#also like i’m tired i haven’t been subjected to panic opinions in a minute but

[munamania]

love when people say this person was a bad lyricist objectively because i didn’t understand what they were saying. have you considered you’re stupid

[winter-soldier-vibes]

just a wittle request, could you do something where bucky comforts the reader who has mommy issues after she has a panic attack over the thought of turning out like her mother?

Hi there, sorry this took so long! I still haven’t processed my own so I had to take a few breaks. I apologize if this is off the path of what you meant, I’m going off of my own experience but I know it’s different for everyone.

You're nothing like her.

Bucky x reader

Word count: 3219

Warnings: mommy issues, toxic childhood, talk of divorce, panic attack/anxiety, negative self-talk

A/N: This takes place in a timeline where Bucky is retired

-------------

You did everything you could to avoid it. To avoid her

You left home as soon as you could. When you were in college you were surrounded by people who were homesick, people who wanted to go home, people who finally had to take care of themselves. Things you couldn’t relate to.

You had been supporting yourself most of your life. Not that you had much of a choice. Your dad left when you were younger, your mother blaming it on you. If you had been better, maybe he wouldn’t have left. You, being young, believed her. What else were you supposed to do, growing up in a world that preaches ‘mother knows best’?

Load of bullshit to you.

You knew better now, being an adult, that she didn’t know best. She worked or went out with friends and left you to raise yourself, telling you it was your fault when she neglected her responsibilities. And when you would get upset she would play the victim, crying ‘woe is me’ because you were so ungrateful to the person who raised you after you drove her husband out.

“You know it’s your fault right?” she had snapped at you one night at dinner. There was a graded paper, a B written on the top of it.

“What?”

“You’re the reason he left me. He just couldn’t stand you. You’re the reason why he left and why I’m so miserable now.”

You had felt tears in your eyes.

“Tears, really? Tears aren't going to change the fact that MY husband LEFT.”

Her husband, not your father.

No, you knew better now to know that what she had done and said was wrong. But that didn’t make you forget. It didn’t make it any easier for you.

You went to college, saved up as much as you could, and gave tight-lipped smiles when people asked why you didn’t go home on weekends or vacations. You tried not to talk about her much, but that didn’t stop you from thinking about her.

You had stood at your college graduation, caps thrown and loud laughs and cheers echoing around. There were a bunch of people celebrating around you, taking photos, but you had stood on the outskirts. You had a small smile on your face for everyone else, but you couldn’t help but feel empty inside. You hadn’t made many friends, not close friends, but that was a good thing. You could take the photo so no one was left out.

Not so much of a text from her. She hadn’t come, she hadn’t called or anything.

In a twisted way, you were glad that she hadn’t. She couldn’t make a big deal about how you weren’t the top of your class or how you didn’t deserve to be. How you didn’t have a job set up to start the next week even though you already were planning on submitting your resumes. There wasn’t a way to please her, so it was almost better that she wasn’t there.

You had texted her after a few days and she made up some bullshit excuse that she had forgotten to put it on the calendar.

She liked your Instagram photo though. So thoughtful

You worried you would turn out the same way. Or that she had rubbed off on you in some way. You kept to yourself as much as you could, staying in, keeping your emotions to yourself. It wasn’t that you didn’t trust people, maybe it was, but more so you were worried that you would seem like you were playing the victim.

You didn’t want to bother anyone or make anyone feel obligated to listen to you. You worried that behind your back they would complain about you being emotional or making everything about you.

You worried they would talk about you the same way you thought about your mother.

People are supposed to look to their parents to teach them what to be, yet you found yourself wanting to avoid everything your parents did to you. They taught you exactly who you didn’t want to be.

Your father left. Your mother hated you.

You didn’t share your opinions because you didn’t want to be told you were wrong. You didn’t want to force your ideas onto anyone. Not like what you said would make a difference anyway, not that it mattered in the first place.

You remembered all of the sentences you would start but not finish because no one had heard you. Trying to jump in a few times and eventually giving up when the conversation had moved onto a new subject. All the times people would interrupt or interject, making you feel like you didn’t have something to say that was worth hearing.

You thought it would get better when you got a job. But the pressure you put on yourself to do well in school was transferred to the job you had gotten. You still were afraid that people saw yourself as your mom used to and that you would never be good enough for anyone. You thought that achievements would make you feel fulfilled.

But if you didn’t believe in yourself, what were a few “job well done's” supposed to do?

It made it hard to get into a relationship. People say that “you have to love yourself before you can love someone else,” but that didn’t feel so true to you. It was more that you didn’t trust yourself to love someone else. You worried about hurting whoever you were with, and you told yourself that if you didn’t get close to anyone, you couldn’t hurt them.

But then you ran into him.

He was on a morning run and you were walking home from a night shift, both too tired to see each other coming. You because you had just finished a shift, him because he was running off the nightmare he had had the night previous. Both of you craving a sleep that seemed just out of reach.

You were very apologetic, as was he, both afraid that you had hurt the other. You avoided his eyes even though they were trained anywhere but your own, as he fiddled with his gloved hands and you scratched the back of your neck.

It was the first time either of you had seen someone as unsure as yourselves

You had parted ways with only each other's names. Bucky and y/n.

The two of you crossed paths a few times in the following weeks, eventually getting each other’s phone numbers and agreeing to meet for coffee rather than hoping the other left at the right time. Eventually, the subtle nervous tics each of you had died down as you got to know each other.

For the most part.

You still overly apologized for everything. If you were a few minutes late, if you spaced out...you took the blame for everything.

Traffic had been bad, a storm and an accident causing you to be 5 minutes late rather than 15 minutes early. You had run into the coffee shop, scanning the restaurant with wide eyes when you saw Bucky sitting there casually.

“I am so so so sorry, I should’ve left earlier, there was an accident, I’m so sorry I’m late -”

“Y/n, don’t worry about it,” he had said, a smile on his face and a slight flash of concern on his face. “Seriously, it’s a couple of minutes. It’s literally fine.”

“No, I’m really sorry, I should’ve known or called or something.”

“Relax. It’s totally fine, I promise,” he had said, concern a little more present on his face. “Are you okay though?”

“What? Yeah, I’m good. How have you been with everything?

You wouldn’t let him talk about you. The same way your mother never let you talk about yourself.

Don’t think about her.

He had started opening up to you but you still kept your personal life under lock and key. Your name, how work was, and your physical well-being was about as personal as you got. Even so, if work had been a shit show or you had to pull an all-nighter would go unspoken. He didn’t need the burden of your personal issues. Not when there was nothing he could do about it.

The past was the past, you just had to learn how to get over yourself.

You couldn’t change what your mother had said over a decade ago.

You worried if you talked about yourself at all then you would be making the situation about you. You worried you would project your anger or sadness onto him. He didn’t deserve that. Plus, it wasn’t like he would be able to do anything, right?

You promised yourself you wouldn’t let him get too close. That if he didn’t get close to you, you couldn’t hurt him.

But damn, you’d be lying if you said you didn’t start developing feelings for him. And from the way he had started acting, you thought maybe he was too.

The hugs that were ever so slightly too tight or when he smiled at you a little longer than normal. He had opened up to you about many things in his past, and from the way he talked about it, you could tell he hadn’t talked about it much with anyone else.

You found comfort in your friendship, the way he trusted you. You liked being there for him, and you were honored that he trusted you enough to open up to you. Yet it also made you uneasy that you would ruin it in some way or drive him out.

The same way your mom drove out your father.

Goddamn it don’t think about her.

The closer you got and the closer you and Bucky had gotten, the more nervous you were. That you would turn out like your mother. You were having a harder time keeping to yourself, keeping up the façade that everything was all bright in your world. You wanted to be a light for everyone.

But at some point, days turn to nights and the light gives way to the darkness.

And you weren’t sure how much time you had left before you cracked.

Bucky had started making small moves towards you, and you were trying your best to deflect them in efforts to not fall flat on your face for him. He came over Wednesday nights for a movie and take out with you, and what started as being on two opposite ends of the couch had moved to being next to each other to him having his arm wrapped around you. Sometimes you felt he was a little too close and you would either shift away or get up to grab another drink or ‘use the bathroom’.

When you came back you would make an attempt to sit a bit further away.

Sometimes when Bucky would say goodbye at the end of the night he would hug you. That was nothing new, you were both big on hugs, but lately, he had been hugging you longer or tighter, lingering a few moments longer than could be platonic. You had started ending the hugs earlier, giving him a small squeeze before pulling away.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to be with Bucky. It was that you were so scared that you would drive him away, leaving you as soon as you had started calling yourself his.

Which is what brought you here. Bucky had come over for another one of your movie nights and had his arm behind the couch rather than around you. An invitation for you to curl into his side, but he wanted you to make that choice. Eventually, you had found yourself curled up with him, his arm wrapped around you, and you could feel the tension.

You wanted to move away before you found yourself in too deep, but you couldn’t resist. It had been a long day and you found comfort with Bucky. Bucky turned his face slightly towards yours, kissing the side of your temple and you felt butterflies in your stomach. Your mind told you to shift away, to not let him get too close, but you found yourself turning your head towards Bucky and he leaned forward to kiss you gently.

After a moment you broke away, emotion taking over you. “I’m sorry, Bucky, I - I can’t do this,” you said, resting your forehead against his.

“Why not?” Bucky whispered, looking into your eyes.

Because I’ll hurt you.

I’ll disappoint you.

I’ll drive you away and I can’t lose the best thing that’s happened to me.

You sighed, standing up and moving away from Bucky. You couldn’t say those things to him out loud. Not without the entire story. And you weren’t ready to share all of that with him.

Bucky stood up with you, afraid he had just ruined the friendship or whatever relationship he had with you. “Y/n, wait, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

You had already left the room and couldn’t really hear him over the sound of your thoughts.

This wasn’t supposed to happen

I wasn’t supposed to let this happen

How could I be so stupid?

You were feeling tears in your eyes and Bucky followed you, afraid of what he did. Your breathing was picking up and you had started mumbling some of these things to yourself.

“Y/n, what’s happening, what did I do?”

You shook your head “You didn’t do anything, but I need you to leave, please,” you said, trying to hide your emotions. You hated being like this.

“I’m not going anywhere y/n, just tell me what’s wrong.”

“Get the fuck out of here Bucky! I don’t want your help!” you snapped suddenly, Bucky looking taken aback before your eyes widened.

“Oh god…”

You shook your head and started crying harder, stumbling over your words. “I’m sorry I didn’t mean it like that, I didn’t mean to yell, I’m so sorry Bucky please don’t leave I'm so sorry.”

Bucky came forward and hugged you gently and you cried into his shirt. He whispered comforting words into your ear as you tried to breathe, embarrassed at how vulnerable you were being.

Bucky kept his breathing slow and even, trying to get you to match him. He had no idea what was happening but he knew he needed you to calm down before he asked. Whatever it was had to be something deep, and you weren’t in the space to talk about it right now.

He brought you over to sit on the corner of your bed, still hugging you as you cried. You were mumbling out apology after apology but Bucky wasn’t having any of it. He kept hugging you, telling you that he wasn’t going anywhere and that you were safe. He had never seen you so upset, or upset at all to begin with.

After you had calmed down a bit, Bucky asked you again what had happened. You shook your head, not knowing what to say.

“I’ve opened up about so many things to you, right?” he pulled back to look at you.

You nodded slightly.

“And you’ve never judged me for any of it.”

You shook your head this time.

“Then why can’t you let me do the same for you?”

You took a deep breath, fiddling with your hands. “I don’t wanna hurt you,” you said, not meeting his eyes.

Bucky drew his eyebrows together, still confused. “Y/n, you’ve been the nicest person I’ve ever met. How would you hurt me?”

You were already shaking your head. “No, see, that’s what’s gonna happen. I’m gonna be nice and sweet and...and I’m gonna fall in love with you, and you’re gonna fall in love with me. A-and then I’m gonna let you down over and over again and snap at you for things that aren’t your fault and...and you’ll get sick of it and leave and I’m going to hate myself for it, okay?”

