#not to mention all the extra time i have to spend justifying my bare existence to everyone i fucking meet

[horce-divorce]

crazy how if you're not selling your time to an employer, suddenly everyone else thinks they're entitled to it. ie "you don't have anywhere to be, why can't you just do XYZABC for me?" as if i have nothing else important to do, ever, just because some authority figure isn't setting my schedule for me, or because those tasks don't bring me income, or whatever, it merely fucking keeps me alive. useless, I know

[alycosworld]

Tainted

Scaramouche X Reader

WARNING: mentions of (nearly) sexual assault

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A/N: I seem to have more angst/comfort ideas for genshin but I'm not sure why...also, I'm on holiday in a foreign country! I have no work and I'll probably spend all my nights on Tumblr after exploring the city in the day, so please please please send in some requests! I'm bored and although they might take some time, they might help me get back into writing more regularly. I'm pretty sure this is gender neutral but if I made a mistake, feel free to tell me. This has NOT been checked for any errors (I'll get around to it at some point).

I'm not sure if Scaramouche is ooc, since he doesn't say anything that nice in the game or in any official works, but I definitely think he has the capacity for it. And I like soft Scar <3.

If at any point you feel uncomfortable, PLEASE DO NOT READ ON. I felt a little icky after writing the assault bit so do not force yourself to read any further or read at all. I do not want to make anyone reading this unhappy. Any victims of sexual assault or harassment, I hope you heal

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Keep walking. Just keep walking. Get home as fast as possible.

Avoid dark spots, avoid all people, avoid secluded areas. Just get home now.

That's what you told yourself after it happened. Archons, you didn't even know how you should feel. Ashamed? Angry? Disgusted? Upset? Confused? Afraid? The amalgamation of these emotions just made everything worse. You felt sick to your stomach. You wanted to cry and scream and vomit and disappear all at the same time.

You felt like you were covered in grime and you don't even know how you managed to get away. You should've done something, anything! But in the moment, you couldn't.

Your day had started normally. You went to the Adventurer's Guild in Inazuma, doing your commissions and taking up a few extra quests to help people out. Even though you were walking home later than normal, you didn't think much of it. Until somehow, you lost your way. In the dark, things became a little more vague and confusing, so you ended up taking a left and ending up in a dark alleyway between two dimly lit buildings.

You walked through, lost in your own thoughts, until you heard some chuckling and some incoherent remarks made by someone exiting one of the buildings out a back door and into the alleyway.

Glancing up, you saw that the person was a man - quite tall and well built with flushed cheeks: he was clearly not sober. You paid him no mind, staring at the ground as you continue to walk, determined to get home to see your boyfriend, Scaramouche. Though he wasn't one to worry, knowing that you could handle yourself, you did want to see him as soon as possible.

"Well, what do we have here?" The man asked, and you looked up at him again, tilting your head in confusion but staying silent.

"What's a pretty thing like you doing out here all alone?" He asked, a suspicious smirk on his face.

"I'm going home." You said firmly, not wanting to give him any ideas.

"Oh? A handsome young thing like you, going home all by themselves? Let me walk you, I promise I don't bite." He continued, clearly not getting the hint.

"I'm alright, but thank you for the off--"

"Stop being such a fucking tease! Wearing an outfit like that, you're begging for it." He pinned you against the wall despite your attempt to politely refuse any moves he tried to make. He caught your arms above your head and harshly shoved one of his legs between yours.

"Don't like to me, hon, you know you want this." He whispered huskily. You had fought countless hilichurls, abyss mages and monsters far more intimidating and dangerous than that man that day, but you couldn't seem to move. All you could manage was a fearful 'please, don't do this'. Struggling was futile, for some reason you couldn't escape his grasp. You had fought beasts ten times this man's size but violating you like this? It made you break.

He gripped you harshly and even managed to kiss your neck a couple times, making the tears stream down your face uncontrollably, until he heard some voices. You recognised them immediately: members of the Adventurer's Guild. He must be known it too because he stopped as soon as he heard, offering you a sickening grin and scuttling away before you could react.

"We'll finish this some other time, sweetheart. I promise."

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You didn't get any help from the Adventurer's Guild members who you heard, instead opting to rush home as soon as possible, trying to figure out what to do next.

The only solution in your mind was to crawl into your lover's arms and tell him what had happened. You didn't want anyone else to know - you know you could trust Scaramouche and you knew he would help you.

But he didn't.

You got home and wiped your tears before entering the house, hoping to look somewhat presentable despite having experienced such an impactful event. You dropped your belongings carelessly, not flinging at the loud sound they made as they hit the floor. You immediately made your way to the guest room Scaramouche had turned into an office of sorts, for him to work on Fatui business. The bedroom door was open and empty and he was nowhere to be found on the first floor, so that was the only other place he could've been. You were relieved to see him sitting at the desk, deep in thought with some maps and other sheets of paper laid out in front of him.

"Scar, I--"

"Not now, (Y/N), I'm busy." He said hot even bothering to look up at your frazzled and shattered state.

"I know but, please, Scar. While I was--"

"If you know that I'm busy, why enter in the first place? I'm working. Leave me alone." He said harshly. You didn't say anything, instead opting to nod silently and close the door. Since this was the first time you had experienced this pain and discomfort from being touched and defiled in such a way, you decided that maybe you should put it aside. After all, maybe it was something so jarring. Maybe it didn't matter. Maybe Scaramouche's nonchalance was justified. In a twisted way, you blamed yourself for overreacting and decided to just forget about the incident. If it didn't mean enough for Scaramouche to even look at you, it clearly wasn't something worth fretting over. You were just exaggerating, right?

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You tried you absolute hardest not to let the incident bother you, but you unknowingly started changing your habits to prevent what had occurred from happening to you again.

"Wearing an outfit like that, you're begging for it..."

You started wearing less revealing clothing, going as far as wearing gloves at some point and covering your neck with collars and scarves through the hot weather.

"We'll finish this some other time, sweetheart. I promise."

Initially, you just avoided dark or secluded places, even when you were with other people, but eventually, you were too scared to leave home at all. You didn't leave the confines of your small garden and if someone passed by, you would quickly hide yourself away. When Scaramouche had unknown guests and colleagues over, you would hide in your bedroom and make him promise not to mention you or acknowledge your existence in the slightest.

You even started taking longer showers and refused to bathe with Scaramouche, confusing him since you used to enjoy it so much. But you wouldn't let him see you in such a vulnerable state now that you were contaminated. You didn't want him to know that you had been tarnished in such a vulgar way, and you spent long moments scrubbing at the parts the stranger had touched. You were worried that Scaramouche would blame you for being assaulted - because in a sick way you thought it was your fault, despite having been nothing wrong. You had twisted the story in your mind to make it seem like you were responsible for the crime committed against you.

Eventually, Childe had to visit for business purposes, but you had become good friends with the eleventh Fatui Harbinger since he was friends with-- well, he and Scaramouche had a relationship, to say the least.

"So where's (Y/N)? Normally they're all over you and making you as embarrassed at possible." Childs grinned, and Scaramouche just frowned and narrowed his eyes.

"They're in our room. They don't really want to see anyone right now." Scaramouche said. Even though you told him not to mention you anymore, since you were so hellbent on avoiding all human interaction, he thought it would be okay to tell Childe. He was your friend too, after all.

"Is something wrong? What happened?" Childe asked, concern in his eyes.

"I don't know. They've been avoiding everyone, including me. They barely talk to me and insist on sleeping downstairs." Scaramouche confessed.

"Let me talk to them."

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Childe exited your room after hearing what to had to say, and he was disturbed and sympathetic, at the very least. Scaramouche saw his wide-eyed, grim expression when he exited the room and immediately had questions.

"What?" Scaramouche asked.

"I'll come back tomorrow to continue our work." Childs said, referring to the business he originally came for.

"But we have to--"

"Scar?" Scaramouche stopped all his trains of thought and turned to the sound of your voice. It was hoarse but still as beautiful as ever. He knew you had been crying from your puffy eyes and tear-stained cheeks.

"I think you have other matters to take care of." Childe winked, before giving Scaramouche an informal two-fingered salute and showing himself out.

As soon as the door closed, Scaramouche turned his attention to you, not coming too close in case you didn't want to be near him.

"Yes, Love?" He asked, more concerned than you had ever seen him.

"Can I talk to you? If you're busy, that's okay, it's not that impor--"

"I'm not busy." He shook his head, and you offered him a sad and grateful smile before sitting on the edge of the bed while he took a seat on a nearby chair.

"So, uhm, a couple of days ago I was walking home and I kind of got lost...so I tried taking this alleyway and--" You stopped yourself, meeting Scaramouche's attentive gaze before continuing.

"There was a guy. And he-- he t-touched me. I-- I didn't know what to do. I could've easily fought back but I just got scared and froze up because that's never happened to me before and he kept saying that I wanted him-- but I didn't! I swear, I didn't. I know it sounds bad since I didn't stop him but I really tried, I just couldn't. And he started k-kissing me...here," You gestured to the spots on your neck that you could still feel being violated.

"And I felt so horrible and he didn't go any further because some people were coming, so I ran home. I-I...I didn't know what to do but I felt like I should tell you because I thought you would help me, but you said you were busy so I just-- It-tried to brush it off but I just couldn't get it out of my head! And before I got away, he told me that he'd come back and finish me off and so I didn't want to go outside anymore in case I ran into him. And I started to cover up since he said I was asking for it because of what I was wearing and then I just got scared and I felt dirty. I tried so hard to forget and clean myself but it kept coming back-- I can still feel him on me! I hated it, I still hated it! You have to believe me, I wasn't trying to get him to notice me, I just..." You broke down after finishing what you had to say. You had already been crying since you told Childe, but now you were choking out sobs and your face was drenched. Scaramouche stood up from his chair and sat next to you on the bed, a safe distance away just in case you still weren't comfortable with being touched.

