Tired and drained, but I'm reading Charles Carrington again and having weird nostalgia feelings about it since it's been 20 years since my first First World War phase. Back in the day I read Soldier from the Wars Returning (1965), and also Carrington's 1929 memoir A Subaltern's War. My memories are intertwined with thoughts of the charming library in my home town (and Rhode Island's superior public library system); and I wish I could remember who wrote the interesting book about Vimy Ridge.

I was reading Carrington in pre-YouTube days, and it's wild to find television interviews with him. He lived until 1990! I love his "voice" in his books, and his actual speaking voice is also out there. I didn't quite appreciate this before, but Carrington is pretty much the Opposite of the sad gay poets with complicated feelings about nationalism, as WWI veterans go, and his memoir is one endless pacifists DNI, The Boche DNI, historians who don't like Douglas Haig DNI,

I’ve seen a lot of complaints about the Empire’s assault on the Path in Obi-Wan, harping about everything from how inaccurate the stormtroopers were, how stupid their formation was, how “hysterical” (🙄)Third Sister sounded yelling at them to keep moving forward. You know, the kind of insightful criticism one expects from a Youtube comment section.

Because all those comments completely miss the entire point of this scene.

Maybe I’m just weird, but was anyone else as shook watching this as I was? When a stormtrooper went down, the camera focused on that stormtrooper, just for a second or two. That’s never happened before. One of a dozen identical troopers is shot, falls hard the the ground, and we get a close-up on the blank Imperial mask while his comrades just walk over him without even slowing.

I actually pitied the stormtroopers, watching this.

Because that‘s the Empire. No clever tactics, no military strategy beyond brute force. Just a wall of white armor and red blasters steadily advancing, slowly overwhelming the desperate, outnumbered, terrified people trying and failing to hold back the tide.

Why waste time with subtlety when you can just crush everything in your path? Why bother trying to minimize casualties when you can easily replace your losses? It’s such an effective terror tactic, because if you shoot one, there’s another half-dozen identical, disposable soldiers to take their place. And the stormtroopers are just as unaffected by one of their own going down, because in the chaos of battle they’d have no idea who just got blasted in front of them; they’re as faceless and anonymous to each other as they are to the rebels.

With just a few clever cuts and camera angles, Obi-Wan made me terrified of the Empire.

"Like all foreigners, the Jewish settlers sailed first to Alexandria, took a ferry to Jaffa, and were taken ashore by small boats. This mundane arrival at the shore appears in the settlers’ statements as aggressive and alien treatment: ‘Aravim Hetikifu Ottanu’ – ‘the Arabs assaulted us’ – is the phrase used to describe the simple act of Palestinian boys helping settlers to small boats on the way to Jaffa; they shouted because the waves were high and asked for baksheesh [tips] because this was how they managed to live. But in the settlers’ narrative they were assailants. Noise, presumably a normal feature of life in the Jewish townships of Eastern Europe, becomes menacing when produced by Palestinian women wailing in the traditional salute of joy to the sailors returning safely home. For the settlers this was the behaviour of savages, ‘with fiery eyes and a strange garroted language.’ Whether the topic is their language, their dress or their animals, reports back to Europe concerning the Palestinians were all about unpleasantness and weirdness. ... Again and again, Zionist settlers behaved as a people who had been insulted – either objectively in the form of a physical attack, but more often simply by the very presence of Palestinians in Palestine. ... The Zionist settlers instituted retaliation for ‘theft’, which was how they characterised the rural tradition of cultivating state land, a practice that was legal under Ottoman law. Picking fruit from roadside orchards became an act of robbery only after Zionism took over the land. The words shoded (robber) and rozeach (murderer) were flung about with ease when Palestinians involved in such acts were described. After 1948 these terms would be replaced with ‘terrorist’ and ‘saboteur’. ... Cleansing the land of its farmers and tenants was done at first through meeting in the Zionist madafa and then by force of eviction in Mandatory times. The ‘good’ Palestinians were those who came to the madafa and allowed themselves to be evicted. Those who refused were branded robbers and murderers. Even Palestinians with whom the settlers sometimes shared ownership of horses or long hours of guard duty were transformed into villains once they refused eviction. Later on, wherever Israelis would control the lives of Palestinians, such a refusal to collaborate would be the ultimate proof for Palestinian choice of the terrorist option as a way of life. ... Following the 1967 war ... both Israeli academics and Israeli media commonly used the term ‘terrorism’ when referring to any kind of Palestinian political, social and cultural activity. ‘Palestinian terrorism’ was depicted as having been present from the very beginning of the Zionist project in Palestine and still being there when academic research into it began in earnest. This characterisation was so comprehensive and airtight that it assigned almost every chapter in Palestinian history to the domain of ‘terrorism’ and absolved hardly any of the organisations and personalities that made up the Palestinian national movement from the accusation of being terrorists."

Ilan Pappé, The Idea of Israel: A History of Power and Knowledge (2014)

Hi i just went through your entire blog and now im having intense sagau zhongli brainrot hafjdjhdjexhsn imagine sagau zhongli worshiping fem readers chest for hours *dies*

(lying) I am so normal about boobs and Zhongli… but Anon I Am Thinking So Hard (TT) His hands are so big, his fingers are so long… with only one hand he’s able to cup your boobs (and if not then he does his best, just completely enthralled with the way some of your fat leaks from between his fingers and outside of the confines of his greedy hands) and just… squeezes while he uses his mouth on the other one, licking and kissing you until you’re sensitive from his textured (and forked) tongue… I am so okay and sane about this.

Pairing: Afab! Reader (heavily implied ; no mentions of anything other than boobs (size not specified)) x Zhongli!

Warning: Yandere, Sagau, God-like reader, cult-like behavior, obsessive and possessive thoughts, n//sft (not explicit), groping & kissing & sucking, chest/boob worship, reader is implied to be bedded by multiple characters, implied murderer (or willingness to commit), cocky Morax makes an appearance, forked tongue and cold blooded Zhongli nation rise; ask to tag!

Word Count: 2k

Zhongli’s hands are, unlike most people would be led to believe, slightly colder than the average being’s. Due to his connection to the Geo element and most natural stone’s cold temperatures, it isn’t surprising that beneath his gloves lay hands that felt smooth and chilly to the touch.

It was one of your initial observations when you first felt his un-gloved hand make contact with your own. It had taken a lot of sugary words of affirmation that he would not hurt nor taint you if he touched you with his bare hands, he’d convinced himself that you were as fragile as the carving made of crystals that’d he’d crafted, Zhongli had always feared that he may be still too much of a brute to handle you without breaking.

The feeling sent shivers up your spine, you wouldn’t quite know how to describe it, his touch was light as a feather but as imposing as the Archon’s presence, it was akin to the feeling of marble beneath bare feet, smooth and pleasant yet chilly.

His hands are also, much to no one’s surprise, slightly calloused, but not as much as you’d expect for a being once known as the God of War. The tip of his fingers were slightly thicker, as was the palm of his hand, probably from the way he gripped his weapon and the amount of times he found himself doing so. After millenia of wielding all manners of tools, it was impossible his hands didn’t tell the story as well.