“Hey, hey, slow down,” Bucky held your shoulders as they started shaking. You brought a hand to cover your mouth, Bucky hushing you again. “What are you talking about? Where is this coming from?”

You took a shaky breath as you ran a hand over your face. “I’m just like her, Bucky. I told myself I would never let myself be like her…”

“Like who?” Bucky asked, blood already boiling at who made you feel like this.

Her.

You weren’t supposed to think about her.

You promised yourself.

“Y/n, stay with me here,” he said, guiding your face back to look at him. “Who?”

“My mother.”

Bucky looked at you for a moment. “What?”

“You know, mothers bring you into the world. They say a mother knows when something is wrong with their kid, that babies are put on their mother’s chest because the skin-to-skin contact starts the bonding process. They’re supposed to protect you, and love you, and take care of you. But then you start to get older and it’s your fault that you were born when you didn’t ask, or your dad left and it’s your fault before you even knew he was gone. All I wanted was to be told what to do and all she would do is tell me what I did wrong. I can’t be like her and the older I get the more scared I am that I’m going to hurt everyone the way that she hurt my father and me.”

You had started crying again as Bucky looked at you, both broken-hearted and furious that someone would make you feel this way. Not to mention it was your own mother.

You took another shaky breath. “I thought the world of her when I was younger. And she barely even gave me the time of day. I keep telling myself that I’m not what she thought of me, but what if I am?” you shook your head again. “And I am so scared that I’m just like her.”

“Y/n, look at me, I need you to look at me when I say this, okay?” he cupped your face with both hands, wiping away your tears with the pads of his thumbs as he looked into your eyes. “You are nothing like your mother.”

You let out a small sob. “You don’t know her.”

“I don’t need to,” he said firmly. “You are kind and gentle. You work hard and you make sure that everyone is taken care of before you even consider yourself. You aren’t going to scare me away or hurt me.” He wiped fresh tears from your eyes. “You are your own person, your mother has no say in who you get to be. Who you are. You are not your mother, and you never will be.” he said, still holding your gaze.

You held his gaze a little longer, knowing he believed what he was saying. You didn’t, not quite yet, but maybe if he believed in you, you could too. You nodded slightly, giving him the smallest of smiles. “Thank you.”

Bucky returned the small smile. “You know I love you, right?”

“I love you too,” you said, smiling.

You meant it, and you knew he did too. And maybe one day, you would love who you’d become too.

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tags: @babydaddy-buckybarnes @buckys-blue-eyes @buckys2thicc @broadwaybabe18 @peggycarter-steverogers @im-sick-of-failing @barnesplums @bucks-bunny @mardema @abitgryffindorky @freigeistundanderes @thatfangirl42 @strawberrimae @sup--ernova

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[dogsliampaynedoesntinstagram]

Good morning/afternoon/evening/night, Ralph. (I think I covered all my time zone bases there). I have been thinking lot lately about all the rhetoric in the fandom about Harry’s health and well-being, and how loud it has felt this year. To be clear, I am not asking for you to weigh in with your own speculations about how Harry is doing, unless you feel comfortable doing so. (I’m not telling you what to do either way, obviously, seeing as I am only a little grey icon in your inbox and have no right or way to demand anything of you.) I’m more looking for guidance or even just your rambling thoughts about what is respectful and appropriate when we’re wondering about a celebrity’s well being, and how you handle your own thoughts and assumptions about this. I feel like over the course of the last year we’ve just been inundated with all this panic and speculation about how Harry is unhappy or unhealthy or otherwise not himself, going all the way back to the Jingle Bell Ball Golden performance. Every time we get any new content there’s a wave of people saying he looks too thin and overworked like he’s not getting enough food or rest, or overweight and out of shape (pick a lane, people), he looks stressed, he looks sad, he looks angry, his eyes have lost their sparkle, his smile is dim, he’s addicted to drugs, he’d addicted to drugs because Jeff is doping him up to keep him going, he’s going to quit music, he’s going to hurt himself, blah blah blah. And the people making these “observations” hide behind the assertion that they’re just worried for his health when they’re faced with any sort of criticism.

This whole ongoing rhetoric feels really…icky? I suppose? to me. I do kind of think he has looked more drawn and intense (“stressed” and “sad”) in the content we’ve gotten this year, but I also think (1) the content we’ve gotten has largely been pap shots and stunt stuff, (2) this year he had to postpone his tour, and we know he loves performing so that must have really sucked, and (3) this year has just been rather shit for all of us, we’re all stressed and sad and scared and frustrated by the larger political and social goings on, and by the ways our own lives are impacted. In the past, the content we’ve gotten where Harry looks the happiest and most at ease has been performance footage or him with his family and loved ones. We haven’t gotten any of that this year. It makes sense that the pictures we do get would feature him looking less than completely relaxed and jubilant. And then there are all the assumptions that he’s lost weight or gained weight and is therefore unhealthy or on drugs or drinking a lot and that just honestly pisses me off. You cannot tell jack shit about a person’s health from their weight, and especially not in random pictures taken at random intervals in random settings. To pretend you can is harmful, and Harry probably won’t see you making these assumptions about his mental and physical health based on the prominence of his cheekbones in a set of pap pics, but friends and strangers who are already struggling with their weight will. And the assertion that someone is dealing with an addiction of any kind (or, god forbid, and I hate even typing this, being subjected to drug use at the hands of someone with power over them) is an allegation that a) you can’t make from one picture and b) has really deep, life altering, tragic and painful and hard consequences for that person and all their loved ones, and deserves more respect and deference than to be treated as something you can just throw out into the great wild beyond and then forget about.

But beyond the fact that people are making hurtful and invasive allegations and assumptions about a real person’s private life based entirely on a very very limited and posed and edited set of content that was hand chosen to be given to us, I think the thing that bothers me the most is it feels like the people who are driving these conversations are doing so because they want something from Harry. It’s never (or rarely, I suppose) “man Harry looks tired in the pictures we’ve gotten lately, I really hope he’s taking care of himself, things have been so hard for us all.” It’s always “Harry has been so withdrawn and sad and angry he’s not communicative with fans and he’s not willing to engage with them when he sees them in public and I miss him. I miss my Harry. I miss happy Harry. I want him back. Give me Harry back.” Which tells me the concern isn’t Harry or Harry’s health, but rather the feeling that Harry owes us something that he hasn’t been giving, and now he must pay up or give us a valid excuse.

Then I do, occasionally though, find myself thinking “am I doing exactly what I’m complaining about? Am I assuming the worst of people based on a limited set of insights into their lives?” And in the wake of the Britney legal battle that has been unfolding recently, I sometimes wonder if maybe as fans we do have kind of a duty to call out celebrities when they seem to be struggling or acting incredibly out of character. Most of the time I follow this up immediately with the thought that I’m not responsible for anyone else’s health and safety, much less that of a 27 year old man I’ve never met and have no connection to beyond liking his music and his face, and I do truly believe that, but there is some part of me that feels uneasy just turning off all my concern, because I am a person who tends to be greatly concerned about everyone, who just wants everyone to be happy and healthy and safe and loved, and who wants to help people feel that way, where and when I can. So I guess what I’m asking, in the incredibly long winded and winding way I ask anyone anything (my poor husband, he gets a novel from me every time I ask what he thinks we should do for dinner) is do you have any of these same feelings and concerns? How do your navigate them? Where do you draw a line? Do you just withdraw completely from this type of speculation? How do you balance being a kind, engaged, empathetic fan with being a respectful, responsible fan who knows their limits? (And man, isn’t that the ultimate question?). Your blog is one I end up on whenever something big happens or a particular conversation pops up, because I’ve found that I really value the way you break things down and are willing to consider them from many perspectives, so I appreciate you even taking the time to read this.

Thanks for your interesting thoughts about Harry anon. I feel like there's a lot to respond to here and I'm going to start by answering the questions your questions - and then I'm going to get distracted and talk about a post I really hated.

I'm always a little bit worried about Harry, and all 1D members. He might be really struggling, that's always a possibility. Harry has lived a very intensely scheduled high workload life since he was 16. He might have had all sorts of responses to the fact that that schedule was removed, or anything else that is happening in his life. But I feel like I'm generally pretty boundaried about those concerns.

I think part of it is because my base line assumption is that boyband members are pretty fucked up. You don't need to know a lot about the history of touring musicians to know that. I think I've said before that if 1D members are eating every day and not doing needle drugs then they're doing better than we have any right to expect (and if they're not eating and are doing needle drugs, then those are coping mechanisms for intense stress and there's no shame in either of them).

I do think it helps with boundaries to be starting from a point that acknowledges how hard it is to be a popstar. I'm all about fantasies of omnipotence and in my day to day life I think I can fix all sorts of things, but I don't think I can make any difference to any 1D member's life.

In addition, I am profoundly affected by having been a fan throughout 2016. We know what it looks like when Louis was going through a horrendous, devastating, trauma - and it looks pretty normal.

None of this means I don't have opinions, or worries, but I am aware that my opinions or worries aren't facts. It's rare that I think that my worries should matter even to people reading my tumblr, let alone other fans in general, and certainly not Harry. You say 'am I doing the same thing as other people assuming the worst about people...', but I'd argue that that's actually not the problem. There's nothing wrong with assuming the worst of people. What is wrong is when fans think their assumptions about a celebrity should matter to anyone else. You don't have to turn off your concern to think that it's not a priority.

I definitely think it would be a very bad thing if people took the moral as the 'free Britney' movement as 'fans should call out celebrities when they think they're struggling'. That sort of surveillance isn't effective or useful. What has been useful for Britney is solidarity in a well documented power struggle, which is a very different thing.

And I can't emphasise enough how important the 'well documented' aspect of this is. What most fan worrying about Harry amounts to is: 'I don't like what he's doing, and there's no way he'd do things I didn't like and therefore there must be something wrong with him'. That's a really controlling way of thinking about people. I really think it's important not to reproduce that abusers logic.

I am pretty well insulated from that sort of discourse from a very well weeded dash. But I saw a post that was mostly about other fandom stuff, that treated assumptions like: "Harry must hate being with Olivia and he's suffering and it's clear he's not happy with his image and his team" as building blocks that you don't even have to argue for (this is the post - and I'm going to come back to one of the things someone said that was even worse in a second).

Lets stop for a minute and imagine that Harry hasn't got a problem pretending to date Olivia, and his main concerns are about the messiness of life and his career at this point in time. It is really fucked up and agressive, and pretty hateful towards Harry, to say 'oh he couldn't possibly want this. It's clear that he hates it.' etc. (I feel like I've been making this argument for years about people who object to Louis doing such things as smoking and not performing middle-class culture for them). When fans trash talk what Harry is doing at the moment, and suggest that believing he could be choosing what he's doing is some how an act of huge disrespect to him, there is every chance they are trash talking him and the choices he's making.

The final thing I want to draw attention to is how often this sort of fan storytelling is combined with a profound lack of interest in what 1D members are actually going through. The tags screen shotted and added on to the post I reblogged actually described Holivia as Douis 2.0. Apparently assuming that there was absolutely no connection between Douis, and Louis and his family's ultimately successful efforts to privacy as Jay was dying. What the fuck is wrong with people that they ignore that, and erase that? There's far more interest in making up 1D members suffering so that fans can continue to tell the stories they want to tell, than actual acknowledgement of what we know that they went through.

Sorry I got distracted. What I'm trying to say is that there's nothing wrong with having feelings about celebrities or telling stories about them. But it's so important to acknoweldge the limits of your knowledge and power, even when fandom discourse encourages the opposite.

[browniefox]

Waking from the Long Winter

Ace Attorney - 5K Words

Phoenix Wright and a few moments during the ten weeks it takes to receive results from the Bar Exam.

A one-shot written solely for the half-joke I make within the first couple paragraphs lol. Character exploration of Phoenix finding himself again. Hinted narumitsu but just hinted.

oOo

Phoenix is sure there’s a joke here, somewhere.

Something about a lawyer walking into a bar, and then knowing to duck the second time. Or maybe not ducking, but running into it at top speed. Or trying to vault over the bar and getting his feet caught on it and falling on his face instead. There’s something there, he’s sure of it. More than anything, however, Phoenix wishes his brain would focus on the Actual Bar Exam instead of trying to make this stupid joke work.

