#I wrote this when I should've been working which is why it's a long rambling mess of thoughts

[wordybee]

Leverage does a phenomenal job with consistent character development across all episodes barring a few exceptions (*cough*French Connection Job*cough*) but they really deserve bonus kudos for Parker. Parker is a stand-out example of good character development without sacrificing the elements of a character that make them great.

Parker starts out as a quirky super thief with an occasional cutthroat lone wolf attitude that seems, frankly, strange in hindsight. Moments in the pilot like drawing a gun and saying “That makes me cry inside my special, angry place” is not Parker language we recognize from her at any other point during the series run. The closest we get is her jaunty “Bye, now!” when she’s a few moments away from throwing Tara Cole off the roof of a building, but that’s still not quite as affected as the “special, angry place” line, which really sounds more like she’s mimicking something she’s seen elsewhere.

And what might have been a scene in which writers new to these characters were trying to find their footing but slipping a bit becomes a moment of genius when you realize that a core aspect of Parker is that she is mimicking the people around her, all the time. She doesn’t have a good enough hold on social norms to respond confidently to situations without using others as a blueprint. We see it constantly throughout the show, where she questions whether something is supposed to be funny, or “hot”, or creepy, and it becomes retroactively clear that her “special, angry place” line is terminology she likely got from someone in her past.

Leverage effortlessly portrayed Parker’s growth as stemming from her exposure to the other members of the team. Sophie is probably her most formal teacher of socialization, since Parker asks her directly about what to do in certain situations. She learns human connection more naturally from Hardison, who also helps by reassuring her that she is not broken, not crazy, and there is nothing fundamentally wrong with her. Parker recognizes an innate goodness in Hardison and tries to mimic it while Sophie gives more specific direction. From Eliot, Parker learns that the things that make her different aren’t necessarily bad and can in fact benefit the rest of the team. And the way Nate affects Parker might be the most interesting, since it’s clear from the start that Parker observes Nate’s methodology and approach to jobs — they collaborate on plans, he tests her, and his influence takes her from the loner she was before meeting the team to the leader of the team when Nate and Sophie retire.

The team members other than Parker are fairly set throughout the original series run. There are moments of growth and learning (Sophie and her sense of identity, Nate and everything going on in his head, Hardison and his strengths/weaknesses and generally growing up, Eliot and wrestling with his past) but they are primarily the same core people from beginning to end. 

No one experiences as dramatic a shift as Parker, who goes from being so removed from humanity that she doesn’t understand why anyone would be upset by death/dying, to wanting to understand that concept and throw herself into it, to embracing empathy and understanding around grief especially and kind of becoming a secondary emotional core (Hardison is, of course, the primary emotional core of the group). That's amazing growth, portrayed subtly but consistently over the course of the original series while the writers "show their work" the entire way.

And the best thing is, she never loses her quirkiness. She never becomes less weird or less Parker, she just evolves into a greater version of Parker. That’s the key to excellent character development: leaving room for growth and evolution but sustaining the character in the same way actual people might change and grow but remain, ultimately, themselves. Leverage manages that beautifully and it’s a remarkable, remarkable thing.

[on-partiality]

Hi, I’ve been curious about Hercules Mulligan’s inclusion in the Rev Set ever since I have seen posts saying that one of the other aids like Meade and Tilgman or Tallmadge (if Herc was added solely for spy stuff) would have been a better choice. Id love to hear your thoughts on this.

Also, (terribly sorry if this insults any Mullette shippers) but do you know why people ship Mullette? (Correct me if I’m wrong) but these two have had zero historical relations. In addition, I don’t remember from the last time I saw musical but if you do, what was Laf and Herc’s relationship onstage?

So sorry about this super long ask. I just felt like you would be the best person to ask. Tysm and I hope you have a wonderful day!😊

Aw, this is such a cool question! And you're really nice, anon! I wish you the best! I would also like to make it very clear right now to anyone else who wants to send me a long ask. I love long asks. They give me more to ramble about!

When I was first getting into studying the real history behind the musical two years ago, this same thing confused me heaps. Mainly because we have no proof that Lafayette or Laurens ever even met Mulligan, let alone became good friends with him and he wasn't particularly close to Hamilton either for most of the war (I mean, in the continental army, he would've barely seen Hamilton, and the other aides would have been around him all day). Hamilton lived with him when he was in college, and they got along really well, had fun late-night conversations, just overall were great friends who influenced eachother in positive ways and Mulligan's chats with him definitely made young Hamilton more enthusiastic about the revolutionary cause. Additionally, Hercules Mulligan was part of his artillery company, The Hearts Of Oak or the Corsicans - Mulligan's the whole reason why we know the story of 18 year old Hamilton stealing British cannons with his volunteers is because of the recount of that night that Mulligan later wrote - however, for the rest of the war they just didn't interact with one another much.