Even so, his hands still managed to feel soft as they traveled across your skin. They glided across your body, up through your arms and across your collarbone; the ethereal touch leaves your skin tingling with desire and anticipation, eyes transfixed with the enchanting smile that graced Zhongli’s handsome features as he allowed his hands to wander across your bare skin, even though you were the one on the receiving end, it truly seemed as if Zhongli were the one enjoying it the most. His body relaxed, shoulders loosen, he looked at peace. His long hair let loose, his clothes replaced by silken robes that hung from his frame lazily, he was the picture of serenity and earthly bliss.

The first time you’d seen him he had been so terribly nervous, a sight completely unlike the one you’d come to know across your screen, his posture was stiff, his words felt rehearsed, and you were certain you heard a relieved sigh once he finished introducing himself; you’d later come to know it was due to a crumbling feeling of anxiety and fear of upsetting you. He may be one of the oldest of your acolytes but it was perhaps that very fact that weighed heavily on his shoulders, he had to be the best, the most knowledgeable, the most befitting servant of a deity such as yourself.

To be completely honest, had you not experienced the absolute madness that it was to be sent into a world you’d once thought fictitious and later been told you were a deity revered by the Gods of this world themselves, the mere thought of a man like Zhongli, a being who’d witnessed millenia pass him, who’d met Gods of times long since gone, nervously reciting a greeting in the mirror in preparation of meeting the likes of you would have been a comedy like no other.

However, many moon cycles had now passed and you’d learned that not only had you unknowingly become a God in a world you’d once played with but that Zhongli, the man in front of you right now, was perhaps one of your biggest devotees.

And prove his devotion he shall.

It’d become a ritual for certain acolytes, the ones of age and who bore a Vision, to engage in more physical forms of worship now that you resided with them in the same physical plane. Not all of them took part in the process, some believing it to be sacrilegious to even so much as think of you in such a lewd manner, but the ones who did fought tooth and nail to be allowed a fraction of your time and grace.

Tonight, as you lay in one of Liyue Harbor’s most exquisite hotels, it was Zhongli’s turn.

Every “worshiping session” he’d dedicate himself to a new part of your body and tonight’s focus was on your chest.

He’d been so careful in peeling off your garments, making sure not to be too rough – as in his excited state he’d sometimes miscalculate his own strength – or too hasty, wanting to savor the moment your breasts finally revealed themselves to his greedy eyes.

Once they finally are free, he lowers his hands to cup one in each, allowing himself to play with them, all while squeezing and pinching at the fat until the skin turns sensitive, he was never rough, never trying to hurt you, but he couldn’t help the thoughts of simply digging his nails a little deeper to leave a more lasting mark for the next “follower” of yours to find. However, the thought of your pained whines managed to reel him in, for now.

While he uses his hands to massage the general area, his thumbs come and lay above your nipples, making sure to circle the areola, allowing your breasts to process the touch and slowly harden your nipples without him touching them directly. He lets the tip of his fingers trace the spot, teasingly hovering them above your perked nipples before going back to knead your breasts.

You’re panting ever so slightly, the feeling of your breasts being used in such a way sends small waves of pleasure straight into your clit, it leaves you trying desperately to create some sort of friction between your legs. The man above you notices and chuckles, finally giving in to your soft movements of desperation and allowing himself to play with your nipples properly. He takes the hardening nub in between his thumb and index, slowly pinching and pulling at the skin, rubbing your other breasts as lewdly gropes the fat.

“Mhmm…” You whine, bucking your chest into his hands in an attempt to incite more. You bring your hands to meet his own and start instructing them into squeezing your chest tighter and faster, switching between tugging and pinching, kneading and softly-scratching.

“Mh’m, like that?” He chuckles, allowing himself to be guided, only applying pressure every once in a while, teasing your desperate behavior.

“Do more,” you mumble between soft pants, he’s teasing you - purposefully setting a slow pace that has you wanting more - so you decide that the only logical way to get him to stop is by teasing him back, in such a way that he has no choice but to give in and finally drop his frustrating game, “I know you’re better than this, Morax.”

“… Oh?” His expression turns into one of shock and later amusement, almost taken off guard at your words; but he knows His Idol, he knows how much you enjoy playing with him, riling him up until he loses his restraint and gives into his more primal desires.

His eyes darken, his eyelids fluttering and eyebrows turning in amusement, a grin – no, smirk – more akin to that of his younger self takes over, while his golden eyes seem to take an unnatural glow. He leans forward, fully engulfing your body with his own, until his head meets your breasts and you can feel his hot breath against your skin.

“I wouldn’t have thought your excellency to be so greedy,” he chuckles, the warmth he lets out makes you shiver, his hands trace the sides of your breasts while he begins to plant open kisses into your flesh, “mhm… ‘so needy, my love, have the others not been serving you as well as me?”

You groan as you feel him begin to suck at your tits, his tongue poking out and leaving glistening trails of his drool across your skin, it’s gentle, his forked-tongue barely touches your flesh but the ghost of its presence is enough to give you goosebumps.

Zhongli’s mouth occupied itself with your right breast as his hands worked on your left, while he playfully bit and kissed you he made sure to keep stimulating you as much as possible, his hands molded your skin, squeezing and caressing every bit of flesh his palm made contact with. His open-mouthed kisses slow down as he approaches your nipples, he takes his time - making sure to softly graze you with his sharp teeth, making sure to tease you as much as possible while never quite stopping.

Your eyes never once left his, it was overwhelming, as most things were with Zhongli, the pleasure paired with his intense gaze as he made sure to commit every expression of yours to memory would have made anybody flustered.

He laughs but it’s not mocking, his eyes glaze over while he makes a show of finally getting around to sucking on your perked up nipple, he stares at you - as if daring you to look away - while his lips finally latch onto that place you so desperately had wanted them, his cheeks are clearly flushed as he begins to flick at the nub with his tongue while sucking the spot.

Instinctively you arch your back but he quickly uses his own body to drag you down, he moves around a bit, as if trying to find the best position to latch onto you, desperately wanting to overtake your body and shield you from everything that wasn’t him.

His hand cups your breast even as he pulls away with a lewd “pop”, never letting your chest be without some form of stimulation, he licks at the areola, making sure to make a spectacle as his tongue travels across one breast to the other. He switches movement, kissing and sucking while still kneading and pulling. He’s never rough, never cruel in his touch, he’s always so delicate, making sure to treat you with the utmost care.

The feeling of his cool digits after having his warm breath on you is jarring but nevertheless pleasurable, you whine as your hands shoot up to cradle his hair, fingers finding their way onto his silky hair as you unconsciously pull him closer to your body.

He chokes on a moan, his eyes roll back slightly, if there was one thing Zhongli adored was the feeling of your hands pulling against his hair, it was one of those things he could never get enough of. The truth was that this session was fueled by his own selfish desires of being your most devoted lover, your only lover; if there was one thing in this universe he craved more than you was being the owner of the title of your beloved. He hoped that these special sessions between you two would prove that he truly was the only one worthy of such a title.

For who else could have you breaking so beautifully in their hands from pleasure alone? No one, he was the only being able to lure you into such earthly desires, he was sure of it.

His tongue on your nipple, playing with your beautiful body, his hands desperately gripping at your chest, all while he savored the proximity in which he was able to see you fall apart were blessing given to him and him alone, holy gifts from you to him, your ever so loyal servant, who dedicated his heart, soul, and body to you.