"I believe you. I know you're not like that." Scarsmocuhe started calmly. In all honesty, he wanted to interrupt you as soon as you said that this man approached you. His blood was boiling and he was ready to murder this man for you but kept himself in check because you didn't need senseless violence or revenge right now, you needed comfort. What hurt him the most was that you were blaming yourself because he didn't bother listening to what you had to say on what was probably the worst day of your life.

"It's not your fault you were touched like that. You are not to blame, at all. I-- I should've listened to you when you came to me - as soon as I turned you say I thought something was wrong but I didn't bother asking about it. That's entirely my fault." He admitted, which surprised you. It took Scaramouche a lot to admit his mistakes, but for you? He didn't care. You constantly put up with his sour attitude, he can definitely listen to you and admit he was wrong.

"You sure? Because I still--"

"I'm sure." He said simply.

"But why did you start avoiding me?" He asked, wanting to understand the situation entirely.

"Well, because..." You started, unsure if he would get angry if you told him. While you were contemplating, he offered you an encouraging expression. It wasn't a smile, but it was more than enough to put you at ease.

"I didn't want you to think I was tainted. Of course, you wouldn't want to be near me after that had happened." You sighed, wiping up the last of your tears.

"You really are an idiot, you know?" He said, but after seeing the clueless and almost hurt look on your face, he immediately wanted to take it back. He didn't mean to be insensitive, he just...well, he often explained positive emotions with his very wide negative vocabulary.

"No, I didn't-- uhm..." He mentally cursed himself for not knowing what to say, but you didn't interrupt him and made a small gesture for him to keep going.

"What I mean to say was, I don't think that you're tainted or anything like that. And I still...want to be...near you-- eugh!" He pretended to be grossed out at his own words in true Scaramouche fashion, but he knew you knew he didn't really mean it and was beyond delighted when he saw you giggle at his facial expression.

He sighed and acted angry as he opened his arms ever so slightly. You noticed the movement and quirked an eyebrow when he hesitated.

"Is it okay if I come closer?" Scaramouche asked, unsure if you wanted to be touched after the incident.

Your heart swelled at his care and then you slowly watched as he stiffly wrapped his arms around you comfortingly. Although you had hugged and cuddled on countless occasions, he still wouldn't stop being so robotic unless you did something. It made you laugh and he pulled away slightly to glare at you, so you decided to just pull him back in and hug back.

And when you relished in the touch of another human being, the touch of the person you love, you began to cry. The last time anyone willingly touched you was in that alleyway, and so to have someone be so gentle with you and have no bad intentions, you were overwhelmed with emotion.

Scaramouche must've felt your tears staining his clothing and skin, and quickly pulled away with poorly hidden concern in his eyes.

"Are you okay?" He asked, but you just continued to sob and nod.

"I love you!" You choked out. He sighed and gently patted your back.

"I...love you too." He said, before making another expression of mock disgust. He slowly moved to hold both your wrists in his hand and kiss down to your neck, pulling you into his lap with your legs straddling one of his.

You soon realised that he was covering up the placed the stranger had touched you with his own ministrations, effectively replacing the grime you felt you gained after the incident. After you came to that conclusion and Scaramouche was done, he didn't meet your eye, blushing profusely. It was justified since he didn't usually initiate any kind of affection acts, but you just cupped his jaw and kissed his cheek, smiiling at him with purity and a newfound confidence in the both of you.

"Thank you, Scar."

[g-perla]

The ACOTAR Series is a Romantic/Gothic Horror Stage and Only Nesta Got the Memo

Not even SJM knows what’s going on.

Ok, this is going to seem off the rails but bear with me.

So I'm a big fan of Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë (top 5 books and all that jazz) and I was thinking about it because it deals with themes of the Other and the supernatural, Nature as Character, the overlap of the animalistic and human, blurring of established binaries...fun, Romantic shit like that. Interestingly, this overlaps with how SJM illustrates her world and characters a lot of the time, hence why I was considering it while working on my Nesta project. I’ve mentioned before that Nesta really gives me Byronic heroine vibes and that’s a character construct of precisely this literary tradition.

I started thinking about Heathcliff and Cathy and how they're ridiculously extra and just feel the most intense emotions towards each other but also towards literally everything (nothing half-assed ever, this is a Romantic novel after all). I then remembered how so many people ship them, but like in earnest, in a totally aspirational way. It's not a #cursed ship to them at all. It's...romantic to them not Romantic. I even read often that people quote it at their weddings, specifically the infamous "two souls" quote.

Then I had an epiphany. I was like "wait, what if SJM is one of those people?? What if she has the energy of a Cathy/Heathcliff earnest shipper and that's why all her ships are messy??" Because if that is the case, my friends, oh boy oh boy would it explain so much. I will post some sections from Wuthering Heights:

Doesn’t the acotar series seem like a 1/50 dilution of that energy?? And that is barely a taste of all the spiciness this book has to offer. To illustrate further: SJM gave us the F/eysand suicide pact and the near-death battlefield Nessian scene. One is certainly more outlandish than the other, but both are the result of intense emotions. To that Emily Brontë raises the following: Heathcliff asking the sexton to dig up Cathy’s grave to see what’s up because her ghost has been haunting him since he personally dug up her grave 18 years prior and she has been haunting him ever since. He later demands to be buried in the same exact grave when he dies so they can decompose together. They both married other people though which only adds to the mess. (I am not lying to you the Romantic tradition really gave us these gems lmao. As an aside, Mary Shelley was also a writer of the Romantic tradition and she confessed her love to husband Percy Bysshe Shelley on her mother’s grave. Her mother was liberal feminist icon Mary Wollstonecraft by the way which only makes this even more amazing. Additionally, biographers believe that the Shelleys also had sex there. Talk about Romantic 😉.)

Then I had ANOTHER thought! (Dangerous)

If we read the series from the point of view of just another YA high fantasy things might get a bit boring because the world-building is honestly lazy and the magic system is pretty soft, which isn’t a pre-requisite in high fantasy (The Lord of the Rings has a soft magic system) but it's not the norm and it doesn't pay off in this series. Not to mention that the plot is pretty lackluster and derivative. To add to that the romantic and sexual relationships are questionable in their healthiness and consequently are the source of much argument in the fandom. 

But, dear reader, if we think about the ACOTAR series as being a sort of thematic and ideological 21st century YA homage to the Romantic tradition of the 19th century (within which Gothic Horror also lives), things get REALLY, REALLY SPICY.

No longer do we just have a romance fantasy with messy, hyper-emotional, animalistic characters who constantly partake in morally grey situations rife with dubious dynamics. No longer does plot really matter. No longer do we require quasi-scientific descriptions of the world and the magical system. No! All that matters now are the characters and the mood. Now we have potential! Add a lot of Nature ambiance: expanses of dark woods, great mountains, the unknowable and sublime energy of the ocean, a violent rainstorm/hurricane/tsunami, an impending snowstorm whose intensity reflects the growing emotional intensity of the characters as the story goes along (I’m looking at you impending snowstorm in acofas that curiously matches the growing complexity of Nesta’s emotional state). Blur the lines between any imaginable category: life and death, human and animal, known and unknown, Self and Other, beautiful and monstrous, good and evil, masculine and feminine, the list goes on. Most importantly make your readers uncomfortable by frustrating their desires to sort things into easy binary categories and don’t apologise for making them question their assumptions about the world, morality, gender, and any other kind of previously constructed Order. 

Basically write the story with Dionysus-in-a-Greek-tragedy energy and bring to us mere mortals artful Chaos.

Once that is done we can have a literal Romantic/Gothic Horror story.�� The Acotar series could have been this unapologetically, with the added element of being told through the eyes of the "Cathy" character instead of through the lens of a third person getting second-hand accounts about what went on. This whole series is honestly enough of a chaotic mess of Byronic-like heroes and heroines and cursed familial relationships that it could have been that. That alone is peak entertainment. The problem, however, and the main reason why I can’t really say that this series truly delivered this wackiness is that SJM committed the act of not fully committing to the bit (very un-Romantic of her, I know). Now, I am not saying that SJM actually intended this. I’m just saying it really could have accidentally been this genius with some tweaks. Unfortunately, she made the crucial mistake of trying to justify too much, trying to make things too neat, too tidy, too sensical (in other words: the reason we really can’t have nice things). 

I could end this here, lamenting the potential of what SJM had set-up for us were it not for one element, one gift:

Nesta 

OHOHOHO DO THINGS GET GOOD HERE SO BUCKLE UP

Most of the characters refuse to fully commit to the bit in their desire to satisfy modern sensibilities, by which I of course mean they want ridiculous things like political power, to conquer lands, to be a Girl Boss, to get married, have kids, celebrate holidays, converse about mundane things, be relatable, etc. You know, pretty pedestrian stuff that only requires a bit of genetic luck, a sprinkle of energy, and the right circumstances within the world of Acotar. I would like to reiterate the beginning of this paragraph: most of the characters. 

Let’s say you’re stubborn and you decide to still read the series through the lens of the Romantic/Gothic tradition, what happens then? 

The most hilarious thing (for the Nesta stans that is. The antis would probably hate this)

Nesta, based on what we know about her through Feyre and the limited amount of other scenes, is the only character who really takes the performance seriously. She's the only one that SJM hasn't managed to confine through justification. Nesta just shows up and simply refuses to make sense (her POWER what a queen 👑). She is endlessly fascinating because she just exists in her world on her terms, established categories be damned, and in this manner she frustrates not only the sensibilities of the characters in the stories but those of the reader as well. This double duty is, I suggest, the result of the other characters not fully inhabiting the nebulous world of Romantic characters and thus being a little too plausible and understandable even if they are not justifiable. 

Ok, you may say, but I relate so much to Nesta. I do understand her. I don’t justify all of her actions, but I understand where she is coming from. (You’re not alone, friend. I like to think these things too. Alas, we are but plebs).