He took the bar once before, of course. His memory of having done so, however, is shaky at best. Trying to look back at it, it’s nothing more than two days of pure stress. If he tries to pin the experience down to a word, it's just a really long and drawn out scream.

Taking the bar the second time, ten years later, is… different.

Phoenix studied, of course. Apollo had still had his flashcards and big binder full of notes. Slow days in the office were often punctuated with spontaneous quizzing on terms and laws and procedures. He’d spent late nights reading big law books and then falling asleep on top of them like he was in college again. He sat in on a lot of trials, reviewing the roles of the people in the court.

Now that he’s finally actually taking the Bar, it’s like a math test.

Obvious not as far as subject matter went. But it reminds him strongly of what taking a math test back in middle/high school had been like. Going into it scared and then being surprised by how quickly and easily he seemed to go through the questions. Of course, that also always ended with him getting the test back with a million red marks that revealed the test hadn’t been easy, he’d just been dumb.

For the first five minutes, nerves making Phoenix fidgety, the Bar exam had been scary and the words had refused to form comprehensive sentences. He’s pretty sure he almost had a panic attack. But then the five minutes pass, and Phoenix takes a few deep breaths, and when he opens his eyes again, he realizes he actually does know this stuff.

He was a lawyer, once, seven years ago. It feels like that should be more than enough time for him to have forgotten what being one was like, for all of the words to have become greek to him once more. And yet, his previous cases stick out to him on the page. Yes, he remembers using evidence law for the Skye case, he knows this. Ah, yes, he remembers studying this case because it reminds him of the Powers one. There’s even a question about spirit mediums at one point and Phoenix almost laughs out loud.

It probably also doesn’t hurt that he’d kept his enemies close during his disbarment, as well as working on MASON.

Kristoph had often asked for Phoenix’s opinion on cases, setting out the evidence and asking for the ex-lawyer’s input and expertise. He wonders if it was supposed to sting, if Kristoph had been trying to rub salt into the wound. If so, he had succeeded, sometimes. Other times, it’d been nice to fall back into those familiar ways of thinking, of trying to piece together a story, of trying to find justice.

Phoenix would never ever thank Kristoph for anything ever, but he did admit there were unexpected rewards for having put up with him for so long.

oOo

Paying for a barber hasn’t exactly been in the budget for years.

Not that there weren’t places you could get a haircut at fairly cheap, but every single dollar and penny counted. Even the months where things looked alright, where there was a comfortable sum left over after rent and taxes and food, most of it was set aside for when the rough times would return. They always did.

“Just a trim?” Trucy asks. She wears the fake mustache she insists on wearing every time he asks her to cut his hair. Her own was just trimmed by him, the floor littered with split ends. There’s layers throughout it, and now that it’s started to dry back out he can see his handiwork and nods to himself. The days of terrible and uneven cuts while trying to watch a video tutorial are well behind both of them, years of practice instead showing through.

The swivel chair from the desk has been moved into the bathroom and Phoenix looks at himself in the mirror, his hair for once not bunched up inside of his beanie. It’s long enough to pull back with a hair tie. Trucy is already gearing up to cut off an inch, the same inch she cuts off every time to keep it from getting too long. For years, that’s been the only reason to cut his hair. He runs his fingers through it. It’s to his shoulders right now and he blinks when he realizes that he hates it.

He hates how the long strands get in his face. He hates how sometimes he pulls his beanie off and his hair is staticy. He hates how if he doesn’t pull it back while cooking, if he has something on his hands, he has to awkwardly flick his head in usually-futile attempts to get the hair out of the way.

He hates it and he’s hated it for a while. But for some reason, every time before now, it’s felt easier and safer to keep it long and annoying.

“Actually,” He says, and then hesitates. He’s had his hair like this for so long now, and shorter hair… He steels himself and straightens a bit, “Actually, Truce, could you go a little shorter this time? Just, you know, a little-”

“Don’t worry, daddy, leave it to me!”

There’s a mischievous little glint in her eyes and Phoenix almost changes his mind, but she’s already spun the chair around and started cutting. Phoenix closes his eyes and waits. Trucy hums as she cuts his hair, and usually she does little tricks with the scissors, but this time she’s just cutting. He tries not to think about how close to his head the scissors sound, how much she must be cutting off. He’d asked her to, and he hates how long it was, and yet now that it’s too late to change his mind he’s nervous.

“Alright!” Trucy chirps and spins him back around to face the mirror. Phoenix opens his eyes.

A young lawyer, full of hope and trust and pure stubbornness, stares back at him.

And then he blinks, and the man has little tired wrinkles around his eyes and at the corners of his mouth and prominently between his eyebrows. He still has the couple-day-old stubble that he had yet to shave. There’s dark shadows under his eyes. He runs a hand through his hair. It spikes up in the back, just like it used to, just like it always has, like how his mom used to hate and try in vain to flatten down.

“Well, what do you think?” Trucy beams at him.

“It’s perfect.” He says.

And it’s true.

oOo

Phoenix has never owned a perfectly tailored suit in his life. He never found an issue with this. Off the rack was just fine, and a lot cheaper, and you didn’t have to worry about anything happening to it.

Apparently Miles thought that this was an issue.

Two weeks after Phoenix took the bar, Miles drags him to get a new suit. Phoenix stresses that his old suit was perfectly fine. He at least assumes it's fine. It is shoved somewhere near the back of his closet and by now is probably made up of as much dust as fabric. But it should still looks like a suit, and he can probably send it to the dry cleaners or something if he ever needs it.

Still, Miles insists on dragging him to get a new suit.

The people there all recognize Miles right of the bat, greeting him as ‘Mr. Edgeworth’, with a lot of ‘So good to see you again’ and ‘Are you here for the usual’ and ‘How is dear Ms. Von Karma doing’. His answers are amicable enough: ‘It’s nice to be back in the country.’ ‘No, not today, I’m here for my friend.’ ‘Franziska is doing well, thank you.’

Phoenix sees how they look at him when they don’t think he can see them. They don’t know that Phoenix is well used to being on guard constantly, no matter the time or place. He cedes that maybe he should’ve worn something today other than his hoodie and beanie and flip flops, especially with how the ‘flip-flop-flip-flop’ is just shy of echoing throughout the large store. He knows they must look an interesting pair, prim and perfect well put together Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth next to disbarred pianist and poker player Phoenix Wright. He doesn’t let it bother him as Miles picks around the room, finding suits that he approves of.

There’s too many shades of blue. Half the time, Miles holds up two and asks which one Phoenix likes more, and they look exactly the same. Still, they eventually end up with a few different ones for Phoenix to try on, and Miles and one of the men - the tailor? Maybe? Or the owner of the store? - walk around Phoenix and critique how it looks on him and then send him back to try on another. It reminds Phoenix how much he hates shopping. The whole process of having to try things on and take them off and then repeat is just a bit too tedious for his sake.

Miles more than Phoenix decides on which suit is best out of the ones he’s picked out, and then Phoenix's measurements are taken so that it can be fixed to fit him just right.

They’re looking at the ties, the last thing to grab before they leave, when Phoenix finally says,

“I haven’t passed the Bar Exam yet.”

Miles pauses for a second, then hangs the white tie back up. He doesn’t turn to face Phoenix but his eyes do glance over.

“You took the test.” He says, and Phoenix can hear the unsaid in there. ‘You took the test, right? You didn’t lie about that? You didn’t purposely sabotage your own test? You haven’t done something incredibly stupid already, have you?’

“I did.” Phoenix nods, and means ‘I really did. I gave it my all. I tried my best, I swear it.’

“Then you’ll need a new suit.” Miles says.

“But I haven’t passed yet.”

“Mm,” Miles hums, grabbing a dark red tie and looking it over, comparing it to the swatch of fabric that matches the color of Phoenix’s new suit, “You’re not going to fail.”

“But-”

“If you fail, then you’ll still have a new suit. There’s more reasons than being an attorney to own a nice suit, you know. If you ever eat somewhere nicer than the Borsch Bowl, for one. Or I have a wide array of incessant events I’m expected to attend throughout the year. They’ll be more manageable if I have someone there with me, but there is usually a dress code. Or perhaps I’ll be in need of a co-council at some point. I could use your eyes, and lord knows they’ll let absolutely anybody co-council, qualifications be damned.”

Miles doesn’t say anything else, and neither does Phoenix. He does, however, pick a wine red tie and add it to the growing stack.

oOo

When he moves the items off of the piano, he’s careful to make sure he remembers where everything goes.

It’s his office, it’s his piano, and while maybe most of the things he takes off aren’t his they also haven’t been touched in weeks, and he doubts that Trucy or Apollo would notice anything different. Still, he feels oddly like a kid sneaking food out of the cupboards while his parents are out. Trucy is setting up for a show and Apollo is out looking at a crime scene. It’s the perfect chance.

He lifts up the covering from the keys of the piano. He sits down on the bench, and a chill rushes over him that isn’t there. He can almost hear the sound of the Borscht Bowl, the clamour of patrons. He’s played this piano so few times, he can count them on one hand. He’d given practice a couple tries when he first got hired, until it became clear that being paid not to play was probably just as lucrative - if not more so - than actually having the skill.

Phoenix rests his hands on the keys, cold ivory under his warm fingers. He’d taken classes, once, years and years ago, when he was small and young. His piano teacher then had been an old and nice woman, but she’d had to stop teaching after a few months due to health problems. He can still find middle C, and that is more or less where his skills end. Usually, when someone requests a song, he plays ‘hot cross buns’ or ‘heart and soul’ or any other classic of the sort.

This time, Phoenix lets himself bang around with wild abandon on the keys, like he had as a kid, caring little for melody or timing or anything at all. The piano is probably out of tune. Not that he can hear that sort of thing, but it's a fair and safe bet to make. The piano hasn’t been played in a long while.

He steps away for a moment and runs a finger over the spines of the books on the shelves until he came across a thin one, so thin that the spine didn’t have any kind of title, just staples holding the pages together. Some hot-shot customer had come into the Borscht Bowl, slapped the ‘Beginner’s Piano Lessons’ book on the top of the piano and declared that Phoenix was going to need it once he was beaten at poker that night.

Of course, Phoenix had won. He got to keep the book anyway. By ‘got to keep’, he meant the customer had punched Phoenix in a fit of rage after losing and had been kicked out, leaving the book behind. Phoenix had kept it.

He isn't any good at reading music, but he has the afternoon to himself. He gets out a pencil, writing the letters above the notes, counting the keys to make sure his fingers land on the right ones. It is slow, and tedious, and not something he has to do. It's something he's doing because he wants to.

oOo

Phoenix has a love-hate relationship with Parent-Teacher Conferences.

He loves to go when the teachers will tell him ‘oh, Trucy is a joy to have in class! Trucy brings such a brightness to the classroom! Trucy is brilliant, what an amazing daughter you have! She’s so talented!’ And then Phoenix gets to beam at Trucy, and Trucy gets to glow under the praise, and then he gets handed her report card that he can place on the fridge so he can look at it every morning and be filled with pride again.

He doesn’t so much like them when the teachers look at him funny.

Look, Phoenix is an adult, he can admit that his appearance took a pretty sharp decline after he was disbarred. But some days it was all he could do to put on the hoodie and beanie, and he had learned pretty early in how to rationalize it all away as ‘putting on an act’, as trying to get Kristoph to underestimate him. However, an adult man who adopted a daughter, and thus had had someone declare him fit to raise a kid, looking like he was one trip to McDonalds away from being completely broke wasn’t always the best way to present one’s self to other adults, especially ones on high alert make sure their students were in a stable living condition.

One time, Trucy had even had to warn him to clean up a bit. She’d picked up on the worried questions her teacher had been asking her, about how often she ate and what her dad did for a living. Phoenix had put on actual shoes and a button up for that PTC. The teacher had still looked at him suspiciously, but he’d done his best to exude confidence and ‘I’m perfectly capable of raising a child on my own’. He couldn’t risk losing Trucy. If he lost Trucy…

He can’t lose Trucy.

