#now look what’s happened. hand cramp. bankruptcy

[spinetacks]

beautiful meticulously created and kept spreadsheet of darby matches vs handwritten list of bucks dvds that I started tearing my hair out over when I realised how long it was going to be and I should have also made it as a spreadsheet (I am less than halfway through cataloging them, I think in the end only 2-3 years will fit per page 🫥)

[kelyon]

Golden Rings 17: A Name

The Storybrooke sequel to Golden Cuffs

Mrs. Gold revisits her past

Read on AO3

Mrs. Gold looked on in mute horror as Hunter Duke dumped more hot sauce on his triple bacon hamburger. He’d asked Ruby to give him three meat patties with no bun and steamed broccoli instead of fries. When Mrs. Gold had questioned that lunch choice, he had explained his new diet to her.

At length.

Hunter had always been the kind of boy who thought meat and spicy food were substitutes for a personality. He’d been the star athlete at Storybrooke High, taking home championships in football and wrestling. He’d been popular with everyone--except for the one girl he’d arbitrarily decided was the hottest girl in school. That girl, the valedictorian, hadn’t given the quarterback the time of day. Not until she lost her scholarship and suddenly dating the son of a lawyer sounded like the way to the best future she would ever get.

“They do the burgers way too overdone here,” Hunter said with his mouth full. “You don’t get enough protein if it isn’t bloody.”

Mrs. Gold shrugged and took a bite of her own burger. It needed more pickles, but it was still amazing. Toasted bun, crisp lettuce, a patty that was juicy but not messy. She hadn’t had a Granny’s burger in forever. When she was a kid, her parents had taken her out for burgers every Friday night after their shop closed. Mom would bring her own supply of extra-zesty mustard and Dad…

She set her bun on her plate. On those idyllic, bygone Friday nights, her father would spend the whole meal grumbling about money and expenses and couldn’t they have eaten at home? Mom had always told him to stop worrying and enjoy the moment. It was the end of another week and they were together, happy and healthy. She’d calmed him down and kept him focused, every time there was a crisis.

Until they faced the biggest crisis of their lives.

Mrs. Gold blinked out of her thoughts. For some reason, Hunter was still talking. Maybe it looked like she was listening. She’d gotten good at that when they had dated. Now that she was listening for real, she tried to catch up.

“I keep telling my dad he needs to just change the sign. ‘Duke & Duke & Duke’ has a great ring to it, right? Or he could for ‘Duke & Sons.’ I don’t mind sharing the spotlight with Steven. Or he could leave the sign as it is and retire! ‘Duke & Duke’ is classic, everyone knows we’re the best bankruptcy lawyers in town. Just let my brother be the first Duke and I’ll be second Duke and we’ll take this firm into the future! But Dad keeps brushing me off for some reason.”

Mrs. Gold took a sip of iced tea and desperately wished it was something stronger. “Did you… go to law school?”

She had the oddest feeling that she couldn’t remember how long they had been out of high school. All she knew for sure was that Hunter had enrolled at Storybrooke Community College--and she hadn’t. It was possible that he had gotten his bachelor’s. As Hunter was fond of saying, “Cs get degrees.” But SCC didn’t have a graduate program. Had he taken more classes on the internet? Or correspondence courses? It boggled her mind to think of Hunter of all people had gotten a law degree during the years she’d been Mr. Gold’s stupid slut.

“Well actually,” he explained, “you don’t need to go to law school to take the bar exam. I’ve got a bachelor’s in poli-sci and I’ve been around lawyers all my life. My dad knows everyone at the state bar. He’ll pull some strings and I’ll be all set.”

Mrs. Gold stabbed her straw at the ice cubes in her glass. It was so fucking unfair. Hunter was an idiot child who had never worked for anything in his life. His father--Richard “Big Dick” Duke--had bought him a Humvee when he turned sixteen, a speedboat when he graduated high school, and a college education just because no son of his wasn’t going to go to college. Now he would give his son the bar exam and a ready job and everything he would need for a future, without Hunter ever having to grow up past the maturity level of a toddler.

She’d lost her virginity to this boy. One summer night after senior year, in the back seat of that gas-guzzling monstrosity. They’d been dating for a while and Hunter had been perfectly content with her amateurish attempts at blowing him. But for her, the novelty had begun to wear off. So she’d suggested that he “put it in” instead. It was mostly a way for him to get his rocks off while she could just lie back and think of something more interesting.

Her memories of that night were dark and cramped and disappointing. She kept her shoes and her bra on the whole time. When Hunter was done, she had been more confused than anything else. This is what people made such a big deal about? Wasn’t sex supposed to be better than that?

It wasn’t until later, with Mr. Gold, that she had understood what people were talking about in romance novels.

But now that things were so strained with her husband, she found herself thinking back to the only other sexual partner she’d ever had. Looking at Hunter now, she had to remind herself of how bad things had been that summer, when he had been a welcome distraction. Hunter hadn’t wanted to talk about doctors’ appointments or shop inventory or arguing with financial aid departments--every fight a losing battle. All he wanted to do was drink, screw around, and have fun, and he welcomed her along for the ride.

I thought he would help us. I was wrong. He wasn’t what I needed.

Mrs. Gold shook the thought out of her head. The thought was true, but she recognized it as not being her own, so she talked over it.

“Have you been hanging out with any of the old gang? Sean or Jesse or anyone?”

It had been exciting to be included with the rich kids, to feel like she belonged in the world of the young and the reckless--people who didn’t have to worry about things because their parents would always be around to bail them out. They could do whatever they wanted because the world belonged to them.

Hunter shrugged. “Jesse’s an idiot, so no change there. But Sean’s been such a pussy ever since Ashley had her baby.”

Ashely Boyd had been in that group with her. Rich boys liked running around with poor girls because they were easier to impress than the rich girls. New Town young ladies also had parents who bought them cars for their sixteenth birthdays. They didn’t need to rely on spoiled boys to pay their way every time they went out, so they didn’t have to go along with whatever stupidity the boys came up with. Mrs. Gold had taken a lot of risks just so Hunter would keep thinking she was interesting.

But Ashley had loved Sean for more than his money and toys. All she ever wanted was for him to love her back and stay with her. Once, Mrs. Gold had thought Ashley was stupid for pining so hard after a boy who would never commit. But now she had a little more sympathy.

“What happened with Sean?”

“Mr. Herman kicked him out, cut him off. Now he’s living at Ashley’s place, working his ass off at the fish factory.”

“The cannery,” Mrs. Gold corrected quietly. Fish King Canned Foods was always hiring. It was always looking for people who could stand waist-deep in ice and fish guts for twelve hour shifts, operating machinery that could cut through a human hand as easily as it did a whole herring. Her cousin Andrew had gotten a job right out of high school. Her Uncle Peter had worked there for twenty years before he died.

“Like I said, he’s a total pussy now. All he does is work and hang out with Ashley, work and take care of the baby, work and sleep. You know he asked her to marry him a couple days ago? Utterly whipped.”

“Wow,” she said.

She had never respected Sean Herman, so it was weird to think of him actually growing up. People didn’t usually change around Storybrooke. But now the spoiled party boy was taking responsibility for his child and the woman who loved him. He had given up his own wealth and family status because he loved a penniless girl from Old Town.

It was impressive.

She finished her burger while Hunter started another monologue, this time about all the fat, lazy, poor people who came to his father’s office to declare bankruptcy. Forget being a lawyer, he should go into talk radio.

“I did ask you to lunch for a reason.” She grabbed her chance to talk while he was taking a breath.

“Oh yeah?” Hunter wiped hot sauce off his face with the back of his hand. “What’s up?”

“You know a lot of people,” Mrs. Gold said. “I was wondering if you might know somebody that I don’t.”

He slurped up the dregs of his diet soda. “Yeah? Who?”

Mrs. Gold gripped the edge of the table and desperately hoped he wouldn’t notice how hard it was for her to say this. The gold of her wedding ring was dull on this cloudy afternoon. “I… just have a name right now. I think it’s a woman named Belle.”

She could see the wheels in his head turning as he thought. “Belle? Hmm. I don’t know.”

“She’s probably young. Maybe our age. Maybe younger. Or older? Maybe she’s one of your mom’s friends or something?”

A woman as old as Karen Duke would still be younger than Mr. Gold. Maybe he was looking for more maturity now. In the days since she found out about Belle, Mrs. Gold had been racking her brain to try to imagine what kind of person she was. She was only moderately sure that Belle even was a woman. If Mr. Gold wanted this Belle person more than he wanted his own wife, she was probably the opposite of her in some crucial way.

Hunter made a face and scratched the back of his head. “Nah, I got nothing. Sorry.”

“Yeah,” Mrs. Gold looked down at her empty plate. “I’m not surprised.”

Seeing that they were both done with their food, Ruby came up to the table. “Now is this gonna be one check or two?”

It was almost funny how quickly Hunter looked to Mrs. Gold. He panicked at the thought of paying for his own lunch. Daddy must not be giving him an allowance anymore.

“You invited me,” he said, almost chiding her with the reminder of how things worked.

“Yeah, that was my first mistake.” Mrs. Gold took the check from Ruby and pulled out her purse.

A fifty would be enough to pay for two hamburgers and Ruby’s discretion. Not that Mrs. Gold was being particularly sneaky, arranging lunch with her ex-boyfriend at the most popular restaurant in town. But that didn’t matter either. She could take Hunter to the pawn shop and bang him in front of the cash register and Mr. Gold wouldn’t give a fuck.

And neither would she.

****

Wandering listlessly up and down Main Street, Mrs. Gold tried to keep warm. The clouds were dark and heavy with more snow. The sidewalks were shoveled, but there was always a residue of dirty slush. It was the time of year when trash kept showing up in the streets, no matter how many anti-littering signs Mayor Mills put up.

Mrs. Gold’s suede boots were more fashionable than sturdy. The same could be said for her coat, scarf, and hat. The cold seeped through her flimsy layers, until she was nothing but numb and damp, until it was hard to breathe, until she was so desperate to be warm again she resolved to go into the next open store, no matter which one it was.

Sugar’n’Spice was always warm and it always smelled good. Mara Trudine burned a different scented candle every day the shop was open. Today the candle was cinnamon and cloves. The whole place smelled like cider.

Mrs. Gold entered as quietly as she could. She hadn’t been in the store since before Christmas. And she had never walked through that door without strutting proudly, loudly announcing her intentions to buy whatever lingerie it would take to drive Mr. Gold wild.

Was Mr. Gold even capable of going wild for her anymore? Or did the sight of her just turn his stomach? He thought she was trash, she disgusted him, he didn’t want her and he never would again.

Ducking behind a rack of silky robes, Mrs. Gold took a breath to calm herself down. It was a bad habit she’d developed lately, thinking of the worst-case scenario just to make herself feel something. Her mind kept poking and prodding at her pain, pulling out her darkest fears and putting them front and center. She could push it away if she concentrated. If she tried to act normal, she could almost feel normal. Sometimes.

“Oh hey.” Mara had spotted her from the sales counter in the back of the shop. “Mrs. Gold, I didn’t see you come in.”

Steeling herself, Mrs. Gold walked out from behind the robes. “That’s me.” She tried to smile.

Mara stayed where she was. Bits of fabric were spread out over the counter. It looked like she was sewing something.

Mrs. Gold’s heart skipped a beat. The fabric was a shiny yellow-gold. Sometimes, when Mr. Gold was really pleased with her, he liked her to wear that color. Without thinking about what she was doing, she began to walk towards the counter.

“What are you working on?”

Mara looked up from her needle. Even after all these years, she had the same face she’d had as a kid--sharp brown eyes, adorably crooked smile, freckles all over her round cheeks. She looked so innocent. You’d never think she made a living off of unmentionables.

“Custom order,” she said proudly. “I’ve been trying to get tailor-made lingerie off the ground for as long as I can remember. Got my first order in October and more have been coming in.” She held up the fabric and Mrs. Gold saw a pair of panties that would go up to a person’s rib cage.

“Somebody wants that?”

Mara’s excitement dimmed in the face of Mrs. Gold’s skepticism, but she did her best to explain. “It’s shapewear,” she said. “See the reinforced panels? The idea is to smooth out tummy rolls and make a more flattering silhouette.”

Mrs. Gold looked over at the rack of Spanx. “Don’t you already sell that?”

“Yeah, but the stuff I make is sturdier than the mass-produced product. Better for people with non-standard bodies. And prettier too. Nothing over there comes in straw yellow.”

It was true. Most of the stuff in that section was nude or black. Mrs. Gold knew a thing or two about wearing corsets, but she had never actually needed one. She had thought Mr. Gold liked her to be skinny.

“That is a pretty color,” she said. “Who’s it for?”

Mara looked at her dubiously. “I can’t talk about a client, it’s confidential.”

“How are you planning on getting more orders without word of mouth?”

“Well, normally word of mouth comes from customers talking about the product, not a creator talking about their customers.”

Falling into old habits, Mrs. Gold tilted her head back as her voice went up an octave. “I know, but it’s just such a pretty shade of gold, I was wondering if someone special might have ordered it...?”

She let the question hang. Mara just frowned and shook her head.

“Come on, you’re smarter than that.” She held up the garment again. “This is for a plus-sized woman. Two of you could fit in here without straining the elastic. Mr. Gold didn’t order this for you.”

Without thinking, she leaned over the counter and got in her friend’s face. “Did he order it for someone else?”

Mara’s eyes went wide. Her mouth transformed into a tiny little O of surprise. Mrs. Gold pulled away and kept her eyes on the ground.

“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Gold said. “That was out of line.”

“Wow,” Mara said softly. “I, uh, I’d heard that something had happened. But I didn’t know it was that bad. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, me too.” She turned around, pretended to look at something lacy until the urge to scream had passed. When she glanced at Mara, her brown eyes were trained on her.

“It’s not from him,” she said simply. “I’ll even tell you that my client paid with a credit card, so it was definitely her own money.”

Or maybe Mr. Gold was just covering his tracks. But at least he hadn’t called in the order himself. At least he wasn’t flaunting his disregard for her.

“Does he… Have you ever heard from him? Is he buying anybody lingerie?”

Mara shook her head. “I only see him on Rent Day.”

With nothing left to lose, she asked her old friend the same question she’d asked her ex-boyfriend. “Do you know anybody named Belle?”

Mara blinked. “I don’t… think so. The name sounds familiar, but I’m probably thinking of a character from a book or a movie. It’s not the sort of name you hear around Storybrooke.”