Even if you did not know how deeply the devotion he held for you went, you could tell from his aroused state, his never ending servitude, willing disposition, and obsession with pleasing you that you had, knowingly or not, enthralled a man who was now willing to do anything for you.

Just seeing you fall apart from him playing with your chest was enough to have him coming close to his peak, a ball of pleasure forming as he memorized the look of pleasure and bliss that took over your hazy features.

Your breathing is quick, your body feels hot and bothered, his touch is intoxicating, you want more of it and he wants more of you, you’re not able to even so much as forget who it is you’re with for everything he does is so clearly him; no one devoted themselves to you the same way Zhongli did and if there was such a person, he’d make sure to eliminate them before they became a problem.

sns is so fucking unhinged and nobody will ever be them i’m sorry. you start the series and it’s like oh haha look at these goofy angsty rivals! they hate each other! then sasuke dies for naruto thirty chapters in giving up his dream of revenge and naruto goes batshit insane. now you’re like ah they’re friends i guess that’s cute! and sasuke is trying to kill naruto because he’s the most important person in his life which is . ok and it becomes the driving force of everything or something. sasuke leaves and naruto dedicates the rest of his life to bringing him back and you’re still a casual fan so ur like he’s doing it for the promise right? then orochimaru says sasuke is his and naruto goes batshit insane feral homicidal (again) and after that sasuke reappears and they have ??? like five different panels dedicated to them staring at each other??? and he jumps off a mountain and hugs naruto for some reasons just to whisper some gay shit in his ear kishimoto frankly needs to be jailed drawing this and keep that best friend nonsense going. anyways. you have sasuke become a convicted terrorist to which the normal people response is “ok we need to hunt him down” and when naruto learns they’re gonna hunt him down he starts screaming crying throwing up he has a panic attack he can’t breathe he’s falling in the snow he gets on his knees and begs them to spare his BFF. after having a meltdown over the thought of sasuke dying what may possibly be the natural coping mechanism any stable person would adapt? of course realising that if sasuke dies he can die too. so he sees sasuke again and after he attempts murdering sakura twice and expresses the intent to murder kakashi he’s like. i will bear the burden of your hatred and die with you hehe and if we both die you won’t be an uchiha and i won’t be the jinchuuriki to the nine tails and we’ll be able to understand each other better in a different lifetime! WE’LL MEET AGAIN IN THE AFTERLIFE BECAUSE NOT EVEN DEATH CAN DO US PART! and sasuke (just as insane as him) doesn’t even flinch he’s like what the fuck is wrong with you but then ok let’s fuckingggf die together on my god i will kill your first anyways . then they find out they are soulmates and get cute matching tattoos on their hands and decide to fight to the death once more because sasuke is back on his i will shoulder all the hatred of the world alone and i need to kill you because i love you more than anyone else in the world actually you’re the only person i love so you need to DIE and naruto is like I WILL NOT LET YOU SHOULDER THAT HATRED ALONE I WILL FREE YOU FROM THE PAIN and they fight and despite all the whatever weapons used in the war it’s a fuckinggg fistfight in which just as sasuke is about to inflict what he thinks is the last blow says “farewell… my one and only…………………. (very long pause to accentuate how heteronormative this next word is gonna be) FRIEND” and fucking stops using his sharingan because not even then he can record the image of naruto dying especially by his hand but naruto STOPS HIM LIKE A f cHAMP and they end up blowing each other’s arms off (rip the matchies) and as they’re bleeding to the fucking death sasuke is like you’re the only person that has never tried to severe their ties with me why do you go so far for me and naruto from the depths of comphet hell is like because you’re my FRIEND and sasuke being absolutely done with this bullshit is like ok what the fuck does that mean to you then and this is where it gets even gayer and relatable because naruto is like i don’t KNOW i just know that when you hurt i hurt and i just can’t take it and isn’t that the most gay experience thing ever? naruto knows what it feels like to have friends but what he feels for sasuke is so bone deep and unconventional that he cannot make sense of it and can only describe the pain it brings. after that sasuke CRIES LIKE THEYVE GOT ME SOOO FUCKED UP but you know what got me even more fucked up?

naruto waking up bloodied and battered and half alive with one arm missing but still wondering if that was heaven because sasuke was next to him. sasuke looking so happy and peaceful when saying “i lost” as a stark contrast to him looking and feeling like half of his body was being torn apart when he “won” against naruto in vote1 and left him. the bitterness of victory vs the sweetness of losing if you will. AND HIM COMPARING WHAT HE FEELS FOR NARUTO TO PRAYING MY GODD. did i forget to mention that then we learn that Ohhh it was never a stupid shallow rivalry as we all thought! they have actually been watching each other from afar since they were little freshly traumatised children and have longed to hold each other’s hands since then! what was it sasukeeee you felt warm and fuzzy when you saw naruto to thought of it as a weakness? these two are so astronomically hopelessly desperately obsessed in love with each other it’s ridiculous i’ve had ENOUGH free me from this mental prison

It has been one month since this war started. One month since I have slept peacefully, managed to take care of myself, or avoid looking at the news for more than five minutes. It has been one month of people telling me they're happy my people are dead, that they wished more would have died, that they and diaspora Jews deserve it. It has been one month since every moment hasn't felt like the world was upside down. One month since people I thought were my friends have came out in support of my murderers.

Words cannot describe my grief. I watch jews being attacked all over the world as thousands more cheer and call for even more Jewish death. Each attack, each murder, feels as if I've lost a sibling. I am not even allowed to express my mourning without someone shouting "what about the palestinians" as if me being sad about 1400 of my people being brutally slaughtered and another 240 taken hostage is somehow a political stance. I am keenly aware that any expression of my sadness or fear makes them happy.

Despite all of this, we continue. Jews have been more united than I have ever seen them. Hillel and Chabad are coming together for unified events, I have seen Jews decide to wear kippot and tzitzit wherever they go. I have seen Jews who are celebrating the first shabbat of their life and learning the blessings. I have seen Jews who decided to put up mezuzot and menorah in their window. Never before have I seen synagogue attendance so high except on high holidays. Yes, I am sad, I am scared. But my pride for how Jews have come together outweighs every negative feeling I have. They wanted to hurt us, to divide us, to make us weak. But I have never seen Jews stronger than we are right now.