Of course, the days of those sorts of PTC’s are behind them. Now that Trucy’s in high school and has eight different teachers, PTC’s consist of going between the school’s cafeteria and library to find Trucy’s teachers, get told if she’s a good student or a distraction or doing well or doing poorly, and then heading right to the next teacher. Some teachers they just outright skip, like Trucy’s gym teachers.

“C’mon Daddy, you have to dress up too!”

Trucy spins around in her magician outfit. The straplessness of the dress made it against the school’s dress code, so she never got to wear it to classes. She’d been talking about showing it off during the PTC, when school wasn’t technically in session, and Phoenix knew that she was probably going to take the chance to dazzle her teachers with some of her smaller tricks as well.

Put that in the list of reasons why he did like PTC: getting to see people be amazed with Trucy’s close-up magic tricks.

“Trucy,” Phoenix sighs.

“No, please? I always get dressed up, and you never do.” She pouts, crossing her arms.

“That’s because you’re the star of the show tonight.”

“But you’re my assistant! Please, just this once? I know you don’t like getting dressed up, but...” And then Trucy hesitates, which is so unlike her it catches Phoenix’s attention right away, “But I’d like it.” She finishes. For a moment, the room is plunged into darkness that only Phoenix can see as chains shoot out of nowhere and a single psych-lock places itself in front of Trucy.

Phoenix sighs one more time. He’s not going to pry, not unless it becomes a big deal.

“Sure, can’t have you performing with a sub-par partner.” He relents and Trucy claps her hand excitedly.

He goes back into his room, reaching for a button down. Something simple, he figures. Just something a little nicer than usual.

And he sees the suit Miles had bought him.

It’s in a big black bag to keep it safe from dust or whatever. Almost without thinking to, he takes the hanger off the rack and sets it on his bed, unzipping the bag and looking at the suit. It’s so much like to his old one. He runs a hand over it and then almost puts it back. But if he can’t wear it to a PTC, how can he wear it to any of the myriad of events Miles had listed off? He used to wear a suit everywhere. It had been border-line mandatory.

“Hurry up, Daddy, or we’ll be late!”

Phoenix jumps at the banging on his door.

“Just a minute, sweetie!” He shouts back.

It feels… different. He blames that on the light blue waistcoat that Edgeworth had insisted on. That, and the fact that it was a suit that was made to fit him exactly. His old suit had been second-hand, all that he’d been able to afford at the time. The blue, what many people seemed to remember about him, had been due to lack of options rather than real choice.

He looks at himself in the mirror, running a wet hand through his hair to try and get it into some semblance of presentable. He still has his stubble. He hadn’t shaved this morning. It’s not too late to tear off the jacket and vest and go with his original plan of just a button up.

“Daddy!” Trucy calls again.

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” He shouts back, and with one last look at himself, one last effort to convince himself he looks fine, leaves his apartment looking more like the Turnabout Terror than he has in years.

oOo

More of Miles’ things seem to come weekly.

Apparently Franziska is doing a deep and thorough cleaning of the Von Karma estate. She keeps finding more things, and so boxes and boxes turn up on Miles’ doorstep.

Phoenix finds himself spending a lot of his time in Miles’ office, and it means he ends up spending a lot of time helping Miles unpack boxes. Some of them are things that really shouldn’t have surprised Phoenix, like Steel Samurai manga and dvds that Franziska has unearthed from hidden corners of the estate. Miles had admitted he’d kept them anywhere he thought Manfred wouldn’t look. Other little things like that showed up - small mementos or notes, most of which seem innocuous, but that Miles insists would’ve been disapproved of.

There are also other things, like pens or books or pictures. Some of these do belong to Miles while others of them are items Franziska 'didn’t wish to hold on to any longer’. While that seemed to be the case with some, it only took looking at Miles face to confirm for Phoenix that a lot of them had secret sentimental value.

He never understood their relationship. He’d been an only child, and while there were people he was close to, he’d never grown up in the same building with them, nor under the harsh condition Miles and Franziska had. He's glad he doesn't have to jump through the weird hoops and unsaid rules that Miles and Franziska do when navigating anything to do with the other.

“Okay, you can’t tell me these are important.” Phoenix holds up a pair of scissors. They’re cold and pure metal, no plastic handle like the three pairs Phoenix himself owns. All three of them always go missing at the same time too, which completley defeatst he point of having so many pairs.

Miles sighs and rolls his eyes. He’s sitting on the ground in front of the bookshelf. With the most recent influx of books, alphabetizing them means that the previous books need to be pushed to the next shelf, and it has created a chain of necessary rearrangement to every subsequent shelf as well. Phoenix has seen Miles force the work onto some younger prosecutors or even unlucky detectives, but with Phoenix here he does it himself.

“Open them up.” He says and Phoenix does just that. There are initials welded into the metal, M.E.V.K. Phoenix raises his eyebrows.

“Miles Edgeworth… Von Karma?” He says, just to be sure, and Miles nods.

“Mm, yes. Those are my shears. Franziska insisted on the initials so that if I ruined my pair, she’d be able to tell they were mine right away, and I wouldn’t be able to try and steal hers. She took them to get initialed herself.”

He speaks of the event with the calm and cool that is so Edgeworth, but Phoenix has learned to read between lines. He runs a finger over the four initials. Von Karma. The household Edgeworth had lived in and belonged to in all but the official name change. The name that he was able to carry on these shears.

“I’ll put them in your desk.” Phoenix says instead of the millions of other responses running through his head. He’s standing in front of it anyway. He pulls open the first drawer as Miles says,

“No, I’ll be taking them home. They’re fabric scissors, Phoenix. Using them on paper will ruin them.”

Phoenix’s response to that completely leaves his head when he sees the small golden pin in the drawer.

“What’s this?” He says, more to himself than Miles. He knows what it is, and yet he asks anyway. It’s a defense attorney pin. He can see the petals, the image of scales in the center. It’s not as if he hasn’t seen one recently, he has defense attorneys working for him, after all. But it’s so out of place to see one in Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth’s office that it takes him completely by surprise. He picks it up, turning it this way and that.

“Is this... your dad’s?” He asks, the first answer that comes to mind.

“Is what- oh. No. It isn’t.” Miles is looking over now, and there’s something in his voice that makes Phoenix’s brow furrow. He sounds… hesitant? Scared? Nervous? None of those seemed quite right, but Miles didn’t seem completely at ease. Phoenix returned his focus to the pin.

There are teeth marks in it, like someone had bit into it at one point. The edges of it are worn slightly, softened with time. It’s nostalgic to look at.

It’s even more nostalgic to turn over and see the number 26381.

“Wait, this is…!” Phoenix stares at the number, the number that is burned into his memory. He’d memorized it soon after receiving the pin. It was his number, the number that meant he was really a lawyer, that he had done it.

“... yes. It is.” Phoenix looks back up. Miles is still looking at him, the odd expression still there. Not hesitance, not nervousness, not fear.

Anticipation. Miles is sitting there, watching in anticipation, as Phoenix finds his old defense attorney’s badge in Miles’ desk.

“You have my badge.” Phoenix says. He turns it back around to stare at the face. Yes, that bite mark… that was from Ema, wasn’t it?

“I do.” Miles confirms.

“Why?” Phoenix says. He weighs the small pin in his hand and then tosses it, catching it easily enough. It’s so light and small.

Miles considers both Phoenix and the pin, eyes tracking the movement of the pin as it goes up in the air again and then returns to Phoenix’s palm.

“I didn’t want anyone else to have it.” He says. He’s still anticipating something.

“I see,” Phoenix says. And… he thinks he does, “You never told me. Would’ve been a lot easier to have given it to you personally instead of having to take it off and give it to the board.” He gives Miles a half grin.

“They wouldn’t have accepted that. They’d be upset with you.”

“What would they do? Disbar me?” Phoenix jokes. Miles looks like he’s trying not to crack a smile at the joke. It’s a joke at Phoenix’s expense, but the pain of the event has been numbed by time, and the joke is made to Miles.

“I suppose there wasn’t much they could do at that point, no,” Miles agrees, “It would’ve been easier to have gotten it from you personally. I had to pull some strings to get it.”

“And you didn’t tell me.” Phoenix brings up again.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Why?”

“I thought you’d want it back.” Miles answers honestly.

Phoenix looks back down at the pin, his pin. He can see himself, six or five or even three years ago, finding out that Miles had his pin and begging the man to give it back to him. It had meant so much to him. Its absence had meant even more. It wasn’t as if he would’ve been able to do anything more with it than Miles had been doing; he’d have stuck it in a drawer, and on his worse days he would’ve pulled it out and cried over the small piece of metal.

Maybe if he’d found out a few years earlier, he would’ve been upset at Miles for not telling him, for keeping this from him. It was his badge, after all.

But now, seeing it placed in the top drawer of Miles’ desk where he could quickly open it and look at it whenever he’d wanted to, it fills Phoenix with something warm. This whole time, it hadn’t been locked away somewhere, or handed off to some rookie, or tossed away. It had been with Miles, watched over, polished, kept safe.

“Thank you.” Phoenix puts it back into the shelf, closing the drawer. The anticipation finally leaves Miles to be replaced with relief.

“It was my pleasure.” Miles smiles, and Phoenix returns it.

oOo

A lawyer doesn’t cry until it’s over.

For seven long and painful years, through even terrible twist and turn in the road, Phoenix hadn’t cried. Oh, he’d come close several times. Times where everything had started to get to him, when his chest had shaken with the sobs he so desperately wanted to let out, when he was reminded that he wasn’t a lawyer anymore, that the rule wasn’t his rule anymore. And yet the tears never came. His face stayed dry. And he’d rise again to carry on.

The packet comes in the mail ten months after the test.

It’s thick and heavy. He’s home alone, Trucy at school and Apollo doing some last-minute preparation for a trial. Sometimes it seems like the kid has better luck getting clients than Phoenix ever did.

He knows what the packet is the moment he sees it in the mail slot. He feels numb as he carries it to his apartment. He considers waiting to open it, but that seems like putting himself through unnecessary cruelty.

There’s a knife in the kitchen and he grabs it so he can cleanly slice open the top. It feels wrong to rip into it like an animal.

His shoulders shake as he slips the knife under the flap, his eyesight becomes blurry as he cleanly cuts across the top.

Win or lose, pass or fail, Phoenix thinks he knows how Godot felt at that trial. He imagines that if someone was watching him with the magatama, they’d see a final psyche-lock, placed firmly there when Phoenix had first started to close himself off for the war against Gavin, break apart.

Alone, in his apartment, for the first time in seven years, Phoenix cries.

It finally feels like it’s over.

[omgviolette12]

After Hours- Chapter 10

Previous Chapter

Summary: Evelyn Monroe has been a TA for professor Laufeyson’s Calculus course for four months now. He was known to be quite strict, but that never deterred her from applying for the position in order to be close to the man she had been secretly pining for. One evening, she returns to his office after opening hours… and with her bountiful luck, she walks in on something not meant to be seen.

Chapters: 10?

Words: 2800+

Warnings: None

Tags:  @milkymaidme @dangertoozmanykids101@alexakeyloveloki @little-moonbeam-666  @marvel-ous-fics@clovermariear@lynnesm@bitchyikes@moon-child-of-a-poet, @allthecraftandthings@bubblegumspitt @shockwavee @blondekel77 @nerd–nirvana @valdemarismynonbinarylove@nightrose64 @pastelhexmaniac @iistormii

If you’d like to be added, let me know. I’ve also posted this on AO3

____________

It took a moment for Evelyn to realize what was happening.

He had a detrimental effect on her, this man - the warmth of his tongue that explored her mouth, the harsh grip on her jaw, and the growing heat in her body left her dim-witted to her surroundings.

She had no choice but to reciprocate the kiss, until he willingly broke apart from her. As soon as he did, her hand automatically flew to cover his mouth in bewilderment and panic, adrenaline pumping her veins.

“What… what are you doing?! We’re in the blasted hallway!” She panted breathlessly, her wide hazel irises meeting the dark, lust blown ones of her lover. What was with him, popping in out of nowhere, and then kissing her randomly without so much as a hello?