To that I reply; Nesta does things, certainly, and we can spend hours trying to explain through extrapolation, educated guesses, and personal experience why she did those things, but the fact is we really don't know why. We are never explicitly told. Our insight into who she is and her motivations comes predominantly from the understanding of her youngest sister and from our own interpretation of the actions she takes. I must make clear that our own interpretations are rooted in pre-established assumptions about what is sensical and orderly in our own world and in our own lives. We cannot interpret with the tools available to us that which may be, by definition, unfathomable. It is simply paradoxical. Nesta, as we currently know her, is a construct derived from a limited number of scenes and our interpretations and projections of these scenes. Even the scenes where we get third person narration don’t explicitly tell us her motivations and her logic. For all we know there really is no comprehensible reason for her actions and that is endlessly amusing to me in how utterly Romantic it is. Acosf may and likely will change this of course, but as it stands, Nesta is a whole Romantic character. Her divisiveness in fandom and in the narrative could be due in part to her refusal to fit the discrete categories available in her world and ours. 

Isn’t that wonderful?

To illustrate this a bit more I will share some details SJM gives us about her/ elements she sets up that fit in with the characteristics of the Romantic tradition (these are not exhaustive by any means):

The absolute pettiness (and extra-ness) of being so angry at her father’s inaction that she is willing to starve to death to see if he does something.

How in Acowae she is described as shifting between emotions as if she were changing clothes and feeling everything too strongly (probably to the point of destruction)

She is constantly being compared to animals, even when she is still human. Granted, SJM compares everyone to animals, but that strengthens the blurring of lines between usually discrete categories. It is still most powerful when used as a comparison when she is human because it dehumanises Nesta.

Often, SJM describes her characters as forces. Forces of nature, for example. Acofas is full of details like this in relation to Nesta. There is a storm brewing leading up to the solstice party and it is in full swing when she arrives at the townhouse. The language used there suggests that Nesta herself may be the storm (against the onslaught of Nesta). It really adds to the Maleficent energy tbh.

She is often associated with death post her transformation

She is Other even to Others. She was Made like Elain, Feyre, and Amren in a sense, but the process of her specific transformation differentiates her greatly from the others. As it is, she doesn’t fit in anywhere

Her intense attachment to her femininity and its expression are at odds with the ideas and assumptions about the performance of womanhood and a woman’s role in her world and even in ours. She is unapologetically feminine in her physical presentation, but her character, her thoughts, and possibly even desires transgress the unwritten rules of acceptable femininity (unfortunately there still are abject expressions of femininity in our ‘”progressive�� mileux

She displays in many of her actions a disrespect towards authority and to the status quo. This is particularly notable when her intensely polarised sense of right and wrong is aggravated.

Her self-destructiveness. This is referred to most strongly in Acofas, but I would say she was remarkably blasé about self-preservation in Acowar as well

She is described as intelligent, cunning, ruthless, attractive, and prone to debilitating extremes of emotionality. All of these are characteristics of Byronic heroes, a subtype of the Romantic hero

Here are a bunch of quotes that touch on many of the elements that I have discussed above:

“I looked at my sister, really looked at her, at this woman who couldn’t stomach the sycophants who now surrounded her, who had never spent a day in the forest but had gone into wolf territory...Who had shrouded the loss of our Mother, then our downfall, because the anger had been a lifeline, the cruelty a release. But she had cared--beneath it she had cared, and perhaps loved more fiercely than I could comprehend, more deeply and loyally.” 

--Acotar, emphasis mine, note the strong emotions. This is a recurring element for Nesta.

“Cassian’s face went almost feral. A wolf who had been circling a doe...Only to find a mountain cat wearing its hide instead.” 

--Acomaf, animal comparison

“Nesta is different from most people,” I explained. “She comes across as rigid and vicious, but I think it’s a wall. A shield--like the ones Rhys has in his mind.” “Against what?” “Feeling. I think Nesta feels everything--sees too much; sees and feels it all. And she burns with it. Keeping that wall up helps from being overwhelmed, from caring too greatly.”

--Acomaf, emphasis mine

“I knew that she was different [...] Nesta was different [...] as if the Cauldron in making her...had been forced to give more than it wanted. As if Nesta had fought after she went under, and had decided that if she was to be dragged into hell, she was taking the Cauldron with her.”

--Acomaf, Nesta had her own plans for the Cauldron what a queen

“Something great and terrible.”

--Acowar, referring to her eyes. Oooh, spooky Nesta 👻

“The day she was changed, she...I felt something different with her [...] like looking at a house cat and suddenly finding a panther standing there instead.”

--Acowar, a two in one here: difference + animal comparison. Boy does SJM really go heavy when establishing Nesta as Other.

“‘Not in flesh, not in the thing that prowls beneath our skin and bones...’ Amren’s remarkable eyes narrowed. ‘But...I see the kernel, girl.’ Amren nodded, more to herself than anyone. ‘You did not fit--the mold that they shoved you into. The path you were born upon and forced to walk. You tried, and yet you did not, could not fit. And then the path changed.’ A little nod. ‘I know--what it is to be that way. I remember it, long ago as it was.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’“

--Acowar, show don’t tell gets thrown out the window here, but it is useful for the present purposes

“What if I tell you that the rock and darkness and sea beyond whispered to me, Lord of Bloodshed? How they shuddered in fear, on that island across the sea. How they trembled when she emerged. She took something--something precious. She ripped it out with her teeth. What did you wake that day in Hybern, Prince of Bastards?

What came out was not what went in [...] How lovely she is, new as a fawn and yet ancient as the sea. How she calls to you. A queen as my sister once was. Terrible and proud; beautiful as a winter’s sunrise.”

--Acowar, who knew rocks, darkness, and the sea were such gossips, but look how many connections to nature! To be compared to the sea, a significant example of the sublime, is peak Romanticism. If any of you have read Moby Dick, think about what the ocean and the white whale might have represented there and how that might relate to Nesta.

“I think the power is death--death made flesh.”

--Acowar, Feyre referring to the possible nature of Nesta’s power. Alluding to her powers possibly being related to death is quite significant because that is something most of us cannot comprehend, nor can most of the characters. For Nesta, a “reborn” but very much living character to have death associated with her is a strong blurring of the lines. The case of her being labelled a witch is similarly significant as it solidifies the elements of the supernatural while simultaneously comparing her to pretty much the only exclusively female-coded monster in western pop culture. I will touch more on this when I do my study of Nesta through the framework of Barbara Creed’s Monstrous Feminine.

“I am not like the others.”

--Acowar, we love a self-aware queen.

“Nesta took in his broken body, the pain in Cassian’s eyes, and angled her head.

The movement was not human.

Not fae.

Purely animal.

Purely predator.”

--Acowar

There are a lot more details and quotes that support this interpretation, but I didn’t write them all down in my archived notes. This post is obscenely long, however, so even though there is more to be said, I’ll leave it for another day. If you made it this far you really are an MVP and probably love Nesta to a concerning degree like me. Please rest your eyes if you’re actually reading this 😂

I’d love to read about any other takes and thoughts that might have come to your minds after reading this monstrosity,

G

[lastoneout]

Comfort Food

Fandom: Persona 5

Rating: PG

Summary: 

Akechi has a food blog, Futaba thinks that's hilarious, Akira is a good friend, and Sojiro needs a drink.

Notes:

This was supposed to just be me projecting my issues on to Akechi because he's my emotional support bastard boi but somehow it turned into nearly 2500 words of tooth-rotting slice of life fluff. Whoops.

A03

Goro learned the hard way that hiding things from Futaba was impossible.

To be fair it wasn’t like he was trying to hide his food blog, he mentioned it in passing a few times and he knew that most of his followers were his fans, but he never really expected any of the Thieves to actually read it, let alone read it out loud, in front of him...while laughing at it.

“What are you, a high school girl?” Futaba said with a snicker after she finished reading his latest post aloud, “I’ve seen little girl’s diaries with more class.”

“Oh my god.” Akira choked out from beside Futaba behind Leblanc’s bar, desperately trying to muffle his laughs as Goro floundered.

He knew he shouldn’t care. The Thieves always poked fun at each other. ‘It’s what friends do,’ Akira had said. If anything he figured he should be grateful that Futaba considered him enough of a friend to playfully mock his hobby. But Goro was never good at regulating his inner emotions, and so as much as he tried to not let it get to him, it did.

Truthfully, he never meant to get into food. For the longest time, he considered it a pointless expense. In the various foster homes that he was tossed between food was almost a luxury. And to someone who often wondered where his next meal would come from it was hard to justify the cost of a fancy dinner when the same money could get him a month's worth of instant ramen and convenience store bento lunches.

But when he got into high school and wormed his way into the police force he suddenly was financially stable enough to justify luxury spending. Nijima-san was kind enough to pull some strings to get the agency to act as a guarantor so he could move out of the foster home and into a small apartment, and after he paid his bills and rent he was left staring at the remaining sum in his bank app, trying to wrap his head around how that money was his, and he could do whatever he wanted with it.

He tried to keep a level head and decided to go to a nearby department store to pick up things to furnish his new home, but on the way there he passed a diner and was stopped dead by the incredible smells drifting out the door. His stomach growled, and he found himself trying to remember the last time he had eaten something that hadn’t come wrapped in plastic and styrofoam.

His stomach growled again, and before he had time to think about it, knowing that if he did he would decide against it, he hurried into the restaurant. He was seated quickly, and despite feeling weirdly giddy and anxious he smiled at the kind waitress who took his order. The simple latte and plate of pancakes were probably the most delicious things he had ever tasted, and he couldn’t help how his eyes watered after the first bite, the food filling some empty part of himself he hadn’t even known existed.

Looking back on that day he’s grateful that he wasn’t famous yet, as no one cared to pay attention to the skinny teenager in the booth by the wall trying not to get tears in his dinner.

After that, he ate out at least once a week. He spent little on necessities, picking up most of the things he needed at the ¥100 store and buying used clothes, saving every extra bit that didn’t go into bills for food. Eventually, he started looking up new places to eat, and after finding a few food blogs he decided on a whim to start his own. It didn’t take off until after his big break, but he didn’t mind. The simple pictures and reviews he posted weren’t really for anyone else, and on days when he felt empty and angry, he would scroll back through them and feel a little bit better. Almost happy at the little niche he had carved out for himself.