The context of the Hamas attack on Israelis, however, is completely different from the context of the attack on Jews during the Holocaust. And without the historical context of Israeli settler colonialism since the 1948 Nakba, we cannot explain how we got here, nor imagine different futures; Biden offered us, instead, the decontextualized image of “pure, unadulterated evil.” This weaponization of Holocaust memory by Israeli politicians runs deep. In 1982, for instance, in the context of Israel’s attack on Lebanon, the Israeli PM, Menachem Begin, compared the Palestinian leader Yasser Arafat in Beirut to Adolf Hitler in his bunker in Berlin at the end of the war. Three decades later, in October 2015, Benjamin Netanyahu took this weaponization to new levels when he asserted in a speech to the World Zionist Congress in Jerusalem that the Palestinian grand mufti Haj Amin al-Husseini planted the idea to murder Jews in Hitler’s mind. And last Tuesday, Netanyahu described Hamas in a press conference, together with the German chancellor, Olaf Scholz, as the “new Nazis”. The Israeli defense minister, Yoav Gallant said: “Gaza will not return to what it was before. We will eliminate everything.” Nissim Vaturi, a member of the Israeli parliament for the ruling Likud party, to take another example, called for “erasing the Gaza Strip from the face of the earth”. There are many other such expressions by Israeli politicians and senior army officers in the last few weeks. The fantasy of “fighting Nazis” drives such explicit language, because the image of Nazis is one of “pure, unadulterated evil”, which removes all laws and restrictions in the fight against it. Perpetrators of genocide always see their victims as evil and themselves as righteous. This is, indeed, how Nazis saw Jews. Biden’s words constitute therefore a textbook use of the Holocaust not in order to stand with powerless people facing the prospect of genocidal violence, but to support and justify an extremely violent attack by a powerful state and, at the same time, distort this reality. But we see the reality in front of our eyes: since the start of Israeli mass violence on 7 October, the number of Palestinians killed in Gaza has surpassed 4,650, a third of them children, with more than 15,000 injured and over a million people displaced. Israel has also escalated the violence against Palestinians under occupation in the West Bank, including the killing of more than 95 people and an intensification of expulsions, including the destruction of whole communities. Hamas wields no power in the West Bank, but the reality that we can all see means little for Israelis fighting, in their minds, Nazis.

Skills Writers Gain From Reading

We’ve all heard the old line of encouragement—reading makes you a better writer.

But how exactly does that work?

These are a few skills you’ll gain from reading with the viewpoint of a writer, not just a reader.

You’ll Flex Your Critical Thinking Skills

Reading made up events and imaginary people might not seem like critical thinking, but you’ll use your brain in more ways than one. While you’re sifting through a book, you’re also:

Observing cause and effect correlation

Analyzing how actions and events affect characters or the plot

Recognizing things like bias (narrative or otherwise)

Problem-solving to get ahead of the problem (Who’s the murder? The thief? The villain?)

Remember what you read before (simple, but takes practice!)

All of these skills are part of the drafting and writing process too. Grab a book or two—you’ll need these abilities to bring your stories to life.

You’ll Practice Your Grammar and Spelling

Whether you feel a secret thrill at finding a typo in a published novel or second-hand embarrassment for the people who made it happen, you automatically practice your grammar skills by spotting them.

You’re also reading words over and over again, which makes them easier to recall when you’re trying to spell them.

You’ll Discover New Writing Styles You Like or Dislike

You might also find that some writers vary their sentence structures in ways you like or dislike. The long, stretching sentences within a historical fantasy novel could draw you for the long haul. Maybe you prefer the short, conversational sentences that weave between longer ones in a comedic book.

Word choice is also a significant factor in enjoying a writer’s voice/style. Some writers will challenge you to keep a dictionary nearby at all times. Others will use modern slang or colloquialisms that might take you out of the story—or make it feel more real to you.

As you get used to the styles you prefer, your writing may naturally shadow those styles when you’re writing a story after putting the book down. That’s okay! Experimenting with style or tone isn’t plagiarism and doesn’t make you a bad writer. It’s another step in the journey of defining who you are as a creative wordsmith.

You’ll Learn New Ways to Describe Things

Imagine two writers describing a character walking across the street. One writer might focus on how the character feels, what they’re thinking, or what that moment in time means to them by writing in first-person POV. The other could write about the weather, the city, the cars passing by, or what another person thinks of the protagonist through third-person omniscient POV.

It’s always good to challenge how you might write a scene by reading how others do it. You’ll return to your work or start a story with a new perspective on standby.

You’ll Analyze the Plot

When you fall in love with a novel, it’s natural to think about the plot even after you finish the book. You’re likely reminiscing about the great plot points like two future best friends meeting at a pizza shop after stepping forward for the same order—they shared first and last names! Maybe you loved how each minor conflict built into a war between nations or how a character slowly lost their mind and sought revenge.

You’ll know what works and what doesn’t work about the plot structure based on how a novel grips you or not. Your brain will take note about the many things you feel and store it for instinct later. While you’re plotting that traditional mountain-shaped plot line, your creative side will find inspiration to drop conflict or positive moments that enrich your story.

You’ll Fall in Love With Characters

We’ve all written a good character and we’ve all written a bad one. Do you remember the first time you read a morally gray character? It likely blew your mind and made you want to write one too.

Falling in love with characters is like practice for writers. You won’t want to make the exact same character in all of your future stories (unless you only want to write fan fiction, and if that’s the case—enjoy every moment of it!), so you’ll use them as inspiration just like people in real life.

You’ll Improve Your Concentration

Not to sound like a cliche, but social media companies literally create their apps to monetize the brain’s ability to crave stimulation. Scrolling and swiping has likely had an effect on how long you can concentrate. I know it has for mine!

Even if you’re not on social media, things like the pressure to multitask and juggling responsibilities can wear on your focus too. If you miss those moments in your childhood or teenage years when you would spend an entire afternoon or weekend with a book, you don’t have to be sad for long.

Reading any length of a book can improve your concentration. Set a timer and read for five minutes. Next time, read for six. Slowly expand your time for reading (while there aren’t other distractions around, like notifications on your Kindle or your phone screen lighting up nearby).

As you read in longer stretches, you’ll write in longer stretches too. Your brain will feel more at rest with the one quiet activity you choose to do. Did I mention that makes editing way easier too?

-----

The next time you feel guilty for reading something instead of writing, remember that you’re also sharpening these skills! Reading is an invaluable way to get better at writing. All you have to do is pick up a book.

Many journalists are, unknowingly or otherwise, aiding and abetting in the constant dehumanization of, and therefore the genocide of Palestinians.

Also complicit are social media platforms that are shadow banning pro-Palestinian blogs, and throttling pro-Palestinian posts, and incessantly promoting pro-Israel propaganda.

Never forget. Remember.

Remember who did what. Remember what happened at Jabalya refugee camp. Remember how western media outlets used false equivalencies to imply both sides of this “conflict” were on equal footing when only one side has nuclear weapons, an army, a navy, and an Air Force; remember that the passive voice was deployed to avoid assigning accountability to Israel’s war crimes; remember how the media used negative and dehumanizing words to describe Palestinians who were intentionally starved and denied food and water and access to healthcare, as “looters” when they found food for survival; remember that this decades long assault on noncombatant civilians did not begin on October 7th. Remember that only one side has had decades of apartheid and only one side is committing genocide. Remember how news outlets talked about some “humanitarian crisis,” as if the aftermath for survivors, following the murder of more than 8,000 Palestinian civilians, was an act of nature rather than what it was: the completely foreseeable results of civilian infrastructure + noncombatants being targeted by incredibly precise IDF weapons systems.

Remember so that the truth—that war crimes were openly committed by Israel—cannot ever be whitewashed away. Bear witness now so that you can speak the truth in the future.

👉🏿 https://www.thetimes.co.uk/article/bbc-staff-crying-at-work-in-divide-over-israel-gaza-coverage-l5g2bk0nf

The Setsé Script is the writing system of the Setsé people, who arrived on Uanlikri as colonists and invaders for the powerful Senq Ha Empire overseas. In the centuries that followed, the power or the desire of the Senq Ha waned and the colonies were abandonned, leaving behind splintered nations of conquerors trying to make the best of the strange lands whose peoples they had murdered and displaced.