“No,” Mrs. Gold agreed.

“But I’ll keep my ears open, if you want.”

Mrs. Gold raised her eyebrows. “What about client confidentiality?”

“Well, whoever Belle is, she’s definitely not a client. And until Mr. Gold pays me himself, neither is he.”

You’re a good friend.

This time, Mrs. Gold didn’t swat at the thought that intruded into her head. She let it rest over her brain like a blanket. She let the thought warm her up.

She leaned against the counter and watched Mara work. The shapewear was fully constructed, and she was embroidering stalks of straw in a pattern along the sides. It was really pretty. The sort of thing that would give a girl a boost in confidence and excitement about her own body, her own clothes. Mrs. Gold remembered how fancy she’d felt the first time she wore something as simple as a bra and panties that were the same color. That sort of energy could get people through interviews or contract negotiations, any time you needed to feel powerful. Mara was helping people here, she was good at it, and it seemed to make her happy.

“So, business is good?”

“Yeah, it’s picking up. Valentine’s Day was a madhouse, but you know how that goes.”

Mrs. Gold nodded. Lingerie could be as popular as flowers when it came to last-minute gifts that men always thought would be cheaper than they were.

“Did you spend the day with anyone?”

Mara scrunched her nose. “I’m working too hard for that. Besides, I don’t meet a lot of single men in this business.”

She was able to snicker at the joke, and she was able to mean it. “Yeah, I guess not.”

They were quiet together for a minute, then Mrs. Gold asked a more personal question: “How’s your mom?”

Mara looked up from her embroidery for a second, but then went back to work. “She’s fine. I think she’s bored, now that the preschool is only open for half-days. She keeps asking me to move in with her.”

“I take it you don’t want to?”

A halfhearted shrug. “I don’t have a good reason not to. It would make sense, we could split the bills and keep each other company. But there is also something really nice about living by yourself. Even if it’s just a one bedroom apartment on top of your store.”

“I wouldn’t know.” Mrs. Gold drummed her fingers against the counter. She had gone from living with her father to living with Mr. Gold. The night after their anniversary had been the first time she had slept in any building by herself.

But she understood what Mara meant. When you lived with your parents, it was hard to feel like an adult. To make matters worse, Irma Trudine--Mara’s mother--had been a preschool teacher for as long as anyone could remember. She tended to treat everyone she talked to like they were a four-year-old whining for more juice and crackers.

Mama’s closest friend.

Now the voice was annoying her again. It was true that Irma and Mom had been good friends. That was why she had grown up with Mara as much as she had grown up with her cousin Janine. The three girls were inseparable, just like their mothers had been.

Until…

Mrs. Gold sighed. She was warmer now. She should probably buy something before she moved along.

“Do you have anything comfy around here?”

“What, like no underwire?”

“No, like pajamas, I guess. Or loungewear? I think I need to get a pair of sweatpants.”

Mara grinned. “The last time I saw you wear sweatpants, they had dinosaurs on them.”

“And they were fucking awesome.”

She had gotten those pants for her eighth birthday and worn them until the knees gave out. Even after that, Mom had cut them up for shorts and she’d worn them for another six months. If she could find sweatpants that had dinosaurs on them now, she wouldn’t think the mere act of wearing sweatpants was a sign of the end of her life.

But Sugar’n’Spice only had pajama sets with flowers on them--or hearts, but Mrs. Gold couldn’t bring herself to buy anything that looked like love. It was enough to buy comfort, something that would make it a little easier to be in her own skin.

Mara rang her up and gracefully accepted the extra fifty Mrs. Gold handed her.

“How about I call this a down payment on a custom order for you?”

Taking her bag, Mrs. Gold shrugged. “I don’t think Mr. Gold will want me in lingerie for a long time.”

“I didn’t say it was for Mr. Gold, I said it was for you.” Mara looked her steadily in the eye. “Come back some time and we can talk about what you need. Okay?”

She opened her mouth, and then closed it. “Yeah,” she said at last. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

“Good.”

****

The day wasn’t over. Mr. Gold was still in his shop. She could go there for a few hours of awkward silence. Or she could go back to the house, for a few hours of lonely silence. Then he would come home and make dinner. They would eat together and make stilted small talk. And then she would go to her bedroom, and he would go to his.

That was their life now.

He said he wanted her to stay. He said he wanted to take care of her. He said he loved somebody else.

It didn’t make sense. It was wrong. They were supposed to be together. Being near him, but not being with him, trying to act like everything was fine, trying to act like he didn’t matter to her as much as she obviously didn’t matter to him…

It was tearing her apart.

So she walked. Like a circling shark, she kept moving so she wouldn’t drown. She was trapped. Storybrooke was a small town, there were only so many places you could go in one day. And she had lots of days ahead of her. Mrs. Gold had the image of the rest of her life, stretching out to the horizon. She would have to keep walking, she would never be able to rest. She would never have a home again.

She was in Old Town now. The flower shop was behind her. Aunt Teri’s yellow and purple house was on this street. How many times had she walked the route between those two places? Her whole childhood, her whole life until she married Mr. Gold and moved into his house. She used to belong in this neighborhood.

Was there a way she could belong here again?

Turning at the plastic sign that said Hair Today! she went to the side door of the yellow house and knocked. Then she stepped away from the door and waited for an answer. She held herself against the cold.

Janine came up from the basement salon. Her mouth opened when she saw Mrs. Gold.

“Oh hi,” she said. “Mrs. Gold, you don’t… usually knock.”

“Yeah, I’m usually a bitch to you and I’m sorry.” She hadn’t meant to start that way, but she couldn’t avoid the truth anymore.

Janine’s eyebrows raised and her sky-blue eyes--a family trait--went wide. “O...kay,” she said slowly. Stepping outside, she shut the door behind her. The cold made her keep her arms crossed over her chest. “What’s going on?”

“I…” She didn’t know what to say. She had started, but what was the next step? “Things suck, right now, for me. And I kind of suck too. And I realized…”

What had she realized? That no one in her family would help her in an emergency? That she had built her whole identity around one relationship and without that she had nothing? That she had spent years intentionally, maliciously, pushing away all the people that had loved her in exchange for a man who only paid her? That all of those things were really fucking shitty? None of that was a realization. Mrs. Gold had always known what her life was. But she was just now starting to care.

“I realized I’m sorry,” she said. “For as long as I’ve been with Mr. Gold, I’ve been so caught up in him and it made me a worse person. And I want to be better.” She looked at Janine. “You deserve a better cousin.”

Janine sighed, her breath visible in the twilight. “So the honeymoon is finally over, huh? Are you tired of him or is he tired of you?”

Mrs. Gold pressed her lips together. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy. At the same time, she didn’t begrudge her cousin the snark.

“He’s tired of me,” she admitted softly. “And I’m kind of tired of me too.”

Now Janine looked more sympathetic. “What happened?”

“You didn’t hear? I thought everyone in Storybrooke knew by now.”

“Yeah, no, I’ve heard a lot of rumors. But I’m asking you what happened. What’s the truth?”

“He loves someone else.” The words slipped from her mouth like a burden off her shoulders. “Some Belle person. And like, like he loves her, Janine. More than he ever loved me.”

“Oof,” Janine let out a long breath. “Oh honey, that’s terrible. I’m sorry.”

Until now, Janine had been standing in the doorway, and Mrs. Gold had been in the driveway, with about five feet between them. Janine stepped out first, one arm open in invitation. The two cousins met in the middle. They didn’t hug, exactly, but they huddled together for warmth and comfort.

“Do you need to stay with us?” Janine asked. “We never did anything with Andrew’s room after--”

“No,” she shook her head. Mr. Gold asked her to stay with him, and even that had to be better than sleeping in her dead cousin’s bedroom. “I’m fine, I… He’s taking care of me.”

“What, like alimony?”

“No, we’re not… I’m not leaving him.”

Janine pulled away. “But you said he loved someone else.”

She nodded. “He does, but he doesn’t want the marriage to be over.”

There was a moment of silence while Janine’s face twisted in anger and disbelief. Then she burst out: “Oh screw him! Does he really get to decide that? That man is cheating on you and you don’t even get the satisfaction of walking away? Come on!”

Mrs. Gold couldn’t look her in the face. “It’s not as simple as that,” she said. “I--I married him, I need him, I…” The next words were small and soft: “I don’t want the marriage to be over either.”

Closing her eyes, Janine pressed the heel of her palm to her forehead. “I don’t know what to say,” she said. “I mean, the sanctity of marriage is great and all, but Mr. Gold has been nothing but bad to you for so long. And now you have a reason to get out, but you’re not taking it? Why?”

“Because this is different,” she said the words before she knew what they meant. “He’s different than he was when we got married. There’s something… good about him now. Something kind and gentle. Something that wasn’t there before.”

Janine rolled her eyes. “So now you have feelings for the monster?”

“He’s not a monster now. Maybe he was before--I can see that more clearly now. But now the only thing he’s doing wrong is… not wanting me. And it hurts, but it’s not an evil thing.”

He’s my husband and I love him. Can you understand that?

Shifting her weight back and forth, Janine kept her arms over her chest. “And he’s not… hurting you anymore?”

She shook her head. “Not even in a way I like.”

“Gross,” Janine said, matter-of-factly. “I mean, good for you that it used to be something you liked, but it is very gross for me to think about. Too much information is a very real thing.”

Both of them snickered at that. The years of lingering tension eased a little more.

“Can you at least stay for dinner? We’re having Spaghetti-Os a la Chloe.”

“Chloe’s cooking?” How old was she now?

“It was her idea. Under careful supervision, she is going to dump a can of Spaghetti-Os into a pot and warm it up. Mom might even let her into the spice cabinet for some basil.”

“Oh, that sounds like fun.” She shuffled her feet. “But I should get going. I still eat with Mr. Gold. It’s… weird.”

“I bet.” Janine put her hands in the pockets of her work smock. “Listen, I… I’m sorry. All this time… I could have been a better cousin too. We--I think the general idea was that… we were waiting for you to meet us halfway.”

“I get that,” she said. “And I never came close to halfway. Not with anybody.”

“Well, you did today. And I’m glad. We missed you.”

Nodding, she tried to keep the tears out of her eyes. All this time, she could have had her family. If she had just eased up on being Mrs. Gold, she could have been the same girl everyone had loved.

“I’m trying to make things better now, you know?”

Janine nodded. “I know.” They were quiet for a minute, then she asked. “Have you talked to your dad lately?”

“Not yet,” she shook her head. “Not him or Uncle Manny. I… I kinda thought I’d start easy.”

Janine half-smiled, half-winced. “Manny will be happy to see you. You’re the only niece he’s got.”

She snorted. “I’m the only daughter my dad has and that didn’t make anything any easier.”

“He loves you, Lacey,” Janine said. It was the first time Mrs. Gold had heard her first name in as long as she could remember. “We all do.”

[yandere-society]

Hmm how about a lovestruck ghost! Taehyung haunting y/n? Thank you so much!

See No Evil 

word count: 7.6k

author/admin: @kimseokmomjins

a/n: mentions of suicide, character death

“Well, home sweet home,” Namjoon remarked as he dropped two heavy suitcases with a clatter, outstretching his arms in a welcoming manner. The contents within the suitcase rattled, causing you to scold him for his carelessness. “Joon, there are fragile things in there!” Namjoon looked at you sheepishly, his dimpled, apologetic smile making it difficult for you to stay angry for even a fraction of a second. “Sorry, honey. Won’t happen again.” With a gentle scoff, you push past him and crossed the threshold into your new apartment, admiring the typical late-19th-century architecture: exposed beams, brick walls and floor-to-ceiling windows. Industrial, yet modernized for convenience and style.

After the movers had arranged your bulkier furniture and collected their payment, the two of you explored your small apartment. Tucked away under the mezzanine was a space big enough to be a small home-office— a set of glass sliding doors partitioning it off from the loft, granting you some privacy amidst the open floor-plan. It would be yours and Namjoon’s shared workspace, although Namjoon preferred to write his manuscripts the old fashioned way with pen and paper. But due to his long legs and restless nature, you figured he would probably be more comfortable lounging on the recliner instead of being cramped behind a desk.

In all honesty, your apartment was simple— the foundation, as well as the floors, were still from the original time period. The oak flooring was worn, showing decades of use, and there were pieces of mortar crumbling from the wall. But despite the flaws, there was no denying that it was the perfect beginner home for a newlywed couple. And affordable, too. You were surprised, to say the least, when the previous owners accepted Namjoon’s lowball offer, considering the fact that the place was downtown and should have cost way more than you had paid. In fact, the tenants seemed almost over-eager to move out of the loft, offering to give you the keys by the end of the week.

“So tell me, Joonie,” you said, hand idly grazing across the rugged surface of the wall. “How exactly are we going to afford this place? We both know that your books and my photography business aren’t gonna keep us afloat for very long, especially in a place like this.” Namjoon looked at you from behind a stack of plastic containers, a tan hand waving dismissively at your inquiry. “Don’t worry about it, the mortgage is at 3.85%, so we’ll pay it off in no time.” He drummed his fingers against his chin, calculating some quick arithmetic before continuing, “9 years and 7 months to be exact.” You cocked an eyebrow at him, knowing that Namjoon always got evasive whenever he wanted to avoid uncomfortable situations. “I really don’t think it’s best to start off your marriage with by lying to your wife, Namjoon,” you deadpanned. Although you loved Namjoon, he often overestimated his financial judgments. You’d rather not begin married life declaring bankruptcy, even if the apartment was beautiful. “Is your father helping us pay for the mortgage? I know you two aren’t on the best of terms but you should really consider—”

“Y/N,” Namjoon sighed. He stopped organizing and directed his attention to you, currently pacing back and forth between the kitchenette and living room. He could tell you were anxious. “We’re gonna be fine, alright?” Your husband approached you and pulled you into his chest, enveloping you in a sense of comfort. Two pillowy lips left a chaste kiss on the crown of your head, seeking to appeal to your good side. “Put some faith in lil old me.” You melted into Namjoon’s embrace, feeling pure marital bliss. “Sorry for not trusting you, babe,” you apologized, face snuggling into his broad chest. No matter where you were, Namjoon always felt like Home.