Loki merely quirked a brow in reply, as her hand still obstructed him from speaking coherently.

Evelyn yelped when she felt his tongue lick the inside of her palm, the action catching her completely off-guard. She withdrew her hand from his mouth in a hurry, a dark blush making its way from her neck, and unto her cheeks.

He gave her a wicked, dark smile,“ I haven’t seen you in a while, so I thought a proper greeting was sufficient.”

Evelyn was flabbergasted. “A..greeting? That’s what that was?!” He had the gall to look at her as if she was the strange one, “Is a kiss no longer considered a greeting…?”

“No..I mean - yeah it is, but the way you just -” she paused, the amusement on his face apparent. It took a second for her to realize that he was just messing with her.

Evelyn sighed, her tone filled with indignance as she spoke once more, “What are you doing all the way here? I’m just so confused…”

Loki didn’t answer her immediately. Instead, he tilted his head to peer from their secluded corner, and into the hallway.

Seeing that it was still empty, he took hold of her hand and strolled into the hallway without warning.

He headed rapidly into the direction of the studios, and she struggled to keep up with his brisk pace.

When they finally reached the entrance, it was then that he decided to answer her question in a quiet voice, “I’ve only ever seen you within my classroom, or the confines of my office,” he looked at her, raising a hand to brush an errant curl away from her eye, “So naturally, I wanted to see you in your element. And what kept you away from my office for such a prolonged period of time.”

Evelyn felt herself heating up inexplicably. He came all the way from the science department, a good 10 minute walk, to visit her despite his hectic schedule. She didn’t think she’d ever get used to that sort of attention.

“Sorry for not letting you know what’s up with me, this whole thing is a lot to take in…”

Loki only shook his head, dismissing her apology, “ No need to worry yourself about it, darling. I simply missed your presence."

He stepped further inside the studios, his eyes wandering in search of her work area, "In any case, I'm genuinely curious about your craft. Care to show me?"

Evelyn froze. She thought he just wanted to see her, and not her actual work.

She wasn't usually shy when others saw her drawings or paintings, but Loki was a different story…

She worried he might be overly critical, or not care for her drawings at all. Evelyn valued opinions greatly, so showing him her work that was so personal left a vulnerable, uncomfortable feeling within herself.

Perhaps because of his ‘professor aura,’ he still intimidated her to a large degree.

“Uh...I wasn’t really expecting anyone, so it’s...really messy. Like, very messy. I don’t really paint much interesting things either, so...“

Evelyn tried to muster up some lame excuse, but she knew she had better stop when she was met with a firm, silent look.

She cleared her throat awkwardly, then traipsed nervously in the direction of her little studio as his tall figure loomed behind her.

Thankfully, it was a Thursday, which meant mostly everyone had no classes in her department - so the studios were empty with the exception of the few absorbed in catching up with work. In addition, each student studio consisted of cubicles with tall walls built to hang artwork, so they were mostly obstructed from view.

When they finally reached her studio, Evelyn stepped inside with slow steps, her nervousness extremely palpable by this point.

If Loki sensed it, he chose to ignore it as his attentions were immediately transfixed to the unstretched canvas strung up on the wall.

It was an exceptional rendering of a fantastical, imaginative landscape, with an endless sky and billowing clouds. Vibrant hues of pink, blue, purple and orange swirled across the sky, with the trees and shrubbery reflecting similar shades in their leaves.

Loki could still see it was unfinished, as most of the brown underpainting still shone through, but it captured him nonetheless.

He gathered from her other paintings and drawings that she liked landscapes and nature in general, since that subject matter was the most prevalent in her work. He could also see that most of them had a whimsical, fairy tale like twist to them.

Loki smiled to himself as he perused. He loved learning more things about his little Evelyn, it made her that much more precious.

While Loki silently observed and analyzed, Evelyn was brewing with negative energy behind him. His prolonged silence was slowly killing her inside - the anticipation of his distaste for her paintings now the only thing that occupied her brain.

She got tired of waiting eventually, and blurted out her thoughts, “ I... know I have a lot to improve on...the colors are too weird, right? It looks pretty bad right now, but I’m gonna -“

“Forgive me my dear, but sometimes you ramble on a bit too much,” he cut her off quickly, putting down a loose sketch he picked up from her work table with utmost care, “ You lack much needed confidence. Especially when you’re this talented.”

Loki turned to give her a look, a look that betrayed his most darkest thoughts.

“It would seem that we have to work on that together, don’t you agree?”

Evelyn had to hand it to him. His ability to change the energy in the room from normal to horny was unprecedented.

She coughed lightly, hoping to bring it back to normal, " I'm, I'm sorry - I guess that means you like it, then…?"

"If I didn't, I would have been blunt about it." He stated simply. Her lack of confidence was slowly starting to annoy him, and he couldn't wait to rectify it in private.

Speaking of that...Loki itched to get her well and truly alone. He told her that he would give her time, to let her decide when to take things further...but surely it wouldn't hurt to subtly push things in that direction.

" You may not know this, but I'm actually quite taken with the arts myself," he began casually, “You could say I’m a collector, of sorts. And I happen to be rather fond of your type of work.”

That garnered her attention immediately, “ Wait, really? What other artists do you like, whose art do you have?” Evelyn blurted excitedly, a wide smile on her face. She didn’t know he was an art nerd like herself, and was happy to know they had one more thing in common.

“Among the favorites I’ve collected, it would have to be Georgia O’Keeffe and Thomas Cole,” Evelyn’s mouth widened in disbelief as he continued on, “ I do have some Bob Ross pieces as well, but I wouldn’t say he was a favorite...a bit too kitsch for my taste.”

Evelyn couldn’t comprehend the gravity of what he just said. “You’re...you’re actually being serious? You have an original Thomas cole painting? He’s one of my biggest inspirations! And...and Bob Ross?! Georgia O’Keeffe? Are you sure you aren’t messing with me…?”

“I’m being entirely serious, darling.” Loki did have a rather extensive art collection, but he didn’t know this useless hobby of his would actually work in his favor.

“But...but they’re so expensive! Even reproductions cost a shit ton… and originals are like thousands of dollars!” Evelyn still expressed some doubt. It was too much of a coincidence for it to be actually true. Not to mention, that was an absurd amount of money to be splurging about.

But his car’s fancy as fuck… maybe he’s just rich?

While Evelyn’s face was scrunched up in thought, Loki’s smile took a diabolical turn when he started to speak once more, “ If you’re that doubtful, I’m not opposed to showing you my collection.” His next sentence came off as strangely dark, “And as for their price... when I want something, no amount of anything will stop me from getting it.”

Evelyn’s head immediately shot up, "Wait, you'd really show me…?" Her focus was zoned in on the first sentence, completely ignoring the lustful inclinations of the second, " I wouldn't want to trouble you…it's okay if it's too much of a hassle," Although she said that, her eyes were extremely hopeful.

"Nonsense, it's no trouble at all. Even if it somehow was, I care about your happiness much more."

Evelyn blushed at his words, "...If that's the case, then I'd really appreciate it! Ooh... I'm so excited! Is it okay if I take pictures?"

She was bouncing with radiant energy, her happiness infectious. If Loki had known seeing art would please her this much, he would've suggested it much sooner. He found her reactions to be unbearably cute, especially when her eyes grew wide in disbelief, or excitement.

"Of course, take however many you want. In fact...would you like to see it this Sunday, if your schedule allows? We will have dinner beforehand as well..."

"Yeah yeah yeah! This Sunday's perfect actually! Thank you!"

Without thinking much of it, Evelyn went straight to give him a tight hug in her excitement.

Loki did not expect that from her at all.

He was nearly knocked off balance as Evelyn’s warm body pressed against his. Loki could feel her ample breasts against his chest, the sensation of which aroused him greatly.

He’d never thought his body would react this way from such an innocent gesture on her part - but alas, he desired her to a frightening degree.

Loki cleared his throat and shifted in order to help alleviate the sudden discomfort in that area, but Evelyn took that as a sign that he wanted her to back away.

“Oh - I’m so sorry, I forgot where we were for a sec…” She thought he didn’t agree with the sudden display of affection - despite the fact that he kissed her himself moments before.

However, much to her surprise, Loki pulled her right back into his embrace, “ As long as we’re plainly out of sight, it wouldn’t hurt to sneak in a kiss or hug. I made sure of that earlier as well,”

His tone was very playful and reassuring, and she couldn't help but relax into the hug. She felt extremely paranoid earlier on due to the group chat, but that melted to the back of her mind. As long as they refrained from frisky activities in public, no more problems should arise.

Much to her chagrin, he decided to pull back after a while, placing a kiss on her temple, " Now that my curiosity's been sated, I fear that I have to return."

Evelyn's disappointment showed clearly on her face, but she understood that he had work to return to.

And with a few more parting words, he left her to return in time for his lecture.

Loki was immensely happy he took the risk to visit the art department today - if he didn't, he wouldn't have been able to make such progress in so little time.

Unbeknownst to Evelyn, Loki fully intended to make her truly his this coming Sunday.

His mind went completely rampant with sordid thoughts of what was to come - Her naked, ebony skin dripping with sweat, and the way she would writhe and moan beneath him. He'd be sure to cover her body with bruises as she's restrained by various -

Loki had to stop from going down that train of thought, reminding himself that she may not be reticent to his...darker desires. He'd have to be patient and slow since it would be her first time, but he looked forward to it nonetheless. Sunday couldn't come any sooner.

It was Sunday when it truly began to sink in for Evelyn that she agreed to go on an actual date with her professor-turned-lover.

She honestly only thought about just seeing the collection at first, but then she remembered the second part of his sentence about them having dinner beforehand…

Evelyn didn’t mind spending more time with him at all, it was just that she was extremely unprepared for it.

She barely went out of the house even on holiday break, with either her friends or Candice dragging her out from time to time since she was practically a hermit. In addition, it would actually be the first time she ever went on a date, so she was nervous about that as well.

Evelyn decided to go to Candice for advice once more. She was nervous about her reaction to her newfound relationship with Loki, given that they talked about his sexual escapades prior - but as an adult, she was sure Candice would...get over it.

“You waited THIS... goddamn LONG… to tell me you’ve been shackin' up with professor fine ass?!”

Candice smacked her arm,” Are you outta yo stupid ass mind?”

Evelyn rubbed her arm, eyes narrowing in agitation, “ I didn’t tell you because this is exactly how you’d react. Hittin me n’ shit! Ow…”

Candice tried to calm herself down, “ Look, I got a lot of shit to say about whatever y’all got going on, but it’s honestly not the time, and you’ll do whatever you want anyway,” she sighed, pacing up and down the living room floor, “ Do you even have shit to wear? Were your nails done? Is your hair done? Did you even wax ya coochie?”

Evelyn’s eyes widened, “ I...I gotta do all that? Even the waxing part?”

Candice closed her eyes, “Lord have mercy on me today - YES you fool! You’d really have that man navigate the Amazon jungle? Because I know for a fact you got a whole forest down there.”

Evelyn subconsciously covered her privates, “What! We’re not even doing anything like that...he’s just gonna take me to dinner and show me the art collection…” Evelyn’s voice grew quiet, because she wasn’t even sure herself.

“Well, better be safe than sorry. I’ll even wax it for you and help you get ready. When is he picking you up?”

Evelyn picked up her phone that was beside her on the couch. He texted her earlier that morning about the time, and the form of attire that was expected, “ Uhm, around 7 pm…”

Candice glanced at the time on the tv, “ So we got about 6 hours or so. Come come, get up. We’ll get the wax over with first.”

It was 6 hours later, and Evelyn felt thoroughly violated.

She honestly should’ve skipped the waxing, hairy pussy or not - it hurt like a bitch, and she solemnly vowed never to put herself through that again. Not only that, but she spent nearly 3 hours in Candice’s room to look for an appropriate outfit, one that was apparently nonexistent within her own wardrobe.

In the text, Loki said to just dress casually, so she was going to throw on any dress in her closet. Which worked to set Candice off on another tirade.