They had their separate jobs, and they did them well. Hamilton was confined to his own quaters and the aide-de-camp tent, Mulligan was hanging around British camps and the battlefield doing exactly what Hamilton wanted to do. The relationship between the two was completely different from how Hamilton, Laurens, and Lafayette were through most of the war. Working together, seeing each other just about every other day, creating the same drafts and plans; Especially Laurens and Hamilton as Lafayette got some more 'exciting' jobs because of his rank as a Major General. But out of the bunch, Mulligan really sticks out like a sore thumb, historically the group was called the gay trio and for a good 3 quaters of the war it was just them all together. So why on earth would Lin Manuel Miranda add a fourth to the trio? It very well could be that like you said, he wanted everyone in the main group to have a different role that was integral to how the Continental army ran (Lafayette commanding, Hamilton writing, Laurens battling (?) and Mulligan spying) but I ended up reaching the conclusion that because the musical starts in 1776 while Hamilton was still in college - in the musical at least, presumably, but because of the way events are swapped around with eachother and happen at all the wrong times it's a bit difficult to tell what time things happened in the musical like I believe that when it starts Hamilton's meant to be in college and not yet a soldier however Hamilton left college to make his militia thing in 1775 and he stole the cannons in 1775 however the musical shows this happening after Aaron Burr, Sir and at the start if that song they make it very clear that it's meant to be 1776 which also means that Hamilton and Mulligan should've already known each other, I digress, I could ramble about how the way the musical timeline is makes no sense for years - , they wanted to show someone who was really important to him at that age, and they just kept him with the group for the rest of the show to avoid confusion as to why he disappeared or so that they wouldn't have to introduce another character (like why they used Jefferson instead of Monroe for the Reynolds pamphlet).

I don't know about using Tallmadge as a substitute though, given that I haven't read of any interactions between him and Hamilton or him and Laurens historically, I haven't read of any between him and Lafayette either, but it seems more likely that they would've spoken given Lafayette's position as a major general. It's entirely possible that the trio had heard of him but never actually met him given that I believe that I read somewhere that the whole trio knew of the Culper Spy Ring and a lot of what they would've heard to do with the Culper Spy Ring would have related to Benjamin Tallmadge in some way or other because he was the co-founder of the group. Meade and Tilghman would be good to swap Mulligan for, but then it doesn't make sense that he was talking to them in college (although Laurens and Lafayette didn't meet Hamilton when he was 19 either and like I mentioned earlier, Mulligan should have already known him so with the logic of the Hamilton musical they could be in the main group, yes). If my theory is correct then it would make sense why none of the more historically accurate quadrios were chosen, if they wanted someone who was close to Hamilton in his college years who still fought in the revolutionary war; then Mulligan would've been a great fit.

I'm going to guess that Mullette is one of those ships where people went, 'Hmm, I have ships for every other character but these too, and they seem close enough (in the musical that is), so I'll pair them together!'. Y'know, one of those pair-the-spares kind of things that people who are really into shipping do. Additionally. I believe you're correct; it has to have been an 100% musical fandom ship originally because if there was even just a little bit of historical evidence to back it up, then we'd know for a fact that Lafayette and Mulligan knew each other. Oh, and as someone who has seen the musical rather recently (late may last year) in the show, Lafayette and Mulligan didn't interact much, but they did come across as good friends and for some very creative people, those crumbs of interactions are enough to develop whole stories and relationships and I applaud those people, the way they create so much out of so little is amazing. Personally, I don't like any ships that don't have even a semblance of historical backing because I'm definitely an amrev fan before I'm a Hamilton musical fan (I still love the musical, I just value the real history more). People can like what they like though; I won't judge.

I'll always think Mullette's funny because here in Australia recently it's become a trend again for young boys and men to get mullets and I can't read the name without thinking of some crazy looking mullets that I've seen. Thanks for the ask, Anon! It was super fun to answer :D

Sincerely,

O-P/Milly

(I apologise if I come across as rude, I've struggled with tones my whole life)

[the-sun-and-the-sea]

I have just read your fic 'Dulce et Decorum Est' and I am absolutely losing my shit. This is a work of art, that's the only way I can explain it. I was absolutely sobbing through most of it lol.

I absolutely love how you wrote Ada, including the little parallels to Rue (both cared for Katniss/Finnick even when they were passed out for days, both used a trap involving fire etc.). It got me imagining what sort of speech Finnick would give on his victory tour after, specifically when faced with Ada's family. Also omg the bit towards the end where though he didn't have to kill Corrinne, he still blames himself because Sigrid was angry at him, I am crying.

Another thing, I think it makes perfect sense that Finnick was trained to be a victor but was reaped earlier than he should've been! I never would've thought of that, but even in catching fire, he has some skills that seem more taught over time rather than learned hands on in the arena.

Sorry for the long ass paragraph, I just wanted to let you know how much I love this fic and how well written and emotional it is. I don't cry much but this fic got me lol.

Hi, thank you so much for sharing your thoughts! It's so incredible to hear how my stories resonate with people and I am always down to talk about them. If you don't mind a bit of a ramble, I'd like to talk about how this fic was created. (I put it under the cut because it ended up being long - I just love this fic and want to talk about it!)

So I've been writing about Finnick and Annie for over three years, but I've never really touched on Finnick's Games, partially because I hadn't been super interested and partially because it was a situation I couldn't make a lot of sense out of. How did he end up in the arena at fourteen? More importantly, how did he actually win?

The scenario I present in the fic makes the most sense to me and honestly it's the only way I see it now. I definitely feel like he's a Career, but that doesn't account for him going in so young. But him being reaped (along with being fourteen) is what allows him to fly under the radar, with his opponents not taking him seriously until it's too late. It's a logical but unfortunate progression of events, but here we are.