After whipping up lunch, you and Namjoon finally began to sort through boxes and containers, deciding what would go where. It was tedious, but with your husband’s strength and your Pinterest-inspired interior design skills, the two of you were able to effortlessly unbox and organize all essential items. As you arranged books on the bookcase, a sudden, frigid chill overcame your body. Goosebumps littered your arms, and you shuddered in response to the sudden drop in temperature. Seeking relief, you rummaged through a nearby box and retrieved one of Namjoon’s old sweatshirts. He eyed you curiously, silently questioning why you were wearing a hoodie in the middle of summer. “It’s really cold over here, Joonie,” you explain, motioning to the area near the bookcase. Namjoon shrugged his shoulders, “This place is old, the air ducts are probably faulty. I’ll fix it after we get all settled in, baby.” You returned to your task, focusing on shelving the books alphabetically by author’s last name, just like Namjoon preferred. Sometimes it was irksome being married to a published writer, but you knew he appreciated your efforts to keep up with his organizational habits.

You were stuck in your thoughts, mentally thinking about your work schedule for the next week, when you heard a deafening crash. Namjoon was gingerly rubbing his left knee amidst a sea of shattered glass and china, a box that read ‘FRAGILE’ bearing a gaping hole at the bottom. You rushed over to him, careful to avoid cutting your bare feet on the wreckage. “Babe, what happened?” You tenderly brushed your hand against his injured knee, assessing the damage. The writer groaned in pain, and you rushed to fetch him ice to reduce the swelling. “I dunno,” Namjoon mused through gritted teeth, “I was walking and the bottom of the box suddenly collapsed, and I kind of went tumbling with it.” He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly clearly embarrassed at his own mistake.

It was evident that he shouldered the blame for breaking your tableware the first day in your new home. “Thank God,” you said as you placed the ice pack on his knee, “Those old things were hand-me-downs anyway. We kind of needed new glasses and plates anyway.” You smiled fondly at your husband, letting him know you weren’t upset in the slightest. Mistakes happen, and you were both only human. Namjoon pulled you into a kiss, his lips eagerly molding into yours. When you parted, you gave your husband’s shoulder a playful shove.

“I swear, Kim Namjoon, your clumsy ass will be the death of me.”

•·················•·················•

Taehyung was confident he’d be able to scare you and your bumbling idiot of a husband into moving out of the house in a matter of days. In actuality, that’s exactly what he did to the previous tenant— a rich socialite who was spooked so bad he sold the apartment for less than what he had originally purchased it for. Taehyung found it rather comical when he scared the unwanted guest so badly that the man cowered under his sheets until the sun was high in the sky.

The ghost didn’t necessarily like playing the bad guy, but he also valued his personal space. Objectively, this was his apartment. He never agreed for it to be sold to the bank and refurbished for future tenants. Truth be told, Kim Taehyung was a selfish person, in life and in death. He never liked sharing, especially if it was something he considered aesthetically pleasing. His old studio was just that: four large windows provided just enough light for painting, the lofted platform perfect for lazing about on a Sunday morning, and the nook under the staircase provided a cozy place to sketch. But now his studio had been turned into an apartment for people with no sense of style or interest for the aesthetic.

After years of being trapped within the confines of his own home— a home which had been modernized so much that it no longer felt like his— Taehyung was bitter about any new resident, no matter their intentions. That included you and Namjoon, who were the current targets of the phantom’s disturbances.

He thought it would be easy to scare the daylights out of both of you. In his eyes, the two newlyweds looked naive and fresh-faced. It irked Taehyung slightly to see a couple so blissed-out and in love. The only thing Kim Taehyung had ever loved was his art— it was lifeline, his sole reason for existence. He was sure he loved art just as fiercely as your husband loved you. Regardless, the bitter, twisted side of Taehyung sought to ruin the marriage so he could live in solitude once more.

It started with the small things— your husband tripping over thin air, or losing something he had set on the dining table. Cold spots materialized out of thin air for seemingly no reason whatsoever, and occasionally a light would be left on when both you and your husband knew you had turned it off. Still, none of those things bothered either of you. Taehyung had soon learned that your husband, Namjoon, despite being logical and book-smart, was clumsy and forgetful by nature. You always attributed these small instances towards the buffoon, which irritated the specter to no end.

Soon, Taehyung had begun to learn more about the personalities of his unwanted tenants. While Namjoon was klutzy, you, on the other hand, were quite the opposite. Taehyung noticed that you carried yourself with a sense of confidence and elegance. Despite your strong-willed nature, you never lost your temper, even when your husband lashed out during arguments. The thing that interested the entity the most, though, was the fact that you were an artist, just like he once was.

While Taehyung never liked lingering around the previous tenants, he often found himself entertained by your small habits and quirks. He especially enjoyed watching you work. He found your profession intriguing. You captured masterpieces on film with just a lense and keen eye for design. Taehyung observed the way you perfected your pictures, using a program on the device you called a ‘computer’. He found it endearing how you always immersed yourself completely when editing your digital canvas— it reminded him of himself and the many hours he spent perfecting his portraits. Sometimes, Taehyung would lean over your shoulder to further inspect your work, and he swore there were moments when you looked directly at him. It was then that Taehyung realized you were also quite intuitive. He wondered if you could sense his presence as he watched over you. Perhaps he’d test his hypothesis by leaving you a gift.

•·················•·················•

Namjoon was out for the afternoon, needing to discuss his release schedule with his editor and publisher. You, on the other hand, were editing pictures of a wedding you had recently shot. Namjoon’s college buddy, Jungkook, had just gotten engaged to his high school sweetheart, and your free photography service was the next best thing you could gift them. The couple truly was photogenic.

Trying to enjoy your day home alone, you placed a vinyl on the record player and settled back into your chair. It was an antique album of jazz from the 1920’s given to you as a wedding gift. Namjoon was stubborn in the sense that he exclusively listened to rap and very rarely was he willing to expand his musical horizons. You, on the other hand, listened to practically every genre. It helped your creative juices flow. It was rare that you got to indulge in your eclectic discography.

You worked diligently, the syncopated rhythm jazzy beats keeping you from getting distracted by other computer applications. As the climax of the song fell into a soft lull, your ears perked up to a curious sound. It was faint, but you could’ve sworn you heard a whistle—to the exact same tune as the current song. The recording was extremely old, so you assumed the sound was probably just due to old age or poor recording technique. It never crossed your mind that maybe it wasn’t the record’s old age that was the source of the whistling, but instead Taehyung, who was, once again, watching you work. He loved jazz and was pleased that you, too, were a fan of his favorite genre. His favorite pastime used to involve seeing jazz bands at the local speakeasy. Maybe he’d tell you about it after you two got acquainted.

The record ended, the needle thumping lightly as it rolled over the unetched grooves. Just as you were about to get up to turn off the record player, you noticed a silhouette in the reflection of your computer monitor. It was merely a glimpse, because the split second in which you blinked, the shadow had disappeared. You spun around in your chair, eyes cautiously scanning behind you. “What the fuck,” you cursed under your breath, chills once again seeping under your skin. Your mind struggled to rationalize the eerie occurrence, chalking it up to being a trick of the light. Despite your logical side telling you it was not a ghost, it was seemingly impossible to disregard the sensation of being watched. Paranoia ate at your subconscious, and you no longer felt comfortable in your small office. Sighing, you saved your latest project on Adobe and logged off the desktop.

You stood, stretching your arms high above your head in an attempt to alleviate the tension between your shoulders. “Jeez, I should probably shower before Joon comes home,” you mused absentmindedly, kneading away a knot in your left shoulder.

Under the presumption that you were alone in your own home, you began stripping off layers of your loungewear until you were left in nothing but your undergarments. Unbeknownst to you, the ghost watched from a few feet away, ready to enact his devised plan. As soon as your figure disappeared behind the bathroom door, Taehyung began collecting your scattered clothes. The cotton fabrics were scratchy and cheap, unlike the furs and silk he was accustomed to in his mortal life, but that didn’t dissuade him from bringing the garments to his chest, cradling the bundle almost affectionately. Once he heard the shower roar to life, Taehyung apparated into the bathroom and folded your clothes, placing the neat pile on the vanity.

The bathroom filled with hazy steam, the mirrors fogging up with condensation. Taehyung took this opportunity to leave you a message— something, anything— that would clue you into his presence. He languidly trailed his finger along the glass surface, the corner of his lower lip pulled between his teeth in concentration. His message was simple: the 22nd letter of the alphabet. V. The signature he once used to mark his masterpieces.

Suddenly, the shower abruptly cut off, prompting Taehyung to dissipate into the steam.

During the entirety of your shower, you felt unnerved— as if a 30-pound weight of anxiety had settled itself upon your shoulders. Usually, you’d take your time to bask in the warmth of the water and indulge in a mini scalp massage as you washed and conditioned your hair, but today you rushed through the motions. You toweled off quickly, eyes darting around the small glass chamber, trying to pinpoint what could have been triggering your paranoia. The dense humidity that you’d usually find comforting now felt oppressing like the air had been knocked out of your lungs. Stepping onto the shower mat, your eyes caught sight of a pile of clothes resting on the bathroom counter. Your clothes, the same ones you swore you left on the floor. Racking your brain for some sort of rationale, you struggle to even remember if you’d even picked them up in the first place, much less folded them.

You ran your fingers through your wet hair in apparent frustration. “You spend way too much time staring at a computer, Y/N,” you scolded yourself. “It’s beginning to take a toll on your mental state.” Taehyung watched from the corner, finding your habit of talking to yourself to be incredibly endearing. He noted that you often talked to yourself when you were annoyed or confused. With a heaving sigh, you momentarily left the bathroom to fetch clean clothes. When you returned, you dropped your towel and Taehyung respectfully averted his attention, refraining from peeking at your naked form. He was a gentleman, after all.

Anticipation bubbled inside Taehyung as he waited for the moment when you’d notice his message on the mirror. You peered at the mirror, your brow furrowing when you saw a solitary letter scrawled across its surface. “Huh?” Again, you could not, for the life of you, remember when— or why, for that matter— you had written V on your bathroom mirror. It meant nothing to you.

Taehyung watched in joyous suspense, waiting for the ‘aha!’ moment where you would acknowledge that you weren’t alone in the apartment. But his hopeful expectations quickly soured into annoyance when he saw your hand wipe away the V, removing condensation from the mirror. Taehyung’s lips curled into a scowl, his eyes glaring daggers into the back of your head as you bent over to wash your face. Resurfacing in search of a towel, your attention caught onto the man standing in the corner of your bathroom.

Your eyes locked with his, and you felt a familiar chill run down your spine. The man was gorgeous— high cheekbones framed by wavy locks of dark hair, tanned skin, and a piercing gaze. You took him in through the reflection, awestruck yet frightened. He emitted an intimidating aura, unbefitting of his benevolent appearance. This had to have been a hallucination. There was absolutely no way that a random man could have gotten into your apartment, much less go unnoticed by you while you showered and changed.

Taehyung wanted to reach you, to let you know that he had been here watching you— that although he wasn’t tangible, he was still him. Real and authentic. That is when he let your name roll off his tongue for the very first time. Every syllable felt right to him like it was second nature. Taehyung thought you’d be ecstatic over him addressing you personally. But instead, it only instilled an immense sense of horror. How the hell did he know your name?

“This can’t be happening,” you murmured, eyes as wide as saucers. You frantically spun around, expecting to be face-to-face with the mysterious man, but all that met you was a blank wall. Impossible! He was just there, and he looked so real. Trembling hands traveled the expanse of the bathroom wall, feeling for any inconsistencies or clues as to where the man went. You were certain you were insane and sensed a panic attack fast approaching.

Stumbling out of the bathroom and towards the coffee table, you struggled to unlock your cellphone, the fingerprint recognition not cooperating with your damp thumb. After a few seconds of awkward fumbling, you were finally able to access Namjoon’s contact and initiated a call. The call rang a few times before being sent to voicemail, and you immediately redialed.

“N-Namjoon,” you gasped when your spouse finally answered your call. “Come home now. Some, someone was in the ap-p-partment.”

“What? Why the hell are you calling me? Call 911!” Namjoon lectured, his voice raising an octave higher. “He-He’s gone now, at least I think,” you responded quietly, hunching over your phone. “It was a guy? Shit, are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m physically fine,” you mumbled. You were about to explain the strange occurrences that had happened while home alone, but Namjoon spoke over you. “What a relief. Look, Y/N, I’m in a meeting with my editor, can you wait until I get home?” You were never one to snap at your husband, much less interrupt him, but you were spooked beyond belief.  “Plea— Namjoon, please, tell your editor that it’s an emergency.” You heard him grunt, and that is when your resolved cracked. “I’m… I’m really scared, Joonie,” you confessed pathetically. By now, tears had spilled from your eyes and were cascading down your cheeks, creating tiny pools on the hardwood floor. Namjoon’s heart wrenched when he heard the anguish in your voice. You were always level-headed and rational, never had he seen you so upset. “Alright, Y/N. I’m on my way back.”

While you stayed on the phone with your husband, Taehyung lounged about on your sofa, watching you spiral further and further into hysterics. Although he found your overreaction to be quite amusing, the specter did feel slightly remorseful. Taehyung knew you likely wouldn’t have processed the confrontation so easily, especially since it didn’t go exactly as planned, but the sadist within him felt pleased that you were frightened. You had made him soft, which caused him to forget his initial objective: to drive you and your useless husband out of his house.

Taehyung startled when the front door burst open to reveal a haggard-looking Namjoon. His clothes were wrinkled and his hair was matted with sweat, evident that he had opted to walk home instead of waiting for the subway. The ghost observed your spouse as he searched the loft for any traces of your presence. Namjoon found you on your bed curled into the fetal position with the comforter pulled taut above your head. He sat down on the edge of the bed, a large, tan hand gently removing the covers that shielded you. “Baby, what happened?” He pulled you onto his lap, knowing that you found skinship comforting. You choked down a sob, still traumatized from the situation.

“I was, I was working. And I thought I heard a whistle during this song. It sounded really close, but I ignored it. It could’ve just been the neighbors… But then I saw something in the reflection of my computer monitor,” you began shakily. Despite having no organs and not being able to feel pain, Taehyung felt a slight pain in his chest when being described as a ‘something’. He was a person too, just without his physical body.

“So, I took a break because maybe I was just tired, you know?” Namjoon hums in agreement, still not understanding what had you so frightened. “I distinctly remember leaving my clothes outside of the bathroom. I left them in a pile near the sofa. But,” you gulped, “But when I got out, my clothes were next to the sink. And they were folded.” Judging by the way Namjoon was looking at you skeptically, you could tell he was not bothered by your story in the slightest. “You know what else is crazy? Get this: I’m showering and even though the water is hot, I’m practically shivering. And I felt like someone was watching me! It was so unnerving.”