Shortly after that Akechi’s entire life quickly became a delicate web of lies. He was a double, even triple agent, under so many layers of falsehoods even he struggled to keep it straight sometimes. If anyone ever bothered to break him down to his bare parts there really wasn’t much he actually did for himself. Every single facet of his life and personality had been carefully crafted to ensure he would be able to get the revenge he so desperately craved. He hardly ever did anything just for himself. Every interest he shared in interviews or mentioned around his ‘friends’ was for show, not something he honestly cared all that much about. It was annoying sometimes, having to pretend to care for things he felt apathetic towards, but it was necessary.

But food? Food stayed safe. It helped his Detective Prince facade once he got popular, after all the only thing teenage girls seemed to like more than cute boys was trendy food. And cute boys who love trendy food? That’s a check that writes itself. It made him look soft, approachable, and normal. So he indulged. Actually enjoying sharing the one part of himself that wasn’t fake.

Maybe that’s why Futaba’s mockery stung so much. He wouldn’t care if people made fun of his fake interests, but when it was the real him? It hurt.

He tried to laugh it off, blushing and begging her to stop. He insisted it’s just for his fans, he’s not really that immature or girly, it’s just for show! But each plea seemed to only make the situation worse, so he gave up and silently begged for her to get bored soon, his face an unnatural shade of red.

Akira, ever perceptive, seemed to notice something change in his demeanor, and without a second thought, the teen reached forward and plucked Futaba's phone right out of her hands.

"Hey!" She shouted, grabbing for it.

"Alright, alright, that's enough." He chided, holding the phone just out of Futaba's reach, "We all have our hobbies. But since we're in a sharing mood how about I tell Akechi-kun all about your Featherman shipping blog?"

A chill came over the room. "You wouldn't dare."

"Oh, I would." He turned to Goro with a devilish smirk, "See she loves the red and blue rangers together-"

"Akira I'll end you!" Futaba yelled, diving forward and attempting to tackle him. Akira, however, was taller, and easily deflected her blows.

"She was telling me about this doujinshi she read the other day-"

"I'll spread rumors about you on websites you've never even heard of!"

"It was so romantic-"

"I'll leak your bank info on the dark web!”

"It's by her favorite author too, she buys everything they release-"

"I'll destroy you with malware, you won't be able to BREATHE near a circuit board without getting a virus!"

"Tell me, Akechi-kun, do you know what smut is?"

"AKIRA!!!" Futaba shrieked, and it was quickly followed by the sound of clanging pots and Sojiro swearing loudly from the kitchen.

“Would you two cut it out?” He shouted, poking his head around the corner.

“Sorry Boss, just giving Futaba a lesson on being a good friend,” Akira replied with an apologetic smile.

“Well next time can you do it outside? You’re lucky I don’t have any customers in here right now.”

“You never have any customers...” Futaba mumbled.

“I heard that. And Futaba, I thought I asked you to tie up your hair when you’re behind the counter.”

“On it...” She grumbled, pulling her hair back into a lazy bun with the scrunchie on her wrist.

“We’ll keep the noise and health code violations to a minimum, Boss,” Akira said, shooting a lazy salute Sojiro’s way. The older man eyed them for another second before sighing and mumbling something about herding cats as he turned back to the curry.

With the situation defused, Akira and Futaba stared at each other, having a silent yet very animated conversation, but eventually, Akira seemed to win and Futaba sighed heavily, "Okay, okay,” She turned to Goro and gave him a bow, “I'm sorry for making fun of your blog Akechi-kun."

Goro hardly knew what to make of the display, let alone her apology, but it made him feel a bit better, so he relaxed and gave her a genuine smile, “It’s alright, Futaba-chan, I forgive you.”

“Can I have my phone back now, please?”

“You may,” Akira replied amicably, handing the hostage technology back to Futaba.

She smiled triumphantly before another dark look crossed her face. She eyed Goro, suspiciously, before blushing and tapping her fingers together “A-and Akechi-kun...you won’t tell anyone else about the...shipping thing, right?”

“To be honest...I’m not sure I fully understand what you were talking about,” He replied, “But your secret is safe with me.”

“I’m so proud of both of you,” Akira said with a fake teary-eyed sniff, “My two little introverts, making friends.”

Goro and Futaba broke out in protests, but a quick glare from Sojiro shut them both up.

“Wow, you’ve really got that ‘disappointed dad’ look down, Sojiro.” Akira quipped.

“Don’t you have anything better to do than raise hell in my cafe?”

“As much as it breaks my heart, yes.” Akira said, untying his apron and heading around the counter, “I’ve got a date with a pile of dirty dishes in Shinjuku.”

“You’re not taking Morgana?” Futaba asked as he grabbed his bag and jacket.

“Nah, he hates The Crossroads, says the alcohol smell makes his nose itch. When he wakes up from his nap just let him know where I went.”

“Roger that.”

“Thanks,” He said, “See you guys later! Oh, and try not to get into too much trouble while I’m away.”

Futaba rolled her eyes dramatically, and Goro, still feeling a bit lost, simply shrugged.

“Akira, text me when you get there! You know I don’t like you going to that part of town so late.” Sojiro called, and Goro had to suppress a smirk. Akira had faced down far worse threats than the red light district at night. But it must be nice, he figured, to have someone worry about you.

“Got it!” Akira replied, the bell jingling as the door closed behind him.

Futaba seemed to deflate in his absence, looking anxious. She had explained once that Akira was something called a ‘key item’ that gave her ‘a plus ten confidence boost’, and he assumed that just meant she was shy when he wasn’t around. Goro turned back to his discarded coffee, grimacing a bit when a sip revealed it to be lukewarm.

“Uh, I can make you another cup...it’s my fault that one went cold anyway.” She said, clearly trying to make things up to him, “Sojiro’s been teaching me. It probably won’t be as good as his though. I’m still totally stuck on tutorial mode.”

“Oh, um, that would be lovely.” He replied, “Thank you.”

She started the process, carefully measuring grounds as the kettle heated, “You know, you should write about Leblanc on your blog. You like the food here, right?”

“I-”

“Absolutely not.” Sojiro interrupted, joining Futaba behind the bar to supervise the brewing.

“But Sojirooo! Akechi-kun is popular, you might actually get some business for once!”

“I don’t want that kind of business. Sorry Akechi-kun, but hundreds of fangirls in here every day ordering fancy drinks and asking when their beloved Detective Prince is coming back? I can feel my blood pressure skyrocketing just thinking about it.” He replied with a chuckle, “A man my age can only handle so many loud teenagers at once, and Akira’s band of hooligans already pushes the limit.”

“Don’t worry, Saku...uh, sorry, Boss. I understand.” Goro clarified, “There have actually been several cases of popular food writers unwittingly causing small restaurants to close due to their articles increasing interest to an unmanageable level. I wouldn’t dream of doing that to Leblanc.”

“Glad we’re on the same page then.”

Futaba finished making the coffee, grinning when Sojiro complimented her technique. She eagerly pushed a fresh cup to him, practically vibrating while she watched him take a sip. It was true that it wasn’t as amazing as her father’s, but it was still good and had its own charm.

“You did well.” He said, and he couldn’t help chuckle when she broke out in a wide smile, a warm feeling blossoming in his chest at the sight.

“Yes! I leveled up! Plus five coffee making exp!”

“We’ll make a barista of you yet.” Sojiro said fondly, “Now, it’s getting late. Akechi-kun, do you have dinner plans? I’ve got enough curry back here to feed an army, you’re welcome to stay.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose...”

“Just say yes.” Futaba whispered to him with a smirk, “Sojiro put all of his stat points into feeding wayward teens.”

“Then...yes, I’d be honored.” Akechi said, too confused to be offended by being called ‘wayward’.

“The honor is ours,” Futaba replied solemnly, giving an overly formal bow before breaking out laughing.

Sojiro wasted no time serving up three plates of curry, chatting idly with Futaba as she went to flip the open sign to closed. The two of them managed to herd Goro into a booth just as Morgana trotted downstairs, asking about Akira and demanding food. Futaba poked the poor not-cat a few times while Sojiro retrieved Morgana’s food bowl and popped open a fresh can of cat food.

“Sorry,” Sojiro said, pulling up a chair and making room on the table for Morgana’s dish, “He throws a tantrum if he doesn’t get to eat with us.”

“I do not!” Morgana shouted indignantly, “I’m just too civilized to eat on the floor.”

“Chatty cat,” Sojiro replied, giving Morgana a few chin scritches.

“Morgana is family,” Futaba said sagely, “And a family that eats together, stays together.”

‘...Family, huh...’ Goro thought to himself.

“What’s up Akechi-kun?” Futaba asked, and he blushed lightly as he realized he was staring off into space.

“Oh, I’m sorry, it’s nothing,” He deflected, “The food looks delicious, Boss. Thank you.”

“Thank you for the food!” Futaba yelled before digging into her plate, and the rest of them quickly followed suit.

As the four of them shared the meal, Goro felt the warm feeling from before grow and spread through his chest. Futaba was using her fork to flick small bits of meat at Morgana despite Sojiro’s half-hearted complaints, cheering as Morgana somehow managed to catch every single one. The smell of curry and coffee and cat food mingled in the air with laughter and shouts, giving the whole room a feeling not unlike a comforting hug.

Goro allowed himself a small smile, sure that the only reason he felt so happy was the food.

[asgardianthot]

Hunting Season (sambucky) – Part 3

Series Masterlist

A/N: I know I promised this update over a week ago, and I’m sorry it took so long:/ I’ve felt really down for the past few days, I’m having a hard time with online classes and with my lack of serotonin lol. This was not my greatest week and I suspect it’s got to do with the quarantine. I know a lot of us are having a hard time coping with everything and it can be very stressful and draining. We’re all struggling to find the energy to do what we love, and *not* seizing our free time to create or be productive can make us feel very frustrated or disappointed – I just want you to know it’s okay to seize your free time to just rest, even if you haven’t done anything exhausting per se. Emotional draining is part of the global situation, and you have every right to simply exist. People are dying or losing loved ones – I think existing is more than enough right now.