So now Evelyn sat on the couch, waiting for his arrival. She did have to hand it to Candice though - she actually liked the outfit she picked out.

It was a black floral bell-sleeved dress, with slits at the sides that exposed the skin of her waist. It had a modest V neckline, and she was grateful that Candice didn't choose a more daring outfit.

She also wore a jean jacket to ward off the spring chill, so she was extremely satisfied. The only discomfort was the dull throb from her nether regions…

Before long, a loud ping came from Evelyn's phone, causing both her and Candice to jump at the sudden sound, "Is it him? What does it say?"

Evelyn was annoyed when others looked over at her phone, so she hid her screen from view, "Can you please back up?!" Kissing her teeth, she looked back at the screen to see the message.

I've just arrived. I can't wait to see you, love.

She stared at the message for a long moment, before standing up on shaky legs.

Well...here goes nothing.

________________

A/N:

*crosses fingers for smut next chapter*

Thank you all once again for the comments, they seriously make my day. Blown away by the support!

Bonus picture : Evelyn's date fit, minus the jacket - https://imgur.com/a/xYHdHx5 Photo cred: kishmycurls

[gumiguta]

Being a top student at university

This post is based on my (and my friends) experience (second year student; sophomore).

I haven’t double-checked it, so I suppose there would be some mistakes. I miss articles all the time, sorry.

1. First year is the most important

Show your professors your capabilities. Let professors get to know you, their opinion will be significant later. Slog your guts out, get the best marks, show them you really care and you are intrigued in what they say. Later on if the next year/term is tougher or you are be able to fully focus on your education, professors will look kindly on you, they won’t be so strict, so your marks won’t be much lower.

2. Luck

Believe me, we are not always fully prepared. Sometimes our knowledge is incomplete because we don’t had enough time to learn, the topic XYZ is so shitty that we simply don’t get part of it. It happens that we have to count on our luck. The final test is coming in a few hours and you still know nothing about ABC or XYZ. You don’t have enough time and you know you won’t get it in half of an hour. Fuck this, fuck that – you hope you will be able to answer a questions. You’ve got nothing to lose, joke that it would be nice, if you got a question about QWE. If the professor knows you, remembers you and is aware of your knowledge, there is a huge possibility you’ll get this question.

3. Talk to people before your final exams

It’s partly connected with “Luck”. Talk to people who already had their finals (not only to your peers but also to older students). It’s not about questions, because you won’t get the same ones, that’s for sure. It’s more about getting to know the professor’s way of thinking, asking questions, choosing topics. Ask people how much you need to write/say in order to get a good mark. Ask people what topics are professor’s favourite, what do you need to know, how to impress them. Mark down what questions did your friends/other students get – learn them if you know that this professor likes to ask the same thing, pay less attention if you know they like to change them. But never left them aside, you have to know at least part of the answer to be save.

4. Know your professors

The continuation of “Luck”. Knowing your professors helps you a lot during preparing for tests, exams, finals etc. Give yourself a term or two to find out information about professors – what topics are their beloved, what kind of questions are most common, what kind of answers are they expect, how much you need to know.

5. Don’t be afraid of professors

Treat them like normal people, not someone who will fail you at your first exam. You can talk to them not only about studies – some of them are really interested in your life outside the uni (even my biggest fear – my phonetics professor – used to ask people why they had been absent and he was genuinely interested in it). I’m probably going to a concert with my professor, sometimes we smoke cigarettes with them, they give us medical pieces of advice – they are not monsters. Of course some of them have sticks in their asses and you have to treat them with much bigger respect. But remember – you’re a student. Don’t be unrespectful even if your professor is a great guy. Tell something shitty and you’re fucked up for the rest of your student life (it means – till the end of the term, because they definitely won’t let you pass).

6. Panic

*3 A.M., Facebook* A: FUCK, I KNOW NOTHING B: ME TOO, WE’RE NOT GOING TO PASS A: We can commit a suicide, that’s the only option B: I find this red bridge quite appealing…

Yes, we panic. A lot. Sometimes we’re so stressed we have to phone someone and talk to them for a longer while in order to calm down and continue to learn. Why? Because we had no idea how much we need to study, because we thought that 2 days of non-stop learning is enough (ups, it’s not!), because it turned out you don’t have this one important thing in your notes. Shit, shit, shit! But, man, calm down, you know you’re not the worst student at uni, you have some knowledge so you say/write something during an exam. So get back to work! Take deep breath, call your friends, check Facebook, Tumblr or whatever if it helps you. Then try to take a look at your notes once again. Step by step and you’re going to know more and more.

7.“I give up”

It’s a common phrase during preparations to exam session. You look at your notes with watery eyes and you say “I give up, I won’t learn anything more”. Take a longer break then, if you feel like a shit – an hour or two. Go to sleep, eat something, play your favourite video game, message your friends. Then go back to your notes. If it really seems like you won’t make any progress, don’t force yourself, focus on sth else, maybe later on you’ll try to revise this “little shit” once more. If it’s still too demanding – leave it. You only get more stressed and panic is your biggest enemy. Remember you still remember sth, it’s not like you’re totally unprepared!

8. Help others…

If somebody asks you about notes (because they were absent or sth), don’t hesitate giving them. You don’t know when you will need their help. Groups of your uni on FB where you can share and find information are also helpful – notes, example questions, links to PDF books or scripts etc.

9. …But don’t be a saint!

Hearing for the 5th time “Hey, can I copy your notes?” makes me furious. I’m willing to help, give notes, talk about previous lectures if this person was absent, had difficulty in understanding the topic or what was the professor saying. But I just can’t stand people who are not attending any classes because it’s too early, because the topic is boring, because they prefer to scroll Instagram etc. Don’t let other people preying on you. They probably won’t help you as much as you did.

10. People you can count on

Sometimes it’s hard to make friends during your first year at uni but try to do a kind of research… After first tests find out who has quite good marks. If you’re absent, you have no idea what’s going on and this lecture is totally not your cup of tea, ask them for help. But don’t be a dick! Constantly borrowing notes and asking for help is annoying. And please, don’t pretend friendship with this person if you don’t like them that much. You don’t have to love each other, go for a beer every Friday, gossip about others – if you’re nice to this person (and vice versa), you talk to them for a while at uni and of course you’re also willing to help them, it’s a good relation. Borrowing notes depends on a subject – XYZ I take from my best friend, ABC from the girl to whom I talk only at lectures and RSQ.

11. Attend classes

Doesn’t matter how boring they are, doesn’t matter how much you hate this professor – please, attend classes. First of all sit always closer to the lecturer (but don’t be obtrusive), participate in it, say something related to the topic, do your best not to miss classes. Professors will remember you, they’re going to think you’re be the best student at whole uni and your finals will be a little bit easier. Sometimes professors, if they know you’re always prepared, you’re coming even at 8 A.M. lecture and this subject is rather facultative, can give you a mark without any exam.

12. “Start learning at least a month before your final exam…”

Yeah. I’ve never done that.

Of course it would be much better to start learning earlier but it’s often impossible to do. You’ve got so many homework, presentations, tests and essay so you simply don’t have enough time (and motivation) to think about finals. One term in two days is not something uncommon even (or maybe especially?) when it comes to top students. But our advantage are: attending classes, listening to professors, being genuinely interested in the subject.

13. Presentations, essays and long-term projects

Start doing them as soon as you can. Step by step, you don’t have to make them in one night, your deadline is far away… It’s a big comfort, doesn’t give a single fuck about deadlines. Of course, sometimes you don’t make it on time and you have to pull an all-nighter, but it rarely happens when you start do this earlier.

14. Motivation

You can talk about this whole self-development, showing people you’re worth something more, dreams coming true but at uni you do it just for…

Money.

My scholarship is the only reason for learning that much. If not for my scholarship I wouldn’t pay any attention to subjects which are completely useless outside the uni.

15. Sleepless nights

We pull an all-nighter before our exams, it’s nothing uncommon. Sometimes we get 3 hours of sleep, sometimes 30 minutes. But do it once, not every night, because you won’t learn anything. And if you do this just before your exam, try to get at least 2h of sleep – you’re going to organize your studying during sleep. I usually remember more then, I find connections between facts faster.

16. Naps

They are your friends, not enemies. Just a 30-60 minutes nap will make you more lively, you will get more energy to study. Before my exams I take 30 minutes naps, twice a day. You’ll learn more and faster. Not having a nap is awful to me, because I feel so tired, so exhausted that I don’t know what’s going on around me for 2-3 hours.

17. Balanced diet

Instant soups, energy drinks, coffee, sweets – it was my special diet during the exam session. And it worked – for 3 days. Then my body gave up and I had to go back to normal food. Try to eat homemade dinners, don’t skip breakfasts – that’s the most important one. You won’t get rid of coffee (or energy drinks in my case), because it helps you to stay alive. If you can, eat something sweet – sugar also resurrects you.

18. An exam next day? Alcohol!

Don’t ever look at your notes just before your finals. You’re going to panic, you’re going to get disorganized. It’s better to do something you like. Before every exam I would for instance go to the concert, for a beer with my friends, watch a movie or play stupid games. It’s your time and university has no right to disturb you. Forget for a while how much you need to learn.

19. Party?

Yes, top students party and drink a lot, believe me. Vodka and beer are your double-faced friends.

[passionate-noona]

to pay a debt

Group/Member: BTS // Taehyung

Genre: Angst

Word Count: 3.184

Prompt: Dialogue w/ Taehyung “Just close your eyes and listen. These are things I could never tell you.”

Summary: Sort of jumped into this one without any solid ideas! School has been super busy so actually writing stuff that I’m happy with has been a little hard. Feels good to finally get something out though <3 Open for feedback and opinions~

Masterlist // AU Prompt List // Dialogue Prompt List // To Do List //   Rules

Never before had you felt a heat so intense. The way it licked your skin and made your eyes water, nerve endings becoming uncomfortable as the intensity of the flames became too much for you. Even so, it was impossible to move back; impossible to turn your gaze away as everything burned in front of you. Deep down you registered the uncomfortable ache in your arm, convenience store bag filled full with snacks and drinks, as it clung to the plastic handle.

Fifteen minutes.

It was all you had been gone for. Fifteen minutes ago, you’d been overcome with the need for your favorite ramen. When you’d been unable to find it within your own cupboards you had slipped into your coat and shoes and made the short track down the block to the convenience store that was so nicely located near your own home. You hadn’t put much thought into the sounds of the sirens as they whizzed past the store as you paid for your items. You hadn’t become alarmed when you were still able to hear them when you left the store. Instead you had felt a small ache of pity for whoever required the sirens. Maybe somebody had fallen? Or maybe a heart attack?

You’d only started to worry when the blaring lights of sirens had appeared before you, awfully close to where your own home was. Your heart had clenched when you felt the heat, and then shattered when your home had come into view. There before you, was the home you had worked so hard to buy. The home that you had called yours and proudly filled with your belongings; filled to the brim with your life. Only now it was completely filled with flames. Bright orange and yellow bursting through the windows. The flames so intense and out of control that the house itself couldn’t even contain it.

Already the fireman had the area blocked off. Uniformed men carrying large hoses as they dowsed the house with as much water as they could. It was clear that no matter how much effort they put into it, it wouldn’t matter. You knew that your home was gone, and that all that was inside of it would be swallowed whole along with it.

You’d only been gone for fifteen minutes.

‘What if I had stayed home and not gone for the ramen?’

The thought only had time to brush the surface, making your heart immediately clench again; at least what was left of it. Soon after is when you heard the yelling. The voice that you could recognize at any given time.

“[Y/N] ... [Y/N]!?” the deep baritone of the voice that had graced your ears for two years now wasn’t it’s usually cheery tone. It wasn’t filled with wonder and it was nowhere near clam. It now was laced with fear, a panic that you could feel in your core. Slowly turning, your eyes were met with the figure of your boyfriend as he shoved and pushed his way through the crowd of onlookers that had formed behind you. “Oh my god, baby you’re okay, oh thank god you’re okay.” His voice was a rush of words as he engulfed you in his arms. The plastic bag finally fell from your hands, arms remaining limp at your sides as he held onto you with all his might.