Crafting Finnick's Games took a lot of thought because I didn't want to get it wrong. And I know we have basically no canon information on his Games, so actually violating canon would be pretty hard to do. I just felt such a connection to the character and his story that I wanted to present everything—from the reaping until the time he goes home—in a way that felt true, organic, and did his story justice. That's probably also why I took so long to actually write his Games; I wanted to get it just right.

I love the arena itself, and again, it needed to be the perfect balance of advantageous for Finnick but not obviously so. Finnick's victory was partially riding on his opponents underestimating him, so he needed an arena that wouldn't make people target him immediately, but it needed to be something he could still work with. So that's what I tried to do, and I think that balance ended up being super important. Because winning the Games, for anyone, is about many factors. Everything has to line up just right, even for someone as skilled as Finnick. That victory could've been Sigrid's, or Corinne's, or anyone's. So I also had to spend a lot of time within the story proving why it was Finnick's.

His relationships with the other tributes became important to me because we know from canon that Finnick loves deeply and that his relationships are important to him. The few days he spends alone in the arena take a toll on him because he needs community, and he finds that again in Ada, which I loved exploring. Pretty much everyone who's commented on the fic has said they like Ada, and that makes me so happy to hear. I like her too.

You mentioned seeing Finnick's Victory Tour, and honestly I might continue in that direction. I've never explored Finnick at this point in his life but I found his youth here so interesting to work with, so I definitely might give the Tour a try! No promises but if I do continue, I will make sure to post it here on Tumblr.

The story is 18k words and I wrote it in about three days because it just absolutely consumed me a few weekends ago. I could not stop thinking about it and developing new ideas. Once I got the arena down it was smooth from there, because that arena ended up inspiring me so much. I loved the vibe of it, and how Finnick functioned within it.

I know you did not necessarily ask for this overenthusiastic explanation, but I do feel like I've been dying to share it, so I hope you don't mind. Thank you again for your kind words, they mean a lot to me!

[not-poignant]

I sent that long, rambling message to you a while ago about Underline the Blue. I wrote it when I was heavily sleep deprived and, honestly, should have at least slept on it before sending because of how crackpot it was, but thanks for replying to it.

It made me stop and think about a lot of relationships I had, and it recontextualized them. It’s been a lot to work through, but thanks again for a reply I didn’t know I needed.

Anon, I honestly think many of us have sent messages that we should've maybe slept on, god knows I've done it! (To the point where I now actually have a rule to sleep on certain asks before answering them, which I break like...a lot! :D It's a very human thing to do).

It sounds like there's a lot you've needed to look at that has been hard to look at, and sometimes we do that through characters and stories, because they give us permission to examine things through a character before we examine it through ourselves. It's one of the things I like most about fiction, and I'm glad the reply I could give offered something <333

I also think, honestly, that Underline the Blue is quite difficult for a lot of different reasons for a lot of readers, because Christian is such a very human abuser, and the kind of person who...many people have encountered versions of before. Likewise, Nate is the same. Nate thinks many things that I think many of us have thought versions of as well. He's a very human victim.

Efnisien on the other hand is an extremely exaggerated victim. We can still empathise with him and connect with him and relate to him, but the reality is none of us have been through what he's been through. That's the fantasy of the world itself, but it allows us to safely identify with him.

It's not always as safe to identify with characters like Nate, in some ways, it can feel very confrontational, or it can even be like 'this character rubs me the wrong way and I don't know why' etc. And sometimes that's 'oh...wait, I think...I've done this / have seen this in people around me / have felt this way / I've thought this way' (and sometimes you just don't like a character, lol).

Anyway, I'm rambling again! I wanted to say I'm glad you sent the ask that you did, the world of relating to fiction, especially trauma recovery fiction can be pretty intense! And while I can't always reply to everything, I'm glad I was able to reply to that, because sometimes it's pretty lonely to feel confronted or confused or unsure of something when you're reading, and I'm glad I can be here to help out. :)

[im-a-chunky-potato]

Im in a writing mood, so have a little thing I wrote for Fyolai! It's...certainly not happy though.

(Tw for suicide)

Dear Fedya,

Ah, it's been a while since we've talked now hasn't it? 2 weeks in fact, since I held your hand to my heart and said a sorrowful goodbye.

I know you'll never read this, but I just need to say some things before I go. I can't let everything I've done go to waste, but let me explain first.

I thought when you died, I'd finally be gifted my true freedom. With nobody to tie me down, perhaps then my heart could rest easy.

But I should've known you wouldn't make it that easy. How long had we been working together? And look at all we accomplished... how close we got to accomplishing your goals...and more importantly how close we we began to understand each other.

...though perhaps the last part is one sided. I never could understand you, but you could see me to my very core. It was terrifying certainly, and yet that was the first time.

The first time I fell in love with you.

Its all so clear now that you're gone. All the emotions that I believed were chaining me up, was simply my love for you. And now that you're gone, my heart aches even more.

These emotions, I can't escape them. The loneliness of this all, the need for someone to understand me as much as you did. Which is why, tonight I shall finally be free.

As I write this note, I stand atop the same place you died. Ironic is it not? There's still the blood stain from your hand, the scent of iron in the air. Seems no one could be bothered to clean it for you.

Of course, I will do that for you. You never were one for messes anyways...I even brought a few flowers. You would find it sappy, but I find it brings a sense of finality. The sense that there's nothing I can do, you really won't be back for me.