Text from the image:

When the Setsé landed on Uanlikri more than four centuries ago, they brought with them war, conquest and misery. They also brought the Setsé script, a unique script which is assembled, almost like a puzzle, to describe the phonetical qualities of an utterance.

The Setsé peoples have long ago been cut off from the imperial powers that fed their conquest of the Western Peninsula, Northern Kantishian Moutains, and Spice Islands. Since then, they have splintered. diversified and syncretized into a great many cultures. Despites this, the setsé script endures where litteracy survives. It remains the script of choice for setsé langages, whose tones are hard to transcribe the scripts of Uanlikri's mostly atonal native languages.

The setsé script divides a word into many parts: a central "thought line", read from top to bottom, tone bars traversing the thought line, and symbols indicating consonants on the left and vowels on the right.

Zàtzèpaqóí Glyph shapes are often modified to fit the available space. In this word, the horn of dz is detached to leave more space to the previous consonnant. A linked-style consonnant is always used with a vowel glyph which connects to the thought line. Modifications emphasize this connection: the e's new shape fully attaches to the dz glyph. Conversely, the use of an open-style glyph for q helps identify the associated vowel as a o rather than an e.

i think every superhero / antihero is by definition attempting (whether it succeeds or not) to do good. societal change is broad asf but i think jason especially does want that…. he’s also extremely fucked up. when ppl say he is a complex character… its not just words. lol. he is complex. he wants the joker to be dead so gotham isn’t a helpless war ground and also he blew up a (empty) high school. he’s not mentally sound. lmfao

that’s a very fair point! because the idea of superheroes originated from an optimistic ideal in a profoundly cynical world (jewish artists during world war 2) the entire concept is inextricably tied to societal change — because there has to be! u have to believe the world can be changed for the better!

what makes jason interesting is that he wants to improve gotham, but has no interest in doing so externally to the idea of proving bruce wrong. why is this not positive societal change? because bruce wayne is crucial to the infrastructure of gotham. forgetting that batman exists — bruce wayne is gotham’s social services, its healthcare system, its support for unemployment and disability, its rehabilitation system, its only means of providing to its citizens. we can sit here and argue the legality of bruce beating people up but the core to bruce’s character is that he wants the world to change for the better, so no one else experiences the grief he has.

jason believes in the death penalty, no ifs when’s or buts. his core ideology is — the system is flawed, but if im in charge i can make it better. jason replacing black mask and preventing dealers from selling to kids won’t stop people from self medicating to deal with an unfair world in which they were born into. it won’t stop crime, because crime is the result of stagnant social reform and income inequality. there is no way for jason’s approach to crime — killing people expeditiously — to result in a fair system that can sustain itself and prioritise the safety of its citizens. that’s not something from rhato no. #69, that’s clear in the text in utrh.

when people compare him to a cop it’s because he is killing without oversight or fear of legal repercussions. many, many countries that have technically outlawed the death penalty (australia, canada, some states in the us etc) still have a death penalty because police can kill indiscriminately on both the streets and in custody. jason has been shown to act with care for others (in the lost days he systematically kills his tutors to prevent further harm) but that’s not what he’s doing in gotham. for every captain nazi there’s a dozen kids left orphaned cause he’s murdered their parents. id describe him as severely traumatised, and deeply in denial about how well he’s handling it. the entire gd point is that it’s him reacting to his death! he has been radicalised! he is advocating for regressive change!!!!! why are people so afraid of his complexity!!!!!!!!

candy prompts: mephistopheles + spooky

you are bestowed as a gift to one of the vampire prince's most loyal subjects, mephistopheles.

pairing: mephistopheles x gn!reader

content: nsfw. dark vampire au. mentions of canon-typical vampire behaviour (mind control, blood-drinking, murder of humans); abduction and non-consensual touching/bathing; derogatory language used to describe reader/humans; suggestive thoughts towards reader; non-con mentioned/threatened but not carried out.

word count: 1.9k don't ask

a/n: takes place sometime after my vampire!diavolo fic (recommended but not required reading).

Mephisto could hardly believe it, but according to his very rigid standards, you were perfect—for a human, anyway.

He received a letter that was delivered to his ancestral home earlier that evening. His lord wanted to reward his unwavering loyalty and friendship and summoned him to the Vampire Lord's Castle to claim it. When he entered the room where he was told his special gift was waiting for him, he found you.

The young prince was known for hosting the finest hunts and parties in the realm, and the selection of humans for both events were sublime in appearance and taste. However, Mephisto had never seen anyone—human, vampire, or otherwise—as lovely as you before. It's as though his lord searched the world for the single human that suited all of Mephisto's very specific preferences as a blood donor and a lover. Hunger and lust warred within him, a rare feeling that made him giddy with sinful anticipation. As his eyes roamed your body hungrily, he realized he wanted to use you to satisfy all his desires tonight.

Before you were brought to him, Mephisto realized you had been prepared for his use; he could faintly detect the lingering scent of herbal soap and body oils used to soften your skin. You were dressed in a simple black robe, fastened loosely with a belt at your waist for easy access to your naked body underneath. Like the linens that covered the bed, the dark clothes you wore would mask the stains of blood and whatever else he might smear across your skin before the night was through.

Mephisto's mouth watered despite the slightly pungent hint of fear that radiated off you in waves. Your eyes widened fearfully under his scrutiny but as he dared to step closer, you didn't move. He realized you were immobilized with magic, and it was up to him to decide when—or if—you would be free of your invisible shackles tonight.

The vampire servants that bathed you earlier giggled as they scrubbed your skin with soap and massaged the lather onto your scalp. They spoke about you like you weren't even there, as if you couldn't hear every scathing word about your plain looks and repulsive stench. They washed away the evidence of your struggle when your abductors captured you; you scraped your hands and knees on the ground when they subdued you in a grungy alley near your work.

The servants also cooed about Prince Diavolo's kindness and how lucky Lord Mephistopheles was to have such a generous benefactor. You shivered despite the scalding water in the tub. These were nothing like the vampires in the cheesy romance novels you used to read. You didn't want to imagine the purpose a monstrous prince or one of his lords would have for you.

Another vampire observed quietly while you were being prepared, blending into the shadows of the room and giving soft-spoken commands to the servants. You never heard his name, but he seemed to be someone of great importance; the servants were quick to obey him.

You burned with shame when you were finally pulled out of the bathwater and dried off with a large, soft towel. The vampire's pale face and dark eyes were no less intimidating when he stepped from the darkness to scrutinize your appearance. His mouth twitched with amusement when you cowered under his gaze and tried uselessly to hide your nakedness from him.

It was a small mercy when one of the servants slipped a drab robe onto your shoulders and cinched it tightly at the waist. The cruel vampire finally nodded his approval and commended the others doing their prince's bidding with speed and efficiency. He commented that you were now an appropriate gift, worthy enough for the noble demon lord. His praising tone, the way one might compliment a finely cooked piece of meat, made your blood run cold; you realized at that moment that you were probably going to die tonight.

Before you could stammer a useless plea for mercy, he snapped his fingers. You were suddenly gagged with a thick strip of cloth that seemed to appear out of thin air and tied tightly behind your head. Your arms and legs were immobilized as if they were suddenly bound in chains. You couldn't speak and you couldn't move—you were powerless to fight back.