“I thought you were in there, oh god I thought that you were in the fire.” Taehyung’s voice was thick with tears, his hands moving from holding you to him to running all over your body. Up and down your sides, and then up to your cheeks and then one through your hair.

“You’re okay?”

Your voice was still gone, scared away from shock at what was happening so you simply nodded, finally raising your hands so that you could rest your hands on his own. As Taehyung took deep breaths, his eyes never once leaving yours, the demeanor of his mood slowly began to change. Once he was finally sure that you were safe and in no danger, he had his hand around your wrist and was tugging you back through the crowd.

“We need to go.”

“What?” the word came out breathy, the first thing you’d said since finding the scene. “Taehyung what are you talking about? My house!” you say, successfully raising the volume of your voice as you lightly tried to tug your arm away from him. Turning back, you could see that the firemen were getting a better handle on the fire. You were more than sure that you weren’t supposed to leave the scene, that you were supposed to find somebody and let them know that you were the owner.  

Taehyung’s grip didn’t loosen however; if anything, it only got tighter. He tugged a little harder, forcing you to follow him until you were finally to his car. He kept looking around, head turning every which way as if he were looking for somebody as he managed to get the passenger door open and force you inside. Suddenly you’re leaving the scene, leaving the neighborhood, and the city as well. Lights flashing by you in the dark night from the tall buildings until it’s nothing but the light of the car’s headlights. You try a few more times to get Taehyung to tell you where you are going, all of which are unsuccessful until you finally shrink into your passenger seat and stare out the window.

Forty minutes into the drive is when the shock completely melts away from your body. The past three years of your life had just burnt up before your very eyes, and now your boyfriend was scaring the absolute hell out of you. Taehyung, who had been so focused on the driving didn’t register you were crying until the sudden sound of your sobbing broke out into the car.  Unable to simply stop the car, Taehyung does his best to drive with one hand while the other reaches over and attempts to rub soothing circles on your leg and give it reassuring squeezes. His touch does little to comfort you though as you shrink even farther away from him, pressing as much as you can into the passenger side door, forehead pressed against the cold glass.

“Why…won’t you tell me…w-where we’re going?!” you wail out, arms wrapped tightly around yourself as you look at him through the tears. “What’s going on Taehyung?!” your voice is getting louder, higher in pitch with the growing anxiety in your chest. The drive had given your mind time to grasp everything that was going on. Not only the fact that you had lost your house, but also the fact that somehow Taehyung had magically shown up. He’d told you that he was working late that night and wouldn’t be able to come over. You’d hadn’t even texted him upon finding the fire, and yet he’d been there right as things were happening. You didn’t ask him directly how he’d known, but you knew that he probably knew you were catching on to things.

“Why are you acting so weird?” you demanded as your body shifted in its seat. Still staying out of his reach but now looking at him. Just by looking at your eyes, Taehyung knew that he couldn’t keep it in any longer. The guilt was getting too strong in his chest and seeing the pain and hurt in your eyes was causing a similar feeling in his own.

“Okay…okay hold on let me find somewhere to pull over.”

Taehyung agreeing to explain to things to you was both relieving and even more stressful at the same time. You had no idea what this boy was about to tell you, not even sure what was running through his head the majority of the time on a normal day. Taehyung had always been like this; a little secretive and a little too good at changing the subject. Unfortunately, you were easily deterred.

As soon as the car came to a stop things became eerily quiet. The consistent noise of tires running along asphalt left a numbing silence in the air as you watched him expectantly. The longer Taehyung stayed quiet, eyes on the wheel and refusing to look at you only made your anxiety even worse.

“Tae?” calling out the familiar nickname in hopes that this would help the situation. The flinch that flashed across his face wasn’t what you were expecting; heart constricting even tighter.

“I’m in trouble.”

The silence pierces the quiet, your eyebrows furrowing together as you wait for him to further explain. When he doesn’t you respond instead, “What do you mean trouble?”

“I mean…god…I don’t even know where to start.” Never in your life have you seen Taehyung so stressed. Only now with the glow of the cars dashboard do you see the bags under his eyes. As his hand comes up to run through his hair you notice what you think is bruising on his forearm.

“What happened to your arm?” He isn’t startled by the question, but isn’t particularly quick to answer you as well.

“[Y/N]… just close your eyes and listen. These are things I could never tell you.”

“Close my…what do you mean close my eyes?”

“[Y/N] please. I don’t think I can handle you looking at me while I’m telling you what I’m about to tell you.”

By now your heart is beating well past the normal range, breathing a little more ragged. You need answers though. You desperately need to know why Taehyung was there when he was, and why he so suddenly took you away. Very slowly you let your eyelids slide shut, bottom lip sliding into your mouth as you bite down on it. You have to clasp your hands together to keep them from shaking.

“I haven’t been going to work like I told you,” Taehyung says slowly, like he’s unsure where to start. He watches to make sure you don’t open your eyes, but the knit in your brow lets him know that you’re processing what he’s saying, confusion clear on your face right now. “I’ve been lying to you. About three months ago, I got fired from my job. A bunch of layoffs throughout the company, there really wasn’t much that I could.”

Almost immediately you want to interrupt him, open your eyes and demand a better answer. The hitch in his voice as he speaks about the loss of his job is what makes you stop the yearn in your vocal chords. It doesn’t, however, stop the hundreds of questions that flood your system.

“I was upset, frustrated…infuriated. I’d been working there for so long and yet some of the people who’d gotten to stay hadn’t been there nearly as long as me. So, I went to the bar that night. I don’t even know why I approached them. Maybe it was the alcohol that was in my system…I don’t know…”

His voice drones off, not finishing the thought. “Approached who Taehyung?” you ask, jaw tight, unsure where this story is going. What did any of this have to do with you two leaving town? What did any of it have to do with you?

“This group of guys. They were playing poker, and I thought ‘hey why not blow some money over here, maybe I’ll get lucky and even earn some’,” he pauses again, rubbing his eyes. You can’t see him because our eyes are still shut, but some reason it’s almost like you can feel the shame that is radiating off of him. “I was doing good at first. I won the first hand, probably could have just walked away, but I was tipsy and still pissed so I started getting stupid. I lost everything I had won, and then I was betting everything in my wallet, and then I was betting money that I didn’t have. I don’t…I don’t know why I did it [Y/N], I really don’t.”

Your body is so confused for what it should be feeling. A portion is angry…angry that Taehyung would put himself in such a position. Another part is sad though and you just want to open your eyes and reach out for him, because it’s so obvious that there are tears in his voice and that he’s struggling to hold them back. “Then what Tae…?” the question coming out just over a whisper.

“I couldn’t pay them what I bet,” he returns, voice just as soft as he recalls the night. “I really didn’t think they’d take it that serious. Thought maybe they’d be a bit pissed but brush it off…but they didn’t. They knocked me around pretty good, told me that I had a month to get the money together or else they’d start taking matters into their own hands. [Y/N], I didn’t make anywhere close to what I owe them…”

You’re scared to ask but somehow still manage to form the words, “How much do you owe them Taehyung?”

“Ten thousand.”

Your heart stops for the second time that night, a sharp intake of air rushing into your lungs; it causes Taehyung to flinch.

“I couldn’t make that much month in a month. I wasn’t working anymore, the bank would never give ma lone like that, and I couldn’t…I couldn’t go to you or the boys, it was too embarrassing. I really truly thought that they couldn’t be that serious. The bar was nowhere near my apartment, I thought that if I just didn’t show my face around there again, nothing would happen. So, I went back into my routine. I started looking for a new job, I went on like things were normal.”

At this point you can’t possibly keep your eyes closed anymore. Taehyung is close to tears and despite him weakly shaking his head at you, you simply reach forward and grab his hands. The gesture is enough to open the flood dates as he momentarily breaks down. Deep, horrible sobs leaving his chest as you watch helplessly. It takes everything in you to keep your own emotions in check, but you do it for him, and you also do it because you desperately need to understand this situation.

“What happened after that?”

He sniffs, trying to regain some composure as he weakly wipes his face on shoulders. “I started getting threatening texts. They were sending me pictures of myself at my home, where I was during the day…at your house,” the last part is said in a whisper but you still manage to catch it. “I debated going to the cops, but they put that thought to rest right away, told me I’d regret making that sort of move but also said that if I didn’t start paying them off that I’d regret that even more.” His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. The tears have stopped, but you almost wish that they would return as to replace the now hollow look that seems to have overtaken Taehyung’s face. “I was scared, so I tried reasoning with them. I told them that I just needed more time, that I couldn’t possibly get that much money in a month. I swear [Y/N], I did everything I could to get them to back off a little but…but it didn’t work.”

Taehyung lets his head drop because now is when he really needs to let you know what’s going on. Now is when he needs to convey to you how serious this situation really is. “Do you remember how your tires were slashed a few weeks ago?”

The question feels off topic at first, but it doesn’t take long for you to realize that what Taehyung has been telling you is connected to it. “They did it?” your eyes growing wide as he sadly nods at you. He’s looking at you now, begging for you to realize the next thing he’s about to tell you. His eyes beg you to figure it out for yourself. It takes a moment but the moment the thought enters your thoughts, your face falls, hand flying to your mouth as a broken sob leaves your mouth.

“My house…” you weakly sob, burying your face completely within your palms and hunching forward. This time Taehyung is fully there for you. He’s got his hands rubbing your back and he’s urging you to breath and take a deep breath. It doesn’t hide the fact that tears are also running down his own face however.

“I was so scared,” he whispers to you. “They sent me a text saying that my first payment was being forced tonight and sent me a picture of your house along with a can of gasoline,” there’s no point in holding back tears anymore as you both cling to one another. His face is buried in your neck, strands of your hair sticking to the tear trail on his cheeks. “I thought you were dead. I thought they had killed you, oh my god I can’t believe you’re here…you’re safe…you’re still safe…”

You aren’t sure when the two of you pull away from one another. Aren’t certain when Taehyung twists the key in the ignition or when he pulls up to the little motel that’s about two hours outside of your city. All you remember is weakly getting out and following Taehyung to your room, body falling onto the bed. You’re exhausted yet on edge at the same time, mentally trying to process this night. Deep down you know that Taehyung is the root cause of what happened. You know that you should be furious, yelling and screaming at him for not only putting himself in this situation but you as well. How stupid he was to get involved with a clearly dangerous group of men. A group of men who had intentionally gone to your house to set it on fire while you were inside; to try and kill you.

The thought sends shivers through your entire being as you lay on your side in the stiff motel bed. Your eyes are cast towards the windows, curtains drawn. What happens if another pair of headlights pull into the driveway? Will it be the men tracking you down? Will it be police? Everything in your world suddenly feels so uncertain. Even though you should be angry, should refuse to even look at him, you relax when Taehyung’s arms slowly wrap around you.

You should kick him and shove him away.

However, you know that he’s aware of the seriousness of this situation.

You should steal his keys when he falls asleep and run to the police, beg for help.

But you know that neither of you will be getting proper sleep and he’d catch you.

You should be home, lying in bed eating your favorite ramen cup with the worst movie imaginable playing on the TV.

Instead your lying motionless, eyes trained on the window as tears leak slowly from your eyes, unsure for what tomorrow will bring…unsure for your safety as well as Taehyungs…

…becoming a debt that would be paid by any means.

[isa-ly]

IT’S OKAY TO BE CLICHÉ

TW: therapy, mental illness, anxiety, depression

Hey, so, I haven’t mentioned my super cool therapist in the last two blog posts, and I thought it was about time I did that again: Shout out to you, Kerstin, you’re the real MVP man, love you. Too much? Okay, yeah. Sorry. Professionalism, right. (I really hope she doesn’t read this blog, I mean she agreed it would be a good idea for me to write it but Christ, I doubt she’d wanna see me again if she actually found it.)

Okay, why this very odd and potentially problematic intro to today’s post, you ask? (Please tell me you asked yourself that, I feel so lonely here) Well, today I’m gonna tell you (or myself, I guess) the story of how I first started my therapy journey. Because, boy oh boy, is it a turbulent and long one. And we’re all about working through those turbulent and long life stories on here, aren’t we. So, let’s begin.