Oh dear, teardrops are getting on the paper...I'm sorry, I'm terribly sorry. I'm sorry for it all in fact. Perhaps there was something I could've done, something I should've said to change this outcome.

But alas, you don't need to worry for me. Tonight, I plan to join the birds in the sky, if not only for a second. My sinful heart is too heavy to allow for flight, so I shall plummet to the ground and crash.

You'll probably see this as weak, but what else can I do? I'm completely lost without you, a lamb without a shepard, as you would say.

...As I glance up at the stars, I can't help but wonder if you're still out there somewhere, laughing at me right now.

But, I'm rambling far too much, Fedya. This is out goodbye, the final act of our story together. What a shame we're finishing our story off as a tragedy...

Goodbye, Fedya. I loved you, so, so, much. Take my body as my final offering to you, the only thing I have left to give. And as I soar into the sky, know you'll be the only thing I think about, my final thought before I perform my finally trick.

Your best friend,

Nikolai Gogol.

[sofreddie]

Serendipitous Souls (Part 3)

Summary: Y/N reveals a bit more about herself as the clock winds down to midnight.

Characters: Dean x OC!Reader, Sam

Warnings: Angst, Fluff

Word Count: 1,581

A/N: Here's where some of the OC comes into play. Were working to the smut, I promise.

"Two hours," she heard Sam whisper to Dean as Sam glanced at his watch, "I think I'm gonna go lay down," he announced louder to the room, "Chuck twisting my insides really took it out of me," he chuckled, rising from his seat and tucking in the chair. Dean nodded in response, his mind too preoccupied with his own situation.

"And, Y/N?" Sam said, stopping and turning his attention to her with a genuine smile, "Thank you. For saving my life," he said with all sincerity and it made her heart clench. She didn't feel like she had done anything. But in retrospect, she supposed she had.

"You're welcome," she responded with her own soft smile. Sam nodded before heading to his room, leaving the pair in awkward silence.

Y/N sighed, her gaze falling to her hands as she fidgeted with the new ring on her finger.

"Have you ever been married before?" Dean asks.

"I have," she nodded, "Didn't end well though."

"I'm sorry," Dean responded. She merely shrugged in response, "Any kids?"

"Uh, no," she said, meeting his eyes as she flashed him a small smile, "He left because we had trouble conceiving," she huffed a laugh, "But I guess that's not going to be an issue now."

"I feel like everything I say is the wrong thing," Dean confessed defeatedly.

"No, it's fine, really," she finally relaxed, shifting back into her chair like she was ready to settle into the conversation, "They're standard 'get-to-know-you' questions. I just have shitty answers," she smirked at him.

"Mine aren't much better."

"I know."

"Yeah, I guess you do," Dean said with a furrowed brow, remembering she's a fan, of the TV show, about their lives. He shifted in his seat, a look of deep thought crossing his features, "So then I guess you know a lot about us then, right? What we do, how we live, who we are?"

"Well, tell me about you then," Dean shook it off and decided that regardless of how he felt about that information, he couldn't be upset about it. She may be a fan, but she wasn't like Becky, which he was grateful for. For starters, she wasn't squealing with excitement or trying to rub all up on either of them. If anything she was distant and trying to avoid or pull away from touch as much as possible. He supposed she still could be like that. But he just didn't feel like she was.

"Uh, well," she laughs and blushes and Dean thinks he likes the sound and look of that. It's such a stark contrast to the somber mood they've been experiencing, "Actually, it's kinda of funny-not-funny, but, uh," she chuckles again, this time seemingly embarrassed and Dean's chest feels warm, "I always felt that your existence-slash-nonexistence was like some big cosmic joke. A-and it turns out it really is!"

She's full-on laughing now and Dean's pretty sure it's a mix of the alcohol and a few hysterics. He reaches a hand across the table, resting it atop one of hers in an attempt to ground her.

"Why is it a joke?" Of all the things she could've said, that's certainly not one he expected. A joke? How could it possibly be a joke?! He remains calm and holds her gaze when she raises her head to meet his eyes. She sighs heavily and pouts and his eyes flit to her lips before quickly going back to her eyes.

"Because," she half-groans, half-whines, slumping back into her chair and removing herself from his touch. He kind of misses the feel of her already. She groans and a series of expressions cross her face and Dean realizes he can read that look. That look says 'let's rip off this bandaid and get it over with'.

"Because, my whole life I've felt so alone, so misunderstood, so out of place," she began. And all Dean can think is, 'Yeah, 'cause you were supposed to be with me'. "I'm the oldest sibling," she starts and Dean thinks he sees where this is going, "My sister? Is four years younger than me. Just like Sam is to you. And me too, by the way. I was born about seven months after Sam," she says with a light blush and a shake of her head, getting herself back on track as she rambles. Dean thinks he likes listening to her talk, even if she is rambling. She's so animated and he's enjoying just quietly taking her all in.

"I also have a younger brother, who's a year younger than my sister," she took a deep breath and Dean's eyes trailed down her neck and to her heaving collarbone peeking out from the top of her shirt. He decided she had a very nice collarbone.

"Both my parents worked all the time, demanding jobs with long hours just to pay the bills. So I was left in charge of my siblings," Dean's eyes snapped to hers and he felt a deep empathy. That was a life experience he was all too familiar with. "I had to cook and clean and do chores and walk them to school and home again. I was this weird third parent to my siblings and this sort of peer to my parents. It was a weird in-between to live in," she complained with a pained expression. Dean wanted to smooth away the crease in her brow.