��Okay, go on,” your husband urges, and you oblige. “So I get out of the shower, and there’s my clothes on the sink, and the letter ‘V’ written on the mirror. Why would I write that, Namjoon?” You ask rhetorically, but being the smartass that he was, Namjoon had to impart his own opinion. “Maybe you did it without noticing or remembering. I do that sometimes.”

“No, I definitely didn’t do that. I mean, what does that letter even mean? It’s not even a complete thought. It was probably that guy, the one I saw in the bathroom.” You could see that your argument was beginning to turn the gears in Namjoon’s mind, his brow furrowing in worry. “What guy, baby? Why didn’t you call the police? He could’ve hurt you.” You inhaled deeply, eyes squeezing shut as you conjured the memory you desperately tried to shut away. “He- He was standing behind me. I didn’t hear him come in, it was like he just appeared there! He was super creepy too, he kept staring at me.” There was another word that hurt Taehyung deeply: creepy. Was he really that frightening to you? Back in the day, he was told that he was quite the charmer, and he specifically remembered his smile being compared to that of a puppy. He was, by no means, ‘creepy’, as you so tactlessly described him.

“Namjoonie, he knew my name.” You shudder involuntarily at the thought. “I heard him say it. He knows me! He knows where we live, and he knows my name!” Once again, the panic you had suppressed resurfaced, and you pull yourself into Namjoon’s chest to seek security. “Please don’t think I’m crazy but… When I turned around, he was gone. It was like he wasn’t even there to begin with. But I know he was real, I just know it. I saw him, Joon! I heard him speak!” For a minute, you thought your husband might actually believe you— he looked concerned, upset, even. Your husband ran a hand through his hair, brushing the bangs out of his face. It was the tell-tale sign that he was deep in thought. Without a word, Namjoon readjusted you on his lap and rested the back of his hand on your forehead, checking for a fever.

“I’m not sick, Namjoon,” you muttered. He patted your thigh reassuringly, “I’m just making sure.” A heavy silence settled between the two of you until Namjoon broke the tension. “You know, there’s an explanation for this,” he mused, looking up at the high ceilings. “I saw this on Reddit, but a guy kept finding post-it notes around his house that he swore he never wrote. He was seeing strange shadow people and hearing noises.” You gave your husband a perplexed look, unsure of where his anecdote was going. “So, the guy checks the carbon monoxide levels in his house and it turns out there was a leak. He had been poisoned and was suffering from memory loss and hallucinations.”

You rolled your eyes, finding his roundabout insinuations frustrating, “What are you implying here, Joon?”

He inhaled deeply, clearly trying to control his temper. “I think you should consider the possibility that maybe there are environmental factors causing this.” You stood abruptly, your head almost hitting his chin. You faced your husband, who looked utterly dumbfounded at your sudden outburst. You rarely reacted with such ebullition. “You don’t believe me,” you stated as a matter-of-factly. Throwing your hands in the air, you paced around the loft mezzanine, unknowingly passing by Taehyung, who was sat at the top of the stairs. “I knew it! You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”

“No, no, I never said that, don’t put words in my mouth,” Namjoon said as he stood, hip cocked to the right. “You’re clearly shaken, and I hate to see you so afraid in our home, our safe place. But there’s clearly logical solutions. I mean, have you checked the CO detector? It probably needs new batteries.”

You laughed dryly, shaking your head in disbelief. “Namjoon, we literally moved in like, a week ago. All the appliances are new, as well as the smoke and monoxide detectors. I don’t think that’s it.”

“You never know,” he retorted, “You have to think about these things rationally, babe. It’s a possibility.” Something about Namjoon’s words rubbed you the wrong way— why did you feel so… spiteful? Were his words a subtle jab at your intelligence? Was he implying that you weren’t his equal because you didn’t attend a fancy college and get a degree like him?

Or maybe it due to Taehyung, who lingered in the area, filtering his own negative energy into the situation. He enjoyed watching the breakdown of a marriage that had only just begun. Perhaps you’d get to keep the apartment from the divorce.

“Oh, so you’re saying I don’t think? Is that what it is, Namjoon?” You were nearing hysterics, something completely out-of-the-norm for you.  Namjoon approached you, his hands running down your arms in an attempt to assuage your distress. “Babe, calm down, that’s no—”

“Don’t ‘babe, calm down’ me, Kim Namjoon,” you countered, shrugging his hands off your forearms. “This, this thing that happened to me was real. And as your wife, I am begging for your comfort and support.” The look in your eyes drove a dagger through Namjoon’s heart. Never before had he seen you in so much pain, and it frustrated him to no end that he couldn’t immediately solve your problems. Lacing his fingers with yours, Namjoon brought your hands to his lips and kissed your knuckles. It immediately alleviated the tension in the room, the simple gesture conveying sincere affection.

“Y/N, sweetie… I’m sorry for disregarding your feelings. I was talking out of my ass, because… Well, you know how I am. I can be a huge prick sometimes. ” You smirked at his declaration and snuggled into the broad expanse of his chest. “Yeah, you can be. But that’s okay, I still love you.” Namjoon wrapped his arms around you, elbows resting upon your shoulders. “Look, I’ll pay for a home security system to be installed, okay? Will that make you feel better?” You nodded wordlessly, expressing your gratitude by kissing his pectoral.

Taehyung watched tender moment with growing resentment. He was furious— furious that all could be forgotten after a few empty words and a hug. The wraith stormed down the stairs, lithe fingers tugging at the roots of his dark hair in anguish. When he was alive, he never indulged in romance or trysts, as it would disrupt his productivity. But now all he wanted was to be noticed and held, just like Namjoon, but instead, he was only being forgotten. Taehyung never realized how lonely he was until he found you, and now all he wanted to do was talk with you about art and music; he wanted to tell you about his life and ask about yours. The artist wanted to paint you from sunrise to sunset, capturing every freckle that littered your body. You could be his muse, his Calliope.

Due to Taehyung’s selfish nature, he had never once felt like he wasn’t in control of his life. Even after death he always got what he wanted. But this time, everything was slowly falling through his fingers, and all he could do was sit back and watch.

Or maybe not.

On the wall in front of the ghost hung a portrait of you and Namjoon on your wedding day, gleefully smiling with rosy cheeks. Taehyung’s finger delicately traced over your face, as if the glass would crumble under his touch. He truly had grown fond. The pad of Taehyung’s thumb glided towards the man opposite you, your husband. Little by little, he exerted pressure onto the fragile surface until it buckled under the force and created small, webbed fissures across the pane.

Taehyung’s tongue peeked out and swiped across his lower lip, stoic face deep in contemplation. This time, his plan wouldn’t— no, it couldn’t fail.

•·················•·················•

Days turned into weeks, and you wondered if perhaps Namjoon installing the alarm system actually discouraged trespassing, because there hadn’t been another encounter with the mysterious man. Things were tranquil, almost eerily so. Of course there were times when you swore you had seen a shadow from the corner of your eye, or you’d hear the faintest of whistles to the tune of Down Hearted Blues’ chorus, but for the most part, nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

Until today, that is.

You had spent the majority of your day searching for Namjoon’s blue and red Nintendo Switch controllers. You looked in all the typical places: under the sofa, in the bed, behind the television. But you also searched in unconventional places, finding that Namjoon always managed to misplace things in the most random spots, like the time he put his keys inside the dishwasher, for instance. Namjoon swore left and right that he’d left both joy-cons docked on the Switch, but as you scoured almost every hiding spot in your apartment, you were beginning to lose all hope of finding the controllers. How could Namjoon be so forgetful that he loses neon joy-cons? You smirk at the thought of your spouse losing the entire Switch, imagining Namjoon mourning the loss of 143 hours spent on Breath of the Wild.

There was only one place you had yet to look, and that was the closet. It was improbable that the joy-cons would be found amongst your clothes, but it didn’t hurt to look. You rifled through Namjoon’s hoodie collection and checked all the drawers contents. Still, no joy-cons.

Just to be sure you had searched every nook and cranny, you got on your knees to check behind countless pairs of shoes and their respective boxes. You set aside a box containing Namjoon’s old Timberlands— ones from his college days, he said they contained ‘too much sentiment’ to donate— and noticed an unfamiliar box. It was about two foot wide, and just as deep, with the brown wood showing years, maybe even decades, of wear. You don’t recall either you nor Namjoon owning something this vintage, and you wondered if perhaps the previous tenant left it when he moved out. Inspecting the perimeter, you noted the two small brass clasp locks were undone, which allowed you to lift the lid with slight difficulty, due to its hinges being slightly rusted.

Inside were various tools: pencils, charcoal, brushes, varnishes, and what appeared to be a small palette. But there, in amidst all the utensils, were the two joy-cons. Your brows furrowed in confusion, unsure of how the controllers even got inside this box in the back of your closet. “Joonie,” you shouted, your voice echoing through the open space. When you heard no response, you yelled again, only this time with a bit more vigor. “Joooooooonie!” After a few seconds of silence, you heard his muffled baritone voice filter through the bathroom door. “Just a sec, babe. I’m shaving!” You hummed contemplatively, curious at the contents of the trunk.

Rummaging through the box, you found small pieces of parchment paper lined with sketches. Buildings, sculptures, household objects, and even a small dog— vaguely reminding you of a Pomeranian— were the subjects of these delineations, each creation signed in the lower right-hand corner with a simple letter V. You appraised the sketches with much ardor, infatuated with the artist’s distinct, bold linework. From afar, Taehyung watched you fondly, his heart softening and swelling with pride. After weeks of constantly hiding your husband’s things, you had finally stumbled across Taehyung’s treasure trove; the only thing left that validated his existence. His hopes, his dreams, the only artwork that remained after his passing. The ghost was ecstatic that you were so enthralled by his sketches.

You leafed through the pieces of parchment until you come upon the drawing of a man. You had seen no other sketches of people, only inanimate objects or animals. Just like with the previous sketches, this one had the characteristic harsh linework, indicating it was drawn by the same artist. Although, it was only partially finished, with the face being the only thing incomplete. The corner was missing its signature V, instead reading: ‘kth, self-portrait, 1926’. Your fingers traced the dull edge of the paper as you studied the unfinished drawing.

Curiously flipping the paper over, you were hit with an intense bout of nausea. Memories of the incident not too long ago reappeared and reignited your fear. You recognized the man in the photograph— his feline eyes, strong jaw, full lips, and dark, shaggy hair that curled around the nape of his neck. He was sat on a chair, just like the sketch, with his left ankle drawn over his right knee, a stiff smile pulling taught against his lips. It was him, the man from the reflection. Here he was, posing for a photograph that took places ages ago, if you could infer from the worn, sepia coloration.

Instinctively, you called for your husband, but words caught in a lump in your throat. Was this simply déjà vu, or had you actually seen this man before? Panic returned, and hot, heavy tears rolled down your face, dotting the photograph that you held tightly. The paper was beginning to wrinkle under your tight grasp, and Taehyung worried that it would unintentionally rip. He was about to reach out and comfort you, when Namjoon brushed passed him, shuddering at the sudden tickle of cold air.

“Babe, why are you crying?” Namjoon asked softly, crouching down so he was at eye-level. You looked at him with eyes unfocused and wordlessly showed him the photograph. He studied it, confusion clouding his features as he attempted to discern the cause of your distress. “What is it? It’s just a picture.” You narrowed your eyes at your husband, “Joon, this is him. The guy I saw from the bathroom.” You shoved the photograph closer, as if it emphasized your point. Namjoon laughed, a mix between a sigh and an uncomfortable chuckle. “Y/N, this is a joke, right? Because it’s not very funny.” Taken aback by his snarky tone, you stare at him, dumbfounded. “I’m sorry, what?” Namjoon pinched the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses further up his face.

“Look, I thought we left this behind us. I’ve had a security system installed, I’ve checked all the gas detectors, I’ve even had an HVAC guy come in to look at the ventilation system. There is nothing wrong with this apartment,” Namjoon asserted with vexation. He was clearly frustrated by your behavior, but you were also frustrated with his fierce skepticism.

You stood your ground, not backing down from confronting his stubbornness. “Namjoon, I would have believed that if I didn’t find your joy-cons hidden inside this…this random person’s box in the back of our closet! This isn’t just a one-time thing. Your things always end up in some obscure location, and even though it’s the middle of the summer, our apartment still freezing. Joon,  I think you should consider other… possibilities.” Namjoon collected himself from the floor, his soft, kind eyes no longer present. He was beyond irate at this point, and he began to lash out at none other than you. “Consider what? That this is the work of a fucking ghost or something?”

“Yeah,” Taehyung chuckled amusedly to himself. It was his doing after all.

“Y/N, you need to grow up and stop being so scared all the time. It’s a fucking apartment, not a graveyard,” Namjoon spat. “Just because someone died here doesn’t mean a ghost is haunting us!” As soon as the words left his mouth, Namjoon instantly regretted them. He noticed the color drain from your face, despite you attempting to act unbothered. Your emotions betrayed you, resulting in a tumultuous blowout.

“So you… You lied to me?” Your eyes contained a profound hurt. He should have relented and begged for forgiveness, but Namjoon was both proud and stubborn.

“Well, I didn’t lie to you, since you never asked,” he corrected, “The topic just never came up…” You picked yourself off the floor, a lackluster laugh escaping your lips. Of course Namjoon couldn’t— no, wouldn’t— apologize. It was something you knew about him while you dated, and something you knew you’d have to tolerate as a spouse. With a strained voice, you pressed for more answers. “How long ago?” Namjoon ran his hands over his face in distress. “The twenties,” was his simple response. Almost a hundred years ago, such a long time for four walls and a roof to harbor a dirty secret. You continued your husband’s mock interrogation, arms crossed protectively across your chest. “What happened?”

Namjoon inhaled deeply, his fingers twiddling idly in front of him. “Well, from what I know, this used to be an artist’s studio. He went by the moniker ‘V’, and was pretty popular at one time. Like, his paintings actually sold for quite some money. But the Great Depression hit and uh,” Namjoon winced, trying to spare you the gory details. “He hung himself in the loft,” he finished, a calloused finger pointing up towards the exposed steel beams that lined the ceiling. “The place has been renovated since then, don’t worry,” Namjoon said that as if renovations were the least of your worries, like a human, a person, hadn’t once taken their life where you and he sleep at night.