In all my previous posts, I’ve already given a pretty solid overview of all my various psychological issues that are deeply nestled in my mind and brain. However, as I wasn’t born a genius or psychoanalyst, you might be able to guess that I wasn’t always aware of those from the beginning. In fact, I had absolutely no fucking idea what was going on when they started, and kind of just floated in a constant state of anxiety, depression, insomnia and my general quarter-life crisis for a good few months.

Luckily, I have some very good friends (and also a few rational brain cells, big kudos to those fellas), with the help of which I figured out after a while, that whatever it was that was causing all my problems, was probably worth finding out by consulting an actual professional. A connaisseur of the mind. An expert on the depths and divots of the psyche, if you will.

Okay, we get it, Isa. You went to see a therapist. Stop it already with the pretentious big talk.

Excuse me, this is my blog, don’t tell me what to do. (I’m really Dr.-Jekyll-and-Mr-Hyde-ing it up on here, ain’t I?). Anyway. Yes, you are right, that is exactly what I was getting at. Only that between the realization of me needing professional and guided help, and the actual act of getting said help, lie about ten to eleven more months.

A year, basically. It took me an entire year to actually get my shit together and sign up for my first ever therapy session. Whoops.

To some, that might sound pretty unbelievable if one can trust my previous stories of how I was a) not really feeling anything, ever, b) had panic and anxiety attacks every night and c) was basically disconnected from my body and mind like 24/7. To others, though, taking a long time to finally make the step and ask for help, might be something very relatable.

And while I’m not necessarily on here to be related to, I myself am the latter of the two people mentioned above. As in: Asking for help is really not one of the strengths I mention on my CV (hence my last blog post about pointlessly shit-posting on social media instead). And even more importantly: Admitting to myself that I am in need of help and cannot fix my problems on my own, is even harder.

You see, autumn of 2018 hadn’t been the first ever time that I had struggled mentally. As a teenager, there were a couple of incidents where, looking back on it now, I had really been in urgent need of therapy. But I was too young and my parents unfortunately not understanding and knowledgeable enough, to see that that had been the case.

I graduated high school, some more time passed, water under the bridge and all, until I started university and my childhood traumas, as all my other problems, were swiftly brushed under the rug of repression. (That sounds like an edgy indie band, I like it). And for a while, everything was fine. Really, I loved what I was studying, I made some great new friends, acquired new skills, got way too drunk and made out with way too many people, went to study abroad, got even more drunk and made out with even more people. Let’s just say I was living the student life to the fullest.

But we all know that things didn’t just continue to be that peachy. That’s why I’m sitting here writing, after all. 

I’m not going to whine about how unfair life can be because really, there’s enough white, cis-gender, middle-class white women out there who already do that on a daily. Suffice to say, things did get kind of tough though, when that fifth semester of university hit, and I was faced with something I had never yet been faced before: The impending doom of the future. (Insert the dramatic sound effect from Inception).

Growing up, I had always had an exact plan of what I wanted to do in life, who I wanted to be and where I wanted to go. I was good at writing and coming up with stories, and also had a big mouth and way too many opinions, so I figured journalism would be the way to go. I got into the uni of my dreams and was finally doing what I had always wanted to do. Or ... well, okay, I liked some of the subjects. It sure was a huge load of work. And, actually, some of the professors, who were also journalists, seemed to be pretty big dicks. And wait, I don’t really agree on most of the practices and opinions they teach. Also, actually working at a newspaper isn’t that cool and more so a literal living hell. Do I really want to do this still? Is that really who I am?

Did I ... make the wrong choice?

Aaaaand there goes everything I built my personality, hopes and dreams on. Out of the window, just like that. Bye bye, future. Bye bye, all my plans. Bye bye, ground beneath my feet.

I realize that this sounds exactly like what I said I was trying to avoid (me whining), but I want to be honest and suddenly being hit with the fact that the thing I had been so sure of pursuing all my life, was actually nothing but smoke and mirrors, was kind of a punch to the gut. Strong enough to clearly derail me, yet subtle enough to keep me from noticing it at first.

I’m planning on talking about this in a separate post but I wan to pre-empt this much: I have a pretty big issue with not being in control of my own life and for the first time since literal birth, that was the case. I was completely clueless as to what would happen next, how I would figure it out and what the hell I was going to do with my life and academic education. It hit me like a wall of bricks but in a way, I was in too much of a shock state to realize that it was really starting to cause some bigger issues.

This was around the time that my nightly panic attacks started happening. I didn’t sleep well, started missing classes and began to hate every single thing about my course. I felt lost but didn’t want to admit it. All the other people in my class seemed so damn sure of where they wanted to go and here I was, a zombified insomniac, trying to get through yet another exam I didn’t give a single shit about, in order to do my degree in a subject I had lost all my previous passion for.

This confusing and draining state of just continuing to push went on for a few months, and I somehow made it into the sixth semester, with almost all my left-over willpower and what little energy there still was in my tired bones, having faded to the barest of minimums. I mean, I took one of my law exams on the very last try because I just hadn’t managed to get out of bed for all those 8am lectures, therefore loosing one of the three tries I had, not having studied enough to go the second one and then found myself sitting at the third try, secretly wishing to just fail so I could drop out, curl into a ball and sleep for a year.

You know, just your casual university breakdown.

Only that I was still violently denying that that was exactly what had been happening for the last semester. I didn’t want to admit it but ... I was breaking down. Not in a plane-crash-and-burn kind of way but more in a Titanic way, where I underestimated the ice berg that was my impending life crisis and then spend ages ignoring the fact that I was slowly but certainly sinking further into my demise. Okay, that comparison was in poor taste, I apologize. I’ll tune it back on the drama again.

I knew I needed help. Someone to talk to and figure out what the hell was causing my anxiety, panic attacks and insomnia. But I kept telling myself that I just had to push a little more until I wrote my thesis and finished university and then, then I would deal with all my issues. I just needed to keep going and do this first, just a little longer, just until I got my degree. Now was not the time, okay? I was still busy, and if those damn issues could see that and wait for another second, God damn it, why won’t my brain just let me finish this first.

Ding-dong. 

Can you hear that? That’s right. It’s the burn-out, ringing my doorbell.

And it didn’t wait for me to ask for it to come in. Burn-outs usually never do. And neither did any of my other problems. I had kept them at bay long enough, but the tide still came.

Because if we think back to my cupboard metaphor in my post about panic attacks and anxiety: Once that door opens, it all comes crashing down on top of you. In my case, this meant that I found myself amidst mountains of thesis literature, having nothing left to do but that one, single task of writing my final academic paper, before I finally got to be free of this horrid course, that I had apparently wasted the last three years of my life on.

I knew I had more than enough time left to write my thesis. I liked my topic. I had all the books. All the plans. All of it. Right there. Just write it. Just fucking start typing. Just– 

Just sit at the library every day, staring at the cursor on the page, blinking, reminding you of the emptiness of the document before you, and the even bigger emptiness in your chest. It blinks, like it’s trying to mock you and with every second that passes, every other minute of not writing, just sitting and staring, it mocks you more and that emptiness gets bigger. 

I don’t want this to turn into a pretentious short story, but this was what it felt like. I would open my laptop every day, ready to work, and then just proceed to stare at it for hours on end, until all of a sudden, the sun had started to set again and the day would be over. I’d go to bed, rinse and repeat, and do it all over again the next day. Still having my panic attacks. Still not sleeping. Still thinking that it was all going to be fine if I just kept trying and kept pushing.

Needless to say, I didn’t hand in my thesis on the first try. But hey, a lot of people don’t! Hell, even most of my class mates didn’t. So, it’s okay, mum and dad, friends and family, I’m fine! I just need to put more work in and make it better, so I can hand in a well-researched paper. I just need more time.

More time.

Time, that I would spend opening my laptop, every day, ready to work, and then just proceed to stare at it for hours on end until all of a sudden, the sun had started to set again and the day would be over. I’d go to bed, rinse and repeat, and do it all over again the next day. Still having my panic attacks. Still not sleeping. Still thinking that it was all going to be fine if I just kept trying and kept pushing.

I just. Needed. More. Time.

As you can probably guess, I also didn’t hand in my thesis the second time around. And when the deadline for the third and last chance to hand it in and get my degree came around ... well, I just accepted my defeat.

It had come to a point where even my delusional ass had started to realize that something was clearly wrong. Like, completely, utterly wrong. I had kept pushing, no, kicking my problems in front of me like a kid kicks a football while walking to the playground, pretending that if I just dragged them with me long enough, I could maybe outrun them and finish what I wanted to finish before finally dealing with them. But after an entire year of doing that, even I had to admit that that wasn’t going to work.

It never had and it never would. And finally accepting that, was as painful as it was freeing, in a way. There was something about knowing that I had hit my breaking point, that had a strange sense of relief to it. I don’t want to romanticize any of what happened to me just for the sake of story telling. But I remember feeling like by hitting my first ever rock bottom, I was now at the point where, as they like to say, the only way was up.

Right?

Right.

Well, kind of. Not really. But that’s for another post to tell, for now let’s continue with the therapy journey.

Don’t get me wrong, even though my stubborn head and me had finally accepted that it had gotten to a point where I had no excuses left to make, I still felt like an absolute cliché for having become one of the people who have a nervous breakdown in their twenties because their dream of a perfectly planned life hadn’t worked out exactly how they had wanted it to. What a big, privileged crybaby I was. Or at least, that’s what a part of me thought. 

But I kind of knew back then, and most definitely know now, that no matter how cliché or silly you feel for not being able to “fix” your problems by yourself, there lies absolutely no weakness or failure in admitting that you need someone else to help you with it. Quite the contrary is the case: it’s probably one of the bravest things you can do in life. And I know that in comparison to what other people might have gone through, my own issues might have just been a speck of dust in the universe. But to me, they were the ice berg that got my ship to sink. And that is exactly why your own problems are never invalid or “too small” to work on. Because while they might not seem like real problems (whatever the fuck that means) to society, your parents (we’ll talk about that one another time as well, yikes) or anyone else who clearly hasn’t gotten their priorities right, they very much are real problems to you. 

And they were real problems to me, too.

So, after a year of what felt like beating a dead horse, I was finally ready to re-animate that horse, so I could move forward in life (horse metaphors, yes, Isa, that’s exactly what this blog still needed). I signed up for my first ever therapy assessment, got my first ever diagnosis and even joined a session of group therapy. The psychotherapist I had my assessment with, actually diagnosed me with anxiety and depression disorder, which kind of didn’t come as a big surprise to me, since those were the two things I had experienced literally all year. Still, hearing a medical professional say it out loud after having listened to my story, was a strange yet good feeling. For the first time, it felt like something I could grasp. It was no longer just a confusing and irritating thing that kept me awake at night and brain-dead during the day. It had a name, and even more importantly: It had a treatment.

Unfortunately, the place I signed up to had no free spots for one-on-one therapy yet, so, plot twist: This isn’t where my heavily praised and even more heavily featured therapist Kerstin comes in yet. Tricked you, didn’t I? (No, I literally tricked no one because if anyone even reads this blog, it’s my friends who already know exactly what happened so really, who am I kidding.) There’s still a lot of stuff that happened between me having my first ever assessment and receiving my first ever diagnosis, and me actually meeting my first ever personal therapist.

But, this blog post has already been going on for too long and I don’t want to get ahead of my own emotional work schedule. Plus, I’m once again pretty heavily dissociated at this point, so I think it’s best if I give it a rest for today and continue another time.

If there’s any kind of take away and conclusion for myself and anyone who might read this, it’s that no matter what all those doubtful voices in your head are saying: Your problems are valid. Your pain is worth recognizing and you should never compare it to those of others in order to down-play it or make yourself think that you’re not doing “bad enough” yet. There is no such thing as being ill or miserable enough. Whatever it is you’re struggling with, it’s worth taking a break and figuring it out. Because the movie Titanic might have been a cinematographic masterpiece, but in the end the ship still sank. And if there’s something that can help avoid that happening, someone you can talk to and that can help you get better (and there always is) – you should do it, because it’s the least that you deserve.