"There's life experiences that are so precise and unusual, but somehow we share those things in common. When I first watched the show and discovered you," she shook her head, that embarrassed blush returning and Dean realized it kissed her collarbone. He wondered how far it went. "I didn't like you at first," Dean frowned at that, "You were too pretty, too cocky, too 'devil-may-care'," she smirked, "But after you came back from-" she hesitated with a wary glance, "-you know- you were different. And I saw you different. There was somehow more to you, more revealed. So I watched more," she explained.

"And then I quickly realized: here's this person - who has been through the same things as me, the same unusual things that make me so different, so difficult to understand. Here's someone I've been looking for my whole life. Finally! Someone who could truly understand me," she smiled but it wasn't happy as her eyes were filled with tears, "A-and he's a fictional character. It was the most painful cosmic joke ever!"

Several tears fell from her eyes and trailed down her cheeks, dripping off her jaw and chin. She shook her head to come to her senses, quickly and roughly cleaning up her face with her hands and shirt.

He froze, processing her words and how broken she looked over the whole thing. For the life of him, he could only think to say one thing.

"Y/N," he rose from his chair and walked over to her, swinging her chair sideways and crouching in front of her, "I'm right here."

"What?" she mumbled, sniffing away the last of her tears as she looked down at him in confusion.

He shifted, kneeling between her parted legs and resting his hands on her knees.

"I get where you're coming from. And I know how you feel. I get it," he emphasized, squeezing her knees, "I don't know how all this is gonna go or play out," he sighed, shaking his head, "But I know we're in this together, forever," he held up his hand to show his ring before placing it back on her knee, "But if you feel like you need me, for whatever reason…I'm right here. I can be that for you."

"You don't have to," she tried to backtrack and Dean shook his head, moving closer into her and moving his hands to her lower back, keeping her close and focused on him.

"Beyond tonight, we don't have to be anything if that's what you really want," he offered, "But I figure, if we're in this anyway, then why not try?" he shrugged, "Maybe it'll work out and we can be happy. Maybe it won't and we find we're better as friends. I don't know. But I'm willing to find out."

"Just like that?" she was skeptical, but wishful all the same. He was a million times more attractive and distracting at close proximity. His eyes. They were a force of nature all their own and she knew - especially as a fangirl - that she should've seen it coming. But somehow - despite the comments from others who had gone to conventions or the fans who wrote fic after fic about his eyes in painstaking detail - she was not prepared for the depth and captivity of those intense eyes.

"You and I," he said, gesturing between them with one hand while the other remained on her back, "We literally share a soul. We are literally two pieces that make a whole," he chuckled and shook his head, a broad smile adorning his face and she felt her heart stutter and damn near stop for a few beats, "I have to believe that means something. I feel like it does. So I'll trust in that and see where it takes us."

She was surprised and amazed at his confidence, the surety of his statements and confessions. How could he be so okay with it? He so quickly resigned to this 'fate'.

She swallowed hard, very aware of his hands on her - respectfully, but still there.

Forevers:

@sis-tafics

@lyarr24

@calaofnoldor

@hobby27

@spnbaby-67

Dean Winchester:

@akshi8278

@jerkbitchidjitassbutt

Serendipitous Souls:

@brilovesdeanwinchester

@xhannahbananax03

@440mxs-wife

@crist1216

[anonymousdisaster]

Relax

A/N: once again, I wrote this when I was, what, ten? So, like... don't judge. Or do, I don't really care, actually. Gif isn't mine, y'all should know that. Also, this was originally meant to be posted on my other account, @thewalkingimagines , but, you know, cause I'm stupid, I accidentally posted it on here instead, and I'm too lazy to redo all of this stuffs and repost it over there. Anyway.

Genre: general fluff, but it starts out kinda angsty

Pairing: Steve Rogers (Captain America) x non gender specific!reader

Description: Steve comes back from a bad mission, and the reader (with powers similar to Jasper from Twilight) has to help him relax.

1942 words without A/N

~~

He hadn't been able to save all of them. He should have been able to save all of them. There had been children, *babies* even. And he hadn't been able to save them. He hadn't been able to get them all out of the building in time.

It had been a very long, and very hard mission. He had known it would be from the start, but he hadn't realized just how mentally damaging it couldn't been. He could still hear the screams of the victims still trapped inside of the burning building that he should've been able to save.

All he could think about was the people who had lost their lives, and the people who had lost loved ones, as he trudged into the elevator that would take him to his floor of the Avengers Tower. He didn't even bother to go to the debriefing that was held after the mission, he just headed towards his room in some desperate attempt to escape his pain and grief and stress.

 As he made his first step off of the elevator on his floor, he vaguely registered someone speaking to him.

"Mistah Rogers? Are you alright? Well, no, uh, of course you're not alright. I can feel what happened. Oh, I'm so sorry, Mistah Rogers."

The sweet, slanted voice of (name) (last name) broke through the somber fog that had seemed to wrap itself around his mind. He usually rather enjoyed the empath's ramblings, but right now their reading his emotions was not good. He had to keep up his hero façade, if he didn't, he might as well be walking away from himself. So in an attempt to get away from them, he just grunted and kept walking.

"Mistah Rogers? Hey, did you hear me?"

'Just go away, kid,' he thought to himself. He felt his emotional support beams snap just a moment before he rounded on the empath.