The vampire lifted you easily in his arms and carried you to another room. It was sparsely furnished except for a large bed, and you knew a terrible fate worse than death awaited you there. Tears welled in your eyes and slipped down your cheeks, soaking into the fabric that muffled your cries. Salty tears dried your skin and chapped your lips. The vampire prince's butler was immune to your grief and bowed primly at the waist, an elegant but spiteful gesture, before leaving the room and locking the door behind him.

You were left alone with no chance of escape, shrouded in near-darkness. A single lighted sconce flickered so that flames danced along the walls, teasing you with comfort but providing none. It felt like an eternity when the sound of heavy boots approached the door. You closed your eyes when a key turned in the lock with a metallic click. You were afraid to look at the vampire lord who stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

Mephisto circled you slowly, deliberately, letting the anticipation of tonight's feast simmer deep in his belly. He could practically hear the warm blood that pumped erratically in your veins with each moment that passed in tense silence. His eyes lingered on the unmarked column of your throat and your body beneath the flimsy robe you wore. He imagined sinking his fangs into you while he buried himself in the tight heat between your thighs and it made his cock twitch.

He finally stopped in front of you and leaned close to scent you properly. The strength of his spicy cologne overwhelmed you. His leather gloves tracing over the dried trail of tears on your cheeks and you shivered.

"You are remarkably beautiful, even in despair," he murmured. The barbed compliment left you speechless like an icy wind on a dark winter's night; the arm that circled your waist didn't offer any warmth. He slipped two of his gloved fingers underneath the scarf still tied between your lips. You tasted earthy leather when he slipped his fingers into your mouth and brushed them over the tip of your tongue. He finally pulled his fingers away when you gagged, tugging the silky material over your chin so it laid loose and damp around your neck.

"Sleep," he commanded softly, eyes glowing gently in the dark room. His voice was deep and gritty from hunger and desire, but you blinked at him fearfully when nothing happened.

His brows furrowed in confusion. "Sleep," he urged again, putting more magic behind the command; his voice was sharper and louder than before. His face darkened when that simple magic failed him again, and the heat in his eyes hardened like steel. His body thrummed with frustration and you shook your head pitifully, but your helplessness seemed to enrage him further.

The world spun when he suddenly pushed you chest-down onto the bed. His body was a heavy weight laid against your back, and he caged you underneath him even though you had no possible chance of escape. His hot breath fanned across your nape and you jolted in his arms when the outline of his erection twitched against your lower back.

Later he would wonder why such a perfectly insignificant creature like you was immune to his magic. For now, all he felt was embarrassment that soured his temper and made his anger soar.

I'll remind you of your place, he thought to himself bitterly, incensed by your mind’s stubborn refusal to submit to him. He grabbed your chin roughly and tilted your head to the side so he could sniff where your heartbeat was strongest. A low growl rumbled deep in his chest and then you felt searing hot pain when he sank his fangs into your neck without remorse.

His bite was deep and fierce in his frustration and hunger. He drank noisily and messily, gnawing at the wounds he made so your blood spilled freely. His lips slurped at the deep crimson rivulets that ran down your throat and dripped onto the bed. His hips moved on their own accord, seeking friction for his aching cock against your warm and pliant body while he nursed his wounded pride with the blood in your veins.

The toxic secretion from his fangs was supposed to fill your mind and body with euphoria, but whatever pleasure he gave you was outweighed by the carelessness of his feeding. Your body jerked against him, but the urge to fight him dwindled quickly as exhaustion from blood loss fell over you like a heavy fog. You were perilously close to death, and you succumbed to your hopeless fate. Your heartbeat grew faint with each pulse of blood that poured from your wound and into his greedy mouth.

Even in his frenzy, Mephisto felt the moment you lost consciousness underneath him. He wondered why he cared. Why should he care? You were his gift to use and discard at his leisure. He could drain you dry and leave your wilted corpse on the bed for the servants to dispose of later. He would thank his lord for his generosity.

His memory of you, like your very existence, would eventually be forgotten.

Unless...?

He pulled away from your neck with a gasp. His mouth was slick with syrupy blood that coated his lips and trickled down his chin. He swallowed hastily and leaned forward to inspect your wounds. He touched his tongue to your neck and laved over the jagged tears he bit into your flesh. He silently urged his healing magic to close the wounds and stop the bleeding.

He didn't want to think too much about the overwhelming relief he felt when the marks closed and faded away. Later he would wonder why this magic worked when his charms earlier did not; for now, he had to ensure you were cared for.

When he lifted himself off you and stood next to the bed, he inspected the damage he'd done to your body and the bed. The linens and the top of your robe were soaked through with your blood. He slipped his hands beneath you so he could roll you onto your back. Despite the deathly pallor that tinted your complexion, your face was completely relaxed. He leaned over you and rubbed his thumb along your bottom lip. A bit of blood left on his gloves spread across your lips, and he thought red was a fetching colour on you.

Perhaps later you'd wake up with the taste of blood on your tongue. He wondered what your bloody kiss might taste like if he pressed his mouth to yours. Only when his nose brushed against your cheek did he notice how close he came to kissing you, like some invisible power drew him to you against his will.

He pulled away quickly like he had been burned and only spared you a fleeting glance before gathering his coat and rushing from the room. You were a mystery to solve, and he would pry the answers from you one way or another. But first, he had arrangements to make: you were his now.

read more: halloween 2023 masterlist || obey me masterlist

Lucy MacLean x Wastelander R HC's

you start looking at her in a new light after she sets off a grenade that takes out a room full of enemies. you're so impressed with her that she doesn't have the heart to tell you that she just accidentally tripped into a row of shelves and knocked an old grenade on the floor. 

“you want the head?”/ Lucy, love-struck “i mean if you're offering.” a pause, thinking over what you just said and looking disappointed. ”wait– did you say the head?"

most shocked look ever watching you loot bodies. on her high horse talking about “stealing is wrong” till you agree and say you just won’t be able to have dinner that night then. suddenly she’s willing to make exceptions to her morals, go figure.

whenever she starts talking too much, you start describing the most horrific looking monsters you've fought. she's following silently behind you in horror for a good mile before she manages to shake that description off and starts talking just as eagerly again. the silence was nice while it lasted. 

Lucy pretends to not know how to do things so that you’ll teach it to her as an excuse to talk to you but takes it way too far. you’re like, “what do you mean you don’t know how to open a can?” while she looks visibly upset that you don’t wrap your arms around her to show her how like she’s seen in those pre-war movies.

uses your rations to try to tame herself a pet while you're camping for the night. you’re looking everywhere for your last box of sugar bombs only to find a shameless Lucy feeding it to the ugliest animal you’ve ever seen as she tries to entice it to do tricks. She insists that she doesn’t understand why you’re mad about it but you can’t help but notice she never uses her rations for it. you end up getting so mad that you can’t even speak to her, which turns out to be the most effective punishment you ever could have come up with. she’s sitting there and begging you to talk to her because she's going crazy without human interaction (it's been five minutes).

you’re surprised and a little sad to see that Lucy isn’t in the camp when you wake up the next morning but it’s fine. You don’t need her anyway, right? You try not to look relieved when she trudges in halfway through taking the camp down covered in soot and grime and collapses in her cot as she holds up a pristine box of sugar bombs she spent all night searching for.