Words: 3106

Summary: A shitty guy has entered the chat. You know who.

Bedtime had come, and Sam followed Bucky to their assigned room. It was, apparently, the one he had been using ever since he and Rebecca were old enough to stop sharing bunk beds. When Rumlow came into the picture, the family allowed the jolly couple to share the queen-sized bed. Hence, that was the set-up for Sam and Bucky.

"Yeah, I forgot to mention." Bucky apologized as they shut the door behind them.

The entire house seemed to have gone silent at that time of the night, making them feel like they should speak in a lower tone than usual.

"It's fine." Sam brushed it off while he kicked off his shoes near the door.

"Nah, man, I can sleep on the divan." Bucky shook his head, "I'll go get some blankets."

The last thing he wanted was to put Sam in any more uncomfortable situations. He was already in the most uncomfortable position anyone could ask of their friend, and Bucky felt guilty every single second of their stay, which had only lasted for less than a day so far.

"Dude, it's fine." Sam insisted, "Not like we've never shared a bed before."

Although they effectively had spent a number of after-parties in the same bed or the same couch, this setup felt a lot more intimate, somehow. Maybe it was the silk sheets, or the elegant shade of white which adorned the room, or the dim nightstand lights that made it all feel so cozy. Maybe it had to do with the fact that that's how boyfriends sleep, and them having to pretend to have that dynamic. Still, Sam wouldn't agree to Bucky's solution.

"Yeah, but it's seven nights." Bucky reminded him with a wince.

"If I get tired of you I'll send your ass to the divan." Sam ended the topic with that, stretching his arms to communicate his deep need of going to bed already, "I just wanna get some sleep, it's been a long* day."

Bucky snorted, "I told you." He smirked as he opened his bag to find his pajamas.

Sam sat on the edge of the bed. He had, in fact, agreed to this insanity. Clues and riddles and family drama and money*. He was there to help his best friend through a tough time, and that was his primary concern, but if he ever got too tired of the Barnes' crap, he could always remember the gold at the end of the rainbow. He let a loud sigh, almost like he was finally dropping off the weight of the 'boyfriend' act, and allowing himself to look exhausted. He dramatically dropped to the bed on his back.

"Two millions, right?" he raised an eyebrow at Bucky.

The appellee nodded, "Two millions."

-

Day 2

One of the many responsibilities the Barnes family had was continuously being good guests, which meant inviting relatives and neighbors and co-workers to spend a day or two in the lake house. Most of them had their own vacation residence nearby, or were vacation-buddies who could hop on their boats and grab lunch with the Barnes. Only a few guests would actually join the house accommodations and spend time with them. It was the case of a friend of Nana, one of Colin's co-workers, Aunt Ida's new boyfriend and distant cousin who would be spending the night, according to what Winnifred said during breakfast.

Sam had a hard time processing the fact that they had all that extra room for futile acquaintances; in fact, he very subtly lashed out at Bucky for allowing his family to set their staff in small bedrooms behind the kitchen when he had such luxuries. Bucky, head hanging low at the empty breakfast table, explained that even if he had Sam's revolutionary momentum and eloquence, his parents would never listen. 'I'm actually the last person who could change their entitled, outdated mentality', was the exact finishing sentence.

Sam once again got that sour reminder that he had to portray something for Bucky's parents. He had to pretend to be okay with the way Winnifred spoke to the maid through hand gestures instead of polite words. He had to pretend to act like he knew what the hell those big New York impresarios were talking about during the first tray of appetizers. Hell, he didn't even know that appetizers came in successions and that those successions were called 'trays', until now.

Most importantly, and at the moment Sam was standing in that big yard with freshly cut grass and a lake view, he had to pretend to belong. He had to walk among senior citizens with more money than they could spend in the few years they had left, young folk who looked like they had too much access to their daddy's bank accounts, and women who spoke exactly like Winnifred, as if different tones or voice inflexions belonged to a lesser class. Sam had to meet them all, and he had to act like he didn't feel as foreign as he'd ever felt.

"You're a saint, Sam." Bucky sneaked up on him and spoke in his ear, standing behind the lost man, "You can stop greeting wealthy dinosaurs now."

Sam realized he had done more than what was asked of him, and so, he dropped his shoulders in retreat. He turned around and gifted Bucky one tired smile.

"You okay?" the latter grabbed his shoulder tenderly, with concern, "This was too much, wasn't it? You should've called in sick like I-"

"I'm not traumatized by rich people, Bucky." Sam rolled his eyes, "I'm dating you, 'member?"

The verb caught Barnes by surprise, until he immediately remembered he meant the farce they were putting up for the family. However, during that millisecond of doubt, it felt like Sam was implying something with a double meaning that Bucky wasn't entirely sure disturbed him. In other words, he felt like Sam was flirting, but obviously, he was quickly reminded of the situation.

"I was just thinking what my mama would have said in a place like this." Sam confessed with a soft laughing tone.

The image was pretty funny. In the few times Bucky had spent time with Darlene, he was overly captivated by her strong personality. She was so caring, just like her son, but patience and subtlety weren't her strong suit.

"She would have been so... justifiably rude to all of them." Bucky dared to guess.

Sam chuckled, "Yeah."

"Would've ruined the mood for everybody." Bucky joined in the loud laughter.

The two were still smiling to themselves when Bucky's mom and Rebecca approached them, both holding cocktails in their hand.

"Whatcha talking about, lovebirds?" Rebecca teased them.

As much as she knew she couldn't raise the curtain to their farce, out of love for her brother, but also because engaging in a hassle like that one would take her out. That didn’t mean she couldn’t make this the most annoying family holiday Bucky had ever had.

"Mind your business." He replied dryly.

"James." The sibling’s mother reprimanded Bucky’s rudeness.”

"I was just messing around, ma’am." Sam jumped in his defense, effectively stopping the potential fight. "I'm not used to so much... elegance."

"You mean all these old and dull people in fancy clothes?" the woman suggested her own disappointment regarding her guests, and nodding happily when she noticed Sam’s surprised grin. "Trust me, lots of us have a hard time adjusting to them."

"Some of us think we shouldn't adjust, but the other way around." Rebecca reproached, which earned her a single head tilt from her less confrontational mother.

Wilson took the opportunity to be the lovable, polite boyfriend, "Are you having trouble with these men too, Ms. Barnes?" he asked with a gracious smile that accentuated his cheekbones.

"I wouldn't call it trouble." She, expectedly, diminished her statement to avoid being interpreted as discontent.

Rebecca gave up on the eye-rolling to start using an annoyed, distant glare. As much as she had always been closest to her mother than Bucky ever had been, their ways of dealing with their life and other people were very different, along with their worldviews.

"They're bigots, big surprise." The young woman used a rude sarcastic tone, yet got no reaction from her Winnifred, who was now decided in de-aggravating the topic of conversation.

"Our friends tend to be on the conservative side.” She said before waving her hand in her own defense, “Don't get me wrong, I'm no liberal."

Bucky snorted, "No one was thinking that, mom."

Sam merely pressed his lips together in order to stop a smirk from becoming too visible.

"But lots of them are very behind time.” Winnifred continued nonetheless, “Treating their wives like housemaids, interrupting me..."

The irony was so palpable, all three younger characters could barely conceal their own personalized expressions, which varied from shock to laughter, because Winnifred Barnes treated her housemaids like lesser humans and interrupted everyone. Sam gave Rebecca a look, which she replied with a nod that implied ‘I know’. She then drew a zip line across her mouth for him to drop it.

It had also been Winnifred herself who stood by George when Rebecca went to a Women's March with her friends and the married couple believed it to be 'too dangerous' because who knows what kind of people can be in a march! Giving credit where credit was due, however, Winnifred had her daughter's back when a family friend grabbed her butt in her sixteenth birthday, and Rebecca, being the strongly voiced person that she’s always been, let everyone know ‘what kind of perverts his father hung out with’.

"Yes, they’re keen on the rich male supremacy around here.” Rebecca sighed, unable to keep listening to her mom pretend to know what she was talking about, and willing to change the subject to go back to bullying her brother, “It's a bummer. So, guys..."

"Oh." Winnifred suddenly said, fixating her eyes on something in particular, past her company.

"What?"

The three followed Winnifred’s view and found a man most of them recognized perfectly. The dark hair gelled back, the expensive but tasteless clothes, and the way he stood his ground like he owned it. It was a look that had once enamored Bucky, but it seemed more like a horrible nightmare right now.

As soon as Sam noticed James’ breath hitch and his face freeze, Sam knew that it was Brock Rumlow. He had only seen the devil through social media pictures, and he wasn’t very recognizable from afar, but the reaction it brought Bucky was hard to miss.

Apparently, Rebecca was even more upset than Sam about the man’s presence.

"What the fuck is he doing here?" she let out with deep rage.

"Rebecca!" her mother prioritized the lady’s manners over the downright astonishing situation.

Rebecca ignored it, "Who invited him?" she whisper-shouted.

"I believe it was your uncle Teddy.” As soon as the woman realized everyone’s stare in reaction to her nonchalant way of speaking, she placed a hand on her son’s arm, “He didn't know, James. What was he supposed to do? Un-invite him?"

"I'm lost. Why is he here?" Sam cut in.

"Oh, don’t worry about him, Samuel!” She gave him a very inappropriate smile for the occasion, “He's a family friend. His father and George are business buddies."

Sam realized he had missed a big part of the information. He knew Bucky had met Rumlow through family contacts, and that they have known of each other’s existence for a couple of years before they actually got to know each other. What he had no idea of, was the close relationship between the Barnes and Rumlow fathers. Had he known, he would have expected the ex-boyfriend to show up, but judging by his fake boyfriend’s state, Bucky wasn’t expecting it either. Probably because he was underestimating Brock’s maliciousness and hoping he wouldn’t invade his space.

Sam spoke directly to Bucky, using a calming tone, "You wanna go somewhere else?" he offered an out.