"You know, for somebody who has the literal ability to read peoples feelings and emotions, you sure can't tell when your presence isn't wanted, can you?!" He growled, his voice dangerously low. He didn't mean that, of course, he just couldn't deal with people right now. He saw a flash of hurt cut across their eyes at his words, but it quickly demolished and reformed into some odd form of understanding.

"Oh I'm... I'm sorry–I'll, uh, I'll just g-go now," they replied in a stuttered mumble, before scurrying towards the elevator. As he watched their heel disappear behind the metal doors, he almost reached out to tell them he didn't mean it; but the door was too fast, and before the words could escape his lips, the (your hair color) haired empath was gone from sight.

He let out an irritated sigh and ran a hand over his face, before about-facing, and continuing the trech to his room.

The second he kicked the door closed behind him, he was taking off his clothing and slipping into a pair of baggy sweat pants, and belly-flopping down onto his too-soft bed.

He just laid there a moment, feeling himself slip into that beautifully fuzzy haze of not-full-consciousness and not full sleep. Focusing on that and not the ache in his shoulders and back or the sound of screaming that still reverberating in his mind was probably why he didn't notice the soft knock that came to his door, or the click of the hinges as it was pushed open slightly to reveal the same (hair color) haired, (eye color) eyed person that he had nearly shouted at in the hallway only a few moments before. He should have been ashamed of his lack of vigilance, but in all honestly, thinking back on it later he would probably be glad he hadn't.

The empath carried a small bag that held several different items in it. Most of which Steve would deny ever using if he was ever asked outright. Everything from essential oils to lavender scented bath soaps were held in that bag.

~~~~~~~

They knew that Stevens previous explosion was not really aimed at them, he was only stressed and in desperate need of some well deserved R&R. They also knew that what they were about to do could get them yelled at by the super soldier, but they couldn't not help him. Part of being an empath was feeling someone else's pain as if it were one's own, and right now, all the pain and anger and grief that he felt was also within them. So their doing this for him was to help them almost as much.

Hesitantly, they reached out a trembling hand and placed it upon his bare sholder. At the initial contact he stiffened and sharply inhaled, but, as they released some of their power, he imediately began to calm down.

Another part of their power was the ability to manipulate other peoples emotions. It may not have been the coolest power, but, in times like this, they found it rather useful.

They removed their hand from his sholder just long enough to rub some essential oils and lotions onto their hands, before replacing them on his sholder and softly beginning to massage away the tension. His muscles were still so wound up from the mission that it took them a few moments to get through to his sore flesh, but the moment they did, he let out a small breathy groan that brought a small smile to their lips.

They worked their way all the way across his broad shoulders, and then down his back, all the way to the band of his low-riding sweatpants and back up to repeat the motion again in backwards order. Switching between soft kneading and harder circles with the heel of their small hand, continuing for the better part of an hour until his muscles were back to their previous limber flexibility.

They had noted some twenty minutes before that his groans and sighs of apriciation had morphed into soft snores and the rapid flow of rabid emotions that had cut though his consciousness before were now down to a minimum.

'Good,' they thought, 'its working.'

But now that they needed him to move, it could be possibly problematic. Gently, they moved up to his face and gingerly placed a pale hand upon it, shaking him slightly to wake him and whispered quietly.

"Hey, Mistah Rogers... he, I need you to roll over for me... Do you think you can, love?"

His beautiful blue eyes opened just a slit to see their face and he let out a rather loud, gutteral moan as he pushed himself to roll onto his back, his tired muscles not quite awake enough to push himself up with much grace, as he just kind of flopped over, one arm layed across his abdomen the other still trapped under his body. They gently pulled his arm from under his body, and layed the other straight beside him, before re-applying more lotions and returning to message his front side.

Again, they started at one shoulder and worked their way across to the other, then worked their way down his chest and stomach, then back up before going to his bicep and massaging down his arm, all the way to his hand, going back up, then repeating the action with his other arm.

They left him for a moment to go to his bathroom and start the bath. Taking the correct products from their bag, they began pouring in generous amounts of bath salts and bubbles as it filled.

They quickly went back into his bedroom and softly shook him back awake, careful not to be too harsh.

"Hey, there, Mistah Rogers, come on, I've got a bath running for you."

His eyes opened ever so slightly yet again to take in their face, and process what the (eye colored) eyed empath had said. With a groan, he pushed himself to a sitting position, and allowed them to pull him into the bathroom. Once there, they turned to him expectantly before blushing heavily and turning their back to him so he could slip out of his sweats. He was far too tired to be very embarrassed at the happenings as he gingerly climbed into the bath, using the bubbles as a sort of blanket to hide his, heh, "intimate area" from view.

As soon as they knew he was covered decently, they turned back with a washcloth and poured some soap onto it, scrubbing the foam into the rag to make it sudsy.

They bent and sat on their knees at the side of the tub, leaning forward and not hesitating to begin washing him with the utmost care.

~~~~~~~

The feeling of their rag covered hand scouring over his body gave him chills, he hadn't felt so well taken care of like this since before the serum, when his oldest freind would take care of him when he was sick. And, as much as he hated to admit it, it felt amazing. To be vulnerable to someone like this had an almost orgasmic quality to it. He let his head drop back onto the edge of the tub and closed his eyes, allowing himself to fully relax against their adept hands as they swept his body.

