, smiling for the camera, as Peter slunk through the broadcasting rooms. Bright red hearts were strung up over the anchors’ desk, and Peter was pretty sure he heard one of the correspondents trying to tell people where to go for Valentine’s Day dinner tomorrow night and the like but Peter was hardly listening to that either.

Betty had been pale with nerves when she’d told him that Jameson “accidentally” sent Peter’s check down to this floor, mixed up with a check meant for one of the cameramen.

Sure. Peter definitely believed that.

Something rippled up his spine and he turned around to see you smiling at him from behind a mail cart. “Hi,” you whispered.

“Hi,” he whispered in return feeling his lips start to push into a smile.

You curled a finger at him and Peter, despite needing to leave to meet May for dinner, slid a little closer. Your hand slipped into one of the cart’s compartments and you pulled out an envelope. “Found this for you.” A tiny red heart sticker was placed on the envelope’s seam and Peter felt his cheeks warm as his thumb brushed against the slick sticker. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Peter,” you whispered as you wheeled your cart away.

But just before you were out of reach, Peter shot his arm out and curled his hand over your wrist, jerking you to a stop. “Happy Valentine’s Day, MJ.”

And you smiled.

                                                  **

Peter had tried, rather valiantly, to push you and your pretty smile and soft eyes from his mind for a few weeks after Valentine‘s Day. It did not work.

“So, what’s the deal with the whole ‘My Jewel’ thing?” Peter asked in a hushed tone as he waited for you, yet again, to try to track down his check.

Charles looked up at him and chuckled before looking over to Ray—the mall Santa—and shouting, “Hey, he wants to know why we call ‘er MJ!”

Peter felt his stomach sink at being found out but as he glanced back at you, you were seemingly too engrossed in nearly being swallowed by the mail cart to hear him or care. But he did like the way your tongue peeked out from behind your lips with your effort. It was…cute. Your earmuffs were a periwinkle blue.

“Our girl just moved here, took this job, and somehow managed to catch the eye of one of the big-shot lawyers upstairs. They went on one date and he was sure he was in love with her. MJ did not feel the same.”

“Because she’s a smart girl,” Ray grumbled, not looking up from his stack of letters.

“Right. But the kid didn’t take a hint. One day, he marches down here and starts spewin’ how she was beautiful and perfect and he wanted to marry her and he, I shit you not, kept calling her ‘My Jewel!’ ‘My Jewel, I love you!’ Ivan,” Charles said, hooking a thumb at the large, tattooed man who never seemed to speak, “eventually helped him leave. That guy never showed his face down here again but ‘My Jewel’ stuck. Got shortened to MJ.”

“Talking about me, Charles?” You asked, stepping to his side. You had the familiar white envelope in your hand that you handed over to Peter. “Don’t believe a word he says.”

“I dunno,” Peter said, pushing the envelope into his pocket, “I think I can trust him.”

“Dangerous last words, Parker,” you said with another smile. That damned smile.

And that was it, really. You were his friend.

And maybe Peter felt the urge to know if your skin was as warm as he thought it was. To know if your lips were as soft as they looked. To feel you beneath his hands, to know what it felt like to hold you. But friends don’t think like that about other friends.

And weeks turned to months turned to years, and you were still filled with easy smiles and biting sarcasm that would always coax a smile and a blush from Peter, even on his worst days.

He taught you how to skateboard in an abandoned building during an early spring heat wave. You taught him how to rebind a book when the power went out during a summer thunderstorm. You both were kicked out of a Reiki seminar and then raced each other to the nearest bodega for sandwiches. You once produced a pair of stupidly fluffy felt and velvet tiger ears fastened to a headband from god knows where and set them on his head with a smile and a laughing, “Happy Halloween, Tiger.” And you always fretted over his split knuckles and black eyes and always cleaned them up in the bleach-scented staff bathroom off the mail room. You never asked what he did to get these injuries but, after the third time, you murmured with the last placement of a Star Wars band-aid on his arm, “you have a good, soft heart, Peter. Don’t let the world make it hard.”

Friends. Good friends. That’s what you were—and Peter was (almost) happy with that. But then you would smile at him and he would feel his entire chest try to cave in on itself.

You were good and special and beautiful. And it took Peter an embarrassingly long time to notice that he’d once again started pulling his punches, stopped trying to make any criminal he caught as Spider-Man bleed and hurt. But when he really thought about it, after Aunt May said he looked happy, “I haven’t seen you smile like that in a long time, Peter,” he realized it started when he met you.

And that was why he wanted to protect you. From anything. For anyone. Even yourself. And Peter Parker was not a creep, thank you very much.

He just…liked to make sure you were doing okay. Last week you nearly fell onto the subway tracks because someone bumped you and three days before that, you had been knocked off your feet by a bicyclist. It was some sort of miracle that you weren’t in a full-body cast 8 months out of the year.

And friends look out for each other, right? That’s what you were: friends.

Don’t you think she’d want you to be happy? Aunt May’s question echoed in head as he watched you push a stack of letters into a box labeled ‘USPS’ before clocking out. Peter pulled himself back up into the shadows of the elevator shaft and out into the waning sunlight to ‘wait’ for you outside. This had been your routine for nearly three years.

Three wonderful, terrible years.

“Hey,” you murmured as you stepped outside, pulling your ear muffs over your head. “You haven’t been out here too long, have you?”

“No. You’re always on time.”

Your bright smile was contagious and you knocked your shoulder into his, your breath crystallizing in front of you as you started the walk back to the subway station and the slightly convoluted ride back to Queens. “Want to split a Reese’s with me?” You asked, as you always did, as you took the stairs two at a time, making Peter bite his tongue.

“Sure,” he answered as he always did as you reached the bottom step—you were already rifling through your bag that looked too small to carry everything Peter knew you had stashed beneath its zipper. And you held the promised candy aloft like a trophy just as the subway arrived. You looked so pleased.

So beautiful.

“OH!” You said as you both pushed into the subway cab, once again scrambling for your bag, uncaring of who you elbowed as you shoved your hand around in search of something. Peter grabbed the candy from you, allowing you to search with both hands in your seemingly-bottomless purse before you once again let out a triumphant huff and held up a crumpled white envelope. “This was sent down to us. Again.”

Peter took the proffered envelope, already knowing what was inside.

“You should really set up direct deposit, you know,” you said, shoving the finger of your glove into your mouth to yank it off before grabbing the candy from him and opening the bright orange wrapping.

The candy was gone before they even pulled away from the station and you were asleep on his shoulder within ten minutes. Peter let himself smile as you curled a little further into his side, as you always did on your ride home on Thursdays.

Wait. When had he settled into a routine?

Peter asked himself that question over and over again as the subway continued on, only pausing when he had to gently shake you awake so you could switch lines. Your warm hand curled into the back of his jacket as he led the way through the stations and into the other subway car, leaning against him when you both failed to snag a plastic seat this time around. You smiled at him with sleepy eyes and Peter wondered…just for a moment or two, if this is what you looked like in the morning, rumpled from sleep, and smiling at the person on the pillow beside you. Was it him you were smiling at?

Your stop came a few minutes later and Peter walked beside you, laughingly debating the ethics of the Jedi Council as the snow crunched beneath your boots, making sure you arrived home safely. Your apartment building was a lot like his—a nondescript beige brick with only a few stories, and he could see a few menorahs and Christmas trees peeking out from behind curtains.

“Same time tomorrow?” You asked, as you always did, with a hopeful smile on your face.

“Same time tomorrow.”

Your smile grew as you murmured your goodbyes and you turned to punch in the code to the door but pivoted back with a huff. “I, um, got you something.” Again, you unzipped your purse and shoved your gloved hand inside to fish something you, quickly producing a small box, wrapped in white paper, glittering with blue snowflakes. “It isn’t anything big, but I hope you like it?” It sounded more like a question as you shoved the box at him. “Happy Hanukkah, Peter. See you tomorrow.” And then you dashed away into your apartment, steel door slamming behind you.

Peter stared at the door for a moment, the box still in his hands, before he slid his finger beneath your wonky bit of tape and unwrapped your gift. Inside the box was a new set of wheels for his skateboard and a small picture from last year’s Daily Bugle holiday party. Or, what you two had done instead of partaking in the company bullshit. You were both sitting in one of the mail bins, legs dangling over the side and sipping on cheap champagne from plastic cups. While you both had decided to hold up peace signs to the person taking the picture, you were looking at Peter with a smile on your face that clearly wasn’t meant for the camera. A picture taken a beat too early. It was that same, soft, easy smile that you only gave him and the one he thought about when he was trying to sleep.

Peter put the wheels in his backpack and then carefully slid the tiny photo into the fold of his wallet. He could ask May if she had a frame later that night.

When the little photo was settled on his messy desk in a scratched silver frame after dinner with May, Peter suited up for his nightly patrols. There was a few attempted purse snatchers, a pair of middle-aged men trying to rob a toy store after it closed, and not much else. It seemed with the newest blanket of snow, the city’s crime had hibernated for the night.

But then he heard a scream that quickly stopped. Peter quickly swung three streets over and saw-

-you.

Peter silently crawled down the wall of the building and saw as you were struggling with a pair of men, trying desperately to hold onto your small shopping bags and your purse in the dark mouth of an alley. But then one of the men shoved you back, cracking your head against the brick of the building behind you and making you fall but you refused to let go of your bags. One of the men continued to pull at the items in your hands while the other drew back his leg and was about to land a kick to your ribs before he was webbed to the side of a rusted dumpster. The other would-be mugger turned and was quickly stuck to the brick wall by a web covering his face.

Peter jumped to your side and wrapped his arm around your waist, hauling you to your feet for just a moment, before shooting another web and swinging away.

“Spi-Spider-Man?” You asked as you instinctively wrapping your arms around his shoulders as you continued to fly through the cold winter night.

Peter nodded, trying to find the air to pull into his lungs. For all the years he had known you, he’d never had to be Spider-Man with you. He could just be Peter. “Are-are you hurt?” He asked as he set you down on the snow-covered roof of some coffee shop. His hands brushed against you neck, down your arms, over your hips—anywhere you could have been hurt, he looked for an injury he needed to help clean and heal.

“I’m okay. I’m okay,” you said with the distinct sound of tears in your voice.

Peter looked at you and felt his heart sink as he watched the first tear slid down you cheek. “You’re not okay.”

“No, no, I am. I’m just…” You trailed off, and for a moment Peter thought you were just going to cry, but you suddenly leapt forward and wrapped your arms around him, hugging him tight.

You had hugged him before. Hugged him plenty of times. Hugged him until his shirt smelled like your perfume for the rest of the day. But this felt different. You pulled back just enough to rest your forehead against his with a stuttered breath, your eyes still closed. But Peter could only look at you.

You were so beautiful, even with traces of drying tears on your cheeks.

Almost instinctively, Peter felt his hands curling a little tighter around your waist, trying to bring you closer. He could tell you right now, tell you that he was Spider-Man, tell you his biggest secret.

But then he thought of Gwen and what had happened to her…

Before Peter could make up his mind, you pulled back and curled your arms over your stomach as Peter’s arms fell back to his sides. “I, um, I’m sorry. I’m sure you’re great! I mean, you are great. You’re Spider-Man! And I’m sure the whole saving people and swinging them through the city gets you plenty of dates. But I…” Now your hands moved to hide your face. “Ugh. This sounds so stupid.”

“It’s okay,” Peter said, voice soft. He never did like seeing you uncomfortable.

“I just really like this guy, you know? I think you’d like him, too! And I just…” You shrugged, dropping your hands down to your sides. “Sounds kinda stupid.”

You hadn’t actually said anything but Peter stayed quiet, mind whirring with thoughts. Who did you like? Why did you think this was stupid? Why would Spider-Man like this guy, too?

“You saved me tonight and I’ll never be able to thank you enough for that.” Your smile was back, along with your shy smile. “But he makes me smile, like, all the time. Makes me laugh. Gives good hugs—yours are a solid second place. And he may not be able to swing me around New York with magical webs-”

“They’re not magic.”

“-but I still think he’s pretty special.” But your shy smile started to fade as you looked at him, morphing into the perfect picture of concerned confusion. “What is happening to you?” You reached out to him and he raised his hand to meet yours but a terrible, bright golden glow blinded him and then you were gone.

                                       **

It took exactly 17 minutes and 5 seconds for Peter to realize he had been transported to a different dimension. A different dimension with a different New York, a different Peter Parker, a different Daily Bugle, and no you. But with the help of a few high schoolers, yet another Peter Parker, and a wizard (??? Peter was still processing that), he had managed to keep another kid from knowing what it meant to be too late, what it meant to lose someone he loved like that.

But something else stuck in his mind. The other two Peters had women they loved and who loved them. And both of them were named MJ.

MJ. MJ. MJ. My Jewel. It had only been a few days since his strange fall through the multiverse. Only a few days since he had saved that Peter’s MJ. Only a few days since the other Peter told him to keep his heart open and to be kind. Gwen would always be with him, but he finally realized that what May had said to be true—she would want him to be happy. Either it was a cruel twist of fate or an olive branch from the cosmos to realize you had slipped into his life so easily and be so patient with him. His MJ.

Another shot at happiness.

The city was aglow with holiday lights and the sound of bells strung up over doors that would ring with every opening or closing. But all Peter could see was you, waiting outside the Bugle with your earmuffs already on, looking around the street, trying to find someone in the faces walking by. But then you spotted him and you ran through the crowds, shoving by a man who shouted at your back, but you were undeterred, throwing your arms around Peter with a watery laugh.

Peter closed his eyes and pressed his cheeks against yours as he held you tight. You were here and in his arms.

“Aunt May said you just disappeared,” you said as you stepped back just enough to look at him. “I was so worried, Peter!”

He reached up and gently held your cheek for a moment, feeling your warmth through his gloves before he brushed his lips against yours. Your breath stuttered against his mouth for just a moment before you reciprocated, pressing your lips against his a little harder, just enough for him to feel you smile.

Peter’s hand slipped down your arm to tangle his fingers with yours as he pulled back just a fraction. “C’mon. We can talk on the way home. I have a lot to tell you.”

[papermoonloveslucy]

HATS! ~ Part 4

Miscellaneous Millinery

Outside of her four television series, Lucille Ball had a career as a model and a movie star - in both worlds hats were an integral part of the overall look.  She also did numerous TV specials where her head was adorned. 

Lucille Ball’s modeling career started at Hattie Carnegie, a salon where she worked as a hat model.

A few of Ball’s iconic hats are displayed at the Lucy-Desi Museum in Jamestown, New York. 

In a 1950 print ad for Carling’s Red Cap Ale, Lucy wore two hats: a red satin jockey’s cap (the sponsor’s symbol), and a mortar board. 

“Lucille Ball, too, has graduated to Carling’s - the light-hearted ale!”

In 1938, Lucy modeled ladies' hats based on characters from Disney’s Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. Needless to say, she looked “charming”. 

Lucy’s got it in the bag!  

In 1937 Lucille Ball was seen modeling a Coronation Hat. The coronation of King George VI would take place at Westminster Abbey, London, on May 12, 1937. Ball did not attend, but as a young model, was widely seen in this Associated Press photo. As an interesting sidenote, more people watched the birth of Little Ricky on “I Love Lucy” than the televised Coronation of Queen Elizabeth II in 1953, where Elizabeth receive the ultimate in hats - the jeweled St. Edward’s Crown.

On March 26, 1961, Lucille Ball appeared on the cover of Family Weekly, a Sunday supplement to newspapers to model Easter hats.  

The inside article by Margaret Bell was titled “Lucy Loves Easter Hats” and featured Lucy and her daughter, Lucie Arnaz, trying on various bonnets.

On Lucy Day at the 1964 World’s Fair, Lucy was accompanied by the world’s most famous hat-wearing gossip columnist, Hedda Hopper. Not to be undone, Lucy wore a blue straw hat to tour the grounds. 

In the International area, the People’s Republic of China adorned Lucy with a traditional pearl headdress.  At the Hawaiian Pavilion, another hat for Lucy - this one woven from palm leaves. 

LUCY ~ A HEAD FOR FASHION

LUCY ~ A HEAD FOR MOVIES

LUCY ~ TV’S HEAD OF DISTINCTION

[clairecrive]

Ooh okay this is TOTALLY self-serving but i’m doing it anyway—could you do a (fem)reader x remus where the reader is juggling all sorts of things—working at the ministry and taking classes at night or something along those lines and feels like she’s wasting what are supposed to be her golden years and so she gets upset one night and remus is incredibly good about calming her down and comforting her about it?

"Cake by the sofa"

A/n: not to make this self-serving anon but writing this felt like therapy lmao. Today I offer you some much needed Remus fluff.

Warnings: none, pure fluff

Word count: 1.3K

Tags: @ashlovesthemarauders, @jupiterandbutterflies , @hannaxmaria, @seldomabsent (if you want, you can add yourself to my taglist by filling this form)

HARRY POTTER MASTELIST

The subway was always jam-packed at this hour and you hated it. You hated it and you couldn't avoid it in any way. This was your assigned entrance to the Ministry of Magic. Any other day it would be fine, you'd put on an audiobook or some music but today... today was just too much. Not to mention that the incessant noise was making it impossible to talk to Remus.

You had left before he'd wake this morning and realizing that you haven't spent some quality time with him in ages broke your heart.

"Bunny, you there?" Did you already mention that the connection was shit underground?

"Sorry, love I'm here what were you saying?"

"I asked you when you'd be home tonight."

"Oh," you hummed trying to recall the schedule for today. Thankfully, ministry jobs were 9-5. Sure, they'd usually call you to make extra hours but you couldn't remember if you had to do so today.

Then it hit you, you had taken on a night shift at a local muggle newspaper. It was actually demanded from your superior at the Ministry as a way to make sure that muggles stayed in the dark about the Wizarding world.

"I'm going to be late again tonight, actually." You grimaced at the words. Remus had never pressured you and he himself was a very busy man. Between his job, your jobs and the Order, you rarely see each other, to the point where you were mostly roommates rather than boyfriend and girlfriend.

"Again," he mused and you could hear the weariness in his tone. Sighing, you landed on a wall. You were in the Ministry now, work could wait for another five minutes. This was more important.

"I'm sorry love. I know we haven't properly seen each other in a while."

"That's not what I'm worried about, bunny. You're working too much."

"I could say the same for you, Rem." You pointed out softly. You didn't want to come off as a hypocrite since you also were always busy.

"I'm fine, bunny. It's you that is wearing herself out."

"You don't have to worry about me, I'm fine. Huffing, you rolled your eyes at his apprehensive nature even though he couldn't see you.

"You know I do."

"I love you and I miss you." You confessed changing the subject. You were afraid the distance between you cause by your crazy schedules would eventually drive you apart. So, every time you could even if it was out of the blue, you did this. It was both for reassuring him but for yourself as well.

"The feeling is mutual, my love." Hearing him saying it back had an instant soothing effect.

"I'll see you soon, hun."

You ended the phone call after wishing him a good day and him doing the same. Sighing you put your phone away, your mood souring further as you made your way to your office where you were going to spend the entirety of your day while you only wanted to be with him.

Work was important to you and you knew that Remus shared this same attitude but at the same time, you knew that if it got down to it, you'd choose the sweet-hearted werewolf over anything else.

Making a mental note to speak to your superior about your weekly schedule, you'd settled behind your desk (not so) ready to face today's workload.

*+* *+* *+*

When you finally made it home, later that day, you were ready to bid today adieu. Sighing heavily, you closed the door behind you, the keys rattling as you locked it.

The hallway was dark but you could see that the light in the kitchen was on.  You were light on your feet as you headed there since you didn't know if Remus was awake or he had just forgotten to close it.

When you entered the room though, the sight that met you made you halt. Your eyes flickering all over the room as you took it in. The light had been left on purposefully. The table was laid, carefully set with your favourite pieces, a couple of candles and a few rose petals adorning it.

Realizing that this was most definitely Remus' doing, you smiled as your eyes moved over the room to look for him. But he wasn't in the kitchen.

"Rem?" you called for him softly as you stepped into your small living room. And here he was, snoring softly on the sofa.

Kneeling, you smiled as you took in his peaceful expression. This alone, his angelic face and comforting presence alone would have been enough to soothe your frustrations.

Carefully, you pushed a piece of hair away from his eyes before your finger gently trailed over the scars on his face. He looked exhausted and your heart ached at the idea of waking him up but you knew he had tried to do something nice for you so you wanted to at least thank him for that. Also, the sofa is fucking uncomfortable.

"Baby," shaking his shoulder gently while peppering his face with small kisses you set to draw him for his slumber.

He groaned at the disturbance but you saw the moment he registered that it was you who was annoying him as he turned his head so that your lips could meet his instead of his cheek.

"Hi, bunny," he peeked at you through his lashes, eyes still unfocused with sleep as he pecked you again.