You were never one to delve too deep into paranormal lore— the most you’d ever experienced was a haunted house, and the occasional horror movie. But from what you knew from pop-culture, the warning signs had been apparent all along. Everything made sense: the missing objects, the cold spots, the intense feelings of dread and paranoia. Hell, maybe even your cracked wedding portrait, which Namjoon blamed on the moving company, was a sign of a poltergeist. The final puzzle piece was the low purchasing price of the apartment, as well as how eager the previous tenant was to move out. Your apartment really was haunted.

“I,” Namjoon choked, struggling to conceal his guilt. “I thought it was the right thing to do.” Tears welled in his eyes, and you softened at his vulnerable state. “I didn’t want us to struggle to pay rent, and I thought… I thought I could keep this from you, I thought I could keep it hidden so that you wouldn’t worry.” Caressing his cheek, you planted a soft kiss where his dimple usually indents, before turning your back on him.

“I want to move, Joon,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t live here anymore.”

But it was still loud enough for Taehyung to hear. Leave? After all he’d done for you? He waited patiently from the sidelines for the moment he could hold your hand, the moment he could capture your beauty on his canvas. Taehyung sat through stuffy housewarming parties, movie nights with your girlfriends, and suffered through every single one of yours and Namjoon’s date-night lovemaking sessions. He deserved a chance to feel you underneath him too. Taehyung had done so much for you, loved you so profoundly, but you just hadn’t noticed.

In his panic, Taehyung attempted to reach out to you, but his path blocked by Namjoon. Taehyung knew that, at least in theory, a ghost could take possession of a host, either willing or unwilling. He had never tried it, never seeing it necessary, except for now. He didn’t want to see you go. Taehyung pressed his arm to Namjoon’s back, a tingling sensation stinging the ghost’s arm as he soon became enveloped in an uncomfortable warmth, being drawn further and further into his host. Taehyung felt his mind being pulled from multiple directions like a vacuum was suctioning his entire soul into the taller man. He wanted to scream, he wanted to yell out your name in hopes that by some miracle you could save him, but he was met with peace as he fell into darkness.

And then, he blinked. Followed by another. And another.

Taehyung focused his eyes on you; on your stiff posture as you continuously ignored your husband, waiting for him to agree to your proposal. He went to move but felt so heavy. He looked down at his hands, well, Namjoon’s hands, and smirked devilishly. The stories really were true— Taehyung could occupy any living host. He could be with you now, feel your warmth and kiss your lips.

Taehyung approached you, albeit awkwardly, as he was unaccustomed to his host’s long legs, and pulled you into a hug, his cheek resting on the crown of your head. “I’m sorry, my love,” he cooed, further nuzzling himself into your hair. The nickname sounded so foreign to your ears, as Namjoon always chose to refer to you with simple terms of endearment. He was never one to sugarcoat. “Please forgive my stupidity. It was never my intention to hurt you,” Taehyung continued, hands grazing across your clavicle. Again, you noted your husband’s change in speech, his words sounding dated and empty. Was he trying to be poetic? He may be a writer, but you’d never heard him use such eloquent speech in his daily vocabulary.

Taehyung snaked a finger around your chin, angling your face so he could have better access to your mouth. He laid a chaste kiss upon your lips, relishing in the satisfaction that he finally was able to feel your warmth. The same warmth that would soon be gone.

The sun came cascading through the magnificent windows, illuminating your husband’s face in the most ethereal ways possible. “Joonie,” you murmured as your lips parted, eyes studying him intently. His gentle eyes, chubby cheeks, and button nose were still the same as always. But in the glint of the sun, his appearance changed, but only for a fraction of a second. Gone were his dimples, now replaced with a tiny freckle of the tip of his nose. Round, almond pools of warmth were sharp and hardened, set under a pair of strong eyebrows. This face was not the one of the man you loved— the man you married. It was the face of the man from the photograph, the one who had long since passed away. He was gone in a second, replaced again by your husband’s dimpled smile.

Giving you the sweetest of looks, you felt Namjoon’s hands coil around your neck, constricting tighter as life slowly left your eyes. “Even in death, we will never part, my love,” Taehyung whispered, a sole tear trickling down his host’s cheek. He held on steadfastly, even after your body had gone limp, ensuring you were properly taken care of. Taehyung only let go of your neck when he felt his host being pulled back to the surface, begging to take control. He relinquished, letting himself be drawn back into the spiritual realm.

Taehyung could not believe his eyes when he saw you, looking down at your physical self sullenly. Your body was being cradled in Namjoon’s arms, violent sobs wracking his body as he held you close. The ghost flashed you a bright, toothy smile that stretched from ear to ear. Finally, you were his.

“Welcome home.”

[honeymoonjin]

enjoy your stay - chapter eleven

A/N - I don’t put links in anymore so that this comes up on search, but check the masterlist linked in my bio for links to every previous/future chapter.

Word count 3k (as usual). Tell me your thoughts! This was a very fun chapter to write. Honestly, probably my favorite chapter so far!

ENJOY YOUR STAY ↳Boss!Namjoon, Chef!Jin, Receptionist!Hoseok, Bellboy!Jimin, Bartender!Jungkook, Accountant!Yoongi, Photography student!Taehyung ↳Some inappropriate language and cursing. Later chapters have sexual content.

SUMMARY ↳Working the graveyard shift at a hotel isn’t the most exciting job in the world, but your coworkers are certainly happy to have you here.

CHAPTER ELEVEN ↳You grow closer to Yoongi when he helps you out with your terrible financial skills. Jungkook doesn’t like that one bit. When Namjoon sends you on an errand, you discover something unexpected.

“You can just sit anywhere, sorry, it’s a bit messy.” You bite your lip awkwardly as Min Yoongi steps into your cramped apartment and takes it in.

Before he had come over, you had spent the time since finishing your shift to clean up as much as you could, which mostly involved madly dashing around the house chucking everything on the floor into cupboards and closets. Strangely enough, Jungkook was an extremely clean kid, and all the unwashed clothing overflowing in the hamper was yours, and the dirty dishes in the sink from when you had cooked and never cleaned up.

Jungkook was out with a friend, a neighbor from back in his hometown that had stopped by while he was passing through, and you were glad he didn’t leave a mess for you to clean up. Man, that kid really loved doing laundry. It was a little concerning.

Yoongi had arrived exactly on time, though you confess you had spotted him in the carpark staring at his watch until two minutes til eight, which apparently gave him the exact amount of time he needed to take the elevator to your floor and knock right on the hour.

He perched gingerly on one of the chairs at your kitchen table, dumping his car keys on the tabletop and you join him nervously. He was dressed in a teal suit with an embossed pattern and unbelievably glossy shoes. You wished you had gotten out of your sweatpants and baggy sweatshirt while you had the chance.

“So,” he said with a sigh, “let’s rip the Band-Aid off. How poor are you?”

You blink dumbly. “That’s a little forward. Is that how you speak to all your clients?”

He quirks his eyebrows pettily. “It’s not how I talk to my paying clients, no.”

“Point taken. Although, to be fair, you’re well aware of the price I offered to pay.” You ignore his tired sigh and grab your laptop and pull up your bank account, wincing at the fact that the largest number had a minus in front of it. “It’s not looking so good, chief.”

He sighs, leans back to rock the chair on its back legs. “Y/n,” he begins patiently, “I’ve seen your weekly pay amount on the reports. Excuse my French, but how the fuck have you managed to spend this much money? Are you doing meth?”

Your face crumples. “No,” you mutter petulantly. “Besides, would I look this good if I was doing meth? I don’t think so.”

“Well, unfortunately for you, you don’t get a pretty person benefit,” he drawls sarcastically, but you count the fact that he doesn’t disagree a win.

“Well, I got stung with a particularly pricey car repair, and I’m buying groceries for two now, so…”

“You’re pregnant?”

You reel back in shock. “Wh- No, Jungkook lives here, now.” You furrow your eyebrows and pout at him. “You really think I’m a beautiful, pregnant meth addict? Words hurt, Min Yoongi.”

He pushes his tongue to one cheek and shakes his head good-naturedly, lips twitching a little. He clears his throat a little before speaking. “I only have thirty minutes, so let’s make this snappy.” He pulls your laptop towards him and you sit in a bewildered silence as he messes around with your bank account for a few minutes. “Alright,” he accounces, swiveling the laptop to show you, “I’ve set up an account for bills, an account for groceries, an account for savings, and a spending account. Then I’ve gone ahead and made some automatic payments into each account. All you have to do is change the amount that goes into each account according to your budget, then you’re sorted.” His eyes practically twinkle with self-satisfaction.

You twiddle your thumbs and nod, impressed. “Where do I find my budget?”

He tilts his head and freezes. After a minute of him searching your face only to find a blank stare, his mouth drops open. “You don’t have a budget?”

You think back, eyes darting up to the ceiling to concentrate. “I don’t know, I don’t think so. Nobody’s given me one. Where do I get one?”

You don’t think you’ve ever seen the light of triumph die so fast from someone’s eyes. “You don’t get one,” he sighs out, “you make one. You should have a budget at all times, it allows you to keep track of money and make sure you’re not spending more than you’re earning. Something you seem to desperately need.” He huffs out a laugh and shakes his head in despair. “You remind me so much of Hoseok. This whole time I thought I was attracted to men, turns out I was just attracted to idiots.”

You blush. “Oh, so you like m- Wait. That’s hurtful. Min Yoongi, more like Mean Yoongi.”

He flicks his tongue out, wetting his lips before he speaks in a teasing tone. “Mean Yoongi is stopping you from the serious threat of bankruptcy out of the kindness of his heart, so I’d be a little nicer to him.”

You glare and cross your arms. “Min Yoongi, more like Mean Yoongi, sir.”

He laughs. “You…” His mocking gaze softens, and you’re rewarded with his sweetest smile, the one with closed lips and his chin squishing up. “You really are something else, Y/n Y/l/n.”

Your blush comes back with a veangance and you can’t seem to stop from grinning like a maniac. You avoid his gaze, determined to win back the upper hand. “Anyway,” you deflect, speaking a little louder than needed, “I’ve said it before and I’ll most likely say it again, but I never expected you to do this for free.”

He gets the hint, leaning forward on the table, gazing at you curiously. “Why do you keep offering? I haven’t…been with a woman before, in fact I don’t even know if I’d like it, so it’s not like you’re going to enjoy it.”

You drop the playful act and return his stare. “You haven’t been with a woman before? Man, even I’ve had sex with women. Don’t you feel like…I don’t know, like you’re missing out?”

He breaks the prolonged eye-contact and focuses on a scratch in your table. “I didn’t.” Even though he’s looking down, you can see his eyes flicker back and forth before he comes to an apparent decision. “Okay,” he exclaims, looking back up at you with determined eyes, “here’s the deal: I save you from the verge of financial death, and in return, once you have a proper budget in place, you show me what I’ve apparently been missing out on.”

“Ha!” you exclaim, “I win! I knew I still had my womanly wiles. Wooing once-gay, now-bi-curious young men like it’s nothing.”

He puffs out a breath of air and pouts a little. “I really am attracted to morons, huh?” He glances at his watch, and stands up, adjusting his cufflinks. He rounds the corner of the table and places a hand on your shoulder awkwardly.

You look up at him in question. He takes a moment to collect himself, then bends down and places a single chaste kiss right on your lips. By the time your brain catches up with you, and your lips part in surprise, he’s already stood back up. “What was that?” you ask incredulously.

He raises his eyebrows at you like it’s obvious. “Foreplay.”

You jaw falls slack, and you’re struck silent. Finally, you let out a little hum of acceptance. “Huh. Min Yoongi plays the long game.”

He’s smiling at you, no, grinning, and your mind is still reeling with the feeling of his lips on yours, and then the door is opening, and Jeon Jungkook is coming in and freezing in the doorway.

You realize Yoongi’s hand hasn’t left your shoulder, and he’s standing directly in front of you. “Hi, Jungkook.”

Jungkook’s normally wide eyes are narrowed as they dart back and forth between the two of you. “What’s going on?” he questions suspiciously.

“I’ve been struggling a little bit with finances, so Yoongi kindly offered to help me out.”

“Well, it sure looks like he’s helping with something,” he replies, bitterness lacing his tone.

Yoongi removes his hand from you and steps back, but the tension in Jungkook’s jaw doesn’t ease. He steps away again, almost mockingly. “Listen, buddy, I was just on my way out, she’s all yours.”

Jungkook nods with a smug grin on his face. “That’s right, she is all mine, and next time you give her some private fucking counselling, you can keep your dirty paws off, got it?” He storms forward, shouldering past Yoongi roughly so that he stands between you two.

Yoongi ignores his antics and gives you a look. You curse internally. You’ve just spent the past half hour coming on to Yoongi and now Jungkook’s making it seem like you’re spoken for. Behind Jungkook’s back, you shake your head silently. Yoongi wets his lips, his gaze softening for a split second before he turns and narrows his eyes at the other boy. “I think you should calm down. Nobody likes a jealous ‘boyfriend’. I’ll see myself out.”

Jungkook doesn’t turn around to face you until the front door shuts again, leaving the apartment in tense silence. “I don’t want him coming around here anymore,” he states matter-of-factly.

You shake your head at him. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“Well, excuse me for being protective. You’ve been burned before, Y/n, I saw how upset you were after Jimin. I don’t want it to happen again with Yoongi, that’s all.”

You want to tell him nothing’s going to happen, but you bite your tongue. Lying never works out in the end, so you just stay silent.

He sighs patiently, then pulls up the chair Yoongi left, sitting away from the table across from you so your knees touch. “Baby,” he coos, “I just want you to be happy. I want us to be happy together.” He leans in and brings you in for a kiss, slow but domineering.

In the back of your mind you wonder if he could taste Yoongi on you, but that was absurd. Besides, he had already bypassed your lips to dip his tongue into your mouth, scooting his chair closer, pushing your legs open with his knees so that he could move his body as close as possible to yours. The same as every time this happens, his kiss makes your mind go blank and your instinct take over. You can’t think; the only neurons in your brain that are firing are the ones that say ‘more’.

His palms rest on either side of your face, and he tilts your head back to get a better angle. When you bite down on his lower lip and tug slightly, he growls in the back of his throat and the noise shoots straight down to your core.

His kisses get hotter and wetter and his touch grows feverish, hands moving down your side, over your breasts, and finally arriving at your hips, where he tucks his hands behind you and down over your ass to lift you off your seat and onto his lap.