He felt the soft rag cross his shoulders, then down his arms, then accros his toned stomache, stopping before their hands dipped bellow the belt line and went down his legs, all the way down to his feet.

He felt as their unclothed hand moved down his arm and gently grabbed his wrist, pulling his hand above the waters bubbly surface and setting the wash rag in his hand. Wordlessly, they gestured to his groin area, asking him to wash himself while they left to get some dry towels.

He did as they had silently asked, and they returned quickly with two large, fluffy, white towels to dry him with. The empath helped him stand and step out of the bathtub, handing him one of the towels to dry his front while they patted dry his back.

He stood as still as he could on limbs that felt like jeletin as they finished drying him and helped him back into his sweat pants. Leading him back to his bed. They pulled back the bed spread and helped him lie down in a comfortable position.

They stayed like that for a few moment, just watching eachother, before (name) smiled a small smile, squeezed his hand, and turned to leave.

But their hand didn't leave his.

He held them back until they looked back down at him with curious  eyes.

"Thank you," they said simply. "and... call me Steve."

Their answer was just a kind smile and another soft squeeze to his hand. They tried yet again to move away from him, but again was stopped by him not releasing their hand. A small blush creaped onto his cheeks as he asked quietly:

"Would you, uh, would, would you mind staying with me, for tonight?" He quietly questioned.

Yet again their responding smile answered his question as they crawled down into the bed beside him. He turned towards the empath and they pulled him towards them, resting his head on their chest and reaching up to toy with his still slightly wet blonde hair.

It didn't take long for him to fall asleep in their embrace, and not much longer for them to follow suit. Their hand still buried in his soft hair.

Let's just say that it was the best night of sleep either of them had had in a very long time.

[thoughtdumpshitposts]

Emotional Breakdowns Lead To Passably Poetic Ramblings

26.06.21

word count: 2.15K

I never write because I need everything I write to be evocative. I need it to be painful. What's the point of writing something if the reader doesn't hurt? It hurt me to write this, and I hope it hurts you to read.

I've always imagined putting my thoughts into words, but I don't know if I want them to be on paper or my phone. Digital is easy, it's good, it's clean. It's easy to edit, to navigate, to save; it'll probably live on forever. It won't erode and disappear like the writing journal I had for six years, eaten away by the same termites who ate my entire closet from the inside. His name was Reggie, and he deserved better. I'd kept him safe in the closet, but I learnt too late that nothing was safe in the closet. Nothing physical, existing is ever safe from the World and it's beasts – Man or insect.

But paper is personal, it's real. It's beautiful. Sure, sometimes my brain and heart think of words faster than my hands can keep up, and the words are barely legible and my hand-writing's not pretty anyway, but that's the beauty of it. That's what makes it mine. But someone I know can stumble upon these words and read the truth of my existence. But maybe I want them to stumble upon it, one day. Maybe I want them to find my words and understand, really understand, who I was and what I am and what I kept locked up inside of me. That I wasn't some selfish, ill-mannered brat. That I really loved them, but sometimes it was hard. My mother always tells me no one can ever trust anyone but family, that even if she screams and shouts and scolds at first, at the end of the day she'll always have my back, and I know that's the truth.

But my cousin molested my other cousins and I, and she cried when she found out after years because she had to hear it from the other side of the family, and she cried because she'd told me so many times that she'll always have my back if something like that happened to me and she keeps saying family and family and family, and trust and trust and trust and how family is my parents and brothers and that's all we can ever trust but how do I tell her that the reason I said nothing when my cousin did it was because I was used to staying silent when my brother did? It's all so funny because I was blessed enough to have been born to parents who would never blame me for being abused in a society in which the blame- and shame-game is prevalent, but what do you do when the victim is your daughter and the abuser is your son – your firstborn, the first "nawasa" in the family, your pride and joy, the prince charming. You've loved him for seven more years than you've loved me. I understand. You don't deserve to suffer the truth. I saw how you were when you found out the truth about the cousin, I remember the things you said about family and trust. I know you have your own issues. You don't deserve to suffer. You don't. I love you all. So much. So so much. I won't let you suffer. I won't let you be the collateral to his sins. I'll protect you, and you'll never know.

And I'm okay, so why would I say anything? When we're happy and whole and great? Why would I say anything when I'm actually, genuinely fine and unaffected? Why would I ruin us? How could I say anything? And I'm fine, I really am. I'm okay. And I know my friends think I'm gaslighting myself when I say that I'm fine and it hasn't effected me much and it wasn't that bad because I was never actually physically hurt, but it's true. I'm used to laughing and loving the people I hate. I'm used to hating the people I love without an ounce of real hatred. I know what it sounds like, but it really isn't that way. It's okay. I'm okay, and no one should worry, even if sometimes I want everyone to worry. Even if sometimes I want everyone's pity and attention and love and sympathy, and I want them to hurt for me, like I hurt for the people I love. Sometimes I just want validation, I want people to know everything so they understand me. But everyone wants to be understood, so that's nothing special. I'm okay, and that is the only thing what matters.

I wasn't raped; I was molested. There's a difference.