"Hi," you parroted him like a fool. He had always had this effect on you, even more so now that he looked out-of-this-world cute with his tousled curls and red lips.

He mirrored your smile, leaning in your hand that was cradling his face enjoying your touch. As sleep slowly unclouded his mind, the realisation settled on him. Eyes wide, he shot up almost knocking his forehead with yours.

"The dinner," he exclaimed, cheeks red in embarrassment as he looked at you sheepily.

"I saw. It was very sweet of you Rem but you didn't have to." Rising, you settled beside him on the sofa to reassure him.

"I wanted to do something nice for you but of course I had to ruin everything," he groaned letting his head fall on the headrest of the sofa with his face hidden behind his hands.

"Hey," leaning over him, you gently pulled his hands away, " you didn't ruin anything. I love it and I love you for doing this." You kissed his palm to drive your point home.

"You're just as tired as I am, honey."

He knew you were right. He was just as exhausted but still, he was upset that he hadn't been able to do this for you. Letting out a big breath, he used the hand you were holding to pull you to him. Kissing you gently he settled his forehead on yours, intertwining your fingers.

"I had even baked a cake," he mumbled on your lips.

"Well, why don't we eat that and then go to sleep? What do you say?" you proposed pecking his lips again.

"I say that I love you."

Giggling you lightly bumped his nose with yours before rising from the sofa to retrieve the dessert.

When you came back with the plates in your hands, his slice twice bigger than yours, you handed him his before taking your place beside him again.

"So, how was your day?" He asked before digging in,

"Not as good as this cake, for sure." You let out an obscene moan to prove your point but you knew it did well for his ego judging by the look in his eyes.

He thanked you for the compliment with the most adorable shade of pink adorning his cheeks. You cooed at him before asking him the same question.

It wasn't much, just the two of you sharing this insanely good cake Remus made but it was exactly what he needed after a pretty shitty week.

[ynscrazylife]

Hey?? I Recently found you and I most say that I adore your page, I saw that you write for Lena do you think that your write a request for her?. My idea is that Reader and Lena are in a relationship, but Lena has feeling for Kara so Reader decided to leave her, you decided if they go back together or not.

I Wasn’t Enough | l.l angst fic

Summary: Y/N and Lena are in love. However, when Y/N recognizes that Lena has feelings for Kara, their relationship gets put in jeopardy.

Authors Note: Thank you for requesting! I never understand the want for angst

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header c @/ikromanoff

Y/N hadn’t been able to contain her excitement when she was approved to work on an article on L-Corp and the woman behind it, Lena Luthor. She had found the woman’s story fascinating and wanted to shine some light on the shift from Luthor Corp to L-Corp, and this was her time to do so. 

The moment she set foot in Lena’s office, though, she knew she was screwed. 

She had seen the woman in pictures and watched her press conferences on T.V, but seeing the magnicant lady in person was a surreal experience, mostly because of how gorgeous she was. Y/N found herself instantly distracted, unable to keep from feeling dazed as she saw the brunette so graciously finish up typing whatever she was typing on her computer, stand up, and offer her the biggest, most charming smile Y/N had ever seen. 

“Hello! My friend, Kara Danvers, told me you were coming. I’m Lena Luthor, nice to meet you,” Lena’s voice which almost made Y/N swoon pulled her from her thoughts and she blinked, suddenly remembering what she was here for. 

(She couldn’t help but be in awe, though, because of how down to earth Lena was. She still introduced herself like a normal human even though of course, Y/N knew who she was!) 

“I’m, uh, Y/N Y/L/N! It’s nice to meet you, too, Ms Luthor - I, uh, apologize, I’m not usually this nervous,” she forced herself to say, lightly chuckling off the awkwardness. Crap, what was she doing?!

She shook Lena’s hand (and nearly fainted right then and there). “Oh, don’t apologize! No need to be nervous, darling - oh and you can just call me Lena,” Lena said, smiling and waving off Y/N’s concerns as she sat back at her desk.

Y/N had no clue what was going on. Lena seemed to have put a spell on her because the moment she said that, Y/N felt better about the interview, having been reassured, but then a whole new worry racked her body: Lena Luthor had just called her “darling”!!! The up and down of emotions was making her stomach do somersaults. 

The reporter took a couple deep breaths and cleared her throat so she wouldn’t vomit from being overwhelmed before sitting down in the chair across from Lena, beginning the interview. 

The rest was history and, seeing as they were both good friends of Kara’s, it wasn't long before she spilled the beans on her secret identity as Supergirl and the couple became unofficial members of the unofficial group, the Superfriends.

They were having their weekly game night, Lena sitting in an armchair with Y/N on her lap, Kara, James, and Alex on the couch, Winn on the floor, and J’onn in another armchair. Laugher and skies filled the room, accompanied with the faint smell of wine and the lipstick stains on the discarded glasses. 

“Damn, Luthor, you’re sneaky,” Kara grumbled as she fished in her pile of Monopoly money to get the correct amount she needed to pay Lena for landing on her property. 

Lena chuckled as Y/N took the fake money from Kara and handed it to her. “All apart of business, baby,” she commented. 

Everyone laughed it off, but Y/N tensed up. Was Lena flirting with Kara? She looked over her shoulder at her girlfriend and Lena furrowed her eyebrows before a look of realization washed over her face. She quickly shook her head, indicating that the nickname was harmless, and kissed Y/N’s cheek.

Y/N brushed it aside. It was just a meaningless comment. She slumped her tense shoulders, forcing her mind not to wander to the many “What If’s” that could possibly happen. What if it wasn't just a comment? What if-?

“Your turn, Y/N!” 

Y/N blinked, taking a second to realize what Alex said, and jumped up to grab the dice (she would have fallen off Lena’s lap had the brunette not wrapped her arms around her, and Y/N relaxed at her touch. 

She rolled it around in her hands before dropping it and moving her piece to her own property which she had landed on. As the game continued on, everything was normal. However, it was impossible for Y/N to miss the small talk Lena would occasionally make with Kara and how her comments were just on the line between cautious and flirtatious. She also noticed every time Lena would practically be giving the blonde heart eyes, but just tried to ignore it, telling herself that she’d talk to Lena later and everything would turn out fine. 

. . .  . . .  . . .   

“Lena, can I talk to you?” Y/N asked as they sat down for breakfast, both drinking coffee on the late Saturday morning. 

Lena glanced up from the newspaper she was reading and hummed an enthusiastic nod before taking a sip from her mug. 

Y/N nodded, eyes falling onto the table as she thought for a moment to sort out her thoughts. Taking a couple steady breaths, she asked, “Please don't take this the wrong way . . . Are you attracted to Kara?” 

Lena blinked, staring at her for a second before realizing she was serious. The CEO shook her head, forcing out a chuckle. “What? No. What makes you think that?” She said. 

Y/N couldn’t decide whether or not to be relived. She sighed. “Just some things you were saying and looks you were giving her last night,” she muttered. 

Lena scoffed, biting her lip before shaking her head more decidedly. “Do you really not trust me?” She spat out in a hiss, making Y/N recoil from the sudden harshness.

“What?” Was the only thing Y/N could say as she was dumbfounded.

Lena nodded slowly. “Why did I actually think that you’d be any different from everyone else in my life? You don’t trust me! You think I like Kara!” She said, on the verge of anger overtaking her. She pushed her chair back and stood up.

Y/N shook her head, needing a minute to process what was happening. “I didn’t mean it like that-” she began to say.

“Uh-huh,” Lena retorted mockingly. “I wasn’t planning on going into L-Corp today but I need to cool off.”

Before Y/N had even gotten out of the kitchen to follow her, she was met with the slam of the door bouncing off her walls. She stood, stunned.

What the hell had happened?

She spent the rest of the day in distress, replaying the argument over and over again in her head and each time it got worse. Each time in her mind Lena glared a little harder, was even more ruthless in her tone, or the door slamming was louder. Lena also let her phone calls go to voicemail, leaving Y/N in her thoughts. Was Lena right? Did she not trust her girlfriend? Or did she catch something that Lena didn’t even know about herself?

Did Lena like Kara?

She couldn’t decide.

When the keys were finally jingling in the door, Y/N jumped up from their bed and ran out to meet her girlfriend, her cheeks stained with tear streaks.

Lena didn’t look to happy, either. Her eyes were a little red and puffy and she was frowning.

“I did a lot of thinking today . . . And I talked to Kara,” Lena said, cutting immediately to the point. Her words, combined with her low and defeated tone, gave Y/N a sinking feeling in her stomach. “I’ve suppressed these feelings for a while, I realized, but . . . You were right. I like Kara. And . . . She likes me, too.”

Y/N felt like she was just hit with a truck. “What are you saying?” She asked, voice cracking from emotion as she sniffed and could feel big tears bubbling. “Are you planning to leave me for her?”

Lena didn’t look at her. She kept her gaze on the floor and opened her mouth to say something, which gave Y/N the slightest amount of hope, before it was ripped away from her when Lena stifled a sigh and shut her mouth.

There were a couple moments of silence that just pounded against Y/N’s head. “I should have know that I wasn’t enough for the CEO of L-Corp. That you’d want Supergirl,” she finally settled on saying. It was just filled with disappointment, sadness, and anger, lacking in bitterness or pity, as she realized that the fear she had ignored that Lena would fall for Kara was now painfully coming to life.

“I guess I’ll go pack my things,” Y/N continued, feeling lost and without any hope at all when Lena didn’t say anything, didn’t even try and tell her she was wrong. She sniffed and stomped her foot when her girlfriend was just content for her to walk away. “It’s good I didn’t sell my apartment yet. We’re done.”

With a glare, she turned around and angrily threw all her belongings into suitcases while Lena stood in the same exact spot, looking at the floor.

[peterjakes]

Frank x Karen ‘a million smiles cover your heart’

Karen and Frank meet in the park. They become closer, closer than before. They end up exactly where they need to be.

a slightly shorter fit this time! I wasn't too sure about this one, felt like it was too much filler but now I'm finished with it I'm actually pretty pleased with it! hope you enjoy x

also posted on ao3; https://archiveofourown.org/works/37680754

“You’re moving up in the world.” Frank gestured towards the newspaper in his hand. He’d flipped to the middle, and there it was. Another article on the great work of Nelson and Murdock and Page. It was short, could only be a few paragraphs long but it was enough. Enough to make him feel a sense of pride. Pride for Karen. She’d already done so much and was bound to do a whole lot more. He was sure she’d probably already seen it but wanted to show it to her regardless. It was as if he wanted to show her how much he cared. In the past he’d kept tabs on her, wanting to make sure she was keeping safe, make sure she was good. But now it was different. Of course, he still wanted to make sure she was safe, but something had shifted. He didn’t need to keep ‘an eye’ on her, not anymore. She was her own person. But he wanted to keep up with her. Her life, her news, things that had happened at work, everything. Frank wasn’t exactly sure when this had happened. But it was a feeling he didn’t want to let go. He was letting Karen in, just as she’d let him.

The two had met in Central Park, one late afternoon. Work had almost destroyed Karen this week she and needed a nice distraction. Her workload just seemed to rise and rise with no true light at the end of the tunnel. She couldn’t complain though, this was what she wanted to do, what she had to do. For herself and everyone else. She missed being in Frank’s company, though. It wasn’t as if she spent every waking moment thinking about him, but he often plagued her mind. No matter how much she tried to not get so distracted.

Frank’s week hadn’t been as busy as Karen’s. He had tried to occupy himself, keep himself busy. The hustle and bustle of New York made it pretty easy at times. But sometimes you could feel like loneliest person in the world. That loneliness and anger, those feelings Frank had gotten so use to feeling, that didn’t feel as strong now. Sometimes they were still there, of course they were. But whenever Frank thought of Karen or was with Karen, something better took their place. Something more hopeful. Something better.

“Maybe.” Karen was biting her lip, her eyes focused on the photograph in the article. This had become a weekly occurrence; it was rare that the smaller cases got any publicity but that wasn’t why they did it. It certainly wasn’t why Karen did. She just wanted to help people. But that didn’t stop her from feeling just a little embarrassed. She couldn’t exactly pinpoint why, maybe it was Frank. Of course, it was Frank. It always was.

“Don’t be so coy.”

“I’m not, I’m not. I…I don’t know.” Shaking her head, Karen’s fingers found a loose strand of hair covering her face and tucked it behind her ear. Karen knew what they were doing was good work, of course she did. But that didn’t mean she didn’t have doubts. There were never any doubts about Foggy or Matt. No, the doubts always laid with herself. It was hard, trying to shake off that feeling. Trying to rid the idea that she was a bad person. That anything bad was her fault. That she didn’t deserve a good life. Karen had never been good at taking praise. But there was something different when the praise came from Frank. It never felt superficial or false. Frank was many things, but he wasn’t a liar. He was always honest with Karen. Always. Maybe not in the way she had expected. But still.

“You’re doing good work.” Frank said this so sincerely, as if he couldn’t believe anything else. Karen was special, in so many different ways. It wasn’t just the work she’d been doing, although that was enough for anyone to burst with pride. She was always special. She saw the good in people, when they couldn’t even see it themselves. She believed in people, she wanted to help them. Karen almost made Frank forget all the bad, forget everything that had happened. Karen made Frank almost believe that there could be something, something more for him. Something for both of them.

“Yeah?” Her eyes diverted from the article over to Frank. He was slouched against the park bench, looking relaxed. More relaxed than he had been in the past weeks. It suited him, looking this way. And it made Karen happy, seeing him so comfortable, so comfortable outside, even. Karen herself was sitting only a few inches away from Frank. But for some reason she couldn’t bring herself to move any closer. It was as if something was forcing her not to. The two knew how they felt about each other, even if those words hadn’t exactly been uttered. But they didn’t need to. They knew and that was enough.

“You’re smart, you’re brave. You care about people. Stubborn as hell. Won’t take no for an answer.”

Karen nodded silently, not in agreement exactly with what was being said, but almost acceptance. She wanted to accept what Frank was saying. Maybe he was just trying to big her up, but there was something in the way his lips formed the words, in the tone of voice he took, the look in his eye. He believed in her and so should she.

“So, construction?”

“Ah, yeah. Good at it, so.” Frank shrugged, avoiding Karen’s eye. He first focused on his fingers, enwrapped with each other. Before too long, his focused shifted around the park. Looking around, he watch people jogging around the path. Dog walkers. Couples. Families. Children. A slight chill seem to enclose around Frank for a moment. It wasn’t the cold, autumn breeze. No. It was almost like a reminder of what had been. In a different life, Frank could be sitting in that very spot. He could be alone. Karen could disappear. Or he could be like any other family spending a day in the park. His family… But that wasn’t what was happening. Karen was beside him; life had moved on. Frank knew that. And he was moving with it.

Karen gave him a gentle smile, without any hint of sadness. Not this time. Karen hadn’t expected Frank to say any more than that. And she didn’t need him to elaborate, not really. If he was happy, she was happy. And she expected Frank felt the same. She hoped he did.

Frank furrowed his eyebrows at Karen’s smile, not in anger, never in anger, but in almost curiosity. When Karen smiled like that, when she smiled at Frank, it destroyed any inhibitions he had about what they were doing. Whatever it was exactly. Frank wasn’t very good with labels and in all honesty, hadn’t even thought about it. Maybe Karen had thought about it. Maybe she’d thought about it far more than Frank had. But as long as Karen carried on looking at him like that, Frank could never be unhappy. He would never be lonely again.

“What?”

Karen’s eyes smiled, a small glint appeared, as if she was very happy with herself. Frank couldn’t stop looking at Karen now, his eyes firmly planted on her. Sometimes he wondered if she knew what she was doing to him. If she knew how sometimes she drove him absolutely crazy. If she knew how much she meant to him. Maybe he needed to show her. “Oh, nothing. Nothing, Frank.”

Frank started to twirl a loose strand of her hair with his index finger, she watched it go around and around, almost mesmerised by this touch. “I didn’t think I’d get you out.” This had blurted out of Karen, almost unexpectedly. She hadn’t meant it to come out as it did. It wasn’t exactly harsh, but not kind either. Frank had become a bit a recluse since back in New York, or at least that was what Karen had seen. The only time they saw each other was in her apartment, and sometimes that was few and far between. She’d asked to meet this time. Just a simple call was all it took for Frank to come. He hadn’t kept his hood down, as if he wasn’t worried about being spotted. Maybe that wasn’t important to Frank anymore. But from what Karen had gathered, Frank still didn’t have much of a life. Or at least not like before. She wanted to help. She wanted to change that. He deserved a life. He deserved one that was good. He deserved something.

“I’m not a recluse, Karen.” Tilting his head, Frank gave Karen a bemused look, a small chuckle managed to escape from his mouth. Maybe it seemed that way to Karen, but Frank had been trying at least. It was different this time. There wasn’t this big battle Frank knew he would one day have to face. Life was much calmer now, almost stationary. His whole life had been filled with so much anger, so much chaos. And now it wasn’t? Frank wasn’t exactly sure how to deal with that. But it would be different now. Now he had Karen.

“I know, but this is kinda big, right?”

“It’s a park.” Frank glanced around, almost laughing. His hands found his jacket pocket, trying to find something to hold onto. His keys were the first things he found. Twirling them around, he faced back to Karen. She was looking at him, clearly she’d been watching him these past few minutes, trying to gage his next move.

“Ssh, you.”

“You’re right, though. I, uh, don’t get out that much.”

“Why?” Frank gave Karen an incredulous look, as if the answer was obvious. “You did before, why not now?” Things had changed, things were different. Karen knew that, of course she did. But there weren’t any ties now. Frank was essentially free. Like he’d said, he was Pete. Pete didn’t have a past, only a future. He could do whatever he wanted, whatever he pleased. But Karen doubted that was going to be easy for Frank. She never wanted to push or probe, but sometimes she had to ask. That was what she was good at after all.

“Easier that way.” Frank said this whilst managing to avoid Karen’s eye once again. Easier. It may seem that way to Frank, but was it easy? Really? Sometimes it didn’t feel that way. Easier to not let anyone in. Easier to shut off. Easier to forget. Easier to be alone. But it couldn’t go on forever, it couldn’t always be this way. And Frank didn’t want it to, not anymore. He was slowly coming around to the idea.

“Is it?” Karen almost whispered this, as if she didn’t quite want to ask the question. It may easier in some ways, Karen knew that better than anyone. But she didn’t want that for Frank, she couldn’t let that happen.

“I wanna try, Karen. I do.”

She relished in that admittance. She relished in knowing that this meeting was special, regardless of what Frank had said. She knew in his heart he didn’t mean it, and he did too. It was just his way. But the more they spent precious time together, like this, Frank was opening up. He was sharing more of himself with Karen. He was allowing her in. He was handing her his heart, piece by piece. She was taking it and would never let go.

“I know. Me too.”        

Karen couldn’t help but let a small smile escape from the corner of her mouth. She took the paper from Frank’s hand and scooted up next to him. Their thighs were touching now, and Karen made sure to smooth out her pencil skirt, trying to ease both herself and Frank. Without realising, her fingers seemingly fell down towards Frank’s thighs which were stretched out on his side of the bench. She allowed her fingers to drift across a small patch of Frank’s darkened jeans, moving ever so slowly. Only watching them for a moment, Karen’s eyes moved up to Frank’s who too was glancing down at Karen’s slender fingers. He quickly moved his left hand over Karen’s, his fingers brushed against her. This small, but delicate touch almost made Karen jumped as she hadn’t expected it. Whenever Frank touched her, it was also so gentle, so calm. He was never rough, never too quick. As if he could never be too careful, like he didn’t want to do anything to hurt Karen. To make her leave. To let go of her. The roughness of Frank’s hands brushed against Karen’s still, she could feel the remnants of a few old cuts. But there was an almost softness in that touch. A touch that Karen didn’t want to let go of.

Moving more slowly now, Frank’s hands moved across up to Karen’s face. His hands were warm, shocking her pale cheeks, contrasting with the cold chill in the air. His fingers brushed against her cheekbone, as if they were trying to find a more comfortable position. His thumb moved across the cheek, caressing them nice and slowly. Karen couldn’t help but close her eyes, as if wanting to get lost in the moment. But then there was something else. As if she didn’t want to let go of Frank, she didn’t want to stop seeing him. Just before she could open her eyes again, Frank planted a small but sweet kiss on her lips. Blink. And she would have missed it. He would have missed it. But it had happened. It was there. It was enough.

It wasn’t just a regular kiss. Frank had kissed Karen before. Karen had kissed Frank. They’d kiss each other in the darkness, finding each other regardless of everything. They’d kissed in the morning light, eyes still tired from the night before. They’d kissed each other when nothing else would do. But here, out in the open, for all of New York to see. Frank had kissed her. And she had kissed him.