Lucy sees you smile one (1) time and will not get over it. “you have such a pretty smile, you should really smile more. you know it really lights up your face and…” on and on for like ten minutes. The type to grab for your face to pull the sides of your lips up to make you smile. You’re still visibly frowning, just with your lips pulled up at the sides. Lucy’s so frustrated with you mostly because she realized you’re actually really nice to look at when you aren’t glaring at everything. 

Lucy would call you lover unironically. goes through a million different terms of endearment before finally deciding on that one. it was one of the least embarrassing ones that she suggested so you wearily let it happen. walking for miles with Lucy trying them out initially like "honey. baby. teddy bear. big teddy bear of death? murder bear? no, okay, got it. sweetie. babe…” 

pretending not to know about things Lucy is referencing to see how long it takes for her to realize you’re messing with her. she's talking about her book club and you’re like “book? what's a book?” and she’s spiraling trying to explain the concept of written word to you

no concept of flirting. give her your absolute best lines and she's like “haha… okay?”. got to be as blunt as possible. tell her you want to fuck and she's like “oh yeah, sure.”

I think a good demonstration of the differences between love and the Star Wars definition of attachment are found in the way Anakin and Luke handle loss.

When told Padme will die, Anakin refuses to accept it and dedicates everything to trying to save her. Even if it means killing everyone else he loves and betraying everything he ever stood for. Even if it means becoming an evil monster who kills children without remorse. He did it all in the name of protecting his wife only to be the one to kill her in the end.

Meanwhile, when Anakin tells Luke that he's about to die. Luke is upset, sure, but he's not angry, fearful, obsessive, etc. If there was a normal way to save him, of course he would. If on the other hand, the cure required him to murder someone, Luke would refuse. He loves his father but he's not incapable of living without him.

I don't like that George used the word "attachment" to describe the Jedi's philosophy, simply because in common language it's associated with healthier love as opposed to obsession. But within the narrative itself I think it was well-portrayed.

African Americans in the American Revolution

On the eve of the American Revolution (1765-1789), the Thirteen Colonies had a population of roughly 2.1 million people. Around 500,000 of these were African Americans, of whom approximately 450,000 were enslaved. Comprising such a large percentage of the population, African Americans naturally played a vital role in the Revolution, on both the Patriot and Loyalist sides.

Black Patriots

On 5 March 1770, a mob of around 300 American Patriots accosted nine British soldiers on King Street in Boston, Massachusetts. Outraged by the British occupation of their city, as well as the recent murder of an 11-year-old boy, the crowd was filled with Bostonians from all walks of life; among them was Crispus Attucks, a mixed-race sailor commonly thought to have been of African and Native American descent. When the British soldiers fired into the crowd, Attucks was struck twice in the chest and was believed to have been the first to die in what became known as the Boston Massacre. He is regarded, therefore, as the first casualty of the American Revolution and has often been celebrated as a martyr for American liberty.

Five years later, in the early morning hours of 19 April 1775, a column of British soldiers was on its way to seize the colonial munitions stored at Concord, Massachusetts, when it was confronted by 77 Patriot militiamen on Lexington Green. Standing in this cluster of militia was Prince Estabrook, one of the few enslaved men to reside in Lexington, who had picked up a musket and joined his white neighbors in defending his home. In the ensuing Battles of Lexington and Concord, Estabrook was wounded in the shoulder but recovered in time to join the Continental Army two months later. He was selected to guard the army headquarters at Cambridge during the Battle of Bunker Hill (17 June 1775) and was freed from slavery at the end of the war.

Attucks and Estabrook were just two of the tens of thousands of Black Americans who supported the American Revolution. There was no single motivation for their doing so. Some, of course, were inspired by the rhetoric of white revolutionary leaders, who used words like 'slavery' to describe the condition of the Thirteen Colonies under Parliamentary rule and promised to forge a new society built on liberty and equality. These words obviously appealed to the enslaved population, many of whom were optimistic that, even if slavery was not entirely abolished, they might receive better opportunities in this new nation. Others enlisted in the Continental Army to secure their individual freedoms, as the Second Continental Congress had proclaimed that any enslaved man who fought the British would be granted his freedom at the end of his service. African Americans also enlisted to escape the day-to-day horrors of slavery, to collect the bounties and soldiers' pay offered by recruiters, or simply because they were drawn to the adventure of a soldier's life. Additionally, several Black Americans were forced to enlist by their Patriot masters, who preferred to send their slaves to fight instead of going themselves.

Of course, not all Black Patriots served in the Continental Army or Patriot militias. Some, like James Armistead Lafayette, were spies; posing as a runaway slave, Lafayette was able to infiltrate the British camp of Lord Charles Cornwallis and procure vital information that helped lead to the Patriot victory at the Siege of Yorktown. The French general Marquis de Lafayette was impressed with his service and helped procure his freedom after the war, leading James Lafayette to adopt the marquis' name.

Other Black Patriots showed their support for the movement with their words. Phillis Wheatley was an enslaved young woman who had been brought to Boston from Senegal, where she had been seized. She was purchased by the Wheatley family, who quickly recognized her literary talents and encouraged her to write poetry. By the early 1770s, Phillis Wheatley was already a celebrated poet. She began to write extensively on the virtues of the American Revolution, praising Patriot leaders like George Washington. Despite his status as a slaveholder, Washington was moved by Wheatley's work and invited her to meet him, stating that he would be honored "to see a person so favored by the muses" (Philbrick, 538).

Continue reading...

Dear January

Bucky Barnes x Enhanced!Avenger!Fem!Reader

Summary: While everyone else is celebrating the new year, all Bucky can think about is his resolution and you, though the two are inextricably linked.

Warnings: a little angst with discussions of Bucky’s past & references to him having PTSD, reader has empathy related powers, fluffy ending

Word count: 1.9k

A/N: banners by @vase-of-lilies, dividers by @newlips. Happy New Year everyone!! I hope 2023 is the year all your wishes and dreams come true 💜💜

Masterlist | Ask me anything! | Library

Dear January, please let the new year be kind to me.

It was nearing midnight when Bucky strayed from the festivities, sneaking away from Steve’s overprotective, hovering presence while he was distracted with one of the new recruits Natasha was attempting to set him up with.

A crowded room with loud music and dancing couples might have been his scene in the 40’s, but was far from the solitary life he enjoyed in the 21st century. Steve had insisted that the party would be a good opportunity to get to know everyone outside of a work environment, and also confirmed you would be in attendance.

If Bucky were honest, that was the only reason he had chosen to come.

This was Steve’s world and Bucky was simply a visitor - if you could call someone who had been living in Stark tower with the rest of the Avengers for more than 6 months a ‘visitor’. But this was Steve’s home, Steve’s friends, Steve’s team, and as happy as Bucky was to see his best friend adapt to these modern times and surround himself with a community of people who trusted and respected him, Bucky still felt like an outsider.

No one trusted or respected him.

Well, with the exception of Steve himself, and perhaps you, the other newest member of the team. But Bucky wasn’t sure if your kindness stemmed from wanting to make a good impression as a newcomer, or if you genuinely liked his company.

He hoped it was the latter.

Bucky’s thoughts as he descended the tower to the small, concealed area in the basement he used to get away from the bustling upper level floors, was that this new year brought a fresh start, and that’s what he needed most right now. A clean slate. To hit the reset button on life.