Unfortunately, before Bucky could reply, Rumlow saw him and began walking directly to him.

Bucky took a sharp breath, "Too late now."

Nobody said a word until Brock joined them.

"Ma'am.” He politely nodded in Winnifred’s direction, then turned to his former partner with a false smile, “James. Care for a walk?"

Bucky knew he was speaking a lot more formally than usual, because Winnifred was there. Care for a walk was just a fancy way of spitting out ‘let’s talk’, and Bucky despised that offer with every fiber of his being, but he wasn’t able to respond. His tongue was tied. He clenched his jaw, feeling powerless, and was rescued by Sam, who extended his hand.

"Samuel Wilson.” He gave Brock a big, play-pretend grin, “And you are...?"

It wasn’t a surprise that Rumlow was being rude, as he had been ignoring Sam and Rebecca’s presence like they weren’t even there.

"Brock Rumlow." He shook the man’s hand.

When Sam dropped his hand away from Rumlow’s, he took Bucky’s in his, as a painfully obvious demonstration of their romantic involvement. Brock lowered his eyes towards the intertwined fingers and bit the inside of his cheek, before nodding with a partially amused expression on his face.

"I take it you're..." Brock tempted, earning an affirmative look from Sam, "And I take it you know who I am."

Wilson tilted his head, "You just told me, you're Brock."

"This doesn't have to be awkward.” The unwelcome man smiled, glancing at Winnifred to make sure she approved of his manners, but even she kept looking away, “We both know James and I-"

"Look, Brock.” Wilson cut him off, “Nobody here really cares. Do you care, love?" He asked Bucky.

Bucky couldn’t help but smirk at Sam’s successful act, "Irrelevant." He agreed.

"Unless... it matters to you, Brock.” Sam frowned sadly, putting up the most condescending act he had ever pulled, “In that case, I'm sorry if this is painful."

If looks could talk, Rumlow’s would have stated a very easy ‘fuck you’.

"We'll see ourselves out, actually. Nice to meet you." He said, then turned away.

Bucky gifted his ex a fake host smile, "Have a good one."

As soon as the couple went back inside the house, Bucky let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He murmured grateful words as the noise of the gathering outside became muffled, and Sam squeezed his hand, which he was still holding. As a matter of fact, they didn’t let go of each other for a while.

-

"I brought us some food." Sam announced when he reached the top of the stairs.

Bucky had hid himself in the small living room which welcomed guests to the second floor. He was sitting on the couch, watching crappy TV, avoiding the large amount of people talking downstairs.

"You sneaked lunch up here?" He asked with surprise.

"Yes, Bucky, I stole two plates of crab risotto and an apple sorbet.” Sam mocked his naivety with sarcasm, “I made sandwiches in the kitchen, you doofus."

Bucky usually felt less than Sam at many things. Sam was smarter, he was resilient, he was hardworking and he was happier than him, most of the times. Seeing Sam in his messed up world only fomented that, because Sam was a fish out the water among the Barnes and their guests, and still, he glowed brighter. He was better than anyone Bucky had grown up with, and certainly better than himself. That’s why Sam had probably asked the kitchen staff if he could bother them for a second while he made two sandwiches, and he probably talked to them the entire time, and he probably let them speak longer than he did because he didn’t want to seem rude.

Bucky just knew that’s what he had done, while, if he were by himself, he probably would have skipped lunch and snacked on leftovers later, when no one was looking.

"What did I do to deserve you?" he sighed, receiving the plate Sam had prepared him.

The appreciation made Sam feel fuzzy. As much as he loved helping Bucky because he was his best friend, he never wanted Bucky to depend on his help. And yet, this time, he liked the idea of being needed by him.

He shook off the idea and sat on the couch, "That's a good question."

"I think God sent you when he saw how shitty everyone else in my life is."

Wilson laughed, shifting closer to Bucky’s and taking a big bite of his sandwich.

"Becca ain't so bad.” He remarked with his mouth full, “She comes around eventually."

"Yeah, she does." James agreed, thinking of how protective the young woman had become as soon as she saw the man who hurt her brother.

"You ever get tired of getting all your parents' shit when you watch her get away with stuff?"

Bucky shrugged. "I'd do anything for her. And they already see me a certain way, might as well protect her from that."

Wilson smiled to him, a warm sensation taking over his chest, "You're really good to her."

As much as Barnes wanted to take the compliment, the exchange had become too intimate, and if there was one thing Bucky had been rejecting during the whole boyfriend act, was intimacy between them. He feared he might get confused.

"You trying to pamper me, Wilson?" he bumped Sam’s shoulder playfully.

The latter rolled his eyes, and they went back to the TV show on screen while they ate. A few minutes later, something was twirling around Sam’s head so heavily, that he had to speak out.

"Hey, uh... A bit of- a really foggy bit of what I said when I was blacked out might have come back to me." He told Bucky, avoiding eye-contact.

James knew exactly what that was. Sam had just seen Rumlow for the first time, which brought back a very specific part of the conversation they both had, but only Bucky remembered.

"You remembered shitting on Brock?" he raised an eyebrow, amused.

"I mean, I'm not sure, but I bet I didn't have anything nice to say about him."

"Nothing you hadn't said before." Bucky lied.

Sam most certainly had said some things about the ex-boyfriend that he had been keeping to himself, and only had the guts to let out while blackout drunk.

They sat back and switched the channels, finding a better movie to watch, ignoring the lunch party completely. Eventually, Bucky found himself laying on Sam's chest, sort of sided, but he was too comfortable to move away.

[duocreatix]

Ok, can I talk a little thing (or two) about Good Omens impressions?

Or actually, can I talk a little about the development of their love story as shown in the (glorious) third episode?

I was re-watching the series with my husband and, when it came to this specific episode, some things came to my mind while watching the marvelous half an hour of it that I’d like to put into words for a better understanding, for me and for y’all that maybe agree with me.

First of all, I’m gonna start from the idea that Crowley wasn’t primarily in love with him since the Garden of Eden, but acquired a heavy interest, almost an obsession, towards Aziraphale (the first angel that treated him as an equal) that slowly translated into pure affection (and eventual love) throughout 6000 years together. Where this transition occurred is not clear during the scenes, since the whole flashback is told from the angel’s point of view… except the 1967 scene, and this is important.

Secondly, I’ve already seen many people discussing that, in the 1941 church scene, Aziraphale didn’t found out he was in love with Crowley, but that he was being loved back, and I personally agree with this thinking line. This is also very important.

Why? Let’s go back a little bit…

(This is gonna be long, please bear with me…)

So, based on what’s written in the book, Aziraphale and Crowley agreed on sealing the Arrangement in 1020 AD, and the series showed very well the changes in their dynamics between 537 AD (before the Arrangement) and 1601 (after the Arrangement), where I’ll start.

Aziraphale leaves this marvelously obvious when he basically smiles at the sight of Crowley (even though he also smiled when saw him at Rome in 41 AD) and, well, asking for extra favors with that puppy eyes of him…

(and Crowley accepting, which is adorable in my opinion)

They’re doing favors to each other for almost 600 years by then, seeing each other more frequently than ever, so yes, they’re already seeing each other as friends (or at least kind of coworkers). Is Crowley spoiling the angel and said angel is starting to take advantage of this demon’s tendency? Absolutely. But romance…? Maybe not yet.

And then, well, comes French Revolution and Aziraphale is locked in the Bastille in the verge of being discorporated and Crowley comes to the rescue. Maybe the angel hadn’t fallen in love yet with the demon, but I’m in favor of the theory that, being the bastard that we already noticed he can be, Aziraphale walked into France aware he wasn’t appropriately suited for the historical moment (and with a miracle restraint) hoping to run into Crowley. So, yeah, that would justify the literal stars that shone in his eyes when he listened to his demon’s voice:

I could screenshot this entire scene piece by piece to prove my point, but I won’t, ok? The entire development leaves clear their mutual pining and how used to Crowley being always there Aziraphale became in those 770 years of Arrangement, to the point of risking his human form in the name of gluttony, almost in a leap of faith because he was sure Crowley would save him at the end.

(Aaaand he does all this not so little selfish things conscious that they could bring problems to Crowley, as he mentioned during the Globe Theatre scene, but the demon keeps doing anyway just to please his angel… Is Crowley already in love? Probably yes)

And then we arrive in 1862, and that for me was the breaking point in their relationship. Up to now, as I mentioned, Aziraphale always had the certainty that Crowley would be there for him, but this drastically changes here. I have my own thoughts about the holy water situation, and what amazes me the most is the fact that, instead of reading Crowley’s request as “I want holy water so I have a weapon to use against other demons if they ever come to me”, he read like “I want holy water to end my own life in case everything goes wrong”.

You can see, right here, his change of posture:

What does it mean? Simply that, for the first time in 5840 years, Aziraphale felt the fear of really losing Crowley, forever, no coming back, and panicked. The panic was big enough to label their relationship as other thing than friendship (probably as a defense mechanism against the fear of losing, even what they have done all those millenia is, indeed, fraternizing), which enrages Crowley: So what you’re saying is that I’ve been fooling myself all these centuries thinking of you as a friend, as someone I could trust my fucking demon life???

Thinking about it while writing, the whole “I-don’t-need-you-And-the-feeling-is-mutual-obviously” sounds like pure bickering from both sides trying to hurt the other. Do they succeed into it? Marvelously: they stop talking to each other, Crowley probably goes to his century-long nap (while hating himself for the fact that he knows he loves the angel, otherwise he wouldn’t be so angry with the fraternizing thing), and Aziraphale starts attending Gentlemen’s Clubs to forget his sorrows and try to detach from Crowley (any ficwriter can insert Oscar Wilde right here in Azi’s life). Their relationship ruins from here, and they’ll never be the same.

So, we arrive at 1941, both angel and demon living their lives fully apart from each other… but Crowley is unable to refrain himself from worrying about his angel. And then, that pathetic excuse of a demon, aware that Aziraphale was manipulated by the Nazis to hand over his precious books and was about to be discorporated again, enters a church, steps on consecrated ground and diverges a whole enemy attack to save the angel he loves.