[moondustaeil]

anaphora ⧜ nakamoto yuta

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ✧☾.·:·. a n a p h o r a   

⠀ ⠀⠀ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ  

⁖ genre : royalty au - fluff , angst , very light suggestive content

⁖ pairing : yuta x reader (both royals)

⁖ word count : 15k

⁖ warning : badmouthing , light suggestive content , attempted thievery , family drama , mentions of a forbidden relationship , broken kingdoms , character deaths , poisoning , toxic plants , based on oneus’ performance of “be mine” in road to kingdom

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀

⠀ ⠀⠀ ꜱʏɴᴏᴘꜱɪꜱ

⁖ Rather than living without your love, Yuta would prefer to die out of hatred. Once at a banquet the man you were willing to devote yourself to but due the split of the kingdoms, you can no longer promise forever to him like you did that night under the moonlight in the conservatory.

〚 I ; ūnus 〛

"This might be the death of fashion diplomacy, look at that attire," A woman of somewhere at the end of her forties interrupts Yuta's path. It isn't physically that she interrupts him, but his footsteps halt as soon as he hears the words. The two silver chains that circle from his left shoulder to the right side of his waist soundlessly move along as he turns his body back.

He looks straight into her eyes, his head cocking to the side as he wants to confront her in the sweetest way possible. Revenge is on the tip of his tongue but the guard could be quick to snatch the symbolic entrance ticket from between his fingers if he caused a stir.

"Are you talking about me?" He decides to ask her, letting go of his lower lip to flash her a smile. His smile nearly shines as bright as the glittering silver parallel-running lines upon his black blazer. But his smile doesn't catch as much attention as his outfit does, and yet, he doesn't feel ashamed about his attire.

"If you feel addressed then it must be about you, right?" She asks in return, her lips curling until she's able to imitate his smile. While he looks for revenge, she just tries to overpower him with the sugary sweet and yet snarky comments. Yuta can't help but hum in approval "I guess that's accurate, you have a point there."

He isn't afraid to show how she has a point because after all, he feels like he won even though the minuscule passage of words wasn't part of a contest. "Now, I would like to talk about having an excellent sense of fashion all night but seems like I should not waste time on people who don't have such things from the start," he shrugs his shoulders to hide the prideful words that slip from his lips. After giving her attire one last shameless glance, he turns on his heel and walks away from her.

Somewhere in the distance people are either way spreading their half-opinionated gossip or looking at him like he just killed an evil authority. Whether it's a good or bad thing isn't something that bothers Yuta, his footsteps don't get any heavier as he steps between the crowd on his own.

The potion has been stirred but not enough for his entrance ticket to be snatched away, yet enough for his father to walk up to him with disappointed eyes.

"What was that about?" His father asks in a quiet shout, pulling Yuta by the tight cupp of his puffed blazer. Merely by the button as the fabric is tightly resting around his wrist, too tight for his father to hook his fingers on the inside of it. "Nothing, she was just inquiring about my outfit," Yuta answers simply.

It's not hard to pull from the barely-existing grip, the undamaged button rests against the cupp again. "You know these sorts of people, you are supposed to nod your head and agree to all they want you to agree on, understood?" His father starts the real lecture in the middle of the crowd-filled room. Watched or not watched, Yuta has no care for it, and apparently, his father doesn't mind giving free lectures.

"Said no one, father. Jaehyun, Mark, or any of the others don't want to be treated like this either and they are in a way higher position than that twat," He tells his father but is aware of the answer that he will receive to his words, of course, he will get the response that he's not supposed to involve his stupid friends in serious matters like this. "Do I need to remind you that Jaehyun, or Yoonoh as you should say, nearly lost his position when he shared the sheets with a lady he had never seen before?"

Yuta clenches his thumb between his balled fist, creating the cracking sound as he only grows more assertive when hearing the words. "Oh father, please stop believing human newspapers, they're no good ass wipers," he mentions lightly but the consequences aren't as smooth as his words are.

He's willing to get scolded for protecting one of his friends: yes Jeong Jaehyun nearly lost his position when he shared the sheets with a woman. But added to the false story should be the truth, that Jaehyun had been sharing a secret life with the woman for more than half a year. The scandal was only a scandal because the woman was just an inhabitant who didn't occupy herself with kingdoms, authorities or wealthy cowards.

"This is the first and last thing I am hearing from you today, Yuta, if I hear one more thing, you can forget coming to events like this."

Yuta just carelessly nods his head before he walks away from his father, not caring whether the words would come true or not. He doesn't see why he would need to attend banquets, balls or any other formalities: it only cost him time and money as his outfits weren't exactly bought on a weekly market, neither were his exact body sizes measured by a randomly generated number.

"As if I care," he mumbles as soon as he is far enough from his father, he wouldn't have minded if his father heard the words but still protected the last bit of image that he had left. His footsteps were slow but not slow enough to match the still ones of everyone around him: curious ladies that were staring at him with either distrust or lust, men that tried to keep their wives from starting a vicious circle of rumours. Yuta pushes his body through the empty space that everyone left for him until he is standing near one of the large windows.

⋅ ⋅ ⋅

Yuta grasps his cake fork between his thumb and index finger as soon as a plate with a large piece of cake is presented to him. He's about to dig in and scoop the point of the cake onto his fork but the voice of the person next to him momentarily stops him from doing so.

"Did any of you hear something about marriage already?" Mark Lee asks out loud to everyone who is sitting on the same part of the table as him, obviously, he only finds himself around people of the same age with a few years minus or plus that is. Yuta expects Jaehyun to let out a quiet huff but realises his friend isn't there to complain about the matter of a wedding. Yet, enough people around him are willing to take over.

"My parents are trying to find me a partner, it almost seems like one of those contests of who the most beautiful person is but only if they're rich enough," Mark answers his own question before anyone else can, clearly he just needs someone to listen to him even though no one can fix his situation.

Opposite of Yuta is the eldest of the group, Moon Taeil. As relaxed as Taeil is, there is also a part of him that values tradition and rules over anything else. Perhaps he doesn't follow them as much as Doyoung does, but as he's the eldest, people are more likely to listen to him than to Doyoung. "It's the way it is, we all have to get married someday soon."

"Well it's you who should go first then, you're the oldest here," Yuta says in a teasing way to rub the fact in a little more, he knows it wouldn't affect Taeil because Taeil follows his tradition and has been preparing himself for the important moment to come. "I will," Taeil answers simply, it's simple but seemingly a hidden message hides behind the words.

Yuta glances at Mark who started the talk about marriage but didn't find relief as no one really picked up on his words with a sense of empathy. He doesn't really feel bad for his friend, with the simple reason that he has to undergo the same, and probably even earlier than Mark does.

"What about you y/n?" Taeil asks you as he drifts away from his group of friends for a little moment, not that you're not a part of his friend group, you simply never informally met Yuta or Mark which was why he decided to try and involve you in their conversation right now. You were listening anyway so it might be a good moment to bring you into his group of friends.

"My parents truly organised this for me to possibly find a fiance but instead of allowing me to talk to possible candidates, they claim me," you explained to Taeil with a soft sigh leaving your lips. You had no idea whether you sighed because you were forced to find a future husband or because your parents had claimed you until the moment you were seated at the table.

Taeil nods in response as he is actively listening to what you're saying, yet, Yuta can't help but let out a soft snort as he is amused by your story. Not because you're the starring role in the confusing wishes of your parents, but because parents will always be parents. "That's what all parents do. If you didn't see earlier, my father still tries to grab me by the sleeve like I'm a little boy who is about to cross a busy street," he tells you and the rest of the group.

The words make everyone want to change the subject to what happened earlier, a little moment everyone had seen: Taeil had seen it even if he only made his entrance at that moment, Mark had been able to see it whilst conversing with some wealthy people and you had seen it from your position as your parents lectured you about who was going to be present at the banquet.

"Yeah that was a wild scenario, man," Mark says as he can't help but think back, it's nothing unfamiliar as he had seen Yuta with his father before. Yuta was just too free-spirited to always listen and obey to everything that others tell him and he's not afraid to make a scene out of it.

"All because some lady made fun of my attire. She called it the death of fashion or something," Yuta says as he once again snorts at the short memory of the gossip he heard barely a couple of minutes after making his entrance. He would admit he was salty about it but didn't think about it longer than five seconds as it wasn't important.

You can't help but look at Yuta as he's saying the words: first you start at the features of his face but the moment he mentions his attire, you can't help but stare at his upper body. The black blazer has puffed sleeves that tighten around his wrist and is decorated with parallel silver glittering lines, then there is a chain that splits in two as it goes from his shoulder to his waist, to finish the outfit there are some silver bands that coat his left upper arm and shoulder. It's more than a handful and you're sure that there is more that you're not seeing.

"It looks very unique," you say about his outfit and smile slightly at your own words, you're being genuine as his outfit looks like something you never saw before. Even though he got bashed for the attire he's wearing, it makes him look more expensive than anyone else in the big room. The lace on the long dresses, the fake fur on the men's clothing, they don't compare to glittering lines on Yuta's blazer.

⋅ ⋅ ⋅

"Get home well"

You wave your hand to Taeil as he leaves the location, you're aware that he can't see what you're doing because it's too dark outside, but you still feel like saying goodbye to him in some way. Next to you is Yuta who made the excuse that he needed some fresh air just so that he could say goodbye to his friends and stay around you for a little bit longer. It didn't look like his father was leaving anytime soon which is why he took the chance to escape for as long as he could.

"So have you found your future husband?" Yuta inquires curiously as he stands next to you, waving his hand at Taeil just like you did despite also realising it wouldn't be shown in the dark. Soon his eyes go to you as he sees you shaking your head from the corner of his eye "I don't think I did. I'm not planning on marrying Taeil, I've known him for so long," you say honestly.

"What about Mark?" Yuta asks, giving you the option to admit if you found someone to your liking. Even though you said you didn't but Yuta just wants to know for sure before he continues to talk to you and perhaps flirt with you a little bit more than he did already.

"Nice but not as my brother, he seems like a little brother."

Yuta can't help but laugh out loud to your words because he felt the exact way. He wasn't ever going to marry Mark but did see Mark as his little brother more than anything else: there was just something about him that made him the perfect little brother compared to real little siblings.

"Sounds like I'm the last candidate then," he says in a joking tone as the two of you start taking awfully slow steps in no particular direction. It's automatically that your feet take steps without your mind wondering where your feet are wandering off to.

You softly laugh along to his words for a few seconds, letting your laugh fade out when your mind tries to see an image of you getting married to Nakamoto Yuta. He's attractive and perhaps he's from a family that your family would appreciate, but the man himself is something people would be against.

"Sounds like it," you respond finally as you stare ahead and notice the conservatory coming into view. It's not an unfamiliar place but it's not like you find yourself there on a daily basis. Still, right now it seems like a fitting space to walk to together with Yuta.

Yuta can't help but smile at your words even if he doesn't see himself getting married anytime soon, perhaps in a few years when he feels ready to settle down, especially knowing marriage must also mean starting a family. "Did you expect to find a future husband tonight?" he asks curiously as he sees where you're going and mindlessly allows his footsteps to imitate yours.

"Far from yes," you answer his question as honest as you can, still staring ahead of you towards the conservatory. It's not a long walk but you're anticipating the moment you can open the door and explore the greenery in the darkness together with Yuta. Both of you seem to need some minutes away from the heavily decorated banquet, and now that dessert had been eaten, there were plenty of chances to sneak away. "How about you? Your parents must be looking to find you a spouse too?"

Yuta hums in approval, signalling that you're absolutely right when you assume that. "They don't force me but obviously try to stimulate me into finding someone to marry but how will I ever love someone that only meets up to their requirements but not mine?"

"You don't. We don't marry out of love, my parents were kind enough to at least tell me the truth about that"

Your words open a new dimension for Yuta, just like the door to the greenhouse is opened before the two of you walk inside. It's pure darkness and yet your eyes can easily recognise the different shades of green and the forms of leaves and other plants.

"Your parents might be right about that," Yuta admits as he walks behind you, giving the greenery a brief look before he tries to follow your figure with his eyes. He is very interested in nature and would love to go on endless walks and hikes in unexplored green masterpieces, but right now, his attention shifts to you.

Minding your steps to not accidentally step on a plant, you make your path through the greenhouse to the place where you usually take a seat to be away from everyone and everything. But being in the darkness, the path doesn't seem clear enough to walk on without accidentally hurting a fallen leaf.

The sound your feet make when they come in contact with greenery is the only thing that keeps the silence from comfortably walking between the two of you, there's distance enough for it to sneak in and almost third-wheel unnoticed.

Your steps align once you see the carved marble bench right in front of you, empty like each time you come to this place, though this time both spots on it will be occupied. On the seat of the bench is a carved satyr but you can't make out the little details since only darkness flows through the glass roofing.

"Let's sit for a bit," you suggest as you sit on the side that you automatically always take, leaving the other spot free for your companion, Yuta. Yuta does as you suggest and immediately plants himself on the cold bench next to you, his eyes staring at the window that can only show him the darkness of the outside world.

"Is this where you take party victims?" He playfully asks you as he turns his gaze to you instead, watching as your eyes are on the same spot that he was looking at seconds ago, not that there is much to see as the night seems close to an unrecognisable shade of black. Before you laugh, he observes how your mouth lightly parts before the sound escapes.

"If I can be a victim as well then you could say I take party victims here," you tell him after your soft laugh dies down against the air. Yuta's own laugh of slight amusement dies soon after yours even if it threatens to stay for a bit longer because of your confession.

It's not funny but without laughter, the oxygen-filled air would feel as heavy as it was in reality and right now both of you prefer to keep it light in the greenery-filled glasshouse.

"I'll be one of your victims, you should invite me more."

〚 II ; duo 〛

Yuta's boot-clad feet skillfully avoid the fallen leaves on the ground as he walks into the greenhouse, even though it's his third or even fourth time, he's not accustomed to the path he has to follow just yet. Luckily the ground already drew out the path by decarmating the stones that led him towards the bench.

The bench is still empty when he arrives and he takes that as an opportunity to explore a little further in the maze of greenery. Even though he follows the laid out ground, he doesn't exactly follow any path, his eyes are fixated on his surroundings as he walks.

Even though the endless windows lock him up in the glasshouse, he feels like he is taking a stroll in nature. A place that is yet to be discovered by some, a place where he doesn't have to remind himself of his manners towards the wealthy and treasured of the country.

The greenery greets him without words which is quite something else compared to the endless badmouthing that ordinarily happens when he walks into the ballroom of an overly decorated event. The plants don't have critical feedback on his attire, his manners, his slightly longer hair, his personality or his wealth. Yet, the plants are alive and growing, just like most humans.

Some more living examples of people that do not badmouth are you and his small group of close friends. His friends for starters don't act as wealthy as they truly are and he's grateful that they don't act like that, they are just normal like any human that walks through the streets. Then there is you, who never judges him and listens to the many things he wants to tell while also trying to have a good time at the same time. Does that mean he appreciates you more than just an acquaintance?

The answer to the question he speechlessly asks himself is probably yes, you would use the words 'far from no' to answer the question because you seem to like giving that response more than just a yes or no. Perhaps he sees you as more than an acquaintance, even more than friends: his feelings for you are in bloom just like some of the flowers in this greenhouse.

Having those feelings means that he no longer wants you to find a spouse, neither does he want his parents to find one for him. Independency led to this moment, where he can make his own choices in his lifeline and end up with the one he might just truly love. Yet, what holds him back is that he has never been in love before, doesn't have any knowledge as he never saw the genuine love between two people, and he simply has no faint idea of what he wants to achieve in the future.

"I'm sorry I kept you waiting so long, my parents suddenly decided it was a good idea if they educated me on trading materials."

Your voice makes Yuta look up from the point that he was staring at, he doesn't have a clue what point he's exactly staring at and before he's about to find out, his body is already spun towards you.

"Hello," He greets you with a smile, ignoring your previous words because he simply did not hear them while being one with his thoughts. His eyes greet you as well: without judging going from your facial features to the outfit that you're wearing to cover your skin. The colour of your attire compliments you: midnight blue might just become his new preferred colour if you continue to look as magical in it.

"You didn't get lost whilst waiting for me right?" you ask with a smile on your lips as you let your eyes move in the same circle that a clock makes, just to get familiar with the greenery around both of you, perhaps it could explain what Yuta was staring at for as long as you had been watching him from a not-so-far distance.

Yuta shakes his head in response and slowly walks up to you "no, of course not. I stopped by the bench not long ago but seeing you were not there yet, I decided to explore a little," he explains even though there is no need for him to do so. You don't seem enraged by his exploration so you probably don't mind it when he lets his eyes wander and his feet explore.

"We can walk around here some more if you would like, there is much more greenery than you see now. Perhaps we could even water some of the plants together, even if it's unexciting," you suggest and smile at your own idea. It reminds you of a date even though it's not much different from sitting on the bench: after all, it's the same location and there hasn't been a confirmation that this was a date. "I would really like that," Yuta answers.

Before you are able to take off on your own, Yuta takes initiative to link your arms together as you walk. You're surprised by the sudden display of affection as you are aware that only those who are lovers are known to hold one another like that. It's a large step in the outing of affection but neither of you try to separate your arms from one another.

"So I assume you enjoy nature," You say to Yuta, not using a questioning tone despite your will to find out if he actually enjoys nature as much as he seems to, after all, who would agree to meet up in a greenhouse time after time without complaining about the green-coloured surroundings or scent of blooming flowers. Yuta briefly nods in response to your words, a smile coating his lips but you're too busy staring ahead of you to notice. "I love nature, nature compares to freedom for me. No one judges but everyone listens."

His explanation is what makes you look at him, there is no questioning look in your eyes as you seem to understand without further explanation. "Because nature is alive too," you say as you partially agree to his words. There aren't many opportunities for you to discover nature unless it's in the greenhouse, but you can imagine the feeling of walking on an undiscovered land, only filled with grass and large trees of which leaves slowly dwindle to the ground.

"precisely."

⋅ ⋅ ⋅

The quiet whispers of the wind easily dwindle down the glass walls that kept you from truly experiencing freedom. Despite not being able to feel an unlimited amount of freedom: the wind wasn't present to disturb the small stream of water that collapsed on the tightly-patted loam.

"Do you ever receive flower bouquets?"

It is a question that should not make you flabbergasted because the never-ending supply of flower bouquets that you're given are no longer gifts that take you by surprise. Yet, rather than to be given a bouquet, Yuta is thoughtful enough to ask whether you ever receive them before he sets up his plan.

"I do," you answer his question simply. You don't say it to brag or for his plans to fall in the pond, but for the reason that you do get a lot of them. Every person that visits the gigantic place you call home takes at least one flower along, handing it over to you whilst pride reflects from their eyes onto yours. But your eyes don't resemble a mirror: they shine with a dull glow as you thank them for the friendly gesture but internally scold them.

"And?" Yuta asks as he looks over at you whilst you water the following plant, his grip tightening around the gardening tool that you pushed into his hand before starting to do a task that wasn't yours. "And that is it. Why would I need a bouquet of flowers that will wither merely a week after its been given?" You reason.

"As well as how this conservatory consisting mostly of flowers and other sorts of greenery? Because they don't wither as rapidly as the ones you receive?"

The questioning undertone in Yuta's voice momentarily makes you suspect if you are obligated to answer with yes or no to either of the times he used it. Momentarily truly lasts momentarily, the moment you find out he has been looking at you, you realise he was only trying to complete the answer to your question before you had to do the effort.

"Precisely."

You smile once the word leaves your lips, even if you contemplated him just a few seconds ago, you can't help but think of yourself as an idiot who nearly misinterpreted the words. Luckily you watered the symbolic flower before its petals started to dwindle down from the disk.

"But you still enjoy flowers?" Yuta asks curiously as he watches how you finish off watering every plant that comes in your reach. The endless refills of water make it possible for the flowers to bloom or for Yuta to stay by your side a little longer.

You nod your head in confirmation before giving him a brief but suitable statement. "I do, I just dislike like receiving them as a gift. Specifically when they are just an excuse to not come empty-handed."

Yuta senses how honest you are when you say the words, it's not only that as he understands what you mean from experience. It was impolite to request someone's company and not have anything in return, to the most when it was about a possible romantic encounter.

"Now I know that I should not bring flowers with me next time," he eventually answers but the smile is evident in his voice, but even more on his lips. They're curved upwards from nerves as he awaits your response.

"I won't accept any gifts from you, Yuta. I have warned you and I expect you to remember for as long as you're able to," you order Yuta in a rather playful manner. You meant the words, they were genuine despite the playful hue in them but you weren't able to give him a scolding for something that didn't occur yet.