The two of you let out a groan in unison when your crotch lands solidly on his. His hands lift again, but this time under your shirt instead of over it, and he begins pulling it over your head.

You raise your arms to aid him, but the clicking of the door opening causes the two of you to freeze. After you hear a familiar scoff, you hurriedly bat Jungkook’s hands away and pull down your shirt, peeking over to the open doorway.

Yoongi stands there, mouth set and jaw taut, and silently he stalks over to the table, where you realize that his keys still lie. He snatches them off the table and returns to the doorway. “My apologies for the intrusion,” he spits out, and slams the door behind him.

You’re left with an overwhelming sense of dread and shame, and you feel the fog of arousal lift.

Jungkook growls again. “I can’t believe that asshole, strutting into my apartment like he owns the place.”

You frown, pushing on his chest so you can get off his lap and stand up. “It’s not your apartment, Jungkook, it’s mine. I’m just letting you live here.”

He watches you step into the kitchen and start making yourself a cup of coffee. He follows you in. “It’s our place, noona. We’re in this together. It’s you and me against the rest of the world.”

He wraps his arms around your waist as you stand at the counter and rests his chin on your shoulder. You slam the spoon down irritably. “It’s not, Jungkook. What we did was fun, and I hope you had fun, but let’s not make this into some grand notion when it’s just not.”

His voice resonates in your right ear when he speaks. “Don’t be like that. You know I love you, noona. I want to make this work. Let’s be together. Don’t you want me?”

You push his face away, and he relents, letting go of you to lean back against the benchtop beside you instead. You don’t meet his imploring gaze. “I like you Jungkook, of course I do.”

His voice goes cold. “You fucked Yoongi, didn’t you?”

“What?” you exclaim incredulously. “No, Jungkook, I didn’t.”

He crosses his arms. “I was gone for the whole morning. I bet he had a shower after and got dressed just so I wouldn’t get suspicious.”

“Oh my god, Jungkook! Nothing happened. You need to calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down,” he whines angrily.

“Well, you can’t accuse me of cheating every time you leave me alone! It’s not healthy, Jungkook.”

He scoffs and kicks the cabinets with his heel petulantly. “Stop treating me like a child,” he demands, voice rising into a shout, “you’re not my mother!”

“I’m fucking glad I’m not,” you shout back, “somebody should give her a goddamn medal for dealing with your needy ass for eighteen years!” You forget the coffee, leaving the spoon and mug on the countertop and leaving the kitchen, needing to get some distance.

When you reach your room, you shut your door and slide down against it, collapsing into a miserable heap on the floor. You shed some hot, angry tears, but it’s no match for the heartbroken wailing coming from the kitchen.

You don’t get any sleep that day.

When you left your room late that night to go to work, the apartment was empty, and your car was still in the carpark, which meant Jungkook had left early to take the bus.

You didn’t go anywhere near the bar throughout the whole shift, and although your other coworkers probably noticed the bags under your eyes and your melancholic disposition, they didn’t bother mentioning it.

The shift drags on, and although it feels like it should almost be over, you note that it’s only just gone midnight when you check the clock on Namjoon’s desk. As you glance at his desk, you see an interesting flyer for an art showing. You point it out, and Namjoon’s face lights up.

“Taehyung’s got his work up in a gallery,” he boasts with a proud smile on his face. “Well, it’s the university gallery, and it’s for his finals project, but I saw the photos when he was setting them out at home, and that kid’s got talent.”

“Is it paid admission?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t know,” he admits, “I haven’t got the time to actually go myself.” He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose in deep thought. “You know what, you should go.”

“Sorry?”

“It closes at 2 this morning, and I’m sure he’d love to see a familiar face. The hotel will survive you being gone an hour or so. Don’t worry, I’ll still pay you for your time.”

You give him a confused smile. “You’re going to pay me to look at your younger brother’s photos?”

He laughs good-naturedly. “Well, when you put it like that… I just don’t want him to think that nobody cares about his project, you know? He put so much time into it, and it’s really great. I’m still convincing him to let me buy them and display them around the hotel. Maybe you could sweet-talk him into it.”

“I’ll go,” you respond. You have no good excuse, well, no excuse you could tell him for why you didn’t really want to come face-to-face with his brother again, and besides, you were a little curious to see how his photos of the hotel turned out.

The university is only a short drive away, and the while the gallery looked pretty bleak and small from the outside, inside it was all hardwood flooring and sleek lighting. The exhibition wasn’t just photography, but sculptures, paints, and graphic prints too.

When you first saw Tae at the end of the wing, holding a flute of champagne and wearing pink-lensed glasses, a silk scarf and embroidered blouse, you couldn’t help but grin. He seriously was the complete stereotype of an artist. He was speaking with an overweight and underdressed man who looked completely entranced in Tae’s enthusiastic re-enactments of the process of taking each shot.

The photos themselves were the second thing you noticed. Like the ones you had come across in his hotel room, they used focus and lighting to give a strange sense of nostalgia. Maybe it was the fact that you had worked there for months now, but there was a haunting familiarity to each one that really took your breath away.

The moonlight reflecting off the pool as it was overtaken by leaves and budding flowers; the gleam of freshly shined shoes against lush patterned carpet; a white-gloved hand reaching up to grab a room key; an eye glancing to the side with a neon vacancy sign in its rounded reflection.

You pause in the middle of the gallery, ignoring the people milling around you. There was a little mole on the inner curve of the nose. A mole you saw every day in the mirror.

Why did Taehyung have a photo of you in his exhibition?

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[hope-for-olicity]

Pumpkin Spice and Football 1/?

Felicity is the new Social Media Coordinator for the New York Jets, Oliver is the veteran quarterback - their worlds will change when they literally collide.

I LOVE the Fall and I hope you do too! This story will focus on all the fabulousness that Fall has to offer including NFL football. That being said, you don't have to like football to like this story. This story is also available on AO3.

Thanks so so much to the AMAZING @mel-loves-all for the moodboard! 

Chapter 1: I Heart NYC

She could smell it. Well, almost. She could sense it. Fall was coming.

Felicity Smoak was standing in Times Square. It truly felt like the centre of the universe. She had always LOVED NYC, now she gets to live here.

Felicity grew up a Vegas girl but she graduated early, headed to MIT in Boston where she experienced her first real Fall and fell in love. In recent years she lived in California. She was the Social Media Coordinator for the California Golden Bears, tomorrow she would start her job as the Social Media Coordinator for the New York Jets.

She had been headhunted! Felicity still couldn’t believe it. It was almost like a fairytale. A man walked into her shoebox of an office a few weeks ago, looked around the cramped room. There was just enough room for a desk.  After examining the room he turned to her, ‘this would be nicer with a window. Or maybe a wall of windows with a view of Manhattan. Would that interest you Ms. Smoak?”

Truthfully, she almost choked on her cold coffee. First, she was surprised he knew her name. She honestly thought he was lost. Second, work in Manhattan with windows?? A duh, who says no to that?! Of course, she asked if someone was playing a prank. Once she figured it out it was all real, the guy’s name was Barry Allen, he was a recruiter for the New York Jets, she jumped at the opportunity.

Felicity’s flight landed late last night, Barry had been at La Guardia to meet her. One of the perks of working for the Jets was not just a fancy office with a window she was promised but also a condo in Manhattan. The condo was not yet ready so the Jets organization put her up in a hotel near Times Square which is how she ended up here on her morning walk.

As she stood at this moment looking at the bright lights of Times Square she knew she was truly where she needed to be. She was at peace.

The peace was short-lived. A moment later she was almost knocked over by a crowd of people trying to make their way past here. Suddenly, the sounds of the city began assaulting her ears again - honking horns, a street musician playing the drums and someone yelling that Jesus will save you. Aww, New York - she couldn’t wait for it to be home.

*****

“What are you saying? Are you saying I’m not the starting quarterback?” Oliver tried to keep the fear out of his voice. He was standing on the sidelines of the practice field talking with his agent and best friend John Diggle.

“Oliver, I know you have been training really hard this off-season and I know why. You need this job to work out. It’s not just a want anymore. We both know this team needs a Super Bowl. It’s been a really, really, really long drought.” John shook his head.

“Hey, enough with the reallys! You think I don’t know? It’s worth pointing out that I’m the guy that got to them to the semi-finals a couple of years ago.” Oliver tried to defend himself but he knew if he didn’t deliver this season the team would have to start looking elsewhere. He looked out onto the field at the rookie quarterback the team drafted this year. He’s so young, probably never gets tired or hurt.

“Oliver?”

Oliver turned to John as he felt the older man’s hand on his shoulder.

“Oliver, man, I think this is your year. You have great receivers, that new kid from Chicago can really run, you have the weapons to do it this year. Did you see Sports Illustrated today?”

Oliver shook his head.

“They think you are going all the way. I happen to agree. So loosen up a bit. Go hang out with your sister, your buddies, hell me! All you do is focus on football. It’s not healthy, man. You are so focused right now, you could miss something life-changing.”

“Digg, you know I have to keep my focus on football. My family needs my salary to keep Queen Consolidated afloat at the moment.” Oliver’s father passed away suddenly last year of a heart attack. No one saw it coming. They also had no idea how much financial trouble Queen Consolidated was in. Oliver sat down with the lawyers to work out a payment plan to avoid bankruptcy. However, that plan was dependent on Oliver’s salary. Oliver’s relationship with his father had been rocky. Robert Queen never missed an opportunity to point out his disappointment in his son for playing football instead of taking his role in the company. Seems Oliver was having the last laugh as it’s football salary that’s was saving the company.

“Listen, Oliver, I understand where you are coming from, I just don’t want you to burn out. How about you join Lyla, Sara and I for supper this Sunday? I promise to keep it simple - chicken and vegetables so you can stay on plan.” John smiled at Oliver.

“That sounds great.” Oliver looked out at his teammates on the practice field. “I’m doing a presser tomorrow after practice on Monday. I really want to put my best foot forward this year. Hanging out with you and your girls will help get my mind off it for a bit. “

“Oliver it’s Friday and you are worried about a Monday presser, man, you got problems…”

*****

Felicity stayed at the DoubleTree hotel on Lexington Avenue since her arrival in the city on Thursday night. Barry told her her condo would be ready for her on Monday. He would swing by to bring her there before they both went into the offices.

Felicity was sitting in the lobby, bags packed. Barry was late. She didn’t mind as she had a coffee and an amazing complimentary cookie to eat while she waited.

“Ms. Smoak! I’m so sorry, I’m late. All set? Here let me grab your bag.” Barry reached for the handle for her suitcase.

“It’s Felicity, Barry. Remember?” She smiled at him. She swore she saw him blush. “I’ll let you take my bag as my hands are full!” She held up the coffee and cookie.

Felicity followed Barry out to the waiting town car. She looked out the window at the tall buildings as they drove past. Looking at these buildings just never got old.

“I was thinking we’d stop by your place. You can let me know if there is anything obvious you want to be changed. Then we can head into our satellite offices here in Manhattan before heading to New Jersey this afternoon. You will mainly work out of Manhattan. The team practices and plays in New Jersey so you will also be spending some time there. You will be supplied with a driver to bring you to New Jersey, the office and home on workdays.” Barry was looking at her to make sure this all was okay.

She never had a boss care so much about her opinion. She also never had a job that came with a condo in Manhattan. Felicity really hoped she didn’t disappoint appoint them. Her experience in California was not just posting to social media but also figuring out algorithms of what was most likely to get the most traction from the public. She was excited to do it on a larger scale.

Barry touched her arm. “Hey Felicity, we’re here.”

Felicity stepped out of the town car, she looked up, way up. Gulp. This really was a step up from her basement apartment in California. She felt like she should pinch herself.

Barry stood next to her looking up. “Don’t worry, we don’t have to take the stairs,” he joked.

Felicity began walking toward the entrance of the building, Barry followed. The lobby was quite impressive lots of mirrors, comfy couches, fresh cut flowers and bright lights. Barry walked up to the concierge desk, “Felicity, I’d like you to meet Cisco. He’s currently covering the concierge desk but you should know he owns the building.”

Felicity held out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Cisco. I look forward to living in your building.”

Cisco took her hand, gave it a quick shake. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Smoak. I am one of your many Twitter followers. You tweet so much cool stuff. It’s a pleasure to meet you in person.”

“Well, we’re going to head up to drop off Felicity’s things. Then we will head to the office. I’ll catch you later, Cisco.” Barry nodded then headed toward the elevator.

Felicity caught up with Barry. “Barry, you really don’t need to bring me back here this evening.”

“Oh I know,” he smiled. “I live here too. My wife Iris and I live here as well.”

Before Felicity could say anything the elevator door opened, she and Barry got on. Barry nodded to the elevator panel. “You’ll want to hit 30.”

“30? You mean I live on the 30th floor!” Felicity was trying to figure out how she felt about that. It sure sounded impressive but she’d never been a big fan of heights.

“Don’t worry, you will get used to it.” Barry tried to reassure. “So your condo has been furnished. That being said if you want to change or add things, it is up to you. You can change the colour of the couch easily, other things will take more time.”

The elevator dinged on 30, they got, Felicity followed Barry to her new place, 3001. He handed her the fob she was to swipe to get in. Felicity swiped, she was happy to see it turn green, it would have been embarrassing to have her usual experience where these things never work for her in front of Barry.

Felicity pushed the door open, she looked around completely speechless. The place was stunning. Now she really expected it to be nice, given the building and everything else she had seen but THIS. THIS WAS AMAZING. Felicity began to walk around. The main area was an open concept with stainless steel and marble in the kitchen. There was even a small time in the kitchen nook. The bigger room opened up into a dining table and living room. Straight ahead was a wall of windows with the most amazing view. Felicity couldn’t help be drawn but she had to step back once she got to the window. Yep, she was really high up. She looked around the dining/living room area to notice it was decorated with pale blues with a smatter of bright Jets green and few touches of fuschia thrown in. Felicity LOVED IT!

“I hope this okay, you aren’t saying anything.” Felicity could hear Barry was a little worried. “Your bedroom is through there if you’d like to take a look.”

Felicity said nothing. She headed into the bedroom which was decorated with the same colour scheme. She saw a huge bed, a walk-in closet and ensuite bathroom. She walked back out to find Barry in the living room. “So?” He asked.

“Barry this is PERFECT!! It’s as though the person who designed this knew me. These are my favourite colours. I truly, truly, TRULY love it! In fact, do you have the interior designers name? I’d love to send them a thank you note.” Felicity was beaming. Never in her wildest dreams did she think she’d live somewhere like this.