He knew it was arbitrary, nothing would actually reset at the tick of midnight - his troubles of December 31st would still be his January anxieties; his murderous past would continue to follow him around like a shadow, something he couldn’t simply shake off and which only became darker the more light you shed on it.

But a change in calendar year could at least come with a change in mindset. That would be the first step in achieving his New Year’s resolution and to move on with his life.

Perhaps finally forgiving himself for the atrocities his body committed without permission from his mind would be the first step in feeling like he truly belonged.

“Hey, whatcha doing all the way down here?” Bucky recognised the voice immediately - of course it would be you to find him down here. You were the only person besides Steve to care enough to notice his absence.

“How did you find me?” Bucky chose not to turn around, he didn’t want you seeing the affliction on his face it seemed only you could detect, no matter how hard he tried to mask it.

“It’s not too difficult when you have a cloud of melancholy following you around.” There were times when Bucky relished your powers, being able to sense his emotions meant he didn’t have to find the right words to vividly express how he was feeling when he didn’t have the strength to describe just how miserable and despondent the weight on his chest felt on a particular day. Though, today was not one of those occasions. “What’s wrong?”

“This is technically my first new year since the 40’s, I wasn’t sure how I’d react to the fireworks. Loud sounds sometimes still…” He trailed off, embarrassed at how pathetic it sounded when he tried to articulate that loud sounds still triggered flashbacks to events of a war which occurred eighty years ago.

The concern brimming in your eyes in response to this almost made him feel guilty for not telling you the entire truth - yes, he was concerned that the sporadic, popping sounds of the fireworks would set off one of his PTSD episodes, but what he failed to mention was he was frustrated with himself at not being able to make conversation with the team upstairs as easily as he’d have hoped.

With you it came so easy. Expressing himself to you was effortless and didn’t carry the same nervous weight as it did with everyone else. But that only made his futile efforts earlier that night all the more infuriating and discouraging.

You reached out and took hold of his hand. Even though Bucky had known you for around six months, it still surprised him every time how gentle, almost affectionate, your touch was. It made him flinch, but not in the same way physical touch usually made him recoil. He liked the feeling, he was simply not used to it. Not used to being handled like something cared about, something treasured.

“I’m not going anywhere, I’ll be with you through the whole thing.”

The basement of Stark Tower was the depot for all previously loved items that Tony refused to throw away, so with the items on hand, you set up a blanket fort between a few old chairs, loaded with comfy pillows and sought out some old card and board games to keep the two of you occupied.

When the clock suddenly struck twelve, and the new year commenced, Bucky could barely hear the crackling sound of the fireworks from the haven of your blanket fort, even with his enhanced hearing. You said a quick ‘happy new year!’, kissed him on his cheek and went straight back into the game of uno you were teaching him to play.

He was far too engrossed enjoying his time with you, and trying to hide the blush creeping up his neck to his cheeks, to pay any mind to what was occurring outside the four walls of the basement.

“Do you have a New Year’s resolution?” You asked as you played a draw two card. Bucky groaned in annoyance, though your cute chuckle in response to this was the real reason he had done it.

“Are you really meant to share resolutions? I thought that jinxed them.” Was what Bucky said to avoid saying his out loud.

“It’s not like a wish Buck, you can say a resolution aloud - it’s the work you put into them that makes them come true.” Bucky hesitated a moment but eventually gave in to your curious expression. He knew his aspirations would be safe with you.

“To try and be kinder to myself. Forgive myself for the deeds I was forced to commit and to remind myself what I did doesn’t define who I am now.” His statement sounded recited and even he wasn’t completely convinced by his words, so he knew you, who was privy to every inflection of emotion through his body, would not be satisfied with his answer. “That I’m not a killer anymore.” Bucky added feebly.

“James, you were never a killer.” He had seen the way his own teammates looked at him with utmost caution and terminal wariness every time he entered a room, as if they were all predicting his complete disintegration where he would revert to his brainwashed state and attempt to kill everyone in the tower. He was positive they considered him an executioner.

Bucky paused - you had never looked at him like that.

“I killed people, I’m pretty sure that makes me-”

“No it doesn’t, because that wasn’t you.” You interrupted. The ease at which these words rolled off your tongue and the steady conviction of your voice as you doubled down on your argument, prompted Bucky to think you actually believed them. “You do not hold any of the blame for what you were forced to do, you are a war veteran who fought for the freedoms of so many people, you gave your life so others could live theirs free of Hitler’s regime. You should be commended, not punished.”

“Thank you, for having that faith in me, I’m not sure I deserve it.”

“Yes you do. And I’ll always be around if you need the reminder.” You placed your second last remaining card down on the ever growing pile and claimed ‘uno’. Bucky was too preoccupied with the words you had said to continue focussing on the game.

“Always?”

“For as long as you want me to, Buck.”

“What if I wanted you around forever.” Bucky commented, chuckling slightly so you’d think he was half joking, even though he wasn’t. He bashfully broke eye contact to place a card on the central pile, but it didn’t stop his cheeks from heating like an ember.

“Then forever it is.”

Bucky was absolutely positive you were currently able to sense his feelings of deep affection and devotion for you as easy as noticing the warm sunlight on your skin during a cloudless summer day. But with the way you were earnestly smiling at him, and those kind eyes looking at him like he was all that mattered to you, he didn’t feel panicked that you knew how he felt. In fact, right here with you was the most serene he had felt since the 1940s.

As you placed your final card on the pile, a triumphant smile blossoming on your face as you won the game, he found he could not tear his eyes away from the magnificent sight.

Bucky realised in that moment he would do anything to see you smiling like that every day of his life.

The thought he actually had a remainder of a life to plan for frightened him, but if he would be able to spend it with you then he considered that a life worth living.

“Bucky?” You queried with wide eyes, scooting closer to him in the fort. His heart started pounding rapidly in his chest with anticipation - you wouldn’t have to have empathy powers to tell your proximity made him nervous.

“Mhmm.” He hummed, licking his lips as his gaze quickly averted to your own before returning to your yearning eyes, which were making the carefully constructed walls he used to keep the pain of rejection out, weaker by the millisecond.

“You know, it’s tradition to kiss at the beginning of the new year.” You stated with a contagious cheeky smile.

“I do remember that one.” He chuckled shyly, hopeful excitement buzzed in his stomach at the prospect of what was about to happen.

“I’d like for you to be my first kiss of the year.” You requested, and Bucky’s heart felt like it would explode in his chest it was beating so powerfully. “Also for you to be the only person I kiss all year, if that’s okay with you.” And with that he thought he had died and gone to heaven.

“Perfectly fine with me.”

You reached across the paltry space between you and tenderly placed your lips on his as your eyes fluttered shut. The kiss was tentative at first - you were allowing Bucky to set the pace, determine how deep he wanted to delve. It was Bucky’s first kiss since the 40’s, he was worried he would disappoint you, but when he felt your eager lips against his, it gave him the confidence to go all in.

Reaching across the space between you, Bucky pulled you into his lap, simultaneously silently asking permission to explore your mouth with his tongue, which you freely gave him.

Your bodies pressed together, your hands pulling you ever closer to him, was the unexpected, yet perfect way to start to the new year.

Dear January, thank you for already making this year better than my last.