"What if I accidentally forget?" He asks you in the same playful way, wanting to continue the conversation so that he could see your reaction. He didn't know what reaction to expect, there was a wide variety of emotions you could display in response. Soon it was proven to be his lucky day when a smile made its way onto your lips at his words. You shook your head in disbelief "perhaps it is time for me to find a new love interest in that case, and my mother will have a lovely flower bouquet to make my father jealous with."

"Love interest?"

Yuta's lips can't take control, allow him to slip out the words that laid on the tip of his tongue. By the way his eyes are widened, you can see that he is astonished. "Love interest," he repeats again: this time not to question you but to test how the words sound when he's saying them out loud.

You love the way the mixture of letters leaves his lips, you love the two words that you have been able to use for personal preference for the first time in your life. The way Yuta says them only makes them sound better, when he says them, it almost makes you believe he feels the same way about you without officially confessing.

"In that case, I shall not forget, you will not be receiving any flower bouquets from me," Yuta finally answers even though it should have been you who completed the cycle of feedback. Your first – and genuine – reaction is a smile that graces your lips from one minute into the other. From his words, you could dissect that he would have a fancy for being your love interest, or so you thought that was what he meant.

Briefly, you glance at Yuta before looking towards the large windows that lock you up in the glasshouse. Yuta is quick to follow your gaze towards the outside world: his eyes following the direction of the tree twigs that get swayed along with the wind. "Is there something else you could offer me, you know, to compensate for the flowers?"

Your words make Yuta laugh soft, his breath almost simultaneously blowing like the wind does outside the window. "What would you fancy?" He asks you even though he knows you are kidding. It became clear before that you don't waste words on people who bring you gifts in return for a bit of your attention.

"Anything you are willing to offer," you begin as you bend down to put down the watering can, leaving it on the ground before you stand up to face Yuta again. The smile that you carry on your lips the moment you look at Yuta gets reflected to his. "What do you think about love?" He asks you as the smile minimizes a little bit when his lips move to speak but that doesn't make it less impactful.

You freeze momentarily when you hear the suggestion, along with your body, your mind also takes a halt for a couple of seconds. Your ears correctly heard the question, as did your mind process the words before going in short lockdown. "I would enjoy that," you murmur whilst slowly dragging yourself back into reality.

A soft embrace around your hand instantly pulls you back into the real world, the hand closes around yours and keeps a gentle grip on it. "I will be looking forward to it," Yuta says as he gives your hand a little squeeze, immediately gaining your nod-filled reaction.

"Me too, Yuta."

〚 III ; trēs 〛

Hundreds of questions collect on your tongue as tastebuds: when one disappears, it simply gets replaced by a new one. Their flavours are dissimilar: some taste bitter, others taste free, and on the tip are many fear-tasting buds.

"How do you know they will walk by without seeing us?"

Yuta can only let out a soft laugh at the sixth question that slips from your tastebuds onto your moving lips. It's an adorable and wholesome sight to see so you worried, he misses the realisation how either of you two must be aware of the risks this takes along.

"It is very early, y/n. Most people out on this hour are on their way for duties and the children won't be able to catch who we are," Yuta tries to ease your uneasiness. The fine line between freedom and getting caught is what your feet seem to be walking on rather than the neatly stoned ground.

In response to his words, you nod, but the anxiety only grows with every step taken towards the civil world. "People on their way might still see us," you say in a complaining tone even though you only try to make Yuta see it in the way you see it. He has done this countless times whilst you rarely came here, and if you did, then it was not supposed to be a casual stroll with your love interest. "They are always rushing, they don't have time to look for people like us before they have to do their daily tasks."

You believe his words as this time, the little bundle of nerves in your stomach disappears but another knot is waiting in queue to get untied. "That must be true," you admit silently before staring at the barely-filled street in front of you. People like you and Yuta aren't as customised to a regular life, hence the reason why you still fear running into people at 7 am. But Yuta seems to know the case well and you can only make up from that, that he does these things more often than you know.

"How often do you come here?" You ask him upon realising how he also seems to know which way he has to take. It's obviously something people habituated here should know but you are still unfamiliar with the little alleys between buildings, unlike Yuta who took your hand and pulled you along, reaching the destination in a shorter amount of time than you estimated. "Maybe weekly, usually I come here at night to take a stroll. People sometimes get drunk so there will not be evidence if they catch me walking," he reasons.

Before a soft response in the shape of a sigh escapes your lips, you purse them together and opt to consider your words. The way Yuta mentions people and getting caught brings a high wave of anxiety to your stomach: the wild sea almost reaching to your heart. "So you did get caught?" your question stays unanswered for the first few seconds and once you look over at Yuta, you notice that he seems to be heavily considering his next move. "Someone saw me but as there has been so much gossip and the man was drunk, no one really believed his story."

This time you opt to not respond at all, you don't even have to purse your lips in order to stay quiet. You try to understand the prequel of the situation you find yourself in: allowing your love to bloom in another place than the greenhouse but the unwritten sequel might not be filled with blooming or freedom. You have to do things differently in the present in order to change the future but you don't take that opportunity. You only hold Yuta's hand tighter as your feet are aligned with his with each step you take further into the homeworld of humanity.

"It is a good thing to escape from the greenhouse for a bit. It doesn't give you the freedom you need even if you think it does," Yuta says. He notices you've gone completely mute by now, purposely not speaking because you are distrustful towards him or the surroundings. You nod your head as you're aware: you act like the greenhouse gives you an immeasurable amount of freedom but still, you find yourself between four walls that keep you secured in place.

"I am aware," you tell Yuta. Subjectively, it sounds like a way to make him stop talking because you're only getting more stressed but from the objective perspective, you're only answering to his previous words. Just like roses naturally grow thorns, you naturally grew the thought that you will never experience true freedom because even in this situation, you feel far from free.

"Shall we continue our walk? It looks beautiful so far."

⋅ ⋅ ⋅

Inquisitive thinking such as exploration, investigation, and learning. It can be observed by anyone who is able to keep an eye on you despite Yuta making it clear that you were safe from the eye of the public. Your urge to explore and investigate could easily be called: curiosity. It's not something you can be blamed for because even Yuta is still curious about the real outside world after coming here on a weekly basis. You are not only curious about what the eye meets but also things you cannot observe: like the inhabitants that must lead their lives in this area or how it must feel to be able to lead a life in this context. Houses aren't overly large and there seems to be a lack of space due to the buildings not having gaps between one another.

Every couple of minutes you have been able to quietly observe as people passed by. You stared at them and wondered what it was like to randomly walk over the street and not tease a future drama about it. Luckily for you, you don't think people saw you staring at them which hopefully also meant that they didn't see you at all.

"Are you hungry? You must be, we left so early you probably didn't get breakfast served yet. Am I right?" Yuta asks you as soon as the street once again is empty enough for his regular voice to come through. Normally he could not care less about it but knowing you are a bit uneasy with the entire situation, he pours some water into the wine to make it taste less bitter.

Your eyes scan around before you choose to reply to his words with a small hum. You are quite hopeful to think that the end of your adventure is near but that story seems to unfold itself differently. "We should get some bread by the bakery," he carelessly suggests. With those words being said, you're left more than speechless. Do you want to decline? Yes, you do, but you dismiss the words and your heap of thoughts. Perhaps if you don't respond, you won't get food and Yuta will take the hint.

"How about that, y/n?"

Internally you use foul language to express your feelings but those words don't come to an official outing because it would be highly impolite. "How about what?" you ask him even though you know what he is asking you about, and acting like you didn't hear what he said might just give you an extra few seconds to decide whether that's a good idea or not. "How about getting bread at the bakery?" he repeats his words from before in a slightly different hue but they still mean the same.

"We can't do that, Yuta," you tell him before you're able to stop your mouth from opening. The sigh that leaves your lips once the words had escaped was one you had been keeping in for a couple of minutes too long: it's a long one that draws out the feelings you've been silently experiencing.

"Why not?" Yuta asks as he tries to discreetly point towards one of the buildings that you already passed by, a bakery where you could smell fresh bread and other related pastries but had passed by without giving it a glance as the owner stood outside of his shop to promote mouth-to-mouth. "The bakery is right there, we can just get some bread and eat it before I bring you home again."

"For starters, we did not bring any money to hand the man and I would still like to keep it quiet that we are here," you tell Yuta just in case he forgot the obvious. There are some extra excuses you could come up with but that would make things only less believable when the truth already escaped from your parted lips. "How did you want to get bread?" You ask as you await to hear his plan. With that, you only confuse yourself more: first, you decline his idea before you ask how he was planning on doing it. Were you just tolerable because Yuta and you shared a little more than just hand-holding?

"Either of us can distract him," Yuta simply stated, his fabric-covered shoulders moving up and down in a matter of seconds as he shrugged. The plan was clear in his head but the words made you only more confused. He noticed the look on your face and leaned closer to your face, his face tilting as he moved forward a bit more to speak to you. "And the other one can just take the bread."

Two reactions occur at the same time: either way you widen your eyes and at the same time, you shake your head rapidly. The ridiculous idea leaves you to have a moment of distrust in Yuta.

"Absolutely not, we're not going to steal. You can eat along with us tonight," you say instantly before you are able to process that it is not close to dinnertime. Though they would still serve you food if you asked for it. "Where did you even get that idea?" you ask as you stop your feet abruptly and turn your body towards Yuta.

Even though the regret kicks in, he doesn't back away and turns his body towards yours. A scolding is what he expects, perhaps because his parents would even be capable of killing him if they knew he suggested stealing from a baker.

He sighs and brings his left hand up to rub over his face, his fingertips harshly pressing against his skin and cheekbones. "Sorry," he apologises to you, wrapping his mind around the reality of the situation. He never stole anything before and suddenly he suggests stealing some fresh bread, something he did with a blank mind despite the setup he made a few seconds prior to telling you.

"It should be time to head back," you change the subject in order to once more buy more time for yourself. You try not to be judgemental because you know Yuta well enough by now: he's not the average wealthy man that you meet at a banquet. He's the rebellious young man that intrigues you and pulls you into his world. There don't seem to be risks in his life and if there are then he simply ignores the possible consequences: it doesn't give a great first impression but is like the sweetest song, sung by angels and it only pulls you in more.

The way back is filled with silence even though the surroundings seem extra loud, it's just the silence that makes the rest increase in volume. There's only one commonly shared word now that you're on the way back: it's Yuta who has his one-end conversation of saying "sorry." but you opt to give a soft breath and silence as a response.

Instead of Yuta dragging you along like earlier in the morning, it's you who marches towards your home. Yuta follows behind you, his fingers twitching now that he's unable to hold onto your hand. His eyes meet with the ground many times as he fears to see you going up the steps and inside without saying your goodbye to him.

Upon the ground and through the grass, his feet walk on the exact same spots that you walk but in relay. One little glance up and he notices that your property is already under his feet but you're not marching towards the home, instead, you're leading him towards the greenhouse. It makes him want to smile but he's unable to, his lips form in a thin line as he perplexes himself with the many different emotions.

⋅ ⋅ ⋅

"Why did you suggest stealing the bread?"

The question doesn't catch Yuta off guard as he expected it sooner or later but at the same time, he's at a loss for words and doesn't know which excuse would be accepted. No excuse should be accepted and he's aware of that: which is why he stays silent and considers his words for a decent amount of time. You're not impatient, even kind enough to give him time to reflect on himself. In the meantime, you keep yourself busy organising some of the gardening tools: that way the workers don't have to put effort into it and you have some wasted time that goes by just a little faster than when you're not doing anything.

"I don't know, I really don't know. But I regret even thinking about it or imagining it," Yuta tells you as an answer, you could tell he genuinely thought but ended up concluding nothing because it perhaps was something that happened without him realising. His fingertips trace over the carved Satyr on the bench, it feels empty enough without you sitting next to him.

He eyes you as you are busy organising different tools, it's no use but you still do so. "I hope you are being truthful," you mumble as you drop the pair of gardening gloves next to the other materials before looking at him. Still, you don't look with judging eyes but you try to look through the facade to see whether he is truthful. You ask yourself whether you doubt him or not: you didn't doubt his truthfulness but his intention of stealing the bread. A selfish thought in your head tells you he wanted to steal it so that you could be fed, and it's a good assumption but you try not to fall for your misleading mind.

"I mean it y/n, I truly don't know"

There's no such thing as a correct answer in this given context but you're willing to take the answer because you trust Yuta and he sounds genuine when he says that he doesn't know. You wish you could hear a proper set of words but you could also wish that the situation hadn't occurred at all: that would be a much better wish to make. But there was no genie to grant your wishes, especially not when the situation already passed by.

"I'm sorry," Yuta says when he thinks you're not going to grant him forgiveness. You are so quiet that Yuta can't help but drown in guilt whilst you are watching from afar.

The seconds continue to tick by, they seem to get lengthier as you don't immediately respond to the apology. Eventually, you have no other option than to give him an honest response. "It's not me that deserves an apology."

Yuta nods as a signal he understands what you mean, he should be apologising to the baker for the things that almost happened. "I know," he murmurs in an almost inaudible tone, his eyes on the bench on which his fingertips endlessly trace over the carved figures.

After letting out a sigh that withheld mixed emotions, you sat down on the bench next to Yuta. In the end, you decide to forgive him because you can't blame him for things that didn't happen yet. "We should indeed buy some bread there next time, the scent was heavenly," you say with a small smile on your lips as you rest your hand upon Yuta's shoulder. Slowly, you let that hand creep up to his hair to gently comb through the locks.

"It did and I knew we were both hungry," he starts his reply, relaxation slowly dawns on him as he feels your gentle touch through his hair. It nearly makes him miss the moral of your words, nearly. "Did you say next time? Do you want to go there again?"

You smile once his realisation comes, or perhaps because you think back about the good time you had despite the anxious feeling and Yuta's dumb mistake. "I do, I enjoyed it. Not weekly but perhaps every once in a while," you say honestly.

The freedom you felt outside seemed unreal: there had been moments where anxiety filled your body to the brim but at the same time, looking at the world whilst walking around in it was positively different from looking at it through large windows.

Your hand slips from Yuta's brown locks when he turns his head towards you. "I think I am in love," he whispers a second after you look back at him, your head tilted to see his healing smile from a different point of view.

"With me?" You question hopefully as you feel bumblebees buzzing in your stomach, the sweet honey nearly edible on the tip of your tongue. A laugh falls from Yuta's lips but he rapidly reacts by nodding his head "of course with you, there has been one person that makes my heart swell. And that person is you," he explains, his eyes widening slightly as he confesses his romantic attachment to you.

There is a quiet second, interrupted by a sound of surprise aligned with Yuta's laughter. By your reaction, Yuta senses that you feel the same and is quick to make his next move. He inches himself closer to you before placing an unexpected and soft peck against your lips. Before you have the opportunity to return the kiss, your lips are distanced and smiles are unconsciously appearing.

"I might just be in love with you too."

〚 IV ; quattuor 〛

"Were you aware that the moonlight changes every day?"

Your head that has been tilted upwards towards the glass roofing slowly lowers itself for you to properly look at Yuta as he speaks. In response, you shake your head and twitch your fingers subconsciously as a sign for him to explain his random particle of information.

"The intensity of moonlight varies greatly, as stated, it depends on the lunar phase," Yuta explains to you as he notices your light motion and the interest on your face. You continue to look at him as he speaks, together with nodding, those two things make it obvious that you are listening actively to every word he says.

"Does it not depend on our eyes as well?" You ask as you silently wondered about it when he was speaking. You think your eyes are not always prepared to see the same amounts of light: especially not very bright hues. Yuta shows the same interest that you showed him not long ago and nods his head when you finish your question "hm, I think it does."

After that, a moment of silence settles down. Both of you occupied by the subject of moonlight and its daily-changing intensity. To speak honestly, there is no need to ponder about it for much longer, and yet, you two seem silently captivated by the subject. Perhaps because the moonlight is currently bringing a hint of its brightness into the nightfall.

You are the first one to break the silence because you feel how your head automatically moves upwards to look at the source of light and the acquaintance of darkness in the sky. "The moon is so beautiful," is what you tell Yuta who can't help but hum in agreement. His mind is only partially on the moon, as are his eyes because other things steal his attention.

"It is, sometimes I watch the moon from my room but watching it here makes it so much more pleasant," he answers as he not-so-gently throws his head back to look through the glass roof. The moon might be pulchritudinous but the true beauty comes from you. Yet, his words aren't complete nonsense. He watches the moon when he is alone in his room but while doing so, he thinks about you which makes him stare without being able to see much.

You smile at the words, your fingertips running over the back of his hand in a relaxed manner. "Me too," you say simply, your lower lip painlessly tucked between your teeth before you decide on confessing the other half of the story. "When I do, I think about you. That you must be in your room: asleep or watching the moon too."

It's awfully cliché but that is a side effect of lovers who have not been sharing a romance for longer than six months. Yuta doesn't show a negative reaction, he thinks it's wholesome that you feel that way, he feels the same way but does not admit it yet because he loves imagining that you think about him at night.

"Is that why we are here together tonight? For you to secretly stare at me instead of the moon?" Yuta playfully asks you as he inches closer to you, it's a playful moment even if he's guilty to the things he is teasing you with. "That was the plan, but I got caught," you answer with a smile as your own body moves closer.

"You know what happens to those who sin," Yuta mentions with a small smirk, his hands moving away from yours to instead embrace your waist. It's an easy way to pull you closer and have some physical contact at the same time, and he takes advantage of the moment do to both of those. His fingertips press against your covered skin as he runs slow and steady circles in an attempt to explore more of you.

You hum soft, an act that you do not care about the consequences of those who sin. In reality, you do care because the consequences are far from pleasant. Being in the contextual element, you know this is not about the harsh punishments people receive upon committing a true sin. Both of you are young enough to modernise the meaning of sin.

"Tell me what happens to those who sin?" You ask as your head wants to lower once more, but Yuta's lips press against the side of your neck, requiring you to keep your head upwards for a little longer.

Yuta's teeth gently nip at your skin when he hears your question, soothing the gnaw with the tip of his tongue. "Why should I explain, it seems like you're about to find out for yourself," he says before he clicks his tongue in a cocky way. Confidence and pride fight for the lead in his heart but lust takes the crown mercilessly.

The first sigh of pleasure leaves your lips after a soft hiss does, but the slight pain of his teeth brings you towards an unexpected amount of pleasure.

"Be mine," Yuta mumbles, the words not far from inaudible because his lips are hastily pressing kisses against your neck while he speaks. "I will be the one who loves you," he continues as now, between every word, the kisses seem to increase their lustful intentions.

You want to respond to the words, tell him you're his and his only but the forming drive to pleasure prevents you from wasting time on explanations. As if his kisses are not satisfying enough, his fingertips go underneath the attire that covers your bare skin. Due to the warmth of your clothing and the coldness of his fingertips, you shiver when his fingertips patch over your thighs.

"Yuta," the way you breathe out his name signals that you're asking for his attention. Your body is fighting against it and wants to beg for more but those words do not articulate on your lips, something holds you back from asking for more intimacy. "This is not right, imagine what would happen if they found out," you reason despite your body urging you to get closer so that his fingertips trail to more sensitive spots. The consequences wouldn't be mild if anyone found out, it's not Yuta who makes the situation problematic, but the authorities and religion that decides that the closest form of intimacy should not occur until marriage.

"Hence why I said I would make you mine, y/n, and trust me…," Yuta starts as his lips trace upwards, leaving the trail of hot kisses to go from the side of your neck towards your ear. His breathing is deep, driven by lust as even your scent is enough to make him want more. "…I will make you mine," he whispers.

The decisive whisper is answered by a solemn nod from you: you trust Yuta but it's mostly your own senses that tell you to stop protesting against it. Yuta's eyes let you undergo an examination, just to check whether you were okay with this. "I'm yours," you whisper as you connect your lips with his for a heated kiss.

The words "I'm yours," seem to split in two as both of you take the words in a different way, and you are yet to find out Yuta's true meaning behind the words. In your eyes, you had been his the second you went from acquaintances to love interests and it still was now that you officially were hidden lovers.

“Only the united beat of sex and heart together can create ecstasy.”

⋅ ⋅ ⋅

Dawn. The first appearance of light in the sky before sunrise.

Dawn. The beginning of a phenomenon or period of time, especially one considered favourable.

Three minutes before there were only ten minutes left until the clock pointed its smallest hand at five. That was dawn. The way you silently laid against Yuta's side on a marble bench, your head resting against the area where you could listen to his heartbeat. That was dawn.

Moonlight chased away the shadows of the night and replaced it with the first light of a new day.

Your eyes are closed but that doesn't mean that you're asleep, for a few hours you have been dozing in and out of catnaps. None of the short amounts of time long enough for a dream, but you feel like you're living in one, so it's not needed to live in a visual world with your eyes closed.