“Really? I’m so glad you said that. Your condo was actually designed by my wife, Iris West-Allen. She’s just getting back into the business after taking some time when she had our daughter.  Your place was like a trial run for her. So, it’s great that you like it.” Barry smiled.

“Barry, I don’t really like it. I LOVE IT! I need to meet your wife! I need to gush!” Felicity suddenly realized she may have said too much. “I mean if, if that’s not weird. I’m not trying to push myself into your personal life. I am of course comfortable with just sending a note…”

“Felicity, you are not being weird! Iris is a big fan of yours. She actually wants to meet you. She told me to invite you to dinner this evening. She figured you would have a long day and a quick home cooked meal would be good for you.” Barry held up his hands in defence. “Her words not mind.”

“Count me in! Now, I guess we should head to the office.” Felicity smiled. So this is what joy felt like.

******

Oliver knew he had some work to do on public relations. The press didn’t exactly love him. They wanted a Super Bowl that he had not delivered. When he first arrived in New York they loved him but his partying frat boy ways soon became old. Last year with everything going on with his family he just stayed away from the press outside of the required pressers.

This was a new year. A chance to make a good impression. Getting the press to love him, will bring more viewers to the games and help upper management see he is still a valuable asset. Which is why he chose to dress in a suit tie for this presser. He knew it would have been considered fine to go in a jersey or workout gear, it was a pre-season practice presser, however, he wanted to put his best foot forward.

He really prepped for this. He, John and Lyla brainstormed last night after dinner about the best way to say things. So he had prepared lines in his head. He just had to go in there and impress. This was it. This was his moment. He pushed open the door.

*****

Felicity was running late which was never a good thing. Barry told her he was to meet with upper management to go over her plans at 4 o’clock. She got to the offices in Florham, New Jersey with time to spare. She didn’t want to be too early so she ran over to Starbucks to grab a coffee. She was delighted to discover their Fall campaign was in full swing. She really must have been busy to not have known! She ordered a pumpkin spice latte.

Latte in hand, she headed back to the offices. She was dressed professionally in a cream blouse and a black pencil skirt. She added her forest green high heels for an added touch. She really wanted to make a good impression. She had lots of ideas of how she was going to build the Jets social media presence. She just needed to go in and tell them.

She pushed on the door to the hallway, it didn’t move. She tried again. Forcing the issue. It was then she realized that someone must be pushing on the other side. She stopped pushing, stepped back, suddenly a man in a business suit came barrelling at her. Clearly, in a rush, she tried to step out of his way but it was too late - they collided.

The remaining contents of Felicity’s latte spilt all over the front of the man’s shirt and tie. She slowly looked up. “I’m so sorr…” She stopped talking when she said he furious face. She recognized him instantly as Oliver Queen. Damn, he was even more attractive in person. She didn’t even think that was possible. Pissing off the quarterback on your first day. This was not good. Not good at all.

Thanks so much for checking out my new story. I hope you enjoyed :) Clearly, I have no idea how much a Social Media Coordinator would be paid by the New York Jets but I decided it's my story - let's spoil Felicity! Please let me know if you would like to be tagged :)

@mindramblingsfics @memcjo @mel-loves-all @wherethereissmoak @green-arrows-of-karamel @spaztronautwriter @tdgal1 @vaelisamaza @lucyyh@tangled23works @swordandarrow @marcsmom6 @smoaking-greenarrow @pattid1 @1106angel @it-was-a-red-heeler @obibaldwin @folly1977 @nathiawarrior @alemap74 @samwinter09 @miriam1779 @coal000 @alejandra1400 @you-are-not-done-fighting @matalala @alexisa1206 @blondeeoneexox @felicityfan20 @emw751103 @mochababychristy @omglovechrissie

[codingpanel]

Center of Strength

For many people, settling on end up being fit is a lot more an experiment regarding can when compared to a one time decision. Staying "fit" includes a modification of each of our life-style much more than simply embarking with the latest work out as well as diet regime program. In my situation, the option came into being 15 several years ago. I used to be with regards to 24 years of age as soon as buddies regarding my verizon prepaid phone certain my family to start coming to the gymnasium as a group. During that time, I personally recognized I personally didn'to really enjoy the way I personally checked, consequently I figured the item might be a good idea. Exactly how challenging will it be? Properly, the item didn'to require much time prior to I personally recognized the solution to that will question. And let you know the fact, back then my own exercises just weren't that will difficult. However arising with 5am to be at the health club through 5:30, it was, Also, given that there was clearly 4 of people in support of 1 really recognized what exactly he had been carrying out, the actual exercises ended up VERY long. A long time while you merge within the water much cooler communicate that usually had taken over quite a few workouts.

With just 2 of people right now, we had arrived far more concentrated in addition to I personally got a bit of really good education for the basics. After having a four week period regarding 1-1 time frame, we started off raising the concentration of the actual exercises in addition to mixing up in most really entertaining cycle classes. Someplace over the next four week period, I personally saw some sort of change. Not just around my appearance, although my own outlook in addition to mindset counseled me effected. At this point, I used to be hooked. I personally solved consistently at the health club 5 moments weekly combining cardiovascular, operating in addition to weights. I personally checked in addition to believed good pondering this will always be my own way of life.

Hence, today, I must promote what exactly forced me to defeat my own health demons. Hope these guide you.

1. Kick-off - This particular would be the quickest of the 3 phases since it simply calls for us for you to elect to workout, but is not begin doing anything. With that being said, don't undervalue the benefit in addition to main reasons which should be make use of for you to set off a person's health journey. The key thing to remember here are these:

Try this for yourself! Be certain you'regarding not only supplying in demand from others. You ought to be prepared to consider this step in addition to feel great it is the right way for you.

Focus on the actual end in mind. Collection goals in addition to think about what you look for your whole body in addition to health and fitness to mirror through the journey. Get rid of 25 weight, Have ripped, reduced cholesterol, feel good, maintain your kids.

Pick the right program.- The best exercise program for yourself is essential in addition to can vary subject to a person's health starting off point. Choosing a person way too hard, as well as that will doesn'to provide final results rapid ample has decided to discourage you and run the risk of bailing very quickly. Find niche regarding exciting work out that will problem you sufficient hitting earlier goals. Don'to price reduction the potency of confirmed favs like wandering, going for walks in addition to bike riding to receive started. These might help your whole body start making into a regime that will would have been a foundation to take on proceeding forward. Only attempt to complete a person's work out concurrently regular to receive a person's interior timepiece learn what things to expect. Because you generate a tempo, colliding with quite a few goals you've collection, it can be time frame to use brand-new packages as well as enhance the difficulty of your overall routines. With regard to a list of quite a few brilliant workouts, simply just go away some sort of review requesting it.

Realize that a person's diet regime MUST alter.Enjoy it or otherwise not, it is actually perhaps the game. By never embracing the point that the actual exercises on it's own will not likely work, you'regarding guaranteed to be unsuccessful as soon as final results tend not to come. Thankfully, the actual difference in diet regime can often be a extremely positive experience. You'll happy and also have the power for you to exercise routine the proper way. Entirely removing every little thing you enjoy with regards to meals are the actual WRONG technique to approach this. You actually can still take really good trying in addition to pleasing meals with out ruining a person's challenging work. Bankruptcy attorney las vegas ways to sneak up a person's favs rather than think guilt ridden concerning this, consequently don'to worry about that. Only understand that what exactly and just how eaten helps to make the distinction from the end.

2. Stay Motivated - Most people are inspired out from the gates as soon as starting off some sort of exercise program like Fitness für Reiter, although that will promptly ends for many individuals once they fully grasp the procedure is harder compared to what they imagined. Produce virtually no error, finding fit is usually HARD, although task is usually similar to other things worth possessing around life. You need to dedicate and keep inspired utilizing a number of ways, that I've used many. Look at the crooks to stop you about track.

Try to get quite a few rapid results. Complete thing . the following, but it's critical for find quite a few fast in the beginning in order for the traction regarding starting off the program doesn't dwindle. Sacrificing one pound as well as a pair of, losing some sort of pant dimensions, finishing a workout with out ceasing, whichever forces you to think good. Be realistic relating to this, although get some thing a person aim for so you can flavour achievement in addition to get anyone to continue.

Check out remaining fit. This particular is really an enormous motivation the way it shows you successes and provides a lot of thoughts with regards to attaining goals. Hence take time to examine a novel as well as online article of your preferred work out, as well as healthy and balanced food. You'll be very impressed the best way interested it's possible you'll promptly become.

Get the perspiration flowing. In my situation, a workout that will doesn'to do this departs my family considerably empty. Getting the beats per minute way up (and sweating) triggers all the crucial points that creates work out consequently effective. Them burns up calories, reinforce and also the in addition to cardiovascular technique, in addition to releases endorphins around your brain that will have you feeling great. You'll find!

Carry out what you might! All of us have boundaries and quite often rely on them seeing that lame excuses that will interfere with our health routines. Time period, strain, cramps, in addition to weakness many give rise to each of our reason for you to digress as well as wholly quit some sort of program. Don'to allow that to happen. While you are supplying in one of those treats, attempt to at the least accomplish something. Coerce by yourself a person can at least accomplish 1/2 or perhaps 1/3 of the workout. (10 a few Sekunden? Don't proceed seeing that intensive as well as fast. Purchase, with out in fact supplying your break. You may be surprised by persuasive you to ultimately at the least begin, you'll be able to push trickier through the exercise routine

Have a support.Loved ones, buddies, myspace, whatever. Have got someone you possibly can confide inside a person's issues that will may offer positive support. Is effective wonders from the beginning.

Find a person's fit, around health! Put other ways, uncover work out in addition to diet regime that let you end up being fulfilled. Exactly what things to do would you enjoy, as well as for that matter, dislike? Jogging, wandering, training, bike riding, Plyometrics, calisthenics, WiiFit, whatever. If perhaps almost nothing lights a person's fire, you will find a tough highway hereJ On the other hand, in the event that you've ought to see this much into the write-up, I personally skepticism there's almost nothing pertaining to you.

[dvsvsgrr]

It's now just a question of 5 0, 4 0 or 4 1.. Boy was part of it. Rick Scott stops in Boca

It's now just a question of 5 0, 4 0 or 4 1.. Boy was part of it. Rick Scott stops in Boca, lauds Orangetheory FitnessSome of the state's biggest heavyweights came to Orangetheory Fitness in Boca Raton on Wednesday, but they weren't looking to burn calories. But the book had a purpose entirely transcending the artistic one, and accordingly encounters, at the hands of the public, demands not usually made on fictitious works. “I touched upon her sore place. Rahat's wicket to wicket line and tight length made him impossible to score off for the cautious New Zealand batsmen the only run he conceded was via a no ball.. Only six, however, sat down to dinner. Lysene coins were oval and showed a naked woman. Anything may happen to a man, even what he’s never dreamed of . R. 11 by Oklahoma Military Hall of Fame. It turned out that their anthill was on the other side of her wall. 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[rosebloodcat]

Harry and the Ink Demon: Chapter 1- Beginning

Harry loosely sketched in a small, blank book in the back of his cab, the tip of his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth. Flying to the states hadn’t been easy, what with him having having such a “respectable” standing in the Wizarding world since the end of the war, but he was going to follow through on his plan for his future. Expectations be damned.

“So, where you from Mac?” Harry jolted, his concentration broken unexpectedly by the Cabbie. The Cabbie was an older bloke, probably in his sixties or possibly his seventies, with silver hair that peeked out from under his cap and small rectangle glasses on his nose. He had the kind of wrinkles that showed he spent a lot of time smiling, which matched his friendly demeanor perfectly. Harry gave a sheepish smile, having been drawing a sketch of the man in his book.

“Little Whinging, over in Surrey, England. And the name’s Harry, mate. Don’t know anyone by the name of "Mac”, unless you’re talking about the car.” The cabbie grinned back at him through the rearview mirror. An expression which fit the man, in Harry’s humble opinion.

"Really? You look more like a ‘Henry’ to me. What brings an English gentleman like you to the states?” Harry chuckled at the man’s pleasant tone, unbothered by the friendly jab. He’d heard it quite a few times since his arrival in America. It was a rather amusing social view.

“You want the short version, or the full list?” The cabbie laughed at his snarky response. Harry was mostly trying to figure just what he could say to the man while still keeping the conversation casual. He couldn’t exactly tell the man he was a war hero looking to avoid being drawn into magical politics.

“Gimme the short version, won’t be much longer till we reach your stop.”

“I needed to get out of my family’s shadow, especially with my… Career of interest being what it is.”

“Oh, and what would that be?”

“I- well, my family’s always been in law enforcement, police, lawyers, that kind of thing. But I- uh, I’m more interested in animation and cartoons.” There, not a lie, but not the whole truth. The Potter’s were actually famous for their involvement in magical law enforcement, so that wasn’t much of stretch to come up with. It was part of the reason everyone thought he would join the Auror’s. But only part of the reason.

The man laughed.

“So you’re an Artsy fella then. 'Splains why you want to head to the old Drew Studios. I heard the place was bought up not too long ago, so you just might be the last "open public” visitor to the place.“  Harry saw the man’s smile turn a litter sadder, his expression rather reminiscent, though his hands remained steady as he drove. "A real shame, that, the new owner’ll probably tear the old place down. Replace it with one o’ them fancy hotels or something.”

“Maybe not, I suppose it’ll really depend on the condition the place is in.” The cabbie’s eyes flicked back to Harry, looking surprised.

“What makes you think that?” Harry gave him a lopsided smile.

“I don’t think it, mate, I know it. I’m the bloke who bought the place.”

“Really?” He could see the man’s face brightening, at the idea of the studio staying.

“Yep. I own all the cartoons now too. For some reason Drew thought it would be grand idea to link his rights to the characters with his rights to the land and the Studio itself. Not the brightest thing to do, in my opinion, but I’m not complaining.”  Harry pushed his glasses back up his nose, a smile curving his lips. He had no intention of tearing the building down, not unless he didn’t have a choice. He had a very different plan than putting up a hotel. “I want to start up the 'Bendy’ cartoons again, turn the place back into a full-on animation studio.”

The cabbie let out a bark of disbelieving laughter, but there was no denying the delight in the man’s expression.

“Wow, mac, that’s one hechova goal you’re aiming for.” His smile turned nostalgic. Ah, he must’ve been a long-time fan of the 'Bendy’ cartoons. “Hope you manage it. I remember going with my dad to the theater to watch that show as a kid. Some of the best memories I have of back then, what with the war goin’ on. I’d love to be able to share them with my grand kids.”