Meanwhile, Aziraphale really considers he’s totally alone this time (i.e. without the guarantee of Crowley being around, because he barely knows if he still exists), doomed, forced to being discorporated and having to deal with celestial paperwork… Look at the despair in his eyes:

Thankfully, things go well and the two escape miraculously from the explosion, and Aziraphale can breathe again, like things can almost go back to how they were before. Almost.

 And then comes The Scene:

And that’s here, the exact moment, when Crowley, more than saving his life (which, btw, he had no obligation to do), also saved his books, that Aziraphale actually feels Crowley’s love for him emanating for the first time, and it leaves the angel absolutely astonished. His feelings are being returned for real, and he honestly doesn’t know what to do about it.

Look at him, look at his eyes and dare to tell me this isn’t pure love??? He thought he lost his friend, but in the end he came back in his aid, like some sort of knight in a shining armor… and also saves everything he cares about!! (bonus points for the romantic soundtrack, Mr. Arnold)

Poor Aziraphale. (evil laugh)

Finally, we arrive at 1967, where this whole consideration came from. As I said, this is the only scene from Crowley’s POV, and there’s a reason to it: up to this point, Aziraphale is finally certain of his own feelings and that he’s actually being reciprocated, but the other side isn’t. So, while Crowley keeps going with his plan, the angel decided to pay back the gesture from 1941 by providing the Holy Water he needs so much.

What does it mean? It means for Aziraphale an opportunity to stop Crowley from hurting himself again or being caught by Heaven’s lot during the robery (even if providing said water causes trouble to himself), but mostly is another leap of faith to both sides: Aziraphale is willing to trust that Crowley won’t kill himself with Holy water while asking Crowley to trust his word and keep the fucking tartan thermos closed until it’s needed (which he actually does).

So, what I really, really wanted to reach is this specific point:

Tbh, their interpretation was crucial to me here because, let’s be real, the dialogue in this scene is very subtle in its real meaning. This moment is Crowley’s time to realize and understand what’s going on with Aziraphale through the last hundred years, and it hits him like a rock: his angel loves him enough to go against his own principles to attend his request, sacrificing his rationality and risking being discovered. He’s right there, by his side, raw and truly open like he wasn’t for centuries, letting the demon sense his own feelings for the very first time. So yes, after everything he said, Crowley, he loves you back.

And, interesting enough, what’s his first reaction after acknowledging this fact? Offer a ride, wanting to spend some time with his beloved angel and, who knows, make up for lost time. But Aziraphale feels too fragile, too uneasy, about the fact that he opened himself for Crowley and now the demon truly knows his feelings, and needs time to rebuild his walls and create a convincing facade that’ll deceive his lot he has nothing to do with his hereditary enemy. He wants to reciprocate Crowley, but now like that, it’s too early for him yet: Don’t expect me to accept your advances right away, I’m feeling too vulnerable right now and I’m afraid that I’ll let you consume me completely if I surrender in my current state, so please respect my time.

Interesting enough, Crowley actually kept his cool facade in 1941, when he let the angel see his true feelings, something that seemed impossible to Aziraphale when he did the same. He’s an angel, after all, he’s unable to lie!

This way, he’ll probably only understand Aziraphale’s insecurities when he goes through the same situation, or at least the closest he’ll get: while the angel feared losing the demon, the demon really lost the angel, and with him his stability, his other half, his world:

And suddenly, running away from the Apocalypse didn’t matter anymore, to the point the sunny ballad of “You’re My Best Friend” turns into the anguished prayer of “Somebody to Love”.

[secretagentdreamer]

Day 20: Trembling

Fandom: Marvel. Character(s): Peter Parker. Tony Stark, Morgan Stark. Warnings: nightmares, mentions of panic attacks, mentions of (not-quite) character death. Word Count: 1791

-*-

2024

“When’s Penny gonna be home?” Morgan asks as she bounces around the house.

“Soon Morgana, soon,” Tony chuckles, catching her by the waist and pulling her up into a hug. “Aunt May picked her up from the airport an hour ago so they should be here in any minute now.” It had been agreed upon (by Pepper and May: Tony was outvoted) that May (with Happy in the car for extra precaution) would pick Penny up from the airport after her school trip.

“But I want Penny now! It’s been ages since I saw her.” She complains, dragging out the word ages. Morgan squirms briefly before flopping against Tony’s chest and hugging a soft plush bear (one of Penny’s old toys Tony realizes with a smile) close to her chest. Tony shakes his head at his youngest daughter but secretly he can’t help but agree with her. Tony hadn’t even wanted to let Penny go on this school trip.

He had just gotten her back after Thanos and The Blip (Tony absolutely cannot stand that name, but the whole population has apparently agreed upon the name so Tony has to just live with it.) only a couple of months ago after all. So, after five years of believing that his daughter was gone for good, he had been (in his opinion, righteously so) reluctant to let her go overseas for a school trip for a week.

Pepper and May had sat him down one afternoon before the trip when he had still been refusing to give Penny permission, and given him a stern talking to about not being a helicopter parent and allowing Penny the freedom she needed as a teenager before she started to resent him for sheltering her so much.

So, Tony had allowed the trip. Even though the thought of sending Penny overseas without him (or even, at least, Happy. Because that idea had been shut down as well by Pepper and May. With a resounding no from Pep: ‘Do you want your daughter to hate you, Tony, cause that’s where you’re heading.’) had been sending him into panic attacks and bringing back nightmares of an alien planet and dust-soaked hands.

And all his fears had been justified to make it worse!

Tony hadn’t wanted to be correct. Why, just this one time, couldn’t have Tony been proven wrong. Penny had nearly died: killed by a man who Tony couldn’t even remember and Tony hadn’t been able to go and help his daughter. He had tried to get in contact with Steve and Barnes but they had been over in some exotic mountains somewhere with little to no service. In their defense (something Tony will never admit to out loud: defending Roger and Barnes, disgusting) Steve and Barnes had actually hopped on a plane to go help his daughter. But Tony’s daughter is so much of a hero that she had nearly defeated the villain by the time the two super soldiers had arrived in London.

The presences of the soldiers had however helped to subdue Beck before Penny was forced to do something that any seventeen-year-old shouldn’t ever have to do. And thankfully Beck is securely locked away somewhere so hidden and away from the human population that Tony would eat his shoes if he ever got out somehow. Tony had spent many hours perfecting the security of the prison, had taken a great deal of petty pleasure out of it in fact.

Because sadly, he wasn’t allowed to kill the man who had tried to murder his daughter to get some revenge at him.  

Tony holds Morgan a little tighter at the thought. If Morgan ever has the ridiculous idea to try and be a superhero, he’s going to honestly cry. Between Iron Man, Spider-Girl, Extremis and Killian and losing an arm to bring back the population, Tony Stark has had enough with the Super Hero business to cause a lifetime worth of aneurisms.

Tony will be glad to have both his daughters back home and safe. As it should be.

“Penny will be home soon, Morgana,” He repeats. “Do you wanna go play outside so we can see when they get here?” He suggests and Morgan nods eagerly, squirming out of Tony’s grip and racing outside. Tony follows, eager to get all the time he can with Morgan until she gets too old and doesn’t want to spend any time with her father. (He dreads the day already.)

Father and daughter maybe spend a total of thirty minutes outside, playing tag and then with Morgan’s dolls before May Parker’s dark red car comes into view. May and Happy are sitting in the front, talking to each other and Penny is sitting in the back, the grin on her face, while looking at Morgan and Tony, is a mile wide and Tony returns it enthusiastically. The car has barely pulled to a stop before Penny is stumbling out of the back and racing towards Tony and Morgan.

“Penny!” Morgan screams, jumping into Penny’s awaiting arms. “I missed you Penny: Daddy isn’t as fun to play with as you!”

Tony squawks in mock offense. “Oh, I see how it is. Betrayed by own flesh and blood.” He laments but he’s so happy that even Morgan can easily tell he’s joking.

“I missed you too, Morgs. I got you a present from Venice: you’re going to love it!” Penny says, nuzzling her head against Morgan’s and making the little girl squeal with giggles.

Penny sets Morgan down and Morgan is instantly back to jumping around and yelling about her present. “No hug for your old man? I see how it is then.” Tony jokes opening his arms for the hug he knows is coming.

Penny grins and falls into the hug, tucking herself under Tony’s chin and into his arms like she’s still a little girl. (Which she always will be in Tony’s eyes.) And Tony finally relaxes in a way he hasn’t done since Penny left for the airport a week ago. Finally, his family is safe.

-

Tony has gotten better at having a proper sleep schedule over the last five years, Morgan’s birth was a definite help but occasionally he would pull the rare full-nighter or occasionally be woken up by a panic-inducing nightmare. These nightmares had been more frequent in the past few months and had been happening every night for the last week. With Penny now finally home safe, Tony thought he might’ve finally been given a reprieve from the nightmares.

But as he jerks awake at three o’clock in the morning, he curses his optimism.  

On top of the nightmares, he’s also experiencing phantom pains from his non-existent arm so he knows he’s not getting back to sleep anytime soon. Carefully, as to not wake the sleeping Pepper, Tony maneuverers himself out of bed and walks downstairs to the kitchen in search of hot cocoa before maybe going to work on a project.

As he pads downstairs, he’s surprised to see that there’s a faint light coming from the living room, so he changes his destination and heads into there instead. In the living room, he finds Penny curled up underneath a big blanket on the sofa. One of the newer Disney movies (one that had come out during The Blip) is playing on the TV but Penny doesn’t seem to be paying any attention to it.

Her shoulders are shaking and Tony’s heart breaks a little when he realizes it’s because she’s crying.

“Oh Pen,” He says softly as to not startle her but Penny still jumps. She whirls around, looking at Tony with wide and red eyes.

“I had a bad dream.” Penny mumbles, sounding so much younger than she actually was. “Can I have a hug please?”