Yuta seems asleep, you can hear by the way he breathes and you can feel by the slow beat of his heart. Sixty-one beats per minute is what you observed on a moment that you were sure he was in dreamland, but keeping track of the number of heartbeats and seconds was a difficult combination. Thus, it could have been a little bit more or some less.

After letting out a soft sound of tiredness, you open your eyes and greet the greenery with a small smile. Though it's mostly the memories that make you smile: memories of the nightfall and its nocturnal ventures. Your mind still holds on to the momentum: the patches of Yuta's fingertips on your skin, the whispers of naughty and nice, the swelling of your heart out of love and the ecstasy that mixed itself due to the heart and sex combining.

A red-pink-coloured flower greets you in its full bloom, it stands out next to the few pastel purple flowers. You can imagine the scent, or you think you can, but you realise you are lying between nothing but greenery and flowers that bloom.

The peaceful moment gets interrupted by deafening noises outside the glasshouse, they aren't extremely loud but the many different audible triggers are blaring. Yet, you're too far away from the window to properly look through it and the bloomed red roses are in front of the nearest window. It's not unusual for these noises to be heard, the time is what makes it strange. But you don't pay attention to it, not more than needed, or so you like to think.

"What are those noises?"

Your eyes shift from the red roses that cover the window towards your lover, it means that you have to turn your body slightly so that you can comfortably look at him. Once you're in a comfortable position, you smile at the sight.

Yuta looks tired and well-rested at the same time, his smile is small but the corners of his lips are twitched upwards the moment he sees your face. "I think someone just left or arrived, usually it is when they are looking for something or about transport," you answer his question so that you have more time to look at him without having to interrupt the moment.

His tired lips press a soft kiss on the corner of your mouth before he draws your body closer to his. "Good morning, by the way," he whispers as he distances his lips from yours properly. "Good morning."

Momentarily, you see Yuta disappearing from the real world and towards his own forest of thoughts. The thought about the shared intimacy come back to life there together with each minuscule aspect that he was able to observe with his five basic senses.

"I meant it yesterday."

You look at him while confusion is written on your face, rather than it's written on your features, there's a ceramic stamp all over your face. "You meant what," you ask and once more turn yourself more towards him so that it's easier to communicate. Before he speaks up, you try to recall everything that has been said yesterday but only two kinds of words come to mind: the sinful words and the outings of genuine love.

"I will make you mine," Yuta answers, quoting them as he said them yesterday. Yesterday or today, the words were still confusing. You already considered yourself as his, but he seemed to wander on a different part there.

Due to the sweetness of the words, you display a small smile but it doesn't fully replace the confusion that primarily outed itself. "I'm yours, Yuta," you tell him in case he suspects you might think otherwise. Perhaps he only saw you as a love interest until now, or perhaps he thinks you see him as nothing but a love interest.

"I mean, truly make you mine. I will love you, worry about you, and be responsible for you," he starts explaining before he stops talking, something rests on the tip of his tongue and he's not going to withhold himself from saying it. The set of critical words are more grand and they leave his mouth once his lips part.

"I want to marry you."

〚 V ; quīnque 〛

Yuta's fingertips are circled up against the palm of his hand, clenched in an angry fist. His footsteps are quick as he makes his way through the formation - that just like him is on the move - , harshly speaking he seems like a soldier marching towards the enemy with a loaded gun between his fingers. He doesn't get distracted by the walking of the people that try to hold him back without using the direct signals that they are trying to stop him.

Perhaps if his wardrobe would have allowed it, he would have been able to fit in with the crowd without getting caught in the act. But his clothes were surprisingly different from their attire: his black coat draped over his shoulders and the gold-coloured details on each visible border are shaped as non-existent flowers.

In his brain, he can clearly recall when you said a situation like this was not completely unusual. Still, the situation was unexplainable to him. It seemed like they were after him: not to chase him and get him off the property but almost leading him inside your home. The place where he had only been once to attend the banquet. Fairly speaking, he did not want to go inside because he would probably see your parents but if he wanted to find you, he would have to go inside

"Would you let my son in without those bastards circling him like he is a prey."

Yuta slowly looks up when he hears the familiar voice saying the words that only make his suspicion turn into facts. His eyes fall on his own father standing next to yours: while your father looks overly satisfied with his arrival, his own father looks slightly disappointed and his pokerface shows a lot more emotion than it should.

"What is going on?" Yuta asks as he glances between the two men for an answer, he knows he's being led by an army of people around him but he wants a clear answer of the things that are going on. When your father only motions for him to follow inside, he roughly marches forward, perhaps a little bit too unrestrained as people are no longer forcing him in direction of the door. "You may come in, Yuta."

Doing as he's asked, Yuta starts to walk up the steps towards the door before following his and your father further inside the place. With each step, he feels a heavy weight being added onto his shoulder and it is almost as if he left his courage at the lowest step of the stairs. Despite already feeling anxious, he makes it worse by starting to look around: not to claim furniture that your father would gift when feeling generous but to check if he could see any traces of you.

Whilst observing he can almost say that he doesn't know whether this family has children, there are no traces of you or something that reminds him of you. It's not even the lack of cohort portraits, it is the lack of personality that this place holds.

"Why don't you sit here with us?" Your father suggests as he walks into the room where he had been with Yuta's father minutes earlier, discussing merely one subject with a filled liquor glass in their hands. The seat where his father sat was still pulled out, signalling it had not been time to bid each other farewell yet. Once his own father takes a seat and your father does too, he sits on the leftover seat.

"I would like to ask why you came here? Or why you have been here almost every day for the past time…" Your father asks but the words suggest for Yuta to speak up so that they don't have to pull the words out of his lips. He doesn't feel like they just caught him in the act but manages to feel the astonishment.

Yuta clears his throat, swallowing the saliva-filled nerves before he speaks up. "I come here for y/n, we enjoy spending time together," the word he tells don't lie but he keeps all of the details behind for as long as he can. Not because he's ashamed or doesn't want to admit to your relationship, but because he feels the urge to protect you.

"And you lure y/n with you into town?"

That is the moment where he feels like he got caught, simply because of you, who had been so scared to get caught whilst walking on the most regular streets in town. He wonders how they found out he took you to town but also considered inhabitants possibly recognising him or you.

"For a simple walk, I had no intention of luring her to town with bad consequences," Yuta explains. But by the expression on your father's face, he can recognise that his explanation didn't add much positivity to the story.

"That is what they all claim, young man. But I hope you realise that y/n will not be at hand to marry you," your father says and before he can comment, saying that that will happen even if your father says no, his father takes the wheel. "If you do not allow my son to marry y/n, I demand us to nullify our exchanges."

The protection from his father gives him courage, he had never expected his father to give protection in this context but misses the clue that his father is only trying to protect future exchanges and deals. Perhaps he misses the clue because they say love makes people blind and he is deeply in love with you. Without suspecting the next step, he waits for your father to give his comment.

"Consider them nullified."

Yuta's father raises from his chair soon after the words are spoken out loud. "I suggest we return homewards, Yuta," he says to his son as he clears his throat uncomfortably. Yuta is unable to perform anything, staring at your father but he is left speechless and frozen in his spot. "Yuta," his father calls out for him again, this time successfully receiving Yuta's attention.

"I will not leave, not until you give me a fair chance to marry y/n. We have a lot in common and both of us want to take the following step," Yuta claims, his voice getting louder as he feels misunderstood. He wasn't just a young man who lured you into town for his own pleasure, he was a young man who wanted to spend the rest of his life together with you. "y/n and I are in love."

Your father is the second one to raise from his chair, marching the short distance between his and Yuta's chair. "Listen to me, Nakamoto Yuta," he starts before he presses his hand against Yuta's shoulder blade. It's not a light touch but Yuta is too stubborn to show his usual strong reactions. "We do not marry out of love, we marry for money and profit. But I require my son in law to have manners, and that is something your parents never taught you."

"I love y/n, and you cannot stop me from doing so," Yuta says as he pushes away your father's hand from his shoulder, he stands up from his chair and turns towards your father. Due to the height difference, it seems like Yuta is in charge but that's only an illusion.

"You are right, I can't stop you from loving y/n," your father admits. Once again Yuta fails to see a detail, this time blinded by his pride when he hears the words. It's a calm moment before the storm, and the storm is only a few seconds away. "Too bad I can stop you from getting married to y/n, and I will do anything. Even if it costs you your life."

Minutes later, the three of them are walking the large hallway in order to get Yuta and his father out of the building. Yuta's fists are clenched as he only states in front of him while walking: angry with the world, disappointed in himself.

An employé opens the large front door for Yuta and his father to for the last time leave this place without ever returning. Exchanges and money-related deals are officially unchained the moment his father walks out of the door. "I suggest you leave now," your father says as he motions his hand towards the outside world, an impolite gesture in Yuta's eyes.

"Allow me to do one more thing before I leave," Yuta says as his feet step closer to the wall, plucking the only decoration from its designated location. The flag's fabric is rich in texture and feels soft under his rough fingerprints, but the feeling in Yuta's hands is too bitter to botire the softness. "As a last gift to you."

A smirk displays on his lips as he glances between his own father and your father. He knows he will get scolded by his own father for playing a dirty trick like this, but he cannot care less about that. His pride and love are on the line and he will not allow anyone to touch either of the two.

"You see this flag right?" Yuta asks as his hand smoothes over the details of the flag before he grips the flag at two of the corners with his hands. The flag is fully stretched between his hands: showing the coat of arms to who he now considered as the enemy. One harsh movement and the flag showed its first rip: the start of something grander than separation. "I would be careful with your words, my life could be spared but yours not," he says to your father before he ceremonially rips the flag in two separate pieces.

The two pieces sadly dwindle onto the ground but Yuta is the only one looking at them with a proud smile on his lips. He momentarily doesn't think of the consequences this has for you: pride takes over his senses. He steps over the piece that holds the coat of arms of your family while he steps out of the door.

"Farewell for now."

⋅ ⋅ ⋅

Unlike Yuta is told, he doesn't exactly leave the property. Told his father that he was going to walk home because he was in need of time alone to reflect on himself. Walked towards the greenhouse in order to meet you.

Seeing you in the greenhouse had been his intention from the moment he arrived but without a chance had lost his non-physical fight against the people that worked for your father. Now he probably was over an hour late to see you, perhaps you even left because you thought he tricked you.

There is a lump in his throat as he walks into the greenhouse and immediately closes the glass door behind him. The greenery doesn't tell him whether you are still here waiting for him but he doesn't ask about it either. His footsteps are quick and headed towards the bench where the two of you usually sit. More than just sitting had happened on the bench but lustful thoughts are not priority.

"y/n?" He calls out your name through the greenhouse but in the meanwhile doesn't stop his footsteps towards the familiar bench. His eyes are busy, wandering around the available space with the hope of you still being here. Soon enough his eyes meet with the red roses that cover the glass window, a sign that he is close to the bench. His body turns, almost dramatically as he knows he will, either way, see you or the empty bench now.

Despite the situation, a smile appears on his lips as he sees you sitting on the bench. "I missed you," he says as he walks towards you and plops himself down on the other side of the bench.

His words are left unanswered and after glancing at you, Yuta realises you look far from happy. "Is something wrong?" He asks you, his hand moving to your thigh, softly stroking over the fabric-covered skin. Deep inside, he knows why you stay quiet but he tries to convince himself that his thoughts are incorrect. "I bet you already know," you whisper.

Your whisper allows Yuta to let out a breath, his nostrils moving as the air is blown out. Momentarily, he doesn't know what to say because what he's supposed to say conflicts with what he wants to say. He needs to say that he is not allowed to marry you but he wants to tell you to run away with him and marry in secret.

"I am not allowed to wed you," you say softly. The heartbreak when you say those words intensifies: first it seemed mere cracks but now that you say the words, your heart is ripped in two pieces. Yuta nods his head, silencing himself by tugging his lip between his teeth. Yet, he can't help but speak "flee. We can do it together and marry without anyone finding out who we are and where we are."

The tempting words are like poison: appealing to you but there is no way back once you took a sip. "What will happen to us? We have nowhere to go, we won't have anyone but each other," you clarify as you once again are afraid to get caught like the time in town. At first, it seemed like no one found out, until today when your father stated the facts.

"Having each other is plenty. I will make up a plan and then we can run together," Yuta says as he takes both of your hands in his. The moment is intense because you're expected to say yes or no: you would say no because of your families and not having anything when you flee, but yes because you promised forever to Yuta and you don't want anything more than having that forever.

Without waiting for your answer, Yuta stands up and pulls you up on your feet gently. "Five days, we leave in exactly five days. Midnight and I will pick you up here, on the bench, in the glasshouse," he clearly states the words so that you'll remember them. You rest your hand against his chest, gripping the expensive fabric of his blazer before your grip loosens.

"I will be waiting for you,"

〚 VI ; sex 〛

Five days consisting of one hundred twenty hours.

One hundred twenty hours consisting of seven thousand two hundred minutes.

Seven thousand two hundred minutes consisting of four hundred thirty-two thousand seconds.

For you, time delays more than normal. Over recent days, you had a speed course on levelling up your provisional skills: lying to your father that you ground yourself in your room because you're heartbroken while you're plotting freedom with the love of your life. It's not an easy task but your father allows it, as long as he can lodge a complaint about Yuta and his family during dinner. You don't talk back to your father because you don't want him to suspect a thing: you simply listen and fraud your tears once or twice.

Yuta journals time in a different way. The hours tick by without difficulty even though he mainly stays in his bedchamber as well: he quietly coats his walls with removable ink that he's been given and draws shapes of patches of land or writes possible destinations as well as a list of things that need to be purchased in advance. Each dinner he will show up for a short amount of time, aside from the day that he stays in the common room until his father goes to bed, that night he lets his hand wander to a treasure of capital and hastily hides it in his blazer's pocket. Stolen money that he wordlessly promises to return one day, but the day would never come.

Whenever the nightfall takes place, both you and Yuta look out of the window: greeting the darkness as you wordlessly wish for one another: thoughts of the night where forever has been a given and received promise tend to come back. It's a coincidence that your desire of Yuta doing the same comes true, but he's simply so in love with you and can't stop himself from thinking about you.

With a little less than four hours to go, Yuta permanently leaves his room. His clothes are deftly hanging in his wardrobe and there's no doubt that dust will coat the exorbitant fabrics. The walls that had been scribbled full are now empty, not a trace of the plans revealed upon the wall. Just like they creatively appeared, they disappeared when Yuta washed them off. Something he takes along with him, is, money and the outfit that is wrapped around his body right now: primarily he is only in need of you and the rest belongs to an unnecessary subordinate.

Once his bedroom has been left, the rest follows minutes after. His father is left the moment Yuta soundlessly passes by his office. His entire home is left behind the moment he steps outside and pulls the door shut. Naturally, those things happen and he doesn't feel any remorse for doing so, he is willing to do anything for the person he loves.

From his property, his first destination is the town. If there is something that might make the flight more serene, it's food to keep both of you alive in the first days of survival. He goes to the bakery that he almost stole from once: a memory he can't help but relive because, despite its negative undertone, the memory consists of you.

The queue at the bakery is not overly long, a handful of people seem willing to buy the fresh-smelling bread. Just as willing as he is, perhaps they need it for survival purposes as well. Two women are in front of him and either of them is accompanied by a child that doesn't look older than five: it's not their turn yet hence why they spent their time being a human newspaper. "Did you hear? Apparently, y/n has been found dead," the words flow from her mouth.

For the first time, Yuta heard what they are talking about. Normally he isn't interested in news brought by human newspapers: what they tell us usually something sugar-coated or filled with a spoonful of sea salt. Your name is the trigger for him to listen, but what follows after, completely triggers him.

"When?" The other woman asks to keep the conversation running and Yuta can't help but allow all of his senses to work together. His ears have to listen as he tries to use his eyes for their body language, on the tip of his tongue is a bitter taste and he can feel tears forming in his eyes. "Last night they say, she was caught and murdered by someone that works for their family."

The words leave Yuta frozen in his spot, the coins that were resting in the palm of his hand are clenched between his fingertips as they form into a tight but sad fist. "Excuse me," he quickly mutters after his body is turned towards the exit, pushing through the few people that are lined up behind him.

Without bread, he leaves the bakery. His footsteps don't match up with the pace he wants to reach: sloppily walking as his mind is as mushy as porridge even though in his mind, he is running as fast as he can towards you.

"I need to get there," he ends up muttering to himself. Realisation of his hindered pace comes after he realises that the past ten steps didn't take him further than to the corner of the street. In that critical moment, his feet finally set off to a faster running pace.

Even if the past five days had gone by rapidly, time now went slower than it ever did before. His footsteps didn't change the pace of time, because no matter how fast he went, it seemed like he didn't reach much further. Tirelessly, his feet continued to run until the first changes in scenery were noticeable.

The streets from town slowly started to disappear, replaced by an uncountable amount of greenery. The only real street was in the form of a path that led him only further into the greenery.

Due to the fast running, his feet tend to oversee the details of the greenery underneath. The first time he stumbles it's over his own clumsy feet. The second time he stumbles and falls it's due to the roots of the tree that cross his path. His black-clothed pants are dirt covered when he sits up on his knees before standing up on his feet again.

"I will take responsibility for you till the end"

⋅ ⋅ ⋅

The rose as red as blood is the only visible factor as he glances through the window of the greenhouse. His hands are pressed on the glass for a direct look upon the bench that's inside: but the red flower prevents him from seeing anything. Now that he thinks about it, he remembers how the roses shielded anyone from seeing the pureness of your bodies as you made love underneath the light of the moon.

Silence drapes a symbolic flag over the property. It's eerily quiet for a long time but Yuta is too busy to notice the silence until finally, a sound drags him out of his observation process. In surprise due to the sound, his hand flatly places against the glass before his body wildly spins around. The large doors are opened and less than a dozen men walk out: dressed formally as they carry outside a variety of objects that Yuta can't make out in of the near distance.

He can recognise the colours printed on the flag, by the things he's been taught, he concludes that this will be the raised flag for the upcoming time. A time of mourning hence the monochrome colour of the flag. He thickly swallows before letting out a cough when the saliva collects at the back of his throat.

Unable to withhold himself from performing sentiments, he screams out of wretchedness. Knees colliding with the ground for the fifth time that day, but the pain is zilch compared to the heartache that burns through his shirt. When he thought his heart would no longer beat, the pace quickened due to one of the men signalling another by pointing near the source of sound. On his knees, Yuta crawled to the large door, letting himself in after he reached up to pull the handle.

⋅ ⋅ ⋅

"J'aime tes pleurs. C'est la rosée qui sied aux fleurs"

Rather than the passionate red roses, blue colourized roses are plucked by Yuta's fingertips. Like you once tutored him: red roses symbolise passionate love and blue roses symbolise unrequited and unreachable love. His promise of never giving you flowers is disintegrated.

In front of Yuta's blurry vision are continuous drips. One drop, two drops and still going. His teardrops landing on top of the sadly fallen flower petals, withering together as a sign of grief.

Memories fall like rain at dawn with each blue rose that Yuta plucks: one for the banquet where you two met for the first time, one for your first shared kiss, one for the endless talks in this greenhouse, one for the intimacy under the moonlight, and the last one for forever that will never come but always be yours.

Five roses are clenched between his fingertips, strongly held as the thorns press into the thin skin. The spring shower of memories stops the moment he spins his body towards he bench, a loud sob wrecking his vocal cords.

"y/n," he calls out to you as he walks up to the bench, his knees willingly giving out right in front of the bench. The place where your body was laid to rest until further notice: the place where you would be at peace, the place where love bloomed much like flowers. Your parted lips almost indicate you want to call out to him too, but your body is still and so are your non-existing words.

"I brought you these flowers," Yuta says softly as he places the five bundled flowers between your folded hands, the coldness of your fingers lingering against his skin until he backs away. "I know you explicitly told me to not gift you flowers but these will not wither, they will bloom," he whispers as his twitching fingertips ache to touch you, but out of fear, he can only let them caress over the rose petals.

His head comes to rest against the edge of the bench. "I hope you like them," he whispers as he can only look at the ground in sadness, shame, heartbreak. His blurry vision detects coral beads on the floor next to something that looks like a brown bean.

Abrus precatorius.

From another memory together with you he remembers the flowering plan out of the bean family. The plant is best known for its seeds, or better said beads that are toxic due to the presence of abrin. Ingestion of a single seed can be fatal to both adults and children.

An old symbol of love in China, which they call "相思豆" or "mutual love bean". A deadly love bean is what humans would tend to call it within the town, simply because they had no idea of official wordings or the dangers of the plant.

Yuta swallows thickly, almost like one of the seeds is on the tip of his tongue and he needs to swallow it. But the bitter feeling on his tongue is due to the realisation of what truly happened.