“That makes two of us mate. Though, don’t expect a sudden turn out. Fixin’ up an entire studio isn’t an easy task.” He sighed, leaning back in his seat. “I need to check the condition of the building, find out if any of the equipment is salvageable, possibly hire a construction crew, maybe an interior design crew, get a work force to actually run the studio…” He ticked off his fingers with a sigh. So much work to do, but he was going to do his damnedest to make it happen.

“With how much the locals still love that old cartoon, I bet you could run the whole thing offa donations and volunteer work!” The cabbie said with a chuckle.  Harry let out a thoughtful hum.

“I’ll have to think about that mate, first I gotta find out what I need done for the place.” He glanced out the car window at the darkening streets. Maybe he should have left earlier in the day to do his inspection. Night was approaching faster than he thought it would, though that could have been the cloudy sky playing tricks on his eyes. It was a good thing he’d decided to wear his rain coat that evening. It had been threatening a storm for the past few days, but now it really looked like it was going to happen. He slipped his sketchbook back into his magically expanded satchel, pulling out his wallet to pay for the ride as the car slowed down.

“Welp, here we are! Joey Drew Studios, home of 'Bendy the Devil Darling’ himself!” The cabbie hesitated for a moment, turning to Harry with a somewhat meek smile on his face. “Hey, can I get your name? I- uh, kinda wanna tell some of the folks I know about what you’re doing. And publicity’s always helpful for new ventures, right?”

“Potter, Harry Potter. I got a couple ideas for the new studio’s name, but I haven’t settled on one yet.” The man chuckled, accepting the payment the young man handed him.

“I’ll keep an eye out for you in the papers, best of luck to you.”

“Thanks mate, I may need it.” Harry waved as the cab drove off, leaving Harry in front of his new “business venture”. He drew in and steadying breath, and turned to face the old studio. And cringed at the sight of it.

Joey Drew Studios was… Even more run-down and decrepit than Harry had been led to believe.

Even before it had been a studio, the old building had been a mill of some kind, meaning it had thick walls, a sturdy foundation and lots of floors to be filled with people and equipment. Based on the floor plans Harry had seen, the main building was filled with cramped, crisscrossing hallways, scattered rooms of varying sizes and ventilation, and large bay windows that would have let in a wonderful amount of sunshine during the days. It wasn’t a conventional building for an animation studio, but it obviously worked none the less.

Now, however, many of the once beautiful windows were either broken or boarded up or both preventing even the smallest amount of light inside the old building, the sturdy wood and plaster walls were covered in unidentifiable stains and graphity that had been accumulated throughout the years of disuse, the metal fire escape and rain spouts (along with every other piece of metal that had been left exposed to the elements) were so thoroughly covered in accumulated rust, it was a wonder they hadn’t just disintegrated by now. It was painfully obvious that they would need immediate replacement. The old building looked somewhere between haunted and condemned.

But he wasn’t going to back now. Not when he’d already come this far. From what Harry had managed to dig up before coming in person, it had taken years before Joey Drew had lost finally his rights to the studio. According to the accountants and Real-estate workers, there had been a sizable backlog of letter, inquires, old bills, and legal notices that had never reached Drew himself. They had apparently just built up in the post office until finally someone dragged themselves to his residence and found he wasn’t there anymore. And that wasn’t the weird part.

Apparently, back in the early Sixties, Drew had made some… Questionable business and construction discussions. Many of which hadn’t made any sense then, and even less in the modern day. Especially since he had filed for bankruptcy part way through his strange construction and ordering spree. Large orders of piping, wood, various building and construction equipment, gallons of rubber ink (enough to fill an Olympic swimming pool), multiple fire axes, random reels that were actually too big to fit in projectors, a large number of stone bowls, a couple knives, and enough candles to light a small stadium.

The last few reminded Harry of ritual supplies, but that could have been his paranoia talking. Even if he was doing rituals, his access to the proper texts would have been limited at best as Drew had been a muggle. (Merlin, he hoped the man hadn’t gotten any real books of magic. That would be so much paperwork for him)

In the mid Seventies, the entire studio collapsed. But not under normal circumstances. The entire cast and crew of Joey Drew Studios had just vanished. Almost over night.

The police had, of coarse, gone out to investigate, but found no signs of foul play. Just a particularly odd machine down one corridor that, as far as they could tell, had no tie to the disappearing employees. Not that they had been able to do a full investigation. Large parts of the building had been made inaccessible due to the halls being locked down, boarded up, and generally being difficult to get too. It was eventually deemed a cold case, and left where it was.

Harry was far more wary of the circumstances, he knew better than to underestimate a muggle. If they had managed to create a weapon that could wipe out entire cities, then the chances that they could find a way to use magic wasn’t completely improbable. But without proof of magic being used, the local ministry never investigated. (MASUCA, was the name, if he remembered correctly)

Even then things had been fairly quiet from the studio. There had been plenty of rumors circulating amongst the local youths of the era, claiming that the old studio was haunted. Strange voices from the lower floors, creepy images, and moving cutouts. The kind of “spooky” stories kids would tell each other to make their adventures sound more “Grown-up” instead of them just messing around in some place they shouldn’t have been. Though nothing had happened since the crews’ disappearance, Harry didn’t trust that stay true forever.

Which was why he was there. He was going to give the building a thorough inspection himself, and search it from top to bottom for any Dark magic. He refused to bring anyone into a potentially dangerous place without making sure they couldn’t be hurt by whatever was inside.

The front of the building had a set of large, glass, double doors that had once opened to the building’s lobby but, like the windows, they had been boarded up. They didn’t look as though anyone had tried to pry them open, much to Harry’s relief and ire. He knew that the children had been breaking into the old studio for years, but it looked like they hadn’t tried to go in through the front doors.

“Okay, not the front doors. Let’s try the loading doors then.” The studio had it’s own toy shipping area, and chances were the rust would have made it easier to get the old doors open. Teens weren’t always the most… Graceful when they wanted to force their way into a place. Harry wouldn’t have been surprised if one of them had broken the rusted doors open just so they could get inside. Harry made his way around the outside of the building, idly examining the paintings on the walls as he went.

Not as much crudeness as I expected, He thought to himself, eyeing the rusted doors. Nothing a quick paint job couldn’t clean up. Outside looks to be in pretty good shape, I have to admit. But it’s the inside that I’m worried about.

The old doors were in surprisingly good shape. Oh, they were rusted to the point of uselessness, but there were no holes or signs of forced entry. Harry quietly approached the locked door, bending closer to examine the old, undoubtedly broken lock.

Now, the question is, is it forever open? Or forever closed? Harry clasped the handle, giving it a firm tug. It rattled in a way that implied it wasn’t rusted in place, yet it was obviously locked. Odd, it seemed in strangely good condition. He frowned thoughtfully. But how have the kids been getting in? Is there a side door that they could have used?

Deciding to check it out, Harry made his way over to the alley between the studio and the building next too it. The alley was strewn with trash, blatantly ignoring the dumpster bin sitting two thirds of the way into the alley. A dumpster that was sitting next to a door into the studio. Harry grinned triumphantly at the door.

Harry quickly approached, noting that the door was partially open.

Shoot, had someone already come in? He hoped not. Harry really didn’t really feel like chasing some kid or haughty teenager out of the studio. Even if it was for their own good.

Opening the door the rest of the way, Harry peered into the gloomy hall. Barely lit by old flickering light bulbs, he couldn’t see anything beyond a few flickering lights further inside.

“Hello? Anyone here?” He called, stepping inside and habitually pulling the door closed behind him. There were some posters hanging on the walls, depicting the little devil darling that the studio was best known for grinning out at him, looking far too cheerful in the gloom. A few paces in, Harry felt his blood freeze at the sudden, ominous creaking that came from the wooden floor beneath him. Slowly, he crept over to the nearest wall, pressing himself against it. The creaking lessened. The wizard let out a shaky breath. “O-okay, note to self: side door floor needs immediate replacement, that did not sound safe. Thank Merlin it didn’t give out under me.”

Bloody stars, if I died from something as mundane as FALLING, Hermy would have resurrected me for the sole-purpose of killing me for doing something so stupid. He smiled slightly at the mental image of Hermione raging at him over such a dumb thing. Harry inched down the hall, listening for when the creaking faded away. He may have been a wizard and a war hero, but he wasn’t immortal. It was better to not risk his neck in the first place. Harry let out a sigh of relief when the creaking finally stopped once he’d reached the end of the hallway. It opened up into a fairly large room, almost like an employee lobby.

The place was covered in old papers, with a counter between two of the supporting beams. An old projector was turned on, creating an eerie tune as it flickered back and forth between some blank reams on an old film reel. A cutout of the company’s mascot, the Devil Darling’ himself, stood next to the empty projection, looking rather creepy in the eerie setting. Three large reels were mounted on the wall, spinning in a loud, clunky manner, yet not actually doing anything (as far as Harry could tell). A light table by the back wall sat next too an old drawing desk, still alight and drawing power from an unknown source (The power had been turned off, that much Harry knew).

“Well, let’s get started then.”

-

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So, HUGE word dump here, but once I got stared writing for this, it kinda ran away with me. If enough people say they like this, I might post more. And feel free to send me questions about it. They help me figure out what the hell I’m doing!

Also my italics didn’t work and I am NOT happy about that.

[bornwanderer-blog]

No right answer – thoughts that circled my head on the trip, most of which have no conclusion

Part II: Natural Remedies vs. Modern Medicine

An hour into our first day hiking the Inka Trail, our guides paused for a break underneath a shelter with thin wooden benches along the perimeter. I was now double my normal width so my pack fit on the bench but my butt didn’t -so for a while I awkwardly leaned, refusing to take my pack off. An older woman sat on a wall with her ankles crossed working on some piece of fabric across the path from us. A stray chicken and a boy ran around the shelter. After an early pick-up and rushing to starting points and check points, it was a moment where we had nothing better to do than take a sip of water, breathe, and look around. The guides did the normal get-to-know everyone thing and 16 strangers began to try and remember each other’s names.

But then our guide Raul, changed direction a bit and asked “What happens when the people who live here get sick?” Bleakly, in my head, I thought “they die?” We are on a trail into the forest. There’s a train several miles away, but that’s probably expensive. There are no roads. There’s the Urubamba river, but that’s miles away and it doesn’t look like a tranquil float. Even if you do find transportation after walking miles, there’s only a small hospital (for tourists, mostly) at the base of Macchu Picchu in Aguas Calientes (at this point, that’s a four day walk away for us) or back in Cusco, a two-hour bus ride away at best. Even if they make it to a hospital, could they afford the bill and prescriptions? If you live out here, you’re probably a farmer eking out a living from the land – where is there money for transportation and care? But Raul takes a different tact that makes my foreboding thoughts feel true but naïve. Plants, he says. The locals make medicines from what’s around them. People don’t take obstacles laying down – they invent and learn and use the resources at their disposal to the best of their abilities.

Which brings us to literal herbal remedies. The Peruvian’s seemed to have a tea for everything. Upset stomach? I’ll make you a special tea. Diarhhea? I’ll make you a special tea. Period cramps? Headache? Sore muscles? Altitude sickness? Special tea. Special tea. Special tea. Special tea. And the favored tea? Coca. As in the leaves that are eventually processed and concentrated into Cocaine. At leaf level, the effects are not as deleterious and instead act as a sort of pain relief. (E.g. Coca Cola used to have real cocaine in it and was first advertised as medicinal.) The porters shove leaves directly between their teeth and cheek, sucking out the juices as they haul pounds of gear. All of us Westerners brought along mini-pharmacies for the hike. So for sore muscles it was Ibuprofen and tea; for an upset stomach it was pepto bismal and tea.

Mike nurses his morning coca tea as he tries to recover from the war-crime ridden bathroom

I have a lot of opinions on America’s healthcare system. Like how Mike’s altitude sickness prescription cost $10 with his insurance and mine was $50 and that only marriage or the kindness of my employer can fix that because insurance options (and Congress) suck. The U.S. has some of the most expensive healthcare in the world – maybe a Peruvian hospital stay is affordable; in the U.S., it’s the number one reason people file for bankruptcy. Though, obviously, I am more privileged than most of the world by sheer access to vaccines and medicine. But that’s not what I want to get into right now. What I want to get into is how that altitude sickness prescription made us feel. Diamox is the only drug out there that treats altitude sickness, everything else just attempts to mask the symptoms. Everyone used to sea-level quantities of oxygen feel lightness of breath at higher altitudes – but, for a random few, altitude sickness is like day one of the flu where you are puking your brains out, your head is pounding, and even the thought of moving is too exhausting to contemplate. Luckily, Mike and I took our Diamox – so we have no idea if we are part of the percentage that gets altitude sickness – but we also avoided all that grossness. However, there were side effects: first a tingly feeling like your hands and feet had fallen asleep and were now on pins and needles and then, for Mike, diarrhea. Which is not the greatest when you only see two (disgusting, brutally smelling) toilets a day and your next best option is a bush (also don’t worry, Mike didn’t suffer alone – I got my period and was in a nearby bush – lol so much TMI right now). Those side effects are still way better than day one of the flu but our beautiful western medicine still came at a price. I don’t think any tea has been scientifically proven to stop altitude sickness, but it also probably doesn’t have side effects.

I have no idea if the Coca leaves or Ibuprofen got me through four days of hiking (probably the Ibuprofen). And I have no idea if Quechua tea, herbal pills bought off of Amazon (ran into a lovely Mormon Utahan couple who did this – but seriously, yall, who knows what’s in those?!?! They’re not regulated by the FDA!), or a prescription of Diamox ultimately solved people’s altitude sickness or other ailments (it’s probably the Diamox). There are ways to overuse and abuse western medicine – we could have taken less of it after a day or two at altitude to try and minimize the side effects had we known what they were.

(...sidenote: If acetominophin can cause liver damage, are Coca leaves really that bad? …I might have just sounded really stupid just now and I actually don’t know the answer to this – can a real scientist help me out? Or is this more of a social science thing of what substance could be more easily abused? – like actetominophin doesn’t eventually become cocaine …)

Ok…I got sidetracked… what I mean is beyond the hype, I would like scientific progress and the search for truth to win. I would like pain relief and comfort to win. We still have a lot to learn from tea (and local remedies in general) though - I’d just like to observe their effects with repeatable, double-blind studies.