I wasn't raped, and honestly I only remember a few instances with clarity. Everything else is a blur – it's all just snippets and flashes of memory spun together to make a vague, dramatic montage. But I wasn't ever physically hurt, and of course I know that it was still terrible and horrible and I didn't deserve it, but understand that it wasn't as bad as it sounds. I'm fine and genuinely, actually okay and I'm only affected when I have a mental breakdown, but that's almost always because I'm pms-ing. And it hasn't happened in a while now. It stopped. I think it's been four years? And it happened for five? six? I was 9 or 10 when it started? And he was 16 or 17? Okay, that – Oh, God oh fuck that sounds bad doesn't it? I'm 18. My younger brother is 10. I couldn't imagine– I can't. God.

But it actually wasn't as bad as it sounds. I was asleep – of course I wasn't asleep (but I think sometimes I must've been? I don't know) – but I was "asleep" when he did what he did. And he did do a lot, to be honest. His hands, everywhere on me. His mouth – everywhere. His–

Why is it so hard to write? I think it's harder to write than it is to think and speak of it.

But I don't know what happened to me. I don't know. I don't remember what happened. I wish I'd kept a better record, but I didn't. Oh, I remember a lot of things that happened, but I don't remember it all. I wish I did but I really don't. I wish I could read and revisit and do a shitty psychoanalysis of him. But I can't, and now he's the only one who knows what really happened, and I'll have to live with it.

There were no words. Never any words, never any pain. So again, I'm fine, and I'm okay. And he's great and fun and funny and I love him and I care about him and I'm always joking with him and he's a terrible person and I hate him and I wish I knew how his brain works and what he was thinking and still thinks and I'll never forgive him, but it's okay. It's really okay. As long as I was the only one who suffered. As long as I'm the only one who continues to suffer for my silence.

I think the only reason I still think about it so much is because I never got closure. I never got an explanation. I never understood why. I don't know if he's an irredeemable monster or if he at least feels guilty. I don't know what he was thinking, because there were never any words. And I'm glad there weren't any words and I was "asleep" because it makes it easier to interact with him and pretend it never happened, that it was someone else and everything's still okay.

But there were never any words, so I don't have anything to work with. Nothing to draw conclusions from, nothing to psychoanalyze him with. I don't know what he was thinking, I don't know what happened. I want closure, I want to understand. But I'm scared of whatever will lead up to the conversation, and the conversation itself. I'm scared of the acknowledgment and how it'll change everything irrevocably. I'm scared of getting closure, but I need it too. I need to understand.

Did you feel bad? Did you think of how it'll hurt me? Did it hurt you? Or were you indifferent to it all? Did you just not care or –fuck–was it some big joke? Was it funny? Was it amusing? Do you feel entitled to me? How fucking dare you? How could you? How fucking could you? You loved me. You were great to me, you still are sometimes. You're my big brother, man. I loved you. I love you. You were supposed to be my hero and I fucking swear to God you were. What the fuck happened to you? What made you this way? How could you do that to me? How could you do that and still look at me in the fucking eye? How? Why? I deserve to know.

But please don't tell me. I don't know what I'll do if I find out the extent of your monstrosity. I don't want you to fall even lower. I like to think you can't, but I know that's not true. Especially after what I learnt about Z- There's always room to fall.

But anyway – Reggie. I'd been brave enough to write a chapter of my life for the first time in that journal. It was the last story Reggie got to know. I'd never been brave enough to actually write about how I'd been hurt. I could never even write his name when I tried to make a record of what I went through – I was always smart (or sentimental?) enough to try and and keep a record, some proof, dated and organized. I was smart enough – but not brave. Maybe because my coping mechanism was pretending he was two different people, or maybe because writing it would make it real; I'd lived long enough without acknowledging it (even more so without understanding it), maybe if I ignored it long enough it would just go away. But the story I wrote in it wasn't even about that exactly. It was an older story; It was about how all of it might've been my fault. About how maybe I was always a fucked up child. But the story also brings me comfort – it reminds me that I've always been me, that the person I am today is because of the person I always was. That there was no influence that made me this way. I am what I was.

The termites consuming Reggie also reminded me of the old Islamic story about how the Boycott of Banu Hashim ended – the parchment holding the banishment declaration by the Meccans had been eaten by termites, except for the word Allah – the name of God. I thought it'd be interesting if this was God's way of sending me some message I have yet to decipher.

But I don't believe in God. Maybe life would've been easier if I did; if I could have found peace in He who I could not see, could not touch. If I could've found the same relief that my friends and family find in His words, His presence.

But I never felt His presence. I tried, I really did (maybe I didn't, maybe I should've tried harder?). During my last try, I made the resolution to offer all my prayers one Ramadan. I thought if I manage to nail down all the worship obligations, actual faith might follow somehow.

I lasted two days. I cried on the prayer mat during Fajr both times, like my mother does all the time, but I doubt it was for the same reasons as her, or lead to the same result. I did not feel at peace, and I did not feel seen and heard by the Creator; I had never felt more alone, more abandoned. My heart did not feel a little less heavy; it had never felt heavier.

I cried because I was desperate the cycle wouldn't repeat. I wanted to believe there was someone who could make it stop, someone who could make sure that others didn't follow in his footsteps. It did stop, eventually. But I think that's just how it was supposed to be – not because some deity cared enough to make it stop. He doesn't care about us, but if you don't agree with that, I envy you. I wish I believed what you believe.

But I'm also glad I don't. So I will just exist, till one day I don't. And you won't remember me, and He won't care, and no one will greet me at the Gates of Heaven or throw me in the depths of Hell, because neither exist.

I hope.