"I understand y/n. Even if fate separates us, all your tear-drenched memories will die in my embrace," He whispers. The fingertips of his right hand move towards your cheek, stroking over the skin daintily. The tender touch is cold but the warmth of love fills his blind heart. Beneath the bench, his left hand clutches a handful of coral beads.

The decorational plant beads rest in his hand as he brings them up to his mouth. A mutual love bean: cause of death for the love of his life, and soon to be his own as well.

Well-chewed, he swallows the seeds all at once. A breath escapes from his lips as he soon allows his head to lay against your shoulder, your stiff and cold body, pillowed by a thin layer of white lace that covers your skin.

His brown eyes eternally stare towards the love of his life. His broken heart swallows the tears for the deep pierced scars to get healed by the droplets, as a consequence, death starts blooming from the cracks of his heart. Before nightfall spreads over the glasshouse, his solitary serenade is heard.

"Rather than living without your love, I'll die with hatred. When we meet again, I hope we bloom as flowers."

[underthewingsofthblackeagle]

Foto: Panorama Helsinki / Finland - Dom und Parlamentsplatz (by tap5a)

“We only do this for Fergus!” is a short Outlander Fan Fiction story and my contribution to the Outlander Prompt Exchange (Prompt 3: Fake Relationship AU: Jamie Fraser wants to formally adopt his foster son Fergus, but his application will probably not be approved... unless he is married and/or in a committed relationship. Enter one Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp (Randall?) to this story) @outlanderpromptexchange​

Chapter 1: Life offers you many surprises

Berlin, Französische Straße Friday, 25 July 2025, 8.50 a.m.

         Five minutes earlier, Claire Elisabeth Beauchamp had entered the large, light gray house, built in the neo-Renaissance style that dominated the whole Forum Fridericianum. In the lobby, which was dominated by marble and dark wood, Claire was greeted by a receptionist. She was asked to sit down for a moment in one of the dark leather armchairs, of which four were grouped around an elegant round table. As she waited, her eyes wandered up the high walls of the entrance hall. A few steps of a staircase led out of the hall through a large glass door that ended in a round arch at the top, reminiscent of a gate entrance. Above it was a large ornament of dark stones inlaid in the light marble. The ornament showed a circle, which, as it seemed, was formed from a belt. The words "Je suis prest" could be read in the curve of the circle and in the center of the ornament was the head of a stately stag, which looked directly at the observer.

“Französische Straße Berlin” by Jörg Zägel / CC BY-SA (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)

         Claire knew that the French motto meant "I am ready!", but just as she was wondering what the sign meant, an older lady approached her. She introduced herself as Mrs. Fitz-Gibbons. This employee, whose blue costume gave the impression of a uniform, led Claire down various small staircases and long corridors to the room where she was now sitting. Wherever they had gone in this house, it had been extremely quiet. The heavy, dark red carpets that covered all the stairs and hallways, had swallowed every sound of their footsteps. Now she sat in a room whose furnishings were characterized by dark wood and light brass and whose dimensions were more like those of a hall. But it was the antechamber of the CEO’s office of "Fraser & Son International" and behind the large double-winged door that Claire was now looking at was the study of Dr. James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser, one of the country's leading business owners.         Until two weeks ago, Claire did not know the man's name or that of his company. She didn't care about the gossip press, which also reported on the local "high society" in Berlin. But then Geillis Duncan, her best friend, came by one evening and showed her a job ad from the "Wirtschaftswoche" newspaper. At first Claire was completely surprised. How did Geillis, who loved to read the gossip press, come to show her an ad from Germany's leading weekly magazine for managers?

         "Dave left it on the kitchen table, and since I didn't have anything else at hand, I looked into it while having breakfast. But now take a look at this job ad!"

Geillis had emphatically pointed to an ad that featured the same ornament as the one she had seen in the lobby.          Claire had started reading. A pedagogically trained caregiver was needed for an almost seven-year-old child. The woman should speak fluent German, English and French. Further foreign language skills were welcome but not required. Furthermore, an extensive general education and an impeccable curriculum vitae (i.e. no entries in the Federal Central Crime Register) were expected. Special emphasis was placed on the knowledge and practice of the literature written by Adolph Freiherr Knigge. Three times the current monthly salary was offered, 30 days paid vacation, free board and lodging, private health insurance 1st class.

         "Just imagine Claire!" the girlfriend had exclaimed enthusiastically, "If you got this job and worked there for a few years, all your problems would be solved!”

         Geillis was right, well, almost. Surely not all her problems would be solved. But the financial problems she had to deal with could at least be significantly reduced by this job. She had to acknowledge that and so Claire, Geillis and her friend Dave met that very evening to write a letter of application. Dave, who worked for a large media company at Potsdamer Platz, immediately agreed to help her with his knowledge. The next day, Claire had sent off the application. Then she had bought an updated edition of "The Knigge" and started reading it. Shortly after, Geillis came and brought her a large pile of current newspaper clippings so Claire could learn all she needed to know about the person of James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser and the family business he ran.

         She learned a lot about the company from various business magazines, but the person of James Fraser seemed almost like a phantom. It seemed to her that this man also didn't care about the so-called "high society" and obviously he didn't deliver any headlines to the gossip press. There was neither an article about him nor a photo of him on the company's homepage. Even a Wikipedia article with his name only gave the basic data (birthday, place of birth, family, studies) and otherwise dealt more with the globally active company. "Fraser & Son International" was one of the few family-owned companies that to this day had no shareholders and, having invested in a wide range of economic sectors, not only survived the financial crisis of 2008 well, but had even emerged from it stronger. In this Wikipedia article, however, there was a photo by James Fraser. It showed him with a group of business leaders at a national conference. However, this picture was over eight years old and also very pixelated. At some point everything turned in Claire's head and she hoped that she had not learned all this information for nothing. If she would at least be invited for a job interview.          Ten days later, she hadn't dared to hope that she would ever hear of Fraser & Son International, and to her surprise, her smartphone rang just before the lunch break began. A Dr. Ned Gowan called on behalf of the company, explained that he was the lawyer for "Fraser & Son International" and asked if she could come for an interview at the company's headquarters two days later at 9:00 am. She told him that she had to ask her department head to give her time off first and would call back. As the summer vacation period was over, it was no problem to get a day off and so she called Dr Gowan fifteen minutes later and agreed to meet him (and Dr. Fraser!) two days later. Claire had to be extremely restrained not to cheer out loud. This would have immediately drawn the attention of her colleagues in the department, and she definitely did not want to tell them about it. During lunch break, she left the clinic and sat down on a bench in a nearby park. From there she called Geillis and told her the good news. Right after the end of her shift, the friends met in the parking lot of the clinic to go into town together and pick out a suitable "outfit" for Claire's job interview. Geillis, who had worked as a freelance fashion consultant for many years before she met "the rich Dave", dragged her friend directly to the fashion department of the KaDeWe. There, after a while, they found a muted dark green business costume that emphasized Claire's figure but still looked respectable.

“Kaufhaus des Westens (KaDeWe) - Foto by Avi1111 dr. avishai teicher / CC BY-SA (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0)

         "That's perfect," exclaimed Geillis as Claire stepped out of the dressing room.          "Yes, perfectly too expensive for me. Have you seen the price?"          "Don't worry about that," Geillis replied. Then she whispered:          "I'll pay for it. If the job doesn't work out, we'll just give it back afterwards. And if you get the job and want to keep it, you'll give me the money back when you get your first salary.”

         They bought the costume and also a matching blouse and shoes. Claire was not allowed to think about the amount of money they had spent within a few hours or she would get sick.          But that was all forgotten at that moment. Now it was time to concentrate and make a good impression.          Mrs. Fitz-Gibbons had led her into this room and instructed her to use one of the twelve large brown leather armchairs. With the words          "You will be called in when it is your turn,"          she had said goodbye.          Claire had taken a seat and scanned the room as inconspicuously as possible. Seven other women sat in leather armchairs of the same type, which were set up on three side walls of the room, each separated by a small table. On the tables were glasses and bottles of mineral water, but none of the other women had made use of them. Claire had not intended to drink anything either. She was far too excited to drink, and she was afraid that she might have to go to the bathroom in the middle of her upcoming job interview. Slowly, her gaze wandered across the light-colored carpet to that large, two-winged mahogany wooden door. On each of the wings was a coat of arms, divided into four sections. On the upper left and the lower right quarter were three white flowers on a blue background. The upper right and the lower left quarter each showed three red, pointed crowns on a white background. Behind this door, Claire assumed, must be the director's room. What would she expect there? She did not know. Why had she only gotten involved in this thing that Geilis Duncan had suggested to her? Out of desperation? She wasn't sure. Only one thing was sure: she had never thought that she would have to have another job interview at the age of almost 30. But that was her life. Much of what had happened in her life had not been planned, nor had she ever expected her life to be like that.          Claire Elisabeth Beauchamp, almost divorced Randall, had lost her parents in a car accident when she was five years old. For the next fifteen years she was raised in the loving care of her uncle 'Lamb'. Dr. Quentin Lambert Beauchamp, an archaeologist and Egyptologist whose research focus was on the Old Kingdom of Egypt and who was highly revered by his students, came to Berlin in 2015, where he taught at Humboldt University in the last years before his retirement. There Claire had also met her future husband, Dr. Frank Randall. He had been assigned to her uncle as a research assistant. Randall had courted her like no man before and they had already married in May 2016. The first four years of their marriage had gone in a way that Claire would still describe as happy today. Although, she was no longer quite so sure. What did happiness actually mean? Was there a definition for this term? And even if there was a definition for the term "happiness", was it really valid for all people? In any case, the first four years of her marriage had not been very negative. Together they had made regular trips to Paris, Madrid, Prague, Budapest, Dubrovnik, Palermo, Venice, Turin, Marseille, Amsterdam, Florence, Milan, Barcelona and Bruges.

“Palermo/Sizilien” by  nataliaaggiato 

         Claire enjoyed getting to know these cities and experiencing their cultural particularities. When Lambert Beauchamp died unexpectedly in February 2019 as a result of a stroke, Frank had been kind and, in her opinion, very sensitive to her needs. But in the spring of 2020, a strange development had set in with him. At first Claire had blamed it on the effects of the corona pandemic. After the start of the lockdown, Frank was mainly at home, giving lectures via Zoom and otherwise writing a new book on the history of the Scottish Jacobite uprising in 1745. Claire, on the other hand, was working as a nurse in the children's clinic of Berlin's Charité hospital, as she had been before the crisis. Frank had insisted that Claire should give up her job. The possibility that she could become infected with the virus seemed too high to him. But Claire could not bring it over her heart to leave her fellow nurses alone, especially in such a severe time, and thanks to the strictly observed precautions she got through this difficult time without any problems. While she could be happy about the successes in her profession, the problems in her marriage with Frank seemed to become bigger and bigger. At some point, she felt that Frank was becoming more and more monosyllabic and that they were drifting apart rapidly. But evem then she thought this was a temporary phase that would end after the pandemic at the latest. At least she hoped so. When a vaccine against the virus was finally found in July 2021 and became available in December 2021, Claire breathed a sigh of relief. She and Frank would get vaccinated and then they could travel again. This would change Frank's mind and make her marriage blossom again. But it all turned out differently. Once they were vaccinated, Frank suddenly didn't feel like traveling anymore. Again and again he put off his work. Regularly he worked until late at night at the university and sometimes he spent whole nights there. It was always about important analyses, which he published in specialist publications and for which there were tight deadlines. Even on evenings when Claire was off, he was rarely at home, and whenever she tried to initiate a little marital tenderness, he was too tired for that. In the spring of 2022, they had slept together for the last time. A few months later, Frank had stopped kissing her goodbye, as he usually did when he left the house.          What happened then had the potential to throw her completely off track. By the fall of 2022, a hunch that Claire had suppressed again and again had been confirmed. Frank had a mistress. When she returned from her work at the children's hospital one evening in October, she saw Frank saying goodbye to a slender blonde at the door of their shared house, kissing her intensely. She stood there frozen. Everything inside her urged her to turn around and run away. But then the anger that built up within her gained the upper hand. Like a burning ray that shot out of her stomach through her whole body, he took a breath. She ran to the front door, unlocked it and found Frank standing at the sink in the kitchen, where he was just rinsing out two wine glasses. He turned to her in surprise, but before he could say a word, Claire's purse hit him in the left half of his face with full force. Frank had lost his balance and had fallen over. His glasses had come off his head and had broken when he hit the kitchen floor. Claire no longer knew what insults she had used to call him. Frank had picked himself up and collected the parts of his glasses. He had not even set out to explain the situation or apologize.Claire would not have listened to him either. She had turned on her foot and had run into the shared bedroom. When she arrived there, she had taken Frank's bed linen, run back downstairs with it and threw it all into his study. Then she ran back into the bedroom again and locked herself inside. She did not know how long she had cried angrily. But before she had fallen asleep, she had made a plan. The next morning she went on the morning shift. During a break she called a lawyer and that same afternoon she went to see her to discuss the formalities of a divorce.

“Brille” by  jottbe

         Frank had had the injuries Claire had inflicted on him treated, but had not reported them to the police. It was only later that he let it show that he had orchestrated the whole situation. He had simply been too cowardly to have a conversation with her about a divorce, as two adults normally do. He probably wanted to make her feel guilty, too. Claire was convinced of that, at least. Frank had always been against her going back to work. When she accepted the job at the children's hospital a year after their wedding, he had expressed himself very negatively about it. What kind of impression would it leave on his colleagues if the wife of a prospective professor went to work? And in the last year of their marriage he had not missed any opportunity to tell her how much he felt neglected.            It took three months before Claire was able to move into a small room in one of the Charité nurses' homes. During these three months she did everything she could to avoid Frank as much as possible. Anything she couldn't take with her to the nurses' home, she stored in her friend Geillis Duncan's basement. Claire hoped that the divorce would be finalized in October 2023 after the obligatory year of separation and that she could finally start a new life. But this time, too, everything turned out differently than she had hoped.          It was a rainy autumn day in September 2023 and it was to be the last day in the life of Dr. Frank Randall. On a country road near Lübeck, where he had attended a conference for historians, Frank's car skidded for some unknown reason. The car broke through the barrier and then came to a halt in a field. There it was discovered the next morning by a farmer. When the police arrived at the scene of the accident, Dr. Frank Randall was strapped in the seat belt and sat in the driver's seat as if nothing had happened. He was uninjured and even still wearing his hat. But Frank Randall was dead. An autopsy performed later revealed that Frank had had a heart attack that caused him to lose control of the car, causing it to veer off the road. It was, as the police later said, very lucky that no other car had been hit. Claire was shaken.

“Lübeck”  by scholty1970 

         But an even greater shock struck her on the day of the reading of the will. On that day, the notary told her that she would not inherit any money, only debts from Frank. Her still-husband had bought a condominium for his mistress for 250,000 euros, which he had signed over to her. For this gift Frank had gone into debt and Claire, who was still married to him by law, inherited his debts. It was one big nightmare. Although Claire had also inherited the rights to Frank's books, these reference books sold only in very manageable numbers and brought in little money. With her salary as a pediatric nurse, it would take her decades to pay off Frank's debts. Meanwhile, Sandy Travers, this  bleached ...., was sitting in her apartment, probably enjoying herself with her next lover. Once again the anger about Frank rose in Claire's heart, but before she could think about him any further, a familiar voice tore her from these thoughts. 

[bopinion]

2021 / 50

Aperçu of the Week:

"Home encompasses all people, no matter where they come from, what they believe, who they love. The term is meant to signal that we want to keep society together."

(Nancy Faeser, newly appointed Federal Minister of the Interior and Homeland)

Bad News of the Week:

According to a report in The New York Times, the U.S. has knowingly accepted devastating consequences for civilians in its drone war in the Middle East, which began back under Barack Obama. Confidential government files obtained by the newspaper document numerous errors in the control of air strikes that have caused thousands of civilian deaths. So much for "precision strikes against jihadists."

In the process, there was a transparency promise by the Obama administration and the real goal was to avoid collateral damage and protect both its own soldiers and civilians on all sides. In five years, there were over 50,000 remotely piloted airstrikes in Afghanistan, Syria, and Iraq. And not a single official report concluded that there was any wrongdoing.

Yet the NYT, after evaluating 1,311 Pentagon case reports, comes to a shocking conclusion: "The American air war has been marked by misinformation, hasty and inaccurate rocket fire and the deaths of thousands of civilians, including many children." A spokesman for the Central Command says that it regrets "every loss of innocent life," but that "even with the best technology in the world, mistakes happen." We learn once again: a guaranteed casualty of any war is always the truth.

Good News of the Week:

"The face of the country will change" headlines the leading German political weekly magazine "Der Spiegel" today. The freshly minted Super Minister for Economy and Climate Protection Robert Habeck of the Green Party wants nothing less than to transform Germans industry and infrastructure. This, he says, will create new industries and jobs - but will also demand something of the people.

A mammoth project. And there is no alternative. The fact that the governing traffic light coalition has taken up this cause is, of course, only a statement. But a credible one. The combination of economy and ecology in a newly tailored ministry alone sends out a signal. And so does the fact that a Green has become its minister. Especially since Habeck has already proven in his vita as a state minister in Schleswig-Holstein that he also knows how to implement projects in real terms. I wish him - and all of us! - much success with it.

Personal happy moment of the week:

My son has the second foreign language in high school: French. Which he can't stand. And therefore shows a - to put it mildly - "manageable motivation". The result was three F's in a row. Yes, F means failure. Since then we force him to do additional homework. A first success can be seen now: the last test was a C after all. Which does not mean that it is over now. We will have to keep the focus on French for the rest of the school year. But apparently he is now on the right track.

I couldn't care less...

...that the "right to freedom of expression" is being discussed right now. When comedian Lisa Fitz presents demonstrably false Corona death figures in her program, or liberal Bundestag Vice President Wolfgang Kubicki categorizes a possible mandatory vaccination as "revenge and retaliation" against the unvaccinated, these are not only fake news, but also simply bullshit. I am in favor of introducing a "right to intellectual hygiene" in public discourse.

As I write this...

...I am pondering whether this strange feeling in my stomach might actually be rising anxiety. Reduce social contacts, wear FFP2 mask, avoid risks and of course get vaccinated - until now you could feel reasonably safe if you did the bare minimum. And then came Omicron. With its horror reports of unprecedented infection probability, immense dark figure and frequent vaccination breakthroughs. I've been coping with restrictions and uncertainty for the nearly two years of the pandemic. But now I am seriously becoming fearful for the well-being of those most at risk in my personal environment.

Post Scriptum:

The members of the Conservative CDU have elected a new chairman. And it is an old one. Friedrich Merz was already established at the head of the party at the turn of the millennium, including as parliamentary group chairman. Who lost this post at the time to Angel Merkel. Who, in the opinion of many critics, "social-democratized" the party. Merz is therefore seen by many as a representative of a "back to the roots" of old values. This will undoubtedly sharpen the CDU's profile. Whether it will make it more electable, I doubt. After all, many points of Merz's program are clearly outdated. So, with a slightly ironic undertone, I wish him "Good luck with that!"

[vanaera]

𝐌𝐲 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞 | 𝟎𝟐 | 𝐣𝐣𝐤

Synopsis: A future technology allows cops to jump in the past and future to investigate crimes that have happened and prepare for those that are about to happen. A simple hit-and-run turns into something more when Captain Jeon Jungkook finds himself as the victim of a culprit who cannot be identified by the system. Especially when the culprit seems to be the same person behind the new case that’s threatening the order in the justice organization. All goes haywire when Jungkook gets involved with Y/N L/N, the clairvoyant sketch artist who may be his only help to solve the case.

Characters: Jungkook x Female Reader

Genre/AU: Sci-fi, romance, angst, mystery, action (cop!JK x artist!you), based on the movie Minority Report

Wordcount: 8.2k

Warnings: Dark themes and implied smut (in future chapters); heavy descriptions of a hit-and-run; mentions of blood from injuries (PG-16 Rating)

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𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐀𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐭

              The skies were gray and the streets were damp and yet the air remains humid. The scorching heat on the pavement permeates the soles of his leather combat boots. It’s the familiar stench of Down Hill. Jungkook could already smell it when he’s just reaching the boundary between it and Middle Town.

              Jungkook looks down at the scrap of paper that’s been in his pocket since the day started. Namjoon had to write the address of this Y/N L/N, lest DOJ traces his electronic trail and take him in for unnecessary questioning. Jungkook himself had to make up some petty excuse of a “hurting arm” to file a day-off. He just hopes all of this spent effort will worth him something.

              Jungkook nears the 7-Eleven sitting in the fork of the streets. Namjoon wrote Y/N’s studio is cramped among the apartments around this area. He said she never really penned down a home to accommodate covert meet-ups like this. All she has is her studio. 