“Oh, baby, you never have to ask me that. I’m always going to hug when you’re upset. Even when you aren’t upset, I’m still going to hug you.” He jokes feebly as he sweeps around the sofa, Penny has opened up her blanket cocoon and Tony worms his way inside and hugs Penny to his chest. Tony is very glad that he wore his prosthetic to bed so he can hug Penny with both arms. “Do you want to talk about it, sweetheart?”

Penny gives a weak sounding laugh at his bad joke before burrowing against his chest. She’s trembling like a leaf against him and Tony has another strong urge to go hurt Quentin Beck for hurting his baby girl. Tony thinks that maybe Penny won’t talk about her dream, she’s silent for a long time, just taking comfort from him, and Tony won’t push her.

“I killed him,” Penny whispers out of the blue. “In my dream, I mean. In my dream, Mr. Rogers and Mr. Barnes didn’t turn up and I kicked one of the drones and it shot him. There was no one else there. You weren’t there either Daddy and I don’t know why. I watched him die in my dream Daddy. And the worse part is, is that I wasn’t even sorry to watch him die.”

Tony could kill Quentin Beck.

Instead however, he pushes Penny’s curls away from her face and kisses her forehead. “It was just a dream, baby, Beck is alive and is going to be locked away for the rest of his life. And even if he had died it wouldn’t be the worse thing in the world.” Penny makes a pained sound in her throat and Tony knows that that was the wrong thing to say. “It was just a dream, sweetheart. You have the biggest heart out of anyone I know (well maybe you and Morgan are tied) you’re so trusting and caring and I don’t know how you came from me because you are nothing like me: you are everything that I wish I could be. I love you so much, baby. You saved all those people and even after all Beck did too you, you still made sure that even he didn’t die. You are the best person I know baby, and I wouldn’t change that for the world.”

Penny’s trembling has lessened slightly and her crying is lighter now. “I love you, Daddy,” Is all she whispers back.

Tony plants another kiss to her forehead. “I love you to bug. Now, how about you try and sleep a little? I’ll be right here for you if you have any more bad dreams okay?” Penny’s only answer is to nod slightly, burrowing into Tony’s arms as he manages to pull the blanket tightly around without letting go of Penny too much. In a matter of moments, Penny has fallen asleep and only a little while later, Tony falls asleep too.

[thermoplasticroadmarking]

We must fight the attack on pensions: the future of British universities is at stake

Academic pensions may seem like a niche interest. But, argues Dr Rowan Cerys Tomlinson, proposals to change the current pension scheme represent an assault on the entire sector

I became an academic for many reasons: because of my intellectual curiosity, because I wanted to contribute to society by teaching, because academia offered the heady mixture of solitary writing and intense socialization on which I thrive. I did not enter academia because of its promise of a decent pension. Or so I thought until recently when I have found myself waking at 4am worrying about my old age.

CDBU is fighting vital battles on a number of fronts and has not so far made comment on the dramatic attack on academic pensions, which will see the guarantee of a ‘defined benefit’ pension swapped for the uncertainties of a ‘defined-contribution’ pension dependent on the market. To take my own example, and using a modeller based on the official Universities Superannuation Scheme (USS) valuation document, if I keep paying into my pension for the next 30 years then I am set to move from a pension worth £22,000 a year to one that might, if investments work out, be worth £10,000 a year. By comparison, a teacher, and all academics working in newer universities, who are part of the Teachers’ Pension Scheme, will receive a pension whose total value will be worth hundreds of thousands more. I should add that my situation, after working for some years, is not quite as bad as those younger academics just starting out now. And it will be harder still for those who were hoping to enter academia in the next few years, already lumbered with the full whack of tuition fees, suffering from reduced funding opportunities for postgraduate work, moving from pillar to post in temporary jobs, and now set to have no guaranteed pension.

Academics are being fobbed off with glib platitudes

This is not the place to enter into the nuances of arguments taking place between the University and College Union (UCU) and the USS negotiators and vice-chancellors who have made repeated, dubious claims about the impossibility of continuing a defined-benefit pension, only to throw in passing sops to the academic masses through pipe-dream promises of a return to that system if/when finances look healthier. The more hawkish vice-chancellors on the UUK Employers Pension Forum, whose no-discussions approach is so far winning out, have, in chorus with USS, used glib and vapid platitudes to try to fob off a community used to stripping bare and analysing language and supposed ‘facts’; they have also fed staff overly (and cynically) conservative estimates of the impact on pensions, citing estimates from insurance firm AON that ignore the role of longevity and divestment. There is, what’s more, a glaring inconsistency in the methods that underpin the claims made by USS and UUK about the proposals: forecasts about the proposed scheme are based on optimistic assumptions, while the evaluation of USS, which provides the excuse for the removal of any defined-benefit scheme, is based on wholly pessimistic assumptions: https://medium.com/@mikeotsuka/uuks-actuary-s-best-estimates-eliminate-the-uss-deficit-33dad2afc24b.

The shock and anger produced by this dishonest presentation of the situation has pushed academics to vote in unprecedented numbers to strike and to do so dramatically: we are readying ourselves to lose a large chunk of our monthly salary by refusing to work for 14 scheduled strike days across February and March. This was not an easy decision. Some colleagues told me that they have never voted to strike before and we naturally feel anxious and guilty about the effect that it will have on our students, whose interests, as a recent blogpost on this site confirmed, are precious to us. But removing our labour visibly and actively is the only way, we hope, to make the universities – and what a world we are in when the university means the management and not the academics! – listen to us. Happily, the National Union of Students has voted to support the strikes and we hope, through ‘teach-outs’ on strike days, to get the message across to students that we are acting not just for our but very much for their good and the good of future generations. The support of academics who have already retired, or are close to retirement, has also been vocal and I urge you to speak out on our behalf.

Not just about salaries

This isn’t the first battle that I have found myself in. I marched against tuition fees and then, when first working as an academic, found myself speaking at a No Confidence Vote at Oxford as a group of academics sought to temper the worst aspects of the move from final salary to a career-average pension. That battle looks like a luxury now as any guaranteed pension is removed and future retirees’ welfare is thrown to the market. This move also exposes previous reassurances as so many meretricious promises, if not downright lies. Tuition fees were introduced, we were told, so that universities would be placed on a permanently secure footing. Yet pensions must now be sacrificed, so the official communications from USS, Universities UK, and my own vice-chancellor and chief financial officer say, due to the ‘difficult circumstances’ that universities find themselves in, which leads to the need to make ‘difficult decisions about how to invest limited resources’; the pension system is, they say (with the favourite lexis of management speak), ‘simply not affordable going forward’, though this claim, it turns out, is simply not true: the USS valuation on which the attack on pensions is based is strongly disputed and there is much evidence that the academic pension pot is in a considerably healthier state than many others: in a given year it currently reaps more revenue than it pays out and has £60 billion in reserves according to UCU. Perhaps the ‘difficult circumstances’ that justify the attack also justify the bloated VC salaries on which the media has excitedly reported, though these headlines hide a whole series of iniquities in academic pay, from the inflated salaries of the management ranks who increasingly outnumber teachers and researchers to the continuing gender pay-gaps in the academe, not to mention the pitiful situation young, hourly-paid academics find themselves in, tied to nine-month contracts so that they cannot use the summer to make progress in the research that might allow them to escape this trap and secure a longer-term or even a tenured post.

This isn’t just about salaries, though. University towns and cities are filled with glossy billboards behind which lavish new buildings are being constructed, all with the promise of enhancing the ‘student experience’. Meanwhile, at my university there is now no staff canteen, the space given over to high-backed Mad-Men-style armchairs that populate what has become a ‘study hub’. How can universities claim not to be able to afford pensions and yet endlessly devise expensive expansion plans, spending freely and enthusiastically on sports centres or business centres while asserting that there are no funds to pay for the badly needed extra lectureships that could go some way to addressing the dramatic rise in students since the cap on numbers was lifted? The obsessively-sought ‘student satisfaction’ is not being met through paying academic staff properly, now or in retirement, but through the expansion of real estate whose charms, it is hoped, will distract the students from the fact that their lecturers are not only exhausted from meeting the demands of the Research Excellence Framework (REF) and the Teaching Excellence Framework (TEF) but anxious about their future. Is it any coincidence that not having pensions on the finance books will lower the cost of the massive borrowing needed to fund the new innovation hubs and student-experience venues?

Academic careers are already fragile

We can suspect the sincerity of the explanations for the supposed current crisis in USS. But the demolition of defined-benefit pensions also fails to recognize the particular character of the academic vocation. Those of us who choose to enter academia opt for what we might call a ‘front-loaded’ job, in the sense that the qualifications take a long time, during which we are likely to accrue debt, and many of us do not start earning until our late 20s, if we’re lucky. Compared to our peers, we’re in a kind of arrested development: we qualify later, which means we start paying NI contributions later, and even then we’re likely to occupy jobs whose security is fragile, making such important steps as getting a mortgage very difficult. The good pension package has until now represented a reward for these years of not earning, or of earning precariously, or of earning a salary that’s by national standards decent, certainly, but which isn’t enough to allow a young academic to rent in the extortionate housing market of many university cities, let alone to buy a place of her own. Removing this benefit would not only be detrimental to existing members but could well deter people from pursuing a career in academia. I have already learned of promising Phd students dropping out, or considering doing so, because of the removal of the decent, defined-benefit pension.

Academia is hardly a bastion of social mobility as it is. The risk of returning to the days when it was the prerogative or privilege of those from wealthier backgrounds, who can afford to pay tuition fees, to fund themselves through postgrad work, and not to worry overly about having a decent and secure pension, is all too real. The effect of this would be an impoverishment of the intellectual range and diversity of research produced by our universities and of the voices to whom generations of students would (and should) be exposed. Meanwhile, there have been whispers of some wealthier universities setting up their own pension consortia. This would only exacerbate the hierarchies, and iniquities, that are already an unfortunate characteristic of our university system.

In other words, pensions matter to the very future of our university system. And we must work together as an academic community, young, older, and retired, to save them.

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