              In “Mini Palais, 23-B,” Jungkook mutters again, huffing in front of a door with cracking cadet blue paint. He finds the unit after climbing up a series of stairs at the end of the alleyway jammed between the decaying 7-Eleven and a battered motor shop. Jungkook raises his hand to knock when the door bursts open.

              In front of him is a girl. Namjoon already said so and although Jungkook thinks it’s accurate enough for the girl who’s looking up at him through chopped raven bangs, it also wasn’t really enough to describe her. Because the girl in front of him was an aberrant mix of a girl and a woman. Jungkook thinks she’s around her early thirties if he were to consider Namjoon’s history of working with her for about ten years in FJO. There are faint lines around her eyes to support that. However, her relatively small height, plump cheeks, and the natural rosy hue of her lips beg to decrease ten years off that supposed age.  With her youthful face, messy half-bun, and the white, floral off-shoulder dress flowing past her knees, no one will argue with Jungkook if he were to say she’s just 22. 

              “Who are you?”

              “Oh, um,” Jungkook flashes his badge, “I’m Jungkook Jeon, a captain in the Federal Justice Organization. Precrime, Murder sector. I’m here to um, avail your…services for a case.”

              The girl cocks her head to the side and gives him a once over. “I’m sorry, I don’t do services for the FJO anymore.” She moves to close the door but Jungkook was quick to block a foot between it and the wall.

              “I’m a contact of Namjoon’s!” Jungkook exclaims, “He’s Lieutenant Seokjin Kim’s close subordinate.” This is a card he didn’t want to use but it looks like he has no other choice left. Jungkook clears his throat. “Actually, I’m a very close contact of Namjoon. We’re best friends. I even live with him. He’s the one who told me to, um, consult you for the case I’m handling.” 

              The girl opens the door an inch. Jungkook hands a folded paper to her. She spreads it open and scans through the letter. Jungkook doesn’t know what it actually says. Namjoon just thrust it into his hands on his way out and told him not to open it. It must be an effective personal request because by the time the girl reaches the end, she’s pushing her door wide open, tilting her head to the side, beckoning him to come inside. However, her face remains grim.

              “I’m Y/N L/N. This is my studio. I know you already know I prefer to transact business here even for ones intended to be covert. So first off, I want to say I’m sorry you have to travel to such a place like this.”

              Jungkook shakes his head, “Oh no, it’s definitely alright—”

              “I kinda think it’s not when you grew up in a comfortable life. You must be quite shaken up.”

              Jungkook freezes. Y/N looks at him, “Oh, I didn’t look into you or something. It’s just a hypothetical guess, seeing your,” she motions to his silver watch. “That’s expensive. No one from here will be able to afford it anytime soon.”

              Jungkook’s shoulders turn lax. Y/N points to a chair next to a table in the corner. “Just wait there. I’m about to finish this piece in just a sec. Then I’m all yours.”

              Jungkook nods and makes himself comfortable on the seat. Unlike its appearance on the outside, Y/N’s unit is not much of a concrete wreck. It still looks a bit rough. The ceiling has cracks all over it.  A small white bulb precariously hangs on its center. It looks too weak to illuminate the whole room when the night comes. Jungkook thinks it’s a good thing that the unit has huge gaping rectangular windows to let in the natural light. The floor is cemented in gray but the work on it is unimpressive as there are numerous uneven layers, rough patches, and dents that could only be ascribed to poor mason work. The white wallpaper is torn around, some even wet at the edges—probably due to a leak during rains. 

              However, the flowers painted on them is vibrant enough to uplift the dreary unit. Paintings are littered around. Many are big, a few are small. Some were seated on easels, several are just laying around on the floor. Newspapers are strewn across the majority of the floor. Buckets and tin cans of paints line up the corners like a prayer circle. 

              All the colors present in the room can only be attributed to the paint that’s strewn across the newspapers, the paintings, and the 6’ tall canvas of an owl in flight Y/N is currently working on. The girl is standing on a small foldable ladder, painting the feathers of the bird at the top of the canvas. When the wind blows her hair to the side, Jungkook finds a mirage of colors on the scarlet spider lilies inked on her spine.

              After about two minutes, Y/N steps down and dumps her brush into a rusted bucket filled with water. She turns to the man on the chair and makes her way to the stool opposite his. She fixes down her dress and finally looks at Jungkook. “So, what case do you have for me?”

              “This,” Jungkook slides a couple of pictures toward her. They are the screen captures from the CCTV records that caught the black Jaguar. “There’s an unknown driver who’s doing an illegal time jump patterned to Precrime’s traveling agents. We tried to run in the license plate but it just turned to be ‘invalid.’ All we know is that the suspect is male, slim, and tall. He’s interested in the Winston Assassination, and has probably inside ties in FJO since he easily entered the Special Operations Building just ten days ago.”

              “None of the traveling agents has seen this man before? Precrime or Forecrime?”

              Jungkook shakes his head.

              Y/N licks a finger and flips to the next picture, “What about the car?”

              “None of the agents has seen a suspicious sedan sports Jaguar before. It’s the first time we have someone presumably well-to-do threatening the justice system.”

              Y/N nods. Jungkook inserts his hand into his pocket and retrieves a black USB. He hands it to the girl. “Here’s more of the screenshots from the CCTVs, taken in each second. I can’t give you the CCTVs because of the protocol. I can only give you these. Just imagine they’re moving,” Jungkook purses his lips as he looks at the girl. “I want you to identify this man for me.”

              Y/N tucks the USB into her dress’ pocket. She slides the pictures back to Jungkook. “This seems to be a heavy identification check then. Not that I couldn’t handle, of course. However, Namjoon must have told you that my rates are quite high—”

              “Money is not a problem.”

              Y/N cocks a brow, “So you did grow up a comfortable life.”

              Jungkook clenches his jaw.

              Y/N chuckles, “Okay, I’m not gonna dwell on it more. It’s settled then. Send your weekly payment to this account,” Y/N tears a piece from the rolls of paper by her side, scribbles on it, and hands it to him. “Every Friday, 10 AM sharp.” Jungkook looks at the paper before tucking it in the breast pocket of his leather jacket.

              Y/N crosses her arms, “We can start next week after you give me the downpayment.”

              Jungkook zips open a duffel bag and places a stack of bills on the table.

              “Eager, aren’t we?” Y/N smiles, “I like that.” She flips through the bills before deciding they’re legitimate and dumping it into a box by her feet. 

              Y/N turns to him. “Now, where are we? Oh—you must already know, but what I really do here is foreseeing the future for whatever cause you have. It’s not just trivial fortune-telling but a purposive one. I can accurately give you whatever you want to know.” 

              Jungkook nods. Y/N’s leans forward on the table. “I’ll be honest with you. I don’t really have terms and conditions with my clients. Or any contract to ensure them their protection, as what I do tend to…increase risks. Emotional security and mental stability on your part. Those two and physical toll on mine. It will be absurd to provide any contract as what I am doing is anything but guaranteeing protection. I can’t also be fully transparent about the mechanisms behind the things I will do for you. Otherwise, my gift won’t work. What I can only assure is I’ll never proceed on any memories you have set boundaries on. Should you decide to stop this negotiation anywhere in the future, I will automatically concede and keep the confidentiality of whatever that may happen. As long as on your part, you won’t consider asking for a refund.”

              “I understand.”

              “Good,” Y/N smiles, “Now first things first. Tell me any hurting point you have.”

              Jungkook goes stiff. “Is this actually necessary?”

              Y/N nods. “I know this is a tough question, but we’re talking about memories here.”

              “I know but I can’t just divulge them to a stranger—"

              “I think you don’t get what I’m saying.” Y/N lets out a humorless chuckle. “Look, Jungkook, when I attempt to see the future concerning this elusive driver you’re after, it is inevitable for the past to re-appear. There is no future without any past. Your past memories can clog up with the ones involved in the case because you are in the case. You’re heading it. Good or bad, memories will come up. That’s their thing.  They spring up at the most inconvenient times. No matter how old they already are. No matter how long you must have already moved on from them. Memories demand to be remembered and you cannot just disregard them even if you will it to because it never gave anyone a choice to do otherwise.  So, if you don’t set the boundaries on the memories you don’t want me to cross, I’ll just see everything in their utter unadulterated form.” Y/N leans forward, “And I can assure you, you don’t want that to happen.” 

              Jungkook prods his cheek with his tongue. “Fine. I’ll give you my hurting point and that’s that. No further questions.”

              “Okay.”

              Jungkook digs in his back pocket for his wallet and flips it open. There’s a tattered white edge of a picture peeking through the flaps. It’s been years since he pulled it out. Its replica, now tucked in his shelf, has prevented him from doing so for so many years. Jungkook closes his eyes and slides it toward the girl. “This boy. Anything that concerns him, I don’t want you to cross or even bring up. Understand?”

              “Okay.” Y/N hands back the photo to him. “We go to the second step then. You must already have your assumed suspects. Tell me their names.”

              Jungkook draws back. “I can’t tell you that, that’s highly classified information. FJO’s protocol doesn’t allow it and—”

              “Do you seeking my help part of the protocol?”

              Jungkook looks down, “No.”

              “Right. So, tell me their names. I need to know them to make a memory map.”

              Jungkook’s brows meet “A what?”

              “A memory map,” Y/N repeats, “It’s something I make to identify points of certain memories in time. It guides me to the memories I need to tread to reach what I’m really looking for. It’s like a demo version of Forecrime’s box trainings but except of a machine, I’m doing it manually by hand. For all we know, the real suspect must be close to these suspects.” 

              Jungkook’s brow quirks up.

              Y/N leans forward, “So, tell me their names?”

              Jungkook turns his face away from her, looking at his clasped hands. “Well, I…only have one.”

              “And that is?”

              “Leigh Anderson. Winston’s assassin. FJO has been after him for 17 years. He also has a number of sponsors who’s been sending him missions with promises of large sums of money. But most of all, he’s rumored to have access to time jumping technologies. Illegal of course. FJO is the only one licensed to be utilizing them.”

              “That’s good,” Y/N quips. “Do you have any pictures of him?”

              Jungkook turns to his duffel bag and retrieves a picture. It’s Anderson in the scene of Winston’s murder that FJO has pinned to their system. The one in the crime record Jungkook produced. He hands it to Y/N. “Is this enough?”

              “More than enough,” Y/N smiles. She stands up and walks to one of her cupboards, reaching for a ceramic bowl. She pours some tap water in it and turns back to the table, a short, white candle in hand. She places the candle on the water, letting it float. She retrieves a lighter from her dress pocket and lights up the wick of the candle.

              Y/N puts her palms open on the table. “Let’s start now. Do you have your clicker with you?”

              Jungkook’s brows meet. “What?”

              “Your time jumper,” Y/N grits.

              Jungkook looks at her incredulously. “I don’t see any reason why would you need it—”

              “We’re going to the past to have a tangible memory to start on my memory map.” Before Jungkook could tear himself away from the table, Y/N launches forward and snatches the small, black device hanging on the man’s belt loop. Jungkook shoots an arm out and grabs onto it.

              But it’s too late. Y/N’s already pushed the button.

              The air is knocked out of Jungkook’s windpipe. A numbing pain starts to settle on his chest, a migraine forming on his temple. His limbs also feel stone-heavy. Precrime traveling has always been like this and yet Jungkook can never get used to it. However, he’s not left wondering about it for long because in the next second, Jungkook’s standing in front of a dark road. Tall shrubs and trees shadowing the moon, CCTVs mounted on the lamp posts lining the concrete. It’s Somerset Road.  

              Jungkook’s eyes widen. Why is he here? He tries to move but his limbs are stuck by his side, unmoving as he grunts. He tries to take a step back but the effort is futile when his feet are seemingly glued onto the dark asphalt. Jungkook sighs and turns to the road in front of him again. And this time around, Jungkook’s mouth falls ajar.

              Y/N is standing idly at the other side of the road, opposite of him.

              “H-how did you travel here—”

              A car zooms past. Jungkook turns his head to the sound. The air is punched out from his esophagus. It’s his car—the silver-gray Ford. And there at the other end of the road emerges a black sedan sports Jaguar. The Jaguar speeds on and drives into the Ford, swerving it around, tires screeching loud on the pavement. It topples down, rolling around, then round, and round. Three times, Jungkook counted. Just like the CCTV Hoseok retrieved. The Ford stops, upside down. The black Jaguar zips past it. Like the CCTVs have shown, the Jaguar reaches the other end of the street and disappears. A second passes. The body of the driver in the car drops onto the cold pavement. It lolls his head to his side, bloodied face turned towards the man standing on the pavement. 

              Jungkook’s facing right into his past. He isn’t reliving the memory. He is living it. There’s no anger but pain. Fresh, unadulterated pain that cannot be accounted to the lacerations on his injured arm.

              The wind howls. Jungkook remains frozen in his position. Then suddenly, everything stops—the distant honking of the cars, the wind, the clatter of the crushed car pieces falling onto the ground. What the fuck is happening? Jungkook turns around, only to come face to face with the girl.

              Y/N’s arm shoots forward and fists the collar of his leather jacket, pulling him down to her level. “You didn’t say this business is personal!”

              “It’s not a big deal,” Jungkook spits, tearing her hand off him.

              “It is, Jungkook! You said you were involved. I didn’t think it was this level of involved!”

              “It doesn’t change any fact that I’m still going to be involved either way! I’m still going to head this case because it’s tied with Winston. What difference does it make if I am the victim of this fucking man?!”

              “A lot!” Y/N screams. Jungkook stops. Y/N sighs, “It does a lot of difference, Jungkook. We’re already risking a lot in this until it turns out you’re a focal point in this case! You’re a fucking victim of this culprit! A conflict of interest is highly possible. You will be unable disassociate yourself from this and objectively investigate this case—” 

              “I don’t need you telling me what I should do or not, Y/N.” Jungkook steps forward to the girl. “I know what I’m doing. And I know it when I say I can investigate this following all the legal protocols.”

              Y/N tilts her head. “How can you say that when you’ve just been face-to-face with your past self?” 

              Before Jungkook can say anything, Y/N closes her eyes and clicks her finger. In just one second, everything around Jungkook falls beneath his feet—the trees, Somerset Road, his bloodied self. It rips themselves off from his senses until all he could see again is the dilapidated atelier, the barren ceilings, and, Y/N.

              Jungkook hunches over, coughing as air fills his lungs again. “H-how could you do that?”

              Y/N blows off the candle. “My gift.” She glances at the man. “The accident is taking a serious toll on you. I have to take us out of the time jump.”

                Jungkook sits back and glowers at her. “N-no, what I’m asking about is—how could you snatch my clicker and make a jump without any remorse? You do know that’s illegal!”

              “I know. ‘FJO’s traveling agents and officials are the only ones allowed by the law to engage in time jumping activities’ yaddah yaddah bullshit.”  Y/N leans on the table, face hovering the Captain’s. “But involving a then-law practitioner, much more an outsider like me, into your case is also illegal. I have my gift, yes. But I can only see the future and I won’t be able to see it accurately if I don’t have some sense of the past. Plus, I have no other pragmatic choice to start this case on the right foot. I already saw the future of our negotiation before you sat down on that stool. There’s nothing else I could say other than it didn’t end favorably for any of us.” Y/N turns back to the table she’s clearing, “Not that it’s any different now. Especially when I just learned the case you’ve showed me is more personal than you presented it to be.”

              Jungkook purses his lips. He stands up, gathers his things, and wordlessly makes his way out of the atelier. He didn’t bid the girl any farewell.

              “Looks like you haven’t been sleeping.”

              Jungkook looks up at his friend before looking down at his crossed arms, turning his attention back to his mug of coffee.

              Namjoon takes a seat cross Jungkook. “Did something happen?” He twirls the tea bag around his own mug, “Care to tell why you’ve been sporting those dark eye bags since two days ago?”

              “It’s nothing.”

              “It’s not nothing when the doctor precisely told you to have a healthy lifestyle to help your wound heal faster.”

              Jungkook looks at Namjoon.

              Namjoon points to his bandaged arm, “It indeed doesn’t look it’s healing fast like it’s supposed to.”

              Jungkook sighs. “Fine, you caught me.” He purses his lips then looks at his friend, “I’ve been wondering. You know our clickers are designed to identify the agent it was assigned to before it could work. But, is it…possible for clickers to work on someone that doesn’t belong to FJO as long as someone from FJO is present?”

              Namjoon keeps his gaze on him. A look of surprise seems to wash over his face. But it soon gets replaced by a look of recognition. Namjoon places the tea bag onto the saucer on his left. “I see you already met Y/N.”

              “Y-you knew that about her?”

              “I do,” Namjoon mutters over his cup of tea. “I learned it when the Bureau looked into the Linton Park serial murders. Seokjin’s team, including me, followed the memory map she made for us—a trail of memories that specifically belongs to anything related to the murders. But then, we hit a dead-end for the supposed next victim. Can’t identify her. We only had images of flashing movement—blood splattering in a barn, people running on a green field. There are just cops and a woman.” 

              Namjoon places down his cup, “And so, Y/N told me she needed me to help her make a time jump in the past. I pressed on the clicker and,” Namjoon shrugs, “Y/N successfully made the jump. And also successfully return with the info of the victim—a girl working on a farm. Y/N tied it to the flashing images of the field and deduced the running was not about us chasing a murderer’s accomplice. But us running after a victim before Linton could. It was hard to tell at first why the victim is running away from us. Until we learned through Y/N she was an illegal immigrant.” 

              Namjoon pulls his lips into a tight smile. “I think it’s an additional gift. But at the same time, it’s also a setback. A rightful one at that. Y/N’s inability to time jump in the past unless with a clicker a meter radius within her balances the power of her future-seeing gift. She still needs to rely on the system even if her gift for the future is, hypothetically, unbound from any constraints.” Namjoon takes a sip of his tea. “How ‘bout you? How did you learn this…extra ability of hers?”

              “She snatched my clicker from me,” Jungkook leans back in his seat. “She said she needed a ‘tangible memory’ to start on her memory map. She ended up thrusting us back into the time of my car accident.”

              Namjoon freezes. “Excuse me? Did you say ‘us’?”

              Jungkook’s forehead furrows, “Yeah. We did the jump together, that’s why I’m asking you about this thing with the clickers.” 

              “Jungkook, she never did that before.”

              Jungkook’s brows shoot up. “What?”

              Namjoon scratches his nape, face scrunched up. “When she asked me to let her jump through my clicker, she didn’t take me along with the jump. It’s only her. Like it should always be as one clicker is only for one user. It’s always been like this in all the situations she asked me for a time jump in the past.” Namjoon looks at him, “I don’t know why you got in the same loop as her.”

              The night was quiet but devoid of peace. Like an ugly pause in a running film that’s just about to unwind the questions they laid at the start. Even after intaking his blue pills, Jungkook finds it difficult to close his eyes shut.

              “Big brother!”

              Jungkook turns around. The small boy stands on his tiptoes, small arms reaching for him. Jungkook smiles, “You want to climb on my back again, Daehyun?”

              “Yes!” Daehyun giggles.

              “Alright then,” Jungkook crouches in front of him and Daehyun’s squeals grow louder as he loops his stubby arms around Jungkook’s neck. Jungkook stands up, securing the boy’s short legs around his torso. “Ready for some wind, big boy?” He asks. Daehyun nods frantically and soon, Jungkook is zooming on the green field, turning the heads of the children and volunteers in the park. But all Jungkook could hear was Daehyun’s laughter filling the nice summer afternoon. It brings a huge smile on Jungkook’s face. 

              Then—flashing blue and red lights. Cold pavement. A lone school bus standing in the middle. Its yellowness highlighted by the police’s yellow tape surrounding the area. Reporters dot every possible space on the crossroad. “Shooter on the loose.” “Poor child.” “Blood splattered on the seats.” But all Jungkook could hear is the white noise of the chattering. And the call of “Big brother!” he’ll never hear anymore. 

              Jungkook jolts awake. He sighs, closing his eyes. “It’s all in the past,” he mutters repeatedly under his breath. But no matter how many times he repeats it, it doesn’t shake off the horror he’s reeling in. He’s had this dream again and again for eight years straight. He should be already accustomed to it. 

              Jungkook sits up straight. He turns back to his computer and sees a couple of pictures open on the desktop. It was the screenshots of the CCTVs Yoongi gave them. He looks at the top of his desk. His notes empty of anything new other than Leigh Anderson’s name webbed next to an un-filled space for sponsors. Jungkook covers his face with his palms and yawns. Just then a series of text messages come in.

              Unknown: This is Y/N. I know we left on bad terms three days ago. I’m the one to blame for that for overreacting. I’m sorry. It’s been a while since I’ve done a case for FJO. I’m still kinda hung up separating personal services from investigative ones. (2:13 P.M.)

              Unknown: Nevertheless, I hope you’re free this day. Meet me at Somerset Road. 3 P.M. I don’t want you to waste the money you gave me yesterday (2:13 P.M.)  

              Somerset Road is a thirty-minute drive from the FJO Main Headquarters. However, it didn’t feel like it when Jungkook parks his car on the side road. It seemed like hours have gone by when the sun is about to set in the alcove of trees in the distance. It’s just three in the afternoon. Jungkook steps outside and shuts the door. From his position, he could make out a girl in ripped black denim pants and black tank layered with a pink see-through mesh shirt. From the striking red of the spider lilies on the top of her spine, Jungkook could tell it was Y/N. He almost didn’t recognize her. He wouldn’t know she has an undercut had her high ponytail didn’t highlight it.

              The girl turns around and looks at him. “You’re late.”

              “I have to bribe the Maintenance Office first to give me this afternoon’s CCTVs when we’re done.” Jungkook strides toward her, “How did you get my number?”

              “Namjoon.”

              Jungkook cocks a brow.

              Y/N shrugs, “he wrote it in the letter you gave me. Should you, quote-unquote, be ‘difficult to deal with.’”

              Jungkook keeps his lips in a straight line.

              Y/N rocks on her toes, hands in her pocket. “Let’s get straight to it then. Take your clicker out and push it.”

              “What are you intending to do—”

              “A time jump.”

              “Of course, I know that. What other purpose do we use our time jumps for?” Jungkook spits. “What I want to know is what we’re supposed to be doing first before I follow whatever you want me to do because I cannot just blindly trust you with this—”

              Y/N turns her head to him, one brow cocked up, “Didn’t I tell you before I don’t fancy How-What-Why-Whatever questions to what I do or else my gift won’t work?”

              “Yes, but—”

              “Look, will you just push it or do you want me to snatch it from you again?” Y/N takes a step closer to him, leveling his eyes with hers. “I already did a read for today. I know its new hiding place.”

              Jungkook remains unmoving in his stance.

              Y/N crosses her arms. “If it would assure you, this session won’t end taxingly fruitless like the last time. I’m positive we’ll get something by the end of today.”

              “How did you know?”

              “I told you, I did a read for today. I saw you with an astounded face and me with a happy and proud smile. Obviously, we must have ended up finding something.”

              Jungkook is still unconvinced.

              Y/N sighs, “If you don’t want to do anything of what I can offer you, you know you can just terminate our connection anytime you want. Just so you know you can’t refund the 10,000 zials you gave me for the downpayment.”

              Jungkook keeps his gaze on her. A couple of seconds pass before he sighs and shakes his head as he takes out his issued clicker tucked in the breast pocket of his leather jacket.

              Y/N smirks. “See? You know you’re gonna need me in the end and you still try to put up an unnecessary fight.”

              Jungkook grunts. He turns the clicker’s indicator to “1-2 weeks” timeframe and pushes the button.

              It was just like their previous time jump—like any other Precrime time jump. It felt like nothing yet also everything at the same time. An amalgamation of sensations and perceptions flashing in front of him in the blink of an eye as he is transported back to the night of his accident. Jungkook looks down at his feet. He’s back to where he last stood at—the left side of the road next to the corner where his car will come from. Jungkook turns to his left and he almost jumps in shock. Unlike their last jump, Y/N is no longer on the opposite side of the road, but beside him, shoulders almost bumping his. Jungkook takes a staggering step away from her. 

              Even if Namjoon laid everything he knows about Y/N’s skills yesterday, Jungkook still finds it hard to accept that a clairvoyant is able to look into the past with such effortless access. Aren’t they only supposed to see the future?

              “What are you looking at?”

              Jungkook tears his gaze away from her. “Nothing.”

              “Thought so, too,” Y/N quips. “We’re here to work after all. Not ogle at each other.” 

              Jungkook tongues his cheek. He’s not left to his frustration for long as after a second, the burning of tires on the asphalt is heard on their side of the road. A silver-gray Ford appears and it zooms past them in a flash. A black Jaguar subsequently shows up on the other side, its form nearing them each millisecond that passes. It’s only time ‘til the two crashes and sends Jungkook’s car rolling three times on the road.

              But, it didn’t happen. The howls of the wind stop. The screeching of the tires halts in awkward silence. And the cars are frozen still. The Jaguar’s bumper and Ford’s right door are separated by a mere inch. It’s the second before the accident happens. Paused in a picture-like frame as if someone hit the pause icon on a video.

              Jungkook whips his head to his side. Y/N has her palm closed in a post-click of her thumb and middle fingers. Jungkook feels his throat clog up, “H-how did you do that?”

              Y/N rolls her eyes. “Told you before, it’s because of my gift. And it’s also just seconds ago I told you I don’t like questions about how my gift works.” Y/N steps away from him and onto the road. “Follow me.” 

              Jungkook silently follows behind. It’s only a matter of seconds that they reach the side of the door of the silver-gray Ford. Jungkook lets his fingers touch on the coated metal. It felt cold on his flesh. Solid. Real. Jungkook can’t help but be astonished. This is no regular time jump. Totally unlike the first one he did with the woman. For this time, Jungkook doesn’t feel he’s living the film of the scene, just like any of the standard Precrime time jumping. This time, Jungkook feels he’s in the scene. Not in a film, not like the virtual reality experienced by Forecrime agents. But in real-time.

              “Take your hands off your car.”

              Jungkook tears his hands away from his car. He looks at the girl. Y/N gives him a pointed look, “I know this time jump doesn’t feel like the standard time jumps of Precrime so you may be astounded with,” she motions around them, “all of this. But I prefer you not to get too overwhelmed. We’re here for work.”

              Jungkook nods, reluctant. Y/N walks further into the side of the road, now a foot away from the spot where the cars should crash. Jungkook quickly follows behind. When he’s by an arms-length away from her, he faces back to the scene in front of him. And then, Y/N clicks her hand.

              The trees sway again. The winds continue their violent gush on the road. And the cars collide. The film is playing again.

              But then, Y/N clicks her fingers. The scene stops, frozen yet again. The bumper of the Jaguar has dug into the Ford’s door, crushing the metal with its momentum. The side mirror is broken, glass shards shattering in mid-air.

              “Come here,” Y/N beckons. Jungkook walks close behind as Y/N stops by the point of intersection of the two cars.  From their position, Jungkook could see the past him hunched over on the wheel, seat belt digging into his torso. The window by his side is broken, a splotch of blood marring the clear glass. And on his right, Jungkook could see the driver of the black Jaguar. Non-existent.

              Y/N looks at him, “So we know the man you’re after is doing an illegal time jump similar to the pattern of Precrime’s traveling agents. But what you don’t know is: he’s a professional.”

              “W-what?” 

              “Look,” Y/N flicks her wrist and makes an anti-clockwise motion of her hand. The sound goes void again and the cars back away from each other in slow motion. Jungkook’s brows shoot up.  The scene is rewinding. Y/N is turning back the time before the Jaguar collided into the Ford. And then, Y/N moves her arm horizontally to her left and clicks her fingers. The Jaguar moves forward again, but slowly this time. Jungkook could see the silhouette of the driver with arms taut on the wheel disappearing into a cloud of smoke until it turns no more but a nonexistent person on the seat as it hits the door of the Ford. 

              Y/N clicks her fingers and the scene pauses. “As you saw, it only took the driver,” she glances at her watch, “ten seconds before completely disappearing into his time jump. From how fast he disappeared, we could say it only took him twenty seconds in total to make the entire jump. I can only deduce this as the memories we have are short of the time we could see him in his solid form. The same way goes for the CCTVs you gathered. It only captured the last ten seconds of the whole accident. The Jaguar nonexistent in the frame from 20:23:39 and anything beyond before that time mark. The CCTVs only showed the Jaguar from 20:23:40 to exactly 20:24. The last 10 seconds, devoid of any driver.” 

              The girl continues, “Now, to be able to completely vanish in just 20 seconds, you must be a professional in time jumping in the past. Which can only be done if you’ve undergone training under Precrime. However, this could also be just any other outsider that’s gotten lucky doing an illegal time jump. Considering Somerset Road has a strong electromagnetic field that can help anyone do their time jumps faster and more successfully—including the risky ones that involve a huge time frame of unbounded jumps into the past. But to know that about Somerset Road, much less know how to effectively take advantage of its field during a time jump—you should be a long-time agent of Precrime.” 

              Y/N faces Jungkook, “The man you’re after is either a professional Precrime traveling agent or an outsider who’s fed with all the necessary information only a Precrime agent could know. It’s an inside job.”

              Jungkook shakes his head, “No. It can’t be. Every time-jumping device has a permanent tracker that can never be taken out even by the best engineer. Allen McGregor designed it to be like that to ensure these devices will not be used for personal interest. Every agent is tracked of their traveling activities and logged straight into the Investigation Bureau’s files. They’re inputted in glass files similar to the crime records—void for editing, copying, and deleting. And should it be an outsider utilizing Precrime’s technology, a travel will still be tracked back to the agent whose device was used.” Jungkook looks at Y/N. “There have been no reports of anyone traveling on Somerset Road the night of my accident.”

              Y/N shrugs, “I’m just saying what I saw. Especially this.” Y/N makes an anti-clockwise motion of her hands and the scene rewinds again.  The Jaguar is frozen back into five seconds before it hits the silver-gray Ford. Y/N walks toward the car, Jungkook close behind. The girl motions to the passenger seat and Jungkook stills. There on the leather seat is a red file case. Unprecedented murder. Precrime Murder Sector. But this is not what rendered Jungkook immobile in shock. Rather, it’s the label on the file case. 

              “Jonathan Winston Assassination; August 15, 2047; 12:30:00.”

              “See?” Y/N smirks, “Told you we’ll find something today.”

              A click of the hand and soon, the dark night sky of Somerset Road bleeds into the burning colors of the sunset. There’s no longer the silver-gray Ford and the black Jaguar. It’s just Jungkook and Y/N alone in the road, back to where they were before.

              Jungkook hunches over, coughing as he beats his chest. When he finally stabilizes his breathing back to normal, he turns to the girl. “You…Ho-how can you be so sure with all of these vi-visions?”

              Y/N looks at Jungkook, an indecipherable look on her face. “This is what you paid for 10,000 zials. I’m handing you what your eyes missed on just the way they are.”

              Jungkook holds in his breath as he knocks on the glass door.

              “Come in.”

              Jungkook pushes the door open and salutes. “Chief Nathan Spencer.”

              “Captain Jeon,” the Chief of Precrime glances up at him before returning back to the stack of papers he’s signing. He motions to the chair in front of his desk, “Make yourself comfortable.”

              Jungkook pulls back the black chair and sits.

              “So, what brings you here?”

              “This week’s report, sir—the joint investigation with DOJ on the unidentified black Jaguar.” Jungkook places a brown folder on the Chief’s desk.

              The chief looks at the captain. “Still no progress in the identification?” 

              Jungkook shakes his head, face grim.

              “That can’t be helped,” Nathan sympathetically mutters. “It’s not the first time FJO has handled a difficult case.”

              “But it is the first time FJO can’t identify a suspect with its current system.”

              “You’re right,” Nathan nods. He flips open the brown folder and skims the report. “How’s the auditor doing?”

              Jungkook clenches his jaw. “Fine. Still…meddling with our processes.”

              Nathan lets out a light scoff. “As expected of someone who’s running for a promotion. Always been a know-it-all jerk, this Min Yoongi.”

              Jungkook makes a tight-lipped smile.

              Nathan chuckles. “Forgive me. I’ve always had a prejudice against DOJ’s auditors. Most, if not all of them, always give us a hard time more than what’s necessary. Anyway, what else do you have for me, Jungkook?”

              The captain sits up straight. “I would like to ask a favor, sir.”

              Nathan clasps his hand on his desk. He leans forward. “What is it?”

              “It’s for the investigation. DOJ has access to all of our files—Precrime, Forecrime, and even the Investigation Bureau. So I figured if I can also do the same since our sector seems to be their main target. If I have the same leverage on our own information as them, I can have control over this investigation and drive them away before they can even assume power over us.” Jungkook leans on the table, “We could see the problems first before they become visible to DOJ.”

              Nathan raises his brow. “So what do you mean?”

              “I would like to have unrestricted access in our archives. Everything that contains anything pertaining to FJO.” Jungkook leans forward, “Including the Memory Temple.” 

              The chief sighs, “That’s a big favor, Jungkook.”

              “I know. That’s why Chief General Andrews told me to go to you.”

              Nathan’s brows shoot up, “The Chief General?”

              “Yes, Chief General Matthew Andrews. He said you’re good friends with Chief of the Bureau, Natasha Ryde. Chief Andrews wants to ask if you could do a favor of a friend for a friend.” Jungkook slides a white envelope underneath the folder, “Of course, not without considerable credit.”

              Nathan purses his lips. A beat. He shakes his head, sighing. “Okay…I’ll try to put in a word for you. I can give you the entire archives tomorrow. But the Memory Temple could take a while. Two days or three.”

              “That’s fine with me.” Jungkook smiles. He stands up and heads to the end of the room. Before he could disappear behind the door, he salutes one more time, “Thank you for the kind accommodation, Chief.” 

              Jungkook heads to the main elevator and hits the second floor below the Superiors’ Hall. The metal doors ding open and soon, Jungkook’s looking at a wide expanse of glass wall reflecting hundreds of shelves on the glass panes.

              Jungkook heads to the entranceway and salutes at the guard, “Sally.” The guard returns the salute, smiling. Jungkook tilts his head, “Did the Bureau come by to retrieve Precrime files?”

              “Not yet, sir. The Bureau’s still busy in their matters with DOJ. They halted the synching of files for now.”

              “That’s good,” Jungkook quips and pushes the glass doors open.

              Tall metal bookshelves snake like an accordion around the floor. The spaces between them is occasionally filled up by wooden desks that mandatorily come along with a wooden bookstand and black study lamp. It looks like a hedge maze made of old books, monochrome papers, and multi-colored files.

              Jungkook heads to the leftmost aisle—Precrime’s archives. He weaves his way through the bookshelves until he stops in front of a separated room in the middle of the labyrinth. It’s made completely out of glass, just like FJO’s offices. The only difference is that this room contains five sets of desks and chairs, bookshelves, and the Archive Manager’s huge white station as the centerpiece.

              And before Jungkook could finish leveling his eyes to the scanner set by the door, he could already feel the growing stare of Emily Young.

              “Captain Jeon.”

              “Ms. Young,” Jungkook nods to the manager.

              Emily smiles, “To what do I owe your visit today?”

              “Jonathan Winston’s Assassination case file.” 

              “As usual,” The thirty-seven-year-old manager sing-songs as she stands up and disappears into the back room. It doesn’t take long for her to retrieve what the Precrime captain is looking for.

              A long expandable, red file with the label in Arial 12 print: “Jonathan Winston Assassination; August 15, 2047; 12:30:00.”

              Just like in Y/N’s time jump. Identically the same. Jungkook looks at the manager, “Do you have a log of anyone who looks into this file?”

              Emily chuckles, “I don’t think that will bring anything new to the table, captain.” She scans the numeric code of the file and turns the monitor of her computer towards him. “There’s no one who’s been looking at this file but you.”

              Jungkook peers in. Indeed, the log on Winston’s file contains nothing but his name. From August 15, 2047, the date of Winston’s assassination, to the most recent date, August 3, 2059. The day after Leigh Anderson’s suicide. The day after the Winston case was closed cold. There’s no other name in the log for 12 years other than his name.

              Jungkook looks back at Emily, “Are you sure this is the complete log on this file? No one borrowed the file earlier than July 12th?”

              “That’s the whole log, captain. There’s no record on August 1st because we’re closed to do an inventory check.” Emily leans back in her chair. “Everyone knows you’re busy on a case in Down Hill for the entirety of June. The Allison future murder is all over the news. Of course, with a Metropolis resident as a future victim. And with you busy on another case, this Winston’s file is devoid of any viewers.” Emily releases a chuckle. “Every cop has an obsession with a particular case. Everyone here knows Winston’s case is yours. I think I will remember if someone other than you looked into this file because I swear that day will be a miracle.”

              Jungkook purses his lips, face undecipherable. Right then, his phone rings loud. He turns to his back and picks it up. “Hello?”

              “Captain.” It’s Jimin.

              “What is it?”

              “You have to come to the sector now. There’s a file from Precrime. It’s…a blank.”

              “Okay, I’ll be there soon,” Jungkook ends the call. He faces Emily. “Thank you for today, Emily.” The archives manager nods with a playful salute at him. Jungkook quickly returns the salute and pushes the door open. Soon, he’s tearing past the labyrinth of shelves.

              It doesn’t take Jungkook longer than ten minutes to reach the left-wing of the 2nd floor. The cold sweat from the discovery in the archives is still clinging on his nape. 

              As soon as he steps into Murder Sector, everyone’s eyes are set on him. Including Yoongi. Jungkook prods his cheek with his tongue as he slides in the gloves over his hands. “Jimin, give me the run-over.”

              “Captain, Jeon. It’s a grayish-white file. Precrime, Property and Crime Scene Sector. Traveling agent in charge is Eric Williams. Crime record validated by traveling agents Hannah Peters and Ivan Park. Case number 3571, hit-and-run, destruction of property.  Suspect is unknown. Victim’s name is…Jeon Jungkook.”

              Jungkook whips his head towards the secretary, eyes wide.

              “It’s your case, sir.” Jimin confirms, “Eric accidentally time jumped into the night of your hit-and-run while he’s traveling for a T-Bone accident in Middle Town. Property and Crime Scene figured this blank is a crucial update on your case.” He walks to the end of the glass board and slides the disk into the middle slot.

              Jungkook turns to his front. The glass board lights up and a video starts playing. It’s Somerset Road and it’s almost pitch black in the grainy film. Eric stands frozen on the pavement for a second. But the seeming serenity of the scene soon dissipates as he looks down at his gear and frantically fumbles for his time jumper. Suddenly, hot blinding light fills his peripherals. Eric’s head shoots up. A car is speeding toward him. The headlights grow larger and finally, the car becomes visible. It’s the silver-gray Ford. Eric turns around and right then, a black Jaguar zooms past him, merely missing him by a hairsbreadth. But the Jaguar doesn’t stop and further increases its speed. It bulldozers right into the side of the Ford, sending it flying across the barren road. Eric picks up his feet and dashes to the cars. But his efforts are futile. The black Jaguar has already disappeared before he could even take his 12th step. And then, the record stops.

              Before Jimin could even state the protocol run-through, Jungkook frantically swipes through the blank record. He slides across the frames in reverse, back and backward until he reaches the first second of the blank.

              “Sir, I’m afraid we have to do the protocol first—"

              Jungkook’s hand stills on the board. The frame freezes. It’s a close-up of the black Jaguar as it barely grazes Eric’s body. Jungkook zooms in. There inside the passenger seat of the car is a long, red expandable file. “Jonathan Winston Assassination; August 15, 2047; 12:30:00.”

              Jungkook feels his blood run cold. It’s the same file he just had his hands on less than 15 minutes ago. It’s the same file he saw in his and Y/N’s jump. Y/N’s vision is true.  

              Jungkook feels his pocket vibrate and he quickly whips out his phone. However, he wasn’t able to dwell on it longer as a hard force pushes his shoulder backward, forcing Jungkook to tear his eyes off the screen.

              Yoongi glares at him, “Why are you indifferent about this? You know something about this, didn’t you? Captain Jeon!” 

              But even with his name called out loud, Jungkook couldn’t hear anything. All that registers in his mind is one single message.

              Y/N L/N:  Have you ever heard of a Sooah Kim before? (11:14 A.M.)

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Note: This story is based on Steven Spielberg’s film adaptation of Philip K. Dick’s short story, Minority Report (2002). That being said, this series may contain spoilers for the movie so if you want to watch the movie, please do so first before reading!

A/N | Hi hons! Thank you for reading the 2nd chapter! I hope I got you guys more curious about the story hehe. Anyway, I have some announcement: I have finals for a major coming up this week so I’ll spend the next whole week studying. So, I’ll try if I can update the next chap the week after next week, on Sunday, too. But nothing is certain yet as I still have some uni stuff to do. Don’t worry, I only have 3 projects left to do to finally finish this sem. So as soon as I’m done with them, expect more frequent updates from me! 

If you guys wanna get notified as soon as I post the next chapter, I’m gonna add you all in my taglist! Just hit me up down the comments of this series’ masterlist so I can better track you all! The search function of Tumblr is messing with me and my notifs in my inbox usually come late so it’s highly probable your asks and DMs may get lost ☹

Once again, thank you for reading and giving a chance to My Time! :”)

Notes: As you know, this is a mystery fic. So, it will be most appreciated if any theories pertaining to the story be kept down the comments so I can entertain them all without spoiling our future readers! Once again, thank you so much for reading this!

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